An Englishman Abroad – Page 2 – View From A Bridge – management, education and personal thoughts

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD LOOKING FOR SOLACE IN LOCKDOWN

It’s been difficult to know if there is anything interesting to say about being an expartriate during a pandemic. I suspect that the experience of lockdown and wearing a mask and being on Zoom is pretty much the same wherever you are. But as we begin to think that the glimmer of vaccine hope may turn into the dazzling light of mass immunity there are some things I have learnt and would share.

The Buggles told us that video “killed the radio stars” but we should be grateful that it didn’t kill radio. Not being able to travel to the UK in 2020 did not mean that we couldn’t share the mild, British eccentricity of Liza Tarbuck on a Saturday morning or the tones of Steve Wright on a Sunday afternoon. In the early 80s I found the latter as annoying as I was to find Chris Evans in the 1990s. Wright started the whole notion of “zoo format” radio in the UK so has a lot to answer for, but the decades have mellowed us all and he is now as comforting as an old jumper.

Listening to UK radio also reminds me to avoid Snake Pass during the winter, give the M5 near Bristol a miss at any time of year and to always check the rail timetables for disruption when the wrong sorts of leaves are falling. If I wanted to feel even more in the homeland, I could listen to the rhythmic heartbeat of an island nation as the shipping forecast incanted, “Dogger, Fisher, German Bight…”. Running since 1867, the shipping forecast is the longest continuous weather forecast in the world and that makes it the essence of being British.

None of this is of any practical use in San Diego but then it wasn’t of any real use to hear about snow in the Cairngorms when I lived in the relatively balmy climes of Brighton. For good measure, finding 88.5FM SoCal has been a further boon and for anyone looking to get a sense of high-quality southern California music radio programming it’s highly recommended. It’s topped off by the celebrity appeal of a Saturday evening slot with Joe Walsh of Eagles and James Gang fame whose wonderfully titled solo album “The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get” is reputedly a play on the phrase, “the higher you get the better you play.”

Walking and running in the road has become the norm as the polite dance of social distancing has been underpinned by the San Diegan belief in science and staying healthy. The nice thing is that drivers don’t seem to mind at all and there is often a cheery wave as they give a wide berth in passing. Cyclists have increased in number and remain slightly less accommodating but that’s probably to be expected of people whose anatomy is constricted by inappropriate amounts of spandex and silicon padding.

We’ve also seen the end of the plague of Bird, Jump, Lyft and Lime scooters that had threatened life and limb on the pavement or the road as they carried crazed, no helmet riders to an inevitable date with the Emergency Room. In a double sign of the times, Bird “terminated around 40% of its then about 1060 employees in a group Zoom meeting” in March 2020 and a May 2020 deal “valued Lime at $510 million, down 79% from its $2.4 billion valuation in April 2019”. The long-term consequences for “final leg” scooter companies remain unclear but it seems unlikely that the glory days will return any time soon.

Ordering food out has been one of the ways of feeling good about supporting local businesses and extending the range of cuisine beyond restaurants in walking distance. Some experiences have been brilliant, while others have shown that a dining place that is outstanding in person does not necessarily deliver (sic) when delivering. Generally speaking, Indian food travels well from distance, burgers need to be collected from nearby, noodles are no go’s, and pizza tastes fine but the organization of the process does much to explain the joke about Hell having the Italians in charge.

Restaurants are certain to be one of the most significant beneficiaries of a successful vaccination programme. One of the real downsides of lockdown has been missing the Friday night pint at the Whistlestop but there really is nothing quite like the whole ritual of visiting a favourite restaurant, selecting a much-loved meal and then walking away without any thought of doing the dishes or taking out the rubbish. It’s to be hoped that most survive until there is a chance to reopen but the resilience of the sector and the energy of entrepreneurs will fill any gaps.

With everyone stuck at home around the world the propensity to engage in calls on Zoom and other formats has brought me back in touch with people I might never have otherwise spoken to again. The notion of a global community and everyone being just a video-call away is facilitated by saving the time that is usually consumed by travelling and waiting for transport. Not having to be on the next plane or train with a group of strangers has been a bonus for communication and that’s a good lesson for us to remember.

Time zones and geography are among the disadvantages of being an expatriate but when everybody is challenged by mobility and finds themselves with more time it becomes a lot easier. Everyone is sharing a similar and unusual situation so being abroad and several thousand miles away is not much different to being seven, seventeen or seventy miles distant. It seems that being isolated has, for some people, been the very best way of getting back in touch.

That’s about it – re-finding radio, walking in the road, ordering take-out food and getting back in touch. Certainly a lot better than being bombed in a Blitz, going over the top into No Man’s Land or facing famine and I am among those who can have no complaints. No description is complete without saying how it’s all aided by the San Diego weather which permits an outdoor lifestyle and the sunshine to cure most of the lockdown blues.

None of these consolations take away from being pained by the tales of human tragedy during the pandemic or being shocked at the scale of the hospitalizations and deaths around the world. Locke told us that “any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind” and we can only hope that this worldwide catastrophe is a reminder of the connections between us. In that respect the schism of Brexit and the bitter partisan nature of the US elections do not augur well but it is best to be hopeful.

Image by Angela C from Pixabay

An Englishman Abroad Votes for Democracy

Unpicking the result of the past US election and predicting the result of the next has been a favourite pastime even since I have been living here. That’s three years of unrelenting, partisan turmoil played out very publicly and with increasing levels of vitriol on both sides. In a strictly non-partisan way, I’ve been trying to work out what advice I’d give to the UK to preserve democracy, common sense and some decorum. My first would, of course, be not to put any changes to a referendum….

STICK TO ONE MAIN ELECTION FOR NATIONAL GOVERNMENT

There is a non-stop merry go round of elections in the US. While the Presidential election comes round once every four years, a third of the Senate seats and all 435 House of Representative voting seats are up for grabs every two years. It makes for a pretty bumpy ride where control of the House or the Senate can change and make the President more or less effective.

Three equal branches of Government may sound like a neat balance but like all balances the system lurches if distribution of ‘weight’ changes by an ounce. Too many elections leads to too much politics with too much campaigning and too many reasons for people to be negative about each other. There is little time for holding out a hand of reconciliation because the scars of the last battle aren’t healed before the next one comes along.

MOVING OUT TODAY

Watching the ex-Prime Minister of the UK driving in an official car to Buckingham Palace to resign, then leaving Downing Street in a second-hand Mini Metro the day after the polls close is one of the great levellers in human life. When the people speak they should be heeded and it does not need Oliver Cromwell pointing at the defeated PM saying, “In the name of God, go” to confirm that time is up. Once the vote is in the loser departs, and the winner takes up their own temporary occupancy.

It seems risky to have a disgruntled, disillusioned leader with nothing at stake roaming the corridors of power with a nuclear football to hand and a bunch of executive orders looking for scores to settle. Leaving it like that for two months is like letting a friend of a friend crash on your couch for the night as a favour, only to find them using your toothbrush eight weeks later. Elections are meant to have consequences and these should include a swift relocation and a period in the wilderness.

KEEP IT TO PARTIES

Having an elected President places sweeping authority in the hands of one individual. Being the most powerful person in the world sounds like fun but everyone should take a lesson from the film Bruce Almighty. Even when a relatively benign individual gets almost unlimited power it doesn’t end well and as Lord Acton wrote to Bishop Mandell Creighton in 1887, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

The primus/prima inter pares role of UK Prime Minister has had some pretty despicable people holding the role but they simply don’t have the ability to act without constraint in the way of an elected President. Of course, the more supine and feckless the rest of the party has been the more amplified the role of the Prime Minister. But even the autocratic Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, was brought down and forced to resign just three years after a landslide Conservative victory at the polls.

MAKE THE MEDIA MEDIATE

The moral for UK should not forsake the BBC or allow any other broadcast channel to become a loud hailer for party politics. Partisan channels, on either side, become echo chambers that stifle political discourse and open debate about ideas. The BBC makes mistakes from time to time but in 2019 a new high of 426m people a week tuned into it and in 2017 it was placed as the 20^th most reputable CSR brand in the world.

It would also be good if the media could also stop using words and phrases in a way that looks macho while masking reality. My least liked is “doubling down” – it sounds tough but usually means (and should be replaced by) “reckless gamble”. Next is “breaking news” which sounds urgent but is often a rolling news misnomer for “old news but new pundits commenting” or “stuff our pundits just said that we can pretend is urgent”.

Most recently “bully pulpit” has been used to suggest righteous browbeating of the opposition when it really should be replaced with “angry, spiteful, aggression by people who have no respect for their office.” The phrase was used by President Theodore Roosevelt in the early 1900s but it is suggested the term bully was more commonly used in that era to mean “superb” or “wonderful”. Being President is a good platform but is probably better suited to Roosevelt’s dictum “speak softly and carry a big stick.”

TURN OFF TWITTER

According to a 2019 analysis by Pew Research Center, 22 percent of adults in the U.S. use Twitter, but just 10 percent of those adults are responsible for 80 percent of tweets. There is evidence that “..the routinization of Twitter into news production affects news judgment”. It is not hard to believe that Twitter is a partial, selective and distorting way of the media communicating or getting information.

Anything a political figure tweets or re-tweets should be considered their official position because the public is paying them to do the job. As it is, we have a totally unfettered, no cost, manipulable channel that has become the driving force for the news agenda. Even worse is the way that it makes the media act like a hyperactive puppy distracted by the next shiny bauble that appears in front of it.

DON’T LET MONEY TALK LOUDEST

It’s eye opening to see the amounts that are raised, with the 2020 US campaign estimated to have seen nearly $11bn spent. By comparison in the UK 2017 general election, 75 parties and 18 campaign groups reported spending about £42m between them. It’s not a direct comparison but the magnitude suggests that there is a material difference in the way elections are conducted.

There’s some dispute about whether there is a direct cause, rather than correlation, between money spent and successful candidates but it seems a reasonable indicator. If the money doesn’t help win the election it’s difficult to see why so much is being spent and even US voters would sooner there was more constraint. It seemed particularly absurd during a pandemic to be pouring money into politics.

DO NOT GET COURTS IN THE ACT UNNECESSARILY

Illegality should, of course, be prosecuted and with significant consequences if democracy is being undermined. But it is not a good look for an election to be determined by the courts. Over fifty court cases have been lodged after the 2020 US Presidential election with a significant majority “dismissed or dropped due to lack of evidence”.

Since 2000 the UK has had four cases and two petitions withdrawn before trial. In 2010, one of the four cases resulted in a void election because Phil Woolas breached the Representation of the People Act 1983. Quite charmingly by today’s standards Woolas was ousted because he made a “false statements of fact” about an opposing candidate – just imagine, a politician losing their seat for lying…

KEEP POLITICS OUT OF BOUNDARY DECISIONS

I had learnt the word gerrymandering while studying the politics of Northern Ireland but had never got quite so far as to understand that it is an American term first used in Boston, Massachusetts in 1812. The Gerry in question was Governor Elbridge Gerry who redistricted Massachusetts for the benefit of the Democratic-Republican Party. One of the contorted districts was said to resemble a mythological salamander and so the portmanteau word was born.

Redistricting of electoral boundaries within states falls to whichever legislature and court happens to be in power at the time. For anyone used to the non-partisan Boundary Commissions of the UK this seems a bit like giving a dominant football team a home draw for all of its FA Cup matches. Constituency boundaries are messy and nobody is ever completely happy but this shouldn’t be compounded by overt political distortion.

None of this should suggest that I don’t despair at the handling and outcome of some of the UK elections and I am sure there is no perfect system. It also seems a long time since I sat screaming at the radio at three am in the morning while sitting on my bedsit floor after voting for the first time. But at least in a democracy you get to have your say, can be an activist and can blame others for the consequences if you don’t win.

Churchill was right to quote past wisdom when telling the House of Commons in 1947 that, “democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…” He was, of course, ousted in the 1945 General Election despite his enormous personal popularity following service as the war-time coalition leader but he continued to respect the process. His doctor Lord Moran commiserated with him on the “ingratitude” of the British public, but Churchill replied: “I wouldn’t call it that. They have had a very hard time”.

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD IN THE DOG DAYS

OK, so the dog days are the period between July and September, so I am a little late. But it struck me that I have been living here for three years and haven’t mentioned the experience of living with dogs. As Zoe, our dachshund, left for the great badger-hunting sett in the sky yesterday, it seemed a good time to write.

I have always thought that you are either a dog person or a cat person. And having had two felines I used to place myself firmly in the latter camp. I like animals that are essentially self-sufficient loners who choose when and where to engage with people. Maybe that says more about me than my pets but it’s probably because I hadn’t realized that dogs could be equally discerning.

For the past three years, however, I have been watched over, toyed with and subordinated by Zoe, the miniature dachshund, and Nessie, the Norwich terrier. As Nessie’s father was Das Terrier there is a strong Germanic theme running through their veins and it shows in many ways. It may be misguided to anthropomorphise dogs, but part of my learning is that it is very difficult not to think of them as people.

Maybe that is why the standard walking route has become a story book of other dogs we meet and have come to know. There is Louie, the coolest dog in the world, who is so chilled out because he is a genius, jazz-pianist who spends his nights wearing a pork-pie hat and playing in speakeasys. His bodyguard is Toby the Pomeranian whose zeal in controlling his garden border is only matched by the total decorum and daintiness he shows when being walked by his mother.

The other way you know that you have become a dog parent is that you are able to do the three-poop pick up on a walk with one bag. My early efforts usually found me having to have a thorough scrub of my hands when I got home due to my failure to execute the single poop grab satisfactorily. Walking that final mile with hands smelling less than fragrant always got pitying but knowing looks from the more experienced dog owners.

My introduction to Zoe was being told “don’t look at her, she doesn’t like it” and feeding her treats to avoid a savaging. She had been tormented by a toddler and ended up in a rescue when she was three. and was not going to allow an Englishman to disrupt the iron control she had over the household. I probably only survived because she worked out that I had opposable thumbs which meant I was useful for serving dinner to order.

Although of German descent, Zoe had a Napoleon-complex. Despite her limited stature she was fully committed to global domination and firmly believed that everything is part of the greater Germany and subordinate to her needs. Less than a foot high she was entirely sure of her capability to run with the big dogs and pee in the tall grass.

Zoe believed in reinforcing the dachshund reputation for being idiosyncratic, smart and manipulative. Little else justified the frequency with which a fully house-trained and intelligent animal expressed her displeasure at some minor human indiscretion with indiscriminate peeing. She was also wholly opinionated about music which explains why the first time I played guitar in front of her she pooped on the floor while giving me a disdainful dachshund side eye.

All that said she never nipped me which is more than can be said for the incautious who forgot how a small hound can sneak under your feet and only has teeth to remind you of their presence when you step on them. The fact she had a 30-inch vertical leap in her also meant that she was entirely capable of leaping up and sinking her teeth into someone’s backside. Watching that happen to an Arsenal supporting scouser was one of the moments where man and dog truly bonded.

The other good news about Zoe was that she was food-oriented which allowed the occasional trade of good behaviour for a treat or six. In that respect her final few weeks was a smorgasbord of all the things she had ever wanted but not been allowed because they were bad for her. The only thing she turned her nose up at was Spanish wine which I put down to a long-held grudge about Franco’s refusal to sign up to the Second World War.

Nessie, on the other hand, is known as either the BTE (Best Terrier Ever) or the GOAT (Greatest of All Terriers). Now, I know that every terrier person thinks they have the GOAT but I can tell you that Nessie could beat Serena at tennis, Usain at running and Magnus at chess if she wanted to. She could even beat the Brexit campaign at telling fibs if she wasn’t what I have learnt to think of as an honest dog.

Nessie did, however, almost get me in the most trouble it is possible to imagine. She loves to go for a walk, and I had been told that I should always put her in her box before taking Zoe for a walk. In the early days I thought I was in charge and decided to ignore the warning and the door was only open a crack before she vaulted over her sister and disappeared down the sidewalk.

There I was, an Englishman abroad in country where they drive on the wrong side of the road, have indiscriminate gun ownership and speak in a funny accent. And I had allowed the BTE to escape without any identifying collar. There are make or break moments in a relationship and this was unlikely to go down well.

The only option was to unharness Zoe and begin the long task of running around the neighbourhood hoping to get lucky. With heart filled with dread at all the things that could have happened I went to begin the task only to see Nessie sitting on the corner of the street looking at me with a grin on her face. She thought it was funny to teach me a lesson but didn’t want to hurt my feelings too much.

For now, we are a one-dog household with Nessie having the dubious pleasure of having to look after two humans. She will be good at that because she is kind, gentle and funny. And we will think of Zoe often as we sit in the garden and remember how she would express her wholly conditional affection by nestling against a convenient thigh to keep warm. Have fun, little dog with a big personality – we will miss you.

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD TIME TRAVELS

Reaching week four of lockdown is a reminder that California was the first State to realise that social distancing was a necessary step in reducing deaths from the coronavirus pandemic. The Sunshine State’s leadership, thus far, has been calm, considered and given confidence that it is making difficult decisions in a thoughtful and intentional way. But this week also signals that four weeks on from the stay at home order the future is still unclear.

It’s obviously an anxious time thinking about family, friends and colleagues in the UK and I wish you all well. Watching the UK’s current dance of damage limitation over PPE and the non-answers about deaths in the health service is a reminder that, as one publication put it, there is a ‘vacuum’ at the head of Government. A vacuum would probably do a better job because at least it accepts that its function is to clean up the mess and suck it up, rather than posture and blow hot air.

Constraints on travel, meeting and hospitality make for restless minds and the only real option is to dream of places far away or to look backwards to better times. I’m going to cover distant places in a later blog but I find myself, on a daily basis, wondering how people I know around the globe are doing. Bono once sang about ‘trying to throw your arms around the world’ which seemed supportive of my mood until, in the same song, he reminded me that ‘a woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle’.

The sentiment is true except for the fact that I am the resident tea-maker in the house – it’s one of the areas where English genetic advantages are obvious . In that role I was trying to explain about the Teasmade and how it was a mark of the aspiring middle class in the 1970s. The first automatic tea-maker patent was actually in 1891 by the wonderfully named Samuel Rowbottom. But it is the Goblin Teasmade, dating from 1931, that lingers in the memory as the noisy, complicated beast that made stewed tea from under-heated water.

This started a walk down memory lane about emerging signs of the British working class becoming a middle class and set the scene for monetarism, globalism and the end of the post-war social consensus. Consumerism and conspicuous consumption blossomed and US pop acts, TV series and films dominated the airwaves. Strange that it all happened in a decade the country endured a three-day week, a year with two General Elections and a drought.

There was an obsession with carpets as people moved from functional, low-cost floor covering to being knowledgeable about twists, fibres, density and weight. Even kitchens became carpeted rather than having the type of sticky underfoot, luridly patterned, vinyl beloved by my grandmother. The word ‘shag’ became all about quality carpet rather than water-birds, tobacco, lockdown hair styles, or some other form of deviation from the norm.

Then there were holidays in Spain for the adventurous who would rather deal with Latinate disdain than Welsh hostility. In the era when Silvia topped the charts with Y Viva Espana, the sign of the aspiring middle class was ten days in Benidorm and a winter tan that could be topped up with a home sunbed. Nobody cared about the long-term effects of sun exposure as coconut oil was slathered to ensure flesh was fried and lime juice was squirted in hair to provide highlights atop sunburnt bodies that owed more to pie consumption than Baywatch. As it happens Baywatch didn’t arrive in the UK until the late 1980s – perhaps a sign of how far we advanced in that decade.

Spanish holidays led to a passion for cocktails served from a home bar in a kitchen where a high, island table had been formed out of MDF. The ultimate touch was having bar stools that allowed you to while away the English winter sipping on a Pina Colada while dreaming about Typically Tropical’s promise of ‘going to Barbados’. Even for the middle class that hope was more a wish, sustained by Del Trotter’s motto that ‘next year we’ll be millionaires’, than a reality.

I was surprised to learn that the Barbados song was the brainchild of two Welsh engineers, Jeff Calvert and Max West. It song inspired a 1999 cover by Dutch Eurodance group, the Vengaboys, called ‘We’re Going to Ibiza’, which has the distinction of the main chorus line sounding like ‘whoa, I’m going to eat pizza’. From Wales to Barbados to Holland and then back to Spain – you can’t argue that this blog doesn’t get around.

Back in my 1970s time capsule a balaclava was still considered an ideal Christmas present and often knitted by a loving grandmother. Words like sombrero, beret and fez became increasingly popular although anyone who came to school wearing one would pay the consequences and carry the bruises. Maybe that’s why I spent several troubled months where I didn’t understand that baklava was something you ate rather than a Greek form of headwear.

And there was the brief flirtation with nylon sheets in dayglo colours which combined with nylon pyjamas to carry a serious risk of static electric shocks while sliding uncontrollably around the bed. New cars were a dream that could almost certainly be fulfilled with ubiquitous hire-purchase and owning a house became a defining feature of the change in society. Being paid weekly, or sometimes daily, in cash, was giving gave way to bank accounts, cheques and even credit cards.

It’s an era where the tension between the certainties of the past and the hopes for the future is captured almost perfectly in the late, great Victoria Woods’ epic Let’s Do It. The song tells the story of a libidinous woman and a jaundiced man. The woman is seeking excitement, passion and novelty while the man clings to domesticity, DIY and dreariness.

The romp reminds us of the time that avocado was a lewd and licentious fruit for the bohemian and a hostess trolley was the middle-class housewives dream. Grouting, lagging and thermal vests were the preserve of the sensible and the cautious. The line ‘beat me on the bottom with the Woman’s Weekly’ is a nine-word summary of how old values were being torn up (or perhaps rolled up) and the country was working to embrace the future.

My father once told me that it was important to ‘laugh at life’ in all its inanity, confusion and uncertainty which seems like good advice right now. I offer up Let’s Do It as a small service to help with that process during these troubled and uncertain times. Enjoy (at a reasonable distance), keep smiling (behind the mask) and keep safe.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD AND SOCIALLY DISTANT

Strictly speaking expatriates have been doing this social distancing lark ever since they left their country of birth. Six feet shouldn’t seem very much when you’ve put an ocean and several thousand miles between yourself and the society in which you were born and bred. But these are remarkable times and everybody is living apart from the life and people they know.

Anybody looking at this blog for any answers about how things will resolve themself is going to go away even more disappointed by my ramblings than usual. The media – social and mainstream – has been full of pundits giving their views on what’s going to happen and usually they are proven incorrect within three days. So, it’s difficult to know how three months, or even three weeks, is going to be.

For what it is worth I hope that after two to three months of community action to save lives we will all be better people and realise, at last, that Margaret Thatcher was wrong to suggest ‘there’s no such thing as society’. But I realise that there is every possibility that economic meltdown could lead to an even greater upheaval based on survival, selfishness and personal greed. It’s a bit more disturbing in a country where the race to purchase guns has been as shocking as the stockpiling of toilet rolls.

For now, the streets of sunny San Diego are peopled by individuals who wave at each other and say hello as they cross the street to follow the medically approved etiquette is observed. Dogs are happy that they receive five walks a day but slightly bemused that they aren’t allowed close enough to do the social sniffing that is good behaviour in their world. Bars and restaurants are building their delivery business and our local favourite The Whistlestop had its first Instagram Happy Hour, with Britpop classics, on Friday evening.

Americans are ‘can do’ sort of people and as usual national characteristics come to the fore in times of stress and crisis. It was impressive to see the Italians turn to opera and classical dancing on their balconies as they came out each evening to demonstrate their unity and defiance. The South Koreans and the Germans have impressed us all with their testing, tracing and total focus on following scientific advice to get ahead of the virus.

In the middle of this, and as if there was not enough socially transmitted disease around, the British had the infamous ‘Clap For Carers’ to show support for the front-line saviours in the NHS. It is sad that a country with the richest history in modern music – the Beatles, the Stones, Zeppelin, Oasis et al – were unable to find a song to unite the country in a time of national struggle. It’s very difficult to accept that You’ll Never Walk Alone is the answer because strictly speaking the current rules say that you should and must do exactly that.

My own choice would have been, 500 Miles by the Proclaimers, because it at least implies that you start a long way away from each other. At an average of 3mph and walking eight hours a day it would take 20 days to get within six feet which is, of course, an appropriate self-isolation time if you started off with symptoms. It’s also a lot more rousing and has sufficient ‘da da da dun diddle un diddle un diddle uh da’ for those who are no good with lyrics.

For aficionados it is worth adding that the line in the song saying, ‘and I would walk 500 more’, indicates a willingness to walk 1,000 miles. That is taking precautionary measures to a new dimension but in a spirit of being useful I’d note that it’s about 2,000,000 steps, or 100,000 calories, which would see you lose about 28lb in weight (all else being equal). That seems quite a disappointing return on so much walking but the combination of social distancing, exercise and weight loss could make it mandatory under the ever changing Government guidelines.

It was particularly misguided to pick a song so closely associated with a single football club – even if Liverpool have successfully distanced themselves so spectacularly on points from the rest of the Premier League. It’s amusing to see these runaway leaders stranded when they are so close to equalling Leicester City’s record of one Premier League title, but also a constant reminder that live football is sorely missed. The NBCS response is hour long shows featuring the greatest goals scored but that is like replacing a three course, gourmet meal with microwave canapes and dips – all taste and no substance.

It’s like showing the last three seconds of a boxer being counted out, or the five strides before a 1500 metre runner crosses the line in an Olympic final, or just the final putts in a closely fought Open championship. Sport is about the ebb and flow of the event, the moments of controversy and the play of pressure, luck and character which forms the spirit of the game. Next thing to fill the gap will probably be ‘100 Greatest VAR Moments’ because that acronym probably always stood for Virus Against Reality.

The situation is stressful in many other ways but one thing that distresses me is the continual chatter about cash being cast aside by polite society and literally becoming ‘filthy lucre’ used only by pariahs, pimps and drug overlords. As the latter two groups have moved onto virtual currencies in a big and totally untraceable way it’s probably only social outcasts who will still carry on using ‘shrapnel’ and ‘folding’. That means I will still be socially distanced when all this is over because I can’t bear the thought of never handing over a note, smiling in a kind but firm way and saying, ‘keep the change’.

On the upside we have all found that technology is the great enabler when it comes to staying connected and in touch. I’ve been part of productive and positively effervescent meetings of over 70 people ranging from Australia, through Europe and to the west coast of America. When borders open and flying seems normal again there will be a renewal of travel for business and fun, but meeting and working virtually has undoubtedly come of age.

That’s worth a pause. Nothing can quite replace the emotion and excitement of standing alongside people you know and like after a long period of separation. One of the most moving things about global conferences is to see colleagues who have not met for many months, or even years, approaching each other with uncontrollable joy. Even for a reserved Englishman the embrace has become the norm under such circumstances.

In that respect I don’t see the elbow bump, foot-shake or formal bow becoming the norm. They all have their place and will enable adults to engage in a charming social dance that will be a reminder of the global pandemic they have survived. But after that they will laugh and then they will hug and perhaps hold each other a little tighter and longer as a reminder of what it is to be human.

Keep safe and well. Remember that there will be a time when this is over.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD DOES COLD TURKEY ON BLUE MONDAY IN DRY JANUARY

Having spent an early career in public relations I know a public relations scam when I see one. Most anniversaries, memes, and movements are little more than the creation of a fertile, scheming brain working out how to promote a cause. It’s helped me avoid all sorts of tomfoolery, faddishness and showing off disguised as charitable good deeds.

I’ve avoided Movember because my efforts at growing facial hair are reminiscent of breeding mole rats on my upper lip. Armpits For August and Fannuary have felt very worthy but a bit exclusive. And Ginuary and Septembeer are just figments of my imagination that I offer (for an exorbitant fee) to any global drinks behemoth looking for one of the aforementioned PR scams.

But having failed to toast the start the 2020s with a glass of champagne I went cold turkey on alcohol in a dry January that makes Death Valley look like an oasis. Just two weeks into the month I realized that I was also facing Blue Monday, the most depressing day of the year, with all the cheer of the aforementioned chilly piece of poultry. And that’s as much a downer as listening to a synth-pop and alternative dance song, composed on a prototype-level homebrew “step-time” sequencer in binary code.

The famous New Order song, Blue Monday, is about judgement, control and abuse apparently and has been ranked as the 38^th most acclaimed song of all time. Evidence, if it were ever needed that for most people that the only thing better than a 7-inch single with four minutes of misery is a 12-inch remix with seven minutes of anguish. I much prefer Fats Domino’s idea of ‘Blue Monday’ with the comforting thought that ‘Sunday mornin’ my head is bad, but it’s worth it for the time that I had’.

I do have a certain affection for the Blue Monday concept because it is a masterpiece in meme development by my good friend, PR genius and East-End boy about town, Andy Green. In 2005 he adopted the idea of the most depressing day of the year from Porter Novelli and turned it into a multi-year media hit. It’s always struck me that as a lifelong West Ham fan Andy has probably had more Blue Saturdays than most so giving the tag to a Monday was extraordinarily selfless.

And all of this with the gloomiest month of the year yet to come because in the northern hemisphere February is the dead zone between the carousing of Christmas and the sunlight of Spring. Little surprise that FebFast, the Australian movement urging a break from alcohol, sugar, caffeine, and digital overload, never made it over the equator. Also, pretty cunning of the Aussies to keep their abstinence to the shortest month of the year.

Strictly speaking I’m not admitting to ‘doing’ dry January because that would interfere with my bid to secure a 28^th Amendment that safeguards the freedom for anyone to have an alcoholic beverage whenever they want. My case is based on the premise that one of the most scarring moments of my life was pitching a tent on a rainy Sunday evening in Wales and then finding that I was in a county which still banned the sale of alcohol on the Sabbath. And I can assure you that in rural Wales at the time ‘bootlegs’ were just a local form of pernicious and extensive trench foot and speakeasies were a reference to the loquaciousness of Cymru’s favourite sons.

For the record the Sunday Closing (Wales) Act 1881 banned the sale of alcohol in Welsh pubs on the Sabbath and was not repealed until 1961. Local referendums followed and it wasn’t until 1996 that Dwyfor – now part of Gwynedd – became the last district in Wales to drop the ban. A commentator even argued, “Without the coffee shop, would Dylan Thomas have been the same writer?”, when the mighty Welsh poetic giant, my personal favourite, seemed no stranger to a whiskey or seven.

As I’m in a country where Prohibition is still within living memory, I think I have a right to be nervous on this score. This January is the 100^th anniversary of the Eighteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution coming into effect. It was ratified in 1919, and was not repealed until December 1933 with the ratification of the Twenty-first Amendment. It wasn’t illegal, under Federal law, to drink per se but for those without a home distillery the ban on transportation and sale probably meant 14 years without a legal drink.

As it happens and as one of the world’s inveterate ‘joiner inners’ I have always respected the cultures of countries where alcohol is generally unavailable. On trips to Saudi Arabia and Pakistan I did not go the easy route of completing the form in the hotel saying that I required drink for ‘medical purposes’. It felt uneasily like signing up as dependent and sitting in a hotel room with miniatures has never appealed to me.

The question on the mind of anybody who has made it this far in the blog should be – how do I actually feel after not drinking for 24 days, 5 hours and 35 minutes. The dull truth is that it’s been easy but tedious. There have been times of day (early evenings) when a glass of wine would have been welcome, occasions (watching football) when a beer is missed and social moments (the Whistlestop on a Friday evening) that have just not been the same.

On the positive side my running times have been excellent and for anyone with sufficient vanity I can confirm that after several weeks it helps reduce any midriff bulges. But I am not sleeping any better and I have not noticed a healthy glow to my skin. All the research and evidence would suggest that my liver and other internal organs are in better shape and that I will live a little longer.

But it has reminded me of the saying that ‘nobody remembers the nights they went to bed early and got plenty of sleep’. That’s not an argument for returning to the frequency of wilder days with their plethora of amusing, sad, and startling memories with people who will be grateful not to be named in public. But tequila shots in the early morning at the THE Awards and Education Investor nights at the Italian bar opposite Ronnie Scott’s were the only possible preparation for the endurance test known as the Global Recruitment Conference.

It’s difficult to say if I’ll keep going to the end of January and I already have a slightly subversive view that it’s a cruel and unusual month of fasting that ends on a Friday night. Maybe that’s the point where a small toast to the good times, the future and the ability to make choices is appropriate. Cheers everyone.

Image by Annalise Batista from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD AND BAD BLOOD

An emergency call for donors by the San Diego Blood Bank was a real opportunity for an expat to show their commitment to the community and their new countrymen. With O-positive in particular demand I felt appreciated, welcomed and worthy. Slinking out an hour later with a sore finger and the ignominy of rejection was a reminder that there are some things you can’t even give away.

It was all going very well as I chatted to the assistant about my history of blood donation in the UK and my happiness at being part of the experience in my new country. The pain of the finger prick was forgotten as we celebrated my healthy count of red platelets. And my blood pressure was doing just fine despite the New Year celebrations and the anxiety which besets any Manchester United supporter on a weekly basis.

We moved on to questions about countries visited and there was a small moment of panic as I tried to remember dates visiting Pakistan and Thailand. Maps were produced and the red indicated malaria probability, but I was happy to give reassurance that I probably drank enough tonic with quinine (and a little gin) to be safe. It seemed plain sailing and I was looking forward to the lying down for twenty minutes part when the axe fell.

Did I live in the UK between 1980 and 1996 sounded like a trick question and I am sure my eyes narrowed as I tried to work out if I’d accidentally walked into a Homeland Security inquisition. I checked the room for cameras and was wondering whether I should have been read my rights. For some reason the line ‘Fee, Fo, Fi, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman’ came to mind.

But the look of disappointment on my inquisitor’s face was evident as he expressed his disappointment that I really was English and had lived there for so long. My blood could not be taken and it was all down to the initials vCJD and BSE. The American Red Cross and the Food and Drug Agency thinks that the English all have mad cow disease.

As usual a flood of bad jokes came to mind. I don’t find it very amoosing. Pull the udder one. I’ve never herd that before. As it was, the first words out of my mouth were, ‘I thought we had moved on from that.’ The irony was wasted on both of us and I really wish I had said ‘moooooved on’.

If ever evidence that life is circular it took me back to early 1996 when I was at ASDA and a firm link was drawn between bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE) and variant Creutzfeld-Jakob disease in humans. Just six years earlier Agriculture Minister John Selwyn Gummer had shown his belief that UK beef was safe for people by feeding his 4-year old daughter, Cordelia, a burger for the cameras. I’m pleased to report that as of the latest report I can find Cordelia was healthy but by 2016 some 177 people in the UK had died of the disease and that may not be the end of the problem.

At the time it seemed another food crisis to match Health Minister Edwina Currie claiming in 1988 that salmonella was endemic in UK egg production. Inevitably labelled ‘Eggwina’ by the tabloids she was forced to resign but the ensuing crisis led to more scrutiny of the food chain and advice for the vulnerable. Both incidents are good reminders that you can never be too careful about what you put on your plate or in your body.

Which brings me back to blood because I now know that if you lived for more than 3 months in the UK between 1980 and 1996 you might struggle to donate blood in any part of the western world. The ban in the US is replicated in Canada, Australia and many parts of Europe (including Germany and France). There’s little chance of it being lifted and that’s probably the right answer given the extraordinary importance of keeping blood banks pure and unsullied.

For the interested there is an explanation of the system used by the NHS Blood and Transplant service in the UK and how they protect users. Nobody needs to worry too much on that score and it would appear that the original horror stories of 500,000 or more dying of vCJD will continue to be well wide of the mark. Giving blood remains an important way of contributing to society and to the world admired NHS.

The blood ban is particularly ironical at a point where there is growing concern in the UK about the potential of imports from the US as deals are done after Brexit. It’s interesting to read that in addition to concerns over chlorine washed chickens there appear to be ten US foods that are widely banned from import around the world. It could certainly spoil your meal to think you were eating or drinking ractopamine, brominated vegetable oil or butylated hydroxyanisole.

My comfort is that the ban on UK expatriates giving blood is that it reflects the reality of what I always think of as actuarial decision making. Apparently, the ban enacted was estimated to lose the US health system something of the order of 2.2% of its blood donations a year. It’s an amount that can probably be made up from improved publicity and management of donors and that’s far better than infecting someone with bad blood (or the cost of the law suit that might follow). If the impact was greater then one can assume that different precautions would be taken.

It is slightly sad to know that I will never be able to think of a US citizen as being tied to me by blood or give freely to meet one of society’s needs. Maybe on my next visit to the UK I will look for a time when the NHS is in town and giving out free tea and biscuits for a pint or two of the red stuff. Or maybe I’ll just sit around and wonder why cows can’t wear shoes….*

*Because they lac-toes😉

Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD UP IN THE AIR

Travelling on business is one of the great privileges of the world because you get to see new places and meet interesting new people. But my recent five cities in five days trip around the US to visit Montessori training centers reminded me that it’s not always easy going. While two people likened my tour to being like George Clooney from the film Up in the Air, I sometimes felt more like Nicholas Cage in Con Air.

It’s fair to say that I’m not really a designer-led person so booking a boutique hotel in St Paul was unlikely to be a good start. My first encounter with a boutique was when I was thirteen and had been dared to stand by the lingerie counter in Chelsea Girl*. The withering looks and snide comments of the assistants made Dorothy Parker and the Heathers look benevolent, and left mental scars that are with me to this day.

The words hotel and boutique are not commensurate because the former suggests welcome, low stress and comfort. The latter represents isolation because you feel obliged to use the digital key rather than check in at reception, bewilderment at the lack of a simple book showing available services, and an uneasy feeling that you’ve been overcharged. Boutique hotels also tend to be an obstacle course of dayglo colours, bad art, and quirky furniture designed to bruise shins, bang knees and graze elbows.

These are hotels designed by pranksters who never put anything in the obvious place. So, it was little surprise to spend a full ten minutes looking for a way to turn off the light in the lobby of the room. I never considered it would be hidden in plain sight as, misleadingly, a switch with the words ‘Entry’ above it.

Being ‘boutique’ also means using the word environmentalism as a convenient way to reduce service. Liquid soap dispensers are placed high on the wall to suit those who shower while discouraging and punishing those who revel in a good bath. Standing and shivering in my early morning dripping, naked glory to take a handful of soap is a reminder that the invention of the bar of soap (as early as 2800BC) is one of the things that separates us from Cro-Magnon Man.

With signs about turning lights off (if you can find the switch), saving water and reusing bath towels, this boutique hotel was clearly setting itself up to be on the UN Champions of the Earth award list. But the lack of follow through became evident when, after another ten-minute hunt, I found the tea and coffee stashed in a wholly unnecessary ‘designer’ cardboard tube shaped like a Toblerone.

As it happens lights are a constant cause of hotel rage with almost every room having something that flashes or an eerie glow coming from an undefined source. The digital clock in the hotel outdid itself because when I turned it so the glare faced away from the bed I found that there was also a display on the side. Are people really so idle that they can’t be expected to adjust their neck to look at the front of a clock just two feet away?

Hotel bathrooms are an increasing hazard because I rarely bother to wear my glasses during my ablutions, and I know I am not alone in finding that can lead to moments worthy of Mr Bean. An ex-colleague once said that a combination of myopia and a bad hangover led them to try and brush their teeth with athlete’s foot ointment. My own episode Mr Magoo in Milwaukee came when, after squinting at four similar bottles with indistinct writing, I finally managed to try and shampoo my hair with mouthwash.

And don’t get me started on the danger of hotel showers. No indicator of the direction for hot or cold is common and results in rapid hypothermia or boiled bits to kick the day off. Or the uncertainty of whether there will be a dribble of water too limp to rinse properly or a torrent mighty enough to knock you over.

And then there is the flying. Everybody who has remained among my band of Facebook friends has become familiar with my concern about the state of rail travel. Actually, they have become familiar with the fact that I don’t really like people who are anything but still and quiet when they are in an enclosed, shared space. Some would say that the previous sentence could end after ‘I don’t really like people…’ The point here is that planes can be worse.

Research has demonstrated conclusively how planes should be boarded to deliver maximum efficiency. So, it is a total mystery why airlines continue to follow systems that are doomed to fall foul of people who are subconsciously trying to delay getting onto a cramped metal box that could fall out of the sky. Thousands of years of evolution have conditioned us to realise that being higher up than six feet is dangerous and that, as Buzz Lightyear put it, what we see as flying can be characterised as ‘falling with style’.

The other thing is that the whole game of what you can take on a plane has got totally out of hand. I would happily allow explosive material and sharp things if only to use them on the guy who sat next to me from Milwaukee to Detroit and ate a curry that was aromatic enough to qualify as a weapon of mass destruction. Allowing emotional support animals is also a step too far because flying is meant to be stressful so that we are reminded not to try it at home.

Uber has become a lifeline to getting anywhere in an unfamiliar town but sometimes the chattiness of the driver can take you down a path that is less than perfect. One ride in Washington DC began with me asking the driver how he had got into the Uber line of work. It was disturbing to hear him say that he had been a flight attendant but had to give up because of the effect of pressurised cabins on his badly damaged retina.

You also find that some airports are adapting in different ways to the need of passengers for pick up points. Most still have a lawless scrum where phone wielding, tired and often emotional clients seek out their drivers through a mixture of shouting, barging and rushing out into the traffic. Full marks to Portland which has streamlined to one line of cares and one queue of passengers – it worked best of all.

There were many good things from the week. My new Hartmann luggage enabled me to manage five days of clothes, including two suits, three pairs of shoes, a full change of shirts every day and casual clothes without checking luggage. I didn’t lose anything, each flight landed close to published time and the TSA pre-check service allowed painless security checks every time. And I met really talented, intelligent and thoughtful people. Probably just as well because I had to do it all again two weeks’ later…..

*Founded in 1965, Chelsea Girl was the UK’s first fashion boutique chain. It became River Island in 1988.

Image by Thanks for your Like • donations welcome from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD SEEKS NFL ALLEGIANCE

Two years into the journey it’s time I selected an American football team to support. But it’s really very difficult without the personal or cultural signposts that lead to lifelong fandom. Neither do I have the guidance of a father for who the Munich Air Disaster meant that it was Manchester United or nothing.

For the first time I find myself trying to answer the question I put whenever I see an American soccer fan in a bar wearing a Leeds shirt. Why? I usually don’t ask them that question until I’ve run through the plot of the Damned United and excoriated Don Revie for forsaking the England manager’s job to take the Saudi shekels. Then I explain that Billy Bremner and Johnny Giles may have looked like the Krankies but were actually spawn of the devil.

Unless you were a Loiner it was impossible to be brought up in the 1970s and support Leeds United. The old Elland Road ground was reminiscent of the Coliseum with every visitor an object of venom and bile – and that was just on the pitch. Fans vied with those of Millwall for exclusive rights to embody the chant of ‘nobody likes us and we don’t care’.

In my search for advice I have found that passions and partisan feelings run deep with close friends suggesting that the Dallas Cowboys and the New England Patriots are irredeemable. Their respective crimes of declaring themselves ‘America’s team’ and being serial cheats/winners (depending on your view) mitigate against them. And there is an assertion that the Ravens are wholly unacceptable because of ‘crimes against the Steelers’.

A long chat with a friend’s son gave me a quick rundown of other no-go areas and counts as my Gen Z research. Washington Redskins are pariahs for not dealing with the offensive symbology of their name and logo. The newer franchises don’t have enough history, so the Houston Texans are gone. For similar reasons I discarded the Jacksonville Jaguars and the Carolina Panthers – although to be fair their franchises date back to 1995.

For someone born in the UK and used to clubs with very long traditions and a real dislike of the way Wimbledon were shunted up the M1 to become the MK Dons it’s also difficult to be serious about clubs which have changed city and name. The Indianapolis Colts were once in Baltimore, the Tennessee Titans were previously the Houston Oilers, the LA Chargers used to be in San Diego, the Oakland Raiders were in LA for 12 years then came back, and the LA Rams spent 20 years as the St Louis Rams. It’s bewildering.

It’s a luxury and selfish but I was too scarred by Manchester United’s year in the old Second Division to adopt a team that is not very good. So I have rejected the Cleveland Browns, Tampa Bay Buccaneers and New York Jets for serial underperformance. The Arizona Cardinals and Cincinnati Bengals failed at that hurdle as have the Detroit Lions who haven’t ever been to a SuperBowl.

To narrow the field I eventually decided most teams in the south of the country were out – partly because I’ve only ever supported a team in the north of the country. But also, I think that a team should play most of its home games with the possibility of snow, ice and freezing temperatures. It’s the way professional sports with a ball should test a home team and after watching Game of Thrones I’m always reminded that ‘winter is coming’ is a good way to think of life.

Continuing on that basis I can’t really love any team that plays in a dome which is a shame because the Minnesota Vikings could have secured my allegiance. There is something inherently wrong about professional sportspeople being shielded from the elements and fans being deprived of the wonders of sitting for three hours in pouring rain to demonstrate their allegiance. I may be alone in my thinking, but it would be so much better if basketball was played outside, on a bumpy pitch, in the rain with the possibility of a strong gust of wind making a three-point effort look ridiculous.

Assem Allam’s attempt to rename Hull City AFC as Hull Tigers is a reminder that it’s OK to have an animal nickname – bonus point to anyone who can remember which UK team is the ‘throstles’ – but City, United and Rovers are sufficient for most purposes. So I had to dispense with the Bears (Chicago), Buffalo (Bills), and the Eagles (Philadelphia). Anthropomorphism is cute but not acceptable in my pursuit of a logical answer.

For those who have followed this far it may be obvious that I have come down to the Green Bay Packers and the Pittsburgh Steelers as the contenders. Uniquely, the Packers are the only non-profit and ‘owned’ by their fans team in the NFL and will remain so after the 1960 Constitution of the League came into force. The ownership of the Steelers has remained within the Rooney family since the organization’s founding. The Packers are the third oldest NFL franchise and the Steelers are the oldest franchise in the AFC.

Both are sufficiently embedded in tradition and location to be secure for the long term. While they each have a history of success they are currently trying to find their way back to former glories. It’s a tough choice but I have time.

Image by Keith Johnston from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD – ATLANTIC CROSSING

Whenever I come to the UK I think of the album Atlantic Crossing despite it being one of Rod Stewart’s less worthy offerings. It’s mainly notable for the song Sailing which was recorded at Muscle Shoals at 10.30am while Stewart was, unusually for the time, singing, stone cold sober. He didn’t want it released as a single, but it became the theme song to a ten-week BBC Series about the aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal and his best-selling UK release.

The song was originally by the Sutherland Brothers, two folk-music playing brothers, whose lyrical genius is shown by the fact that the second verse of a song entitled Sailing contains the lines, ‘I am flying, like a bird, across the sky’. They later combined with rock group Quiver to tour and record the undemanding pop song ‘Arms of Mary’. Quiver’s other claim to fame is that they were the first band to play the legendary Rainbow Theatre in London.

So, a song with a misleading title, by a folk/rock combo, sung by a sober Scottish singer and on the album under protest becomes famous because of an aircraft carrier. It may not be the strangest tale in the history of music, but it is as whimsical as some of the experiences of an itinerant Englishman. And Atlantic Crossing was Rod’s first effort to make his mark after moving to the US so I feel a certain empathy.

My latest sojourn to England has been enjoyable as ever but has shown that I am rapidly becoming out of touch with the ways of the Angles. It’s not that I have totally forgotten everything that was handed down by my forebears, but I have found myself doing things that only a tourist does. It’s very unnerving but a reminder that I am visiting rather than coming home.

I have forgotten how to cross the road without endangering myself and every driver in the area. I keep looking the wrong way and stepping out full of confidence that nothing is going to hit me. After a few tries I have found that the only way to be safe is to approach the road with my head swivelling like an owl in a barn full of field mice.

After eating I keep asking for the check (and yes in America it is a check even when it is a cheque). Restaurant staff are too polite to ask me if I am just being ironically trans-Atlantic or just influenced by too many shandies. I usually blush and stammer, ‘oops sorry, I meant bill, but I live in San Diego now….’, before trailing off under a stare that suggests they really don’t care.

Arriving without an umbrella was also not my best idea. I had forgotten how much it rains in England and how, even when it is not raining hard there is a misty, spitting sort of precipitation that leaves you damp. All of this not helped by the reality that older English hotels are delightful but not endowed with ways to get warm or dry.

The good thing about the weather is that I have been freed to have more baths in seven days than I have in the last seven months. At first, I was timid because I had got used to a shower routine that is vital in a place where it doesn’t rain for nine months of the year and the water bill makes H2O seem more valuable than gold. Once I got over my culture shock, I plunged into a routine of baths both morning and night and have every intention of squeezing in three during the last 18 hours before the plane.

I have lost the ability to deal in the coins of the realm and had an uncomfortable moment in the supermarket where I kept trying to feed the automatic checkout with a fifty pence piece that wouldn’t work. The shop assistant who came to my assistance was surprised enough to blurt out loud that her grandfather had “some of those antique coins” in his collection. I reverted to paying for everything with notes to save time and embarrassment but am left with a bag of metal for the charity collection on the plane.

It has been lovely to hear people speaking in accents and tones that are as redolent of my youth as Manchester United getting relegated to the old second division. Both these features have mixed memories because for every Norfolk burr there is an estuary sentence full of glottal stops, dropped aitches and foul language. And for every memory of the glorious recovery under Docherty and onwards to Ferguson there is the sadness of watching incompetent management buy Ian Ure from Arsenal, who became my constant nemesis as the worst player in United’s history.

Difficult to get this far without mentioning Brexit. Truth is that it is difficult to know what to say and this is not the place for a political rant about the ineptness of a referendum for such a significant change to be based on a 50/50 vote. Neither is it helpful for someone with their interests in another part of the world to question the right of a minority government to drive legislation that will change the future for millions.

Almost everyone I have spoken to has been sad but resigned to leaving the European Union. Some of the Scottish and Northern Irish seem steely eyed about taking a new opportunity for statehood, independence or realignment that places them back in the European fold. The Brexiteers, my favored name for the ‘Leavers’, continue to sound like a raddled, sulky, deceitful, agit-pop band, but seem uncertain about the “sunlit uplands” that await and even less sure about the veracity and quality of the politicians leading them.

Next time I return I believe it will be to a nation that is making its own way in the world. That was how it was when it became the land of the ‘mother of parliaments’, the lone defender against fascism and the leader of cultural and technical innovations that continue to influence creative enterprises around the world. My fingers are crossed that its future allows it to rediscover its courtesy and civility, be a beacon to the ambitious and the oppressed and, above all, a place to be proud of.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay