Home and other thoughts from Abroad

Merthyr Memories - Coal Fires

2011-11-30T08:08:00.001+04:00

In the past few weeks, I have taken to paying regular visits to the 'You know you're from Merthyr' page that has been set up on Facebook. Originally designed as a way of defining the characteristics of Merthyr men and women, it has taken on a life of its own and become a vehicle for telling jokes, swapping stories, indulging in reminiscence and generally having a bloody good time.

One of its regulars, the irrepressible Elwyn Morgan, is the source of a large number of the postings. Fond of a joke - mostly at the expense of the hapless Gurnos boy, Yunto - Elwyn is and always has been a larger than life figure. On his own FB page, he lists a number of things that he has done, but for me he will always be the man who lived with his 'sister' across the road from my nan in the early to mid 70s, possibly the first man to ever park a Jaguar on those streets.

One of the things that he describes himself as being is a former coal merchant and it is in that role that I best remember him. Like my grandfather Harry, Elwyn was one of the dust-caked rogues who made their living by selling coal on the streets of the estate in the days when gas fires and central heating were well outside the means of most families. I say rogues not in any derogatory way but almost with a sense of reverence because what they did is no longer done, and even if it were, it certainly would never be done now in the way that it was then.

Standing atop their sacks of coal, these men would belt out at the top of their voices 'COOOAAAAALLLL' as their lorry moved slowly down the street in the hope that someone would come out to buy a bag or two. There were also other calls though, ones reserved for those moments when groups of women were congregated on the street, sharing in the latest gossip and putting the world to rights. 'Coal for hole' and 'bag a shag' were the two most oft used and then, far away from these days of mind-numbing political correctness, the response tended to be, 'Oh, listen to 'im! He's an 'ell of a boy mun, 'ell of a boy!'

Coal really was the lifeblood of communities back then, providing most of their heat and, as was the case for so many, their means of making a living. My father Jimmy was one of them, a miner from the age of 16 who worked in Merthyr Vale, the pit next door to the ill-fated village of Aberfan.

Coal bound many of us in a series of daily rituals that started with the lighting of the fire in the morning. First, you had to clean out the coke and ashes fro the day before, sifting the coke (that has such a different meaning these days!) to retain the larger lumps for the starter fire. That done, you would then use a layer of newspaper, top that with thin strips of firewood (or firelighters if you were posh!) and then the retained coke from the previous day's fire.

If you were lucky, the firewood would catch and burn long and fiercely enough to get the coke going and then the lumps of coal could be put on top. Quite often though, you had to resort to other measures to get things moving like blocking the fire with a metal sheet and then covering that with sheets of newspaper so that it could be 'drawn' into life.

Tending the fire was a day-long job. The coal had to be topped up regularly, sometimes with larger lumps, but more often with 'small coal', a collection of fragments and dust that you would bind together with water before placing it on the intense heat of a well-established fire.

On cold winter mornings, it was an awful job, carried out in the bitter cold by whoever was first out of bed. On many a weekend morning, I would get up, deliver my papers and get back in time to light the fire before my mother, brother and sister got up - it pretty much became my job after my father died. On weekdays, however, we simply froze because with all of us out for the day, there was no need to light one until we got back after school, or mam got home from work.

Once lit and roaring that fire gave the room a focal point that the gas fires we later had could never match. At the time, the installation of those gas fires made us very happy indeed, particularly because we no longer had to put up with a freezing cold living room on winter school days. One turn of the dial followed by a click of the ignition switch and, hey presto, you had heat!

Of course, what we didn't realise at the time was that when the flames of our last coal fire died, a major part of the lives we had led died with them.

A box marked President?

2011-11-12T10:44:00.001+04:00

With less than a year until the Americans vote in the world's most important election, the race for the Republican nomination has flatlined. Mitt Romney remains the front runner not so much because he has energized the conservative vote or electrified the base, but because he has been generally gaffe free. Meanwhile, two of those who have been his strongest challengers have had to contend with adverse publicity, generated in one case by a monumental brain freeze in a debate and in the other by a string of claims about sexual advances he has made in the past.

The brain freeze affected Texas governor, Rick Perry, in last Wednesday's debate between the GOP hopefuls. Asked to name the three government departments that he would close down, he confidently recalled the departments of Commerce and Education but simply couldn't remember the third - the Department of Energy. Since then, he has tried laughing the whole thing off by appearing on TV shows where he has encouraged the audience to laugh with him at the mistake that he made. Most notable of all was his appearance on Letterman where he presented the 'Top Ten Rick Perry Excuses'.

Laughing and joking aside, the furore has done much to divert attention away from an ill-conceived plan to get rid of departments that carry out valuable work. Scrapping the Department of Commerce, for example, would also remove the Patent and Trademark Office that safeguards American intellectual property rights. This would have a serious repercussions for inventors who would become increasingly unlikely to take the risks required to achieve breakthroughs. Some of the roles of the Department of Energy, particularly the protection of unclear weapons could be taken over by the Pentagon, but what about its role in administering civil nuclear power projects? As for the Department of Education, it has long been seen as superfluous in a nation where the education system is so decentralized, but it does shape policy and enforces privacy and civil rights in schools. In focusing on the gaffe, the media appears to have taken its eye off the ball somewhat. It will be interesting to see if they pay it closer attention when he attempts to flesh out the policy in the days ahead.

One of the reasons that they might not be so fussed over anything that Perry has to offer is the simple fact that many now see him as a lame duck candidate. Another is that Herman Cain's alleged sexual exploits and his inability to remember anything with even a modicum of clarity is providing the press with a rich seam of material.

Cain's accusers are now beginning to line-up to form a not so orderly queue. First up was Sharon Bialek who accused cain of attempting to molest her 14 years ago, when Cain was CEO of the National Restaurant Association. Subsequent reports have cast doubt on her claims, focusing on a murky past that has included two bankruptcy filings but she remains adamant that she is telling the truth. Joining her as an accuser and soon at a joint press conference is another former NRA employ, Karen Kraushaar, who is claiming that Cain made similarly unwanted sexual advances.

In any normal year, this sort of chaos would see the front runner pull further ahead, propelled not so much by his own positions as the simple fact that there isn't anyone else. This has not happened for Romney because he remains unloved amongst the more socially conservative Republicans, many of whom are deeply suspicious of his views simply because he never seems able to maintain a consistent position on anything. It is for this reason that, of all people, former House Speaker Newt Gingrich - himself no stranger to sexual controversy- is now Romney's closest rival.

In an interview with Bill O'Reilly on Fox News, the inimitable Jon Stewart once described Romney as someone who looks as if he just came out of 'a box marked President'. In a recent analysis of Romney on The Daily Show, he offered another perspective. Enjoy!

Two Minutes of Silence

2011-11-11T11:13:00.001+04:00

It's just gone 11 o'clock here in Abu Dhabi, the sun is shining, the temperature is just about perfect and a great day with the family lies ahead. With the insane heat of the day now gone, it has become an ideal place to live and we count ourselves very lucky: lucky to be where we are; lucky to have the lifestyle that we have; lucky that we can look forward to many more days like these in the months and years ahead.

We are also very lucky indeed that we have ancestors who made this all possible. Our good fortune is down to the efforts we have made, but the bedrock of that success was provided by those who fought to preserve the basic freedoms that we all take for granted. Without them, life would have undoubtedly been very different indeed.

Before leaving the UK, it was at this time of year that I would often make a point of teaching the works of the First World War poets to GCSE classes. Of all of them, it was Wilfred Owen whose poetry appealed most and it was on him and his writing that much of my teaching was based. His chief subject, he once wrote, was 'War and the pity of War. The poetry is in the Pity'.

Of all the poems that he wrote, there is one that conjures those feelings of pity more than any other. It was always the most difficult one to teach because it creates a lump in the throat every time I read it aloud. For me, it is the one poem that sums up the nature of human sacrifice in World War 1, and is all the more poignant because it doesn't deal with death but with a fate that for me is much, much worse.

To the soldier commemorated in its lines, to Wilfred Owen to all those who served and died for us, I would just like to say thank you, humbled by the knowledge that your sacrifices can never truly be repaid.

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
— In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.

That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Shameless Plug

2011-09-28T12:38:00.000+04:00

No, not a story about the grown up antics of one of the Bash Street Kids, just a link to my new blog.

I will be using the new site to present information about university and careers guidance, with the main emphasis on applications for entry to university. I would appreciate it being recommended by any teacher friends of mine and by anyone with kids 14+ in school. I hope they find it useful:

www.findingyourway-signpost.blogspot.com

Cheers!

Cyfarthfa Memories 5: Miss Aldred and The Wasp of Twickenham

2011-06-27T12:30:00.001+04:00

At the beginning of those heady Sixth Form days of life at Cyfarthfa, I finally got to be taught by one of the school's legends, Miss Aldred. Never was a woman more aptly named because pretty much anyone who was taught by her feared her, not because she ruled her classes with the physical iron fist that many of her male colleagues used, but because she had a line in withering sarcasm that could floor even the most belligerent of students in a trice. Given the fact that she just about touched five feet in the highest heels that she wore, it was just about the only weapon she had in those days before the banning of the cane and the outlawing of some of the 'inventive' control methods that were employed to such devastating effect by some teachers. No, you would never have to duck a board duster that she had thrown, and you would never spend 5 minutes of a lesson recovering your sight after a concussive cuff around the ear for being a little bit too much of a smart arse. Her weapons were entirely verbal, a sophisticated battery of parts of speech that she could expertly entwine in a wicked one liner that would shut you up for a very long time.

Perhaps the best example of this came in a lesson of hers in Form Five, the year before I finally got to be taught by her. She was taking 5A3, one of the top three sets in the year, and was teaching them 'Lord of the Flies'. At a crucial dramatic moment in the text, she was rudely interrupted by one of the loudest farts that anyone had ever been emitted in that class and, believe me, that would have been up against some really tough competition. Having quickly identified the villain (Andrew Howells - Ozzy), she proceeded to stare at his feet for about 20 seconds, locking her eyes on them with a contempt that threatened to set them alight before she had actually said anything.

Perturbed by her glare, Ozzy tried to make light of the matter by saying: 'You like my shoes, Miss?' to which she replied, 'Not at all, I'm just fascinated by them. Completely amazed in fact!'
'Why is that Miss?' he asked.
'Well, how did they do it?' she asked. 'How did they manage it?'
'Manage what,Miss?'
'How on Earth did they manage to make shoes like that to fit trotters?'

Her response caused an uproar, one that reverberated around the school at breaktime. It was a putdown to end all putdowns, an acerbic piece of wit that had those who witnessed it laughing for days. It remains one of my abiding memories of the school even though I wasn't actually there to witness it.

The year after, during our first term of A Level study, I got to know where she had found the inspiration for her use of the barbed tongue. In that term, she began to teach us the works of Alexander Pope, the infamous 'Wasp of Twickenham' who had been such a fierce critic of the corruption that he saw all around him in his contemporary society. A staunch Catholic and high-minded moralist, Pope was set apart from many of his contemporaries by religious beliefs and a moral standpoint that many of them found unsettling, so much so that they set about attacking him, often employing hack writers to churn out spite-ridden, ill-conceived attacks on him, ones that poked fun at his physical deformities rather than engage with him in any moral debate.

I saw many of these traits in Miss Aldred. She was not physically deformed in the way that Pope had been but she shared his diminutive stature and she had a finely honed sense of morality,one that often inspired her to lash out in the waspish way that one of her literary heroes had. She was though much more measured in her use of it, far more sparing with her wrath, reserving it largely for those who pretty much deserved it.

Those lessons inspired an enduring love of Pope and of the stand that he took against the foibles of society, and the immorality of those who occupied and then abused positions of power. My favourite of all of them has to be the Sporus portrait from The Epistle to Dr.Arbuthnot in which Pope vilified Lord Hervey, a favourite at the court of Queen Caroline, the wife of King George II, who was heavily involved in the political wranglings of the time. Pope's portrait is quoted below in its entirety with useful links to annotations:

Let Sporus tremble — "What? that thing of silk, [305]
Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?
Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?"
Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings,
This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings; [310]
Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys,
Yet Wit ne'er tastes, and Beauty ne'er enjoys,
So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite.
Eternal Smiles his Emptiness betray, [315]
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid Impotence he speaks,
And, as the Prompter breathes, the Puppet squeaks;
Or at the Ear of Eve, familiar Toad,
Half Froth, half Venom, spits himself abroad, [320]
In Puns, or Politicks, or Tales, or Lyes,
Or Spite, or Smut, or Rymes, or Blasphemies.
His Wit all see-saw between that and this,
Now high, now low, now Master up, now Miss,
And he himself one vile Antithesis. [325]
Amphibious Thing! that acting either Part,
The trifling Head, or the corrupted Heart!
Fop at the Toilet, Flatt'rer at the Board,
Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.
Eve's Tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, [330]
A Cherub's face, a Reptile all the rest;
Beauty that shocks you, Parts that none will trust,
Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the dust.

For me, it stands as an attack not just on the man but on the type of person that he represents, particularly those in the modern political arena who might be superficially attractive but who espouse views that are harmful and often dangerous. I think primarily of those elements of the Tea Party, those supposedly down-to-earth folksy types who pretend to stand for everyday Americans but who are in fact espousing policies that work only in the interests of the rich, actively undermining the interests of middle America in the process. Sarah Palin is the chief 'bug', that annoying, persistent fly who will not go away, no matter how many times she is flapped at by those who make better arguments and reveal her for the fool that she is.

Closer to home, there are similar bugs in the Condem coalition, particularly, for me anyway, the Education Secretary Michael Gove. He might not have the superficial attractiveness ('gilded wings') that Hervey had, but he is for me a 'painted child of dirt who stinks and stings', spinning as he has a whole web of lies about the upcoming industrial action by teachers, misrepresenting it and them at every turn. In interviews his 'buzz' never ceases to irritate, born as it is out of a mind that has the feeblest grasp of the nature of the profession that he has nominal responsibility for, a vocation whose demands are far greater than any Tory Minister has ever grasped. As with everything, it all boils down to a crude numbers game for them, knowing as they do the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Were she still teaching today, I wonder what Miss Aldred would make of the current government's attacks on the profession that she served so well. More pointedly, as a moralist, with a clear sense of right and wrong, I wonder what the Tory, Alexander Pope, would make of it all?

A Glimmer of Hope

2011-06-12T16:04:00.000+04:00

In my last posting, I described my dismay at the state of the little parks that lie just off Street 23 and Muroor. On daily walks taken since, I have been subjected to the same sorry sight every time.

This morning was no different. Used nappies, empty McDonald's wrappers, crushed plastic coke bottles, half finished shwarmas and other assorted detritus lay strewn on the grass, near the swings, and at the base of the bins that have seemingly been placed there for ornamental purposes.

Being a week day, it all gets taken care of at about 6 o'clock when the workers employed to tend the area drift in and set about the task of cleaning up the mess from the night before. I think that those who scatter their waste see nothing wrong in what they are doing because they know it will be picked up the day after. They seem to believe that it is all part of some sort of symbiotic relationship between them and the workmen, providing them with the tasks that give their lives meaning and purpose.

Then, as I rounded the park's top turn at the beginning of another lap, I saw him. There, immaculately dressed in a Persil white kandura, was an Emirati gentleman who was doing something that I simply would never expect. He was gently supervising the clean-up operation, not in any official capacity but as a concerned citizen who was obviously disgusted at the state the place had been left in. Having deposited a few plastic water bottles in one of the bins, he proceeded to walk from sapling to sapling, checking that they were firmly in place, straightening one or two that had obviously been dislodged during the previous evening's visits by the well-to-do vandals who maraud the parks from just before sunset onwards.

He got his hands dirty, he soiled his sandals and stained the bottom of the previously pristine kandura. By the time that I passed him again on the next lap, he had even broken into a sweat through his labours and had taken off his sandals to cool his feet in one of the sprinklers.

It will be interesting to see if he returns at all during the week.

A Festival of Litter

2011-06-03T07:47:00.000+04:00

Bill Bryson once famously described Liverpool as a city that seemed to be having a 'festival of litter' when he visited it on his tour of the UK. Well, it seems that Abu Dhabi is trying to set itself up as a major competitor.

On a very early morning walk, I decided to stay close to home and do a few laps of the track that loops around two usually pretty little parks about 5 minutes away from the house. It was a walk spoiled by the sight of litter strewn everywhere, all of it within metres of the bins that are thoughtfully placed around the parks' perimiters.

It is all well and good for Abu Dhabi to tout its green credentials but until it sets about the business of properly monitoring the mindless behaiour of individuals who leave their detritus behind them, the wonderful vision that created Masdar City will begin to look myopic. That great environmental project is in danger of looking like window dressing as long as the day-to-day challenges that face the environment here aren't dealt with.

Super Swans!

2011-05-31T11:21:00.000+04:00

What an evening we had at Chez Kenning last night as we watched Kath's home city football club beat Reading at Wembley to earn a place in the Premier League next season!

Over the 90 minutes it was far from plain sailing for the Swans who were subjected to frequent attacking barrages from a determined and passionate Reading side. Look at the stats and they will tell you that Swansea were dominant having enjoyed 52% of the possession but the other key stats, notably goal attempts (18 to 8) and the number of corners (16 to 1), tell quite a different story.

Stats and the playoff final aside, the Swans have deserved this for their week- in , week-out consistency over the year and for their general style of play, which has been lauded by many. More than that, its passionate fans deserve it, particularly those who have stuck with a club that was one point away from the Conference just 8 seasons ago.

Not so happy about the Swans promotion are some Twitter users who got a discussion going under the hashtag #englishpremierleaguefortheenglish. Of course, I had to contribute, had to say something, even if it was simply to point out that Swansea's squad probably has more Englishmen in it than almost every current Premier League side, and that the title English Premier League is possibly one of the biggest misnomers in world sport. Idiots!

Free Gary McKinnon

2011-05-29T08:19:00.001+04:00

The controversial attempt by The United States to extradite the Scottish systems analyst Gary McKinnon is solely a matter for the British courts, claimed President Barack Obama during his recent diplomatic/re-election tour of Europe.

Speaking to reporters at a joint press conference with UK Prime Minister David Cameron, the President said, “We have confidence in the British legal system coming to a just conclusion, and so we will await resolution and we will be respectful of that process.” Taken by many, including McKinnon's irrepressible mother Janis Sharp, as a hopeful sign, the general feeling now seems to be that any trial that does take place will do so on British soil. Whether that's the 'just conclusion' that Obama expects remains to be seen.

The case dates back to 2001-2002 when McKinnon managed to hack into sensitive US material held on military and NASA databases. Using the name 'Solo', he accessed some highly sensitive records in an attempt to uncover information on free energy suppression, and to find evidence that the US has been covering up records of UFO activities.

In prosecuting McKinnon, US officials have accused him of deleting key data and causing over $700,000 worth of damage to their systems. They have also made much of the one threat that he openly admits to having made relating to what he called a 'huge security shutdown on 9/11' and his intention to 'disrupt at the highest levels.'

What they fail to make much of is the fact that McKinnon, who was by no means a top level 'hacker', easily gained access and left them a series of notes explaining what he had done, highlighting some fundamental security flaws in the process. Even had he committed the $700,000 worth of crime that they allege, the expense and the huge embarrassment that he has probably rescued them from would be worth that comparatively small 'investment'. Rather than trying to imprison him, it is my opinion that they should have offered him consultancy work.

The fight to extradite McKinnon has been going on since November 2002 when he was indicted by a grand Jury in East Virginia. For almost nine years, he has lived in fear of being sent to the US and has paid a heavy psychological price as a result. The reasons behind this were fully revealed in August 2008 when McKinnon was diagnosed as suffering from Asperger's Syndrome by three of the world's leading experts in their field. It is their argument that McKinnon could well seek to commit suicide if he were put through the traumas of trial and imprisonment.

All of which brings me back to President Obama and his expression of a wish to see justice done. It is my hope that he is treated with as much compassion as the President's Kenyan aunt, Zeituni Onyango, who was found living illegally in a district of Boston where housing is provided for the poor. The details of their cases are quite different, their need for compassion exactly the same.

Jacob's World

2011-05-23T13:00:00.000+04:00

Just a quick plug today for Jacob's blog. At the moment, it just has two of his stories but we are working on ways of him using it to display all kinds of writing, as he tries out new text types and experiments with language.

He is VERY excited about it and loves getting comments via my or Kath's Facebook pages, but he'd love to see some beneath the pieces of writing on the blog. The link is as follows.

http://www.jacobkenning.blogspot.com/

Holiday Inn Abu Dhabi - Discrimination in action

2011-05-19T08:31:00.000+04:00

Yesterday evening, my wife and a group of her work colleagues went along to the Holiday Inn on Street 31 in Abu Dhabi for a meal at their Lemon Tree Restaurant. The food and service in that part of the hotel were by all accounts very good indeed, which was just as well when you consider what had happened to them in the bar before going to eat.

At the bar, they were prevented from ordering drinks because one of the women, a lovely Egyptian lady, was wearing a hijab. She was not dressed in full 'national costume', just wearing the head covering. The barman and then a waiter tried their best to explain 'company policy' to an increasingly angry group of principled professionals who would have accepted that policy had it not been for the fact that sat in open view, supping from nicely chilled pints of lager, were two men wearing the full kandura and head covering. My wife's Egyptian colleague had asked only for a Pepsi, her tipple of choice on every social occasion.

Not even the Guest Liaison person could understand the increasingly vociferous objections of my wife and her colleagues, assuaging them only with the fob off that 'on this occasion' the hotel would not enforce the rule. The two Arab gentlemen were ignored and allowed to take their drink in peace.

Blue Moon Rising

2011-05-17T10:08:00.000+04:00

After 35 years without a trophy, Manchester City marked what is likely to prove a watershed moment in their history, when they defeated Stoke City in last Saturday's FA Cup Final at Wembley. Having dominated the one-dimensional Potters for the entire match, it was no less than they deserved.

The team's triumph came on the same day that their so-called 'Manchester neighbours' secured a record 19th title, and will have done much to sour the celebrations of the Salford-based team. The derogatory clock banner that has appeared in their Stretford end season after season will now have to be consigned to the trash heap, and United can start looking over their shoulders as City begin what will surely be an inexorable climb to the League title and possible European glory. With the foundations of success now laid by the acquisition of that major trophy, it won't just be Mansour's millions that tempt players of quality, but the growing conviction that City is a club that is going places.

'Now hang on a minute,' I hear some of you say, 'what the hell is he doing praising Manchester City?' Well, part of the answer to that question lies in the parallel nature of City's history and Newcastle's. Both are big city clubs (the only ones in their city!) who have experienced difficult times but have massive potential. Having sunk as low as League Two, City have experienced depths that the Toon have been fortunate enough not to plumb; conversely, Newcastle's rise to a position similar to City's seems a long, long way off. We yearn for the big money suitor who can propel us onwards and rid us of the curse that is Mike Ashley.

What really binds the clubs though is the nature of their fans. No matter what has been thrown at them the fans have remained steadfastly loyal. Newcastle's average attendance last season far exceeded that of all bar Man City, Arsenal and Man Ure; the Toon's biggest gate of 52,181 even managing to exceed City's 47,384. In adversity, City have arguably been even more impressively loyal though. Despite sinking to the third tier in 1998, they still managed to pull in crowds in excess of 30,000 the following season, at the end of which they scrapped and scraped their way back to League One thanks to a play off win over Gillingham.

I also have more personal reasons for liking City. First of all, they are Man Ure's chief rivals and their fans take the greatest of delight in beating them, and in supporting any other side that plays against them. Secondly, last year, I started work with a larger than life City fan, the mighty Steve Quinn, an irrepressibly happy and deliriously optimistic City fan who has supported them through thick and thin all of his life. Even when he and his family moved to Carlisle, no matter how badly they were doing, no matter where it was they were playing, he followed City to nearly every game that they played. He lives and breathes the club and has passed on his passion to his son, Daniel.

In the past year, I managed to play a small part in fuelling that passion when I helped him win UAE's Radio 2 prize to see City play against Man Ure at the back end of 2010. Through an odd quirk of fate, I managed to get the presenter, a great guy called Fadi, to ring Steve and talk to him about the support of his club. That call secured him a place in the draw at the end of that week. For me though, there was no draw. I think Steve won it because of the passion of his answers when he was asked about why he supported City. His just reward came when he was contacted and was told he the trip to Manchester was his. 'Daniel, we've won, we've won,' he shouted on air before gratefully accepting the prize. And what a prize it was. Not only did they get the all expenses paid trip, Daniel got to lead out the team with Carlos Tevez and both he and his dad got to meet the players. As Steve himself said, 'There were two excited little boys on that trip.'

To cap it all off, Steve managed to acquire tickets to the Cup Final through a contact he had made at Etihad Airways, and he took Daniel with him. Watching the game at home, we all cheered as Tevez lifted the trophy, secure in the knowledge that in some corner of Wembley, Steve would be broadly grinning, his face stained with unbridled tears of joy.

Parental Advisory - Abu Dhabi

2011-05-16T09:03:00.000+04:00

So, last Saturday, Kath swanned off to Dubai for a deserved shopping break, and I got to spend the day with our irrepressible two. With the temperature having gone through the roof, we opted for the Cinema followed by the delight that is Fun City in Marina Mall. We also invited my work colleague Josh and his better half, Nicole, who were as tempted by the prospect of 'Thor' as we were.

We met up, bought the tickets, got given a Thor T-Shirt (Josh took it, would never fit me!) grabbed some essential film supplies and went off to Screen 4 where we took our seats.

As ever, we were treated to the usual array of trailers that you would expect to see at a PG film and were suitably excited at the prospect of some of them, most notably the new X Men film and The Green Lantern, both of which look like great fun. With those out of the way, we were shown some adverts and settled back ready to watch the film when IT happened.

Instead of the start of 'Thor', we were subjected to the most hideous trailer possible, a vile concoction of mindless violence and 'f' word swearing that would not have been appropriate even in a 15 rated film. We were all shocked and appalled and at a loss to explain it all to my boys (aged 8 and 7) who could not believe what they were hearing and seeing.

With 'Thor' safely negotiated (entertaining stuff!), I headed off to make a complaint to the management of Grand Cinema Abu Dhabi Mall. I hope they have the sense to review their trailer policy in the light of what I had to say. Morons!

Eulogy

2011-04-18T07:12:00.001+04:00

Trad, Howard, Me and Philip - Feb 2010

In response to a few requests from family and friends, I have posted the eulogy that I gave at Philip's funeral last week. Between it and the obituary I posted earlier, you get a full sense of the man.

We are here today not just to bid farewell to a loved one – a husband, a father, a grandfather and a friend- but also to celebrate his life. As Philip’s nephew, I am also here to pay something of a personal tribute to someone who for much of my teenage years was far more than just an uncle. I am going to share some memories, some stories and some reflections, some of them mine, some of them gleaned from 5 days of heavy research in Heolgerrig Club. I should also tell you that quite a lot of the language used has been sanitized to suit the venue.

The cornerstone of that relationship was laid in the summer of 1975 in the months leading up to the death of my own father in the October of that year. At that time, Philip was only 20 but he offered incredible support to his sister, my mam, by in effect taking on some of the responsibility of bringing me up. This wasn’t something that he ever said he was doing, it was just something that he did by instinct, taking me under his wing and just making sure I was alright.

Part of that upbringing was him getting me to look after the horse that was to become pretty much a constant companion for the next five years. Named after Roy Rogers’ horse, Trigger was a 13 hands high Welsh Mountain pony with a multiple personality disorder. At his best he was a placid, gentle creature, at his worst, he was positively dangerous.

I remember one occasion outside the Hayfield when Philip drove up in the Landrover just after I had picked myself up from yet another heavy, Trigger-inflicted fall. Phil got out of the Landrover, guessed what had happened, said ‘Let me ‘ave him for a minute,’ got on the horse and spun him around first one way and then the other for about 5 minutes. He then got off and said, ‘There you are,’ got back in the Landrover and drove off again. When I got back on Trigger, the horse was so dizzy that he could barely walk in a straight line and so I had to let him go for the day.

It was Trigger that Philip rode during the annual round up of the flocks of sheep for their summer dipping and shearing. He used him because there was almost no hill too steep, no pathway too dangerous for that horse. When he brought down stragglers from the top of the Waun, Philip looked like a modern day Twm Sion Cati, his legs dangling down the side of a pony that was a good few sizes too small for him.

It was with Philip, Gareth (Trad to most of us) and Brenda that I also spent many lazy summer days – we had proper summers back in those days- bringing in the hay. This involved a full range of activities that would contravene almost every modern day health and safety rule. One of those was riding on a trailer that carried the stack of loose hay from the Hay Field to the Big Stable in the days before they bailed it. Hard work it was, but it made for a childhood far removed from the screen dominated one of today.

Since I got home last week, I have also learned a lot more about how widely Philip was respected and have laughed at some of the stories that people have told me about him. I was reminded by a few people of his formidable appetite, his ability to eat almost constantly. On Friday nights, it was often the case that he and Trad would have pie and chips after a good few beers in town and then walk home with a bag of fish and chips to eat on the way. Even in his last few months he retained that ability, astounding a range of members of the medical profession in the process.

He could also talk, and boy how. He had great stories to tell and enjoyed telling them, often more than once. My abiding memory of that ability came at my wedding to Kath in 1999. If you ask her, she recalls with fondness how she drifted into a conversation with me and Philip that was all about times past, but especially about tractors. By the time he had finished, she knew all about them, but particularly about the old Massey that had done so much of the work in the Hay Field. ‘They just don’t build them like they used to,’ he had said.

I have also heard countless stories about funny situations that he has been in. I think my favourite, the one that perhaps best sums him up, is the one that Howard, Philip’s chief partner in crime, told me. He recalled a time when a dignitary pulled up alongside Heolgerrig Club for a half yearly meeting that was being hosted there. He was welcomed by Philip and Howard, Heolgerrig Club’s answer to Batman and Robin, who were momentarily taken aback by the visitor’s gold chain around his neck. Just doing his job, Philip asked the visitor to sign in at the door. The visitor said, ‘Why should I sign in? Do you know who I am? I am Lord Penrhys!’ ‘Oh really,’ came the reply, ‘I don’t care what your name is, I’m Phil The Wern and you are signing that book.’

Then my mother told me a story that sums up the randomness that Philip was sometimes capable of. One night he and Yorrie Haines were involved in a long drawn out wind-up of each other, something that they often did. The argument finished when Philip turned to him and said, ‘You can take the mick out of me as much as you like. Just don’t take the mick out of my cows!’

As random as that reply was, there is much in it that speaks about the man and his commitment to the land that he worked on. Philip comes from real farming stock. His father and his father’s father and many Davieses before them have worked the land in and around Merthyr for well over a hundred years. The church we are in today stands close to the edge of one farm that they had, which included the site where Starbrick used to stand. The crematorium that we are going to to bid our final farewell is actually built on the Llwydcoed farm that my great grandfather owned.

So, Philip is very much a chip off an old block, a worker of the land who extended his love for being outdoors by starting a fencing business back in 2005, initially with Gareth but also now with Brenda. His youngest son Jonny also works for that business. Philip was born for the outdoors, built to work in any kind of weather, sometimes seemingly impervious to the cold, even on those days where he’d rub his hands furiously and come into the house and tell us, ‘There’s a couple of brass monkeys down the road looking for a welder.’

It is for this reason that I think that Jan has made the only decision that she could about his ashes. Returning him to the Waun to become a part of the land that he spent so much of his time looking after seems absolutely right to me. If going to Llwydcoed is one type of homecoming, the return of Philip to be a part of the Waun is a far more important and proper one.

If the Waun was one of Philip’s chosen churches, Heolgerrig Club was very much another. For over 20 years, Philip served on that committee, most often in the role of Chairman, doing all that he could to keep the place going. Saving it made huge demands of his time but, as Jan will tell you, he never flinched from giving it. If there was a sound that he liked almost as much as the contented mooing of his cows, it was the ring of the club’s cash register on particularly busy nights.

Another story that I enjoyed listening to since I got home was Philip’s final visit to the Club just a few weeks before he left us. As some of you know, but many probably don’t, he was there to see the bar and lounge reopened after its recent renovation. Even now that he’s gone, he won’t be forgotten in that room because an excellent portrait painted by Yorrie Haines looks over that bar. A fitting tribute I think to all of the effort that he had put in.

At this stage, I would like to pay tribute to the fantastic care that Philip received throughout his illness, both from the District Nurses that visited him at home, and those who looked after him in Prince Charles and Aberdare hospitals. When I sat with Jan one afternoon, she joked how he had loved all of the attention from all of those women in uniform. It conjured up images for me of him as a character in an old ‘Carry On’ movie, Heolgerrig’s answer to Sid James perhaps.

It is to those nurses that I would like to express the thanks of the family and of Jan in particular. Not only did they show care and concern for Philip when he was with us, they extended that after he passed on, sending Jan a card that they had all signed and popping in to see if she was OK. That quality of care goes beyond the pay packet, beyond normal working hours and it has been much appreciated by all.

Philip was also able to rely on wonderful family support. Jan has been, of course, an ever present at his side but she has been continually able to rely on people on both sides of the family. She is grateful to all for that support but particularly to her sister Mary who was a constant support, and to my mother June who drove him to various places around South Wales.

I’ll finish by telling you about something that came to me in an idle moment as I was looking over all that I have had to say here, something that I was inspired to share with you by something that Jan said to me on the weekend. Just for a moment I got caught up in a daydream about Philip walking towards the pearly gates and an awaiting St Peter. As he approached, something caught his eye and he wandered off track. Following him, St Peter said, ‘You need to come this way.’ He then noticed that Philip was staring at something in front of him and he asked, ‘Philip, what’s the matter?’ Philip looked at him and replied, ‘I’ll be there in a minute now. It’s just I don’t like the look of that fence.’

A man of the outdoors, a builder of fences, father, grandfather and friend, but above all a down to earth, honest to goodness decent man. Rest in peace Uncle Phil.

In Memoriam: Philip 'Wern' Davies 2/1/1955 - 1/4/2011

2011-04-06T16:16:00.001+04:00

From the great and the good to the nefarious or notorious, obituaries are usually composed for individuals who have in some way contributed to public life or had some sort of impact, whether it be positive or negative, on the lives of many. My Uncle Philip, who sadly passed away after a year long battle with cancer, does not fall into any of those categories. He never stood for public office, never fought in a war and never rescued anybody from fire or a raging torrent. Neither though did he get into trouble with the police, rip anybody off or generally make a nuisance of himself in the community, or the town where he lived. He was just an ordinary bloke, a law-abiding taxpayer who worked hard all of his life, got married and had two boys and went about the business of being a down to earth, honest to goodness human being.

Public perception is one thing; my view of him is quite another. To me, Uncle Phil is a hero, not one bedecked with medals who basked in the glory of public adulation, but a private hero, someone who was there for me at the most difficult time of my life, someone who, in many ways, did much to save me from myself.

The cornerstone of that relationship was laid in the summer of 1975, the year in which my Dad died. Like all of the adults on both sides of the family, Philip knew that my father did not have long to live and so early in that incredible summer he introduced me properly to Trigger, the solid, lightning fast Welsh Mountain pony that became a pretty constant companion for about 5 years afterwards. The fact that that pony was a bit of a psycho who sometimes did his level best to kill or maim me was beside the point. Drag me through as many hedges as he liked, lob me over his head with as many sharp stops as he could muster, bolt along as many precarious hillside pathways as he oh so often did, that little grey whirlwind was a constant means of escapist pleasure for several summers and it is Philip I have to thank for it. Technically, Trigger was actually my mother's pony but it was Phil who first put me on his back late on a summer's evening, leading him by the mane, up the Patch Field after he had just finished hours of hard slog in the nearby Hayfield.

That Hayfield was another mini-paradise. It was one of a few areas on The Waun (the farm) that was harvested to provide winter feed, primarily for the cows and horses that they kept there at that time. Back then, the hay was cut and dried loose, not stacked in bales as it was in later years, and once it was dried and ready it was pitchforked onto a trailer and then driven a mile or so away to be pitchforked again into the loft of the Big Stable. Almost always accompanying them were me and my Aunty Brenda (she's actually a few years younger than me), taking it in turns to ride unharnessed on the ancient contraption that flipped the hay over half way through its drying period, or on top of the loaded haystack on the trailer that would wobble under us as we made the short journey to the barns. They weren't big on health and safety back then; God knows how many modern day laws we broke!

At the heart of all operations were Philip, his younger brother Gareth and their best mate, Dixie. Others joined in the fun at times too but it was the company of that seemingly ever that I remember the best and they who provided most of the laughs. If there's one thing they could all do, it was talk, but Philip was the best of them, characterised as he was by a tendency to say what he had to say, and to say it when it needed saying. He was also a great piss-taker. I can still see him buckled over the steering wheel of his Landrover one day with Gareth sitting next to him, both of them laughing hysterically, after they had asked me to go to check the brake lights on the horsebox. 'Working?' Philip had shouted. 'Which one?' I had replied.

Philip was also responsible for some of my earliest hangovers. Working on the hay eventually brought with it cider rations and it didn't take much for me to start feeling lightheaded. He never let it get out of hand though, always taking away the Corona pop bottles filled with Gransher's scrumpy just before things got too far out of hand. It was at his wedding to Jan that I got my first taste of excess though. It was still light when I got home and I seem to remember falling asleep still suited and booted, semi-comatose until well into the following morning.

It was those memories that Philip and I shared on the day of my marriage to Kath. At the evening reception, we reflected on those golden times, losing ourselves in idle reminiscence for over an hour. At one stage, the blushing bride checked in to see what we were talking about and still has fond memories of her absolute bewilderment as he talked us both through the merits of his tractors, particularly the old Massey Ferguson that had done much of the work described above. It's a part of that day that lives as strongly as almost every other, and it was the first thing that Kath and I talked about when we raised a glass in honour of him on the evening that he died. Those tales told with a glint in the eye, those memories retold with such affection and enthusiasm, we relived them all.

I have now returned home for the funeral and have spent time with a number of people who loved him. Starting first and foremost with Jan, his wife, I spent a few hours in her company listening to her heart-wrenching accounts of his suffering and his blessed release from those, but also to the funny stories about his winding-up of the nursing staff and his deep appreciation of so many women in uniform fussing over for him for so long - Jan made him sound like Sid James in one of those old 'Carry On' films! She also spoke movingly about those nurses and paid tribute to their professionalism and commitment, their dedication to caring that extended betond the day that Philip finally left us. She showed me a card that they had sent and told me that they had even visited her after Philip died to see how she was.

I also took some time to visit the two places that were bascially Philip's churches: The Waun and Helogerrig Social Club. The walk around The Waun proved cathartic, stirring deep-seated memories of things like sitting in the Land Rover on the edge of the hill on which Philip and Gransher would often stop to look over the land that they were the guardians of. They would stay there for up to an hour, sometimes chatting, sometimes (and believe me this was unusual for Philip) saying very little but always on the lookout for sheep-worrying dogs, or the horses of others who had released their animals there for a spot of free grazing - Brenda and I were often entrusted with the task of driving those freeloaders off The Waun the day after.

In the Club, I sat with his friends and fellow committee members listening to their stories about Philip, sharing in the many fond memories that have of him. Perhaps my favourite was the one Howard told me of the time when a dignitary wearing a gold chain had arrived at the Club for some event, got out of his car and tried to walk into the Club without signing in. When challenged about this, the affronted gentleman said something like, 'Why should I sgn in? I am Lord Penrhys'. 'So what!' came the reply, 'I'm Phil The Wern and you are signing that book!' There were also Philip's random moments, one of which my mother told me. She said Philip had been having a mickey-taking exchange with Yorrie Haines in the bar one night, one that had obviously taken a drunken route that no one can recall the logic of. It ended with Phil saying to Yorrie, 'You can take the piss out of me all you like, just don't take the piss out of my cows.'

I think that what lies at the heart of that remark is Philip's absolute devotion to that part of his life. After Gransher died, he, Gareth and Brenda were determined to carry things on in the way that they always had.  As a son of a farmer, of a son of a farmer, Philip was one of a long line of Davieses who have worked hill farms in and around Merthyr. They once owned, for example, the land that eventually became home to the huge brickworks opposite their Coronation Terrace home. They also owned the land that now houses Llwydcoed Crematorium, the place where final farewells will be said to Philip on Monday afternoon, in what will be, I suppose, a homecoming of sorts.

There is though a much more significant homecoming planned. When I spoke to Jan, she told me of her intention to scatter Philip's ashes on The Waun, on that place to which he had devoted so much of his life. I cannot think of a better place for his ashes to go, allowing him as it does the chance to become a part of that for which he had cared so much for all of those years.

Rest there in peace, Uncle Phil.

Unparallel Lives

2011-03-29T06:14:00.001+04:00

Yesterday evening’s foray into the world of Twitter was my most interesting one yet. Responding to one Tweeter’s justification of certain splinter groups’ use of violence in last Saturday’s march against the UK government’s cuts, I pointed out that such action does not help the cause on any way, shape or form, but serves only to undermine the efforts of the bulk of demonstrators who made their point in an appropriate fashion in Hyde Park. That said, undue use of force by the police is something that I do not justify either, but trying to sort the grains of truth from the chaff of media coverage is never the easiest thing to do, and that particular argument was one that both sides of this particular Twitter debate let slide.

With that being the case, there then ensued an exchange on the reasons behind the more ‘direct action’ of some of the protesters. In making their case, those who expressed their understanding of the aggression said things that were no different from what the people of Egypt, Tunisia and Libya were doing. In her response one of them actually wrote, ‘In Tunisia, Egypt and Libya the (UK) government supports violent uprising against austerity measures, but not here in Britain.’ At the heart of what she and a few others like her had to say was the crude assertion that what was happening in Britain was no different to what was happening in the Middle East, and that the government was being hypocritical in its dealings with the British public.

Yes, there are some parallels. In all of the instances quoted by the respondent, part of the root causes of the unrest were things like anger about rises in food prices and the difficulties that people face on a day to day basis when trying to make ends meet. In labelling these, as another contributor did, ‘austerity measures’, those who tried to argue the common cause of UK protesters and that of the peoples of the Middle East were guilty of the most absurd extrapolation, a forging of common causality that basically amounted to the crudest of non-sequiturs.

What makes the lives of the British different from those in the Middle East is the simple fact that the latter have lived under permanent ‘austerity measures’ for decades. Their suffering was perpetuated by dictatorial regimes characterised by cronyism and corruption, ensured and enforced by small cliques of vested interests who had privileged lifestyles earned on the backs of masses of people whose daily existences were very much hand to mouth. In comparison to recent times, life in the UK is getting harder for many, but to passionately assert that what the British are suffering equates in any way with what those in the Middle East have gone through is quite simply absurd.

Where the parallel also falls down is the nature of the societies and political realities that the groups of protesters live in. In the UK, many of those who attended the rally got there via a range of efficient means of transport. Once they got there, their safety and well-being were monitored by a police operation that was designed to ensure their smooth passage to the focal point of the march. Most of them had probably eaten a good breakfast that morning and have a home and a meal to return to at the end of the day; most would also have been through a school system that had done its level best to educate them, not to mention access to free medical care and a whole host of day to day provisions that are the envy of many the world over. Most importantly, all of them are able go to bed every night without having to worry about who might come crashing through their door to haul them off for questioning and/or torture. They all also have the option of an election every five years to show what they think via the ballot box.

There is also another crucial difference. Even when things turned violent in Egypt, when circumstances got rougher than any UK protester could possibly imagine, I do not recall many Egyptians, Libyans or Tunisians hiding their faces behind masks and scarves, apart from the women who did so for religious reasons. Truly committed to their cause, these people bravely faced their oppressors even when they knew that, at any moment, they might have been shot, or taken away for questioning. In fighting their fight, they risked their lives and put their families in danger.

Compare that to the ranks of largely well-dressed, masked protesters who risked comparatively little, some of whom might, perhaps, spend a few nights in a cell before being charged, released and eventually fined for what they did. Even better, compare the fact that many have died in the face of the oppressor in the Middle East, whilst most of those masked British men and women got back on a bus or a train at the end of the day, and went home for a pint and a chat about how brave they had been.

Hurting, not working

2011-03-24T08:58:00.000+04:00

Smarm and swagger as much as he likes, things are beginning to fall apart for George Osborne. Try as he might, the post-election mantra of ‘We had to do it to sort out the mess that we were left’, is beginning to wear thin, partly because people are beginning to see through the revisionism that underpins the narrative that the coalition has created, but mainly because his swingeing cuts and austerity package are not having the desired effect.

Underpinning the whole Tory approach is the conviction that financial stability will be obtained by through a combination of imposing severe cuts to balance the budget, and stimulating growth that will reap higher tax revenues as the economy prospers and people return to work. The fatal flaw in that logic is that, somehow, private enterprise will create the jobs that have been and will continue to be lost as public sector employees lose their jobs as a result of the cuts. Quite where these jobs will be created is something that they have failed to explain. Simply adding lots of people to the masses of the unemployed gives private companies more people to choose from, it does not incentivize them to offer anyone any job at all. Private business needs demand and with more and more people added to the already swelled ranks of the unemployed, demand shrinks, people buy less, people do less and so growth is stifled or killed off completely.

All theoretical? Well, no, not at all. In his barbed attack on the Chancellor’s speech yesterday, Ed Miliband brutally exposed Tory policy effectiveness, deriding in the process the Prime Minister’s claim that his three priorities were ‘Growth, growth and growth.’ Since coming to office, the Tories have had to downgrade growth forecasts. Last June they reduced the previous forecast from 2.6% down to 2.3% only to change their minds again yesterday and reduce it further to 1.7%. As Miliband pointed out, ‘It didn’t happen by chance, it happened by choice.’

So, with growth forecasts down, inflation creeping steadily higher and no real sign of any private businesses taking up the slack, what is the Plan B? The answer: there isn’t one. Osborne and his Treasury team are ploughing on in the same fashion, wielding the axe to cut spending and destroying consumer confidence, sending many businesses to the point of no return in the process. Mr. Miliband was right, ‘It’s hurting, but it’s not working.’

Democracy Hypocrisy

2011-03-21T10:55:00.000+04:00

Widely welcomed as necessary action against an oppressive brutal dictator, the UN backed coalition strikes against the forces of Colonel Gadaffi are yet another demonstration of the double standards that many Western democracies operate by. Rather than being the tangible demonstration of the UN’s determination to defend human rights that many argue it to be, it is instead a graphic illustration of the collective hypocrisy that so often undermines the values and principles of the so-called free world.

It’s not that I don’t see the need for action; it’s the selective nature of it that bothers me. I am not for one minute saying that the West should have just let the whole thing play out and not done anything to stop Gadaffi’s brutal advance towards Benghazi; what I am saying is that there have been other cases where such intervention has been necessary and nothing was done. From Rwanda to Darfur, Tiananmen Square to Srebrenica, the UN has been presented with opportunities to take effective action against hideous Human Rights abuses and in all examples it failed to do so.

Pin down any oleaginous politician on matters like this and they will argue, as UK Foreign Secretary William Hague did the other day, that all conflicts of this have to be taken on a case by case basis. What a load of sanctimonious tripe. How can

Libya

be a case that is in any way more serious than the acts of genocide that were carried out in three of the four cases mentioned above?

More pertinently, how is the nature of the action being taken by Libya any different from that being perpetrated by the governments of Bahrain, Yemen and Syria against their own people? In the case of Bahrain, Hague tried to argue that it was different because it had made offers of change. Just like Gadaffi’s ceasefires, these offers are nothing more than deflections, clumsy attempts to divert attention away from what is actually happening on the ground.

Of course, Bahrain is different and it is so for two reasons. Firstly, the uprising there is by the Shia majority against the Sunni minority that has run the tiny Gulf island for centuries. Were they to be successful, the Shia majority might, it is feared, form an alliance with, or certainly move closer to Iran, the region’s Shia superpower. Secondly, Bahrain is now being policed not just by the local forces but also by Saudi, Kuwaiti and Emirati troops who have been drafted in to 'preserve the stability' of the Gulf Cooperation Countries (GCC). The West turning a blind eye to this invitation-invasion helped secure Arab League support for the UN resolution that allowed the action against Libya.

So, at the same time that the UN is providing military support for the rebellion in Libya, it is, in effect, sanctioning the use of military force against a rebellion in Bahrain. Even more galling is Bahrain’s backing of military action to support democratic change in Libya (through its membership of the Arab League), whilst at the same time using military might on its own soil to repress demands for similar political change.

Of course, what makes places like Rwanda, Darfur and Srebrenica different from places like Bahrain and Libya is oil. The West is quite happy to help Bahrain retain control of its oil and to preserve its status as a regional hub because it is sure that the current government would not use its wealth to support Iran. At the same time, it has spied an opportunity to perhaps better control Libyan oil exports by ridding the country of its enigmatic, often volatile figurehead. Too much like a conspiracy theory? Somehow, I don't think so.

Cyfarthfa Memories 4: Sixth Form Collage

2011-03-14T09:31:00.000+04:00

I don’t think that there has been a time in my life when I committed myself to study in quite the way I did in the Sixth Form. On the back of my O Level results, I took the subjects that I was urged to: English Literature, History and Religious Studies, ignoring in the process a natural interest in Economics because my Maths result at O Level was deemed not to be strong enough.

But it’s not the academic slog of those reading-heavy, quotation-learning subjects that lives with me so many years later, but rather a patchwork of memories, a hazy set of recollections that sometimes surface in an idle moment at wor, or in my dreams at night. The latter manifestations are the more enjoyable ones, providing as they do a door to the past that is usually a joy to relive and often a deep disappointment to awaken from.

Recent Facebook link-ups with two of my better friends from those years, Robert Pearce and David Hughes, have dragged many of those memories back to the surface. Through Dai Hughes it looks likely that a summer reunion with him, Rob and Pazzo (Stephen Parry) might take place when I go home for the annual break from the intense heat and humidity of Abu Dhabi.

The second strongest of those memories is of the time when a group of us got into school early one morning armed with torches to explore the vast basement of the castle, a former ironmaster’s mansion, which was our school. Well, two thirds of it was our school, the other part hosted a museum that housed paintings, jewellery and a still-life natural zoo comprised of a large number of animals that the aforementioned ironmaster and his family had probably shot and had stuffed.

I can remember it being a typically dull, drizzly morning and I can remember getting to the top of the stone steps down to the basement, torch in hand, all of us looking furtively around at the windows of the school and the museum to check that we weren’t being watched. I can also remember getting into the basement and seeing uncased stuffed animals, damaged artwork and other rejected remnants from the museum above. What we didn’t know, but later came to learn, was that one painting in that vast cellarage was the work of Jack Butler Yeats, younger brother of Nobel Prize winning laureate, William. At the time of its discovery it was valued at £30,000. Quite what it would be worth now is anyone’s guess but a painting by Jack B. Yeats sold for £350,000 at Sotheby’s last November.

But of all the memories I have, it is the day of The Great Buffet Robbery that burns brightest, not because I was involved in it but because I remember the furious blasts of outrage and disproportionate punishments that followed it. It happened on an afternoon when we had lost the use of the Library because it was being set up for a Parents Teachers Association (PTA) meeting. It was either Dai Hughes or Pazzo who walked in there by accident to find the tables rearranged and a beautiful buffet laid out ready for the meeting.

Inspired by a heady mixture of nagging peckishness and an irresistible urge to cause mischief, Pazzo, Dai Hughes and a couple of others went along and helped themselves to a few sandwiches and a couple of pasties each. Had they left it at that, it might have all been fine but Pazzo, ever the gentleman, decided to scribble a short note of appreciation before leaving the Library.

On finding the buffet stocks depleted, Mr, Gethin the Deputy Headmaster was thrown into a state of vengeful fury, not so much by the loss of the food but by the note that Pazzo had left. And it wasn’t so much the fact that Pazzo had left the note but the fact that all that the note said was a hastily scrawled ‘FANX’. Given Mr. Gethin’s pride in the school and the standards that he believed it stood for, it was no wonder that he hunted down the Buffet Bandits, not so much for their theft of the food as for their crimes against literacy. Once caught, they were suspended from school for a couple of days each ostensibly for theft of the food, but in reality to assuage the fury of the tempestuous Mr. Gethin whose ethical code and steadfast belief in fundamental educational principles had been so thoughtlessly breached!

Other memories are much patchier. There was a time when I walked into the Common Room and had a cup of water poured on my head by an irate Lynda Hindley, a girl in the year below us whom I had foolishly scorned after a Staff/Sixth Form Christmas Party. Then there were the two aforementioned Christmas celebrations at which we arrived paralytic and then spent the evening topping up for good effect. Things were VERY different then and most of the staff were in a similarly merry state upon leaving. (Just imagine those sorts of shenanigans these days!) Then there was the singing, the choral renditions of, and I kid you not, Showaddywaddy songs in the common room, often over the top of Genesis songs that were blaring out from the small stereo unit that we had. And then there were games of darts, endless games of darts punctuated by joke-telling and piss-taking.

And then…. Well, after sixth form, life pushed us all down very different academic and career paths and I have barely seen any of those mentioned above for well over 20 years. As Fate would have it, I will be back in Wales for my birthday which falls on Friday August 5th. It promises to be a very interesting evening.

Colbert nails Hannity

2011-02-03T06:00:00.001+04:00

Take a look at the video below - you'll have to copy and paste link. Stephen Colbert takes a shot at Hannity and brings the bigot to Earth with an historical howitzer that leaves the Fox idiot looking like a chump. What an ass.

Oh, and for the record Sean, change in Iraq was not effected by an uprising against a dictator. I am in a state of shock and awe that you think it is so!

http://www.myvidster.com/video/1013166/Hosni_Mubarak_Will_Not_Run_Again_The_Colbert_Rep

Incredible, eh?

35 million pieces of silver?

2011-02-01T07:18:00.001+04:00

I am not sure who to believe. Statements and counter-statements from Andy Carroll and NUFC lay the blame squarely at the door of the other. The club say they refused two bids,one of 30 and another of 35 million but then decided to sell after Carroll put in a transfer request; Carroll claims it was a deal that was done without his consent.

Had it happened in the summer, I would not have minded so much. After all, as highly promising as Carroll is, 35 mill seems an awful lot of money for someone with 34 career goals to his credit. And does he really merit the tag of being the most expensive English signing in the Premiership after half a full season in the top flight? Possibly.

No, it's not the idea of selling him, it's the timing. Newcastle are by no means safe with their 30 points and so losing the player most likely to contribute to keeping us up is a huge gamble. We did something similar, albeit in an even more precarious position, two seasons ago when we sold Shay Given and were duly relegated. Selling key players now is a recipe for disaster.

The sale also gives a leg up to a side that we beat 3-1 in December, a flaying that Carroll was a key part of. In handing them our prized asset, we run the risk of being hoist by our own petard in the run in. The possibility of Carroll running riot in red for the remainder of the season, especially against us at Anfield is one that fills me with dread.

I hang on to one hope. I remember feeling similarly bewildered when Keegan sold Cole to Manchester United in 1995. The fears I have now I had then but they quickly subsided as the once prolific goalscorer struggled to do much at Man U for a long time. Let's hope history repeats itself and that Judas Iscarrollot lives to regret the day he betrayed his hometown club.

Catharsis

2011-01-27T09:57:00.001+04:00

I've found it hard to get motivated enough to pen anything in the past month, a series of events having conspired to leave me drained and uninspired. It's not as if there hasn't been anything to write about, not as if the world has stopped turning, but sometimes things in your own life just get in the way.

At the heart of it all has been a very trying set of personal circumstances that I brought upon myself by sending out an end-of-term missive to fellow workers that was designed to raise the spirits at the festive time of year. One of them, and I haven't found out who yet, took it upon him/herself to forward it to senior figures at the company and I was dragged through a horrendous disciplinary procedure that badly affected Christmas and the New Year.

I was fortunate enough to keep my job and I have got down to things again with nae fuss and nae bother, focusing all my efforts on setting about the business of making things better for the people I supervise and train. Then, lo and behold, out of the blue comes a message yesterday from one of the senior managers asking me to take on a project wide role in the company. The ironies of this are not lost on me but I chose instead to see it as a chink of light offering more than a glimmer of a possibility of redemption, a chance to restore that 'idle and most false imposition': my reputation. I see the chance to make a bigger difference and I am going to seize it.

Yesterday's events came hot on the heels of a weekend that had pushed me down the road to recovery, diverting me well away from the slough of despond that at one stage seemed destined to engulf me. And of all the things to do this, it was the opportunity to attend the sixth annual Abu Dhabi Golf Championship, partly because Kath and I got the chance to walk the entire course twice on the Friday, but mainly because of the events of the previous evening when we stood at the 18th and watched some rounds finishing with our boys.

With their final putts holed, the players submitted their score cards and walked through to the media area where they were interviewed for their reflections on their round. Amongst the golfers we saw were last year's US Open Champion, Graeme McDowell; the winning Ryder Cup Captain, Colin Montgomerie; two time winner of the US Open, Retief Goosen; Ryder Cup Winner (and Kath's personal favourite) Ross Fisher, and three time major winner Phil Mickleson.

After being interviewed, some stopped to sign hats, over-sized golf balls and T-Shirts and Jacob decided to join in. In total, he got 4: Montgomerie, Fisher. McDowell and Mickleson, all of whom took the time to patiently autograph the items being thrust at them. Of all of them though, it was Mickleson who impressed me the most.

This superstar of the sport (he has been in the world's top 5 for over 650 weeks and is worth in excess of $150m) took his time to sign everyone's offering, engaging with a brief conversation and saying thank you to them all before handing back whatever he had been given. His manner was calm and gentlemanly, and he never got irritated or flustered, presenting a stark contrast to a few of the lesser knowns who effected a brusquer and hastier exit. How many world sportsmen with that sort of record would pause and set aside time for others like this?

Duly impressed, Jacob came back to us with his signed memento, his face lighting up as Kath and I explained just who it was that he had just interacted with. It made his day and kick-started a reawakening that was compounded by yesterday's developments and has me focused again on the things that matter. Catharsis complete.

Pardew me Chris, is that the prat who filled your Toon Shoes?

2010-12-09T11:42:00.001+04:00

In an article that I wrote some time ago for a magazine in Kuwait (http://bit.ly/hwD28v), I compared the lot of being a Newcastle United to a ride on a never-ending rollercoaster. This week that changed when Mike Ashley took us all for a spin on the Crazy Train from Hell after he sacked Chris Hughton just before a vital period in the Premiership season.

In a statement issued by the club on the same day, Ashley argued that he was looking for 'someone with more experience', someone whose background would give the club the stability and drive that it needs to consolidate its position in the Premier League. In doing so, Ashley tore apart all of the good work that the dignified and softly spoken Hughton had done during his tenure, and ripped up the green shoots of tolerance of his regime that had begun to emerge on the terraces. It was an act of moral vandalism, a calculated and brutally cynical move that whipped up the fury of supporters almost as much as the removal of Sir Bobby Robson did in August 2004.

To make matters worse, within a day it emerged that the someone Ashley has in mind to replace is the former West Ham, Charlton and Southampton manager, Alan Pardew. On paper, Pardew has more Premiership experience in the Premiership with over 500 games under his belt, but even a cursory look at his record soon unveils that much of his experience is centred on failure rather than success. Add to the the fact that he left League One Southampton in August because of what the south coast club saw as his bad influence on staff morale and you have the recipe for another disaster, possibly of the Toontanic variety that saw the club sink into the Championship two seasons ago.

The move makes neither moral nor business sense. After all, it is Ashley's stated aim that he wishes to sell the club, but he is not going to do that if the team gets sent into a self-destructive spiral caused by the players' reaction to the departure of a manager that they so respected and admired. Ashley is gambling with the club's future, putting it at risk because of a hunch, a niggling feeling that perhaps someone else will do a better job. He has turned NUFC into a giant black and white roulette wheel and has appointed his gambling buddy as croupier. I have an awful feeling that I know where that fickle ball of fate is going to land.

Not the King's Men

2010-12-01T10:28:00.002+04:00

The latest set of cable releases from Wikileaks present a very interesting account of the relationship between the Prime Minister, the Chancellor and the Bank of England Governor, Mervyn King. They offer a telling insight into what Mr. King thought of the Tories' top two, and into the influence that the BOE head honcho has had upon current government policy.

In conversations with US Ambassador Louis Susman, King complained that the Buller Boys had no real grasp of the pressures that they would face and expressed concerns about the lack of depth that the party had in its inner circle. In a cable to Washington, Susman noted that King had complained that, "In recent meetings with [Cameron and Osborne], he has pressed for details about how they plan to tackle the debt but received only generalities in return." King also told him that the pair seemed more concerned with 'electability' than they were with making any firm policy commitments and that their response to the global financial/banking crisis (glad that King at least recognises this) was inadequate.

The revelations add great weight to claims that Mr. King has been one of the chief architects of current coalition policy, and of the radical approach to reducing the deficit in particular. What concerns me about this is not just the doubts expressed about the efficacy of the men who occupy the two most senior governmental positions, but the fact that an unelected man (and a banker at that) has had such a profound influence on government policy. Have Cameron and Osborne done any thinking for themselves?

I suppose it could be worse though. Imagine if we had a Health Secretary who had proven links to private medical care providers. Perish the thought!

The Mionas Mystery

2010-11-29T07:39:00.000+04:00

This is Jacob's latest creation. He submitted it for a national competition based on the theme, 'The Mystery'.

Why it should have happened to her, nobody knows. After all, she was just an ordinary woman, a sad, lonely widow whose husband had only recently died. His death had left her feeling without hope and forlorn. She could never forget him, and whenever someone mentioned him, she broke down and cried.

But happen, it did, because as she was sleeping soundlessly in her bed, a sharp rapping of knuckles against her door woke her. “What on Earth is that?” exclaimed Mrs. Mionas terrified out of her wits. She lay huddled in her bed for a few minutes more, until she had the courage to go and open the door. As she clambered out of her bed, her heart skipped a beat because, again, she heard that blood-curdling knocking at her door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” shouted Mrs. Mionas, as she crept towards the door. “Better to get this over with, better to get this over with,” she kept repeating to herself. She finally got to the door, yanked it open and found - nobody!

Outside, she wandered into the darkness of the night to look for who had knocked on her door. The street was deserted and deathly quiet, so she walked back into the cottage, relieved. As she was walking back, she tripped over something and hurt her foot. Carefully, she bent down to pick it up. “That’s strange,” said Mrs. Mionas, looking down at a dark, wooden box.

She took it inside and was just about to open it when something caught her attention. It was a note, taped to its side. “Hmm, I think I should read this,” she said opening the envelope. When it was completely unwrapped, she stepped back in amazement. It read: “This is important. Whatever you do, DON’T OPEN THIS BOX.”

“This day just gets better and better,” she said nervously. She slammed the box down on her desk, and walked towards the stairs. But as she put her foot on the first step, she heard a soft, sliding sound. Turning to look at the box, she was unable to stop herself, and started to move towards the box, waiting for something to happen. Then something did. A sudden flash of light flooded the room, and she heard the sound of strange voices mixed with hideous wailing. Overcome by the blinding light and horrible noise, she screamed and fainted.

When the police found her, she was sitting in the corner of the room, rocking back and forth, with the box cradled in her arms. When they took the box away from her, the police found another note. This one read: “We told her not to open it.”

Three days later, Mrs. Mionas died in hospital.