Plebs

Timelord wonders if there is any link between the recent verbal fusillade addressed by Andrew Mitchell at the police at the gates of Downing Street and the never ending labours of some of his constituents in Sutton Coldfield to resurrect the title of "Royal Borough"? More than you may think.

I have often suppressed a wry chuckle ever since we moved to this part of the Midlands in 1981 when faced with the pretensions to royal grandeur of the local newspaper and some of its residents led by the local Tory High Command.

The fact of Sutton Coldfield being part of Birmingham and potentially overrun by the great unwashed who inhabit all points south of Wylde Green has always been one that keeps the true blue ladies awake at night and forces real gentlemen to make sure their shotguns are well and truly oiled and loaded.

I am therefore confident that Mr Mitchell's antics had nothing to do with a hard day at the whip's office or an excessive lunch at his club or swanky London watering hole. No. It was the weekend drills and manoeuvres with the Royal Borough's Home Guard wot did for him.

Spode like he can be seen in Sutton Park urging the boys to do their duty. "Friends Romans countrymen gird your loins. To the barricades! Repel the plebs and barbarians from the other side of the Chester Road." Our London Bobbies should have realised he was simply practising his rallying cry for the troops for the coming weekend.

Where then will we find a Mark Antony who will come not to bury our noble Caeser in the pages of the Sun but to praise him in the headlines of the Daily Torygraph? Answers to the Editor of the Sutton Observer.

Engraved on the palms of my hands

Here is FreeLanceNerd, (although no one knew it at that time.It was a name he adopted for his blog) We still have the photo of Teapot holding him which you can see in this pic and it sits looking at the fireplace in our dining area.

We saw his nephew Samuel,  or Sammy as I heard his mum say a few times, on Saturday and he would give FLN a fair run for his money in the smiling stakes. Funny that as Curly Al, his dad, was not quite at the races when the smiles were on.

 September approaches - the cruelest month - to ape TS Eliot. I was struck by Matthew Maynard who had given interviews last week at a memorial cricket match for his son Tom between Surrey and Glamorgan. Tom, a promising Surrey cricketer,  died in June after trying to cross a London Tube line and being hit by a train. His father now carries tattoos on his arms with words in memory of Tom.

Memories are engraved deep within us. And there are plenty I am pleased to say about FLN. There is something remarkable about the ability to bring the past into the present however imperfect that may be sometimes. I often bring those memories to mind in our church of an evening where he would come and take part and worship. We were finishing our series in the prophet Isaiah last night and I found myself turning the pages to chapter 49 where the Sovereign Lord says.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands"

There is something deeper here than a tattoo. And for all of us for whom September is the cruelest month we are comforted immeasurably by the knowledge we are never forgotten, held always in the memory of the God.

A pair of spectacles

On this day when our most read newspaper self righteously publishes Prince Harry's photo in his birthday suit in the interests of the need to know press freedom and oh of course profit your blogger has decided on a more sombre piece.

Friday is the day the Economist drops on the welcome mat of the Tardis and one of its special features is the obituary page right at the end of the magazine. Here lives are remembered from all sorts of walks and backgrounds. Last week I read the story of Sir Bernard Lovell who died at 98 and forever linked to the Jodrell Bank radio telescope in Cheshire.

Today I read about Winnie Johnson the mother of Keith Bennett, the only child victim of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady whose body was never found on Saddleworth Moor, a wild lonely place not that far from Sir Bernard's telescope. Winnie died last week. Here is the article from the Economist, with another photo courtesy of the Sun.

http://www.economist.com/node/21560832

The last paragraph captures a haunting sadness of nearly 50 years. Although I have lost a son I can only touch the edge of the depth of the suffering and despair of this mother. I suspect Keith's remains will never be found.

A golden tardis

So the police have arrested a man for painting a post box gold in Lymington in honour of Ben Anslie the Olympic gold medal sailor who lives there. Apparently he was upset that the Royal Mail were going to paint a post box gold in Cornwall where Ben grew up but not in Lymington. Mr Smith was rewarded with a night in the cells for his pains.

Royal Mail spokesman Heulyn Gwyn Davies said: "We are extremely disappointed that someone has chosen to vandalise this particular post box."

In Doddington Lincolnshire a post box was painted bronze by fans of the British Hockey team midfielder Georgie Twigg. The Royal Mail announced they would repaint it red as soon as possible.Leave painting post boxes to our engineers said a spokesperson. 

Do I get the feeling someone is getting a bit above themselves? If the Royal Mail can afford to hire engineers to work as painters and decorators our first class stamps will soon be one pound and rising.Odd though I have not yet heard of any painting of post boxes in Yorkshire even with all those gold medals in the white rose county. You might have thought Sheffield would have an outbreak of them what with Jessica Ennis and all. All those law abiding Tykes may be? Or a shortage of gold paint? Or perhaps a little reluctance to splash out on the purchase of the odd brush?

Now where will the gold paint break out after the heroics of Mo Farah tonight? I will put the Royal Mail out of their misery right now by offering Mo's fans the chance to paint the tardis gold. And how will that look as it hurtles around the universe.

Timelord's return

There may be some inhabitants of the blogosphere wondering where Timelord has been these last few months. Has he finally succumbed to the sontarans? Did he at last meet his match at the hands of the weeping  angels?

Teapot has been so concerned at his absence that she decided to buy a SATNAV device to help track him down who knows where in the farthest outposts of the galaxy. Timelord is after all well known for his unusual sense of direction and the only intergalactic traveller who has managed to board a train intending to go to Bradford only finding himself in Leamington Spa.

It may then not seem odd the first outing for this miracle of navigation was the Wirrall but calamity. Tthe device mysteriously lost power somewhere in the region of Stoke on Trent. More evidence of Timelord's extra-terrestrial foes at work? Not one bit. As in the old rhyme;

"For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

For want of a shoe the horse was lost.

For want of a horse the rider was lost.

For want of a rider the message was lost.

For want of a message the battle was lost.

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail."

In this case it was the want of a fuse which left the navigation all at sea and Timelord lost in the intergalactic void. And hey presto after one 30A fuse change this afternoon the SATNAV powered up, Timelord's co-ordinates were discovered and he re-materialised in time for tea.

Now who in the Tardis is going to knock the SATNAV now?

A deadly equation.......

.......Hood + sweets + tea = dead (if you're black) and legally dead at that.

And so it seems in Orlando Florida where Trayvon Martin was shot dead last week on his way home from a trip to buy iced tea and sweets. According to his killer George Zimmerman a local neighbourhood watchman he looked suspicious and acted suspicious and on that basis  he shot the young man dead.

Some of us may not be surprised at what our gun toting gun obsessed friends across the Atlantic will do with their delusions of still living in the wild west. But what is so jaw droppingly gob smackingly mind blowing about this desperate tragedy is that the local police decided not even to arrest never mind charge the killer on the basis of a so-called "stand your ground law" enacted by the Florida Senate in 2005. And what weapon was this young man carrying to justify this life ending violence? None. Not even a special piece from Buffalo Bill's Shooting Store in Orlando itself.

From time to time this blogger has the honour of a rant in the style of FreeLanceNerd. And how I miss you FLN when there is a need for a good rant. And today I have been in ranting mood.

At least the local police chief has stepped down if only temporarily and a grand jury is to hear evidence on 10 April before deciding whether or not to charge Mr Zimmerman.

In the meantime I fear the wild west may catch up with Mr Z as the so called new Black Panther Party has put a bounty on his head. He seems to be lying low or is may be on the run. Methinks time to saddle up the posse and bring him in.

The Dead Ball Rule

Monday was my first evening class in the level 1 course for becoming an umpire in the game of cricket. So here is an exchange between a bowler and umpire on the subject of the dead ball rule (with acknowledgement to Messrs Cleese and Palin).

The start of the fourth over of the day.

Bowler: I wish to complain about this ball what you gave me to bowl with not half an hour ago from this very end of the wicket.

Umpire: What's, uh...What's wrong with it

Bowler: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, ump. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it!

Umpire: No, no, it's uh,...it's asleep.

Bowler: “Look, ump, I know a dead ball when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.

Umpire: No no it's not dead, it's, it's restin'! Remarkable ball, the Australian Kookaburra, idn'it, ay? Beautiful cherry colour!

Bowler: The colour don't enter into it. It's stone dead.

Umpire: Nononono, no, no! 'it's asleep!

Bowler : All right then, if it's sleeping, I'll wake it up! (shouting at the ball) 'Ello, Mister Kookaburra Ball! I've got a lovely fresh batsman waiting at the other end for you to knock his block off.

Umpire throws the ball hard on the ground:   There, it moved!

Bowler: No, it didn't, that was you making it bounce!

Umpire : I never!!

Bowler: Yes, you did!

Umpire: I never, never did anything...

Bowler: (yelling at the ball repeatedly) 'ELLO BALL!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your twelve o'clock alarm call!

(Takes ball out of the umpire’s hand and throws it fiercely to the wicket keeper and watches it drop to the ground and trickle along the pitch.)

Bowler : Now that's what I call a dead ball.

Umpire: No, no.....No, it's stunned!

Bowler: STUNNED?!?

Umpire : Yeah! You stunned it, just as he was wakin' up! Kookaburra cherries stun easily, my son.

Bowler: Um...now look...now look, ump, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That ball is definitely deceased, and when you gave it me it not 'alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein' tired and jiggered following a prolonged interview with Geoffrey Boycott.

Umpire : Well, it's...it's, ah...probably pining for the beaches of the Gold Coast.

Bowler : PININ' for the BEACHES?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that? look, why is it’s seam is as flat as a pancake?

Umpire : The Kookaburra Cherry prefers low profile! Remarkable ball, id'nit, son? Lovely colour!

Bowler: Look, I took the liberty of examining that ball in the first over, and I discovered the only reason that it had any seam at all in the first place was that it had been stuck there.

Umpire: Well, o'course it was stuck there! If I hadn't stuck that seam down, that ball would have swung round corners bounced up to the batter’s ear’ol’ and VOOM! Feeweeweewee!

Bowler : "VOOM"?!? Ump, this ball wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'It's bloomin' demised!

Umpire : No no! 'It's pining!

Bowler: It's not pinin'! It's passed on! This ball is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet its maker! It’s a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! It’s 'istory! It's kicked the bucket, it's shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain. THIS IS AN EX-BALL!!

Umpire: Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he calls for the third umpire) Sorry son, my mate had a look 'round the back of the scoreboard, and uh, we're right out of Kookaburras

Bowler: I see. I see, I get the picture.

Umpire: I got a tennis ball.

(pause)

Bowler: **!!?X!?