I was there!

Over one billion people watched the Olympic opening ceremony last night.

But only 80,000 actually got to be there in person – how lucky were they?

Like almost everyone else who applied for gold-dust tickets, I was unsuccessful, so I wasn’t in the audience.  And I didn’t actually watch it on telly either – I had other plans...

At 10pm on Friday 27^th July 2012 I pinched myself hard, but I wasn’t dreaming:  this really was happening, I was right there on stage, in the Olympics opening ceremony.  This was my 15 minutes of fame, and it was truly amazing!

How on earth did I manage to get that opportunity?  

Well, for that, I have to thank the legend who is Danny Boyle, director of the greatest show on earth....

I’ve been a fan ever since I was an intern at the Edinburgh Film Festival, where we premiered his Shallow Grave.  I then heard him talk passionately about Trainspotting at a preview near his native Salford, and knew he was special.  He went on to make the hugely successful Slumdog Millionaire, so I can see why his creative genius was attractive as the choice to direct the all-important opening.

But oh Danny boy, why would you take on the Olympics?  “I don’t like the corporate bullshit any more than you do” I heard him say, correctly judging the country’s scepticism about the dodgy tax deals, sickening self-aggrandisement of the International Olympic Committee, and the likes of junk-food pedalling McDonalds besmirching the world’s greatest celebration of sport.

Neither could he recreate the size or regimentation of Beijing – so he played to his strengths, recruited genuinely enthusiastic volunteers, and tapped Britain’s rich social and artistic heritage.  Also, he insisted on having the freedom to direct the opening ceremony as he wanted, making it a celebration of what is truly good about this country – and what a great job he did!

As the world saw, Boyle’s Britain started as the green and pleasant birthplace of sport and literature, but then gave rise to the industrial revolution and related social movements such as abolitionists, trade unions, and suffragettes.  

He also found much to celebrate in recent years, despite Britain having to find a more modest place in the world order: here the creative spirit which continues to lead popular music came to the fore, as did the revolutionary invention of the internet by Tim Berners-Lee.  And James Bond!

But to parachute straight to the present would grossly underplay the role of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations:  after finally pitting its forces against aggressive imperialism in the world wars, Britain tried to create a homeland fit for heroes.  Not only did this include successfully staging the 1948 Olympics at short notice, but also laying the foundations of a caring and enlightened society with the creation of the much-loved National Health Service.  

Ah, the NHS – probably the most civilised thing about modern Britain.  

So thanks to Danny Boyle for insisting on the NHS having a central place in the ceremony.  This, together with my and Katja’s 25 years of joint service, the brass neck to audition as a volunteer performer, and a willingness to spend much of the wettest ‘summer’ on record skipping round a disused Dagenham car park, means that I can now say “I was there!”.

In truth I was a bit-part player – dressed in a sparkly dentist-style tunic I helped push a hospital bed to spell out the letters ‘NHS’, before performing a ‘nurses knees-up’ (and a little bow to the queen - not sure I should have gone along with that?).  The worldwide audience were likely bemused, but for me it was the ultimate thrill – a contagious excitement in our massed volunteer cast, the buzz of a live performance, a truly innovative light-show, and the deafening roar of the appreciative crowd.

I trust some of Boyle’s intended message got through: that as a rich nation we remain committed to healthcare as a right not a privilege; and that we believe the civilised thing to do is to provide it free at the point of delivery, based on clinical need not the ability to pay.  

For what Bevan coined, let not Cameron put asunder!  That, or we just like to play doctors and nurses.

What more can I say?  Thank you Danny for celebrating what is Great about Britain, for cherishing and promoting the NHS – and for allowing me to say “I was there!”

Desert Island Discs: time to cast away?

During the past few weeks I've been cast away in Dagenham.  I’m not at liberty to say why, other than to refer you to my next blog when it will become pretty clear.

Luckily, the BBC recently launched a fantastic new website archiving every episode of Desert Island Discs from 1942 to the present.  Along with time trecking in from Oxford, I’ve managed to get through pretty much a year’s worth of castaways over the last couple of months – and what fascinating listening it has been!

There’s much to admire about Kirsty Young – her beguiling voice conjures up half-suppressed memories of me failing to concentrate on the content of her tv news presentation.  But she doesn’t just look and sound good – she has a real talent for creating intimacy with her guests and gently teasing out revealing, personal insights. 

The format helps - castaways expect to be quizzed about family relationships, sexuality and beliefs, as well as being invited to reflect on how they would cope on a desert island.

At its best, this is powerful stuff:  Young deftly found Martina Navratilova's emotional sweetspot, not her 29 grand slams or being ‘outed’, but rather undimmed anger at the Communist regime who prevented her family from sharing her first Wimbledon victory.  It was gut-wrenching to hear writer Peter Ackroyd admit he never introduced his partner of 25 years to his mother, fearing her reaction to his being gay.  And I confess that when she expertly coaxed Doreen Lawrence to talk of the last words spoken by a passing stranger to her murdered son (“you are loved”), it was the last time I properly cried.

The music helps the emotions, and provides another angle on castaways.  Surely I’m not alone in spending rather too much of my time deciding which 8 discs I will choose, just as soon as my invitation arrives? 

This delusion wasn’t helped by watching Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing last week, where the main character, a self-centred playwright, spends most of the play choosing his discs, with a view to making himself look sophisticated and hide his love of cheesy pop – the very act of which shows as much about his vacuous character as any particular track. 

Whilst many guests ask for great but predictable works (Mozart, Beatles…), there are some gems.  The best of the last year has to be the heartbreaking counterpoint of writer Vikram Seth’s choice, the BBC’s 1942 recording of Nightingales and Lancaster Bombers, Recorded in a Surrey Wood.  (It was actually meant to be broadcast live, but a quick-thinking engineer pulled the plug at the last moment, realising that it would reveal the existence and position of the pilots; thankfully the recording remains).

Interestingly, it’s often the random, unexpected details which are most memorable:  we learn that architect Charles Jencks has two handles on each door in his house; Vikram Seth admitted his bisexuality only in an interview with his sister; Terry Wogan has groopies called TOGS (Terry’s Old Geezers / Gals).  And that Baroness Hollins met her partner whilst volunteering with VSO, whilst rugby player Brian Moore is a trained nail stylist.

My least favourite castaway was the slightly crazy historian Paul Johnson, though he did come out with some choice quotes, complaining that “liberals in government always poison the mix” and Jean-Paul Satre was “a very ugly little man”!

And finally there is the sign-off – “Thank you for sharing your desert island discs”, followed by a pause – which guests always fill, often bearing their soul in a few short words.  Listen carefully and it’s pretty clear if they consider being a guest as a privilege or a birthright.

So far so great – but Desert Island Discs is not beyond reproach.

One criticism is that Kirsty Young is too cosy with castaways, failing to challenge them - Hard Talk this ain’t.  I certainly squirmed as the new chair of the British Medical Association, Baroness Hollins – having done so much to speak up for children with disabilities, then failed miserably to criticise the Catholic church’s shameful record on paedophile priests - whilst the presenter let it drop.  And yet when you don’t want challenge – take comedians John Bishop, Jackie Mason or Jonny Vegas – she somehow renders them mawkish and humourless.

Maybe it’s just a bit old-fashioned – after all, it’s been going 60 years, the longest-running factual programme in the history of radio.  Castaways are automatically given the complete works of Shakespeare, which comedian Jackie Mason rejected as “a little ridiculous”.  Personally I think the bible has some good stories and may turn to it if marooned any longer in Dagenham, but comedian Tim Minchin clearly saw the offer as anachronistic in this post-religious society, accepting it only as its thickness would provide ample material for his fire! 

The most worrying sign that the programme is losing its way is its choice of castaway.  Of the year’s worth of guests I heard, there were certainly some interesting, challenging, original guests.  But there was also a good number who I thought not only ‘who are you?’, but also ‘what have you done to deserve this honour?’.

Is this my prejudice?  Here are the facts: of the last 52 episodes, no fewer than 37 focus on the world of ‘entertainment’ (10 actors, together with sportsmen, musicians and broadcasters and rather too many fashion journalists - it’s 42 if you count writers). 

Don’t get me wrong - I very much value the role of entertainers, but they are not 80% of the important people.  Where are the scientists, the businessmen, teachers, and healthworkers, the thinkers, campaigners, public figures?

In conclusion, regrettably, I believe the castaways have lost their way.  With sadness, I feel we should grant David Dimbleby his final, cheeky, luxury – as requested, he can take Kirsty Young with him to his desert island.

Now We Are Three

Nine tails

1.  Foxy, our new cat, not only came completely free – Katja’s friend Caroline also gave us a litter tray and scratching pole!  Of course, there is the modest recurring cost of fishy biscuits and pricey gravel.  And the completely ignored new basket and obligatory outside cat house. And upgrading the alarm system to ‘pet-friendly’ status.  Plus £300 for French-windowpane-with-catflap.  At least vets can’t cost much…

2.       Three’s a crowd, which is good as getting all the attention wasn’t good for me.

3.      Who said cats are selfish? Mice, voles and other vermin-themed gifts are true signs of affection.

4.      Having freed the garden of furry things, now our feathered friends have flown – what good were the chirpy blackbird family, friendly robin or majestic magpies?

5.       I spend the day worrying about the poor pussy, so rush home early to be studiously ignored.  I learn that the course of true love never did run smooth.

6.       Having slept through the day, nightime is for play; hitting the sleep deprivation levels of new parents is probably good practice (or a timely warning).

7.       I can probably live with the odd splash of wee and sick on the carpet.  And whilst the stench of cat poo is throat-grippingly gruesome, Foxy makes it all ok by flicking it with a bit of gravel.  And she considerately keeps it all in the living room, so as not to despoil the garden.

8.       If you love animals enough to let them share your bed, then (if they have claws and fangs) you have to kill other animals to feed them.  How I have fallen from my meatless moral highground that I now actively fund the slaughter industry – a crushing victory over smug veggies everywhere, surely a good thing?

9.       Cat hairs on the table and muddy pawprints on the carpet are kinda cute; and it was probably time to shred those designer furnishings.

Nine lives

1.       No need to call, email, remember birthdays, apologise for forgetting birthdays; a friend indeed.

2.       I’ve lived in a house with mice and creepy crawlies – cats are infinitely better company.

3.       It’s easy to take life too seriously; it’s less of a risk when you open your house to a crazy, playful fluffball pouncing on your slippers.

4.       She doesn’t laugh at my jokes, but she’s very tolerant of my soapboxing (though she knows to sneak under the sofa whenever the obscenity ‘Cameron’ is spluttered).

5.       It is long recognised that pussycats are uniquely placed to deliver the best pornstar names.  Using the accepted formula of first pet + mother’s maiden name, Katja’s is ”Polly Ulrich”, mine “Candy Nightingale” – proof!

6.       No house is a home without the cat; and maybe without kids, in which case this is good practice.

7.       If it really is true that cats take much and give little, doesn’t that make cat-owning the ultimate in altruism?

8.       Oh, and she’s not just any old cat: our Foxy used to be Amy Winehouse’s cat.  Welcome to feline rehab.

9.       Aw come on look - how could you not love her?

Critical Mass

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

I don’t make a habit of quoting the father of modern conservatism.  But, being a lazy toad, I occasionally remind myself of the wisdom attributed to Edmund Burke.  Otherwise I’ll spend all my time on my lily pondering, too seldom taking the plunge.

When we choose between bikes and cars, there’s little doubt it’s two wheels good.  Make all the excuses you like, but there's no neutral:  either you drive a car, and say “despite all the bad things about cars I choose to drive one anyway”.  Or you get on your bike (or bus or train or whatever) and say “I choose to do the right thing”.

Ok, so I’m a smug cyclist, Ghandi-like being the change I want to see in the world.  Sickening eh? 

But don’t worry, I’ll give myself a hard time even if you can’t. 

For a start, my choice is based largely on self interest – cycling isn’t just greener, it’s also cheaper, healthier and bunches more fun than fuming in traffic.

More challengingly, whilst giving up the car and getting on the bike is a necessary first step, what’s the point of taking the steep and thorny bikelane yourself, just to idly wave selfish motorists up the primrose path?  Like any good evangelist (or zealot), it’s not enough to do the right thing myself - I have to help save others from the triumph of dirty, dangerous cars!

But how?  Well, here’s a start:  on the last Friday of every month, in over 300 cities worldwide, people are joining together to ride their streets.  They bring whistles, music, banners; they slow the motorists, they show how wonderful it can be when people reclaim the streets as their own.  It’s called Critical Mass. 

As a student in Edinburgh in the late 1990s I took part in the city’s first such event, one of around 20 shivering ideologists who circled the city centre in horizontal sleet until an unreconstructed police car screeched up and ordered us all home.  I was irritated, but saw how challenging it was for plod:  they do protests, but this ‘organised coincidence’ caused much helmet-scratching.  A decade later I saw the London version, and was delighted that it had not only grown in size, but was also so normalised that by now even the police came along – on bikes!

And so to Oxford in 2012 – surely huge potential in this city of students and greenies?  In truth our numbers were small, just a dozen or so enthusiasts (does that even count as a critical mass?).  But what we lacked in size we made up for with enthusiasm - persistent grins, vigorous waves and thumb-numbing tinging; a super selection of bike-related tracks from the wheeled sound-sytem helped make it a celebration as much as a protest.

The best bit was cycling round and round the notorious Plain roundabout.  I loved feeling safety in numbers, just for once the streets were ours and we couldn’t be bullied by the cars.

Reactions varied – the odd angry taxi and four-by-four, but also plenty of smiles and waves - most people seemed gently amused.  Most importantly, they noticed.

But it couldn’t last for ever, and after a couple of good runs up and down the Cowley Road we made a tactical retreat to the Magdalen Arms.

“Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I have hope for the human race” – it’s ironic that it took the father of science fiction, H G Wells, to recognise this.  But I hope that even in the here and now, in our own small way, we gave the people of Oxford something to think about, and some hope. 

And for me, at least I won’t feel quite so much like one of those good men who does nothing. 

So what will you be doing on the last Friday in July?

A Picture of Africa

A warm, red sun rises over flat-topped acacias, revealing a magical landscape of elephant, buffalo, rhino, lion.  Colourful, exotic cultures – over forty different tribes and languages in Kenya alone.  Amazing wildlife, varied peoples; it’s my ideal picture of East Africa.

There is another view:  fuming gridlock, desperate hawkers, the simmering insecurity of modern Nairobi.  My friends Zia and Madeleine, lifelong residents, constantly seek moments of solitude in their hectic urban lives.

One escape is to the coast, where my latest visit begins - people and wildlife, but very different from the city and plains inland.

This is the centre of gentle Swahili culture, clean sea air and stunning white Indian Ocean beaches.  Here is yet another vision of Africa:  camels amble the pure sands of Dhiani beach, spicy masala and coconut rice aboard a wooden dhow, the call to prayer fades over Mombasa old town.

And no lack of wildlife:  mighty giraffe, buffalo, antelope, and majestic sea-eagle, heron and stork, balance the maligned mongoose and misunderstood warthog; a marvellous white kingfisher and Egyptian goose weigh against malicious snakes and crocs – even the modest Haller Park reserve boasts an astonishing balance of fauna.

Yet numerous snaps on Katja’s new Canon show the idyllic picture rather undermined by concrete and cement – fish tanks, walls, even paths.  The camera never lies:  this former limestone quarry turns out to be bankrolled by multinational mining conglomerate Lafarge, itself attempting to weigh profit with environmental impact.

In truth you do what you can with what you have – the park even showcases a life-size sperm whale crafted by local villagers from jettisoned flip-flops.  This is a dignified if futile attempt to counter-balance the tonnes of debris despoiling parts of the once-pristine coastline, as highlighted in Elspeth Murray’s playful poem Flip Flotsam and Simon Reeve’s BBC series Indian Ocean.

But sometimes balance is found: here is the setting for the heart-warming tale of Owen, a lonely, orphaned hippo, who meets a most unexpected foster-mother, a 150 year-old giant tortoise named Mzee.  Even shaky starts can end in stable, equal friendship.

We return to Nairobi for the highlight of our trip:  the honour of attending the first ever exhibition of Zia’s photography.  He speaks passionately in defence of redressing the drift from fine art, analogue values and black and white images. 

And it is inspiring to hear from the charities who benefit from this exhibition.  Kuona, who help local artists to advance themselves and the role of visual arts in Kenya, stress the importance of art as both a counterpoint to and commentary on the poverty and corruption which still undermine this country.  And for Friends of Nairobi National Park, Dr Paula Kahumbu (incidentally the co-author of Owen & Mzee) speaks with passion and equanimity of preserving Kenya’s natural heritage in face of human-wildlife conflict, the opposition of such strong, equal forces who both lay claim to this precious land.

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Zia’s photographic talent develop over the last 20 years, but it is still nothing short of breathtaking to see his beautiful images collected in one gallery.  The restful and perfectly-balanced monochrome seascapes are such a welcome counter to the usual noisy, garish spreads of African animals and people.  The compositions are striking, and the success in capturing movement in still images quite remarkable.

Appropriately, the exhibition is simply titled Equilibrium: a moment in solitude.  Well done Zia – your fantastic debut exhibition strikes exactly the right balance.

Something Worth Celebrating

Bunting out.  Crowds gather.  Brollies at the ready.  Most importantly, brass bands are playing.

Whatever happens elsewhere this weekend regarding our unelected head of state, any true citizen of the republic of Saddleworth – and I regard myself as one, despite my extended and ongoing  exile – will be right here on this, the most important day of the year.  

It’s lovely to come home at any time.  The Christmas Messiah features friendly faces.   The Rushcart offers sozzled morrismen heaving a quickly-sobering mate atop a cart of reeds.  And the morneful factory horn breaking the Remembrance Sunday on Pots and Pans was always as poignant as any Last Post.

But this weekend is when all prodigal sons return come rain or just showers.  As local poet Ammon Wrigley explains:  It’s good to be in Saddleworth, o’er the green miles and the grey, There’s no better earth for roaming, and no better folks I say;  Up and o’er the top of Wharmton, in the keen life-giving air, For whoever tramps in Saddleworth, says good-bye to every care.

Whit Friday starts carefully enough.  By ten in the morning, crowds gather in the larger of the dozen or so Pennine villages.  For one blissful day the streets are reclaimed from brutalising cars.  Led by the band, churches and scouts brandish banners, and the village people tramp after them.  Everyone joins in:  from pram- to daisy-pushers; the lapsed to the happy clappers; residents and returnees.  The band marches past to Hail Smiling Morn; we all know this is where we belong.

After morning walks, children’s sports.  Previously run by churches, my local Village Association and Mountain Rescue now keep the afternoon races alive.  To those of you familiar with my own busy-body tendencies, it’s no surprise to find my parents at the thick of it, along with village stalwart Jill and expert marshals Janet and Morris (who called his first-ever false start!).  This year, the chaotic ‘wheelbarrows’ and three-legged melee were eased by Katja’s teutonic efficiency and my loudly hailed, rapidly-flattening vowels.  Stickers and lollies were presented, adult competitiveness contained, an important tradition sustained.

And so to the evening.  Anyone who knows the north understands the importance of brass bands, the very fabric of many post-industrial communities.  And if you’ve seen Brassed Off you’ll know that the Saddleworth Whit Friday contests are a highlight of the banding calendar.  Brighouse and Rastrick.  Black Dyke Mills.  Grimethorpe Colliery, of course.  Plus bands from as far away as Switzerland and Germany.  As we reach the top of Lark Hill wisps of Senator, Ravenswood  and Knight Templar reach us from three separate villages nestling below.  Nick turns to us and states, without exaggeration, “that experience will always be unique to Saddleworth”.

But not everything has stayed the same:  my brother reminds me of trying to hit the bass drum with black peas, but now there’s not a peashooter in sight.  Not that I’d risk it – on one famous occasion an enthusiastic joker got a little too close to the quickstep and the drummer swiped him out of the way with his stick on the upstroke, without even missing a beat! 

Gone too is the morning after’s Beer Walk – it was good for charity, but more than enough beer is consumed by the audience (and the bands) on the Friday.  These days the weekend proceeds with a more sedate ‘scarecrow trail’ (this year with a royal theme), and Sunday’s school duck race. 

But Whit Friday is the core of the celebrations.   

So pass on the pageant, snub your street-party, jilt the jubilee.

Rather, to almost quote our local bard:  Come out along the hilltops and stretch your legs with me; Where northern winds are longing to blow the dust off thee; Give me the gipsy moorland in ragged heather shawl, And you can keep your pageant and your fancy barge and all!

The Story of the 4 Minute Mile

However ordinary each of us may seem, we are all in some way special and can do things that are extraordinary, perhaps until then even thought impossible. 

Thus starts Roger Bannister’s charmingly modest account of his historic achievement The First Four Minutes, the basis for an unforgettable Oxford Playhouse promenade performance (if that’s the term for such a pacy production).  

And neatly structured to match the four circuits which make a mile run, the setting is the very track where history was made nearly sixty years ago.

Our first lap takes us to a childhood of bomb-damage and rationing in 1950s Oxford.  But the injury was deeper – we were a limping, fading power, fondly looking back at our colonial peak on the world’s podium.  But for our narrator Michael, glued to dancehall on his new wireless, only one thing mattered – and it sure wasn’t someone trying to die by running a mile in under four minutes.  He went courting in Shotover Park and missed the whole thing!

The second circuit evoked the excitement of the day itself – Jack’s radio commentary breathlessly ran through the ever-tightening race to break the elusive barrier.  But as the Bannister character dipped in and out, it was soon apparent that even such a seemingly personal achievement was actually a team effort, relying heavily on the pace-making skills of fellow runners. 

Our third time round brought us to the present day, with Mara preparing us for this country's greatest ever sporting event, the London Olympics this August (more of which in later blogs!).  An intense contrast with Bannister - new black and female, she also represented the frustrated ambition of most professional athletes, an anathema to the ‘amateur’ Bannister, who wanted to be remembered for his contributions to neurology.

But what of the all-important fourth lap?  A nice twist - we got to run it ourselves!  There was no ash track or hard leather spikes to slow me, but I still took 1 minute 14 seconds to run a single lap.  At least a late sprint gave me the honour of heading the pack (and painful elbows to this day).

I came out buzzing – impassioned by the inspiring story, and the message that if only we try hard enough, we too might achieve what seems impossible.

Yet as I got my breath back in my new house just 4 minutes stroll up Iffley Road, I wondered if the story could be just that - a myth?

Google ‘four minute mile’ and you’ll find beautifully understated BBC archive footage.  Surprisingly though, you won’t find much else on the athletic achievement – today’s appreciation comes from life coaches, management gurus and motivational speakers.  Airports full of self-help books now try to universalize his feat (and feet).

Their theme is that it was Bannister’s power of positive thinking that led him to break his barrier – and you too can achieve your dream, as long as you have faith! 

The story goes that everyone at the time believed a sub-four minute mile was impossible, or at least lethal.  Yet as soon as Bannister did it, others quickly followed.  You see, it was possible all along, it just needed him to show it, and then the barriers tumbled.

Convincing – but actually nonsense.  From his own candid account, it is clear Bannister was no spiritual dreamer.  His efforts owe more to natural physique, hard-headed application of physiology and a specific strategy for training and pacing – plus a dose of good fortune with the weather, with the wind dropping just before the race.

Neither was he alone - Bannister’s rivals were equally convinced the barrier could be broken - this was simply a race to be first. 

The fact that people only succeeded after him is tautological - if he got there first, by definition others could only follow.  What’s more, both minutes and miles are totally arbitrary – if they happened to be defined differently, someone else would have arrived first at whatever alternative but equally artificial record was set. 

So, sadly, I have to conclude that the magic of the four minute mile is something of a fable. 

But even without the mysticism, I don’t doubt the achievement - Bannister’s triumph nearly 60 years ago at the running track I pass every day was truly momentous.  Let’s hope the spirit of this great man will be remembered as the records tumble this summer.