Saturday 11^th August

As you read this, or possibly do not, I will be in France again – just for three days to sign for the house, hopefully.  And so a new era will begin; I intend to slowly stop working, at least this hard, and spend more time here.  And this last week has been a case in point.  I work for a very small firm, and am in effect self-employed, although I do receive a salary.  But nobody else ever looks after my clients.  If I do not do my work, I have to do it.  What I do not get done before I have time off I have to do when I get back, but the deadlines remain.  What with the Olympic visit on Tuesday morning, and then having to fly out here on Thursday, it has been a case of trying to pour a quart into a pint pot.  So, working late and bringing work home, and all of it such a rush.  More and more I am determined to stop this nonsense.  After all it isn’t as if I am saving lives or even improving them in any way, and I am definitely not contributing to the edification of mankind in even such a subtle way as painting a picture or even writing very much.  And next week, will be just as bad, if not worse, as I will be flying out again on Wednesday.  I just have to get the loaf out, learn to slice it maybe a tad thinner, and cut down on the fillings.  The hardest lesson to learn in life is that you do indeed make your own sandwiches.

Friday 10^th August

The history of mankind has been one of constant struggle against tyranny; against those who would impose themselves on the rest of us.  Through brute strength or intelligence or latterly the accumulation of wealth this supremacy has rapidly turned to tyranny, with all the abuses which this position of power has given them.  The war against the priests and clerics has largely been won in the West, but has hardly started in the East; this is the war of ideas, where those who pretend to have some inner knowledge of what they call God and the secrets of the Universe are slowly being opposed by knowledge and rationality, a slow process but one that will ultimately be won I am sure.  Those who use their physical strength to tyrannise us weaker ones are slowly being brought to book too, especially in the area of domestic life; children are rarely beaten and women even less so, again more progress in the West.  But a new tyranny has emerged; those with money are now tyrannising the poor.  Capitalism was always a nasty disease which like all infections has spread and now includes the whole world.  But like all viruses the parasite needs a host to sap the lifeblood out of.  Capitalism needs the poor of the world to feed off, and as each country becomes developed and a degree of middle class wealth emerges so the quest for new poor resumes.  Capitalism has only one real host left to devour and that is Africa, and the locusts are swarming as we speak.  But devour is the wrong word, for like all tyrant’s victims, killing is too good for them, better to keep them alive to exploit again and again.  So rape is a far better analogy, and we have all been raped by the Capitalists, turning most of us into prostitutes into the bargain.  But one day it will have to stop, one day enough people will realise that sharing is better than stealing, that caring is better than neglect, that co-operation is better than self-interest; that love for your fellow man is better than rape.   Roll on that day.

Thursday 9^th August

And we are back to the music again; of course, it never went away.  I first heard Leonard Cohen in a grotty flat in Stockwell.  I was 18, and Carol only 15.  We were lovers, but not like that.  In fact we were desperate lovers, besotted and blind, at least I was.  Carol was still experimenting and I was scared she would leave me, which of course she did eventually.  I still had time to listen to Leonard singing So Long Marianne, and it was time for me to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.  The years went by, and when another woman was leaving I was listening and crying in the night ‘Where, oh where is my gypsy wife tonight.’    When I had recovered and was dating again I felt that I was your man, but when it all went wrong I knew that there was indeed a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.  And I saw him in 1983, and then a long time later in 2009 and again the following year, when a sprightly old man in a suit and a fedora held an audience captive in his hands for nearly three hours as we sung our own Hallelujah’s together.  So along with Leonard, the constant poet of my heart, I have changed my style to silver, and even in the darkest moments I am brought back to life by the man who told me when he came he was a stranger.   Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.  Of all the artists I love and cherish, none are so important as Leonard Cohen, singing each day in the tower of song.

Wednesday 8^th August

When they first announced the ticket lottery, I went a bit mad, and bid for all sorts of sports and was ready to part with nearly £2000 to get some tickets.  Like many people I never anticipated the sheer volume of people trying for tickets, or the bizarre lottery which would result in a few people winning tickets in all sorts of sports and many like me getting nothing.  Disbelief soon turned to anger and disgust, and for a while I wanted nothing more to do with buying tickets, so I ignored the early morning release of further batches of tickets, but my daughter Laura kept trying and did get some tickets.  She was generous enough to offer me one, and yesterday I went to the morning session of the athletics.  Up incredibly early to get a good look around Olympic Park before the first events at ten.   It was wonderful, even just walking around as everyone you saw was smiling, beaming actually.   And I was struck by the little things like the abundance of wild flowers growing in huge blocks of colour as if accidentally growing there, the perfect reflection of English grass verges.

I saw women’s javelin and men’s triple jump qualifications, both of which had no British success, but we did have some races, 400 metres men’s hurdles and 5000 metres womens heats, both of which allowed us to cheer the mostly successful GBR runners on, wailing like crazed banshees in our excitement.  And then the icing on the cake – the 200 metres men’s heats, and a chance to see at very close quarters the fabulous Usain Bolt.  And the man did not fail to impress.  If you can see charisma at a distance of fifty yards then we saw it today, the man is such a character, you just have to love him.

So a wonderful day which has either made an old man very happy, or a happy man very old, I am not sure which.

Tuesday 7^th August

It comes to each of us at different times, and of course for some of us it never arrives.  That time when you realise what is most important for you as a person.  It may be climbing the Munroes, or travelling the world, or devoting oneself to ones grandchildren.  It may be caring for a loved one, it may be devoting oneself to God, or it maybe the realization of a dream.  For me I have always loved music and there is rarely a day that passes where I am not listening to it, most often on headphones, as most people I associate and work with do not share this passion.  So, I know that whatever happens to me, I will always be devoted to music.  So far I am achieving those long held goals, a house by the sea in England and a small place in France.  And now the idea of painting is tugging at me, like some siren pulling me onwards.  As a young man I fell in love with drawing and painting, and hung on valiantly for many years.  A combination of relationships and children and too many years of hard work wore me out.  And now I realise that if it as important to me as I believe it is, then I am the one who has to make it happen.  First I have to organize my retirement, and then just go and buy the canvases and paints and oils, it really isn’t that complicated.  I do not ever expect to paint anything remarkable, I simply want to be able to carry on where I left off some thirty years ago.   Just like writing the book, you just have to start writing.  If it is the thing you realise is important you just have to make it happen.

Monday 6th August

Just for a moment forget the medal table and whether we win more gold medals than last time. None of that is really important; if do not win another medal we have done incredibly well anyway.  What matters is that London, my home town, has shown the world how to do it.  Despite the squally weather London looks fantastic, especially Stratford, where huge posters of our athletes are decorating tower blocks, and everything looks shiny and new.  And on the TV all of the Olympic venues look brilliant, from Greenwich to Wimbledon, and despite a lot of grumbling the marathons passed so many icons of London, the Bank of England, Tower Bridge, the London Eye and of course The Mall and Buckingham Palace.  I love Paris, but even that beautiful city would have struggled to match the glory of London this year.  And I am sure that many visitors from abroad will be amazed at the helpfulness of ordinary Londoners, and what may come as some surprise the fairness of our spectators.  Of course we want our own athletes to win, but we also applaud whoever wins, whatever nationality they might be, and even the two Saudi women got big cheers from the crowd.  After the giants of America and China whose crowds were incredibly partisan this might come as some surprise to many, but it was never in any doubt; that’s the way we do things over here.   So, a spectacular and wonderful games, and win or lose we should be so proud.

Sunday 5th August

The papers are full of our gold medalists, and while there is no denying their fine achievements, spare a thought for those who come second or third, or who do not even medal at all (to medal becoming the most recently added verb in the interview dictionary, along with IM, and PB) .  Rebecca won two gold medals in Beijing, and all the sports commentators had her as a shoo-in for two more at this Olympics.  What they fail to think about are all the other competitors who are just as hungry for gold.  Sometimes it all comes together perfectly, and for almost inexplicable reasons you are the best in the world.  And four years is a long time; it must be incredibly difficult to achieve that same degree of perfection.  And so many young swimmers are coming along all the time, it seems the optimum age for swimmers to improve is 15 – 16, so along comes a relative unknown and knocks seconds off their best time and beats you.  Apart from the phenomenon known as Michael Phelps very few swimmers are able to defend their Olympic titles.  So well done Rebecca for going out there and swimming your heart out, and even if in the final it didn’t quite work, and your time was a bit slow, it doesn’t matter – we still love you.  No-one can ever take away those two gold medals from last time, no matter who the Olympic champion is this year.  As Rebecca herself said, she is incredibly proud of getting two bronze medals at this Olympics, and those that say that getting silver or bronze is losing are so wrong.  All our athletes are winners; even those that fall at the first heat, just to be good enough to go to an Olympic games must be wonderful.

Saturday 4th August

The wonderful Iain Banks has written some great books, I would hardly call them novels, as they have consistently refused to fall into that category, but blow me down it looks like he might have written one at last.  He alternates, writing weird contemporary thrillers and futuristic science fiction (under the name of Iain M Banks).  His last contemporary book was a flop, I cannot even remember the title but it was about transitioning between different worlds, and somehow failed to convince.  I was therefore a bit wary about his latest effort Stonemouth, but I have read so many great books of his I forgave the one before last.  Surprise surpise, this was really a love story, not only a fairly conventional one; boy meets girl, boy fucks up, boy loses girl, boy get girl back again, but far more than that this was a love song about the East Scottish coast where Iain came from.  The descriptions of the mist shrouded and desolate expanses of sea and beach and forest are beautiful, but this novel is also very much about the here and now, i-phones and gadgets and young professionals partaking of drugs and sex.  There is the necessary spice of a jealous family and a sprinkling of violence just so you realise he hasn’t gone completely soft on us.  The sense of threat and oncoming resolution is nicely contained and the story is well paced with a few vital flashbacks at just the right places.  In the end it leaves you wanting more of the town called Stonemouth and its young protagonists, always the sign of a good book .  And one suspects that the hero Stu, bears more than a passing resemblance to Iain himself.  So eight out of ten, and now leave me alone while I sink back into the well-upholstered soft furnishing of yet another Anthony Trollope.

Friday 3rd August

Nobody was sure, in fact some were downright skeptical, but we were constantly reassured by all the people who should know that the UK and London in particular would get a boost from the Games.  We were told that there would be 1.5 million extra visitors to the capital; we were warned to stagger our journeys and to work from home if we could; gridlock was expected and special Games Lanes painted on the roads to ease the flow for dignitaries and athletes, while the rest of us would be consigned to the slow lanes.  But strangely it hasn’t quite turned out that way, in fact almost the opposite.  I use the Underground almost every day, and suddenly I am getting a seat for the whole journey where I used to stand.  There are more people on the streets, but it looks as if they aren’t actually spending money.  Shops and Restaurants are reporting sales down by 5% on last year, so what has actually happened here.

It would appear that just as the dire warnings of the ‘cuts’ caused people to slam shut their purses two years ago, most Londoners have heeded the chaos warnings and have taken time off and sat at home, or are working from home or are leaving early.  Computer technology means you can ‘log in’ from almost anywhere these days, and so the Capital is quiet.  Also, all these visitors have spent a fortune on the frankly overpriced tickets and have little money left for ‘tourist shopping’.  Apparently sandwiches are selling well.

None of this distracts from the wonderful games and how well they have been conducted of course.  But the Tories must be more and more worried that the economy is not just asleep but is practically moribund.  In an earlier blog I suggested an October election – that now seems very unlikely; instead this lot will limp on, much as John Major did, to the bitter end.

Thursday 2nd August

One unexpected consequence of the Olympics is that you cannot get a decent croissant anywhere.  Let me explain.  In my much wasted youth I worked in a bakery, well, actually in the office of the bakery.  But I did learn a thing or two about croissants.  In the trade, croissants along with doughnuts and Chelsea buns are known as Morning Goods.  This is because they are only any good in the morning, by twelve they are past their best and by three o’clock you might as well throw them in the bin.  The pastry for the best croissants is prepared in the late afternoon or evening and after successive rolling and folding is cut into shape and folded and laid out on greaseproof covered trays to prove overnight.  The warm ambient temperature of the bakery allows the pastry to rise, the yeast to get working, and the magic of the croissant to take shape.  From about four or five in the morning the trays are baked off and the croissants allowed to cool, be packed and delivered to the shops and restaurants for breakfast.

The almost terminally insane planners at LOCOG, worried no doubt by the creaky infrastructure and usually chaotic roads of London, came up with the wheeze that ALL deliveries to Restaurants and Bars during the Olympics must be between midnight and six a.m.  Heavy fines were threatened for transgressors, and so rather than get caught late delivering most have decided to deliver early. So the few croissants you can find have been baked the day before and are crap, or were the frozen ‘Delice de France’ variety which are at least freshly baked in store, but never match the real thing for flavor or lightness of texture.  Starbucks have no almond croissants at all, and the frozen ones at ‘Pret’ are okay but not perfect.  So, who would have thought that the very lifeblood of the capital would be sucked out in such a strange way.