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Sport, what's it for?

I can see why people find playing a sport attractive; it’s fun and the component of trying to beat an opponent gives it an extra edge, particularly for competitive types. There was a time when it was quite common for a firm to have a works football team, playing in a league consisting of other works teams. Apart from the personal challenge there was also the pride of your place of work to uphold. Other -non participating- employees could also take a legitimate interest in these matches and share in the glory or disappointment of the outcome. There were also inter village cricket matches with a similar reason for taking place. This all seems reasonable and it isn’t difficult to find purpose in it.

What I don’t understand is how sport became professional. Paying people to play a game seems quite odd to me. Being a completely non productive activity it more properly belongs to the category of hobby or pastime than profession. Regardless of how expertly someone can manipulate a ball with his foot, is it logical that the financial reward for showing that off is often far grater than that received for being a highly skilled tradesman, who actually produces something useful?

It could be said that there is entertainment value in sport, but why? It only becomes interesting if you have an interest in the outcome but why on Earth does anybody care about the outcome? It’s not like any of us has a real connection to the people we are cheering on and willing to win. It just doesn’t make any sense, the only good reason for sport is for its own sake, the involvement of money makes it completely senseless.

The World Cup should be abandoned immediately and I should get the £2 I invested in the works sweep stake back. And I’m not just saying that because I drew Senegal.
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Praised be the Lord, though we know not why

Founded in 2010 by the charismatic preacher, Pastor Flower, with only a handful of followers, the Church of the Permanently Bemused has gone from strength to strength. These days it is standing room only in the little village hall of Bonking On The Heath, where the squashed devotees hang on the Pastor’s every word.

Wilton Flower was born into a devoutly religious family, his father being an elder of the Jehovah’s Presbyterian Baptists -a particularly evangelical sect- and Elder Flower saw to it that his son was schooled most rigourously in the ways of the Bible. By the age of sixteen the budding young Flower had bloomed into a magnetic and captivating preacher in his own right and become something of a celebrity within the church. But, despite enjoying this popularity, Wilton became increasingly troubled by a seed of apprehension growing in the back of his mind.

Although Flower had always accepted and embraced the words of the sacred book, he had also become increasingly aware of the irrationality of them and he started to think more and more about what that might mean. Then, one crisp winter’s morning, just two weeks before his twenty first birthday, it came to him in a startling flash of insight: It didn’t mean anything. This changed everything for Flower and the truth lay before him like a path of pure light; the source of enduring faith in the Lord was to be found in his very implausibility. The more the improbability of God, the greater the proof of his existence.

Flower now set forth with unstoppable zeal. He buried himself in all the writings of Richard Dawkins he could lay his hands on and emerged with a faith so unshakeable it made the old Elder Flower look like an atheist, by comparison. There was no turning back now and within just five years the movement had grown into something to rival The Pious Shepherds of the Bleak Moorlands of the North, a nearby sect made up predominantly of intellectually challenged but sincere members of the hill farming community.

The uninitiated observer might find the service at the Church of the Permanently Bemused somewhat unconventional. Once the congregation is in place and settled, Pastor Flower emerges from behind a screen, known as the Curtain of Misunderstanding, and, in a raised voice, asks the gathered flock, “what do we believe?” To which, in response, comes a mass shrug along with the reply, ....“don’t know”. dunno

Then the words, “why are we gathered?” dunno

What is our mission?” confused

On completion of the short opening ritual it is straight into twenty minutes of hymn singing, a particular favourite being, “Give us no clue, Lord, we’d rather not know.” The service always ends with the Pastor delivering a short sermon, although even just ten minutes of listening to someone droning on about nothing in particular, regardless of how much charisma they may have, can seem much longer.

There's no place like Home

The small town where I live is a bit of a dump, really. Like many other towns in this area it went down hill after the coal mining industry went to the wall. The whole region was built on coal, both literally and economically. The High Street looks cheap but not very cheerful with its typical selection of betting shops, charity shops and all the other down market shops that always seem to go with economic depression. You can get your hair cut and still have change out of a fiver here , albeit only a penny.

Given the state of the place, it’s easy to see why property prices and rents are low, but in my part of town they just got even lower. A brand new high speed rail line is going to be coming right through my estate in the not too distant future. when it arrives I will be able to see a gigantic concrete viaduct from my window. In return for having to put up with this blot on the already heavily blotted landscape we will receive absolutely no benefit whatsoever. The only beneficiaries will be the train passengers, who, by virtue of it being a high speed train, will have a mercifully quick passage through this place.

You might think that if it’s so bad here then this one more thing could hardly make it much worse. Well, the thing is, this housing estate is only about five years old, it’s the only decent place to live round here. But now, they are going to demolish half of the estate to make way for the new rail line. If they had routed it through the middle of the old part of town it would have probably cheered the place up, given people something to look at while they were getting their cheap haircuts. But no, the grotty part will stay untouched while the nice part gets bulldozed.

Still, why should I care: I’ll still be living in a modern building for a very reasonable rent and I’ve got double glazing so the trains shouldn’t bother me too much. And, what’s more, I will still be able to get my hair cut for next to nothing.

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A Tale of Country Folk

There is a tradition in the Derbyshire peak district, known as Well Dressing. As the name suggests, the practice is characterised by the decoration of wells, predominantly with flower petals. Not to be outdone, the adjacent county also has a proud tradition of its own.

Over the border in Yorkshire there is the much lesser known but, arguably, more imaginative ritual of Todger Trimming, also known as festooning the hangings. Village maidens will embellish the todgers of the local menfolk with brightly coloured ribbons and a little bell, suspended on a few strands of spun pubic hair, harvested from that years Queen of the May by the vicar of the parish, who this task traditionally falls to.

After the last bow has been neatly tied and every todger been subjected to the scrutiny and approval of the mothers of the maidens, whose job it is to give that final touch to the todgers, off skip the menfolk to the May Pole. Here, trouserless and frivolous, the men weave in and out one another as they merrily dance around the pole. A more jolly and perplexing scene is to be found nowhere else in English folklore.

After all the dancing, cheering, merry making and song, and after the judging of the todgers and awarding of the prizes, the day ends as it began, and out comes the mead. Before long, all falls silent, save for the faint tinkling of lots of tiny bells as the men stagger through the village in pursuit of the maidens. The maidens, however, knowing what was coming and not being handicapped by the effects of mead, have little trouble in avoiding the, by know, somewhat larger todgers that they previously paid such fastidious attention to.




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My Blog for not replying to other blogs

Most bloggers like their readers to comment on their blogs, but, sometimes, the reader has no comment to offer. So, if after reading a blog, you find you have nothing to say, then rather than offend the blogger by not commenting on their blog, you can come here and not comment on this blog, instead.

There will, of course, be the usual smart arses wanting to spoil it for everyone else by leaving a comment on this blog, but, be warned, any comment posted on this blog will be immediately left where it is, with no exceptions. I am sorry to be so strict on this point but I feel it is necessary in order to counter any attempts to undermine the purpose of the blog.

It will be very interesting to see how many replies this blog manages to not accumulate.
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Captain Pugwash theme music

This is the theme music to Captain Pugwash Episode 1, "Down the Hatch"

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If God created the banana.....



I guess Satan must have designed the coconut.
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My Favourite Women

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The blog that wasn't about biscuits but looked like it was.

You never know who's going to pop round for a cuppa.

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I love to go a wandering.

Thinking I needed to get out more, last summer I joined a walking group. My first time out with them was on a Wednesday evening, the walk was a stroll round the town where I live, as it happens. Their main outings are on Sundays and the Wednesday evening ones are just during the summer. I continued to go on both the Wednesday and Sunday walks regularly for several months, right up to the end of the autumn, my enthusiasm waned as the weather got colder.

I didn’t consciously think about it but I suppose I had a preconception of a bunch of like minded people just turning up at a prearranged location and setting off walking together. It never occurred to me that such a seemingly straight forward and simple activity would necessitate the amount of effort and time to plan and organise that it actually does. And all by a handful of people doing it out of pure altruism, gaining no reward other than the simple satisfaction of knowing that their efforts are enriching the lives of others.

The group has a monthly meeting where, presumably, they discus important issues and make weighty decisions. They have a Chair Person, Vice Chair, Treasurer, Walks Programme Co-ordinator, Footpaths Officer and several other officials with vaguer, but, undoubtedly, no less necessary roles. So, clearly, this is not a Mickey Mouse outfit, it is a serious and properly organised group.

While I expected to derive a modest health benefit from participating in the activity of the group, I was quite surprised to also find that joining them actually made me feel younger. This was no doubt due in part to the exercise, but, more than that, I think it was because a good many of them are retired and older than I am. The principle of relativity in action.

Every walk has a walk leader, a job that entails much more than arriving first and then striding off in front, assertively. The walk leader first has to conceive the adventure, he -although, quite often she- must assemble in their mind a journey of discovery, or at least an excursion that isn’t likely to bore the pants off everyone. Next, the precise rout must be planned, followed by the “recky”, which is where the walk leader sets out, quite often with another dedicated group member, and does a boots on the ground dummy run. Thus are any potential problems and hazards identified. How often, I wonder, have we carefree ramblers turned up on the day with nothing to think of but a pleasant day’s meander through the English countryside, completely oblivious to the extra large muddy puddles and steep embankments our leader has beforehand had to suffer so that we don’t have to.

While the walk leader is out in front, blazing the trail, at the very back, is the man at the very back. He’s probably got a title but I don’t know what it is, probably the tail man, or something similar. His job is mainly to ensure that the stragglers don’t take a wrong turn and get lost, his secondary role being to mop up any casualties. It is surprising how many people, particularly the old duffers, slip head over heels on the mud or trip up over a tree root or discarded soft drink can. Usually any serious injury is confined to the dignity of the person involved. I have never actually witnessed such an occurrence myself, but that is probably my own fault for not hanging far enough back.

We have our own web site. With a few mouse clicks I know where the next walk will take place, how long the walk is and whether or not it is dog friendly. We also have a self appointed group photographer who covers twice the distance of everyone else through running up and down the line all day taking shots. I am amazed by his energy, I don’t know how old he is but I believe he’s been retired for ten years. The results of his vigourous enthusiasm appear on the web site a few days later, he’s quite artistic, actually.

I could go on forever singing the praises of the Ramblers but enough is enough.
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All that glitters......

We all know that Gary Glitter is very much persona non grata these days, which is no doubt as it should be. However, I can't help thinking it a little unfair that his scandalous sex abuse record has totally eclipsed what an absolutely crap musician this man was. His performances were truly diabolical, even by 70s standards. So, despite his moral descent to the very lowest depths, let's just take a minute to remember what a twat he was to start with.

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A sad tale, indeed.

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The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"


The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
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