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I never wore The Red and Black

Monday, September 8th, 2014

Many, many moons ago I attended Gwyrosydd Elementary (Junior) School on the outskirts of Swansea. Built in the 1950s it is your typical single storey, red brick, glass dominated, functional school of that era. I was reasonably good at the 3″Rs” and usually finished in the top six of the class for weekly tests and term exams. Unfortunately this hint of some brain matter placed me at a disadvantage when it came to playing sports. Not me personally, but some of the educationally challenged boys in the class assumed the stance that academics and sports don’t mix; not in their playground or football field anyway.

I always yearned to play for the school football team wearing the red shirt and black shorts on a chilly Saturday morning. Stuart Morgan, Brian Collins and Terry John were stars of the team, but their constellations didn’t shine too brightly in the classroom. Stuart Morgan in particular resented anyone who did well in the weekly test. He always appeared to have a permanent snarl on his face, or maybe it was a leer.

At the age of 11 years old, I was not very good at football. My dad had been an outstanding player and left footed. I convinced myself that I too was left footed. In reality I was naturally right footed and my left leg was used mainly used to stand on while I swung the right. It was about this time I developed a painful veruca on the base of my left foot which gave me an excuse to tell the world I could no longer kick with my left foot, and I would have to reinvent myself as a right footed player.

Unfortunately, I still imagined myself as a fleet footed left winger flying down the touchline and pinging hundreds of crosses into the goal mouth for our centre forward to head the ball into the back of the net. Of course It’s very difficult to provide a stream of crosses from the left wing when you can’t kick the side of a barn door with your left foot.

On a Friday afternoon Mr. Williams, the teacher in charge of the football team, would enter our class room with a pile of red jerseys and distribute them to the boys lucky enough to be picked for the match on Saturday morning. I believe I was once picked as a reserve in mufti. In other words I would not be adorning the red and black standing on the side lines. Being a reserve had no status as there were no substitutes allowed in those days. It was merely an honorary title andI may have had the chance to rub shoulders with the red and black gladiators, and perhaps run on the field with the magic sponge.

I didn’t believe the boys in the team were much better than me save for Stuart Morgan, Brian Collins or maybe Terry John. Stuart Morgan later signed as a young professional for West Ham United, but never played for the first team languishing in the lower leagues for most of his career. They were not bigger than me, but far more aggressive as I recall. Maybe I should have learned to snarl or leer at people or drop the odd expletive.

A few years later, it gave me great pleasure to overtake my red and black nemesis in the home straight of a cross country race. I could hear him screaming at me to slow down since he didn’t take kindly to being humiliated by a kid who passed his eleven plus and had no business exceling at sports.

Today I saw a photograph of my four year old grand daughter on Facebook about to embark on her first day at school wearing black patent shoes, frilly white ankle socks and looking very chic in her red and black uniform. It is some consolation knowing that somebody in my family got to wear the red and black.

Posted in Family, history | No Comments »

A Trip for the Ages when Bunny Foo Foo went AWOL

Monday, April 14th, 2014

I thought this was a good topic for a blog, but I’m not sure whether I should it present is as a travel log or reminiscences from times gone by. I’ve decided to ramble and see where it takes me.

I recently spent a delightful two weeks back home in the UK and for once the weather gods were very kind to me. I often tell my American friends that you rarely witness a cloudless blue sky in the British Isles, but those weather gods were determined to make me a liar. Pennard Golf Club had never looked more spectacular. The fairways were shimmering under an early spring radiant blue sky with not a breath of wind to disturb the circling seagulls or meandering sheep. I can’t imagine another golf hole like the seventh where you tee off facing the ocean 200 feet below a magnificent cliff top. On the right hand side of the fairway lays the ruins of Pennard Castle which dates back to the 12^th Century and is sufficient to blow the mind of an American golfer seeking to play true links golf.

Meanwhile I popped into the Gower Golf Club a few miles down the road. When I was town planner I had a hand in recommending that a local farmer convert his dairy farm into a golf course. The gruff but affable owner Mr. Jenkins came to see me in the planning department, and told me in no uncertain terms that “the bottom had dropped out” of dairy farming and the Ministry of Agriculture had advised him to contact his local planning department for ideas on alternative uses for his land.

He initially scoffed at my idea of a golf course, but within a week he returned to the office and admitted it had possibilities, and lo and behold within eighteen months the concept was a reality. I never thought for one moment that a dairy farmer with no experience of golf would obtain planning permission, hire a respected golf architect, Donald Steel, to design a golf layout from his cow pastures, and make a success of it. Sadly Mr. Jenkins passed away a few years ago, but the golf club continues to thrive in the hands of his son and daughter.

Food played a prominent part in my trip. I stayed at my brother’s in Cardiff for two nights and he kindly prepared two delightful Welsh breakfasts of lava bread, cockles, bacon and eggs. Superb cuisine! A few days later I had dinner with some old friends of mine in the King Arthur Hotel, Reynoldston, Gower. I was determined to continue the Welsh theme and ordered trout in a cockle sauce. It was truly exquisite ably supported by a roaring log fire in a convivial pub atmosphere and washed down with a pint of Reverend James.

In the second week of my journey I left the friendly confines of Wales and traveled over the border into England to visit with my son, daughter, their respective partners, and my dear grandchildren. My son lives near to a couple restaurants, Italian and Indian, and the Italian is particularly good. I have visited the Indian a couple of times now, but the jury is still out. Having dined out on the plethora of Indian restaurants in my home town of Swansea since the age of 23, I can be highly critical of Indian restaurants.

When in Rome do as the Romans do; when in Britain eat fish and chips. The Rockfish in Dartmouth is a tad more than a fish and chips shop. It can justifiably be called a seafood restaurant. We ordered monkfish, lemon sole and the traditional cod; all of which were delicious. We had the choice of breaded or batter on our fish and everyone was delighted with their meal. Oh, and the chips were crispy and dry. My favorite chip and shop was Covelli’s in Mumbles, but I received the shocking news that they had closed their doors. The Rockfish is now firmly ensconced as my number one location for fish and chips.

There were other culinary moments along the way. Rossi’s opposite the Liberty Stadium in Swansea has a good reputation for fish and chips and I chose plaice which I found to be a little greasy. I popped into the King’s Head in Treboeth the previous day for lunch which was and old stamping ground of my dad’s, and chose the bangers and mash which unfortunately was served with congealed gravy. Enough said! I had dinner with my brother and niece (who I hadn’t seen in 16 years) in the Traveller’s Rest on Caerphilly Mountain. I can’t remember what I ordered, but it tasted good.

Another fine tradition peculiar to the British is the Sunday roast lunch and carvery served in countless establishments around the country. My daughter took us to Ye Olde Smokey House, a 17^th Century pub just outside Paignton and the roast beef, rich gravy and wine were exquisite. My American wife has grown accustomed over the years to a carvery and was a little disappointed with her Yorkshire pudding. Well there’s no pleasing some people.

Another goal of my trip was to reconnect with friends I hadn’t seen for many years. I stayed a couple of nights with Rob and Anne and I don’t believe I have been so well looked after since my mum passed away. Rob was supposed to join my friend Paul and I for a round of golf at Royal Porthcawl but pulled out with car trouble. My brother also declined the invitation but generously loaned me his clubs. Royal Porthcawl is one of the best link courses in the British Isles and looked idyllic bathed in sunshine early in March. The Senior British Open is being held there in July which confirms its status as one of the prestigious golf courses in the country.

Following a couple pints and a sandwich in the quaint clubhouse, Paul and I made a mad dash for the Blue Anchor in Aberthaw which is a thatched roof 14^th Century hostelry in the Vale of Glamorgan. The building suffered a serious fire nearly 10 years but they did an excellent job in remodeling it losing nothing of its original ambience. My last port of call on the old friend’s front was reuniting with Sam who I hadn’t seen since I emigrated in 1996. We met in the New Inn in Penllargaer and he gave me a great big bear hug. He hadn’t changed a bit which is more than can be said for me!

Posted in Family, Food & Drink, Golf, history, Sports, Travel | No Comments »

Buried Alive

Saturday, January 25th, 2014

Occasionally, I publish a post from a guest blogger and today is no exception. My brother kindly sent me the following post which confirms that blogs have no boundaries. Enjoy!

In the 18th and 19th centuries, there existed a very real fear of being buried alive. The worry was stoked by disturbing newspaper reports, including one that appeared in the New York Times. The brief described a young man by the name of Jenkins who had been buried the day after his supposed death. Apparently, when the coffin was opened many days later by his relatives, who wished to move the body to the family burial ground, they were greeted by a ghastly sight. Jenkins’ body was lying face down, with much of his hair pulled out. Scratches lined the inside of the coffin, as if Jenkins had tried to claw open the lid.

Across the Atlantic, in 1895, physician J.C. Ouseley lent a measure of plausibility to the frightful accounts. After conducting extensive research, he claimed that as many as 2,700 people were buried prematurely in England and Wales annually. Though Ouseley’s statistics were likely exaggerated, groups like the London Association for the Prevention of Premature Burial (LAPPB) were founded to curb the chances of such a nightmare scenario actually occurring. With wide public support, the LAPPB and other smaller organizations lobbied for burial reforms and demanded that doctors thoroughly inspect fresh corpses for signs of life.

As a result of the public outcry, many physicians developed and instituted quite a bizarre arsenal of diagnostic procedures for verifying death. Preventing mistaken burial became a top priority, as well as a marketing gimmick. Bereaved relatives would pay higher prices if it ensured that their loved ones weren’t confined to coffin while still alive.

In 2002, medical historian Jan Bondeson researched some of these quirky methods for his spooky, fascinating book Buried Alive. Science writer Mary Roach neatly and humorously summarized them in Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers.

“The techniques,” Roach wrote, “seemed to fall into two categories: those that purported to rouse the unconscious patient with unspeakable pain, and those that threw in a measure of humiliation.”

The soles of the feet were sliced with razors, and needles jammed beneath toenails. Ears were assaulted with bugle fanfares and “hideous Shrieks and excessive Noises.” One French clergyman recommended thrusting a red-hot poker up what Bondeson genteelly refers to as “the rear passage.”

A French physician invented a set of nipple pincers specifically for the purpose of reanimation.

Another invented a bagpipelike contraption for administering tobacco enemas, which he demonstrated enthusiastically on cadavers in the morgues of Paris. The seventeenth-century anatomist Jacob Winslow entreated his colleagues to pour boiling Spanish wax on patient’s foreheads and warm urine into their mouths. One Swedish tract on the matter suggested that a crawling insect be put into the corpse’s ear. For simplicity and originality though, nothing quite matches the thrusting of “a sharp pencil” up the presumed cadaver’s nose.

None of these methods gained wide acceptance, however, especially because there existed a far simpler, much less humiliating, albeit smellier method of determining death: putrefaction. After two to three days of the body being left out, optimally in a hot, humid environment (or not so optimally if one is prone to queasiness), it becomes rather apparent if the person is alive or dead. The abdomen will start to swell and grow discolored, and there will be a stench.

Oh, will there ever be a stench.

But, if the stench isn’t obvious enough, you can always wait five days, at which point the skin will start to blister.

Nowadays, of course, we have more refined and scientifically valid methods of determining death. Doctors can precisely monitor heart rate, breathing, as well as brain activity. When such signs are absent, a person has probably passed on. They also watch for hypostasis, where the blood pools in the lower portion of the body, and algor mortis, a rapid drop in body temperature.

At its most basic, death is end of life. There’s a caveat, however, because scientists still can’t entirely agree on how to define life. So for now, death remains at least partially shrouded in mystery. But rest (in peace) assured, our powers of observation have grown advanced enough that you almost certainly don’t have to worry about waking up inside a coffin.

Posted in Absurdity, history | No Comments »

Jacks versus Taffs

Sunday, November 3rd, 2013

Sunday is a momentous day in the history of clashes between Cardiff City and Swansea City. This will be the first time ever that the two clubs will do battle in the top flight of English football. The very fact that the two Welsh Clubs are in the Premiership is nothing short of a miracle. Ten short years ago, the Swans were on the brink of extinction and nearly dropped down to the Conference League save for a win against Rochdale on the last day of the season.

Cardiff was in the doldrums for years under the dubious ownership of Sam Hamman and later Peter Risdale who nearly destroyed Leeds United. They are currently owned by a Malaysian gentleman who immediately discarded the historical blue and white strip along with the “Bluebirds” logo and substituted red shirts and a dragon. He claimed it was more Asian and would appeal to their new fans in the Orient.

Rivalry between the two cities transcends the world of sport. It extends to history, culture, politics and industry. Swansea and Cardiff are the two principal cities of Wales and for a time were vying for the rights to be recognized as the Country’s capital. The Conservative Secretary of State for Wales, Peter Walker, put paid to the bragging rights by introducing Government Policy to make Cardiff a show piece for Europe. Swansea was left to live on scraps and needless to say developed a chip on their shoulder.

People from Swansea are universally known (well maybe not in Atlanta, but I’m working on it) as Jacks in fond memory of a heroic dog called Swansea Jack who saved 37 people from drowning. Cardiff inhabitants are referred to as Taffs which is named after the river that flows through the City.

Cardiff is now officially recognized as the Capital of the Nation, but Swansea has Dylan Thomas, Harry Secombe, and Katherine Zeta Jones and reached the summit that is the Premiership first. I guess by now you have noticed a bias towards Swansea which is not surprising since I was literally born within (practically underneath) the sound of High Street Station.

Cardiff was founded in 1899, but Swansea was not founded until 1912 when hostilities commenced. There have been 54 league games head to head. Cardiff have 18 wins, Swansea have 20 with 27 draws. Competitive head to head games since 1912 total 105 games. Cardiff has 43 wins compared to 35 Swansea wins with 27 draws.

Neither team has ever done the league double over the other despite having been in the same division for 27 seasons. The biggest win was Cardiff 5 Swansea 0. Two Swansea legends, Ivor Allchurch (3) and John Charles (2) scored the goals and The Swans were relegated to the old 3^rd Division at the end of the season. John Charles never played for Swansea, but that doesn’t excuse his disservice to Swansea on that day.

I digress a little here, but I have two stories to share with you concerning Ivor and the Gentle Giant. In 1962 Newcastle had been relegated to the old 2^nd Division and were playing a league game against the Swans at the Vetch under floodlights. I was a pimply adolescent and stationed behind the goal at the open end to achieve a better view. Newcastle was awarded a free kick on the edge of the penalty area. The Swans nervously built a wall (not literally crate head) to defend their goal. Harry Griffiths a contemporary of Ivor was screaming at his team mates: “A f****** wall won’t stop Ivor. He’ll bend the f****** ball around it. Pause… I f****** told you” 1-0 to Newcastle.

Another game in 1962 stands out. John Charles had just been transferred back to Leeds United and his first game would be against the Swans at the Vetch. Making their debuts for Leeds that day were Bremner, Hunter, Sprake, Reaney and Lorimer all of whom were destined to become Leeds legends. The Vetch was packed to the rafters to witness the return of the Gentle Giant to English football. Just before the kick-off the public address system announced team changes to the programme. Yep, you’ve got it; John Charles would not be playing and his replacement is………………

My father took me to my first game at the Vetch in 1961. Ivor had long gone to Newcastle United, and my dad and Uncle Alec had not set foot in the Vetch since Ivor was transferred in 1958. I don’t think my dad enjoyed taking me to matches. I appeared to cramp his style a little. He wasn’t a demonstrative man, but when he was standing on the North Bank he could be heard shouting and cajoling with the best of them. That was the time I was introduced to my first sporting hero: Brayley Reynolds was a bustling, aggressive, no holds barred center forward who still retains the record for most goals scored in the South Wales derbies (8 between 1959-1965.)

There may be other rivalries in football that raise the shackles of fans. Liverpool v Man Utd, Spurs v Arsenal, City v United, Everton v Liverpool and Barcelona v Real Madrid spring to mind. But none compare to the intensity and passion of a Swansea v Cardiff derby which splits a nation. It is indeed the mother of all derbies.

Posted in Association football, history, Politics, Sports, Welsh humor | No Comments »

Hell on Wheels

Monday, October 14th, 2013

A couple of weeks ago I visited England to see my two new grandchildren, Alice and Alex. They live 170 miles apart and I was forced to rent a car to simplify my mode of travel. Little did I realize I would be at the mercy of BMWs, Mercs and Audis. What is it with the drivers that own these models? They do believe they own the road and woe betide the discerning driver that gets in their way.

I know there are 3 lanes on a motorway and the middle lane is earmarked for overtaking, but I see little point in staying within the inside lane where you have to continually negotiate slower traffic merging onto or exiting the motorway. The speed limit is 70mph which I hovered around on every trip, but the aforementioned models regularly zoomed past me in the outside lane breaking the sound barrier in the process, and totally oblivious of a succession of speed cameras which buzzed my GPS System every five minutes.

I don’t usually suffer from road rage when I drive on Atlanta roads although there is sufficient reason to do so. I guess the possibility of another driver packing a gun is a sobering deterrent and rage is restricted to the gnashing of teeth and turning the air blue which are safer option. But having drivers up one backside and then swerving violently around you as frequently occurred on the motorway is not my idea of fun.

I was accompanying my wife on a business trip and we stayed at the Radisson Blue which is a charming hotel (if you can find it within the spaghetti road network) in the heart of Guildford on the outskirts of London. I should advise you Guildford’s heart is slowly having the blood squeezed from it like pips from lemon by the myriad of roads that attempt to slither their way through the town center.

Woe betide the motorist new to the area (me for example) that does not place himself in the correct lane for egress and regress. Be warned however. If you are lucky enough to negotiate your way through the Guildford triangle a plethora of roundabouts lie in wait on the way to your destination. Little wonder there are so many pubs in England. Surviving a road trip from A and B calls for a drink or three to calm the shattered nerves.

My son navigated us to Farnham which is a delightful historic town full of nooks and crannies where mercifully one can escape the highways and boy racers. Cobbled streets, narrow lanes and archways allow the pedestrian safe haven from the automobile providing you don’t sprain your ankle on the uneven terrain.

A 170 mile road trip from Guildford to Paignton, Devon comprised 6 hours on a Friday afternoon. Most of the time was taken up by sheer volume of traffic leaving the urban sprawl for a weekend at the English Riviera (Torquay and Paignton for the uninitiated.) Every cloud has a silver lining, and we had the opportunity of visiting Agatha Christie’s former summer house “Greenway” which is now owned by the National Trust. All the rooms are decorated in the 1950s style and have enough artifacts to sink the Titanic again.

Notwithstanding the antics of the obnoxious British motorist the trip was a great success. My wife met her new boss for the first time, my children and grandchildren are healthy and happy, and were not too displeased to see me. I also hooked up with an old friend in Castlecombe which is a picturesque village in the splendid Cotswolds. We enjoyed a scrumptious lunch of haddock and thrice-baked chips at the quaint Salutation Inn which is highly recommended on Trip Advisor. Go and check it out.

Posted in Atlanta, Family, Food & Drink, history, Travel | 2 Comments »

The World We Live In

Tuesday, July 16th, 2013

My friend, George presented this post on Facebook yesterday, and I thought it was worthy of reproducing it on my blog:

For the last few months I have watched from a distance the goings on in Florida. You ALL know what I am speaking of. I do NOT admit to knowing all of the facts. However the events of the last 24 hours or so have inspired me (for lack of a biter term) to write this. For those of you who truly know me, I really try to think things through before committing my thoughts to paper, or in this case the World Wide Web. My intention is not to take sides with anyone OR to offend anyone of you. So, with that said, please read this with an open heart and mind. And know that I love you all.

This entire unfortunate scenario pulls at me on so many different levels. I have three children as most of you know, two of which are boys ages 21 and 19. If ANYONE were to harm my children in any way, shape or form, my response is simple. That person or persons better hope the authorities get to them before I do. Is that vigilante justice? Perhaps, but like many of you, I feel that you can do what you want to me, but NOT to my children. That isn’t an idle threat. IT’S A PROMISE.

However, I also believe that our society has gone off the deep end. Crime, murder, theft, rape and other nonsense has become the norm rather than the occasional incident. I also believe that we are citizens have the right to protect ourselves, our loved ones and our property from those who attempt to harm, steal or infringe on our basic right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Does that mean I believe in taking matters into your own hands? Of course not, but what would YOU do if you felt that your home, your family or your neighbors were in danger? It’s a terrible quandary for sure.

I only know what has been reported in the media with regards to that night in Florida. And as I read from someone else who posted here, only two people will EVER know what truly happened that night. And unfortunately one of those individuals is no longer with us. Everything else is complete speculation. What I do believe in all of my heart is that bringing racism into this is wrong and unnecessary. I have to ask, let’s say that a black man shot a white kid who was trespassing or whatever. Would racism enter into the equation? I do NOT pretend to know what was going on in the mind of either one of these people. I think that the bigger picture should be that a young man lost his life in a situation that was very unfortunate and more than likely completely avoidable.

If a finger should be pointed at someone, maybe we should check the justice system and specifically the prosecution team in particular. Two days ago, before the verdict, I spoke to a friend of mine who is a very good and knowledgeable attorney. We chatted at length about the case and specifically the trial. His opinion was simple. THE PROSECUTION BLEW IT. He said that Mr. Zimmerman was going to be acquitted because of this. He also said begrudgingly that it reminded him of the Simpson trial where the prosecution also blew it. He had been following the trial closely because he IS an attorney and he studies cases like these much like I study recordings to learn different styles of music and so on. He also said that while a 6 member all female, all-white jury was not ideal for the prosecution, it certainly is a FAR cry better than an all-male all-white jury. Who better to gain sympathy for the loss of a child than a mom? So, in his opinion you cannot blame the jury. You have to blame the prosecution team as well as the laws in Florida.

One thing that REALLY makes me angry is the threats of rioting and so on. That is akin to destroying an entire breed of dog because a few of them have been guilty of bad behavior, or condemning an entire race of people because of a few individuals. I am not sure what rioting will solve except for driving a LARGER chasm between ALL races and creeds, which is CERTAINLY not what needs to happen. It’s ok to be angry. But I think that anger directed at the wrong person or persons is as dangerous as a lethal virus that spreads rapidly. Whether you are a Christian, a Buddhist, an atheist or whatever, our goal as a society SHOULD be less violence, less conflict and more togetherness and cooperation. Advocating retaliation towards an entire race of people or lashing out at innocent people is just wrong. And to blame white people, black people or whomever for the actions of one man or a few men is also wrong.

My friends, I don’t know what the answer is. When I end my posts here I usually end with the phrase “peace to all”. That is not some hippy, trippy thing that I say to be groovy. I MEAN IT. I have longed for peace in my life and have been on a journey to find that peace and will continue to do so until my last breath. Have I found it? Yes, for the most part. Do I struggle with that concept daily? Of course, but its events such as this debacle in Florida that can be revealing in so many ways, the LEAST of which is how we as a “civilized” society handles the aftermath of such an ordeal. Personally I have not encountered any sort of animosity directed at myself. Do I think there will be? We shall see.

Posted in Current Affairs, Family, history, Politics | 1 Comment »

Sequestration, Emeritus, St. David’s Day

Monday, March 4th, 2013

Picture if you will a power struggle of monumental proportions taking place in one of the world’s largest and richest corporations. The CEO and Chairman has just resigned. It is rumored that his resignation was triggered by scandals at the bank owned by the Corporation, and allegations of sexual misconduct at the highest level of the Corporation.

The Corporation is allegedly filled with internal strife among its most senior officials. The press has been eager to publish lurid stories of intrigue and conflict, and has been used as a tool by competing sides in the Corporation to influence the selection of the next CEO and Chairman.

Rivalries between departments, vendettas between individuals, naked ambition, calumny, backstabbing and intrigues are endemic. You may be wondering what giant corporation he is talking about. Could it be Exon Mobil, Royal Dutch Shell, Wal-Mart, or General Electric? It’s none of these conglomerates because I’m referring to the Vatican which represents ecclesiastically over a billion Catholics.

Pope Benedict did the unthinkable by resigning last month. The first pope to do so in over 600 years citing ill health and fatigue which is not surprising since he is 85 years old. Here is the remarkable thing you are seldom told about a papal death or resignation: every one of the senior office-holders in the Vatican – those at the highest level of its internal bureaucracy, called the Curia – loses his job.

A report Benedict himself commissioned into the state of the Curia landed on his desk in January. It revealed that ‘The Filth’ – or more specifically, the pedophile priest scandal – had entered the bureaucracy. He resigned in early February. That report was a final straw. The Filth has been corroding the soul of the Catholic Church for years, and the reason is the power-grabbing ineptitude and secrecy of the Curia – which failed to deal with the perpetrators. Now the Curia itself stands accused of being part of The Filth.

Benedict realizes the Curia must be reformed root and branch. He knows this is a mammoth task. He is too old, and too implicated, to clean it up himself. He has resigned to make way for a younger, more dynamic successor, untainted by scandal – and a similarly recast Curia.

The Curia are usually quickly reappointed. This time it may be different. It involves scores of departments, like the civil service of a middling-sized country. It has a Home and Foreign Office called the Secretariat of State. There’s a department that watches out for heresy – the former Holy Inquisition which under Cardinal Ratzinger dealt with, or failed to deal with, pedophile priests.

The Curia is a big operation. It maintains contact with all the bishops of the world, more than 3,000, in 110 countries. The Curia oversees the hundreds of thousands of priests who care for the world’s 1.2?billion Catholics. The flow of information, and money, in and out of the Vatican is prodigious.

Last autumn Benedict ordered three trusted high-ranking cardinals to investigate the state of the Curia. This was the report that was delivered to him just weeks ago. It was meant for Benedict’s ‘eyes only’ but details of a sex ring and money-laundering scams last week reached the Italian weekly Panorama. Then the daily La Repubblica ran the story.

The timing of the report has coincided with fresh allegations of priestly sexual abuse in Germany. Meanwhile, Cardinal Roger Mahony of Los Angeles and Cardinal Sean Brady of Ireland have been accused of covering up pedophile abuse.

I’m sure there are thousands of priests around the world who are sincere in their beliefs and genuinely want to help people and spread the word of God. But when did the Cardinals become so corrupted and egotistical that their faith has evaporated only to be replaced by the pursuit of power and unimaginable wealth and riches?

What is Sequestration? Sequestration is a term used to describe the practice of using mandatory spending cuts in the federal budget if the cost of running the government exceeds either an arbitrary amount or the gross revenue it brings during the fiscal year.

Simply put, sequestration is the employment of automatic, across-the-board spending cuts in the face of annual budget deficits. In other words it reinforces the general consensus that Obama’s presidency is utterly inept.

I just celebrated St David’s Day in Atlanta by setting off a few rockets kindly given to me by a Southern gentleman who was sympathetic to my plight. I don’t begrudge extensive celebrations in America on St Patrick’s Day (after all there are over 42 million Irish Americans) but spare a thought for another Saint on March 1^st. It’s not publicized very much but six presidents have Welsh ancestry including arguably the greatest President, Abraham Lincoln.

Posted in Absurdity, Current Affairs, history, Politics | 1 Comment »

Get an Education, Son

Monday, February 18th, 2013

My mum and dad left school at 14 years old and were determined their two sons would receive a good education; perhaps go to university. But what defines a good education?

I passed my “eleven plus” examination in elementary school and was eagerly waiting to be allocated to one of the two grammar schools in the city: Dynevor or Bishop Gore. To my horror I was posted to Penlan Comprehensive School. Opened in 1956 as a “multilateral” school, it had been redefined as a “comprehensive” school and I was one of first guinea pigs chosen to test this new system.

Transferring from the safe haven of an elementary school at the age of eleven to the daunting secondary school comprising 1500 pimply and hormone crazed schoolboys was not an easy transition. I was reasonably successful in elementary school where the main subjects taught were the “three Rs” (reading, writing and rithmetic) and I didn’t have much problem with them. Following the successful eleven plus results I was introduced to my nemesis: “geometry!” I should have known this represented the tip of the iceberg and worse was to follow.

One passing comment on my introduction to the isosceles triangle et al. My teacher, the folically challenged Mr. Watson, could not understand why I was so inept at geometry, so he pronounced me as being lazy and a big head now that I had passed the “eleven plus.” We never liked each other, and hitting him between the eyes with a lump of chalk during a classroom skirmish didn’t help foster a better relationship.

Secondary school introduced a variety of new subjects: English, English Literature, Physics, Biology, Chemistry, Geography, History, French, Welsh, Russian, Mathematics, Woodwork, Pottery, Music, Metalwork, Art, Latin, Geology, Religious Instruction (later changed to Religious Education,) and PE (physical education.)

Oh boy! Physical education also introduced me to communal showers and the thought of stripping naked in front of a bunch of strangers was appalling to me. For the next seven years I would rarely be addressed by my first name. This applied to teachers and fellow pupils. Another phenomenon was an all boy environment rather than mixed classes in elementary school. We seemed to lose touch with the female species at a crucial time when our male hormones were racing at 100mph. Maybe that’s why so much emphasis was placed on showers to cool our ardor.

At the end of our third year, at the tender age of 14-15, we were required to make a decision which would shape the rest of their lives. We had to choose between the path of the sciences or the arts. Unfortunately we didn’t have any career guidance counselors at our school and the teachers were not very helpful either. The Labor Government of the sixties made a big push into promoting science and technology, and promised there would be many jobs available in those fields. On this basis I chose the sciences despite having little talent for them and this unforced error would haunt me for the next 15 years.

In retrospect success in certain subjects was so dependent on the quality of the teacher which varied greatly in my time at Penlan, none more so than languages. I was so disillusioned with the academic world at 15 that I seriously considered leaving school and taking an apprenticeship as an electrician.

A statement made by one of the senior teachers has resonated with me practically every day of my life: “I’m not here to give you an education. I’m teaching you to pass exams!” Maybe that explains why the history teacher never arranged a field trip to the many mediaeval castles in close proximity to the school. What a wasted opportunity.

My lasting impressions of a seven year residence at Penlan Comprehensive:

Spending endless hours in a five-storey matchbox traipsing up and down countless flights of stairs.
Milk monitors arriving at school on horseback.
Avoiding sadistic arts and crafts teachers
Grunter, Toad, Crow, Taffy, Stumpy, Pip, Dayo, Skinny, Hitler, Bummer and Fifi; affectionate nicknames for some of the teachers.
The stench emanating from the kitchens from yesterday’s leftovers and easily converted into pig swill to be picked up by the local farmer.

It’s very appropriate how the letters from “Penlan” can be rearranged into “Penal.” The school motto was “O NERTH I NERTH” which means “from strength to strength.” Little did I know that I would need all my strength to survive the traumas of Penlan Comprehensive which was mercifully put to rest in 2005.

Posted in Absurdity, history | 3 Comments »

New Year’s Eve in Savannah

Monday, January 7th, 2013

I love Christmas, the festivities, celebrating a special birth, the exchange of gifts, buying and cooking the turkey, watching and shedding a tear over “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the whole nine yards. Unfortunately I hate New Year’s Eve with a passion. I just regard it as the passing of another year of my allotted three score and twenty and I don’t appear to have many left. My wife, however, loves New Years Eve and wants to go out and party.

I would prefer to go to bed around 11.00pm and rise the next morning in the realization that the calendar is indicating a new year. But you want to keep the missus happy and I reluctantly go along for the ride. So this year we decided to park the bus in Savannah and soak up the atmosphere in one of America’s most historic cities.

Memorable Moments:

Reconnecting with the historic squares; dripping in Spanish moss from imposing oak trees; oozing with charm and history.
Bloody Mary in Tubby’s on the Riverfront
Impromptu acapello singing in The Pink House
Watching fireworks across the river from the roof of our hotel on the stroke of midnight.
Live music in the City Market on New Year’s Eve
Good meal, good service, good company at the Boar’s Head on Sunday the day before New Year’s Eve.
Harry O’Donohue performing a raucous version of “Living Next Door to Alice” in Kevin Barry’s Irish Bar.
Spotting an alligator basking in the winter sunshine along the 15^th fairway at Crosswinds Golf Club.
Wine tasting in City Market. Meinhardt wines were not my favorite, but the owner who was a dead ringer for Brian Dennehy was entertaining.

Not so memorable Moments:

Paying $32 for a mediocre steak at The Pink House that I could have bought in a Waffle House for $7.99. A diffident waitress didn’t help matters.
Playing golf on a somewhat bland layout at Crosswinds Golf Club that unforgivably allowed a five ball group to play ahead of us.
Some of the seafood on the Riverfront left a lot to be desired.
Leopold’s ice-cream which was completely overrated compared to Joe’s Ice-Cream in Swansea, Wales
Being head-butted (accidently but still painful) by a drunken brunette in the City Market in the early hours of 2013.
Being asked to move tables in an alfresco café by a despicable little character wearing a bandana called Will Jones. He tried to bribe us with two glasses of wine when a bottle would have been the clincher.

Based on a count back, the memorable moments outweigh the not so memorable, so spending New Year’s Eve in Savannah was relatively successful. Without further ado I would like to wish my reader (Freudian slip) a happy and healthy new year.

Posted in Food & Drink, history, Travel | 1 Comment »

RAF Bomber Command and my Dad

Sunday, July 1st, 2012

Last Thursday (28^th June 2012) the Queen unveiled a memorial to RAF Bomber Command in London’s Green Park sixty seven years after World War 2 ended. They suffered the highest casualty rate of the British Armed Forces in the Second World War, and until last week the men of Bomber Command had been officially overlooked.

Some 125,000 airmen took part in the five-year air offensive against Germany, a campaign widely credited with helping to bring about the end of the war. But the cost was high: 55,573 members of Bomber Command were killed and another 18,000 wounded or taken prisoner. Only service in the infantry in the First World War trenches had a comparable fatality rate.

But from the moment the war ended in 1945, the men who survived saw their role ignored by the authorities. In his V-E Day speech, Winston Churchill, the prime minister, pointedly omitted to mention the contribution made by Bomber Command. This official silence followed growing disquiet about the cost in German civilian lives during the campaign. The men were subsequently denied a campaign medal or a permanent national memorial.

Statistically, there was no more dangerous occupation during the war, except for that of U-boat crewman. The chance of being killed on a typical operation was one in 20, while the standard “tour” undertaken by a crew consisted of 30 ops. Flak, accident, the prowling, pitiless night fighters – a completed tour was something to celebrate in the squadron local.

The bravery required taking to the air night after night, as one’s luck drained steadily away, was of a different quality to that required in most other branches of the Armed Forces, where combat was often a short and terrifying interlude to extended periods of inactivity. Turning up over Berlin or the Ruhr for the third or fourth time was not enough to merit an award for gallantry, no matter that it entailed the nightly mastering of fears that inevitably drove some to the wall.

My dad was drafted in 1942 and joined the Royal Air Force. He initially trained as a radio operator until a routine medical discovered he was color blind. His wasn’t a severe case in the sense that he could only see shades of grey, but he couldn’t distinguish red from brown. This was enough to remove him from the course and he was unceremoniously thrown on the scrap heap until reassigned to other duties. My dad was feeling quite sorry for himself until he realized that some veteran pilots had been sent to the same “holding station.”

Some of the pilots had flown over 30 missions and were suffering from post-traumatic stress which was not recognized in those days. Men who couldn’t take it any more were deemed to be LMF (lacking moral fiber.) they were reduced in the ranks and in some cases were sent for “corrective treatment.” Others were simply given menial jobs, and the RAF made sure everyone knew why. My dad was returned to the ranks and ended the war as a leading aircraftsman.

During the early years of the war the Germans were bombing the living daylights out of British town and cities including London, Liverpool, Plymouth, Coventry, Glasgow and my home town Swansea. In 1941 Swansea suffered three successive nights of air raids (locally known as “The Blitz” which resulted in the demolition of the town center. During one air raid my mum and dad were almost killed. My mum didn’t like the air raid shelters and insisted on remaining at home.

They were sheltering in a doorway when the bombs began to fall and suddenly half a dozen houses on the opposite side of the street took a direct hit and were flattened.My mum was really upset. She was wearing a bright red coat which she had purchased earlier in the day, and to her horror was now covered in a thick layer of dust.

At the behest of the War Cabinet, Churchill instructed Air Marshal Sir Arthur Harris, commander-in-chief of Bomber Command to undertake a methodical destruction by incendiary and high explosives of German towns and cities. The project had two objectives: retaliation and to demoralize the German people. Between 300,000 and 600,000 German civilians perished, but war is a dirty business and little is gained by conducting it half-heartedly. Furthermore the German people realized they were no longer invincible.

There was this awful denial after the war about the role of the bomber crews because of the scale of the destruction inflicted on Germany. Churchill, who had promoted bombing as the only way of hitting back at Hitler in the early stages of the war, devoted one paragraph to Bomber Command in his memoirs which is an absolute disgrace.

On a personal level, being unable to distinguish red from brown possibly saved my dad’s life and consequently I wouldn’t be here writing this blog.

Postscript:

Taking an example of 100 airmen:

55 killed on operations or died as result of wounds
three injured (in varying levels of severity) on operations or active service
12 taken prisoner of war (some injured)
two shot down and evaded capture
27 survived a tour of operations

In total 364,514 operational sorties were flown, 1,030,500 tons of bombs were dropped and 8,325 aircraft lost in action.

Posted in history, Politics | 1 Comment »

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