Dedication

It was perishing in Bury yesterday. I had driven across the Pennine hills to the northern Manchester area to watch my beloved Hull City put our Lancashire hosts to the sword with a hat-trick from Arsenal loanee Chuba Akpom. It was bitterly cold at the historic Gigg Lane Stadium with hail and snow amidst spells of sunshine. Thankfully, I had had the foresight to purchase a woolly hat from Bury Market. A snip at £2 and red for visibility when out walking.

I had arrived in Bury for the very first time at 10,30am, after a journey from home that took exactly one hour and fifteen minutes. Logically, my expectation was that the journey home would take roughly the same amount of time. 

Sheffield and Manchester are only thirty five miles apart but the most direct roads over the wild hills between these important northern cities are windy, double track routes - The Snake Pass and The Woodhead Pass. We tend to use The Snake Pass as it brings us into our city's south western suburbs whereas The Woodhead Pass brings you first to Stocksbridge and then Hillsborough to the north of the city.

From the M60 Manchester ring road I took the M67 to Mottram and thence to Glossop. All was fine but given the cold and wintry showers, I had a nagging feeling that getting across The Snake Pass beyond Glossop could be problematic. However, I reached the moorland summit without incident or significant concern and that's when I wished I had used a different route.

A57 Snake Pass summit on a pleasant day in June

There was a police vehicle up ahead with blue lights flashing in the blackness as a blizzard blustered around. A few other cars were turning around and heading back to Glossop. I noticed a BMW slipping and sliding about and realised that the road over the summit had not been salted. It was treacherous and the snow was now beginning to settle. 

As I reached the police vehicle, my headlights illuminated two cars that had flipped over having left the road and another was down in the ditch at a forty five degree angle. A bobby made hand gestures that told me I had to turn back. Just turning around in those conditions wasn't easy with dropping verges at both sides of the tarmac but I made it and carefully returned to Glossop with hazard lights flashing. On the eastern edge of Glossop there was now a police road block and a sign saying "Road Closed" for would-be Snake Pass travellers. Marvellous!

Then on to Mottram where I proceeded to The Woodhead Pass, hoping that it would be passable with care and so it was. Home called. Onwards to Langsett and Stocksbridge, then along to Deepcar and Middlewood and back into the city. I crossed our threshold at 8.15pm - three hours after jumping in the car at Bury and one hour and forty five minutes longer than the journey over had taken. Such is the dedication (or craziness) of staunch Hull City fans.

Budby

Cottage in Budby

Yesterday I was on safari once again - visiting another corner of this green and pleasant land. An hour's drive brought me to the hamlet of Budby in Nottinghamshire. Then it was boots on and off into the wilderness. I had intended to get there by ten o'clock because the weather forecast promised a lovely sunny morning with cloud coming over around 1pm but I didn't reach Budby till eleven.

Ahead of me were the trees - lots of them - for I was walking through one of the best remaining sections of Sherwood Forest. This deciduous forest once covered a huge swathe of central England and what we see today are the mere vestiges of what once was. According to legend, it was in this area that Robin Hood and his merry men lurked, waiting to rob from the rich and give to the poor. It is said that Robin married Maid Marian at St Mary's Church in the village of Edwinstowe which is where I was heading.

With all the tracks and paths that pass through the forest, I soon got lost, heading south west instead of south east. I caught up with a fat man in a long brown smock with a rope tied around his middle. His coarse woollen smock had a hood or cowl and the hair on the  top of his head had been shaven off in the manner of a medieval monk. "Good morrow stranger," said the chubby fellow. "Whither  go'est thou?"

I explained to him that I was lost and looking for The Major Oak. He gave me directions in a form of English that seemed almost Shakespearean and when I showed him my digital camera he appeared genuinely astonished. "What manner of thing is this sire? Tis the devil's own device!" He refused to have his picture taken and looked rather sheepish when our paths separated at The Centre Tree.

After visiting the ancient Major Oak, I too headed into Edwinstowe where I partook of an egg mayonaisse sandwich, a small scotch egg and a pint of milk from the local co-op. It was clouding over now as expected. Soon I was striding long the banks of The River Maun and back into the forest. 

Statue of Maid Marian and Robin Hood in Edwinstowe

Ahead of me an imposing Victorian building loomed up amidst the trees - Archway House. It was built under the instructions of  The Duke of Portland in 1844 and was intended to be a feature upon his private driveway - a driveway that was never completed. Incredibly, he had planned his own private road, running twenty five miles from his lavish country seat at Welbeck Abbey all the way to Nottingham. Happily, parliament resisted his entreaties for the necessary permissions. It was, after all,  an outrageous idea of Donald Trump-like proportions.

Archway House

I managed to get lost once  again while heading back to Budby and imagined snuggling down for the night under a tree with squirrels and badgers. Maybe I would see a campfire glowing in the nearby clearing with shadows of men clanking pewter tankards together while singing "Greensleeves". But then Budby came into view once more.

TV viewing in Budby

Puzzling

Herman Chong
can't be wrong.
Can he?

I like art and when I am in the mood, I love to visit an art gallery. Pictures, sculptures and art installations have the power to please us, provoke us, enlighten us, annoy us or completely turn us off. Humanity's ability to create art is surely one of our finest traits and in my book the making of art is far nobler than the making of money.

When I was down in London in October I walked by The Camberwell College of Arts - an impressive Victorian building on Peckham Road. Part of it is devoted to The South London Gallery. There are even brown visitor signs in the area, directing art lovers to the gallery. On this past weekend's London trip, I went back. Frances and Shirley were happy to go along too.  

We went in and first of all checked out the bookshop with arty souvenirs also for sale. We noticed a bustling cafe that spilled out to the front of the building. It seemed popular with local families but we weren't there to sit in a cafe. We were hungry for art.

There was a large and airy room beyond the bookshop. A few people were standing in it and some kids were skidding about on the floor which was covered with identical black business cards. In fact there were exactly one million of them and they had been spread there by Singapore-based "artist", Herman Chong.

It's not the kind of thing that appeals to me. I think such stuff is  trite, trendy and easy. Throwaway art based on self-indulgent art school notions. Those business cards said nothing to me.

Then we looked for doorways and staircases that would lead us to other rooms in this so-called "gallery" but there were none. All that we had to look at was the pile of business cards. Had we missed something?

I went to the book shop desk where the arty young woman on duty was maintaining her Facebook page. I began by asking her where the art was, explaining that we were paying a special visit to the place. Politely, she explained that The South London Gallery is not an art museum, it's a place where different artists come and go and different arty things happen. I smiled at her, thanked her and expressed my disappointment.

It looked like an art gallery. The walls were white and there was a cafe and a bookshop but really there was no art. Later, when I checked out the reviews on Trip Advisor, previous visitors mainly focussed on the cafe - as if they had gone there to eat and drink, not to look at art. Quite baffling.

As we walked away I apologised to my womenfolk but they were also astonished that it was possible to promote an art gallery that contains no art apart from a million business cards chucked all over a wooden floor. Up North we call a spade a spade and if we see a fish and chip shop we confidently expect it will sell fish and chips. Similarly, we expect art galleries to have galleries of art. The clue is in the name. Clearly in London, they think differently!

Floor covered in business cards at The South London Art Gallery

Victory

Flow gently sweet Thames - out to the wide seas beyond this sceptred isle. Mercurial moonlight dances on the water's surface as we look out from Putney Wharf following Hull City's smash and grab performance at Fulham's Craven Cottage ground. A sparkling airliner north west of the moon makes its way to Heathrow. We won 1-0 with a late penalty from our Uruguayan striker - Abel Hernandez and all was well with the world.

We walked back through Bishop's Park and over Putney Bridge to where the trusty Seat Ibiza was parked on Deodar Road. For a while at least, life always seems finer after a Hull City victory - especially away from home. It was a grand day out.

We had had lunch at a great little Italian place called "Giuliano's Deli-Cafe" in Putney. Pasta of the day was £6.95 but there were eight different homemade pastas to choose from. We could have two half portions and one of mine was blackened with squid ink. It was all very delicious in a nice homely way

After the game, we trundled around The South Circular Road towards Brixton and then on to Camberwell where The Delightful Daughter welcomed us. The Geological Boyfriend came along later and we all went out to a super Italian restaurant nearby - "Caravaggios" on Camberwell Church Street. A delicious and authentic southern Italian meal with fairly priced house wines and then on to "The Joiners' Arms" on Denmark Hill for two or three beers.

A drunken young man kept complimenting us on our lovely eyes - especially The Delightful Daughter's eyes. He was full of bonhomie and we didn't mind. Luckily, The Geological Boyfriend did not  feel tempted to test the hardness of a rock on this affable fellow's  bonce. As we left, I was irked to see huddles of young adults in the murky alleyway next to the pub, smoking cigarettes. How I despise that sad and stinking habit and how pleased I am that I have now been a non-smoker for twenty eight years. 

And then back to The Cheap Hotel. Last time we were at the rear of it. This time at the front and you could hear the endless traffic passing below on Peckham Road, including ambulance sirens on their way to and from King's College Hospital. Fortunately, the Italian wine and the Worthington's beer allowed me through The Gateway of Sleep before many minutes had dissolved into that moonlit night and I dreamt I was walking in the Derbyshire hills with Abel Hernandez and Giuliano, singing, a traditional English ballad  to the tune of "Jingle Bells" -  "Oh what fun it is to see Hull City win away!".

Fulham

We are off to London in the morning. Gonna see The Tigers take on Fulham F.C. at Craven Cottage. Gonna see our lovely daughter Frances at Camberwell. Gonna have dinner in an Italian restaurant. Gonna drink some London beer. Gonna stay in a cheap hotel on Peckham Road. Gonna visit The South London Art Gallery on Sunday. Gonna discuss why "gonna" is an awful word. I forecast that we will win by two goals to one. Back on Sunday and here's another sickening word - "Ciao!"

Art

Regular visitors to this blog will remember my vulpine friend, Fred Fox. He disappeared in late summertime and has never returned. Occasionally, we now see a different fox in our garden. I shall call him Beefy Fox because in comparison with Fred, Beefy looks as if he has been on a course of steroids. Thick set neck and forelegs like an Olympic weightlifter's arms, Beefy glares with the malevolence of a thug. One day I hope to snap a picture of him if he will just hang about on our lawn long enough.

Do you like my painting of Fred - based on the small photo? I spent ages on it and went through several unsatisfactory drafts before arriving at the end version...

The previous paragraph is a lie! To make the picture I simply used our version of "Word" from Microsoft Office. Under "Format Picture" I went to "Artistic Effects" and then selected "Cutout" from the pre-sets. It was all very easy and then I increased the number of colours to six. It seems to work. Even Yorkshire's finest living artist - David Hockney has not been embarrassed to experiment with similar computer facilities to create interesting and attractive images. But is it Art?

Mistake

Think about these two words: terraced and terrorist. They sound very similar don't they? And that's how it appeared to a ten year old boy in Lancashire when he was asked to write an autobiographical essay at school. He wrote that he lived in a terrorist house - the sort of mistake I saw thousands of times in my illustrious teaching career. In fact, he lives in a terraced house.

Normally such everyday errors do not make the national news but the Lancastrian boy in question belongs to the Muslim faith. He was duly reported to the authorities and later interviewed at home by the police. Under the 2015 Counter Terrorism and Security Act, they investigated the family's laptop and took quite a while to convince themselves that there was nothing to  be alarmed about. It had all been a silly mix up.

For news report go here.

Meanwhile in London, a parliamentary committee has whitewashed away a 560,000 name petition that called for Donald Trump to be barred from entering Britain. I signed this petition myself. Amongst other reasons for signing it, I noted that several Islamic rabble rousers have already been barred from entering Britain. Yet in that parliamentary committee room they dragged out the "free speech" defence, saying that in a democracy barring folk is not the answer. So Trump has effectively got away with his inflammatory ignorance and his unfounded depiction of London as a city with Muslim no-go areas.

I find it amusing that the word "trump" is frequently used in British homes as a polite alternative to "fart". Watching television, a parent might say to a child, "Did you just trump?" or that same parent might apologise for his or her own flatulence - "Pardon me, I've just trumped." And when I see images of that boorish golden-haired egotist, flaunting his ignorance and personal ambition all I can think is -"Even if you are elected, you'll still be named after a resounding and probably very smelly fart!"

Eagle You old fart!
Trump I'm scared!