Mission Accomplished

We now find ourselves in those weird inbetween days between Christmas and New Year, when you're not sure whether to rest and recuperate or to continue celebrating for the whole period. In a similar way I have been between blogs.

From the new year I will be blogging here James Bessant Writing and as such this will be the last post in this blog. You would be forgiven for thinking that I had forgotten about it anyway, but  other things have come into the way since the wedding. Namely continued landlord problems, but more happily the news that next Spring I will become a father...scary! But also exciting.

So why is this post titled so? Well, the clue is in the title of my blog.

 The photos above were taken the day after the wedding, of my new wife and some of her family playing cricket in the garden. Admittedly all we had was a tennis ball and plank of wood, and a tree for the stumps, but all the same, here is proof that I have managed to teach the swedes cricket! See you on the new blog...

Sunday Morning; Woke Up Married

The deed is done
The vows are read
The knot is tied
Made the marriage bed.

The sky stayed clear
The rain came not
The photos taken
The nerves forgot.

The food was ate
The wine was poured
The speeches read
And none were bored.

The couple danced
And cut the cake
They kept in step
Without mistake.

As the sun fell down
On the start of their life
A new beginning
Husband & wife.

Photos by Lina Karlsson

The Tear

Once again it's a very long time since I blogged.  The wedding and other activities have gotten in the way.  However, I have just finished listening to the Richard Burton legacy on Radio Two, and I don't know whether it is the voice, the words, the poetry, the choirs, the sounds at least, but I was moved to write a poem. It has nothing really to do with Burton, just a poem and I wanted to share it with you.

I sat there, listening

Not moving, not thinking

And slowly, almost imperceptively at first

A tear formed in the corner of my eye

And began to roll

Picking up speed, dragging the remnants of dead skin with it

Passing over the cracks in the pavement face

A single tear to me

But a tsunami of emotion to my face

A storm, a maelstrom

A well of water, body salted

Erupting out of me

In that single drop

All my loves and fears and hopes

Found condensed into liquid form

Leaving tracks on my cheek

To dry, to vanish

And remain bottled up once more.

Babysat

After the recent story about David Cameron leaving his daughter in the pub while he went home, I wondered whether his credibility to look after the country had fallen since he has trouble looking after just one member of the population...therefore I have a question to ask and I would be grateful if you could give an honest an answer as you possibly can...

Click here to take survey

Twelfth Man

Hard to believe it's been a whole month since I last blogged.  I could use the excuse that my fiancee's computer broke down and so we've been sharing mine, and as such I haven't had as much use of it as usual.  But that would be a bit unfair on her.

I could also use the excuse that I have been writing some pieces for my manager's retirement do (I was asked after my office realised I was the only person with any creative side), and so been writing elsewhere.  That, I guess would be more justified.

Either way, it's been awhile.  So by way of an apology I have a short story for you today, if you could call it a story that is.  It's more of a short piece, inspired by the tons of John le Carre that I have been reading lately and the start of the cricket season.  It is called Twelfth Man.

Operationally, he’d gotten the batting order completely wrong.  Starting off with Simpson and Blacklock to make an impression was a huge mistake.  Instead, it was all guns blazing (literally) as if bullets were going out of fashion.  Not in Charlton Heston’s lifetime he thought ruefully, let alone mine.  At least they had seen off one of them, nothing like two big ones over the rope in the first over for that.

Still, it left poor Frazer with amends to make, partnerships to build under fire; not his thing that, poor Frazer.  Didn’t last long.  Should have opened with him, he thought, given him less exposure before the big off.

Then it was Charlie, the kid.  Still called him Charlie rather than Owens as he would with the others.  Funny that.  He guessed he’d taken to the kid, not a thing to do in this job, but he was the sort of kid you took to.  Scruffy hair, ruddy cheeks and more go than a Twenty20 cheerleader.  He did his best, but it called for steadier hands, older hands, hands that had worn themselves through a dozen pairs of gloves and not still breaking in the first.

Rawlins would have done that, were it not for that bit of bad luck.  No-one expects the lunch lady to pull off a thing like that, even if they are a quarter Russian and half Iranian.  Even he hadn’t seen that, let alone Rawlins.  He’d have pulled Charlie through if he could’ve but it was just too much for the kid.

And then it was he himself.  He envisaged coming in at the last to score the winning runs, Captain, ‘keeper, all-rounder to finish things off.   He was never a starter, always found it hard to get up in the morning.  But once he was up, once he was out in the middle, he was more concentrated than the evaporated that never failed to appear with the sticky toffee at tea.

But by then he didn’t have many with him.  Only the back roomers; or the tail as he liked to call them.  O’Connor and Bailey, Ambleside and Davidson, and finally the big giant they called the Blacksmith.  Flaherty his real name, an Irishman by descent only and had seen both sides of the troubles at close quarters.  Plenty of experience, but that meant age in this game too.

And the poor fellows didn’t even have protection; no pads let alone helmets.  And with five and a half ounces coming at you out of the dark at ninety miles per hour, no one gamely calling ‘Play’ let alone a sightscreen, well you’ve got no chance.  No chance at all.

So here he was, last man standing, the team all out and it only being tea on day one; or at least that’s how it could be.  He still had one more trick to play though.  One more roll of the proverbial to cast out.  His twelfth man, tea boy, water carrier.

He would have stuck him in the first eleven, first name on the team sheet, star player but the selectors said no.  Even injury, sickness or return of the plague would not change their minds.  Bad sort, they said, not a team player, chequerboard past.  Perfect he thought for the game of chess that this was.  But still no they said. And they were adamant.

But then it dawned on him.  Who best to have in reserve than him?  If the selectors won’t pick him then even they wouldn’t think of it.  Considered out of favour and consigned to the nets as a warm-up for the rest.  He had still hoped not to have to use him, but use him he must now or else the game was indeed up.  You didn’t come back from being all out at tea.  He picked up the telephone.

Messco

It's been quite a while since I last blogged.  This past fortnight has been a little crazy really, partly for reasons that I would rather not go into, but partly also because of Tesco.
For over a year now we have had regular home deliveries from Tesco and they have worked really well for us.  Living a good mile and a bit from our nearest store, it is not always easy to walk home laden with bags of potatoes, pots of yoghurt and other heavy items.  Therefore to have these delivered to your doorstep is a great thing.
However, in the past couple of months Tesco have closed ten of their local 'hubs' and are operating from a single one in Enfield - which is a long long way from where I live.  As such our order from two months ago arrived an hour and half late.  We had guests at the time and part of our dinner was in said order, making a very embarrasing and frustrating evening for us.
Having been told that they were going through teething problems with their new setup, we decided to wait a few weeks and give them another chance.  Big mistake.  Last week our order failed to turn up at all.  Upon contacting customer services we were told that the driver had in fact turned up but then contacted the depot to say that the customer wasn't in!
We were fuming, to put it mildly, since both of us had been waiting and twiddling our thumbs, not being able to concentrate, for the last two hours.  It did not help matters to be told that we would now have to re-order if we wanted our shopping delivered.  We still have yet to be updated as to how the driver ascertained that we were not in, or whether indeed he had bothered to check.
More annoyingly the Tesco customer feedback forms only hold statements of 1000 characters long whereas my complaint and questions ran for 4000 words.  I had to break it up into five segments, only to find that Tesco then wanted to contact me five times, despite the fact that I had written at the bottom of each one Part X of 5.
After have been given some money off vouchers by the services team we decided to give them one more chance, and to order outside of the rush hour, to be delivered today.  Once again it was late, and I was just about to call them, but at least it turned up.  Most of our order was there, but one important thing was missing...Milk.  How on earth do you run out of milk??
Anyway, as far as we're concerned Tesco have now run out of chances and we will try a different store.  We are holding thumbs and crossing fingers that they will be better.  For now though, here is a poem simply called Messco.

Messco

There’s nothing noble in baseline profit

There’s always somebody who has to cough it

Up in the end; The customer

Who barks and yelps,

Yacking their complaints to underpaid service staff

Told nothing but ‘Every Little Helps’

And treated like the hounds of their masters.

The trouble with cost-cutting-corners

Are the sharp edges that can cut both ways

Patronage can be withheld

Loyalty is felled like a tree half-hacked

And needs nothing but a nudge

In a forest that could take others with it.

Beware your cutting of branches.

Maybe it’s time for a self-checkout

Of policy, for there is no doubt

That this is not your Finest* hour.

What's In A City?

For those of you who don't know, with it being Jubilee year the Queen got the chance to create a new city within the UK.  I guess there have to be some perks to doing the same job for so long.  In order to be eligible, towns and boroughs bid for the chance to be that city, obviously spending a certain amount of public money to do so.  My borough of Tower Hamlets was one of them, however it didn't win.
Now, if there was some tangible benefit of being a city then it might be worth punting a few quid on it.  However if you are called a city then that is it - simply, you are a city.  You do not get tax breaks or to make your own rules any more than you can anyway, it doesn't give you the chance to build a toll gate for everyone who wants to come in, or probably in some cases for those wanting to get out.
So why would you bother?
According to the Tower Hamlets mayor, it would provide extra investment and was backed by businesses.  Personally I start running for the hills as soon as I find out that something has been backed by business since it therefore probably benefits big business in some way and nothing more.
It is far more likely that the mayor saw this as his chance of creating his legacy, to become the mayor who made Tower Hamlets a city.  It would certainly add to his after dinner speaking credentials.  Much more than, say, the mayor who brought food waste recycling to every resident, or perhaps the mayor who created pelican crossings that work in favour of pedestrians and not cars.
Whatever the reason, in a world where less and less money is being spent on public services, my mayor decided to spend even less by giving his ego a boost by betting on something with extremely long odds. He would have been better off buying us all a lottery ticket which would have provided investment to small shops who have lottery machines, a portion of which would have gone to charities, and if anybody won then they would probably also spend their winnings locally.
But then, I doubt 'business' would have back that, would they?

Fire in Babylon

More documentary than film, this story of the West Indies cricket team during the 1970’s and 80’s did however get a limited UK release, and is a must see for any real fan of the game of cricket.

Through interviews with the players of the time, including Viv Richards, Michael Holding and Clive Lloyd, and some colourful characters from the Caribbean islands, it tells how the West Indies went from a divided group of Calypso cricketers to the feared attack that went fifteen years without losing a test series.  It intersperses this with footage from games, along with musical interludes.

This highly enjoyable piece of filmmaking really highlighted for me the difficulties that black cricketers were still undergoing only thirty or so years ago.  In some ways you can look at it and be pleased that there is far less obvious racism, although in the light of recent incidents within football, there is still a long way to go.

In cricket terms it was sad to see that some players, officials and watchers at the time couldn’t see beyond the colour of their skin, and when they started to become dominant, to say that it was only due to not playing the game properly.  They seemed to completely overlook the fact that the winning West Indian team had been inspired by the aggression of the Australian fast bowlers.  But then they of course were white, which makes it OK.

It also gives another slant on the idea that sport and politics should not mix.  However this is only really possible in a perfect world and the truth is that sport is just as intertwined with politics as any other aspect of our lives.  For sportsmen to assume that theirs is an isolated little world is very naive, and as difficult as it is, they should be taking a tougher stand with things that they don’t agree with, even if it means that they cannot play their sport.

But it is also marvellous to see the likes of Holding and Garner, Roberts and Marshall in their prime, peppering batsmen, destroying stumps and causing the mayhem that they did.  One of the great aspects of test cricket is to see how a batsman faces up to a genuine fast bowler.  It is tense and exciting and can really get a crowd going.

I would definitely recommend this to someone who likes their cricket, but also to those who are interested in the social aspects of sport.  Eight out of ten.

Symptoms of Withdrawal

I had a week off work last week, and much needed it was too.  Not that I do a stressful job or anything - far from it in fact - it's just that we've been a bit short handed lately and with the knowledge that I have to get some spreadsheets in place later in the summer it felt like I wasn't moving forward.
Anyway, it was a nice break, in some ways nicer because by fiancee was feeling unwell and as such we didn't really do much.  It was a week of reading books, listening to the radio and marking the time of day with meals, with a brief excursion to the registry office to register our intent to get married.
After somewhat withdrawing from the world for a few days you get to realise that you don't miss it at all.  One of the hardest things as a human being at the moment is reconciling your own personal life and all the things that matter to you with the world as a whole and how that may or may not affect someone in a small village on Kiribati.  And what is hardest is knowing how little control you have over it.
For all our democracy we still only have a faint say in who even runs the country, and how they then act afterwards is completely beyond our control for five years, until we get a faint say again.  So by the time their actions, combined with the actions of other leaders and other countries, affects that person on Kiribati we have lost all control and influence.  But then the media portray that it's all our fault, and if we just buy a different shampoo then it'll all be well.
Well, maybe I'm being a bit over the top, but you get the point.
What I'm trying to say really is that when you get away from all the 'stuff' that floats around in the world, you begin to realise what is actually important; It's the people you care about, a roof over your head and some good food in your belly.  It just gets you wishing for an isolated cottage somewhere with a bit of land to grow vegetables, a fruit tree, a handful of chickens and a couple of sheep; At least it does in my dream world.