England.

I've just had the most marvellous of mornings. I was invited to visit the England training session at Giants stadium in NJ (scroll down to the start of the pictures, they are in a loose chronology from the bottom up). Even after the invite I wasn't sure that this would really happen and my two friends who picked me up this morning weren't totally sure that this wasn't some kind of a cruel joke.
We thought that perhaps we would have to sit in the stands and observe from afar, that we would have a chance to take some distant, smudgy snapshots and possibly, just possibly grab a quick word as the players scuttled back onto the team bus.
It all seemed to be going that way when we arrived at what seemed to be a deserted stadium. Of course we didn't realise that the entrance was on the other side so we walked all the way round to find guys with ID badges sending folk this way and that. We introduced ourselves and to our relief were escorted to a press tent. There we were given our 'credentials' and told to go with Jeremy who would show us around.
Still thinking this was all too good to be true our hearts faltered as New Jersey's slowest moving security guy told us that our 'credentials' were not the right 'credentials'. Jeremy gets on a walkie talkie and eventually scurries off, leaving us alone with grumpy security guy. At this point we bump into Robert Green's parents. The NYCanaries had come along to present the Norwich goalie with his player of the year award. He won the award after we had decided that him winning it and us having to present it to him in person would be a fantastic way of getting us to meet the rest of the England team.
Jeremy returned with a smooth looking guy in a suit who essentially told security guy to let us in.
We were put in a large area containing a variety of photographers, a mad Columbian TV crew and Robert Green's parents. I strolled over to the corner flag where I could play with my fancy new camera with it's lenses and stuff. I also bumped into Green's mother who was telling me how it's all very nice to visit New York but she would really rather be shopping or at the beach. I asked her, "The million dollar question, Do you actually like football?" "Of course I do, I just don't really like all this stuff". Still, like everyone else she was super nice, thoroughly approachable and happy to chat.
By this point the players were chasing about in the near half of the field, going through the motions of a press day/fake training session. The stands above us were filling with kids and the mad Columbian was yelling in his mike. I thought that this was as good as it was going to get but then the liason from the Football Association strolled over and told us that we were about to have our ten minutes with Robert Green.
We were sent from the media area onto the pitch.
Onto the bloody pitch!
The pitch where David Beckham was hanging out just a few yards away. The pitch where Michael Owen was being all moody. We got to present Rob Green with his award and share a few polite jokes and all the usual 'fan meets star player' smalltalk. 'Greeno' actually hung out with us for about 20 minutes and was super nice, a bit sweaty but appreciative of the award and easy to get along with.
I took a bunch of pictures and have thrown some up on the blog. I also got a few shots of David Beckham who was wonderful, friendly and relaxed and inches away from me.
One of the best aspects was that once we had presented Robert Green with his award and he had wandered off to chat with friends and family, the nice people from the FA sort of forgot that we were there. We were able to hang about on the pitch taking pictures and chatting with players.
It all seems a little too bizarre to be real but I have the pictures and for now that's good enough. I'll come down in a day or two.

The media circus.

Mr Beckham going up some stairs.

Mr Columbian TV is not happy about the fact that we got into the VIP enclosure and he did not.

Robert Green chats to his mum and dad.

My intense close up of a discombobulated David Beckham.

Mr Beckham coming down some stairs.

That's me on the left.

And how we laughed!

And then I give him a bunch of stuff.

The NYCanaries present Robert Green with our player of the year award.

After losing Michael Owen I turn to harass Robert Green.

Michael Owen turns his back on me.

Desert Island Discs.

OK, You have to choose your 7 all time favourite pieces of music. One for each day of the week if that helps. I'm curious and nosey. For your money's worth mine looks a bit like this...

Supergrass: Jesus came from outta space.
Steve Earle: The kind.
Cowboy Junkies: Anniversary song.
Billy Bragg: St Swithin's Day.
Eels: Rock hard times.
"Oh Lord and master of mankind" (it's a hymn, preferably belted out by a tone deaf congregation at a Bowles family wedding/christening/funeral).
Beethoven's ninth "Ode to Joy" sung in it's original German please.

So there we go. If you want to throw it out there go ahead. If not you just got a glimpse into the ever shifting psyche of the boy Mondale.

It's just like 1984!

And I am giggly and excited.
Firstly, Liverpool won the European cup last Wednesday night. That's a real time warp situation right there. I was lucky enough to get really crappy internet coverage of this event. I have since been told that it was arguably one of the games of the century. Marvellous. But at least an English team won.
Then I got a cryptic phonecall from a friend who runs the NYCanaries. You know the kind of call that gives you a gut feeling. "Hi, It's me, call me as soon as you get this". He is a friend but not the type of person who would call me in a crisis. He is also the master of fabulous self publicity and genuine fun to be around. I call him. He has got us 'invited' to watch England train in New Jersey on Monday. I had to decline, "I'll be at work, shit!" Then I call him right back. "It's Memorial Day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I am as excited as a very excited thing because on Monday I get to hang out with a bunch of overpaid (make that ridiculously overpaid) young people who would no doubt annoy the living crap out of me if I had to spend one minute actually talking to them. But then again I might get to meet Wayne Rooney!!

A period of reflection.

Following the demise of Norwich City as a premiership force I have been taking stock.
Accordingly I have posted no new entries since that fateful Sunday.
I shall continues to hold my peace untill the final day of the season, Monday, May 30th.
Unless something really cool comes along like wierdos making out at Shea or cruel and unusual poetry unearthed from another age.
This is a time for reflection.

The post mortem.

Some reasons for our defeat.
April brought some black and white cookies. Black and white?
Fulham play in black and white, as do West Brom (well, dark blue) who managed to stay up. It was a delightful gesture, just not thought through.
Where the hell was Mr Paquette?
The wierd hippy lady in the corner of the bar who told us off for smoking near James's dog.
It also appears that we were crap.

Manchester United #2

From the BBC. And yes, a large part of this is that german word for delighting in the traumas of those around you.

"It is currently a crisis caused by nothing more than uncertainty.

There is no proof yet that Glazer's takeover would be bad for Manchester United, other than it takes the club's ownership out of English hands.

Much has been said about United's "heart and soul" being ripped out, but Old Trafford was opened up to market forces went it went public 14 years ago - the start of a period of spectacular success.

"Not for sale" is the great rallying call for Old Trafford's faithful, but in reality almost everything at Manchester United has been for sale since that day. A hollow cry from this mega-rich and mega-marketable club. "

Fulham v Norwich.

6-0.
Bollocks.

Fulham v Norwich.

I'm getting really nervous.
Must stop blogging and do something constructive.
I've got all my plans ready for tomorrow.
Get up at 8am, ride 2 or 3 train to the Upper West Side, meet James, listen to game, watch United game. I expect Southampton to win.
I expect Norwich to win. Must win. Must win.
Watch delayed Norwich game. Must win.
Oh my god I think I'm turning into some sort of Redsock. I am starting to exhibit the type of paranoid freakery behaviour normally only associated with fans of the Boston Redsox.
I talked to my Dad and brother today, it was all we could talk about. Dad was all sort of calm, resigned wisdom and hope.
Simon told me where everyone he knew would be watching the game*. he told me that it was the biggest game he could remember, bigger than the Milk Cup final twenty years ago, bigger than the UEFA campaign in 1993. Far bigger even than last year's Championship. A hell of a lot more nervewracking that's for sure.
*City die hard and compulsive-obsessive fan, Tom Wood is apparently on holiday with his charming family in Sicily. Nice timing Tom. Booked the holiday a few months ago when he figured that we would be dead and buried already! Hope you get the match on Italian telly.

Manchester United.

Apparently Manchester United fans are upset because the oh so slightly beardy and creepy Malcolm Glazer has bought a bunch of shares. Listen up. United were a significant part of the crass commercialism of football that has upset so many people in the last thirty odd years and spawned a whole leftfield footy culture ala' Nick Hornby, WSC etc.
They pretty much invented themselves as an industry, global brand, corporate giant and so on. United pushed hard for the formation of the Premiership, bigger chunks of cash from the telly, greater European involvement and all that.
I'm not saying it's all bad but you can't then turn around and close the shop just because Mr Beardy Wierdy ginger head comes sniffing around.
So please, You poor , hard done by United fans, oh you who have suffered so at the hands of the evil capitalists (let's see? Since the foundation of the Premiership in 1992 we have 8 championships, 4 FACups and a European cup).
Stop complaining.
Shut up.
You get no sympathy here.

Mounting pressure (Superbowl for losers)

I tried to explain it to the kids. I said "it's like the Superbowl for losers".
I was attempting to explain how tense and anxious I was about Sunday's game. I've denied details about where I'll be watching the game so that people won't find me and jinx it (like, who the hell is going to trek up to Amsterdam and 83rd at 9.30am on a Sunday?). I have to be there with my people. Ms Random Doubt won't be coming (she's a jinx on the big occaison).
9.30am on Sunday. Death or Glory. I mean, if you lose the cup final you just lose a game, it sucks but it doesn't change your league position. Lose against Fulham and the bottom drops out of my football world. I am actively looking for omens and signs. Death or Glory. This is real death or glory.

trdowm caption competition.

Tense, nervous headache.

It's all come down to the final Saturday of the season.
City are playing Fulham.
I'll be in a bar at 10am in Saturday morning listening on the radio.
I'll have my phone switched off untill we are in posession of all the facts.
I could do with a week without this pressure.
But I love it so.

"She's having a baseball epiphany, She's having a baseball epiphany".

My sister enjoying what my brother kept refering to as "Amy's baseball epiphany". Ms Random Doubt looks on in delighted bemusement.

Those crazy Bowles boys enjoy a crap beer at a freezing Shea Stadium.

Concerning jam.

When I was a kid my dad would make jam. My parents house was blessed with a multitude of different fruit bearing bushes and trees, blackberry, gooseberry, damson, cherry and crabapple. If we felt like getting more exotic, strawberries for instance, we would trot over to the local country estate at Kimberley and pick our own from their walled garden. This was a fairly intensive form of child labour, the type of thing that would be legislated against today, but we were happy to just stuff our faces with fruit and cycle home with boxes of jam making material.
Dad constructed some pretty bizarre bird scaring mechanisms to protect his backyard crop. I recall lots of netting covering the bushes and even a summer's afternoon spent on tall ladders in an attempt to cover the 40ft Japanese cherry tree. I'm sure I remember that.
When the harvest was in there would be lots of washing , boiling and squashing of fruit, sugar would be added and the process of seperating pips and skin in order to create jelly (a clear, smooth form of jam) would begin. I think my parents still have the tall stool that was turned upside down, placed on the kitchen table and used to hang the muslin bag through which the soggy fruit would drip into a bowl. We would also produce the more tradtional types of jam with the bits in it, this works better with more pippy fruit such as strawberries or raspberries whilst apples and cherries produce excellent jelly.
Jars that had been collected would be filled with the latest batch, labels written and the stuff would be left to set. In a day or two we would attack the batch and be ready for a winter of toast and jam breakfasts. I can't quite tell which was my favourite, Crabapple jelly perhaps.
My grandad produced excellent honey but that's another story.
When I taught in Somerset in a depressed rural community I often received homemade jam as a gift from the kids. In the autumn the jars would start to arrive. One kid I remember very well, we used to have tremendous run ins over behaviour issues yet he would keep me supplied with the most delicious damson jam throughout the year. As some kids might bring an apple (yes, it does sometimes happen) or flowers, Iwan would bring me jam often with a ridiculously articulate excuse about his latest misdemeanor and once with a determined explanation that he was not attempting to poison me. He also made the most beautiful labels, coloured in pencil in 3D block letters,"DAMSOM JAM, SEPTEMBER 1997".
I still love a good jam, some friends in Brooklyn have German relatives who make the most amazing jam, all fruity and a little bit boozy. For me it's the breakfast of champions, doorstep toast, great coffee or tea and a choice of good, homemade jam.

Oona King

I'm pissed off that Oona King was beaten by a candidate who exploited her gender within a conservative muslim community in order to win a seat.
Hey, anyone could bitch about girls.

Victory.

I've been a Labour voter/sympathiser for the last 20 years. We've got a third term.
Right now I shelve the doubts, the contradictions, the discontent.
It's a Labour government.
That is good.
Thank you and goodnight.

It seems to be over.

Should Blair resign?
No, not yet.
He has been given another mandate, albeit slim.
His next task is to spend the next year or so pushing through his main priority, whatever that may be.
Then he needs to begin the handover to Gordon Brown. Mr Brown can lead the Labour party into a fourth term.

Election update #2

If you need up to the minute results, they are not here.
I recommend BBCi.
It's 9pm est so I guess it's 2am bst.
The results are flowing in thick and fast. I cannot blog at this pace.
Despite the fall in the Labour majority (but come on, who the hell thought it would last, nor should it)
More fascinating stuff to follow.

Election update #1

Right, here goes. I quote the fantastic Jeremy Paxman "none of us has much idea about what's going on".
I am loving this, this is the best election in my memory. 1992 was a real trauma that I still feel. 1997 was an ecstatic night of joy beyond the senses (ah, but we were young, so young). 2001 was really , really dull.
This time it's different. This time we are facing a multitude of issues such as Iraq, Blair's unpopularity (I equate this with LBJ in 1968 only less so), but also a good economy, slowly improving public services and a seemingly decrepit conservative opposition.
What we are witnessing is a flurry of fascinating results. Where Liberals expect to win, they lose. Where they expect nothing, they win. Labour hold seats with reduced majorities, a lot of recounts. Tories gain, Tories fail to win seats they really should win (Cheadle?) Even the prospect of the delightful Oona King being threatened by the 'MP for Baghdad' George Galloway.
This is, for the British political junkie, a fascinating night above all others.
Latest just in, Peter Snow's prediction based on real results in as of 8.51pm EST.
Labour majority 68.
We shall see.
more later, I hope

Superstition.

America is a beautiful place and it has made me a better person. There, I said it.
Before I lived here I dwelt within a ridiculously medieval world of superstition. I am still technically insane when it comes to sport but i have been able to let a couple of other things go. In little under an hour the polls close in the (Yes, we know) UK General Election. I am about to head home to watch the BBC coverage. I shall lay on the sofa until about 2am, drink a few beers and enjoy the scene. I genuinely hope that Labour maintain a strong majority but I am expecting them to lose about 50-70 seats. This will still give them a majority of about 120-100. I used to be all sweaty and superstitious about this. Now i'm much more relaxed. It will actually be fascinating to see how it all pans out. I used to think my world would end if the result didn't go my way. I guess it will be a disaster in the Tories win but, well they are not going to.
I can relax beacuse the result will go my way. But still i have to watch to make sure.

Decision 2005, The nation decides and makes it's decision.

I love the silence of election day. Under UK law there can be no further politicking, canvassing or shouting at tories. No fighting with John Prescott or attempting to install solar panels on the roofs of cabinet ministers. The anti-euro extremists in their old land rovers have pulled off the road. The Liberal Democrats have blown their chances for another generation.
It's time to rest, time to reflect, time to suck it up and vote Labour.
I spoke briefly with my mum last night. I tried to get her to vote Liberal Democrat as a route to destroying the Conservatives in her constituency.
"Oh no, I like Blair and anyway, I'll not be told how to vote by someone who doesn't even live here anymore"( I could feel a lecture about eating vegetables coming along)
I think i heard father in the background muttering bad things about Michael Howard. I think i heard him muttering " but I like the Iraq war".
What ever way the delightfully insane of Norfolk South vote, I shall be home by 5pm and tuned into CSpan2 for full BBC coverage of tonight's results. If you've never watched a UK election you could do worse than check it out for an hour. If you think Dan Rather's wit is as risque as it gets you should definately watch.
Just a couple of soundbites from previous coverage.
Anchor: (interviewing a defeated MP) "ready to drink hemlock yet?"
Same anchor, different election "Did you lie?" (repeated 14, that's FOURTEEN times)
Remember, CSpan2, 5pm until it's done.

Concerning the Depression.

The following comes from a chat about the 1930s.

Kid#1 "But if they were hungry couldn't they just order 'Fresh Direct'?"
Mondale "There was no 'Fresh Direct' in 1932 and they had no money".
Kid#2 "Doesn't matter, you can get $50 of free food with your first order".
kid#3 "'Fresh Direct' is taking over the world".

I don't often blog about the kids but today has just proved to be too much.

third grade ramblings.

School secretary misheard through the crackly classroom speaker.
"on May 2nd are you out the whole day?"

kids: "Alcohol day?"
"Is May 2nd alcohol day?"
"Are you drinking alcohol all day on May 2nd?"
"get the beers in"

later,
Kid #1 "was Ford a general or a president?"
Kid #2 "he was Gerald Ford, he was both"

So many polls, so little time.

It seems that Blair is floating just ahead of Michael Howard's tories. It seems that all the polls make the assumption that a Labour victory is certain, a sure bet. I'm happy with that, as long as it comes true.
I sense that each generation get's it's one amazing election. For left wing grandparents, parents and my generation it would have been 1945, 1964 and 1997 respectively. The evil sneering tory bastards had 1983 and 1992. If you are a Liberal male aged 120 or more you will still hold fond memories of Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman taking the keys of Number 10.
It seems that all the other elections are generally pretty dull affairs. I remember 1987 when I was just entering my earliest throes of ridiculously embarrased teenage socialism, I was sure that if only everyone in South Norfolk realised what Thatcher had done to the miners and how the evil tories supported aparthied and how mad Ronald Reagan was, then surely, surely? But no, South Norfolk was reliably conservative and bucked no trends that year.
I have to keep an eye on this one though, it's the quiet ones you have to watch.
Michael Howard talking up immigration, Blair boosting his economic record, Charles Kennedy blasting the decision to go to war. It should all be good stuff but with two cars in every home, nice vacations and home ownership at an all time high Brits seem content. Not one phonecall home to family or email from friends has mentioned the election, even the most politically astute seem rather blase' about the idea of a third term.
Wait, there is good news, the frighteningly right wing UKIP (UK independence party, running on a platform of leaving the European Union, akin to George Wallace and his State's rights) seems likely to either disapear without trace or, more probable, cripple the tories by cutting into a significant rightsided chunk of their vote.
Whatever happens I shall take advantage of the 5 hour time difference to spend the evening of May 5th by this trusty computer searching for results, checking my facts and swing-o-meters and glugging on some red wine, there's some sybolism there somewhere.

Work avoidance

WA is a skill. I am blessed with the supreme ability to shuffle things, move stuff about, clean, stroll, lecture, essentially do anything and pretty much everything to put off the task in hand.
Today has been a great example of this. Today I have done the following in order to avoid writing report cards.

Persuaded Ms Random Doubt to drive the car into Manhattan to return it to the garage where it lives. (It had to be done at some point)
Visited some shoe stores looking for some lightweight yet formal summer footwear for school. (Bingo! Got new shoes)
Gone to the Post office. (Don't underestimate this, Post Offices can be deeply traumatic places).
Eaten a large lunch (well, we'll be drinking lots of wine tonight).
Read the first installment of the Sunday Times. (It'll clear some time tomorrow so I can work).
Talked politics with Kitten. (She needs to know what the future might bring).
Blogged quite a bit. (Voila).
Caught up with family in Blighty. (My mother has just had an awful yet hilarious vacation in France).
Caught up with the continuing adventures of Norwich City. (Come on you yellows!!).
Went to the wine store. (Picking up Kosher wine for tonight).
Listened to AC/DC and Steve Earle. ('Back in Black' and 'Jerusalem').

That's about it, there's always tomorrow for working. I might take a nap.

The most wonderful time of the year.

There's a lot to be said for springtime. Some folk enjoy the budding nature of trees and stuff. Some people like opening day and freezing their nuts off at ballparks all across the northeast. I love the climax to the English football season. As April turns into May I start having crazed phone conversations with family and friends about obscure mathematical probabilities and the consequences of events that influence other events that would set off a chain of scenarios that would either determine failure or success.
This is part of a national obsession. In the spring of 1998 I was on a train with friends returning from a Norwich game at Reading. We were heading back into London for our post match revelry. I don't even remember the score, it was a crappy game between two teams that had nothing to play for. We got into conversation with a respectable gentleman. He asked us about some of our players and so on. We asked if he was a Reading fan "oh no, watch that lot? you must be mad! I just got tickets for the game a few weeks ago when your lot were in trouble. I thought it might be a fun game to watch, you know, someone might get hurt". By hurt he was meaning that either Norwich or Reading might be so desperate for survival that one of the teams might suffer a near fatal defeat (as opposed to actual physical harm). I love that. I love looking out for the winners across the leagues but also looking for the casualties. This year it looks highly likely that my beloved City will be one of those casualties. As I write we are mounting a crazy rearguard action which involves actually winning games. This has not been part of our plan this season but hey? Could work!
It all comes to pass around the third weekend in May. Cup Final day. Still my holiest day of the year. I shall find a bar in NYC and get drunk at 10am on a Saturday whilst watching the game.
The most wonderful time of the year, yes indeed.

Pumpkin. 2002-2005

Any loss is a burden.
Any loss is, well, a loss.
Our dear friends recently lost Pumpkin.
Pumpkin used to visit Bowles Towers when his/her/it's owners were on vacation.
Kitten was completely unaware of his/her/it's presence.
Even when I would clean out the fishbowl.
We shall hold shiva on Wednesday night.
I understand sushi is on the menu.
Although the Mondales don't like sushi.
Our thoughts are with those who suffer loss.

Mondale and Ms Mondale and Kitten Mondale

The Agadir Crisis vs Buffy the vampire slayer

Jeez!!!
I am so annoyed about losing the marathon essay on the British Election.
Ms Mondale is on the sofa.
We have 'Buffy the vampire slayer' on TV.
Kitten is seeking warmth (like many New Yorkers we have been lulled into pre summer madness by the gorgeousness of the midweek weather, now it's cold again, Kitten is upset).
We are looking forward to our first weekend in months where we have no comittments (except Seder but an evening gig doesn't count).
I wanna see Weasel and hang out with him and Ms Weasel and their dogs. Ms Mondale wants to meet Weasel and Ms Weasel to make sure they really exist.
Last week I met Geraldine Ferraro. She was cool.
I'm amused by people who are concerned about BenedictXVI's conservatism. He's the Pope. He's meant to be conservative.

The electoral test.

The 2005 British General elction is devastatingly dull. I mean, some of the issues do concern me and I have taken some time to think them over. I am a concerned pro European and I am keen to see how the future will pan out vis a vis Pound, Euro and Dollar. I am passionate about The National Health Service and hold my breath (but not long enough to require medical attention) in the hope that it is sustained and improved. I am (despite teaching in a private school) a firm advocate of free and comprehensive education for all. All these and more are issues that are being tackled as the parties vie for the keys to No 10. What I am not interested in are the Conservative attempts to whip up race as an electoral tool. I am not concerned with fox hunting or the decline of rural England (Conservative policies between 1979 and 1997 concerning road building, closure of rural transport infrastructures and the development of a charming strip mall culture have all helped us on our way in that respect. ).
I have just lost a huge sprawling essay I wrote about being kidnapped by Lembit Opik and Charles Kennedy. Like a dream, it was wild and true and full of sunlight and insanity. I pressed something and it's gone. Bollocks!

Charles and Camilla

Firstly, who really gives a shit?
Secondly, I enjoy checking in on the zeitgeist. Here goes.
OK, It was kinda nice to get the early phone call from mum who yelled at us to "get up and do your duty, the sodding future sodding king is getting bloody well married"
I fumbled for a TV station for about 10 seconds and went back to bed. Then, a little while later I got online and attempted to watch ridiculously fuzzy images from the BBC. Then tuned into to the BBC radio and listened while I loaded the dishwasher. That's the way a Royal wedding should be handled, loading the dishy on a Saturday morning. My neice called. She's 6 and was busy watching 'The Incredibles' for the guzillioneth time. She couldn't care less about a fairy tale wedding of two old folk. She wanted to talk to us about chickens and piano lessons.
What always gets me about Royal events are the vast numbers of utter lunatics who come out of the woodwork. Check out any of the main UK news websites, Guardianunlimited, BBCi etc. They all have photo galleries. Each gallery has obligatory shots of smiling rich kids but also the loonies. The old lady with the 'Diana forever' protest banner, the grinning idiot who had slept on the streets of Windsor to get a good view.
It's all just zeitgiest.
Weasel summed it up, the expat thing is a bit tricky, what makes one proud of one's 'home' ? For me it's a confusing bunch of stuff ranging from it's obsession with sport to it's cultural output, landscape, weather, Health service, attitude, I could go on. What it certainly is not, is the Royal Family and the nutters and mentalists who sleep on the streets of Windsor to watch over two old dears getting hitched.

The alternative list of the Presidency

Look, it's late on a Friday night, I've had a couple of beers and Weasel set me a challenge. This is a little more civilised than some of the drunken Friday night challenges that he's set me in the past but here goes.
An alternative list of the Presidency. Using the losing candidates (Those in bold actually served as President at some point)
1789 John Adams (no party designations untill 1796)
1792 John Adams
1796 Thomas Jefferson:Democratic-Republican
1800 Aaron Burr:Democratic-Republican
1804 Charles Pinckney:Federalist
1808 Charles Pinckney:Federalist
1812 DeWitt Clinton:Federalist
1816 Rufus King:Federalist
1820 John Quincy Adams:Independent Republican
1824 Andrew Jackson:Democratic-Republican
1828 John Quincy Adams:National Republican
1832 Henry Clay:National Republican
1836 William Henry Harrison:Whig
1840 Martin Van Buren:Democratic
1844 Henry Clay:Whig
1848 Lewis Cass:Democratic
1852 Winfield Scott:Whig
1856 John C. Fremont:Republican* (From this point on we assume the traditional Republican/Democrat face off. We'll start using Rep & Dem from this point)
1860 Stephen A. Douglas:Dem
1864 George B. McClennan:Dem
1868 Horatio Seymour:Dem
1872 Horace Greeley:Dem
1876 Samuel J. Tilden:Dem
1880 Winfield S. Hancock:Dem
1884 James G. Blaine:Rep
1888 Grover Cleveland:Dem
1892 Benjamin Harrison:Rep
1896 William J. Bryan:Dem
1900 William J. Bryan:Dem/Populist
1904 Alton B. Parker:Dem
1908 William J. Bryan:Dem
1912 Theodore Roosevelt:Progressive
1916 Charles E. Hughes:Rep
1920 James M.Cox:Dem
1924 John W. Davis:Dem
1928 Alfred E. Smith:Dem
1932 Herbert Hoover:Rep
1936 Alfred M. Landon:Rep
1940 Wendell L. Wilkie:Rep
1944 Thomas Dewey:Rep
1948 Thomas Dewey:Rep
1952 Adlai Stevenson:Dem
1956 Adlai Stevenson:Dem
1960 Richard Nixon:Rep
1964 Barry Goldwater:Rep
1968 Hubert Humphrey:Dem
1972 George McGovern:Dem
1976 Gerald Ford:Rep
1980 Jimmy Carter:Dem
1984 Walter Mondale:Dem
1988 Michael Dukakis:Dem
1992 George Bush:Rep
1996 Bob Dole:Rep
2000 Al Gore:Dem
2004 John Kerry:Dem

OK, no more lists. This is what happens when a political junkie gets a bit drunk at the controls of a blog. What is interesting is how many incumbents were replaced by their own party. Here endeth the lesson.

President for life.

I'm currently reading "Gotham" by Mike Wallace and Edwin G. Burrows. It's a huge book yet surprisingly readable. Anyway, I was getting through some of the nuts and bolts of post revolutionary America and was surprised to discover the large ammount of disagreement that took place over the shape of this brave, new republic. One of the more intruiging aspects that cropped up was the swiftly dropped idea of electing a President for life. This got me thinking, What if this had happened? Based on the (rather vague) assumption that when one President dies the man who actually held the office at that time would be elected I have worked out the following list. It makes for some thought provoking stuff. I also realise tht this is up there to be torn down and dissected and argued with. No worries, it's just a harmless bit of "what if?" history geekdom.

George Washington 1789- 1799
then, assuming that John Adams would have been elected upon the death of Washington (and so on until the present day) we have the following
John Adams 1799- 1826
John Quincy Adams 1826- 1848
James Polk 1848-1849
Zachary Taylor 1849-1850
Millard Fillmore 1850-1874
Ulysees Grant 1874-1885
Chester Arthur 1885-1886
Grover Cleveland 1886-1908
Theodore Roosevelt 1908-1919
Woodrow Wilson 1919-1924
Calvin Coolidge 1924-1933
Franklin Roosevelt 1933-1945
Harry Truman 1945-1972
Richard Nixon 1972-1994
Bill Clinton 1994 to the present.

See? No Jefferson? No James Madison??? No Jackson? No Lincoln?(would that mean no log cabin republicans?) No Rutherford B. Hayes? No Kennedy? No LBJ? (weep) No chipper nuclear physicist peanut farmers? No Bushes?

Just some idle thoughts from an idle fellow. (The British election is, at this point turning out to be as dull as the last one)

Decision 2005

Right, they're off.
Blair visits Queen, Queen says yes and Parliament is disolved. general election on May 5th.
I'm going to become obsessed with this, more so than the US election last November. It's quicker and edgier and I know more about the personalities and politics. I want a Labour victory (or even better a Liberal one but that's not going to happen) I'm pretty certain that the Tories won't make it but I'm still cautious. Historians of British politics, look at June 1970. let's not get complacent.
More, much more, to follow.

James Callaghan

All the while I was worried about hot water I missed the fact that James Callaghan died.
He was 92.
He is survived by a son and two daughters.
He was the first Prime Minister that I actually remember.
He was also known as 'Sunny Jim'.
Beneath his avuncular exterior was a tough strategic mind and a skilled political leader.
There's a website where you can see a picture of 'Sunny Jim' on a skateboard. It's called statesman or skatesman. google it.
S'pose Michael Foot will be next.

nb. I once taught a kid called James Callaghan. His mother was very keen for us all to know that they were not Labour supporters.

There's probably some blasphemy in here but hey, but hey?

The dog, the homework, etc.
Right, apologies for being a litle slow in returning to the world of blog. There are a few ridiculously down to earth reasons for this. In no particular order they are, our apt lost the ability to produce hot water for the shower, washing machine and dishwasher. This has been fixed (as of Wednesday afternoon) but it still meant two days of boiling lobster pots on the stove to fill the bathtub. This was mildly annoying but little more for myself as I'm on spring break but it was a righteous trauma for Ms Random Doubt as she has a proper job and had to rise an hour earlier than usual to stoke the fires and heat water. I now see why olden day types didn't wash as much as we do. It's a right hassle heating even a small bath tub worth of water. Needless to say we have restored full services witthout having to call City Hall and are now all clean and lovely.
Alongside very real issues with water and related hygiene I have had a very 'blippy' time with the trusty laptop. To be a little more precise our internet connection has been mysteriously wobbly and each time I tried to blog, check emails or even look for fun things to do on my days off the page would as likely disappear and leave me. I can see why people may think that the water thing might be troublesome but not entirely blog relevant, I'll explain. Hygiene is important to me (wasn't always), so when I find something stands between me and my morning shower I get emotional. I didn't want my blog chums to see me in this state, it would have made you doubt the Random Doubter you thought you knew. I couldn't allow that.

Onto other things, Running.
I love to run. This began a few years ago during one of my ill fated attempts to give up smoking. I actually did very well and running became the new smoking. I ran up hill and down dale, over farmland and down to the pub, I ran everywhere. Two hospitalising knee injuries later I am running again (by running I mean actually going outside and pounding the streets , not running on a treadmill in a gym, I do that during the winter and whilst it's a great way to watch VH1 and listen to music it's not quite the same).
Today I tackled the beast.
Today I ran across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Well, to be completely honest I walked to the bridge (in the form of the all important warm up) and ran across it. I then walked back.
It's like this, running is hard, punishing work. It's so very much easier inside a warm gym on a treadmill with plenty of 'give'. It's another to crunch those knee joints along the wonky Brooklyn sidewalk, to dodge idiot tourists who get in your way and finally realise that you've over enthused yourself and are risking complete collapse in front of all the aforementioned tourist types.
Still, I was pretty pleased with the effort. I could have just stayed indoors and read or watched TV. I could have gone down the pub. Instead I got my stuff on and went for a trot.
Why though? Why not just stick to the gym? It's warm and safe and friendly. If I really were to risk injury I could get immediate medical attention without fuss or worry. Why take the chance and hit the streets?
I guess partly because it's there. The outside world is a lot more interesting than the gym. I don't run to compete with anyone (only myself, I time my distances and seek improvement or at least consistency). I run to get out there, to look around, to take in the air. I generally try to look really cool as I run past people yet by the time I get to a quiet, secluded spot I pant and wheeze and choke. Today, as I was walking back home across the bridge it occurred to me that it was one of the few times that I had strolled across the old thing alone, alone without needing to offer commentary to some visitor, alone without being locked in conversation with Ms Random Doubts, just alone. As well as being alone (I abhore running with others, I am firmly in the camp of the lonely long distance runner) I find that running makes me very observant. It opens the lungs and the soul. I started to notice things as I walked back, I noticed cars on the BQE, I noticed tourists doing their thing, I noticed Brooklynites doing theirs. I saw a couple at the park by Cadman Plaza. They had just walked the bridge and were clearly looking for evidence of this mystical place called 'Brooklyn'. She was looking for cute bistros and stores, he for great pubs with pool tables and excellent jukeboxes. They were confronted by the housing blocks at the bottom end of Henry Street. As I walked through the blocks (noticing but disregarding the wierdos sitting around) I saw the couple head towards the A/C subway at High Street, looking a bit dissapointed. "So this is Brooklyn?" they must have thought (You could see it in their faces). It was only as I got onto the sidewalk at Henry Street and saw the little pubs and cafes, the movie theatre and the people bobbing about, going about their day that It occured to me, I should have gone over and helped them out, "look" I would have said, "I know this looks shit but if you duck round this corner and stroll a few blocks past all those awfully tedious yet deeply historic churches and stores and elderly lanes and Brownstones, well, you might find what you want". I guess they went back to Manhattan.
Apologies for the ramble. I'm back.

Just one more thing.
Do you want to know how much of a true geek I really am?
When running I often inspire myself with some oft quoted song lyric or line of classic poetry. I also have a secret weapon. It's from an interview Al Gore gave during the 2000 campaign. It's nothing really but when asked about President Clinton's contribution to his development as a human being, Gore (who was trying to distance himself from Clinton- like I need to explain this to Americans?) responded that Clinton's greatest skill was the ability to prevail. I've never been entirely sure what Gore was getting at (then, now, ever) but I liked the idea. Prevail.
I use it when running. Prevail.
I find it helps. Prevail.

An impossible task

Someone just told me that i should write a list of everybook I've ever read. I know that 'Unwellness' is considering this. I just cant, it's not in my nature. A vague, rambling, mumbly chat about books is fine but a precise, analytical list of books read through A-Z just isn't. It doesn't fit with the bigger picture, broadstroke that is Bowles (I would have died a horrible death in the Carter White House, all that micro management of tennis court schedules?). I could tell you about some of the good stuff that I have read in the last 30 odd years and enjoyed as well as some of the stuff that has passed me by.
Some books i have liked....

You see? I just cant think. I'm going to take two weeks off from blogging. I shall return to this blog on Monday, March 28th.

Hats and scarves.

This was written way back in November for the NYCanaries website (see link at right). It's written for an English audience and most visitors to Mondale will have already read it. Why re publish? I was a bit perturbed that the NYCanaries website wasn't maintaining an archives and when I found this on my computer. I thought why not? I don't really like republishing stuff from elsewhere but I'm a bit low on inspiration right now and wanted to preserve this within a domain of my own controlling. If you've seen it already, apologies. If not, check it out.

Hats and scarves.

Down the years many people have made good livings out of drawing comparisons between different cultures. To some extent that's one of the key reasons for the existence of NY Canaries. We are from another culture and yet we live here in the great melting pot, New York. Norwich fans are perhaps just another of the many ethnic groups with a furrowed brow and impenetrable accent. OK, we aren’t suffering from some wave of economic or political misfortune, we have not been forced to flee sunny Norfolk due to war or famine but we do have our problems.
At the time of writing we have yet to win a game in the premiership.

That’s why, in the absence of any good news from Blighty I've decided to think long and hard about some of the little differences between this sporting life, here in the US and there in the UK.
As we are all only too well aware there is only really one sport of any significance in the UK. That's right, football. I lived in the West country for eight years and have learned to love cricket and can sit through a rugby match without too much pain but for me, and millions like me it's football that matters, it's just the way I was brought up. That's probably why, upon meeting another 'Brit' I tend to get to the point, "What's your team?" most people have an answer and if they don't then you have to find another means with which to build trust. (Of course we are all caught in that embarrassing trap if the response is along the lines of "well, being born in Stowmarket I often used to find myself at Portman road")

Here in the States it's a bit different. Baseball is still the venerable uncle of American sport with tales of glory and sepia tinted memories but it really can't claim to be the universal American pastime that it once was. Nowadays it competes with football (the gridiron version), basketball and hockey. Accordingly it's much trickier with Americans, first you have to navigate through "what’s your game?" before you can find out if someone is a Met or Yankee, a Giant or a Jet even an Islander or a Ranger.

I have to admit that I've never been to a football game, a basketball game or a hockey game but I have been to plenty of ball games. That's where my comparisons are going to be drawn from.
Surprisingly, I think that football and baseball have more in common than one would think at first.
Many of the franchises are pretty old. OK, my team, the New York Mets is only 42 years old but they are in some sense the heirs of some of the tradition of the defunct Brooklyn Dodgers.
(I was once working with a Holocaust survivor who was telling me about her husband, "Oh you think I’ve suffered? He was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, that's suffering") Baseball as an organized sport is very much a game of the people hence the nickname, "America's pastime". Both are solid, working class games. A friend recently described the Boston Red Sox as a "good, honest blue collar franchise".
It's also, in its organized form about the same age as organized football is in the UK In fact; the Cincinnati reds were the first professional team in 1869. The first FA cup final was in 1872.

The seasons differ. As football fans are becoming experts in the brain twisting math of promotion and relegation, here in the US April brings opening day. A day that up here in New York rarely rises above 45 degrees and completely blows the myth that baseball is a balmy sport played in the midsummer heat. Around the time that City are bowing gracefully out of the Carling cup the baseball postseason begins. The playoffs are arguably the most exciting aspect of either sport (although I’m sure we'll all agree that it's more fun to win the thing outright). playoffs are obligatory in US sport. They certainly spice up the end of any season but I would be a bit freaked out if my team won the division, sitting on top of the league only to find that we had to go and play again for the chance to play for the title (But then as a Mets fan, that’s not a common occurrence). It's a bit like ending the football season and putting the top eight into the sixth round of the cup.

No relegation. As they say in New York "don’t even go there". That's great news for us Mets fans as it means that it can never happen to us. I do not want to talk about this, it's hard enough to even write the word but it's true. No relegation in American sport. Weird?
Americans seem much more able to transfer their allegiance. I know lots of people who have moved from place to place and whilst holding a soft spot for their 'home' team they are able to aggressively support their 'new' team. Now I do have a weak spot for Bristol Rovers (if only because they made me grateful for City's first division mediocrity back in the mid nineties) but nothing, ever, not ever would question my passion for all things yellow and green. I've lived over a third of my life away from Norfolk but changing teams? Not gonna happen.
Along side the whole baseball thing you can spend the winter months following a football team. I don't really do this although if push came to absolute shove I guess I would have to root for the Jets (rhymes with Mets you see).
It's agreeable enough to watch this stuff on a Sunday afternoon and I recently found myself watching a whole Saturday of college football and sort of understanding and enjoying it but as a man who puts rugby quite a way down his list of sport to watch and play (bowling is higher) It's unlikely that this game will ever hook me.
Hockey? Clueless, although it’s an invasion game with goalies and strikers and all that but my heart has been lost to baseball.
Basketball is incredibly fast and exciting and it's certainly the game that you will see most of when you wander the neighborhoods of this city. I do have a passing interest but no, it's proper football then baseball.
The singing at ball games, whilst fun can be a bit lacking in the lyrics department. Most teams will have something along the lines of "Let’s Go Mets" (replace team names as appropriate) There is quite a bit of banter as there is no segregation at games. I recently watched game 6 of the American league championship in the bleachers at Yankee stadium. I hate the Yankees and was rooting for the RedSox but I had to keep my sweet little mouth tight shut. The banter/abuse that was being dished out to RedSox fans was pretty funny but all the same I'm glad it wasn’t me getting the treatment. I do yearn for a sweet rendition of 'On the ball City' or even 'If I had the wings of a sparrow'. I have been known to intimidate others. Once at Yankee stadium (I don’t know, I just seem to end up there) I was watching the Baltimore Orieles with a friend. We were so loud in our support for the Orieles that we actually managed to scare some Yankee fans away. A proud moment, almost as proud as the time I single handedly started a chorus of "On the ball city" at Highbury back in the days of the old clock end and when it was still called Highbury.
The food at an American ballpark is pretty bad. For a nation that prides itself on the ability to eat really bad food really well the sporting event is the place to be. I'm not talking about the tailgating that goes on when people get out the grills and roast half a cow before a football game. I would like some of that, no, I'm talking about dodgy hotdogs, cotton candy and pissy, overpriced beer (although another moment of some pride involves getting a beer vendor to spot me in a crowded Shea stadium at 100 yards. Yes, he was 100 yards away and he saw me waving madly and came right over to satisfy my thirst). Now listen, no one would ever drag me to an English league ground for a romantic meal with one, obvious exception( thanks Delia) and at least you can get a bit beered up inside an American sports event but then again an American sports event can last for 3 or 4 hours and has lots of breaks during which you can go pee or buy more beer. A football game has one break during which time your fellow fans are also trying to use the loo or buy food, I've never really understood the desperate need for a pint of warm draught flow Courage beer during the 15 minutes of half time underneath the Barclay. I once saw a chap trying to enter the upper Barclay with his gal. They were holding pints. They were turned away. I don't suppose that would happen at a rugby match. Norwich is full of truly delightful pubs (and some even have tellys so you can watch results and highlights), why not wait an hour and get a decent pint in a comfortable atmosphere?
So there are some cultural differences and many similarities between the two countries. It has to be said that both places do love their sport and take it very seriously. The fans (that's us) provide as much of the amusement and spectacle as the teams.
One final thought.
I think it comes down to hats and scarves.
Baseball caps have been fashionable in the UK for a few years now but they aren't really traditional football gear. On the other hand I can't see Americans getting into scarves as a token of allegiance. When push comes to shove I think it's all about hats and scarves. That's why, on a chilly day in Brooklyn I can be found sporting both a city scarf and a Mets cap

random thoughts from a random doubter.

It's time to put sentimental things aside and update you, my blog faithful on what i've been up to in the last few days.
*Coming to terms with the impending relegation of my beloved 'City'
*Hoity toitying about Manhattan last Sunday thus causing a tremendous sense of fatigue on Monday.
*Becoming more and more of a delicious misanthrope just in time for spring to burst forth and for me to return to being a delighted spectator of all things human and their silly little ways.
*Reading blogs every other day, That way I get less disapointed when bloggers don't update every thirty seconds.
* Reading a rather marvellous book about cricket. It's "The Art of Captaincy" by Mike Brearley. It should really be called "Cricket, the human soul and how to rule the world by being really super nice".
* Slightly disapointed that North America doesn't play, understand or even televise cricket.
* Considering a move to India or South Africa where much cricket would be played, understood and televised, constantly.
*Discounting Australia and New Zealand from the list of Cricketing nations I wouldn't mind living in as the former is annoying and the latter is just a bit too far away (although delightful I'm told).
* Wondering if I'll get a game in this summer when I visit England.
*Realising it's time for me to tidy up and make my way into the glorious third part of the day. It's the bit where the kids have gone and I can actually get stuff done. By stuff I mean sneaking off to the movie theatre to watch "Downfall". More often than not this part of the day is full of meetings or work which tends to cramp the glorious nature of it. Today I reclaim my fun time.

England, my England.

Me and the wife just took a crazy and spontaneous long weekend trip to England. Just so you know it's not all about fox hunting, bigotry and violence I enclose a few pictures from one of our delightful strolls through the landscape of my childhood. Enjoy.

Abbey

Abbey
Originally uploaded by bowles.

Just imagine walking along this path in the 1400's and seeing the two towers of the abbey. That's how you'd know that you were getting close to Wymondham with all it's inns and it's market and political dissent.

Abbey meadow

Abbey meadow
Originally uploaded by bowles.

A little view of the old part of town beyond the abbey.

Wicklewood rise

Wicklewood rise
Originally uploaded by bowles.

This is one of my favourite views, the clear line of the field against the crispy cold sky, ahhh.

estate path

estate path
Originally uploaded by bowles.

The secret path to a world of snow, mud and adventure, just along the end there, on the left, through the gate.

muddy path

muddy path
Originally uploaded by bowles.

The path at the bottom of the Tiffey valley.

ermmm...

Sometimes when I'm a little bit drunk I interview myself.
I have to be alone.

thebigball

It's time to welcome another new blog (linked at the bottom). This is Henry from across the harbor in Jersey. It's got to be said that not a great deal has happened yet on 'thebigball' but it's got a great title and lots of potential. As for Henry? He's a good man and I should know, he's on my netflix friends list and I spent most of a Saturday morning at the car pound waiting for the release of his honda civic. I don't do that for just anyone.
To be honest, I'd have a glance and see what you think, then return to it in a few days. I started out with awkward fumblings about playing golf and facial hair yet rose to become the best blog in the entire world with 'Walter Mondale' in it's title.

book learning

In January 2004 I made the only NYresolution that has actually worked. I resolved to either read a book from cover to cover and enjoy it or put the thing down and choose another. No more literary sluttery. I was tired of the pile of books beside the bed. I was tired of not really remembering the books that I had 'read'. I was feeling cheap and used, washed up and adulterous.
So just over a year ago I changed course. It worked. Now I have another problem, (the path of the righteous is never easy). I am approaching the end of a great book "Armageddon" by Max Hastings. I am trying to think ahead about what I should read next. I have read non stop since the age of six. I always face this curious dilemma. Elizabeth has suggested "Testament of Youth" by Vera Brittan. We both agreed that after reading an account of the Allied destruction of the Third Reich I should lighten up a bit. Perhaps I'll read a detective novel set in Botswana? I liked the sound of "The God of small things" until I looked closer. I need Bowles appropriate stuff, light but thoughtful. I've just trudged across Western Europe and defeated the nazis.
Any ideas? recommendations?

fridays are cool.

Fridays can be great. Within a single ten minute period Listmaker and I
experienced the following.
*I ruined his birthday gift surprise (twice in as many years that i have done
this).
*I almost made him cry.
*He almost cried in front of me.
*I told him that if he cried in front of me I'd have to hit him.
*He assumed that Weasel is an uptight New Englander "He's English and lives
in New England"
*He assumed that I was an anti semite because I'm not a huge Larry David fan
(Seinfeld yes, Curb your enthusiasm umm, maybe).
*He admitted to being a crap jew (as in not that knowledgable or practising,
not crap as in worthless or horrid)

There then followed a bizarre moment where, inspired by a Rufus Wainwright
dvd we argued in favour of flamboyant gayness, asthetic decadance and
charming brilliance, should either of us ever actually become gay.
This is unlikely.
We both then got wierded out.

Later in the day two kids constructed a tower of dictionaries which rested upon a base of dominoes. Fantastic!

Pat Kiernan! Pat Kiernan!

So if I write about everyone's favourite Canadian anchor do you think he'll comment on my blog?

Walter Mondale.

Does Walter Mondale ever read this site?
If he does I'd be delighted to know.
All the best,
Bowles.

The gathering clouds.

They say a Nor'easter is on it's way.
I'm reading a terrific book about WW2 ('Armageddon' by Max Hastings).
I've just netflixed all the 'Band of Brothers' dvds.
Mayhew is in town over the weekend (but fortunately he has no need to do any 'sights')
Just had a load of firewood delivered.
It's pretty safe to say that I'm going nowhere for a day or two.
I do love a good winter storm!

Oh Janus.

God of openings and doorways.
Patron of entrances and beginnings.
First month of the year, Janus. You have been with us for seventeen days and during that time I have had some cautious sensations regarding the dawn of 2005.
On Saturday a little part of me came to terms with the prospect of relegation. I know, this is just sport, not life and death but it is something that I fear I will have to embrace come May. I watched Norwich get beaten by Aston Villa 3-0. We were taken apart, ever so nicely, and left by the wayside.
You see, I cannot write such words as these on the NYCanaries website.
That is the place for stoic loyalty and bravehearted, grim witted optimism.
I would rather wax lyrical about past glories or amusing run ins with celebrities than confront the slow, inoxerable misery of relegation.
Like the Romans of old, we curse or praise our gods depending upon the fortune they place upon us.
At this time we know not what such fortune is to be.

editing.

If you're really interested I have edited "up for the cup#2" to remove all the eastern european spellings and stuff. If so inclined scroll down to check it out. Thank you

tuesdays with gunny.

In accordance with my new editorial policy I am publishing NYCanaries articles on this site as well as at the NYCanaries home (see links on right). For biographical info about Bryan Gunn check on the title link above.
The following is reasonably true, as far as I can recall.

"In the Merchant Ivory film "The remains of the day" there is a scene where Anthony Hopkins is stuck in a village pub. He accidentally, kinda, sort of gives the locals the impression that he is on friendly terms with Winston Churchill. They make the assumptions; he is unable (at risk of seeming foolish) to dissuade them.
It's a bit like that with Bryan Gunn and me.
Of course I watched him from afar to begin with, he took over from Graham Benstead in 1986 and was part of the team that finished 4th in division one in 1987. From there on he took incremental steps to becoming one of city's greatest living heroes. A top class goalie with a human side and courage on and off the pitch that couldn't fail to warm him tightly to the proud Norfolk bosom.
So where do I fit into his story? What's Bowlesy's role in the rise and rise of Gunny?
I'll be honest; I've never hung out with him in the Jerry Seinfeld/ Keith Hernandez way. But I have had enough brush ups and run ins with this true Norfolk hero to warrant a few words on the matter.
Bryan Gunn joined the club in 1986 and soon established himself as first team goalkeeper. His place in the team was, as New Yorkers would say "a given".
Bryan continued to keep goal for city during those topsy turvy late 80's and nineties. City enjoyed their normal eclectic mixture of success and incompetence but Gunn was a constant. Nice guy, great keeper, constant.
We move forward a few years to 1994. I'm away at university so I don't get to see city play as much as I should. It's Christmas and the Bowles family have decided to bond in a mildy ironic way by visiting the panto at the Theatre Royal. This is mildy ironic because the Bowles kids are in their 20's and the panto is full of families with 9 year olds. It was the night that city were playing Forest and Gunn breaks his ankle. At half time in the panto (sorry,interval) Dad, brother Simon, brother in law to be Matt and me are all watching the TV in the bar nervously. As usual Bowles senior is cautiously pessimistic. "That's our season buggered then" as we watch Gunn stretchered off.
I wouldn't mention this except for what happened a few weeks later.
A friend of the family works in a hospital and knows nothing about football. She had a nice young man come in with a bad ankle break. She was making NHS style small talk with the patient and she asked him how he had injured himself. "Playing football," he responded. "Oh", she said, "Do you play locally?" "Yes" he responded with a cheeky grin "just done the road, Carrow road".
"That's nice, well the doctor will be along soon". And off she went, none the wiser. Just bearing in mind that at that time he was one of the most easily recognizable footballers in the country or even Europe and certainly a living god in his adopted hometown of Norwich.

Sadly the ankle break signaled the end of the high life for Gunny. He was out for the rest of the season and with a management policy involving selling off major talent city were relegated in May 1995. Gunn struggled to regain his place aginst Andy Marshall and in 1998 he was sold back to Scotland to Hibs.
At about this time my own world was once again turning eastward. After a number of years living in the West Country, watching Bristol rovers and trekking out to such godforsaken holes such as Elm park and the County ground, Swindon to watch city once or twice a year I decided to return to Norfolk. A combination of factors drove my choice, the beaches, sailing, friends and family but most importantly I wanted to watch city play more than four times a year. In a blizzard in December 1999 I drove from Bath to Wymondham and picked up my life in the east.
I was enjoying my home town again, watching city with my newly purchased half season ticket, strolling about Norwich on the away days and generally rediscovering a quality of life I'd been missing.
Then one day, in Pizza Express on St Benedict's street, it happened.
I was in there with a couple of friends after an amusing day of wandering about the city. He was there with his wife and kids having a Saturday afternoon feast.
I have to admit I didn't really think too much about it, he was doing his dad thing, making sure the kids weren't too noisy or lary whilst attempting to enjoy a meal with his family. I thought it was pretty cool that he was in there but being a bit celebrity shy I said nothing (except to my companions who were also pretty impressed).
Did I say celebrity shy? In the next few months Bryan Gunn was to change forever my attitude towards celebrities, well, one Scottish ex city goalie in particular.
A weekend later, oh what the hell? Hungry, footsore, let's do Pizza Express.
There he is again, same time, same place. Cool.
This kept happening.
It became a little annoying.
I started to think that he was following me.
That's a pretty bold stalker you have to admit, bringing your wife and kids along. That's a brilliant cover.
I stopped frequenting Pizza Express for a while and the whole Bryan Gunn is my stalker thing died down. I was glad; no one wants a messy court case with the papers involved.

Fast forward to the early summer of 2001. It's the close season, there's no World Cup or European Championships to watch and I'm in a Wymondham pub with friends having a beer.
Suddenly from the inside of the pub a fella comes into the garden and starts yelling, "Bryan Gunn's in the pub!"
I take charge. I tell my friends,"leave this to me, I know this man and I know the way he thinks. If I'm not back in ten minutes come looking".
I stroll through to the lounge bar and there he is, tall, suntanned and, forgive me Bryan, a couple of drinks down. I approach him, glassy eyed I tell him "Bryan Gunn! You're my childhood hero!" He responds "Childhood? My god! You're making me feel really old!" and which point he grabs my right hand in a vice like grip, the kind of firm handshake you would expect from, well, Bryan Gunn. We have a small chat (I'll preserve the beauty of the moment by keeping the details from the public domain) and then he turns to another well wisher. It turns out that he's in town as part of his charity work and has found time to relax with a couple of buddies over a beer.
Hey, who's complaining?
If anyone deserves a beer it's Bryan Gunn.
I mean, I'd like to buy him a beer.
No I'd love to buy him a beer.
Wait just a minute, I'll even give him my beer.
But there is one small problem. Bryan's grip on my hand is still, well, gripping my hand.
He has turned and talked to some others yet he is still holding my hand in a firm, manly, Scottish goalkeeper type of handshake. I try politely to extricate myself from this. I grin; I use facial expressions to indicate my increasing physical discomfort. Then it comes to pass. The moment I never, ever considered would happen has to happen. I must confront Bryan Gunn and insist that he releases me from his canary death grip.
When I turn on him he acts as if he's done nothing wrong. Now as anyone who knows me will understand, the very last thing I would wish for is a scene, most of all a scene with a real life hero. I turn, grip my crippled hand and return to my friends, a broken man.

Wait, there's more, my tale is not yet done.

A few months later I get to go to Carrow road in a special capacity. Some kids from my primary school are taking part in the 'run around the track at half time thingy' that city sometimes do. It has to be said that during a particularly dull game this can prove to be the highlight of the afternoon as thousands of fans yell bloody murder at a bunch of eight year olds running relay around the perimeter track as if they were racehorses or greyhounds.
Just before half time we are guided through the city stand to meet our competitors and... Bryan Gunn. By this point, as well as being sheriff of Norwich Bryan is also a hospitality host at the club, his playing days behind him he is putting his boundless good spirits into serving both his old team and his adopted city. Our rivals that day happened to be Bryan's local primary school, He seemed to be on good terms with their teacher, he even seemed to know some of the kids. He looked at me in a mild "haven't we met before? Are you sure you're not my nemesis?" kind of way. I wasn't going to have this blatant favouritism; I hadn't driven in from the other side of Watton to have my boys out psyched like this. I remembered our encounter in the pub a few months back and tried to think of how I could come back, how I could restore the honour of my school. What could I say? What would be appropriate yet fitting, what would put my hero in his place yet still keep him as my hero? My most important thought at that moment was to motivate my charges for their run out onto the Carrow road pitch. After he'd ruffled the hair of the kids I turned to him with a grin, introduced myself, looked him in the eye, and shook his hand. This time I let go, next time? who can say?

For the record my kids lost the relay race."

This article will also be available on the NYCanaries website in a day or two.

Shock Horror!

What's worse? A 20 year old uber rich stoner lush making a dick out of himself and emabarrasing others? Or the media pretending that his behaviour actually matters?
Remember that this is the grandson of the Duke of Edinburgh. (clink on the title link above to see what I mean)

Quiz answers!!!!

At last! After weeks of careful negotiations and tearful farewells we are finally able to deliver the answers to the end of year quiz.
Category 1. Expletive deleted:The White House.

1. When was the last time that New York State went Republican in a Presidential election? 1984, the only state to go for Mondale-Ferraro was Minnesota.
2. FDR's last Vice President was born where? Harry Truman was born in Lamar, Missouri.
3. He said this in his innaugural address "Even now a rocket moves towards Mars". Who? Did you really even begin to imagine that I would leave out my favoutite all time Texan Pres called Lyndon? Did ya?
4. Jimmy Carter had 2 Secretarys of State. Who was the second? It was Edmund Muskie of Maine.
5. Two Presidents have banned the playing of 'Hail to the Chief'. Name them.
Well, this is open for discussion. Sure, Jimmy Carter banned it outright but funnily enough George W. Bush has severely limited it's playing. He feels it should only be played on profoundly formal occaisons.

Category 2 has been removed. Australian Geography? I mean, who cares?

Category 3. "Scuse me? Can you tell me where the ground is?"

(Where do the following sports teams call home?)
1. Somerset County Cricket Club? These also rans of first class cricket play at 'The County Ground' in Taunton, Somerset, UK
2. New York Mets? Shea Stadium.
3. New York Islanders? Nassau Colliseum.
4. Dinamo Bucharest? Stefan Cel Mare
5. Boston RedSox? Fenway Park, The Green Monster

Category 4. "One is closer to God in a garden".

1. Prospect Park in Brooklyn was designed by who? Olmstead & Vaux of course!
2. It's in Boston, it's next to Boston Common, It's a park. What is it called? The Public Gardens (It's got nice ducks).
3. 'Hitler's Oak' is located in which English beauty spot? (special thumbs up if you can explain the reason for the name?) It's in a place called How Hill in Norfolk. The Boardman family used to own the house and one of their sons was an olympic sailor. He won a gold medal in 1936. Adolf Hitler awarded all gold medal winners an oak tree. Boardman duly planted his in his family's back garden. It's there to this day, you have to ask a gardener to point it out, it's not like they have a big sign saying "HITLER'S OAK". It makes you wonder if Jesse Owens ever got one.
4. Columbus Circle stands at the entrance to which New York public space? Central Park.
5. There is a park in Munich that should appeal to me. Name it. The Englisher Garten. I've never been but a Munich friend of mine has often told me that I should.

Category 5. Bricks and mortar .

1. The Brooklyn Bridge became the tallest building in the world in which year? In 1883.
2. Which building took the title three years later? The Eiffel Tower.
3. Who designed and 'built' the Clifton Suspension bridge? Isambard Kingdom Brunel . (If anyone can get their hands on the Cosgrove Hall animated musical version of Brunel's life entitled IKB I would love to know.)
4. He designed the pyramids at The Louvre. Name him. I.M.Pei
5. What's the tallest building in the world? Right now it's the one on Taipei.

Category 6. Lyrics.

Name the artist.
1. "I got me a fearless heart". Steve Earle.
2. "To live in the hearts of of those he loved is not to die". Badly Drawn Boy.
3. "Don't take any wooden nickels when you sell your soul". Eels.
4. "She worked at fifteen clubs a day". The Beatles.
5. " If it's good enough for you" Dodgy.

Category 7. Poets.

Name the poets.
1. Dead Englishman who lived in New York during WW2. His friend's memories inspired the Broadway show 'Cabaret'. W.H.Auden
2. This dead UK Poet Laureate apparently bore more than a passing resemblance to my father. Ted Hughes.
3. Living London poet, wrote the children's classic 'Chocolate cake'. Michael Rosen.
4. Dead American with a dysfunctional marriage to #2, suicide. Sylvia Plath.
5. A great big living hairy Aussie poet, first name 'is more'. Les Murray.
If you don't do so already for god's sake read more poetry.

Category 8. Movies.

Name the movies.
1. Two British blokes climb up a mountain in Peru. They both come down again but in freakishly differing circumstances. "Touching the void"
2. Probably one of my favourite movies ever. Australian sporting comedy from the early 1980's involving "ma-ra-ju-ana" and corruption in an Aussie rules football club. "The Club" Huge thanks to Dave & Hamish for turning me onto the o.m.d where I found that this movie really does exist and was not just a figment of my imagination.
3. Robert McNamara tells all (except he doesn't) "The fog of war".
4. Clean your memories of slightly mad ex girlfriend. "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind".
5. Matthew Broderick has to buy rare creatures for Marlon Brando. "The Freshman".

Category 9. History.

1. He became King Emperor of India on December 11th 1936. Who in the blue blazes was he? King George VI of Great Britain & her Empire & Dominions, King Emperor of India
2. She was the first ever US Senator who was not a man. Who and when? (and a great big warm, smug feeling if you can relate any of the slightly devious details about how and why she got the job). Her name was Rebecca Felton who was appointed by Gov Thomas Hardwick of Georgia. He thought that by appointing an 87 year old in late November she would have to stand down when the newly elected senator was sworn in in January 1923. The new senator duly stood aside for one day only to allow rebecca to take the oath in the Senate thus becoming, for one day only the first Female Senator.
3. Born in Takster, Tibet in 1935. Name him. (GOODBAR QUESTION!!!!!) The Dalai Lama. Well done Mr P!
4. In what year did Tom Daschle first become a US Senator? 1986.
5. The costliest day in the history of the British military. July 1st, 1916. The first day of the battle of the Somme.

Category 10. Zeitgeist.

1. Jason Alexander produced both the 'Agent Cody Banks' movies. True or False? This is true. don't ask me how I know this shit.
2. In which South American country did poor old John Peel die? Peru.
3. Norwich City chalked up their 2nd Premiership win of the 2004/05 season. Against which team? Bolton Wanderers
4. When will the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center be taken down? January 5th.
5. What's the world's largest ship? The Queen Mary II

Category 11. Bonus Philosophy round. (just think it)

1. Is the wind cold or refreshing? It does tend to depend very much upon your state of mind at the point of impact.
2. Can you handle the truth? Sadly very few of us can, unless it's of a complimentary nature. Still, it's a good thing to try and live by and an invaluable asset within a relationship.
3. If some men see things as they are and say why? and some men see things as they could be and say why not? What do the women think? As a man I will not flatter myself to even try and answer this.
4. Which is your best foot? It's really a 50/50 choice.
5. When stopping by the woods on a snowy evening do you feel beauty or fear?
Quite definately a glorious mixture of both!

There, hope you enjoyed it. Sorry the answers took so long.

Get your own blog.

It's there on the upper right hand side of the screen. It just says "Get your own blog".
I often think it's telling me to f**k off when I'm reading the blogs of others.
That makes me smile.
Something else that made me smile (as well as making me deeply jealous because I hadn't thought of it first) was handwashing's history of hair. Check it out.

Up For the Cup #2.

As good as it is I see no reason why you, oh loyal reader should have to do anymore link jumping than is absolutely nessecary. Accordingly I have reproduced my most recent NYCanaries article here in full. I've also added some additional commentary in the way that Ron Howard might add to the latest "Arrested development" dvd. (Author's commentary is in brackets)
Enjoy...
"The decorations are down, the last guests have left and the FA Cup third round is here again. A new year, new hopes, new dreams.
I like to start the new year with the third round. It allows me a few days to shake off the hangover and get the resolutions out of the way.

( The Competition actually starts in August with non league amateur teams. By November the First round proper has taken place and in the first week of january the monied teams are involved)

A few sips of coffee later, out of the cup at West Ham.

(I have no issues with West Ham, their cockney chirpiness helped us to win the war. The Germans may have dropped millions of bombs on the east end of London but they kept smiling and singing silly songs about scrap metal and old women underneath kitchen tables).

Then it started to rain.
I'll admit that I would rather survive in the Premiership than enjoy a cup run.
Even a successful one.
But just stop what you're doing and think about a cup run and what it would mean for Norfolk.
There's something a little special about it, the media frenzy, the newspapers going crazy, 'Look East' running around like a headless coot looking for celebrity Norwich fans, perhaps Stephen Fry? Brittany Spears? That bloke who plays Percy Weasley in the Harry Potter movies? The national media being oh so mildly patronizing about the plucky East Anglians. Football Focus doing a special from Gentleman's walk? The team making a Cup Final song with Cathy Dennis? Special trains laid on, Norwich airport full of yellow and green cup final flights ,courtesy of Air Cymru. The EDP 36 page full colour supplement.

(Look East is the local TV News show, nightly at 6.30. They tell you all about teenage road death and lost or amusing pets, The EDP is the local newspaper, the same thing really but with a greater emphasis upon medical negligence and agricultural accidents. Football Focus is the national, long running, Saturday morning football special.)

Alright so we're out, again.
But I still love the cup. Always have, and always will. It's the one thing that we have never won that I think we should have won (I think our best chance was in 1989) and the one thing that I would dearly love to see us win.
The'Cup' has a funny effect on me. I like to think that I'm a fairly liberal, modern thinking sort of bloke, making my way through a troubled and difficult world.
Yet whenever the FA Cup is mentioned I get all misty eyed and start reminiscing about a time that I know nothing about. I start thinking about King George VI, sitting there at the Empire Stadium, Wembley, chainsmoking his way through a game played between two brylcreemed teams. I start to yearn for a time when everyone knew the words to "abide with me" and bloody well sang them.

('Abide with me' is a famous hymn which is sung before every Cup Final. People only know the first few lines "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide, The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide etc etc ..." I recently found the entire hymn published in a book. It's a tragically depressing hymn about death! Still, can you even begin to imagine a Godsong being sung prior to the Superbowl or a World series game? Yet here I am, an old fashioned church & state liberal lamenting the fact that the modern generation has forgotten the words to this sturdy old hymn).

That's probably why I love the cup more than any other tournament. It's the connection between the past and the now. I've watched every cup final since 1981 bar 1988 when I had to work the afternoon shift in Merv's hot bread kitchen in Wymondham and 2003 when I was unable to get the telly to work here in New York. (I then set to thinking about how many football games I have ever watched, don't try this, it hurts!)
I actually went to the cup final in 1987 and was lucky enough to be stood at the Coventry end as they beat Spurs 3-2. I still regard Cup Final day as the holiest day of the year.
The cup has given me memories and myth that fuels my passion for the game. In my lifetime alone I can recall Ricky Villa's goal against Manchester City in '81, Chas n' Dave making fantastic cup final songs for the cup-tastic Spurs team of 81 &82. Brighton so nearly upsetting Manchester United in '83 and of course, Coventry beating Spurs and then, a year later Wimbledon beating one of the greatest sides of the modern era, the 1988 Liverpool. I could go on.
Even before my time there is the myth. The myth handed down to me by the older generation, Bert Trautmann's neck, Charlie George's goal and of course our glorious if ultimately doomed 1959 cup run.

(My Dad, who was there, is working on his account of the 1959 Cup Run. Although lots of things have been published about it there exists no decent website. What really freaks me out is that some of the '59 generation are actually starting to die. Their story must be told).

So you see, I love the FA Cup. Trouble is, she just doesn't seem to love me. You would think that with all the words written in respect of the egalitarian nature of the competiton that it would be right up our street. I must admit that Exeter's exploits at Old Trafford this afternoon ended any sorrow I felt about our exit at Upton Park.
It's just one of those little things that makes me quietly proud to be English.
I suppose it's just like so many other things, take politics for example. The US constitution gives you the impression that anyone born a citizen of the United States can become President. Yet it's always a millionaire middle class white guy who gets the job.
Same thing with the FA Cup.
In theory anyone, as long as they are members of the Football Association can enter the tournament and, with luck, skill and judgement lift the famous trophy in May. Then Marlon Harewood pops up in the 81st minute and messes up everything."

(The article in it's original form can still be read at NYCanaries.com , link at right.)

straight talkin, hip shootin, man of the people type stuff

If you care to follow the NYCanaries link on the right of this page you will find "He's big, he's bold, he's Bowlesy"
It's where I do my duty by the old country and write an occaisonal 'man of the people' style article about football.
This one is about the FA Cup.
You should also check out the 'Maine man' articles by my dear old chum Wisdom Weasel.

Selective memory

I really can't explain why 2005 has put such a kiabosh on my blogging. I tried to put the quiz answers up over the weekend and became so easily distracted that the whole thing just fell apart in an admirably clumsy way.
I think it may be due to mild work related pressures and a new years resolution to do something well if it's to be done at all.
Just another thought. Does anyone else read memoirs and autobiographies and seek out crucial dates within them to see what records the subject kept? I wonder what Noel Coward was thinking the day they bombed Nagasaki? What did LBJ report the day England won the world cup? I always get a bit annoyed if my expectations are not met, if these poeple whose lives I have taken the time to read about are not as obsessed with the annihilation of Japan or Geoff Hurst's hatrick as I am.
Then I read over some of my blogging for the past few weeks (or complete lack of it) and I have no published thought towards the crisis in Southern Asia (this entry doesnt count as I'm reporting the fact that I have made no entry). I suppose that if anyone is reading this in thirty or forty years time they may well be upset with me. I feel better now. I feel empathy.

The hour of lead

I've not written for ages and about that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I have neglected too many people. There are no excuses apart from the fact that one cannot be expected to bulldoze through life without rest. I shall publish quiz answers over the weekend and who knows, maybe this is the first of a flurry of new entries, falling upon you like snow. I am tired and just as they give me the most joy, people also give me the most fatigue (There are the exceptions, you know who you are). I just feel like i need a rest from 'other' people. The people who fill my days with stuff I don't need. Being the optimist that I am I shall soon be up and about and publishing more stuff for you'all.

Ethical behaviour and the Kennedy administration.

This is a true story and also a playground fable.
A colleague and a good friend of mine who writes a blog entitled 'L*******r' but who shall remain anonymous.
I was on yard with this person and the other third grade teacher. He went into violent spasms and started grabbing his thigh. I thought he had leg cramp and wandered over to offer assistance. It wasn't leg cramp it was arse cramp or butt strain or arse strain or butt cramp or whatever the hell you want to call it. He was in real agony and was hopping about. I was laughing quite a bit. Two girls came over and asked him if he was OK. We lied and said he was. This reminded me of how the public had to be kept away from the truth regarding JFK's illnesses and adultery. We kind of lied to the kids to protect the image of "Mr X". If they knew that he suffered from arse cramp it might damage his credibility as a premium third grade teacher who used to live with Balgavy.

Listmaker.

Sometimes I wonder if I should get out more. Sometimes I wonder if I should read fewer blogs. Recently I was in a book store , pondering the wares when I turned away. I decided that it was too close to Christmas for me to be spending money on myself but also, slightly scarily perhaps, I knew that I had not checked into the range of blogs that I usually read. This doesnt bother me. If it did I would not be here, doing this. I just found it curious. Today I was terribly busy. I wasn't even able to check any emails until 2.30pm let alone read blogs. I was only able to look at a few after I'd injured my back carrying a large Christmas tree three blocks and two flights into our apartment. I missed them. I missed the tibits of gossip and human interest that I so enjoy reading about. I missed the cultural and political viewpoints.
I was going to write about Listmaker but my back hurts and I'm going to stop now. Without wishing to turn this into a lovefest for other people's blogs Listmaker is rather marvellous.

He's back!

A few months ago we mourned the demise of "World of Stelfox". This pre-Mondale blog from the House of Dave told us lots of things about foxes, music that we'd never heard of and recipes for a better life (nutritional and inspirational).
Dave is back! I've loved this man since he helped himself to my lunch back in 1989 and am delighted that he has returned to blogworld.
Check out Breaking Ranks. Lots of music and pictures, lovely.

Goodbar!

And the winner is.... Jamie Paquette of Brooklyn, NY.
There's a Hershy's Goodbar on it's way to you.
I'll publish all the answers in a week or three.

Links Nouveau.

Look right and you'll see a couple of new links. 'Fightin words' is a new forum for the rambunctious opinions of messers Flood and Paquette concerning weltpolitik, ostpolitik and realpolitik. Enjoy.
I'm also attempting to link to Mr Flood's mighty fine 'Whiskey Drinker' blog. This has been proving somewhat problematic as the link I set upwent directly to a Bible studies site. I'm doing my best and I hope the irony of this is not lost on anyone (least of all, I suspect, the God fearing Mr Flood). The problem is now solved (I couldn't let it go, I thought it might be a sign).
'Unwellness' is the everyday story of Library folk and is hosted by our favourite school Librarian Ms S****. Certainly worth a good look.

Monday, December 13th, 2004.

The fantasmagorical Random Doubts of Walter Mondale Yuletide quiz 2004 will be launched on Monday, December 13th at 8.15am.
55 questions of intense mentalicity.
1 candy bar question.
5 questions to test your faith.
See you Monday!

Forthcoming attraction

Right, It's been busy here at Bowles Towers and I'm afraid to say that I haven't been paying as much attention to our favourite former Vice President/Victim of massive landslide election victory for the gipper.
Fear not, the innaugaral 'nifty fifty/some questions to make you think/the search for fifty answers/that'll be a quiz then/bumper Christmas bonanza of brainteasing knowledge and fun' quiz will be published upon these pages in the next few days.
Those of you who read these pages during the summer will recall my previous attempt at messin with your mind (July 2004).
This will be like that but bigger.
Usual rules apply, no prizes except for genuinely amusing interpretations and they get a Goodbar from Hershys in the post.

Zest.

When I was growing up I sailed. Along with family and friends I raced sailing dinghys on the Norfolk Broads. This has bred in me a passion for sailing. I thirst for the water and for a 'burn'.
Sailing has taught me stuff and nearly killed me more than once. It has provided me with a collection of salty tales and ripping yarns, it has given me sunburn and backache and, perhaps most importantly it's given me loads of really top friends.
It can be quite an expensive hobby but my Dad didn't let mere economics get in the way. Just as some people look out for cheap flights to the sun or second hand cars my father spent much of the 1980's

My Boat
Originally uploaded by bowles.

scouring the small ads and boat auctions for bargains. Sometimes he'd return home with a wreck, a real heap. He'd tow it up to Tony's shed or Mr Richardson's pig barn and after a few weeks or months and some paint, varnish and love he'd brought back a little bit of dignity to an otherwise squandered boat, ready for one more summer of sailing.
I can't quite remember how or when 'Zest' came into our lives although I would hazard a guess that it was some time around 1986. Having progressed from childlike 'safe' boats my brother and I were ready for a bit of a challenge. That's where 'Zest' came in.
She was an Enterprise class sailing dinghy, about 18 feet long and made of wood. Probably about 35 years old at the time. Years before the internet revolution Enterprises were known as 'e-boxes' as a result of their hollow hull which was kept bouyant wth the use of airbags, theses inevitably deflated but this didnt matter unless you capsized, then the whole boat would sink. And you would be left regretting the fact that you hadn't blown up the bleedin airbags.
Another marvellous aspect of sailing an e-box was the "death-roll".
Not easy to explain but it's essentially thus, The wind is strong and is coming over your stern, you are running downwind when for some reason of design your e-box starts rolling violently from side to side. Instantly requiring vigorous efforts on behalf of the crew to keep the bloody thing upright.
Not many dull moments as any e-box sailor will testify.
So what made 'Zest' special?
A few things, she was a gorgeous looking boat, nice plywood varnished deck (with a "nuclear power?No thanks" sticker placed prominently on the foredeck). She gave my brother and I something in common during those awkward teenage years. She was fast. I mean fast, shit off a shovel fast.
And I loved her. Still do.

Zest represents another time, she was old when we got her so she already had a story and a past, we just added to that in our own slightly dotty (yet pretty fuckin fast) way.
Now i know that the world moves on and I'm glad it does, I'm glad I'm no longer a spotty 14 year old bickering with my brother about boatspeed or pointing. I have the fondest of memories of 'Zest' (look, we didnt choose the name but it fitted anyway, Had we chosen a name it would have been something that wouldon't have stood the test of time like 'Morrissey' or 'HMS Bill Shankley' and I wouldn't have loved the boat as much and I wouldn't be feeling like this or writing this ). Eventually , with time passing we sold her onto a good friend. He assured us that if he ever sold it on we'd get first refusal.

Today I saw this on a sailing website:
Enterprise 5563
Wood,built by Smallcraft Southampton. Danube blue outer hull. Aluminium spars, bax sails, launching trolley, cover. Contact Mark Turner on 01603 7#####. cash offers.

Mark, it's not your fault. You're a good man and you are only doing what's right. But I have to admit that a little bit of my childhood just died. I hope that someone really cool and nice and friendly gets as much fun out of 'Zest' as we did. I hope that whoever sails her has the same sideways view of the world as we have (and as Mark has) and I hope that that fabulously 1980's nuclear power sticker is still stuck to the foredeck!

nb: The picture is not 'Zest' just another boat of the same'e-box' class.

I love my job.

Do you ever goof off at work? Ever mess about and just act silly? This afternoon listmaker and I took on a bunch of third graders in an impromptu basketball game. We lost. Just goes to show that the much quoted "height advantage" mattered not when faced with 11 nine year olds screaming at you and jumping around in your face.
Just a thought.