Life’s been a bit of a struggle this past quarter, what with Janet in hospital and this boy getting no younger.
So, before I go any further, a huge thank-you to all those of you who asked after my wife and offered to help in any way. As the saying goes, you get to know who your true friends are at such times.
As another saying has it, the show must go on, of course. So here I am with my promised Easter blog, if not in quite the manner anticipated, plus continuing book activity, as in ghost-writing and publishing in aid of Cancer Research. (Keeps me sane, as I tell myself.) See BOOKS, BOOKS AND MORE BOOKS below.
ARTISTIC LICENCE?
Another way of keeping sane - or when I get the chance, bearing in mind the paramount need for an all-decks-cleared three-hour session, minimum – is with my art.
I was bemoaning the lack of such opportunities during a chat with my teacher and good friend Jeanni Grant-Nelson.
It prompted a little play with her ChatGPT thingie and she came up with this version of me – the me that no-one, myself included, has ever seen before, or is ever likely to!
Well, at least they – Jeanni and ChatGPT – got my face right!
Could US Take Over Littl’ Ole UK?
In a remarkably short space of time, the once too-far-fetched-for-words has become the commonplace, thanks to the daily deeds and comments of President Trump.
Not least among these have been his designs and actions in the field of land-grabbing – Venezuela, Cuba, Greenland, Panama Canal, Gaza Strip . . .
Where and what next, you might reasonably ask?
How about littl’ ole UK?
Nah?
Well, there is a precedent, of sorts.
(In fiction, that is.)
Daphne du Maurier fans will recall her final novel, Rule Britannia, published in 1972.
It portrays a fictional near-future where a bankrupt UK, having left the Common Market, wakes up one morning to find it has been on the receiving end of a “friendly” invasion by the United States.
I bought it many years ago and found it a compelling read, especially with its focus on the resultant unrest in Cornwall.
At its heart is the tiny Cornish village of Poldrea, where resistance builds after the discovery one morning of American aeroplanes overhead, trigger-happy US marines marching across the fields, and an American aircraft carrier, which is later blown up, in the bay.
Power, initially cut off, is restored and the Prime Minister goes on TV to announce that the US and UK have joined together as a single nation – USUK.
This was, in fact, the final novel by Daphne, the prolific best-selling writer who spent most of her life in the Duchy.
Perhaps the US “invasion” here will remain the stuff of fiction, but “bankrupt Britain” certainly sounds familiar, doesn’t it!
WHAT A HOOT – SPOT THE ‘OWLS’
As long-term readers of my blog may just have noticed, I never tire of walking around Falmouth’s Pendennis headland. And that, mercifully, is something else I’ve managed to keep up.
I could do it all day long, I sometimes say (with tongue only partially in cheek). There’s so much variety – the ships and boats, the weather, the ever-changing sea conditions and, not least, all the birds.
To that latter category, I have recently noticed an intriguing addition. Here it is:--
Not only this one, but I suspect there may well be more scattered in trees elsewhere, having since also noticed one nearer home, in the Dell (beneath the “Falmouth Town” railway halt).
Anyone recognise the species? Clearly a member of the owl family, it would seem. Or perhaps more likely a cunning cut-out creation emerging from our uni community . . .
LANDING A SCOOP – AND DAD’S DISAPPROVAL
Shook hands the other day with a new arrival in one of the Ministry of Defence houses at the bottom of our road.
Turned out he was a young Royal Navy pilot stationed at Culdrose.
We got talking and it took me back to my very earliest reporting days – when I was still a trainee, in fact, on the Packet.
That’s almost 60 years ago now and I’ve long since forgotten the exact details, but I recalled a very proud moment when I secured an exclusive interview, around breakfast time one morning, with a Culdrose pilot who had just landed after a dramatic rescue incident.
Barely 19, I was still living at home with my parents, and my Dad was listening in from another room with the door ajar.
The phone interview went really well, with some great quotes, and I was dead chuffed when it concluded.
But . . . “Just a couple of points there, lad,” said my Dad, who (I’m so grateful now) was my sternest critic. “You didn’t thank that pilot anywhere near sufficiently at the end.”
And even worse was to follow: “I’m very aware that our phone bill has increased substantially of late on account of your use of it for the Packet. I think it’s time you started to pay a bit towards it, don’t you?“
Well, that took the wind out of my sails, I can tell you.
And of course I didn’t dare tell him I’d already been pocketing a fair sum by way of Packet expenses for home phone use that I had somehow forgotten to pass on to the Old Boy!
WHEN IT WAS ‘GOOD TO TALK’ (FOR REAL)
Talking of Culdrose, Sue Bradbury, one-time public relations officer there, once told me a delightful tale about a “very surreal” moment back in the day when live voices over phone lines still dominated communications.
“The phone never seemed to stop ringing,” she said. “Making and receiving calls was the way I got things done.
“When there was a search and rescue going on, I could spend endless hours answering calls from across the world whilst also keeping myself updated on what was happening.”
That led to her very surreal moment . . .
“I was bleeped at home with news of yet another big story and, in the ensuing journalistic scramble for information, ended up being interviewed live on one of the main national news channels.
“My television was on at the time, so I could see the presenter picking up his phone, knowing that it was me on the end of the line!”
Life and technology had moved on swiftly since then, as Sue acknowledged: “There are no phones visible on a newscaster’s desk now, just a computer, and instead of talking to people all day long most of us are glued to a screen tapping out message after message.”
A RIGHT ROYAL DUMBING-DOWN?
The new Archbishop of Canterbury took selfies with worshippers last month and insisted: “Just call me Sarah.” What next, then, in the great dumbing down of everything sacred? “Just call me Charlie” –The King?
OH DEAR, SEEMS THERE REALLY IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN
My eye was caught the other week by a Packet headline reporting trouble at Falmouth’s Prince of Wales Pier.
Fresh concerns had been raised over “foul language, intimidation and long-running disputes on Falmouth’s waterfront, as police warn trouble this season will not be tolerated.”
Here we go yet again, I thought – recalling all too clearly some of the Pier aggro that occurred very early in my Packet trainee reporter days – and which, in various forms but usually involving rival boat owners, has regularly returned down the decades since.
Certainly, it was an enduring feature of waterfront life in the late 1960s and early 1970s, as I recalled in one of my books covering that period:
In August, 1967, boatmen touting for custom were ordered by police to leave the Pier approaches after complaints from visitors that they were being pestered and annoyed.
This was the first time police action had been necessary since the introduction of a new borough by-law prohibiting touting or soliciting for custom.
Up to 13 boatmen had been observed “importuning” passengers in the vicinity in previous weeks.
Police officers went to the pier and ordered them to stop, warning of serious consequences if they continued to annoy visitors. Later a police sergeant told all the boat operators that they would lose their permits to run trips from the pier if touting were resumed.
Chief Inspector Trevor Lewis said both Falmouth Borough Council and the police had received numerous complaints from the public about touting and they now had no alternative but to see that the by-law was enforced.
“The police will have no compunction about prosecuting future offenders,” he added. “Both the boatmen and their employers have had fair warning.”
When I returned to my homeland in 1975 after four years with the Liverpool daily newspapers, one of my first stories was about more Pier aggro.
And I remember Captain John Whitehouse, Carrick District Council’s maritime officer, telling me then as he surveyed another ugly scene: “Welcome back, Mike. As you can see, nothing has changed here, and I doubt that it ever will!”
Seems he wasn’t wrong . . .
OH THE AGONY
You know you’re getting older when . . . . you’re no longer king of the road, or rather the footpath.
Nobody, but nobody, used to overtake me during my walks. I’m talking walkers, obvs, not runners/cyclists/motorists.
But now, increasingly over the past year or so, I’ve had the somewhat startling experience of a fellow human suddenly beside me along the way and slowly forging ahead. (It wouldn’t be so bad if they could just cough or clear their throats as they approach me.)
And the really concerning thing has been that I wasn’t aware that I was walking any more slowly than I used to. Perhaps my legs have grown shorter . . .
AND THE IRONY
When time has to be spent waiting in A&E or doctor’s surgeries, or when you’re lying awake for ages in the middle of the night, you get to do a lot more reading.
Or I have done anyway. Books, newspaper supplements, magazines, even The Spectator, a reading luxury I never thought I’d have the time for.
Trouble is, I find the (cynical) journalist in me still automatically resisting anything that can be identified as an advertising puff masquerading as editorial.
Any big-name feature – profile piece – for instance will almost always have a footnote flagging up his/her latest book, film/TV programme or whatever. Or it’ll even hit you in the face with a shameless plug in the opening paragraphs.
Any self-respecting journalist will have much the same attitude towards anything smacking of free advertising – even though, in the same breath so to speak, they will always seek and expect all manner of assistance from PR people when it suits.
Which makes it all a bit ironic in my case, considering it is fully 40 years ago now that I quit as a journalist and climbed over the fence . . . to begin just short of 30 years as a PR man!
AND THE SHAME – OUT-SCOOPED ON MY OWN DOORSTEP
I’ll keep him anonymous to spare his blushes, but I’ll never forget the true tale of how a contemporary of mine, freshly qualified as a reporter, spectacularly missed a big story right on his own doorstep.
He was only a week or so into his new post with one of the Birmingham daily newspapers when he turned up for duty one morning, ready to start from scratch in the hunt for fresh news.
His editor was very surprised to see that Matey had nothing of his own to offer. It turned out, you see, that his landlady had been MURDERED overnight, a fact already picked up by a colleague during that day’s first round of calls to the emergency services.
(In fairness, Matey had come straight into the office after spending the night away from his digs.)
Something similar, sort of, happened to me in February this year. It was on a Thursday afternoon when a young grey seal was dramatically rescued after becoming entangled in 30 metres of fishing net.
It took fully four days before the Falmouth Packet carried an online report on the event and it was only two days earlier that I had learnt of it – when a prominent report, together with pic, appeared in the Daily Telegraph.
Thing is, the drama took place on Gyllyngvase Beach – which I visit or pass virtually every day of the year and which is all of eight minutes’ walk from my home!
As my younger daughter Lisa told me: “The journalist in you is clearly no more!”
PEOPLE-WATCHER’S PARADISE
In more ways than one, as you can imagine, I have sorely missed my Lisa these past two months.
But she returned yesterday from her two months in Oz and will no doubt be hauling me back into the sea at Gylly any morning now. The last time I managed it on my own – boring – was early January.
I love the dawn swim routine – from spring through to late autumn – so here’s a reminder of what it’s all about, with one of the favourites from my blog archive. It was first published in September, 2024:--
A few minutes before eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, and if you thought it would still be all quiet on Gyllyngvase, Falmouth’s main beach, you’d better think again!
It’s already full of interest and activity in all directions.
This daily dawn dip business, preferably with my oh-so-keen daughter Lisa, is about so much more than the mere swimming bit, lush though that was again this morning.
The trick is to take all the time in the world with the before and after – especially the after, just switching off for a while, in no rush to get changed and leave, instead indulging in a spell of people-watching all around you.
For starters, there are already two well-subscribed keep-fit classes under way, with stretches and jerks and press-ups and back-and-forth runs and everyone, even the notably over-weight participants, giving it their sweaty all.
Closer to self, the swimmers arrive and depart, and the age range is big.
There are the “wrinklies” (oops, that’s me, too, these days – keep forgetting that) and the enviably lithe and muscular young ‘uns.
Half a dozen of the latter – perhaps part of a visiting rugby team? – charge into the sea. And, just a little surprisingly, come out of it again in double-quick time!
Ditto the young lady in the skimpy bikini who, I reckon, must have lasted all of 30 seconds fully immersed before shooting back out – while her partner, well out of his depth, looked on in barely contained glee.
Apart from these quick departures, I count up to 20 “regulars” in the sea at any one time during my Gylly stay.
Observers include the little infant – can’t be much more than a year old – who looks on from just above the water’s edge, with his protective mum right behind him.
All around there is much laughter and chatter – and barking as any number of dogs and their owners have their own daily beach outing.
One young man, alas, comes out of the sea clutching his head, complaining that it’s aching and he thinks he may have dived too deep.
Then, fully clothed once more and with my bag packed, tiz time for me to head back home. Cue hot shower and coffee, bickies and Sunday papers. (That’s right, for as long as they’re still printing, I will always prefer them to the screen variety!)
As I leave Gylly, I look back and hope matey with the headache will be okay – he’s busy now consulting a little group of fellow swimmers.
And I’m also feeling sorry for the elderly lady, still in her dry robe, who has been standing like a statue in the middle of the beach for at least the last 20 minutes.
I’m thinking that maybe she’s been “stood up” by a fellow swimmer – or perhaps she, too, has simply been people-watching . . .
WOT, NO LITTER?
And for a more recent people-watch, I give you Brian, retired hotel owner turned champion local litter-picker-upper.
He is to be seen every morning, armed with grabber stick and bag, doing his pubic-duty stint along Falmouth seafront.
But when I saw him the other day, I couldn’t help noticing his look of concern as he surveyed the scene at the entrance to Gyllyngvase Beach and along the adjacent footpaths.
Uniquely, so far as the eye could see, it was a litter-free zone and he had yet to grab his first scrap of refuse.
“Perhaps you’ve got a rival,” I suggested.
“GOOD!” he replied.
Somehow I don’t reckon that will last, though!
BOOKS, BOOKS AND MORE BOOKS
For my final five years of paid working life, I created and ran the Golden Replay Biographies service, ghost-writing and publishing 30 life-story books.
And I’ve continued the limited-edition books biz, as a Cancer Research fund-raiser, long into my retirement. Following on from last year’s main project – Andy Street’s Streets Ahead, which netted £2,500 - I’m nearly there now with my latest Cornish football memoir, for Melville Benney.
While Andy was a serial trophy winner and long-serving captain of Cornwall, Mel has clocked up the remarkable record of 60 unbroken years as a football manager (at grass roots level), and he’s still going!
That book is well on schedule for launch this summer and two more are now under way – Mark “Rappo” Rapsey’s sequel, Rappo’s World Of Football Fun, and another one that is still under wraps for the moment but will be my most ambitious, and hopefully most successful, yet. Watch this space for Project X!
How This Writer’s Life Could END At 40!
Subject to one or two ifs and buts, it’s entirely possible that Project X, above, could turn out to be the 40th and final book in my collection of ghost-written life stories.
This one is likely to be a two-year project, rather than one, and when it hits the light of day I won’t be far short of my 80th birthday.
Time then, perhaps, to call it a day and take life just a little more easily?
No promises, mind, but if that does turn out to be the case, I shall take with me one thought in particular borne of those 40 autobiographies and prior to that so many years of writing as a journalist and PR man.
Hand on heart, I am more convinced than ever that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BORING PERSON!
Came perilously close with one of my Golden Replay clients, mind you! Had to work extra hard to draw her out. Now that DID make her interesting!
SOME FINAL THOUGHTS . . .
Falmouth’s Castle Beach Café was due to re-open today after its winter break and at the last count, i.e. a few hours ago, it was all looking good on the sand front. That is, there is currently plenty of it, which was emphatically not the case, uniquely in my memory, last summer.
Here’s hoping it will stay that way, with no late spring gales to alter the natural order of things. Keep that “Sand This Way” direction board, pointing away from the “beach,” under lock and key, Emily!
****
It was the breaking news I never wanted to see . . . the demise of the historic packet ship emblem in the Falmouth Packet masthead, to be replaced by a brightly coloured packet of crisps.
It had me tearing my hair out/ shedding gallons of tears/ losing the will to live for fully ten seconds . . . until I realised the date: Wednesday, April 1!
***
You know you’re getting older when . . . you agree with a lifelong friend that whenever one of you starts a tale you’ve told many times before the other will say “DING!”
****
Was I dreaming or did I really hear, in the news on Monday this week, You-Know-Who coming out with this Quote Of The Millennium: “We keep negotiating with people and then we have to blow them up.”
****
Admittedly it’s a common failing, not just in the professional media, but the Packet was at it again last month, with its front page lead story kicking off with “Residents . . . .have successfully safeguarded much-loved community land . . . “ Question: how would they have UNsuccessfully safeguarded it?!!
****
There’s been a lively readers’ correspondence in the Daily Telegraph of late concerning our national dish, the good old Cornish pasty. How’s about this offering from a London reader, recalling one way of doing it in days gone by, by a farmer’s wife:
“One end contained ‘teddies (potatoes), turnips puddin’ and flesh,’ the other stewed apple. On delivery, she would hand the pasties out, then cover each one with home-made clotted cream!”
THAT’S ALL FOR NOW, FOLKS.
I will return to the blogosphere
with my Summer Break. Watch
out for it in July (ish).
