“At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.”
Aristotle.
Each time I drive around my home town, I am struck by how many variations of The Highway Code there must be.
Interpretations of legal parking, which side of the road to drive on and how quickly one can reach the speed of sound with an iPhone attached to the ear seem to vary.
Killinghall Road is a good example, part of the arterial ring-road system leading to and from the motorways. It is a busy road in a densely populated area of the city so you would think road safety would be paramount.
Unfortunately, no parking zones appear to mean nothing. I have even seen police cars ride up and down the road, seemingly oblivious to the chaos mounted on most pavements.
Now there are some new pedestrian islands to assist those attempting to cross. This is made more hazardous than usual by the preference for some to ignore queuing traffic and the British custom of driving on the left hand side of the road in keeping with advised speed limits.
Frankly, I would rather try cross a river full of crocodiles.
I can’t help but feel that if I parked my car down on the double yellow lines at the bottom of my road, sooner or later I would be coughing up.
If you really aspire for a connected and cohesive society at the very least you have to have a common rule book.
Thoughts From The Coach
Another summer will soon be at an end and, for junior cricketers at least, that end is much sooner in this ever squeezed summer game.
After a rare win for my team the other night, contending with more sharp practices from the opposition than a double glazing salesman, I sat with my pint under my new and unquestioning best friend, the tree at The Scruffy.
I was reflecting on my twentieth year as a junior coach – aka child minder/taxi/agony aunt and more – and the game in general.
Standards sadly continue to decline and, more worryingly, the number of games lost to all manner of reasons has increased markedly; this year we cannot blame the rain.
Technology, in the form of big bats that weigh the equivalent of a matchstick, has crept into the game. Big Bat Billy may bash it around a field of young kids but woeful techniques are exposed in a flash when he lands in senior cricket.
Cricket is also evermore the preserve of those who can afford it; family support is crucial too. Last night we played a team that has played three times more games than we have this season; they must live on site!
They can do this, I suspect, only because middle-class parents have fewer worries over jobs with unsociable hours or zero hours contracts. I don’t make this point lightly but can back this up pointing to the lack of inner city teams.
Of course, this merely reflects the times we live in. What is wholly unacceptable is the abysmal lack of decent sporting facilities at state primary schools which account for some 93% of kids. At least give a kid a chance.
The term “competitive” is probably only ever seen in a spelling test; long-term gains to society of healthy kids moving into young adulthood with inquisitive minds, a challenging spirit and diverse groups of friends are lost on Headteachers, driven by the next OFSTED report.
Get the grades and ship them on; those are the rules and it is hard to blame the schools juggling with squeezed budgets. A PE teacher or a Maths teacher?
Many times I have made the case that the eventual elimination of grassroots sports will trace back to the disappearance of sport in the state school sector. And look here at more undeniable evidence that this is a crisis of monumental proportions.
Politicians talk endlessly about social mobility and of integrating diverse groups. Yet they blindly ignore where much of it can begin, on the playing fields and in the changing rooms.
Making gestures to cut out some sugar in a fizzy drink will not change behaviours; we have to get people off their fat arses. Sadly, we continue to fail generations of kids.
Where There Is Hope
Take a look at this article that suggests all is not lost – see here.
This is not claimed as a miracle cure but clearly these initiatives have merit. Such a long-term problem needs patient and clear long-term strategies plus meaningful investment.
One Hundred Years Ago
War time rations may suit many people but they do not help to soothe the peace of mind of Turkish bath masseurs. In one of these weight-reducing temples the other day, a masseur remarked mournfully: “Before these food cards and food books I used to ‘do’ a few healthy, rotund beings. Now I’m asked to work on skin and bone. And I don’t like it. It ‘urts your ‘ands.”
For more stories see here.
The Trumpit – August Issue
Thank you all for your support to date. This month we’ve increased the size by another four pages and, unlike the rest, the majority is content driven.
We have a young guest poet; a “controversial” piece on the local library; more Tales From The Scruffy and all the usual features.
One thing we are considering is a mail-order subscription as we are conscious many elderly folk enjoy but find a copy hard to obtain. More details to follow.
Long Live The Local
Despite years of being hammered by a cocktail of corporate greed, punitive taxation and the supermarket discounters, the great British pub survives but in ever falling numbers.
And now we believe that the Government, short of a few quid to throw at the NHS and desperate for increased tax revenues, is looking at the pub sector again.
Please sign this petition here remembering that MPs benefit from subsidised bars in the House of Commons so are oblivious to the impact of an ever increasing pint.
Six years ago I wrote The Pub and the £3 Pint – Yorkshire Post 23/8/12 and whilst the vulture capitalists at the Pubcos have been broken up to some extent, pubs are still closing at three a week.
Support your local, after all, you would not want all those lunatics that populate them loose on the streets would you?
Time for a beer!
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