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About 120 degrees – and no air con

Warnings have been issued in Phoenix for more than a week now. The city is in the middle of its annual heat wave, but the temperatures this week are expected to break all records. The high on Tuesday is forecast to be at least 120F – possibly as much as 122. That’s 50 degrees Celsius.

I’ve never had to endure temperatures like that – even in the two very hot summers I’ve lived here.  Last year, on Father’s Day, the mercury reached 118F. That will pale into insignificance compared with the next few days. An excessive heat warning is in place and people are being urged to stay indoors.

Four days ago, just as the Lundy household was preparing to deal with this, the unthinkable happened. With perfect timing, the air conditioning unit that keeps the house cool in the summer conked out.

We had noticed for a couple of days that something was not right. Then it stopped altogether. The a/c unit is covered by homeowner’s insurance so we called our landlord to get it fixed. He arranged for an engineer, who in turn diagnosed a leak of Freon, the refrigerant that acts as a cooling agent in the aircon system.

The work will take until the middle of this week but, in the meantime, the house is too hot to live in. The landlord, as he is legally obliged to, offered to provide us with alternative accommodation in a nearby hotel for the duration. However, we opted to stay with one of several relatives who have plenty of spare room, and who live nearby.

We are lucky in the sense that this will not cause us major hardship. But the extreme seriousness of this situation cannot be over-estimated. Living in this part of the American south-west is only possible with air-conditioning – in homes, cars, shops, and work places. If it breaks down in a shop or office, that business must close until the problem is rectified.

A broken a/c unit is classed as a major emergency at this time of year. In some cases, it can, quite honestly, be a matter of life and death.

I’ve gone back to my house to write this blog. I have ceiling fans on in four rooms, and two floor fans blasting cool air at me. Nevertheless, the inside temperature is just over 95F. For certain people – the frail and elderly, young children, and people with medical conditions – that is potentially fatal.

On the hottest days of a Scottish summer, you could open the windows and let some fresh air inside. Here there is no fresh air. If I opened the window, I would only feel the ‘wall of heat’ from outside – like a baker’s oven.

In common with all big cities, Phoenix has a large population of homeless. Emergency shelters have been set up in the past couple of weeks to give these people somewhere to go out of the glare of the relentless sun. It won’t work in all cases; many unfortunates will die on the streets of Phoenix over the next couple of weeks as the heat becomes unbearable. Approximately 120 people die in Arizona every year purely because of the heat

Meteorologists have described this week’s weather as ‘dangerous’ and ’deadly’. Tuesday is the first day of summer, and the longest day of the year, meaning the sun will be at its highest point in the sky. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.

I suppose this has been something of a salutary lesson. Not that we had any control over things. Over here, we take air conditioning for granted. Why did it have to happen at the height of summer?

There is a jokey saying out here which has a ring of truth to it, and attributed to a ‘sad Arizonan’. “I wish it would rain. Not for me because I’ve seen it – but for my seven-year-old.”

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Tories win in heartland. Well, well

Well, the UK General Election didn’t turn out as planned on a number of fronts. There was plenty to keep the headline writers busy – shock losses for Tories; shock gains for Labour; shock losses for Scottish Nationalists.

Not to mention the short Prime Ministerial reign of the disastrous Theresa May undoubtedly coming to a premature end. It will need a miracle for her to survive in the post. She has never looked comfortable in the job. She’ll be remembered for her permanent terrified expression, and her ‘running through the wheat field’ revelation.

In a news room, there is nothing better than the buzz of an exciting, shock-filled election. Thursday night was exciting all right and on Friday morning, the Scottish Press, television, radio, and every conceivable social media outlet was yelling, “Scottish electorate…how could you?” Vote for the Conservative Party, that is.

But some so-called shocks aren’t what they seem. To those of us who can cast our minds back to a pre-millennium political landscape, there was nothing shocking about Scots voting Tory.

In fact, my headline last week might well have been, ‘Tories regain Tory heartland – no shock here’.

When I started work in Ayrshire in 1974, the local MP was a Conservative called John Corrie. He was in his late 30s, from farming stock, tall, and good looking. The party – especially the older ladies – loved him. He didn’t do much as an MP, but he was a thoroughly affable and decent chap.

I moved to Aberdeen shortly after the 1979 election that propelled Margaret Thatcher to power and wiped out all but two of the SNP’s Westminster contingent of the 70s. It was in Aberdeenshire that I was exposed to what now seems like old-fashioned, traditional Scottish Conservatism.

People often think of Scotland in those days as a Labour Party stronghold and nothing else. Not true. As recently as the early 80s there were huge swathes of Tory blue on the electoral map. Go to Perthshire or Royal Deeside – towns such as Pitlochry and Ballater – and the residents there bleed Conservative blue. They have never had anything in common with the Glasgow working man.

The Tory MPS I used to deal with back then were a mixture of polite, landed gentry toffs such as Alick Buchanan-Smith; and businessmen like the very approachable Russell Fairgrieve. There were flamboyant characters such as the ‘Buchan Bulldog’ Albert McQuarrie and the madcap lawyer Nicholas Fairbairn; and the ambitious types like the Aberdeen South MP Iain Sproat.

The harshness of Thatcherism was in its infancy and not all these guys were comfortable with it. I remember chatting with Alick Buchanan-Smith, a charming man, at an event in Stonehaven one evening. I brought up the subject of Thatcher and I remember he said nothing, just shook his head and furrowed his brow. Her brand of Conservatism was clearly not his.

Except for one seat in Aberdeen City, the whole of Aberdeenshire, Perthshire, and Angus had elected Tory MPs in 1979. As well as the ones I’ve mentioned, there was Bill Walker in Perthshire, Peter Fraser in Angus, and Alex Pollock in Moray and Nairn. Further north, Ross and Cromarty had Hamish Gray; and schoolteacher John MacKay represented Argyll.

Then there was the old Banffshire seat. It was held by a chap called David Myles, another old Tory farmer. Myles was perfectly polite, but let’s say he wasn’t the most dynamic. In fact, the poor guy was so dull and uninteresting that he earned the nickname ‘Mogadon Myles’.

Even Fife – an area we don’t readily associate with Conservatism nowadays – had Tory MP Barry Henderson, and Glasgow boasted its own West End Tory MP Tam Galbraith.

Back then, we journalists had free access to these people. They weren’t protected by spin doctors and teams of press officers. I still have a list of every MP in Scotland complete with home and office phone numbers from my 1980 contacts book.

Many of the Tories of that era could be insufferably snobbish but they didn’t mince their words, and their quotes made wonderful newspaper fodder. My favourite came not from a Scot, but an MP from north-west England called Michael Jopling. When asked about the up-and-coming whippersnapper Michael Heseltine, Jopling commented, “The trouble with Michael is that he had to buy all his furniture.”

Mind you, Paisley Labour MP Allen Adams perhaps eclipsed Jopling when he said that Margaret Thatcher had behaved towards Scotland ‘with all the sensitivity of a sex-starved boa constrictor’.

Scotland’s Tory MPs of the 80s were swept away by Thatcherism, which was largely rejected north of the border. They didn’t all agree with her policies but they paid the penalty.

The SNP benefitted from their demise – bigly as they say over here. But political success and failure is cyclical, and it should have come as no surprise to see the Conservatives regain a foothold in their traditional rural heartlands last week.

How long it lasts remains to be seen of course. When will the next election be called? October?

Just a Wee Blether…

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About cutlery conundrums in the US

Another American public holiday has come and gone. Last Monday was Memorial Day. It honours members of the armed forces who have died in battle. It also means a day off work, and another American-style family gathering – with food, lots of food.

As most people know, Americans don’t need an excuse to eat, it’s a very big part of the culture. Food is taken very seriously – and there is always plenty of it. And I mean plenty. But it’s not just what you eat in the USA, it’s how you eat, as I discovered very early on.

I well remember my first visit to my soon-to-be American in-laws in Pittsburgh 15 years ago. There was a decent-sized gathering and we all sat down to a delicious home-cooked meal. I started eating, holding the knife in my right hand and the fork in my left – the way we are taught to do it back in Scotland, after all.

After about five minutes, I became aware that most other people at the table had stopped eating. I looked up and there were at least six pairs of eyes – wide eyes – staring at me.

‘What are you doing?”, someone asked.

Even at the age of 46, I was still a little nervous. This was the first time I’d met the ‘family’.

“Well, I’m eating”, I replied.

A couple of younger members of the new family tried unsuccessfully to stifle laughter. What was the problem here, what the hell was wrong with the way I was eating?

It didn’t take too long to work it out. As I looked round the table, it was obvious that no-one else was holding a knife and fork. Every other diner had laid the knife to one side, and was using a right-handed fork method to get food from plate to mouth.

I was the only one following what I’d always been led to believe was table etiquette – yet I was the odd one out.

Let’s be honest, there’s a certain stupidity involved in piling mince and tattles, or chili on to the back of a fork only to see it slip through the tines. And counting how many balanced peas make it to the mouth can be hilarious, especially if a couple of glasses of dinner wine have been taken.

But using a knife and fork to eat is very much the done thing for us Brits. I remember spending what seemed like long fruitless hours trying to teach my son proper table manners. Members of the US military are routinely taught ‘European eating’ before being posted there.

Let’s say, for argument’s sake, the meal consists of steak, potatoes and veg. In Scotland, we would spear the meat with the fork, cut it with the knife, then slide a portion of potatoes and veg on to the back of the fork. How much of it falls off is a matter of luck.

Over here, most diners cut the steak into bite-sized chunks. With the fork in their right hands, they take a piece of meat and put it in their mouths. Then they collect veg and potatoes on the ‘hollow’ side of the fork, and eat it.

It is a simple and more efficient eating method than the ‘proper’ way. And at many meals, knives are 100% redundant.

To traditionalists and purists, it lacks elegance and class. For a start, is chopping up a chef’s beautifully-prepared work into grotesque little pieces not a form of culinary sacrilege? And what do you plan to do with that spare left hand? Hide it under the table? Isn’t it good etiquette to show your hands while eating?

I have no idea why people in the USA do it differently – or if it really matters. But to stop the funny looks, I now use the American method. It goes against everything I was taught growing up, but using a fork and no knife does seem to make a lot of sense.

The downside is that inviting me to a posh dinner party risks more potential embarrassment than usual.

 

 

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About our wee visit to the ‘old country’

Nothing much had changed in Scotland. It was my first visit back since I left for Arizona two years ago. The weather was the same but I must say it was great to feel real rain on my face after the interminable desert sunshine.

The first things I noticed when our plane flew over the border from England were wind turbines – dozens of them scattered across the rolling hills of Dumfriesshire. The second notable sighting was the new Forth crossing in the distance. The bridge was impressive, the turbines less so – I subscribe to the belief that they’re a blot on the landscape.

At Glasgow Airport, I asked a taxi driver if he could take us to Paisley Gilmour Street station. “Nae bother”, he replied. I told him that was the first time I’d heard anyone saying that since March 2015. To be honest, I’d forgotten how good it is to hear daft Scottish sayings.

The Paisley train coincided with the Saturday afternoon Scottish football matches ending, so that made for an interesting journey to Largs. Everybody in our carriage seemed to be using the word that only means something in and around Glasgow – hingwe. “I was aw hingwe”, and “he was pure hingwe” and she was hingwe-ing”. The scary part? They all understood each other.

Kilwinning station was the next stop, we had to change trains there. Two gallus dudes were walking down the platform belting out their finest rendition of The Sash, and a couple of police were dealing with a guy who had just had his face slashed – not that he really knew too much about it.

It was all very much a case of “Welcome back to Scotland”. Just the way I remember it really.

Largs, my home town, overlooks the stunning scenery of the Firth of Clyde. I count myself very fortunate to have been brought up in such a beautiful spot. It was the same as ever, a new pub opened here, an old one closed there – and Nardini’s, the famous ice cream parlour, resplendent in all its glory. Largs was looking good and, surprisingly, that gave me a warm, content sort of feeling.

The ‘Pencil’ at Largs

We hired a car and headed for two nights on Skye. It lived up to its ‘Misty Isle’ nickname this time round. The Old Man of Storr and the Quiraing were hidden in the clouds and there was rather a lot of rain about. But every so often the weather would clear, and we would turn a corner to be confronted by Hebridean scenery at its finest.

Sheep make driving challenging on Scotland’s islands

Kilt Rock was my favourite touristy stop, and Dunvegan Castle, ancient seat of the Clan MacLeod, was pretty impressive too. And a stop at the ruins of Duntulm Castle provided a happy reminder of the quirkiness of Scottish humour. Duntulm is no more than a pile of rocks and, as we were walking back across the field towards the car, a couple and their two dogs were coming in our direction.

“Is the café open?”, the guy yelled at me, gesturing towards the castle.

“Café, what café?”, I said.

“The café at the castle, round the back,” he said, looking at me as if I was daft.

“I never saw a café.”

“Ach, I’m just winding you up.”. And off he went, guffawing. He probably says the same to every glaickit looking tourist he sees.

The drive back to the Central Belt was as jaw-droppingly awesome as ever. We stayed with relatives in Lochaber, stood with a bus load of Far Eastern visitors photographing the Commando Memorial in Spean Bridge, and took a cable car (or gondola) up Aonach Mor.

Then it was down through Glencoe, the jewel in the crown of Scotland’s scenic drives, in my humble opinion anyway. If there is one thing I miss about living in America, it’s being able to hop in the car and drive into the Highlands, or along the banks of Loch Lomond, through the Trossachs, or down by the Clyde. I envy all of you who can still do it.

It was over all too quickly. A two-week holiday flies in. In many ways, it was as though we had only been away for two weeks, not two years. Scotland being Scotland, it never fails to delight, and we flew back with a ton of happy memories.

The photos turned out pretty good too. They should whet everyone’s appetite for a good Scottish road trip. We’ll be back sooner rather than later.

 

Commando Memorial

Kilt Rock, Skye

Looking across the Waternish Peninsula, Skye

Glencoe

Below: Duntulm Castle, Skye

Just a Wee Blether…

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About seeking those Scottish ancestors

The lady who approached me in the genealogy tent at the Phoenix Scottish Games last weekend had a detailed list of papers revealing a very impressive Scottish and European ancestry.

She was descended from none other than King of the Picts Kenneth MacAlpin, the man regarded as the first King of Scotland. Kenneth was born on Iona in the year 810 and ruled over the country for 16 years before dying, apparently from a tumour.

Not only that, her family tree included the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne, and a couple of the Louis kings of France. It was also peppered with several other members of prominent royal and noble European families.

My new acquaintance, who now lives in Arizona, insisted she had double checked and triple checked all her sources. And it’s perfectly possible she is right. Residents of the United States are descended from a hodge-podge of different nationalities, many of them from the upper echelons of society.

And of course, when your ancestry reveals a connection with one European royal house, then it automatically leads to many others. So, there is nothing far-fetched about a so-called ‘ordinary’ American person finding family links to some of the grandest names in European history.

I was volunteering in the genealogy tent at the Games, and the lady had come to ask for some background about Kenneth MacAlpin. Based on some very distant teenage memories, I informed her that he was a character we learned about in school history lessons, and obviously, an important person in Scottish history. I showed her Iona, and she went away happy.

Genealogy is a big industry here, and Americans would give their right arm for a bit of Scotland – or Ireland – in their family tree. Over the two days of the Games, I helped several people who had found the name Stuart, Wallace, or Bruce, in their trees and who were convinced they were descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie, Braveheart, or Robert the Bruce.

I had to tell them, yes it was possible, but it was more likely that their Bruce ancestor was a weaver in Paisley, or the Wallace a day labourer in the Borders.

To be honest, it didn’t really matter to them. They were excited – super-excited as they say here – just to get a Scottish perspective on what they had discovered. It helped that they were hearing from someone in a kilt, with a Scottish accent, who had lived for almost 60 years in the ‘old country’.

I helped trace one family’s great grandfather to the Gorbals area of Glasgow. When I broke it to them that the area was at one time notorious for violence and slum dwellings, they were initially shocked. But when I explained how it all fitted in with Glasgow’s long and proud working class, industrial past, they went away delighted.

Another woman could trace her history back to the Border Reivers in and around Roxburgh and Galashiels; an elderly gentleman was descended from a family I had never heard of, Kelly of Sleat, from the Isle of Skye; a couple was thrilled to learn of a connection with Clan Gunn in the far north of Scotland.

There were a couple of disappointments. It only takes one broken link in a family chain to wipe out generations of fascinating history. And I had to break it to a couple of people that they had made mistakes.

Our tent was packed with visitors for two days solid. What interested most of them was not so much the family name, but the tartan, the castle if there was one, and which part of Scotland their ancestors were from.

I’m always a bit suspicious when I hear about royalty and aristocracy. But it is slightly amazing to someone like me – a Scot who spent most of his life in Scotland – that there is so much genuine fascination about all things Scottish in this faraway land.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About falling out of love with football

This time last year, every newspaper and online website in the United States was gushing about the exploits of unfashionable Leicester City who, in true fairytale fashion, were upsetting the odds and preparing to win the English Premier League.

Most of the American media had never heard of Leicester – they certainly couldn’t pronounce it – and there is little coverage here of what they call soccer. But the story of an unfancied team with little in the way of financial resources leading the league ahead of the billionaires of Manchester United, Chelsea, Manchester City and Arsenal was too good a story to ignore.

A couple of months later and the title had been won. The New York Times, the Washington Post, even the local paper here, the Arizona Republic, carried the amazing tale of how unfancied Leicester and its charming, affable Italian coach, Claudio Ranieri, had upset the odds.

This season has been different. Leicester have qualified for the last 16 of the European Champions League – another incredible feat – but are struggling against relegation in England. In all honesty, there was never any chance of the team repeating its heroics of last year.

This week, Ranieri, the man who had been cheered through the streets of Leicester, and who exudes civility and decency, was called into the club boardroom and sacked.

Only 297 days earlier he had led Leicester to the greatest triumph in its history. The club owner said after the sacking that ‘personal sentiment’ should not be allowed to get in the way of Leicester’s ‘long-term interests’.

As a schoolboy, I was football-daft. I kicked a ball around parks in my home town day-in, day-out. In my teens and 20s I played the game, mostly on public parks in Ayrshire, Aberdeenshire, and other parts of Scotland. At secondary school, football was more important to me than studying, I played against Celtic Boys Club, and I was chosen to represent Ayrshire Schools.

Like tens of thousands of Scottish boys before and since, football oozed from every pore. The team I supported, Celtic, was one of the best in Europe at the time and it cost only 5p to watch them. In the 80s I was lucky enough to live in Aberdeen when Alex Ferguson’s team were all-conquering.

Now? I couldn’t care less about the game, who wins or who loses. And it’s a source of great sadness to me. I’ve been turned off for decades by the Celtic/Rangers rivalry and all the sectarian garbage that goes with it. But greed, corruption, obscene player wages, and soaring entry costs for often dreadful games, have ruined football for me.

The sacking of Claudio Ranieri seemed to represent a new low. It sums up perfectly why, after years of running around playing fields in Scotland and cheering on my footballing heroes from the terraces, I have long since fallen out of love with what Pele called ‘the beautiful game’.

I do turn to the Ayr United result every week – and I keep an eye on Fort William in the Highland League. But that’s about it. There is no way back for football, greed has consumed it. To be honest, I do feel a bit cheated that the game I followed so enthusiastically for so long has effectively been taken from me.

Nowadays I look forward more to American football, although it is equally corrupt and even more money-oriented. It does, however, have some features that are aimed at preventing ‘elite’ clubs from evolving and guaranteeing that every club has a fair chance of success.

Every year a draft is held – to great fanfare – when NFL teams choose the best players from the college ranks. The draft is structured so the worst teams from the previous season are given the first choices – and therefore the best opportunity to sign the next potential superstars.

There is also a salary cap which effectively limits the number of so-called superstars on one team. The soccer bosses should really consider moves like this, but they won’t Can you imagine that happening in football in the UK? It couldn’t. The Manchester Uniteds of this world will continue to buy up the best talent for crazy transfer fees and inflated wages.

The shine has well and truly been scrubbed off the Leicester City fairytale. As for Claudio Ranieri, I genuinely hope the guy finds a new job with a club that appreciates his talent, and doesn’t treat him in such a shabby and discourteous way.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About my US ‘bucket list’ for 2017

It was always my intention, when I got to America, to get a lot travelling under my belt. That was the plan at least but it’s a pretty big place out here and while I’ve managed a few trips and added three states to my ‘collection’, there’s still a lot more I need to see.

February is still early enough in the year to sit down and work out the logistics of crossing off a couple of my American ‘bucket list’ places.

Given the size of the US, and the ton of potential destinations, I’ve only scratched the surface so far. A couple of trips to San Francisco and down the Pacific coast of California; a night in Las Vegas; Niagara Falls; The Grand Canyon; New York City; Amish Country in Ohio and Pennsylvania; the old colonial city of Williamsburg; The Wisconsin lakes; and the stunning autumn – or fall – colours of the West Virginia countryside.

There have been more – Los Angeles, Pittsburgh, the shores of Lake Superior in Northern Michigan, and much of Arizona –  but these are the ones that jump to my mind. So, If I had to knock off one or two personal ‘must go’ places this year, what would be on my list?

At the top, as it has been for years, is Nashville, Tennessee. And I’m afraid if I ever get there, I’ll make a complete fool of myself – typical tourist, dressed like a cowboy or country musician, singing Streets of Laredo or Way Down Yonder on the Chattahoochee.

But I would love it. Visiting the Grand Ole Opry, Music Row, the clubs, pubs and honky-tonks and just soaking in the atmosphere of Music City, USA, would give me a huge kick. It all sounds uniquely American, off the wall, and almost an escape from reality. And if I could plan a visit to coincide with a Tennessee Titans home game, so much the better.

South Dakota doesn’t sound like the most glamorous US holiday destination – but it’s a place I’ve had my eye on for a while. Mount Rushmore, with the Presidents carved into the rock, would be worth seeing, but I’m more interested in a giant statue of the Lakota warrior Crazy Horse. It’s been under construction since 1948 and will take many more years to finish.

Both memorials are in the Black Hills region, which also contains the city of Deadwood. Wild West fans will know it as the place where Calamity Jane lived and died, and where Wild Bill Hickock was shot dead by a poker rival called ‘Broken Nose’ Jack McCall. So, I’d be looking for a Bed and Breakfast in Deadwood to savour a touch of the old West.

There are so many cities to choose from here and, to be honest, I’d happily go to any of them. But I’d be particularly keen to visit certain ones. In no particular order, Boston, with all its colonial and revolutionary history; Philadelphia, again for historical reasons; New Orleans, just because it looks so damn cool; Washington DC, because there seems to be rather a lot going on there. Throw Seattle, San Diego, and Atlanta into the mix.

Closer to home, I haven’t got to three of the states that border Arizona – New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah. There is a spot called Four Corners where they all converge and you can stretch out, put two feet and two hands on the ground, and be touching four different states.

It would be good to visit at least one of these states this year. Just across the Arizona border in Utah is a place called Zion National Park which looks incredibly beautiful. That would be the first choice.

Of course, if someone came to me and said they had booked tickets for an Alaskan cruise, a flight to Hawaii, or New England in the Fall, I’d be a happy chappie.

So, that’s the ‘bucket list’ for 2017. If I manage to achieve two, then 2017 will have been a good year.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About personal ‘big impact’ 2016 deaths

At the end of every year, we always look back and remember those who are no longer with us. Of course, people die every year, we know that, but let’s be honest 2016 has been quite a year for celebrity deaths – at times it seems to have been one long death-fest.

Back in 2008 I presented a weekly radio show on a small station in Scotland – Lundy Sunday, would you believe – and I decided to devote an hour to musicians who had passed away that year. I was limited to the 60s and 70s and it was a real struggle to fill the time slot.

Among the best known were Eddy Arnold, famous for ‘Make the World Go Away’, and Bo Diddly. Odetta, who sang ‘There’s a Hole in the Bucket’ had died, and I was reduced to Hurricane Smith – remember ‘Don’t Let It Die’, anyone? In 2016, I could have filled two hours without any problem.

Famous people – TV personalities, singers, movie stars – are a big part of our childhood and our growing up, what you might call our formative years. I religiously watched the suave Robert Vaughn as Napoleon Solo in The Man from U.N.C.L.E., and spent a fair bit of my hard-earned holiday cash buying Leonard Cohen LPs.

So, I was sorry to see them on the 2016 roll-call. Just as I was sad about Bobby Vee, Alan Rickman, Muhammad Ali, Arnold Palmer, Gene Wilder, Victoria Wood, Andrew Sachs, Caroline Aherne, Ronnie Corbett, Johann Cruyff, David Bowie, Keith Emerson and Greg Lake of Emerson, Lake and Palmer – they were all ‘in my life’ at some stage and left an indelible impression.

There were, however, two people who died in 2016 who affected me more than any of the ones listed above. In fact, for vastly different reasons, they both brought me to tears. While their names will be familiar to people in the UK, they will most likely mean nothing in the US.

Cliff Michelmore was a giant of broadcast journalism. A big, imposing presence, he oozed gravitas. It was as though he needed a large head to fit his large brain. When I was young he seemed to be the BBC’s presenter of choice for the biggest stories.

Although it may not have been my earliest memory of Michelmore, there is one major news story from my childhood which he covered and which I have never forgotten. The Aberfan Disaster was a hellish story from every perspective. I was only 10 at the time and details of it have been etched in my memory since.

If you have never heard of the tragedy, it was possibly the saddest and most harrowing in Britain in my lifetime. Aberfan is a village in the heart of the Welsh coal-mining country. In 1966, a huge slurry mountain behind the village was dislodged by water, and a river of sludge came pouring down the hillside, demolishing houses before scoring a direct hit on a school filled with children aged between seven and 10.

A total of 116 schoolchildren and 28 adults, many of them teachers, died. One of the most poignant discoveries was that of a teacher cradling five children in the remains of a classroom. They had all perished and of course, it made me think about my own class teacher, my own school mates who were all the same age.

Cliff Michelmore brought the full horror of Aberfan into our living rooms. Journalists are not supposed to cry on jobs. Michelmore admitted that not only was he in tears but he also had his sleeves rolled up and was helping with the rescue effort.

But I most clearly remember his evening broadcast, delivered live as darkness was falling over Aberfan. His speech was slow and faltering, the story was told in a sober and measured tone, without embellishment or exaggeration – there was no need for any. I remember thinking, ‘please don’t stop talking because if you cry, I will too’.

I cried anyway, and I admired and respected Michelmore from that moment. In my opinion there have been few TV journalists since who were fit to lace his boots.

Fast forward to 1985 and my next tearful moment. By this time, I thought of myself as some sort of hard-nosed newspaper reporter. But hard-nosed hacks don’t burst into tears watching soap operas, do they? So, that was that theory blown out of the water.

Hilda Ogden, played brilliantly by Jean Alexander, was arguably the best soap opera character British television has produced. She was the Coronation Street busybody, a typical ‘poor wee soul’ of a character who always wore a hairnet and curlers and had nothing going for her. She lived with her lazy, good-for-nothing, boozy husband Stan (played by Bernard Youens).

But even though they had nothing, and argued like cat and dog, Hilda and Stan were devoted to each other. Then in 1985 Bernard Youens died and the show’s producers had to find a way to write out his character. It was one of the most memorable soap opera moments of all times.

As the closing credits came down on what had been an already sad episode, Hilda was pictured opening a package containing Stan’s belongings. Finally, she came to his battered spectacle case, which she opened to reveal his trademark dark glasses. At that point she slowly put her head on the table and started to sob – and so did millions of viewers, me included.

Soap opera actors are a greatly under-appreciated species. Jean Alexander was so convincing that, to a generation of Coronation Street viewers, she and Hilda Ogden were indistinguishable.

Cliff Michelmore and Jean Alexander may not have been the most high-profile deaths of 2016 but they hold special memories. It is testament to their abilities that, as I sat here writing this and thought about them, I yet again struggled in vain to hold back the tears.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Christmas lights American style

Well, I hope everybody had a wonderful Christmas and that Santa was good to you. In Arizona, we had to endure an unusual weather phenomenon, a Christmas Eve storm which consisted of strong winds and heavy rain, and which knocked out the power in our neighbourhood. So really, a routine winter’s day in Scotland.

By Christmas morning, everything had reverted to normal. The sun shone from a blue, cloudless sky, and Santa had manfully struggled through the wind and rain to leave a barbeque grill – complete with a red bow – in my garden. And it had my name on it. What a good guy he is.

We can barbeque all year round in Arizona, as opposed to three or four times a year in Scotland. I’ve only ever had little charcoal barbeque grills before. This is a gas-powered model – so bring on the sausages and chicken.

Christmas over here is no different from Christmas everywhere. People enjoy large family gatherings, a lot of food, a lot of gifts, wear ugly sweaters, and have a generally fun-filled time.

There is, however, one noticeable difference, where Americans go further and, to an outsider, take things to extremes – lights.

Houses and front gardens are illuminated in spectacular fashion from early December through the New Year. In some cases, whole neighbourhoods are closed off to traffic so families can stroll round and look at the displays.

There are lawn displays of cartoon characters, nativity scenes, and inflatable Santas. In many cases, householders provide mugs of hot chocolate for the adults, and candy canes for children.

We toured a few places this year and the amount of work people put in is incredible. Not to mention the money involved. Some families must spend thousands of dollars on their Christmas lighting displays, and many have charity collection boxes at their front gate.

The city I live in, Chandler, has a downtown area which is nicely lit up and boasts a curious 60-year old tradition. The Christmas tree centerpiece is made up entirely of tumbleweed bushes bound together. Volunteers collect the tumbleweed – of which there is plenty in the Arizona desert – and build up the tree.

The other hugely impressive display is at the Mormon Temple in the next-door city of Mesa. Every year, tens of thousands of families make a special trip to visit the illumination display there.

It is all a welcome change from Scotland where I remember only a handful of houses being ‘lit up’ – often for charity – during the festive season. That was followed by newspaper headlines that thieves had stolen the charity money, or that neighbours were unhappy that they couldn’t hear Coronation Street for the noise outside. Bah humbug, right enough.

So here are a few shots of Arizona lit up for what they call over here ‘The Holidays’. Perhaps, in true American style, I’ll go and pour myself an eggnog.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About hiding from the fugitive outside

Every so often a little incident happens that reminds me I’m not in Scotland any more, and that America can be a slightly scarier place. And it’s amazing how the imagination can play tricks.

The towns and cities that make up greater Phoenix typically consist of what they call neighbourhoods. The one I live in is typical. It has three entrances, two off main streets and another which is more of a back entrance, and there are in the region of 100 town houses with a couple of communal outdoor swimming pools.

A couple of weeks ago, I drove in one of the main entrances and a police car was parked there. The officers didn’t stop me, but I noticed another couple of police vehicles further down the road, as well as two police helicopters circling overhead.

That didn’t bother me too much. Police here tend to respond quickly, and in numbers, to any incident. However, by the time I’d reached my house, about two minutes later, I became aware of a larger police presence than I anticipated. I passed at least three other vehicles, and there were two or three officers standing guard.

My immediate guess, and it didn’t take a genius to work it out, was that they were hunting for someone who was on the run.

So, when I got to the house, I parked the car, and looked around. There is a large area of waste ground nearby and I wandered over in that direction. There were five more police – two on bicycles would you believe.

And these guys were not to be messed with. When I say they were armed, they had some of the biggest guns I have ever seen. I know little about guns but these were very large and I took them to be automatic or semi-automatic.

I was getting the feeling that this might be more serious than first appeared. I called my wife, who was heading home, and told her what to expect. It turned out that, when she got to the neighbourhood entrance, police wouldn’t let her in.

Eventually the police called everyone in the neighbourhood. The message was simple. There is an ongoing police incident, stay inside and lock your doors and windows. The area is “in lockdown”.

That made me feel just a little uncomfortable. I’ve seen all these movies. So, I did lock the doors. I even closed the window blinds, and made sure the computer and TV were turned off – just in case.

I decided to check the local news on the phone. The helicopters were still buzzing overhead. The story was that a driver had been pulled over by the cops. Instead of stopping, he had rammed the police vehicle, sped off, driven into the neighbourhood, and fled. The police were obviously in hot pursuit so he hadn’t got far. By my reckoning, he was possibly outside the house.

I wasn’t panicking by any manner of means. But my mind was beginning to work overtime. What if…this guy was in my back yard, about to knock on the door…what if he was drugged up or drunk…and, this being America, what if he had a gun?

At one point, I took myself upstairs, just to be on the safe side. My wife kept in touch to say the entrances were still blocked off. The cops had ‘huge guns’, she told me.

It was a weird feeling. I’m not saying I ever felt in danger or under any threat. There were plenty police around. But I felt jittery. If there had been a knock on the door or window, my heart would have missed several beats.

All of a sudden, I became aware that the noise of the helicopters had stopped. The local news confirmed that the incident was over and that a man was in police custody. I could breathe easily again.

Perhaps I’ve been watching too many TV shows. And maybe I wouldn’t have been so apprehensive in Scotland. But being part of a lockdown situation in America was an experience I wouldn’t like to repeat.