Just a Wee Blether…

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About national anthems – to sing or not?

There’s nothing better than seeing a pompous, arrogant prat being brought down to earth with a thump – and former Fleet Street editor turned chat show presenter turned Twittersphere pain in the butt Piers Morgan is most definitely a pompous, arrogant prat.

After Olympian Bradley Wiggins had strained every sinew to claim a cycling gold medal for Britain, he committed the heinous crime of not singing the National Anthem. Shock horror, he even pulled a funny face on the podium.

Without delay, Morgan took to his trusty Twitter account to tell the world, “I was very disappointed @bradwiggins didn’t sing the anthem either. Show some respect to our monarch please.”

Wiggins’ reply was short and to the point. “@piersmorgan I was disappointed when you didn’t go to jail for insider dealing or phone hacking, but you know, each to his own.” So far nothing more has been heard from Morgan but give him time.

Only days earlier a similar type of row broke out in the US around the head of gymnast Gabby Douglas, part of the American gold medal winning team who had produced arguably the finest gymnastic performance since the days of Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci.

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Douglas stood straight and proud as the anthem was being played – but crucially her hands were clasped in front of her. Her four colleagues held their right hands over their hearts, as many Americans do. All hell broke loose, she was accused of being ‘unpatriotic’ and of dishonouring the American flag.

Columnist Bill Plaschke wrote in the Los Angeles Times, “The next time Gabby Douglas stands on a podium for the national anthem, she can forget the words, disagree with them, protest them. But here’s hoping she never again ignores the weight of their meaning.”

Gabby Douglas aplogised but it’s not the first time a row has broken out at the Olympics over athletes allegedly disrespecting the flag or the monarchy. Remember Daley Thompson whistling the anthem after winning decathlon gold at the Los Angeles games in 1984?

Does any of this really matter a damn? These are sportspeople who have trained hard for years and turned in magnificent, medal-winning performances. What difference does it make whether they sing along or where they put their hands? Are there ancient rules of etiquette governing this sort of occasion?

I remember an old Scoutmaster once telling us boys that, when the anthem was played, we should hold our hands behind our backs and stick out our chests. The chest-puffing would demonstrate pride in Queen and country. That was his take on the matter.

The dirge-like British national anthem is so tortuous that the only emotion it ever inspired in me was boredom and a sense of ‘please let this be over’. I like Flower of Scotland as a Scottish anthem and I’ve sung along at Hampden Park football matches and other occasions. However, I never once felt the need to place my hand reverently on my heart.

My two personal favourite anthems are those of France and Wales. Over here the Star Spangled Banner is also a great spirited song, even if the ‘land of the free’ sentiment jars somewhat. Americans sing the anthem at every opportunity, from baseball and football games to high school graduation ceremonies, and people display genuine national, patriotic pride.

But surely medal winning Olympic athletes bring a sense of honour and pride to their nations simply by participating. If they win they are understandably elated. For many it is the highlight of their sporting lives. I’m not advocating outrageous behaviour on the medal podium but I do think some people should get a life.

If there was a gold medal for tweeting I would love to award it to Bradley Wiggins. But I suppose it’s too much to hope that his response will keep Piers Morgan quiet for long.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the millionaire Olympic Games

The first Olympic Games I really remember with any clarity was the 1968 event in Mexico City. They made a big impact on me as a sports-mad youngster. I remember Bob Beamon’s incredible long-jump record; David Hemery winning hurdles gold for Britain; and the Block Power protest by Tommie Smith and John Carlos.

I also have very clear memories of a boxer called Chris Finnegan. He might not be an Olympic household name any more but his victory in the middleweight division captured a nation. It was late at night UK-time/early morning Mexico time when I heard my parents saying that Finnegan had won the gold.

Finnegan was a pretty rough and ready character. Just before the games, he had lost his job as a hod carrier and Olympic records described him as an unemployed labourer at the time of his gold medal win. He was a strict amateur, as Olympic rules decreed, and had been in financial difficulties in the run-up to Mexico. Afterwards he went professional, but with only limited success. Mexico City 1968 was Finnegan’s moment in the sun.

David Hemery was a physical education teacher that year; Bob Braithwaite, who won shooting gold, was a veterinary surgeon who persuaded his local priest to operate the trap while he practiced; Lillian Board, who won silver in the women’s 400 metres, worked full-time in a typing pool; and Marion Coakes, who won equestrian silver, was the daughter of a farmer and learned her riding skills on the back of a donkey.

This week the British Olympic flag was carried into the stadium in Rio by Andy Murray, fresh from his victory at Wimbledon which earned him £2million. Murray’s net worth – before Wimbledon – was put at £36.55million. His professional tennis career has been responsible for every penny.

Murray, of course, is the pride of Scotland right now and hailed as possibly the nation’s greatest-ever sportsman. Chris Hoy, Eric Liddell and others might have a claim on that title but nevertheless it was wonderful to see a Scottish competitor awarded the privilege.

He’s not the only millionaire sportsperson in Rio of course. The USA golf squad includes Rickie Fowler, Bubba Watson and Matt Kuchar, all multi-millionaires thanks to their sport. The British squad contains Justin Rose. Fowler said this week he was proud to be at the Games but that winning a major golfing event such as The Open would trump an Olympic gold.

For decades the Olympic ideal meant love of sport, not love of money. The games were strictly for amateur athletes, people such as Chris Finnegan who sparred at the local gym in between labouring shifts. Then came megabuck television deals, corporate sponsorships, and slowly but surely the Olympic movement effectively sold its amateur soul. The commercial sponsors were fine with the Braithwaites and Finnegans as long as they got big names – Lionel Messi, Ryan Giggs, Roger Federer, Michael Jordan.

When Jordan and his ‘Dream Team’ US basketball squad, which included the likes of ‘Magic’ Johnson and Larry Bird, arrived in Barcelona in 1992, it signalled the end of the amateur era. They won their games by an average of 44 points. There was no competition.

The clock will never be turned back, it’s simply not possible. There is so much money slushing around sport – legally and illegally – that a truly amateur Olympics could never again happen. Having said that, there are plenty of amateur golfers, for example. Why shouldn’t they get their opportunity instead of the likes of Rickie Fowler for whom an Olympic gold is a distant second to a victory in the US PGA? Or is it really the case that the days when winning an Olympic event was the proudest moment of a sportsperson’s life are gone forever?

I’ll still watch the Olympics and admire the great sporting achievements. But I won’t pay the slightest bit of attention to whichever team of millionaires wins the golf, or the tennis, or the football.

As for Andy Murray, he has had many moments in the limelight and may well have many more. There are plenty of lesser-known contestants from throughout the UK, including Scotland, who arguably would have been more suitable candidates to carry the flag. But then another Andy Murray photo opportunity is good for Olympic business and corporate bank accounts.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About those damn nostalgic yearnings

Nostalgia is a great thing. We all look back at our childhood days and remember, for the most part, a time that was happier and more innocent. Of course, very often, we are guilty of looking back in time through rose-coloured spectacles. But as we get older, that yearning for nostalgia can sometimes kick us in the teeth.

The dilapidated little red brick cottage in the picture is where I spent the first three years of my life. It is a lodge at the south gate of a small estate called Ashcraig, roughly halfway between Largs and Skelmorlie on Scotland’s Clyde Coast. From the garden, you can look directly across the water to Rothesay Bay, watch the paddle steamer Waverley sailing past, and take in all the amazing scenery and the maritime activity.

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When we moved to a house in Largs, my grandparents moved there from the north lodge a quarter of a mile away. My grandfather, an Irishman called James Lundy, was the estate’s head gardener so the front lawn and back garden were always perfectly manicured.

As a family we visited the cottage every week. Sometimes I spent the entire summer holidays there. My memories of the place are incredibly happy. When I stopped to take some photographs shortly before I moved to America last year, I was heartbroken to see the state of the house. It was just an unloved empty shell.

Another of my old houses, where I spent most of my teenage years, has been demolished. That’s the trouble with nostalgia. We expect to return to the scenes of our childhood and find them exactly as we remember them. Strangely, when we’re in our 20s, 30s and 40s and making our way in the world, it doesn’t seem to matter so much. Now it does.

Take a trip through the Highlands of Scotland and you’ll pass dozens of ramshackle old farm cottages that have lain empty for decades. Some of them have only two or three walls left standing. In America they call them ‘fixer-uppers’ and I always think, as with my old cottage at Ashcraig, that with a bit of money and imagination they could be made habitable again. Not everyone wants a ‘cookie-cutter’ house after all.

My wife was brought up in Pittsburgh, in western Pennsylvania. She often reminisces with great fondness about a small house (fondly referred to as ‘camp) that belonged to her grandparents in a place called Cook Forest. There was the house, a swimming pool, a tree-house, and extensive grounds. Now the house is unused, the pool has been filled in, and the area is in a state of disrepair.

Childhood memories are not limited to buildings and places. I grew up in late 50s and early 60s when not everyone had television. From the age of three or four I was lucky. My parents had a small TV set – Pam was the brand name – and I was transfixed by Watch With Mother. If you don’t remember, Picture Book was on a Monday, followed by Andy Pandy; Bill and Ben; Rag, Tag and Bobtail; and The Woodentops.

Our neighbours used to come to the house to watch shows such as Dr Kildare, Perry Mason and The Lucy Show. My father watched The Fugitive, Gunsmoke, and Wagon Train. I wasn’t exposed to 50s and early 60s rock music, my parents had an old Dansette record player and we were brought up on a diet of Scottish music by the likes of Robert Wilson, Calum Kennedy, Andy Stewart and the Joe Gordon Folk Four.

As for sport, all I can say is that in 1967 it cost me 6d in old money – that’s 2.5 pence sterling today – to watch Celtic, who were then European champions. Last season Liverpool were charging fans £77 for a meaningless English league fixture against Sunderland.

Maybe we should all put the past out of our minds, and just move forward as though it doesn’t matter. That would save any disappointments. But it’s impossible. Everything is wrapped up in nostalgic memories, from Hillman Imps, 5 Boys chocolate bars, and Television Top of the Form to Mr Pastry, penny dainties, and Capstan cigarettes. In the States they get misty-eyed over the children’s game KerPlunk, the Andy Griffith Show, and the Howard Johnson’s (or HoJo’s) motorway restaurant chain.

When I saw my old house practically falling to bits I wished I had the wherewithal to buy it and make it into a home again. All I can do is hope that it somehow won’t be allowed to become another part of my childhood that disappears off the face of the earth.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About America’s unpopularity contest

This time last year very few people took seriously the prospect of the Brexit movement succeeding, and the UK chortled at the thought that Boris Johnson might hold one of the country’s great offices of state. At the same time Donald Trump’s chances of ascending to the US Presidency were put at 1%. Now he has a 50/50 chance, only Hillary Clinton stands in his way.

Forget Game of Thrones. If you thought the Battle of the Bastards ended when Jon Snow defeated the forces of Ramsay Bolton, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Trump and Clinton are two of the most despised figures in the US, yet one of them is going to become President – what Americans like to call the Leader of the Free World.

We should be under no illusions that what has happened here over the past 12 months has been nothing short of a political revolution. I have been fascinated by American politics for a long time and have watched ‘alternative’ candidates come and go. Trump, love him or hate him, has achieved the unthinkable.

The two-party system of American politics is so corrupt it stinks to high heaven. That system has been torn to shreds. The Republican Party might not admit it, but there is in effect no Republican candidate this time around. Sure, Trump has been endorsed but he is no Republican, he has hijacked the party and he could easily have done exactly the same with the Democrats. In all honesty he is leading the Trump Party.

So traditional Republican supporters who normally vote the party line will have to think twice this election. Trump has proved himself a great opportunist. Republican candidates of recent years – McCain, Palin, Romney – have been dire. Not one of the plethora of candidates that announced their intentions for the 2016 election looked worthy of the job. Trump saw an opening, took a chance, and won the day.

And let’s not run away with the idea that his calls for a wall on the Mexican border, a ban on Muslim immigrants, a trade war with China, are the rantings of a madman. Trump knew precisely what he was doing. He was tapping into a deep well of anti-establishment frustration, fuelled by the belief that the politicians in Washington had deserted the man in the street. The people were lost and he was their saviour.

To an extent he was right, politicians of both parties have been lining their pockets for decades at the expense of the taxpayer and an overhaul of the system is long overdue. But Trump has also whipped up a climate of fear and paranoia, a feeling that the world is against America, and that ‘anti-Americans’ in society are threatening the nation’s traditional values and way of life. Of course he means members of ‘other’ races and it all sits well with a large section of society.

The former Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard David Duke announced on Friday that he was to run for a Senate seat in Louisiana, declaring, “I’m overjoyed to see Donald Trump and most Americans embrace most of the issues that I’ve championed for years.”

In recent months America seems to have been consumed by one of its sporadic spasms of violence and unrest. At the heart of it, as always, are the issues of race and the gung-ho forces of law and order. During the same period, I have heard the N-word and other racial slurs, normally restricted nowadays to behind-closed door settings, used more commonly and with more confidence.

Trumpism has achieved what wannabe Presidential candidates such as Ross Perot and, further back in time, William Randolph Hearst and Henry Ford failed to do. The man is one good campaign away from the White House.

So how have the Democrats responded to this outpouring of anti-establishment sentiment? In typical arrogant fashion, they have all but ignored it and carried on as if nothing has happened. It’s like the political equivalent of Dumb and Dumber. While Americans have been railing against the Washington political elite, the Democrats have smoothed the path of a candidate who is not just part of the establishment, but a member of an establishment dynasty – and a deeply unpopular one at that.

Hillary Clinton has made history by becoming the first female Presidential candidate and for that she should be praised. But she comes with a terrific amount of negative baggage, and lacks the undoubted charisma of her husband. One commentator remarked this week that Clinton compared with Trump was like ‘watching the television test page’.

Last year the Republicans were pushing Jeb Bush as the anointed candidate. No-one wanted another Bush in the White House and it remains to be seen how many are keen on another Clinton.

Trump may be an egomaniac in every sense of the word but he is in a very strong position. His promises at the Republican Convention that he would bring back jobs to depressed cities such as Detroit and Cleveland were nonsense – but the people loved hearing them.

A few short weeks ago the British people fell for the spin of Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage and voted to leave the EU. It has turned the established political class on its head. So will the US continue where Britain left off? Don’t bet against it.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About having plenty history here thanks

For eleven years, Americans came to visit us in Scotland. They brought ‘bucket lists’ with them, places they wanted to visit, food they wanted to eat; experiences they had read about, regarded as uniquely Scottish, and wanted to sample.

In no particular order they included whisky distilleries (complete with a dram or two of real Scotch whisky), castles and palaces, standing stones, anything Braveheart or Harry Potter-related, scenery, train journeys (most visitors had never been on one), hillwalking or hiking – and of course, if they dared to taste it, haggis.

Some wanted a little bit of golf memorabilia, others wanted to sample beer from a Scottish micro-brewery. Some even wanted to go to England, and we were able to accommodate them. The fact there was an overnight sleeper from Glasgow to London – with a bar – was an eye-opener.

Without exception, every visitor from the States loved Scotland. We took photographs of them at Stirling Castle, Linlithgow Palace, the Swilken Bridge at St Andrews golf course, Rosslyn Chapel, Glengoyne Distillery in Stirlingshire, hillwalking in the Cairngorms, on the Harry Potter train crossing Glenfinnan Viaduct, cycling round Cumbrae, and many more places.

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In most cases, we made a point of taking people to the Highlands – Aviemore, Fort William and Oban were our go-to spots. Family members were introduced to the game of shinty, taken up the gondolas at Aonach Mor, and sailed over the sea to Mull. Even old graveyards – the ones in Scotland are really old in American terms – were a great source of interest.

Stirling Castle

Showing off your own country to others is a lot of fun, as well as a source of pride. Our American friends and family were always appreciative, they still talk about their memories of the places they visited and the characters they encountered on their Scottish travels.

The greatest sense of wonder was that our history stretched back so far. People would say America is still a “young” country and the old buildings, the ancient history and culture that we take for granted in Scotland simply don’t exist there.

I don’t subscribe to that for a second. Obviously there are centuries of Native American tradition but, apart from that, it is wrong to suggest that the United States somehow “lacks” history. On the contrary I find the culture and history that has evolved here rich and varied, even if it is all relatively recent compared with Scotland.

A few weeks ago we took a day-long drive, part of which involved a visit to a national monument called Tuzigoot, an old Native American pueblo near the Arizona town of Clarkdale. Indian tribes started building the community around the year 1125. If that’s not ancient history I don’t know what is.

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On the same trip we stopped in the city of Prescott. It is Wild West to the core. The Palace Bar on historic Whiskey Row was the haunt of Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp and Virgil Earp. It was used for the filming of the Western movie Junior Bonner starring Steve McQueen, and it contains an ornately carved wooden bar on which bartenders would slide glasses of beer down to waiting patrons.

We also visited Jerome, an old mining town where some of the richest copper deposits in America were discovered and where thousands of people, including many Scots, made a small fortune; we passed through the town of Payson where the author Zane Grey wrote many of his Western books; and we checked out the oldest schoolhouse left standing in Arizona, in the village of Strawberry.

That was a fair amount of history and culture for one short day trip and it gives the lie to the theory that there is no history in America. It’s very easy to bash the US and say it’s a ‘mongrel’ civilisation made up of a hodge-podge of immigrants. But the country is old enough now to have a history of its own – no-one else can claim the Wild West after all.

I will forever cherish Scotland, its people, history and culture as the greatest on earth. And don’t worry, I’ll still regale them with Tam O’Shanter on Burns Night. But I love everything about the often chequered history of my adopted land. It’s fascinating beyond belief.

  • The pics show Rosslyn Chapel, Stirling Castle, and the Tuzigoot National Monument

Just a Wee Blether…

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About America’s bogus ‘world capitals’

I’m convinced that, one day, I’m going to pick up a newspaper (yes I still read them) to discover that Portland, Maine, or some such place, is the official Haggis Making Capital of the World.  Or that they hold an annual mince and tatties ceremony in Omaha, Nebraska.

So-called ‘world capitals’ are everywhere in the United States. Even in the sporting world the American Football team that wins the Super Bowl is crowned World Champions, and the final games of the baseball season are known as the World Series. The fact no other countries take part seems to make no difference.

It is a bit like saying that Lovat, Newtonmore, Kingussie, and Kyles Athletic have been shinty world champions because they have won the last four Camanachd Cup finals.

So where is the Golfing Capital of the World? It can only be St Andrews, Scotland, right? Wrong. Even though American golfers go all misty-eyed at the prospect of playing on Scotland’s hallowed links, the country holds up Naples, Florida, as the world’s golf capital. The area may have 90 golf courses but only 30 are public. You may also have seen news stories about a giant alligator that roams the fairways – give me the midges at St Andrews or Royal Troon any day.

A few years ago a friend of my wife left Arizona to live in a small town in Arkansas called Alma. It’s a nondescript place – a podunk town as they say here – but in the town centre stands a huge bronze statue of Popeye on top of a fountain holding a can of spinach. Alma had a spinach canning plant that canned more than half the spinach in the US so it became the Spinach Capital of the World.

Bizarrely, Crystal City, Texas, made the same claim. But even more bizarrely both claims are utter nonsense. The US produces only 1.4% of the world’s spinach. China produces more than 90% so there are most likely umpteen Chinese communities that could justifiably lay claim to the ‘world capital’ title.

Ashburn, Georgia, claims to be the Peanut Capital of the World; so does Smithfield, Virginia; and Suffolk, Virginia; and Sylvester, Georgia, and at least three other towns and cities in the US. At least America is the world’s leading peanut producer. For some reason the village of Galilee, Rhode Island, is labelled the Tuna Capital of the World. Try telling that to the people of the Philippines and elsewhere and you would be laughed out of court.

Some of the nicknames derive from flowers or trees that are locally abundant; others from food or clothing factories the towns were once known for. Most are simply bogus. Sheboygan, Wisconsin, is well known for its large German immigrant population but how can it possibly be the Bratwurst Capital of the World? It’s like saying Chicago is the world’s Guinness Capital because it is heavily populated by expat Irish.

Huntsville, Texas, is known cheerfully as the Execution Capital of the World, or Death Penalty City. It may be the place to die in Texas but it has a long way to go to catch up with the execution centres in Pakistan, Iran, Saudi Arabia and a few other countries. As for the claim by Fallbrook, California, to be the Avocado Capital of the World – complete baloney. The US is light years behind Mexico and a couple of other nations in avocado production.

So why do American towns and cities do this? It’s difficult to argue that the American people have an inferiority complex. Quite the opposite. Perhaps it’s a sense of insularity – so if it’s the biggest in America, it must be the biggest in the world?

But at least one town has kept its long-held claim to fame, years after the closure of the factories that gave rise to it – if you’ll pardon the pun. Dothan, Alabama, revels in the title of the Condom Capital of the World because of the presence of the Durex and Ansell rubber factories which turned out millions of protective sheaths every week. Now there’s something the town can justifiably blow its trumpet about.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Brexit viewed from America

Since I came to the United States last March I’ve been boasting – insufferably I suspect – about how certain aspects of British culture are different, and in my opinion better, than what I’ve encountered over here.

I have long crowed that we don’t have the same level of racial intolerance that is all too evident in American daily life – that Britain is a more inclusive and welcoming nation. And, at every possible opportunity, I have reminded Americans of the wonders of our National Health Service compared with the gross travesty of this country’s insurance-based system.

So what do I tell my American friends now? The aftermath of Brexit has been widely reported here. They have read that in Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, printed cards containing the words ‘No More Polish Vermin’ were posted through letterboxes. How can I tell people now that Britain is not a racist country? As for the NHS, it survived the Thatcher years but there must now be serious doubts about how much longer it will last.

The American view of Brexit has been one of sheer disbelief. For a start the whole referendum process is lost on people here. One commentator asked why politicians allowed the public to vote on an issue after the public had elected politicians to look after such matters. “What will happen at Budget time? Will the public take control of that too?” he added.

Not surprisingly the millions of Donald Trump supporters are jubilant and they expect the Brexit result to propel their man’s equally populist campaign to victory in November. The ‘take my country back’ slogan resonates with a large percentage of the American population and they have taken to social media lauding Brits for ridding their land of “Muslims…Frogs…Commies…Terrorists”.

The sober voices in the business and economic world have reacted with horror. One financial expert described the vote as “economic suicide” and ”national insanity”. It had an immediate and devastating effect on the markets here. The giant beer company Anheuser-Busch InBev, based in St Louis with European headquarters in Belgium, saw its market value plunge by $11.9 billion in one day.

Markets are volatile, of course, and the big beer execs will be fine. But the gravest threat to the British economy that is exercising the minds of the experts here is what they call “disinvestment”. The so-called special relationship and a common language means that most of the big US companies who trade in Europe have their European bases in Britain. With Britain as an EU member they enjoy free and unfettered access to all other EU markets. If and when that changes, these companies would lose that access and very possibly relocate elsewhere.

If a firm such as Caterpillar moves from the UK to France or Belgium or Poland, thousands of British jobs will go. I’ve read and listened extensively to all the reasoned arguments over here and all agree that Britain is heading for a long and difficult period of recession.

But let’s be honest, this referendum was not won or lost on the niceties of the global economy. Do you think the modern-day Chelsea Headhunters and the geezer up the Old Kent Road with his West Ham scarf and red and white Enger-lund underpants were stroking their chins and contemplating the impact on the money markets of Europe? Of course not, they wanted Britain to be British again – whatever that means nowadays.

When I saw the voxpops over the weekend from English towns and cities, I couldn’t believe the level of anti-foreigner vitriol I was hearing. Perhaps I was cocooned in Scotland but I honestly didn’t know such hatred and bitterness existed south of the border, and to such an extent.

And the Leave campaign milked their fears and xenophobia to perfection. The leaders knew their audience. And Britain is now safe in the hands of Boris Johnson, the class clown made good. I mean, seriously? It’s like having Paul Gascoigne in charge of the Football Association. As for Nigel Farage, I have always conjured up a mental picture of him as an old fashioned National Front bovver boy – dressed in a suit but with the same twisted mindset.

So how does Britain look today from a distance? Truthfully it resembles a sad, lonely, isolated, and yes racist little country, its citizens with their backs turned towards the outside world saying ‘we don’t want you here’.

Am I ashamed to be a Brit abroad? Yes, a little, even though I can in no way identify with the outpouring of hatred that Brexit has unleashed.

But the next time Donald Trump bellows about keeping out Mexican “rapists” and Muslim “terrorists”, what can I say? Shrug my shoulders and tell people the same intolerance exists back home. He wants his wall; Britain has put up its barriers.

Who knows how this will end. Scexit or Indyref2 will be interesting. Right now it’s just a desperately sad state of affairs.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About surviving the deadly Arizona heat

Before I came to Arizona, everyone warned me about the same thing. Right now I’m experiencing the worst of it. Between now and the middle of this week it will have been directly responsible for upwards of 10 deaths. I’m talking about the ferocious and unforgiving Arizona heat.

The temperature in Phoenix today was 118 degrees Fahrenheit – that equals 47.7 degrees Celsius. Forecasters are referring to it in the media as “deadly heat” and have warned that it could climb higher between today and Wednesday.  People have been advised to stay indoors at the hottest times of the day.

Heat-related ailments kill an average of 120 Arizonans every year. Most are outdoor workers – construction sites open in the early mornings and close long before noon – along with many homeless people and some climbers.

Today a 28-year old woman died while mountain biking on a desert trail. Firefighters said her death was 100% heat-related.

Believe me this is serious heat, the like of which I’ve never encountered. If you’ve been to Spain or Greece or Cyprus, then you’ll know what it’s like at “siesta time”. But at least the Mediterranean resorts enjoy a cooling sea breeze, here the nearest coast is 213 miles away at Puerto Penasco, Mexico. It’s a bit like an old Spaghetti Western – the sun just beats down relentlessly.

Today we drove to my father-in-law’s house to take him out for Father’s Day. It’s a journey of approximately 30 minutes. There was barely a soul to be seen, the normally-busy golf courses were empty, so were all the play areas and parks, no-one was walking on the pavements, the place was deserted. We remarked that it resembled a ghost town.

There are laws governing dog owners who are required to have their pets on a tether of at least 10 feet and with a loose collar. At certain times of day, the dogs’ paws must be protected from the scorching pavements and it is not uncommon to see dogs wearing booties.

At one point today my wife nipped into a shop. I waited in the car without realising that, because the engine was off, the lack of air conditioning would be quite so uncomfortable.  Within less than a minute, I had to leave the car and stand in the shade because I was struggling to breathe. If your vehicle has no air-con, then you simply cannot use it in this heat.

It is the same in the house. In addition to the air conditioning system, we have ceiling fans in each room plus a tower-style fan that oscillates. If the a/c broke down it would be an emergency situation, we couldn’t live here without it.

Between now and the middle of September the temperature will rarely dip between 100F. This week is exceptionally hot and there will be a few more similar spells during the long, hot summer. The “deadly heat”, as they call it, is almost exclusively felt in Phoenix and the surrounding cities. We are in a low-lying valley, called the Valley of the Sun, it is heavily built up with a population of 3.2 million, and there is little cooling wind or rain. To the north or south the elevation is higher and the temperature can be about 25 degrees lower.

People over here describe the summer as “four months of hell”. That’s a bit over the top but you certainly have to be sensible about what you do and when. Climbing a mountain at high noon is a very bad idea. Drinking a lot of water is essential to avoid dehydration, and most people wear shorts and a t-shirt, something to cover their head and of course sunglasses and sun screen.

The beauty of Arizona is that, for eight months of the year, the weather is fantastic. Right now, the heat is extreme. I’ll be fine, but spare a thought for the poor mountain biker who died. As for the unfortunates who sleep rough on the streets, they might not be so lucky.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About nostalgia for the glory days of cars

A few months ago I was travelling in the same car as a friend of mine from the American Midwest. We turned a corner and passed by a stunningly restored old vehicle, gleaming red body, white roof, the type you see in 1960s movies – some so big they look more like boats than cars.

“62 Chevy”, he said immediately. “How do you know that?”, I replied, a bit stunned by this show of instant automotive knowledge. “How do you know it’s not a ‘61 Chevy, or a ‘63?”

“Ah, it’s the rear lights,” he chuckled. “I’d recognise them anywhere. ‘62 it is.” I’m not 100% sure to this day if he was winding me up, but I suspect not, I think he knew exactly what he was talking about. So I took his word for it, and declared myself suitably impressed.

This kind of classic or vintage vehicle recognition is not unusual over here. After all Americans have had an obsession with cars, to the exclusion of almost all other forms of transport, since the early days of the 20th century. And they had a lot to be proud of, these big old cars – Chevrolets, Oldsmobiles, Buicks, Ford Mustangs, Ford Thunderbirds (or T-Birds), Dodges, Lincolns, Cadillacs and many more – were things of beauty.

For families all over the country the car that sat in their driveway or parked at the roadside was a status symbol. Now car buffs are buying up those same old 50s and 60s vehicles, lovingly restoring them, in some cases spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on them, and cruising round the freeways and highways of the United States.

They are classy old vehicles. One person I know is restoring a ‘little red Corvette’, another is a collector who has nine old Chevys worth many thousands of dollars. If you drive on the back roads of America, you see old banged up cars just waiting to be picked up and turned into someone’s dream car. The car pictured is a Thunderbird (year unknown) lying in a state of disrepair behind a classy wedding venue in Florence, Arizona.

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What was different about these cars – compared with the ones on the road nowadays – is that they all had individuality. Here you could tell a Chrysler Imperial from a Chevrolet Impala, a Plymouth Barracuda from a Pontiac Trans Am. Just as in the UK you could tell apart a Hillman Minx, a Riley Elf, an Austin A40, a Vauxhall Victor, and a Humber Sceptre.

When I was young I used to travel with my parents from my home in Ayrshire to visit relatives in Lochaber. In those days the roads were narrow and windy, we crossed on the Erskine and Ballachulish ferries – there were no bridges – and if the queues were long the journey could take anything up to seven hours.

I often used to pass the time with a book and kept a note of all the different car makes that passed us going in the opposite direction. I kept score, the winner was always Ford, closely followed by Austin, Morris and Vauxhall. There were a good few Volkswagens, Wolseleys, Rileys, Hillmans and Fiats. And the beauty of this little exercise was that I could tell what they were from quite a distance.

That has all changed. In the US most cars are built to three basic ‘shapes’ – SUV, sedan and hatchback. When you see an SUV coming towards you it is impossible, until you see the logo, to tell if it is a Hyundai, Nissan, Ford, Honda, Dodge or Mazda. Not that I keep a note any more – but the romance of car design is well and truly dead. Unless, of course, you can afford a high end vehicle like a Porsche, Jaguar, Lotus or Ferrari.

I reserve a certain amount of awe and wonderment for my buddy in the Midwest, and others like him, who can rattle off the make and the year of an old car when they pass by. He grew up in an age when the car was king. Fifty years from now I don’t think the youngsters of today will see an old vehicle and say “2015 Ford Focus”.

At least the car enthusiasts, on both sides of the Atlantic, keep alive the memory of these classy and stylish old vehicles with their restoration work. Let’s hope they keep up the good work.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About my hero Ali – the un-American

A few months ago, I wrote in this blog about the thrill of finding out that one of my great sporting heroes, Muhammad Ali, lived only a few miles from me in Arizona. Ali, arguably the greatest sportsman of my generation, died this week in a hospital just a 15-minute drive from my home.

As a sports-obsessed boy growing up in the 1960s I had a lot of idols. The great Brazilian footballer Pele was at the height of his career and, to my mind, is still the greatest player that ever lived. The stylish Ferenc Puskas and Alfredo di Stefano were in decline but Eusebio, Bobby Charlton, George Best and Scotland’s own Jimmy Johnstone lit up the football fields of Europe.

Golf’s big three – Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer and Gary Player – dominated their sport, and there was an up-and-coming youngster called Tom Watson on the horizon. Billie Jean King, Rod Laver and the classy Arthur Ashe stood out for me on the tennis court, and a West Indian called Gary Sobers was a cricketing god.

Wales seemed to have all the best rugby players, certainly in the northern hemisphere – Gareth Edwards, JPR Williams and Barry John spring to mind. And who can forget the exploits of the Kenyan long distance runner Kip Keino? It was a great time to be a sports fan.

There were some incredible one-off performances. I will never forget watching a certain Bob Beamon seeming to hang in the rarified air of Mexico City as he shattered the world long jump record by an incredible two feet. Beamon collapsed in shock when the board showed 29 feet, two and a half inches. And of course there was that day that a Jim Baxter-inspired Scotland became world football champions by beating England at Wembley – that’s what happened, wasn’t it?

But somehow Muhammad Ali transcended all of this. I watched his fights on my parents’ old black and white tv set. The ones that stick in my mind weren’t against Joe Frazier or George Foreman but opponents such as Henry Cooper, George Chuvalo, Brian London, Ernie Terrell and Cleveland Williams. It was pure entertainment, his ‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee’ dance routine was something Fred Astaire would have been proud of, he was style personified.

Out of the ring he was equally charismatic and controversial. He converted to Islam, played a prominent role in the civil rights movement and refused to fight in Vietnam, stating in typical forthright manner that “no Viet Cong ever called me nigger,” only the American whites. In the 1960s that one statement alone earned him the undying hatred of half the country.

This week, hours after Ali died in a Phoenix hospital with his family round his bedside, tens of millions of Americans took to online message boards to pay tribute to a true sporting legend. Tens of millions more took to the same boards to abuse him, to spew racist venom, to call him a coward and a traitor, and to brand him un-American.

A quick scan reveals phrases such as “draft-dodging racist”…”draft-dodging coward got what he deserved by suffering”…”an un-American traitor, no hero of mine”…draft-dodging coward should be on his tombstone”… I hope Ali rots in Hell”…”changed his name to Muhammad to hide from the draft”. And millions and millions more in the same vein.

What the hell is wrong with some people in this country? Disagreeing with a person is fine, abuse of that nature about a person who lit up the lives of so many people round the world is quite frankly sick. No other nation would treat a sporting icon in such a way

Of course the American scourge of racism runs through everything. I hear racist comments here every day. Some are jokes and we should all be grown-up enough to enjoy a good non-PC joke within reason. But in 21st century America, black people are routinely called monkeys, Obama is called ‘the ape in the White House’, Oriental people are called Gooks. Everyone gets some sort of abuse – Hispanics, Jews, Mormons, Catholics, Irish, Native Americans, you name it.

As for the draft-dodging stuff, I always thought draft-dodgers ran away or squirmed out of serving, like the ‘fortunate sons’ of the wealthy. Ali, to my mind, was a conscientious objector who was prepared to face the consequences. Quite a difference.

I will remember Ali as ‘The Greatest’ and the outpouring of online hatred won’t change that one bit. It just makes me wonder even more about the whole American psyche.