My mate the Marmite Man

Is this the face of the most-hated man in Britain?

There are people (including politicians) who are loved by some and hated by others. Yet the majority don’t care one way or the other.

Jeremy Corbyn, as we know full well from the media hype, is not one of these.

He is like Marmite – you love him or you hate him.

Love is maybe not the right word but it comes closest in suggesting admiration, respect, belief or a hundred other terms.

Hate certainly seems to be the right word for the attitude of so many who shudder and cross themselves at the mention of his name or if his face appears on the television screen or the front page of a newspaper.

Why do people fear him? Especially as the vast majority have never even seen him in the flesh, at Glastonbury, or one of the many rallies he addressed while campaigning for the leadership (two years’ running) or when he campaigned against Brexit.

I first met him at a much smaller rally over 20 years ago – the Burston Strike School Rally in Norfolk.

I already knew about him and the work he was doing – especially regarding his actvities opposing racism in general and apartheid in partiular.

He was this feisty, casually-dressed (some would say scruffy) man who looked nothing like the popular image of an MP. After all in the 70s MPs didn’t take their jackets off in public, let alone remove their ties and roll up their sleeves.

Jeremy Corbyn arrested in the 1970s at a rally protesting about apartheid in South Africa

At the Burston rally as many people as possible joined the Candlestick Walk, which goes around Burston and its environs to visit sites important to the Strike School story.

As a steward I was in the vanguard of people with Jeremy and on that 45 minute walk we (about half a dozen people including Jeremy) chatted but it wasn’t all about politics.

As we all appear to know these days, Jeremy is a keen cyclist.

That Sunday morning he had risen early and cycled from his home in Islington to Liverpool Street Station (about three miles or 15 minutes by bike); travelled to Diss; cycled out to Burston (about five miles); mingled with the crowds at the rally; joined the Candlestick Walk (about two or three miles) and at about 4pm he set off by bike to Diss station (another five miles) and when he got to London cycled another three miles home.

Not bad for a man over 50 who cycled 16 miles and walked another three as well as standing for most of the day addressing the crowd as well as walking around the green visiting socialist stalls and just chatting to people.

I was already an admirer of the man. After all here was a believer in socialism who would not betray his beliefs just to gain power.

This first meeting with him strengthened my admiration of the man.

I kept an eye on his activities from then on and met him a few more times at conference or similar socialist gatherings.

It made my day in 2015 when I heard he was putting himself forward for the leadership of the Labour Party.

By this time I had retired from journalism and had moved to Hampshire, but when I heard Jeremy Corbyn was to attend that year’s Burston Rally I determined to drive the 150 miles to the Norfolk village on the Sunday of the rally. My son accompanied me.

The rally has always attracted hundreds of socialists to the small village but on that day there were thousands. It was estimated in local newspaper reports that there were at least 3,000 people present that day.

Leadership candidate Jeremy Corbyn speaking to 3,000 socialists in the tiny Norfolk village of Burston on 6 Sepember 2016

Over the past few years one of the names given to Jeremy Corbyn has been Magic Grandpa – not in a kind way but as an insult in suggesting that is all he is, a doddering grandpa not a real politician.

Well on that day in 2015 Jeremy Corbyn was a real politician AND a Magic Grandpa.

As he addressed those thousands of socialists they listened with rapt attention to a man who was offering a brighter and better future for the whole country.

At the end of an enthralling speech, as thousands applauded this great socialist, a little boy appeared at the side of the stage.

We know Jeremy Corbyn is good with children and at that moment we discovered why.

He turned and saw the little boy, probably a child or grandchild of one of the organisers, and gestured him forward. The little boy trotted over and held the great man’s hand in the most natural way.

That little boy recognised a man who cared. At that moment he WAS Magic Grandpa.

He was also the best chance the Labour Party had to recover from three disastrous leaders.

He proved his capabilities in the surprise election of 2017 – less than two years after becoming leader.

No wonder they got scared and ratcheted up the campaign against him.

Not all lessons can be taught in a classroom

Now what was I saying when I so rudely interrupted my tales of a hardworking hack?

I remember now, myself and my fellow journalism students were trying to cope with the trauma of a class “day out” to a psychiatric hospital – or mental asylum as it was called at the time.

I know that nowadays people will be horrified at the reference to mental asylum but this was at a time when that term was mild. More people would have called it the “lunatic asylum”, “looney bin” or even “nut house”.

I was 19 when we visited that place and it has stuck with me for more than 50 years. There were some in our group aged just 16 or 17 and I still wonder if they have that trip etched into their minds.

In fact there were a number of things involved with that course which in hindsight (and possibly even at the time) I believe were a waste of time.

Not the whole course – but cetainly sections of it.

I definitely found benefit in the shorthand classes as I still use elements of TeeLine today. By the end of the first eight-week course I had reached 100 wpm with 100% accuracy and managed 110 wpm at 95%.

Naturally the section on Newspaper Law was also important.

Newspaper Practice was more of a mixed bag. It certainly included a multitude of sins.

Learning how to handle a running story, for instance, was invaluable.

It involved having to write a basic report on a major accident for the next edition of an evening newspaper; updating it for the second edition as more reports came in; and providing a completely updated report for the final edition.

The beginning comes via a fax report from a local “stringer”, someone who picks up bits of news and passes them on to a newspaper for their own reporters to follow through.

Initially the reporter will get direct local comment from police and other emergency workers on site.

Eventually the reporter will be receiving reports from police, fire and hospital sources along with interviews with witnesses and survivors.

It all has to be sifted for information and filed to update the story before each appropriate deadline.

Some reporters may never find themselves facing such a situation. Some may only face it once. Some may face it on a regular basis. Whatever the situation, having worked on a running story under controlled conditions may prove a godsend one day.

On the other hand having English lessons as though you were back in school seems a pointless exercise.

Being given lessons in the use of verbs and adjectives; or the ideal length of a sentence and the appropriate number of sentences to a paragraph as applicable to a novel, is not really helpful when writing a report on a court case or condensing a three-hour council meeting into a 15 paragraphs.

You would learn far more by reading Harold Evans’ excellent book Newsman’s English.

At the end of the day lecturers can teach you shorthand; they can teach you matters of law affecting newspapers; they can even teach you the correct ways of referring to government ministers; prelates; members of the royal family; even the differences between religious denominations.

The can’t teach you how to interview the young, grieving mother and widow of the man she thought she would live with forever.

They can’t teach you to judge whether a politician is telling truth or lies.

They can’t teach you to spot the special story hidden in a mundane report.

You learn all these by experience; by working with colleagues who have already dealt with these situations; by studying stories in your paper and others.

In all honesty they could probably put all the worthwhile material into one eight-week session rather than two with a 10-month break in between.

The funniest thing about the NCTJ course was that they even gave us “homework” at the end of the first year.

More about that next time.

It’s the little things in life that make you smile

There are times when you can feel down; or feel sorry for yourself; or just feel angry about something you can do nothing about.

I’ve been through all three today and it took the smallest of incidents to cheer me up.

It was the delivery of . . .

Well let’s just wait a moment and consider why my day was going so badly.

I woke with a gut ache (no, not a stomach ache because it was lower down, in the area most people think of as the stomach).

It was not a raging, sharp pain – more of a dull ache.

The wday wasn’t going to let me off that lightly: I also had a pain across my lower back, it was almost as though I was wrapped in a girdle of pain.

Dull, aching, persistent pain.

Add in the tiredness of erratic, spasmodic sleep and it’s enough to bring anyone down and make them feel sorry for themselves.

It was not wind making me ache as there was no sign of movement up or down.

Even an hour or so sleep on the sofa didn’t help.

Meanwhile every bit of news I saw or heard was just making me more and more angry.

I can understand the lockdown – we went into the first one a week ahead of the Cabinet of Clowns ordering it. We actually started on my birthday, 16 March, 2020, when I hit 70.

Since then the way it has all been handled has often annoyed me. Not angered me – annoyed me.

When you are annoyed you can remain calm and consider what should be done.

I am not a health expert, then neither is Johnson or any of the C of C, but I do understand that if you are facing a pandemic of a virus which can kill almost as many as the Black Death or the Spanish ‘flu then you lock down everything as tight as you can.

You don’t just rely on a face mask, a six-foot gap, and regular washing of hands.

Boris Johnson seems to think that if he throws money to his pals, ignores the advice of health experts, and relies on a man who flouts every rule in the Covid19 handbook, then everything will be OK.

Despite this, and despite Starmer giving Johnson’s C of C an easy time, I still remained annoyed not angry.

Then, knowing two companies had created a vaccine and we might be on the last lap of a deadly race, I accepted that Christmas was not going to be a family affair.

Johnson needs to be loved, however, and decided, against the odds and against the health advice, that we should all have a day off for Christmas.

I am sure you know, as I do, that viruses don’t know about Christmas and Covid19 was certainly not going to take a day off for Christmas, New Year or any other holiday.

Even then I was only annoyed at Johnson and all the other idiots.

I did get really annoyed when Johnson’s decision to give us all of Christmas Day off resulted in a massive spike in the pandemic and an upsurge in Covid19 cases and deaths.

Following which he rushed into a new major lockdown – too little, too late – and I got angry.

By 7pm I was angry about something I could do nothing about; I was feeling very sorry for myself; and I was feeling down because of the pain (easing somewhat after the judicious use of a hot water bottle).

That was when the doorbell rang.

My son opened the door to see a delivery man standing by the gate and a package on the doorstep.

It was something I had ordered just after Christmas and for some unfathomable reason it really cheered me up.

Tomorrow I will probably still have a gut ache and a back ache; I will probably be less than my usually cheery self; and I will almost certainly be annoyed at least about the feckless behaviour of Johnson and his clowns.

I will have warm feet though.

London 1802

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power,
Thy Soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Let’s start again

Day 2

The weather outside may be frightful but in the house it is more delightful.

Not really that frightful, I must admit, more a bit dull, damp and cold, but definitely more delightful inside.

This morning I was reading a tweet Michael Rosen sent out last night.

Last year he was one of the earliest victims of Covid19 and spent weeks, possibly months in hospital, sometimes at death’s door, but he pulled through and rejoined us on Twitter (@MichaelRosenYes had been kept going by his family through the worst of times).

Over the past few months Michael has made many of us realise that no matter how bad things are we can get through to the other side.

He still gets people telling him there is no pandemic but he shrugs most of them off with his wry sense of humour. If they get too persistent he will block them but he doesn’t do it in a nasty way.

We should all be Michael Rosen and use humour to deal with the “Covid experts” and other sundry annoying little keyboard warriors.

If that doesn’t work then just switch off that annoying little tick. There are millions of decent people out there who will help to make your life better.

Mind you I find it hard not to respond to them. I grew up in a family where we “discussed” our different points of view and I still try to do that.

The point is a “victory” over the bots and trolls and their ilk is a hollow victory. There is no glory in it.

This year I will try harder to be more like Michael and Jeremy.

A soft answer may not turn away wrath but it makes you feel better.

So this is 2021

I woke feeling quite bright and cheerful this morning – after all it was not just a new day, it was also a New Year. This was 2021 – goodbye 2020.

I wished my darling wife Marion and my dear son David “Blwyddyn Newydd Dda” (Happy New Year to those who don’t speak Welsh) and anticipated a bright shiny day with just a slight nip in the air to remind us it was still winter.

That first cup of tea at 7.30am was like sheer ambrosia. Loose leaf breakfast tea, made in a properly warmed teapot and allowed to brew for six minutes.

Then I switched on the Breakfast news, except there was no news – it was all olds.

We are still battling Covid19 with one hand tied behind our collective back and standing on one leg with a blindfold over our eyes as our wonderful government leads us into a victory march out of Europe and into misery cut off from our friends.

The only bright light at the end of the tunnel is the fact that we now have two vaccines ready for use but even we septuagenarians will have to wait probably until February before we get even our first jab.

At least this time last year we still had 12 months of trading with our European allies ahead of us while we discussed some friendly new deal with them to start today.

I had forgotten at the time that the discussions involved Boris Johnson which meant there was as much chance of us getting a reasonable deal as there was of me beating Mo Farah at the 10-yard-dash with him wearing a deep sea diver’s outfit including the lead boots.

A healthy breakfast, a shave and a wash didn’t help as much as it usually does.

The only thing that did help was to ignore the news channels and watch some tv from the 90s when the only thing to worry about was Tony Blair.

It was Trial & Retribution actually and was quite pleasing to see David Hayman (Det. Supt. Mike Walker) tackle all the problems of leading a murder investigation while going through hell in his personal life.

Come to think of it we might have been better off with Mike Walker running the country instead of Johnson.

I’m going to settle down to a pleasant evening with a 90s box set of something to take my mind off Covid and Brexit and Johnson et al . . .

Oh damn where’s that TV remote gone?

PS: 2020 did have one bright moment – Donald Trump lost the election.

To the New Year

by Dr Tulsi Hamumanthu
If Life be a Sea and you are a Wave,
O kind New Year, will you not save
Us from sinking, by letting us ride
Atop your apex, taming the tide?

If Life be a Book and a Page you are,
O neat New Year, let us not mar
With blots and botches, your fresh fair face,
Nor waste, with blanks, your scanty space.

If Life be a Play and you are a Scene,
Help us enact some roles that are clean,
O noble New Year, during your term,
Be fair sans favour, forgiving but firm.

If Life be a Travel and a train you be,
O New Year dear, please hear my plea:
Carry us not, through rancid routes,
To stalls that sell forbidden fronts.

If Life be a Game and you are a Ball,
O smart New Year, fail not to fall
In goals like Health, courage, compassion;
Avoid such goals as pelf or passion.

If Life be a Prayer and you are His proxy
Bringing us alms, O New Year, mercy!
Place some crumbs of Peace in our bowl
To feed our hungry hearts and soul.

I’ll be back

December has not been the best of months but I intend to return to action in the New Year (tomorrow).

It has been a difficult time for us all and many have found it harder because they have been separated from family and loved ones who would normally be there to offer support.

Our son is at home with us but our oldest daughter has had to cope with isolation with our two wonderful grandchildren.

We love the three of them but find it hard not to be able to be there to help and support them at this time.

Our other daughter has been our support when we needed urgent supplies over the past two weeks but next week she will also have to stay clear as she returns to work (she’s an assistant head at a state secondary school) and until vaccines are given we will have to continue our three bubbles.

I know many out there are worse off and I hope we will soon all be able to enjoy our free and full lives once more.

Bright Star

by John Keats (1795-1821)
Bright star, were I as stedfast as though art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart
Like nature's patient, sleepless Emerite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel forever its soft fall and swell,
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.

The Sound Collector

by Roger McGough (b 1937)
A stranger called this morning
Dressed all in black and grey
Put every sound into a bag
And carried them away

The whistling of the kettle
The turning of the lock
The purring of the kitten
The ticking of the clock

The popping of the toaster
The crunching of the flakes
When you spread the marmalade
The scraping noise it makes

The hissing of the frying pan
The ticking of the grill
The bubbling of the bathtub
As it starts to fill

The drumming of the raindrops
On the windowpane
When you do the washing-up
The gurgle of the drain

The crying of the baby
The squeaking of the chair
The swishing of the curtain
The creaking of the stair

A stranger called this morning
He didn't leave his name
Left us only silence
Life will never be the same