The End of the European Dream?

As usual, the European Parliamentary elections last week attracted a low turnout - in most countries fewer than 50% of the population bothered to vote. This has usually been explained away by saying that most people, unless they have a (possibly unhealthy) interest in European politics to the expense of more normal pastimes like drinking and sport and girls and tv, don't understand - nor even particularly want to understand - the intricacies of the European Parliament or the voting system that feeds it. Up to a point this is undoubtedly true. Most people are more interested in what is happening in their own back-yard, not in some country a thousand miles and more away.   Probably the biggest number of people with any kind of interest in all this is the ex-pat community, from any nationality, for whom the Old Country still has a strong pull.  I've been critical in this blog on a number of occasions about the way Britain has changed over the years since I've been "away", but it's still my homeland, I still have friends and family there, so of course I'm interested in its political scene.  Of course I care.

But over the past few years, courtesy of the financial crisis that has gripped the whole world and come close to bankrupting some EU member states, notably Greece, Cyprus, Spain and Portugal, probably more ordinary people across the entire EU have become aware of how it works and what it's all about. And a lot of them clearly aren't too keen on what they have learned.

Across the EU there appears to be a growing movement against the way the EU is being run by the Franco-German bureaucrats and politicians who have been setting the agenda for years - and quite right too. The dream of a single entity covering the entire continent, with harmonized financial rules (especially in the area of taxation), a single defence force, common trade rules - amongst other delights - and no border controls, undoubtedly has some merit. But to achieve all that effectively means doing away with individual countries like Britain and France, Poland and Cyprus, and creating one single entity called Europe.

It will never happen, because most people do not want to be called "European", and continue to prefer the title of British or German, Danish or Portuguese. National identity is still paramount, especially I think in the old Soviet satellites like Bulgaria and Latvia and Poland and so on, and of course my own Little England. With it goes a desire to be masters of your own destiny, set your own laws and taxes and border controls, and not be dictated to by the Brussels mafia, if I may call the Commission that. No amount of reliance on a single all-encompassing euro (as a currency unit for all states) is going to change that, especially when said currency unit has been cobbled together in the way it was 15 years ago, and when states - despite insistence to the contrary from the European elite - flagrantly ignore or change their euro-membership criteria to suit their budgetary and political needs at the expense of everyone else.

There have of course been historical precedents to this mythical Euro superstate, manufactured confederations of different ethnicities and countries great and small, and most if not all have failed sooner or later. For example, the USSR and Yugoslavia were concocted largely through violent conquest of one kind or another, within the last century or so, and fell apart equally violently within 50-odd years. Kazakhs are Kazakh, Georgians are Georgian, and neither are Russian. Similarly Serbs and Croats are just that, and neither are Yugoslavian. I well remember the fall of the USSR and Communism 25 years ago, and equally the appalling bloodshed and genocide in the Balkan wars even more recently, and genuinely fear for the future of Ukraine and its people now. The lessons of history do not appear to have been learned by Mr. Putin and his cronies - or else the man simply doesn't care.   It seems, from today's signature of a new Russian-led trading bloc with Kazakhstan and Byelorus (both ex-USSR states, ruled by old style dictators and butchers) the old KGB relic is intent on recreating the USSR by stealth - and we should all be aware of the dangers inherent in that little scheme.

Is it any wonder parties like the Front Nationale in France, UKIP in Britain, and others across the length and breadth of the EU have made such significant progress just recently?  By no stretch of the imagination am I a supporter of old Nigel Farage, pint in one hand, fag in the other, but I can certainly appreciate his appeal to the average Brit.  It's probably fair to say that most people are sick to the eye teeth of the sound bite politics and lies that the likes of Blair and Brown, Cameron and Gove, Clegg and Cable have been foisting upon them for years, so Farage, with his blatantly Eurosceptic anti-immigration -nay, borderline racist - stance (even if his statements don't stand up to too much scrutiny) seems a decent alternative.  He isn't, and neither is his party a serious alternative to the Old Guard, which is a shame.  They need challenging.  The mould needs breaking. 

So I suspect the status quo will continue for a while yet and it will take the bankruptcy of a major player (France? Italy?) and consequent collapse of the euro to force the changes that most people in the EU clearly want.  In fairness, the EU leadership has recognised this mood swing and is threatening to do something about it.  It has promised "discussions" to try and decide how to make the EU more relevant and citizen friendly.  So that's a consultation that will probably take about four years - just in time for the next round of elections.  Which is, of course, part of the problem.  It will certainly be interesting to see whether the dissenting majority, now represented by UKIP and FN and Golden Dawn and a whole plethora of extremist groups (even neo-Nazis have managed to get in there) do indeed get their point across effectively and whether it's listened to at all by the Commission.  I'm not holding my breath for much change, quite frankly.

I remember some years ago, in a previous life, working for a small company in London, while preparations for the single currency were going on. We were invited by the Bank of England to give our views for inclusion in its White Paper on the subject (as were the LSE, LIFFE, major banks and other financial institutions). We went along and met with the Bank's team, in a small office with a nice view of the internal courtyard and an IBM desktop pc perched incongruously on a Queen Anne desk with brass drawer handles and a leather top. We told them we couldn't see it being a success, and reeled out the USSR/Yugoslavia comparison to illustrate our doubts. We felt that the southern European states (at that time only Italy, Greece and the Iberians) lacked the fiscal discipline to continue to meet their entry criteria and felt it only a matter of time before one or more defaulted and brought the whole house of cards crashing down. We gave it a maximum of 10 years before that happened. The Bank was flabbergasted - no-one else had expressed anything but enthusiasm, apparently. But we weren't far wrong - only the combined (and hugely unpopular) efforts of the larger states and their insistence on swingeing austerity measures have prevented it happening already.  Despite the recent economic upturn, Europe is not out of the woods yet - there may be more problems around the corner.

My prediction, for what it's worth, is that there may well be further fiscal problems to come, this time in France or Italy, and if that does happen there will be a reluctance amongst the remaining EU states to spend the amount of cash that would be needed to prop either state up.  So the default will happen and that will be that. The EU started as a trade bloc, and that is how it should have remained. All this federal hogwash and financial engineering remains, in my mind, a recipe of disaster.

We shall see.......

Episode 108 - Trips and Easter, Tragedy and Saints. And chocolate eggs.

So.  It’s been three weeks since my last epistle (well viewed, too – thanks everyone) so I thought it’s about time I gave you, Gentle Reader, an update to my currently mundane life.   Of course, the fact it is mundane explains the lack of posting – it’s very difficult conjuring anything readable out of basically nothing.  It could be argued that I’ve actually been doing that for three years now, but surprisingly perhaps there are shades of Nothing and right now I’m in a very deep and not very meaningful Nothing.

A lot of that has been to do with the continuing work shortage.  Contracting is all well and good, but it’s also very frustrating at times: more than I had expected.  The increased earnings (and it does indeed pay better than a salaried position, at least in my sector) are welcome, but the potential spells sitting on your arse doing nothing are difficult – especially if for whatever reason you’ve not managed to save a lot of spare capital from the last gig.  Then the sleepless nights eventually kick in when the cash reserves are depleted with no sign of relief in the form another gig on the horizon.  I’ve suffered from insomnia for years anyway so I should by rights be used to the wee small hours by now, but I’m not. 

But happily things seem to have been resolved, and all things being equal I will be boarding a plane again soon.  New destination too – watch this space.

Making things worse lately have been some private issues.  I won’t go into any detail at all, but for the past year and more we’ve been caught up in a very unpleasant set of events that frankly make unemployment concerns trivial.  They’re not getting better any time soon.  The Dark Thoughts that keep me awake and restless at night, and make each day difficult to get through (thank God for my kids!) will be with me for a long time yet.  But still, the situation is making me as miserable as sin and short tempered with my family, and that depresses me more than anything – they don’t deserve any of it.  And I can only say sorry….

But anyway that’s depressing and this blog is never planned to be that (even if depressing topics like wars and despots and matters political are often discussed).   What have I been up to the last few weeks?

Well, I had a quick trip to England.  I needed to take care of some family business, so boarded my WizzAir plane again to Luton.  I stayed just under a week, and saw pretty much everyone who matters back in my homeland, and it was good, if at times trying.   Successful visit?   Yes, I think so.

It was not without its mishaps, mind you.  When I got to the car hire place at Luton Airport I found I’d left my driving licence at home – first time I’ve ever managed to do that.  A call to DVLC confirmed that I had a clean and valid licence (even though I couldn’t remember which address was on the thing) and that meant that National Cars were happy to release the Astra to my tender loving care, in exchange for another eighty quid (returnable) to do away with the insurance excess.  It was a nice shiny new car with less than 10,000 miles on the clock, but dreadfully underpowered.  I’m not sure what engine was under the bonnet, but whatever it was it was not good enough for the car.  Acceleration was always poor, especially uphill, and overtaking, even dropping down the gears, was heart-in-mouth stuff at times.  Living and driving in Poland (and other European countries) means that overtaking other cars is part and parcel of the driving experience, and drivers generally do the sensible thing when being passed – which typically means easing over slightly to allow a bit more room and perhaps checking speed just a little and just for a second, to allow safe passage.  But except on motorways – and even there not in every case – British drivers seem not to like being passed these days.  Off motorway, I made perhaps four overtaking manoeuvres in a period of six days and over 500 miles of driving, each time on nice clear straight stretches of road, with no oncoming traffic or restricting signage or road-markings.  And every time – EVERY time! – the cars (and in one case a bloody great articulated truck) I was passing speeded up as if to prevent me going by, tooted their horns, flashed their lights and/or pulled out (rather than in) – none of it good in my underpowered Astra.  Now why on earth is that?   Has Mr. Cameron made overtaking illegal or something?  I don’t remember it being like that before, but quite definitely it’s been getting worse in the years since I moved away.  Most odd.

I also had the chance to enjoy the splendours of the British railway system again, as I had to run into London from Norfolk for a business meeting.  The train journeys themselves, through the lovely Norfolk, Cambridgeshire, and Hertfordshire countryside were very pleasant, and even the Tube was quite comfortable – new trains since last I used it: thank you Boris!   But parking at Kings Lynn station was a bit of a challenge.  The two car parks were both full, so I had to run half way round an unfamiliar one-way system to find a multi storey.  Plenty of spaces, but the ticket machine took a maximum payment of 4 hours at a cost of £8, and accepted neither notes not credit cards.  No good to me then.  Back round the one way system, and I took the wrong road, and found myself leaving town.  U-turn in a factory estate, and back in again.  To the station, one car park full, into the other – also full.  But what’s this?  Ah!  An overflow, its entrance between two overgrown bushes that obscured the signs, and in any case on my original visit had been blocked by a National Rail Transit mini-bus.  Plenty of room and a machine that accepted all denominations of coins, notes and credit cards – and just £2-90 for a full day.  Result.  Mind you, I’d missed my train by then, and had to call from the platform to move the meeting back an hour and a half.  But it was a good day, and excellent fish and chips on the way home from the chippy in my sister’s Norfolk village.

I like the new skyline that is developing in London these days.  It’s always had its tower blocks, and glass office skyscrapers, but for a while in the 80s and 90s was beginning to look very shabby I think.  The Docklands development started to change all that (I worked there for a while, and on a brief return last year was surprised by just how much even that had changed over the years) but there is a new burst of construction going on.   The Shard at London Bridge (80% empty, but still the tallest building in Europe) is an extraordinary piece of work, and across the river in the City there are perhaps another half a dozen blocks going up.  The one that most caught my eye is opposite the Lloyds Building (itself a lovely piece of work but old now) and right next door to the old Commercial Union building.  I went for an interview there once, many years ago, with a US bank that occupied the top three floors, and remember well the view from the bank’s Reception area, north across Liverpool Street station towards suburban London and Essex and Hertfordshire beyond.   Well, the new building dwarfs the CU tower – it must be double its height, and while not in Shard territory matches anything at Canary Wharf.  It narrows dramatically from ground (or at least concourse) level, and I imagine each floor as you progress upwards is a bit narrower than the one below – it certainly resembles the cheese grater that I think gives it its nickname.

I spent a good bit of time with my sisters as well.  One evening, Win and Alan and myself sat up until nearly 1 a.m. discussing the internet: I am of course a great fan and supporter, whereas they are of the equally strong opinion that it is the font of all evil and refuse to have anything to do with it.  We failed to agree on anything (and in all honestly we’re probably both right in our views) but it was a great discussion for all that.  With Shir it was different: she is recovering from back problems and still suffering greatly, but on one day I took her and my niece out for a drive.  We went into Edenbridge, where we both grew up, and put flowers out on mum and dad’s grave, then headed out into the country through Chiddingstone (where Shir had spent the first years of her married life and my niece had been born), then out into the Sussex countryside to Crowborough in search of fish and chips (the shop, when we got there, was closed) and back into Rusthall and Tunbridge Wells.  It was fun, we talked and laughed a lot, and enjoyed it immensely. 

It was good trip.

Then we had Easter. 

It’s very different here to the UK.  In a previous life, I would give and receive many chocolate eggs of different sorts, and eat them in a mad frenzy over no more than a couple of days.  One year I was given no less than 8, and ate them in two sittings on Easter Sunday and Easter Monday, and was sick for a week.  Later on, in adulthood, it was a weekend of football (my club usually played at least a couple of matches) and of course drinking.  And eating chocolate eggs.  After I married and had my own kids, Good Friday was typically a day to go to 3 o’clock Mass then off to either the local garden centre or DIY superstore (or both) and stock up on plants and paints and wallpapers and so on.  Saturday would be spent decorating or gardening  (depending on the weather), then on Sunday Mass again and a roast turkey (or maybe lamb) dinner, and on Monday carry on with the decorating or gardening (depending on the weather).  And eating chocolate eggs. 

One year, in my US banking days, I had to go in to work on Good Friday – not a holiday then in the States.  I was one of a dozen people minding the shop, since the entire European and London market was closed.    We sat around drinking coffee and playing Trivial Pursuit until New York opened, at which point the handful of traders went home and left us back office grunts to keep New York happy.  I had a call from my counterpart there telling me about a problem with another bank in London (actually it wasn’t a problem as such, and wouldn’t become one for at least another six days) and demanding I call them immediately.  I politely informed him that it was Good Friday, part of the  Easter weekend, and we were the only people working in the entire City.  He went berserk, and insisted I call them at home.  I explained that I didn’t actually have the home telephone number of every settlements clerk in London, and even if I had they wouldn’t answer as it was Good Friday, part of the Easter weekend…..  He got even madder and insisted I did something or he would report me to HR, my manager and the Chairman of the Board.  I told him to fuck off and we all went home.

Over here, it’s different.  Despite spending 50 years under the yoke of Communism, Poland is one of the more religious countries in Europe.  So much so, in fact, that throughout all those years, the Party hierarchy did not dare to do anything to suppress Catholicism in the country, and most people still went to Mass regularly.  After the Fall of the Iron Curtain and its obscene ideologies, strongly supported by the Polish Pope (who deserves his recently granted Sainthood for that alone), the Polish people were able to celebrate their Faith openly for the first time in a generation, and continue to do so in huge numbers to this day.  

Easter, of course, is central to that faith.  On Good Friday (a holiday of course) we went to Mass as I had in England with my first family.  Our old thatched parish church of St. Francis de Sales in Hartley would fit in its entirety at the front of my local cathedral-sized neighbourhood church here, in the space where is the altar, seating for 9 priests and about 16 altar boys.  The place was packed to the rafters, including the balconies at the back, and standing in all the aisles, the entrance halls and steps outside.  It’s usually full anyway, even on a normal mundane Sunday service, but Good Friday was exceptional.  We arrived at the wrong time, as one Mass was ending, so were able for once to sit down, close to the front.  The Catholic Mass seems to me to lend itself well to a church setting, with its prayers and chants and bells ringing, and in our Church with the big organ and a (very good) choir it sounded magnificent.  The rolling, consonant heavy Polish language added to the spectacle too.  Even though I understood very little that was said, and in any event can hardly remember the Creed or any of the other liturgies that I could actually mumble in English (I was never confirmed or baptised Catholic so never had to learn it all), I tried to join in, and spent some time in contemplation and my own version of prayer.  I hoped for a clue or something to put my mind at rest about the complications I mentioned earlier in this post, but I failed – the Dark Thoughts were (and are) still there.  One man, however, was in what I can only conclude is an ecstasy of faith (that may be too strong a term, but never having experienced one myself that’s the way it looked to me).  I’ve seen him there before and marvelled at his devotion.  He spends half the Mass on his knees, often in the middle of the aisle directly in front of the altar, so that communicants have to step carefully around him to receive their Hosts, and seems intent on breaking the world record for genuflections in one hour.  He is always dressed in the same grubby-kneed khaki chinos, held up by a piece of what looks like curtain cord, short sleeved shirt and jacket, no matter the weather – hot days, wet days or bitterly cold winter days are no different to this pilgrim.  I’m not sure whether to admire him or sympathise with him.  I saw him again on Tuesday, when I was cycling to school with the kids – he was crossing the road, dressed the same and clearly on his way to his next devotions.  It may be uncharitable but frankly I found it a little unsettling.

Saturday is spent preparing the Easter basket for blessing.  The tradition here is that you take a small decorated basket of food (hard boiled eggs, some bread, sausages, salt and pepper) to church to be blessed by the priest – this is believed to ensure you won’t go short of food over the next twelve months.  The eggs are hand painted, and eaten as part of the Sunday breakfast.  Of course we enter into the spirit of things and every year our own family tradition dictates that I decorate my egg with the Polish flag on one side and the English flag (cross of St. George, not Union Jack) on the other.  Incidentally there is usually not a chocolate egg in sight – but this year I brought some back from England, so for the first time my kids had the opportunity to sample traditional English Easter fare.  They were not keen….  Anyway, we had the basket blessed in a once again packed church, this time in a spacious basement chapel, with a life-sized depiction of Christ in his tomb, fronted by rows of seats for prayer and contemplation.  It was decorated with many candles and flowers, and looked very pleasant.  The mood was noticeably more sombre at our church than at others we’ve been to on other Easters.  I wonder why.

Then Sunday we got up and prepared the usual Easter breakfast, of salads, hard boiled eggs (decorated with a home-made mushroom sauce), various hams and cheeses and fresh breads.  We dressed in our best suits and ties – MUCH more formal than back in England! – and of course took many photos.  Then to another packed Church again for Mass, before a dinner of roast goose with baked apples, asparagus and roast potatoes.  It was the first time Ania had cooked that bird and the first time I had eaten it, and I have to say it was delicious.

Monday was a day of rest.  But no chocolate eggs.

In the wider world, the search for missing flight MH370 continues, with sadly no result. 

This is such a tragic and mysterious disappearance, and despite reams of speculation by experts and idiots no-one so far has a clue what really happened.   Apart from the plane turning back and reversing course for no obvious reason, with all communications and transponders apparently disabled, no-one knows what happened or where it went.  There were two possible alternative route options – one northerly, ending somewhere in the region of Kazakhstan, and the other over the southern Indian Ocean – suggested by satellite tracking tools, and the main search has been on the second alternative.  The northerly route would have taken it over several countries, and some sensitive border areas so was deemed highly unlikely.  But after more than 50 days now, there is still no trace of wreckage and the black box pinger batteries are long exhausted.  Some signals were picked up a couple of thousand miles off Western Australia, roughly on the possible southern route and at its very limit, but despite exhaustive searches by planes and vessels from many countries (including the US and Britain) still nothing is found.

Throughout these weeks the conspiracy theorists have had a field day.  Some of the ideas are frankly ridiculous – alien abduction, anybody? – and most of the rest far-fetched to put it mildly. The CIA seems to head the list of potential Villains Of The Piece, closely followed by the US government, the Chinese (despite the bulk of the 260-odd passengers being from that country), the Israelis, Arab terrorists (hijacking the plane to Pakistan to convert it to a massive flying bomb to attack an unspecified but probably American target) and the Malaysians themselves (who panicked when the flight did its about turn and shot the plane down by mistake over the jungles or the Malacca Straits, and have been covering up ever since).  More believable, perhaps, is a report that came out of the Maldives the day after the plane disappeared.  In this, a group of people on one of the more remote, outlying islands reported seeing and hearing a low flying plane heading south just offshore.  The report has never been properly investigated and the Maldivian newspapers have run various articles denouncing the authorities for not taking the report seriously.  There seem to be two chains of thought on this one – first, the plane was actually crashing at that point and so the wreckage is to be found somewhere quite close by, and second, that it actually landed on another outlying island, was re-fuelled then flown to the US bases on Diego Garcia (the CIA conspiracy again….).  To me, the first option seems the most likely – indeed the most likely explanation of the lot – and I can’t really figure out why it apparently hasn’t been taken seriously.

And while all this has been going on, the friends and relatives of over 250 people from several countries are suffering the agonies of not knowing…..whether their loved ones are dead or alive, what happened, where they might be – whether they suffered.  I can’t begin to imagine what that must be like.

I personally don’t think we’ll ever know the truth.

But their distress can be nothing compared to that of the parents of the 300-odd schoolchildren drowned when their ferry capsized and sank travelling to a holiday island in South Korea – the school-trip from hell.  It appears from reports that the crew were grossly negligent when the ship hit something and began sinking, telling the victims to stay in cabins and restaurants until help came – which it never did.  In this internet age, the text messages saying things like “Good bye” and “I love you” to parents that were sent by these 16 year old kids waiting to die found their way into newspapers all over the world and are truly heart-breaking.  What a world we live in!

On a brighter note – much needed after the last few paragraphs – The Polish Pope John Paul II was Beatified last weekend, only 9 years after his death – apparently a record.  Another, pre-war, Pope, John XXIII, was Beatified with him.  The ceremony was watched by a crowd of a million-odd pilgrims, and no doubt a huge global live television audience – it was naturally carried live on most local stations here.  Like all such Catholic ceremonies, it was a splendid spectacle, the sort of thing that the Church does supremely well – a bit like the English and Coronations and State Funerals.

Whether Catholic or not (and I’m not) Jan Pawel Drugi - as the Poles call him still – was an extraordinary man who led an extraordinary life.  He was even a goalkeeper, like me, in his youth.  To be made a Saint you need to have been credited with I think three proven miracles.  I’m not sure what his were (from memory, I think one was a documented case of a nun who was cured of Parkinson’s Disease after a visit by him), but to my mind his steadfast leadership and support for anti-Communist groups world-wide, notably the Polish Solidarity movement, that ultimately brought down the Iron Curtain and dispensed with the undoubted horrors of Communist oppression across Europe and gave freedom and prosperity (to varying degrees) to millions of ordinary people is worth a Beatification on its own.

Top man, that Karol Wojtyla.

And now we come to the May Bank Holiday weekend.  The weather looks good, so it’s barbecue in the garden time for us all here.   Out on the bikes too, no doubt, and for sure shift a few Tyskie (or Lech, or Zubr….or all three).  I’ve just seen a piece on the local news about this weekend’s traditional barbecue session – always the day after May Day is a barbecue day.  This year of course, the day falls on a Friday……which as every good Catholic knows is a day of fish.  So in his infinite wisdom the bishop of the dioceses on the east bank of the Wisla has refused to provide a dispensation to allow people to eat meat, whilst his counterpart on the west bank has allowed it.   Fortunately, I live on the west bank, so I’m in the clear so to speak.  But really – how ridiculous and how petty!

Playing The Game.....Then and Now

Gaming.

When I were a lad, many years ago, the word didn't even exist.

You played games.  Cowboys and Indians was a favourite, since it was the time when John Wayne was the world's biggest movie star and every other film coming out of Hollywood was one of his westerns - classics like True Grit, or The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance or Chisum.....all films I would happily watch now to while away an hour or so.

We kids also played War a lot.  We were from that post-World War 2 generation whose parents had fought in that conflict, or been left at home minding the fires.  All the comics, at least in Britian, had names like the Victor and the Valiant, and featured yarns about heroic British Tommies like Captain Hurricane (and his trusty batman, Maggot Malone) winning the War single handedly.  I could relate to that one because my dad had been an officer's batman in the War.  And when The Duke wasn't winning the Wild West he was Winning the War, so those movies were must-sees as well: The Sands of Iwo-Jima, The Flying Leathernecks and so on.

There were stories about unfeasible football teams too, like the incomparable Legge's Eleven, wherein ex-England international Ted Legge took over a ramshackle Third Division team and guided them to the First Division championship and FA Cup with a team of misfits including winger Nipper Norton (discovered after poaching pigeons from Ted's house and running away ridiculously fast), goalkeeper Chubby Mann, overweight and so colour-blind the team had to wear zig-zag stripes so that he could distinguish them from the opposition, and a pair of French inside forwards who had previously been circus jugglers and were wont to perform in a match like they did in the ring.  It was way better than the more popular Roy of the Rovers, let me tell you, but hardly anyone remembers it.

If you read the Eagle, there was of course the brilliant Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future, so of course we played at Space Explorers too.  This was before Apollo landed on the moon, almost before Gagarin's flight, so of course anything was possible for us in a way that it no longer seems to be.  TV shows like Supercar, Fireball XL5 and Thunderbirds, all from the genius of Gerry Anderson and Supermarrionation (they were all puppet shows) fed into that future vision and fuelled our own imaginations.

We went to games too.  The local football team, a village team, had people to watch their games on a scale that rarely seems to happen nowadays - in later years, when I played myself, we regularly had 30 or 40 people turn up (even if most of them were wives and girlfriends and mates of the players).  Not a lot, but it could get lively.  I remember one under 16's match when our left winger was getting a bit of a kicking from a bigger full back, and his mum finally lost her temper and ran onto the pitch and laid about the lad with her handbag.  We banned her after that - our bloke was absolutely mortified with embarrassment.  We got to the odd cup final too, and usually took at least one and sometimes 2 coaches plus cars.  Happy days.

Then there were board games.  Chess, of course, and draughts.  Monopoly.  Sorry.  Battleships.  All still popular today.  We played cards, either alone (Patience in its various guises) or in pairs (Snap!) and groups (Whist and Rummy).  Later on, at the cricket club, we had an after match card school that could feature a dozen players and go on until midnight.  We played three card brag, minimum bet a penny, maximum bet a pound, and there were some quite good winnings to be had.  I remember picking up thirty quid on one hand, and not a note in sight, just a pocket full of coins.

But the thing is, all these childhood games were either healthy, both physically and mentally, or skillful.  We spent most of our time out in the open air playing them, even if the weather was a bit wet and chilly, and I don't remember too many cases of pneumonia, just the odd cold.

Later on, in adolescence, we moved on to indoor games, that did not necessarily mean including girls.  I was playing darts for my local pub at 14, drinking pints of bitter and puking on the way home but enjoying every minute of it.  I was quite a useful player too.  There was also bar billiards, a surprisingly skillful game as you had pegs partially obscuring the highest scoring pockets and had to rack up a higher total score than your opponent against the clock, and if you knocked the pegs over you lost the score for that break or your entire score, depending on which peg.  Later on there was snooker and and billiards, on full size tables, and of course pool in the pub (I still preferred bar billiards though).  Snooker always caused me problems, as I suffer from a red-green colour blindness, so if the brown (I know.....) finds its way down into the pack of reds I have huge problems distinguishing it, especially from the far end of the table.  The number of points I've given away like that over the years.....  But I still love a frame, and one day would love to have a basement so that I can have my own table.

One year me and a couple of workmates entered the London Stock Exchange Snooker Championship, and we had to travel up to the City from our local office in Kent to play a match.  The venue was the Great Windmill Street Billiards and Snooker Club, in the heart of Soho in its heyday.  We spent an hour or two wandering around trying to find the place, trying to ignore the hookers and their pimps in shady doorways - we were young country boys, remember, not worldly-wise at all.  We eventually found it, sandwiched between two equally seedy strip joints, behind a plain black door and up a flight of dingy stairs.  We were roundly beaten, but got pissed anyway.  Happy days....



That kind of gaming, if you can call it that, I understand and can appreciate.  But today's gaming, electronic gaming, I just cannot fathom.

I remember the early editions of arcade games that used to be in pubs - not the one-armed bandits, but the more allegedly skillful ones.  I don't remember its name, but one I tried was played on a console about six feet high and half as deep, on a single small green screen, and involved operating one of two electronic paddles.....a bit like table tennis I guess, trying to get the "ball" (just a bloody great white dot) past the machine's or your opponent's paddle, using essentially the sides of the pitch to bounce your shots off at odd angles.  If you were ok at snooker or bar billiards you were generally ok at that because you had an appreciation of angles already. Incredibly primitive, but we spent hours playing it.  And getting raddled, of course.

Then came the Sinclair ZX Spectrum, and the original Sony Playstation and Super Nintendo entertainment systems, and things moved on rapidly.  For a start, you could buy games to play on them.  They typically came on cassettes, like music did between the vinyl and CD eras (and before digital downloads were even imagined).  I can't remember which console we had, but there was a game that came with it called Fire Ant that my kids, especially Patrick, used to play a lot.  It was multi-level and basically (from memory) you had to find your way through a nest of ants without getting slaughtered by the things.  If you lost a life, you had to start all over.  I could never get the hang of the bloody thing, but Pat was able to navigate through the levels without really looking and carrying out a conversation with you while he did it.  He was about 6 I think.

There was Football Manager and a rival Championship Manager plus a whole raft of inferior copycat games endorsed by ageing pro's like Chris "Kammy" Kamara.  They all involved being the manager of your selected team, be it Real Madrid or Arsenal or something more prosaic like Truro City or Tonbridge, and by a process of buying and selling players (real ones and characters invented by the game's manufacturer that bore uncanny resemblance to real ones) build a squad and lead it to league, cup and European glory through simulated games against other "teams".  All very clever, and statistic heavy.  Doug and John (especially Doug) were demons at that, and played it for hours.  Leagues sprang up all over the place, and groups of mates would have their own competitions.  As a football nut I could appreciate the allure of those games, but could never figure out how you actually played them.

Improved technology meant improved games, and soon you were able to actually control the characters in your games, and lo and behold you had the FIFA (football) and NBA (basketball) franchised games, a new one every year that created monstrous profits for game and console makers alike, at the expense of exasperated parents who were coerced through peer pressure to ensure their kids always had the correct version.  I couldn't get the hang of them either.

 Of course not all games are sport based.  A lot of them are, shall we say, a little violent and bloodthirsty, and involve mass killings in one form or another - for instance Call of Duty or Assassin's Creed.  Or "encourage" crime like nicking cars and driving like a maniac through virtual cityscapes (Grand Theft Auto).  And movie or tv tie-ins, like Harry Potter and Game of Thrones.  All of them making huge profits etc etc......see FIFA and NBA above.  Operating them has become increasingly complex too - no-longer key strokes, but full on controllers with about a dozen buttons on them that can be operated singly or in pairs. Motion sensitive wands and floor pads, both linked to camera so you can join in too.

And pretty soon kids stopped playing the healthy and imaginative outdoor games of my childhood and youth, and devoted themselves to being parked in front of a flickering screen, sweating over a bunch of pixels darting around in front of their eyes, wrapped up in the roar of the crowd or the rattle of gun fire and explosions or the howl of abused and stolen V8 engines, oblivious to everything else including food and homework.  Is it coincidence that the increase of these passtimes mirrors the rise in childhood obesity? Probably not.



I have a second family now, as you know, and history is repeating itself.  In fact nowadays it's actually worse, courtesy of the internet explosion.  Because they are no longer dependent on a screen and console and CDs - although we have them too.

No, they have the additional attraction of the World Wide Web to play with.  There is in Poland a site (and I'm sure they exist in any country with an on-line presence) that is dedicated to games.  There are sections for all ages, from about 4 years old, with games tailored for each age group.  Some of them are good and educational, but most are just nonsense fun.  Then there are the more adult oriented sites like World of Tanks and World of Warplanes, where like-minded adolescent males can form a community and a team and blow the hell out of each other in the comfort of their own (probably darkened) bedrooms.

And mobile phones.  Any smartphone worth its salt has Angry Birds or something similar as a default, just like e-mail and address books and MP3 capability, with its own on-screen icon pre-installed.   And of course the iStore or Google Play and the other stores all have a vast collection of downloads, some free and some ridiculously expensive, to add to your collection.  A lot of them are free but have paid extras - all of which add to your phone bill, as do the additional costs of being on-line all the time (terrifyingly high if you're roaming).   My kids have about four games on Ania's phone that they play, and invariably there are fights over whose turn it is to have the phone, or who has been on it longest......

And social media, finally, adds to it.  Would Farmville and its on-line brethren have existed or got anywhere (and in so doing made obscene profits for a relatively few people) without Facebook?    For that matter, would Facebook have become the behemoth it patently is without offering Farmville and so on as an integral part of its infrastructure?  Wall Street is to blame too - how it can value a company that is basically a One Trick Pony (the makers of Candy Crush Saga) at tens of billions of dollars when it went public (thus lining a few more pockets, not all of them bankers') is beyond me, I'm afraid.

So these days, I seem to spend half of my evenings yelling at my kids to "put mummy's phone down now!" instead of enjoying Top Gear on BBC Knowledge.



Now I'm probably a bit of dinosaur, but I have no doubt in my mind that the rise of electronic entertainments - gaming, if you prefer - is having a derogatory effect on the average kid, and hence on society as a whole (since those kids ultimately grow up).   In a few cases, perhaps, the gamers are moved to try a bit of coding or IT themselves, and, who knows, may turn into the next Gates or Zuckerberg or Schmidt.  But for every Gates or Zuckerberg or Schmidt there are probably millions of Kevin The Teenagers, whose schooling is wasted and homework ignored because of the addiction to darkened rooms and Warcraft on SuperNES, unemployed and unemployable, overweight and underwashed.  I find that very sad.

That's not to say in my day things were perfect.  I can think of many kids who neglected their schoolwork in favour of reading The Beano or kicking a ball about or bird's nesting or whatever, and ended up wasting their talents as gravediggers or labourers, or (yes) unemployed and unemployable.

Of course, it's up to us parents to make sure that doesn't happen.  It's not down to teachers, it's parents who must be accountable and accept the responsibility of ensuring our kids have the right priorities.  I'm grateful that my mum and dad insisted on my doing my homework before allowing me to watch the telly or go out to play football or whatever, even though at the time I was incredibly resentful about it.   I was never the best or brightest student at school, but my war veteran dad insisted that I did my best, even at the things I didn't like and was basically crap at, and now at 61 I'm a stubborn old git who has tried (and is still trying) to instill that never-say-die-anything-is-possible ethos into my own kids.

And it doesn't get any easier......

Weekend in Warsaw

So finally I had my bike serviced,  The gears kept slipping, which is a pain in the arse when you're in low gear toiling up a hill and suddenly you're back in top.  And the brakes weren't working either, so the toes of my trainers were going through it a bit too.  I can't complain really, I've had the bike over 10 years now and it's done a lot of miles (many of them off-road in sandy dusty forest conditions) so it was definitely due some TLC, with spring coming on.

Anyway, one new chain, new brake blocks and cables and a good greasing later it's as good as new (apart from chipped pain here and there of course), so time to take it out again.  The weather was fine, the kids wanted to get out too so off we all went Saturday afternoon.



About 5 km south of my place is the Kabaty Forest.  The last station on the Warsaw Metro line is a couple of hundred metres away, so from the city centre you can be in deep woods within about 20 minutes.  There is a big network of foot- and cycle paths criss-crossing the forest, and there are plenty of seats and shelters to rest in when you get tired.  There are also two or three memorials to the Polish Home Army soldiers who used it as a hiding place from the Gestapo during the war years.  In those day, it would have been outside the city limits and much more dense and overgrown than it is now, and the Resistance movement used it extensively, and died in numbers too.  This year marks the 70th anniversary of the Warsaw Uprising, when the Home Army launched an offensive against the occupying Nazis shortly after the D-Day landings and the French resistance uprising in Paris.  When the expected (and promised) Allied help failed to materialise, a pitched battle raged through what is now the Old Town, with hand-to-hand fighting from street to street, and eventually building to building.  The people, armed with old rifles, knives and petrol bombs, had no chance against seasoned Nazi stormtroopers and their tanks and stick grenades and artillery. At the end of it, much of Warsaw was reduced to rubble, and most of the population killed or captured.  Kids of 10 and 12 years old fought and died alongside their parents and older siblings, all to no avail.  Uncle Joe Stalin refused Churchill's pleas for help and Roosevelt went along with him for the quiet life, so the Germans were left with a free hand.  The Russian Army, half way through the ninety day battle, arrived on the Vistula river's eastern bank at Praga, within a couple of hundred yards of the city, and stopped to watch, forbidden by Stalin to intervene.  A couple of young Resistance fighters swam across the swift flowing river to beg for help.  They were shot for their trouble by the Russians - just another in a long list of atrocities.  At the end of it, the remnants of the population were shipped off to concentration camps, and Hitler angrily ordered the city razed to the ground.....which it was.

Nowadays, the re-built Old Town is one of the more pleasant tourist places here, with a big cobbled market square surrounded by excellent bars and restaurants, and a fine place to spend a summer evening - something I've done many times.  There are also, just a few minutes walk from the Square, some poignant statues commemorating the Uprising, and a display of troop dispositions and maps and photos from the time that tell this tragic story in a variety of languages including English.  A mile or two away, close to the riverbank and the rebuilt Pepsi Arena (home ground of Legia Warsaw football club) is a similar statue to that at the Old Town.  It marks the place where the survivors emerged from the sewers they had in desperation used to escape the holocaust in the Old Town - an unknown number of people, men women and children, died in there too, drowned.......



But back to Kabaty Forest.  We've been there many times before with the kids, and in all weathers, and whether hot and sunny, wet and windy, or cold and snowy, as long as you're properly dressed it's a nice escape from the city.  We've walked around it, and cycled too.  We even buried a dead budgie there once (it seemed more respectable than just dumping it in the bin).  .I've got lost a couple of times, on solo bike rides, and ended up well outside Warsaw, once without a clue where I was (it turned out to be the edge of the affluent Konstancin suburb where government ministers and tv stars live).  So it's big old park, and like nothing I can think of back home in Britain.

Kubzi and I headed off on our bikes, with Ania's sister on our next door neighbour's (borrowed) bike, while we packed the picnic and Ally's bike in the boot of the car, and the girls drove off to meet us in the heart of the forest.  The sun was out, the temperature in the high teens and it was great to get out again in shorts and a tee-shirt.  There were many other cyclists out as well, and the network of cycle paths in our Ursynow suburb were as crowded as the roads.  Many of the other people were riding the "Boris Bikes" that are available in Warsaw now: they're identical to those in London and Paris and New York and elsewhere, and as popular.

It always makes me smile, looking at my fellow bikers.  Now, I tend to amble along at my own pace, enjoying the exercise and the views (and usually the music on my mobile, although I left that at home this weekend).  But there seem to be increasing numbers of people, men and women, who are taking this stuff really seriously, with all the fluorescent lycra shirts, butt hugging padded shorts, streamlined helmets and wraparound shades that are de rigeur on the Tour de France.  I'm usually in cut down jeans and a baggy old tee-shirt.  I don't need wraparound shades because my glasses have tinted lenses.  I do wear a helmet though, mainly to encourage Kuba and Ally to do likewise for safety reasons, even though I look a bit of a tit.  But these enthusiasts - well, to them the cycle paths are their own private race tracks, and they're tearing along full pelt, and God help you if don't get of their way: the volley of verbal abuse that comes your way would probably blister the ears (if I could only understand a word of it).  So it seems that a Polish characteristic is to go like a maniac, whether in a car or on a bike.  When I first started driving here, I was advised to consider every other road user a homicidal madman out to get me, and act accordingly - and by and large that has held true.  I've yet to meet a Polish driver who doesn't consider himself (or herself for that matter....) to be the world's best and safest.  Even when patently they're not.

We managed to arrive at the Forest without accident, anyway, then went off-road for the last couple of kilometers to our meeting place.  The paths there were if anything more crowded than the cycle paths in town, and had the added problem of pedestrians ambling along slowly, with pushchairs, prams and the like, but that was good - everyone out having a great time in the early spring weather.  There were a lot of Alpine Walkers out too - what's all that about then?  I'm told that it's very good exercise, good for your hips and knees and heart, but for the life of me I can't see how the addition of a couple ski poles is going to make any real difference over the stroll to the shops to buy a six-pack of Lech or something.  But it's increasingly popular here, and people of all ages, including considerably older than me, seem to be loving every minute of it.  I prefer my bike, quite frankly.



There is a great bonfire tradition in Poland.  Now back home, a bonfire means two things.  First, Guy Fawkes Night, November 5th, celebrating a misguided and incompetent Catholic plot to blow up Parliament in London and everyone in it.   Big fires the length and breadth of Britain and several million quids worth of fireworks go up in smoke - a very British celebration of failure.  Second, an effective means of getting rid of rubbish - garden cuttings, for instance, or an old car that is no longer working and not worth doing up.

In Poland, it means something else entirely - a party.  In the spring and, in particular, summer months having a bonfire party is a way of life.  You build the bonfire from wood cuttings, logs, charcoal, and whatever else you can safely burn, and once it's going nicely you stick your kielbaski (that's local sausages) onto the sharpened ends of the longest, straightest sticks you can find and cook them over the burning fire.  While you're doing that, typically, you're enjoying a can or two of Lech or Tyskie or any of the other excellent local brews.  When the sausages are cooked, you eat them in hunks of fresh bread or rolls, with ketchup and/or mustard, pickles and fresh salad.  Delicious.

The Masterchef, hard at work

And it was worth it!

Oh, yes - well worth it!

The satsumas were pretty good too.


In Kabaty Forest there is a big clearing with a number of seats and benches, ready made for these affairs. Small sandy patches are scattered around, forty or more, that form a base for the bonfires and are far enough away from the encircling trees to be safe from all but the biggest unattended blazes.  There are also plenty of waste bins as well, to keep the place clean and tidy - and people use them too, unlike in many British picnic grounds I've been to.  Being in a forest, there is no shortage of wood for the fires, and indeed the local park rangers seem to ensure there is a good supply of all shapes and sizes.  For the Forest is also a small national park, managed by the city government, and contains other attractions beyond foot- and cycle-paths.  Adjacent to the picnic area is a sports park that contains indoor and outdoor tennis courts, a volleyball court and swimming pool.  There are also restaurants and bars (if you don't fancy cooking for yourself) and adequate car parking facilities.   On Saturday one field was taken up by a couple of inflatables, a bouncy castle and a six lane slide, for the kids to play on (at least those too young to play football or frisbee).  It really is a good place to spend a warm sunny afternoon.

We had no beer, unfortunately, but plenty of rolls and kielbaski and salads and fresh fruit, so settled down happily on the picnic rug we had taken with us and tucked in.  Ally and Ania cooked the sausages to perfection over the bonfire, and they had a lovely smoky woody flavour, rather than the charcoaled burnt offerings that often comes from more common coal barbecues - so much nicer I think.

Ally too had her first real bike ride.  Until the week before last she was still using the stabilizer wheels, despite our attempts to get them off on holiday at the seaside last summer.  But we tried again and after a two hour terror driven tantrum, she got going eventually and did a number of laps of the fountain behind our local church.  I missed it unfortunately, as I was at home nursing a bad back, and Ania had to put up with all the tears and yelling.  The next day she demonstrated to me by riding around the garage for a while, until people started getting home from work and driving in and disrupting her.

On Saturday we took the bike, and I promised to go with her for a ride in the woods, just the two of us.  Being a stubborn little moo sometimes, I fully expected that when it came to it she would change her mind and refuse - but no: fortified by a couple of kielbaski and some crisps, off we went.  We cycled probably half a kilometer along the main path, back towards home, then turned back onto a parallel one and returned to the bonfire site.  She fell off once, when she clipped a tree root trying to avoid an elderly Alpine walker, but surprised me by getting up and re-starting straightaway.  Then she decided she wanted another go, so off we went again - same route and distance but this time she wanted to cut across a half-ploughed field, just because she had seen someone else do it.  No problem.  By the time we got back, on the two rides, she'd probably clocked up over 2 km.....not bad at all for a first attempt.  When we left, an hour so later, to go home she insisted on cycling part of the way with us, so she did another good k and half through the woods and back to the Metro station, where we loaded her back in the car to go the last 5km home.  I'm so pleased - we can go off for rides together now, all of us.  Great stuff.


So if Saturday was an excellent day (and it was), Sunday was less so, but a nice relaxing day for all that.  We took in Mass at 11 - Kuba has his First Communion in May, so there is preparation to do for that.  Then lunch and an afternoon watching football on tv, and then a couple of movies for the kids.  And an early night - school Monday is an early start for Kuba.

It was a good weekend, and I look forward to repeating it soon.  Living in Warsaw - wouldn't change it.

Home space and retirement planning

Sometimes I wish we had a bigger apartment.

At 60 sq/m or thereabouts it’s a little on the small side, for a growing family.  I love it, it’s my home, it’s warm and comfortable and well equipped, and I’m very happy here.  But still……it would be nice to have a bit more elbow room.

For a start, the kids will soon need – and want – their own rooms, their own space.  They’re happy enough sharing still, but it’s getting pretty crowded in there, with the bunk beds, one chest of clothes and some book shelves taking up one wall, and a set of tall glass-doored cupboards with drawers, full of toys and puzzles and clothes, taking up the other.  More toys and puzzles are stacked ceiling high on top of them.  There is a desk under the window that Kuba uses for homework and such, and a little coffee table squeezed between the beds and the chest that Ally uses (and that will be too small to be practical for her very soon).  Not a lot of space for anything else – even the window ledge is full  They’re already having the odd space spat, and it will only get worse.

Our room too is very comfortable, with a good range of fitted wardrobes, some shelf space and a big comfy bed.  But when I’m working from home, as now, I add a little garden table that’s just big enough to take my laptop, mouse pad and a couple of books, and a stool to sit on, and that’s half the remaining space gone.  Right now too I have two clothes airers full of drying laundry in here, so it’s like an obstacle course – especially getting to my cupboard for clothes.

Yes, it will soon be time to move……..

If I had more space, I could finally have my study.

It would have one wall devoted to my library.  I have dozens of books, many crammed in the bedroom here on shelves and window ledge, but many more bagged and boxed and stuffed in a cupboard in the storage room in the garage.  It would be lovely to have them all at my fingertips, properly arranged alphabetically and even categorised somehow, like the libraries I used to spend hours browsing in back in England.  The City Library in the Barbican Centre in London was my favourite, about three floors of books.  Many a happy lunch break spent there…..

There would be an Ikea rocking chair (I already have that), and perhaps a small cheap and cheerful sofa, space permitting, and of course a reading lamp.  And a coffee table.  There would be a good sized desk with the computer and cabling to the internet, and the printer (at present this resides on another window ledge, in the living room).  And a comfortable chair to sit on while I work, rather than the uncomfortable stool I’m perched on right now.

Another wall would hold a bloody great World Map, on which I would mark with pins (red for work, pale blue for vacation) all the places I’ve visited over the years.  Maybe a white board to scribble notes and reminders on too.  There would of course be pictures of my kids, all 5 of them.  And my wife.  My dear departed mum and dad, and my sisters too.  It would be somewhere to escape to, to lose myself in my books and my music and my thoughts and dreams.

I could also plan my retirement travel there too.

Now I’m looking ahead a bit, but it’s something most people do at my age, I suppose.

Next week I turn 61.  An age I could never imagine in my misspent youth, when football and birds and beer were my passions.  Retirement was something I never contemplated, like marriage and having a home and family of my own.  Then I got both, not once but twice, in different countries and of course at different times.  I lost my hair (most of it anyway), and replaced it with several kilos of unwanted paunch, both after my 40^th birthday.  I read somewhere that this is very common, a male genetic feature – hit 40 and get fat, gym or no gym – and I see no reason to dispute the proposition.

Around that time, 40 or so, I began to think about retirement, and figured that 55 would be a good time to do it.  Certainly no later than 60.  Fat chance……  Too many bumps and unexpected turns in the career road for that to happen.  Too many changes, forced as well as voluntary, to build the savings and pension pots I would need finance an early retirement.  A variety of circumstances reduced the pots over time, and I’ve been playing catch up most of my working life.  I should have started saving when I was much younger, in my early 20s, not my late forties, but other things got in the way.

So I’m not even looking at 65 as my retirement age, even though legally I will be entitled to do so (unless of course laws change and that is extended).  Fitness and health permitting – and right now they are both keeping up very well – it will be 70 I think.  Not that long really……but hopefully enough time to get some good contracts in and replenish some of those lost savings.  I don’t think it will be a wealthy retirement, again time is not on my side, but I expect it to be a comfortable one.

The kids, my younger two angels, will be in their mid teens by then, 16 and 18, and hopefully responsible enough to be able to leave now and then, because Ania and I want to do some trips of our own, spend some leisure time together.  Before I get to decrepit to enjoy it.

There are places I would like to go to, and things I would like to do.

I want to return to Crete for a start.  We had a good holiday there, and I loved the island’s rugged beauty and the lovely beaches and warm blue sea.  I would like to see more of it.  In particular, I would love to get the ferry across to Gavdos, wherein lies the EU’s southernmost point, closer to Libya than Athens.  It’s a tiny rugged island south of Crete, with a permanent population of around 40 and no tourist industry to speak of.  One small pension in the main town, and a couple of other places that take in paying guests.  A couple of buses and not much else.  Most visitors tend to camp on the various beaches, under the old gnarled olive groves, where they lead a Spartan and bohemian life for a few days or weeks, cooking on camp fires by moonlight and playing guitars and just chilling in a hippy kind of way.  I’d love to give it a try sometime.

Then there is Australia – bit more ambitious than Gavdos, and more expensive too.  But I’d like to watch a test match at the SCG, swim off Bondi Beach, and take a look at the Great Barrier Reef (keeping a close eye out for Great Whites, of course).  Most of all – and this is something I’ve thought about for 40-odd years – I’d love to climb to the top of Ayers Rock and drink a six pack of Fosters while watching the sun go down on New Year’s Eve.  Just me and the beer and the stars and the silence.  It must be magical, and very probably illegal.

There is the Cabo de Gata national park in Almeria, southern Spain.  Again, this would be a return journey, as we’ve stayed along the coast at Roquetas de Mar a couple of times in my second cousin’s apartment, and in both visits we’ve driven out to Cabo in the hire car several days.  We usually use the long sandy beach next to the little fishing village of Cabo de Gata itself and it’s lovely.  We also drove along a few kilometres, over a spur in the rugged coastline to a small secluded beach next to a lighthouse.  The beach doesn’t seem to have a name (or at least one I’ve been able to find), and it has no amenities apart from a small space to park the car, but it’s lovely.  The first time there were only about a dozen people there, most of us naked, and the sea was warm and the sun shone in a cloudless late September sky.  I went again a couple of years later, in August, the peak season, and it was packed – hardly anywhere to park the car, never mind ourselves, so we gave it a miss. 

But I’d like to spend a couple of weeks exploring the park.  I’d rent a place at one of the small fishing villages that scatter the coastline, one fairly centrally located, get a mountain bike from somewhere and ride.  Ideally I would go out of the peak season – late May/early June or late September – when the area is less crowded with less traffic on the roads but it’s still hot and sunny.  I would take the coastal paths and explore the little coves that are hard to reach by car, or head inland a bit and take a look at the harsh semi-desert of the interior.  I would love that.

I’d like to take a long relaxing train ride.  Something ridiculous, like the full length of the Amsterdam – Moscow or Prague sleeper service via Cologne, Berlin, Copenhagen and Warsaw.  I did the Cologne – Warsaw bit on my way home from the UK back in 2010 (my trip to Trinidad was aborted because of the Iceland volcano and European airspace was closed for a week, so it was my only way home), and I’d like another go, but in more comfort – perhaps First Class with a sleeper cabin to myself.  Cost again……but it would be fun.  Alternatively, I read about a new service that runs from Seattle across the Canadian border to Vancouver and on to Whistler in the Rocky Mountains.  The carriages are mostly those glass-domed panorama ones that Canadian Pacific Railways use of the Trans-Canada route, and the scenery must be absolutely stunning with the track running on a strip between the Pacific and the Rockies.

I want to go to Croatia and sail along the coast visiting some of the 1000 plus islands, most of which are uninhabited.  Santorini in Greece – I read a book years ago that identified the island, pre-volcanic explosion that ended the Minoan civilization 4000 years ago, as a likely candidate for mythical Atlantis.  The book captured my imagination and I’ve thought about it a lot over the years, so I’d like to see it for myself one day.  It looks a lovely place for a vacation anyway, whether Atlantis or not.

A safari in Africa would be nice, and achievable too, perhaps.  We made friends with someone in Trinidad who was from Johannesburg, and we keep in touch and often talk about visiting them, but work and schools and cost have made it impossible so far.  But we could do it, with a little luck, and quite soon.

A return to Trini would be good too, to catch up with my mate Phil and his missus Chrissie, whose wedding was a highlight of our time there four years ago (so long!).  Bake ‘n’ shark on Maraccas Beach in the summer sun, with a chill box full of Carib beer has its attractions as well.

I’d like to see more of Italy.  I spent a couple of months in Rome, working in the Vatican, some years ago, but it was winter, wet and cold, so a trip in better climes would be enjoyable.  Then Tuscany, avoiding Tony Blair and assorted wannabe and neverwillbe celebs as much as possible, and a drive down the spine of the country on some of those wonderful roads so beloved of the Top Gear team.

So I have a bit to do, to satisfy that little lot.  No doubt there will be other ideas and plans come along in the fullness of time, but these will do as a starting point.  If I manage even half of them I will be a happy man, and will have stuff to write about on here for years to come.  I’m very conscious that the nature of this blog has changed over the time I’ve been writing it – it’s less a travelogue nowadays and more of an opinion piece.  That’s partly because there has been so much going on in the world that I’ve had an opinion on, and partly because, over the last couple of years anyway, the travel has tailed off a bit. 

But hopefully I’ll have some new destinations coming up over the rest of this year – watch this space.

Ukraine versus the Russian Bear.

I’ve been watching the situation in Ukraine evolve with interest and a large amount of distress.  Events over the past few days, with Yanukovich doing a runner to his mates in Moscow, the counter rising of pro-Russian activists in the east of the country, and in particular the (so far) bloodless Russian invasion of Crimea, have moved quickly and complicated matters considerably.

I was in Kiev a couple of years ago, just before the Euro football tournament the country co-hosted with Poland – see my post Kiev – Euro 2012 from May 2012 – and found it a nice place.  The country (or at least the little I saw) was enchanting and the city itself an exciting and increasingly Westernized metropolis that offered much to do for tourist and resident alike.  The people seemed to be hard working and clearly looking towards the EU for the future.  The main downside was (and still is) the vast amount of corruption there.  A small example: within a few minutes of crossing the border we were pulled up by the police, probably because our number plates were not Ukrainian.  The document check revealed that we did not have the required insurance permit (which no-one had actually told us we needed).  After a brief discussion, a donation of PLN100, EUR5 and USD5 that went straight into the officer’s wallet (of course without a receipt) smoothed the way, and we were directed to a local garage where we were able to purchase the Green Card.   We were subsequently told that this was very common throughout the country, as the police topped up their low pay in this way: everyone from the President down knew it, and accepted it as part of everyday life.

Given that Yanukovich himself is the most corrupt individual in the country this is really no surprise.  His conduct throughout his two spells as president, in particular his jailing on essentially trumped up charges of rival (and more popular) opposition politician Julia Tymoschenko, has been questionable at the very least, and even two years ago the average Ukrainian couldn’t wait to get rid of him.  Of course, he is not alone.  The country is basically run by a small group of oligarchs – apparently 80% of the country’s wealth is in the hands of a mere 20 individuals – with the rest of population low paid and in many cases close to poverty.  We stayed in one of the wealthier residential areas in Kiev, and the apartment blocks were sub-standard, at least by western European standards.  We passed through poorer areas, both in and outside of the city, and saw a lot of squalor.

If proof of Yanukovich’s corruption is required, news websites here have run a number of articles over the past week, since his flight, showing various properties he “owned” – palatial villas with private pools and 9 hole golf courses in the back garden next to the helipad, dripping with incredibly tacky gold leaf on everything, overstuffed furniture that looked antique but probably isn’t, garages full of limousines….all the trappings of the typical eastern European (in particular Russian) oligarch.  Or gangster.  Another story reported that he had bought one of his daughters a 9 bedroom apartment in Manhattan.  Another daughter was bought an Aegean island (previously gifted by Aristotle Onassis to Jackie Kennedy).  The man is staggeringly wealthy, but the source of that wealth is still shrouded in mystery.  In that, he is similar to his friend Vladimir Putin, who is reckoned to be worth several tens of billions of dollars.  And is equally corrupt – it goes with the Presidential territory in this part of the world.

Faced with that kind of wealth discrepancy, it’s little wonder that most Ukrainians wanted rid of the man and his government.  His decision to drop a proposed trade deal with, and potential membership of, the EU in favour of an immediate payment of several billion dollars and closer economic ties with Russia at the end of last year proved the final straw and the protests started.  I have no doubt you watched it unfold on the tv just as I did.

I remember Independence Square – the Majdan – , where it all unfolded, very well.  When we were there in May 2012 it was an enchanting place.  It was being converted to the main Euro 2012 Fanzone and was dominated by a massive Heineken beer tent designed like half the designated adidas football to be used.  There were massive screens being built to show matches, and many food and drink stalls set up all round the perimeter.  The wide main street that leads into the square is one of the main shopping streets, housing branches of Benetton, Zara, Dior and all the major international stores.  All along both sides were kiosks selling local snack food as well as McDonalds and Pizza Hut.  At one point was a small funfair with a beautiful old carousel – the kids loved it.  You probably saw on the newscasts a column with a beautiful gilded statue at the top.  It stands at the top of a flight of steps and is surrounded by fountains.  During our visit, over the May bank holiday weekend, the steps were turned into a small waterfall in which the kids – and adults too – could splash and play.  We were there late one evening, around midnight, and it was a balmy evening, with temperatures still in the high 20s.  It was crowded with locals and tourists enjoying the holiday atmosphere, drinking beer, eating and laughing and dancing to the street musicians.  We had a lovely time.

Fast forward to now.  The burning tyre barriers.  The shrines to the protestors who lost their lives during the weeks of protest.  The crowds still there, still hoping for a brighter future, closer to the EU than to Putin’s Russia.  The destruction and bloodshed have been painful for me to watch.

And now the corrupt Yanukovich government has been replaced by an unelected group cobbled together from the ranks of the various opposition and protest groups, including the country’s most famous and popular sportsman, the boxer Vladimir Klitschko (who Maggie Lake on CNN insists on calling Kler-tit-ch-ko).  Elections are set for the end of May, and it was expected that this would rubber stamp the protestors’ demands and bring in an EU- leaning government, and everyone would live happily ever after.

The problem is Putin doesn’t see it that way, and nor it seems do many people living in the eastern end of the country and the Crimea, both closer culturally and historically to Russia than to Europe.  Within hours of Yanukovich arriving in Russia the Red Army starts military manoeuvres close to the border with Ukraine.  Russia insists this is purely coincidental, and was a long planned training exercise.  Of course it was…….  The Black Sea fleet of the Russian Navy, based under licence at Sevastopol in Ukrainian Crimea, mobilizes, and other ships start arriving, pulled from Mediterranean duties off Syria – no doubt a coincidence too.  Several thousand troops dressed in battle fatigues, Kevlar armour and helmets, and brandishing AK-47s, but dressed also in masks and without a military insignia anywhere on display, and being transported in unmarked heavy trucks of a distinctly Russian appearance, start patrolling the streets of Sevastopol and Simferopol (the regional capital) and take control of both airports.  Ukrainian flags are replaced by Russian.

Of course, they are Russian troops.  By now the peninsula is under Russian control, and Putin openly admits as much, and says that Russia will do whatever it takes, including use of force, to protect “Russian interests and citizens” there.  Cue outcry in the US, the EU and the UN, all of whom are effectively powerless.  Obama has an extended phone call with Putin, who essentially tells him to piss off – hardly surprising: here is a lame duck US President half way through his final term trying to influence an untouchable President of a huge country that matches the US dollar for dollar and has even bigger mineral wealth to play with.   Why should Putin give a shit what Obama says?  Clearly, he doesn’t.  Angela Merkel has a chat – she it seems has more influence with Putin – but doesn’t really get much further.  Young Bill Hague and Old John Kerry fly in, making pronouncements about “international obligations” being broken and ignored, and threatening sanctions etc etc.  Might make a difference, but only if the rest of the world pulls together – which it won’t, since China has publicly stated it supports Russian actions (never mind other Russian client states like Iran and Syria and Cuba and Venezuela and Byelorussia, who have little clout and will say and do whatever they’re told and in any case have enough problems of their own).  The UN can say what it likes, but Mr.Ban will never be able to force any resolutions through because Russia, as a permanent member of the Security Council has right of veto.

I have no idea how this will play out.  I hope Russia pulls back and allows the Ukrainian people to hold their elections peacefully to determine their own future.  I hope there is no need for any sanctions against anybody, because I doubt they will have much effect on megarich Russia.  I hope no young Russian or Ukrainian soldier panics and does something stupid like shoot someone, because this could kick things off badly.  If a war, God forbid, does kick off, I think Poland would inevitably support Ukraine and send in troops and air strikes, and as NATO members would expect support from other members if Russia retaliates.  Which would be very bad indeed - I live not much more than 250 kilometres from the Ukrainian border, and of course in the event of Russian retaliation Warsaw would be a prime target.

I don’t believe it will come to that……..but one thing in life I do believe is that there are no guarantees.