BOOKS
A DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF TIME, by Anthony Powell
Vol XI - Temporary Kings
Vol XII- Hearing Secret Harmonies
Temporary Kings finds our intrepid group in Venice in one of the most diverting parts of the entire series, as they are shown around a Venetian palace which houses a near-pornographic Tiepolo ceiling. Then Widmerpool arrives (who else?), but he has never cared about art; no, he has come looking for a man who might get him off the hook of being accused as a Soviet spy. Meanwhile his wife Pamela attracts the attention of American Russell Gwinnett who is preparing a biography of X Trapnel, Pamela's late lover and celebrated novelist. In the final book of the series, Hearing Secret Harmonies, the time has moved on to the early 1970s and we meet Scorpio Murtlock, an adept of the dark arts and perhaps even the reincarnation of Dr Trelawney himself. Oddly, Widmerpool, now a life-peer, abandons his noble life and throws his lot in with him. We already know Widmerpool must be top dog in any organisation he associates with. But can he match the personal power and charisma of Scorp Murtlock?
Now I have finally reached the end of this great novel cycle, I can confidently pronounce it one of the great works of literature to come out of Britain in the 20th century. No wonder they made Powell a Companion of Honour, even if only just before his death. Easier to read than Proust, but of an almost equal stature, I am surprised that few people seem to know of the book today. Perhaps I'm getting old. Or perhaps readers today neglect classics even of the very recent past. It's their loss. It doesn't have to be yours.
INVITATION TO THE DANCE, by Hilary Spurling. A companion book to Powell's magnum opus, and in his words "an exhaustive study". Exhaustive yes, quality reading, no. Really more of a guide to the student preparing a dissertation on the subject than a valuable addition for the "casual reader" (that would be me). And despite its length, many vital details are missing, like who the characters were based on "in real life"- there we must consult the Wiki site to learn, for instance, that Dr Trelawney is actually based on that grand wazoo and consummate conman, Aleistair Crowley- and that's the sort of gold we needed Hilary to tell us. Disappointing.
THE BRIDGE IN THE JUNGLE, by B Traven. Deep in the midst of the Mexican jungle primeval, an American oil worker is spending a few days in a remote hamlet when a ten-year-old boy goes missing. Has he wandered off into the forest and been eaten by a jaguar, or been abducted? Both possibilities seem equally remote. But where is he? In this short book, Traven weaves one of his simplest plots with a skill and subtlety that makes this one of his finest offerings, showing, amongst other things, how the native Mexican Indians, ostensibly having been converted to the catholic faith, only too rapidly revert to their ancient, magic-based beliefs when the chips are down. A gripping and highly moving read.
FILMS
THE CAMPAIGN (2012) D- Jay Roach. A complacent senator suddenly finds himself with an unlikely opponent in the upcoming elections. Stung into action by the polls running against him, he will stop at nothing to secure his victory. Think The Candidate meets Ron Burgundy: Anchorman. Shouldn't be too hard. Will Ferrell plays the incumbent senator, and plays it with his now familiar style. Not bad if you've nothing else on.
THE GHOST AND MRS MUIR (1947) D- Joseph Mankewicz. A beautiful widow (Gene Tierney) relocates from London to a Cornish fishing village for a change of scene, but unwittingly buys a cottage inhabited by the shade of a crusty sea captain. Somehow he persuades her to "ghost" his autobiography. Meanwhile, a creepy George Sanders is also trying to snag her, and his intentions are far from honourable. What they used to call "a woman's picture" (I suppose they call them chickflicks now) which don't normally appeal much to me. But the quality of the work demands proper attention. Try it, if you haven't caught it years ago.
RAINING STONES (1993) D- Ken Loach. A young Liverpudlian feels obliged to raise the cash required to buy a first-communion dress for his daughter, but with trimmings it's over a hundred quid, and there's no way he can find that kind of money. A desperate race ensues to come up with the readies, all the way to a fatal involvement with a loan shark. Ken Loach has always been associated with a politically committed view, going right back to Kes, and this is no exception. No balance here, just a tremendously human account of the essentially immoral nature of poverty in the modern world. Terrific.
UNION STATION (1950) D- Rudolph Mate. A blind girl is kidnapped and hidden in the bowels of L.A.'s main railway station. Knarly cop William Holden has the job of tracking her down before she is murdered. Shot in unforgiving monochrome, with good acting and direction, this is a creditable effort, though the blind girl's character is so annoying you almost want her to get her throat slit just to shut her up her incessant whining.
COLD MOUNTAIN (2003) D- Anthony Minghella. In the dying days of the American Civil War, a young man (Jude Law) takes a fancy to a preacher's daughter (Nicole Kidman). But then he is whisked away to join a local militia fighting for the doomed south. But his thoughts never stray far from her face. Will they be re-united? Meanwhile, she makes the best life she can, assisted by a more practically-minded Rene Zelwegger, with whom she has formed an unlikely alliance.
A film of considerable quality, with Jude Law surprisingly good (normally I am underwhelmed with the young man) and especially Zelwegger, who acts everybody else off the screen. Languid for much of the time, when it occasionally explodes into violence the effect is truly shocking. Worthy.
OF GODS AND MEN (Fr, 2001) D-Xavier Beauvois. A community of monks try to eke out an existence in revolutionary Algeria, but their survival becomes increasingly precarious as the Islamists gain ground. Finely honed piece which demonstrates admirably the inevitable slide to violence when contrasting religions collide in post colonial environments. Some of the most terrible atrocities ever committed in the name of religion occurred in the Algeria of the 1960s, though it all seems almost forgotten today. This film does well to remind us of them.
LET THE RIGHT ONE IN (Swedish, 2009) D- Tomas Alfredson. A normal 12 year old kid lives in an apartment block in Stockholm, growing up with the normal problems, not doing well at school, being bullied etc. Then he discovers a protector living next door: a 12 year old girl. The thing with her is, she's been a 12 year old girl for a long time. That's right folks, she's a vampire. A sort of Scandinavian Twilight, but much more real and much, much scarier than the American franchise. A breath of fresh air in the seemingly endless run of vampire flicks
ST ELMO'S FIRE (1985) D- Joel Shumaker. A bunch of attractive 20-somethings work out their careers and romances in the hedonistic atmosphere of the 80s "Me generation". They make up and break up; they get jobs and lose them. You know. Some people kind of assume actors make up the words they say on the spot, that there's no such thing as script writers. They don't realise they'd be standing around mute if it weren't for writers. However if those writers don't do their job well the effect is little better, and here we find the problem with this film. The actors are fine: Demi Moore looking almost absurdly young, Rob Lowe looking like some sort of tousled Adonis. But the film fails to convince because of the weakness of the screenplay, and the result is we can't wait for it to be over. Pity.
A FIELD IN ENGLAND (2013) D- Ben Wheatley (written by Amy Jump) On a battlefield during the English Civil War, an alchemist's assistant is forced to use his magical skills to find a treasure which has allegedly been buried in a field. In England. The apprentice alchemist speculates that the treasure referred to might be the bonds of friendship that form between human beings during times of crisis, but his tormentor isn't interested in that kind of bullshit and so they keep digging. And digging...
A film heralded for being shown at a London premier, broadcast on TV (Film 4) and streamed on the internet simultaneously, it was also hyped as containing revolutionary techniques of cinematography into the bargain. I didn't see much of that, but I did see an outstanding piece of English cinema, with fine acting and writing, and superior directing, which go to produce a disturbing and powerful film. I'm sure they'll show it again. Catch it when they do.
THEY WON'T FORGET (1937) D- Mervyn Leroy (uncredited) In a sleepy southern town, a pretty young girl (Lana Turner in her first screen role) is savagely murdered, and suspicion falls on a Jewish schoolteacher from the north. A black man might also have done it, but the ambitious DA (Claude Rains) realises he can make a name for himself, not if he goes for the easy target, the black man, but after the white stranger from out of town. The evidence is paper-thin and purely circumstantial, but Rains didn't acquire the reputation of being the smartest guy in town for nothing...
The story is based on a novel which in turn was based on a real case in 1913, which became known as "The Franks Case". The climactic ending, based on real events, is supremely shocking even today, but I don't wish to be a spoil. I bought my copy, though it is one of those films you can download for free from the American Film Archive (annoyingly, it was "unavailable" when we tried).
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
Friday, 26 July 2013
The trouble with GPs
Is that they seem to care too much about money. Rather a lot of them at least. A survey published today suggested that as many as 50% of them would like to charge patients for every consultation: a fee of £20-30 has been proposed. What is wrong with those guys?
The fundamental principle of the NHS since its inception in 1947 is that medical care should be free at the point of delivery, the cost being funded through taxes and other insurance contributions. Without this, it was argued, patients would add in a financial consideration to their decision whether to consult a doctor, forcing a difficult decision for the millions of people who are on low fixed incomes or benefits. And we know where that leads: to an American-type system where peoples' credit status is checked before a medical professional comes anywhere near them. And from that little principle, anything up to 50 million Americans get no medical care at all- strange for what is still the wealthiest country in the world. Still, they know what they're doing. Apparently.
Full time GPs can earn £100,000 a year in Britain. They are still among the most trusted and respected members of the community. They work hard, but the rewards go way beyond money.
I was at a medical conference the other day and at my table over lunch, several of my colleagues were trotting out the usual whinges of a GP: the pressure, the ever increasing demand, the mountains of paperwork, etc etc. I was forced to remind them that, bottom line, a GP has a very good job, that they should feel themselves honoured and privileged to be lucky enough to have such a good job. They all immediately agreed, sure, yes, that's a given they responded. But it didn't stop them whining. Get with the programme GPs: you're part of the NHS. If you don't like it, go into private medicine, and good luck with that. Less than 1% of the population can afford to engage a private GP, so they'll find their surgeries a little sparsely attended...
The fundamental principle of the NHS since its inception in 1947 is that medical care should be free at the point of delivery, the cost being funded through taxes and other insurance contributions. Without this, it was argued, patients would add in a financial consideration to their decision whether to consult a doctor, forcing a difficult decision for the millions of people who are on low fixed incomes or benefits. And we know where that leads: to an American-type system where peoples' credit status is checked before a medical professional comes anywhere near them. And from that little principle, anything up to 50 million Americans get no medical care at all- strange for what is still the wealthiest country in the world. Still, they know what they're doing. Apparently.
Full time GPs can earn £100,000 a year in Britain. They are still among the most trusted and respected members of the community. They work hard, but the rewards go way beyond money.
I was at a medical conference the other day and at my table over lunch, several of my colleagues were trotting out the usual whinges of a GP: the pressure, the ever increasing demand, the mountains of paperwork, etc etc. I was forced to remind them that, bottom line, a GP has a very good job, that they should feel themselves honoured and privileged to be lucky enough to have such a good job. They all immediately agreed, sure, yes, that's a given they responded. But it didn't stop them whining. Get with the programme GPs: you're part of the NHS. If you don't like it, go into private medicine, and good luck with that. Less than 1% of the population can afford to engage a private GP, so they'll find their surgeries a little sparsely attended...
Sunday, 21 July 2013
Hypocrisy: alive and well on Sky news
This morning on Sky news we were presented with a distressing story about "indigenous" (I guess you don't say "aboriginal" these days, right?) people in northern Australia who are regularly abandoning their children to the streets while they drink themselves into oblivion. Once again there is talk of adopting these hapless little souls into nice, middle class white families.
But while the report did make mention of the earlier Australian practice of basically abducting black children from their families and re-locating them to nicer white families, no one was prepared to highlight the real reason for these terrible episodes in Australian history: the fact that when the British colonised that vast southern land, just as they did in America and elsewhere, they treated the people who were already living there as sub-human vermin to be exploited at best; exterminated at worst.
The terrible scenes depicted on Sky news this morning, with black men and women staggering around wasted while their children wandered the streets are the sure signs of a smashed culture. It's the same with the native American peoples, where the two commonest forms of death are alcoholism and violence. But what else is there to do when everything of value has been stolen from you?
But while the report did make mention of the earlier Australian practice of basically abducting black children from their families and re-locating them to nicer white families, no one was prepared to highlight the real reason for these terrible episodes in Australian history: the fact that when the British colonised that vast southern land, just as they did in America and elsewhere, they treated the people who were already living there as sub-human vermin to be exploited at best; exterminated at worst.
The terrible scenes depicted on Sky news this morning, with black men and women staggering around wasted while their children wandered the streets are the sure signs of a smashed culture. It's the same with the native American peoples, where the two commonest forms of death are alcoholism and violence. But what else is there to do when everything of value has been stolen from you?
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
We don't need no Trident missiles
We don't need no thought control
Hey! Leaders!
Leave those bombs alone!
So there appears to be a consensus that we should keep our Trident submarines with their weapons of hideous destruction. The LibDems say fewer; the Tories say keep the same number (I believe we have four, at least one of which is eternally cruising the oceans at a cost of over £1 million per week) Hardly anyone seems to be saying: why have any at all?
Let's have a look at a few other advanced, wealthy countries who appear to manage to survive without any nuclear submarines at all: Germany, all the Scandinavian countries, Brazil, Canada. I could go on. The point is, all these countries operate successful economies, have their voices heard at the highest level in the World community, yet do not seem to be clammering for the right to inflict megadeath upon any perceived threat.
So in the absence of any specific threat, the communist world having gone phut decades ago, why are we so desperate to retain our nuclear option? The answer is simple: ego. We like to think of ourselves as still being a first division world power, punching well above our weight in world affairs and that our nuclear deterrent secures that position for us. It doesn't. Mind you, if we led the nuclear club in our determination to rid ourselves of these expensive and essentially useless weapons, our prestige on the world stage would be enhanced enormously. But no, we'd rather pretend we're big players in the playground where no one (except America of course) is going to boss us around- or we'll nuke 'em, right?
Wrong...
Hey! Leaders!
Leave those bombs alone!
So there appears to be a consensus that we should keep our Trident submarines with their weapons of hideous destruction. The LibDems say fewer; the Tories say keep the same number (I believe we have four, at least one of which is eternally cruising the oceans at a cost of over £1 million per week) Hardly anyone seems to be saying: why have any at all?
Let's have a look at a few other advanced, wealthy countries who appear to manage to survive without any nuclear submarines at all: Germany, all the Scandinavian countries, Brazil, Canada. I could go on. The point is, all these countries operate successful economies, have their voices heard at the highest level in the World community, yet do not seem to be clammering for the right to inflict megadeath upon any perceived threat.
So in the absence of any specific threat, the communist world having gone phut decades ago, why are we so desperate to retain our nuclear option? The answer is simple: ego. We like to think of ourselves as still being a first division world power, punching well above our weight in world affairs and that our nuclear deterrent secures that position for us. It doesn't. Mind you, if we led the nuclear club in our determination to rid ourselves of these expensive and essentially useless weapons, our prestige on the world stage would be enhanced enormously. But no, we'd rather pretend we're big players in the playground where no one (except America of course) is going to boss us around- or we'll nuke 'em, right?
Wrong...
Sunday, 14 July 2013
doctor fails to prepare for hottest day of year: pays for it
Yesterday my wife and I drove to north Gwent to enjoy a ten kilometre walk around the famous Skenfrith castle, including a 135 metre ascent up the hills behind that ancient bastion of Norman power.
We started at 10.30 am, and all went well for the first half of the walk. We even enjoyed our lunch of tuna rolls and cup of tomato soup. I had taken 500 mls of water with me, which I had completed by then. On the ascent, which was in two parts, I noticed I was having more difficulty than usual, even given my at best average levels of fitness and parlous lungs from a lifetime of smoking. After about 50 metres of climbing I called a halt and at this point I developed a migraine- the first time this has ever happened to me on a walk of any kind. The usual backwards "C" shape appeared before my eyes, made of spiky lines of yellow, black and white. I wondered how I could continue, but a ten minute break giving me the chance to have a fag and take on a little more water, plus the fact that my wife told me that the last time she had a migraine on a walk she simply kept going, impelled me to my feet once more. I pressed on up the hill, and thankfully the migraine phenomena began to subside as I continued clambering. At the top of the climb I fell back into a supine position, where my photographed me in my extremis: distressed, panting like someone having a panic attack, ashen-faced, utterly spent. She kindly informs me she will not be posting the pictures on her facebook page.
The rest of the walk was a gradual downhill progress, which fortunately I negotiated without any further difficulty.
Upon arriving home I fell upon the cold water tap and filled a pint mug to its brim, draining its contents in a speed a yard-of-ale exponent might have envied. A second pint went the same way. It was not until half way through the third pint I began to feel fully restored. Later we discovered we had been walking in temperatures of 31 degrees- the hottest day for the last seven years in these parts, and it now became clear I had taken insufficient water with me to ward off dehydration, unlike my wife, who had taken twice as much. This is the sort of thing I often did in my childhood and adolescence, playing golf or tennis all day without drinking, only to wonder why I was afflicted with a blinding headache by the end of the day. But in those days dehydration was not properly understood even by quite sophisticated people. These days there should be no excuse whatever for this act of gross stupidity- and I'm holding my hands up to it. Never again...
We started at 10.30 am, and all went well for the first half of the walk. We even enjoyed our lunch of tuna rolls and cup of tomato soup. I had taken 500 mls of water with me, which I had completed by then. On the ascent, which was in two parts, I noticed I was having more difficulty than usual, even given my at best average levels of fitness and parlous lungs from a lifetime of smoking. After about 50 metres of climbing I called a halt and at this point I developed a migraine- the first time this has ever happened to me on a walk of any kind. The usual backwards "C" shape appeared before my eyes, made of spiky lines of yellow, black and white. I wondered how I could continue, but a ten minute break giving me the chance to have a fag and take on a little more water, plus the fact that my wife told me that the last time she had a migraine on a walk she simply kept going, impelled me to my feet once more. I pressed on up the hill, and thankfully the migraine phenomena began to subside as I continued clambering. At the top of the climb I fell back into a supine position, where my photographed me in my extremis: distressed, panting like someone having a panic attack, ashen-faced, utterly spent. She kindly informs me she will not be posting the pictures on her facebook page.
The rest of the walk was a gradual downhill progress, which fortunately I negotiated without any further difficulty.
Upon arriving home I fell upon the cold water tap and filled a pint mug to its brim, draining its contents in a speed a yard-of-ale exponent might have envied. A second pint went the same way. It was not until half way through the third pint I began to feel fully restored. Later we discovered we had been walking in temperatures of 31 degrees- the hottest day for the last seven years in these parts, and it now became clear I had taken insufficient water with me to ward off dehydration, unlike my wife, who had taken twice as much. This is the sort of thing I often did in my childhood and adolescence, playing golf or tennis all day without drinking, only to wonder why I was afflicted with a blinding headache by the end of the day. But in those days dehydration was not properly understood even by quite sophisticated people. These days there should be no excuse whatever for this act of gross stupidity- and I'm holding my hands up to it. Never again...
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Climate Change is here! (for a few days anyway)
For the last few days, the Jetstream has adopted what the BBC weather guy called its "default setting", i.e. running to the north of the British Isles, allowing a large. glorious anticyclone to develop over much of Britain. And as it is July, we have enjoyed sunny skies and temperatures in the high twenties. Indeed, yesterday in my garden at 4 pm, the temperature hit 29 degrees, making it the hottest day here since 2006. Do you remember that year? I do. We took a short break in North Wales towards the end of July and even at the summit of Snowdon, over 1000 metres above sea level, the temperature was 27 degrees. Amazing! Since then, however, we have had to endure 6 lousy summers in a row. So this little heat wave is a welcome break from all that damp, grey misery. And there have been other reasons to be full of the joys of summer.
On Sunday I saw something I seriously believed I might never see: a Brit winning Wimbledon. And even in the context of other supreme sporting moments these islands have seen in recent times, from the triumphs of the London Olympiad, through Bradley Wiggin's unprecedented victory in the Tour de France, to Justin Rose winning the US Open, not even all of them put together in my mind equals the enormity of Murray's win. So many years of nearly-men, so many years of abject hopelessness- all that was negated in one wonderful moment when the umpire intoned "Game, set and match to Mr Murray".
The warm, luxuriant glow which immediately permeated my entrails has yet to abate. The entire nation, I suspect, feels something of the same. Yet will it mark a resurgence of interest in tennis at the ground roots in Britain, in which new champions will be bred from the soil of our youth? I think not. Participation in tennis has actually fallen since 2005. Murray himself owes his success to his training on the slow clay of Spain rather than the courts here at home (that and the inspired decision to bring Ivan Lendl into his team of advisers) I think Murray is capable of winning Wimbledon again, as well as other Grand Slam events elsewhere, but will I live to see another British man (or woman for that matter) take the biggest crown of all? I doubt it.
On Sunday I saw something I seriously believed I might never see: a Brit winning Wimbledon. And even in the context of other supreme sporting moments these islands have seen in recent times, from the triumphs of the London Olympiad, through Bradley Wiggin's unprecedented victory in the Tour de France, to Justin Rose winning the US Open, not even all of them put together in my mind equals the enormity of Murray's win. So many years of nearly-men, so many years of abject hopelessness- all that was negated in one wonderful moment when the umpire intoned "Game, set and match to Mr Murray".
The warm, luxuriant glow which immediately permeated my entrails has yet to abate. The entire nation, I suspect, feels something of the same. Yet will it mark a resurgence of interest in tennis at the ground roots in Britain, in which new champions will be bred from the soil of our youth? I think not. Participation in tennis has actually fallen since 2005. Murray himself owes his success to his training on the slow clay of Spain rather than the courts here at home (that and the inspired decision to bring Ivan Lendl into his team of advisers) I think Murray is capable of winning Wimbledon again, as well as other Grand Slam events elsewhere, but will I live to see another British man (or woman for that matter) take the biggest crown of all? I doubt it.
Sunday, 7 July 2013
Wales Whips Wallabies!
SPORTING DISPATCH
1. Rugby
This will be the cry throughout the Principality as "The British and Irish Lions" as they are awkwardly called, put it the hated Ockers, but in reality it was the Welsh what did it, with perhaps just a little assistance from their friends from beyond the Marches. How do Wales do it? It's a bit like Uruguay, which has a population little bigger than Wales, but which has managed to produce a football team consistently ranked in the World's top five over the last fifty years.
2. Cycling.
After biding his time like the true professional he is, yesterday Chris Froome mounted his charge and surged into the Maillot Jaune in Le Tour de France. Laying down his challenge to the other major contenders, he left them eating his dust as he forged through the mountains in the ancient Cathar region of southern France. And I have a strong feeling Froome will relinquish of his lead only at the expense of his life.
My wife and I love watching the Tour. We record while Wimbledon is on, then watch it in the evening, skipping the frequent and endlessly repetitive commercial breaks which are so annoying when watching the coverage live.. The only trick is to avoid hearing news of the result before settling down to watch. We are both agreed that one of the most pleasurable aspects of the coverage is the fantastic views of the French countryside from the air provided by the helicopter that shadows every inch of the 3000 mile journey the riders, surely the real iron men of sport, negotiate on their way to the finishing line in Paris.
3. Tennis
Can he do it? Yes he can! This afternoon we shall get out of the sun for a few hours to see if Andy can do what no Brit has done for 77 years. He starts as underdog, which is perhaps to his advantage, but in order to achieve the goal we all aspire for him he must play the best game of his life, for his opposition will be in no mood to give it away, however much we may want it.
We have already witnessed extraordinary scenes at Wimbledon this year: the demise of the seeds has been almost unprecedented, and the surviving players have put on a superb show, culminating in the two semi-finals on Friday, both of which were among the best matches seen on the Centre Court for many years. Both players had to dig deep to come through after five draining sets, so at least they will be equally tired. The final on paper looks like one of the most appetising for years, and quite frankly anyone not glued to their sets this afternoon must have something wrong with them. Send our boy your best vibes, witches and warlocks incant your most powerful spells- he needs them!
Postscript: John Inverdale (pronounced wanker)
I made my feelings plain regarding this overpaid tosser during the London Olympics. I found him to be a poor journalist and a poorer interviewer who should be found some sort of redundancy package and let go. Well they haven't got rid of him (or Sue Barker, who is only a slight improvement), and we can still find his presence everywhere; on Radio 5 Live, on the TV highlights show and probably elsewhere too. Now he has incurred the wrath of the Twittersphere by pronouncing Marion Bartoli "not much of a looker". Like you're Johnny Depp! Truth be told, La Bartoli is no Isobel Adjani or Emanuelle Beart, but she doesn't have to be. She's a beautiful tennis player, and that's what counts. He could have described Virginia Wade as having a face like an elderly racehorse, or Ann Jones as being about as attractive as a car crash, but he's not that stupid. He's still bloody stupid though, which is why he should be fired.
On Eurosport's tennis coverage they have a slot called "Game, Set and Mats", a brief rundown on the day's play provided by multi- Grand Slam winner Mats Willander and the exceedingly foxy Annabel Croft (although she also got in trouble last week when she described Serena's arse as being too big- she was later forced to recant and say her bum was gorgeous and should be aspired to by all female players, though not Annabel, please- her superstructure is already perfect as it is). With style and grace they add intelligent analysis, information and insight, every time, right on the money. The BBC should hire them and get rid of Inverdale and Barker.
1. Rugby
This will be the cry throughout the Principality as "The British and Irish Lions" as they are awkwardly called, put it the hated Ockers, but in reality it was the Welsh what did it, with perhaps just a little assistance from their friends from beyond the Marches. How do Wales do it? It's a bit like Uruguay, which has a population little bigger than Wales, but which has managed to produce a football team consistently ranked in the World's top five over the last fifty years.
2. Cycling.
After biding his time like the true professional he is, yesterday Chris Froome mounted his charge and surged into the Maillot Jaune in Le Tour de France. Laying down his challenge to the other major contenders, he left them eating his dust as he forged through the mountains in the ancient Cathar region of southern France. And I have a strong feeling Froome will relinquish of his lead only at the expense of his life.
My wife and I love watching the Tour. We record while Wimbledon is on, then watch it in the evening, skipping the frequent and endlessly repetitive commercial breaks which are so annoying when watching the coverage live.. The only trick is to avoid hearing news of the result before settling down to watch. We are both agreed that one of the most pleasurable aspects of the coverage is the fantastic views of the French countryside from the air provided by the helicopter that shadows every inch of the 3000 mile journey the riders, surely the real iron men of sport, negotiate on their way to the finishing line in Paris.
3. Tennis
Can he do it? Yes he can! This afternoon we shall get out of the sun for a few hours to see if Andy can do what no Brit has done for 77 years. He starts as underdog, which is perhaps to his advantage, but in order to achieve the goal we all aspire for him he must play the best game of his life, for his opposition will be in no mood to give it away, however much we may want it.
We have already witnessed extraordinary scenes at Wimbledon this year: the demise of the seeds has been almost unprecedented, and the surviving players have put on a superb show, culminating in the two semi-finals on Friday, both of which were among the best matches seen on the Centre Court for many years. Both players had to dig deep to come through after five draining sets, so at least they will be equally tired. The final on paper looks like one of the most appetising for years, and quite frankly anyone not glued to their sets this afternoon must have something wrong with them. Send our boy your best vibes, witches and warlocks incant your most powerful spells- he needs them!
Postscript: John Inverdale (pronounced wanker)
I made my feelings plain regarding this overpaid tosser during the London Olympics. I found him to be a poor journalist and a poorer interviewer who should be found some sort of redundancy package and let go. Well they haven't got rid of him (or Sue Barker, who is only a slight improvement), and we can still find his presence everywhere; on Radio 5 Live, on the TV highlights show and probably elsewhere too. Now he has incurred the wrath of the Twittersphere by pronouncing Marion Bartoli "not much of a looker". Like you're Johnny Depp! Truth be told, La Bartoli is no Isobel Adjani or Emanuelle Beart, but she doesn't have to be. She's a beautiful tennis player, and that's what counts. He could have described Virginia Wade as having a face like an elderly racehorse, or Ann Jones as being about as attractive as a car crash, but he's not that stupid. He's still bloody stupid though, which is why he should be fired.
On Eurosport's tennis coverage they have a slot called "Game, Set and Mats", a brief rundown on the day's play provided by multi- Grand Slam winner Mats Willander and the exceedingly foxy Annabel Croft (although she also got in trouble last week when she described Serena's arse as being too big- she was later forced to recant and say her bum was gorgeous and should be aspired to by all female players, though not Annabel, please- her superstructure is already perfect as it is). With style and grace they add intelligent analysis, information and insight, every time, right on the money. The BBC should hire them and get rid of Inverdale and Barker.
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
NHS tourism: not as simple as you thought
Every GP, and every casualty officer in Britain is familiar with the phenomenon of foreign nationals attempting to obtain medical services free at the point of delivery, as is the custom in our greatest institution: the National Health Service. And it can be exceedingly difficult to tell the legitimate from the less so. And as a spokesman for the BMA said this morning, it isn't a doctor's job to act as unpaid UK border officials. Most doctor's instincts are to treat the patient in front of them without checking their credit rating, as is the custom throughout the United States. But we do try.
Asylum seekers are entitled to free treatment, so if they tell us they are, usually we don't ask any further questions. Similarly, any EU resident is also entitled to free treatment, as well as non-EU residents who have been resident in the UK for more than six months. So we depend on people's honesty to a very large extent. If visitors arrive from distant shores, however, my practice is immediately to inform them that my work for them will require a fee (I usually charge £20 per consultation; sometimes more, depending on how rich they look), and also warn them that any tests or hospital referrals I may see fit to arrange will also attract a fee. Most cough up uncomplainingly, especially the yanks, who can't believe what a bargain they are getting compared with home. But some are less happy.
The other day I had a family of very well heeled visitors from Singapore arrive at the practice in a hired 7 series BMW, all five of them dressed in designer clothes and all requiring some sort of medical intervention. On being told they would have to pay (as they do at home) the parents flew into a rage and stormed out of the surgery, but not before accusing me of being "racist scum"..
This is the sort of NHS tourism we should be seeking to stop: the cynical, greedy approach of people who wouldn't get their treatment free at home, but calculate they can get everything they want here for nothing. And just a few brief questions can often sort this chaff from the wheat of genuinely "deserving cases". The point is that although the NHS has deep pockets (it costs something like £120 billion annually)- those pockets represent a finite, not an infinite resource, and hence the people who work in it should be careful to husband its funds humanely, but carefully.
Asylum seekers are entitled to free treatment, so if they tell us they are, usually we don't ask any further questions. Similarly, any EU resident is also entitled to free treatment, as well as non-EU residents who have been resident in the UK for more than six months. So we depend on people's honesty to a very large extent. If visitors arrive from distant shores, however, my practice is immediately to inform them that my work for them will require a fee (I usually charge £20 per consultation; sometimes more, depending on how rich they look), and also warn them that any tests or hospital referrals I may see fit to arrange will also attract a fee. Most cough up uncomplainingly, especially the yanks, who can't believe what a bargain they are getting compared with home. But some are less happy.
The other day I had a family of very well heeled visitors from Singapore arrive at the practice in a hired 7 series BMW, all five of them dressed in designer clothes and all requiring some sort of medical intervention. On being told they would have to pay (as they do at home) the parents flew into a rage and stormed out of the surgery, but not before accusing me of being "racist scum"..
This is the sort of NHS tourism we should be seeking to stop: the cynical, greedy approach of people who wouldn't get their treatment free at home, but calculate they can get everything they want here for nothing. And just a few brief questions can often sort this chaff from the wheat of genuinely "deserving cases". The point is that although the NHS has deep pockets (it costs something like £120 billion annually)- those pockets represent a finite, not an infinite resource, and hence the people who work in it should be careful to husband its funds humanely, but carefully.
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