It’s only words – or is it?

These are the words from a song by popular modern beat combo, The 1975.

I despair!

Did nobody point out to at least one of the three writers of this song, George Daniel, Matty Healy and Jack Antonoff, that ‘times’ does not rhyme with ‘Caroline’? I know it’s a small point and grammar has never been a strong point in popular music (I always correct Paul Simon – great song-writer that he is –  to ‘I wish I were homeward bound’, not ‘was homeward bound’ when I sing along) but to state so positively that ‘Caroline’ is the only rhyme to ‘times’ is positively shameful. Why could they not have spent a moment considering adjusting the lyrics to find a word that did rhyme?

Yet that has led me to consider the lyrics of many of the songs that populate the best-sellers of today. In my 1960’s youth, I was virtually weaned on the top twenty, buying all the hits and singing along to ‘Da Doo Ron Ron’ and ‘Wah wah wah wah why, she ran away’. Simple and catchy. And while not at the pinnacle of English language construction, easy and harmless. True, quite a few songs might have had my parents shaking their heads in despair about declining standards. ‘If you gotta go, go now, or else you gotta stay all night’ might have had the tensing for me as a small boy asking what it meant. Or ‘I’m afraid we’ll go too far’ (in ‘Young Girl’). Or ‘She was too young to fall in love and I was too young to know’ (‘Only Sixteen). But there was nothing so overt that it made me snigger in my bedroom.

Of course, it would be naïve to assume that all sixties’ music was pure and above board – there were too many drugs around to guarantee that. And anyone who has listened to the Beatles’ ‘Girl’ will know that those cheeky chaps, Paul and George, were singing what was considered at the time to be rude words in the background. But who noticed? Anything naughty and not wholesome for tender ears was disguised, almost an in-joke for the performers. For me, as a pre-teen, I suspected nothing, just singing along with the words and enjoying the sound. And my parents could feel safe that I was not being exposed to the adult world too early.  

By the time I was a parent, such niceties were history. Songs now went full f-word, although radio remixes saved innocent ears and record covers carried stickers with the message, ‘Parent Advisory’.

Did that help? I always feared it might make young people more curious. But it gave adults a chance to protect their children. Chumbawamba’s ‘Tubthumping’ – that I’d bought and my daughter liked to dance to – starts with, ‘I thought that music mattered. Does it? Bollocks’, so I knew I had to cough at the appropriate moment and hope she wouldn’t notice. Then I felt safe to let the rest play. (I should say that, only now while writing this, do I realise the chorus is ‘Pissin’ the night away, pissin’ the night away.’ I don’t know what I thought it was, but it wasn’t ‘pissin’’! Did she know or care? Still, I expect she was familiar with the word already. So I exonerate myself!)

Fortunately, the most explicit sexual content tended to remain as innuendo, and it could be interpreted in a wholesome way. ‘Milkshake’ (Kelis), ‘When Two Become One’ (Spice Girls), ‘Genie In A Bottle’ (Christine Aguella) can all be explained away if you’re not looking for sexual content or don’t understand it. And while in ‘Oh Carolina’, the singer (Shaggy) was ‘banging on the bathroom floor’, it could always have been thumping the tiles while jumping around.  And research suggests most young people did take it all at face value.

That’s not to say all artists were ambiguous about sex in their songs. I’m thinking of the likes of Liz Phair. ‘Liz Phair who?’ I hear you cry – luckily such performers tended to be ‘alternative’ or difficult, so not popular with the young. She performed explicit lyrics to catchy tunes, but the arrangements and minimalist accompaniment weren’t commercial and therefore off the main music radar, and out of aural reach of the young. But don’t go playing her albums to your little ones before checking out her titles or lyrics first.

Which brings us to today. Things have taken a lurch for the worse. It’s all quite different. Some of the most catchy, singable popular songs are the most profane, intimate and explicit. Who would expect that the most potty-mouthed would be radio-friendly Sabrina Carpenter? Or Lana Del Ray? Even Taylor Swift. Yet their lyrics invariably leave nothing to alternative interpretations. I would quote some here, but it would involve too many asterisks! And as they’re streamed, there can be no control or parental warning.

There are moves to protect young people from explicit visual material (the jury’s out on how effective they’ll be), but music escapes all control. It was a joy of my childhood, and sung in all innocence because, by and large, it was innocent. Things only got bawdy when you were old enough to know better. Now it’s in your face. The occasional Anglo-Saxon word in a song can shock and have a relevance (I’m thinking of the anger in Alanis Morrisette’s ‘You Oughta Know’ as an example) and you can steer innocent ears away if necessary.

But in recent pop tunes and number one hits like, ‘Manchild’ by Sabrina Carpenter, it’s simply gratuitous. Without losing anything, she could have recorded, ‘Why you always come a-running to me? Mess my life’, substituting ‘mess’ for the four-letter f-word she actually uses. And there are many, many other examples in hit songs today.

Are today’s performers adult and responsible enough to think of who’s listening when they write and record? Or don’t they care, or simply looking to get credit for being streetwise?

I have loved popular music in all its forms since I was eight or nine. Now, I fear for parents who’d like their children to share and enjoy that same love without having to shield or censor.

Richard Smith’s novels, Homeward Bound and I’m Still Standing are available from Amazon and bookshops.

Displacement activities

Amazing, isn’t it. When you have something you know you need to do, you find something more important. It can be something trivial, like making a cup of coffee. Or something like, well writing this blog.

I haven’t blogged much of late, not least because I’ve been writing pieces for various journals and online sites at the request of others. And making the odd video. Not to mention being encouraged to do social media of my own to promote my two novels. Whether my various Instagram posts made the slightest bit of difference to interest in Homeward Bound and I’m Still Standing I have no idea. But I’ll doubtless be back on Instagram videos for the new one

Ah – and that’s been another reason for not blogging. I’ve been completing my third novel. This particular displacement is because I need to write a synopsis for it. Anyone who has ever written anything will known the nightmare that is a synopsis. If it’s taken me 290 (or however many) pages to write a piece that I hope is entertaining, interesting and engaging, then how is it possible to condense it into a single page? But it must be done. Just not at the moment as I’m writing this.

And what inspired me to use this avenue to waste time is I wanted to share a discovery I’ve made. Late, I know, but monumental tome. I’ve discovered AI. Well, ChatGP. It could become a completely new category of displacement activities all of its own! Here’s what kick-started my new obsession.

Take a look at this before image, snapped by me on Easter Sunday walking in Waterlow Park, which is north London and right next to Hampstead Heath.

A decorative cartoon character resembling an egg with a smiling face, dressed in a plaid shirt and blue pants, sitting on top of a brick wall surrounded by greenery.

I sent it to my daughter, and it came back from my son-in-law like this.

A cartoonish character resembling an egg with a smiling face sits atop a brick wall, while three mounted soldiers in historical uniforms stand below, looking up at it.

It made me laugh. More than that. It made me want to have a go myself. In fact, it became so much of a temptation for me, I wasted no time and began to adulterate other images take on that walk, using the same software that created all the King’s horses and all the King’s men..

A black coot swimming in a reflecting pond surrounded by trees and water lilies.

I selected this sweet, innocent, springtime image, and imagined something altogether more interesting and ludicrous!

A surreal image depicting a prehistoric flying reptile hovering above a blackbird in a tranquil pond, surrounded by leafy branches.

I have to confess to being somewhat troubed by AI. Can you believe anything you see anymore? But this tool can open up the imagination to all manor of things . And timewasting opportunities.

What’s more, maybe I can use AI to write my synopsis? Maybe I’ll look it up in Wikipedia and see it it’s possible.

But not yet. I’ll have a coffee, first.

(But look out for Made For Walking. If I get my synopsis and other necessary stuff done, it’ll be in the bookshops later in the year.)

When the mobile fails

This is how my iPhone looked before I went to bed. I’d set it for the update it was due, with new features and security measures.  Fourteen hours later, it looked the same. Which I why I found myself standing outside the Apple store in Covent Garden. The update had obviously frozen. After searching the interweb on my laptop and trying all the tricks offered for iPhone restoration, I was no further forward.  In a blind panic, and after an umpteenth unsuccessful press of every button on the side, I decided to follow the final online suggestion as to what to do. Get help.

It’s only when denied access to something that your complete dependency is revealed. Back in the day, contacts might be on a Filofax, phone numbers in an address book, money in a wallet, time worn on the wrist. To lose them all at once would be impossible. Well, nearly. I once had them all in a briefcase that I inadvertently left in the waiting room of a car showroom.  By the time I’d realised, the showroom had closed, but I went back anyway.  Through the plate-glass window, I could see it beside the sofa I’d been sitting on. I just prayed it would be safe until morning.  Yet, what if cleaners dumped it, or there were burglars, ram-raiders . . . every eventuality played on my mind. I would have camped outside on the pavement had it not been cold and wet. As it was, I was in pole position to retrieve it a good hour before the showroom opened.

And, in truth, being denied access to my phone has happened before. I’d accidentally locked it inside my car. It was a hatchback where the hatch could be unlocked without unlocking the whole car. I was on a farm, taking off my coat and throwing it inside while encircled by a cloud of horseflies. I’m irresistible to biting insects. To stop them swarming into the car – I could imagine them feasting on me as I drove home – I slammed down the back, only to realise that in my haste, the car key and my mobile were in the coat’s pocket. So I know how helpless I am without my iPhone. I was rescued by a friend who waited with me until the AA came to my rescue.

But with my locked iPhone, I was on my own, and facing certain armageddon. It’s a relatively new model, not that you can tell by looking at it. I’d bought a cheap cover years ago that has decayed, to the embarrassment of my two daughters who have tried to shame me into buying a new one – and even to treat me to one as a Fathers’ Day gift. But I looked upon it as a mark of independence and individuality. And anyway, it was stuck to the phone itself and I had no idea how to detach it without also ripping off the back of the phone. Safer to leave it be.

The trouble is, the mobile has become such a a vital part
of modern life

The trouble is, the mobile has become such a vital part of modern life that everything seems to centre around it, nothing much functions without it. And all I could think of, as I waited outside the Apple store, was the messages I needed to respond to, let alone the ones I wasn’t expecting and that the senders would be waiting for my response.

I also had appointments later in the day and now I was going to be late for them, and no way of contacting the people I was meeting. Even if I found a red phone box, their numbers were locked behind the frozen screen. They’d be calling me, wondering why I didn’t pick up, or wasn’t calling back. And what if the “big” call came? ‘Richard, your book is wanted for a movie. Are you happy with that? The producers need a response straight away.’ ‘Richard, you need to call me back now.’ ‘Richard, don’t bother. The offer’s gone.’

‘What time do you open?’ I mouthed through the glass doors at a security guard inside the Apple store.  He raised both hands, fingers splayed that I interpreted as meaning 10 o’clock. I waved my frozen screen at him to show I had no way of telling what the time was now. He exaggerated a frustrated shrug and opened the door, but instead of telling me the time, pointed at a church tower that, when I leaned forward, I could see had a tower with a clock. 9.40.

Assuming it was accurate, I knew I had twenty more minutes of perdition to endure. A coffee stall across from the church offered me respite and sanctuary with a clear view of time passing. At 9.59, I headed back to the store, arriving just as the doors opened.

By 10.01, my iPhone was restored.

‘All you had to do was press these buttons on the side,’  a young, enthusiastic assistant explained, as the screen sprung back into life.

‘But it didn’t work when I tried it.’

‘It was the protective cover.’ She’d unpeeled it, revealing that it wasn’t stuck to my phone at all. ‘It was stopping the buttons from being pressed properly’

‘I didn’t know that came off like that.’

She nodded sympathetically. ‘Would you like me to put your cover back?’

I shook my head while trying to conceal my embarrassment at being so stupid. But her benign expression was one I’d seen nurses give in care homes as their elderly charges struggle with the simplest of things.

I suppose that’s one advantage of being a senior citizen. At least my stupidity is put down to my age, not just to being plain stupid.

I still haven’t got a new protective cover.

If you liked this blog, Richard’s latest feelgood novel, I’m Still Standing, with music, ’80s nostalgia and a touch of environmentalism is in bookshops and on Amazon now.

My Life In Records

I was interviewed by the blogger Ann Cater (‘Random Things Through My Letterbox) on publication of ‘I’m Still Standing’. It was meant to be my life in books, but I side-stepped that and made it into records! Here’s what I said.

Anne: Tell me about your life through records.

Me: You’d expect my blog for My Life in Books, to be about, well, books. Except, while I have read innumerable memorable and remarkable books that meant a lot to me, I struggle to recall that much about them! They leave an impression rather than specific details. Similarly, I can’t follow a season of shows on Netflix and remember what happened in the last episode unless I binge-watch – and even then….

But records? I can name every B side of every 45 I bought as a child and sing through Beatles albums, track by track, occasionally pitch perfect. And each one with a memory. That is why my books are named after songs – Homeward Bound and now I’m Still Standing.

Here is my life in ten records:

  1. My Old Man’s A Dustman – Lonnie Donegan. OK, not a classic that I still play, but this isn’t Desert Island Discs. It was my first ever record. I’d wager that yours was something cheesy too. I still know it off by heart, one the only songs that I can actually sing without tripping over the lyrics. It’s little wonder that I never made it as a rockstar.
  • Runaway – Del Shannon. The perfect pop song. I think it’s the record that turned me from being a music lover into an addict. It was also the first record I put money into a jukebox to play. I eventually bought everything Del Shannon recorded. Spotify describes him as favouring ‘brooding themes of abandonment, loss, and rejection’. You’ll see a theme developing as we go on.
  • Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who. This is a great one to play when you’re feeling angry. It’s exciting, loud and the lyrics visceral. And the tension in the extended instrumental break is almost unbearable, ending in a primal scream!
  • Jealous – Labrinth. A heartbreak song, but so simple and you can feel his pain. And it’s important as a reminder to me that good tunes didn’t stop in the seventies. This came out in 2014. (And don’t forget, in the sixties, it wasn’t all Beatles. We also had to endure Ken Dodd and Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep!)
  • Turn On A Friend – Peanut Butter Conspiracy. The lyric has always stuck with me as I believe it to be an impossible suggestion! You can’t turn anybody on to a record, a TV programme or a book. It’s just too embarrassing to try, as tastes differ and invariably what one person likes will leave another cold. Not a comfortable feeling when I’ve a book out that I want people to like! Of course, the song’s probably about drugs (it is from 1967) so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.
  • Alone Again Or – Love. I hope people don’t see me as miserable, but I do find misery in songs weirdly uplifting. But this one inspires me with lines about people being the greatest fun and how the singer could be in love with almost everyone, and that’s a great way to start any day!  But even this one is in a minor key and has a melancholy edge.
  • Enjoy Yourself – Specials/Jools Holland with Prince Buster.  A positive sing-a-long at last. And an uplifting message. Though still with a dark side. Ideal for funerals. Not a dry eye in the cemetery!
  • Green River – the Everly Brothers. I think my love of music comes through harmony, and the Everly’s were the best. I could pick any from their thirty-year catalogue of recordings but nominate this later one as it’s about longing and nostalgia, more themes I love. I can almost feel the heat and smell wide-open plains as they sing. I spin this regularly, even though it’s from 1972.
  • Homeward Bound – Simon and Garfunkel. Harmonies and lyrics again. Paul Simon was influenced by the Everlys (they sing on Graceland) and his wistful, reflective, thoughtful lyrics bear frequent replays. Homeward Bound is especially important to me as it features in my first novel – they share the same title.

I’m Still Standing – Elton John. If I were a musician, I’d be jealous of Elton John. He’s not only a great songwriter, but also has an incredible voice and can make a piano rock! Of his up-tempo songs, I’ve picked this not just for its survival against-the-odds lyrics (and I really didn’t realise until compiling this list that so many of my choices are about betrayal, disappointment and inner strength), but because it’s the title of my new novel and why I’m writing this blog!

I’m Still Standing is available at bookshops and on Amazon

BOOK TOUR – what’s been said

Here’s what people are writing about I’m Still Standing, taken from their Instagram accounts. My thanks to them for the positive things they’re saying.

NetGalley

A heart-warming story of a reluctant and unlikely friendship between a pair of misfits,

Richard Smith takes us back to the 80s as we follow Harry and Jill, a pair of misfits brought together as they work to save a local green space. Interwoven with the narrative is their shared love of music.

The author’s background in cinema comes through in his writing, as I could visualise each scene in my mind (Simon Pegg would make a great Harry!) and the music references provided the soundtrack. I really felt as though I was back in the late 80s, alongside the characters.

A moving story about finding passion in life and love with a music theme recommended for fans of Nick Hornby (High Fidelity, Juliet Naked) and Daisy Jones and the Six.

And if you’re interested further….. https://shorturl.at/vsoBV

‘A joy to read’

The first reviews are in for I’m Still Standing – and it’s getting four and five stars!

Blogger _clairereviews_ describes it as, ‘the heartwarming tale of a friendship formed when two socially inept misfits come together to try to preserve a city’s wildlife area.’

‘It was impossible to put down’

She goes on to write, ‘The vast array of supporting characters are a joy to read, each having their own foibles, which adds to the book as a whole. The smallest detail has been considered, and I was so caught up that I read the entire book in a single sitting. It was impossible to put down!’

Meanwhile, josliteraryadventures has said of it, ‘I’m Still Standing by @richardwrites2 is the kind of book you feel held by on a warm summer evening. It’s full of wonderful characters, friendship and community, with a teeny bit of romance added in. I read it pretty much in one day sitting on the swing seat in the garden on a beautiful sunny day.’

NetGalley, the online site that shares reviews and champions literacy writes, ‘The author’s background in cinema comes through in his writing, as I could visualise each scene in my mind (Simon Pegg would make a great Harry!) and the music references provided the soundtrack. I really felt as though I was back in the late 80s, alongside the characters,’ adding that it’s, ‘a moving story about finding passion in life and love with a music theme recommended for fans of Nick Hornby (High Fidelity, Juliet Naked) and Daisy Jones and the Six’, giving it four stars.

Here are the full reviews from the blog sites.

You can buy I’m Still Standing at bookshops (pictured below with me signing copies at a launch in Highbury’s Ink@84 bookshop) as well as boookshops online and https://shorturl.at/vsoBV

THE VIDEOS

I’m Still Standing was launched with a series of videos. They were uploaded to TikTok, where the range of music is vast and free of copyright, so were set to big songs. It’s different here, so courtesy of Pixabay Music, here they are again, for non-TikTokers and with different (copyright free) music.

Sometimes it’s tough getting started!
Sometimes a good thing is too good to have to wait for…

And at last, it’s out! #ImStillStanding #NetGalley

Concentration

Musings on writing (or not writing!)

Concentration. It’s the single most important requirement for an author. And an absence of distractions. I say this to my wife whenever she remarks that the dishwasher needs emptying, the carpet needs vacuuming, or the dog looks like she needs a walk. Last week’s distraction was a parcel leaning against the wall in our hall. I say parcel. It was as tall as she is and resembled a monolith, a standing stone reminiscent of those found on Salisbury Plain or on Orkney.

‘Shoe rack’s arrived.’

‘I thought we already had one.’ I was in my office, staring hopelessly at a blank sheet of paper that needed to be filled with 800 words for the Portable Magic blog.

‘It’s a new one. And it needs building.’

I tapped my pen against an empty coffee mug that I thought would, rather cleverly, give the impression of deep thought while subliminally suggesting a refill might be welcome.

She didn’t react to either. ‘It won’t build itself.’

There was no alternative other than to engage. ‘Why do we need a shoe rack? We’ve already got one.’

‘Look at the place. Shoes strewn everywhere. So I’ve bought a bigger one. And it has doors, so it’ll look much neater.’

It was true. My shoes, boots and slippers were discarded across the hall, the kitchen, indeed across floors all around the house, although this was less to do with a dearth of storage space than convenience, left where I’d taken them off and handily placed for putting them back on.

‘But a flatpack?’ I have history with any kind of DIY. ‘Doesn’t John Lewis have shoe racks that don’t come in a flatpack?’

I’d hoped that after my last encounter with a flatpack – an IKEA bookshelf – she’d have consigned the wielding of Alun keys and blankly staring at impenetrable diagrams to the part of her brain labelled ‘distant memories’, alongside skinny dipping and going to bed after 10pm.

‘Well, it’s blocking the hall, so if you can tear yourself away from whatever it is you’re doing….’ she was easing past it towards the front door. ‘…I’m off. It’s my charity shop volunteering day. See you this evening.’ It was said with the expectation that the rack would be built by the time she returned.

 I won’t detail how the day unfolded, but suffice it to say, the only words used in the instructions, ‘Approximated Assembly Time -1 hour,’ turned out to be inaccurate by a factor of five. And having overcome chipping the veneer, snapping some doweling and re-constructing sections that I’d assembled back-to-front, it was still incomplete by the time she returned.

I went straight on the defensive. ‘I know it’s not finished. But it’s not my fault. I was almost there but four vital screws are missing. So I couldn’t do it.’

‘I’ll see about that.’ Without hesitation, she was on to customer services, who miraculously answered and promised to supply the missing pieces. When they arrived, they were delivered in a deceptively large package for just four screws. In fact, it resembled a monolith, a standing stone reminiscent of those found on Salisbury Plain or on Orkney. We’d been sent a completely new shoe rack, although this one came with a different veneer.

‘Looks like we’d better start again,’ my wife said cheerfully, ‘and this time, I’ll help you. We don’t share enough quality time together these days.’

I hoped she was being ironic, but it didn’t turn out as appallingly as I initially feared. In two hours it was done, with only three serious fallings out, two cups of tea needed to calm ourselves, and just the once when we had to dismantle a section and rebuild it the right way up.

The old rack was slid away, and I proudly eased the new one into position. I had to admit it looked to be an improvement.

It was only as my wife was loading her boots that we made a discovery. They stuck out, meaning the rack’s doors only partially closed. It was worse with my size elevens. The doors wouldn’t close at all. Some judicious swivelling and wedging were met with partial success, but only after displacing other pairs. With different configurations and shoe combinations, we eventually filled the rack and managed to ram the doors shut. But that left a mountain of shoes on the floor that we couldn’t squeeze in.

There was no getting away from it. The new rack was too small.

‘There’s only one thing for it.’ My wife converted deep despair into decisiveness. ‘We don’t need all these shoes.’  

And so began a cull. Any shoes rarely worn or almost worn out were banished into a black bin bag. Yet it still left more than would fit into the new rack. The answer was staring us in the face.

With heavy heart, we restored the old rack and reloaded it with the remaining shoes. And now we’d binned so many unwanted pairs, there was shelf space to spare. So, job done.

I didn’t dare ask why we couldn’t have just made the cull and stayed with the old rack, without having to go through the agony and frustration of assembling two new racks that we will never use.

But at least I can get back to writing. What’s more, I now have something to write about!

Making your celebration go with a bang

Making your celebration go with a bang

It’s a birthday, Christmas, a special event. What’s a good way to make it go with a bang so that everyone can join in the celebrations? What better than a firework display? Year-round, they are on sale, the pyrotechnics ever more spectacular. And the most popular season is upon us now; First Diwali, followed by Guy Fawkes night, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year.

Diwali is a festival of lights, the triumph of good over evil, and fireworks are among the ways it’s celebrated. What it is not is a celebration of who can be the loudest. Thanksgiving is an American tradition to celebrate the harvest. Christmas and New Year are times of joy and looking to the future. Guy Fawkes night celebrates a failed plot where gunpowder wasn’t ignited!  None of them requires the sounds of war. Yet fireworks creating awe-inspiring patterns in the sky are inevitably followed by a crescendo of explosions, echoing off walls and hard surfaces. What purpose do the bangs serve? The impact is in the visuals. The blasts are unnecessary and irrelevant. But they do have an impact of their own. On creatures that associate noise with threat. Pets and wildlife cower at the sounds, seeking safety and to escape from the danger they hear and don’t understand.

And it’s not just one night. Diwali is five days. The remaining events seem to last interminably and well beyond the appointed days. Plus, the occasional wedding and birthday where it seems the bigger and louder the bang the better. For dogs, cats, birds – most living creatures – there is no respite.

What makes all this so difficult to understand is that we are supposedly an animal-loving nation. According to the PDSA, 52% of adults own a pet. In the UK, there are ten million pet dogs, eleven million pet cats and a million pet rabbits. Building and development schemes invariably include clauses protecting wildlife. Yet fireworks that inflict stress and trauma on animals continue without restriction. Where is the logic in that?

This is not an argument to ban fireworks – although there is an irony that roads are being closed to traffic to safeguard us all from vehicle particulates while fireworks are dropping far worse. According to Forbes, ‘Fireworks create highly toxic gases and pollutants that poison the air, the water and the soil, making them toxic to birds, wildlife, pets, livestock — and people.’ And there are alternatives that are environmentally sound. Although not from your local ‘All Year Round’ supplier.

There is also a raft of regulations on how and when fireworks can be used to safeguard us all – the Met Police list times and conditions, though these are seldom, if ever, enforced.

Yet in their guidance notes, even the Met writes, ‘Everyone should be able to enjoy fireworks safely, whether at an organised display or in their back garden.’ Quite where this human right to fireworks came from isn’t explained but, if the tradition of enjoying coloured lights in the sky is so embedded, does it have to be accompanied by a cacophony of explosions and banshee screams? Can we not admire them, with a gasp, an ‘ooh,’ and ‘aah’? Most public displays are accompanied by music anyway.

Or is the bang a feeble attempt at machismo, defiance against normal standards of behaviour, or just plain ignorance?

Meanwhile, for the next few months, pet owners will have animals cowering, trembling, uncontrollably defecating.

Everyone wants their celebrations to be a success. But do they have to go off with a bang?

Serene on the racetrack before retirement, hiding in the basement to escape fireworks. We’ve laid bedding on the concrete floor to offer some comfort.

RSPCA campaign against fireworks –  https://www.rspca.org.uk/getinvolved/campaign/fireworks

References

https://www.pdsa.org.uk/pet-help-and-advice/looking-after-your-pet/all-pets/pets-and-fireworks

https://www.met.police.uk/advice/advice-and-information/asb/asb/antisocial-behaviour/fireworks/

https://www.forbes.com/sites/grrlscientist/2019/12/31/festive-fireworks-create-harmful-pall-of-pollution/?sh=3341c6512853

Sorry, but I’ll have to pass

One of the joys of watching Arsenal Women is their passing and possession game, the smooth transition from the back, to midfield and to the forwards, not forgetting the accuracy of long passes from deep when Leah Williamson is in the side. Even with tight marking and opponents on their heels, they retain control, the ball is shielded and laid off, skidding across the turf to a teammate. It’s a style I’ve enjoyed and has been successful over many years, marred only by Chelsea’s arrival in town.

And I’d been looking forward to taking my season ticket to Borehamwood for the Women’s Super League match against West Ham on Sunday. I’ve long argued that the home of the Arsenal is N5, that we are one club and for one of its first XIs playing in a National League stadium does not befit the club’s status, nor that of the women’s team. Ground sharing is not the Arsenal way. (OK, we did it during the Second World War, but that was somewhat different!) Yet, I’ve grown fond of Meadow Park, the intimacy of the smaller stadium, the ease of access, switching from seated to standing at half time, the friendly welcome from the Lunch Box crew. The change of snack providers and the new restrictions on where you can sit or stand has tarnished this somewhat, but even so, I wanted to be there for West Ham.

Trouble is, the fixture planners have made it a double header, men’s first, women’s after, but in different stadia, sixteen miles apart and an hour’s drive away – seventy minutes by public transport. And that’s not allowing for leaving the Emirates and queues on roads and at stations. Late, lamented Maria Petri once told me she did the reverse, taking a taxi from Borehamwood to Ashburton Grove and she still had to leave the women’s game early and arrived late for the men’s. So, what chance seeing all the 2pm kick-off against Nottingham Forest and arriving at Borehamwood to see all the match against West Ham? None I’d wager.

Then there’s something I’d never considered before. Overload. I can normally be guaranteed to want to watch any match, whether it’s on a recreation ground, in a cage at a sports’ centre or in a lower league. But I found last week, watching the men labour against PSV before going to the WCL match against Zurich, I was left drained and exhausted. It was great to see Jordan Nobbs back and performing well, and to see Lina Hirtig’s first goals for the club. Surely they should have provided me with the antidote to an anodyne performance from the men. Instead, two consecutive matches and three hours of football left me oversaturated, numbed almost. The rule that more is less seemed to apply.

I would hope that somehow, someday, the authorities will coordinate men’s and women’s games, so these almost clashes don’t occur. But with TV companies involved and fans not anywhere near their first priorities. I’m not holding my breath.

So, reluctantly, one of my season tickets will go unused.  I am in an unusual position in that I live almost on the doorstep of the Emirates. And I have been supporting the men and visiting Highbury since before the Beatles.

Which means, for this weekend, I’m sorry to say that, for Arsenal Women against West Ham Women, I’ll have to pass.