Brunel's bridge

I had to drive to Plymouth today. Over the Tamar bridge. £2 toll. Who gets that? Devon and Cornwall councils? Lanes closed for maintenance, so I guess that answers the question.

On the way back I love the sight of Brunel's magnificent bridge, over which the trains between London and Penzance trundle gently. Clearly there is a speed limit but why? If it's dangerous, I'd have thought the quicker you get over it the better. I've often wondered this on the train, rather like worrying on a plane about how it stays up.

The bridge was built in 1859 but actually looks modern. It reminds me of the Pompidou Centre with its tubes. Brunel of course was the Chief Engineer of the Great Western Railway. Which is a pretty good legacy. Well done, bro. (I'm not the kind of person who ever uses "bro" but I'm practising for my streaming)

Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Now there's a name for you. Were these common 19th century forenames? Actually his father had Isambard as a second name; his mother's maiden name was Kingdom. Apparently Isambard is a word of Norman origin but the all-knowing Mr Google couldn't offer me more than four Isambards, all of whom were connected to the Brunels. So just a bit quirky.

I have memories of Plymouth. The only time I have ever had a speeding fine was a few years ago, coming back from a poker tournament in Plymouth at 3am. The road is littered with 50mph stretches, many of which are cunningly positioned at the bottom of hills in order to catch out motorists and maximise the council's income. I don't recall whether I was elated after a good win or furious over a bad beat but my concentration slipped for a moment. A few days later the dreaded letter arrived - pay £60 or attend a Mickey Mouse course. Protection racket. Given that I had never previously been accused of speeding and knew perfectly well how to avoid exceeding speed limits (drive slower), I paid up. And remembered it ever since.

Canadian Cornwall

I was Googling something and noticed that there is a place in Canada called Cornwall. Did you know that? I didn't.

Cornwall is a town in Ontario, famous for, er, call centres. Seriously? Nothing better? "Do they eat pasties and cream teas?" I hear you ask. Always thinking of your stomach. But a fair question. Perhaps my Canadian readers can enlighten us. There is an annual Pastyfest in Calumel, Michigan, so maybe the answer is yes. (I do know Michigan isn't in Canada, BTW)

Famous son of Cornwall, Ontario? Ryan Gosling. On up for all you La La Land fans. [Ed: Ryan tells me he has made 30 other movies so don't pigeonhole him]

geotargit.com tells me there are 14 places in the world called Cornwall. One is in Tasmania. I've been to Tassie but didn't notice that (it only has 65 residents so easy to miss). Another is in Jamaica. The rest are towns in the US. Cornwall County, Jamaica (Kaanwal Kounti in Patois or Creole) includes the city of Montego Bay.

In contrast there are 1,716 San Joses in the world. But that feels like cheating.

Cornish miners, farmers and preachers spread Cornish placenames throughout the world. For instance there is a Looe in the Philippines (cut the cheap jokes, boys!)

I once attempted to complete a competition to visit every pub owned by St Austell Brewery. There are currently 170 of them so it's not surprising I failed. Also not surprising that I put on weight. 14 Cornwalls seems like a doddle in comparison, especially as I'm one up already.

Off I go.See you in Jamaica!

Drinks breaks

The latest footballing innovation (fad) is the drinks break. Since football restarted, it seems our fainthearted heroes are unable to run about for the usual 45 minutes in the summer heat so, come 22 and a half minutes, they stop the game and have a guzzle. Did no-one tell them about British summers? Pouring rain, 13 degrees, gasping for a drink. Of what? Is it something performance enhancing? Stimulants? Gin  and tonic?

Obviously the managers take the opportunity for a quick coaching session. Occasionally the drink or the coaching seems to make a difference.

Other sports have drinks breaks. Tennis players are unable to go more than about 5 minutes without a sit down, towelling and glugging. I have known croquet players to have a pint sitting on the grass beside their chair whilst waiting for their turn. No names, no pack drill. It gives the player a sense of freedom. I imagine.

Professional golfers are always under pressure to walk quickly between holes and shots, so they drink on the go. Why can't footballers do that? They have sanitised balls around the edge of the pitch ready for throw-ins so why not drinks bottles too? Then no breaks. Who'd want to be a central midfielder though? You get thirsty and drift towards the side line and your manager bellows "where are you going? Get back in place".

If you have to have drinks breaks, this seems like an ideal opportunity for sponsorship. Everything else is sponsored - shirt fronts, shirt sleeves, boots, sports drinks, courtesy cars. Golfers have sponsored caps, cricketers have sponsored protective equipment (of all kinds). Croquet, not so much. Why not sponsored drinks breaks? "Take a break, have a Proper Job". Better than  Kit Kat.

Co-parenting

I wanted to talk about football (groan) but got stuck not knowing how to describe my daughter-in-law's father. Trevor is definitely a dear friend but am I actually related to him?

The thing is, he is one of two people I know and like that try - with some success - to wind me up by describing the Premier League as the First Division and the league that Ipswich Town are in - League One - as the Third Division. This nomenclature went out in 1992, guys! Are you old or just annoying?

Anyhow, barracking aside, what relation, if any, is Trevor to me?

Applying a degree of logic: first of all we are the same generation so normally that would mean some kind of brother or cousin. Maybe brother-in-law-in-law? I've never understood the concepts of first/second cousins or once/twice removed, but perhaps that could be part of the title? How about "grand-something"?

The thing about "in-law" is that there is a clear implication of a legal status. So that's out. Narrowing down.

Definitely not cousins; a legally defined term I think. No consanguinity.

Which leaves me with something like brother twice removed - one removal for down a generation, from me to my daughter-in-law - and once for up a generation from her to her father. 

"This is my brother twice removed" is therefore how I might introduce Tony - the other friend who refuses to acknowledge any football in the last 28 years - when we meet someone in the Britannia Inn (very soon hopefully). That is either a conversation piece or a conversation-stopper. Depending on how many drinks the various parties have had.

I therefore consulted Mr Jimmy Wales, aka Wikipedia. Which we know always tells the truth. This tells me that Trevor and I are co-fathers-in-law. Not sure I think much of that; it makes us sound like a couple, with responsibility for our offspring.

My solution for this problem is: brothers-in-arms. It implies shared values and a willingness to stand up for each other. I like it. I could refer you to the Dire Straits song but it really doesn't help - no hyphens. So just my word for it.

How about it, Trevor, are we brothers-in-arms?

Who knew football could be so profound?

They think it's all over

1966. A date forever etched in the memory of football fans of a certain age. Like me.

England won the World Cup. In England, at Wembley. The Final against (who else?) Germany.

There is less than a minute to go in extra time (i.e. 119 minutes have passed) and England are leading 3-2. BBC TV commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme:

"Some people are on the pitch! They think it's all over!"

(Geoff Hurst scores to put England two goals ahead)

"It is now!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lg2CXkJVCHk

 Of course, the Germans remember the match mostly for Hurst's second goal of the game, in extra time, to put England 3-2 up. Today, with goal line technology, it wouldn't have been given, because it actually didn't fully cross the goal line.

But, dear German Freunde, allow us our one moment of glory in 900 years. You've won the World Cup 4 times and we don't complain. Too much.

Fast forward to the final day of the 2011-12 Premier League season. Manchester City, leading going into that final match as league leaders, as a result of a huge cash injection from Abu Dhabi, have an easy home match against nearly relegated Queens Park Rangers but ahead of bitter rivals Manchester United (managed by Alex Ferguson, who called the newly rich City "noisy neighbours") only on goal difference. As the final minute of the season approached, United completed a victory over Sunderland and their players were on the pitch about to celebrate the league title; City's match hadn't finished and they were losing. Then Edin Dzeko equalised in the second minute of injury time - still not good enough. United's players now readying the champers. In the final minute, with the final kick of the game, up pops City's centre forward Sergio Aguero to score the winner.

And Sky's commentator Martin Tyler screams "Agueroooo". Not quite so iconic as Wolstenholme's but not forgotten by football fans, either.

Gary Neville devastated. Ha.

I've always been a sports fanatic. I remember Roger Bannister breaking the four minute "barrier" for the mile in 1954 (I was only 10; only now, in my cynical old age, do I sneer at artificially paced "races"). In 1964, I recall staying up at night to listen to the radio commentary of Ali v Sonny Liston. Cassius Clay had all the charisma of a sporting icon, had converted to Islam and assumed the name Muhammed Ali. He was an underdog but he won. I actually never liked boxing but Ali made me want to follow his fights.

Nowadays of course, track athletes breaking long-standing world records are assumed (by many cynics including me) to be using performance-enhancing drugs. But Bannister was idolised because he was a genuine amateur who had the talent to do the impossible. And no-one had heard of performance-enhancing drugs back then. Or at least ten year olds hadn't.

It's a shame that drug-taking athletes and their coaches have ruined any enjoyment I ever had of exciting races. Unlike professional cycling, which has always been rife with drugs but in which I have never had any interest; a bunch of cyclists riding along a road, what's that about? And track cycling, going round and round very very slowly then, in the final ten seconds, going helter skelter for the finishing line; why not race from the start?

But the sublime sight of an Olympic 100 metres final - ruined by successive confirmations of drug cheating. I have never watched track and field since 1987 (Ben Johnson) and still can neither watch or abide the  hype of Olympic Games.

I am comforted in my love of football by the knowledge that there is next to no taking of performance enhancing drugs.

If the Ipswich Town players are doing so, they are definitely on the wrong ones.

Whack-a-mole

If, like me, you have no idea what Boris is talking about when he uses the whack-a-mole phrase, look no further! I have answers.

Originally a fairground game using a wooden mallet and (presumably fake) "moles" which keep popping up, the fiendishly clever Japanese invented an early arcade game in the 1970s called Whac-a-mole. モグラ退治 (mogura taiji, "Mole Buster") 

[I hope fiendish isn't thought of as racist; to me it's a term of endearment]

Why whack moles? Why not crocodiles? Wasps? Ants? I guess ants are too easy, wasps too hard and crocs more likely to counter-attack. Those moles have such cute baby faces with their twitchy whiskers and bobbing heads and ..... wait! You mean you wanna whack these little guys? What kind of person are you? I know, dear readers, you'll be thinking of me killing enemies in my computer games. But spaceships, yes. Weird aliens, fine. Fellow citizens of our planet, not so much. I can honestly say I have never whacked a mole - real, fake or electronic.

Now I know farmers, greenkeepers at golf and croquet clubs and suburban gardeners will be telling me they are pests which cause damage. I don't care. Farmers, build some mole homes for the little guys and run an education programme to show them how anti-social their behaviour is (ASBOs for moles). Golf clubs, put your greens somewhere else - maybe in those lovely sand pits you have. Croquet lawns, build a maze of underground tunnels to direct the moles onto a neighbouring property. What do you mean the moles have already built those tunnels from the neighbouring property to yours?

OK, maybe they are a problem. But they're your problem, not mine.

Anyway, why does Boris keep uttering this phrase? I am told that it is a commonly used phrase to describe the process by which you solve one problem and another then pops up, and then another and so on. In insurgent combat, inner city law enforcement, computer program debugging and spam attacks. I don't think this colloquial usage necessarily implies that solving one problem can unexpectedly cause another (with which I am definitely familiar in programming) but that can sometimes be the case.

Boris uses it to describe the UK government's current strategy to control resurges in covid-19 infections. You ease the lockdown but retain measures to control local popups of the virus - as currently in Leicester.

But Boris there is a messaging problem with the analogy. First of all it implies a lack of control rather than mastery. Secondly it concedes the inevitability of such ongoing infection spikes. Thirdly it suggests that it's not a solution to the problem; rather a Band-Aid (other sticking plasters are available). Fourthly, it implies that the government is at the mercy of, rather than in control of, events ("Events, dear boy" - Harold Macmillan). Is that the message you want to give?

A good sound bite maybe needs to be a tad more substantive, Boris. Think again.

And stop encouraging people to whack moles!