And Quietly Flows the Forth

Forth flowing in its bed

Aorora Borealis over Menteith Hills

After three months of persistent rain and a perpetually waterlogged flood plain, the River Forth was contained within its banks today. The sky was a watery blue this morning as it recuperated from last night's aurora borealis. The cold air was a relief after all those damp dark days that had confined us to winter wallowing.

And there were signs of plant life stirring with vibrant greens and yellows poking through the grey/brown carnage of winter hues. In the forest the trails were gilded by golden mossy pools and decorated by blobs of frogspawn. The Lemmahamish buzzard had found a partner and they were circling above the river Forth with no malice intended. I would have had a spring in my step as I jogged round had I not being nursing a sprained hamstring.

Spring ahoy

Willow warming

 A real skyline visible at last

Floods in retreat

Corporation Buses

Leyland Tiger single-decker in Preston Corporation Livery

Childhood memories are deeply imprinted and when I happened to see the above bus on 'Call the Midwife' tonight, it immediately brought back fond memories of catching it on Deepdale Road when I was a toddler. Its terminus was at Blackpool Road next to Deepdale football ground and close to my grandparent's house. I usually managed to persuade my mum and grandma to skip the double-deckers and wait for this bus when going into town. It was one of only three single-deckers in the fleet of brown and cream corporation buses. In those days the timetable was to the nearest half minute and buses kept to schedule because the work hooters and school bells were unforgiving of latecomers.

The bus ended its days as the free bus to Preston's first supermarket, Fame, which opened in an old cotton mill in Dundonald Street in the 1960s. Its endearing feature, the back platform, was like those on the double-deckers and was an invitation to run after the bus and jump on by grabbing the pole as the bus accelerated away but had to de-clutch whilst going through the gears. I contrived to do this most mornings by leaving home late, it was one of the highlights of going to school although my schoolmate disagreed. He seldom managed to make the platform and had to wait seven and a half minutes for the next bus. It also guaranteed the ire of the bus conductor but the attention of the girls from Larkhill Convent.

Seeing the bus again was a powerful reminder of how cheap, punctual, and reliable the bus service was when the Corporation ran the buses. Municipal enterprises provided efficient transport services before their forced disposal by the Thatcher government in the 1980's. They provide a quality service compared to the bus services today which are delayed by traffic and are, despite hefty subsidies, too expensive for many dependent young passengers. And with closing doors you can't contemplate chasing them down, let alone knowing when the next one will arrive. 

Flooding again, where's the PM?

Flood Plain does its job

Horses in retreat, visit from PM imminent?

A bund here would stop 95% of the flooding events

Flooding is a way of life in the village with at least three or four floods a year when the road is blocked, the sandbags are stacked up and the school gets closed. But not today, it is only a minor flood, although it might be classified differently had it been in Oxfordshire, the PM would make a visit for sure.

Every couple of years the river trespasses over the thresholds of the houses and the hotel on the main street but not a penny of compensation or investment is forthcoming. The cost of a stretch of bunding, where the field that hosts the flood as flood plains should(see above), but spills onto the road. It would be a lot cheaper than dredging a few metres of a Somerset dyke or waiting for the Scottish Government to pay consultants to come up with an unaffordable scheme. Today, the horses in the field had to hunker down on the last triangle of the field above the waterline next to the minister's house but there was no visit from the PM.

Perhaps the PM thinks it is up to the First Minister, but he would probably say: "No it's no(t)"! He is too intoxicated with controlling expenditure from Holyrood rather than allowing democratic decisions to be taken at a level which understands the importance and relevance of making decisions that are usually far quicker and far less likely to be encumbered with the excessive bureaucracy and indulgence of consultants reports.

Tom Finney

Chelsea v PNE at Stamford Bridge 1956 - The splash

The news of Tom Finney's death this morning was not unexpected at 91 years of age. It marked the end of a football legend who has been a dominant presence throughout my life. I had last met him five years ago at my father's funeral, they had been lifelong friends. They had grown up together in Daisy Lane, Holme Slack, a five-minute walk away from Preston North End's ground at Deepdale. My father had never been a footballer, his sport was cycling but they had the bond of growing up in the Depression of the 1930s. Tales of their boyhood escapades were endless: looking after the cars of football supporters for a few pennies and then driving them around wasteland behind Manor House Lane during PNE home matches, getting sacked from their paper rounds after arriving back late from fishing at Hesketh Bank, and being forced to eat a bucket of apples after being caught sapping for apples in a local orchard were just some of the many stories they shared when together.

They kept up their friendship in the war whilst on leave from the Eighth Army by meeting up in Alexandria in Egypt during the African campaign as in the photograph below. In later life, they kept in touch regularly through their local business associations. Tom Finney had a plumbing business during his professional footballing days, players in the top league teams were lucky to be paid the average wage. Dad never had anything but praise for Tom as a friend and a good citizen, sentiments that were echoed by everyone else commenting today,.

I knew that Tom Finney was a legend even before I went to school. We lived at my grandparent's house at the time and shortly after 5pm on the Saturday of every North End home game at Deepdale, my grandad would waltz in with my Uncle Jack and their friend Ernie Rigby. They would recreate North End's goals in the front room. This was before televised games or action replays so they would direct their own version of the highlights. I would hear "Finney beats one, beats two, feints inside and left foot lob into the top right of the net. GOAL...." as the three fifty-something men dribbled around the chairs and kicked cushions. I grew up thinking that this was men behaving normally although my grandma didn't agree. She would shoo the visitors out of the house before they decided to extend the analysis of the game by sending out for a jug of ale from the Acregate Arms.

I was taken to my first game at Deepdale for the Easter morning 11:00am kick-off against Tottenham Hotspur by my grandad as a six-year-old. From the age of eight, I watched virtually every home game until Finney's retiral in a 2-0 victory over Luton Town. My banner saying 'Goodbye Tom' was featured on Match of the Day, which was unfortunate because my mother then realised that I had taken and ruined one of the sheets as well as getting paint on my clothes.

Tom Finney was a one-club player who rejected the overtures of the Italian clubs to stay in his home town for £14 a week. His total earnings throughout his career were £15,000. Updating this to today's value of the £, this is about what Wayne Rooney earns in a fortnight, not counting his sponsorship deals, during which he often doesn't play a single game. Finney, on the other hand. played 473 games for North End and 76 for England for his £15,000 over 14 years.

His skills were mesmerising, he would beat opposing defenders by feinting one way and going the other with the ball. He was a very direct advancing player and could send over tantalising crosses or cut inside and score goals with both feet. He could play on either wing or centre-forward, he was good in the air and scored goals for PNE and England at a rate that compared with the very best centre-forwards like Nat Lofthouse of Bolton Wanderers. Although he was regularly and ruthlessly chopped down by opposing full-backs, he played almost all games, often carrying minor injuries. This was at a time when there were no substitutes and medical support came from a sponge man with a bucket of cold water and aided by the roars of the crowd.

Amongst PNE's best games were the derby matches against neighbouring Blackpool. They were both good first-division teams in the 1950s. Stanley Mathews, 'the wizard of the dribble', was the other great England winger. It was the chance to compare and contrast the two outstanding players of their generation. Mathews was a two-dimensional player; he kept the ball on the ground and his mazy dribbles could turn a full-back inside out. Finney could do that as well but he was good in the air with a prodigious leap and he had a fourth dimension to his play in the way he timed his runs or passes into space. He practised total football long before the Dutch maestros - Neeskens and Cruyff - were winning plaudits and World Cup matches.

I probably saw him play 60 or so games and the one that stands out was the 8-0 demolition of Birmingham City on a sunny Saturday in February 1958. Finney scored two goals in the first half, one by dribbling past three players as he carved his way to goal from the halfway line and released an unstoppable shot past Gil Merrick, Birmingham's England international goalkeeper. He went on to set up hat tricks for Tommy Thomson and Sammy Taylor in the second half. It was poetry on bare earth and North End went on to finish second in the league to the then-mighty Wolves.

Finney's sportsmanship was exemplary and the respect from fans across the country was universal. It included the knowledgeable Scottish fans who watched him take them apart in the home internationals at Hampden. Uncle Jack used to go to these games, Glasgow was as near Preston as London, and he always claimed that Hampden had a far better atmosphere than Wembley. He would wear his PNE scarf and be bought drinks before the game because he could regale Glaswegians with his tales of Finney.

When I was seven my father got Tom to come round to the house and present my birthday presents: a complete PNE strip with a number 7 stitched and a PNE badge press studded onto the shirt. Tom Finney boots completed the kit, they were made of stiff brown leather that required a lot of dubbin before they became bearable, come to think of it they never did become bearable because we mainly played in the street and studs weren't much good on the asphalt. Tom gave me a copy of his book "Instructions for Young Footballers" which included the famous photograph of him slaloming through the water at Stamford Bridge when football pitches were decorated with puddles and less well-drained than today. At the home games, I used to sit on the cinders by the right-wing corner flag at the Kop end. On a couple of occasions as the ball was thrown back to the pitch by the crowd I caught it and handed it to Tom to take a corner. He would thank me by name and ask how was I doing. It was a no-brainer that I played right wing until I was 16 when wingers went out of fashion.

As I heard the tributes to Sir Tom this morning I became nostalgic for the days when I would walk to the ground, watch the top teams for 1s 9p and become part of the thirty-odd thousand faithful fans at one with their team. The walk home after the game in the midst of the streaming crowds along Skeffington Road was part of the entertainment, we could dissect the game and eulogise about Finney's performance. I have seen about 300 first-class games in my lifetime with about half of those at Deepdale, I never went as often after Finney retired and PNE were relegated from the top flight the following season.  Most of the games I watched were in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s when it was easy to get into games, no advance tickets were required and admission charges were a whole lot cheaper than today's extravagant prices.

No player since those glory days of PNE in the 1950s has matched Finney for consistent excellence, he was a game-changer. Only Franz Beckenbauer, Gunther Netzer, Colin Bell and Kenny Dalgleish of the players that I have watched could emulate Finney: they were all team players who could nevertheless swing a game by themselves.

But then I have fallen out with football and not seen more than 40 games in the last 20 years. These have been mainly Scottish Internationals, or games at Deepdale when visiting my parents; neither providing games with great players. Despite the huge hype about the premiership, I have only attended a couple of premiership games at Blackburn when Shearer was in his pomp. Sky has funded an organisation, the Premier League, that has made fans secondary to sponsors, and TV schedules. This has allowed clubs to hype up salaries to top players that are unjustifiable and unsustainable as many clubs are finding out. I doubt that the premiership has thrown up many Finney comparators, Ryan Giggs and Thierry Henry come nearest and Louis Suarez is having a similar impact this year but he is no gentleman.

All-seater stadiums, high ticket prices, overpaid payers and Sky taking over TV coverage have all diminished my attachment to the game. The game may be faster and on better pitches but the joy of spectating came from standing on the terracing. The camaraderie, the sense of local pride and being able to spontaneously go to matches without hunting for overpriced tickets. I have never enjoyed sitting to watch a live football game, it destroys the involvement and emotions that are so buoyant in a swaying crowd when you are on your toes through all the turmoil of a game. I admire how the Germans have retained the atmosphere, and the crowds and kept realistic pricing by building safe terracing.

Tom Finney was the standard for all that was honest, skilful and courteous to opponents and fans. He displayed a loyalty that has sadly all but disappeared from the game today. Finney epitomised what football should be all about empathy with the fans, a deep commitment to his team and respect for all his opponents. He played locally but won respect globally. As they say in Glasgow: Finney - Pure Dead Brilliant and so he was.

St Paul's, 378 steps to heaven

St Paul's

Quire

Any trip to distant world cities is dominated by visits to buildings and museums that are the roots of  the city's foundation and culture. London has never fallen into this category, it is a place to pass through or to do business and my only regular visits have been to the National Gallery or the Tate. Last week was different we had a couple of free days and we happened to be walking past St Paul's cathedral as we alighted from a bus during the underground strike. We decided to take a tour of St Paul's as the morning showers graduated to afternoon sunshine. We bought tickets for the well produced multi media guided tour and thoroughly enjoyed a couple of hours in the spectacular interior of St Paul's.

The unexpected highlight was the ascent of 259 steps to the Whispering Gallery, which runs around the interior of the Dome. It gets its name from a quirk in its construction, which makes a whisper against its walls audible on the opposite side. We continued upwards to the Stone Gallery, the first of two galleries above the Whispering Gallery that encircle the outside of the dome. The Stone Gallery stands at 173 ft (53.4 metres) from ground-level and can be reached by 378 steps. The clouds were in retreat and the clarity of the views was perfect. Th entry fee was worth it for the view alone.

View to South West from Stone Gallery

Shard to the south east

The city from the Stone Gallery

Green shoots and Loving Food

Loving Food Truck

In the week that the economy has been given the green light for growth by the Chancellor I stumbled on a lively new business in the city: Loving Food. The mobile food van was tucked into an incongruous parking space by the John Player building and served an excellent range of lunchtime snacks that completely contravened the normal fare associated with mobile food vendors. It was fresh and healthy world influenced food served from a fetchingly painted Citroen truck. The operator was a intelligent young immigrant with a real flair for customer relations. He told me that they were negotiating for a stance at the railway station, which given Network Rail's normal tardiness might mean they will not get there before the summer. From the quality of food I bought today I cannot see it failing to succeed.

However it will need to be operated with flexible long hours, early starts, and it will provide no job security or the underpinning of a secure business base. But this seems the model for growth that the government are happy to hang their hat on to emerge from the recession, which they unwittingly spun out by imposing a level of austerity that Keynes would have choked on. On prime minister's questions the PM said that retaining a 50p tax rate will stymie the green shoots of growth and make us uncompetitive. My guess is that small businesses like this will be lucky to achieve a turnover £70k a year which might generate an income of £25k after the costs of food produce, the vehicle and fuel have been taken into account.

PS The business finally moved to the station in June 2014 after 18 months of seeking permission from the Council and Network Rail for obtaining an agreement for a stance outside the railway station. Apparently the van would contravene the hot mobile food policy, unlike all those burger and breakfast bars that operate in the lay byes around the city. The Loving Food truck now provides a range of fresh, homemade food including flatbreads, stews, soups, grilled halloumi, quesadillas, savoury filled brioche, tacos, burritos and freshly made cakes with a changing menu every day. Just a great pity that it took 18 months to negotiate all the regulatory policies.

Feral Goats and Heil Gove

Right to roam stops at the wall 

The chase

As I returned from my morning run I was surprised to find 8 feral goats nibbling away in the garden. Fortunately, they seemed averse to snowdrops and there was not much else to sate their appetites. I have always enjoyed watching feral goats although they have usually turned up near the summit of remote mountains and they quickly make themselves scarce. This was different, they had invaded my space, stared me out and threatened the garden. Their right to roam was getting personal.

I retrieved my camera from the house and returned to find them disappearing into the next garden over a wall I had rebuilt last year to keep out the wildlife. I followed them into the woods as they herded along with no particular hurry but always managing to keep 20 metres ahead of me. Their oversized horns made me think that this was about the right distance. I eventually gave up the pursuit as they went to inspect the primary school grounds. I returned to check the damage in the garden, it seemed minimal and the heathers that they had been grazing on had needed a trim anyway.

But thinking about why the goats had gone along to the primary school prompted a thought about another feral fiend, the inexplicable Minister of Education, Michael Gove. His activities are indeed feral and he also sports a set of horns, in the form of glasses. He has been invading state schools recently trying to make them more like public schools, by which he means private schools. He was not content with ditching the building or rebuilding of 700 state schools that were in the capital programmes of education authorities and ready to roll. Shortly after being installed he offered bribes for schools to become academies, which is no more than a dastardly form of privatisation and, incidentally, a way of opting out of the national curriculum. He has castigated the performance of state schools, got rid of his independent inspector and offended the majority of teachers as this Heil Gove video implies. And still, the more populist national press humour him, this parody provides a bit of balance.

Do not trust this feral politician