“Write something light-hearted for Saturday, something to take people’s mind off politics” was the briefing from our wonderful Editor, and so, because I would climb to the highest peaks for her [ED: You’re laying it on a bit thick here] I put what’s left of my brain to work and thought on the various topics that came to mind.
Dear reader (I’m setting the bar low here, assuming a solitary viewing of this article), as I sit here on Friday morning, soaked after having dropped my car off for an MOT, contemplating the facts that it’s June tomorrow, in three weeks the nights start drawing in again and that I’m hosting a barbeque this evening which looks set to be a literal a wash-out [ED: Get to the point – you’re just trying to make up your word count!] it’s not easy to find topics of merriment and mirth. No, not even with Trump convicted.
So, instead, I thought I’d talk about my addictions, which, like the weather, I can firmly blame on my being resident in this small, damp country that Lawrence Durrell brilliantly named “Pudding Island”.
Ambridge addictions
Oh, to be in Ambridge. “Glorious weather we’re having” Oliver said to Lillian on yesterday’s episode of “The Archers”, whilst at home I grudgingly turned the heating back on. First broadcast in 1951, this long-running story of country folk divides the nation. For those of us that listen to Radio 4, the onset of the theme music, “Barwick Green”, leads either to a dash for the “off” switch that would be worthy of Usain Bolt, or a reverential hush for the next 12 minutes. I am, as you can guess, in the latter camp.
“Man hands on inhumanity to man” as Larkin wrote, and I blame my mother for this affliction in my life, despite the fact that she gave up listening, for reasons unknown, several years ago. I’m in my late fifties, and I have heard the same actors’ voices now for all of my life. I have, when I was resident in the Midlands, visited “The Bull”, the pub which – typically for soaps – acts as a focal point for much of The Archers‘ drama. I ordered, from the late lamented landlord, Sid, “a pint of Shires”.
I discuss, with similarly afflicted individuals, plot lines on one of the many internet forums (why is it “forums” and not “fora”?) dedicated to the series. I have, in truth, cried at times – and not due to the occasional, improbable storylines. The passage of time has led to the loss of many of the characters. I find myself wondering where Nelson Gabriel went to (his father’s passing was marked by a “wake” in my Students’ Union, which is a good indication of precisely how riotous my time in academia was). I wait with bated breath for the backstory of Joy to be revealed – a sub-plot which has been dragging on for years.
My addiction could be worse; a friend’s ex-wife went to an Archers convention and is now married to Mike Tucker (who also played “Davros” in “Doctor Who”, strangely enough), but I have accepted now that this is a permanent affliction. A very British one; and something unique to this island.
A football rollercoaster ride
One other product of this sceptred isle is far more ubiquitous: football [ED: What’s that sound? Ah yes, the click of the browser window being closed]. I was already in my thirties when this affliction hit me, far too late – similar to starting smoking at such an age. I had just moved to Ipswich when a colleague suggested we went to Portman Road; the rest is history.
This last month has been particularly eventful. Promotion to the Premier League induced a particularly Suffolk saturnalia of unbridled joy. Supporting a football team is analogous to being in an abusive relationship: at the start of every season the fans believe the promises made by players and management, the memories of the previous 12 month’s ignominies ignored in what is frequently misguided optimism. For once, the last two seasons have exceeded expectations – for once.
Then, as swiftly as the Messiah was hosanna’d and then derided, the tide turned. Our fresh-faced young manager, Kieren McKenna, was tipped to be moving on to bigger things, having attracted attention through his transformation of a team which was languishing in the third tier before his brilliance transformed them and propelled them upwards. It’s akin to a man who is a ‘5’ at best, who has somehow snagged a ’10’ on the looks scale, whose charms have become visible to others now that they are in the limelight. The uncertainty of the last two weeks before yesterday’s announcement that a deal had been signed, led to an outpouring of heartache and anger. Again, I frequent an internet forum (through which I was recruited to write for this very organ) and the sentiments on there were redolent of the stages of grief: shock, denial, then anger. Silence from the manager was interpreted as disloyalty; those who – and I do not feel I am exaggerating here – would have gladly given “McK” all their worldly goods, now wanted him gone for the crime of his desirability.
For my part, this is a “mild” addiction. No tattoo of the club is marked on my flesh; I do not even own a shirt; however I know many for whom this love is more permanent and meaningful than any in their lives. We shall see what this coming season brings.
Navigating life’s quirks and passions
Two very British – or is that English? – addictions; the things we add to our lives, by our own choice, which can bring as much misery as joy, but we seem powerless to resist.
“The amount of eccentricity in a society has generally been proportional to the amount of genius, mental vigour, and moral courage it contained. That so few now dare to be eccentric marks the chief danger of the time.”
John Stuart Mill said that, and if the naming of that philosopher calls to mind a song by Monty Python, well, that’s another “addiction” that you and I, dear reader, share. Let us cast aside the dampness of the season, the prospect of the next few weeks of electioneering, and focus instead on that which unites us, whether we were born here or not: the incredible strangeness of being resident in the (for now) United Kingdom. Have a good weekend.
