LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 39 – Thursday, 23rd APRIL

 

We seem to be trapped in a never-ending news cycle that endlessly repeats itself: statistics and excuses.

     It is fairly obvious that the present front bench is no longer truly concerned about how this crisis works out in terms of the human cost, but rather in who is going to be blamed for the way in which the crisis has been managed.  They can already see the various paragraphs of blame in the conclusions of the inevitable public inquiry and they are thinking, as always, only about their own survival and that of their discredited party. 

     If I was a member of the group of scientific experts that have had any contact with the Conservative politicians I would be engaging a lawyer now to keep a watching brief for the time that the Tory scum begin to put all the blame for their actions on the selective scientific advice that they will claim that they always followed.

     I think the case for corporate manslaughter charges against relevant ministers is almost overwhelming and I would willingly support a crowd-funded appeal for funds to prosecute the perpetrators of the fatal self-serving dithering incompetence that characterised the management of the crisis so far.

     The story of the PPE supplies get more murky by the second, with the Turkish connection being more akin to farce than competent procurement.  We have utilized the RAF to fly to Istanbul to get a partial cargo back!  The PRIVATE firm that our government has used to store the PPE stockpile has been sold to another firm during the crisis!  You couldn’t make this rubbish up, but is par for the course for a government that can pay millions to a ferry line with no boats.

     All this and Brexit too!  The bunch of third-rate incompetents still have the desire to take us out of the EU with no deal.  Weeping is not enough!

     The papers are taking a little time to consider who might be the scapegoat for the fatal disaster of crisis management.  The obvious candidate is Matt Hancock the man without fixed ethos, who swallowed his previous beliefs for the tempting offer of a seat in the sort of cabinet that he would have shunned previously.  But, what the hell, in the dregs of ability that is the present Conservative Party, he is some sort of star.

     With what has happened so far in the debacle of the crisis he has said things and made claims that cannot all be true.  He has therefore said the thing that was not.  And there is the question of the 100k tests that he has promised by the end of the month which are clearly impossible to deliver.  So that will be a resigning matter.

     With a fragmented cabinet in the absence of the Blond Buffoon and with the in fighting that must be going on, poor old Beckett must be wandering around with a selection of knives sticking into his back! 

     I have zero sympathy for him.

The talk of exit strategies is gaining ground, though we are not getting very much clarity about what they might be.

     Here in Spain I think that the weekend relaxation for the isolation of kids might be a way of the government seeing how well or how badly the population runs with this.  If it is a disaster and people take advantage then perhaps there will be a swift reversion to a stricter lockdown; if it goes well, perhaps it will be a start of a series of relaxations.

     The Scottish parliament is saying that some form of social distancing will be in force until the end of the year, at least for the at risk sections of the population.  We are not dealing with any definite information; there is no way that plans can be made for any events months ahead.  When is flying to and from Spain going to start again?  No idea.  And no idea about when we might expect to get an idea.

At least the sun shone for some time today.  I’m thankful for that.

    

Union or League?

 

The win of the Catalan Dragons over the Warrington Wolves reminded me of the reason why I was born in Leeds rather than Cardiff.

My father was fiendishly good at rugby.  He was captain of his school team at an absurdly young age and made sure that he was academically capable as well.  Though he never tired of retelling the story of the time when he was top overall in the top class of his year in Maesteg Grammar School in South Wales.  His form teacher wrote of my dad that his achievement, “reflects nothing of his ability, he is top out of a mediocre lot, is slapdash, erratic and easy-going” to which, after reading this crushing dismissal of my dad's worth, my grandfather responded, “That man knows you!”

My father did not go to college to train as a teacher because of World War Two.  He joined the RAF as a technician and, after initial training in Blackpool (where he said that he had never been so cold in all his life) he was posted to South Africa and Rhodesia – mainly because his surname began with a later letter of the alphabet.  He later told me that those with an earlier letter for their surnames were sent to the Far East.  I think he got the better of that particular deal and he continued to play rugby for his squadron, being made captain of the team in spite of his being a lowly LAC.

On his return to Britain after the War he got a job as a PE teacher and continued to play rugby for various clubs and was eventually given a place in the Possibles against the Probables to decide the selection for the Welsh team.

In spite of doing well as the Possibles hooker (and winning balls against the head) dad knew that he wasn’t going to be picked, and there is still one Welsh player for the national team of the late 40s whose name I still bridle at!  This player had his selection ‘on rails’ – and so it proved to be.

However, dad was seen by a Rugby League scout and the end result was that he was tempted to Go North and become a professional rugby player for Hunslet while also teaching PE in Leeds.

 

                                        Don Rees, my father, front row, third from the right. Hunslet, early 1950s

Dad spoke about his time as a professional player, including in his first game where, as a bright and innocent (?) young rugby union player, he tucked the ball under his arm and started to run for the line.  He was met by a hardened professional in the opposition team who gave him a stiff-arm tackle and, as my father folded over his opponent’s arm, he heard him say, “Not that way sonny!”

My mother, also a PE teacher, did not watch my father play, though she went to the ground when she could.  Once she was with officials of the Club and one said to her, “Don has dropped a goal!” to which her reply was, “Oh god!” as she thought that he had made some sort of grave error!

But one recollection of his anecdotes of play concerned France. 

Rugby League had been banned by the collaborationist Vichy government and Hunslet were visiting the country after the war and playing what one official described as “missionary games” with smaller clubs to encourage the take-up of League rather than Union in France.   

Dad said that Hunslet players saw posters advertising one of their forthcoming matches as “L’equipe de Hunslet v. L’equipe de France”! which was not quite what they were expecting.  “Their forwards were faster than our backs!” dad said and they had to react to the new situation.   

One Hunslet player, injured but still playing, was given the unedifying task of limping after his opposite number and hitting him whenever he caught up with him.  Which he did.  The way that dad told the story it was as if the injured player was a Boris Karloff character lurching out of the mist gaining inexorably on his prey!  I forget what the result was, but that was not the point of the story.

So now, with the victory of the Catalan Dragons there is a watershed moment in the history of rugby league, the first time that the cup has left Britain, what will be made of it?

I like to think that, whatever the future of League, I have an historical stake in its progress.

And, anyway, what son would pass up an opportunity to bring a picture of his dapper dad to a wider audience?