Football or Opera?

 

 

 

There is, of course, no reason that one could not enjoy both, and such people do exist.  But the generality of one audience does not usually have same enthusiasm for the experience of the other.

     Both Opera and Football (the Association sort and NOT the American version) both have drama galore; there are strong narratives to both; emotion runs high – and you can go on makings lists of similarities and make yourself sound like a harassed PR person trying to justify the submission to some sort of funding agency emphasising how wide ranging the attraction of the activity is to all sectors of society.

     I am not here to state that one is intrinsically better than the other, though I obviously have my prejudices, and the last time I paid for a ticket for football was ten years before the black snows. 

     In fact I can actually remember the tickets that I have bought: there was a Wales versus Yugoslavia match in Ninian Park – the team and the location shows just how long ago that was; another time when I was backpacking in Scandinavia I bought a ticket for a first division Finnish football match in the Olympic Stadium in Helsinki because I happened to be staying there as it doubled as a Youth Hostel – and if that was the First Division, then even to my untrained eye, I would hate to think what the lower leagues were like.  In more recent years (relatively) I bought a ticket for Catalonia versus China in the Camp Nou (before the reworking and rebuilding) Stadium – whereas with Opera, my tickets for the next season 2026-27, in the Liceu, have already been purchased.  So, if you follow the money, I come down very firmly on the Opera side of the equation.

      However, it is fairly easy to ignore Opera if you are not interested in it.  It is much more difficult to ignore football, considering that the Season for the game now appears to extend through 365 days a year, and its coverage on television, in the newspapers, and general advertising is omnipresent.  And I find it very difficult to ignore (as much as I want to) FIFA-Corrupt sickening experiences like the World Cup and the prostitution of FIFA to the whims of a corruptly indifferent American President.

     In our household the fortunes of Barça are of some import, and it is much easier to fall in line with the clear preference/prejudice and at least show the minimum of interest.  It also helps that Barça is, to put it mildly, a fairly successful club, so that one is supporting a usually winning team.  And supporting Barça also affords one the pleasure of having an Instant Enemy in the form of the much-hated Real Madrid.  As a person who knows little of football, I take my cues from the utterances of my partner and mouth, sometimes surprising, nuggets of ‘informed’ analysis about the game!  And however little I know about The Game, I now know more than I ever did before, and am therefore able to take more of an informed interest in watching the ball as it is kicked around the field.

     As with most things, apart from Conservatism and Jazz, the more you know, the greater your sympathy or at least interest and tolerance.

     For me, the more pressing debate is between Opera and Orchestral Concerts.  Again, following the money that I pay for tickets, you would have to say that my preference is for Opera as that is by far the more expensive pursuit of mine, but I know that if I had to make a decision about which mode to follow I would probably opt for the Orchestral Concerts.

     And one thing that Football and Orchestral Concerts have in common is that both last about 90 minutes – whereas things like Cricket and Opera can go on for what seems like for ever!

 

Football and forgetting!

¡El Clasico!  The super-hyped football battle between Real Madrid and Barça is now on the TV and Toni is glued to the set.  As this game is a pay to view affair he is watching via some sort of site on the computer where the quality of the picture is smudged impressionist at best!  Still, any sort of depiction that allows spectators to differentiate between the ‘evil’ figures in white and the ‘good’ chaps in blue is better than nothing to facilitate anguish and abuse!

I have just come back form my swim and I have to say that the café of the centre was not as full as I would have expected.  Usually a Clasico will ensure a full café and this game (played at lunchtime for the convenience of a Chinese audience, I am informed: money speaks!) I would have thought would have guaranteed all tables to be taken, but there were spaces!  Probably all the tables are booked and people are just slow in turning up.

I can’t believe that people are not just as partisan and involved in these games as they were, but I was thinking about changing attitudes while having my traditional post-swim cup of tea, which eventually brought me to think about my attitude to swimming.

“Do I actually like swimming?”

It’s a fair question.  I have, after all, been doing it all my remembered life, so I should have a view about an important element in my life.  I did a series of highly impressionistic scientific calculations in my notebook and came to the conclusion that 1/30^th of my life is spent swimming.  Two seconds of every minute in my life is spent in a pool or the sea (or a changing room or a shower) and I’m sure that it would be more if I took into account that I do sleep, where swimming is rather more difficult.

So, this activity that takes up a significant chunk of my life: like? dislike?

I have set myself a metric mile (60 lengths of our pool) each day.  This takes about 40 minutes for me on an average day and I am always happier when it is done.  Let’s face it, swimming is basically boring – you just go up and down completing length after length.  Not much to see, doing the same thing minute after minute.  But if I don’t do it I miss it and feel that the day is somehow incomplete.  Is that the same thing as liking it?

True the sense of freedom, in being able to glide through water, to have it support you is something which is always a delight - but the actual drudge of swimming, actually doing it, rather than bobbing around?  Not so sure about that.

There is the psychological aspect: the swimming pool is a different environment and it is always good to vary the constraints in one’s life.  And in health terms, it is a good thing to take at least 30 minutes exercise a day.  It gets me out of the house and I meet a whole different set of people every day.

And then there’s the question of style.  I think that I swim reasonably well and there is something to be gained in doing something, anything, competently.

But the Great Delight is, of course, finding fault with others.

You would have thought that recreational swimming was a fairly tranquil and placid activity.  You would have thought wrongly.

In an empty pool I am sure that swimming can be energetically relaxing, but add anyone else and there is ample room for annoyance.

Firstly there is the simple crime of inelegance.  Some people swim by appearing to crawl through the water, with each limb apparently with a curious life of its own.  My reasonable and logical self says that any progress through water is positive and should be applauded and encouraged, but the aesthetic motivation in me finds some swimming simply gross.

And then there are the faults of lane swimming.  There is a strict etiquette about swimming in lanes, but only the individual swimmer knows exactly what they are so they can use their specific unique knowledge of the rules against whoever is invading their space.

For example: there is an unwritten rule that, if only two people are swimming in the same lane then the rule that you should swim in a clockwise direction is overtaken by the more obvious rule that each swimmer should take half of the lane and do end-to-ends instead.

As there was no free lane I had to join another guy in his lane and, in spite of my swimming deliberately in an end-to-end way, he steadfastly refused to comply and stubbornly stuck to the ‘rules’.  This in itself would be no bad thing if swimmers are equally matched, but we weren’t, I was the faster swimmer and I soon caught him up.

He then displayed a second ‘fault’.  Rather than a touch turn at the end of his length, he completed a clumsy tumble turn and then angled himself to go into the other half of the lane, thereby cutting across the line of the following swimmer!  Crime!  Selfishness!  Inconsideration!  It is so easy to get worked up when all you are doing is going up and down!

The solution was simple of course.  All it needed was for me to change halves when I caught up with him and go in the opposite direction.  I could then play at catch-up giving myself a set number of lengths to reach him again and get at least 20m ahead of him in another set number of lengths.  In such ways I keep some sort of interest in what I am doing.

And that piece of writing is an attempt to keep politics at the back of my mind at a time when it is difficult to think of anything else!

This is one of the oddest Christmases that I have ever spent, with a crucial election set by a hostile political party with a 4% vote in this country four days before Christmas Day!

And that same political party seemingly determined not to accept the democratic will of the Catalan population.

Roll on 2018!

But one good thing, the result of El Clasico, 23/12/2017 Real Madrid 0 - Barça 3.  Hooray!

There And Back Again - again

Going back to Britain is not the same as it once was.  I suppose that is a truism as, how could it be when I have spent the majority of the past few years outside the country of my birth.

     It used to be that I felt a certain amount of excitement to ‘go home’ because of the people I knew I’d meet; the places I would be able to revisit; the shops that I miss so much, and the culture that used to be an important part of my life there.  All of those things are still reasons to enjoy my return.  But it is not the same.

     I know that it’s a cliché, but the bloody weather really does get me down.  I mean, it rains here in Spain and we have cloud and the winter is cold and it can be very windy.  But, and it is a very big ‘but’, on most days you get to see the sun.  It may not be very strong, and you may not see it for very long, but you do see it.  And that is important.  Very important.

     I have not had the courage to check the weather forecast for Cardiff for the next few days.  It may be that the weather will be a delightful surprise for me and I will relish it all the more for being unexpected.  If it’s what I fear, then friends and culture and shops will have to do.  And ‘do’ they will.

I think that I have left it far too late to trawl through the libraries in Cardiff in the hope that some institution will have the obscure journal, or at least the obscure article that I am finding so elusive at the moment.  This is for my ‘research’ for my final piece of work in my Open University degree.  

So, if you know of anywhere, or indeed if you happen to have a complete run of the Gazette des Beaux-Arts going back to 1982, then do let me know.  The article I am interested in is by A. S. Fuchs, and is snappily titled, “The Virgin of the Councillors by Lluís Dalmau (1443-1445): The Contract and its Eyckian Execution.”  It’s in volume 99 and on pages 45-54 – nine pages of what I am convinced will be eminently quotable stuff for me to us.  Just if I can get my eyes on it.  I live in hope!

Well, the above was written days ago, just before I actually went to Cardiff.  Why, you may ask, have I written nothing since, while I was there?

            Good question.  To which the answer is capitalism.

            Let me explain.  In this modern world of ours, the Internet is not a luxury reserved for technology geeks – at least not entirely – but is something that all of us build our lives around.  Probably we do this to the extent that we don’t actually think very much about the Internet, we just use it.  Which is fine and dandy, until you find that you do not have access.  Which is were capitalism comes in.

            The hotel group I was using has the phrase “Wi-Fi throughout the hotel” in a massive banner outside the building.  And, indeed it does.  

What is not made clear is that you have to pay for it.  A disgrace, but there you are.  Nothing is for nothing in this harsh world (unless of course, you are a banker or developer or a member of the Conservative Party) and if you want ‘it’ you have to pay for it.  Which I duly did.

            And still couldn’t get access to my blogspace.  I even wrote a daily screed and then spent fruitless moments (I am a hasty sort of person) trying vainly to get the thing to upload.  But it didn’t and so I am now returned with little in the way of literary effusion to show for my short stay in Cardiff.  So I will summarize.

I arrived on Wednesday afternoon and immediately went to the branch of Lidl which was at the end of the road on which the hotel was situated.  And got something of a shock.  The same sort of shock I had when I went into the London, Kensington branch of Tesco and discovered that there was a whole range of foodstuff set out temptingly for me on the shelves that had never been seen in the Tesco in St Mellons.  I suppose you have to have some knowledge of Cardiff and its suburbs to grasp the distance between the social aspirations of Kensington and those of new St Mellons, but take it from one who knows – they’re vast!  So, in much the same way, I was interested in the differences there were between the Welsh and the Catalan take on what a consumer would want.

            Much of the stuff was common, but it was in the details that the differences became clear.  Suffice to say that I took a half-price bottle of 20 year-old Tawny Port to my friends’ house that evening.

            Where, it turned out, I was not expected until the following night!  However that merely meant that I had two evenings with my friends rather than one!

The next day was largely taken up with the funeral of my aunt, which was the reason that I had come to Cardiff in the first place.  This went well, if you can say that about funerals, and it was good to see members of my family.

            My Friends Part II – Now It’s Dinner Time, made a good end to the day with much talk, excellent food and a small glass of Tawny Port with some delicious and creamy Stilton cheese.

The next days were taken up with visits, including one to my last remaining representative of my parents’ generation: my father’s younger sister, my aunt.  Although she is not at all well, it was an excellent visit and one of her comments stayed with me so clearly that I wrote a poem about it. 

            If you wish to read that, or any other of the drafts of a range of poems that I have written, please go to smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es

When I attempted to go to the local leisure centre for a swim, a clearly embarrassed lady asked for my age and, on being given it, announced triumphantly that I could swim for nothing!  As I have previously made slighting remarks about the impossibility of getting anything for nothing, I can only excuse such blatant hypocrisy by stating that I had paid Cardiff Council Tax (and all its other manifestations) for decades before moving to Spain, so I feel that the council has been richly repaid for their moment of generosity.  For which, by the way I am sincerely grateful!

Shops, friends and restaurants filled up other time, but I did make space for one visit that I had prepared for: a trip to the National Museum of Wales to see, once again, the Rembrandt portrait.  This painting had been on loan to the museum, then it was taken back, eventually sold and appeared to be out of reach.  But, the new owner (having paid thirty-five million quid for it) decided to loan it to the museum for three years.  It had to be seen, and I envisaged a sequence of three poem connected to its being viewed.  The first one has been written, the second in lying in notes in my notebook and the third is just a hazy idea at the moment.

            The portrait of Catrina Hoghsaet is a brilliant work and, considering how much Gareth Bale cost Real Madrid, seems something of a bargain – given that Bale is just going to decline and be finished in his career in a few years, whereas the Rembrandt (with careful conservation) will last into the next centuries.  Anyway, this writing is partly displacement activity to avoid the start of the work that will bring the other two poems into existence.

It only remains to say that on the flight to and from Cardiff, I was able, at no further cost, to get a seat by the emergency exit and so my legs were able to breathe!

Home in Castelldefels and I have decreed summer.  I rode back from the swimming pool this morning without wearing my thin coat; I have given up the undershirt; I am wearing shorts and I had a café con hielo – all of that for me, is like hearing the first cuckoo of spring, but for summer, if you see what I mean.  The next step is swimming in the sea.

And that might take a while!