Clive Handy's Blog

Another of England’s sporting events of the ‘season’, whatever that is: Wimbledon.  It’s been going for 127 years and is the oldest and most prestigious tennis tournament in the world with over £22 million of prizes for the contestants.  My eldest daughter’s birthday was on Wednesday and she wanted to join the ‘Queue’ as it euphemistically known to see some tennis. She invited us (Fran and I ) along and since none of us had never been there, I thought oh well another tick on the bucket list.

So it was early doors start. We had been warned by No 2 daughter to get there ‘bloody early’, but didn’t realise how early that meant. We had elected to drive up and park at Morden Hall, which was a park and ride and seemed reasonable at £15 for the whole day including the bus both ways. We set off just after 6.30am ( are there two of those in the day?) and sped off down the A3, finding the parking quite easily. Catching the bus, it took over 25 minutes to get to the drop -off point which was right by the entrance area. Unfortunately being part of the great unwashed we couldn’t just stroll in and buy a ticket, no there was a strict pecking order, ordained by the ‘Queue’. We walked about 15 minutes to get to the entrance of Wimbledon Park where the queue was and saw half of humanity on this field.  We were given tickets as we went in, mine was numbered 08218, which presumably meant there were 8000 people in front of us. Since the ground capacity is 15000 I thought there would be short delay and we would be in. Now I know and you know this is not the case, since the grounds were already somewhat full with those who had won ‘The Ballot’ or were part of the great and the good, like Cliff Richard.

So we joined the queue and to be fair to the ‘Honorary Stewards’ who patrol Wimbledon park and organise the queue, they were to a man (and woman) even tempered and actually quite charming, always willing to stop and chat and answer your questions. It reminded me of my Olympic experience in which we were taught to be the same ( see July/August 2012 of this blog). So we settled  down with a picnic blanket, and broke out the bubbly: pink rose, croissants, jam, ham and cheese, looking like this:

Pretty yummy eh? Neighbouring queuers thought it was  very cool, and this was 8 am! So we had a nice leisurely breakfast and the morning passed quite quickly. I found a shop just out side the park gates which was selling tea and coffee at half the price of the mobile kiosk in the grounds, and there was no queue, and the loos were close to hand and were well looked after. The stewards moved us round to the next row every time the last row moved closer to the entrance, but it was still a long way away. The papers, Daily Mail, Telegraph etc were there flogging their extra stuff to go with the free paper, like blankets and tote bags, but everyone had enough to carry so most didn’t feel inclined. The rules, which were handed out in a pamphlet stated that only one bag was allowed into the ground along with the usual alcohol limit (so they can sell their own overpriced stuff), knifes and drugs etc. The queue wound round the Wimbledon athletics track where some excited youngsters were presumable having their sports day, then we went through an archway, which looked like the entrance to Mecca, giving you false hope that you were nearly there. Far from it. There were, we were told about 2000 people in front of us, so we still had a long wait. But again there were well kept loos ( I think they are very important, don’t you?) and then a row of franchised stalls with various distractions on offer. The HSBC stand had a tennis speed competition which I didn’t enter so have no idea how it worked, but I was able to get into their coffee bar to have a freebee coffee and snack pack, consisting of a muffin, biscuit, apple and a bottle of water. Just flash your HSBC/first direct card and all they have to offer will be yours. Next was the Robinson’s juice drink stand which didn’t seem to have anyone running it, then a Hertz stand which was running bizarrely a tennis speed challenge. Didn’t they consult with HSBC? Then there was a Lavazza coffee stand dishing free coffee and providing some seating as a respite from the queue. Speaking of which, the rules stated that you couldn’t leave the queue and leave equipment in your place, and the strict order of the queue must be maintained. In practice you got to know your adjacent queuers so this never got challenged. Our neighbours in front of us, five girls having a day out were very protective of our stuff in we fancied breaking away from the queue to sit on the grass outside the fenced-in portion of the queue path. The afternoon drew on, slowly, it got to five o’ clock and there was a sudden surge. I had gone for a wander to the front and asked on of the stewards there what number was going through and she replied it was about 1500 in front of us, but there were lots of drop outs so it wouldn’t be 1500 in front of us and could be considerably less. Then all of a sudden we were at the front, a steward checked our queue tickets and we were then subjected to the security check carried out by G4S, or Good For Sodall as I termed them. Then the sh1t hit the fan. My daughter had bought a brand new picnic rucksack the day before because she wanted one anyway and it was good reason to buy one.  Low and behold to the glee of the G4S operative she found in the bag, oh horror of horrors, four extremely blunt metal knifes. My own older picnic rucksack had gone through OK, but because the knifes in it were plastic, they weren’t picked up by the X-Ray machine so was deemed passable. The operative offered that the offending items could be disposed of there and then or they would have to be checked in to left luggage office before the final entrance, about 200 yards away. Charlotte was understandably extremely miffed and showed it (don’t know where she gets that from!) and was escorted to the left luggage. The knifes in question would have had difficulty slicing through butter but it was the principle of the thing.

So after the debacle of getting in, we were now entering after 5pm so the cost reduced from £20 each to £14. It’s one of the premier sporting events in the world and ordinary people can still get in on the day: marvellous. The place is deceptively larger than it appears on TV, and extremely crowded. I’m led to believe the grounds can hold 14000 people, I don’t doubt it. We looked around some of the lesser courts and there are seats available, you just walk in and watch. The ‘show’ courts, i.e. Centre, No’s 1, 2, 3, 4 need previously bought tickets, or you can queue up at the returns office and buy a show court ticket for £5. This is a good system, where people hand in their £50 tickets when they don’t want to see any more tennis, and ground entry viewers can buy one and get into a show court. Its a good way of spreading it about. As it happens my girls got given two No 1 court tickets, by two nice ladies they got chatting to on Henman Hill. This is the only place you can see the tennis if you are not in a show court. It’s nearly always crowded as well.

Some pictures of the day

Not being much of a tennis buff, I was content to sit and watch on HH while the girls went off to court 1. All very friendly. The days matches finished, we went to the Wimbledon shop and looked at the overpriced goods on display. It was amazing to see the stuff people were buying. Then a dash for the park and ride bus, after getting the illicit bag from left luggage. The journey home was uneventful, and got there at 11.00pm. A long day of 17 hours but worth it in the end. Would I do it again? The juries still out, but it’s a possibility.

A weekend away. Sounds good, but depends on where/when/what. Well this weekend was in East Kent, near Sandwich and the when (last weekend) should have provided a bit of nice weather surely, being the summer solstice on the 21st June and all that. But, no. More of that later. The what was for the Manston Air Show and the old RAF (and now civil airport) at Manston. In the RAF days it was known as a MDA, which stands for Master Diversion Airfield, when a foam carpet could be laid on the runway to cushion an aircraft landing on it that for example had complete undercarriage failure, in about 15 minutes or so.  I don’t know whether it is still used for this, but it has one of the longest runways in the UK, which is why it would have been useful in this role.  Manston is now an ‘international’ airport, Dutch airline KLM being a recent tenant providing flights twice a day to Amsterdam. They are trying to grow it as a regional airport, probably much needed in that peninsular of land sticking out underneath London. Anyway I digress, I was invited down by my cousin who lives locally to Manston along with his sister and brother and our wives to go to the show. Apparently it was the first air show at Manston for over 20 years so it was bound to be popular. See the show review here: http://globalaviationresource.com/v2/2013/06/27/airshow-review-south-east-airshow-2013/?fb_source=pubv1

First of all though we had to tackle the Friday afternoon ‘nightmare on the M25’ experience. No, really it could be akin to the death-drop experience at Alton Towers or Chessington World of Adventures. What is it about this piece of road that brings out the worse in all that use it, except me of course? Granted there were extensive road works from junction 7 round to the M26 turn off, but before that the driving was atrocious. People pulling in front of you without signalling, leaving a gap of at least 12 inches. Travelling right up your backside, when you are in a slow moving traffic anyway and can’t go any faster. Drivers going from the fourth lane to the slip road in one fell swoop because they either forgot they were turning off there, or more likely; they want to stay in the outside lane for as long as possible.  Whatever, the driving standard is pretty poor. and since everyone is in the same situation, i.e. crawling along, you would have thought there would be give and take, but no there ain’t. Anyway a journey that should have taken under two hours took nearly three and we arrived at my cous’s tired and hungry. Fed and watered, liberally, we had already been warned that because the brother and wife and sister were also staying, we had been told that we would be sleeping in the tent on the back lawn, due to the house only having three bedrooms. When it came to bedtime, the choices had widened to the neighbours or the son’s house some 8 miles away or a blow up bed in the lounge. That’s what we opted for in the end, reasoning that it wasn’t as far to fall into  bed, all the other alternatives involved travel of some kind. On reflection it wasn’t perhaps the smartest choice, getting down to (and out of) a blow up bed on the floor presents its own problems. The next morning after not the best night’s sleep I’ve glad we had breakfast and showers; a feat in it’s own right with seven people wanting to use one toilet and one shower in a short space of time, but we managed it. The it was off in two cars to Manston. We set off about 11, and spent an hour in the queue to park on the airfield. The entrance fee (for us old gits) was £10, but we could have saved our money; we could see the air display perfectly well from where we parked. Some people came from only slightly further afield and had to queue for 6 hours and then only got to Manston just before the air show finished. It was chaotic, but to be expected when the approach roads are so small and can get easily clogged. I guess we were just lucky.

Some of my pictures from the show.

The mad bit? Well l love my family to bits but they all talk at the same time on different subjects, and because they don’t always hear another person talking, all the different subjects mix up. The results are a hilarious menage. My cousin Jeff got up with his hair sticking straight up. Someone remarked that he looked like Jedward, someone else said: Oh yes Jeffward! You had to be there. The Sunday involved us all going out for a walk in Deal, which was the home of the Royal Marines Band. The locals got together and built a bandstand near the front to commemorate the Royal Marine bandsmen who were killed by the IRA twenty years in London in a bomb explosion. The bandstand is well used, and on this Sunday there was a band from BAE Systems at Rochester, my old company. They were excellent but we didn’t see all their concert, pity. The journey was uneventful and we got home, glad for a super weekend, and the company of my mad, beautiful family. Laters.

The last in a line of brothers starting from 1921 ended today 21st May. My father’s brother, Uncle Fred, died on 30th April and had his funeral at the Methodist Church, Morden, followed by Cremation at North Surrey Crematorium.

One of the last pictures of Fred

Fred was 79 and had suffered with prostate cancer since 1994. A ex Royal Navy man and latterly local council mechanic, he and his wife, my Aunt Eileen were married for nearly sixty years, and were together for most of that time. They didn’t have children, but doted on relations’ grandchildren and now Eileen is on her own. But this is not an eulogy to an uncle who I admit wasn’t totally part of my life for the last few years; this is more to do with families. At his funeral, there was less than ten of his closest relatives, but many more friends, neighbours and members of his RAOB lodge. The funeral was one of the most unforgettable I have ever been to, and lasted much longer than the normal, with a superb address about Fred by the Vicar who knew him well, and another lovely eulogy from my cousin Ellen, whose 16 year old daughter was virtually a surrogate grandchild to Fred and Eileen. A funeral is a cathartic experience, and means lots of things to many different people. Sadness yes, that someone close has departed, but also a realisation that of course the same will happen to us all one day. This is quite sobering and actually frightening; that, however fit and well we feel now, there will come a time when it is inevitable what is going to happen next. At one time on my life, as I have mentioned before, I have had feelings of impending doom, and worried about what happens after life. I’m not terribly religious, or wasn’t but today’s experience has had a profound effect on me.  It was a beautiful service with a lot of reference to the Navy, sea-based hymns, and many mentions by all the speakers about Fred’s involvement with the old comrades who came to see him off, the Royal British Legion, the Royal Navy Association and the Buffaloes who held quite the most moving ceremony I have seen at a funeral. They gathered around the coffin, which was draped in a Union flag and an England flag, and bid farewell to their brother and friend with prayers, and an absent brethren soliloquy. They then plucked an ivy leaf out of their top pockets and placed it on the draped coffin. It was very moving and life-affirming, He would have loved it. 

As usual, relatives who haven’t seen each other for years say ‘must get together sooner’, but in reality you probably only stay in touch via Christmas cards. This is also sad, when you think that when younger we’re got together a lot, enjoying each others company, retaining memories, keeping in touch. Then parents pass on, people move away, contact is lost. The three things that bring them together: hatches, matches and despatches. Promises of ‘we’ll drop in next time we’re round your area’, possibly, but more than likely, never. There’s nothing malicious about it, just a realistic appreciation that you can’t keep in touch all the time. In Fred’s case, I regret not seeing him or contacting him for over a year. We occasionally sent each other e-mails and kept in touch, but over the last year I forgot to follow it through. The vicar said in his address: don’t have regrets when you think of the departed, what will be, is what it was, you can’t change that and having regrets makes you feel you failed somehow, you didn’t. I hope that when I’m no longer here, people don’t have regrets about me. Not that I can do anything about it afterwards, and it’s probably a lost cause before.

Good bye Fred, you were a good man, a kind man, a man who the vicar said was a Samaritan, who helped others all the time, who couldn’t pass by someone in trouble, he had to help, it was in his genes. He fought prostate cancer for nearly 20 years and he didn’t think it would get him in the end, but finally it only took three days. Sleep well Uncle Fred, you deserve a rest, but didn’t deserve to go.

So the annual debacle that is the Eurovision Song Contest is staged in Malmo, Sweden.

As usual the so-called ‘music’ emanating from the various countries which have entered, a surprising number singing in English, is at best third rate, and is nowhere near the high standard achieved in English singing countries, like the UK and the US. Let me qualify that assertion, Euro music is in the main, thump, thump disco style, and is mostly pretty crap. England and the US have always led the way in all forms of music, but the more progressive and rock based has been our forte. The ‘music’ delivered by some of the Eurovision bands is at best sweet and at worse, not even worth listening to  beyond the first 20 seconds. The trouble is, it’s now mostly won by eastern European countries who only a few years were prancing around in flowery, flouncy, lacy national costumes singing folky anthems whilst strumming balaikas and singing in some unintelligible tongue. Then suddenly they are the winners of Eurovision and are supposed to be what is happening in music today. Yeah, go figure. If music be the food of love, play on…but not with the Eurovision, music doesn’t quite describe it.

Wow, no rain, no wind, not much sun but still nice to be outside, get some work done. Rub down the patio furniture, apply raw linseed oil and teak oil, ready for another season of blazing sun and blisteringly hot surfaces; yeah right. I suppose it’ll happen one year, the likes of 1976 only comes around every century or so. For those who say ‘that was before my time (in a stupid small voice)’ so have no experience of that summer, which was the hottest in recent history and is often referred back to whenever a red-top paper has the headline ‘Phew, wot a scorcher!’ This only happens of course when we get temperatures above 25°C, which doesn’t happen too often but then when it does, we’re ‘hotter than (insert normally very hot town)’, and we should be proud that our country can achieve subtropical temperatures. It doesn’t last long but if it lasts more than a couple of weeks, the foreign owned water companies notice a drop in their profits and order a hosepipe ban, rather than building more reservoirs. Can’t have the shareholders being left short. The same goes for the recent shenanigans over the petrol and gas speculators who could have cost each household thousands over the past few years, because they could line their pockets while not giving a toss about the general public who had to dig deeper to fund their extravagant lifestyle. But, will we get that money back? Of course not, but the speculators have made a killing so that’s alright then. Of course its all pure greed. There is a level of income above which no more is needed to live comfortably, but some people don’t think that applies to them, they just want more and more. They will all get their comeuppance some day, I hope.