11th August

 So there are to be hose pipe bans round the country. Watching the Commonwealth games, I noticed the hockey pitch was soaked with water sprays. I just hope the Football clubs do not use sprinklers on their grounds. I know the pitches are hard but the players will have to live with that. They will have to learn to keep on their feet. So says me who never headed the ball or made sliding tackles. Those around me did the heading of the ball. My job was to get the ball and make the telling passes. I have to confess not always successfully!

I see there was a meeting of the government and the bosses of the energy companies. How can anybody in their position earning £100s really understand what it is like to be short of money. Like the boss of Thames Water nd his £500000 bonus even though the company lost money last year. The bosses must live on a different planet. If he gave his bonus to those in energy poverty he could pay £3000 to 150 people without it hurting his standard of living. If all the leaders gave their bonuses up like this many of the poorest could be helped. 

Things change and Liz Truss is leading the charge of  those who have no idea how the world outside their circle lives. How can tax cuts help those who do not pay tax? The basis of our system is that the wealthy help the poorest who usually are not poor through choice but circumstances. Even the hated Mrs Thatcher knew this.

On a brighter note who will host the Eurovision Song Contest. It had to be outside London. 

Things change as illustrated with a poem a few years ago. Published in my collection through Amazon in a Golden Age:

As we are all reminded in the words of the song “ Things they are a changing.”

The Golden Age?

There used to be pubs on Market Square

Named after heroes

The Lord Nelson, King George or Prince William,

Or mythical beings 

The Griffin, Green Man or Unicorn.

With a snug, a lounge and a bar.

Where smoke curled and swirled, round dark oak beams,

Like the smog in Bleak House.

Men in dull grey jackets and  shiny ties,

Lounged on wooden benches, 

By tables scarred with stubbed out fags

Topped out with over flowing ashtrays.

Drinking mild, bitter or boilermakers,

The consistency of the silt laden stream 

Which flowed at the bottom of the yard.

The drink went down to the thud of darts

Or the clack of dominoes on a board.

Ladies sit with their men in the lounge

Drinking port and lemon the colour of blood.

Or in the snug

Gossiping about the pregnant teenager from down the road,

Or Mrs. Smith and her brood and her men.

The barmaid wobbled her large breasts

As she pulls the pints for indifferent drinkers,

Thinking of rich men and sun kissed beaches.

A dyed blond night lady pulls up her skirt

Revealing nylon clad legs and smiling,

Hoping that some man would talk and take her home.

The other women turn up their noses, shake their heads,

Making plain that she was an outcast.

Now the pubs have gone.

Turned into banks and shops.

New theme pubs have been designed,

All chrome and leather,

With flashing screens and loud music,

Where drinkers guard their bottles of larger 

Which come from God knows where.

The girls prance around, Salome without the veils,

Attracting the boys in only their shirt sleeves,

Even when the ice is on the ground and breath freezes on the nose.

Once at ten thirty, people would stagger home,

Now they spill out onto the square,

Falling, vomiting, shouting, laughing, growling and fighting

Before staggering towards the night club

Where Mrs. Bennet's dancing school once stood, 

Teaching the young to twirl and prance 

To the beat of a dance band.

Now lights flash, mist spreads from hidden blowers

Bodies gyrate and grind.

Times change