Half-time Blues
The last time I went to Old Trafford, Norwich City won the match, Manchester United (with Nobby Stiles and all) played their thundering roles, a courteous Matt Busby wandered the corridors with a tear in his eye, and cars belonging to several Sunday tabloids chased the City team bus all the way to Derby, where they were booked into a restaurant. Someone paid for lots of champagne, and for once the Canaries - who as a group seemed as astonished at their achievement as the rest of the country - were the hot story of the day.
It was so exciting and memorable, and so unlike my second visit to this fabled ground, where the sides played out a passionless cup-tie, fielded clutches of reserves, only grudgingly gave out the team news, and Norwich City took to the pitch in black and white as the away fans sang, 'Come on you yellows.' (Explain that to me, someone, please).
It was nearly as dispiriting as a visit earlier in the day to the National Football Museum in Manchester, where context is confused and chronological order a game of chance. You can go from the 1930s to the 1970s and back to the 1880s within a very short distance. In another room, archive films are obligingly projected on to a wall and seats provided nearby. Unfortunately, a line of display stands are also placed in front of the projection wall, so that if anyone looks at the displays the seated audience cannot see. And all this accompanied by a strident cacophony of background sound.
Alas, we left at half-time.
We did stay at Old Trafford even until the very end of the eleven minutes of added time, and there was much to enjoy - the crowds, the lights, the vast stadium, the occasion.
But has football lost something?
Thursday 31 October 2013
The Walker's Dilemma
Ask any walker the greatest bugbear of his or her life, and the reply, almost certainly, will be - blisters. Mind you, things have improved. Several decades ago there was little footwear to choose from other than the sort of boots which invariably reminded me of National Service and basic training; and there was little you could do to combat the blister menace other than to treat the wound after the damage had already been done.
Essentially, and even after boots and socks and every other piece of walking equipment gradually improved over the years, the argument - and goodness, there were arguments - boiled down to this. You've got blisters, so, do you cushion them with plasters and let them develop at will, or do you burst the bubbles and cover them? For years the debate raged beside numerous campfires on different trails, and two schools of thought formed. You were either a burster or you were not.
In the end my strategy (which was not always successful) was to try to prevent blisters in the first place. I recall prior to one week's walking holiday continually bathing my feet in surgical spirit in the hope that it would harden the skin. It didn't, and the smell was not something that could easily be dismissed. Then I tried to soften my boots in the critical heel area, and rejected any woolly walking socks which had holes or darns. This, at long last, seemed to be progress, and it gradually formed the basis of the strategy employed henceforth in the days Peripheral Claudication became a constant companion.
The pre-walk routine went like this. Check boots and socks for chafe points and, if found, smooth them out. Grease the feet, particularly the heels, with a non-smelling ointment (Atrixo or Vaseline are good) before putting on socks and boots.
During the walk, stop immediately if you feel any discomfort or chafing, and adjust boots and socks. At the midday stop, remove boots to ventilate them, re-grease the feet and swap the socks over. Sore places? Cushion with a touch of Germoline and a plaster. If there is a blister, burst it, and cover with a plaster and a touch of Germoline as antiseptic. At night, take the plasters off to assist the healing, and replace in the morning.
It's not foolproof, but it helped.
Postscript. And while on the subject of walking (in Norfolk, anyway), I note that Tim Lidstone-Scott, who has overseen the Peddars Way and the Norfolk Coast Path for 29 years, is retiring from Norfolk County Council. Tim has been a great supporter of Norfolk's long distance route, and an enormous help to anyone involved in compiling guidebooks. Thanks, Tim, and have a happy retirement.
Ask any walker the greatest bugbear of his or her life, and the reply, almost certainly, will be - blisters. Mind you, things have improved. Several decades ago there was little footwear to choose from other than the sort of boots which invariably reminded me of National Service and basic training; and there was little you could do to combat the blister menace other than to treat the wound after the damage had already been done.
Essentially, and even after boots and socks and every other piece of walking equipment gradually improved over the years, the argument - and goodness, there were arguments - boiled down to this. You've got blisters, so, do you cushion them with plasters and let them develop at will, or do you burst the bubbles and cover them? For years the debate raged beside numerous campfires on different trails, and two schools of thought formed. You were either a burster or you were not.
In the end my strategy (which was not always successful) was to try to prevent blisters in the first place. I recall prior to one week's walking holiday continually bathing my feet in surgical spirit in the hope that it would harden the skin. It didn't, and the smell was not something that could easily be dismissed. Then I tried to soften my boots in the critical heel area, and rejected any woolly walking socks which had holes or darns. This, at long last, seemed to be progress, and it gradually formed the basis of the strategy employed henceforth in the days Peripheral Claudication became a constant companion.
The pre-walk routine went like this. Check boots and socks for chafe points and, if found, smooth them out. Grease the feet, particularly the heels, with a non-smelling ointment (Atrixo or Vaseline are good) before putting on socks and boots.
During the walk, stop immediately if you feel any discomfort or chafing, and adjust boots and socks. At the midday stop, remove boots to ventilate them, re-grease the feet and swap the socks over. Sore places? Cushion with a touch of Germoline and a plaster. If there is a blister, burst it, and cover with a plaster and a touch of Germoline as antiseptic. At night, take the plasters off to assist the healing, and replace in the morning.
It's not foolproof, but it helped.
Postscript. And while on the subject of walking (in Norfolk, anyway), I note that Tim Lidstone-Scott, who has overseen the Peddars Way and the Norfolk Coast Path for 29 years, is retiring from Norfolk County Council. Tim has been a great supporter of Norfolk's long distance route, and an enormous help to anyone involved in compiling guidebooks. Thanks, Tim, and have a happy retirement.
Wednesday 23 October 2013
Lure of the Big Top
During the austerity years immediately after the Second World War, recreational outlets for youngsters were strictly limited. There was football, of course, cycling, and the cinema. There was also 'exploring,' which in our case meant scrambling for miles around nearby fields using the dry ditches as trails. But as far as I was concerned there was another big lure - namely, the travelling fairs and circuses which regularly came to town.
Of the two, it was circus for me. We would get to know when they were coming and cycle to the recreational ground to watch them hauling up the tent and to get a sniff of the animals. Exciting stuff for a youngster largely brought up on nothing more colourful than black and white Abbot and Costello films, and Johnny Mac Brown, and black and white photographs of footballers in the News Chronicle.
These were the smaller travelling shows, of course. The large ones, the cream - Chipperfield, Billy Smart, Bertram Mills - circled our town but kept their distance. You had to save up your pocket-money and travel in order to see them. But we did. And the kings of them all, of course, were Bertram Mills.
I still have tucked away four or five Mills' programmes from the 1940s/50s, which prod me into recollections of a hair-raising high trapeze, a lion walking a tightrope, a bossy ringmaster, of lights and music, and of the Cumberlands, a highly drilled team of bareback horseriders.
Where did this fascination for the circus come from? Well, we Robinsons have an old family story that my paternal grandfather, who lived in the Cotswolds, actually ran away with a circus when he was a young lad. This would have been before the First World War, of course. And I have always believed this was Baker Brothers' circus, and that they put up with him for a week or so before they sent him home.
The Baker family of bareback riders and performers had a travelling show for many years. Edward Seago, the painter, lived and travelled with them for a time. Then in the 1930s some of the family members finally joined Bertram Mills to form a new bareback act - called the Cumberlands.
It sort of closes a circle as far as I am concerned.
By the way, three of the Baker boys appeared at the Hippodrome, Great Yarmouth, in 1961.
During the austerity years immediately after the Second World War, recreational outlets for youngsters were strictly limited. There was football, of course, cycling, and the cinema. There was also 'exploring,' which in our case meant scrambling for miles around nearby fields using the dry ditches as trails. But as far as I was concerned there was another big lure - namely, the travelling fairs and circuses which regularly came to town.
Of the two, it was circus for me. We would get to know when they were coming and cycle to the recreational ground to watch them hauling up the tent and to get a sniff of the animals. Exciting stuff for a youngster largely brought up on nothing more colourful than black and white Abbot and Costello films, and Johnny Mac Brown, and black and white photographs of footballers in the News Chronicle.
These were the smaller travelling shows, of course. The large ones, the cream - Chipperfield, Billy Smart, Bertram Mills - circled our town but kept their distance. You had to save up your pocket-money and travel in order to see them. But we did. And the kings of them all, of course, were Bertram Mills.
I still have tucked away four or five Mills' programmes from the 1940s/50s, which prod me into recollections of a hair-raising high trapeze, a lion walking a tightrope, a bossy ringmaster, of lights and music, and of the Cumberlands, a highly drilled team of bareback horseriders.
Where did this fascination for the circus come from? Well, we Robinsons have an old family story that my paternal grandfather, who lived in the Cotswolds, actually ran away with a circus when he was a young lad. This would have been before the First World War, of course. And I have always believed this was Baker Brothers' circus, and that they put up with him for a week or so before they sent him home.
The Baker family of bareback riders and performers had a travelling show for many years. Edward Seago, the painter, lived and travelled with them for a time. Then in the 1930s some of the family members finally joined Bertram Mills to form a new bareback act - called the Cumberlands.
It sort of closes a circle as far as I am concerned.
By the way, three of the Baker boys appeared at the Hippodrome, Great Yarmouth, in 1961.
Monday 21 October 2013
Your Move
I love books, and over the decades must have acquired (and sometimes disposed of) hundreds of them. Some even worked their way into my affection. But for the life of me I cannot remember what siren call persuaded me to purchase The Golden Treasury of Chess, by the Editors of Chess Review, published by Arco in 1958.
Now, I am no chess player. I know the basic rules and I even have a chess computer, though I have never, not once, managed to beat it even at simpleton level. So I think my passing interest at the time may have been the thought that it was actually possible to write down the moves of some ancient game and replay them again, centuries later. Thus the book offered a brush with antiquity.
The earliest game recorded therein dates from the late 15th century, probably 1485, when a certain Francisco de Castellvi (white) beat Narcisco Vinoles (black) in 21 moves. It also contains the notation for a Ruy Lopez game in Rome in 1559. And so on and so forth, selected notated games right through until the late 1950s. Amazing!
One or two of the games particularly intrigued me, though. One was a match of 1873 played at Thorp (note the missing final e), near Norwich, between CH Capon and IOH Taylor. This was notable because after white's 16th move every one of black's pieces were liable to capture, though to take one would be to incur instant defeat. Another recorded game was played in Norwich in 1871 between an unnamed amateur (white) and JH Blackburne (black) who won on his 21st move.
But the really curious one was a correspondence match which ended in June, 1842. This was between Norfolk (Col Green and W Newton) and New York (Col Mead and J Thompson), New York winning after 29 moves.
How did they communicate? Letter? Telegraph? And how long did the match last? Alas, the book doesn't say.
I love books, and over the decades must have acquired (and sometimes disposed of) hundreds of them. Some even worked their way into my affection. But for the life of me I cannot remember what siren call persuaded me to purchase The Golden Treasury of Chess, by the Editors of Chess Review, published by Arco in 1958.
Now, I am no chess player. I know the basic rules and I even have a chess computer, though I have never, not once, managed to beat it even at simpleton level. So I think my passing interest at the time may have been the thought that it was actually possible to write down the moves of some ancient game and replay them again, centuries later. Thus the book offered a brush with antiquity.
The earliest game recorded therein dates from the late 15th century, probably 1485, when a certain Francisco de Castellvi (white) beat Narcisco Vinoles (black) in 21 moves. It also contains the notation for a Ruy Lopez game in Rome in 1559. And so on and so forth, selected notated games right through until the late 1950s. Amazing!
One or two of the games particularly intrigued me, though. One was a match of 1873 played at Thorp (note the missing final e), near Norwich, between CH Capon and IOH Taylor. This was notable because after white's 16th move every one of black's pieces were liable to capture, though to take one would be to incur instant defeat. Another recorded game was played in Norwich in 1871 between an unnamed amateur (white) and JH Blackburne (black) who won on his 21st move.
But the really curious one was a correspondence match which ended in June, 1842. This was between Norfolk (Col Green and W Newton) and New York (Col Mead and J Thompson), New York winning after 29 moves.
How did they communicate? Letter? Telegraph? And how long did the match last? Alas, the book doesn't say.
Friday 18 October 2013
Tesi Balogun
Long before droves of foreign footballers began to strut their stuff on the Premiership stage visitors from overseas had already reached these shores, but in nowhere near the sort of numbers today's fans see as normal. I can remember Long Sutton having a Dutch goalkeeper in the late 1940s. But the moment I recall in greater detail was the day in July, 1957, when Holbeach United player-manager Len Richley telephoned and told me he had signed Nigerian international and former QPR centre-forward Tesi Balogun.
Locally, this was big news. Balogun was foreign and he was coloured, and the chattering classes went wild. The aspect of colour didn't matter. It was simply interesting and unusual. In any event, other things were more pressing. 'Will he play with bare feet?' 'Can foreign players actually shoot?' - for there was a perception at the time that all they did in the goalmouth was pass the ball sideways. I found out that Tesi's nickname was 'Thunder,' so that seemed promising. As for the bare feet, I didn't know.
In those pre-Google days information was more difficult to find than it is now. Two months before he signed for Holbeach, Tesi had written an article for Charles Buchan's popular Football Monthly ('I came 4000 miles . . . '). Aside from that, I was able to ascertain that Tesi was 6ft2in and that he had played for several clubs, including QPR, for whom he had made 16 League appearances and scored seven goals. It was enough, and it added several hundred people to the Tiger's average Eastern Counties League gate at Carter's Park.
Tesi did not play in bare feet, and alas, he did not stay long, for despite his undoubted ball skills he did not overly impress the fans. His downfall, so to speak, could be traced to the heavy and sometimes waterlogged pitches prevalent at the time. I think he rattled around several more non-League clubs, including Skegness and Peterborough, and then, one day, I heard he was playing at Boston.
I travelled from Spalding to Boston by train and went to the game, and afterwards, returning to the railway station, found myself sharing an otherwise empty compartment with the man himself. At this distance I cannot recall what we talked about on the journey back to Spalding. Football, presumably. But I can place on record that Tesi 'Thunder' Balogun, so tall and smiley, was also friendly, approachable, completely at ease, and thoroughly enjoying the interest he was creating wherever he went.
Memories of Tesi Balogun faded over the years, and it was only recently I caught up with more details about him. He was born in Nigeria in 1927, so he was 30 when Len Richley signed him. He had played for his country, he was the first Nigerian to play in the English Leagues, and he was a Law student at Cambridge, eventually qualifying as a lawyer. He also became a politician. In 1968 he was coach for the Nigerian team at the Mexico Olympic Games, and in fact, I think he was the first African to qualify as a professional soccer coach.
Teslim Balogun died in 1972 at the age of 45, and 35 years' later they named a stadium after him, the Teslim Balogun Stadium in Surulere, Lagos, next door to the national stadium. There is even a statue of him on the approach road.
Lovely man, and a brave pioneer.
Long before droves of foreign footballers began to strut their stuff on the Premiership stage visitors from overseas had already reached these shores, but in nowhere near the sort of numbers today's fans see as normal. I can remember Long Sutton having a Dutch goalkeeper in the late 1940s. But the moment I recall in greater detail was the day in July, 1957, when Holbeach United player-manager Len Richley telephoned and told me he had signed Nigerian international and former QPR centre-forward Tesi Balogun.
Locally, this was big news. Balogun was foreign and he was coloured, and the chattering classes went wild. The aspect of colour didn't matter. It was simply interesting and unusual. In any event, other things were more pressing. 'Will he play with bare feet?' 'Can foreign players actually shoot?' - for there was a perception at the time that all they did in the goalmouth was pass the ball sideways. I found out that Tesi's nickname was 'Thunder,' so that seemed promising. As for the bare feet, I didn't know.
In those pre-Google days information was more difficult to find than it is now. Two months before he signed for Holbeach, Tesi had written an article for Charles Buchan's popular Football Monthly ('I came 4000 miles . . . '). Aside from that, I was able to ascertain that Tesi was 6ft2in and that he had played for several clubs, including QPR, for whom he had made 16 League appearances and scored seven goals. It was enough, and it added several hundred people to the Tiger's average Eastern Counties League gate at Carter's Park.
Tesi did not play in bare feet, and alas, he did not stay long, for despite his undoubted ball skills he did not overly impress the fans. His downfall, so to speak, could be traced to the heavy and sometimes waterlogged pitches prevalent at the time. I think he rattled around several more non-League clubs, including Skegness and Peterborough, and then, one day, I heard he was playing at Boston.
I travelled from Spalding to Boston by train and went to the game, and afterwards, returning to the railway station, found myself sharing an otherwise empty compartment with the man himself. At this distance I cannot recall what we talked about on the journey back to Spalding. Football, presumably. But I can place on record that Tesi 'Thunder' Balogun, so tall and smiley, was also friendly, approachable, completely at ease, and thoroughly enjoying the interest he was creating wherever he went.
Memories of Tesi Balogun faded over the years, and it was only recently I caught up with more details about him. He was born in Nigeria in 1927, so he was 30 when Len Richley signed him. He had played for his country, he was the first Nigerian to play in the English Leagues, and he was a Law student at Cambridge, eventually qualifying as a lawyer. He also became a politician. In 1968 he was coach for the Nigerian team at the Mexico Olympic Games, and in fact, I think he was the first African to qualify as a professional soccer coach.
Teslim Balogun died in 1972 at the age of 45, and 35 years' later they named a stadium after him, the Teslim Balogun Stadium in Surulere, Lagos, next door to the national stadium. There is even a statue of him on the approach road.
Lovely man, and a brave pioneer.
Tuesday 15 October 2013
Lost in the Wilderness
A few years ago fortune smiled and I had an opportunity to fly to America and travel around a portion of the East Coast. It was wonderful for a number of reasons, one being that I had never been to the States before, and another, that it allowed sight of several locations I wanted to include in a novel I was trying to write. One location was the 1777 American War of Independence battlefield at Saratoga, where a surprised ranger in the ticket office said, 'Hey, we don't get many Brits here.' We lost the battle, you see. Surrendered, in fact. It was the beginning of the end, and in the end we lost America.
One component of Lt-General John Burgoyne's Army which confronted Horatio Gates' troops near the Hudson river at Saratoga, was Norfolk's 9th Regiment of Foot, forerunners of the Royal Norfolk Regiment, and raised in the east of the county around Great Yarmouth.
To say the situation was confusing is an understatement. Gates was English, not American, and many of his troops had earlier emigrated from Britain and settled in the States. On the other hand, some elements of the British Army were German, and their English comrades must have looked at their former fellow-countrymen - now called Patriots by the Americans - and wondered why they were fighting each other, because other than family most had nothing to return to in England. Yet in America they must have seen at least the possibility of land, and perhaps even a farm. And no pesky squire to deal with. So who should rule America, the King or the Americans? It must have provided much food for thought.
We went to Freeman's Farm, one of the sites in this elevated and beautiful landscape, where some of Norfolk's 9th were caught in a desperate fight, and heard how the battle flag of the 9th was smuggled off the battlefield and brought back to Norwich, where it is now part of the Regimental Museum's collection. We also heard how, after the surrender, some of the survivors deserted, hoping no doubt to start a new life in a new country. And we were also able to locate some of the surviving stretches of 'the old road to Albany,' along which Burgoyne's bedraggled soldiery limped towards a prison camp, and where some of the desertions occurred.
The officers evidently logged each successful deserter in the official records as 'lost in the wilderness.' Which may or may not have been the case. But how many Norfolkmen did actually flee? No-one knows, apparently, because the regimental records of the 9th were lost when the ship Ariadne sank in 1805.
Another source told me that after the return from America, and after several peaceful years in Ireland, the remainder of the 9th finally embarked on three transports at Cork for the voyage back to England, but the little convoy encountered very heavy weather in the English Channel. Two of the transports struggled to the English coast, and safety, while the Ariadne was driven on to the French coast and wrecked.
Aboard was the commanding officer, the headquarters staff, and 262 men. All of them were taken prisoner by the French. However, the Regiment's baggage and its records and plate were lost.
So we may never know how many Norfolkmen were 'lost in the wilderness.' But if you are ever in the Saratoga area, or the Finger Lakes, Albany, or even Boston or New York, and you hear a local speaking with a slight Norfolk accent, then you are at least at liberty to believe that some of them did actually make it.
PS. One of the officers of the 9th at Saratoga, so I believe, was Major John Money - estate owner, mercenary, pioneer balloonist, and a controversial figure in Norwich society at the time.
A few years ago fortune smiled and I had an opportunity to fly to America and travel around a portion of the East Coast. It was wonderful for a number of reasons, one being that I had never been to the States before, and another, that it allowed sight of several locations I wanted to include in a novel I was trying to write. One location was the 1777 American War of Independence battlefield at Saratoga, where a surprised ranger in the ticket office said, 'Hey, we don't get many Brits here.' We lost the battle, you see. Surrendered, in fact. It was the beginning of the end, and in the end we lost America.
One component of Lt-General John Burgoyne's Army which confronted Horatio Gates' troops near the Hudson river at Saratoga, was Norfolk's 9th Regiment of Foot, forerunners of the Royal Norfolk Regiment, and raised in the east of the county around Great Yarmouth.
To say the situation was confusing is an understatement. Gates was English, not American, and many of his troops had earlier emigrated from Britain and settled in the States. On the other hand, some elements of the British Army were German, and their English comrades must have looked at their former fellow-countrymen - now called Patriots by the Americans - and wondered why they were fighting each other, because other than family most had nothing to return to in England. Yet in America they must have seen at least the possibility of land, and perhaps even a farm. And no pesky squire to deal with. So who should rule America, the King or the Americans? It must have provided much food for thought.
We went to Freeman's Farm, one of the sites in this elevated and beautiful landscape, where some of Norfolk's 9th were caught in a desperate fight, and heard how the battle flag of the 9th was smuggled off the battlefield and brought back to Norwich, where it is now part of the Regimental Museum's collection. We also heard how, after the surrender, some of the survivors deserted, hoping no doubt to start a new life in a new country. And we were also able to locate some of the surviving stretches of 'the old road to Albany,' along which Burgoyne's bedraggled soldiery limped towards a prison camp, and where some of the desertions occurred.
The officers evidently logged each successful deserter in the official records as 'lost in the wilderness.' Which may or may not have been the case. But how many Norfolkmen did actually flee? No-one knows, apparently, because the regimental records of the 9th were lost when the ship Ariadne sank in 1805.
Another source told me that after the return from America, and after several peaceful years in Ireland, the remainder of the 9th finally embarked on three transports at Cork for the voyage back to England, but the little convoy encountered very heavy weather in the English Channel. Two of the transports struggled to the English coast, and safety, while the Ariadne was driven on to the French coast and wrecked.
Aboard was the commanding officer, the headquarters staff, and 262 men. All of them were taken prisoner by the French. However, the Regiment's baggage and its records and plate were lost.
So we may never know how many Norfolkmen were 'lost in the wilderness.' But if you are ever in the Saratoga area, or the Finger Lakes, Albany, or even Boston or New York, and you hear a local speaking with a slight Norfolk accent, then you are at least at liberty to believe that some of them did actually make it.
PS. One of the officers of the 9th at Saratoga, so I believe, was Major John Money - estate owner, mercenary, pioneer balloonist, and a controversial figure in Norwich society at the time.
Sunday 13 October 2013
The Flag Unfurled
Did you know East Anglia has - or had - a flag? Not that it is seen much nowadays, or that it would be widely recognised even if it were flown; but it has been around for over a hundred years, and discussion about it does pop up every now and again.
One of the earliest references, dated to 1900, was printed in the Eastern Counties Magazine. The flag had evidently just been adopted by the East Anglian Society, whose committee - which included Prince Frederick Duleep Singh, of Elveden - had approved a design by George Langham. What made the moment particularly apt was that the upcoming Coronation of King Edward had been chosen for its unveiling, allegedly because of Norfolk's Royal Sandringham connection.
Actually, the design of the flag united the shield of St Edmund and its three golden crowns with the cross of St George; the three crowns, in turn, apparently echoing or suggesting connections with the Royal house of Sweden.
But interest in the design, and in particular interest in the three crowns, got a little over-excited at this point, with other theories surfacing that the crown trinity could actually be traced to an ancient Icelandic document. Meanwhile, the design could also be found in a pre-Christian tower at York Cathedral, while yet another Swedish interpretation attributed the three crowns to the three kingdoms of Norway, Sweden and Denmark, once subjected to one king.
It was at this point that the then curator of Norwich Castle Museum stepped into the ring. No, no, she said, the crowns have nothing to do with Scandinavia. They are actually the crest-coronets of the under-kings of the South Folk, the North Folk, and the Cambridge Folk, all of whom were subservient to the Lord of Wessex.
And there, by the large, the matter has rested, save for the fact that subsequent research has demonstrated widespread symbolic use of three crowns, although AJ Forrest - the East Anglia based writer who in 1951 (Festival of Britain year) undertook a 3,000-mile writing tour of the region - was largely content with the St Edmund connection. With a tenuous connection to Sweden, too.
I cannot ever remember seeing this East Anglia flag actually flying. But you never know, it might make a come-back if East Anglia ever votes to cede from the Union.
Did you know East Anglia has - or had - a flag? Not that it is seen much nowadays, or that it would be widely recognised even if it were flown; but it has been around for over a hundred years, and discussion about it does pop up every now and again.
One of the earliest references, dated to 1900, was printed in the Eastern Counties Magazine. The flag had evidently just been adopted by the East Anglian Society, whose committee - which included Prince Frederick Duleep Singh, of Elveden - had approved a design by George Langham. What made the moment particularly apt was that the upcoming Coronation of King Edward had been chosen for its unveiling, allegedly because of Norfolk's Royal Sandringham connection.
Actually, the design of the flag united the shield of St Edmund and its three golden crowns with the cross of St George; the three crowns, in turn, apparently echoing or suggesting connections with the Royal house of Sweden.
But interest in the design, and in particular interest in the three crowns, got a little over-excited at this point, with other theories surfacing that the crown trinity could actually be traced to an ancient Icelandic document. Meanwhile, the design could also be found in a pre-Christian tower at York Cathedral, while yet another Swedish interpretation attributed the three crowns to the three kingdoms of Norway, Sweden and Denmark, once subjected to one king.
It was at this point that the then curator of Norwich Castle Museum stepped into the ring. No, no, she said, the crowns have nothing to do with Scandinavia. They are actually the crest-coronets of the under-kings of the South Folk, the North Folk, and the Cambridge Folk, all of whom were subservient to the Lord of Wessex.
And there, by the large, the matter has rested, save for the fact that subsequent research has demonstrated widespread symbolic use of three crowns, although AJ Forrest - the East Anglia based writer who in 1951 (Festival of Britain year) undertook a 3,000-mile writing tour of the region - was largely content with the St Edmund connection. With a tenuous connection to Sweden, too.
I cannot ever remember seeing this East Anglia flag actually flying. But you never know, it might make a come-back if East Anglia ever votes to cede from the Union.
Thursday 10 October 2013
Replay Delay
Once upon a time, many football seasons ago, Norwich City's Carrow Road ground had a wooden main grandstand, and at the top of a mountain range of wooden steps, an enclosed wooden Press box. It resembled a garden shed with large windows. Inside, there were benches, and shelves, on which we media folk rested our notebooks. The only available technology was a cluster of wired-in telephones with dials protected by padlocks. Our phone, however, also had a little handle. Lift the phone and crank the handle and a bell rang in the copy typist's room at either Redwell Street or Prospect House, depending on whether it was the 1960s or the 1970s.
The view from the Press box was mixed. It was high and it was central, overlooking the centre line, but if fans on the wooden benches in front of the windows actually stood up, then there was no view at all. Thus it was occasionally difficult to work out who had scored. The anguished cry was, 'Who got that one?' Was it Allcock? Did Bolland get a touch? Was Bryceland's shot deflected? On those occasions we took a vote. Democracy prevailed.
Which brings me to filmed replays, on TVs, on screens at the ground, and in Press boxes.
Replays are loved by various categories of people. TV producers relish them because they drive controversy and give sofa pundits something to argue about. Managers like them because they offer an opportunity to slag off referees and officials if and when. And the written and spoken media love them for similar reasons. A 'was he or wasn't he off-side' row can be kept bubbling for days.
However, I am constantly dismayed when I hear a commentator or pundit say, 'I've looked at that incident 17 times from 15 different angles, and I'm still not sure if the ref got it right.' Poor ref. Poor linesman (or whatever they call them now). But the matter is irrelevant, anyway. So I am always slightly heartened when Radio Norfolk commentators, for example, find the need to say, 'Oh, the replay screens have gone down!' Good, I think.
Personally, I don't think instant TV replays are good for the game and they are certainly not good for pressured match officials who, after all, still get something like 95% of their decisions right. On the other hand, replays cannot be banned completely because it is too easy to film them.
It does seem to me that football needs instant TV replays like it needs a close association with the betting industry (surely the next big scandal to hit the game), and like it needs a hole in the head. Might it be possible, therefore, to ban the screening of match incident replays (to crowds, management, and media) until one or preferably two hours after the game has finished? Such a move might water down controversy to a point where it would take some of the heat off the officials.
After all, when the whistle's gone, its gone.
Once upon a time, many football seasons ago, Norwich City's Carrow Road ground had a wooden main grandstand, and at the top of a mountain range of wooden steps, an enclosed wooden Press box. It resembled a garden shed with large windows. Inside, there were benches, and shelves, on which we media folk rested our notebooks. The only available technology was a cluster of wired-in telephones with dials protected by padlocks. Our phone, however, also had a little handle. Lift the phone and crank the handle and a bell rang in the copy typist's room at either Redwell Street or Prospect House, depending on whether it was the 1960s or the 1970s.
The view from the Press box was mixed. It was high and it was central, overlooking the centre line, but if fans on the wooden benches in front of the windows actually stood up, then there was no view at all. Thus it was occasionally difficult to work out who had scored. The anguished cry was, 'Who got that one?' Was it Allcock? Did Bolland get a touch? Was Bryceland's shot deflected? On those occasions we took a vote. Democracy prevailed.
Which brings me to filmed replays, on TVs, on screens at the ground, and in Press boxes.
Replays are loved by various categories of people. TV producers relish them because they drive controversy and give sofa pundits something to argue about. Managers like them because they offer an opportunity to slag off referees and officials if and when. And the written and spoken media love them for similar reasons. A 'was he or wasn't he off-side' row can be kept bubbling for days.
However, I am constantly dismayed when I hear a commentator or pundit say, 'I've looked at that incident 17 times from 15 different angles, and I'm still not sure if the ref got it right.' Poor ref. Poor linesman (or whatever they call them now). But the matter is irrelevant, anyway. So I am always slightly heartened when Radio Norfolk commentators, for example, find the need to say, 'Oh, the replay screens have gone down!' Good, I think.
Personally, I don't think instant TV replays are good for the game and they are certainly not good for pressured match officials who, after all, still get something like 95% of their decisions right. On the other hand, replays cannot be banned completely because it is too easy to film them.
It does seem to me that football needs instant TV replays like it needs a close association with the betting industry (surely the next big scandal to hit the game), and like it needs a hole in the head. Might it be possible, therefore, to ban the screening of match incident replays (to crowds, management, and media) until one or preferably two hours after the game has finished? Such a move might water down controversy to a point where it would take some of the heat off the officials.
After all, when the whistle's gone, its gone.
Swacking Cuckoo
Long before accurate map-making produced a need for the standardisation of place-name spelling, people tended to write and thus spell many names phonetically, or as they heard them being spoken. It was a problem that existed until only a very few generations ago, for a facsimilie of a 19th century registration document shows that a London official, perhaps writing down a place-name he had never heard of until the person in front of him spoke it, resorted to the spelling Scheringham, for Sheringham. He was not alone. A place-name directory on my bookshelf suggests that another nameless clerk went for a very similar spelling as long ago as AD1242.
That same directory - the work of Eilert Ekwall, who interpreted the name Sheringham as meaning 'the place of Scira's people' - also lists other versions: Silingeham (in the Domesday Book), Siringeham (in 1174), and even Schyringham (1291). In fact, things do not really seem to settle down until the 18th century, when Sherringham was firmly in vogue. Indeed, Faden's map of Norfolk (1797), Bryant's map of Norfolk (1826), White's Norfolk directory (1845), and the revised one-inch Ordnance Survey map (1885), all proudly trumpet the double-R version.
But what are we to make of Swacking Cuckoo? The name, that is, not the spelling. I first came across a reference to this place-name oddity some thirty years ago in an ancient Norfolk gazeteer then gathering dust in the EDP's newsroom.
Swacking Cuckoo, it said, consisted of 'a few houses' and confidently placed the location close to the railway cutting and bridge where the Cromer-to-Norwich line crosses the Cromer-to-Holt main road. A subsequent item about it in the EDP produced a negative, or rather nil, readership reply, suggesting the name might have slipped from public conciousness at that time. Indeed, one of my large-scale maps merely marks the location, somewhat more soberly, as Cromer Plantation. The same map, incidentally, also labels a small woody area on the north side of the Cromer Curve rail line as Jacket De Hole - explain that if you will!
But public loss and forgetfulness do not seem to be in vogue today. A quick check on Google unearths the fact that several properties, mainly alongside the Holt-Cromer road, now use Swacking Cuckoo as part of their postal addresss, suggesting that at least the local postie knows where it is.
So what does Swacking Cuckoo mean? Does it mean anything?
A first thought was that it might once have been a field name. But an 1826 directory says the road from Cromer to Aylmerton - or the stretch by Cromer Hall - was then called Cuckoo Lane. However, my dictionary suggests that if you are 'swacked' then you could well be in a state of alcoholic intoxication. So was there a pub named the Cuckoo in the area? Eilert Ekwall, the great place-name expert, is silent on the matter.
Long before accurate map-making produced a need for the standardisation of place-name spelling, people tended to write and thus spell many names phonetically, or as they heard them being spoken. It was a problem that existed until only a very few generations ago, for a facsimilie of a 19th century registration document shows that a London official, perhaps writing down a place-name he had never heard of until the person in front of him spoke it, resorted to the spelling Scheringham, for Sheringham. He was not alone. A place-name directory on my bookshelf suggests that another nameless clerk went for a very similar spelling as long ago as AD1242.
That same directory - the work of Eilert Ekwall, who interpreted the name Sheringham as meaning 'the place of Scira's people' - also lists other versions: Silingeham (in the Domesday Book), Siringeham (in 1174), and even Schyringham (1291). In fact, things do not really seem to settle down until the 18th century, when Sherringham was firmly in vogue. Indeed, Faden's map of Norfolk (1797), Bryant's map of Norfolk (1826), White's Norfolk directory (1845), and the revised one-inch Ordnance Survey map (1885), all proudly trumpet the double-R version.
But what are we to make of Swacking Cuckoo? The name, that is, not the spelling. I first came across a reference to this place-name oddity some thirty years ago in an ancient Norfolk gazeteer then gathering dust in the EDP's newsroom.
Swacking Cuckoo, it said, consisted of 'a few houses' and confidently placed the location close to the railway cutting and bridge where the Cromer-to-Norwich line crosses the Cromer-to-Holt main road. A subsequent item about it in the EDP produced a negative, or rather nil, readership reply, suggesting the name might have slipped from public conciousness at that time. Indeed, one of my large-scale maps merely marks the location, somewhat more soberly, as Cromer Plantation. The same map, incidentally, also labels a small woody area on the north side of the Cromer Curve rail line as Jacket De Hole - explain that if you will!
But public loss and forgetfulness do not seem to be in vogue today. A quick check on Google unearths the fact that several properties, mainly alongside the Holt-Cromer road, now use Swacking Cuckoo as part of their postal addresss, suggesting that at least the local postie knows where it is.
So what does Swacking Cuckoo mean? Does it mean anything?
A first thought was that it might once have been a field name. But an 1826 directory says the road from Cromer to Aylmerton - or the stretch by Cromer Hall - was then called Cuckoo Lane. However, my dictionary suggests that if you are 'swacked' then you could well be in a state of alcoholic intoxication. So was there a pub named the Cuckoo in the area? Eilert Ekwall, the great place-name expert, is silent on the matter.
Tuesday 8 October 2013
Publications list
A History of Long Sutton (South Lincolnshire). With FW Robinson. Produced privately 1965
The Peddars Way. The Weathercock Press 1978
A Skylark Descending (novel). Robert Hale 1978
History of Long Sutton & District. With FW Robinson. Long Sutton Civic Trust 1981, reprinted 1995
Norfolk Origins 1: Hunters to First Farmers. With Andrew Lawson. Acorn Editions 1981
Norfolk Origins 2: Roads & Tracks. With Edwin Rose. Poppyland Publishing 1983
The Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. Countryside Commission 1986
Norfolk Origins 3: Celtic Fire & Roman Rule. With Tony Gregory. Poppyland Publishing 1987
Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. Aurum Press 1992 and 1996
Norfolk Fragments. Elmstead Publications 1994
A Glimpse of Distant Hills (novel). Elmstead Publications 1995
Chasing the Shadows: Norfolk Mysteries Revisited. Elmstead Publications 1996
Passing Seasons: A Watching Brief on 50 Years of Football. Elmstead Publications 1997
The Norfolk Walkers' Book. Elmstead Publications 1998
Hudson's Drove (novel). Elmstead Publications 2000
The Nowhere Road: A Fresh Look at Norfolk's Peddars Way. Elmstead Publications 2001
Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. Aurum Press 2002
Norfolk Origins 3: Celtic Fire & Roman Rule. With Tony Gregory, and John Davies, revised. Poppyland Publishing 2003
Walking the Norfolk Long Distance Trail: The Coast Path. With Mike Robinson. Poppyland Publishing 2006
Walking the Norfolk Long Distance Trail: The Peddars Way. With Mike Robinson. Poppyland Publishing 2006
A History of Long Sutton. With FW Robinson, revised. Long Sutton Civic Society 2008
Norfolk Origins 2: Roads & Tracks. With Edwin Rose, revised. Poppyland Publishing 2008
Boudica: Her Life, Times & Legacy. With John Davies. Poppyland Publishing 2009
Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. With Mike Robinson, revised. Aurum Press 2010
The Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. With Mike Robinson. Aurum Press 2012. Category winner, East Anglian Literary Awards 2012
A History of Long Sutton (South Lincolnshire). With FW Robinson. Produced privately 1965
The Peddars Way. The Weathercock Press 1978
A Skylark Descending (novel). Robert Hale 1978
History of Long Sutton & District. With FW Robinson. Long Sutton Civic Trust 1981, reprinted 1995
Norfolk Origins 1: Hunters to First Farmers. With Andrew Lawson. Acorn Editions 1981
Norfolk Origins 2: Roads & Tracks. With Edwin Rose. Poppyland Publishing 1983
The Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. Countryside Commission 1986
Norfolk Origins 3: Celtic Fire & Roman Rule. With Tony Gregory. Poppyland Publishing 1987
Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. Aurum Press 1992 and 1996
Norfolk Fragments. Elmstead Publications 1994
A Glimpse of Distant Hills (novel). Elmstead Publications 1995
Chasing the Shadows: Norfolk Mysteries Revisited. Elmstead Publications 1996
Passing Seasons: A Watching Brief on 50 Years of Football. Elmstead Publications 1997
The Norfolk Walkers' Book. Elmstead Publications 1998
Hudson's Drove (novel). Elmstead Publications 2000
The Nowhere Road: A Fresh Look at Norfolk's Peddars Way. Elmstead Publications 2001
Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. Aurum Press 2002
Norfolk Origins 3: Celtic Fire & Roman Rule. With Tony Gregory, and John Davies, revised. Poppyland Publishing 2003
Walking the Norfolk Long Distance Trail: The Coast Path. With Mike Robinson. Poppyland Publishing 2006
Walking the Norfolk Long Distance Trail: The Peddars Way. With Mike Robinson. Poppyland Publishing 2006
A History of Long Sutton. With FW Robinson, revised. Long Sutton Civic Society 2008
Norfolk Origins 2: Roads & Tracks. With Edwin Rose, revised. Poppyland Publishing 2008
Boudica: Her Life, Times & Legacy. With John Davies. Poppyland Publishing 2009
Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. With Mike Robinson, revised. Aurum Press 2010
The Peddars Way & Norfolk Coast Path. With Mike Robinson. Aurum Press 2012. Category winner, East Anglian Literary Awards 2012
What's it all about?
To begin at the beginning, why Notebook? Probably because I plan to use this blog to write notes. To remind myself, perhaps. Notes about what? Well, anything, but certainly including local history, books, football, Norfolk, and walking.
And why 'flongster,' a most unattractive word when standing on its own. Actually, flong harks back to the days of hot metal (as opposed to computer digital) printing. A flong was a sheet of a compressed composite material which went under a heavy mangle on top of the flat, metal page of type. The resulting flexible mould could then be fastened on to the printing press rollers. In the late 1950s, if working late in the offices of our two weekly newspapers, I was occasionally press-ganged into driving the office car - with the flongs of the next day's edition in the boot - from our office in Spalding to the printing press at Peterborough.
To begin at the beginning, why Notebook? Probably because I plan to use this blog to write notes. To remind myself, perhaps. Notes about what? Well, anything, but certainly including local history, books, football, Norfolk, and walking.
And why 'flongster,' a most unattractive word when standing on its own. Actually, flong harks back to the days of hot metal (as opposed to computer digital) printing. A flong was a sheet of a compressed composite material which went under a heavy mangle on top of the flat, metal page of type. The resulting flexible mould could then be fastened on to the printing press rollers. In the late 1950s, if working late in the offices of our two weekly newspapers, I was occasionally press-ganged into driving the office car - with the flongs of the next day's edition in the boot - from our office in Spalding to the printing press at Peterborough.
Thursday 3 October 2013
All about me
No, I am not the Bruce Robinson who wrote Withnail & I.
I am an older version who happens to carry the same name.
The Withnail & I author was born at Broadstairs, Kent, in 1946, but I had been grappling with war-time austerity for 11 years before he arrived on the scene. I was born at Long Sutton, South Lincolnshire, in 1935. Some of the rest of it went like like this:
1946/51 Failed the 11-plus exam, but managed to gain a place at the Gleed Secondary Modern School, Spalding; did modestly well at English; played football and cricket.
1951/53 Junior district news reporter for the Spalding Guardian; some football reporting.
1953/55 National Service, RAF signals PBX (at RAF Worksop, Notts).
1955/59 Sports Editor of two weekly papers, the Spalding Guardian and the Lincs Free Press; covered Spalding United and Holbeach United matches; did page design and page make-up.
1959/73 Sports department, Eastern Daily Press, Norwich; the EDP's Norwich City football correspondent for 11 seasons; in charge of overnight sports pages, EDP.
1973/86 Wrote and compiled the Clement Court (Window on East Anglia) column in the EDP; feature writer, assistant leader writer.
1986/93 Subbing on Evening News and EDP; retired 1993 after illness.
1994/02 Ran own writing/publishing concern, Elmstead Publications; produced seven books in seven years.
From 1973 to present day, have written or co-written over 20 books (including three novels) mostly based on Norfolk history, walking, roads and tracks, and football.
Married with four sons. Currently living in Sheringham, which is the real gem of the North Norfolk coast.
I am an older version who happens to carry the same name.
The Withnail & I author was born at Broadstairs, Kent, in 1946, but I had been grappling with war-time austerity for 11 years before he arrived on the scene. I was born at Long Sutton, South Lincolnshire, in 1935. Some of the rest of it went like like this:
1946/51 Failed the 11-plus exam, but managed to gain a place at the Gleed Secondary Modern School, Spalding; did modestly well at English; played football and cricket.
1951/53 Junior district news reporter for the Spalding Guardian; some football reporting.
1953/55 National Service, RAF signals PBX (at RAF Worksop, Notts).
1955/59 Sports Editor of two weekly papers, the Spalding Guardian and the Lincs Free Press; covered Spalding United and Holbeach United matches; did page design and page make-up.
1959/73 Sports department, Eastern Daily Press, Norwich; the EDP's Norwich City football correspondent for 11 seasons; in charge of overnight sports pages, EDP.
1973/86 Wrote and compiled the Clement Court (Window on East Anglia) column in the EDP; feature writer, assistant leader writer.
1986/93 Subbing on Evening News and EDP; retired 1993 after illness.
1994/02 Ran own writing/publishing concern, Elmstead Publications; produced seven books in seven years.
From 1973 to present day, have written or co-written over 20 books (including three novels) mostly based on Norfolk history, walking, roads and tracks, and football.
Married with four sons. Currently living in Sheringham, which is the real gem of the North Norfolk coast.
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