Mark Blackstock

November 20th 1961 – August 3rd 21017

So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

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What?

For all the splendid times had by all and all the new adventures and happy holiday memories, returning back home after travelling far, far away is a journey of dark foreboding. The ride from the airport is by far the worst. Did I lock the back door? Was the grill turned off after that last hurried breakfast? Who checked the upstairs 13A sockets? What monstrously large and unexpected bill lays waiting in the mountain of junk mail? Before considering what horrors await in emails or on answer phone, the irrational fear of burglary has to be conquered and the nagging lack of confidence in well-meaning yet eccentric neighbourly cat feeders had to be overcome.

Risotto

If the weakness of the old is a stubborn and irrational reluctance to accept a shift in circumstance, then surly the strength of the young must be the wilful, recalcitrant ability to undergo a change of mind.

Friday morning dawned with the happy coincidence of a planned day off and the first significant snowfall of the winter. The plan had been to dispatch the less than eager sixth former to school and wave off to work the older virago career girl sibling, wait for rush hour to die down and then take a leisurely drive to a middle distant Shropshire market town for a nice day out. A glance at the weather and a quick look on social media confirmed that every motorist in possession of a valid licence but lacking any actual ability to drive was out on the roads sliding into things. The walk by the river, the pub lunch beside a roaring log fire and visits to a favourite butcher, baker, grocer and fancy delicatessen would have to wait until another less apocalyptic day.

Instead we climbed into coats, hats, scarves, gloves and wellies and went for a walk in the Arboretum. It was stunning. Dog walkers sniffed indignantly as if they had never seen a couple of geriatrics running around and throwing snowballs at each other before. Their dogs, however, like the barking mad Labrador I once walked in the marvellous Arbo, wanted to join the game. One miserable young bastard suggested that we were being “irresponsible” by lobbing snowballs up in the air for the dog to catch on the descent. The owner was annoyed because we made his dog “over-excited”. It seems that dogs and old people are not allowed to enjoy the snow.

Above the law

The Supreme Court Walking Football Team

It is becoming depressingly clear that sections of the UK media and swathes of the UK public have a remarkably thin grasp of how the law works so here is a word of advice to those attempting to undermine the credibility and national loyalty of senior judges: your argument might fail if you persist in shouting out insults and lies. The old duffers currently hearing the government`s appeal against a High Court ruling that parliament and not cabinet should trigger the Article 50 process of leaving the European Union are concerned only with the law and not with politics, economics, xenophobia or the pig ignorance of certain newspaper editors and proprietors.

Lazy

Bayards Colts

After a busy evening of making a new Mayor of Walsall and a new Deputy Mayor of Walsall, adjourning the meeting of full council to the Mayor`s parlour for the ceremonial opening of the municipal drinks cabinet has to be a very good idea. Traditional local authority Mayors and Deputy Mayors are simply wonderful and the appearance of slightly embarrassed elevated councillors in pantomime robes and chains of office at school assemblies, garden fetes, supermarket openings, whist drive closings and dog shows is a joy that epitomises the very essence of British eccentricity. Traditional Mayors and Deputy Mayors raise an absolute fortune for charitable causes and display a civic responsibility that is generally a stranger to other elected members governed by self-interest.