Martin Dukes's Blog

With the Olympics only a few days away now I was thinking about the impressive diversity of the sports that contribute to it nowadays. The ancient Greeks would be amazed to see that golf and tennis are now included. I am amazed too. Although I used to enjoy a game of tennis, providing a public service to the less-able and less self-confident, I tend to subscribe to Mark Twain’s views on golf (‘A good walk spoiled’). It has always seemed to me to be a telling fact that the better at golf you are the less you have to play of it. It seems that most of the original Olympic sports were manly preparation for war ie. demonstrations of strength and endurance, chucking pointy things etc. although I don’t recall the discus being used as a weapon of war. Doubtless it would be effective, however, if directed with sufficient accuracy. Having once been struck on the ankle by a wayward one at school I can vouch for its efficacy. Thinking of school and given that all sorts of improbable sports have achieved Olympic status in recent years I wondered how it is that our common school sporting heritage hasn’t thus far been represented. I’m sure we can all recall the fun of sports day. There was a time when competitors didn’t all get a sticker for taking part, when winning things was regarded universally as an accomplishment, not as a cruel blow to the self-worth of other participants. I’d like to propose that the sack race, the egg and spoon race and the dressing up race be included in the next Olympics. The dressing up race, for those uninitiated, involves a hundred metres sprint enlivened by the donning of some improbable garment at ten metre intervals, finishing inevitably with a large hat, competitors crossing the line looking like a bizarre set of escapees from a panto. In time, as nations strive for competitive advantage, I imagine thought would be given to lightweight carbon fibre sacks, chickens bred to produce ever slicker, more streamlined eggs. And then there is the mums and dads race, of course. I wonder how fast Usain Bolt’s dad is over sixty metres?

With the controversy raving about Russian doping in the Olympics very much in the news at present it’s hard to put oneself in the right frame of mind for the traditional fortnight of sofa bound sporting enjoyment I have come to expect. Nothing makes me appreciate the value of physical exertion more than watching sweaty behemoths lifting twelve times their own bodyweight over their heads or cylists with odd shaped helmets chasing after what looks like a moped riding pizza delivery boy. It also goes to show how the human frame can be adapted (or selected) to suit a range of competitive activities. Place a weight lifter, a high jumper and a marathon runner side by side and you’ll see what I mean. One of the minor compensations for the murky goings on in Russian sport is having Russian competitor’s names brought to one’s attention. Some of these might have been made up by thirteen year old boys for their private amusement. Any man who doesn’t find Yuliya Efimova’s name brings even a vestigial smirk to their face has clearly lost touch with their thirteen year old self. Likewise, I was disappointed to find that the whistleblower, Yulia Stepanova, specialises in the 800 metres and not the hurdles. Panelists on a recent radio programme I was listening to debated whether the doping allegations that presently bedevil sport might endanger the sponsorship deals that fund so much of it. I say they were missing the point. Only the nature of the sponsorship remains in doubt. Adidas or Coca-Cola might indeed withdraw their backing but I do not doubt that Pfizer and GlaxoSmithKline would move in to shoulder the burden.

I suppose I am one of the more pedantic members of the species and any wilful abuse of our common language risks entrenching me in grumpy old git mode. I have noticed, with the passing of the years, that those around me of a similar age become sensitive to triggers in their environment that provoke toxic gouts of hatred or even long-lasting simmering resentment. Once, twenty years ago, such triggers as people sitting in their cars with the engine running, or the widespread replacement of front gardens with parking lots might have brought about no more than a passing frown of disapproval but with advancing years the situation is transformed and such views settle immovably in the forefront of the victim’s mind, often accompanied by a growing tendency to plain-speaking that younger friends and relatives might find disquieting. One such trigger for me (and I know it sounds pathetically trivial) is the dropping of the preposition ‘ against’ when using the word ‘appeal’. Thence we have ‘Mr X is appealing the decision to strip him of his knighthood etc.’ I hold the BBC, in so many ways the standard bearer of our language , largely responsible for this omission. Ultimately, language is about communication and I’m sure we all understand what they are saying but WHY? Why was it necessary for them to begin omitting this preposition when I have been used to hearing it all my life? I do not necessarily set my face against all linguistic change (just most of it, it seems) but what do we gain from this omission except perhaps a trifling brevity? I suppose it is the fate of pedants to rail against such evolution. I suppose Chaucer would have bemoaned Shakespeare’s linguistic innovations.
And then there is the word ‘eatery’. It is entirely natural that English should adapt to reflect changing circumstances and indeed one of its great strengths is its flexibility. However, some new words strike me as ugly and ‘eatery’ particularly inflames my passion. Clearly it was felt that a new word was required to describe a place where food was served that was neither a pub nor a restaurant nor a café. I do not recognise that need. I will not willingly enter an establishment that describes itself as an ‘eatery’. How long is it before we begin to hear of pubs described as ‘drinkeries’? There, rant over.

I wonder if there is any more tedious activity than painting doors. If there is I should be glad to hear of it. Some people argue that there is a kind of peace, a kind of restfulness about it that is soothing to the soul. If they wish to pursue such contentment (and providing they can achieve a decent finish) they are welcome to come and peacefully paint mine. My task is made more exacting by an inner tension between the perfectionist in me and the part of me that just doesn't give a f**k. At times the latter part prevails and then the former stands by and wrings its hands about the hairs sticking out of the paint. 'Should have used a tack rag first to pick up all the dust' it admonishes me. 'Yeah, but I didn't have one, didn't I? And I'd have had to go into town and get one. Couldn't be arsed.' answers the couldn't give a f**k part. And then there's kamikaze flies. There's a species of tiny fly that dedicates itself to dying a sticky death in your paint job. Grrr! Hmm. Don't get me onto painting ceilings. Oh! What's that? I HAVE got to get onto painting ceilings!

And so, with events in Turkey, our new foreign secretary has already had the opportunity to test his mettle. I had wondered if he would bestride the world like a colossus, pouring oil on the troubled waters of the Bosphorus but I have yet to hear any official pronouncement from him. Perhaps this is wise. Perhaps Boris has now retreated from the policy of merry quips and one-liners that have previously distinguished his approach to public policy. Unfortunately, his earlier conduct in office has provided a rich fund of photographic evidence and Twitter is full of witty memes showing a girning Boris lacking the gravitas traditionally associated with the face our nation shows to the world.
Away from the world of international politics, am I the only person to think that a great deal of public money has been spent on erecting pointless signs along the side of motorways? I seem to recall 50mph limits being in place for lengthy periods whilst these were being installed, with the inevitable inconvenience for motorists. And what vital function do these signs fulfil to justify this expense and inconvenience? They tell us the price of fuel in motorway service stations along the way. Given that the price of fuel in such places is anyway vastly inflated, don’t most prudent people buy fuel before setting out? Given that the price hardly seems to vary by more than a penny or two in each location what exactly is the point?

As one who enjoys a sporting spectacle I do wonder what lies in store for us at the Rio Olympics. To hear the rumours of doom in circulation you would think that sending a contingent of athletes there was akin to sending a regiment of redcoats to the Gold Coast in the eighteenth century, there to expire predictably from the yellow jack in the ‘white man’s graveyard’. My limited understanding of the zika virus suggests that pregnant women (or those likely soon to be pregnant) are most at risk and that male competitors at least have nothing to fear. What is happening in Rio? I have heard rumours that some of the venues are incomplete but surely by now they are more than fond imaginings and sketches on the back of envelopes, surely concrete has been poured and a skip ordered. Surely even now there are many thousands of diligent fellows leaning on shovels and displaying a broad acreage of bum cleavage to rival that of the breast cleavage to be seen on the Copacabana beach. Doubtless, the spectacle will be somewhat reduced by the absence of chemically enhanced Russian athletes but sufficient numbers of competitors should be present to fill our TV screens with finely honed physiques resulting purely from honest endeavour and natural talent. And yet there seems to have been so little build-up, so little anticipation for an event that begins in little more than three weeks time. I shall investigate further.

I recently had the pleasure of attending my son’s graduation. This took place in a modern and well-appointed conference centre style building which made the full panoply of medieval garments and accoutrements to be seen there look even more oddly incongruous. Fellows bearing massive silver maces (dressed in clobber that Henry VIII might have thought passé) striding past humming air conditioning units has a kind of charm, I suppose but any dispassionate observer, from another planet, say, might wonder how such a thing made sense. How has it happened that certain manners of dress have become forever fixed in a few specific circumstances? The world of academia is a notable stronghold of such medieval tomfoolery, of course, but then there is the legal profession and the ceremonial branch of the army, to name but a few. I concede that caps and gowns were once the everyday wear of students and teachers but at what stage did such people start to think, ‘no, these just look ludicrous now, we’ll keep them for the most important occasion of the year’ ?
Whilst there a prominent member of the business community came on stage to be presented with an honorary degree and to give a rambling discourse that left the audience largely glassy-eyed. He too was got up to resemble a character from a tudor themed ‘Carry On’ film but I was impressed by the sombre ceremonial with which the certificate was bestowed upon him. There was much formal manoeuvre, bowing and tipping of hats before the document was finally within his grasp. During this I recalled that Donald Trump has recently been stripped of his honorary degree from Aberdeen University for having uttered one of the politically incorrect indiscretions for which he is justly condemned. It struck me that this should also be conducted with the same formality, that Mr Trump (appropriately robed) should be summoned to the stage at their next graduation bash in order to have the document ceremoniously snatched from his hands and torn up in front of him. In the likely event that Mr Trump sends his apologies a Trump lookalike could be employed for this purpose (Boris Johnson, for example). It appeals to my sense of the neatness of things, the closing of circles. If only more of life could be accorded the dignity of such occasions.

Body art seems more and more popular at present and to be sure some of the tattoo artists out there are amazingly creative and talented. My own body remains unadorned in this way and is very likely to remain so. Whereas I am full of admiration for people who know what they want their own skin to look like twenty, thirty or even fifty years down the line I have never felt able to make the same confident commitment. For sure there are those who have perhaps not given the matter sufficient thought before going under the needle. I vividly remember seeing a bikini clad woman some years ago who had herself adorned with the image of some popular singer rather to the left of and below her navel. Clearly she had never had the experience of drawing on and then inflating a balloon and clearly she had not foreseen the consequences for this image of getting pregnant. Accordingly, the singer’s head was grossly distorted by her swelling belly in a manner that put me in mind of the Mekon, an evil mastermind from the Eagle comic whose head was shaped like a light bulb.
It seems a much-overlooked truth that the person who inhabits our skin is subject to change as we pass through life. I look back at my late teenage and early twenties self with a mixture of mild embarrassment and occasional shame. The person I was then (as is disclosed in some old sketchbooks I have retained) had a penchant for doom-laden images of flaming skulls and snake entwined edged weapons. However much I disapprove of this long vanished version of me I can at least congratulate him for not having had these interests translated into tattoos, for not having inflicted on my fifty-year old self the indelible evidence of a temporary state of mind.
I suppose those of us more timid in these matters might consider it unwise to make any permanent alteration to our bodies in the name of anything as transient as fashion. I once conceived an affection for a denim Levi jacket, wore it whenever circumstance would allow (and on other occasions besides). However, I am heartily glad that I did not have it welded permanently to my body. The same is true of my hair. During the nineteen eighties I thought it would be a great thing to sport a fine flowing mullet. How wrong I was. What if it had been possible to have this style permanently set in place? Fortunately, I no longer have the material resources to sport any kind of hairstyle but to be saddled with this in perpetuity would have been a very grave affliction.
In conclusion I should say that I rather envy those who have tattoos the strength of their convictions. To look into the future and to be able to state with certainty that they will always wish to present that appearance to the world seems to me to represent a boldness of spirit that I can never hope to aspire to. Tattooed people, I salute you.

I flatter myself that the title of this post is well chosen. Given that I am new to blogging I thought that I should set aside all pretension and tell it like it is. I suppose my last post will likewise be named 'last post', although that does carry with it certain military connotations and it seems unlikely that my final contribution will be accompanied by any sunset bugling. Likewise, I suppose I should mention that subsequent posts will refer to works in process as well as any pithy observations I may have to make about the world in general. My present WIP, 'Hearts of Ice and Stone' is now proofread and ready for submission to the great world of publishing. My previous works have been directed as the YA market but HoIaS is intended for the upper ranges of that market and for adult readers. It tells the story of Laura, who finds that she is able to awaken the dead (well, some of them). You will gather that this falls within the 'fantasy' category and is set in the realm of Britannia, which closely resembles early 19th Century England.