an englishman abroad – View From A Bridge – management, education and personal thoughts

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD MIGHT AS WELL BE MUTT

It’s a terrible joke. Mutton is short for mutt ‘n’ jeff which is cockney rhyming slang for deaf. Sitting here in the cold California morning the day after hearing that Jeff Beck has died it seems appropriate. It’s not quite “the day the music died” but his playing has been an almost daily source of pleasure in my life for fifty years.

In the early years of a mid-teenage search for identity there were a number of things that were defining. Playing football, unrequited love and music were an entire universe and they defined who were your friends. Belonging was important but always tempered by the drive for individuality.

Geoffrey Arnold Beck arrived in the form of Beck-Ola one day when I was 14. I had read about him as one of the founding guitar gods of the 1960s alongside Clapton and Page. But the supergroups of Cream and Led Zeppelin had made them accessible and popular in a way that the moody, intransigent and wilful Beck was never going to be.

The real stimulus for learning more was when he joined David Bowie on stage at the final Ziggy concert at the Hammersmith Odeon on 3 July 1973. Beck was the guitar hero of Bowie’s guitarist Mick Ronson but the review of the concert carried a description of Ronson trying to shimmy his lurex clad self against Jeff who was having none of it. The phrase I recall, possibly inaccurately, was that Jeff was as “camp as a butcher’s dog”.

Ronson was a very good guitarist but the notion that he had a guitar hero was news, so I took a chance and Truth was purchased. Anyone who has ever put a needle onto vinyl to listen to a new record will know the excitement of the hiss and crackles before the music. To have “Shapes of Things” assault your ears as a first up track was proof that this was something different.

It’s a curious album in many ways. Second track “Let Me Love You” remains a favourite and has one of the most achingly good blues solos alongside Rod Stewart singing in his pre-celebrity pomp but on the same record there’s a version of “Ol’ Man River” and “Greensleeves”. Jeff was nothing if not eclectic and on the sleeve notes he makes the point that the last note of the album’s take on “You Shook Me” was his guitar being sick “and so would you be if I’d just ripped your guts out for 2minutes 33seconds”.

His playing was by turns visceral, playful, distorted, pure but always interesting and there are times when I have laughed out loud at a solo because for all the virtuosity there is humour and audacity. They are like a well told story where the punch line can be comedic, dark or just a statement but is always a surprise. They remind me of my favourite footballer of all time, Denis Law, who would score a goal then, with defenders scattered around him in despair, would stand still with one arm aloft, index finger in the air, as if saying “that is who I am”.

In terms of teenage identity Jeff was also perfect. As far as I know I was the first person in my year at school to discover him, he was as moody and petulant as any adolescent, and he chose to define himself rather than be beholden to anyone. The story of the Rolling Stones trying to hire him ends with him stealing away from Rotterdam in the middle of the night just leaving a note under someone’s door.

A man that can walk away from the biggest band in the world is one thing but the ability to redefine himself musically is another. The rock/blues of his Yarbirds years then Truth and Beck-Ola gave way to the soul and funk of Rough and Ready and the eponymous Jeff Beck Group albums. Then there was the ill-fated Beck, Bogert and Appice supergroup but it always seemed that Jeff needed to be free to play what he wanted with whoever he wanted whenever he wanted.

The moment I realised he was for life was when he persuaded me that fusion jazz/funk with no singer could be a pleasure on Blow by Blow and Wired. He challenged my narrow musical horizons and dared me to come on his journey. It’s been a lifetime pleasure to go along for the ride.

I could write a book on finding and discovering the delights of each album in turn. There is an intricacy to the playing that sucks me in but also an ability to cut through with a bold riff or unexpected sound that delights and thrills. He is never boring.

I eventually got to see him play live in 2007 at Ronnie Scott’s for one of the performances enshrined on “Performing this week…Live at Ronnie Scott’s” and I was there the night that Imogen Heap guested. My proudest fan moment was in the gents bathroom where I was able to break the news to another acolyte that Jeff had played a on a new version of 54-46 Was My Number with Toots and the Maytals. It’s a breathtakingly good solo reflecting his ability to play with empathy, touch and taste whatever the song.

Over the years I saw him at the Royal Albert Hall (terrible acoustics), where Dave Gilmour came on to trade solos, the O2 where he did a solo show then sat in for a song or two with Van Morrison, and here in San Diego where he played much of the Loud Hailer album. I also saw him guest with ZZ Top on his birthday and would swear that I can hear myself screaming with glee on the record as Billy Gibbons introduces him. My adoration knows very few bounds.

What’s not to love? Well, I’m still not sure, for many reasons, about his teaming up with Johnny Depp and Hi Ho Silver Lining remains a grim reminder that he couldn’t sing. But he was a patron of Folly Wildlife Rescue Trust and even had a hobby reconstructing hot rods from scratch.

As for the terrible joke at the start, I am sitting here listening to my With Jeff mix where he appears playing guitar alongside Tom Jones, Lulu, Seal, Toots, LeAnn Rimes, ZZ Top, Tina Turner, Buddy Guy and many others. Best not to be mutt when you can listen to Jeff. Thanks for the music, the memories and everything.

Qatar Carry On

“Do you like horror movies?” The eyes of the princess danced as she asked the question of the exhausted foreigner. It had been a long, long day but there was no easy answer to the follow up question as the clock neared midnight. She continued, “I love them, shall we go and watch one now?”

Every international officer has a story about days without limits, meals without end and questions without answers. There is something about jet lag which makes you feel you can stay awake forever while being so tired that your brain is pleading for sleep. Fixed eye stares and a ghostly pale pallor were the hallmarks of any overseas trip where time was tight and ambitions exceeded hours in the day.

I was usually fortunate to travel with people who knew the country as well as being looked after by in-country agents intent on showing the best it had to offer. Apart from leaving me in a burning hotel in Mexico and under military inspection on the wrong side of passport control in Vietnam, the international office teams I worked with usually seemed keen to bring me home in one piece. So, in July 2008, a one-week sprint through Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Qatar and Dubai with Craig Smitherman seemed a reasonable idea.

Road to Riyadh

It all began with a 4.30am start to catch a Lufthansa flight from Heathrow to Riyadh via Frankfurt. My first and only time on the German flag carrier, which had all the efficiency and charm expected by an Englishman of a certain age. I could find no evidence that I was travelling on an ex-Interflug aircraft but wrote in my journal that “..now I see how they found a use for the mothballed bomber fleet after the war – not comfortable.”

Two days jammed with meetings in Riyadh included a visit to one agent who offered us a lift back to the hotel rather than getting a taxi. A feature of country visits was to smile and say yes, which was all well and good until we stood in the car park in 44 degrees of sunshine and the agent revealed that his car’s air conditioning had broken. We smiled again and said, “No problem.”

I don’t know how the chicken feels when it goes in the oven but I do know that it is not wearing a suit, tie and lace up, leather shoes. Perhaps as well it wasn’t a t-shirt and shorts because the seat felt hot enough to sear skin. Having the windows down made absolutely no difference, while the screech of brakes, honking horns and frequent curses was a reminder that one commentator has written about Riyadh’s “cruel traffic.”

Eating for England

Flying Riyadh to Jeddah for a single day of end-to-end meetings made good use of time but led to an ad hoc breakfast meeting before the early morning flight next day. From Jeddah to Dammam on the other side of Saudi is only two hours but this was day four and after another 4am start fatigue was setting in. There was a long drive awaiting as we set off through the desert for a session with Saudi Aramco.

Two hours after landing we had driven past a lot of sand and were entering the company’s compound. Driving into the entrance required passing under the business end of a tank and multiple armed guards which were both signs that we were a long way from home. But winning further investment for activity with the university was a reminder that time spent getting face to face in remote outposts almost always paid off.

Then there was lunch. Stomachs still heavy with breakfast we gamely ploughed on through several courses until it became apparent they would keep on coming until we gave up. We did not come, see and conquer as much as chew, nibble and eventually beg for mercy.

The Princess and the Pasta

Beyond replete we went over the bridge to Bahrain and landed in Doha at 7.30 in the evening. Our turnaround in the hotel was 15 minutes and we entered the land cruiser to be met by the agent and a companion she introduced as her cousin. The agent wore a hijab while the cousin wore a niqab.

The first destination of the evening was a shopping mall where Craig and I followed our hosts at a respectful distance. Shops full of jewellery, fabric, ceramics and clothes were perused without purchase. There seemed a certain irony to us trailing several paces behind the women.

Almost inevitably there came time when food was mentioned. Bellies loaded with Jeddah breakfast and Dammam lunch groaned in protest but our faces smiled and our mouths said yes as, 17 hours into the day, we sat down to eat – again. Polite conversation was made and we learnt that the cousin was related to the royal family and was a poet of wide renown in the country who gave readings for the Emir.

It had reached the stage of brain fog where nothing came as a particular surprise. Why wouldn’t we be trying to stuff down the third major meal of the day, in a shopping mall, at eleven o’clock at night, in a foreign country in the company of a poet-princess? All in the good cause of recruiting international students.

Things Of the Night

But the subject turned to films and the princess was expressing her love of old black and white horror movies like Dracula and Frankenstein. Incautiously, I indicated that I was not much for current horror movies but had fond memories of the old Hammer films . I may even have ventured opinions about the various merits of Vincent Price over Christopher Lee.

Seconds later the invitation to go and watch a movie was made. My slightly hazy brain turned over the idea of being in a Qatar cinema at 1am in the morning with a princess by my side as Van Helsing drove a stake through a vampire’s heart. My slightly addled brain was saying that it would be polite to accept the invitation, while something I like to think of as common sense was screeching that this was the worst idea of the day.

I think the offer was real but it’s possible I was being teased. My stuttering apology of early meetings next morning and it having been a very long day were graciously accepted. It’s a regret that I didn’t say yes and I am sure my reluctance was a sign I was not cut from the cloth that makes the best international officers.

Image by Lumpi from Pixabay

An Englishman Abroad When The Queen Dies

Being an ocean away when Queen Elizabeth II died was a reminder that some of the English certainties are well in the past. In days gone by Thursday night would definitely have meant a trip to the pub to reflect on all things monarchical and to toast Her Majesty for a lifetime of service and putting up with her own children. Whatever the general apathy or distaste for the Royal Family in the UK it was unusual for individuals to suggest she personally deserved less than respect for fulfilling a demanding role that was foisted upon her.

As it is, the response of the football authorities has been to deny the opportunity for fans to meet at the weekend – a time that people come together to share loyalties, build memories and reflect on their world. The most heartening moment of Thursday was the spontaneous rendition of God Save the Queen by West Ham fans gathered for a European league match. People should have the chance to celebrate and sing with friends for those who have lived a fulfilled and fulfilling life.

Cancelling the Last Night of the Proms was even more foolish because this is a moment where the British sense of tradition, eccentricity and ability to let loose in harmless patriotic fun is most evident. Pomp and Circumstance March No1, Jerusalem and Rule Britannia are as much national anthems as the official version and the Queen was a believer in maintaining tradition. The Royal Albert Hall, named out of love and enduring devotion to Queen Victoria’s husband, would have been a perfect venue to say goodbye while celebrating continuity.

I am personally three strikes down on opportunities to meet a member of the Firm but this is the first one that I definitely won’t get back. It’s always seemed slightly odd to me that people want to stand in a line to shake hands with someone they don’t know, have nothing in common with and who might not even stop to talk. Planning the choreography of the event, walking around with security details to review escape routes and sniffer dogs to check bathrooms for explosive devices, is a lot more interesting than two seconds holding a gloved hand.

It is also fair to say that I am not a monarchist, although I have a regard for someone who so unflinchingly worked in a role that has meant being polite to some terrible Prime Ministers and appalling world leaders. A long time ago I reconciled myself to the economic modelling suggesting that the monarchy was a net benefit to the country and that politically it was less likely to be problematic than, say, an elected President. But I had no desire to meet – despite twenty years with a trio of close calls

As we set up the first ASDA Festival of Food and Farming in Hyde Park in 1989 one of the privileges of being the headline sponsor was to have our tent visited by the Queen. As lead organizer for the retailer, I was on the list to have my hand shaken but declined because I wasn’t really sure what the point was. I wandered around with one of the ladies in waiting who was totally charming and didn’t really feel I’d missed much.

My next near encounter was in 2001 when Princess Anne opened the Sportspark at the University of East Anglia. Like many people of my generation I considered the Princess Royal a favourite because she genuinely seemed to like rugby and didn’t have any of the somewhat whining tendencies of her brothers. Another regal handshaking opportunity beckoned but I swiftly inserted my son into the running order to hand over a bouquet.

Probably my final opportunity was when the then heir apparent, Prince Charles, visited the University of East Anglia in early 2010 to give a pep talk in the wake of Climategate. His visit was delayed by several hours due to an accident on what was, at the time, only a single carriageway as the main road into Norfolk. As dozens of security-cleared and locked down colleagues sweltered in the Council Chamber I had the right badge to go backwards and forwards which enabled me to be in the wrong place (had I wanted to shake hands) at just the right moment.

I’m not counting here the dismal It’s a Royal Knockout in 1987 where Andrew, Fergie and Edward made total idiots of themselves in the pouring rain and ushered in an era where dignity continued to fall away almost yearly. Princess Anne was the fourth team captain but she looked on with disdain throughout, while strategizing her way to leading her team, including Emlyn Hughes and Tom Jones, to victory. ASDA was one of the sponsors but we were, thankfully, kept miles away drinking champagne while watching on TV screens from a tent in a rain sodden field.

All this is a reminder that a lot of years have passed for the “new Elizabethans”, a term which did not stick. From a time when Winston Churchill was still Prime Minister and the monarch was Queen of the UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Pakistan and Sri Lanka, to a time when the Union is under pressure and the UK is seeking a new way in the world. Her passing is probably the best reminder to those of us born in the decade of her coronation that the baton has firmly passed to new generations.

In that respect it would have been interesting to see Charles – a product of the 1940s – step aside and help usher in a new generation through Prince William, a 1980s child. It is not a question of whether King Charles can do the job because I suspect he will be more interested in stability than turbulence. It is really whether the moment is ripe for a step change in ambition akin to that of John F. Kennedy, the youngest ever US President (by election) at the age of 43, whose New Frontier speech still resonates in stating “not a set of promises – it is a set of challenges.”

Prince William is slightly younger than Kennedy was at that time but he has a young family that would make his appreciation of the long term future a matter of fundamental personal importance. It also seems time for the generation born during and in the shadow of the second world war to hand over to those who will hopefully avoid a third. After that they need only steer a route through climate change, global pandemics, economic poverty, water and food crises while watching the sky for a stray meteor.

Despite all that, the best of luck to Charles and Camilla. The country needs some good news and compassionate leadership. They might just be the best thing about the next few years.

Image by Alexa from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD SPOILT FOR CHOICE

Writing before the date with Denmark in the Euro quarter finals is a reminder that it’s now 55 ‘years of hurt’ since the World Cup victory but that hope springs eternal. After all, Marcellus tells us in Hamlet that, “something is rotten in the state of Denmark”. Unfortunately, I am pretty certain it is not their defence because that guy Vestergaard looks a lot more solid than the ‘Little Mermaid’ and a lot less fun than Tivoli Gardens.

The misery of uncertainty will remain very much alive as I head to one of the English pubs in Little Italy, San Diego later today. I guess that it will be for the England manager and his boys “to be or not to be” but they do have the power of Atomic Kitten singing, “Southgate you’re the one, you still turn me on, football’s coming home again.” Mashing up Three Lions with Whole Again is fine but reminds me with sadness that in 1970 bringing the world cup Back Home was ruined by Gordon Banks being ‘indaloo (apologies for terrible pun and dad joke).

Whatever happens there is still the joy of Argentina v Brazil in the Copa America to look forward to on Saturday and the ongoing NBA playoff series between the Phoenix Suns and the Milwaukee Bucks will continue until at least next Wednesday. And then there is the CONCACAF Gold Cup with the chance that we will see the USA men’s team blossom or the possibility of Mexico sending this corner of California into raptures. Being an Englishman abroad means realizing that there is a big world away from England.

There is so much to love about the prospect of Messi and Neymar meeting on the field in a competition that has been characterized by the most robust tackling I have seen since the 1970s heyday of Leeds versus Chelsea. Columbia has become famous and notorious as home to coffee, cartels and cocaine but it seems that the football team consider being C in the alphabet as a slight that must be rectified against the A and B of Argentina and Brazil. So much so that blood was oozing from the sock on Messi’s left ankle last night as he took the first of the penalties that took his team through to the final in the semi-final last night.

I’ve never seen a bullfight and have no desire to watch an animal taunted and slaughtered so it is paradoxical that Bulls of Parral by Marguerite Steen is one of the books I read over and over again. Maybe it is the human condition to be drawn into fictional situations that are too gross or terrifying to ever wish to experience and I cannot imagine any other reason for people to watch horror films. Life may not be as “nasty, brutish and short” as Hobbes suggested it can be but imagining the worst things is probably a way of realizing how lucky we are.

The story itself is set in Spain in the 1950s and charts the lives and rivalry of the moneyed bullfighter Paco and a waif on the Parral farm called Ildefonso. Their courses cross with Paco being feted and showy but never loved by the crowd while Ildefonso is adored as the heir to the natural talents of the greatest matadors. It is a story which plays out the genius amateur against the tutored strategist and leaves us in little doubt where our sympathies should lie.

The European media tend to idolize Messi as Ildefonso while Ronaldo is positioned as Paco. But watching the mesmeric genius of Neymar has been a revelation to me having only previously seen him as a brattish, patchy player for Paris St Germain. My admiration for Ronaldo as a player and leader is high but his game comes with the shock and awe of a broadsword while the other two devastate with the deftness of the epee and stiletto.

Watching a game where Messi is playing to cement his reputation with a first* winners medal for his country while Neymar is defending the honour of the greatest football nation in its spiritual home of the Maracana. Both are an equal target for the hatchet men of the opposition but in this tournament they have got up, smirked and set about taunting the aggressors anew. It recalls Steen’s vivid description of how matadors are bloodied, torn and scarred by drawing the bull ever closer but continue until it can resist no more.

The stage is set, the sides are well-matched and it should be a wonderful exhibition made even better by the referees willingness to see the footballing equivalent of a mano a mano cagefight. It is made even better by the fact that I really don’t mind who wins and will not have the disappointment of having seen England knocked out of the competition at an earlier stage. Sport without responsibility is one of the few reasons that I can enjoy watching golf for its enormous skill, wonderful settings and leisurely pace.

All that leaves me a little on the fence for the basketball playoffs because I have got something of a passion for the Suns after their mighty effort to see off the LA Lakers. In a game where the ebb and flow can mean leads change hands quickly and games can become total blowouts and meaningless with a long time still to play it has taken time to love it. That may be because at Stewards Comprehensive School we had one gym lesson where the sports hall hoops were set out but the lesson become more like a session of British Bulldog with a ball than anything resembling a game with rules.

All the stranger then that I was the lead manager for the bizarre ASDA sponsorship of the English Basketball Association which saw me spending many nights watching very tall men play the game in front of very small crowds in venues more intended for darts, bowls and 5-a-side football. The overwhelming memory was that for something dubbed a non-contact sport there was plenty of testosterone and brutal elbowing between the behemoths. The crowning (sic) glory of a tournament at the Royal Albert Hall in 1984 was a reminder that the building, named in memory of Queen Victoria’s husband and opened 150 years ago, is a better setting for Land of Hope and Glory than Battle of the Giants.

I have been on a big learning curve but understanding the terminology of “pick and roll”, “in the paint”, “downtown” and “goal tending” has added significantly to my viewing pleasure. But the tactics are so nuanced and finely managed that I find myself bemused, baffled and strangely awed by the cleverness of the coaches. Working out how to draw fouls, use time outs and manipulate the rules has a level of strategic cunning that is easily the equal of any other game.

It has also become clear that appearances can be deceptive. I was commenting that the excellent Devin Booker was much smaller than most of the others and could only be about six feet tall only to learn that he is listed as 6’ 5”. I felt like one of those fabled grannies from the era TV was introduced who wondered how it was possible to get people who would fit inside the screen.

All this is a long way of saying that if I was still in England I would, quite happily, be taken up with the frenzy of England versus Denmark with all the glory or sorrow that this might bring. As it is I will be turning up Three Lions on a Shirt and Vindaloo before heading off to the Princess pub and will be drinking my share of lager when I watch the game. But win or lose I will be fortunate to be living in San Diego with South American football and the Suns versus Bucks to enjoy in this glorious week of sport.

*I know he has won a gold medal with Argentina at the Olympics in 2008 but football, as with tennis and golf, at the four-yearly celebration of athleticism is just a distraction from the driving idea of faster, higher, stronger.

Image by Reimund Bertrams from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD MOUNTS THE PELICAN

The exit from pandemic lockdown seems as long and complex as the lockdown was abrupt and simple. A few months of outdoor eating have turned into another few months of indoor seating but the masks remain. Anti-vaccine campaigners are as prolific as pandemic deniers and concerns about variants veer from the hysterical to the comforting.

The much bigger and more dramatic news is that I have turned from a leader in the Peloton resistance to a convert. I’ve always considered that ‘spinning’ was a traditional cottage industry best left to sheep farmers in the Orkney Islands and that ‘soul cycle’ was just a marketing effort to make spandex sound as cool as Marvin Gaye. Anyone who doubts this logic should consider the relative merits of The Spinners singing Dirty Old Town and Soul Man by the mighty Sam and Dave.

My world vision is of bikes on the open road if they have to exist at all but as a walker and car driver I have my doubts about the value of wheeled vehicles powered by somebody’s gluteus maximus, rectus femoris and gastrocnemius. Add in the red face, body squeezed into lycra and sense of entitlement to the road or pavement regardless of pedestrians and you have a recipe for confrontation. I understand the benefits to health and the environment but can’t work out why they spoil the good work by being so angry all the time.

Any prospect of sitting and sweating on a stationary bike alongside a dozen other humans puffing and panting with exertion was my idea of malebolge – the eighth circle of hell. This was the one where Dante suggested that fraudsters were sent and I can think of nothing more fraudulent than persuading people they enjoyed paying money to be tortured by some screaming sadist with calves made of wurtzite boron nitride.

But the Peloton arrived two months ago and has outperformed all expectations while being renamed the Pelican for no reason other than they look similar and it sounds funnier. From being considered an occasional alternative to running and rowing it has delivered a whole new physical, aural and visual experience. I’ve even found myself recommending its merits to other people which makes me sound like I have totally signed on to the cult.

The instructors are good and you get to pick someone who matches how you feel on the day whether that’s the brutal Olivia Amato and Kendall Toole or ex-Buddhist monk Sam Yo’s five minute warm ups. There’s a nice chirpy British feel to Leanne Hainsby and Ben Alldis and recent Reddit rankings show a lowest difficult ranking (7.34) for Portland’s Hannah Corbin. The Reddit list warns me off Christian Vande Velde because he is the toughest (8.67), an ex-professional cyclist who has finished fourth in the Tour de France and sounds scarily like a Bond villain with a plot to take over the world through spinning.

Speaking of Bond reminds me that another great US success, Amazon, has brought access to 007 with its purchase of MGM. My mind turned immediately to the prospect of home deliveries fulfilling the dream of the 1970s series of ‘all because the lady loves Milk Tray’ adverts. The prospect of Daniel Craig dropping a Prime delivery of household essential onto the porch while simultaneously disarming brutish henchmen of psychopathic criminal geniuses is surely the best thing that could happen to our lives.

But I also had a soft spot for the notion that Disney would take over the Bond franchise as was suggested by business talk a few years ago. It is no mistake that Bond’s double O number is seven because I have always suspected that Dopey was quietly spirited away one night and replaced by a deeply embedded British spy with a licence to kill. It is the only possible reason that he does not have a beard and never speaks – you heard it here first.

The American takeover of a symbol of Britain’s history is something that is doubly on my mind as I approach the fourth anniversary of living in the US. It’s also more than a year since I have travelled to the UK so the daily influence of the country has had no resistance for some time. A few signs of underlying change have become noticeable.

During a walk to Target last week I realized that American shop names now spring to mind before their UK equivalents. Home Depot comes before Homebase, Nordstrom before Marks and Spencer and Costco before any of the inferior UK warehouse shopping equivalents. When my ex-retailer mind has shifted to the wonders of the new world’s commerce it’s a moment to reflect on the changes that have crept up without me noticing.

I realised recently that I don’t really hear American accents any longer. Working in Belfast for nearly two years I was constantly aware of the accent and would occasionally have to ask people to slow down and speak up because an Englishman was in the room. But my ear has tuned to the tendency to pronounce ‘t’s’ as ‘d’s’ and the range of ‘have a nice days’ and ‘my pleasures’ that are everyday civilities.

The truth is that I can’t get Alexa to understand me unless I adopt some of the speech idiosyncrasies. I spent several weeks asking her to turn on the outside lights but my insistence on the using the fricative ‘t’ in patio simply caused the Bezos version of computer says no. Replacing it with a plosive ‘d’ makes me sound like a bad actor in Goodfellas but also has the desired effect of lighting the way.

I have moved into using sidewalk and garbage without wincing and have learnt not to say fortnight without hastily explaining that it comes from the Old English term ‘fēowertyne niht’ and means fourteen nights. No doubt I will slide into saying ‘y’all’ and thinking it is normal to take food home from a restaurant because the portions are too big. There is some way to go before then and it is possible that my return to the home country, vaccination passport or alternative willing, in Autumn (still can’t get used to saying Fall) this year will bring a pause in my Americanization. We shall see.

Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD FINDS REASONS TO BE A BLOCKHEAD

One of the great regrets in my life is that I put attendance at a Parent-Teacher evening ahead of going to a concert to see Ian Dury and the Blockheads. It turned out to be one of his last tours before he died of cancer in 2000 after a tumultuous life that combinED vaudeville, music hall and punk with an ear for lyrics that is wholly English. For any teenager living in the south of England in the 1970s and 1980s songs like Plaistow Patricia, Billericay Dickie and England’s Glory, captured every home-town character and Saturday night out.

But yesterday I was reminded of him and the quirky Reasons to be Be Cheerful, Pt 3, tune filled with small and large parts of life that needed to be enjoyed just for existing. Combining nanny goats, health service glasses and porridge oats, with states of “being in my nuddy”, “being rather silly”, and the much more serious “Bantu Steven Biko” and “curing smallpox” is a work on the nature of being human. But the reason it came to mind was its reminder of the fragility of all those things.

“Yes, yes
Dear, dear
Perhaps next year
Or maybe even never”

With that in mind getting my first haircut since the California pandemic lockdown began in March 2021 was a might good reason to be cheerful. Sitting in a barber shop where the stereo played Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate before bursting into Thunderstruck by AC/DC was a reminder of the atmosphere that The Blacktree Barberia summoned up with effortless swagger and goodwill. Giacomo did a stellar job with my head of hair that had been sheared twice in the year with dog clippers but had become a haystack of near Boris Johnson chaos.

All this on a day that the notion of a European Super League had risen and then sunk without trace to the joy and delight of long-term football supporters everywhere. The best meme noted that it was starting to “look like the lads night out before everyone asks the missus if it’s OK”. We found 12 of Europe’s best known, most historical and honour laden clubs stripped of their dignity and class in just a few short hours of selfish money-grubbing hubris.

The logical questions about Leicester having as many Premier League championships as Liverpool, the two Nottingham Forest European Cups not counting for anything and every single reason Tottenham Hotspur didn’t deserve a place were rife. But it took a Russian oligarch and the Qatar Royal Family, withdrawing Chelsea and Manchester City respectively, to truly sink an idea that didn’t deserve to be floated in the first place. American owners, the Italians, Real Madrid and the aforementioned Spurs (or possibly just Daniel Levy) were left clinging to the wreckage for a while before, at the last count, three Italian clubs were left to play against Real Madrid for precisely nothing.

My third reason to be cheerful had come just over ten days ago with the reopening of the Whistlestop Bar which is sometimes known as ‘the bar that can’. It’s a dark cavern of a room which until recently only accepted cash and where choosing wine was more of a lottery than the bush tucker trials on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. It’s a strange thing to miss a bar quite so much but the possible loss of one of South Park’s institutions and the best local place to hear reliably brilliant British music was a constant fear.

All of this came as I reached the end of my fourteen day, personally enforced exclusion period after having the one-shot Johnson and Johnson vaccine. The pace and efficacy of medical science in moving to combat the coronavirus has been mightily impressive and the vanishingly small risks involved in having the vaccines seems a price worth paying. I know that the J&J route to usage has been bumpy and I’ll certainly be cautious about blood clots but it seems a far better chance to take than the alternative.

I’d had serious vaccine envy as many people I know had found that their age, job or country of residence had enabled them to leap ahead of me in moving with more freedom and security. I certainly hadn’t expected to be in line for a shot myself until end of May or even into June so there’s plenty to be happy about in an April jab. There is so much to come as the world re-emerges from its enforced hibernation even if the need for continued caution and care is self-evident and the likelihood of a ‘new normal’ is still many months away.

While I’m not sure that a guilty verdict in a murder trial can be a reason for cheerfulness it’s impossible to live in the US without being touched by the killing of George Floyd and the way it distilled a history of oppression, violence and persecution. The verdict finding Derek Chauvin guilty on all counts against him came just as I was about to walk to get my hair cut which reflected how the weighty and the trivial often coincide in human life. For anyone who believes in the rule of law it seemed the validation of a process that has often been found wanting in the past.

The great sadness is that nothing can bring George Floyd back and there are many other recent and pending cases where the same issues will be raised. But it felt like a glimmer of hope and an assertion of justice being applicable to everyone in a country where that has seemed more a hollow assertion than a fact. Not a reason to be cheerful but just, perhaps, a small nod in the direction of a better future.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD CULLS THE VINYL

There are fewer things in life harder than throwing away memories. If nobody ever made that quote they should have done. Most of my collection of vinyl albums and singles is still in the UK but there has to be a reckoning and shipping is expensive.

The problem is that there are fragments of the past embedded in many of these round pieces of grooved plastic. What can replace the thrill of buying your first ever single (I Did What I Did for Maria by Tony Christie), your first album (Slade Alive), or being sure you had every record issued by a single artist (everything Slade did from the very start up until 1980).

There is a bit of a Slade theme there and it goes back to sitting in the bedroom of my best friend, Ewart Richardson, and hearing Slade Alive for the very first time. From the romping bass of Hear Me Calling, through the self-penned In Like a Shot from My Gun, to the thrashing of Born to be Wild that made Steppenwolf’s version compare like a mocktail to Hemingway’s favourite, Death in the Afternoon. And put into the mix was the absurd burp (4.11 into the video) in the middle of a tender Darling Be Home Soon and the onstage banter between Wolverhampton boys out on the town.

The love affair for Slade was forever and they were the first band I saw in concert on a trip organized by the Stewards Comprehensive School Youth Club that saw Graham Butterworth halting traffic on the Seven Sister Road to let us cross. The gig was at the old Rainbow/Finsbury Park Empire with Thin Lizzy and Suzi Quatro (first UK tour) as support. I still have the progamme which will most definitely be making the trip across the Atlantic.

The tribal politics of being a teenager meant that being a devotee of Slade entailed an absolute loathing of anything to do with Marc Bolan and TRex. It was the forerunner of spats about The Clash versus The Jam (only one winner as Strummer had so much more cred than Weller) and Blur versus Oasis (shoegazing versus swagger with the Gallagher boys ahead by a mile). Obviously, it has always been possible to love David Bowie as someone rising above the common herd and with a sneering disrespect for Coldplay.

The weakness in my choice was that it became clear during the early, feeble attempts at working out how to engage with girls at parties that nobody could dance to Slade. Enter the sweet soul sound of Feel the Need In Me by the Detroit Emeralds in March 1973 and a moment that the harmonies of the Motor City opened a whole new world. But the most honourable mention goes to Rock Me Gently by Andy Kim which still captures the best of hot summer evenings and late, late nights whenever I hear it.

That’s the reason so many of the records will have my handwritten name scrawled across the label. We would all bring our records, take turns at DJ’ing and then walk home in the early hours. The next day was to catch up, retrieve the vinyl along with the memories and put them back in their sleeves until the next time.

Another look at the list of records brings the realization that some vinyl purchases betrayed very poor decision making. Being the owner of Puppy Love by Donny Osmond was based on the belief that I could buy every single number one without any sense of judgement about the consequences or the embarrassment. I quickly realized that a run of Tumbling Dice, Rocket Man and Metal Guru could easily give way to a Puppy Love, Circles and Ooh-Wakka-Doo-Wakka-Day.

The album Jimi Hendrix at His Best Volume One, should be prosecuted under the Trades Description Act and is a sign that the great man had very average moments. The sleeve notes suggested that it captured him on a single-track recording made by Mike Ephron, an avant garde, free form, jazz pianist, on a night they jammed before Jimi was famous. To support my judgement of its merit, I find that David Shadwick (writer of “Jimi Hendrix – Musician“) summed up the recordings as, “The most arid and worthless musical adventure that Hendrix ever had the misfortune to be involved in.” All I knew at the time was that it was in the bargain box of a sale in a record shop when I had only 50 pence to my name and was desperate for something new.

A few of the singles are on the list because of the B-sides which were often unavailable in any other format. The flip side of Stardust by David Essex is Miss Sweetness which has a charming start and a raucous ending that catches the best of the man in a single tune. The Sweet’s bubblegum pop of Little Willy is backed by the hardcore rock of Man from Mecca which shows what a great guitar player Andy Scott was.

For those sneering because the advent of music streaming has made all this irrelevant, I can only suggest you try looking for The Blues by Python Lee Jackson on Spotify. You will miss a great Rod Stewart vocal and nice Mike Liber guitar solo and that is why the vinyl still counts. I am also reminded of the many months that Slade were not on any streaming service as a lesson that the spats between media giants can be truly damaging to my listening pleasure.

I’m not blind to the problems with vinyl. Skipping records and worn-out grooves are very annoying and there is usually no option but to put a heavier coin on the needle or melt the vinyl down to form an ashtray you will never use. The other fact is that starting an LP while you work only means that you’ll have to turn it over within 20 minutes which quickly becomes tiresome.

But choices must be made and I can only hope that my loss becomes somebody else’s joy as the records are handed over to a shop working in this niche market. So, if you frequent such shops and buy a single with “Alan’s” written on the label you will know that it served its purpose at a party in my youth and was much loved. Give it a spin and think of me.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD LOOKING FOR SOLACE IN LOCKDOWN

It’s been difficult to know if there is anything interesting to say about being an expartriate during a pandemic. I suspect that the experience of lockdown and wearing a mask and being on Zoom is pretty much the same wherever you are. But as we begin to think that the glimmer of vaccine hope may turn into the dazzling light of mass immunity there are some things I have learnt and would share.

The Buggles told us that video “killed the radio stars” but we should be grateful that it didn’t kill radio. Not being able to travel to the UK in 2020 did not mean that we couldn’t share the mild, British eccentricity of Liza Tarbuck on a Saturday morning or the tones of Steve Wright on a Sunday afternoon. In the early 80s I found the latter as annoying as I was to find Chris Evans in the 1990s. Wright started the whole notion of “zoo format” radio in the UK so has a lot to answer for, but the decades have mellowed us all and he is now as comforting as an old jumper.

Listening to UK radio also reminds me to avoid Snake Pass during the winter, give the M5 near Bristol a miss at any time of year and to always check the rail timetables for disruption when the wrong sorts of leaves are falling. If I wanted to feel even more in the homeland, I could listen to the rhythmic heartbeat of an island nation as the shipping forecast incanted, “Dogger, Fisher, German Bight…”. Running since 1867, the shipping forecast is the longest continuous weather forecast in the world and that makes it the essence of being British.

None of this is of any practical use in San Diego but then it wasn’t of any real use to hear about snow in the Cairngorms when I lived in the relatively balmy climes of Brighton. For good measure, finding 88.5FM SoCal has been a further boon and for anyone looking to get a sense of high-quality southern California music radio programming it’s highly recommended. It’s topped off by the celebrity appeal of a Saturday evening slot with Joe Walsh of Eagles and James Gang fame whose wonderfully titled solo album “The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get” is reputedly a play on the phrase, “the higher you get the better you play.”

Walking and running in the road has become the norm as the polite dance of social distancing has been underpinned by the San Diegan belief in science and staying healthy. The nice thing is that drivers don’t seem to mind at all and there is often a cheery wave as they give a wide berth in passing. Cyclists have increased in number and remain slightly less accommodating but that’s probably to be expected of people whose anatomy is constricted by inappropriate amounts of spandex and silicon padding.

We’ve also seen the end of the plague of Bird, Jump, Lyft and Lime scooters that had threatened life and limb on the pavement or the road as they carried crazed, no helmet riders to an inevitable date with the Emergency Room. In a double sign of the times, Bird “terminated around 40% of its then about 1060 employees in a group Zoom meeting” in March 2020 and a May 2020 deal “valued Lime at $510 million, down 79% from its $2.4 billion valuation in April 2019”. The long-term consequences for “final leg” scooter companies remain unclear but it seems unlikely that the glory days will return any time soon.

Ordering food out has been one of the ways of feeling good about supporting local businesses and extending the range of cuisine beyond restaurants in walking distance. Some experiences have been brilliant, while others have shown that a dining place that is outstanding in person does not necessarily deliver (sic) when delivering. Generally speaking, Indian food travels well from distance, burgers need to be collected from nearby, noodles are no go’s, and pizza tastes fine but the organization of the process does much to explain the joke about Hell having the Italians in charge.

Restaurants are certain to be one of the most significant beneficiaries of a successful vaccination programme. One of the real downsides of lockdown has been missing the Friday night pint at the Whistlestop but there really is nothing quite like the whole ritual of visiting a favourite restaurant, selecting a much-loved meal and then walking away without any thought of doing the dishes or taking out the rubbish. It’s to be hoped that most survive until there is a chance to reopen but the resilience of the sector and the energy of entrepreneurs will fill any gaps.

With everyone stuck at home around the world the propensity to engage in calls on Zoom and other formats has brought me back in touch with people I might never have otherwise spoken to again. The notion of a global community and everyone being just a video-call away is facilitated by saving the time that is usually consumed by travelling and waiting for transport. Not having to be on the next plane or train with a group of strangers has been a bonus for communication and that’s a good lesson for us to remember.

Time zones and geography are among the disadvantages of being an expatriate but when everybody is challenged by mobility and finds themselves with more time it becomes a lot easier. Everyone is sharing a similar and unusual situation so being abroad and several thousand miles away is not much different to being seven, seventeen or seventy miles distant. It seems that being isolated has, for some people, been the very best way of getting back in touch.

That’s about it – re-finding radio, walking in the road, ordering take-out food and getting back in touch. Certainly a lot better than being bombed in a Blitz, going over the top into No Man’s Land or facing famine and I am among those who can have no complaints. No description is complete without saying how it’s all aided by the San Diego weather which permits an outdoor lifestyle and the sunshine to cure most of the lockdown blues.

None of these consolations take away from being pained by the tales of human tragedy during the pandemic or being shocked at the scale of the hospitalizations and deaths around the world. Locke told us that “any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind” and we can only hope that this worldwide catastrophe is a reminder of the connections between us. In that respect the schism of Brexit and the bitter partisan nature of the US elections do not augur well but it is best to be hopeful.

Image by Angela C from Pixabay

An Englishman Abroad Votes for Democracy

Unpicking the result of the past US election and predicting the result of the next has been a favourite pastime even since I have been living here. That’s three years of unrelenting, partisan turmoil played out very publicly and with increasing levels of vitriol on both sides. In a strictly non-partisan way, I’ve been trying to work out what advice I’d give to the UK to preserve democracy, common sense and some decorum. My first would, of course, be not to put any changes to a referendum….

STICK TO ONE MAIN ELECTION FOR NATIONAL GOVERNMENT

There is a non-stop merry go round of elections in the US. While the Presidential election comes round once every four years, a third of the Senate seats and all 435 House of Representative voting seats are up for grabs every two years. It makes for a pretty bumpy ride where control of the House or the Senate can change and make the President more or less effective.

Three equal branches of Government may sound like a neat balance but like all balances the system lurches if distribution of ‘weight’ changes by an ounce. Too many elections leads to too much politics with too much campaigning and too many reasons for people to be negative about each other. There is little time for holding out a hand of reconciliation because the scars of the last battle aren’t healed before the next one comes along.

MOVING OUT TODAY

Watching the ex-Prime Minister of the UK driving in an official car to Buckingham Palace to resign, then leaving Downing Street in a second-hand Mini Metro the day after the polls close is one of the great levellers in human life. When the people speak they should be heeded and it does not need Oliver Cromwell pointing at the defeated PM saying, “In the name of God, go” to confirm that time is up. Once the vote is in the loser departs, and the winner takes up their own temporary occupancy.

It seems risky to have a disgruntled, disillusioned leader with nothing at stake roaming the corridors of power with a nuclear football to hand and a bunch of executive orders looking for scores to settle. Leaving it like that for two months is like letting a friend of a friend crash on your couch for the night as a favour, only to find them using your toothbrush eight weeks later. Elections are meant to have consequences and these should include a swift relocation and a period in the wilderness.

KEEP IT TO PARTIES

Having an elected President places sweeping authority in the hands of one individual. Being the most powerful person in the world sounds like fun but everyone should take a lesson from the film Bruce Almighty. Even when a relatively benign individual gets almost unlimited power it doesn’t end well and as Lord Acton wrote to Bishop Mandell Creighton in 1887, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

The primus/prima inter pares role of UK Prime Minister has had some pretty despicable people holding the role but they simply don’t have the ability to act without constraint in the way of an elected President. Of course, the more supine and feckless the rest of the party has been the more amplified the role of the Prime Minister. But even the autocratic Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, was brought down and forced to resign just three years after a landslide Conservative victory at the polls.

MAKE THE MEDIA MEDIATE

The moral for UK should not forsake the BBC or allow any other broadcast channel to become a loud hailer for party politics. Partisan channels, on either side, become echo chambers that stifle political discourse and open debate about ideas. The BBC makes mistakes from time to time but in 2019 a new high of 426m people a week tuned into it and in 2017 it was placed as the 20^th most reputable CSR brand in the world.

It would also be good if the media could also stop using words and phrases in a way that looks macho while masking reality. My least liked is “doubling down” – it sounds tough but usually means (and should be replaced by) “reckless gamble”. Next is “breaking news” which sounds urgent but is often a rolling news misnomer for “old news but new pundits commenting” or “stuff our pundits just said that we can pretend is urgent”.

Most recently “bully pulpit” has been used to suggest righteous browbeating of the opposition when it really should be replaced with “angry, spiteful, aggression by people who have no respect for their office.” The phrase was used by President Theodore Roosevelt in the early 1900s but it is suggested the term bully was more commonly used in that era to mean “superb” or “wonderful”. Being President is a good platform but is probably better suited to Roosevelt’s dictum “speak softly and carry a big stick.”

TURN OFF TWITTER

According to a 2019 analysis by Pew Research Center, 22 percent of adults in the U.S. use Twitter, but just 10 percent of those adults are responsible for 80 percent of tweets. There is evidence that “..the routinization of Twitter into news production affects news judgment”. It is not hard to believe that Twitter is a partial, selective and distorting way of the media communicating or getting information.

Anything a political figure tweets or re-tweets should be considered their official position because the public is paying them to do the job. As it is, we have a totally unfettered, no cost, manipulable channel that has become the driving force for the news agenda. Even worse is the way that it makes the media act like a hyperactive puppy distracted by the next shiny bauble that appears in front of it.

DON’T LET MONEY TALK LOUDEST

It’s eye opening to see the amounts that are raised, with the 2020 US campaign estimated to have seen nearly $11bn spent. By comparison in the UK 2017 general election, 75 parties and 18 campaign groups reported spending about £42m between them. It’s not a direct comparison but the magnitude suggests that there is a material difference in the way elections are conducted.

There’s some dispute about whether there is a direct cause, rather than correlation, between money spent and successful candidates but it seems a reasonable indicator. If the money doesn’t help win the election it’s difficult to see why so much is being spent and even US voters would sooner there was more constraint. It seemed particularly absurd during a pandemic to be pouring money into politics.

DO NOT GET COURTS IN THE ACT UNNECESSARILY

Illegality should, of course, be prosecuted and with significant consequences if democracy is being undermined. But it is not a good look for an election to be determined by the courts. Over fifty court cases have been lodged after the 2020 US Presidential election with a significant majority “dismissed or dropped due to lack of evidence”.

Since 2000 the UK has had four cases and two petitions withdrawn before trial. In 2010, one of the four cases resulted in a void election because Phil Woolas breached the Representation of the People Act 1983. Quite charmingly by today’s standards Woolas was ousted because he made a “false statements of fact” about an opposing candidate – just imagine, a politician losing their seat for lying…

KEEP POLITICS OUT OF BOUNDARY DECISIONS

I had learnt the word gerrymandering while studying the politics of Northern Ireland but had never got quite so far as to understand that it is an American term first used in Boston, Massachusetts in 1812. The Gerry in question was Governor Elbridge Gerry who redistricted Massachusetts for the benefit of the Democratic-Republican Party. One of the contorted districts was said to resemble a mythological salamander and so the portmanteau word was born.

Redistricting of electoral boundaries within states falls to whichever legislature and court happens to be in power at the time. For anyone used to the non-partisan Boundary Commissions of the UK this seems a bit like giving a dominant football team a home draw for all of its FA Cup matches. Constituency boundaries are messy and nobody is ever completely happy but this shouldn’t be compounded by overt political distortion.

None of this should suggest that I don’t despair at the handling and outcome of some of the UK elections and I am sure there is no perfect system. It also seems a long time since I sat screaming at the radio at three am in the morning while sitting on my bedsit floor after voting for the first time. But at least in a democracy you get to have your say, can be an activist and can blame others for the consequences if you don’t win.

Churchill was right to quote past wisdom when telling the House of Commons in 1947 that, “democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…” He was, of course, ousted in the 1945 General Election despite his enormous personal popularity following service as the war-time coalition leader but he continued to respect the process. His doctor Lord Moran commiserated with him on the “ingratitude” of the British public, but Churchill replied: “I wouldn’t call it that. They have had a very hard time”.

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay

AN ENGLISHMAN ABROAD IN THE DOG DAYS

OK, so the dog days are the period between July and September, so I am a little late. But it struck me that I have been living here for three years and haven’t mentioned the experience of living with dogs. As Zoe, our dachshund, left for the great badger-hunting sett in the sky yesterday, it seemed a good time to write.

I have always thought that you are either a dog person or a cat person. And having had two felines I used to place myself firmly in the latter camp. I like animals that are essentially self-sufficient loners who choose when and where to engage with people. Maybe that says more about me than my pets but it’s probably because I hadn’t realized that dogs could be equally discerning.

For the past three years, however, I have been watched over, toyed with and subordinated by Zoe, the miniature dachshund, and Nessie, the Norwich terrier. As Nessie’s father was Das Terrier there is a strong Germanic theme running through their veins and it shows in many ways. It may be misguided to anthropomorphise dogs, but part of my learning is that it is very difficult not to think of them as people.

Maybe that is why the standard walking route has become a story book of other dogs we meet and have come to know. There is Louie, the coolest dog in the world, who is so chilled out because he is a genius, jazz-pianist who spends his nights wearing a pork-pie hat and playing in speakeasys. His bodyguard is Toby the Pomeranian whose zeal in controlling his garden border is only matched by the total decorum and daintiness he shows when being walked by his mother.

The other way you know that you have become a dog parent is that you are able to do the three-poop pick up on a walk with one bag. My early efforts usually found me having to have a thorough scrub of my hands when I got home due to my failure to execute the single poop grab satisfactorily. Walking that final mile with hands smelling less than fragrant always got pitying but knowing looks from the more experienced dog owners.

My introduction to Zoe was being told “don’t look at her, she doesn’t like it” and feeding her treats to avoid a savaging. She had been tormented by a toddler and ended up in a rescue when she was three. and was not going to allow an Englishman to disrupt the iron control she had over the household. I probably only survived because she worked out that I had opposable thumbs which meant I was useful for serving dinner to order.

Although of German descent, Zoe had a Napoleon-complex. Despite her limited stature she was fully committed to global domination and firmly believed that everything is part of the greater Germany and subordinate to her needs. Less than a foot high she was entirely sure of her capability to run with the big dogs and pee in the tall grass.

Zoe believed in reinforcing the dachshund reputation for being idiosyncratic, smart and manipulative. Little else justified the frequency with which a fully house-trained and intelligent animal expressed her displeasure at some minor human indiscretion with indiscriminate peeing. She was also wholly opinionated about music which explains why the first time I played guitar in front of her she pooped on the floor while giving me a disdainful dachshund side eye.

All that said she never nipped me which is more than can be said for the incautious who forgot how a small hound can sneak under your feet and only has teeth to remind you of their presence when you step on them. The fact she had a 30-inch vertical leap in her also meant that she was entirely capable of leaping up and sinking her teeth into someone’s backside. Watching that happen to an Arsenal supporting scouser was one of the moments where man and dog truly bonded.

The other good news about Zoe was that she was food-oriented which allowed the occasional trade of good behaviour for a treat or six. In that respect her final few weeks was a smorgasbord of all the things she had ever wanted but not been allowed because they were bad for her. The only thing she turned her nose up at was Spanish wine which I put down to a long-held grudge about Franco’s refusal to sign up to the Second World War.

Nessie, on the other hand, is known as either the BTE (Best Terrier Ever) or the GOAT (Greatest of All Terriers). Now, I know that every terrier person thinks they have the GOAT but I can tell you that Nessie could beat Serena at tennis, Usain at running and Magnus at chess if she wanted to. She could even beat the Brexit campaign at telling fibs if she wasn’t what I have learnt to think of as an honest dog.

Nessie did, however, almost get me in the most trouble it is possible to imagine. She loves to go for a walk, and I had been told that I should always put her in her box before taking Zoe for a walk. In the early days I thought I was in charge and decided to ignore the warning and the door was only open a crack before she vaulted over her sister and disappeared down the sidewalk.

There I was, an Englishman abroad in country where they drive on the wrong side of the road, have indiscriminate gun ownership and speak in a funny accent. And I had allowed the BTE to escape without any identifying collar. There are make or break moments in a relationship and this was unlikely to go down well.

The only option was to unharness Zoe and begin the long task of running around the neighbourhood hoping to get lucky. With heart filled with dread at all the things that could have happened I went to begin the task only to see Nessie sitting on the corner of the street looking at me with a grin on her face. She thought it was funny to teach me a lesson but didn’t want to hurt my feelings too much.

For now, we are a one-dog household with Nessie having the dubious pleasure of having to look after two humans. She will be good at that because she is kind, gentle and funny. And we will think of Zoe often as we sit in the garden and remember how she would express her wholly conditional affection by nestling against a convenient thigh to keep warm. Have fun, little dog with a big personality – we will miss you.