Kilkee is a village of around 1400 folk on the west coast of Co Clare in Ireland; you could easily say ‘next Parish, America’. In some ways it’s a typical seaside town, built round a beautiful bay, with cliffs at either end, and rolling fields stretching out over hills behind it. Like all towns, it has changed with the times: it probably has too many new housing developments for its own good, some of its characters are long gone, and summer weekends can see it a little overrun. On the other hand, there is a better living for its residents than previously, and it has survived some difficult times since its hey day as a popular holiday destination for the people of Limerick and indeed of the whole of Ireland, in the 1950s and 60s.

Though many who read this will not know Kilkee or have seen it, I believe the sentiments will strike a chord with anyone who has felt joy in a location or marvelled at the beauty of nature and man’s use of it.

I first visited Kilkee in 1966. It lay a good 90 minutes by narrow road from Shannon Airport, and, at the end of a quiet road, it really felt quite remote. The papers arrived by bus around 4pm, the only sure way to travel anywhere else from the town was by hitching a lift, and local folk dressed in a distinctive style that had little connection to high fashion as found in Dublin or the UK. It was possible to look through the window a the post office and see the telephone operator responding to the twisted handles from phones around the town. There was a caravan site, two amusement arcades, a cinema and 6 hotels. Entertainment was found in some of the 30 odd pubs or at the showband dance in the Hydro Hotel. You could get chips at Manuel’s, a burger at Haugh’s Central Stores, postcards at John Williams Pharmacy or Collins Medical Hall, and your hair styled, if you were female, at Peggy Starr’s. Nolan’s and Hickeys were the butchers and grocers, the Irish House was the newsagents and Buckley’s did a good line in souvenirs. Ray Russell would do you a fabulous Irish Coffee in Mrs Egan’s, the Scott brothers would polish their glasses in Scotts, and there would be great late sessions in the Strand, Tom Kett’s and the Vic. Singsongs could go on in the Hydro till 5am, and Methodists from the North played croquet on the lawn in front of their holiday house at Clar Ellagh.

From the age of 14 till I was in my thirties, I holidayed there every summer, and sometimes two or three times more each year. I could identify the rattle of periwinkle shells in the gutter opposite Nolan’s, the smell of the seaweed rising from the strand in front of the Hydro by the West End Stores, Canon Kenny reading his Office on the beach, Fr Culligan encouraging the footballers, the kayak in Tom Nolan’s front garden that was the forerunner of Kilkee Marine Rescue, his sister Dympna who went nursing at Crumlin, PJ King’s taxi, and the auburn wig of my Scottish countryman, Wally, at the amusements. I remember the bakers, Leadmore Dairies and HB ice cream. I saw Granny’s Intentions twice at the Olympia Hall in Merton Square and Dickie Rock and the Miami in a Marquee. When they started the summer festival, my mother was the first judge of the fancy dress. I stayed at the Hydro, the Marine, the Strand, the Esplanade, the Stella Maris and the Ocean Cove – and a few times in Peggy O’Halloran’s shed. I bumped into Richard Harris and his brother Dermot, and had drinks brought for me by Brian Lenihan senior and Paddy Hillery.

Going to Kilkee was like dying and going to heaven. I used to think it was only me who felt like that – and Kilkee has always been the third person in any relationships I have had. Now, largely through various internet sites, I am aware that Kilkee is precious to thousands of people of all ages, in all countries, and for all reasons. It has a resonance way beyond its size or location. It keeps popping up when you least expect it.

Charlotte Bronte honeymooned there; Tennyson and Ryder Haggard visited; Che Guevara spent time there. First President of the Republic and 1916 signatory, Tom Clarke, proposed to his wife there; Charlie Haughey walked the cliffs at Georges Head when he was trying to make important decisions; the British spy, Littlejohn, was discovered on the caravan site during the Troubles; ‘Ryan’s Daughter’ and ‘Joyriders’ were filmed here; Oliver Reed spent a summer there; Terry Wogan and Frank McCourt holidayed in Kilkee, and Hilda O’Malley, inspiration for Patrick Kavanagh’s Raglan Road, along with husband, Donagh, the revolutionary Education Minister and son, Daragh, of ‘Sharpe’ TV fame, were also regular visitors.

There is a history here – and not just for the famed and famous.

Let me take you a walk, from our old hotel, the Hydro, at the West End, further round the bay. You will pass a number of lodges and summer homes, veering left past an old boarding house called Sykes’s. There are rocks below the sea wall here, at Edmond Point. The name comes from the barque Edmond which, caught in an horrendous storm, was wrecked here in November 1850 with the loss of 98 lives.

On we go, down hill now, past more lodges and some newer houses behind up the hill, in Castlefield, the original foundation point of Kilkee, the MacDonnell’s castle. On the right below is the Newfoundout diving spot, and on the left the large lodge that was once the property of Richard Harris. At the bottom of the hill, the road round the bay ends in car park. Stretching out across the bay to your right are the rocks of the Pollock Holes and the Duggerna Reef, guarding the entrance to the bay, and ahead is the newly constructed Diamond Rocks Café. These days it is a smart modern construction, but in my day, it was a more basic shop and pitch and putt course. It was owned by a great Kilkee family, the Haughs, and I became addicted to the course, playing twice or often three times a day. Maureen Haugh was a wonderful woman who came to know me well and I enjoyed our chats as much as I enjoyed the golf. She ran a B&B called Dunearn at the top of the hill and, out of season, when the course was closed, she would leave a couple of clubs in the sun porch so I could pick them up and batter my way round free of charge. She was the first familiar face I looked for whenever I returned to the town.

Now, if you pass the café, you’ll find a statue of Richard Harris, in typical pose, playing Kilkee Racquets, a unique beach game, played against the sea wall below the Hydro hotel, at which he was a great champion in his youth.

In days of yore, there was just a basic path past the shop leading up towards the cliffs. You passed the pitch and putt to your left, and to your right caught sight of the ‘Amphitheatre’ a circular arrangement of rocks around an inlet which provided spectacular waves and a venue for late night parties, concerts and sing songs.

Then you came to a kind of stile with a narrow entrance to keep out cattle. From 1970 onward, this was a breeze blocked wall, surrounded by cobbles. MGM and David Lean, waiting around a year in Kilkee for a suitable storm to film for Ryan’s Daughter, had laid tracks along the cliff top to their location. When they left they reinstated all works and left the site looking better than before, having consolidated the path at the cliff edge. Walking on, you become aware of a magnificent view northward, across to the matching cliffs of George’s Head and beyond that to the Aran Islands and Galway Bay. Immediately below are sheer cliffs and pounding breakers. One inlet here is called Intrinsic Bay – with another sad story to tell. Here, in January 1836, the Intrinsic, out of Liverpool, foundered, with the loss of 14 lives.

The path is uneven, there are bits of flimsy fence on the cliff edge at the most exposed places, not so much a prevention, more a warning to take care. Here in 1966, trying to impress a girl, for some reason I was singing the current hit: ‘You better move on”. It was raining and muddy and I slipped in a gully and fell full length. It didn’t help my case! Up ahead you see a strange white building with portholes for windows and a narrow doorway – the sheep shelter. As your reach it, you see a flight of rough steps heading downward, and if you follow them, you come to the magical Diamond Rocks.

So called because the quartz in them shines out to sea in the sunlight, this brilliant configuration of exposed strata, ledges, puffing holes and tidal pools is as close as I’ve ever found to heaven on earth. You could spend days there and never get tired of the mysteries, the changing waves, the rock formations and the sound of the surf and the sea birds. I don’t have words to explain this place; it is simply perfect. Ahead you will see Bishop’s Island with the remains of Senan’s Hermitage still piled on top, and the triangular hunk of Bird Rock, a haven to so many kinds of migrant and indigenous species.

Looking westward will inevitably tempt you into carrying on your walk, so you climb back up to the cliff tops, passing the site where David Lean anchored his film cameras in a furious storm, losing some of them in the process, and you make the steep climb up Lookout Hill, from the top of which the reason for its name becomes obvious as you can see over half of Clare, over to Kerry and out far into the Atlantic.

Stepping down from here, you come to the road which reaches out towards Loop head, the most westerly point of Corca Baiscinn, the West Clare Penninsula. You can turn back towards Kilkee, or you can keep heading west.

Going west, you will find a more desolate landscape in what was in the early years of the 20th Century an Irish speaking area. You’ll pass a holy well, more memorable seascapes and eventually reach the village of Cross in the townland of Kilballyowen. A ruined church in an overgrown cemetery marks this as a victim of the Famine, but there are new houses and a new church and a strong community here. A girl called Noreen from Kilballyowen owned my heart for a time in the late 60s.

Travelling on, lucky to pass any cars at all, you reach Moneen – a church, some houses and a national school. Stop at the church and go in. You’ll find a bathing cart, converted into an altar with a cover. It’s known as The Little Ark. In the 1850s, pushed out to a point between the high and low water marks, outwith the reach of law, this contraption was used to provide Mass for the local people against the penal laws of the time.

Outside, you’ll find a grave and marked on it is the name of Fr Bernard Keating. This Irish speaking priest came from a famous local family and was posted to the Liverpool Archdiocese after his ordination. He performed the marriage of my aunt , and after a lifetime of trying to persuade my mother as to the charms of Kilkee, was finally the man responsible for my first arriving in the town in 1966. I never miss a chance to thank his memory.

Carrying on you can visit the amazing Bridges of Ross with their natural rock formations, or the lighthouse at Loop Head. You can also stop for a pint at Kilbaha with its two pubs and beautiful bay. Back in the day, there was Keating’s and Haier’s, and great was the rejoicing when Aine Keating married one of the Haiers in 1974 – now you could drink in either pub without insulting anyone!

All of these are personal memories – but now comes the point.

I read today of the work that has been done, under the auspices of Health and Safety, on that cliff path – up from the pitch and putt, past the sheep shelter and the Diamond Rocks – and local people are not happy. Tarmac, ruined flora, piles of earth and hideous noticeboards – all conspiring to wreck the scene, to disrespect the splendour of the site.

The excuse is that the work had to be rushed, the finishing touches could not be applied in November and it was all in the cause of safety. I am not in Kilkee, I haven’t seen the work, but I have read the despair of people who love the area. I also remember the care with which MGM reinstated the area after their film trucks had been over the cliffs in 1968: they left it better than before; they consulted with locals and took advice; the work they did lasted over 40 years – not bad for the ephemeral profit seeking moguls of Hollywood!

Ireland and her officials have an unhappy history with planning; you would hope lessons had been learned, but it appears not. The cliff walk at Kilkee represents the official vandalism which is carried out around the world through lack of thought and inability to hold a vision. All it would have taken to get this right would have been a bit of time, thought and consultation. This is not just a tourist attraction; Kilkee people use it all the time – they appreciate the beauty of what they have, and, as I’ve tried to show in this piece, we’re not just talking about grass, plants ands rocks here. People around the world of all ages and backgrounds have dreams invested in this town, in its history, their memories, and the walks they took on this path. On my office wall is a panoramic view of Kilkee; in times of stress I walk the bay and up to the Diamond Rocks in my head; the memories of the sea air, the spray, the surf and the birdcall clear my thoughts, lower the blood pressure. The town managers and council planners have to realise they are the caretakers of our dreams, the curators of our memories. It’s a weighty responsibility and one they must acknowledge.

I can’t believe it’s right to find the incompetence of man on a walk where it’s perfectly possible to see God.

By any standards, this is a comfortable setting. Our class is situated in what would have been the drawing room of this old house; outside is a lawn, still littered with autumn leaves, and a newly created flagged playground – with real goals, for playtime football. In my memory there is the sharp smell of burning leafsmoke, but maybe that’s illusory. It’s an all boys school, and when we hear the lunchtime squeals from the girls school over the wall, we’re pleased about that.

All in all, it’s just about perfect – especially on Thursday afternoons. For this is the time when we get our reading lesson.

Classroom afternoons in November could be grim affairs – awkward light, the teacher difficult to see against the windows, rattle of rain against the glass and the thought of a train ride in the dark, watching other people already at home, through the windows of trackside houses. But when Bill McCann read ‘Wind in the Willows’, all this vanished in a comfortable cocoon of summer river banks, cosy underground dwellings, and the gurgle of a fast flowing river.

It’s easy to diss ‘Wind in the Willows’ now, as an outdated, Edwardian paeon to a youth that never actually existed, an extended fairy tale for soppy, middle class developmentally arrested adults. Certainly, looking at the somewhat tragic and stilted life of Edinburgh born Kenneth Grahame, you can see the comfort he must have experienced from writing this tale. And , on another level, it’s also a fairly cutting political satire, as befits its authorship by the man, who as Secretary, had his signature on Bank of England notes.

However, we knew nothing of this in our classroom as the mellow tones of our teacher, with his twinkling eyes, and mock serious demeanour, wrapped themselves around us.

As a widow’s son, I suppose I was always going to be vulnerable to a strong male figure in my childhood, and I’m hugely fortunate that Bill played that role. probably in his fifties, when he taught us, he was just right for the task, a tweed suited, ex RAF fighter pilot, who had also played rugby, but had seen enough of life to recognize that gentle is stronger than forceful.

He brought the characters – Ratty, Mole, Badger, Toad and all – to life so skillfully and vividly that I still hear his voice when I re-read the book today, still have a distrust of stoats and weasels, and can’t see a vintage car without thinking ‘Poop poop’.

The joy I got from those sessions was the best sort of contentment, not really recognized until much later. I just knew I looked forward to the lessons, and was captivated by the characters and their world, and the words Grahame used to draw them and bring them to life.

It was the start of a lifelong love affair with the written word, with books, with stories and with the power of description.

Of course, such an obsession, unconsciously, set me up for the requirements of our education system, leading to a degree in English, and a career as an English teacher that has never failed to give me joy.

However, it did more.

It was a kind of liberation from being an only child, an entry to a world of friends, heroes and otherness. I could go anywhere, do anything, think great thoughts and accomplish great feats – simply by turning the pages of a book and getting lost in its created world, realizing the power of words, and the skill of writing.

I believe that timing was everything in this. As a nine and ten year old I was impressionable, as are all children. Bill McCann instigated a thirst I never even knew I had, and my family, thank God, encouraged me in quenching it. Friday night visits to the local library became an integral part of my weekend routine, one looked forward to with anticipation. I can remember running home so I could start reading the latest borrowings.

Whatever the future holds for a child, he needs to learn how to access it, and be comfortable in doing so. Whether he gets his information and learns about the world from an encyclopoedia, Wikipedia or an iPad and whether he reads his books on paper or by kindle, it’s the words that count, the reading that makes it possible. And joy in the written page leads to articulacy and communication skills socially as well.

All of this explains why children who grow up comfortable with books, surrounded by them, and seeing them as part of their everyday life, tend to flourish, academically and socially. Even if it’s hard to overcome social exclusion and economic inequality, we can make a difference by providing access to books – and access to all, so reading, like so many other advantageous habits, does not come to be seen as an entitlement of the middle class or a privilege for a few.

For that reason, I would draw attention to the Christmas fund promoted by Kate Higgins, of Children First, xmasbooksfrkids

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=KateHiggins1

It’s a wonderful cause and can really make a difference. If you’re reading this, chances are, when you were young, somebody gave you a book; now you can do the same.

The chance to read is the chance to grow!
Have a happy Christmas.

The original revival of this unjustly ignored work was from the much lamented 7:84 in the early eighties, and I always regretted missing that. I suppose I approached this production with some trepidation, as its reputation, at least in my eyes, had preceded it, and I was fearful of being let down.

I needn’t have worried; as is reflected in the reviews it was great performance, no weak links, a super set and some unforgettable moments. Lorraine McIntosh played Maggie, the complex lead female, with convincing brillo; Michael Nardone captured that gut wrenching combination of authority and hopelessness in an impressive performance, and there was a stand out cameo from Jeanette Foggo. I think a lot of the show’s energy came from two of its younger performers – Louise McCarthy, as Jenny – the daughter who knows she needs to get away but can’t quite shake off her family ties, and Charlene Boyd – as the scheming wife of the feckless son of the house, who plots her way to better things, devoid of any feelings Their frustrations were powerfully displayed in the clash of aspiration versus poverty and despair.

However, I don’t really want to write a review, but rather to reflect on some of those ‘thousand thoughts’ the emotions raised by the play stirred up in me – and the role of memory in who we are and how we react.

This is not a ‘we were poor but we were happy’ memoir – an approach which I’ve always found rather insulting – both to readers and to the people who were there. I don’t see any evidence that poverty brings any kind of happiness – though I do understand that there are many who politically would like to think that was the case.

I had a happy childhood, which was probably possible because I wasn’t poor. In my early years, we stayed in a two roomed flat, the lack of car, fridge or television would probably suggest a kind of poverty now, but for the times we were comfortably working class I guess. So I do have memories of tenement living.

I can remember sleeping in my cot in the living room because we had visitors; they got the double bed, in what was always known as ‘the room’ and my parents slept in the bed that was kept made up in the ‘recess’, an alcove curtained off the main room. As in the set for the play, I recall the basic cooker in a corner cupboard and the sink at the window with a view out to the back green. Although it is fifty years ago, I can tell you that Grandma Hodge lived upstairs, Johnny Leggatt, a widowed insurance man, lived on the ground floor with his two daughters, two sets of neighbours – the Robinsons and the Somervilles – emigrated – one to Australia the other to Canada; and the other ground floor flat was lived in by brother and sister, Johnny and Maggie – who always had Haggis on Tuesdays and fish, generally hake (Oh no Maggie, not hake again!) on Fridays. I have all this knowledge because that was how tenement living was; like it, or not, you knew each other’s business – as in the play, when the wife battering upstairs is common knowledge to all, met with raised eyebrows, a shake of the head, and a feigned ignorance in the victim’s presence.

Inevitably, with this knowledge, came responsibility – even if it was only openly acknowledged with the ‘Your turn to clean the stair’ sign hung on the doorknob at regular intervals.

The play’s title ‘Men should weep’ is undoubtedly ironic, for while their role was difficult enough, the role expected of women in the poverty of the thirties was almost impossible. Homemaking, nursing, morale boosting, skivvying and mothering hardly covers the range of expectations placed on them – by family and society. They were in an unwinnable and prostrated position, they couldn’t hope to do it all, and that was without any possibility of forging an independent role for who they thought they were, or wanted to be, themselves.

There’s a line of political thought which would tell you that, from these conditions, was forged the women’s movement, led by women who had watched their mothers struggle with overwhelming demands and vowed to escape that trap. They would tell you that, despite the road still to be travelled, advances have been made, women have more freedom, and equality is openly espoused. This may be true; I am conscious that, as a male, writing on such matters, leaves me open to charges of being patronizing, ignorant, or, I suppose, chauvinist. However, I will plough on, convinced I have a right to my reflections.

The problem is, when I put down the books on political theory and look around me, it seems that women have not been liberated. Indeed, it seems that the cry of the thirties: “How and why should I be expected to do all of this?” is still very much in evidence.
True, it is perhaps generated from a slightly different place, but it still focuses on homemaking and domestic issues, the balancing of childcare and professional responsibilities, home and work, and social and family. It hasn’t been liberation – it has been the teasing possibility of added choices – without the structure to make them truly attainable.

In the play, the scenes where Maggie’s neighbours come in, on the scrounge for a cup of tea and a blether, are often played for comedy – but they speak volumes for the societal attitudes of the times. When Maggie’s man’s in work and she gets a smart new hat, the women affect to ignore it, jealous of such opulence; they are happy to nod and wink behind each other’s backs and always ready to take the huff with each other in some real or imagined slur on their character. However, there is an underlying support network here, a shared experience. The battered wife knows that they know, though it would never be admitted to her face – they will always leave her that dignity, and though tea and biscuits won’t stop the husband’s drunken rages, at least Maggie’s table provides some sort of partial refuge in an age when interference with such family issues would be completely unthinkable. Likewise, in dealing with her sick child, the demands of her old mother-in-law and the distancing of her children, Maggie at least knows she is not alone in her troubles. The strength of shared experience and the, sometimes surly, bounds of family, provide at least a context for dealing with hard times and sorrows.

It sometimes feels like today’s society cannot provide such supports. ‘Successful’ men and women will have their gym membership, their golf clubs, their book groups and suchlike, but, unless lucky enough to live in an area with a high proportion of community activists, the most vulnerable in our society, and I still suspect these are mostly women, have fewer and fewer networks to support them – increasingly so, as family life becomes more and more unravelled.

In 2008, when the anniversary of the 1968 Paris Riots was being celebrated, there was much discussion on why, ultimately, the rioters, who clearly had De Gaulle’s government on the ropes at one stage, failed to change French society and, as it seemed, faded away. The answer suggested, eerily reminiscent of much later adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan, was that the instigators of the riots had put much energy into why they wanted change, but little thought into what they would do to replace the corrupt regime they detested. In plain speak, they didn’t know what they wanted if they were successful and so they lost the ground they had gained.

My memory of the women’s movement in the sixties is similar. They were clear in their rightful demands for equality, and strident in their determination that women should be released from the shackles of what was termed domestic drudgery, and gain equal access to the jobs market and career paths. So far, so good.

On what would happen after that, there was less detail. Furthermore, they allowed themselves to be portrayed in the media, as anti-men and confusing equality of gender with suggesting men and women were the same. In simple language, they were proposing equality of opportunity and a radical change in the way society operated but failed to nail down how this could be achieved. In a world that was still very much run by males they attempted to sideline them and promoted them as a solely negative influence. They eschewed the chance of a progressive partnership going forward and handicapped any progress they could have achieved. I remember visiting Greenham Common as a gesture of solidarity and being mystified by a very mixed welcome, as if my views and support were somehow not required, because I was male.

In the end, a little like De Gaulle in 68 and Saddam after the first Gulf War, the means of fighting the battle allowed those who were in control to patronize the views of the ‘rebel’ forces and ultimately control what was achieved and how it was attained. For those reasons, women still fight to have equal opportunities, many are not on equal pay, and the balance between home and work, however you want to categorise it, is as much as a concern as ever – for many women, and not many men.

The question is: if you engineered a change from a women’s ‘role’ being solely domestic to their accessing careers outside the home, how did you expect the work in the home to be done, who was going to take on the many tasks that were previously assigned to the wife or mother? The obvious answer is for men to do their share, so why antagonize and sideline them, to reinforce them in their feeling of being ‘threatened’? And if men’s role is to change as well, must you not campaign for a change in their working conditions. In that way you promote change and partnership, liberating both genders from the previous expectations.

You can, of course, blame men for this and tell them to pull the finger out, help more at home, and get over it. Which is a bit like the coalition forces in Iraq telling Saddam to straighten up and fly right – not having promoted the changes in society to make that inevitable.

I don’t know if Thatcher actually believed there was ‘no such thing as society’ but it certainly suited her money grabbing agenda to promote the idea to the people who would least benefit from its disappearance. The survival of the fittest is an odious modus operandi and, as we are seeing on a daily basis, the have’s will always defend their possessions and advantages, generally at the expense of the most vulnerable in society.

During ‘Men should Weep’, one of the songs sung by the excellent Arthur Johnstone, is ‘A Handful of Earth’.

We’re the first ones to starve, we’re the first ones to die
The first ones in line for that pie-in-the-sky
And we’re always the last when the cream is shared out
For the worker is working when the fat cat’s about.

To me, the only way to overcome this cruelty an selfishness is for men and women to operate in partnership. Previous tactics made it easy for the privileged to divide and rule, and the have’s can still be heard on a regular basis in their complaints about even the minimal attempts made by EU regulations to treat men and women as equal in homemaking as well as work situations.

Both Maggie and her husband suffer in Men should Weep, poverty doesn’t reserve its hopelessness and powerlessness for one gender and not another. There are different pressures it’s true, and it would be fair to say that men often had/have more escape routes, but the lesson of history is that we are in this together.

Scotland is suffering right now because the poor are marginalized, women are struggling to balance lifestyle as well as economics, and men are often pigeonholed into an emotionless facade that leads to mental illness, under the pressure of failing to share or declare their feelings while attempting to preserve a macho display. Whether we term it sectarianism, football violence, or drink related ill health, the wrongs in Scottish society are plain, and the causes deep.

Men should Weep revived thoughts of the ill and the good in the earlier years of the twentieth century. Possessed of very little, the parents’ grief was not caused by their lack of belongings, but by the lack of opportunities for their children – be it in health or employment. The comfort that was to be had came from family, friends and neighbours. How ironic that we should have moved on in terms of wealth as a nation in the intervening years but still find ourselves worried by our children’s futures, still with large numbers struggling to make ends meet, and still being told that possessions will bring happiness and that we should support the ‘wealth creators’, even to the detriment of the most vulnerable. How devastating that, along the way, we have managed to walk away from a lot of the supports that used to exist even in the poorest parts of society.

I don’t think there is anything ironic about the play’s title in these times. When we look at how we have abused our chances, dismantled our society, and wasted our resources, I think we should all weep.

In simple terms, Dolly, as he was universally known, was an excellent and hard working mixed race cricketer. The timing and geography of his birth meant he was thrust into a pivotal position in the fight against apartheid in South Africa, and the contemporary furore about the links between politics and sport.

It wasn’t a position that he sought, he never saw himself as a trailblazer or figurehead – he was far too modest and circumspect for that – but the grace with which he reacted under such enormous pressure, and his refusal to be manipulated by powers far greater than the individual, marked him out as a very special person.

There are far better accounts than any I could attempt which pay tribute to both his cricketing career – which, even in normal circumstances, would have been stellar – and his role in the fight against apartheid, but I only wish to focus on his own dignity and the contrast between how things were then and now.

There is irony in the timing of his death, given the plethora of South African born sportsmen who choose freely to play for other countries in pursuit of wealth, and the current news concentration on the pronouncements of Sepp Blatter on racisim in football.

The point about Dolly was, that despite being totally aware of the heinous nature of apartheid and implacably opposed to it in all areas of life, the conviction that he was the man to do something to do about it was conspicuously absent from his early thinking. He just didn’t feel he was made of hero material. How wrong he was.

In his bearing, in his kindness, in his refusal to judge, he made a far more powerful case against apartheid than many who postured and hit the headlines by choice. Being aware of Basil D’Oliveira was to understand the fatuous nature of judging or valuing mankind on the grounds of their appearance, origins or background.

Ultimately, he gained respect almost universally, not because of what he was – cricketer, mixed race or whatever, but because of who he was and the life he led.

Sadly, daily evidence suggests that the modern day pollution of sport, its adherence to the wishes of corporate tycoons, and its ignorance of its original precepts, mean the emergence of stars with the gravitas and humanity of Dolly is less and less likely.

It’s not difficult to imagine that, in a similar position today, the turmoil caused by his conflict between birthplace and adopted home, would be seen as a huge marketing opportunity, a chance to add, and how fitting the pun is, ‘colour’ to advertising campaigns, and irresistible to a whole phalanx of agents and commercial negotiators.

It’s odious to name comparisons, but equally difficult to suggest any similarly humble stars in current cricket, where maximizing the buck appears to have overtaken any lip service to playing the game.

In a welter of irony, I’m forced to recollect that cricket, like other sports, has been here before. Originally the game of country peasants and sailors, it was highjacked in the 18th century by the nobility as a forum for betting, so that their manservants played the game as representatives of their Lords and betters, who stayed at home and placed odds on the result. Eventually they lost interest and, to an extent, the game returned to its roots.

Reflecting on the greatness of Basil D’Oliveira today, we’re left to suspect that, until the Cable and Satellite TV concerns lose interest in sport as an advertising platform, we are stuck with moral pygmies and vapid ‘superstars’.

I really think Dolly is better off out of it. God love him.

When I was a child, I believed that the Irish Presidency was an institution invented to keep Eamon De Valera in the spotlight after he had ‘retired from active politics’. Mature reflection suggests that might not have been as childish a misconception as you might think. Either way, the Presidency, largely a ceremonial position, has gradually changed, in much the same way as Ireland has – not always willingly, and occasionally in grand lurches.

It became a necessity to choose a Head of State when Ireland eventually extricated itself from the British Empire and established a new constitution in 1937, and proclaimed a Republic in 1949. The fact that the formal residence of the President was to be the previous ViceRegal Lodge reflected the largely ceremonial duties of the President.

However, as you might expect, there was a linguistic conundrum involved in the constitutional arrangements. The President’s official title is An Uachtarain na h’Eireann – The President of Ireland – reflecting the claim to 32 counties. Although times have changed, UK communiques were formerly always careful to refer to the President of the Irish Republic, or The Irish President.

Be that as it may, for the first four decades or so of its existence, the position was filled, predictably, by loyal and retired political servants, generally of a Fianna Fail background, who smiled, shook hands, and reviewed the troops.

Candidates for election have to be nominated by at least 20 members of the Oireachtas (the Dail and the upper house – the Seanad) or by four county councils. Often in the twentieth century there was considerable arm twisting by the politicians to convince a candidate to stand, and, once elected, to remain for a second 7 year term. Not surprisingly, then, on several occasions the election has been uncontested as a result of some cosy negotiations between the various parties.

Then, in 1976, Cearbhall o Dalaigh resigned after a constitutional row with the government of the day, and in particular the defence minister, who had called him a ‘thundering disgrace’. He was the first President not to have had a link, direct or indirect, with the war of Independence, and there was a feeling that perhaps times were changing for the role of President. His successor, Patrick Hillery was a former EU Commissioner and long time Fianna Fail stalwart. Though initially reluctant to take on the role, he grew into the job and was widely revered as a decent man who steadied the constitutional ship.

After his 14 year term, there was a feeling, perhaps, that the post had retreated to its former low profile position. Lined up for successor was another Fianna Fail veteran, Brian Lenihan; it seemed a shoe in, as they say. He was popular in the country, well connected politically and, in addition, was known to be battling illness. If familiarity didn’t usher him in to the Aras, surely he would garner the sympathy vote.

But it didn’t turn out like that. The Labour party, never a major player in Irish politics, unless as part of a coalition, decided to propose Mary Robinson as their candidate. This was quite a departure – she was female, only in her forties, TCD and Harvard educated, and left wing in many social policy areas, particularly marital breakdown and women’s health. Given the history of the Presidency, her candidacy always looked like a token attempt to raise important issues, but no more than that.

Then Fianna Fail, under the stewardship of Charlie Haughey, and their candidate, lost the plot. Evidence came up that Lenihan had possibly interfered with constitutional affairs by contacting the President over a dissolution of the Dail some years previously. As is nearly always the case, the attempt to cover up or dissemble was more damaging than the original offence, and in a staggering departure from ‘normality’, an educated, left leaning, cosmopolitan, female candidate won the Irish Presidency.

It was a genuinely joyful moment in Irish politics and, as hoped, she revolutionised the role of An Uachtarain, reaching out to loyalists, Britain, and the diaspora as no holder of the post had ever before. Though there has been a cult of hagiography around her, there is no doubt that her term of office changed the nature of the post, possibly saving the presidency from a slow death through irrelevance.

Such was her impact that, come the next election, caused when she resigned after 7 years to take up a post as United Nations Commissioner for Human Rights, there were no fewer than 4 female candidates. It seemed Robinson’s tenure had changed the way the Presidency is viewed. The 1997 victor, Mary McAleese, the first President to be born in the six counties, has continued to make the role more relevant, not always without controversy, in her 14 year term.

McAleese’s progress, especially in terms of external relations with Britain and neighbourly contacts with unionists in the North, has mirrored both the development of the Peace Process and changes in Irish society.

The line up for the 2011 election, however, poses some interesting questions for an Ireland less sure of itself than it has been for years. The candidates are as follows:
Sean Gallagher: a former Irish Dragon’s Den contestant and entrepreneur, standing as an independent with former Fianna Fail links;
Martin McGuinness: Sinn Fein’s Deputy First Minister in the six counties, who first came to prominence as Commander of the IRA’s Derry City Brigade in the 1970s;
Dana Rosemary Scallon, former MEP and teenage Eurovision winner;
David Norris: a Senator with a long involvement in public life in the arts and supporting gay rights;
Mary Davis: another independent, describes herself as a social entrepreneur and was involved in the organisation of Ireland’s highly successful Special Olympics;
Gay Mitchell: the candidate promoted by governing party Fine Gael, an MEP, former Lord Mayor of Dublin and failed candidate for party leadership
and Michael D Higgins: the Labour party candidate: former Mayor of Galway, Senator, TD, MInister for the Arts, Culture and the Gaeltacht, human rights campaigner.

Most of these candidates pose questions of the electorate in relation to where Ireland stands now as a country, its views and attitudes. The polls suggest that Davis is not making much headway. Mitchell, because of his government’s unpopular stance on spending asperity is struggling. Dana, who has a fair constituency in the rural areas following her somewhat fundamentalist right wing views looks like sticking at around 7%.

Sean Gallagher, with high name recognition and good presentation skills, relatively untramelled by previous Fianna Fail links, is going well, but it is the other three candidates who pose the questions that will tell us where stands Ireland now.

David Norris was initially thought to be a strong candidate. Generally well recognised and respected in Ireland, for many he was the newly acceptable face of gay rights in politics in an ever more secular state. His demeanour was generally thought of as presidential. Unfortunately, as his candidacy got under way, he hit trouble. Evidence appeared that he had written letters to an Israeli court on behalf of a former partner who had been charged with statutory rape after having sex with a minor. In the furore surrounding this revelation, he withdrew from the race. He has since rejoined the campaign but a succession of stuttering performances suggest his confidence, and maybe that of the electorate has been shattered. This is a pity, because his very candidacy speaks of a country that has moved on dramatically, and we can’t know how strong a showing he would have made had scandal not scared the voters.

Michael D Higgins, probably at this stage the favourite is at once the traditional presidential candidate, but at the same time a challenge to cosmopolitan Ireland. An avuncular figure, he has an excellent record on literature, the arts and the Irish Language; he set up Bord Scannan na h’Eireann – the Irish Film Board, and TG4 the Irish language TV station; he is a poet, broadcaster and author. His excellent record on human rights around the world speaks of a thoroughly decent man who would not let his country down. His victory would suggest an inclination amongst a people mauled by the Celtic Tiger to look back to their indigenous roots and embrace western Ireland rather than become west Britons, whilst at the same time recovering their generosity of spirit towards poorer parts of the world.

And finally we come to the Republican elephant in the aras race: Martin McGuinness. You can, and the voters do, take two opposed views to his candidacy: he is an IRA man, responsible for murder and mayhem and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the presidency; or: he should be praised for his work on the Peace Process, his bridge building in the six counties, and for his efforts in working with the unionists in the north to improve society and bring jobs; his election would show that Ireland, north and south, was moving on. There is, of course, no ‘right’ view in these choices, which depend on the indivdual’s viewpoint. There is irony aplenty, however.

Many of those who disqualify McGuinness because of his past are those who attacked the IRA in the Troubles for refusing to let go of the past and move on; there is a contradiction in their views if they now cast up his past. Some of the loudest voices decrying his candidacy come from those sections of society who wreaked havoc on thousands of families across Ireland because of their dodgy business dealings. This is not to equate financial shenanigans with the grief caused by the Troubles, but you might think McGuinness has contributed more to rebuilding the society he helped wreck than have the financiers thus far.

Possibly his biggest hindrance, however, is found in the subtle undertones of the Republic’s confusion over the national question. Taking their lead from De Valera, since the foundation of the state, most Irish folk have been happier to pay lip service to the concept of a 32 county republic than to do anything concrete towards bringing it about. During the Troubles, their biggest fear was that the mayhem would spread to the 26 counties. So, while often rather appreciating the fact that there was a fight for unification, they weren’t prepared to pay the social, economic or political price. There is a kind of subliminal guilt about this ‘unfinished business’, which is most often found in the media’s attitude to Sinn Fein, which is generally hostile, irrespective of the party’s political and social agenda. This is mirrored by the attitudes of the major parties in the south who have much to lose if the radical, community based politics of these energetic newcomers take root. There is also an unwillingness to contemplate a ‘ Sinn Fein President’ in 2016 when the centenary of the Easter Rising will be celebrated.

All are agreed that Sinn Fein campaigns well and connects with people. In addition, for an increasing number of voters, the Troubles are an historic rather than an actual memory; they know McGuinness as a Deputy First Minister and Peace Politician – rather than the butcher’s apprentice from the Bogside who took on the British Army. Independent commentators are beginning to suggest that the media’s aggressive attitude towards McGuinness might have the opposite effect to that desired, that he might garner a sympathy vote – which some would consider the ultimate irony. Most are also agreed, however, that the real purpose of mcGuinness’s campaign is to further establish Sinn Fein in mainstream politics in the south. It is easy to point the finger at McGuinness and cry murderer, but that doesn’t really take on the issues or reflect the current situation in an ever changing country. There needs to be a higher level of debate – whoever is to become President.

It could be that the Irish voter is so disillusioned with his politicians that the turnout will be disastrously low; or an electorate, which is far more sophisticated than they are generally given credit for, may choose to see the Presidency as a way of bypassing the parliamentarians and choosing a representative who will encourage a recovery of national spirit.

Will it be the entrepreneur who can conjure up businesses out of nothing, the poet and scholar who will reflect on the country’s illustrious artistic history, or, like many times before, and in many other countries as well, will the election of a former gunman announce that peace is secure, the past has been a source of learning, not resentment, and the new millennium has well and truly started?

Watch this space.

He took it all in good part and was well capable of giving as good as he got, whether on the streets, the beach or in his local ‘The Upsteps’ at the end of Aughton Rd.

Fifty yards up our road in the other direction was a small modern bungalow, looking incongruous amongst the large red brick Victorian houses around it. It was owned by a very quiet and unassuming miillionaire called Noel Le Mare, whose one concession to wealth appeared to be a chauffeur to drive his Austin Van den Plas. Word got out that he’d bought a horse – cue much punning on his name – and stabled it with the trainer at the other end of the road. Even as a teenager, with no interest in horse racing, I joined in the shaking of heads and the sympathetic grins: “That’ll be the last we’ll hear of that nag then!”

Well, not quite. It was called Red Rum and became possibly the most famous racehorse ever.

Naturally, all of this was in my mind when I heard of Ginger McCain’s death this morning. In all the time he, and Rummy, stayed at the end of our road, he never changed, never got big time, never lost his sometimes irascible Lancashire demeanour, never seemed to resent the interest of the locals who laughed for years and now were lost in admiration.

I’ve already written on how the local cricket club in Birkdale was an important part of my growing up, but, though racing has never been an interest of mine (apart from when McCain horse have been running), I have to reflect on how an accident of geography can affect your approach to life in general and sport in particular.

I lived in Birkdale from aged 7 to 18, and the area where Red Rum was stabled played a large part in my growth. The stable yard was entered down a lane between the double shop frontage of McCain’s Car Sales. To one side was a small shop called ‘Mac’s Pie Shop’ run by a guy who was the spit of my late father; never knew if he was related to Ginger or not. Second hand cars would be parked on the pavement area and sometimes it was difficult for the horses to get from street down the lane.

The frontage in 2003; the pie shop was behind the red car

Opposite the stables was a chip shop, run by a couple form Leigh near Manchester. they were almost a cartoon 60s chippy owners; she severe in glasses and pony tail, serving briskly and efficiently; he more talkative and expansive, chatting to the customers. When I first saw the couple who ran the cafe in early series of ‘Last of the Summer Wine’, I thought of them immediately. In those far off times, I used to cycle to watch fourth division Southport, and on the way home, especially from midweek evening games, I would always stop for chips. He would go through the same routine each time -
“Oh dear! Here he is! Been to watch that shower again? Lose again did they? What a team! What about that big fellow up front – useless isn’t he?”

I would respond with a teenager’s earnestness, but I got to enjoy the banter, it became part of my routine. It was only later I appreciated the warmth of the encounters.

When Red Rum began winning the National it was exciting for locals, though in those days the hype that surrounds sporting events was nowhere near as overblown. On two or three occasions on the morning of the race I happened to be walking down our road as the horse box set off for Aintree. It was a thumbs up and a mouthed ‘good luck’ to the driver and lads in the cab, met with a smile and a cheery wave as a prelude to national and international attention.

Again, after each of his wins, especially the earlier ones, his return home was a muted, local affair. You might have around a hundred locals waiting outside the showroom, some with polo mints for the horse. He’d come out of the horsebox on the street and walk between the crowds; Ginger would stop and chaff the locals, ask how much we’d won, and ease the ‘old fella’, as he called him, through to the stables. It was a lovely small scale ending to a huge day of fame.

Rummy the winner comes home to Aughton Rd: myself bottom right with the fashionable hippy hair!

On the other side of the local level crossing, Red Rum’s original stable boy, Billy Ellison lived in a flat. He garnered a fair amount of fame himself as pictures of Rummy at full gallop on the sands became popular. In the early seventies, as a student Christmas postman, I delivered to his address – often written on envelopes as ‘Billy, C/o Red Rum, Southport’.

It was, as I said, an accident of geography and timing that I was to live so close to such a famous sporting legend, but the way Ginger McCain handled it, his willingness to chat or react to those of us who lived nearby, even his mercurial, Lancashire, masculine demeanour, reminiscent of my St Helen’s born grandad, and not to everyone’s taste, left a lasting impression on me, and affected my view of sport, and, I suppose, fame, for the rest of my life.

Likewise, the banter of the chip shop owner, more gentle and empathetic than Ginger’s approach, helped me appreciate that watching football was about the experience, not necessarily the glory of top teams or tournaments won.

I suppose, opposite each other, on that quiet Birkdale street, were the two sides of sport – the sympathy for those who are fated never to achieve greatness, and the phlegmatic approach to success that recognises it’s the result of hard work and good fortune.

The chip shop folk retired, sold up, and moved back to Leigh and at least I was able to attempt an emotional good bye to them as they served me my last Holland’s Steak Pudding! The McCain outfit eventually moved to Cheshire, long after I’d left Southport myself. I continued to look out for his horses and enjoyed his annual appearances on TV at National time.

When Red Rum died and was buried at Aintree’s finishing post, I felt for the emotional man being interviewed, and was thankful our paths had crossed, even if briefly. Marvelously, having done well on Red Rum over the years, my annual Grand National bet came up trumps again with Amberleigh House, all those years later, in what we all assumed was Ginger’s swansong.

So to see his son repeat the achievement this year at Aintree was just marvelous. Ginger, interviewed in the winners’ enclosure, was the same pretend bluff Lancastrian he had always been. Despite the pride and emotion fairly glowing from him, he was still at 80, the master of the deprecating one liner:
“Ginger, you must be very proud of what he’s done here today?”
“Yes, I am; and when I find out who is father is, I’ll congratulate him!”

That stretch of Aughton Rd taught me to appreciate sport for what it is and to look on fame and success as the imposters they are; the measure of success is not how great your achievement but how you handle it. I was lucky to know Red Rum, lucky to share a small town with Ginger McCain, blessed to be there when it all happened, and fortunate to see close up the best way of reacting to victory. I suppose I also gained a love of fish and chips!

So cheers, Ginger, you made a difference to my life and attitudes without ever realising it. In the week when Lancashire’s cricket team became County Champions, you were another reminder of the values and qualities of the north west of England.

I hope you’re not giving God too hard a time!

However, the 8 week consultation period maybe gives us cause for reflection on how we police and organise our emergency services and whether the traditional model could not be changed to our benefit.

When you view other nation’s policing arrangements, it becomes clear that the way we police is based greatly on the historical foundation of the services. Scotland’s police forces were originally privately instituted by insurance companies – for obvious reasons, but in countries around us the story may be different, and it was interesting to hear frequent comment during the recent riots in England, about there being a ‘different relationship’ between police and community in Scotland

In Ireland, for instance, the Republic’s police force was born out of the violence of a War of Independence and a bitter and divisive civil war. It’s easy to see why the fledgling state would wish to establish a force that was unarmed and centrally controlled, as they sought to bring peace to areas that had been under republican rather than British rule for some years. The people had had enough of control by gun and quasi-military organisation, they needed something different. So An Garda Siochana, the Civic Guard, was established to keep the civilian peace. It was also important to the founding fathers that it be distanced as far as possible from the frequently hated and mistrusted armed forces that pertained under British rule – the Royal irish Constabulary and the Dublin Metropolitan Police. In size, the Republic is rather smaller than Scotland but has a similar mix of urban and rural territory. Dublin based national units such as the Garda Technical Bureau can be dispatched to serious crime scenes relatively quickly, and there is no costly duplication of specialist units. This would suggest that, with modifications, a similar operation could be effective in Scotland.

In France, there is a model which has resonance in many parts of the world. There are local town or city police, the armed national police of the Gendarmerie and the Surete, detective branch, again at national level, and also the CRS, whose main job appears to be taking on riots and protests! In other words, different organisations to fulfil different roles, under a national umbrella police network.

There is a nod in the direction of this arrangement in England with the ‘national’ role played by Scotland Yard and some centralised or regional crime squads and specialist agencies. Some areas also have Police Community Support Officers. However, their remit states quite clearly that they are not police officers, nor do they have police officers’ powers. When I’ve seen them in action, I’ve always been reminded of a line in a Bill Cosby routine, shouted at a hospital porter: ‘Hey you! Almost a doctor!’ They seem to hover somewhere between litter patrols and traffic wardens, and though their raison d’etre – to reassure the public with an increased and obvious presence on the streets – is commendable, the limit to their powers and their need to continually call for ‘real police’ back up doesn’t seem all that helpful.

I’ve often thought that the American system might be helpfully adapted to Scotland’s needs. Similarly to the French system, it has a tiered policing structure – from local to national – and one which attempts to address the needs of individual communities. Obviously the major cities have their own forces, but outside of the metropolitan areas the law is administered by quite distinct providers.

In rural America, each town will have its town police. They operate within the town boundaries and deal with what might be termed ‘every day offences’: traffic, domestic disputes, assault, burglary and so on. The area around the town – the county, is served by a sheriff’s department and they would deal with similar levels of crime in country areas and be available to support town police if necessary. Interestingly, the sheriff stands for election, so there is a direct link between the operation of the force and what local people want.

Over and above this local policing structure are the State Police who investigate major crime throughout the state and usually provide specialist units to support local forces. National issues are dealt with by the FBI as a federal force.

I don’t think these arrangements make policing necessarily ‘better’ but such organisation does seem to be suited to the population being served. In Scottish terms, it is possible to envisage, say, Auchtermuchty, with a town force for local issues, backed up by a Fife and Perthshire force and with access to national policing when necessary. A pub assault would be dealt with by town police, a farm fire by the ‘sheriff’, and if you were speeding on the M9, it would be Fife and Perthshire or perhaps the national traffic force who would stop you.

This type of organisation wouldn’t call for more police, just a redistribution of tasks. In costs, it’s clear that a local policeman wouldn’t have the salary or training of a state policeman, so savings might be possible there, as well as the already clear move to centralised specialist units.

Some claim that local policing has the handicap of everyone knowing the members of the local force, and, indeed, in Ireland for many years, if not still, it was policy that Guards couldn’t serve in their own locality because of their connections to the community. It’s a balance I suppose – the Irish system led to country lads trying to police Dublin and city slickers out in the sticks, which is maybe not the best way to do it. In America, from what I’ve witnessed, locals are a benefit. You are less likely to speed if you know Mrs Schwarz’s boy is at the town boundary tonight, and the police, in turn, have a good working knowledge of who does what in the neighbourhood. ‘Working for your community’ becomes much more real if you went to school with the folks you are protecting, I suppose.

And just to toss one more hand grenade into the consultation process. In my teenage years I lived in Southport in Lancashire. Until it lost its status as a county borough, its firemen were also the ambulancemen, with the same training. It worked well.

Just a thought.

So over the past 40 years or so, Edinburgh has been an interesting place to live.

When I returned to my hometown in 1970, large areas of the Southside had been laid waste. The Buchanan Report had suggested that Edinburgh should take the Glasgow route to better infrastructure and build motorways through the centre of the city. Large parts of town had been compulsorily purchased and demolished in preparation for these new freeways on stilts. The Report envisaged a 6 lane motorway through the Meadows which would swing down the Pleasance and cut through Calton Hill.

Luckily, nobody could agree on the development, a not uncommon story in the Capital, and it eventually became clear that the plan was madness.

The focus then turned to railways and light transit systems. Many believed, and still do, that an upgrade to the south suburban railway line – which carried city centre workers home and back at lunchtime till the late fifties – equivalent work on Waverley station, and some additional stations in various suburbs, would ease road congestion at a reasonable cost, in cash and environment.

Once again, indecision, lack of political will, and the eventual confusion caused by rail privatisation meant that no decisions were taken, and the streets filled up, and the congestion grew, and the parking became more and more impossible.

To be fair, planning roads and transport in a confined, small and heritage laden city like Edinburgh is not easy, but you would have hoped that, realising that, the city fathers would have put more effort into an integrated plan. Even the various decisions to grow the airport have been fraught with difficulty, and when you look at the situation in Manchester, you do wonder whether Edinburgh missed a trick in not retaining ownership of Turnhouse. (From Wikipedia: Manchester Airports Group is wholly owned by the ten local authorities of Greater Manchester, with a majority share (55%) owned by Manchester City Council; the other nine local authorities own 5% each. In addition to Manchester Airport, it owns and operates Bournemouth Airport, East Midlands Airport and Humberside Airport. The Group handles over 29 million combined passengers a year from its four airports and generates approximately £3.2 billion for the economy of the United Kingdom, whilst supporting, directly and indirectly, over 130,000 jobs.)

So, when trams were mooted, I was in favour – for all sorts of reasons.

What has transpired has been a totally botched, misguided and incompetent attempt to manage and complete a project. It passes all understanding that, with previous experiences to be culled from Manchester, Nottingham, Dublin, Newcastle and other cities, Edinburgh could get it so wrong. Apart from the waste of money, this also led to a general negativity towards the trams – not related to whether or not they would be good for the city, but as a reaction to the mismanagement and poor communication strategy.

We shouldn’t be surprised by the latest votes on the trams – a decision to limit the project to a useless, loss making route. Edinburgh Council, and this isn’t related at all to party politics, has made a career of dither, lack of vision and small mindedness. The concept of vision seems to be totally absent from our City Chambers, where small town bickering and one upmanship seems to reign supreme.

If we take a casual look along the M8 towards Glasgow, we can comment on how they have recovered from, or at least made the best of, the disaster of the town centre motorways. The Concert Hall, the SECC and the Armadillo, Pacific Quay, the new Transport Museum, the Scotstoun Sports complex, and having made superb use of the Kelvin Hall indoor sports arena, they replace it as part of the Commonwealth Games project.

And in Edinburgh? We build a world class athletics stadium in 1970, and, in less than 20 years, neglect it to the extent that it can no longer be used for even national events. We take no notice of the thousands who use it to take part in sport and only show interest when we think we can sell it for housing. This daft idea spawns more half baked notions about cut price stadiums…and eventually peters out to nothing. Our conference centre has to add bits on because it wasn’t built fit for purpose, there is no new built major auditorium, and there hasn’t been since the 1930′s, and our TV studios are reduced to a broom cupboard. Attempts to construct a film studio facility, which should be a cinch given how film makers love to use Edinburgh for location shooting, never get off the ground, as the councillors can’t agree whether Sean Connery or David Murray is their favourite millionaire.

Civically, we’ve built a financial sector on Lothian Rd and dotted some flats around the docks at Leith and the Granton waterfront – though we do talk incessantly of ‘redeveloping the waterfront from Cramond to Portobello’ – I would think, in the old days, the case room at the Evening News had that headline permanently set up. The long wait for an Opera House (not a big ask for a European Capital, you would think) was rewarded with another office block for lawyers and a rebuild of the Traverse Theatre.

All of this in a city which professes to be growing as Glasgow declines and, before the stuff hit the fan, made claims to be a major European Finance hub. Or maybe that last word should have read ‘hubris’.

But, to jump off my soapbox and on to a stationary tram, the politically motivated decision to vote for the worst option, the Haymarket route, can only be filed under short sightedness or vindictiveness. There is no other explanation. Rightly or wrongly, the decision was that Edinburgh should have trams. Once the decision is made, wouldn’t you think the Council would want the best scheme possible? Do they not know that people are watching them? Have they no concept of how ridiculous they seem?

Certainly, the mismanagement of the project is hideous, but, at the moment, the councillors’ behaviour is akin to a chef who had wanted to cook beef, but been told to cook pork, running out of the kitchen with a half cooked joint and shouting: ‘It’s crap meat. Just give them potatoes and peas!” The customers want and deserve better.

Of course, central government can serve us just as badly. Here’s an interesting collision of evidence. If you go out and about regularly in Edinburgh, you will have recognised that, in the last five years or so, it’s almost impossible to make any journey without hearing the blaring sirens of ambulances and paramedic 4x4s rushing through the city. This is not because we are all getting more ill, despite some of the headline health figures. It’s because there is increased traffic congestion and the city infirmary, formerly five minutes from Princes Street in the centre of Edinburgh is now as far away as you can get on the southern side of the capital without actually being in Dalkeith. The money received for the sale of such a glamorous site overlooking the Meadows was too much to ignore and much more evident than the plight of a seriously ill patient’s extra mileage to A&E. We were told the selling price, a surprisingly reasonable £30 million, would finance our new, PFI funded, state of the art hospital. In the end the new ERI was built for more than £70 million over budget – though there may well have been some saving in not equipping it with air conditioning. Unfortunately, overall, £1.5 billion will be paid for the £228 million Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. These figures make the current complaints of Edinburgh councillors a little petty.

The conclusion to all of this seems to be that neither the Capital nor Westminster can be trusted when making important plans that impact on Edinburgh’s citizens. Labour had the trams idea, just like PFI, but now they say it costs too much (Scottish Parly anyone?), the LibDems? Aye well! And the SNP? Well there’s the rub, because other than not wanting to upset the folk in Glasgow, I’m not sure why the SNP in the Parliament are so set against the project. The Parliament has brought new purpose and focus to the Capital and you would think they would want to build on that. there is a strong claim that the capital city sets the tone for a nation. Even economically it is certainly true that the vast majority of tourists who come to Scotland use Edinburgh as their gateway and they need to have a good first impression. The view fo the castle is a great backdrop to Princes Street, despite the depleted nature of the shopping experience, but it’s not much of a vista when it’s obscured by nose to tail double decker buses.

The Scots government need to take over responsibility for getting a proper tram system up and running in Edinburgh as soon as possible. We also need to look at how we do transport in Scotland. If the country is small enough for one police force then it is surely ripe for a national integrated transport authority – so that our cities and rural areas get the infrastructure they need, without the ineffectual meddling of local politicians. Local democracy is an aspiration, but it’s a dead horse I’m not prepared to continue flogging, based on the evidence of the past thirty years or so. If councils can’t do civic pride – whether it’s through lack of vision or malpractice, then let’s replace it with national pride.

In a drawer, I have an old penny. It is bent almost in two because it was placed under the wheels of the last tram to run in Edinburgh. The occasion is one of my first memories, up and out with my parents late at night, the crowds, the fuss, the brightly floodlit white tram passing by the end of Waverley Bridge. I wish I could be confident that at sometime in the future a middle aged man could look at a memento of the first new tram to run in the 21st century, with similar affection.

Of course, if we do get some sort of new tram system, there will be no bent pennies as souvenirs. There will be carefully packaged pieces of expensive official merchandise. Because, otherwise, how on earth will they make money out of the opening – and that, of course, is the whole point.

In the past few months I’ve been lucky enough to catch three television documentaries on leading figures in rock music: two on the Kinks – one on Ray Davies, the other on little brother Dave, and this week’s excellent review of the life and career of Harry Nilsson, one of rock’s lost boys.

They have been uniformly excellent in production, all employing a clever mix of home movies and archive footage to recreate the times and places that influenced these musical heroes. They’ve also given the impression at least of getting near to discovering what made these folk tick – particularly in the case of the Davies brothers who were fully involved in the making of the films.

I suppose if we carry music in our heads for a lifetime – Waterloo Sunset and Everybody’s Talking would be good examples – there’s every chance that we will be fascinated to find out more about those who wrote and performed those tunes. That in itself is a strange discovery for my generation to make, because we were brought up to celebrate the ephemeral nature of ‘pop’ music: the three minute single that would enjoy its ten weeks of chart fame and then disappear forever. It hasn’t quite worked out like that.

There are, of course, those who fell that the longevity of popular music is in fact a bad thing, that when it gains to much responsibility for our dreams it groans a little under the weight; that short riff ridden jingles don’t really bear up to much close scrutiny.

However, these documentaries remind us that, though the songs largely came to us on 7 inch pieces of plastic, behind the music lay real lives and stories to be told. With the wonderful hindsight of nearly half a century, it can be a little humbling to recognize our original naivety but also the power of the emotions still evoked by a few chords on a guitar and a fill on a snare drum.

Watching these carefully crafted films I’ve started to realize things that passed me by in the sixties. One concerns management of the bands.

I suppose the line we were originally fed was the oft repeated tale of musically committed lads practising hard, getting a few youth club gigs and then finally winning a recording contract – in those days the holy grail. With the exception of Brian Epstein, for those of us outside the Curzon Street buzz, the managers didn’t really signify. We could have told you about Chris Lambert and Kit Stamp, Andrew Loog Oldham and Peter Grant, but we never really knew who they were. For instance, it was only comparatively recently that I discovered that Kit Stamp was actor Terry Stamp’s brother.

However, while watching the Dave Davies’ documentary, I heard him make repeated reference to Grenville Collins and Robert Wace: ‘the two posh lads who managed us’ and it suddenly struck me that there was a kind of pattern to that choice of manager. Far from the sixties ‘beat boom’ being an empowerment of working class lads making good, it was actually anything but a street led revolution. Granted it was a departure form the previously closed shop, Tin Pan Alley- led approach to popular music, the boundaries were extended, the rules all changed, but the explosion was driven not by angry young men but rather by rather louche young men, by and large surviving on family money who, in the absence of national service, found themselves with time on their hands and no officer’s mess or colonial service in which to spend it. Even pirate Radio Caroline, as anti-establishment as you could get, you would think, had the backing of posh advertisers, Jocelyn Stevens and his Queen magazine, and DJs like Roger Gale who went on to become right wing Tory MPs.

Anyone who is familiar with the Beatles story can see that, on their arrival in London, they were taken up by the rich young things – John Dunbar and Marianne Faithfull and their art gallery set, the Chelsea and Kensington wannabes, various minor Lords and Baronets, even the Ashers of Wimpole Street. We wanted them to be working class heroes, but they wanted to ‘get on’ and climb socially. It’s what the working class did in those days and it’s interesting to see poor old Ringo still getting grief for honestly assessing his two up two down home in the Dingle as somewhere he was glad to escape. Similarly, ‘threat to the establishment’ Mick Jagger, is nowadays more thoroughly revealed as MCC member, art schooler suburbanite.

None of this is to denigrate the music or the stars; white boys playing R&B was always ersatz and none of us really cared, but the differences between what we were getting and what we thought we knew are quite wide.

The same applies to the stars themselves – and this is perhaps more worthy of our consideration. There was a melancholia hanging over all three of these films All three subjects had achieved greatly, had carved for themselves huge spaces in the psyche of many of their generation and could be fairly sure that their work would be appreciated long into the future – surely the final accolade for any artist. But it would be stretching things to say they cam over as happy or content.

Nilsson’s case is perhaps the most obviously tragic. You could define his life and career as follows, if you wanted to be brutally accurate and brief:
Brooklyn boy falls in love with music, his talent and marvelous voice is discovered and brings some comfort in to a life that was scarred by his dad’s desertion; a collaboration with ace producer Richard Perry brings discipline and direction and ends up with the album of the year Nilsson Schmilsson. Overawed by the Beatles’s approbation, he starts to hang out with the stars whence booze and alcohol boost his low self confidence. Famously hooking up with John Lennon for the ‘lost weekend’ he loses self respect, motivation, self awareness and, finally, his glorious voice. The rest of his life is spent recovering from debts and nursing a health made fragile by his excesses.

Well, of course, it’s easy to say it was all his fault, or even to blame his decline on an addictive personality or personal blemishes. Some would argue that the brief taste of fame he enjoyed was better than none at all, and that the adulation of millions is something that very few ever savour. It’s equally true to say his life might have taken a tragic turn if he’s never been a rock star – but I can’t help thinking that there is a sense in that he paid a high price for the enjoyment that we received.

There is a point to be made about Lennon’s influence also. As a Beatle, his magic is assured, and his early violent death has given him a kind of sainthood, but his carousing with Nilsson, and the effect it had on the American, might serve as a paradigm for what happens when someone damaged in childhood, as Lennon was, achieves universal fame and is allowed freedom to behave in a self absorbed, egotistical and insensitive manner to all around him. It’s clear that Nilsson revelled in John’s company, and that the former Beatle was delighted to have such an enthralled camp follower. What is specific in this case might also serve as a commentary on the effect of rock and roll fame on a whole generation of musicians who were ill equipped to cope for whatever reason.

The two Kinks’ documentaries were more nuanced than that on Nilsson, probably because of the involvement of both Dave and Ray Davies. The fascination for one who had been moved by many of their songs was to see quite clearly the genesis of who they are and what they wrote.

The youngest of a family of older girls, the brothers seem to reflect the common idea that to be brought up in a predominantly female household powers creativity. Both of them cite the Saturday night ‘knees up’ in their north London front room as being crucial to their musical development, and its not hard to spot that influence running through their more music hall based songs.

Ray told a crushing tale of one of his sisters giving him his first guitar, going off to the dancing and then suffering a fatal collapse in the arms of a stranger on the dancefloor. Psychologically a hugely formative moment one would have thought. The sibling rivalry between the two has never really been promoted as a driving force behind their music, in the way the John v Paul relationship has been painted, and the disconnection between Ray and Dave seems a more emotionally deep rooted thing, far more fragile than the idea of male rivalry to produce the best music. Dave suggested in his film that he never was aware of the rivalry till it was painted out to him late in their career.

Perhaps most telling was the feel of the two films, both directed by Julien Temple

Ray’s had the feeling of formal storytelling: the return to the family home, songs half sung, live, sitting at a broken down piano on the stage of a near derelict Hornsey Town Hall. He wandered across north London recapturing his past and his influences and came across exactly as you would have wanted: whimsical, a little melancholic, and probably quite guarded. The overall impression was that of a man whose huge creativity had perhaps brought him as much pain as joy. The title: ‘Imaginary Man’ perhaps said it all.

Dave’s in a sense was more reflective and more painful to watch: it was the melancholy of revelation rather than reflection. Though there was reference to his childhood places and influences, Dave’s film was made largely on Bodmin Moor where he currently lives, and contained much allusion to the mystical aspects of Dave’s current philosophy. It seemed he was distancing himself physically as well as mentally and spiritually. After his solo hit ‘Death of a Clown’, Dave famously reckoned he ‘wasn’t good enough’ to be a solo star, and some of this film reflected the traditional inferiority complex felt by performers as against writers of music. For all that, the fascinating explanation of the original fuzz guitar on ‘You really got me’, invented when Dave took a razor blade to an old speaker cone, suggested a higher level of input to the success of the Kinks form the wee brother than he, or Ray, seem prepared to admit. After a stroke some years ago, Dave’s speech is slower than before and its impossible to avoid the thought that he has paid for his admitted ‘rock and roll’ excesses.

I’m not sure anyone viewing these films would have been totally envious of the brothers, for all their talent and success; the overall impression in their different ways, was of a kind of Byronesque flirtation with near madness in the pursuit of creative genius. Neither, though, played the victim. Ray has always seemed to have espoused the ‘paying for my art’ approach to his success, whilst Dave is less intense and more wry in his reflections; perhaps the classic difference between the introverted writer and the extrovert performer.

The third part of the triangle – with performer and writer – is, of course, the listener. The public took Nilsson, and the Davies brothers, to their hearts, made them successful and famous, heaped praise and affection on them, and then, as is nearly always the case, walked away when fashions changed or when their behaviour became overtly embarrassing or confusing.

It is perhaps one of the truly positive things about the baby boomer generation that, in our dotage, we have retained the perspective to look back on the performers of our youth and recognize what they brought to the soundtrack of our growing up.

Pop was meant to be fleeting in its existence, but it hardly seems fair that the same would be true of its providers.

Ray Davies: Imaginary Man
Dave Davies: Kinkdom Come
Harry Nilsson: The Missing Beatle

Today marks the 47th anniversary of the death of John White, of Spurs and Scotland, struck down by lightning at the age of 27, while sheltering under a tree at the Crews Hill Golf Club in Enfield. Although remembered as a Spurs player, John also played for Alloa and then Falkirk, and, as I have written before, he was also my first ever favourite footballer, from when I was 9 until his death three years later.

The Falkirk Community Stadium, completed on three out of its four sides now, is an encouraging monument to the modern way of surviving in professional football, but, out of town, in an industrial estate, and with no history, it struggles to compete with the Bairns’ original home at Brockville, nestling as it did in the midst of residential streets, built on girders cast out of the steel of the town’s great Carron ironworks. I used to love Brockville which, to the end, remained exactly as it had in the days when John White starred there in the 1950s. It was hopelessly outdated by the end, but even as I queued to get into the one urinal and strained to hear the roars of angry half time managers rumbling through the bowels of the old stand, the discomfort seemed a fair price to pay for the tradition.

Over a year ago I was lucky enough to make email contact with John White’s son Rob – he confirmed that many people still tell him how much they thought of his dad – and I was delighted to hear he had a book on his father’s life coming out. I bought ‘The Ghost of White Hart Lane’ on its publication day, eagerly looked forward to reading it, and intended to review it as soon as I’d finished it. But then I found that was more difficult to achieve than I had thought.

The book moved me in so many ways that I really didn’t know how to react. Written with accomplished author, Julie Welch, the book is really the story of a search for a father who Rob, 5 months old when his dad died, never knew. There was a certain resonance for me in that I lost my own dad at the age of five, though, unlike Rob, at least I had some memories of him. I did recognise , however, that need to know what the person who was your Dad was really like. People seldom speak ill of the dead and you tend to build up a picture of perfection that is hard to live up to.

For Rob, of course, there were cuttings and a few scratchy bits of film, given his dad was a famous footballer, but footballing fame in those days was nothing as compared to now. John White went to play in games for the mighty double winning Spurs on the bus. I once worked out that, in the three years I idolised him, I never heard John White speak, saw him play live on the television no more than a dozen times, read around twenty magazine or newspaper articles and, indeed, saw such a limited selection of pictures of him, that, when I look through the footballing shots in the book, I can actually remember where and when I first saw each of them.

All of this meant a more difficult search for information for Rob, but at least he didn’t have to sift through the kind of tabloid rubbish that surrounds today’s stars. He made discoveries through talking to relatives and colleagues of his dad, and in the end I think he was comforted by what he found; at least he came to an understanding of what sort of a man his father was, a more 3D version of the clippings and black and white tv clips with which he had grown up.

The trouble with reviewing the book was that I made discoveries too, because to have a hero in 1961 was to know very little. Rob felt his dad in some ways was not just ‘The Ghost of White Hart Lane’ for his ability to drift into space on the pitch, but also in his life because of his lack of knowledge about him. In John White, I hero worshipped a ‘ghost’of whom I knew virtually nothing, and around whom I created a persona and hoped it was accurate. In addition, the many issues of growing up without a dad and coping with the effects are raised in the book. My personal experience has been that the older I get the more I realise what I missed, and this is reflected over and over in Rob’s book.

I made more factual discoveries too. In the 1980s I lived in Musselburgh for three years or so. I knew, of course, of the link with John White. I thought of him every time I passed Olive Bank, the local football ground, and whenever they publicised the annual John White five aside tournament, driven by his brother Tommy, in John’s memory. Beyond that I had no knowledge of his actual Musselburgh connections.

Now I know I lived within 100 yards of his childhood home at 14 Links St; when I went out for a run I passed his front door and saw kids kicking a ball on the same patch of ground at the end of the street on which he had perfected his skills. It would never have occurred to me at the time, but I must have passed his aunts or members of his family, on the street, at the bus stop, in the supermarket. In retrospect I think I’m glad I didn’t know at the time, but it’s a strangely comforting discovery that I walked the places of his childhood, even without realising it.

The book also gave me pause for thought on the effect our childhood heroes have on our psyche. To idolise someone from the age of 9 till 12 is no minor undertaking. At that age such thoughts are huge in your daily life. He is still my ideal footballer, I still measure others by his standards and I never forget how lucky I was to have John White as my first footballing hero.

When I look at today’s superstars and the cuttings their fans must collect, the example they set, and the lives they lead, I recognise all that I gained from going through that phase when I did and with whom I did.

The John White I admired was, in my eyes, a quiet but cheerful guy who wouldn’t let people down, and was loved by all who knew him. He was content to play a crucial part in the team without drawing attention to himself but he was the heart of that great Tottenham side.

When I started reading ‘The Ghost of White Hart Lane’, I was worried that I might discover differently. I was also nervous for Rob that he might be asking questions, the answers to which would be ultimately unwelcome. Happily, it seems, just like my time in Musselburgh, by good fortune I got it right about Chalky White – he was all the things I wanted him to be, and, it appears, all that his son needed him to be.

Rob clearly and understandably is hugely proud of who his dad was and all he accomplished. Having read the book, it’s nice to be able to suggest that there’s no doubt John White would be similarly proud of his son.

There were many times when reading this book that I wasn’t sure whether my tears were for John White, his widow Sandra, or his children Rob and Mandy. At times they were for Rob the adult, and sometimes for me, for the dad I lost, and in recognition of the happy childhood I enjoyed despite my loss and my mother’s devastation. It was that emotional.

In places in the book Rob hints that The Ghost soubriquet has sometimes had a greater force than merely that of a sports sub’s imagination back in the early sixties, and I understand his feelings in that direction.

At some point later today I’ll take a walk down Links St, and if I see a wee boy playing with his two brothers while their mum looks out on them from a ground floor window, I’ll be fairly sure who they are. And, if on the grass at the end of the street, a seagull’s cry from the harbour, there are some lads kicking a ball about, I’ll look for the slight and diffident one who is spraying passes, quietly controlling the game, and scoring sublime goals, and I’ll know, as Rob suggests in his book, that, for those of us who idolised him, the Ghost of White Hart Lane is never far away.

The Ghost of White Hart Lane: In Search of My Father the Football Legend [Hardcover]
Julie Welch (Author), Rob White (Author)