The land of submarines

Not for the first time I fell asleep watching Das Boot on TV last night. I have never managed to see this film the whole way through although I have probably seen all of it at various times, catching a bit here and a bit there, and have enjoyed what I've seen. It has everything you want of a submarine film.

My favourite character is the chief engineer who clearly loves his engines, listening accutely with a stick-like probe he puts to his ear when he smiles serenely, transported to engineer's heaven through the poetry of motion.

Then there's the U-boat captain (stereotypically a cynical, hard-bitten veteran who hates Nazis and is therefore a "good German"), who can be contrasted against the ideologically-driven young officer who was moved to travel all the way from his parents' plantation in Mexico to fight for the fatherland.

"You gave up the good life for this undersea nightmare?" No-one needs to say this. Das Boot milks every stereotype in the submarine genre mercilessly. The sub is very quickly taken to a depth beyond that which is recommended as safe by the manufacturer.

Red zone

Why do the captains in submarine films always do this? And why do the shipyards set soft tolerance levels when they know that captains are going to take the dial well in to the red zone with all the accompanying wince-inducing cracking noises? Yet we all know in the comfort of our sitting rooms that the worst that will happen is a few bolts flying out of seals with a bit of gushing water amid the frantic shutting of valves.

If the sub actually did cave-in like a crushed egg (typically demonstrated by one of the crew) that would be the end of the film before we had chance to experience the ubiquitous depth charges, the studied tension of the propeller-listening scene, and the even more anguished leaving-a-man-behind-up-top-while-diving-to-escape-an-air-attack-scene.

In Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea you felt cheated if, ten minutes in to every episode, the crew weren't staggering and lurching as the sub rocked from side to side with sparks flying everywhere. I'm sure this was a big influence on Star Trek where the same stuff happens, only this time in deep space with slightly sexier peeps from the instruments instead of the rhythmic "poyoing" of the submarine sonar.

Hail stones

Now, about those depth charges. All submarine films must have them, but Das Boot surpassed itself in the number and intensity. They are coming down like hail stones and blasting everywhere. Yet, at least in films, the depth charge must be the most ineffective weapon known to man.

At most the blasts kill one or two crew members who, conveniently, can be shot out of a torpedo tube with some oil and other bits and pieces to simulate debris (although I don't think this happens in Das Boot). This is usually enough to see off the offending destroyer.

Had these films been available for Royal Navy training, no self-respecting destroyer captain would have been fooled by a few life-jackets, some junked food, a little slick and the odd body.

"Ah Ah, the old torpedo tube feint," he would have said and continued depth-charging from the ship's endless supply. But there is only so much that a submarine film audience can take, its tolerance levels for sustained attack, being slightly lower than that of submarine film actors and far lower than real submariners.

Steel coffin

It doesn't seem right that in the safety of my armchair I can simply fall asleep while the hardy actors must suffer endless buckets of water in their faces. As for reality, the claustrophobia of sailing in what amounted to a steel coffin for the dubious honour of making war on cargo ships, is simply beyond comprehension. Which is why, I suppose, we watch submarine films, so we don't ever have the urge to endure such an experience ourselves.

But maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps there are those who, fresh from a viewing of Das Boot, are sprinting down to their nearest naval recruiting office, clamouring for an opportunity to take that dial in to the red zone. I won't be among them.

A cold Good Friday

Spare a thought for the campers and holidaymakers who have been driven by some compelling urge to spend time in the great outdoors this Easter weekend. I hope they have their woolly hats on. I haven't even gone in to the garden yet.

There was nothing good about Good Friday this year. We had hail stones the size of frozen peas that carpeted the freshly laid frog spawn on the pond.

I've always wondered about why Good Friday is so-called when it commemorates such a tragic event in Christ's crucifixion. There doesn't seem to be a definitive explanation. It goes by other names in other countries. The Germans call it mourning Friday, The Spanish, Holy Friday, The Norwegians, Long Friday and the Ethiopians, rather sensibly, Friday of the Crucifixion.

Some believe it has something to do with God's Friday, just as the term, goodbye, is a shortening of God-be-with-you. Others say it might be because an archaic meaning of good is close to that of the word "holy." Another, possibly fitting explanation, is that, although the day was not one that Jesus would want to dwell on much, it was good for the rest of us because it meant that we were saved.

I've always had a personal interest in Good Friday since it was the day I was born. But my birthday of April 19 has never fallen again on the day and, as far as I know, is unlikely to do so before 2019 when I will be 62. Easter will be late that year, the world should have warmed up a bit more, so the weather could be just right for a party. That's good enough for me.

I'll go t'foot of our stairs

Most of those who hail from the north of England will be familiar with this expression, reserved for some surprising but not Earth-shattering news.

You would not, for example, go to the foot of your stairs for a sudden death but you might well do so if you have just discovered that your Uncle Frank has had a sex change and has asked henceforth to be known as Wendy.

For that piece of news you would go to the stairs and sit on the bottom step all morning.

But why would you go to the foot of your stairs in the first place? I was having this conversation with a fellow northerner earlier this week. She wondered whether it had something to do with the positioning of the door in many houses at the foot of stairs. You would go to the door to find news, some of which would be surprising.

A Valentine's card, a telegram from your new Auntie Wendy, a bunch of flowers or a premium bond win would all arrive at the foot of the stairs. So you might rush to the door in anticipation if there was someone knocking.

In the days before telephones you might well open your door to a group of relatives, visiting for the day. This was certainly true in my home as a child where there was no phone in the house. Then you would truly be moved to say that you'd gone to the foot of your stairs (after the fact)in a mixture of happy surprise and anxiety about whether or not you had enough to feed them.

Of course, if you were a Yorkshire housewife, you always had. There was always a tin of ham or tuna. Besides, the visit would often be on a Sunday and there would have been fresh stuff from the Saturday trip to the market.

But what about those households - and there were so many - who had someone in the forces during the first and second world wars? Hours on end must have been spent at the foot of stairs by fearful mothers and wives, dreading a knock at the door. There would have been nothing of the mild surprise implicit in such an expression then.

Whatever its origins, whether seated in grief or simply a sarcastic remark from some household wag that "caught on," I do seem to be stuck with the phrase. Not much surprises me any more. But when it does, you know where to find me.

More on dialect here.

Rugby anthems

England needs a new "official" anthem for the formal singing before the start of the Six Nations rugby matches. God Save Our Gracious Queen simply doesn't work in this competition any more where the other nations have all adopted individual anthems.

This is not to deny the British national anthem. It is simply to suggest that if each of the home nations is going to go its separate way for purposes of whipping up national fervour in rugby competition, the English should have their own response to other anthems such as Flower of Scotland and The Land of My Fathers (both, incidentally, about struggling for freedom from English oppression).

The answer would be to adopt an existing hymn or to have something new. Of the existing hymns my choice would be Jerusalem, which is less jingoistic than Land of Hope and Glory, a hymn that also suffers from being more representative of Britain.

Jerusalem is fitting also in that it refers to England. The tune isn't bad either. Indeed George V preferred it as an anthem to the dirge-like God Save the Queen. My only issue with it is that it smacks a little bit of the English public school.

God Save the Queen is going through a torrid patch just now. The way it is sung as a chant by English football supporters has debased its currency. Also it reflects a dated view of royalty and the role of the monarchy which is no longer about triumphalism.

So what about something new? How would a new anthem define Englishness? It's a tough question. The Irish have two anthems side-by-side. Could that be a runner for the English?

Are there any other existing alternatives? Swing Low Sweet Chariot, wouldn't work. While its connection with English rugby is well established it is not an anthem. What about suitable English folk songs? I can't think of one. Of course, we could always borrow something from the Irish who are having a bit of a miserable time just now. Maybe not.

Postscript: I came across this web site campaigning for a new English national anthem. Where better to experiment than in the Six Nations tournament?

Postscript two: Reading some of that site I see they quote the odious Sun columnist, Gary Bushell, voicing similar sentiments to those in this blog. I hope that's the first and last time I share an opinion with him. I'd like to make it clear that ordinarily I dislike nationalistic tendencies. But I do think they retain some legitimacy (and fun) in sporting competitions. That should not be an excuse, however, for rampant tribalism. At rugby matches I am as happy singing the anthems of the other teams as the English ones. Yes, I want England to win but I'm happy for other supporters (except the Welsh) when their sides win.

England v Ireland with Statler and Waldorf

Let me tell you about Stuart who you may have met in two previous blogs – the trip to France and Camp Dick. I have known him a long time. He is one of life’s gentlemen, a beacon of values that are fading fast in the rest of society.

He likes things that are built to last, is suspicious of change and remains implacably opposed to what I might call the “disposable society.” Instinctively I know that Stuart would have no problems with a charge on plastic bags.

He is wearing the same Tricker's shoes he was wearing thirty years ago and has a Morris Traveller that is nearly as old as I am, that is still driven regularly, and that still works just fine. “The mechanics like to work on it because it has bits of familiar machinery that remind them of a real car,” he says.

We were sitting together high up in the east stand at Twickenham for the England v Ireland match. Stuart’s match commentary was fairly predictable, demanding that I take note of various nuances.

Rule changes

He didn’t approve of the move from the amateur to professional codes. Now he worries that Australian and commercial influences could further undermine the game he knows and loves. The Australians are favouring rule changes that will dilute the power of the scrum. Indeed some believe they would happily do away with the scrum altogether.

The danger here, says Stuart, is that we could be left with two teams of powerful running athletes, much as you have in Rugby League. This would be the beginning of the end for the slower, scrapping, forward who, he argues, has been the stalwart of club rugby throughout the history of the game.

So yesterday, when, after two or three phases of play, Stuart was spotting forwards such as Lee Mears and Phil Vickery, standing in ball-receiving positions, he was almost apoplectic. Why weren’t they in the rucks where they should have been?

Inflated prices

Meanwhile a couple of chaps in front of us were up and down like jack-in-a-boxes to visit the bars that are now open during the game. This never happened at one time but corporate greed now loses no opportunity to sell beer and pies at inflated prices while play is carrying on.

This meant that each of these two so-called supporters was missing large chunks of the game. But it wasn’t the beer drinking that upset Stuart. After the second England try, the man in front of him - a big bloke - rose out of his seat and started jigging from side to side. Stuart (who is not a large man – he played at scrum-half) tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to sit down.

The big man took umbrage at this and argued, with some justification perhaps, that he had not obscured our vision while the try was being scored. Then the big man’s friend joined in, shouting abuse at Stuart. It was starting to get ugly. Stuart was wearing a thin smile that had nothing to do with laughter. This was bad news for me since the first rule of mates is to stand by your mate. So I adopted the role of appeaser, saying “let’s calm it mate,” to the man who was not my mate.

Football supporter

But Stuart had taken against them. He didn’t like the way the jeans of the big man were hanging around his bottom. Neither did I. In fact the man was marked, in oh so many ways, as a “football supporter.” His hair was cropped short. He had too many gold rings on one finger. Indeed, he looked like he had never seen a piece of Tweed, never mind worn one.

Stuart does not approve of the behaviour of football supporters - you know the sort who bare their chest at matches - and is fearful that their ilk will invade our precious game. I share his fears. Fortunately our new friends did the football supporter thing and left before the end of the game. I noticed too, with some satisfaction, that they remained seated for the third England try.

By that time the match had been changed by a whole string of replacements. The game has allowed far too many substitutions. When fewer were allowed there used to be high scoring finales as the sides tired and made mistakes. Today the result is usually apparent within 10 minutes of the end of play.

Old farts

Of course such sentiments and criticisms mean that we and every other member of our small but happy group who go to the rugby internationals have become died-in-the-wool “old farts.” But if the older generation does nothing to educate the latest one, how will we preserve traditions of good behaviour?

As it is, few people know the words to songs anymore, not even Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I struggle with some of the longer songs so have taken to using a song-sheet. Even this risks censure from those who think that knowing the words should be mandatory.

But I cannot hope to remember every verse of American Pie and there are times, such as during our post match singsong in the Prince Blucher, when you find someone who does know all the words and who needs a bit of help. Personally I prefer folk or classic pop themes, such as this one, to some of the baser rugby ditties, but there is a time and place for all things. It turned in to an excellent sing song (Simon, one of my fellow songsters provides a short history of Prince Blucher here).

Cheeky girls

So what about the game? Well, predictably the sports writers concentrated on personalities, overdoing the superlatives reserved for Danny Cipriani, and doing so in a way that belittled Jonny Wilkinson when both men played well and played well together. It was a vast improvement on the Scotland v England match that was ruined by the conditions.

I worry about Cipriani though. If you want to stay out of the tabloids, stay away from trans-sexuals and the Cheeky girls. Was this a sign of things to come? I probably came across him when he was a youngster when Robert, my middle son (now 21), was playing for Chobham. We often played Rosslyn Park where Cipriani played. Each of those junior teams had their star players and it’s nice to see one or two breaking through in to the international game.

Sadly the French did not beat the Welsh who can be insufferable in victory. At least the Welsh have a new hero in Shane Williams whose rugby is outshining that of Gavin Henson as much as Henson’s tan outshines the pallid (but authentic) complexions of his team mates. His skin is so orange I’m surprised he isn’t sponsored by Outspan.

Drinking vouchers

One last moan: the ticket prices at Twickenham have risen to ridiculous levels. My ticket cost £40 but the two middle-tier tickets I had for two of my sons each cost £68. When you have subsidised their drinking vouchers for the occasion it’s a costly day out.

On the other hand, at least going to the match means that we don’t have to listen to the discordant outpourings of Eddie Butler and Brian Moore, the Statler and Waldorf of sports commentary. We more than make up for that with our own.

The Water Rats 2008

I have a collection of books depicting the work of Frank Meadow Sutcliffe, a Victorian photographer who worked out of Whitby on the North Yorkshire coast. I love his scenes of working people - fishermen mending their nets,women gutting fish or winding wool.

His most famous photograph is called the The Water Rats. It shows a group of boys bathing naked by a boat with Whitby harbour framed in the background.

Funnily enough it would probably pass the rigorous identification test imposed by Cann Hall primary School in Clacton, Essex that published photographs of children in its newsletter with smiley faces blanking out the children's images.

None of the faces in the Sutcliffe photograph is clear enough for identification. That did not stop the Whitby clergy condemning Sutcliffe for "corruption of the young." Neither did it stop The Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) from buying an imprint. Nor did it stop Sutcliffe making other images of naked boys: Sea Urchins and In Puris Naturalibus, where the boys can be identified.

I don't think it is too much of an exaggeration to suggest that were Sutcliffe alive and taking those pictures today, he would be prosecuted, locked up and have his name placed on the paedophiles' register. What a shame. What a sad world we live in when the behaviour of a perverted minority has imprisoned and debased the most natural reaction in the world - the joy of looking at children.

Non-doms for proms?

It looked like a non-doms get together in Southwark Cathedral this afternoon as a real mix of nationalities gathered for City of London University's Cass Business School graduation ceremony.

As a true Brit, our son, John - up for an MSc in management, specialising in the film industry - was in the minority. The faculty, who themselves are drawn from all over the globe, spoke proudly of the international flavour of the school (well the overseas students do ensure a healthy level of fee income.)

Yes, the event was in one of London's most attractive cathedrals, but really it could have been anywhere. The applause was disappointingly muted as many parents reserved their cheers for their own offspring and ignored everyone else. When the organist played the national anthem at the end, no-one sung.

Perhaps this is the sort of event that would attract the approval of Margaret Hodge, the culture minister, who has criticised the prom concerts for attracting too narrow a section of society. She may have a point. I'm with the proms, all the same. Long may they continue.

Accident to angler

People often tell me that I have life taped. They see that I work from home. They know I have a good mix of interests with two columns in one of the world’s great newspapers and with many other columns and presenting outlets.

Even with all this work there is still time to down tools and get out on the river. But this last week has not been good. Illness forced me to cancel a few appointments and writing my columns was a struggle. You don’t get sick leave when you work for yourself.

Then yesterday I had an email from the editor of the Weekend FT telling me that he was giving my fishing column to someone else. All very breezy and straightforward. I’ve been fired!

I don’t think I have been so unceremoniously dumped since my teens when my first girlfriend gave me the push. I remember I wrote her a poem. Well he’s not getting a bloody poem.

Instead I have composed, in my mind at least, a variety of disgruntled emails. None will be sent. It would serve no purpose.

We’d had lunch just a little while back. A bit of relationship-building, I thought. He could get to know me, I him. Unfortunately it must have been like one of those speed-dating events where one party thinks that everything went swimmingly while the other smiles and shakes hands, limply, promising nothing and dashing for the door.

Such is the feudal system that calls itself the newspaper industry. Writers need to be reminded of their peasant status every now and again as they plough their individual furrows.

My life tends to go in ups and downs, alternating between big wet kisses and stinging slaps. Getting that column was a big kiss. Losing it is a slap and it smarts. Last night I was like Mr Toad in Wind in the Willows after he has been thrown in to the clink.

I was still stewing this morning when I thought of Charles Rangeley-Wilson and picked up his book, The Accidental Angler. Charles is another one of those people who seems to have discovered the good life. Just now he’s in Tasmania (this explains why - see the entry by "accidental"). I had a drink with him before he went.

I have been envious of his success but he deserves every bit of it. If you saw any of his TV series under the same heading as the book, you will know how much he refreshed the way that fishing can be treated by television. These were travelogues built around angling.

He tries hard to project a laid back, almost casual style in his presenting. It looks a little lazy but it isn’t; far from it. A lot of thinking and a lot of work goes in to this "natural" approach. From where I’m sitting he seems to have it all. But even Charles has his disappointments. The TV series was such a success among a general audience that, in its wisdom, the BBC decided not to do another one. Here was someone who had achieved the magical cross-over in genres but budget cuts put the kibosh on plans for a second series.

The old budget explanation was trotted out for the demise of my FT column but I’m not convinced that was the real explanation. If people want to keep you they can find the money. Most likely it's the new broom syndrome - the freelancers’ peril.

So what now? Well I’ve enjoyed my fishing writing so much over the past three years that I do not intend to give it up at this juncture. That’s not in my nature. Besides I have had too much encouragement from readers. They, at least, have been positive.

For the moment I shall continue to write fishing pieces on my website. But I hope to find another outlet very soon.

Meanwhile Charles is busy reviving his own fortunes. Since losing the TV series he has tried to create his own video but going alone is a tough old path. Now he’s embarked on a third book project. He will succeed. I read a line from The Accidental Angler this morning, describing a large fish on the line, running downstream "in that way you see big dogs take anxious old ladies for walks across the park." I wish I had written that. Maybe I will.

Just now I’m down but it won’t last. Sooner or later something new and shiny will float over the horizon and it’ll be "poop, poop!" all over again. Yes my teeth are feeling as if they have been in close contact with a boot, but this kind of thing happens in journalism. Where I come from we call it motivation.

Postcript: Talking of encouragement, I mentioned the loss of my column to some of my fishing friends. Jerry Harrison wrote: "We are all thinking of you in these difficult times...Don't suppose you can lend me some tackle as you won't be needing it?"

The common prince

The footage of Prince Harry in Afghanistan last week gave us an insight in to the Royal dilemma. On the one hand, he said, he appreciated the opportunities that came the way of he and his brother William because of their Royal birth. At the same time other doors - those to a normal existence - were closed.

Extraordinarily this means that fighting in Afghanistan's Helmand province has probably been one of the most authentic experiences of his life. He didn't miss anything back home, he said, and we nodded because we knew he meant it. Here he was doing the job of his choice with people who had made the same choices.

This was not champagne Harry tripping between nightclubs with wealthy friends, but a young man who had found a sense of purpose, who was respected for his skills rather than for his background.

Last night I read Alan Bennett's short book, The Uncommon Reader, a fanciful story that imagines the Queen gripped by a reading fetish so strong that it begins to impinge on her Royal duties.

At one stage a young kitchen worker, who has become her reading adviser, is levered out of his job by those around her. So protected is the Queen that he is unable to contact her and she him, not knowing his whereabouts or, indeed anything about the circumstance in which he was removed.

Bennett's fictional scenario and the reality of Prince Harry's situation reminds us just how stifling and restricting it is to be Royal. You can't stop being Royal just like that. Edward VIII achieved it, but at what a price? Neither can you step off the plate and get back on when it seems convenient. You are, for better or worse, an instrument of the state.

The problem is, as Bennett illustrates, that the state has no great imagination in the way it utilises this instrument. Why should our Queen spend interminable hours opening shopping centres and science parks? That sort of thing has become an anachronism.

Funnily enough Prince Charles has avoided much of this meaningless stuff by immersing himself in issues that have real significance in all our lives.

The price of Harry's service will be security fears that the so-called "bullet-magnet" will become more of a bomb-magnet once back in London. Was it sensible to allow footage of the prince firing a machine gun at the Taliban when their sympathisers include some in our own country who might be described as the enemy within?

The Army and that amorphous body of flunkies we call "the palace," however, will be delighted at the impact of "the story" on Royal approval ratings and armed forces recruitment. An unpopular war has just become sexy.