I rarely get into rants (the Lovely Wife may disagree – the current transition under her expert hand of our bedroom wall from red to a more gentle green may be indicative of more than just a need for a style change) but when I do get annoyed sometimes it is over the sillier things. Like the way words are debased and their original meanings forgotten. Yes, I know language change and adapts, and it is quite a fascinating thing. But at the same time it seems a shame to me that when words like ‘sick’ can weirdly become positive (I still don’t really get that one) other words that were incredibly positive in the past suddenly become negative.

If you have being paying attention (although goodness knows I do not know why you should to my inane ramblings) you may know I am talking about ‘patronise’ (and yes, I’m not using the US spelling, whatever my spellchecker thinks). Depending on which dictionary you look at, it is either acting in a condescending manner or giving someone (or something) your patronage (a word you hardly ever use, which is a shame, it has a nice round, strong feel to it, a bit like ‘potentate’ and ‘ineffable’ both of which come from one of my favourite hymns…). The former is the way it is mostly used, but it is the latter that is the older meaning and the one I am going start a one man campaign to reassert.

The Lovely Wife and I patronise (display our patronage towards?) the Mermaid in St Albans because it is a good pub. We do the same for the trattoria around the corner from us. I don’t think either of these establishments mind being patronised by us. I do not think any of the young people we have bought coffees and food for over the years we have been blessed to be friends and mentors mind being patronised either – especially as most of them are brighter and more talented than I have ever been and while the sharing of experience always runs the risk of condescension I’ve always tried to avoid that; the person who thinks he knows everything is severely lacking in insight (I do not know who first coined ‘every day is a school day’ but I have found it to be an accurate mantra). As we have no children we have the opportunity to patronise who we like. We are hardly wealthy philanthropists but to act even in a small way as a semi-patron for someone is a huge honour. We’d like to do it more but in the end there are two major obstacles. Obviously, one is our own resources. But also, there is that pernicious thing that has crept into our society that says ‘if you give me something, you must be after something from me in return’. Maybe that is true, sometimes. But there is also the opportunity to help each other to varying degrees but in meaningful ways.

I hope the Lovely Wife will not mind me sharing, but she taught me something important. If someone buys you lunch, it does not always mean they expect you to buy them lunch, especially when it is obvious to you that they are more than capable of buying their own – and when you clearly might struggle. Instead, at heart they are patronising you in the most positive way… But if I patronise someone it is with an agenda. I would hope at least that if someone buys you lunch when money is short, if at some point things are different and you are flush, you do the same for someone else that is in the position you once found yourself in. Anger breeds anger; kindness does the same, and I know which one I would rather see proliferate exponentially.

I have a confession to make. I am pro-European Union. I honestly believe what the world needs is more cooperation and less conflict, and separatism does not lead to that, it pulls in the opposite direction. For me, what is primarily still an economic union is still a benefit I do not want to use. I like being able to move freely in 28 different countries. I like have easy and cheap access to continental products, of which wine is probably the best but not only example. I like (and here I go down my professional line) having standardised legislation on technical subjects that mean you are getting the same quality everywhere – my primary work is with cosmetics (much wider than just makeup by the way) and the regulations in the EU, there to look after safety and create a consistent market – are literally world leading; large proportion of the world follows developments with considerable interest. This is good for us as consumers, as you should be able to trust a shampoo bought in Greece as much as one bought in your own high street store, and it is good for industry as it keeps the costs down – to them, and to us. In the end, it is very competitive market, and while profit is essential, price it too high and I go off and buy something cheaper. It is not perfect by any means. If it was I would be out of a job. It would be grossly naive to think any kind of arrangement between so many countries would be. Put 28 people in the room and get them to agree? I don’t think even Henry Fonda could manage that – he only had eleven other angry men to manage. So frankly, it is amazing how good the EU structure actually is considering that obstacle.

And the reason it is, and the reason I feel kinship (apart from all the wonderful European friends I have been blessed with over the years) is that Europeans are pretty much the best in world at compromising. Now ‘compromise’ seems like a dirty word sometimes as it usually linked with desertion of principles (poor Nick Clegg). But like ‘patronise’ (a rant for another day) that does disservice to the word and the concept. We cannot have it all our own way (although it amazes me the number of supposedly intelligent people who seem to think they can). We can have principles, and we can stick to them, but if we want to make the world a better place for the next generations to come (and some of us at least do) then we have to try and work out what is important, and what is ego or short term gain. I think a lot of the time we all get confused. We do not live on planet UK. We live on a planet called Earth, which we share with an awful lot of other people who also want to live a happy and successful life. Together we can get some way towards that, apart we just end up pulling in different directions. In that scenario, the people who shout loudest, and have the biggest weapons – metaphorical or literal – win. To be clear, that is not the United Kingdom. As part of the EU we have considerable global influence, and as noted above, it is generally a calming, conciliatory one. On our own, we have some influence on the global music industry. I think that is about it. Oh, and we make really good documentaries (I’m becoming a BBC 4 addict).

I am a compromiser. I hate conflict of any sort. Yes, you have to stand up for what you believe in, and I am happy to express my views. But equally I do not have the hubris to think that I am always right. I do occasionally disagree with the Lovely Wife and obviously that proves the point as in such conflicts she is invariably correct so you kind of learn. So I appreciate the air of compromise that does exist in our modern Europe and I believe that to lose it would be a considerable step backward for the UK, for Europe and for the rest of the world – the coming years will bring increasing tension I believe between the US, Russia and China, with Brazil knocking at the International door, and Africa is coming to the table. Europe, whatever the reasons for it, has the links to be a major mediator, but it needs to be strong internally to do so.

And if you fundamentally disagree, and think that the EU is a Bad Thing, then fine. But I refer you then to the wise Sir Humphrey Appleby (Yes Minister, ‘The Devil you know’)

Hacker: Europe is a community of nations, dedicated towards one goal.

Sir Humphrey: Oh, ha ha ha.

Hacker: May we share the joke, Humphrey?

Sir Humphrey: Oh Minister, let’s look at this objectively. It is a game played for national interests, and always was. Why do you suppose we went into it?

Hacker: To strengthen the brotherhood of free Western nations.

Sir Humphrey: Oh really. We went in to screw the French by splitting them off from the Germans.

Well it is election time in the UK but thankfully the campaigning is nearly over and for once I’m genuinely interesting in the outcome; not because I am much in the way of political inclination – the last time I got excited about Party Politics in an election year was when I successfully backed the horse of that name to win the 1992 Grand National – but this time round I genuinely have no idea what the final result will be, other than no party is going to have a huge, if any, majority.

I have always made an effort to use my vote in whatever election, as a fundamentally believe that it is important to do so. In my Genghis Khan moments I have felt that it should be compulsory to express your vote, even if it is ‘none of the above’ because while the vote might not change anything, you are certainly not going to change things by not voting. In St Albans, the vote does matter as it is not obvious which way the seat will go. That has probably encouraged a little bit of interest in the process, as for most of my early life the environment I grew up in did not really encourage debate. I grew up in a former mining village in North East England where they Labour party could have put up a ferret as a candidate and it would have won with a massive majority. Maybe they did at one point, just for a laugh, in the same way that every generation of students think that putting up a cat for student common room president is funny (although considering how effective many students can be, the cat would probably do a better job).

So it is almost refreshing to be in an area where the rest is not assured. But, as I say, voting is important, and moaning about a government that you did not vote for – when 60% of eligible people cannot get off their backside to even spoil their papers does not cut much ice with me.

After all, it is not as though we do not like voting per se, or ‘X Factor’, ‘I’m a Celebrity…’ and a host of other awful shows would probably creep back into obscurity. In my Facebook feed the Radio Times seems to run one vote after another on increasingly pointless subjects and clearly get a response by doing so. In the last few weeks I’ve voted for my choice of National Bird of the UK (personally I favoured the Blackbird, but apparently Sweden already has that so maybe that was a wasted vote), and that the marvellous Pitt Rivers museum in Oxford should get the chance to have an art installation (over a bunch of other prestigious institutions). Voting seems a natural tendency in many people, to express choice and to some extent show approval.

All except it seems, in the area of politics, where either we don’t care (‘they’re all the same, those damn politicians!’) or we don’t want to be seen to approve any of them. Well, the reality is we need politics as much as we need teachers and police, other groups of people that do not get the respect their professions deserve. If the people filling those roles on Thursday aren’t the highest quality (and I am not expressing a judgement here, just raising the question) then it is our own fault. We are too quick to criticise and moan about the society we live in and far too slow when it comes to engaging in any activity that might, just, improve it a little. If you do not like the current bunch, go into politics yourself – or if you do not have the skill set (which I do not) encourage those that do. I am as guilty as anyone when it comes to apathy but at least I take the responsibility for which way I will be voting on Thursday and hope others will do the same.

One of the most interesting things about last week was a trip to Kingston upon Hull. Jokes aside, I never thought I would say that but the reality is most British towns and cities of a reasonable size have something to recommend them and Hull is no different. However, what I thought I would be most interested in – Hull as the birthplace of William Wilberforce – turned out to be less fascinating than something else that I was exposed to that I knew nothing about.
Don’t get me wrong – Wilberforce is a ‘hero’ of mine and there was some satisfaction in the pilgrimage but I already felt I knew a lot about the story around abolition from William Hague’s excellent biography (well worth a read) and I did not really learn anything new. Around the back of the house he grew up in however, is moored the ‘Arctic Corsair’, a 1960s North Sea trawler. There are free tours of the ship and this was the biggest eye opener for me; what it was like to be a trawler fisherman. As I stuffed myself with cod and chips at Seahouses on my holidays year after year in the late seventies I do not think I gave one thought to the men out catching the things, for weeks on end and in all weathers. I certainly did not consider that they would have been almost constantly soaked to the skin, as the nets would always be put down on the side that had the worse swell, to facilitate them going out from the boat rather than being swept back under the boat and potentially wrapping itself disastrously around the propeller. The gentleman who took us around the boat was almost gleeful in the description of how hard it could be; he was a retired Merchant Navy man who had desperately wanted to be on the trawlers as a kid – like all the men in his family – but had found his father obstinate in preventing this, hence the change to commercial sailing. But this was not before being sneaked aboard a trawler for a tour of duty at the (illegal) age of twelve; maybe his father thought it would have put him off. It didn’t.
It made me think about why a young lad would want to go into such a tough and dangerous profession, especially after seeing a bit of what it actually was like. Maybe it was not being forced to wash for several weeks, as there was little point of doing that when your time was spent working in the spray and the combination of fish slime and guts or sleeping, apart from the short breaks to eat. Apparently most men would have three sets of clothing that they would rotate, wearing one set while the other two dried. The ‘Corsair’ has a rather spacious bathroom with showers at the stern – this was only used when they finally returned to port at the end of the trip, for the crew to make themselves more presentable. It was a hard job, but also in some ways simple, and that might also had to appeal. It could even be profitable in a part of the country where physical work – such as an agricultural labourer – was poorly paid. If a crew could get a good catch of cod, ‘dux’ (i.e. haddock) and the Holy Grail that was the odd halibut in the (massive) hold, and be lucky enough to get market on a day when there was not a glut, then they could make a significant amount of money. Of course the opposite applied. A lot depended on luck and the skill and tenacity of the skipper, who, while comfortable on the bridge in the warmth had the most to gain and to lose from a trip, as he had worked his way up from the bottom to get to that position, but only a successful skipper would keep getting the gig from the shipping company. Our guide gleefully told us about one skipper, who went by the nickname of ‘Killer’ which tells you all you need to know. He was notorious for working his crews to breaking point and taking risks in pursuit of the best catch. Working in a comfortable ‘people caring’ corporate environment as I do that seems shocking to me. But as was pointed out, ‘Killer’ never had a problem finding a crew to man a boat on which he was skipper – he got results and all the crew profited as a result. In fact, it is really not hard for me to imagine a bunch of exhausted trawler men raising a glass to their skipper in one of the many old pubs of Old town Hull, at the same time as they called him some very nasty names indeed.

When I was a child, I never really got into bird watching. I’m a huge fan of the natural world (as any poor person who has come across my ramblings will probably guess) but while I could understand other people’s fascination for birds, I never really developed it in the same way. I suspect partly it was because the birds I grew up with suited rather too well the place I grew up in – perfectly fine, but nothing, well, that appeared that special.

Before you shoot me down in a fit of ‘what do you want… a bunch of Sea Eagles and an American Blue throat?’ let me say in my defence that I have since revised my view. The robins that accompany my desperate battle against the ground elder in our garden almost make the effort worth it. The sparrows that bicker outside my window are a welcome distraction sometimes from the most tedious phone conference. And nothing says summer to me than lounging back in the garden in the fading light listening to the blackbirds declaring their territory with a wonderful mixture of beautiful music and promised brutality.

But when I was a child it seemed like the same old birds, year in year out, diligently fed by my mother (who used to stress when we were away that the poor things would starve) and that was a lot less exciting that the evocative ruined castles and abbeys or the diverse North East rock pools that were some of my happiest memories (connected as they were with frequent holidays on the magnificent North East coast).

But I think it would have been a bit different if I had lived on the coast, or within walking distance of a decent reserve or WWT centre. We are on holiday in the Yorkshire Wolds (no, I did not know that there was such a place, but it is rather lovely – just North of the Wash, stretching up to Bridlington/Filey – and after a recent feature on Springwatch we wanted to visit the RSPB reserve at Bempton Cliffs. It is really easy to get to and is one of the few mainland places you can get close to breeding seabirds. And even in April, without the excitement of eggs or chicks, there is plenty to see – especially the gannets. They are wonderful birds – huge, impossible to mistake for anything else, pale blue eyes and with a range of fascinating behaviour that with the most basic of binoculars you can just spend hours watching them. If you get bored, there are plenty of other things to see – this area of the English coastline also has large populations of Kittiwakes, small delicate gulls that looks so sweet but have the noisiest calls (hence the name) and can be the most viscous battlers –we spent ten minutes watching two birds locked in combat beak to beak, and they only stopped when it looked like a mutual drowning in a rock pool was likely. We were also amused that immediately afterwards, the two exhausted combatants immediately seemed to be on the receiving end of amorous attractions of the girls, so clearly they were impressed by this feathered fight club.

I think if I had access to this kind of drama – or was able to recognise the drama acted out by the so apparently ‘ordinary’ birds in my garden at home – then maybe I would have been more of a passionate bird watcher. But to be honest, we are so lucky to be surrounded by such an exciting collection of birds without really trying other than just keeping your eyes open. I defy anyone not to smile at a pair of goldfinches on a feeder, or a gaggle of long tailed tits – one of our all-time favourite birds, tiny chattering pink lollipops of birds – if you see them.

And sometimes you just have to be lucky. Tonight, as we drive back from Flamborough Head, a barn owl flew over the bonnet of the car and kept pace with us for a few wonderful moments, giving us probably the closest encounter we will ever have with a wild individual – truly one of our greatest birds and a completely ‘never forget this’ moment.

Who knows what you will see today.

“One of the things forgotten about the human spirit is that while it is, in the right conditions, noble and brave and wonderful, it is also, when you get right down to it, only human.”
Terry Pratchett Guards! Guards!

Like a lot of people I know I was upset to hear of the passing of the (note the deliberate absence of unnecessary epithet ‘fantasy’) author Sir Terry Pratchett. It seems a little strange to get emotional over the death of someone you do not relay know, but there are people who have made a major impact on me through my life and as with many friends and family you only really appreciate them when they are gone.

I cried a little when I heard the news, in the same way that I found it hard to unemotionally take the death of Elizabeth Sladen a few years back and I know I will again when the various other heroes of my childhood eventually pass over – David Attenborough had better have a State funeral (hopefully in many years to come) to my mind, I’d certainly turn up to pay my respects to a man who gave me a true wonder and diversity of the natural world.

But going back to Terry Prachett, for me he had just always been there. I was always a voracious reader as a child but a bit one track and Pratchett’s work appeared in the shops at just about the time I was widening my net. The first two Discworld novels are, in my opinion, not great, but fun enough (and taught me about scrofula). Then suddenly with the third book ‘Equal Rites’, which is just as relevant sadly nowadays then it was back in the 1980s when talking about sexual equality suddenly appeared and he was off, and I was hooked. I met him the first time at a signing in Newcastle and a few times later on (most notably being a signing of the wonderful Good Omens in Oxford, I wore the promotional T Shirt with ‘My other T shirt has a crocodile on it’ emblazoned on the back until it literally fell apart many years later…) and brushed near at a number of conventions in the 90s where the presence of a floating black hat among the masses was always a sign he was about. There is no doubt he enjoyed what he did and that always came over in both the writing and at signings and the like. From his friend Neil Gaiman’s insightful article a short while back in the Guardian (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/sep/24/terry-pratchett-angry-not-jolly-neil-gaiman ) it is clear that like any other human being Pratchett could be difficult and angry, but he also knew the importance of not letting that get in the way of those who loved his books and loved him.

So I started my love affair with his work in my teens; I’ve just put down the last book published to date this weekend, although I guess there might be something posthumous. Once or twice a year a new book would come out so I’d drop whatever I had been reading and devour the new bit of thoughtful silliness. A new Terry Pratchett was less of a book, more of an annual event to be looked forward too. But no more and I find it especially sad as some really interesting books were starting to emerge, maybe precisely because he knew time was limited. In particular the non Discworld novels such as ‘Nation’ and ‘Dodger’; books you can enjoy as adults and give to teenagers that cover serious issues without pulling their punches whether that be asking questions about death, life, belief or the human condition. They are a good place to start for someone who is not ready to engage with the entire Discworld marathon from ‘The Colour of Magic’.

So I will look at my sagging shelves of hardbacks, some signed, some not (at one point we had a running joke that there were fewer unsigned Terry Pratchett books then signed ones) and look forward to rereading them and reflect on a remarkable publishing life and a wise man who has made both think and laugh for thirty years, which is no mean feat. I doff my cap, Sir Terry and Gaspode and I are off for a sausage in a bun.