"It was good while it lasted"...

I can’t pretend I knew anything about Jimmy Savile’s crimes; I just knew him as a very creepy individual who I couldn’t bear to watch. If he was on Top of the Pops, I switched over; if he was on the radio, I’d find another station. His catchphrases were cretinous - “How's about that, then?”, “Now then, now then”, “Goodness gracious”, “As it ‘appens”, “Guys and gals” - even though he was a member of Mensa. For all his mannered eccentricities - tartan-dyed hair, etc - he seemed incredibly boring. If he ever said anything remotely interesting it was never while the cameras were rolling.

He presented Jim’ll Fix It for twenty years, even though he openly admitted he “hated children”. He never owned a computer, so he could “never be accused of looking at child porn” (which is a rather odd reason for not owning a computer). The programme’s premise was to make children’s dreams come true (how sinister that sounds, with the benefit of hindsight). Jim’ll Fix It won an award in 1977, from the National Viewers' and Listeners' Association, founded by Mary Whitehouse, for “wholesome family entertainment”.

In a phrase that’s become attached to him, since his death, Savile “hid in plain sight”. His preference for young girls presumably went largely unquestioned at the BBC, where girls would wait, after Top of the Pops, to see the DJs and their favourite stars. As Johnny Walker, another DJ, put it, no-one ever asked to see proof of age, and a girl of 13 could, with make-up, easily pass for 18. A man of 30, fondling young girls in his dressing room, was regarded as lucky, not a paedophile; it was a perk of the job. Problem? What problem?

The estimated £40,000,000 that Savile raised for his ‘favourite’ charities was real enough. Did he start the fundraising as a cover for his abuse of women, children (and some men and boys)? If so, it worked. Despite the rumours over the years, and the isolated complaints about his behaviour, from people at the BBC, hospitals, orphanages, young offenders institutions, and the other places where he gained access, Savile carried on abusing vulnerable people until the end of his life.

After his death, his body lay ‘in state’ in the Queen’s Hotel in Leeds, and crowds gathered to watch the funeral cortege go by. Engraved on his elaborate headstone in Scarborough, was the motto “It was good while it lasted”. The BBC ran a couple of tribute programmes, and cancelled the Newsnight special, which investigated some of the accusations that were  surfacing. As late as 2012, the BBC seemed more interested in curating Saville’s reputation than in listening to his victims.

The cancellation of Newsnight proved to be the tipping point. Within weeks the headstone had been taken up, crushed and “sent to landfill” (in the memorable phrase that came from Savile’s family), hundreds of people had come forward to say they had been raped or abused, and Savile’s reputation was in tatters. But he was never punished for his crimes; he got away with it. As Jimmy Savile warned many of his victims, “who are they going to believe, a young girl like you or a big star like me?”…

Carnforth station...

Carnforth...

In Carnforth today, shooting pix in and around the station (where the movie, Brief Encounter, was filmed). There’s a heritage centre, with lots of stills from the film; you can even sit down in a tiny cinema and, if your train is late, watch the film in its entirety. There's a cosy little micropub; I was going to pop in for a beer, but it was packed (mostly with other bearded guys, who can think of few things better than drinking beer and looking at trains).

I saw another photographer, lying on the platform, seemingly photographing a battered old suitcase. His wife, a teacher, wanted a picture that might inspire her pupils to use their imaginations. What’s in the suitcase? Where are you going? What a great idea…

Half a tree...

At the cinema...

I went to see Sacha Baron Cohen in Grimsby, a couple of days ago. At least I think I did, though the 82 minutes I spent in the cinema seemed to come and go without leaving much of a trace. There were laughs… but not enough of them. The plot was paper thin, leaving room to crowbar in as many ‘gross-out' gags as possible. Nobby and his long-lost brother Sebastian (who plays it straight throughout, as a no-nonsense assassin for MI6) are being chased through a South African game reserve (can’t remember why), and are looking for a place to hide. Nobby spots a herd of elephants, and has an idea. Moments later the two of them are inside an elephant’s vagina. What could be worse than that? Oh, right, a lustful male elephant ejaculating in Sebastian’s face. The camera pulls back to show a dozen other male elephants queueing up to have their turn. And that’s what passes for a punchline in this farago of a film…

The slipway at Roa Island...

Sunlight...

The weather looks settled - and sunny - for a few days. Sunlight puts a spring in my step, makes my photos ‘sing’ and even effects the amount of time I can spend editing them. Over the winter months I have been getting a reduced power output, leaving me unsure whether that was due to low light levels or whether there was something wrong with my roof-mounted solar panel. Well, now I know. After a full day of bright sunshine yesterday, the needle on my electricity gauge was way over to the right, indicating plenty of usable power. So I’m reassured there’s nothing wrong with the solar panel. I have an article to write (and a laundrette to visit), then I’ll hope to get busy with the camera…

Beef encounter...

Europe...

Looks like Europe is going to be the main talking point, between now and June, along with the gossip and back-stabbings in the Westminster village. Yet when we come to vote in the referendum, will we remember any of the arguments and policies? Or will we default to something less intellectually challenging, like how we feel about paella or what the weather was like when we last went to Greece? And the water will get muddier still, when the politician’s personal ambitions are factored in. We’re going to hear a lot of ‘Boris for PM’ rhetoric over the next three months…

Fiery Fred, giving his all for Yorkshire and England (and always ready with a mildly offensive racist quip. Don't think he reckoned much to Europe. Home rule for Yorkshire, more like)...

Trump...

I’ve decided: if Donald Trump wins the Republican nomination, I will relocate to Mars…

Wasdale...

Grimsby...

I’m a bit agnostic about Sacha Baron Cohen; at best he’s brilliant, at worst he’s crass. But I enjoyed this article in today’s Guardian, about his forthcoming film, Grimsby.

The film is out in a few days, and I’ll try to catch it. In the meantime I enjoyed some of his jokes - delivered in character, as Nobby, from the film.

“Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived” is a handy way of remembering what happened to that pop band the Sugababes”…

Scotland is “a special country for ginger folk located 300 miles above England’s northern border. Its main exports are whisky, haggis and heart transplant patients”…

About the Bricklayers Arms, Grimsby… “I broke up a fight between my girlfriend and some junkie in the beer garden last year. Turns out it’s not only rottweilers you can stop biting by sticking a finger up their arse. I’m like the Malala of Grimsby. Where’s my Nobel prize?”…

The canal basin at Skipton...

Cold...

Feeling a bit sorry for myself today, thanks to a cold: temperature, shivers, prickly eyes, inability to write or concentrate, etc. Just for once I’d be happy to be tucked up in bed with some hot Ribena. Maybe a cool hand on a warm brow. Yes, I’ve reverted to being seven years old…

Sheep in Wasdale...

Romahome x2...

Had a very enjoyable road trip - two Romahomes, three days - around the western lakes. As a Romahome Duo owner since this time last week, Helen put the vehicle through its paces… and all was well…

Spring light...

The satisfactions of living in a tiny motorhome can be quite basic, especially during the winter months: keeping yourself warm and fed and watered. The inside temperature is always a few degrees warmer than outside. When the temperature does drop, I can switch on the heating (which runs off the diesel tank, but requires some electric power too). More likely, I deal with colder weather by putting more clothes on and wrapping myself in the duvet. Fingerless gloves keep my hands warm, while allowing me to type.

The sleeping bag is always a temptation, and I keep toasty warm through my own body heat. It’s easy to have an early night, at this time of the year, and even easier to have a lie-in the following morning. I’m getting through a lot of books. The frustrations are the short days, when the sun barely shows, and the seemingly endless rain. But the days are lengthening, the clocks will go forward next month, and, in recent days, there has been a springlike quality to the light. It’s clear and piercing, bringing out the colour in the fringes of the trees. Warm colours: scarlets, ochres, pinks, purples…

Paedophile priests...

From the Guardian today: The Catholic church is telling newly appointed bishops that it is “not necessarily” their duty to report accusations of clerical child abuse and that only victims or their families should make the decision to report abuse to police.

My contempt for the Catholic church is cranked up another notch; it’s now approaching the level of disgust that church leaders seem to have about sex. Celibacy for priests can only ever create conflict and frustration, leading priests to have secret lives. Priests who abuse children have traditionally been relocated to other, quieter parishes (Craggy Island?), which suggests that the church cares more about the perpetrators than their victims. Today's story also suggests that the church is still not taking any real responsibility for their history of abuse...

Conspiracy theories...

While taking pictures in Buxton, I saw a guy with a laptop, who was also taking pictures… with a tiny web-cam plugged into the computer. “I’d use a proper camera”, he said, “but I can never remember to charge up the batteries”. I should have taken that hint to say “cheerio” and be on my way… but I lingered a moment too long.

On a rise, where the war memorial now stands, there used to be a temple, the guy said. Pre-Roman. He had found some numbers nearby, which, when added up, proved that this was the site of the holy grail (though he seemed to think the holy grail was a well). He linked the grail to the Roslyn Chapel (mentioned in Dan Brown’s book, The da Vinci Code); the same people who built the Roslyn Chapel also built the war memorial, apparently. He mentioned ley lines, linking up other notable sites of antiquity. “Buxton is a very important place”, he whispered conspiratorially. “How come nobody knows about all this?”, I asked, feigning mild interest. He gave me a significant look: “Because they don’t want you to know”…

Impudence...

I watch the occasional football game, usually on a pub TV, though I’m not sure why. Pele called football “the beautiful game”, but I’m not convinced by that either. I watch players dive, cheat, dissemble, con the referee and try to gain an unfair advantage at every opportunity throughout the game. In a show of crowd-pleasing petulance, players surround referees in an attempt to make them change a decision. But referees don’t change their minds, not even when the players are swearing in their face. It’s an unedifying spectacle, not least because these antics can now be seen in grass-roots football. Children swear at their match officials, and so do their parents, standing on the touchline. Beautiful game? I don’t think so.

“Where are the role models?”, the pundits ask. Well, they’re not playing professional football, that’s for sure. I can only think of one player I admire, and he hung up his boots a few years ago. Niall Quinn donated the entire proceeds from his benefit match to a children's hospital in Sunderland, acting with a kind of grace and humility that football seems to have lost altogether.

Just occasionally I’m reminded why, despite everything, I still keep watching. Liverpool won a free kick against West Ham yesterday evening, just outside the penalty box, and Coutino prepared to take the shot. The West Ham players were lined up, ten yards away, between Coutino and the goal. They assumed Coutino would try to kick the ball over the wall, and make it dip down towards the goal, so as Coutino ran up to the ball, they all jumped in the air to block the shot. Without missing a beat, Coutino slid the ball along the ground, beneath them, and into the bottom left corner of the goal. The goalkeeper never moved. As a tactic it was clever, impudent and very effective. It gave me a smile. I think Coutino smiled too, which made a change from the usual goal celebration: the snarl of triumph and the fist-pump…

The River Nene - and Georgian buildings - in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire…

Whittlesey...

Drove on ruler-straight roads today, through flat fenland, ending up in Whittlesey. Feeling a bit rough, thanks to a cold, but it was still good to get the camera out today. I’d almost forgotten how to use it…

The Customs House, Kings Lynn…

Normal for Norfolk...

Spent a couple of very enjoyable days with old friends in Norfolk. They own the village pub in Syderstone - more by accident than design - and, after a facelift, it’s looking a treat… like a village pub ought to be. The beer - Adnams - is good, even better if you can drink it in one of the armchairs next to the wood-burning stove. Plans are to start doing food and offering bed & breakfast accomodation, so we spent a morning at an auction in nearby Fakenham, looking for furniture to decorate the bedrooms.

Even though most of the lots were junk, they all sold (briefly interrupting their progress to landfill). I found a box full of Ordnance Survey maps and, with no other bidder, got them for £3. My chums bought chairs, rugs and pictures, and didn’t break the bank either. It was a really downmarket auction, with the clientele determined to prove that every cheap stereotype about Norfolk people is true. The auction happens every Thursday, at 11am; hopefully I’ll be back there sometime soon, with some loose change and a camera.

The sky may still be grey, but the weather is warm. Hedgerows are beginning to come into leaf, and trees are in blossom, alongside the snowdrops, catkins and daffodills. There may yet be more snow, and arctic temperatures, but right now, on the Norfolk coast, there’s a definite feeling of spring in the air. I’ve ended up in Holt this evening, a compact little market town. After a couple of beers, and some free wifi, an early night beckons. Tomorrow I’ll take a wander round the Cley marshes with my monocular, check out the birdlife and hopefully take a few pix…

The Great North Road...

Driving down the A1, to spend a couple of days with old friends in Norfolk. I remember when the A1 was called the Great North Road, which always sounded more romantic, more significant. When you were driving on the Great North North you felt you were really going somewhere.

One of the roadside garages has had a change of use, and is now an ‘adult shop’. How convenient - and discreet - to be able to add to your collection of books, magazines, videos and handcuffs without having to go into town and risk meeting someone you know. Disappointing that they didn’t have Cumshot Cavalcade vol 4 on widescreen DVD, but there you go…

Hell, fire and damnation...

The wind got up this morning. It was so gusty, as I skirted Ilkley Moor, that I stopped and parked facing directly into the wind, so the gusts wouldn’t hit the vehicle side-on. Even then it was rocking. No great privation: I had articles to  write and two buttered scones to keep me going. I’ve finished the St Kilda book, though the hiistory of the islands, post-evacuation, wasn’t as interesting as the earlier chapters.

The author, Tom Steel, was dismissive of the churchmen who periodically came to the islands. He reserved particular scorn for the Reverend John Mackay, whose mission lasted from 1869 to 1889 (the longest of any minister). Mackay disrupted the islanders’ traditional patterns of work, by requiring them to attend three services every Sunday, which added up to about six and a half hours in church.

Mackay demanded the full attention of his flock, during his long sermons, as he preached “hell, fire and damnation”. No-one could work on the sabbath - or sing, or laugh - and “all but the recitation of the Bible was thought sinful”. Another writer observed the islanders as they went to church. “They did not appear like good people going to listen to glad tidings of great joy, but like a troop of the damned whom Satan is driving to the bottomless pit”.

Life on St Kilda remained harsh and precipitous, right up to the evacuation of 1930. Islanders were susceptible to disease (with no doctor on the island, and little hope of getting help from the mainland). Anyone falling ill between September and May would be treated on the island - probably with a poultice and bed-rest. The islanders were told - and believed - that the high incidence of infant mortality was God’s will. One woman gave birth to twelve children, of which only one survived. By 1930 the traditional way of life had become unsustainable. There were too many old people, too few young men to venture onto the cliffs for gannets and fulmars, and not enough children to keep the population viable.

On the mainland the islanders were split up. They had little concept of money, had never seen a car or a bicycle, and had no idea about wealth or social status, because everything on St Kilda was shared and held in common. “They were unaccustomed to motor cars. Instead of stepping aside when a car came along, they would simply run in front of it”.

In the postscript to the book’s most recent edition, the story is brought - almost - up to date. In 2011 only two St Kildans were still alive, aged 89 and 86. I had to look online to find that one died in the meantime, leaving just Rachel Johnson, aged 94, as the last link with St Kilda.