Archive for the ‘Biography’ Category
Paradise Valley
The latest instalment in the extraordinary story of the most beautiful place on the planet is available here. Don’t miss it!
Heaven On Earth
My Letter To The Times
I am honoured to be in august company today with my letter published in “The Times”.
The Times, 15th June 2010
Paradise Valley
Heaven On Earth
You can read my latest Paradise Valley story here
…and all the other Paradise Valley and Walking The Dog stories.
The Yoof Of Today
On Friday evening my son, Evan, said “I’m going to a party tonight Dad but I’ll get on the train and come down to see you tomorrow. I’ll be there in time for the rugby”.
On Saturday at about 2.00pm (just before kick off) he rang again, (loud music in background) “Uh, I ‘m still at the party Dad but I’m definitely coming down tonight, alright?”
At about 4.00pm he rang again, (loud music in background) “Uh, Dad, I’m still at the party. Can you look up the train times for me please?”
At about 7.00pm, (loud music in the background) “Uh, I’m still at the party Dad”. We agreed that he’d be best off to go home and get some sleep. “I’ll put roast pork in for lunch if you ring in the morning and tell me what time you’re leaving.”
At about 8.30am this morning, (loud music in the background) “Uh, Dad, I’m still at the party”.
At least in my day we had the decency to hide the full extent of our debauchery from our parents. Not any more!
Under Pressure
About four months ago I embarked on a course of medication for high blood pressure. For some time I’d been warned that I was marginal with a reading of 140/90 so I decided it was time to start looking after myself. I was a heavy smoker and drinker. My only redeeming factor was that I walk with my dogs every day for about an hour – and that’s vigorous walking, up and down steep hills.
I was started on a calcium antagonist and within a few days I had virtually lost the will to live. I had no energy at all. I’d lost all motivation. In the most degrading epsiode of all, one morning I found myself prostrate on the sofa watching “Homes Under the Hammer”. That’s when I knew it was serious.
I took myself straight off that poison and went back to see my GP. My blood pressure reading was now 168/100. He advised a change to a thiazide diuretic. Being the not so patient patient that I am, I insisted on a full explanation as far as my “O” level science was capable of understanding.
This time it was more subtle. My energy, motivation and enthusiasm was sapped gradually. As my positive life signs went down my thirst rocketed to absurd proportions. After a month or so I was regularly up six times a night with a raging thirst and a full bladder. When I cleaned out the space behind the passenger seat in my car I had two carrier bags full of empty drink bottles.
In the meantime, I gave up smoking. I give the pharmaceutical industry credit for this. A month of patches and a nicotine inhaler weaned me off the evil weed easily. About this I am both pleased and proud. I have at least one “cigarette moment” every day but I am not going back to it. Although I can recognise no physiological benefit at all (if anything I seem to get more breathless now), I am much richer and everything around me is cleaner as a result.
The next visit to my GP saw my pressure reduced to 150/95. Better but not good enough. He advised me to start taking an ACE inhibitor as well as the diuretic.
I researched ACE inhibitors and was horrified at the range of side effects and contraindications. Then, suddenly, coming fast up behind and undertaking me before I knew what was happening (forgive my blushes) I discovered I was impotent. One embarrassing date and then a dawning realisation that nothing was happening, even involuntarily. No more waking up with a big itch!
I’m not ready to give up my sex life just yet. The one and only criticism I have of my GP is that he never warned me of this side effect. I have also cut my drinking by a huge proportion. From a half bottle of whisky upwards a day I am now comfortable with a single glass of wine or a small beer. In the last few weeks my motivation has gone again. I can’t be bothered with long walks with the dogs anymore. Just half an hour out in the mornings and I’m exhausted. I’m not interested in anything. My occasional lunchtime nap has become a necessity. Sometimes, even before midday I feel so exhausted, I just can’t wait to go back to bed.
Four days ago I stopped the diuretic and yesterday I felt like I had got my life back. I have so much more energy. I’m enthusiastic as I can’t remember for months. I fair romped up the hill with the dogs this morning. My thirst is calming down and I was only up twice last night. My mojo isn’t back yet but I can feel a little twitch developing. Come Christmas time I advise you to lock up your daughters once again.
The punch line? My blood pressure is now 170/110. I may be heading for a massive stroke or heart attack any minute but at least I’ll die happy. Despite giving up smoking and decimating my alcohol consumption, my blood pressure is much worse than when I started. So what does that tell me?
I have no idea at all but at least now I have a smile on my face!
Paradise Valley – Heaven On Earth
Today I started a new blog on Paradise Valley, the beautiful heaven on earth where I am so fortunate to live.
This will be where I write about walking my dogs , Capone and Carla, and all our adventures in deepest Dorset.
Back On The Wire
I’m back. Apologies to those who have missed my posts. Thanks to the hundreds who have asked where I am.
Truth is that I was under the cloud of a vile, vicious, unforgiving flu virus. If anything ever deserved the unremitting attentions of the Israeli Army and everything that Mossad has to offer then it was this. Misery, depression, lack of motivation – nothing could have been more unforgiving and merciless in its attack.
I survived. Perhaps Palestine will not.
As I emerged from under this dark cloud there was one thing that helped me through. I have read about it for months. The HBO series, The Wire. I have seen it described as the best thing ever on television. These superlatives seemed different from most and as I immersed myself in the stories of Baltimore I understood why.
This is magnificent television. Wonderful characterisations not based on “star quality” or reputation but on acting ability. Utterly credible dialogue, surely much of it improvised.
What seems at first glance as just another American cop show is revealed as the very best in drama, capturing every nuance of the human condition.
I pray for the people of Palestine. I curse the evil Israeli state. I look for hope in mutual understanding through drama like “The Wire”.
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall And My Future
I have become an immense fan of Hugh’s recently. River Cottage was always a programme that I enjoyed but with the assistance of the marvellous torrent site (forget the iPlayer) www.thebox.bz he has become an obsession.
If I need a little relaxation, a little soothing, noone does it better than Hugh. It is, perhaps, ironic, that he shares the name of my younger brother who is the most sour, miserable character, for Mr F-W always lifts my spirits and inspires me towards a gentler life and to chop my onions, crush my garlic and delicately simmer my vegetables.
I confess that I do not always hold entirely true to his philosophy. My pungent tomato soup tonight was nurtured from my homegrown coriander but the remaining ingredients were Tesco’s onions, garlic and tinned tomatoes and it tasted bloody marvellous.
It looks as if Emsworth is to see the back of me shortly – credit crunch, buy-to-let mortgage, landlord’s wife is pregnant – and I am inspired towards Dorset. My clifftop writer’s retreat, above the crashing surf, my dogs, my garden, etc, etc. Protest not! I am paid to dream and to chronicle my ambition and that is where it now lies.
This very week I am travelling west (as every young man should) and hoping that my nirvana is ahead. I have set my sights betwen Lyme Regis and Swanage and somewhere there I intend to find my new home.
Peter Reynolds 
Now I Understand Why I Hate English Football
with 10 comments
Whinging, Whining Loser
I’ve hated football for 20 years or more now. With the World Cup I’ve finally come to understand why. English football is rubbish. It’s been corrupted and destroyed by an incurable cancer of money and venality. English football players are overpaid ponces, whores and playthings for foreign potentates. They cannot play the game anymore. They stand around worried that they’ll make a mistake, that they’ll bruise their poor little knees, fracture some obscure little bone in their foot or that their orange-painted slag will run off with their best mate while they’re training. They seem much more concerned about getting their name in the newspaper than on the scoresheet.
I do remember a rare glimpse of sanity in this crazy world when a year or so ago the great Bobby Charlton apologised for the £80 million pound transfer fee for Ronaldo and described it as “vulgar”. He had that absolutely right. Screaming and curling into the top corner from 40 yards in the last minute of extra time right.
Talent. Honour. Pride.
I’ve just watched the most riveting, scintillating, magical game of football between Spain and Germany. It reminds me how much I used to love the game and how much I and other British sports lovers are losing out. It was a joy. I saw beauty there in the poetic movement and interplay. There is nothing beautiful about the English game.
In 1970-71, when I was 13, I was lucky enough to attend every home game at Highbury stadium.
My Hero
Arsenal won the double that year and Bob Wilson was my hero. I played in goal too and even today I still treasure that special camaraderie between goalkeepers. Even as I’ve lost interest in the game I’ve still retained that love hate relationship with the most important position on the pitch. I’ve been angered and bemused once again at the inane remarks of commentators. Only occasionally do they compliment a goalie or even understand what it involves . Usually it’s either a “blunder” or an “easy save” or “straight at him”. Don’t they realise that it was “straight at him” because he was in the right place to begin with. There’s no such thing as an easy save. Bob Wilson used to have a reputation as an “unspectacular” goalie – because he was almost always there before the ball arrived! There are no excuses when you’re a goalkeeper.
There isn’t any passion in the English game anymore. I don’t think they know what it is. Passion for that bunch of losers is what you get in a lap dancing bar – innit bruv? There’s very little pride either. Even at its very best football can never compete with rugby as a real sport so when the BBC had the audacity to hijack Invictus and try to apply some of it’s wonderful, uplifting qualities to the English football team – well, I was just disgusted.
The Spain Germany game was wonderful and I expect the final will be too. The Spanish were inspired and fluent. The wonderful Xavi is a powerful symbol of how useless the English chavs are. The multiracial German team was a redemptive lesson for us all. They were proud, positive and every colour of the rainbow. Schweinsteiger, the archetypal aryan stormtrooper, strong, fearless and utterly reliable. These players are so talented they don’t need to feign fouls or injury. They just get on with the job – beautifully.
So the World Cup has been a very big but very pleasant surprise for me. I’d fallen victim to the propaganda that the Premier League is the best football in the world but that’s been proven to be a great big lie. It might be the richest league but that’s exactly what has ruined the game.
As a Welshman, for me nothing will ever come close to rugby. I’m glad I’ve found pleasure in football again but English football has finally proved itself to be the very worst football in the world.
Written by Peter Reynolds
July 8, 2010 at 4:16 pm
Posted in Biography, Consumerism, sport
Tagged with 1970-71, Arsenal, BBC, blunder, Bob Wilson, Bobby Charlton, camaraderie, cancer, commentator, corrupted, crazy, destroyed, easy save, English, English chavs, ferless, fluent, football, foreign, Germany, goalie, goalkeeper, Highbury stadium, hijack, inane, incurable, inspired, interplay, Invictus, joy, lap dancing bar, love hate relationship, magical, mistake, money, multiracial, newspaper, orange-painted, overpaid, passion, playthings, poetic, ponces, potentates, Premier League, pride, redemptive, riveting, Ronaldo, rubbish, rugby, sanity, Schweinsteiger, scintillating, scoresheet, slag, Spain, Spanish, sport, stormtrooper, strong, the beautiful game, the double, venality, vulgar, welshman, whores, World Cup, Xavi