Its tennis time again in London. Queens Club tournament and its German counterpart.

I watched a tennis match yesterday. Nothing unusual in that. It’s the season. Andy Murray was playing. At Queens Club in West London, the pre-cursor to Wimbledon. That was unusual. He could hardly walk five months ago. Subsequent hip surgery has given him his movement back. It’s unlikely he’ll make back to the top as a singles player, I fear, but as a doubles player he gave us a great spectacle. Alongside his partner - he was playing with another elder statesman and former Queens champion, Feliciano ‘Wile E Coyote’ Lopez – he took to the court and they won. They beat the favourites. Murray’s class shone through. He has won Queens Club five times. It seemed apt.

            I’ve been watching Queens Club since the late eighties. Many an afternoon, I would rush home at lunchtime with relish to watch it and reluctantly leave a little later to go back to school, resenting the boredom that awaited me. It was, of course, a different time. In those days it was the Stella Artois tournament. These days its sponsored by a very trendy and successful drinks mixer brand, Fever Tree. In all fairness, Gin and Tonic does seem more appropriate for the genteel surroundings than a beer which is alternatively known as “wife beater”.

            The tennis has changed too. Thirty years ago, serve and volley tactics dominated the grass game. These days not so much, so it was a pleasure to watch another match yesterday between the Frenchman Nicolas Mahut and the great Swiss, Stan Wawrinka. Mahut, an excellent doubles player, is a little old school, volleying, sliced backhand chip and charge and so on. And he won. Granted, Wawrinka arguably let the match slip out of his hands and he is not a natural grass court player, perhaps? The speed and unpredictability being tricky for him but he has three Grand Slams and awesome power. So well done Mahut. I’ve spent seventeen summers in London and never been to Queens Club. I did try once with my mate Richie, in 2015, but the queues were so long we thought ‘sod it’ and watched it in a pub round the corner. I should rectify that as it has huge charm. A sort of mini-Wimbledon. Impossible to know who will win, but whoever does will take massive confidence into Wimbledon. The young Greek, Tsitsipas, is favourite and looks pretty good, but Raonic, the giant Canadian is a danger.

            The German equivalent of Queens is also happening this week. In Halle, West Germany. Also played on grass it attracts an equally impressive field of players including Roger Federer who has won it about twelve times. It’s very different from the cosmopolitan, ‘Pimms on the lawn’ feel of West London. Massively different, I can confirm as I’ve been there twice. Gerry Weber, whoever he is, set it up in the 1990’s. A sports stadium and not much else, in the middle of rolling, verdant countryside. A little incongruous but I like that. He may have worked in Fashion. There is a catwalk at the tournament. That’s as fancy as it gets though. Catwalk strutting models aside - many of whom, are refreshingly non-skeletal - it’s delightfully low key and delightfully German. Great beer or ‘pilsner’ as they call it, served in real glass, not plastic cups.  Bratwurst sausages on a bun, chips with industrial mayonnaise. What’s not to like. And lots of little plump German ladies and gentleman who are there for a good time and for great tennis. Nothing else. Not to be seen, not to show off, just to enjoy themselves. It’s amazingly uncool which of course makes it far cooler than anything which aims to be cool and the tennis is great. If I had to pick, I’d take that over Queens any day.  Nothing against Queens, but Halle has that unique charm. And better beer, better sausages and a catwalk. And we still have Wimbledon.

Efficiency over beauty. Thoughts inspired by a tennis match.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

Oscar Wilde, Lady Windemere’s Fan.

  Watching a particular point last week between Roger Federer and Rafa Nadal at the French Open semi-final epitomised the theory and concept of efficiency over beauty. For those of you not familiar with the technicalities of tennis, Roger Federer’s magnificent one-handed backhand has certain limits, i.e. his ability to compete when the ball bounces very high. The two-handed backhand, though less aesthetically pleasing – resembling more a cricket shot – is far more efficient in being competitive on the high bounce. One of the main advantages Nadal has over Federer – and other single handers like Stan Wawrinka and Dominic Thiem – on clay, at least, is his left-handed cross-court topspin forehand, which bounces at shoulder height to Federer’s right backhand. He simply cannot remain competitive in these rallies. My point? Someone like Djokovich can, as he uses the double hander. In other words, elegance and beauty have been sacrificed for efficiency.

'The winner takes it all'. 'To the winner the spoils. 'To win someone’s heart'. Winning is sadly but truthfully, almost everything. And certain tennis players understood this and changed tennis forever. Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg were the first two male tennis stars of the modern era to use the double-handed backhand. Traditionally, in both men’s and women’s tennis, the single hander was the go-to shot. These days, as I understand it, no women in the top 100 use it. In the 80’s, however, in men’s tennis, the one-handed backhand remained dominant, but by the 90’s two more world number ones, Jim Courrier and Andre Agassi had taken it on, profiting from the extra control and especially, defence, that the double gives. Fifteen years later, the only top ten single hander was Roger Federer. In the last fifteen years only two players have won grand slams using the one-handed backhand, Federer, of course and Stan Wawrinka. The rest of the so-called big four; Nadal, Djokovich and Andy Murray, all play with the two-handed backhand and the only other two players to win a grand slam since 2005, Marin Cilic and Juan Martin Del Potro, likewise. Less romantic, less beautiful but more efficient.   

Such is the way of things. Luckily for the romantics amongst us, the aforementioned Thiem from Austria and Stefanos Tsitsipas from Greece, tennis’ latest star – like a cross between Bjorn Borg and Barry Gibb in his Staying Alive phase – both play with the single backhand and both look like future slam winners, and maybe even before Nadal, Djokovich and Federer retire.

This sacrificing of beauty and elegance for efficiency isn’t limited to tennis of course, or other sports, for that matter. Formula One being an example. Obviously with Formula One, safety has also been an important consideration but anyone who believes that the contemporary version is more entertaining than the 70’s 80’s or 90’s is living in cloud cuckoo land. Equally, beyond sport, things have developed in a similar way. Passenger planes, like Formula One cars are more efficient, more automated and safer but undoubtedly less beautiful, inside and out. Has there ever been a more extraordinary plane than the Concorde? Extraordinary yes, but fuel-efficient? I fear not. Cars, similarly are more reliable but aesthetically? Let’s not even go there. They all seem to look the same for one thing. Clearly beauty and elegance are not the world’s priority. Profit and balance sheets trump aesthetics every time.

I’m working my way – very slowly – through a book called The Relevance of the Beautiful. It’s fairly dull, highly intellectual and having been written about 80 years ago, feels very distant from most of modern culture but when I do understand what the author is talking about it does makes me think about beauty, art and morality. In other words, the history of art, its origins, its place in our society. Yes, fairly irrelevant probably, in these days of Facebook, Love Island and The Fast and the Furious part 25 but what the hell. Beauty, sadly, may not be a priority but it inspires me every day. A rose, a sunset, Roger Federer’s single backhand. And it's free too. Just needs a bit of your attention. I’ll take that over a bunch of narcissistic cretins trying to get laid or some pointless celebrity on Instagram but I guess I’m in the minority. 

Oscar Wilde, I suspect, would have disdained modern trash culture but perhaps not have hated the perpetrators. Perhaps he’d even feel sorry for them, though he’d probably claim never to think about them. Them not being worthy of his energy. I’m trying not to hate them and certainly trying not to think of them. Art for art’s sake? I’m not sure about that Oscar but beauty for beauty’s sake? Certo, as they in Italy and they know a thing or two about beauty. Perhaps not so much about efficiency? And so it goes on. Oh well, it’s Wimbledon time soon. Green lawns and white shirts. No tennis shirts that look like they were designed by Jackson Pollock. Nothing wrong with Jackson, certainly but perhaps not for a tennis shirt. Keeping it simple. Simplicity, beauty and elegance often go together. I’ll take heart in that.

May 1989. Street Fighting Years and Simple Minds. So not much has changed...

"In the bowling alleys, in the easy living, something good got lost along the way." Paul Buchanan. "High" by The Blue Nile.

Thirty years ago, May 1989,  Glasgow. A warm summer was beginning. I have a memory for these things. It was also a pretty decent summer for music too, I think? Jason Donovan aside, though he was right; there are too many broken hearts in the world. There was Midnight Oil, Beds Are Burning, a good tune with a strong political message. I can’t actually remember much else. But there was an album, Street Fighting Years by Simple Minds, released in May 1989. Lots of people liked them, lots of people didn’t. Back then, they were a pretty sizeable operation. And they were from Glasgow too.  

         For me, I’d become a fan a couple of years before, when I heard their live album, called Live In The City Of Light. Copied on tape from the LP by my friend’s big brother. I was blown away and bombarded my mother with it in the car for a couple of years, much to her dismay, I suspect. An album of power and great atmosphere. I was hooked and devoured their back catalogue, as varied and original as any British rock band, I’d say. As a youngster to become a big fan of a band, is an emotional experience, so my anticipation of their first new album since I had become a fan was huge. I knew a couple of tracks already, Belfast Child, in particular, a number one single, so there was anticipation. Nobody would write a song about Northern Ireland these days. Nobody needs to, perhaps? 1989 was a more volatile time in that part of the world. Also, the internet has allowed us all to have a say. And gentrification in the UK as a whole; Coffee shops, sourdough and vegan muffins have smoothed things over. Collectively, we’re just all a bit smoother and smugger than we were in 1989. The middle classes, at least.

Anyway, I bought the cassette and I still, just about, remember listening to the title track for the first time. Acoustic bass and rolling piano chords? Slide guitar? No crashing drums. It was all very soft. Soft but insistent. The antithesis of the live album, but I thought it was beautiful. I still do. An emotive song which starts off a gentle stream, transforms itself into a huge powerful ocean wave and then ends as a long tranquil river flowing into the sea. It was dedicated to a man called Victor Jara, a Chilean folk singer, a voice of freedom, murdered by the state. It was that type of Album. Soul Crying out, another beauty, was about the Poll Tax. Remember the Poll Tax? “Like a tax on breathing” as Jim Kerr, the singer called it. And they tried it on Scotland first. Nice move, Maggie!  This Is Your Land - with an ecological polemic, presumably inspired by This Land Is Our Land a Woodie Guthrie song, covered by Bruce Springsteen - had guest vocals by Lou Reed. You’d have to feel pretty good about life if Lou Reed agrees to perform your song, wouldn’t you? Manu Katché, the sensational Peter Gabriel drummer was there. And Stewart Copeland, legendary drummer with the Police got involved too. Pretty good team, I’d say.   

I still listen to those three songs. They’ve endured, the rest perhaps a little less so? The album ends with a beautiful bagpipe track called When Spirits Rise too. Again this was new. Simple Minds were pretty electronic in the early days. They had dance beats. Then came lush, ambient sounds and atmosphere. Then they become a rock band. Now it was bagpipes and violins. It was an original type of album. It’s not considered a classic, but there is some greatness there, for me. And courage, to move away from their previous success and completely change the style. It was, also, a different time for popular music. Rock Bands had a part to play in the political process. Simple Minds, amongst others, were partly responsible for helping to release Nelson Mandela. They wrote the song Mandela Day for the Mandela concert at Wembley stadium, the previous year. That summer, 1989, they filled Wembley stadium themselves and played that song as well as other anti-apartheid classics;  Biko by Peter Gabriel and Sun City by Little Steven, Bruce Springsteen guitarist and collaborator. A year later, Mandela was free. These days Wembley is filled by Ed Sheeran’s one-man-band, sponsored by Ryan Air. Popular music, like flying used to be a bit more romantic, a bit more exciting, a bit less smooth and a bit more dangerous.  

The record and tour were big news. They were big, though it lost them America, commercially at least, maybe a bit too militant for the Regan Era or just too different from the previous studio record, “Once Upon A Time” which was very successful there. Furthermore, at the end of the year, after the tour, their original keyboard player - integral to their sound since the beginning - Mick McNeil, left the band, never to return. Maybe it all got a bit too much for him. Either way, Simple Minds, for me, at least were never quite the same. And I’ve never quite got over it. As I said, it was an emotional involvement. The political activism never really returned either. 1989 was just that kind of year, I suppose. Tiananmen Square, China. The Berlin Wall coming down, accompanied, perhaps not unsurprisingly, in news reels by another song from the same album, Let It All Come Down. You’d think they’d planned it, but I don’t think they did, it was just that type of year. And they’re still doing it, Jim Kerr and the highly under-rated guitarist Charlie Burchill, thirty years later and good on them, they continue to create new music and tour the world successfully with varying line-ups as opposed to doing 80’s re-union tours to pay the bills. They haven’t stood still. Nostalgia shouldn’t be a lament, but quite naturally, it often is. I try to live in the moment, though a part of me, will forever want to be back in my room for a little while, that May of 1989, West End of Glasgow, trees blowing in the summer breeze, listening to that album for the first time.

A slow start to summer won't dampen my mood...

“It was fine May weather, with the hawthorn flowering on every hedge.”

John Buchan, The Thirty-Nine Steps.

There hasn’t been any fine May weather so far. More of that later. A miracle of nature has just been and gone. Cherry blossom this year was particularly striking.  Did you notice? The delightful pink colour contrasting with the blue skies of early to mid-April is one of the visual highlights of the year. There were plenty of blue skies in the first half of April and some very cold nights. Whether this made any difference or not it was most impressive. March was dull, mild and grey. April was mostly cold, barring the exceptional heat wave over Easter. With lots of sunshine. That must have helped.

A potential consequence of the Easter heat has seen another marvel manifesting in the garden. The lavender plants are positively thriving after a poor summer last season undoubtedly due to my over-eager chopping the previous winter. The roots and branches stretching out with impressive suppleness to maximise contact with the sun, they are a magnificent sight. A classic favourite with bees, the cold weather seems to be limiting their fluffy, buzzing presence but the lavender plants are proving most popular with a range of different bumble bees which are working away despite the low temperatures. Most of us think of a bumble bee as the large hairy one with black and white stripes and a yellow tail. This is true but there are many other species to look out for. The first to come this year was a small black bumble, then a more classic stripey bumble of relatively small stature. And a bronze coloured one. I’ve only seen one large bumble so far. Hopefully as the weather warms and more flowers come into bloom, their number and variety will increase. Keep an eye out, there are more types than you might imagine.

            As Shakespeare noted in his sonnet, “rough winds do shake the darling buds of May”. There have been some rough winds and cold winds. Storm Hannah in late April did some damage and more recently,  winds coming from the Arctic over a still cold North Sea have made it distinctly un-summer like. The cold start to May seems to be limiting activity in general but there are signs of another of my favourite gifts from the plant world. The beautiful sight of hawthorns is beginning to unfold and should reach fullness of expression around the third week of May. Look out for those splendid white flowers, it won’t last long.

            One other jewel is imminent. My first rose flowers of the summer should soon arrive. Nurturing plants and see them flower is a powerful act. And developing a new relationship, as it were, as I have since I started growing roses is akin to making new friendships with all the joy, anticipation and discovery that comes from it. Like friendships or any relationship, in fact, gardening is a case of the more you put in, the more you get out. A rose flower shows the genius and wonder of nature as well as anything; The detail, the intricacy, the delicacy, the beauty. It's worth the effort.

            I’ve spent a fair amount of time recently in an “English garden, waiting for the sun”. Not sitting though, too cold for that. De-weeding, tidying and planting. Summer sun may be reticent and secretive at the moment but it makes it all the sweeter when it does come.

All hail, Cesar, AKA Billy Mcneill.

A great man died yesterday. Billy McNeill captain of the Lisbon Lions, the legendary Celtic team that were the first Brits to win the European Cup, in 1967.  The leader of a swashbuckling attack-minded group of players saturated with legends: Jimmy Johnstone, Tommy Gemmell, Bobby Murdoch etc. All of them, the entire team, that is, were from within thirty miles of Glasgow. In addition, the manager was the greatest of his generation, Jock Stein, Alex Ferguson’s mentor. That match changed football. Beating Inter Milan, the bronzed Italian Adonises, whose defensive style had dominated European football, opened the door to other attacking teams. The following years, it was Manchester United’s turn. Ajax with their “total football” won three in a row, a few years later. Celtic’s ground-breaking victory would not have happened without Billy McNeill, I suspect. Every successful team needs a great captain.  Tall and majestic he had that rare gift of poise. Nicknamed Cesar, not due to any Roman connection though it does fit a man of his majesty, it was due to him owning the same car as the character Cesar from the original Ocean’s Eleven film. One of the few players in those days at Celtic to own a car, most of them took the bus to training.  A man of dignity and honour, like his contemporary, the English captain, Bobby Moore, a far cry from the bling and tack that is modern football, though Bobby Moore managed to be a bit of a celebrity in the seventies, he was never cretinized by wealth like the circus that is the contemporary game.

              They came from a different time. A time where they would consider luxuries, what we take for granted; Central heating, an inside toilet, a hot shower, a car, good food. Such training in life must keep one's feet on the ground, surely.  People like Billy McNeill are a lesson to modern times. Their values should be taught in schools. Our self-obsessed, self-indulgent culture of entitlement where mediocrity is often celebrated or at least tolerated has its plus points, of course. I’m very grateful for the modern luxuries but our crass lack of dignity as a society would surely have been a big turn-off to the great and modest Billy McNeill.  Or maybe, not? Maybe he would have taken it in his stride like he did everything else. Suffering dementia for many years and latterly unable to speak, he remained a devoted and loyal family man. His family should be proud. And we, not just football fans should be grateful. Thank-you Cesar.

Hommage to Mark Hollis of Talk Talk

Mark Hollis died this week. Who’s Mark Hollis you say? He was the singer and songwriter of a band called Talk Talk. You’ll certainly know one or two of his songs. ‘It’s My Life’ – no it’s not a song by Gwen Stefani, no doubt the Millennials out there think it’s hers - and 'Life’s What You Make It' are amongst my favourites. And two great songs. How do you define a great song? Subjective, of course. ‘It’s My Life’ has forty million hits on You-Tube. Granted, that doesn’t prove its greatness. ‘Nothings Gonna Change My Love For You’ by Glen Mederios has twenty-eight million.  A powerful and moving pop song with a fantastic bassline, its subject is man’s decimation of wildlife and all things natural. A worthy topic. I discovered them when I saw the video of ‘Life’s What You Make It’ back around 1990. An epic song with a deep piano beat that drives it, emotive vocals, pertinent words and some great guitar. It was partly the video which drew me in. Shot at night in Wimbledon or Wandsworth common I think, capturing the nocturnal antics of the various creatures. it is gothic and fantastic.                       

I can’t claim to be a Talk Talk fan, if being a fan engenders quoting every song, every album, but the songs I listen to I love. He has a unique voice, not perhaps the best range or technique but the emotive nature fits the music perfectly. Try listening to 'I Believe In' You from Spirit of Eden clasping your fingers together and raising them to the sky and letting them separate as the music flows up into the air. It’s quite a holistic moment. There’s a sadness in his voice, a fragility that’s very powerful. The crueller amongst you might suggest it sounds like’s having a hernia at times but don’t let that put you off.

            The thing is, Mark Hollis left the music business decades ago. It wasn’t for him. He wanted to be a family man and music and family, for him, were mutually exclusive. Admirable gesture or perhaps not. Maybe it was entirely normal for him. I spent three months, a few summers ago, hoping to meet him. I worked in a wine shop in Wimbledon Village, South-West London. It was the summer Andy Murray won Wimbledon for the first time that summer. Funny that. Mark was apparently an occasional customer. I would have shook his hand and said thank-you but sadly I never saw him. His music touches me and many others in a unique way.

            Their final album, Spirit Of Eden, a complex and at times tricky record but with moments of true majesty contrasts powerfully with their first record, when record company influence attempting to tap into the commercial pop world, seems a factor. Listening to it, I can’t help feeling a little provocation.  A slap in the face to those money motivated, record company executives. I wonder if that was part of his motivation with the record’s nature. It’s obtuseness at times is quite something. Important to remember, money is not the source of all evil. Suits are.  Thanks for the music, Mark. And the words and the voice...

February straight from the Canary Isles and Rugby in Paris

Aberdeenshire was warmer than Rome this week. 18 degrees was recorded, breaking a record of 17 degrees, set in Victorian times in that part of the world, so let’s not immediately assume that global warming is to blame. I suspect though that this February will prove the warmest in UK history. It’s the benignity (spell check didn’t pull me up on this) and pleasantness which is the most striking. February is often grey, often cold but this month it feels positively Mediterranean in London. Sunshine, blue skies and no wind. It is slightly disconcerting. The internal body clock senses that something is not quite right and the birds will feel the same. Although they have a biological clock that uses daylight hours to determine the season, the length of this mild spell must be tricky for them to understand. The garden is relatively quiet, the robin is ever present, and the other usual suspects but it’s all rather peaceful. A solitary bumble bee appeared yesterday but there’s nothing pollinating out there so it flew off, clearly confused. As for the birds, I assume they don’t need so much access to the food that is put out for them or maybe they’re just chilling. Either way they must be in shock at how trouble-free this winter seems to be.

            Thirty-three years ago, February 1986, the birds, wildlife and people of Britain were succumbing to a different type of shock. A blocked month when the winds came entirely from Siberia, essentially freezing us solid. We like to call it “the beast from the East” these days as we’re very fond of our set phrases, presumably due to collective failing memory as technology further reduces our need to actually use our memories, or brains for that matter. This weather event was a particularly extraordinary one for the UK, as our winds come predominantly from the Atlantic. We do at times feel the chill of easterly winds but for an entire month is almost unheard of. It is one that I’m too young to remember, I’m afraid, except seeing an icicle under a bridge after school one day. Almost an entire month of freezing temperatures would have had a dramatic effect on wildlife though nature usually finds a way of recovering.

Quite what will happen this year if, as claimed, March stays mild too, is harder to predict. A cold spell in late March or April, which often occurs, could be damaging if the birds ignore their biological clocks and start breeding early. It is a strange thing as aesthetically it is undeniably pleasant. What’s not to like about this mild spring like weather? It just feels a bit more normal when it happens in mid-march. Bees appear, days are longer, the sun a little bit warmer. Nature is beginning to wake up. When it occurs a month early I can’t quite relax. Maybe I should just move to the Mediterranean?

            One further thing about that month of February 1986 was my introduction to the joys of the five nations rugby tournament as it was then. More of a re-introduction as had I watched it before on occasion and remember Scotland winning the Grand Slam in 1984. However, on a Saturday afternoon in that month, my football game must have been cancelled due to the weather as I found myself watching Wales v Scotland at Cardiff Arms Park on the TV. I still remember the excitement as Scotland seemed to scored try after try and still the bloody Welsh beat us. With a penalty from inside the Welsh half by a guy called Paul Thorburn. “Whoof, what a belt he’s given it” screamed the late great Bill McLaren. Rugby was the loser that days as Welsh penalties essentially won the game but never mind, it prepared me well for the next thirty years. Scottish rugby flatters to deceive much of the time, sometimes it just deceives. And these days, finally, we have some serious world class talent; Finn Russell, Stuart Hogg etc. and they’re out injured. Quelle deception, as the French say.

            Still it never stops the excitement of this time of year. We play the French tomorrow in Paris. We haven’t beaten them over there since 1999. I was in Paris that day. I lived there at the time. I had two tickets for the game and I didn’t go for reasons that I will explain. I suspect my friend Ewan whom I was going with has never forgiven me as we tore the French apart that day. We actually watched it in a Scottish pub I frequented at the time in the centre of Paris. ‘The Auld Alliance’. It may still be there. I don’t go there now if I find myself in Paris, primarily because I like to pretend to be French and also prefer to avoid being asked what football team I support. You can take a Scot out of Scotland…

There were about eight of us Scottish Francophiles that day – April 1999, a warm spring day - friends from university who had gathered and one honorary Scots Frenchman, Erwan. Seemed wrong for Ewan - not Erwan, stay with me - and I to go and leave them there so I sold the tickets and bought us all some exorbitantly priced beers. We had a ball. Five tries. Champagne rugby. Hasn’t been much Champagne for us in Paris since. Tomorrow we’ll see, the French are a bit of a car crash these days, a very large, heavy beast of a car with high specification but driven by a blind person. We’re more like rabbits in headlights but with the prancing skills of a deer. We’ll see. Either way, I can’t wait.