Does sport make us dumb?

In that weird space when you first return home from a trip elsewhere; your home feels that bit different, you’re tired from travel and a very early start and a letter from the health centre wanting you to make an appointment with your GP. I had a blood test the day before our departure, the phlebotomist said they should have results later the same day and I’d be called if there was anything untoward. Alarm tinkled in my brain, “that’s quick” said I, “I’m off on holiday tomorrow so could any untowardness be delayed ’til i’m back”

Three years ago I had an appointment at Poole Hospital which I went to on our way to France for a family holiday. The consultant said, with what I thought a little too much glee, that she could see the crabby growth and would I like to see it? No thanks. Put a little damper on the holiday. Didn’t want a repeat so didn’t tell Kate what the phlebotomist had said, kept things to myself and tried not to get too anxious. Told Kate about the letter on our return today, call them now she said so I did with some trepidation. Made an appointment for a few weeks hence and some relief when informed that it wasn’t urgent.

Of course I should have told Kate straight away but she was so looking forward to a well deserved holiday and I didn’t want a repeat of the French trip.

And now it’s a few days later and we’re back from another trip to Shropshire for a bunch of us to celebrate our 60th year. We pretty much had a pub to ourselves, an old coaching inn, for the weekend. I think everyone had a good time, I did, meeting up with old friends, meeting some new folk, learning that my increased weight made my kart slower, that I’m crap at clay pigeon shooting and pleased that I managed to be one of the last to bed both nights and reconfirming that old saying ‘early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise’.

So now I need a few days recuperation.

We watched a recording of last week’s Question Time last night and it disturbed me for many reasons but mainly for the continuing displays of the divide and anger that fucking brexit has unleashed. Any discussion of how a deal might involve anything other than a complete separation from any aspect of European integration and an immediate travelling back in time to the mythical heyday of the British Empire was met with extremely aggressive bellowing by phalanxes of white males. It really is a load of bollocks.

And the Lions won, beating the mighty all blacks. A bunch of us watched it in the old coaching inn on Saturday and I must say I do get a tad annoyed by all the other arm chair pundits who say stuff like “the all black handling is just so superior”, “there’s no way they can be beaten” and other forelock tugging crap fawning before supposed superiors smothered in a shallow guise of a knowingness that I, who believe that a Lions win might be possible, get cheap pleasure pointing out every all black handling error. All very similar to the last election.

About which just read a piece by the perceptive Patrick Coburn and how a ‘perfect storm of events’ in Canterbury lead to the first ever loss by a tory in that constituency. One significant part of the storm came from students at the 2 universities and how there was political engagement from every group of students except one. Can you guess which group?


Keep on keeping on, love Duncan.

It was the sporty students of course.

PS We all missed you Martin.



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