Author Archives: Tim Lenton

I have to admit that I can be impatient. Fortunately most of my friends are patient with my impatience, but sometimes it spills over and reveals itself.

To an extent it’s always been there, but it’s been getting worse since I became aware that the years ahead of me are fewer than the years behind. Much fewer. The fact that my grandson has reached his 14th birthday is a factor. How long have I got? Can you speak a bit faster?

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing things that are a waste of time. I do those things, of course, but I don’t want to.

I resent filling in forms, or attending meetings that go through everything “line by line”. I know some people enjoy it, but I don’t. I shall have to fill my tax form in soon, and I’m not looking forward to it.

Why does software take longer and longer to load? Is it me?

Getting from place to place becomes more and more stressful. My train from Coventry to Euston was held up by 28 minutes last week. That’s very nearly 50%.  And have you noticed how the police grab every opportunity to close roads for as long as possible? Even after relatively minor accidents?

Don’t even get me started on Transport for Norwich, who not only delight in imposing as many roadworks as possible on the city at the same time, but manage to find contractors who work infinitely slowly. Why?

I have worked out that if speed kills, the speed of death is about 45mph. Twice in the last couple of days I’ve been in a queue behind drivers travelling along perfectly serviceable A roads at that speed, and I can tell you that it’s murder.

It’s not totally their fault. If only the second in the queue was able to summon up the nerve to overtake, the problem would disappear – slowly, perhaps, but it would disappear. Unfortunately, no-one seems willing to overtake nowadays. Have they forgotten how? Or do they really think that a slow-moving queue is safer?

Last time this happened, I dropped back to avoid the mind-numbing boredom of travelling at that speed on a road designed for 60mph. Why didn’t I overtake? Four cars at once was pushing it a bit, even for me. I’m not so impatient that I want to die straight away.

There is no such thing as a level playing field. In view of that, I would like to make suggestions for the next Olympics. You may find them controversial.

First, I suggest we ditch the whole anti-drugging industry and let people take whatever drugs they like. This may seem radical; so there is an alternative.

We could carefully measure every competitor’s body chemistry and bring it up (or down) to a uniform level. Clearly some people are born with an advantage, be it extra testosterone or a particularly athletic metabolism. Some are exceptionally tall (basketball). How can this be fair?

Also, some people are temperamentally suited to getting up early and running uncountable miles in the cold of winter, doing press-ups and generally getting out of breath. Others are not, and so are prevented from reaching Olympic levels.

Some people are also more inclined to self-centredness and so can put their demands as athletes before the needs of their families. This must be put right, perhaps by insisting that all athletes spend a certain number of hours with their families each day.

Some athletes, it has been noted, are able to answer interminable inane questions from sports commentators without ever punching them in the mouth. Most of us are innately unable to do this. Maybe some courses would be in order.

Once these reforms have been put in place, we can tackle the events themselves. The most urgent need is to ditch any event that involves a judge of performance.

It was obvious at Rio that quite a number of such judges made bizarre decisions, particularly (but not solely) in boxing. This could be avoided quite easily by sticking to sports that rely on clear measurement of achievement, such as running, jumping, swimming, shooting and so on. We could add chess. Obviously that would be a good thing.

I realise this would mean dumping gymnastics, diving, trampolining, synchronised swimming and a number of other questionable activities, but if necessary they can have their own Other Olympics. We could call it a Circus. (I am not belittling circuses: on the contrary, I went to one in Yarmouth a few weeks ago, and it was brilliant.)

To make things totally fair, I think we should all have gold medals, regardless.

During a short stay in North Norfolk recently, I suffered an attack of craft fairs. I tried everything, but they wouldn’t go away.

Funny things, craft fairs. A craft fair is really a crowd of mainly nice people with certain skills, often in a village hall, trying to persuade you to buy stuff you don’t really need, but which looks quite nice.

For this to work, you need people to have a reasonable amount of spare cash, because for them it’s a bit like giving money to charity.

But wait, I hear you say, isn’t there really a high degree of skill involved, which ought to be rewarded?

You could look at it like that. Unfortunately, however, our society is not set up to reward skill, except in certain areas, like surgery. This is why to be an artist or a craftist in 21st century Britain is unlikely to make you rich, unless you are also skilful at PR or intimidation, or are just very lucky.

There are too many people who are good at producing works of art, be they intricate bracelets or extraordinary etchings. Such work can take a lot of time, and if the creator charged his or her time at the same sort of rate as a lawyer, for example, no-one would ever sell anything.

So what are craft fairs for? They are similar to art exhibitions, in that they put work on show. And if people are persuaded to buy, maybe it’s possible to eke out a living, or supplement a pension. But the first reason for creating is the creation itself, not what happens later.

So the craft fair is a kind of indulgence. Rather like children asking their mother and father to come and see what they’ve done. And the mother and father will hand out a reward. Not a big reward: a small one. By way of encouragement.

That is why we are afflicted by craft fairs. So should we forget them and get on with the serious business of life?

I think this would be our loss. We are all in our way creators, and if we are not allowed to demonstrate this, it deprives us of part of our humanity – and it deprives everyone else of an opportunity to step outside of the daily routine and enjoy a bit of beauty. Or at least an attempt at it.

That’s my theory, anyway. Craft fairs are an attempt at beauty. And if we don’t make an attempt at beauty – inside or outside of craft fairs – what are we living for?

I hesitate to write anything about the EU referendum because of the deep passions involved. It is tragic to see the divisions that have struck between friends and family members.

Can it be that those we thought close to us were not what we thought at all?

We know ourselves to be kind, caring, generous and loving people; so those who voted differently must be ruthless, uncaring, mean and hateful, mustn’t they? And hypocritical too, pretending to be like us when they’re not at all.

Or maybe that’s not it. Perhaps we’re intelligent, well-read and thoughtful, whereas they are, well, stupid and short-sighted.

There were only two choices in the referendum, but the issues involved were complex and very different in character. What it boiled down to was what we considered the most important issues.

When my wife and I clean up the house, she will do certain things first, and I will do others. There is a risk, given time constraints, that some things will remain undone: she will be more worried about some things, and I will be more worried about others.

People are remarkably different. They are not simply good or simply bad. We all have our faults, but they cannot be explained simply by our age or our social status.

We over-simplify. After the result of the vote was known I heard several people refer to our “leaving Europe”, which is not true at all. The country has voted by a smallish majority to leave a political organisation that some see as a kind of Garden of Eden and others as basically corrupt. The truth is in between, but how much weight do you put on each side?

Tricky. The real problem, however, is different. It is that we think we can read people’s minds. “I know what you’re thinking” may not be what we actually say, but it is what we believe.

We are unkind to our friends because we think we know why they voted that way. But we don’t, unless they tell us. And do we really want them to tell us? Isn’t it obvious that our vote was right?

Happily, with the referendum now a week behind us, many have been able to get a grip, stand back and see things a bit more clearly. Some, sadly, have not. Life is more difficult for many, and now is a time for unity, peace and love to reassert themselves. We may not know what our friends are thinking, but let’s assume it’s something good. Something loving. Something caring. You know – like they used to be. Before.

Guy Martin, I understand, is a motor cycle racer. I have no information on what he wears (though I could guess) or how much he earns (probably quite a lot, as he is also apparently a TV personality). He does describe football kit as “underwear”, which is interesting.

Why am I bothering you with this? Let me give you the full quote: “I have nothing against football. It just seems very wasteful losing two hours of my life to watch 22 millionaires on TV chasing a bag full of wind in their underwear.”

The “bag of wind” bit is hardly an original observation. It has been used for many years by those who don’t like football, or games in general. To them there is no point in it; they don’t understand the appeal.

Why should they bother with it? Why indeed? There are many things I don’t bother with, because I have no interest in them, but that doesn’t mean there is no value in archaeology, knitting, hip-hop, reality television or opera.

To many people Euro 2016 is a waste of time and space, but to others it is fascinating. I am not talking about the loud-mouthed tribal devotees, but those who enjoy the moments of beauty that the game throws up, and for which many of us are prepared to sit through quite a lot of tedium. Or watch the highlights, which is my preferred option.

The attraction of any game, surely, is its beauty – and that’s something you never understand if you don’t take it seriously.

A non-sporting friend of mine never ceases to remind me of the day she saw me “fighting desperately” to win a game of croquet. I remember the occasion well, because I don’t play much croquet, and I was not fighting desperately to win: I was simply concentrating, taking it seriously.

If you don’t try to win games, there is no point in playing them, because that’s how they work. There is no point in playing bridge if you don’t pay attention. There is no point in playing anything if you don’t give it your best shot. This is not desperation: this is acceptance of how it works. That’s how you uncover its secrets. Not by winning, but by trying to win.

The beauty that is at the heart of any game depends on its being taken seriously. If you don’t get the beauty, or can’t be bothered, that’s fine. There are plenty of other things to do.