Author Archives: Tim Lenton

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.

I have come to expect that in any area that can be described as even remotely political, my views are at variance with just about all my friends, and are certainly not represented by anyone standing in my constituency for any form of office, be it MP, mayor, police commissioner, binman or traffic warden.

This means that not only I am effectively disenfranchised, but I cannot talk to my friends either.

So clearly I cannot venture any kind of opinion on whether we should stay staunchly in the European Union or come out of it as quickly as possible. I will however make one or two observations.

Most young to medium-young people seem in favour of staying in. This may be because they have never experienced life outside the EU, or indeed known that such a thing was possible. However, young people are the future, and if they want to stay in, perhaps we should let them. It won’t be long before it won’t matter to me one way or the other. In fact that day is fast approaching.

Most people of my generation want to leave. That may be something of a generalisation, but if it’s true, I suspect it’s because they resent the dishonest way we were dragged into it. Or maybe they remember the halcyon days when we made our own laws and could laugh at all the stupid things we did, instead of grimly blaming them on foreigners.

It has been suggested that we should judge the merits of our journey by looking at our fellow travellers. How can we think of leaving when Batty Boris and Michael Gove are also of that opinion? That sort of makes sense until you realise that David Cameron and George Osborne are of the opposite opinion.

(I myself am astonished at how many loud and abusive Cameron-haters have in recent weeks seem to have fallen in love with him. Will it last? You tell me.)

The idea that older may be wiser has long gone by the board – at least in our up-to-the-minute culture. It is of course wrong to say that those with more experience, expertise and knowledge are necessarily wiser, but they may not all have Alzheimer’s either. I know I haven’t. At least, I don’t think so.

So which way should you vote? Are you frightened of migrants or terrified by trade deficits? Do you think the NHS is sinking fast, or is the sky on fire? I suppose you could make a balanced decision, and vote to come out a little way and then edge back. Independence Day or Divergent? It’s tail-on-the-donkey time.

I say this at the risk of upsetting all my friends.

I made my first visit of the season to Carrow Road last night, and saw Norwich City beat Watford 4-2. It was an exciting occasion: my neighbour’s 13-year-old son, Freddie, was one of the mascots, and there was much merriment all round. Which is odd, because the night ended with Norwich being relegated to the Championship, thanks to Sunderland’s win against Everton.

It was not a particularly merry evening for me. First, I forgot how to swipe my wife’s season ticket, then I entered the ground through the wrong lounge and couldn’t find my seat (although I’d sat in it many times before) and finally I was barred from the lounge at half time because I’d left my ticket with someone who was already in there.

I didn’t mind too much about that, because they don’t serve black tea. I mean, really.

I did mind the constant sit-stand yo-yoing up and down because people arrived late, left early for half-time, came back late and then left early at the end. It’s not as though the football was boring – on this occasion, anyway. But Norwich, I’m told, are a yo-yo club, and I suppose this includes the spectators. Since I’m not a regular spectator, I can’t really expect anyone to take note of my muttering.

(In case you’re mystified, a yo-yo club is one that is relegated one year and promoted the next. We hope.)

But why the merriment? Don’t football fans really care? Is their club a joke?

I find it strangely reassuring. I know Bill Shankly said football was “not a matter of life and death: it’s more important than that”, but of course it really isn’t, is it? And the Championship can be more fun than the Premiership, unless you’re Leicester. And let’s face it, most of us aren’t. We’re not even Richard III.

Strangely, what brought about the merriment was acceptance of the inevitable. Norwich were going down. No-one suggested otherwise, though it was not settled mathematically. A week earlier, when there was realistic hope, there was no merriment –­ just tension, and a touch of despair.

Last night we’d got beyond all that. We were going to have a good season in the Championship and not endure a long series of 1-0 losses to off-colour super-teams. At least that’s what we hope. And it’s a merry thought. The win against Watford was a kind of promise of things to come.

When I left Wembley after the euphoric play-off final last year, a Middlesbrough fan approached a group of us and said: “You’re going to lose all your matches next year, and we’re going to win the league.” How we laughed, not because we held him in scorn, but because we knew that he was probably right.

He almost was. As Norwich go down, they pass Middlesbrough on the way up. What goes around, comes around. You’ve got to be merry, haven’t you?