The Unorthodox Website Blog

I keep Christmas nowadays mainly for my mother’s sake. She’s 93 and rarely sees any of the family except me. This year my brother called in for about two hours a week or so ago, first time she’s seen him for over 15 months.  He was in London for a meeting (he lives in Yorkshire). Her brother and niece called in for a few hours last week too, they live in Wembley. I’m the only relative living near her, and now visit her most days.

We both remember the old Christmasses we used to celebrate at my grandparents’ house, when they lived in Wood Green, and bungalow, when they moved to Welwyn Garden City. All their children, their partners and the grandchildren (except for my mother’s eldest brother and his family) used to meet up at their place every year.

I refuse to watch every word I say, carefully vet every joke in case it offends some sensitive soul. The other evening I was in a restaurant with four friends, members of a Speakers’ Group who are supposed to be able to discuss all subjects intelligently and without animosity. We politely listen and clap even if we don’t agree with the speaker’s political or other views, because it is an exercise in speaking and listening.

So I was very surprised indeed to get an email after the meal from one of our number, an Indian guy, who said he didn’t enjoy a harmless little joke I told about his ethnic community. I could just as easily have told it about my own father’s ethnic community – the Greek-Cypriots. 

It was the joke about the Indian guy living in Watford who went to the local railway station and tried to buy a ticket to a little village station in India.

A friend yesterday drew my attention to an article in The Sun (a so-called ‘newspaper’ which I would never buy, and once tore up in disgust. It is sad that this rightwing jingoistic tabloid was re-born from the once leftwing Daily Herald.)

The article had a photo of David Beckham posing naked in bed apart from a pair of Armani briefs, which he was apparently advertising. The text of the article, by a gay reporter, was about using his ‘gaydar’, the sixth sense by which gay men recognize each other, to work out whether Beckham was to quote The Sun ‘batting for the other side’. This presumably didn’t mean Beckham had passed away and had joined a cricket team in the Spirit world.

Of course the last paragraphs of the article had to make clear, for legal reasons and probably for accuracy, that David Beckham wasn’t gay or bisexual, despite all the so-called signs to the contrary which the reporter brought up in the article.

I recently contributed to a Forum of former Communists, many of whom write under pseudonyms such as ‘Kim Philby’, ‘Guy Burgess’, ‘Uncle Joe’ and even ‘Graham Norton’ (this latter was in a discussion about gay rights in the old Communist movement. It clearly wasn’t the real Graham Norton from the tone of the message.)

It is very depressing that, 16 years after the collapse of the Soviet Union, there is little attempt to go back to basics and analyze what went wrong, or to come to a consensus and point a way forward to insure the mistakes of the past are not repeated. Until this is done, of course, the extreme Left will be isolated politically in tiny factions and splinter groups.

The particular Forum I looked at, when my name was mentioned on it, seems to be full of unreformed hardliners or Stalinists, who are under the illusion that everything in the Soviet garden was absolutely rosy until Mikhail Gorbachov came along and ruined it.

Just returned from 7 nites at Pontins holiday camp at Pakefield, Lowestoft, Suffolk, my favorite camp as all food and electric is included in the price, and the entertainment is of a high standard. Also the camp is attractively laid out, unlike some others.

This was actually two holidays rolled into one. My mother and I booked some time ago for a Turkey and Tinsel Gold break – these are early Xmas/New Year celebrations for the over-50s, but they have other Gold (over-50s) breaks thruout the year.

Then we added on Ritchie Gee’s ‘Wildest Cats In Town Xmas Rock’n'Roll Party’ at the same camp, making it a Friday-Friday break of 7 nites.

We kicked off with a record hop (they didn’t have ‘discos’ in the 1950s!) on the Friday night in the Prince’s bar, and my mother at 93 enjoyed watching the dancing even though she found the music the entire weekend rather too loud.