Record Breakers

If you're under 25, find someone who isn't and ask them this question:

"What do you need if you want to be a record breaker?"

I'm willing to bet my worldly goods they'll go misty eyed, give you a knowing smile and proudly tell you that the answer is of course 'dedication'. If you're lucky they may even burst into song or a bit of air-trumpet.

The reason for this odd reaction is the classic kids' TV show, Record Breakers. Record Breakers was great. It ran from the 70s right through to 2001 and featured everything you could think of to do with world records and record holders. There were interviews with the bold, the brave and the bonkers - everything from the longest fingernails to the fastest talker - and frequent record attempts right there in the studio. It was the perfect concoction of entertainment and education, thrown together happily in a studio filled with wide-eyed children.

The show as I remember it was presented by Roy Castle, himself a world record holder and tap-dancing fanatic. It featured all kinds of others too: Cheryl Baker (a Eurovision starlet in the 80s), athletes Kriss Akabusi, Linford Christie,* and of course the legendary Norris McWhirter...

Every week, Norris would settle into his Mastermind-style chair, fold his fingers gently together and answer questions from the impeccably well behaved collection of children encircling him in the studio. He was, I suppose a bit like a Guinness Book of Records Egghead. Only he was nice about it. And do you know what, I think he knew everything - actually, everything ever asked of him.

As if the record attempt during the show was not enough (dominos, backwards talking, playing Chopin's 'Minute Waltz' in under a minute)... the highlight of every week was the closing credits, which famously featured Roy singing 'Dedication' and playing the trumpet. Gosh I did love Record Breakers!

The reason I'm mentioning it today is that I was thinking about Roy Castle on the bus. I'm not sure what brought it on - maybe the bus stop in Castle Street, or the inane conversation of the teenagers on their way to school. Either way, Roy was there inside my head, reminding me that today, a work day where it couldn't be less appropriate, 'dedication's what you need'...

The trouble is, I thought to myself, I'm not sure kids today have got that message. Dedication? They'd be channel hopping before Roy had fixed trumpet to lip, tantalising themselves with TOWIE or Hollyoaks. The point, I remind myself, was that you can achieve anything with a little inspiration and of course, hard work. Nothing is impossible, kids.

In fact, the whole premise of Record Breakers relied on children being interested in stuff - that interest hooked them in, and held them there and before the last stopwatch beeped out, they'd learned something and been inspired to 'be the best'... and they'd been inspired by someone who genuinely believed that each of us has the potential to be great...

... and I'm just not sure that happens any more. And I don't think it's because children are different, not deep down. The world has changed, but when you look around, you've got to admit that that is a great message isn't it? Shame. I just don't know whether today's Norris McWhirter in immaculate suit and tie would be as roundly respected for his statistical knowledge and gentle eloquence - or shouted at in the street by yobs who'd learned the word 'boffin' and how to combine it with filthy adjectives. Poor Norris.

I arrived at work, finally, to find the telesales team (all young girls in their early twenties) discussing Big Brother and why black people don't take the protective covering of sofas.

Roy, I am sorry.

Thank you for being a record breaker.

*We don't mention Fearne Cotton on this blog, thank you.

Mr Woodlow

"It's no wonder your company's so ***** and it's going down the pan," said Mr Woodlow. He'd been building up to this head of steam, right from the moment I'd introduced myself. "No-one ever gets back to me," he chuffed, "and then when you finally do, what you produce is a ******* pile of **** that looks like the kind of **** that's been put together by ******* children!"

"Look, if I can..."

"No you ****** can't, just get somebody to come out here and talk to me or don't ******* bother." Click.

"Mr Woodlow, let me.... Mr Woodlow?..." The phone was dead. I hung up and exhaled.

Later, I was walking through Reading town centre. It was the kind of day that just felt like the beginning of Autumn: brilliant blue sky, low and bright sunshine, and crispy leaves blown about the park by a cool breeze. They danced across the grass between the shadows. I thrust my hands into my coat pockets and walked briskly past. I can't do this for much longer, I thought to myself.

I still think that. But it's not just the likes of Woodlow that shape my thinking. The world is packed with Woodlows: frustrated and insecure, biting and snarling when they believe they're hard done by. Nope, not Woodlow; rather, the season itself.

This year the urge to go back to uni is stronger than ever before. I don't know why that is, but suddenly, just today, I found myself missing my friends, missing the adventure, the freedom, the youth and the liberty that university brought. Perhaps it's the weather. Yep, regular readers will notice of course that this does happen every year. And yes, I'll get over it - but today, a good 15 years after I first went to Bath, I still found myself longing for all that it held for me. In fact, I broke down in tears about it today... which is a silly thing, isn't it?

This feeling wasn't helped when Facebook told me something I didn't want to know. I am going to write down one day, all the reasons why I loathe the spambook, but way up near the top will always be: finding out things you just don't want to know. Today it told me something very painful about my family that will not be easy to handle or discuss. And I hate that I had to find out so coldly and impersonally.

Someone I know just tweeted that the 'squeaking duck gets shot.' I get the picture. I shall stop whinging. And anyway it's late (1am) and I should be dreaming. Knowing me now, I'll probably dream about shooting Mr Woodlow through the reeds with a rifle.

God I am sorry. I've got a long way to go.

9/11 and the Audacity of Hope

There are some moments that change things for ever. We all have them. They can be the shortest events - a gunshot, an ill-chosen word, a bad decision. Like a stone in the pond, you could blink and miss the impact, but the ripples are hard to ignore.

Today, the USA and the civilised world are soberly remembering the horrific events of one morning, ten years ago. It's easy to forget the sense of fear and uncertainty that followed that day - what had happened had been so utterly awful and real. No-one knew whether that was it, or whether every major city, every landmark and every one of us, were also targets.

The ripples of course are easy to see, looking back. Two terrible wars, many thousands of lives wrecked and a world that still lives in the shadow of the war on terror. We watched the world change in a single morning.

-

In the midst of all of this, I found myself thinking about hope today. On September the 11th, I was curled up in the living room, watching it all unfold in front of my eyes. Hope could not have been further from my mind as the second plane screamed into the South Tower. And what of hope when those buildings crumpled into piles of acrid dust and rubble?

Yet in despair, there is always room for hope. Obama himself, titled his book The Audacity of Hope. It was based (indirectly) on a painting by GF Watts showing a blindfolded woman, desperately clutching a harp and playing the one remaining string. I don't fully know what the book is about, but I love the phrase, the audacity of hope; that in the very heart of desperation and sadness, hope can be the smallest sound or the tiniest spark, audaciously defying the darkness.

My situation is not desperate, but there are times when I despair. It's always good to be reminded that hope can triumph when all else fails.