And he’d dance for you…


One of the joys of retirement is that when something catches your interest you can make the time to chase it around a little and see what pops up.

Usually it is a meander through the serendipity of google, a quick check of a fact turning into a couple of hours or so of increasingly unrelated, but fascinating links until you have quite forgotten what you were first enquiring about.

My latest musings started by watching Bruce Forsyth’s moving tribute to Sammy Davis jnr on ITV followed by the repeat of a show the pair did together back in the days when television concentrated on real talent rather than cooks, diy experts and wannabes. What did happen to Variety?

I was immediately reminded of seeing Sammy Davis at the London Palladium, I guess in the 1970s. It was the most thrilling night I’ve ever spent in the theatre.

I’ve been fortunate to witness some memorable entertainment moments. There were stellar nights at Ronnie Scott’s when the likes of Oscar Peterson and Sarah Vaughan performed close enough to almost touch.

I sat immediately in front of Fred Astaire at the London premier of the movie That’s Entertainment and watched in awe as he seemed to float down the steps on his way to take a bow at the end.

Buddy RichI joined in the standing ovation for Buddy Rich at Brighton even though he was ending his concert after only three numbers because his bass drum pedal broke and there wasn’t a spare. He sacked his roadie on the stage, played a breath-taking 15 minute solo then marched off. (Wonder if it was all an act and he just wanted to finish early?)

But Sammy Davis topped the lot. Tiny, almost fragile, he was alone on that big Palladium stage but he filled it with his talent. He danced, he played several instruments, he came up with a string of spot-on impressions, and he demonstrated that with the possible exception of his mate Sinatra, there has probably never been a better singer of the great American song book. And I recall noticing that while there was no doubting he was the star, he had a great rapport with and appreciation of the orchestra accompanying him – he clearly loved being among musicians.

If you haven’t seen Sammy Davis in action I urge you to watch his masterpiece on YouTube, telling the touching story of Mr Bojangles – ‘he looked to me to be the eyes of age’. But before you do, take a look at the version by Jerry Jeff Walker who wrote it.

Jerry is a country singer who was thrown into a New Orleans jail for over-indulging in a bar and there met an old ‘hoofer’ who told him his story. According to the website, Jerry said ‘I spent much of that long holiday weekend talking to the old man, hearing about the tough blows life had dealt him, telling him my own dreams.’

The singer then moved on to Texas, where he sat down to write: ‘And here it came, just sort of tumbling out, one straight shot down the length of that yellow pad. On a night when the rest of the country was listening to The Beatles, I was writing a 6/8 waltz about an old man and hope. It was a love song.’

So Jerry’s version should be the definitive performance. Yet to me, while it’s a pleasant enough country song, it’s not something you would immediately think ‘I must put that down as one of my eight discs in case Kirsty Young invites me on Desert Island Discs.

But then watch this version by Sammy Davis. He doesn’t just sing it; he doesn’t even just perform it; he lives it. The experience of being on the stage since he was a small boy is there in every immaculate gesture; but so is the pain of all those years when being black meant using the back door and when your so-called friend, John F Kennedy, for whom you had gained so many black votes, refused to invite you to the presidential inaugural ball because the world would not look kindly on a black man married to a white woman.

This is a performance of sheer genius – one person described it as music’s equivalent of Olivier’s Hamlet. But be warned once you’ve watched it, you’ll want more and you could find yourself spending hours on YouTube in awe of the many talents of Sammy Davis Jnr.

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Posted in My Life, Uncategorized

Down to the shade by the river

Lodepit Beck (5)

“I’m going down to the shade by the river one more time

And feel the breeze on my face before I die.

I’m gonna leave whatever’s left of my luck to the losers

And bend me down and kiss the world goodbye.”

As the days seem to accelerate towards my three-score and ten and that damned reality imp at the back of my mind whispers that not everything on my bucket list is going to be achieved – sorry Australia, Himalayas, playing the piano and reading Ulysses – Kris Kristofferson’s defiant but philosophical Kiss the World Goodbye resonates more and more.

‘I’m just a river that rolled forever and never got to the sea’ is earmarked as one of the lyrics to be heard at my funeral. As I’m from a gene pool that has seen many members of my family live well into their 90s, I’m hoping it will be many years before my time is up but when the moment comes I think I’ve found the perfect, shady river for kissing the world goodbye. Or more accurately, the perfect beck.

I first became aware of Lodepit Beck – or as I once heard it called in a moment of delicious historical Chinese whispers, Lord Pitt’s Beck – when I started to make a few tentative walks along the river and canal near home in order to be rid of an unsightly paunch. There’s a delightful – and delightfully short – walk along the side of the River Aire between the rowing club and Dowley Gap and to get to it you cross the beck on a narrow walkway just below Hirst Mill weir.

Wood path above Lodepit Beck 31-5-13 (8)As my fitness improved, I gradually ventured further from home and started to follow the beck upstream through fields and woods, past huge boulders dumped by nature, stone walls and stiles made by man, under a canopy of towering trees and round fallen trees weathered into shapes that Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth would have relished.

Every step disturbs a blackbird or a thrush or a pigeon or a magpie or occasionally a heron hoping to get lucky or any of the countless other birds my ignorance prevents me from naming; there are rabbits and squirrels aplenty and I once even startled a deer that bound off before I had time to focus my camera.

At every stage along its course – even when you can’t see it – you can hear the beck as it makes its way through the countryside, rushing over stones, eagerly seeking the quickest path downhill. Each time I make the journey, I grapple with the right word to describe that sound – chuckle, babble, gurgle, chatter? I usually settle on bubble because that also describes what is physically happening.

Over a period of months I’ve worked my way further up, through Eldwick on to the moors and while I’m still some way from arriving at the source – or rather sources because this beck is fed from many directions – I now have some concept of its journey down to the river. It is a path that water has followed for probably millions of years. People waited until the bronze age to arrive and probably later to settle along its bank – Eldwick is from the old Norse Helguic, ‘Helgi’s dairy farm’. Even then, the beck forced them to build over it or round it. It is tempting to think that long after we’ve all gone, the beck will still be running. Chuckling will probably be the right word then.

Let’s follow it down from Graincliffe Reservoir, up near Dick Hudson’s pub. There’s a short run down the hill to Eldwick Reservoir from which a steady flow of water feeds into what is clearly recognisable as a beck – at this point Eldwick Beck. It continues down the hill to where it once provided the power for Eldwick Mill. The corn mill is long gone and the beck has now been incorporated into the well-manicured garden of the cottages that once held mill workers. Beck in field across road from Beck Cottage, Eldwickback to backs. Look behind you, up the field towards Tewitt Farm, and the vegetation tells you that another stream, hardly more than trickle most of the time, is making its way to join up with the beck under the garden wall.

From there it runs parallel to the road known as the Green, behind the houses and the Acorn pub before being walled in under Bridge Cottage, under the road and out again through a rustic, three-arched opening before being channelled along Spring Lane. But man only controlled its path for a short while and the beck snakes down below Saltaire Road, darting round houses and under tiny stone bridges, making its way towards Baildon Moor.

Behind the houses on the Green

Behind the houses on the Green

At the entrance to the moor it is joined by Glovershaw Beck tumbling down from the hill above and as the two mingle under the bridge and make their way into the wood, it is here that it becomes Lodepit Beck. Its path here is through a deep, heavily wooded valley carved out millions of years ago by ice. I once tried to follow the beck along its course but a lack of suitable footwear forced me to turn back or get soaked; easier to follow it from above on a moor path, occasionally glimpsing a white-water cascade as it leaps over rocks but always aware of the sound.

The reservoir built by Sir Titus Salt

The reservoir built by Sir Titus Salt

The path eventually dives down through the woods and you pick up the beck once again at one of its most attractive spots, just above the small reservoir built by Sir Titus Salt to ensure he had some control over the flow of the river past his mill. It’s a little gem with by-waters, overflows and intriguing bits of walls that leave you wondering who or what they were meant to keep out – or in. You can only admire the amount of effort that must have gone into building it in this inaccessible piece of hilly woodland with nothing but tracks over which to carry your materials.

The Beck nears the river

The Beck nears the river

The beck’s journey is almost complete. Released from the reservoir, it skips and leaps through more thick woodland that gets extremely soggy in winter as water pours off the hills to add to the flow below. Then into a stretch of meadowland, under the arched stone bridge at the end of the Coach Road and down past the housing estate to the river where it is immediately swallowed up in the cauldron caused by Hirst Mill weir. There is still a long way to go but unlike the person in the song, this river will eventually reach the sea. However, it is hard to imagine it will pass through a more beautiful setting again.

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Posted in Yorkshire

So, not the sign of a nerd

The Stocks's Arms Kathleen Lindsley prevents my occasional excursions to photograph inn signs from becoming the weird pastime of someone who is a close cousin of train spotters or stamp collectors. The Oddfellows, Wyke

Whenever I rehearsed my excuses, ready to trot them out if ever caught in the act, I always protested that inn signs carry clues about history, sometimes tell you about the locality and are, at times, amusing as with The Oddfellows at Wyke which instead of showing the usual Friendly Society arms portrays the ultimate in catch-weight boxing.

But most of all, I would claim, inn signs represent an open-air art gallery, free to all, where they can find landscapes, portraits, animal paintings, sporting prints, heraldry, transport, trades and travel.

That of course is true. What slightly diminished it as an excuse for being nerdy and left me still feeling open to gentle ridicule, is that most inn signs look good from a distance but if you get up close they are not great works of art.

But then I discovered the series of signs created by Kathleen Lindsley for Samuel Webster’s West Riding pubs in the 1980s and I could produce my camera without fear of scorn.   KL blog 1These wood engravings would look at home in any gallery. They were commissioned by Pentagram, the upmarket design agency with blue-chip clients like the V&A, the Art Institute of Chicago, Saks Fifth Avenue, Cosmopolitan, Tiffany and Alexander McQueen. Whichever partner came up with the idea of using Kathleen Lindsley had a stroke of genius.

Born in Gibraltar, she studied art at Newcastle upon Tyne and started to specialise in wood engraving in the 1970s. In 1987 she moved to live in Skye where much of her work is capturing that isolated, rugged but beautiful spot in all its moods.

The 1980s commission was to re-brand the brewery. Of course, back in those less trendy marketing days, it wasn’t described as re-branding, rather it was ‘to fashion a new identity for Samuel Webster: an identity that would reflect both the long family tradition of the brewery and the individual character of its pubs.’ KL blog 2But Kathleen Lindsley did more. She produced a series of engravings that have all the qualities of Yorkshire – power, beauty, subtlety, humour, tradition and sense of place. The bold black and white signs, with occasional splashes of colour, work well from a distance but they have enough interesting detail to make close-up study worthwhile.

Indeed, Pentagram were so impressed they produced an exquisite little book in a limited edition of 350 copies, printed on Zerkall mould-made paper signed and number by the artist. I paid £80 for No81, the most I have ever paid for a book, but it turns out to have been a bargain because according to the internet, there currently appear to be only five copies available around the world, and all of them more expensive than that.

I love many of the designs – the monk in the Mowbray Arms, Victoria at two different stages of her life, the old boy at the Traveller’s Rest, the dramatic Noah’s Ark and the Commercial Inn which reminds me of some of my older colleagues when I was a rookie sales rep at Penguin Books.

But if I were only allowed one, it would have to be The Stocks Arms at Northowram which features at the top of this piece. When I first saw it, I thought it must be based on a local legend but I could find no mention of it. Why is the prisoner playing the fiddle? Why only one leg in the stocks? And why that hint of a smile?

Eventually, thanks to the internet, I was able to put those questions to the artist herself. She replied: ‘When I designed these signs in the early eighties I had no easy access to information about the origin of the names. I came across an early woodcut (C17 or C18?) which fitted the bill, and cribbed it!’

Looks like I may have to invent my own legend. Or do you know better?

You can see more of the Samuel Webster inn signs on Kathleen Lindsley’s website along with many of her other work.


One of the sad things about writing this piece was discovering when I looked up some of the pubs on google, that many of them have gone the way of so many country pubs and closed. It seems the local, ‘where everybody knows your name’ is fast becoming a part of history.

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Posted in Yorkshire

Discovering Roger Mason


Skipton High Street on Market Day

Skipton High Street on Market Day

For £1.49 in a charity shop, the slightly battered Readers Union book seemed like a bargain. I only took a cursory glance, the illustrations suggesting it was another bit of local history written by an enthusiast

Great Skipton Show coverI put it on the shelf with the other Yorkshire books ready for when I finished whatever I was reading at the time and there The Great Skipton Show by Roger Mason has remained for several years since. Until now.

As I made vague plans for my exploration of Yorkshire this summer, Skipton seemed to offer an interesting day out so I dusted off the book and started to read. What a surprise.

Instead of a worthy reporting of facts and figures, Roger Mason has woven all his knowledge into a narrative that not only gives a vivid impression of what life was like in Skipton at the start of the 20th century but also manages to tell some of the past history and even includes a legend or two. At times he has to use conversations that seem a bit contrived but overall he does that difficult thing – done so well in BBC historical dramas – of informing while entertaining. Best of all, he can move and he can amuse

Here’s a taster: it’s dawn on the day of the Great Skipton Show and Joady, a cattleman uncomfortable around folk, is sitting by the church wall trying to shake off his hangover before preparing his bull for what he hopes will be a prize-winning appearance Along the road comes a man pushing a cart:

“At the top, just below the churchyard wall, the fellow stopped to wipe his brow. Then the long squeaking note of a badly fixed wheel died away and a chorus of squeals rose to a crescendo.

‘Must have a litter o’ pigs in that barrel,’ thought Joady, and wrinkled his brow, for he hadn’t much time for pigs, they were too much like folk, noisy, greedy, pushing, never letting you alone.

The man trundled his hand-cart forward a short way, then halted above the sheep pens. He rested the trolley on its legs and edged the half barrel over. It rocked to and fro for a moment before dropping suddenly to the ground with a thud. The yelps and squeals were redoubled and a circle of small snouts rose above the rim in noisy protest.

Joady chuckled at the sight, thinking how like they were to the upturned faces of the choir-boys in church when the parson clipped an ear or two for whispering.

The man threw the sacking back over his livestock and, after stretching himself, wandered up to the churchyard to take a seat near Joady.

‘Fine morning,’ he grunted

‘Aye,’ replied Joady, ‘it’ll be hot.’

The man made no reply. His social duties were over and he slumped in silence on his bench. Joady looked around for another subject of connversation

‘Not many folk about…’ he said, tentatively.

The man grunted. Joady’s eye rested on an old green tombstone. There were few new headstones in the graveyard and hardly a sign of recently disturbed earth. An air of peace had attracted him, the old yews overhanging and the long restful outline of the old church

‘They don’t die very often here, I reckon.’

‘Nobbut once,’ the pig porter muttered laconically in reply before resuming his slump, chin on knuckles.

Joady gave up. His conversational powers were exhausted. He felt embarrassed by his failure and laid his forehead on the cool stone once more.”

I’ve enjoyed it so much that I’ve ordered second-hand copies of Roger Mason’s other books, Granny’s Village and Plain Tales from Yorkshire. But I can’t find anything out about him. Anyone able to fill in the details?

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Posted in Reading and Writing, Yorkshire

Is there a better way to remember Thomas?

Thomas Marshall and Elizabeth Coomber

Thomas Marshall Coomber and his wife Elizabeth

Thomas Marshall Coomber, my great grandfather, worked on farms from the age of 12. In those days before tractors, milking machines and other mechanical aids, it was long hours of often tough, physical work.

My father spent his childhood with his grandparents in the village of Blackham, East Sussex, where the couple had moved at the end of the 19th century. He described the old man’s life: ‘He would get up at four in the morning and light the fire so he could have a cup of tea before going off to milk the cows. That meant the house was nice and warm when the rest of the family got up a couple of hours later. On dark mornings he lit his way with a paraffin lantern.

‘After milking, he would load the milk churns and deliver them by horse and cart down the hill to Ashurst station, returning home in time for his breakfast.

‘Although officially a dairyman, Granddad could turn his hand to any job on the farm and was steeped in the skills and crafts, any of which in a different industry would have been highly valued and certainly better paid.

‘When he finished his day’s work on the farm, he would work in his garden. Apart from a few flowers near the house, it was given over to producing food for his family. Rows of vegetables gave way to plum and pear trees and a ‘Maid of Kent’ apple tree, which yielded huge apples. Room was also found for a chicken run and a pig pound in which he would raise two pigs – one to be killed for the family to eat, the other as payment to the butcher for killing and preparing the meat.’

Thomas & Elizabeth Coomber's gravestoneIt was a life without much leisure, yet later in life Thomas started to go after work across the road to Home Place, the home of Mr and Mrs Vinall. They paid him 6d (2.5p) per hour and he asked them to keep it for him to pay for his tombstone.

Thomas died in January 1945; his wife Elizabeth two months later. They are buried together in Blackham churchyard just round the corner from the entrance and beneath a handsome stone (right). It cost £72 which I calculate represents nearly 3,000 hours of gardening.

I was reminded of Thomas’s headstone because recently I have been visiting several cemeteries in the Shipley area looking for graves in connection with my WW1 research. As well as sometimes collecting valuable information, I feel it does no harm to pay your respects to the people whose lives you have been investigating.

Windhill cemetery

Windhill Cemetery

But there is a depressing aspect as well for some of our burial grounds are in a poor state. The words ‘Never Forgotten’ carved on so many gravestones ring a little hollow when you visit places like Windhill Cemetery. The grass is well cut and there is hardly any litter; people walk there as a relief from the surrounding streets; but many of the gravestones are pushed over, some on their face, while others are broken. Nature has also taken its toll, with the names of the deceased eroded by weather and no longer legible.


Hirst Wood Cemetery (below), tucked away in a beautiful area of woodland next to Nab Wood Cemetery, is even worse. There the broken graves are choked with weeds and brambles with the few Commonwealth War Grave Commission plots standing out like small oases of order amid the chaos of untended vegetation. Thousands of pounds worth of the mason’s craft and, more importantly, the memorial of lives once lived are as nothing.

Hirst Wood Burial Ground

Hirst Wood Burial Ground


I am not blaming the families. Quite often they don’t know where great grandparents or other family members were buried. Or they live too far away – and have too busy lives – to tend the graves. If I get to Thomas and Elizabeth’s grave, where my parents’ ashes are also buried, more than every two years, I’ve done well.

I also understand the desire to have something left behind to mark the fact that we once lived. The older I get, the more I buy into it. But there must be a better way.

My first reaction was that the church, which is not poor, should at least make sure their burial grounds are kept tidy and the gravestones in place. And what about replacing individual gravestones with an easier to maintain memorial wall on which new names are inscribed? There are many admirable examples from wars, why not for ordinary citizens?

But then I wondered if in the age of the internet and iPads, lumps of engraved stone are the best way to memorialise our loved ones? We could create a digital cemetery on which each person’s details, including a photograph, could be entered for a modest fee. It would be easy to link them to other family members even if their physical remains ended up on the other side of the world. Families could add the names of those currently on gravestones and also link to other information about the deceased person that might be online.

They say that no one is completely dead until the last person says their name. With a digital cemetery ancestors could receive an email on the anniversary of their family member being born and dying, ensuring that at least twice a year, someone speaks their name.

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Unlocking the Lock’s secrets

A Wilson painting Hirst Lock 1878

This painting of Hirst Lock on the Leeds-Liverpool Canal is tucked away at the end of a dark corridor off the main council chamber in Bradford City Hall.

It first came to my notice when local barber and historian Peter Randall showed me the watercolour sketch he owns which artist A Wilson did before producing the finished oil painting in 1878.

One thing puzzled me. When I went to try and find the spot where Wilson had sat to make his painting it seemed impossible. Even allowing for fewer trees, it would have been difficult to see Hirst Mill Crescent from that side of the lock. The canal is lower from that viewpoint – hence the lock – so I could only imagine that the artist had used his imagination and painted what he knew was there rather than what he could see.

But no. I did him an injustice. I’d fallen for the old trap of imagining that the rural landscape stays largely unchanged for hundreds of years.

Bridge below Hirst LockPeter put me straight, producing this old photo (right) which clearly shows there was a bridge over the canal just below the lock and that is where Wilson sat to paint his picture.

In fact Hirst Lock has changed dramatically since that artist captured the two men heading into the lock, watched by a fisherman on one bank and the lock keeper above.

The two smaller buildings next to the by-water appear to be cottages, possibly built for workers at Hirst Mill or one of the two farms on the site. We know from later photographs that one was turned into a tea bar. Some of the foundation stones now form part of a garden rockery after Hirst Wood Regeneration Group transformed the site.

Former Tea Room at Hirst Lock Hirst Lock canalside buildingThe taller building (seen here from the other side of the canal) was once thought to be the lock-keeper’s cottage but in the 1861 census it is occupied by cabinet maker John Anderton, his wife Leah and four-month-old daughter Margaret. It might well have doubled as a warehouse for loading boats with goods from Hirst Mill with the lock keeper living, as he does today, just up the canal at Dowley gap.

Across the road from these buildings, in what is now a car park leading to Hirst Wood, was Hirst Wood Farm. It was probably built in the 18th century. In the 1881 census it is described as a farm of 22 acres, occupied by John Jowett. He was still the tenant in 1911 when the Lord of the Manor put his Shipley properties up for sale but by then it is described as ‘desirable pasture extending to about 6.691 acres.’ In the sale, the farm is described as a ‘stone-built and stone-slated homestead’, comprising:

Hirst Wood Farm‘THE GROUND FLOOR –  Wash Kitchen; Scullery; Kitchen; Sitting Room; and Cellars
‘THE UPPER FLOOR – Three Bed Rooms and Lumber Room
There is a privy and ashpit outside.’
Attached to the farm were a ‘two-stall stable, with loft over; barn with mistal [cow house] for 12 with loft over and mixing chamber.’ And a separate ‘Midden with mistal for 4 (at present used as a fowl house); and Fowl House.’

The Jowetts were eventually replaced by the Whincup family and then Frank Bagshaw who became very popular in the area for serving refreshments, including delicious ice cream which many older residents still remember fondly. The farm was pulled down in 1962.

Across the canal, what are now houses in Hirst Mill Crescent were part of Hirst Farm outbuildings. The present disused garden centre was once an open field with a few farm huts on it while the woodland between the path and the River Aire was covered in garden allotments.

Hirst Mill CrescentSometimes progress seems to mark decline rather improvement.

[Thanks to Peter Randall for allowing me access to his archive]

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Posted in History, Yorkshire

It’s not a rehearsal

Allison_fedora_682_1144919aYou don’t have to be academically bright to be a footballer which is why so many of them struggle when a microphone is thrust under their nose. They know the game, don’t worry about that. They know what has gone on in a match. But they don’t always have the words to explain it to the rest of us and those who do, often don’t think we would understand anyway.

Keeping things clear and simple is a must for managers and coaches which is one of the reasons the game abounds in sayings and slogans to act as instant reminders.

Perhaps the most famous is one of the simplest: ‘This is Anfield’. Only three words but seen by every player as he goes down the tunnel to play there and proclaiming a powerful message. If you are a Liverpool player it should be a boost – you have been chosen to represent a club whose expectations and standards are high. You are part of a roll call that includes Elisha Scott, Billy Liddell, Kenny Dalglish, Ron Yeats, Ian Rush and many, many more. If you are an opponent, you realise that the next couple of hours are going to test you. It would be hard not to wonder if you are going to be up to it.

It’s easy to mock some of the sayings but they do the job. ‘If you fail to prepare, prepare to fail’, ‘that which does not kill you, makes you stronger’, ‘the only place success comes before work is in the dictionary’, ‘there is no I in team’. They may all seem a bit trite but they contain a reminder of what is expected.

I was lucky enough to spend some time with Malcolm Allison who, despite his playboy reputation, was a thinker who read widely. He was a master of getting his players to think positively.  The famous fedora that he wore as lowly Crystal Palace reached the sem-final of the FA Cup was a deliberate ploy. ‘I needed something to relax them, make them laugh and forget about who they were playing,’ he said.

On another occasion, when I was distracted by some problems, he advised: ‘There are two kinds of worry. You worry about things which you can’t do anything about and you worry about things you can change. If you can’t do anything about it, there is no point in worrying. If you can do something, get on and do it and stop worrying about it.’

When that was met with some scepticism he issued a challenge: ‘Write down for two weeks everything you worry about in a note book alongside the date. Put it away for a month then get it out and read it. I’m willing to bet most of the things you agonised over came to nothing.’ Try it, it works.

It was Malcolm who came out with the slogan that I’ve tried to adopt ever since. Asked why he had got into yet another scrape that had made tabloid headlines, he shrugged and said: ‘Why not? This is the only life I’m going to get. It’s not a rehearsal.’

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Posted in Sport