Firestarter

When I heard that the Olympic Torch Relay was making a brief sojourn through the streets of Bourne I have to say I was surprised. This part of the country is largely ignored by the rest of the world. No-one comes to Lincolnshire for anything much in particular because, well, there’s not an awful lot here. When friends come to visit we usually take them to Stamford, which looks quite pretty and has some fine pubs, and Lincoln, which has a rare hill and a Cathedral, and two (yes, count ‘em, two) branches of Primark.

At a push there’s Skegness but a lot of my friends are from the South Coast so taking them to Skegness is like taking them to Bournemouth in 1979. It has a nostalgic look and feel but it also has the atmosphere of a place where something is likely to kick off, probably a riot between the local mods and rockers. Mind you, I did once buy a very fetching hat from Skeg, so it’s not all bad.

So, I have to say I was impressed that Bourne, one of the many quiet backwaters of this sprawling county was, for one fleeting hour or so, going to be caught up in the circus that is the London Olympics.

The present Mrs Hayward wasn’t impressed. As a long standing resident of this fine town she doesn’t see the point of going to watch some locals run through the streets carrying a flaming torch. According to her, this is something you can see in Bourne on most days, usually when word gets about that there’s a stranger in town.

Mind you, she doesn’t really see the point of the Olympics full stop so this was never going to grab her attention.

Having the Olympic Torch traversing the land has however provoked discussion amongst friends and I’ve learnt many things. Prior to the Grecian pyrotechnics arriving on these fair shores I never realised that it wasn’t a continuous relay on foot. I had imagined brave runners hot-footing it around the highways and byways day and night come rain or shine.

This doesn’t happen of course, the flame gets transferred from place to place by some sort of vehicle, a flame-mobile perhaps, until it gets to the next destination where some random celebrities and a few worthy (and some unworthy) locals jog through the town whilst holding it aloft.

One of the worthy locals running with it today is a personal trainer at my local gym. I didn’t know he was doing it until I saw him jog round the corner, wearing a gleaming white tracksuit and waving at the crowds like he was channelling the spirit of the late Jimmy Savile.

The other thing I had been unaware of was that there were so many Olympic torches. There are thousands of the things. I’d assumed there was just the one, and maybe a couple of spares in case some cack-handed fool drops it, that was passed on from person to person. I still think that should be the case. Yes, it’s nice for the people to own their torch but what would you do with it? It’s too big for the mantelpiece and far too elaborate to be lighting your barbecue with. There’s no need to have one, just a badge and a t-shirt would do as a memory of the day, surely?

The final thing I’ve learnt is that the whole torch relay thing originated at the Berlin Olympics in 1936, which was organised by the Nazi party. So, this relentless procession is something probably dreamt up by Adolf Hitler. I did wonder why ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ was running through my mind earlier. So with that and the Volkswagen Beetle, it proves that not all of Hitler’s ideas were bad. This however doesn’t really make up for the ones that were.

So, just before 9am I wandered not two minutes from my door and watched the whole circus make its way down the road, with loads of whooping and cheering from the permanently jolly organisers, determined to bring a bit of Olympics razzmatazz to a little Lincolnshire market town.

I’m glad I didn’t go into the centre of Bourne to see it, that’s where the crowds would have been and I’ll see the photos of that little extravaganza in the local paper. I savoured the curious juxtaposition of the whole thing bursting through normal streets near my house in an explosion of colour and noise, past the Auction House, the Bus Depot, and the recently demolished petrol station.

Next time I go for a run I can now say that I am running down the same road where the Olympic flame once burned brightly. Maybe next time I go for a run, probably tomorrow, I’ll take some matches and a rolled up newspaper and try to re-live the whole thing.

As a sort of coda to all this, at the end of the procession came a couple of BRM Formula One cars from the 60s and 70s, which were made in Bourne. That was the part that really made me smile, these motorised beasts unleashed on the streets of their home town, proudly revving their engines in celebration. Now that’s a proper sport. Perhaps it’s time for the Bourne Grand Prix.

I must get on to Bernie…….

Life on Earth

I am alive. I feel that’s worth pointing out as I’ve not posted for a little while. A busy week at work and then a week off distracted me from chronicling events from my existence here. 

I can’t even say that much of note has happened. Well, last week cows seemed to play a small but noticeable factor in my life. Usually I can get from point A to point B without encountering any form of cattle but last week one stray cow held up the train I was on and the next day, whilst driving to Great Yarmouth, a sign warned me of cattle on the road. 

Sure enough, there up ahead of me was a great horned beast ruminating in the middle of the road. The bovine in question seemed unconcerned at the traffic trying to squeeze past him and he just stood there chewing the cud. The locals also seemed to be used to navigating around cattle so I felt obliged to take it in my stride and not mention it when I arrived at my client’s site. I went for the great British talking point of the weather; you can’t go far wrong with that.

I didn’t get a chance to have a look round Great Yarmouth sadly but I made up for this disappointment by taking in the Las Vegas of the east coast on Monday, Skegness. A popular destination for people from Sheffield judging by the number of football shirts I saw, an almost equal number for both Blades and Owls. We did the usual seaside things, a whirlwind of ice cream, arcade games and gift shops. I did however reclaim the Hayward Championship Air Hockey crown after a bitter fought battle with the present, uber-competitive, Mrs Hayward. At least she didn’t try to take out a passing punter with the puck this time. She takes no prisoners when she is in the Air Hockey zone. Blood has been spilt, but rarely our own.

I also bought a holiday hat in Skegness. It’s a marvellous straw effort with a blue band which I stuck on my head for my own amusement, and surprisingly Mrs Hayward said she liked it. I sought reassurance that she wasn’t taking the piss but she seemed to be genuine in her appreciation so I bought it. I find it goes well with my new Hawaiian shirt, although I do look a bit like an extra from the TV series Benidorm, apparently. We’re going on holiday with some friends in August, they’re in for a treat. 

On Tuesday it rained, so I bought a grass strimmer. I haven’t used it yet but I’m looking forward to the moment I crank it up and attack the harder to reach grass and weeds in the garden. I am also in the market for a hedge trimmer and a garden vac. I never knew that gardening could be such fun, just introduce a few gadgets and I’m there. 

We also went swimming on Tuesday and I was able to startle Mrs Hayward by showing off my new found swimming and floating skills. I have recently discovered I can swim under the water for a few metres without dying so I feel quite optimistic that I am finally getting the hang of it. I even swam a length (albeit in two halves) in a depth of 1.25 metres. You may think I’m getting ahead of myself but I think 2012’s resolution may involve snorkelling or diving. I shall be a modern day Jacques Cousteau.

Wednesday brought a trip to shops and some clothes buying for our foreign holiday later in the year, followed by a trip to the pub with a friend who was one of the public sector workers striking on the Thursday, so was rightly taking advantage of the extra day off. As far as I could make out she had no plans to stand by a brazier with a placard on the picket line but I guess her absence made the point.

Thursday brought us our 6 year old niece for a few hours, who has all the energy of an army of 6 year olds. We took her to Paint a Pot in Bourne which is an entertaining experience. I found myself reverting to her age as I sat there painting a pottery Tortoise. However whilst I was painstakingly trying to stay within the lines, but failing badly, she was going for a more production line approach and painted a plate and a spoon rest in the time it took me to badly paint the little creature. I mean really, I’m 37, surely I should be able to manage something better than this….

It was a fun experience though and I realised why parents know so much about kids TV. You get sucked in. Our niece was sat there watching Roary the Racing Car but eventually wandered off to make some chocolate crispy cakes. I however just sat there watching the constant stream of children’s programmes being blasted at me. Eventually she came back whilst I was engrossed in Emily Elephant’s first day at school in an episode of Peppa Pig. She looked at the TV and then looked at me quizzically. “Uncle Tezza” she asked, “why are you watching kids programmes?” It was a very good question for which I couldn’t provide a suitable answer. She wandered off again and I turned over to Top Gear on Dave, although I couldn’t help but wonder if Emily Elephant eventually settled in. I suppose as long as the school isn’t over-run by ivory poachers she’ll be fine.

 On Friday I decided to go for a run in the woods. I haven’t been up there for a while but thought that it would be safer to run there in the middle of the day than dodging the trucks on Cherry Holt Road. Mind you I almost turned round and went home when I pulled into the car park as it was all looking a bit Brokeback Mountain. A guy in a sports vest was there, in the car park, doing press-ups and another was doing star jumps. I’m sure that’s fine and it’s probably a lovely location to undertake some press ups and star jumps but I’m suspicious of energetic shenanigans in Forestry Commission car parks so I just parked up, got onto the trail and started to run. 

There weren’t many people around so I could jog through the trees without fear of embarrassment. It also means that I can go at a comfortable pace when no-one’s around, as for some reason I tend to speed up and try to look as if the whole thing is effortless when I encounter people. 

I did have a brief reunion with a hound that I had met a few weeks previously. There was I jogging uphill (yes, I know, a hill in Bourne, but this is the north-west side of Bourne where the flatlands end and normal landscape resumes) when this brown Labrador appeared in the distance. Thrilled at the sight of someone other than its owner it started bounding towards me. So suddenly I am in the bizarre situation of running towards a dog that is also running towards me. I was just considering the insanity of this situation when a voice shouted out “Princess!!”. Both the dog and I stopped and looked around. On reflection there was no good reason for me to look round, I haven’t been called ‘Princess’ in years, for shame. It was then I realised this was the same dog who had bounded towards me some weeks earlier.

The owner was friendly enough and he said a cheery ‘hello’ to me as we passed. I breathily returned the greeting but sadly it was accompanied by a little bit of drool and a sudden and unexpected expelling of gas, thus making me appear to be significantly less civilised than his canine companion. I have to be careful with that, a friend of mine once had a bit of an accident after going out running when he had a dicky tummy. The end result was that he had to make his way home through some city streets during the early evening in the middle of summer wearing an obviously soiled pair of white shorts and brown stains down the back of his legs. That, as he would say, is another story.

Friday night brought drinks with friends and Saturday morning brought the inevitable hangovers, although Mrs Hayward suffered more than I for some reason. However with the careful application of Orange Lucozade and Flumps she recovered so well that she was fit to go off with the wife in waiting to see Take That again, this time at Wembley. There were some rumours that Robbie had exposed himself onstage in Cardiff which led to some giddy excitement that it could happen again. Personally I don’t see the attraction but I hope they have a nice time. 

 So that leaves me home alone on a Saturday evening. What to do? Go out? Stay in? It’s a tough decision. Knowing me, by the time I’ve made up my mind it’ll be time for bed.

So that was my week more or less. How are you doing?