Broad Sheep - July 2020

BROAD sheep

july 2020

A SPECIAL ONLINE EDITION

reader’s photographs

Jess Lucas Blue Tit feeding on a Red Hot Poker Alex Ramsay

Herefordshire pool

David Fletcher, Leintwardine

Laura Shepherd Woody Woodpecker

Kay Fletcher, Leintwardine

Jess Lucas Red Kite

Laura Shepherd Maisie the Mouse

Terry Batten, “New family to feed�

Johanna Okon-Watkins

grass roots COVID-19 - Cutting Distance On a Wing and Promise I

F winning against coronavirus were football, England would be at the bottom of the lowest division. No! I tell a lie! It would be way down in those amateur leagues whose names most of us don’t even know. How on earth has the UK, a country with a health service renowned far and wide in the world, managed to perform so abysmally in tackling the pandemic, in the first five months of this year? We may laugh at the absurdity of Donald Trump, accelerating the spread of COVID-19 with a rally of thousands of people, against the advice of almost every US COVID-19 expert.

And we may feel pity for Italy and Spain, over the huge waves of coronavirus which cut a swathe through their populations.

But the fact is that, by June 20th, none of these countries had done as badly as the UK, when it came to holding COVID-19 at bay. The only country whose death rate, per head of population, seemed worse than the UK’s was Belgium! However, the toll of Belgian deaths may have been inflated by the inclusion of suspected cases, which would be firmly ruled out by most countries.

As Britain performs a swift gear change to allow many pubs and restaurants and other businesses to re-open, how much danger are we in of throwing away whatever progress we have made since March? Are we at risk of seeing coronavirus cases spike upwards again, with the loss of thousands more lives?

It is some time since I felt at all sanguine about the daily Downing Street briefings issuing the latest numbers about COVID-19. And clearly there have been growing misgivings among government experts themselves at having to line up next to ministers, thereby devaluing their own currency as scientists.

Having such visible links to a government that has such a grim record of mistakes on COVID-19 has hardly burnished their reputations. Especially after Dominic Cummings drove a coach and horses through the regulations, with his outrageous family trip to the north-east. He failed even to tell the prime minister what he was doing. And suffered no sanction at all as a result!

That many of the top boffins have lost patience with the government can easily be judged from that day in midJune when not a single top doctor or scientist could be dragooned into the daily line-up at Number Ten. Maybe the medics and scientists felt that Number Ten had reneged on the deal it had with them.

One body of official medical advisors to Downing Street is NERVTAG – the New and Emerging Respiratory Virus Threats Advisory Group. Another is the Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies - SAGE. Some leading scientists have been sceptical enough of SAGE and NERVTAG to join an unofficial group known as Independent SAGE. This body is led by Sir David King, who was the government chief scientist from 2000 to 2007 and is former head of a Cambridge College. It is deeply troubling that a man of

Sir David King Critic of Downing Street his calibre has felt the need to set up a group to critique Number Ten’s virus policy.

King’s Independent SAGE group have made no secret of their disapproval of the Johnson government over its record of failure in dealing with COVID-19. But more alarming is their analysis of the current policy of Test and Trace - to isolate those who have come into contact with sufferers from the coronavirus.

In their fifth report, King and Independent SAGE are withering in their verdict on Test and Trace. They reckon the official formula leaves out key stages in guarding the public, and suggest that, without these, efforts to stamp out the virus will fail. They argue that, to succeed, further key steps will be vital, as in Find, Test, Trace, Isolate, and Support. And, they note that even the official SAGE body said, in May, that at least 80% of contacts of an index case of COVID-19 must be reached for the tracing system to be judged effective.

In contrast, they allege the government approach is hampered by “… lack of coordination, lack of trust, lack of evidence of utility, and centralisation.” And so, they predict, “…achieving the goal of isolating 80% of close contacts is impossible.” Indeed, they say that, by midJune, Test and Trace was finding under half, just 45%, of the estimated 4,500 new infections occurring weekly.

I would hate to be a prophet of doom, and we desperately need to return to normal, when safe, and start the gigantic task of economic and social recovery. But, given the many past mistakes of Johnson and his ministers on COVID-19, I feel extremely queasy about the perilous journey away from distancing, on which Boris Johnson and his ministers are taking us.

I feel sure others have noted this, but the often gung-ho Johnson reminds me of Toad of Toad Hall, hurtling along the open road, showing off to his friends in a shiny new motor car. But the car has deadly potential, and he is low on detail and driving skills, and, if he is not very careful, he may be courting disaster.

Julian O’Halloran

films Streaming Ahead

Mark Williams considers some alternatives now that cinemas are locked-down

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shouldn’t really continue to big-up my sister but having just done a serious Dominic Cummings and visited her in London – I needed to drive there to test my eyesight – I can report that most of her PictureHouse cinemas, and many of the indie sites that she also programmes – will be re-opening on July 10th. Notwithstanding Boris ‘Kneejerk’ Johnson’s scrapping of the two-metre rule before then, this will mean that cinema-going, albeit with obvious restrictions, will again be possible but in the meantime, or indeed thereafter, here are three more movies to catch online.

Best of the trio if you’re a music fan of a certain age – i.e. fairly ancient – is ECHO IN THE CANYON (Amazon Prime, Apple TV, Google Play) in which Bobby’s son, Jakob Dylan, narrates a wonderfully incisive look back through rose-tinted shades at the mid-60 South Californian music scene. So we hear extensive recollections from the likes of Brian Wilson, Jackson Brown, Graham Nash, Roger McGuinn, some killer record producers and especially Michelle Phillips (Mamas & Papas), plus other less likely luminaries who were influenced by their laid-back, jangly guitars and acid tinged lyrics, e.g. Ringo Starr, Tom Petty, and Eric Clapton. Dylan is a good interviewer and draws much nostalgic insight and laughter, especially from Phillips and Crosby, and interspersed with some dynamite footage of the Laurel Canyon musical mafia in their hey-day, the band he formed with of all unlikely artists, Beck, Regina Spektor and Cat Power perform some cracking versions of several So. Cal. classics. One of which, a version of Goffin & King’s Goin’ Back made famous by the Byrds and in the UK by Dusty Springfield, actually had me in tears (though I personally still prefer Nils Lofgren’s 1975 rendering). We will not see or hear, their like again…

Music of a very different if more contemporary stripe is, of course death metal and this provides some of the soundtrack to DAYS OF THE BAGNOLD SUMMER (BFI Player, Curzon Home Cinema, Amazon Prime) although in blessedly brief excerpts. A directorial debut for Simon Bird – best known as an actor in THE INBETWEENERS and FRIDAY NIGHT DINNER – and written by his wife, Lisa Owens, it’s a study of a sullen, lank-haired teenager Days of the Bagnold Summer

The King of Staten Island

Daniel Bagnold (Earl Cave, son of gloomy rock crooner, Nick) who prevented from spending his summer hols with his divorced dad in Florida, is obliged to spend it instead with his gentle, well-meaning but emotionally bruised librarian mother, Sue (Monica Dolan, PRIDE, OFFICIAL SECRETS). This leads to some fairly predictable outbursts of teenage angst and largely rebuffed maternal commiseration many of which are funny if not poignant, but there are equally well observed subplots involving Daniel’s rivalry with best pal and fellow metaller, Ky (an archly hilarious Elliot Speller-Gillott), Sue’s bossy but well meaning sister (Alice Lowe), her hippy-dippy faith-healer friend (Tamsin Grieg) and Rob Brydon as an oleaginous middle-aged lothario. Whilst it’s a somewhat typically British and narratively slight entertainment, BAGNOLD SUMMER is an engaging, wonderfully acted entertainment for a summer that is decidedly lacking in escapism.

Finally THE KING OF STATEN ISLAND (Amazon Prime, Apple TV, Sky Store) stars US stand-up Pete Davidson as the 20-something titular monarch who is actually suffering depression, ADHD and a bad case of arrested development and although nursing a vague ambition to become a tattooist still lives with his longsuffering mum (Marisa Tomei, terrific as usual) and spends most of his days talking trash and playing video games with his stoner pals. Scott just about has a girlfriend however, (Bel Powley, Princess Margaret in A ROYAL NIGHT OUT), who dreams of being a city planner and just about understands that the underlying reason for his indolence was the death of his fireman father during the 9/11 terrorist atrocity. So when mum starts dating another fire-fighter herself (also another stand-up, Bill Burr) under somewhat awkward circumstances, director/co-writer Judd Apatow’s comedy turns to drama, and eventually to a neat if late coming-of-age resolution. Apatow is best known for his really screwball fare, e.g. KNOCKED UP, THE 40 YEAROLD VIRGIN, but aided by co-writer Davidson and great, even subtle performances from all concerned, this is his most nuanced outing yet.

Mark’s Corona Coping blog is available at https://markswill.wordpress.com

reader’s artwork

Grace Amber Currie “Dancing in the face of Corona”

Charlie & Monty Canton-Smith “Westhide Mural”

Ruth Kirkby “Tulips”

Ruth Kirkby “Bluebell wood” Pete Smith “Celestial Weather Vane”

Norrie Davies “Spanners”

sam’s page

Nip T

HE world has gone garden mad. This includes the birds, which seem to be enjoying the lack of trucks, people, and so on. The only remaining difficulty is cats. Magpies, in spite of the RSPB view that they are cuddly and sweet, are bastards, eating eggs and chicks in large quantities. So, in spite of protective remarks from the loonies at the RSPCA, are grey squirrels. But the worst of the lot, come Tibby Tibby it is time for your nice food, are cats.

Cats knock off 3.7 billion birds per year worldwide, most of them, by the feel of it, here in the Welsh Marches.

There are various solutions, most of them nasty. The oldest, known as the Gamekeeper Shikar, involves the construction of a hide in a tree that has been strongly rubbed with kippers, and the shooting of any cats that pause for a sniff.

Some swear by the Bouncing Betty, which involves ringing up North Vietnam and buying at keen prices the famous leaping mines popular with the Viet Cong. These, however, tend in use to raze large areas of woodland, which has its own deleterious effect on the bird population. Kinder are heffalump traps, in which Tibby is lured with kipper niff (see above) across a pit over which the children have placed a roof of twigs camouflaged with grass (no, darlings, not the spikes). If the hole is deep enough, Tibby can be removed from it, cosily packed and sent first class to a distant island in some desert region –

Cruel, I hear you cry, all of the above. Well, quite, and who can resist Tibby with paws in the air awaiting the affectionate pat on the tum from the human associate? What is needed is an approach that is both effective and kind. And here at the Institute for Irrelevant Studies we think we have the answer.

Our great friend Bartje ten Boom of Amsterdam has long had a reputation for Catnip

crossbreeding strains of marijuana into plants scarcely recognizable as the nettle-like roadside weed smoked in the Sixties. Bartje’s customers tend to fall over sideways and end up in lunatic asylums, smelling like foxes.

In a sunny border here at the Institute there is a large expanse of nepeta, alias catnip.

Normally, the cats pop over for a sniff, chew a bit of the stuff, then act slightly barmy, or technically speaking Nipped, for a while. Bartje, watching this with hooded pink eyes when she came to stay last year, noted one of the cats, Nipped brainless, ignoring a swallow. She shook her head and made some notes.

The essential ingredient of catnip is by all accounts nepetin, which operates on cats rather as THC does on humans. Packing her notebook, Bartje buzzed off to her laboratory in Amsterdam, which she claims is in an airship, but you can never be sure (and come to think of it nor can she). In the lab she is working on breeding a catnip that bears the same relation to the garden plant as skunk bears to old-school weed. She has not got much of it yet, but when she floated over with some during a lockdown break the other day and fed it to the cat Malcolm, Malcolm, looking neither left nor right, walked straight past six wagtails and into a wall. These are the facts. You may draw your own conclusions.

Raminagrobis

BLM

In Memoriam

The flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can cause a tornado in Texas

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FTER the momentous events down in Bristol in June, when a mob tore down the statue of the slave trader Edward Colston and consigned it to a watery grave in the docks, local authorities up and down the country have been nervously eyeing their collections of municipal statuary (or public realm art as we must now refer to it). Never slow to jump on a passing bandwagon, the Mayor of London Sadiq Khan has already set up a Commission for Diversity in the Public Realm, charged with checking all statues, pubs and even street names for any whiffs of racism. Even before Khan’s Political Correctness heavies were on the scene, four London teaching establishments named after the 18th century slave trader Sir John Cass underwent miraculous overnight name changes. Here in the west midlands, Shrewsbury’s bronze memorial to Clive of India (said to have been responsible for acts of unbelievable cruelty across the sub-continent) may well be destined for the smelting pot. I don’t think Hereford has much to fear. If anything, it’s the omissions that need correcting.

The first figure I’d give public recognition to is the great jet pioneer and aero engineer Sir Frank Whittle – not a local man, but certainly instrumental in

Sir Frank Whittle

Violette Szabo

forging the success of Henry Wiggins, one of the city’s largest employers. And I know exactly where I’d put the life-size bronze figure, (with him looking skywards): on the roundabout at Holmer, in front of the Starting Gate Beefeater. Some years ago, the BBC held a national poll entitled ‘Great British Figures’. I K Brunel and Whittle were the only two engineers in the final list.

The second person on my ‘missing statues’ wish list would be the WWII heroine Violette Szabo, the only woman to have won both the George Cross and the Croix de Guerre. There is a small commemorative bronze bust of Mrs Szabo in Lambeth, where she briefly lived before volunteering for SOE missions in France. Her Herefordshire connection is that between her wartime missions she often visited relatives who lived on a farm at Wormelow. A small privately-run museum dedicated to her memory still exists in the village. Violette Szabo was executed by the Gestapo at Ravensbrück concentration camp aged only 23. As next year will be the centenary of her birth (as well as the 21st anniversary of the Wormelow museum), it would surely be fitting for Herefordshire Council to erect a statue in her memory in the city – perhaps in the forecourt of the Maylords Orchard shopping centre, which it purchased earlier this year – paying a cool £4.5-million.

Nick Jones

hugh’s bit

Edna, beloved wife of Arthur M RS Entwhistle, widow, drops the catch on her front door and turns to survey the High Street before sallying out on her daily constitutional. Under cover of smelling the air she checks that the police are not waiting for her. But the coast is clear so off she trots, a little Jack Russell at her ankles. She is made of twigs, weighs less than a child, although she has the same compliment of organs, limbs and nerve cells as the rest of us.

A baggy-trousered 14 year old zips past on a seatless bicycle and does a wheelie on the wrong side of the road.

He has a loutish lower lip and is riding a machine which is several sizes too small for him. He is showing off to the other boys gathered under the clocktower. Girls have not yet intervened in his life. The town drunk is also there making yowling noises, and a love-lorn teenager in a heavy great coat and Doc Martens bangs his head against the stonework until, satisfied with his display of self-pity, he returns to his blameless middle-class home. Old boys sit in a line on a bench, chins resting on hands folded over the tops of their walking sticks, sieving the world through their toothless gums, occassionally nudging each other and chuckling at some distantly remembered adventure with someone such as they imagine Mrs. Entwhistle might once have been.

Mrs. Entwhistle sees none of this.

She hears the clock turning in the tower, and the pigeons flying off swiftly as it winds up to strike. She hears her own silence. She hears her boot-heels click clacking across the stone slabs, and she feels the wind, but the cars and the buildings and the people are merely a cardboard backdrop to her everlasting situation; for Mrs. Entwhistle is free - free of Mr.Entwhistle at last, but not free, whose grave she will pass on her way to the bridge but not visit.

The rushing water of the little river is the best moment of each day; the sparkling reflections mesmerise her and gradually erase her darting thoughts.

If you were to remove her widows bonnet - it can only be called that - and then cut round her scalp below her salt and pepper hair, still long although tied conveniently in a bun, and carefully trepan her skull to peer inside, without disturbing the contents, you would find the following thoughts swimming round her brain.

Well I couldn’t be doing with it.

And he was such a fine fellow when we married.

Well I couldn’t be doing with it.

And then a shudder as she recalled the drooling as he ate, and the noises that he made with his ill-fitting dentures so that he, Mr Ent-whistle, whistled when he spoke and could not even pronounce his own name without unintentionally suiting the action to the word. Mr Ent-whistle had gone to seed. His belly had expanded and his muscles had turned to flab. His eye had clouded and his mind had focussed increasingly on food, more and more food.

No she could not be doing with it. …. He had had to go.

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And so she had peremptorily poisoned this untidy wreck

of a once handsome man with slug pellets purchased from the ironmonger just down the road, Spillers’ No. 3. It had been that simple - and she could not help feeling – so appropriate, for he had indeed turned into a slug.

She would never have thought of it if she hadn’t read an article in the newspaper about a French woman who hated her boorish husband so much that she had murdered him, - not however before cooking him his favourite dinner and setting it in front of him and indeed waiting for the day when he would be watching his favourite television programme, the last of the series before she beaned him from behind with an axe. Temporarily Mrs. Entwhistle had been shocked but realised quite soon that it was the mess that bothered her rather than the murder - so she resolved to do the same thing but without the blood. Or the police and the publicity. She read a number of crime novels and concluded that slug pellets would arouse the least suspicion, since the symptoms mimicked appendicitis, and at his age no-one would think twice about it.

The water smooths away these thoughts, and when she walks back up the street she is refreshed - if only the nagging thoughts would stay away………

But Mrs. E does not sleep well …...

She had been terrified that he would wake up at the funeral, and start beating on the coffin lid, and rear up from his box and accuse her … even now six months later she still fears against all reason that he will rise from the grave and come back to live with her - but of course he didn’t know he’d been poisoned, did he? - that was some comfort. If he didn’t know - then he’d have no reason to haunt her would he? No ghost had appeared yet, although in actual fact her guilt was reaching the quantum level for an apparition to be expected quite soon…. She should have had him cremated, she realises. Too late now. And strewn his ashes with gay abandon into the Lugg. Pah! Entwhistle!

Mrs Entwhistle neither saw nor heard the truck that careered across the street and hit her as it avoided the youth on the bicycle.

She was buried beside her husband. “Edna, beloved wife of Arthur. Reunited” it says on the headstone.

In a certain light you may see Mrs E walking her scrofulous terrier down to the water and sitting on the parapet of the bridge in a little patch of terror all her own.

Hugh Colvin © 2019

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Clare Edwards Broad Sheep The Lodge Westhide Hereford, HR1 3RQ www.broadsheep.com info@broadsheep.com 01432 850444