We’re growing Bonsai trees in the kitchen Albizzia; Acacia; Ceratonia Ciliqua Tiny roots and green shoots Reaching for the sunlight Stay home, dig in, hibernate.
We’re building Lego ships for droid armies Invisible enemies, infiltrating, permeating, passing through ‘Stay on target.’ ‘I can’t manoeuvre.’ ‘Loosen up!’
A spin doctor stares intently at a raisin Searching for the meaning of life in dried fruit While Somerset’s finest toil in the heat Struggling to find a consistent length Rotate, revolve, deviate.
Lawrence, on debut, falls short of a century Early morning, headphones, coffee brewing I had the headline ready – ‘Tons and Lovers’ Hole up, hunker down, under the covers.
A pregnant ewe in a field nearby And you, nose pressed up against the gate Spring is on its way, they say A killer executed in a captive state Snuggle up, keep warm, advocate.
So many stories still to be told Teachers, students, young and old Unionised; freelance; high-risers; home schoolers Stand by, await your instructions, fret, worry, fulminate.
We’re growing Bonsai trees in the kitchen Some days I find I’m struggling to breathe A long deep breath in this era of death Stay home. Inhale. Respirate.
After the semi-final of this year’s World Snooker Championship, a pulsating final frame victory for Ronnie O’Sullivan over Mark Selby, O’Sullivan spoke to the media. Most post-match interviews are as dull as a wet weekend in Sheffield. Ronnie’s are anything but.
Having spent three minutes talking about how he was ‘just trying to find a good cue action’, O’Sullivan – aged 44 and bidding for a sixth world title – was encouraged by the BBC’s Rob Walker to maybe show a bit of emotion.
“But sport is all about great stories as well…” Walker began. “I don’t believe it is,” O’Sullivan countered. “I believe it’s about the cue action.”
Not for the first time, The Rocket had tongue lodged firmly in cheek. He knew Walker was right. If sport were simply about technique, numbers and which balls go into which holes, it wouldn’t be worth following. It’s about the human beings. The flaws, the mistakes, the bust-ups, the comebacks. It’s about the stories.
All of which brings us, naturally, to the life and times of Ian Ronald Bell. A Warwickshire cricketer since joining the club’s youth setup aged 10, Bell went on to become one of his country’s greatest – or at least most successful – batsmen.
He is a five-time Ashes winner, currently eighth on the list of England’s leading run-scorers, blessed with an orthodox style which is easy on the eye and, by all accounts, a thoroughly decent chap.
I followed Bell’s career closely. When he broke into the Warwickshire team as a 17-year-old, I was three years younger, watching from the Edgbaston members’ section, clutching my scorecard and wondering if I had enough change in my pocket for a sandwich and the bus fare home.
Twenty-one years later, as he left the field for the final time, the applause of his teammates echoing around an empty Sophia Gardens, I was watching the live-streamed pictures on YouTube, my two-year-old daughter sleeping on my chest.
As Alex Bowden points out over at King Cricket, Bell divided opinion among English cricket fans. ‘He suffered from people forever thinking he *should* be better. This shortfall between what he was actually doing and what people for some reason thought he could do led many people to actively hate him.’ For his part, Bowden has cultivated an editorial policy of indifference towards Bell, which seems entirely appropriate.
When I think back on the truly great cricketers of my lifetime, each one had his flaws, his demons, his story. Botham, the loose cannon who could rescue the most hopeless of causes using nothing more than charisma, cigars and a little bit of inswing.
Pietersen, the South African exile with the fragile ego, chips and mushy peas on each shoulder, a towering individual who never quite accepted he was playing a team sport.
Stokes, the brat with the fiery temper, who took the scenic route to the top of the world via a broken locker, a Bristol nightclub and a court case which came within a stump’s width of ending his career before it reached its glorious, redemptive summit.
Mild-mannered Jos Buttler, perhaps the most naturally gifted player of his generation, has done more than anyone to drag English cricket kicking, screaming and reverse-paddle-sweeping into the T20 era. (Oh, and behind the choirboy smile, Buttler has a pretty short fuse on him too.)
Look to other sports – Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, Zinedine Zidane, John McEnroe. All reached the very peak of their chosen game, and did so despite – or maybe because of – a carousel full of emotional and psychological baggage.
Bell was the chosen one, marked out early as a future international star, the course set, the milestones lined up to be ticked off. Ok, he struggled early on against the Big Bad Aussies. But the closest he came to controversy was when he was run out, and then recalled in ‘the spirit of cricket’ when India realised they were risking a diplomatic incident, at The Oval in 2011. He made 157 in that innings. England won. But that was not the story.
Few people really know what professional athletes go through, the sacrifices they make, the physical and mental torment they endure to reach the top. Maybe it’s just that some wear their flaws on their sleeve more than others. Plenty of champions are straight-edged, clean-cut winning machines. For every Gascoigne, there’s a Schumacher. For every Cantona, a Federer.
What is Bell’s story? They say as a young man he suffered from a lack of confidence, that he needed an arm around the shoulder and a captain who would tell him how good he was at batting. That was Ian Bell’s story. He was just really, really good at batting.
Getting busier every day. Had a summit meeting with editors. Rambled on about all my ideas. Made plans for election night. Four weeks to go. Must stock up on coffee and Pro Plus.
Feeling excited about how we’re covering the campaign. Video is a huge part of it. For a long time I was resistant to what I saw as gimmicks to attract the most number of viewers. But I am coming round to the view that our job is entertainment just as much as information.
Went canvassing with Johnny Mercer and his team in Southway. We’ve had our differences over the last couple of years but we’re getting on much better now. Asked him some challenging questions, shared tips for blocking out the haters, then talked about cricket and our children.
Full list of candidates to be finalised tomorrow. Still not heard a whisper from UKIP.
I’m hosting a live hustings event next Thursday. Nervous already. Must stock up on alcohol.
Busy few days. Visited Porkies cafe in Whitleigh on Friday, which last year became known as ‘Plymouth’s most Brexit cafe’.
Bumped into Arthur Hunt, formerly known as ‘The Janner in the hat’. He had a shouty rant about the Government and the resulting video went a bit viral.
Went to ‘Plymouth’s most Brexit cafe’. Met Plymouth’s angriest pensioner. Warning: he’s extremely angry. pic.twitter.com/d9vKCmPhXr
Accusations of bias from both sides. Labour say we’re giving too much coverage to the Tories. Tories say we’re in Labour’s pocket.
A councillor writes a very angry letterto the paper about me. A few years ago it would have sent me into a spiral of anxiety and self-doubt. These days I’m able to laugh it off. Just about.
Told myself I wouldn’t get drawn into a petty rows between the parties. But it wouldn’t be an election campaign without a couple of stories about misleading leaflets.
I had been feeling quite excited about the election. Then I went vox popping in Honicknowle.
Expected to make a piece about the decline of UKIP. Almost everyone I met said they have no interest in politics or are too confused and disillusioned to bother. Made me wonder whether I’m part of the media bubble.
More heated discussions with politicians than usual. I’ve never been very good at conflict. Would always rather play nice and let my writing do the talking than have a row. But now I feel I can give as good as I get.
Politicians are extremely sensitive to any hint of criticism. But we’re not going after vulnerable members of the public who can’t defend themselves. These people put themselves in the firing line and are fair game.
Enjoying the old quote: ‘A politician complaining about the press is like the captain of a ship complaining about the sea’.
The day begins with a BBC blackout on political coverage while polling stations are open for local elections. The Today programme presenters talk about hedgehogs and investment banking. I turn over to Chris Evans on Radio 2, then quickly back again.
I visit my local parish hall at 7am to cast my vote for a Cornwall Council candidate. Feel satisfied and smug. Resist the temptation for a selfie.
In Plymouth, Labour and Tories are squabbling on Twitter like schoolkids. Good to know that in this volatile political world, some things never change.
@PlymouthCons@garystreeterSWD Oh dear. I know you specialise in low grade trolling but this isn’t one of your best. You can do better. Try harder pls
Bit of a do over Conservative MP Oliver Colvile turning down an invitation to a hustings event. His office say he can’t be everywhere at once. I point out they said no before even being given a date.
This time we get a mixture of responses from leavers, remainers and one very angry Corbyn supporter who describes Theresa May as an “evil bitch” and warns: “If a Conservative stepped over my threshold I would smack them in the mouth.”
Back to base to find messages complaining we’re giving too much coverage to Johnny Mercer. “You must have a love affair with him,” one caller says. Makes a change from the usual accusations of Labour bias.
First proper hustings of the campaign early tomorrow morning at Devonport High School for Boys. Colvile will be there, as will the man he branded a “perennial runner-up”, Labour’s Luke Pollard.
Perhaps the two are destined to follow each other around, trading petty insults about defence cuts and Corbyn’s nuclear policies forever more.
A brief respite from Tory and Labour mudslinging, and a visit to my favourite eccentric contact Arthur Watson.
He has featured in The Herald on a regular basis over the last few years talking about prostitution, legal highs, anti-social behaviour orders and compulsive hoarding.
Prime Minister Theresa May visiting the South West today. Huge furore as Cornwall reporters are ‘locked in a room’ and banned from filming her at a factory in Helston. They called her on it with a very funny live blog.
Things don’t get much better when she arrives in Plymouth. Burly security guards patrol Herald headquarters and giggling staff are warned to put their phones away.
On arrival, Mrs May is briefly shown around the newsroom before a 15-minute interview. No filming allowed. Then she’s gone, and nobody knows quite what to make of it all.
Elsewhere, the local campaign is slowly swinging into action. Senior editorial team gathers for a strategy meeting. I babble a lot, but feel a bit better about the task ahead. Key thing is to get out and speak to real people. Tired of playing umpire between warring politicians.
Someone leaves a comment on Johnny Mercer MP’s Facebook page: “I’d rather have burning coals and red hot pokers shoved up my vagina than vote for you.”
First day back after holiday. News editor greets me by saying everyone is bored of the election already. Hard to argue. How can we make it more interesting?
I suggest we stage our own version of Gogglebox, filming Plymouth families watching the televised leaders’ debates. Seems to go down well.
Messages flying back and forth with candidates and their agents. A press release arrives from Tory MP Johnny Mercer. Says he is “standing in Plymouth Moor View against Corbyn’s North London Labour”. Strange turn of phrase.
Much mystery surrounds the identity of Labour’s candidate to challenge Mercer. Councillor Sue Dann is revealed as the winner from an all-woman shortlist.
Election video diary: Labour’s @LukePollard tells The Herald he is ready to fight for Sutton and Devonport all over again. Full video soon. pic.twitter.com/zTEXbV9W4H
Photo call with Pollard and Dann on the Hoe. Drizzling and cold. I ask them both whether Corbyn is the best person to be Prime Minister. They insist people in Plymouth are more interested in local candidates.
Arrange to meet with a Labour source. Text message comes in: “We need a strong and stable interview in the national interest”.
Arrange to meet with a Conservative source. We stand in a lift, he hands me a crumpled piece of paper and leaves.
I’m on holiday, but finding it impossible to put the election to the back of my mind.
Fill much of the five-hour car journey by debating with my wife. She is not a journalist but always asks the right questions. Straight to the point.
Get a message from a friend telling me she has applied to stand as a candidate in Plymouth. She is not a politician and it came out of the blue. Will make life very interesting if she is selected.
Spend half an hour traipsing round a shopping centre in Greater London looking for a sun hat for a toddler. Most people here seem to care more about Primark bargains and Premiership football than politics. Can’t really blame them.
Catch a snippet of Corbyn on Andrew Marr. He wants an extra bank holiday for St George’s Day. Risks losing votes from the dragon community.
Watch planes taking off from Heathrow. Imagine them travelling west and landing in Plymouth. Wonder whether any of the party manifestos will mention global warming.
Follow The Herald’s election coverage at plymouthherald.co.uk/election2017
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