THE VIEW THROUGH MY GLASS BOTTOM

Broad thoughts from a home…

A quick google confirms I’m not the first to plagiarise and play with the title of Robert Browning’s famous poem, but I’m really past caring.

This ‘mental stroll’ – my permitted exercise of the day – might get political, but I’m not being partisan, along traditional party lines, just to hurl abuse from one side of the House to the other. And if frustration is getting the better of me, I know it cannot compare with the trials and tribulations having to be endured by those of you who are actually still trying to earn a living in our beleaguered hospitality industry.

Hospitality industry? Surely a phrase we all thought we understood, but I suspect it must carry a different definition within the corridors of power, in order to justify how it’s been targeted – above almost every other aspect of everyday life – as though it really is the major contributor to a pandemic spiralling out of control.

Perhaps it should be added to the OED, thus: hospitality industry n. the business of filling hospitals.

In the harsh light of our tragic (and record-breaking) national Covid-19 statistics, this obsessive and essentially simplistic focus has clearly not worked as desired, and might even have distracted attention from broader-based and bettercoordinated courses of action, as applied elsewhere, which have proved so much more effective.

Boris Johnson realised his ambition to be Prime Minister via a tactical decision to ditch long-held pro- Europe views and embrace the Brexit cause (helped considerably by the hopeless shambles trying to present itself as a viable alternative). This was not without casualties within his own party. Unfortunately, these included talented Tories with track records in hands-on pragmatic politics, so the new man at the top had to pick his Cabinet team from a mostly untested entourage of loyal and line-toeing ‘wannabe’ courtiers.

My satirical imagination runs away with this: ‘Boris, I went to school and learned my times-tables!’

‘Ok, Gavin, you can be Education Secretary!’ (I’ve done them all, but you can play too. Answers on a postcard…)

I wonder if Mr Johnson is relishing the exalted position he believes he was born to occupy. It is, I suppose, a cruel twist of fate – or karma, if you’re feeling cruel yourself – that he should have acquired such a poisoned chalice, or indeed received what rugby commentators call a ‘hospital pass’. A young friend in my village is adamant that the PM and his colleagues are doing their best and deserve our sympathy and support. I don’t necessarily disagree, but this doesn’t mean they are up to the job.

Not long ago I witnessed Marine FC (Football Pyramid Level 8) also doing their best, in their FA Cup 5-0 defeat at the hands of Tottenham Hotspur. They just weren’t good enough.

As it happens, I don’t think I’ve ever watched so much live football, thanks to the EFL streaming pass gifted by the fine chap whose plan to become my son-in-law has had to be postponed. George Thomson, fiancé (and one-time schoolfriend) of daughter Rosie, plays for Harrogate Town, newly promoted to League Two, and I’ve found myself becoming a serious and stressed-out fan through the ninety minutes of every fixture.

But even a footie match doesn’t feel right without a pint or two in the pub before and/or after the game.

The absence of a hospitality industry means television has been dominating leisure time even more than usual. When I found myself watching an episode of Father Brown – stories about a crime-solving priest in the early 1950s – my hackles rose at one scene, in a multi-real-ale freehouse with five pumpclips on a row of swan-neck handpulls. In the 1950s? Sharp beer historians will know my torment on this occasion had more to do with pedantry than lockdown.

Father Brown is played by Mark Williams, who spent three years of his early career with the waterwaystouring Mikron Theatre Company. In 1984, this thespian pub crawl landed him in the Old Kings Arms, in Newark, duetting on blues guitar with the manager, during a longerthan-usual late session.

It’s one of my lesser-known claims to fame…but it does of course provide yet more evidence of an irresponsible hospitality industry.

Alleviating the boredom with another cryptic crossword, I’m horrified to discover that British Pub is an anagram of rubbish tip! Although I have come across a few in my time, it’s no reason to threaten the future of all of them.

Please stay safe.

Julian Grocock