The Daily Telegraph

Dear Blog,

I am feeling very important today. I feel I have finally achieved something in life’s long journey. I have made the headlines, reached the summit, finally been recognised for the sage to which I inspire.

I have been asked by the Daily Telegraph to submit a memoir .A memory of the Olympic Games. Me! Can you believe it? Little old me? Me, in the Daily Telegraph with that nice Mr Cameroon and his mates. If you didn’t know Blog, the ‘Daily Telegraph’ is the Conservative Party’s newsletter which they send to members every single day of the week. So who’s bothered? I am up there with the hobble knobbies. Well, the editor hasn’t said definitely that I will be headlined in their special supplement, but I think I can safely assume that I will appear in print alongside the likes of your Sebastion Coes, your Thompsons etc. otherwise, why would he send a stamped addressed envelope (1^st Class) for me to reply. Such generosity. It is nice to see that the age of civility is not dead. .... And now the big question is ... how many copies can I afford to buy? I have a couple of weeks to save up my pension, but I was wondering, as a mate, could you lend me a couple of bob?? If I corner the market, buy up all the copies, wait a few months, (and here’s the beauty of the idea...) then sell them on e-bay, I can make a killing. (I think if I sign them, it may just help push up the price a smidgeon, don’t you think??) So how are you fixed??  You have got to speculate to accumulate, you know. Never mind my two charities, Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, and the disabled children they help, think of me ....

Oh yes, what I said was:-

Wednesday September 6^th. Sunny and warm. Road surface. 4(?) mile. Approx. 7am.

Dave Bedford and I were rooming together. We met a G.B. team manager on our return to the Olympic Village at the conclusion of our early morning run around Olympiaberg, the artificial hill created from the rubble generated by the reconstruction of post war Munich. The official advised us to avoid running down Connellystrasse back to our flat, as there appeared to have been a bit of trouble.

We thought he was hung over from the night before.

We didn’t return down Connellystrasse.

The world had just changed forever.

Clever don’t you think?? Sort of hits a chord without being too descriptive. A fine piece of literature, even if I have to say so myself. A fine piece of literature.  

Colin

News of the World

Found it, found it, found it!!

If you look back to one of my earlier messages to you Blog, I said I had appeared in ‘The News of the World’ Sunday newspaper and that I would try and find the cutting. Done it!

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no 31:-Which one is me?            Clue:- look back to my message to you on the occasion that I ran in the Midland League for my club in the steeplechase race and had a slight problem with the barriers.

As you can see, it is a couple of pictures of a steeplechase. The photographs were taken by Eric North, a northern Mark Shearman¹ before Mark Shearman knew he was Mark Shearman!! There was a third shot in the sequence which was arguably, the best of the three. I can’t make out from my own cutting whether it has been torn off accidentally or it has been cropped by the newspaper. I suspect the latter because the inclusion of that next shot would have ruined the sarcastic comment by the subeditor printed alongside the photos. Eric showed me the third and fourth in the sequence which illustrated the total chaos as the rest of the field concertinaed into the barrier or jumped on top of other runners attempting to get to dry land!!  Carnage!! Even though I was in the thick of it, it did strike me as funny afterwards, like something out of a ‘Carry On’ film. Eric North attended most athletic events in the Yorkshire / Lancashire area. Tragically, he came to the conclusion that all the thousand of shots he had taken over the years would be of no interest to anyone, so one day, when he had little else to do, he decided to take the whole lot down to the local tip. What a terrible waste. Tragic. I cannot tell from the cutting whether this was one of my barefoot efforts. However I do remember it was a very, very  wet afternoon and as the track at Huddersfield was usually soft , both reasons would indicate that I would not have ripped my feet to bits if I had competed without shoes and it was a bare foot run in the park. The Leeds Road track was typical of steeplechase arrangements in those far off days, the water jump being built on the infield which was not a cinder surface, but was grassed over like the rest of the infield; resulting, as in this case, in a slippery approach  with an additional hazard of having to jump over the track side kerb before and jump down the kerb after, the water jump.

 I competed in the British Universities Championships (UAU?) at Maindy Stadium in Cardiff in the steeplechase. Scattered around the trackside were water hydrants used to spray the track during dry periods. Each was covered by a substantial protective wooden box. Unbelievably, there was one just inside the track where the runners jumped up the kerb on the approach to the water, and another just before you jumped down back onto the track. Being a championship of some importance, athletes were not allowed onto the track before their particular event   ... so the leaders in the ‘chase saw the trackside hazard on their first approach and were able to reacted accordingly, the rest of the bunch didn’t!! I slammed into the first box and then spent 2800 metres dragging my right leg behind me. Hospital treatment and a rigid dressing did not add to my comfort on the long return coach journey to the north east. I was not a happy bunny rabbit, another ‘chase injury which  reinforced my decision to quit the event!!

Sometimes the water barrier is built in unusual places. In Eugene, Oregon, USA, it is built on the inside at the end of the back straight, not on the curve. More commonly, it can be built outside the track; at Alexander Stadium in Birmingham or at the Leicester track, for example. A funny incident for spectators happened at Leicester. One non-too-bright young lady from my club was persuaded to run the 400m for club points. She drew the outside lane. She set off concentrating on the outside kerb to which she stuck religiously. The look of sheer panic on her face when she was faced with the water jump barrier should have gained her bonus points in the club competition for dramatic effect.

                         Colin

Guess what, Blog?? .... another £25 for my charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, on Wednesday at the Sphinx ‘5’.

Note 1: If you don’t know, dear Blog, Mark is a photographer of renown.

Newton, Einstein , Carol Vordemort

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 31:-What was this little fella used for? What was his name? How old is he?

Dear Blog,

Well this is a real treat for you Blog. I’m in a charitable frame of mind. To save you going to the expense and trouble of getting in touch with me to answer to my ‘Photograph Quiz:’ (not that you bother anyway), I thought it would show the generous side of my nature by giving you the answer. How’s about that, then?? His name is Watthey; did you guess correctly?? Sweet little name for such a creature don’t you think. NO WAY. NO, it isn’t and it’s not meant to be. In fact it shows the nasty side of my nature at it’s very worse. I used to use Watthey as a check marker in my run up approach to the steeplechase water jump barrier. Did you get that correct?? Were you close?? When I started running, I was initially interested in steeple chasing. Yes I was stupid in those days! All the advice from event coaches was that you had to have a check marker in the run up to the water jump barrier so that you got your stride length correct and hit the barrier with your best take off leg. Most chasers used a trainer in those far away days of yore. I thought I would be different and that Watthey would be easier to spot amongst a line of trainers. After my first two steeplechases using Watthey I realised what a complete load of bollocks that advice was. Coaches offering such advice had never run a steeplechase. Imagine. You are all running at the barrier in a race, approaching the first water jump barrier. ‘Oh, do please excuse me, old boy, you are getting in my way. I cannot see Watthey. You do happen to be impeding my run up approach, what? Could you just kindly step a little to one side so that I am able to approach the barrier correctly and without hindrance, thereby enabling me to take off on the recommended leg.’ Oh yes. And let me turn this bucket of water into a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Jeroboam. Go back and retake your coaching badge matey boy. It don’t not work like that. Not nohow like. Let me tell you, Blog, because you are so knackered going into that last water jump, you hate everyone and everything. You would like a little rest. A tinsey winsey time out. Two steeplechases in and I hated that bloody check mark so much so that I called it by the thing, or rather the one person, I hated most. The person who almost cocked up my university place. WATTHEY! My old headmaster. I had two conversations with him in my school career. Otherwise I was invisible. The first was a stand up discussion in his study on the final morning(?) of the Christmas term when I was in the fifth form (I learned 20 years later there was a mention of it in the staff room). Where the courage came from I do not know... completely out of character. I had received my school report, and he had written on it ‘Wake up stupid, before it is too late!’ in his large scrawl at the bottom of the page. I had come near the bottom of the class but took exception to this personal comment, which I considered unfair and rude. Uncharacteristically, I went to see him so that I could point out a few facts about his school. I had always come near the bottom of the class in the Christmas Term as the mark for each subject was calculated on the term’s homework marks. I was one of the very, very few pupils who went home for lunch. Most pupils stayed to school dinners and concluded their break by working together on a group home work session ensuring that all got good marks. I did my home work at home at night with no one to help. My parents never had an education of any significance, so they were never in a position to offer assistance. I pointed out this fact to the Head to which he did not react kindly. I knew, come the school exams, everything would come out in the wash. He was not impressed, but his blood pressure was. I was truly terrified, the only thing stopping me fleeing in terror was an impressive piece of advice I’d been given by my uncle a few years before. (Unrepeatable here)  Our next and only other encounter was caused by my indignation at being told at an the upper sixth meeting, that each sixth former was expected to support all school sports teams, that a card of attendance would be issued to pupils which was to be stamped by an appointed staff member who would be in attendance at all games for this sole purpose. Anyone not complying would not receive such a favourable reference as they might otherwise expect when applying for a University place. In those days each sixth former had to write their own letter of application, then the university contacted the school for a reference and you attended an interview if the university were interested in your application. None of this form filling business. I went to see him to offer him my view that I thought his proposal amounted to black mail and I would not be participating in supporting the school teams. His blood pressure took a bit of a battering and his vocal chords suffered not a little. I suspected that an upper sixth pupil was about to feel the cane. Again I was genuinely frightened! In the months that followed our second discussion, I could not understand why I was not being called for any interview at my chosen Universities when most of my form was making visits and being given offers. Although I suspected that I did not quite have the mathematical insight of a Newton, Einstein or a Carol Voldemort, I was a slightly mystified at the total lack of interest. I somewhat belatedly arrived at Cuthbert’s to be questioned by the Principal. Near the start of my interview, I was asked  what my relationship was with my headmaster!!! The B*****d had been as good as his word and had given me a crap reference. Thanks, a thousand time thanks. Hence my lack of respect for my juju doll. If you didn’t know, Blog, Durham is a collegiate university; St. Cuthbert’s is a society there ... college to you!!

I soon gave up the steeplechase as I was always getting injured, as I have mentioned to you in an earlier missive, Blog, my bare footed attempts certainly didn’t help. Can you believe anyone could be so stupid?? Perversely (?), I kept Watthey with me to remind me what teaching was not about. He still sits on my desk in my study. He doesn’t look too bad considering I carved him 40 years ago. I used to like woodwork at school, but in the my second year, I was considered too bright for such mundane activities, Latin would do me far more good, so blogo-blogas-blogat-blogamus-blogatis-blogant  to you Blogare.

If you do bump into my old Head while out doing your weekly shopping Blog, perhaps you will give him my regards and thank him for all he didn’t do for me. Tell him I shall never remain in his debt.  So if you’ll now excuse me, I’ll just unstrap this heavy chip from off my shoulders and go for a trudge!!!

                              Colin

Zatopek

Dear Blog,

I had an e-mail on Thursday which reminded me of my sleeping arrangements in the 60s!! While I was a student, I was always broke (as in not having a lot of money, dear Blog) with only my grant to live on plus what I could earn in the holidays, usually in the mill or as a grounds man for the local authority, though I did dig holes for the electricity board and guard things as a security guard. When I was selected to run for the UAU (English Universities), BUSF (British Universities) or the County, expenses would be paid which would cover travel and accommodation before the race. Very good so far. Travelling from Durham City was no problem as it was on the main London to Newcastle line; but getting back was a buggar! From mid evening on a Saturday to mid day on a Sunday, Durham Railway Station was sucked into a black hole from which nothing emerged, not even a British Railways sandwich. Nowt stopped there, nowt at all. So a return trip was fraught with timetabling problems. How to get back before shut down?? Basically, it was not possible! One of the first book purchases from my grant each year was to buy the great tome of the Railway Timetable¹. I employed two techniques², depending on where the selected race was in the country. In those days as the Beeching axe was poised mid air, the train ticket between two places allowed a selection of routes to be used. If you set off from town A. and ended at town B., you could travel by whatever route you desired. The other thing to remember for the purposes of the next tale, Blog, is that the carriages consisted of individual compartments, sometimes with, sometimes without a corridor. Each compartment had a row of seats on each side with a luggage rack above. The scene is set. Say I was picked to run for BUSF v ECCU v Combined Services, the latter promoting the race. It would entail a trek down to Portsmouth. Now there was no way I was going to return to the North East the same day short of using Dr. Who’s Tardis. And that was not possible because Dr. Who had not yet travelled to the BBC. The police box had only policemen in. It came about purely by chance that on one of my first selection races I ended up stranded on Leeds railway station about midnight. With nowhere to go until the morning train to Durham, I made myself as comfortable as possible on a bench and made ready to pass the next ten hours with as little discomfort as possible. I was shaken awake by a couple of policemen and told to move on. Production of a valid ticket allowed me to remain bench prone until the next patrol disturbed me with the same instruction and outcome. They offered the advice that I should keep all valuables safe from opportunist thieves. The only thing of value was my train ticket. I was a student, Mr Policeman, sir. And not a very rich student, Miss Policewoman.

It wasn’t long before I ended up on the Leeds station again after another selection race. This time I was a little earlier in the evening, but still stuck there ... but for longer! The second hand book stall on the station was still open, so to kill some time, I had a browse. The browse produced Emil Zatopek’s book by Frantisek Kozik (originally 27/6 from Foyles on the inside sticker. I must have paid a bob?).... I didn’t realise at the time what a find it was. Nor twelve months later, did I realise how stupid I was to pass up a chance to meet the great athlete. I was asked to entertain him for an afternoon, but was too shy to take up the offer ... can you believe that? That Blog, is God’s honest truth!!  Six years later I was scheduled to meet the great man again, but this time it was a Communist crackdown the thwarted the meeting. Perfectly true, and I’d taken my book with me to the proposed meeting for him to sign!!!  

The visit from the police that night / morning proved a little more amenable for two reasons. When asked to produce my ticket, still sleepy I couldn’t find it. The policewomen from my last visit recognised me and suggested my shoe, the place she advised the last time for hiding money etc..! I couldn’t believe she could remember me from before. I was impressed. My Cuthbert’s scarf was the giveaway, the same design as her sister’s school scarf!!!! (read next time dear Blog for police coincidence number two and the IRA!!!). And they invited me to the station office used by rail night staff and patrolling police for a cup of tea and biscuits. My cup of tea and biscuits became a regular in the next couple of years. (read next time dearest Blog, when I didn’t quite make it to the Leeds platform)

And for my next book ... the book stall became something to look forward to on my visits to Leeds en route to Durham. It seemed to be open all hours. The books seemed extraordinarily interesting for a second hand stall. W.R.Loader’s ‘Staying the Distance’ was my next bargain buy, a former public library book. Now those of a certain age will remember Tony Hancock’s comical frustration with the missing last page of the novel he was reading... mine was not the missing last page but pages 129 to 144 which were printed twice and the pages 145 to 161 were missing!!! I didn’t realise this until I turned page 144 over after reading the first eight chapters!!!! In pre e-bay days, where to find another copy of an out of print book? That was the sixty three thousand dollar question! It was out of print so it was destined to sit on my book shelves sulking for a number of lonely years. Praise be the Lord for the foresight of someone to think up the idea of a Charity Shop. Again it was before e-bay, but a copy was found sitting miserably in a charity shop. More accurately, sitting in a miserable charity shop. In Pembroke Dock returning from a holiday in Eire. (Me returning from a holiday in Eire not the book returning from a h....) There it was. Waving at me. Here I am Colin, save me from this run down hole in outer Wales. Take me to the bright lights of Coventry. I started to re-read it after I arrived back home. Now does someone up there in the great unknown like taking the p**s out of me or does someone up there in the great unknown like taking the p**s out of me?? Sections of the book had never been cut (separated); can you believe that, Blog? They were still folded as before binding, so pages could not be read! Dilemma. Do I go through the book, slice the pages apart and find out what happened in the novel? Or is someone up there in the great unknown trying to tell me something ... that I should leave the leaves and further search  ... I’m still looking. What did happen after page 144???!!

         So its goodbye to Zatopek, and its goodbye to Loader and its goodbye to Blog, Colin.

*Contain yourself until next time Blog. If I was running a race for which I had entered myself, ditto the above but for ‘train’ read ‘hitch hiking’ and for ‘Leeds Station’ read the ‘London Embankment’!!  I will write to you Blog about this and ref: 1 and ref: 2 in the future if you drop us a quids or two for you know what. What?

Weedon

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 29:- Well as you can see this is not really a photo. What is it? And why Blog it?

A bit more heavy Blog. Weighty stuff and nonsense this, so hold on and take the ride. Lose your grip and bloody your nose.

On Tuesday, I went down to the Weedon 10km road race with my daughter and wife where the former was racing. All three of us have run the hilly course at various times in the past. The Weedon race is another of those local races which attracts a field of 2-300 runners annually despite the course being ‘tough’. It is organised efficiently, results are done quickly and there is plenty of not only homemade cakes on sale before and after the race, but homemade quiche etc.. The race is well known for this unusually phenomenon of athletes queuing for refreshments before the race!! The entry fee is modest and the prizes fair, being presented soon after the last person has crossed the finish line. The run is on open roads, well marshalled with little fuss from local traffic or residents of the village. The entry form and map are available well in advance of the race. It is organised by the local club from the local school. Profits are ploughed back into club and school for community benefit. Monies are raised by the band of organisers from the modest entry fees and the sale of the refreshments which are very moderately priced. The race exemplifies all that is good about our sport. Contrast that with the local city half marathon. The course is far from favourable for the runners and every year causes hassle for the citizens and aggression to the marshals who are paid a moderate fee for their services. I believe the cost to the rate payer has been considerable in past years, the finance coming from various funds within the council budgets to promote healthy living styles  etc.. ‘Invited’ athletes are rewarded, the financial cost of their participation doing nothing to promote or enhance the enjoyment or reputation of the city event. How an entry fee of £25 can be justified is hard to appreciate in these austere times, except to cover the costs and profits of a professional promoter and invited athletes. Of course, many entrants are satisfied with the promotion because they have little experience of comparable athletic events. To most, their experience is judged satisfactory and regarded as the norm, what is to be expected from a running race. To local athletes and athletic officials however, the experience is frustrating. It can be seen that a little tweaking here and there would offer something memorable to the joggers. In the city there are three athletic clubs which promote ten or so races each year with minimum of fuss; a pool of invaluable knowledge and experience of race organisation and promotion. The city council could do worse than switch the organisation of the race to give responsibility to local clubs. Give possession of the event to the citizens. They have staged big races before. They are more than able. With a little lateral thinking the event could become unique. And I mean unique in the true sense of the word. A little idea or two could have athletes clambering for an entry and swelling the field to cause the imposition of a race limit. Still it won’t happen. It will remain a minor parochial Fun Run and while we will be subjected to the annual media hype of the ‘thousands taking part’ kidology. What a wasted opportunity for the city.

There endeth the second lesson.

But the good news is that i have just got another £162 for my charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, thanks Rob. Don’t you think that is great, Blog??

                         Colin

London Olympic Tickets

Fantastic news Blog. Unbelievable .... I am speechless. I am over the moon, the whole of the moon.

Do you want to know the good news first or the bad news. O.K., the good news ... it's incredible. Do you ever believe that someone in that great somewhere does look after your interests?? Well, it is time to boogie. It has been announced that all Olympians will be assured of a pair of tickets to watch their particular event. Can you believe that? Joy. Two tickets to watch your own particular event. Those Olympians from the ’48 Games will get theirs free, the rest of us will have to pay. So? Two tickets. I’ve got wind in my heels, you know how it feels, I am left dumbfounded. Of course, as you may know dear Blog, I ran the marathon in Munich in the 1972 Olympic Games.

Now for the bad news. Somebody is having a laugh ... the bad news is that the marathon in the London Olympic Games starts and finishes on the streets of the big city. It goes nowhere near the stadium. Sooooo, I get two bloody tickets to stand on a drafty street corner of a London street. GREAT!!!             

But then, you never know, I might get an offer I can’t refuse.

                                  Colin

Arab Spring

Heavy stuff Blog, real heavy,

 I suppose you are as aware as anyone of the ‘Arab spring’, aren’t you Blog? When it all started to gather momentum in Egypt a few weeks back, it reminded me of my brief 15 minute visit to that country. Yes, 15 minutes. Not a flying visit. I trudged in and I trudged out, I kiddle you not. The 6 day war had occurred only a few years previous, spent bullet cartridges and communications wires used by the military still littered some road sides on the West Bank. I travelled by bus down to Eilat a couple of days before Christmas. In those days Eilat had a couple of tourist hotels and not much else; it certainly hadn’t hit the popular package holiday market in any big way. Down the Red Sea coast (Gulf of Aqaba), about two mile or so, Taba was just starting to be developed as a tourist attraction. It was within spitting distance of the Egyptian border. There was little development of any note between Eilat and Taba except for a huge oil terminal and a small camp site with a few tentative businesses tempting the occasional tourist to view the beautiful corals of the sea through the bottom of their glass bottomed boats. The rest was desert; not the sandy desert of the cinema screen but a rough barren rock strewn nothingness of the Sinai Peninsula. Knowing I was camping in the area, an Israeli friend, a high ranking officer in the army, had lent me a military map with my promise that I would show no one. Unlike our O.S. maps, it relied heavily on shading to denote features. The day after pitching tent at the small site, only one other tent erected, I set off on a ‘12’, armed with my map and the sun for a long run through the parched inhospitable landscape to do a loop course which would bring me back out onto the coast, a couple of miles south of the camp site, a mile or two north of the border with Egypt. Well that was the plan. It was Christmas Eve. I returned a friendly wave to the occasional army outposts of the Israeli army, settled comfortably among the barren rocks, settled in their armchairs and shades outside their tents in a conscripted life of boredom. About 90 minutes later I was getting fairly close to the sea when I ran into a much larger army emplacement with plenty of barbed wire and bristling with antennae, much more of what you might expect a professional military post to look like at one of the world’s hot spots. I was not met with the cheery wave of the other posts but a menacing shout and a commanding wave of an automatic weapon. I knew they were not shouting at me in Hebrew. My map did not have a defined border so unwittingly I had strayed into Egyptian territory. I was approaching the border post from inside Egypt!

Surprisingly it took only a couple of minutes to sort out the misunderstanding, to have everyone laughing at my mistake with the surprisingly friendly Egyptian soldiers waving me through to their Israeli counter parts who also thought it some big joke! It did make me wonder about the content of what the newspapers and political commentaries were banging on about back in England when such a relax atmosphere existed on the ground.

That night, sitting on the beach waiting for Christmas Day to dawn, a terrific firework display took place. Impressively, huge fairly candles hung in the sky, lighting the sea and beach as bright as day, large fire crackers exploded in the sky cascading bright red vapour trails into the sea, roman candle-like fireworks whistled and bounced across the water towards the beach. It was all very impressive but unfortunately lasted less than 10 minutes. I did question why a Jewish country should go to such lengths for a Christian festival, given that we were some miles from any Christian shrine of substance which for obvious reasons, were crowded; the number of tourists locally could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

Three days later I went to stay with my friend on his Kibbutz some miles north of Tel Aviv. The question of the relax atmosphere on the border and the Christmas Eve display came up during the course of my stay. With typical Israeli sang-froid, he suggested to me that there was no need for troops on the ground to be concerned about animosities. Everyone in Israel and Egypt wanted a quiet life. Let the press get hot under the collar to sell copy. Let the politicians talk and posture to gain re-election. Life was too short to worry about a stupid tourist getting lost in the desert. I was not lost I told him, it was his daft map. I thanked him and returned his precious map. There is a saying in the country that if you get two Israelis in a room arguing, you will get three points of view! I can easily understand. We agreed to differ! It was the same with the firework display ... in reality it was the Jordanian army in Aqaba setting off ordinance probably because they thought a diver or a windsurfer from the Israeli S.F. had attempted to penetrate their sea space. It was usually a false alarm he told me. The Jordanians were always very jumpy. The Israeli, Jordanian and Saudi Arabian borders all converge in the space of a couple of miles at this point on the globe, so tensions can be ratcheted up quickly if the politicians of any of the countries so wished. My friend pointed out that at trade level, relations were similar to the squadies - laid back; no one wanted trouble when a few shekels were to be made. Israel and Saudi Arabia did not get on politically. On a business footing, trade existed amicably if covertly. Oil for example, was loaded onto tankers in Saudi, sailed a couple of miles into international waters, turned around and docked to discharge in Israel, a direct journey of 4 or 5 miles, a circuitous route of 20 or so miles. International diplomacy was satisfied, oil had been purchased on the spot market, no overt trade went on between the two nations. The extreme political wings in both countries were kept quiet. A similar situation existed between Jordan and Israel who had for a number of years held a joint interest in exploiting the rich mineral content of the Dead Sea; it was in both countries’ interests so why rock the boat.

I always wondered after my stays, why the politicians couldn’t be as openly pragmatic as the citizens of their respective countries. At least the laid back approach of the ordinary soldiery of a few years ago, seems now to have spread to the ordinary populous of many Arab countries and perhaps they might, just perhaps, improve a situation where most politicians have postured and done little else.

     Philosophically yours, Colin.