The more things change, the more you go "Oh no, not this rubbish again"

So, welcome to the first official posting in this blog's new guise as The View from Pudding Island and already with this post's title I realise I seem to have got off to a slightly grumpy start.

The thing is I thought that having lived in Greece for the last three-and-a-bit years with only occasional visits to England it would be a good opportunity to highlight what changes I noticed had taken place in "the old country".

Unfortunately I haven't been out and about as much as I would have liked so when not reading or sleeping - and lately I've found myself doing an awful lot of those - I've been watching TV. That has been my window on the world.

In Greece we had no TV. We had the capability to watch DVDs and we could watch TV in cafés, but watching the tube just never featured in our lives and I didn't miss it one little bit. I should point out Mrs C didn't always agree with me on that point.

Having shunned TV in Greece I have embraced it here in the UK. It's my new best friend, but like all best friends sometimes it does go on a bit. Leaving aside general programming, some good, some bad and more of which maybe another time, my view of my native land and the wider world is formed generally from news programmes.

Oh lord, it's depressing. It's generally people doing horrible things to each other, or wanting to do horrible things to each other, and a bunch of gurning tossers who have been around for ever all going on about what they would do to stop horrible things. So that's the news which is occasionally interspersed with cute stories about ageing pandas which resolutely refuse to reproduce.

The other snapshot I get of Britain is through TV advertising. If the news is what people think you ought to know then advertising is what people want you to know, but only so you'll part with large sums of money. Gambling, money lending and ambulance-chasing solicitors are some of the mainstays of TV advertising these days, plus occasional ads for people with either diarrhoea or constipation. In advertising circles this is probably regarded as an each-way bet.

I realise I have got off to a slightly dyspeptic start with a title for the post which could be applied to the blog itself, but bear with me, I'll try to lighten up as I go.

For those who missed it last time, I thought I'd explain one more time why the blog has changed from The View from the Olive Grove to The View from Pudding Island. Quite simply, I changed locations - Greece to the UK - and Pudding Island was writer Laurence Durrell's rather disparaging title for Britain. While it may be a bit snippy, it's still quite funny and I do love a good pudding. So there, I will almost certainly never seek to explain this again, but just to help clarify matters below there is a picture of Pudding Island and also one of jelly, I love jelly.

I didn't want to leave you without a bit of music so here's Changes by David Bowie. It seems quite fitting as there are a lot changes going on in my life at the moment.

• "Satellite image of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in April 2002" by Jacques Descloitres, MODIS Land Rapid Response Team, NASA/GSFC - Cropped from: http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/view_rec.php?id=3065. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons - 

• "Rainbow-Jello-Cut-2004-Jul-30". Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rainbow-Jello-Cut-2004-Jul-30.jpg#/media/File:Rainbow-Jello-Cut-2004-Jul-30.jpg

Only slightly more frequent than Halley's Comet

I know, I know, it's been a while since my last post. In fact, it's been more than two months. What can I say? It wasn't meant to be like this.

In that time we have moved back to the United Kingdom and got our house sorted out, all of which took time. For much of that period we have been without the internet both in Greece and in the UK and don't forget that I am also naturally indolent.

To compound these admittedly fairly weak excuses, since my return to the UK I have found I have what for the time being I shall refer to only as "health issues". The precise nature of these is still being determined, but they have been a distraction.

Anyway, we now have the internet at home - hooray! - and to distract me from my other distractions I feel I should get back in the blogging saddle, as it were.

Much has happened over the last two months. When we left Greece, the banks had been closed and the rest of Europe seemed to be waiting for the Greek economy to stop circling the plughole and finally disappear without trace down the drain. That hasn't quite happened, but Greece and its economy are still on the critical list and likely be to be so for a long time.

Here in Britain politicians on all sides seem intent on showing they can be tough on migrants trying to get through the Channel Tunnel to seek asylum status in the UK. As ever the "who can be the nastiest" competition seems to be going the Conservatives' way. They have plans to introduce legislation which will make it illegal for landlords to rent property to people who do not have the proper status to be in the UK. A friend pointed out that this was not that different to laws used by the Nazis in pre-war Germany to make life impossible for Jews. Sometimes the Tories do seem determined to embrace their reputation as the Nasty Party.

Having said that, Labour have been coming up with some spectacularly stupid ideas, not least of which is that the French government should pay compensation to the UK for migrants who get through the tunnel. What a great idea, alienate the government at the other end of the tunnel by demanding money from them and then expect them to cooperate with you in dealing with this complex problem. In case you're wondering I don't have an answer to the problem, but then I'm not the prime minister, nor am I leading the opposition.

The title of this posting referred to this blog's recent lack of frequency. I think I can do better than post at the same frequency as Halley's Comet which is visible from earth every 76 years, just so long as I can combat my natural indolence. That also brings me to the blog's title. Some of you may remember that I felt that on my return to the UK I could no longer keep calling it The View from the Olive Grove. For sure when I look out of my house here in Devon I definitely don't see any olive trees.

So what to call the blog? I had one or two useful suggestions from friends, but being the pig-headed type that I am I wanted to come up with my own answer. Eventually I settled on The View from Pudding Island. The reason for this is a bit hazy, but basically writer Laurence Durrell, who had a strong connection with Greece, used the term Pudding Island to describe Britain, a country which he hated although he was technically British. I certainly don't equate myself with Durrell, nor do I hate Britain, although I suspect that like a lot of Brits I have a fairly ambivalent view of the country of my birth. In a more positive light, Britain does have some great puddings. So, The View from Pudding Island it is, hopefully starting on Monday. See you then. I'll be spending much of the weekend tinkering under the bonnet trying to give the blog a new appearance.

As ever, I like to finish with some music and for this post I have chosen Sloop John B by The Beach Boys. I wanted to use it for a post before we left Greece but circumstances intervened, however, it's too good a song not to use, so here it is.

All things must pass

Skopelos

Nothing lasts forever. Always an ambiguous phrase in my view. Do we mean that there is nothing which will last for eternity or do we mean that what we term nothing does, in fact, go on forever. In my typically equivocal fashion I suppose I mean both.

In this instance what will not last forever is my time here on Skopelos. After a lot of thought and soul-searching we have decided to return to the UK. There are a number of reasons for our decision, but most are bound up with our family.

While there is not always a lot I can do for my family when I am in the same country as them, there is virtually nothing I can do for them when I am on a remote Greek island about 1,500 miles away.

In addition, I will admit to feeling increasingly jaundiced about my life here in Greece. In Greek mythology the lotus eaters were a race of people on an island whose primary food was the narcotic fruit and flowers of the lotus. This resulted in them leading lives of peaceful apathy. Sometimes I feel that is what my life has become here.

I cannot pretend that I am not fearful about the future. Is returning to the UK the right thing to do? How will we manage? What will we do?

Also I know that Mrs C is less struck on the idea than I am. After a recent sojourn in the UK she returned to Skopelos complaining bitterly of the British weather. That is not her only concern about life in the UK, but it is one I understand. Also she will miss her beloved garden which she has worked so hard to create. I am troubled that she will be unhappy away from this beautiful island.

In her typically pragmatic fashion she has assured me that returning to the UK is something we will have to make work: no use whingeing and wringing our hands, we'll just have to get on with it.

Since coming to the decision to return to the UK there has been a General Election resulting in a Conservative government. This fills me with some foreboding, but then I am currently living in a country where foreboding is the default setting as it continues to lurch towards seemingly unavoidable economic doom. What will be, will be, wherever I live.

Today is my birthday, which is usually regarded as a cause for celebration. Still here, still above ground, not completely moribund, and yet I am writing this post which is more than a little woeful. I am sorry to be sombre, but today it is the way I feel. I'll cheer up later. I suppose I should take some consolation from the title of this post. All things must pass, nothing lasts forever.

I will get over this, but in the meantime, as is my usual practice with this blog, I'd like to finish with some music. I have chosen the very beautiful, but also rather mournful 1st movement of Elgar's Cello Concerto.

I'm now worrying that this is all getting much too gloomy so we'll have one more bit of music which will be much more like how my birthday ought to be.

R: This feisty singer brings good cheer

Only little, but robins punch above their weight in being my R reason to be cheerful. The European robin, which is the one I'm familiar with, has the most delightful song and looks cute as anything, which is no doubt one reason why it appears on so many Christmas cards.

There have been calls for Britain to adopt the robin as its national bird and frankly I think that's a good idea. Robins are actually widespread through Europe but when I see one here on Skopelos it always makes me think of Britain.

R is for robin.

Robins may well have a song to bring cheer to everyone and make ideal subjects for Christmas cards, but their jolly appearance should not mislead us. The birds are extremely territorial and will engage in fierce fighting with rivals. Conversely if they see you gardening they are quite likely to get close in the hope that you will disturb some juicy grubs for them to eat.

That robins have a special place in the hearts of Britons is surely shown by the 16th century rhyme The North Wind Doth Blow.

"The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing."

You see, even back in the 16th century people worried about robins.

Quite a few songs about robins that I could have chosen, but in the end I went for Rockin' robin by Bobby Day. The song will be familiar to many because of the cover version by the Jackson 5.

• Question: Do you think the robin should be the national bird of Britain or should we choose something with big wings, talons and a hooky beak that can rip flesh? Let me know in the comments section  below.

* Picture of a robin by Poco a poco [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Q: You're a special woman, Brenda

Q, arguably one of the trickiest letters in the A to Z Challenge, but it's got to be done, so here goes, and it's another woman who has made a big impression on me..

I'm not being facetious when I say that my reason to be cheerful for the letter Q is none other than the Queen. That is MY queen, the monarch and head of state of the country I come from, the United Kingdom.

Yes, I think Queen Elizabeth II is a reason to be cheerful, even if sometimes she does look a little glum. And why have I referred to someone called Brenda in the title of this post? Readers of the magazine Private Eye will know that Brenda is their less than respectful nickname for the queen. Sometimes it seems very fitting. Sorry, your majesty.

Princess Elizabeth serving her country during the Second
World War. This picture was taken in 1945, seven
years later she was Queen.

Some people who know me may be a little surprised that I have warm feelings for a non-elected head of state, but I think she does a difficult job very well. She was only a young woman when she came to the throne, several years before I was born, and she continues to show grace and dignity when sometimes she must long to say: "Oh do shut up" or worse.

People from countries where their head of state is elected may feel slightly superior at the idea that they get to choose, but we live in times when political candidates' success depends very much on the amount of money they can gather for campaigning. That money comes from vested interests and if their candidate is successful there will presumably be some returning of favours. To what extent you might regard that as risking corruption I leave to you.

I'm definitely not trying to say that voting is wrong, but you can't guarantee that you'll necessarily get the best person for the job. The selection process that takes place before you even go to put your X in the box next to a name could easily winnow out some good candidates and leave some real duffers to go before the people.

Anyway, I digress. The UK struck lucky with the Queen, but let's be honest, we've had some well dodgy monarchs in the past and one in recent history who didn't even want to do the job. And we have absolutely no idea what the heir to the throne, Prince Charles, will be like. After all, he's on record as talking to plants. As I don't wish to end up in the Tower, I would merely observe that talking to plants is a charming eccentricity. It's only if you believe the plants talk back that you need to seek help.

So there we have it. Q is for Queen.

What music could go with this? The National Anthem? No, a bit of a dirge. I know, how about Queen singing Don't Stop Me Now. I'd like to think that occasionally Queen Elizabeth wanders the draughty corridors of one of her palaces singing this at the top of her voice. Unlikely, I grant you, but it would definitely qualify as a reason to be cheerful. If she did I expect she'd actually sing Don't Stop One Now. 

• Question: Have you ever met the Queen? If so, did she ask you "Have you come far?".

* Picture by Ministry of Information official photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I: Going off the rails for Ivor

I'm not sure to what extent my letter I reason to be cheerful is based solely on childhood memories as opposed to being something I like and find charming even now. I'm not even sure that matters.

Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Ivor the Engine. If ever I'm feeling a bit confounded and knocked about by life then just sit me down in front of an episode of Ivor the Engine and I'll soon feel a lot better.

Yes, for those who don't know, Ivor the Engine is a children's animation about a small green steam locomotive who lived in the "top left hand corner of Wales".

The animations were the creation of Oliver Postgate and Peter Firmin and were delightfully low-tech. The noise of Ivor going along the track was made by Oliver Postgate with his mouth. This has the advantage that all of us who have watched Ivor the Engine can have a go ourselves at making the same noise. Hours of fun, as you can see.

It might suggest dreadful insecurities on my part that I find Ivor the Engine so comforting, but in a world where evil people do evil things and then gloat about it, the chance to immerse myself in a world where all problems are gently resolved, often with a cup of tea, is one I accept gratefully.

See whether Ivor the Engine calms you down by watching this episode.

Oliver Postgate and Peter Firmin also made another children's animation that I particularly like, namely Noggin the Nog. This tells stories about Noggin who is basically a kindly Viking king.

I love the theme tune to Ivor the Engine, which features a nice bit of bassoon, but I thought I'd like to put something a bit more raucous as the music to go with this post. I've chosen 5:15 by The Who. Anything less like Ivor the Engine than The Who's brass-heavy blast about a pilled-up Mod heading for Brighton on the 5:15 would be hard to find, but it's a great song.

Question: Do you like steam trains? If you know about Ivor the Engine and Thomas the Tank Engine, which do you prefer? Let me know in the comments section.

H: Let's have a big hand for Handel

I suppose strictly speaking what I am offering today as my letter H reason to be cheerful is not Handel himself, but the music he composed.

However, let's not be picky. We wouldn't have one without the other so hooray for George Frideric Handel, who was born in Germany but spent most of his life in England where he cranked out music at a prodigious rate.

George Frideric Handel and wig.

I suspect I fall in the category of people who say: "I don't know much about (INSERT SUBJECT HERE), but I know what I like."

In this instance, I don't know much about Handel's music, but I know the bits I like, probably because they're the bits I have heard most often.

So rather than waffle on about what a great bloke Handel was I'm just going to offer some of his music. Bearing in mind that I didn't want to put up very lengthy pieces of music it was a bit of a toss up between the Hallelujah Chorus and Zadok the Priest. I chose Zadok because I think it is a more subtle demonstration of the power of the human voice.

The piece has been performed at every coronation of a British monarch since 1727 when it was first performed at the coronation of George II. This particular version is performed by the Academy of Ancient Music and the AAM Choir and I think is quite wonderful. To anyone who is reading this and thinking "Oh no, religious music and it's for a boring old king or queen" all I would say is put that from your mind and surrender to the power of the piece.

Question: Do you like Handel's music? Would you have chosen Zadok the Priest or something completely different? Tell me in the comments.

* Portrait of Handel by Balthasar Denner [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Found myself in a strange town

Readers of a certain age may well recognise the title of this post as the opening line of the Jam's single Strange Town and it seems quite fitting.

For a few weeks I am back in the Devon town where I lived for most of my adult life until we decided to move to Skopelos.

The truth is everything feels strange here.

I know my way round, I recognise the shops, pubs and other businesses that form the core of the town, but it's all a bit disjointed. My lovely family are the reason for me being here, which is very sustaining. However, I've also bumped in to a few acquaintances and I've been left wondering if I look as old to them as they do to me.

That's the thing when we lose that continuity of contact with people and places. Incremental changes become massive jumps.

Anyway, I'm here for a few weeks so I suppose I'll get used to it. Somehow, though, I can't get this song out of my mind.

Bye bye Bee-eaters, missing you already

The Bee-eaters are going, as sure a sign of the changing seasons here as the sudden departure of Greek tourists. The birds fly high over Skopelos making their distinctive call which my bird book describes as "quilp" and indeed it is the sound you hear long before you see them heading south back to warmer climes.

I, too, am on the move, even if only temporarily, but unlike the Bee-eaters I shall be heading north to the UK. The Bee-eaters are after winter warmth, something which I fear I am unlikely to experience during the next fortnight. I have been advised to bring layers of clothing and I am more than a little daunted by the number of people I see on Twitter bemoaning the cold and talking of switching on their heating.

As I write this I am wearing shorts and a T-shirt, my standard items of clothing for so long (not the same ones, you understand) that I can't remember the last time I wore a pair of long trousers. Temperatures today are in the high 20s and it is very humid, although none of this seems to have persuaded the Bee-eaters to put off their departure. When I get back to Gatwick tomorrow evening I suspect the temperatures will only just have crept in to double figures, but then as the saying goes "there's no such thing as bad weather, just wrong clothes", so layers it is.

Aside from the weather, I'm not really sure what to expect. It's more than a year since I set foot on UK soil and that time has been spent only on this island with its one-and-a-half main roads and intermittent ferry service. I don't think I'm putting it too strongly when I say I am quite troubled at the prospect of huge numbers of people rushing around.

In addition, for the most part these will be people I can understand. My Greek is coming along painfully slowly. When I hear Greek people talking near me, rather than to me, it is a bit like listening to a badly tuned radio, I get some of it quite well, but I can just as easily let my focus drift and lose myself in my thoughts. No such chance when it is your native tongue and you are quite likely to find yourself privy to a conversation about the rubbish on last night's TV or the goings-on at the local pub. I suppose if these are the biggest problems I encounter over the next fortnight I'll have little cause for complaint.

As for the Bee-eaters, we should see them again around April/May indicating that summer has returned. I may not speak Bee-eater, but I do understand what they say.

A Bee-eater practising saying "quilp".
Pic by Spacebirdy.
//commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Merops_apiaster_-_Tiergarten_Sch%C3%B6nbrunn_5.jpg

Psst! Anyone know where I can score some dum-di-dum-di-dum-di-dum?

My name is Mark Clough, I am an Archers addict. This is my story.

When I started using The Archers I didn't think much about it. Just occasionally after a long day it helped me to relax on the way home from the office. The timing was often perfect, leave the office in a frazzled state, get in the car, put on the radio and it just seemed the natural thing to do. Fifteen minutes or so of goings on down Ambridge way.

I was a very irregular user. I could handle it. And when I changed jobs and my frazzledness was massively reduced I often didn't bother. I could take it or leave it.

Strangely enough what has increased my addiction to The Archers is moving from the UK to Greece. Here in the land of olive trees, ouzo and a family of four on a moped I thought I'd just try The Archers again. What harm could it do? But then I made a dangerous mistake - I started mixing The Archers with Twitter. Let me warn you now it is an incredibly potent combination and there are thousands of Archers addicts out there who find themselves unable to resist the temptations of the Tweetalong. We are all in a hell of our own creation.

All right, enough of the "Archers addiction" schtick, but you get my drift. I like to listen to Radio 4's popular daily radio drama The Archers and while doing so I like to Tweet my comments on the characters and what they are getting up to. And, I'm glad to say, because it means that I am not alone in this recherché taste, so do many other people. It is a wonderful combination, a radio drama and a micro-blogging site. Something old, something new.

It works well for me. Fire up my computer so I can listen to each evening's broadcast (7pm in the UK is 9pm here in Greece) and then blast out a few smart Alec comments on Twitter as I listen. The headmaster of my secondary school once took me outside the classroom to give me a bit of a ticking off. "The trouble with you," he told me, "is that you like to play to the gallery." Spot on. I do find it difficult to resist making smart arse remarks if the opportunity presents itself. It's a failing I am guilty of at even the most inappropriate occasions. I should add here that I do actually like The Archers for what it is - a daily radio drama set in a rural county - and I admire the skill and hard work of the script writers. But there is no escaping the fact that my enjoyment is increased by taking part in the Tweetalong.

However, lately something has intervened, namely the hot Greek summer. I like to listen and Tweet "live" and 9pm here is just too hot to sit with headphones on (my wife does not appreciate The Archers). That time in the evening is a good time to be out watching the world go by while sipping on a cold beer or enjoying an ice cream. As proof of this I should admit to starting to write this posting in July and we are now almost two weeks in to August.

Despite this, I endeavour to keep up by listening to broadcasts when I can, but it's not the same if I don't mix it with Twitter. Even so, I'm sure I'll revisit my "addiction", even in Greece summers don't last for ever, and by the time I do get back to my habit my need to fulfil my headmaster's prediction will be even greater. Watch out Sausage Boy, Titchynob and Fagash Lil, I'll be gunning for you.

"You are listening to the Home Service."

Mrs Thatcher: still dead

So we're one week on from the death of former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and I can honestly say that in those seven days not one person on this island - Greek, British or any other nationality - has mentioned the Iron Lady to me.

I suppose that seeing as we are on a small Greek island where people have more pressing problems than the death of someone who hasn't been in power for the best part of two decades that might not be so surprising. Unless, that is, you look at the furore going on in Britain about her death, her life, her funeral and anything else to do with her.

To avoid confusion among people who are not in Britain I thought it might be helpful at this stage to put up a couple of pictures, a sort of Mrs Thatcher identification guide. And here it is:

Above we see two thatchers. For the avoidance of doubt, Mrs Thatcher is the one on the right (naturally). Yes, I can almost hear your chuckles from here. So why am I, living in a little house in an olive grove on Skopelos, writing about Mrs T? Well, I suppose if for no other reason than it pleases me to, everyone else has and this is my two penn'orth. I think at this point in a piece like this it is customary to nail your colours to the mast so far as your view of Thatcher goes. And so....I've never voted Tory in my life and I cannot foresee any situation bizarre enough for me to do so. Is that clear enough for you?

In some ways politicians remind me of surfers. Surfers don't create the waves they ride, but a skilled surfer will get the very most out of a wave and is adept at spotting a good one. Likewise with politicians, I think Mrs Thatcher caught the wave of public opinion sufficiently well to secure three general election victories on the trot.

Tragically, it seems to have led to the rise of a way of thinking where money became the only means by which something's worth could be assessed. While the haves prospered, the have nots found their outlook became increasingly grim, something the present bunch of multi-millionaire chancers now running the country seems happy to perpetuate. It was a way of thinking that also seems to have diminished Britain's capacity for compassion.

Despite all that, I have to admit to having found the celebratory nature of some people's reactions to Margaret Thatcher's death quite unpleasant and the campaign to download the "Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead" song quite puerile (although someone is making some money out of it, so it's an ill wind etc etc). The very compassion which she is said to have lacked is now being denied her and frankly I'm not sure that's anything to be proud of.

I suppose what I have to say on this doesn't amount to a hill of beans (although I always think a hill of beans would look pretty impressive), but even so it's worth bearing in mind that powerful as she once was Margaret Thatcher was still merely mortal which puts her on a par with the rest of us. If you really want to hit back at her legacy forget about burning an effigy or chanting a slogan, instead why not go out and do something nice for someone else? Remind them that there is such a thing as society after all and we would all do well to remember that there are no pockets in shrouds.