Привет,

Надеюсь, вы понимаете это. Одна из немногих фраз на русском языке, которую я помню из своего визита в Москву и Санкт-Петербург в 1991 году, это «Мой русский очень плохой». Сегодня мой русский так же плох, но у меня есть Google, чтобы помочь мне перевести.

События на Украине волнуют весь мир. Я уверен, что они беспокоят и вас. Все военные конфликты связаны с болью и страданиями. Все мы люди и мы это понимаем.

Я также надеюсь, что вы понимаете, почему мир обеспокоен. Мы знаем, что Путин ошибается, вторгаясь в Украину, и мы знаем, что он лжет вам. Он называет это «Спецоперацией», но вы должны знать, что это война.

Эта «операция» по любому определению является войной, но Путин никому не позволяет называть это войной. Теперь есть более серьезные наказания для любого, кто сообщает новости таким образом, который Путин не хочет видеть. Иностранные информационные агентства закрывают свои московские офисы, чтобы защитить своих сотрудников, и вполне вероятно, что Facebook и Twitter будут заблокированы российским государством.

Я понимаю, что ваши СМИ будут говорить вам, что Украина является агрессором по отношению к своим сепаратистам и что НАТО навязывает русскому народу «западные ценности».

Вы должны знать, что в ООН 141 из 193 государств-членов проголосовали за резолюцию с осуждением России и призывом к ее уходу из Украины. Речь идет не о НАТО и даже не о «Западе» (что бы это ни значило). Когда большая часть остального мира недовольна действиями одной страны, проблема, скорее всего, будет в лидере этой страны.

Как «западник», я могу сказать вам, что меня не волнует, что мои «ценности» навязываются какой-либо другой стране, и даже если бы я это сделал, я бы ожидал, что Apple или Netflix сделают это гораздо успешнее, чем НАТО. Пожалуйста, спросите, почему вам все это рассказывают. Это не имеет смысла, потому что все это ложь.

Будем честны. Люди во всем мире просто хотят жить в мирном мире. Большинство из нас на самом деле не заботятся о политике и странах; мы просто хотим счастливой жизни. Пожалуйста, не поддавайтесь влиянию того, что другие говорят вам об остальном мире. Мы понимаем, что русские люди не такие, как Путин, но чтобы оправдать его действия, ему нужно, чтобы вы поверили, что в других странах полно людей, которые вас ненавидят. Как и все остальное, что он говорит, это просто неправда.

Мы беспокоимся за Украину, но, пожалуйста, знайте, что мы беспокоимся и за вас. Никто из нас не знает, как долго Путин сможет продержаться, но чем больше вы не верите его лжи, тем меньше у него власти над вами.

Мои самые наилучшие пожелания всем вам,

Павел

A Message for Russian Friends

Hi,

I hope you can understand this. One of the few phrases of Russian that I remember from my visit to Moscow and St. Petersburg in 1991 is “My Russian is very bad”.  Today, my Russian is just as bad but I have Google to help me translate.

The events in Ukraine are worrying the whole world.  I’m sure they worry you too.  All military conflict involves pain and misery.  We’re all human and we understand that.

I also hope you understand just why the world is worried.  We know Putin is wrong to invade Ukraine and we know he’s lying to you.  He calls it a “Special Operation” but you should know that it is a war. 

By any definition, this “operation” is a war – but Putin does not allow anyone to call it a war.  There are now greater penalties for anyone who reports the news in any way that Putin does not wish to see.  Foreign news agencies are closing their Moscow offices to protect their staff and it’s likely that Facebook and Twitter will be blocked by the Russian state.

I understand that your media will be telling you that Ukraine are the aggressors towards its separatists and that NATO is forcing “western values” on the Russian people.  

You should know that, at the United Nations, 141 of the 193 member states voted for a resolution to condemn Russia and call for it to withdraw from Ukraine.  This is not about NATO or even “The West” (whatever that means).  When most of the rest of the world has a problem with the actions of one country, the leader of that country is likely to be the problem.

As a ‘Westerner’, I can tell you that I don’t care about my “values” being forced on any other country – and even if I did, I would expect Apple or Netflix to do that far more successfully than NATO.  Please question why you’re being told all this.  It doesn’t make sense because it is all a lie.

Let’s be honest.  People all over the world just want to live in a peaceful world.  Most of us don’t really care about politics and countries; we just want a happy life.  Please don’t be swayed by what others tell you about the rest of the world.  We understand that Russian people are not the same thing as Putin – but to justify his actions, he needs you to believe that other countries are full of people who hate you.  Like everything else he says, it’s just not true.

We’re worried for Ukraine but please know that we’re also worried for you.  None of us know how long Putin can last but the more you disbelieve his lies, the less power he will have over you.

My very best wishes to you all,

Paul 

After all the seemingly pointless Strava updates about random cycling sessions you may have seen, it’s time you all knew the truth I’ve been keeping under wraps – I’m going to do the Manchester to Blackpool bike ride.

I’ve been asked to ride to help raise money for the iMRI Scanner Appeal at Manchester Children’s Hospital. Aaron’s colleague Gary learned that his 13 year-old daughter Olivia was diagnosed with Ependynoma, a rare brain cancer. As Olivia is currently receiving treatment at the MCH, she’s hoping to raise as much money as possible for this appeal.

You don’t know Olivia. Neither do I. It doesn’t matter. We all know people with children and it’s one of nature’s cruellest tricks to afflict young people like her with conditions like this, indiscriminately. Think about Olivia as any teenager you know and about her family as their family. Wouldn’t we all be happier in the knowledge that places like Manchester Children’s Hospital have all the technology they need to fight and beat horrible diseases like this?

*Serious Face Bit*

I only need to cycle 60 miles – hopefully a few hours in the saddle – which might smart a bit for 24 hours. If you can endure the pain of giving up a few quid, you can help alleviate the difficulties of Olivia’s family and many many others for years to come. Please give what you can to the just giving page below. Thank you.

https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/olivia-allan-scanner-appeal?utm_term=5yARrMzVG

Hi everyone.

If you’re even a fairly regular visitor to this parish, you’re probably familiar with my god-daughter Amelia, her special needs and the various things that we, her support network, join in with to help her every year. If you’re not aware, here’s some examples, from previous years:

https://resonation.biz/2016/06/03/amazing-amelias-amazing-daddy/

https://resonation.biz/2017/06/05/going-the-extra-half-mile-for-amelia/

Okay, so you’ve got the picture. Basically, it’s *that* time of year again so you know what’s coming next: I’m asking for your support, as much or as little as you feel able to give – it’s all massively important and so very much appreciated.

Just like the last two years, Charlie (now aged 14) will be swimming the half-mile course at the Great North Swim, in Windermere. The actual lake, not the town. He’s more than capable of swimming further than that but the organisers don’t allow mile-swimming (or further) until after a sixteenth birthday has passed. Just like last year and the year before, he’s done many evenings at Pennington Flash in Leigh, getting the miles in, to ensure he can do a half-mile (that’s 805 metres) on the day, with relative ease.

By rights, that should be all I can tell you – it’s the same deal as last year, please sponsor him, all contributions etc. etc. but it tends to harm the sales pitch when you say everything’s the same. For that reason, I’m going to divulge something else. Something that, once you know, might get me in trouble. Don’t tell him I told you this but…

Last year, he did the half-mile in something like 20 minutes and 30 seconds. It may have been eight minutes quicker than his 2017 effort and it was a good time but *whispers*, he was a bit gutted that he hadn’t gone “sub-twenty”. This year, he’s made it his mission to beat that benchmark, swimming further and harder to ensure he can do it. He’s another year older, more experienced and with slightly longer limbs so he should achieve his goal but we won’t know until he’s got round again. If you want to support him for anything, it’s this effort that will define his 2019 swim, not the distance.

Alternatively, you can support his determination to swim around the ‘Penny Flash’ course quicker than I can cycle around the whole park (he has) or the resilience (and Coca-Cola) required to combat all the bugs that inhabit a lake filled with wildfowl…foul. Open water swimming is certainly not for everyone but for that reason, those who do it deserve anyone’s admiration.

Right, I think I’ve ladelled that on heavily enough.

Please consider helping Charlie and Warren as they raise funds to help with Amelia’s progress for another year. The link is below. Oh, and as Warren works for United Utilites, we’re hoping that every pound that he and Charlie raise from this page will be matched by UU – so for every pound you donate, you can get two pounds’ worth of feelgood.

Really, what’s not to like about that?

Thanks for reading!

>>> https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/warren-and-charlie <<<

Among the first names on the Peace Gate list of Standish men lost in the First World War is that of Charles F. Asbrey.  Despite the fact his death occurred on 2nd December 1918, almost a month after the Armistice, he was still on active service in France, which is why his name appears alongside those killed in action.  His story seems therefore just like the many stories of lost men from that war – but it could hardly be more different.  Today, the centenary of his death is as good a time as any to tell it.

Charles Ford Asbrey was born in Charnock Richard in April 1879, the son of John Asbrey, a butler from Kettering, and his wife, Jane, from Wavertree.  He was christened at Christ Church, Charnock Richard the following month.  The 1881 census shows the family had moved to Prestwich, presumably due to John’s employment.  Ten years later, the family had moved to Standish and John had become the publican at the Black Horse pub (now the Lychgate Tavern) on Church Street.

After spending his teenage years in Standish, Charles trained as a saddler and harness-maker with a Mr. Gordon and became engaged to Mary Jane (‘Ginny’) Bentham of Broomfield House, Bradley Lane.  Ginny was my great-grandfather Ernie’s youngest sister.

On 6th March 1901, Charles and Ginny were married at St. Wilfrid’s church in Standish with Ernie Bentham one of the two witnesses.  The census of that year, taken a few weeks later, shows the couple visiting the home of a Mr and Mrs Reppin in Leicester, possibly on their honeymoon – or, with the addition of a little more information, perhaps not.

Their first son, James was born on 7th October 1901 in Leicester, suggesting that their marriage, seven months previously, had been a ‘shotgun wedding’, hurriedly arranged to legitimise the coming birth.  The move to another part of the county may have been an attempt to obfuscate the fact that James had been conceived out of wedlock.

Two children followed: Norman in 1903 and Jane in 1905, both in the Manchester area.  It’s unclear what Charles was doing for a living at this point but by 1911, the couple had moved to Spendmore Lane, Coppull and Charles had become the Manager of a Brickmaker’s works.  The 1911 census even shows that young Norman happened to be staying at his grandparents’ house in Blackpool that night.

Charles was 35 by the time Britain entered the First World War and would not necessarily have been expected to volunteer for service, initially.  As the war wore on and ever more new recruits were required, remaining men in their late thirties were increasingly expected to join up.  From a distance of over a hundred years, it’s dangerous to draw conclusions about Charles’ motivations for what followed but the facts show an unusual and ultimately tragic sequence of events.

Fast forward to January 3rd 1917, over two years after the outbreak of war.  The previous summer had seen the horrors of the The Somme and almost a year earlier, the campaign at Gallipoli had cost almost 57,000 Allied lives, among them over 11,400 from Australia and New Zealand.  With such mounting losses from a conflict on the other side of the world, the ANZACs had been forced to recruit wave after wave of new personnel.  It was amongst the list of recruits for the 9th reinforcements to the 45th Battalion of the Australian Imperial Force that the name ‘Asbrey, Charles Ford’ rather surprisingly appears.

According to army records, Charles had been working as a harness-maker in Mayfield, New South Wales, about 70 miles north of Sydney on Australia’s east coast at the time of his enlistment.  It’s tempting to conclude that he had fled his home country to avoid the war but it’s also possible that he was simply working away to seek his fortune – or that he and Ginny had found a way to separate with minimal dishonour.  The same records show Ginny as listed as living at 31 Hawthorne Road, Blackpool (although another document has that address crossed out and 3 Eaves Street, Blackpool given as an alternative), no doubt to be near her father, James Bentham.  Her mother, Alice, had died in 1913.

Within three weeks, Private Asbrey (service no. 3350) and his 45th Battalion reinforcements left Sydney Harbour aboard HMAT Anchises, bound for Plymouth, arriving back in his homeland on 27th March 1917.  Records show that the battalion was held in reserve, behind the lines near Ypres, during the battle of Bullecourt in April and May, without entering the combat.

In June, the unit saw action in the Battle of Messines in Flanders.  It’s not known if Charles was with the unit by this time but if he was there, he may well have been fighting alongside his brother-in-law’s brother-in-law.  The 25th Signals Company of the Royal Engineers, probably including one Harold Latham, a fellow son of Standish, was also engaged at Messines.  Harold’s sister, Margaret had married Ernest Bentham, Ginny’s elder brother, in 1907.  It’s tantalising to contemplate that the two men, members of the same extended family, representing different Allied armies may even have encountered each other in the trenches in 1917.

After Messines, the action shifted to Passchendaele and both Harold’s and Charles’ units saw action at this most fearsome of battles, between July and November of 1917.  The 45th Battalion was one of a significant number of Australian forces in the various engagements that became known as the third battle of Ypres, together with a strong contingent of Canadians.

The 45th formed part of the 12th Brigade, which itself was a part of the Australian 4th Division and was held in reserve at Polygon Wood in September 1917, an exchange which resulted in 1,700 casualties in the division.

On 12 October, the Charles’ 12th Brigade was assigned to protect the 3rd Division’s flank during the First Battle of Passchendaele, and took part in an effort to capture the Keiberg ridge. Although, elements of the 3rd were able to enter Passchendaele, and the 12th gained their objective, both groups were eventually forced back. The unsuccessful effort cost the 12th Brigade around 1,000 casualties.  The losses were considerable enough for the Australian authorities to at one stage consider breaking up the whole 4th Division to provide reinforcements elsewhere.

Having survived Passchendaele and seen out the end of 1917 with his battalion still in operation, Charles would have spent the winter rotating between front and rest areas around Flanders and northern France, with the severe weather and battle-scarred landscape making trench-foot as dangerous a consideration as the enemy.

In March 1918, Charles’ division was rushed to the Somme region to stem the German Spring Offensive, which had been launched on 21 March and was threatening Amiens. The 12th and 13th Brigades established themselves south of Albert, around the railway embankment and cuttings of the Albert–Amiens railway at Dernancourt, where they joined British troops. The 12th Brigade was positioned forward, taking over from the British 9th (Scottish) Division, while the 13th held a support position around Bresle and Ribemont-sur-Ancre.  On 28 March, during the First Battle of Dernancourt, the 12th brigade helped fight off an attack by the 50th Reserve Division, with 137 Australian casualties.  A week later, on 5 April, the Second Battle of Dernancourt was fought. In the lead up, the 13th Brigade moved forward beside the 12th, taking over from the 35th Division. Together, the two brigades faced an attack by two and a half German divisions in what was described by historian Chris Coulthard-Clark as “the strongest attack mounted against the Australians in the war”.

In early May, the 12th Brigade carried out a follow up attack around Monument Wood, to the east of Villers-Bretonneux, which made little headway against the defending Jager troops; nevertheless, the recapture of Villers-Bretonneux had restored the Allied line in the sector.

Following the defeat of the German Spring Offensive, a brief lull followed while the Allies prepared to launch their own offensive, which ultimately would bring an end to the war. During this time, the division went on to fight in the Battle of Hamel in July. The 4th Division was responsible for planning and commanding the attack, but the decision was made the only one of its brigades would take part with the 4th Brigade being reinforced by brigades from both the 3rd and 5th Divisions, as well as four companies from the US 33rd Infantry Division for the attack.

After the Allies launched their Hundred Days Offensive in August 1918, the division took part in the Battle of Amiens, the Battle of Albert, the Battle of Épehy and the battles against the Hindenburg Line outposts, finally reaching the town of Bellenglise.  Withdrawn in late September, the division was replaced by the 3rd and 5th Divisions, although  the 4th Division provided 200 advisers to assist the inexperienced US troops that were assigned to Monash’s corps.

In early October, the remainder of the Australian Corps was withdrawn from the line for rest at the insistence of Australian Prime Minister Billy Hughes.  After the armistice in November 1918, the division was not selected to advance into Germany with demobilisation due to commence before the end of the year.  Unlike 10,973 of his comrades in the Australian 4th Division, Charles had survived the Great War and his service was almost at an end.

Unfortunately, Charles was never to return to Australia or even to England.  On 2nd December 1918, with Germany defeated and after serving in the most deadly theatres of a war he may well have attempted to travel half-way around the world to flee from, Private Charles Ford Asbrey died, according to army records, of ‘sickness’ in France.  It’s unclear if his illness was a result of his service, linked to an injury or, like one of millions of others in 1918, a result of the ‘Spanish flu’ pandemic.

He was buried at Saint Sever Cemetery, across the river Seine from Rouen, in Normandy.  In August 2012, I happened to drive through Rouen, en route from Calais to Bordeaux and must have passed within a few miles of his final resting place.

Ginny Asbrey née Bentham was re-married in 1924, to a man called Gerald Wadeson who was fifteen years her junior and only six years older than James, her and Charles’ eldest son.  They lived for a time on Talbot Road, Manchester, near to Lancashire’s cricket ground although her residence was listed, perhaps unsurprisingly, as Blackpool when she died on 17th April 1964.  Gerald lived on until 1980.

With the centenary of the Armistice almost upon us, this year’s Remembrance Day will be especially poignant.  Anyone with strong family links to serving personnel, especially those who were killed in action, will be keen to participate in the many commemorative events that will be held.

I grew up believing that no-one from my family had served in either World War.  As far as I was aware, my forebears were farmers and thus likely to have been deemed more important to the war effort to remain at home than shipped to some foreign shore to fight for King and country.  I always observed Remembrance Day silences and the like from a sense of public duty rather than any personal connection.  Being generally disinterested in the ghosts of generations past, I barely gave the matter much more thought.

Then, last year, I spent a little time helping out with a family genealogy project.  I thought it was just a one-off, at first.  I told myself it would be a laugh and I only did it because others were encouraging me.  Do they sound like the reasons addicts give?  They should do because suddenly, the whole thing seemed to become very addictive.  I was spending more time discovering details about ancestors I didn’t know existed on ancestry.co.uk and when I wasn’t, I was thinking about the next time I’d be doing it.  

Before long, I’d discovered all sorts of priceless things.  One of the most surprising was that my paternal grandfather had had not just one but two older brothers who had died in their infancy – both called James – which explained a long-term curiosity of mine: why it was that the family tradition of including the name James had mysteriously seemed to skip his generation.  Ernest, my grandad, died in 2005 and I’ll never know how much he knew of the existence of his two tragic lost siblings.

I also looked deeper into one branch of the family tree that I did know something about.  My grandad’s mother was born Margaret Latham and an impressive sepia photograph of her wedding to my great-grandfather Ernie Bentham has hung on one wall or another for about as long as I can remember.  Decades ago, in moments where my apathy towards our family history must have seemed less apparent, I dimly remember being told that it was quite the social event of the year in Standish and that the place where the guests were assembled was in fact the lawn at The Beeches – the Latham family home.

Filled with a new-found fascination for the past, I decided to focus on this pivotal moment in our family’s history and find out more about that day and all the characters it brought forth.  First, the basic details.  The year was 1907.  Edward VII was on the throne, the Liberal Henry Campbell-Bannerman was Prime Minister and Britain was arguably at the peak of her imperial prowess.  Rather ironically for a period often romanticised for having endless golden summers, the country had spent much of the year with below-average temperatures, with June being a particularly dismal month.  The wedding took place on 3rd September and was conducted by the Reverend Charles Hutton, who would become one of the longest-serving rectors in the history of St. Wilfrid’s church.

Most people in Standish will have heard that The Beeches was the home of JB Almond, of the brewing family but it was actually built for Thomas Latham, a mining magnate from Orrell who had worked his way up from driving pit ponies to owning his own string of collieries from Ince to St. Helens.  He’d moved his wife, eight sons and three daughters from Gidlow Lane in Wigan to The Beeches on its completion in around 1903.  Margaret, his eldest daughter, had agreed to marry Ernie, the son of James Bentham, a cattle farmer who lived at another of Standish’s more desirable residences, Broomfield House on Bradley Lane.  It looked every inch the perfect union of two upstanding families – with all the conspicuous trimmings of industrial and agricultural wealth.

On another wedding photo, among all the starched collars and overflowing bouquets, sat rather awkwardly on the ground in front of the newlyweds, is 14 year-old Harold Latham, Margaret’s youngest brother.  Unlike many of his brothers, who joined their father in the mining industry, Harold was determined to enter the legal profession.  He’d been educated at Wigan Grammar School and was later to attend the highly-rated Kilgrimol School for Boys in St. Annes. Three and a half years after his sister’s wedding, during the 1911 census, he was recorded as being a Law student, boarding at the home of the Reverend Henry John Ferrall at The Parsonage, Heckingham in Norfolk.

1911 was a terrible year for the Latham family.  Reportedly, a downturn in fortunes had forced Thomas to sell The Beeches to his friend, JB Almond some time after April – the 1911 census shows the Latham family were still living there on April 2nd.  There’s no record of whether or not the stress of his financial situation affected his health but on November 26th, Thomas Latham died, aged 60.  Just as the death of Edward VII the year before had done with the Royal family, the baton was passed to the next generation of the dynasty.  After the comforts and certainties of the Edwardian age, they were all about to face a very different, very difficult decade.

By the summer of 1914, Harold was aged 21 and in the process of pursuing his vocation.  Working under the Town Clerk of Wigan, he’d passed his intermediate exams and had only his final exams to pass in order to become a qualified solicitor.  Upto this point, his life had been filled with privilege and opportunity – at a time when living conditions were decidedly less comfortable for the vast majority of those around him.  He’d lost his father at 60, a brother aged 27 and at least two nephews in infancy so he was not untouched by tragedy – although life expectancy and child mortality in those days would have meant such experiences were far less remarkable then, than now.  Barely eleven weeks after coming of age, he was tantalisingly close to joining his chosen profession and making his mark on the world.

Unfortunately, in a distant country, a man called Gavrilo Princip was also about to make his own fateful mark on the world – by assassinating Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo.  With Europe controlled by four huge colonial superpowers, each protective of their interests and mostly ruled by related monarchs, jealous and distrustful of one other, the ensuing diplomatic crisis created a chain reaction of measures, pushing the whole continent ever closer to the brink of war.  When German troops marched into Belgium, Britain was forced to honour her 1839 treaty with the Belgians and declared war on Germany at 11pm on 4th August 1914.

Initially, Harold and his brothers were under no obligation to sign up to fight.  Patriotic fervour was such that almost half a million men enlisted within two months, added to whom were another quarter of a million underage boys, seeking either adventure or an escape from poverty, or both.  Lord Kitchener, War Secretary (he of the iconic recruitment poster) felt it vital to treble Britain’s army, expecting a long conflict, and pushed to sustain recruitment at 92,000 a month.  They were ambitious numbers and conscription was the obvious solution but the Liberal Government was uncomfortable with the idea and instead sanctioned a huge propaganda effort to compel more men to volunteer.

An unlikely ally in the recruitment drive was a section of the women’s Suffrage movement.  It became not uncommon for patriotic women to approach men of military age in the street and present them with a white feather, a symbol of cowardice, as a means to shame them to enlist.  There’s no evidence that any of the Latham brothers were approached in this way but knowledge of the practice was widespread and any man, particularly from affluent, influential families who had chosen not to volunteer did so in the knowledge that he was inviting public questioning of his honour.

Whatever their motivation, Harold and four of his six surviving brothers (Jack Latham had died in 1906) volunteered for service in early 1915.  Frustratingly, there’s no mention of which of his brothers joined up with him.  Logic would suggest it was the youngest four of the six: eldest brothers William (40) and Daniel (38) were possibly considered too old for service.  Furthermore, both were active in coal-mining, which meant they could have been included among one and a half million men who were “starred” – designated as working in an essential occupation.  If that supposition is correct, Harold would have enlisted along with Dick (24), Edward (25), Ernest (31) and Thomas Jr. (33).  Harold’s record shows he joined the Royal Engineers, was given the Service Number 72750 and was posted to the 25th Division Signals Company.  

In May 1915, Harold and his unit moved to Aldershot to begin final war training. They received their service rifles in August and early in September, the Division was inspected by King George V.  On 25th September 1915, they were deployed to France but the first mention of their engagement in battle was eight months later, holding ground captured weeks earlier at the Battle of Vimy Ridge.

The Signals fulfilled a vital communications role between front line and command.  Attached to the Royal Engineers, it’s almost certain that they would have been conveying messages to and from the specialist and newly-expanded tunnelling units as they fought to repel the German offensive Operation Schleswig-Holstein.  A total of 2,475 British casualties were suffered over three days, including 637 from the 25th Division.

If that was a brutal introduction to the war, Harold’s next documented action, a few weeks later, was to become even more synonymous with carnage.  The 25th Signals are recorded as being deployed at the Battle of Albert at the beginning of the Somme battles on 3rd July 1916, two days after its commencement on 1st July, still the bloodiest day in the history of the British Army with over 57,000 casualties.  When Harold’s unit arrived, they were to spend the next two weeks in an environment in which a further 25,000 British casualties were suffered – and this was only the opening phase of one of the defining battles of the whole war.

The next three months were spent in a succession of battles around the Somme, supporting General Haig’s autumn offensive.  His Company was involved at Bazentin Ridge, Pozieres Ridge, Mouquet Farm, Ancre Heights, Thiepval Ridge and the capture of the Regina Trench.

It’s unclear if Harold and his comrades were then allowed any R&R in the months that followed The Somme or if the onset of winter merely ensured hostilities slowed while both sides dug in.  The Company’s record shows their next engagement was The Battle of Messines in Flanders in June 1917, a result of some gained ground over the winter and spring.  The battle was significant as it represented a successful British intervention after the failure of the French-led spring offensive, which had resulted in demoralisation and desertion in the French ranks.

What followed was another posting at a battle whose very name was to symbolise the carnage of the war – Passchendaele.  The 25th Signals’ record refers, more prosaically, to the Battle of Picklem Ridge, Ypres but the date – 31st July – leaves no doubt.  Harold’s company saw action again at the capture of Westhoek in August but seemed to remain absent from the rest of the battle, which ran until October that year.

Again, there is no record of the Company being involved in combat over the winter months but in March 1918, Harold’s comrades were engaged in the Battle of St. Quentin, thus described by the Forces War Records website: “German artillery launched the largest artillery bombardment of the war, swiftly followed by rapidly advancing shock troops, against the British Fifth Army, Third Army and units of the First Army stationed in and around St. Quentin”.  With the subsequent loss of ground to the German advance, fighting continued on to Baupame on 24th March.

Throughout April, the unit were engaged in various activities in the Battles of the Lys, towards the Belgian border.  In May, the unit travelled further south to Huit Voisins, just outside Reims to assist French efforts to repel Operation Blucher in the Battle of the Aisne.

A further gap appears in the record of the 25th Signals throughout the summer of 1918, implying R&R (troops were supposed to spend equal amounts of time rotating between front line roles, in support roles, in reserve or resting) with their next active service on 4th October 1918 at the assault on the Hindenburg Line, as part of the Battle of St. Quentin Canal, alongside the Australian 2nd Division.

With the Armistice only 38 days away, Harold Latham had now been stationed in France for over three years.  Records show his unit had been present at two of the most fearsome battles of the war – possibly of any war – and while the records only detail the Company’s movements, not that of each individual, it’s more than likely that Corporal H Latham was there to witness it all and survive.  From today’s perspective, it’s easy to look at this date and presume that after enduring so much, with so little time left in the war, he must surely have made it back to Blighty, to Standish and to a rewarding legal career.  Unfortunately, this was not to be.

On 6th October 1918, as the 25th Division were about to capture the town of Beaurevoir, Harold was severely wounded and taken to a casualty clearing station behind the front line, just one of 8,802 British casualties in the battle.  Sadly, he succumbed to his injuries and died the next day, aged 25.  Sunday 7th October this year was the centenary of his death.

Harold Latham’s untimely passing occurred barely a month before the end of the war in a battle that historians have suggested was so pivotal to the campaign, it began to convince the German high command that there was now little hope of overall victory.  It seemed that, apart from the beginning of the Western Front conflict, Harold had been present at many of its most significant moments.  Cruelly, he would be denied the chance to see it to its very end.

On November 2nd 1918, following the official process of notification and with a mere nine days of the war left, the Wigan Observer posted notice of Harold’s death.  His mother, Catherine was by then 65 and living in Southport.  The report also mentions that one of his four serving brothers had been discharged while the other three were still in France.

Cpl. Latham was buried in the Tincourt New British Cemetery at Tincourt-Boucly, approximately 40 miles east of Amiens, 40 miles south of Lens.  He was one of 1,114,914 British soldiers to die in the “Great War” and one of seventy-eight from Standish.  When the Peace Gate was completed in October 1926, his name was duly included in the list of the local fallen.

It’s also fitting to mention that during the First World War, Harold’s adolescent home, The Beeches, was commandeered and converted to a Voluntary Aid Detachment Hospital, known as “Woodlands No.3”, administering aid and recuperation to returning injured personnel – including, perhaps, Harold’s discharged brother.  Last year, at the start of our genealogy project, I was fortunate to visit The Beeches and meet the new owners as their renovations began.  The plans for the restaurant look exciting and I’m looking forward to dining there when it opens. 

As a footnote, I now wonder if any aspect of this new use for the old building could be named after or inspired by Corporal Harold Latham, reflecting its proud wartime connections.  It would be a fitting tribute to a man whose life story deserves more recognition and a timely way to encourage the people of Standish to welcome the new venture.

Today, I went to Chorley. Nothing particularly noteworthy or even relevant in that, on this day of all days, you might think. In fairness, you’d be right – unless you’re aware of then significance it has to me.

What’s the tale? Okay, ‘long story short(er)’ version: It’s Euro ‘96. I’ve managed to get corporate tickets to Old Trafford for the first semi-final (France v Czech Republic) which went to penalties and even then ‘sudden death’ penalties. Eventually, the Czechs managed to win, which meant we had less than an hour to get in front of a TV to watch the other semi – England v Germany – from Wembley.

I decided to eschew my lift back to the nice Cheshire hotel which had been our earlier rendezvous, calculating that to get there would mean missing the first 20 minutes, and take my chances in getting a tram into Manchester. I joined the hordes thronging around Old Trafford (cricket ground) station and, soon enough found my way on the Metrolink into town.

Only days beforehand, Manchester city centre had been attacked by the IRA and all the way from Deansgate station there were boarded up windows and a sense of being in a war zone. I chose to get off at Piccadilly Gardens and find a pub showing the match.

It was still the mid-nineties so not every hostelry was equipped with a television, although it was easy to spot those that weren’t – they were empty. Conversely, the rest were jam-packed. After trying a few – and with kick-off approaching – I decided I’d have to cram myself into the next available bar, which I did in a place my failing memory tells me might have been called the Brunswick Tavern. As I squeezed my way in, the place erupted. Alan Shearer had scored in the first minute.

As you’ll almost certainly know, the next couple of hours consisted of a German equaliser, numerous agonisingly close chances for an England winner and a penalty shoot-out that was lost when a young centre-half called Gareth Southgate had his kick saved. It’s written deep into English footballing folklore.

As the game had worn on and tensions had increased, the dozens of random strangers had begun to forge a bond and, once poor Gareth had enshrined his place in Pizza Hut ad ignominy, the numbers had shrunk such that those that remained were now buying each other drinks and communally crying into them. I have no idea now who I was commiserating with but, more to the point, at that juncture, filled with numbness, I had no idea (or interest) what time it was.

Of course the important temporal issue was that of the last train home (to Wigan) and by the time I got to Piccadilly Station, it became apparent that I’d missed it. The only alternative to a night on Manchester’s streets or an embarrassing call to my parents was the last service to Blackpool, which stopped at Chorley.

Quickly sobering up, I caught the Blackpool train and managed to stay awake to alight at Chorley – where I realised I had nowhere near enough money to get a taxi home.

Filled with the fatalistic hubris of alcohol and existential angst, I decided to sod everything and walk the seven or so miles home. It took me three hours and I only got to bed at about four o’clock (in the daylight) with sore feet, a degree of dehydration and a heavy heart. Despite the years and the inebriation, I still remember much of that walk home.

I remembered today, as I drove past Birkacre Garden Centre the (probably long-departed) guard dog that barked at me as I trudged haplessly past its domain 22 years ago. I remembered my frustration and empathy for Southgate, knowing he would be portrayed as a villain of the piece but, even then, knowing that he was one of football’s good guys and ill-deserving of his inevitable notoriety.

Today, en route to Chorley and, in particular, as I drove past Chorley Station, I reflected on Gareth’s redemption, his reassuring example that nice guys don’t always finish last and hoped that, this time, England’s semi-final would end in easy victory, not in unedifying dismay.

In the end, it was neither. Clearly, victory has eluded Gareth (and the rest of us) again but this time, abject desolation in defeat has been replaced by dignity and optimism. It may be another four years of ‘hurt’ but it’s an interlude that has given the nation a prevailing sense hope rather than scorn. Above all, it has vindicated Southgate, resurrected him from the grip of those dark days and left us wanting him to be the man to inherit the mantle of Alf Ramsey – as with Sir Alf, a knighthood has already been suggested.

England fans don’t expect to win tournaments – we just would rather not be significantly disappointed. We tend not to set our sights too high, usually settling for quarter-finals as our ‘par’ score. In reaching the semis, you could say we’ve gloriously over-achieved. That didn’t feel particularly true in our home tournament in 1996 but it is now. Above all, I hope we can find the stability to give these players – and the manager – the chance to do this again and perhaps fulfil the fleeting promise they gave to go even further.

It didn’t feel like much fun at the time but that long walk home is now a cherished memory – and I’d happily walk further, if it was as a consequence of winning a semi-final.

Living with a horsey partner – and by extension, the horse as well – is a challenge not every mortal is capable of meeting. At its most demanding, it requires reserves of diplomacy that can have ambassadors offering you chocolates, military-grade levels of resolve in the face of adversity and a Solomon-esque ability to apply judgement fairly and honestly. If you can cultivate this particular set of skills, you’ll need them because they will be tested, possibly on a daily basis.

It’s not without its advantages, of course. For those keen to enter the world that their chosen one inhabits, there is an often intoxicating mix of shows and events to attend, a wider circle of horse-world friends and acquaintances to sift through and a fair degree of fresh air and sunshine to be had. There’s also the sense that none of this lifestyle is ‘normal’, which you may find invigorating as you compare your weekend activities with those of your more conventional mates.

If (or when) you’re less keen to embrace the whirlwind, you also have the advantage that its demands on your partner’s time allow you to spend many hours doing things that you enjoy in a rather more guilt-free way. “What’s good for the goose…”, eh?

There’s a bit of self-deception in all this, though. You could call it the elephant in the room – a frighteningly accurate metaphor, only it’s not quite as big as an elephant and for all its omnipresence, it’s still not quite made it physically in the room. It’s the fact that for a sizeable proportion of the time, this thing will outrank you. And you’ll have to deal with that. It’s also fair to point out that you may actually dislike the shows and events and you may have little in common with the horsey friends you’re now thrown in with. The vagaries of British weather may lead you to bemoan the outdoors lifestyle and you probably will have concluded that stables and ‘fresh air’ aren’t exactly the closest of bedfellows. You may also crave the normality you left behind as you smile thinly at the tenth “don’t forget your racquet!” gag when the pub finds out that you’re going to Badminton.

You have some choices at this point. You can peer through your heavy eyelids, leave a dramatic pause and complain that “there are three of you in this marriage, so it’s a bit crowded” or you can, to use the popular vernacular, “man up”.

Real life is about relying on compromise to reach a common goal, managing situations where you don’t have full control and achieving wisdom through understanding, not just power via knowledge. In short, having horses in your life is a distillation of all the stuff you’re going to have to equip yourself to deal with, either way. It may be a concentrated version of the seemingly less demanding lifestyle you could have had if you hadn’t gone and fancied ‘the one who has a horse’ but if you’re not up for these challenges, you’re kind of admitting that you’re not very good at handling life itself. Do you really think having kids is going to be any easier?

It may not always feel like it but there are few better preparations for the frustrations and disappointments of normal life than those that regularly accompany horses. Your relatively mundane arguments about excessive amounts of time or money being lavished on an animal will pale when the animal in question shows its gratitude simply by digesting something wrongly (requiring more time and money to correct) because now, there is something more important at stake: life itself.

As little more than an observer of the piece, the horse may seem to you to exist in a constant state of peril, permanently seconds away from bringing about its own demise, possibly in the most ridiculous of circumstances. The effect of all this jeopardy on your partner is palpable, which means that, like it or not, the effect on you is also palpable. That is, in a nutshell, the very defining characteristic of being in a relationship. It’s probably best to point that out before you go any further.

Obviously, you don’t always have to go along with every aspect of the arrangement. You will occasionally be right to point out that sometimes, the horse shouldn’t automatically come first. Assuming you’re both able to see each other’s reason and approach your point of contention like grown-ups, the strength of a well-made point will be sufficient to sway a reasonable person. Even one who has a horse: “I know he needs mucking out today but it’s your sister’s wedding – and you’re the maid of honour. Can’t someone else do it, just this once?”

The opportunities for such SAS-style precision attacks on (lack of) reason will be few and far between. For most of the time, it’s more advisable to adopt a watching brief, graciously accepting the status as the third-most important party in the relationship, thus strengthening your moral authority when you do reach the point at which you decide to intervene and make your case. For example, openly accepting your third-place status is fine. Being expected to smile at the presentation of a yellow rosette with a “3^rd” on it to represent that fact is not.

The rules of relationship always cut both ways and anyone in one should expect to be reminded of that from time to time. There are complications that go with horse ownership and you may well find yourselves spending more time than most (but not that much more) in a state of disagreement – although if you do, don’t blame the horse. The real cause is usually a little closer to home…

First, thanks for all your expressions of sympathy after we lost Sam, last month.  He really was a once-in-a-lifetime dog and it amazed us how many others thought so too.

We were therefore thrust into the state of being a one-dog family for the first time in 8½ years – something which saw the household considerably, unbearably, quietened.  After a week of such torpor, we could stand it no longer and began the search for our next dog.

Having found both Marley and Sam to be wonderful examples of their breed, we naturally gravitated to searching for a labrador.  We also felt it was important that we tried to see if there were labs out there that we could re-home, rather than purchase commercially.  Both our dogs had come to us (via friends of friends) as a result of needing to be re-homed and in both cases, we firmly believed we were able to vastly improve their quality of life with the home we could offer them.

As in most instances these days, the next port of call was a google search to see where our nearest rescue centre was.  We were amazed to find that The Labrador Rescue (North West Area) was only a few miles up the road, in Eccleston, Chorley.  On their site was a 14-month old bitch called Elsa.  It wasn’t a straightforward process (I suspect deliberately so, to deter time-wasters or those people who aren’t sufficiently committed) but we registered our interest, filled in all the necessary details and waited while we were screened by the LR(NW).

A week later, we were invited to visit (the whole family, including Marley) to see if we would be a good match.  Nothing was guaranteed but if all went well, we would be able to bring her home with us.  We agreed to visit on Friday 16th September (Charlie’s 12th birthday) and spent the interim trying not to raise our hopes unduly.

It wasn’t the easiest place to find but we eventually arrived, full of anticipation.  We met Glenys, who introduced us to Elsa.  She ran towards us, a sleek, black ball of submission and curiosity.  I was reminded of our first encounter with Sam, back in 2005, and his similar nervousness.  Amid all the timidity, we could sense the same strength of character.

Naturally, we warmed to her immediately.  Marley was perfectly well-mannered towards her and she was keen to make friends with us.  We were invited to spend some time together in the adjacent field to see how we all got on.  In less than five minutes, we knew we couldn’t leave her behind.  With everyone satisfied with the arrangement, we paid the fee, bought the harness and lead and brought her home.

So now we’re at the beginning of the process of encouraging this very energetic, puppyish youngster into becoming a more responsible, mature adolescent.  As you’d expect, she’s very boisterous, wilful and prone to misbehaviour (with a penchant for running away with shoes) but she’s also affectionate, playful, engagingly startled by tiny things and quick to learn.  Needless to say the level of chaos in the household has increased exponentially since her arrival.

Here she is, already challenging the status quo by jumping on the couch.  Like I said when we got Marley, “if he proves to be half the dog that Sam is, he’ll be great”.  The same is true of Elsa and she’s already well on the way to that particular accolade.

If you’d like to support the Labrador Rescue (North West), there are a number of fundraising initiatives for you to consider.  Follow the link to see how you can help.

We never knew Sam’s real birthdate but as he joined our family on March 31st 2005 at the age of “10 months”, as far as we were concerned, he was born on May 31st 2004.  He died on August 31st 2016, aged 12 years and three months.

Sam came into our lives in March 2005.  At the time, we were a household in flux – still working on converting the old barn into our new house, the three of us were living in one room in my parents’ house.  Charlie was only six months old and we were several weeks away from moving in.  I was spending every spare minute working on the house and one day Helen asked, out of the blue “Should we get a dog?”.  I remember pleading that there would be plenty of time for that once we’d moved in but could we just wait, hoping for a bit of pragmatism.  Then it turned out that it wasn’t really an idle question – you see, there was this black Labrador in Golborne that needed re-homing.

Sensing that the cards were stacked against me, I attempted to dampen down expectation by agreeing to go and have a look – “but that’s all”.  Obviously, my well-intentioned caution was futile – we might as well have bought a dog bed and bowl on the way there.  We’d decided to take Charlie with us to see how the two reacted to each other and things didn’t get off to a great start when we were told “he’s in the back room but you’ll have to take your hat off – it makes him nervous”.

Eventually, we coaxed the jet-black, gangly 10-month old youngster out of his cage and into a meeting, of sorts.  Nervous and awkward as he was, he still showed interest in and respect to our rather more confident 6-month old.  He had a tendency to bark at men he didn’t know but it was already clear that he had an affinity for children.  We said we’d go home and talk about it but before we’d even got on the M6, I’d abandoned all hope of a more sensibly-timed canine addition.  It was clear that this one would be the dog for us.

Within days, he’d arrived: another inhabitant in a shared house that was already accommodating upto seven people.  Still clinging steadfastly to the notion of being sensible, we decided that he should sleep downstairs but it was soon apparent that Sam had other ideas.  Minutes after being shut in the kitchen on his first night with us, he barked and whined at the top of his voice, unsustainable enough in any case but doubly so with a sleeping baby in the house.  I was dispatched downstairs to have a word with him.  It didn’t work and neither did the next few attempts.  This dog was not the scared puppy we’d been told about – he was headstrong enough to know what he wanted and intelligent enough to get his own way.  I knew I couldn’t give in to his demands to sleep upstairs with us but I had a disrupted household and work in the morning.  I did the only thing I could do to keep the peace without giving in – I let him sleep with me on a couch in the conservatory.  In doing so, it led us both to get the measure of the other and our bond was established.  Needless to say, the next day, it was suggested that we let him sleep upstairs after all.

As Sam settled into the family, we moved in the converted barn and the baby became a toddler, it was clear for all to see that wherever Charlie went, he had a black shadow, watching his every move.  Sam may have been ostensibly our dog but in his mind, he belonged to Charlie and he always would.  The obvious attachment between the two was the reason why, for Charlie’s first birthday and on the eve of our first foreign holiday together, I bought him a soft toy in the style of a black Labrador and christened it ‘Little Sam’, lest the bigger version be missed while we were away.

One unanticipated advantage to the awkward timing of his arrival was that we were able to match the carpet to the dog, which is why our upstairs rooms are carpeted in the darkest colour possible.  Sam would regularly station himself beside Charlie’s cot at bedtime but, possibly as a result of that shared first night in the conservatory, his preferred night-time spot was next to our bed, on my side.  He continued to observe this nocturnal endorsement to the week he died, perhaps his only concession to ‘belonging’ to anyone other than Charlie.

In no time at all, it seemed, Charlie was older, more curious and keen to explore his surroundings.  This meant taking the time to play out with him on Saturday mornings, while juggling other household chores.  Later still, on his battery-powered tractor, once he was old enough to be trusted to adhere to some basic rules (stay away from the pond, don’t go past the end of the drive), I found I was able to leave him to play under Sam’s supervision.  For almost ten years, if I ever needed to know where Charlie was, I had only to find Sam because I knew he would be within ten metres of him.

Over Easter 2008, we made a decision that was to test Sam’s legendary temperament: we took on another Labrador in need of a new home, Marley.  Unsurprisingly, the older dog took to this new imposter with the good grace we expected of him and they soon became as close as brothers – as long as the pecking order was observed.  With a few well-timed subtle growls in the early days, Sam’s dominant personality ensured that would be the case – although Marley’s compliant nature helped too.

With the newcomer came a different problem – the two would frequently goad each other into more and more troublesome antics.  Many mornings were punctuated by shouts across fields, unacknowledged, before the two miscreants could be seen frolicking about, two fields away, covered in mud obtained from their interest in a boggy patch nearby.  Sam was always the more sensible one – only Marley was capable of eating a whole cake of rat poison and running upto Helen with a blue tongue, so proud of his ‘achievement’ – but make no mistake, they both had a penchant for mischief, which they regularly indulged.

As Charlie grew bigger and braver, their adventures together became ever more ambitious.  The most unfortunate aspect of human and dog growing up together is that the dog’s physical prime coincides with much of the child’s early development – by the time the child can reach their level of energy, the dog’s peak years will invariably have passed.  For a few golden years, though, the ‘sweet spot’ of their joint activity, they were equals: Charlie’s favourite game was to suddenly slip from Sam’s view (which was easier said than done) and run away, behind trees and bushes, ducking into sheds and garages, compelling his bodyguard to hastily track him down.  Its fair to say that Sam enjoyed the game far less – although he was always hugely pleased when he inevitably managed to find his fugitive friend.

An accomplished swimmer (as you’d expect from a type of dog bred to assist 17th-Century Canadian fishermen), Sam was, as you can see, a reluctant sled dog on the one occasion he was offered the job.  He was, however, a keen participant in countless games of garden cricket, tennis, rugby and football.  Charlie and I even had a name for the act of kicking a football between his front and hind legs – the ‘mutt-meg’.  A keen retriever (as you’d also expect) in his younger day, he soon realised that when younger, more enthusiastic legs arrived on the scene that he could delegate much of the fetching duties to Marley.  In many respects, that simple distinction summed Sam up perfectly: clear-thinking to the extent that he was very often much more human-like than dog-like.

His favourite days were the various barbecues and birthday parties we held on the field.  Yes, there was the constant stream of freely-available food, friendly people and various ball games being played but above everything else, he loved to be around the children, watching them, guarding them, revelling in their company and refusing simply to observe their enjoyment from afar.

A few years later, with the help of technology here and there, the pendulum had begun to swing – now it was Charlie who could outpace Sam and as a consequence, we had to start to give thought to managing the welfare of an ageing dog who would willingly run himself into the ground just to keep up.  Declining to chase balls was one thing but deliberately allowing his best friend to leave his side was never something that Sam would readily countenance.

Throughout his life, he would divide his time between the houses he considered his: let out for a wee in the morning, spending the daytime at my parents’ (where it was more likely there would be people present between 9am and 4pm) and then sitting outside, looking at the gate in time for the returning school run.  In his younger days, he’d similarly sloped off next door on many evenings and laid out on the rug there, prompting late-night calls in which it was agreed he could have another ‘sleep-over’.  He monitored the gardening by day and the bedtime-book-reading by night.

As he entered his later years, Sam mostly understood his growing physical limitations.  Like many Labs, his shoulders and hips were susceptible to stiffness after overdoing things and, as a result, mealtimes often involved a number of supplements and the occasional dose of Metacam.  As much as it offended his own sense of duty, he generally knew that he had to slow down but for some reason he never allowed himself to extend that thinking when it came to chasing the quad bike – that particular piece of discipline would always remain our responsibility.  Whatever his age and condition, the job of looking out for Charlie at all times remained a non-negotiable constant.

And so, in the twilight of his years, with the object of his protection now eleven years old and successfully guarded to the point where he’d become ready to explore beyond the childhood horizons of home, Sam’s mission was accomplished, his retirement well and truly earned.  Not that this would change anything; Labradors don’t simply ‘retire’ any more than they can be expected to stop caring.  I don’t expect that Sam ever felt he had completed his assignment but I hope he in some way realised that his role became more honorary than necessary.

This is the last picture I took of Sam, on his last day, enjoying the sunshine in the field where he had compiled and contributed to so many happy memories.  As tired as he was that day, he was determined to follow us onto the field.  He’d stopped eating but the diuretic he was given was making him thirsty and it seemed appropriate that I secretly captured a moment where Charlie was looking after him after a lifetime of unflinching service.  When the time came to say goodbye, that evening, I looked into his calm eyes and thanked him for his loyalty and dedication.  He slipped away with Helen and me holding him, protecting him from fear, as he had protected us all for over eleven years.

As in any obituary, it’s important to draw a distinction between the most recent and the most relevant.  In his final chapter, Sam may have become older, feebler, slower and shakier but for most of the book of his life, he was a vital force, a fearless ally and a faithful friend.  He embodied fun and service in equal measure and in fulfilling these two guiding principles, he touched the lives of so many people and prompted so many fulsome tributes at the news of his passing.

I’m so proud to be able to say he was a member of our our family, even if he was, in his heart, always, always Charlie’s dog.

We loved you, Sam and we’ll always miss you.

To Mr Colothan, Mrs Kneale and all the staff and PTFA at St. Wilfrid’s,

Today was Charlie’s last day with you and I want to thank you all for everything you’ve done for him and the rest of the Class of 2016.

In 2008 (two minutes ago), I remember visiting the school’s open day to determine whether or not it was the school for him.  I went to St. Wilfrid’s between 1977 and 1985 and have many happy memories from my time there.  Being a responsible parent, I was very keen not to be swayed by nostalgia and, even though the smell of the paint in the Nursery that evening instantly whisked me back three decades, I was determined to be critical of anything I thought was not up to the standard I felt entitled to expect.

I needn’t have bothered.  The school was every bit as involving, varied, nurturing and exciting as I wanted it to be.  If I’m honest, it was more so than I remembered it being in my time.  We were shown around by a very impressive Year 6 student (I think his name was Tom).  I noticed he was the house captain of Leigh (which reminded me that I had once held that position) and I remember thinking that if our already bright and confident three year-old could one day turn out to be like Tom, this was the perfect environment for him to try.  The deal was sealed.  He was going to St. Wilfrid’s.

From the very beginning of his education, I knew we’d made the right choice.  I was impressed with the fact the head teacher knew him by name in the first month, by the way the Nursery coaxed the children from being playground-clinging screamers (mentioning no names) into a cohesive unit performing a dance together within months.  I was pleased to see the swimming pool not only retained in these cost-conscious times but also renovated.  I was pleased to see a school that values participation in sport but is not afraid to accept that sport creates winners and losers.

As he progressed from Key Stage 1 to 2, it was clear to me he was continually gaining respect from the school and his peers.  I was particularly happy to see that he was chosen to be in Leigh house – how could you have known?!

By now, it really was clear we’d chosen well.  The after-school clubs, the artistic and musical opportunities, the embracing of technology and incorporation of the internet.  They may all seem ancillary to the actual lessons and learning objectives but they’re all vital components of real life.  Partly because it suited our working hours but in no small part because of their intrinsic benefits, we were always very keen to include Charlie in whatever opportunities we could.

And then, almost a year ago, he was voted as House Captain by his classmates.  As thrilling as that was, selfishly, for me, I was even happier when he was asked to help show prospective parents around at last year’s Open Evening.  It seemed he’d fulfilled the destiny I’d ambitiously held for him.  I often wonder, in moments of unashamed pride if there are parents in next year’s school intake who will remember and be as impressed by him I as I was, by Tom, all those years ago.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of the story – there were still the SATs to contend with.  As with, I suspect, many parents, there were areas of attainment to work on as the full force of Year 6 took hold.  I saw the look of pressure in his teachers’ faces as we tried to guide him through the tests as best we could and I appreciated the fact that they were also trying their hardest not to let that pressure adversely affect their pupils’ performance.  If only every school could claim that.  I’m so grateful that, with their tireless help, he passed all his SATs  as well as he did and, once again, I have to wonder if that would have been the case at a different school.

Finally, I’ve been proud to see him exhibit the strong sense of responsibility that the school has nurtured.  He’s represented the school at netball, rugby and cricket, musically, dramatically, as part of the Camera Club and at the PGL adventure centre and he’s done it all with great maturity.  Perhaps I should have been more pleasantly surprised to see him win your Leadership Award at today’s Leavers’ Assembly but I should rather immodestly confess I didn’t find it that surprising at all.

People have told me he’s a credit to Helen and me but I hope you would agree that he’s just as much a credit to his school.  I can’t thank you enough for making it possible for me to write that sentence.

Keep doing what you do.  The world needs far more Toms and Charlies.

Paul and Helen Bentham

Since Muhammad Ali’s death was announced yesterday, there’s been a flurry soundbites, platitudes and #RIPMuhammadAli hashtags floating about on social media – and I confess, I’m responsible for a number of them.  What can this blogpost possibly add to such a weight of collective emotion?

Well, this, I hope:  It’s an understandable reaction to the loss of an icon of our times but it strikes me that it’s easy for most people to make the mistake of mourning the legend rather than man behind it.  Only when you examine the context of Ali’s achievements do you understand how his sobriquet “The Greatest” was so deserved – and what we have really lost.

More than half of the world’s population would, like me, have to admit that Ali the fighter was before their time, his story having been built into a fable by the media and the generations who watched it unfold before them.  From our perspective, the narrative is that Cassius Clay simply took on the mantle of historical figure, as though it was pre-determined.  His own famous assertion of greatness at the age of 22 and his subsequent re-branding as Muhammad Ali only seeks to reinforce the scripture-like depiction.

Yes, if you know a little about the racial segregation of the Southern States in the 1960s, you’ll be aware of the infamous disopsal of his Olympic gold medal into the Ohio river.  That should add some context but paradoxically, it seems to act merely as another parable in the book of Muhammad.  How must the reality of that felt, the institutional rejection of a man by the country he’d been proud to represent on that Tokyo podium?  Imagine the sense of injustice that would arise from the juxtaposition of national achievement and the racial division espoused by that same nation.

It would have required a fighter’s courage to uphold his anti-patriotism  in the face of pressure to support the war in Vietnam.  There really are only two fundamentals in life: deciding what’s right and wrong and deciding whether or not to stand up for your beliefs.  With his well-tested views of justice as his compass, he made a choice and he backed his choice.  Despite the resentment it caused in an America unwilling to accept the consequences of its tolerance of segregation, Ali stood firm, risking his livelihood and his liberty.  Being right and true was more important to him than being popular or even understood by mainstream opinion.  Humanity and single-mindedness are both admirable qualities but they are invariable mutually exclusive; one usually being shown at the expense of the other.  In making his lone stance, Ali exhibited both for all to see.

Received wisdom did eventually catch up with his views, decades later, when Ali had soaked up all of the punches that contemporary conventional opinion had to offer.  It makes you wonder who the next public figure will be to show such leadership of thought and act against an orthodoxy in a changing world.  Does such a person exist today?  Will one ever exist again?  It’s hard to say – although it’s easier to imagine that humanity will need someone like Ali again at some point – some might say the sooner the better.

Another context shift is the state of boxing itself.  Today, we expect the whole package of trash-talking, pay-per-view, the ever-present disappointment at the bloatedness of the various authorities and the cynical challenger-dodging of too many a title-holder.  I’m not claiming Ali exhibited a purely Queensberry ethos but without his part in boxing’s history, would it ever have become the spectacle that spawned the kind of ‘Rocky‘ exhibitionism that we later came to take for granted?  The fact that today, we’ve seen it all before (and better) remains one of boxing’s biggest challenges – aside from all its politics, posturing and pomposity – and it’s why the sport is now such a shadow of its former self, and so vulnerable to being usurped by WWE, UFC and other combat sports.

You may stake a claim for the days of Marciano and Dempsey – even Tyson but you’s struggle to deny that the early to mid-seventies was heavyweight boxing’s golden age.  There is simply nothing like the same cocktail of raw talent, matches and rematches and free-to-air coverage in boxing today.  In fact, it’s difficult to refute the suggestion that the day Sylvester Stallone was nominated for an Oscar for his portrayal of Rocky Balboa, the decline of the sport he honoured had already begun.

When we say that we won’t see another of Ali’s like, in or out of the ring, are we effectively condemning boxing,  and maybe even humanity to a future incapable of matching the achievements of the past?

You may or may not know that I have a wonderful god-daughter called Amelia.

Amelia is seven and has a rare combination of learning difficulties and spectrum conditions which mean that she doesn’t speak and has a mental age well below her actual age.  You may think this defines her but it doesn’t.  She loves swimming, animals, dancing, watching films and running around – like any seven year-old.  She distrusts anything that’s not part of her routine but she learns and gets used to dealing with new things as well.

It’s well known that kids are likely tell things to you straight because they lack the social awareness to ‘dress up’ an unflattering observation and you can multiply that effect by about ten to get Amelia’s view of life.  There is absolutely no artifice with Amelia because in her world, there is only what matters to her and what doesn’t.  Why is that worthy of mention?  Because when you get an unprompted hug from Amelia, it’s the only thing in the world she wants to do at that time and it’s an amazing feeling.

Obviously, Amelia’s schooling is outside of the mainstream system.  She attends the Astley Park School in Chorley and they do wonderful work to allow her to overcome her disabilities as best she can.  As you can imagine, the school’s resources are stretched and there’s invariably a situation where more can be achieved if only it could be funded.

To help the school and to give Amelia the best education she can get, her dad (Warren) has taken on a variety of sponsored endurance challenges.  Last year, he did the Greater Manchester Marathon, the Brathay Windermere Marathon and the Great North Swim (in Lake Windermere) and raised thousands of pounds along the way.

This year, he decided to push himself further, doing a ‘Back2Back’ variant of the same three events.  This meant doing the ‘Born Survivor’ challenge at Lowther Castle the day before completing the Greater Manchester Marathon in 4:45, running the course of the Brathay Windermere Marathon the day before the event – and then doing the marathon proper the next day.

Finally, it’s back up to Cumbria on June 10th to do two swims (on Friday and Saturday) at this year’s Great North Swim.  Characteristically, his first swim is a 5km event, further than he’s ever swum before – even in training.  On Saturday, he’ll be doing the relatively straightforward (!) mile swim with our mate Aaron – who’ll be making his competitive outdoor swimming debut.  Aaron will also be raising money for Amelia’s school and ongoing care.

If any of this has impressed you (and it’s tired me out just typing all of this), I implore you to visit the links below and add your support – any amount, no matter how big or small will help make a difference (wow – how difficult is it to ask for money without sounding like you’re on Comic Relief?!)

Warren’s justgiving page can be found here:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/amelias-daddy

And Aaron’s is here:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Aaron-Finney

Of course, no-one expects you to sponsor both of them (although we did for reasons I’m still struggling to understand).  Quite frankly, it doesn’t matter which you support as it all gets pooled together at the end but if you pressed me, I’d suggest you sponsor Aaron – he’s about 500 quid behind Warren and we can’t have him feeling too inferior when he’s about to swim a mile in lake water for a mate’s daughter’s school, can we?  Also, there’s a small chance that Warren might get a bit big-headed about all this if it all just goes to his page…

Anyway, I digress.  “You can pledge your support at any time but do support” etc. etc.  In case I haven’t tugged hard enough at your emotions, here’s a picture of Amelia and her Daddy after last year’s swim.  I’m sure she’d thank you with a hug, if she knew how you were helping her and, trust me, you’d feel that was recognition beyond any price.  If not, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with all our heartfelt (and socially correct) thanks.

Thanks for reading and make sure you follow the links!!

Earlier this year, we weren’t happy with Marley‘s health.  He was becoming less active, drinking more water than before and just looked less happy with life.  He’s always been a ridiculously active dog and, with his 9th birthday not far off, we knew he’d have to slow down at some time but this…  …this seemed like something more than that.

I’m not sure what I was expecting the vet to say but way down the list of possibilities was that he had developed canine diabetes.  Instantly, this meant that we had to become conversant with all sorts of unfamiliar terms and processes – and it meant twice daily insulin injections for the rest of his life.

Of course, there could have been far worse outcomes and in the scheme of things, diabetes isn’t particularly life-changing – but it did act as a reminder of the famous Lennon quote about life being what happens while you’re busy making other plans.

As anyone would do, we found that it wasn’t a huge undertaking to reschedule his meals, manage his insulin and syringe stocks, train enough people to inject to provide cover for days when we’re away and make time for all of the ongoing veterinary appointments.  It just seemed like an insurmountable task at the start.

As I type, his glucose curve is under control at 23 units, twice daily – although the nadir is a couple of hours later than we’d like it – and his fructosamine readings are still a bit high.  If this is incomprehensible to you, bear in mind that it was to me too only a few weeks ago.  Basically, he’s doing fine and we’re managing it well – so far.

I should end by saying thank you to George at Gilmore’s Veterinary Surgery in Standish for his successful diagnosis and patience with me while explaining every step of the process post-diagnosis.  Thanks also to everyone who has (despite, I’m sure, every urge to say they can’t do it) stepped out of their comfort zone and deliberately stabbed a sharp piece of metal into a living animal.  You have all helped us to make his ongoing care as easy for us as possible.

Finally, thanks should go to Marley himself.  He’s always been the softest-natured dog you could ever meet and I was worried that the treatment might begin to harden his responses.  He’s never growled once and has barely shown any signs of his discomfort.  He’s still a happy dog and for as long as that remains the case, we’ll do what we have to do to prolong his happiness.