Vive la Coupe du Monde!

It's that time again, that glorious once-every-four-years occasion, when the football family comes together from all corners of the globe, to put on a carnival of colour, talent, and goals.  It's always an exciting time, to take an hour out to delve into the magazine guide, to look up different and exotic venues, and to find the perfect place to stick up the wall chart.  Nope, there's absolutely nothing better than a World Cup.

And yet, this time around, something tastes terribly sour.  The clouds have covered the sun, the vultures are circling, and there's a whiff of sewerage in the air.

It breaks my heart, but I can't bring myself to watch this World Cup.  To do so would, for me, be to justify - to vindicate - a Russian state whose behaviour on the world stage appals me, and a Russian leader whose Cold War-era outlook and aggressive stance I believe has no place in the 21st century.  To throw down one's objections, and to head into the tournament waving flags, cheering, and buying the products of corporate sponsors, brings with it a level of acceptance that I am not prepared to grant.

You can couple this with the other group of people who I deem worthy of a boycott - FIFA - for if ever the stench of corruption hung so thick around a place, it's at their Zurich headquarters.  FIFA will claim that it's bringing football into new territories in order to open the game up to new audiences, but flick this cleverly-positioned veil away, and you'll find a deeper, more remunerative, reason.  Just how did Russia - in amongst high-calibre joint bids from Spain and Portugal, the Netherlands and Belgium, not to mention England - come out on top in the bidding process?  And how could FIFA have arrived at a decision to host their flagship tournament in a country where corruption in sport is rife; where racism is alive-and-well; and where, far from being discouraged, hooliganism is praised by members of Russian football's governing body.  It stinks, the decision to award Russia this World Cup stinks, and FIFA stinks.  But don't listen to me - let The Ugly Game tell you all you need to know.

So, what will I do instead?  I'm not prepared to go without my dose of football during a World Cup summer, so I've decided to go back in time instead, to re-live the best competition in my memory - France 98.  I've got the highlights DVD, the official guidebook, and other bits of memorabilia, so with a bit of creative thinking, and using this blog as a platform, I can still enjoy a month of brilliant football in the company of old favourites - Davor Suker, Alan Shearer, Carlos Valderrama, Dennis Bergkamp, and the real Ronaldo.  So join me, if you too have chosen to step away from the 2018 tournament, for a trip down memory lane - to the back streets of Paris, the waterfront of Marseilles, historic Lyon and everywhere in between.  The pre-tournament build-up begins on 6 June.  Vive la Coupe du Monde!

Painting by Parisian artist, Michel Delacroix

Remembering Grandad

10 March 1923 - 24 May 1998

But I could have told you Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you

traiThese words have been ringing around my head this week.  On Sunday night we sat down to watch Loving Vincent, a film following the events that led to the death of Van Gogh.  The story is told through the Armand Roulin, son of the postman Joseph, whose job it is to deliver the final letter from the late artist to his brother.  The story begins in the south of France at Arles, then heads north, through a brief stop-over in Montmartre, before moving on to Auvers-sur-Oise, where Roulin meets the cast of characters that knew Vincent, and witnessed his final days.  Initially, Armand Roulin doesn't want the journey, nor does he see the point of the delivering a dead man's letter, but he is soon absorbed into the artist's world, and as the waters become murkier, so one question remains unanswered - how did Vincent, a man said to have been in a good mental state at that time, come to die so suddenly by a gunshot wound to the stomach?  In the end, of course, Armand has to satisfy himself that some questions remain unanswered; that some thirsts cannot be quenched; that people are not perfect; and that even the strongest of us cannot always manage the burden.  

Portrait of Armand Roulin, 1888

The world is full of phoney, vitriolic people with empty hearts and vacant minds.  As Van Gogh found to his ultimate cost, sometimes the only path is to follow your heart, spill out whatever is inside, grab all the wonder that you see in the world and do your best to share it, even with those who will not listen or look.  Vincent Van Gogh's soul emanated a beauty that was so far beyond the reach of other men, yet battled for his place in a society where he had been rejected by inferiors.  And in the end?  The world remembers Vincent - a man who created 800 paintings and sold only one in his lifetime - as the undisputed father of modern art.  As Joseph Roulin tells his son towards the end of the film: "The trick is to know what you are fighting for."  Perhaps Vincent knew that he would live on, long after death had taken his body away.  Perhaps he knew what he was fighting for, all along.

Self portrait, 1889

Created exclusively using 65,000 individual oil paintings, Loving Vincent has hit me to the point of tears, both for its poignant message and its perfect homage to the great artist.  How the directors (Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman) managed to incorporate so much from Van Gogh's huge body or work into the film is incredible, and seeing so many of his masterpieces - along with lesser-known paintings - weaved seamlessly into the narrative is a joy to behold.  A must-see film for art lovers, culture vultures, and anyone who just believes there's more to life - more to being human - than flesh, blood and bones.

Landscape with carriage and a train, 1890

"In the life of the painter, death may perhaps not be the most difficult thing.  For myself, I declare I don't know anything about it.  But, the sight of the stars always makes me dream.  Why, I say to myself, should those spots of light in the firmament be inaccessible to us?  Maybe we can take death to go to a star, and to die peacefully of old age would be to go there on foot.  For the moment, I am going to go to bed because it's late, and I wish you goodnight and good luck with a handshake, your loving Vincent."

Starry night over the Rhone

Merci Arsène

“I believe the target of anything in life should be to do it so well that it becomes an art. When you read some books they are fantastic, the writer touches something in you that you know you would not have brought out of yourself. He makes you discover something interesting in your life. If you are living like an animal, what is the point of living? What makes daily life interesting is that we try to transform it to something that is close to art.”

Suddenly Summer!

Well, it's certainly the case that nobody can complain about the bank holiday weather this time around, as we bask in blue skies and full sun, whilst enjoying the all ever-rewarding three-day weekend.  So far this weekend (for 'tis only Sunday evening) we've been quite predictable - a trip for lunch in Torquay, lots of quality time spent in the garden, and a long and rewarding walk in the countryside today.

It was actually one of the most enjoyable walks I've ever been on, as we left the front door and headed over the hill towards the Teign Estuary.  The footpaths and public right of ways here are quick to leave the suburbs, and we were soon strolling in delightfully Devonian lanes, high banks giving way every now-and-then to field gates, from which one leans to take in spectacular views.  The banks were thick with scented English bluebells, stitchwort and red campion, to the delight of all manner of butterflies - peacocks, orange tips, speckled woods the most abundant.  Even better, when we paused at one gate to admire the vista, we noticed a rustling going on at the foot of the gatepost, glancing just in time to see the back half of a grass snake disappear into the undergrowth.  No time for a photo, but certainly a great wildlife moment for me - it's the first wild snake I've ever actually seen.

The lane here eventually wends its way to the village of Netherton, which looks like a lovely place to live, contains many a thatched cottage, and is home to the Mare and Foal Sanctuary at their idyllically-named Honeysuckle Farm.  We soon found ourselves walking through fields of rescued horses and, true to form, Lizzie was soon saying hello to one friendly equine.

Netherton behind us, we eventually came across the estuary, and Coombe Cellars pub, which was in its element in the midday sun.  Sail boats drifted by, people were paddling away in canoes, whilst others looked on from the shore sipping their drinks and watching the world go by.  We found a spot in the shade, and as we listened to the waters lapping the shore, I had the distinct feeling that I was on holiday.  Could you possibly want to be in any other part of the world on such a day?  I couldn't imagine it.

Moving on again, our walk turned from the lovely countryside, and we followed the Teign estuary - still tidal at this point - back towards Newton Abbot.  The walk here follows the historic Templar Way, although they're being a bit liberal when they call it a footpath, for here were slippery rocks and big trees blocking our path.  Nonetheless, it's a very lovely aspect - looking across the water we watched trains come-and-go, whilst up the estuary was the very familiar shapes of Hay Tor and Saddle Tor, and the hills of eastern Dartmoor.  Eventually we reached the A380 road bridge, under which we passed before picking up the Aller Brook, which guided our way home.  A six mile, four-hour adventure that we would both do again in a heartbeat, and no better way to spend a sunny Sunday in our wonderful part of Devon.