Leicestershire Calling

I give you permission to breathe! Look, I can only work so fast in getting these multi-media epistles together so you’re just going to have to stop holding your breath between updates. Ok? It’s not healthy!!

Right. Comfortable? My latest missive is, if anything, a little gentler paced than usual, perhaps since I have been flat-chat giving the nation’s tax payers full value for money doing…. erm, what is it I do again? Yes, of course. “Research”. I should also warn that readers with a sharp disinterest in a) sport and b) architecture may need to turn off now.

You will recall that I signed off last time just before flying to the People’s Socialist Republic of Canadia. Well, we managed to dodge hostile US fire and landed safely in T’rono where William J. Letts IV (known to American debt collection agencies as “Mr Iv”) was waiting, sartorially elegant and smelling of expensive cologne. In no time we were on the westward freeways to good old Burlo’. For the uninitiated this trip is akin to diving into vast swarm of small rodents and then hoping to be carried along on the tide. Traffic in this part of the world is not so much divided into lanes as torrents. Damn good to be back amongst it.

Apart from enjoying Will’s gracious hospitality and smart new digs, I spent the week at Toronto’s Ice Hockey Hall of Fame where I was knee deep in match day programs, musty old newspapers and vintage footage of ice hockey players… er… hockeying, I believe they call it. Long time readers of GEB will recall that one is struck by the elaborateness of the ice hockey, um, costume. Turns out it hasn’t always been that way. In the old days, when men were men, much of the protective paraphernalia the modern player goes in for was considered surplice to requirements. In fact, if any of you have seen a relatively recent game of ice hockey you will know that the goal keeper looks more like a medium sized suburb than a person about to engage in any kind of sporting endeavour. Not so in the 1930s and 1940s when the bloke standing in front of the up-turned bouncinette they call a “goal” came out protected by little more than a toothpick and a colourful pair of happy-pants! No eye protection for these boys, oh no. Countless smashed jaws and missing eyes later and there is still debate about the pros and cons of protective gear for goalies as late as the 1960s! Talk about dieing for an ideal! Of course, these days your average goalie resembles an actual size version of one of those battery-powered cyborg monsters the kiddies like so much. Either that or he’s about to go out trick-or-treating.

Even less than sports-minded readers will be amazed to hear, as I was, that the National Hockey League actually employs a group of blokes to be official … wait for it… “Keepers of the Cup”, the cup being the Stanley Cup, the rather over-sized trophy they award to the year’s best team of hockeyers. What does a “Keeper of the Cup” do you ask? Well, after the final hooter of the final game in their best of 7, 639 game finals series, a couple of Keepers get to walk out across the ice on a red carpet carrying the cup in their white gloved hands before handing it to the suit who will then present the thing to the victorious captain hockeyer. And yet, there is so much more. Tradition has it that each hockeyer from the winning team gets to keep the trophy for 24 hours and, you guessed it, one Keeper has to stay with the cup at all times! Never let it out of their sight! Just imagine if someone had the foresight and courage to introduce this to the rugby league. Why, an NRL “Keeper”, say me, could have the pleasure and privilege of standing by while Mat “the Oxe” Orford or Steve “Beaver” Menzies took the Winfield Cup for a celebratory bubble-bath. And given that they have but 24 short hours to savour the trophy, perhaps for the one and only time in their life, what if the player (quite understandably) wanted to take it to bed with them? Well there’d be nothing for it; a Keeper is a Keeper and you’d have to snuggle up as best you could, right? Don’t tell me these ideas don’t have legs!

All too soon my time at the Hockey HOF came to and end. Very special thanks to Miragh Addis and Craig Campbell (a one time Keeper no less!) for their friendly welcome and wonderful help. Both went way beyond the call of duty and really helped me to get the most from my visit. Thanks and a wonderful Christmas/winter to you both.

With an exhausting, oh, four days, nose to the grindstone, behind me, some decent R&R was called for. So I jumped at the offer to spend the weekend with a reasonable percentage of Will’s family in Boston where Will’s bother and sister-in-law live. The weekend saw the celebration of youngest daughter Sophia’s (sister of Olivia) third birthday. It was a great weekend, topped off with Sunday’s party consisting of a swarm of 3 to 5s, a Jumping Castle (see piccy of Uncle Will keeping an eye on things), and a body artist. As you can see, I got into the spirit of things and got myself an appropriately manly decoration. Um, Laurie, the body artist assured me it will come off eventually. I believe her. Really I do.

From there it was on to Springfield Massachusetts, home of the National Basketball Association Hall of Fame. The curator, Matt Zeysing, generously took time to speak to me about the world of basketball and to help clarify the different social and historical characters of the four major North American sports. Springfield itself is a difficult city to describe. As a scared little white guy I found it a touch unsettling. Not much about the place says “why don’t you come out strolling after dark with the one you love”, you know what I mean? In fact, the first night there I was in a coffee joint and asked the girl behind the counter if she could suggest anywhere for dinner. It was dark outside and, although she said there was a place close by, my heart sank when she spoke the word that turns the blood of all travelers cold. Yes, friends. The “U” word ….. Underpass. Yep. I had to walk under a freeway underpass to get there. I set off in my most assertive stride, had dinner and bravely caught a taxi home. I’d proved my point.

From there I hired a car and drove to Cooperstown, New York. Cooperstown is actually a code word for baseball. Major League Baseball has its Hall of Fame there and as the bloke who filled my car one night said, if you’re not into baseball, Cooperstown doesn’t have a whole lot else to offer. It’s a picturesque place and sits at one end of an oval shaped lake. The houses are big and expensive looking and the place has a theme-park feel to it. It is also home to Doubleday Field, thought by some to be the birthplace of baseball and used in a few of those dodgy Hollywood baseball flicks on account of its distinctly old-world feel. Until recently, this intimate little field was the venue of the annual “Hall of Fame Game” held over the weekend when each year’s new inductees are honoured. However, in the last couple of years the top players have decided they can’t risk being injured in a game that’s not worth anything to them. So, it doesn’t happen anymore. The Hall of Fame itself is pretty extraordinary with the central Hall looking more like a war memorial than anything else. It runs pretty deep for some people, baseball.

My time in Cooperstown was hugely aided by Freddy Brenowski and Benji Harry in the resource centre at the Hall of Fame. When I arrived Benji had a pile of videos ready for me to watch and even invited me home to have dinner with his lovely family (see pic). Thanks to Benji and Jennifer for some welcome human contact and a home cooked meal.

The next little while is a bit of a blur. I had to drive back to Springfield, then catch an overnight bus from Springfield to Toronto, except the trip involved leaving Springfield at about 6.30pm, changing buses in Albany about 9pm, then again in Syracuse at 1am and then again in Buffalo at 4am!! With my journey not quite complete at 6.30am, I then had to jump on a peak hour train back to Burlington where William J. was again my saviour.

I spent the next week hanging around Burlington and caught up with Brenda Brown, an ex-CSU Burlington student who lives in Hamilton. Before heading to the US Brenda had had me over to dinner with her wonderful family, consisting of husband, children and animals of every description, including Leo the über-cat. Quite a specimen is Leo, don't you think?.

From Toronto I flew to London where I watched more old sports footage in various locations and indulged my love affair with old things. As anyone who has heard me talk about English churches will know, there is always the danger that once I start I may never stop. So let me just say that, amongst others, I visited Christ Church Spitalfields, perhaps the best known work of Nicholas Hawksmoor, the late 17th and early 18th century architect. Hawksmoor lived in the shadow of his more famous master, Christopher Wren, but his churches have a mystery and daring that Wren’s perhaps lack. Spitalfields has been variously described as one of Europe’s most beautiful and most ugly. I’ll let you judge. It is also at the heart of Peter Ackroyd’s novel Hawksmoor which speculates that our man derived his architectural inspiration from various Devil-worshipping and death-cult beliefs. Spitalfields has also been recently restored using Hawksmoor’s original plans.























This instalment’s video also comes from outside a reasonably significant London church. Enjoy!



From London I headed north to Edinburgh where I had some talks to give. These went well and the city of Edinburgh was its usual delightful, freezing self. Those familiar with the Scottish capitol will know that an extinct volcano overlooks the city and you can walk up the thing. From the bottom it looked challenging but kinda friendly. Well I took the steep route only to find that half way up the road gets much more narrow, more slippery and the wind stronger because of the exposure. There also isn’t much in the way of fences and, in fact, for a lot of the way there is no fence at all between you and a very, very long drop. Friends will know that heights aren’t exactly my thing and so I spent the last section at something nearing a jog, leaning ridiculously to one side and hugging the left hand side of the track. Oh yes, and eyes glued to the ground.

Far too many people to mention were nice to me in Edinburgh but they included Christine Knight and Steve Sturdy from the Edinburgh Uni's Genomics Policy and Research Forum where I gave a paper on genetics, would you believe. The people from the forum took me to some gorgeous little pubs and eateries and reminded me of the value of having locals to show you what a city really has to offer. Perhaps even better than any of this, walking around town I stumbled on a joint selling Scotland's most famous dish and one of this litle black duck's all time faves.

Next stop, back to England and on to Loughborough from where I write and where I have friends from the university phys-ed fraternity. The English weather is doing its thing but I have been amply sustained by colleagues John Evans, Laura Azzarito, Emma Rich and Louisa Webb.

One day, I’d love to live in England and stop here a good while. I’ve often bored friends with my sense that many Australians find it very difficult to understand why anyone would live here, particularly if they came from Australia. For two countries that share so much, England is a very different kind of place from Australia. The sense of space and, well, time are both distinctively altered here, I think. When I travel in England I look for different kinds of things and appreciate other pleasures. This isn’t making much sense and I will soon be back in Australia, but I will always feel like I have left part of myself behind here. Always.

Love yous all

MG