With one exception, these days I tend not to buy newspapers.
Far from being a cheapskate, when I did buy them I didn’t have enough time
(even retired) to read them. I don’t read enough anyway, I think in recent
years my eyes must have slowed down a bit because I used to read lots.
Anyway, I’m not a complete skinflint (a large percentage of
my hair has vanished over time, so at least some of me is incomplete!), Also, I
subscribe to the Times online, where I’m often found griping, and perhaps
building a reputation as a curmudgeon, although I’d be happier to be known as a
grumbly old git.
Enough of that. The exceptional newspaper I refer to is our
local rag, the Folkestone Herald. “Rag” is a bit disrespectful, but it often
fits the bill, and I really enjoy the use of slang.
In my youth, it was housed in a large printing works that
more or less backed onto my primary school playground, and in those days it
produced two newspapers a week, start to finish with the “black art” of
printing carried out on premises.
There was always activity around the printing works, and the
“industrial” Baker’s next door which wafted us baking bread smells every
morning. When I was a lad, everywhere had industry, everyone worked somewhere,
and each district had its factories, some quite large.
Now all those bustling sites are gone, and in the case of
the printing works, the site is now occupied by a large block of upmarket
retirement flats. They look really good, well situated in the centre of town,
but unlike the printing works they provide very little regular employment.
That is the way of things. What once would have taken up to 30
men can quite often be done by one these days, and probably much better,
because a machine does the majority of the physical and mental work. However,
there aren’t machines (yet) that do the actual reporting, and so the local
paper is still run from a small office a couple of hundred yards away from the
original printing works.
Mind you, I wonder sometimes if the local paper isn’t trying
out robots, because far too many of the articles seem to be lacking in some of
the logical basics. It’s quite common to read about a shocking crime, or even
something wonderful, and by the end of it be almost none the wiser!
Many’s the time that I have read and reread an article
struggling to find pertinent data. (Who, what, when, where, how, and why?), you
wouldn’t think it possible, but it seems that a reporter knows all the facts,
and then writes an article forgetting to put them in! If they didn’t know all
the facts, they should ask.
So reading the local paper has its moments at times. We know
perhaps that a new cafe or restaurant has opened in the town, but we don’t know
where, or, that a celebrity is coming to give a lecture, but we might not know
where, or if we do, when. A Club is holding an open day, or exhibition this
weekend, we know the name of the person selling tickets, but we don’t know
where it’s being held. So apart from a few locals who hear about it on the
grapevine, this likely going to be a lot of effort put in for little reward,
quite unnecessarily so.
As I say, the basics are lacking, and I take it nobody reads
through the thing before they push the button and spew out several thousand copies
the evening before publication day.
As ever, I’ve digressed a bit. Are you keeping up with me?
(Or are you actually bothered? I have a feeling I might be getting long-winded
again, and lacking humour, but I will press on, nevertheless).
Anyway continuing with the Folkestone Herald which comes out
every Thursday, I buy a copy and apart from the front page (another crisis,
probably, often to do with the oppressive local council and its attempts to
bolster finances by imposing terrifying fines on the local population for
littering, or its cornering the market in car parking spaces), what I read
first, are the obituaries.
I’m not morbid, but I do like to know who is and who isn’t.
Sadly these days, I see more and more people who I know or have known, perhaps
not well, and perhaps some met in passing (if you’ll excuse the pun!).
It’s grimly inevitable, and perhaps a little sad that every
now and again I find one to cross off my Christmas card list. Many people who
at one time or another (if not currently) have been part of my life in some way
as I meander through it. All will be missed in their own way.
It would be wrong to say that I never go to funerals, but
you would be hard pressed to find anybody that remembered me being at one. I
think I’ve been to 5 funerals in my life, give or take, but it isn’t many.
Some might think this is disrespectful, so be it, we all
have opinions. In my case, the few that I have attended left me with a strong
opinion that a funeral is for those left behind rather than for the unfortunate
whose funeral it is.
Although I have not studied it in any depth, I understand
that funerals as we know them are a fairly modern thing derived from a (Victorian?)
desire for ceremonies. Certainly I know that going back away, the “bring out
your dead!” street crier with his cart was the usual undertaker service. I
still think that would be a better way than the lingering grimmer alternative
we have today.
A few years ago, the landlord of a pub I was lucky enough to
be a regular of (one of many!, Although this was in some ways “special”), died suddenly
after checking in at a hotel on holiday in China, victim of deep vein
thrombosis I suspect. His ashes were brought back, and a sort of memorial
celebration was held at the pub. Without doubt, if you’re keen to have a
funeral, this is the way to do it.
He was very well liked, and many people travelled from many
continents to be there, past regulars we hadn’t seen for yonks, made a point of
being there, even if it meant travelling thousands of miles (the landlord
himself had to do so, didn’t he!). If I had to have a funeral (and one day, who
knows, I might!), then this sort of thing would suit down to the ground.
I should also point out that the pub was open all day with
all takings going to charity. I’ve long approved of the practice of leaving
enough money behind a bar that nobody should leave sober from a funeral or
wake.
To me, that seemed a better way of saying goodbye to a
friend or acquaintance than any amount of embarrassed second-rate singing in
some dank, cold church or chapel. All trying to look (or actually be) sombre,
all playing a part that most would rather not be.
A past life should be celebrated, not regretted it’s
inevitable that each one of us will eventually “hit the buffers”, hopefully
after a long and happy journey.
Good of you to read this, if you’ve made it as far as here,
you’ve done exceptionally well. Perhaps, if it stirs any reaction (extreme
boredom comes to mind!) And you feel like a grumble, make a comment and I’ll be
delighted to see if I can improve in future! (Although a grumbly “set in their
ways”, old dog, might struggle with new tricks!).
Regards, Dan
