Jeremy Corbyn and Company.

So much has been said about Jeremy Corbyn. Ever since he gained enough support to be placed on the Labour leadership ballot, it's not easy to think of anything new or original to add. Nevertheless, I am undeterred and will say something anyway.

My dad, born in 1918, was a staunch Labour man. It was because of him, initially, that I voted Labour. My dad was not perfect, but his loyalty to Labour and his belief in justice for all, redeemed him. So it was my dad who got me interested in politics. University deepened that interest. That said, I was friends with a girl who seemed to me to be very politically aware and very left wing. We attended the International Marxist Group meetings, the Socialist Worker Party meetings and the Militant Labour Party meetings. When I asked her who we were going to affiliate ourselves to, she said the IMG of course. I nodded sagely, as if I too thought this was the best option but did dare to ask why she thought so, exactly. 'It's obvious!' she said. Looking at her, puzzled, I asked why that was. 'Because the best looking men are in that group of course!' Just a different kind of politics then, I suppose.

There is no denying Jeremy Corbyn's resounding victory over Yvette Cooper, Andy Burnham and Liz Kendall. Of the three, I preferred Liz Kendall, despite her Blairite credentials. She was at least honest and consistent. The other two, I have no time for at all. Yvette Cooper barely said anything other than vague comments about 'rebuilding' and 'coming together' - not a word about how, and very little policy revelation. She would look at Corbyn, head to one side, a look of condescension and irritation on her face like a headmistress of a primary school, listening to the excuses of one of her most trying pupils.  Her finest hour was encouraging the government to take in more refugees, and the cynic in me cries out that she did that in order to enhance her own popularity, thereby increasing votes for her.

Andy Burnham became confused and forgot what he stood for. Witnessing the hourly increase of votes going Corbyn's way, Andy panicked and spoke of renationalising the railways, 'line by line' and leaned dramatically to the left in the hope that some Corbynistas might suddenly prefer him. It was not to be. They all three bleated that Corbyn was unelectable. But, hang on. The other three have been in opposition for some time, so why pick on Jeremy Corbyn as being unelectable, when the other three do not have much to shout about?

So, as expected, Jeremy Corbyn won, with almost 60% to the vote. Young people, people who had left Labour because of Iraq and people who had never had an interest in politics previously, all turned out to vote. At Corbyn's rallies people flooded in,  venues packed full to bursting. something was happening, something was changing and so the right wing Tory press started to stick the boot in. And how. The claims flew in.  Corbyn was best friends with Jerry Adams. Corbyn was in love with Osama Bin Laden. Corbyn was friends with every conceivable enemy of Britain, including Isis. He wants the queen out of Buckingham Palace and living in a tent. then he will guillotine the rest of the royal family, even the children.

Jeremy Corbyn is a calm, measured, kindly man, who cares greatly about inequality in Britain. He cares about the vulnerable, the disabled, the ground down and those exploited at work.He wants to tax the rich to help the poor. He wants to redistribute wealth, he wants rid of nuclear bombs and he doesn't want to start wars in the Middle East. He is a conviction politician, with a desire for the those who didn't receive a full hand of life cards, to be better cared for.

It is not respectful to sneer, call him a dinosaur, persistently refer to him as left wing, when we don't refer to Cameron as right wing or any of the casual insults thrown out to land at his door. It is a shame that those who attempt the hatchet job on decent, reasonable people pay little heed to how it may well come back and bite them.

What a fuss about someone not singing theNational Anthem! Corbyn has already said he may well sing it on some occasions. He is not a royalist. He is a republican. At the ceremony this week to commemorate those in the wars who gave their lives, Jeremy Corbyn was thinking about his mother and father,who played their part. Corbyn is a patriot. He loves this country.

As the old cliche goes, a week is a long time in politics. Five years is a very long time in politics. Anything could happen. Screams of, 'He's unelectable!' may well quieten down as the new leader takes charge. Some he will surprise, some he will annoy, some he will thrill, some he will make enormously grateful, because he has helped them in a way no other politician has.

Let's give him a chance. Lets see what he does, what policies he develops and if he can change the yah boo politics of The House of Commons. The Tories may be riding high at the moment but if a week is a long time in polities then that applies to the Tories as much as it does Labour. We'll see.

East London - Then and Now

The Krays

I'm in London - East London to be more precise, the area where Reg and  Ronnie ruled the roost. Twins and cocks of the walk -psycopaths more than likely and oddly, given what they did, never shy of a photo opportunity. They seemed more of a product of fifties fashion despite most of their doings taking place in the sixties. Suits and immaculate white shirts with ties - Brylcreemed hair and shiny shoes.

They were born in 1933 and, though it is obvious, they were babies once. So nothing remarkable about that fact, but for the shock that these twin baby boys grew up to be murderous gangsters. It's odd too to think that the Kray twins were wartime evacuees, conjuring up an image of defenceless children, sent to the countryside. Mum Violet was much adored by the boys and in turn she adored them, calling them her 'princes.' The Krays vetted everyone who visited Violet and were very protective of the woman who was born in Bethnal Green East London in 1910.

Their deadly reign came to an end when in 1968 they were arrested for murder. Ronnie had shot George Cornell, a rival gang member in the face, in a pub very close to here in Bethnal Green, called The Blind Beggar. Reggie had stabbed gang member Jack 'The Hat' McVitie in the face and neck.

Many people are under the misapprehension that gang warfare in London is a new, modern problem, but it's been going on ever since there was a London. Now it is principally young black men in gangs, largely related to the area in which they live and claim as their own. There are, according to the police, 171 gangs in London today. That is a terrifying number. Of course, I have seen the results of gang warfare on the news, but other than that I have seen no evidence at all. Not surprising really, no one is interested in recruiting a middle-aged white woman into their gang.

East London is a very different place now from when the Krays dominated.  It is populated by many young people in their twenties and thirties, involved in technology or creating start-ups. There are several hipsters, as they have been named. They dress very individually, are very techie and are usually vegetarian or vegan, which is no bad thing in my view. Some eat only raw food, believing that nutritional value is lost in the cooking process. I learnt that that was the case in Domestic Science in Grammar school, so long ago. There is a shop on Brick Lane, run by hipsters, boys with beards and buns - their hair I mean not cake-like delicacies. They run Cereal Killers, a cafe for every imaginable cereal on the planet. Also there is every possible type of milk too - milks which I had no idea existed. It's doing a roaring trade.

There is a large Muslim population here too and from the flat that I'm staying in, I can see Bethnal Green Academy, from where the three girls went to ISIS. The school was judged Outstanding in its most recent Ofsted inspection and boasts very good examination results.

I cannot confirm this but it seems as if people rub along reasonably well. That said, i don't see much integration or mixing of different ethnic groups. In fact I don't see that anywhere. Will it ever come to fruition? Do people want it to? I don't have the answers. Racism is still alive and very well, but let us remember that it is not only white people who are racist. Somali and Pakistani people seem to loathe each other and yet both groups are Muslim. I cannot even begin to explain it. It would be presumptuous and arrogant to do so. However that doesn't stop the so-called experts claiming a depth of understanding.

Despite everything, I love this area. It is alive and vibrant and I very much enjoy sitting at a cafe with my dog and people watching. All those lives, all those networks, all those fashions. Fabulous!

The Holiday Bore

People who go on holiday have much in common, whether they stay here in Britain or whether they go abroad. But, unfathomably, there are still many people who believe that their holiday experience is a unique one and furthermore, some poor captive will be informed, blow by blow as to that unique experience.

Some start right from the very beginning. The booking - the visits to the travel agents, the online searching, what Trip Advisor said and the comments related to Trip Advisor, and whether those comments, which they will quote at you, are trustworthy in their reviews or have a grudge against the place they stayed.

Already, the pitiful captive has had enough. An escape route will be sought. But you have been brought up to be polite to people and so you stay there and soon the next flood of details comes pouring towards you.

'You're alright when going to Spain. You can guarantee a jumper won't be needed.' Further details of the packing continue, including the tea bags they cannot live without and the tomato sauce which is vital to life. 'Mind you, the food is ok so you won't need to pack any other foods, because there is fish and chips, roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.' Well, that's all right then. You feel a rising surge of snobbery of which you are vaguely ashamed, but honestly...an escape route is essential. But, alas, for you, the captive, on The Holiday Bore goes...

The packing details continue. You hear that things that were originally in the case have been removed and then, incredibly, been placed back in the case! Oh how we laughed!

Then the journey - along the lines of it taking a longer time or a shorter than they could ever have imagined. Brace yourself because you may well now have to listen to which motorway, which diversion, the time of day (usually very early morning) and tales of the lunatics on the road. The guy who stayed in the fast lane, not even getting out of the way when people blared their horns at him. You're told that had you been there you wouldn't have believed it. You smile and nod, now desperate for the escape. But you're a way away from that sweet freedom as yet.

Next comes the airport, the price of things, how a huge Toblerone was nearly purchased. And then the plane. The crying baby, the kid kicking the back of your seat, whose parents never told her off. The fat guy who should really have booked two seats and the food, the way you swapped your bread roll for your son's cheese and on and on and on. The turbulence, the worst turbulence known to man, the way everyone clapped as the plane landed, the brilliance of the film you saw and how you got chatting to a really interesting bloke. Then the queue for the toilet, the parlous state of the toilet, your inability to sleep,  even more predictably, the getting off the plane and the wall of heat that hits you.

Now your mind is intent on escape and nothing else. Sounds as if you had a fantastic holiday but I have to go and ....'

'Just let me tell you about the breakfasts in the hotel. They were absolutely amazing.' You know it. The list is coming.

'There was everything you could possibly want. Coffee, tea, orange juice, grapefruit juice, tomato juice, sparkling water and you could just help yourselves. There was every cereal you could think of. Alpen, RiceKrispies, cornflakes..'. Oh sweet Jesus! 'There was bacon, sausage, eggs, grilled tomatoes, fried bread, toast, butter, jam, marmalade, yogurts - all flavours. Fruit - a massive display - bananas, apples, peaches, pears, pineapple, mangoes, strawberries, raspberries. You wouldn't believe it! Oh yes and there are cheeses, hams and cakes! Can you believe it?'

By now you are desperate to leave and the politeness seared into your DNA since early childhood is causing great conflict. You are fighting it, trying to repress it,  yet you're miserable, you need to leave!  You feel imprisoned, irritated bored, annoyed.

' Wow! As I said, that sounds great but I have  few things I have to get on with so...

'Before you go, just let me give you the link to the hotel  - have you got your phone? Jut give me your email address and I'll send you the link.'

You say you don't have your phone with you, escape being your only goal. As you now know, the world is against you. This is confirmed when your phone rings! A flash of hurt and confusion plays on the face of The Holiday Bore. You, apologise, mutter about your failing memory, joke about Alzheimer's (!) and you receive the link, certain now that this is the end. You begin to shuffle off away from THB but he follows. Has he told you that he's going up to Scotland in about a month's time? The route he is considering is....

'Really got to go now - have a great time in Scotland!' Thanks he says and tells you not to worry because he promises to send you the link to the best ever B&B in existence. You realise you are almost jogging now, so determined you are not to waste another second with The Holiday Bore.  You feel on the verge of hysteria. You break into a run, wave to anyone who is watching, get into your car and drive!

My Secret Stash

First of all - hypocrite warning! As David Brent would say, in his brilliant creation The Office.

In a bid to keep my children healthy, I encouraged them to eat healthily. Plenty of fruit, vegetables, not too much meat and not too much white bread. Sweets, chocolate and crisps were to be regarded as very much a treat. Well, this plan worked reasonably well - until they went to school and started going to other people's houses and trading their lunchbox food for Twix, Mars Bars and Crunchies. Well, I content myself with the thought that at least I tried.

Now, almost three decades later, I would say that they are all fantastically healthy eaters, so much more so than me. And even when I was being a good mother and refusing to allow them too many sweets, chocolate and crisps, the shocking, chilling truth is that I had a secret stash of what I was denying them. Yes - sweets, chocolate and crisps, all kept in a shoe box stuffed in my wardrobe. The contents of that shoebox were hardcore. Sherbert lemons, fruit sherbets, Bounties, Mars Bars. thick bars of Cadbury's chocolate, milk, fruit and nut, whole nut, Thornton's toffee, Thornton's fudge and, the legendary Mint Aero. What a box of sheer decadence that was!

With my children, I would lecture them, show them pictures of decayed teeth, to put them off wanting sweets. It had no effect on them. It's like showing teenage smokers lungs which have been severely damaged by cigarettes. No connection between what they were doing and the consequences of that act.

I was discovered. I am teased about it even now. I was found out one night when they were all asleep; or at least I thought they were. I fetched my box and brought it downstairs. Coronation Street was on and I was going to have some chocolate and coke - diet of course. Suddenly, my eldest appeared at the door of the living-room and yelled, 'Caught you!' He had. Red-handed.

As a way of dealing with this gross hypocrisy, I liked to assume that I was not alone in this. That said, I must once again return to David Brent. Assume - makes an ass of u and me. What a wise man he is!

The Last Cigarette

I have been to the hospital this week, just routine stuff, but during this visit in particular, I was struck by the poor health of those I saw. One woman especially drew my attention. She was asked her date of birth and I was very surprised to hear her say 1980, making her at most 35. Quite honestly I thought she was at least in her mid to late 50s. It wasn't just her appearance but her attitude that made me think she was almost twenty years older than she really was. She appeared to have had all the worries in the world land on her head. She looked slightly afraid too, as if any minute, someone would hit her. She was wearing a jumper on a hot day. Maybe she had little else to wear - I don't believe you would choose a jumper on a blisteringly hot day. Or maybe the jumper was all that fitted her as she appeared uncomfortable in her unusually tight clothes. As she came to take a seat, the strap on her bag broke and out rolled three open cigarette packets full of tab ends. She started to mutter, 'Sorry, really sorry.' She reeked of fags.

This set me thinking about my last cigarette. It was a Saturday afternoon, in 2002,  thirteen years ago, and I was upstairs ironing and watching the old TV we kept in the spare room. Fed up with the ironing, uninterested in the TV, I lit a cigarette. To enjoy it more I stopped ironing and did nothing but smoke. Inevitably my mind wandered to the coming week and all that I had to do. I was working full time and had three children to look after, so free time didn't come around often. I drew deep on the cigarette.

Suddenly, my heart started beating rapidly. I put my hand on my chest and my heartbeat was growing even faster! I was absolutely terrified and it was that terror that made me stop smoking - for good. Thirty years from the first cigarette, my love affair with tobacco drew immediately to a close. Shamefully, it wasn't courage, will power or a wish to make the environment cleaner; it was fear. Sheer, unadulterated fear. So this coward stopped smoking.

Why are boys falling behind?

In The Sunday Times on June 28, there is a report which states that by the time boys arrive at school, aged 5, they are already falling behind. This is particularly the case with poorer boys. Researchers say that 'boys' education is already blighted before they arrive in school'. So why is that and what can be done?

Some suggest that nursery schools, where the staff is mainly women, are responsible in part. The report claims that women teachers feel more comfortable with girls. This 'fact' is outrageous. Why would you prefer one gender to another? Is that acceptable for professional people? Of course not. If you want to work with only girls or only boys, then find a job in a single sex school.

It is said that girls are easier to deal with than boys, more accommodating, keener to be liked, maybe not as physical as boys. They sit nicely, too. It is the keener to be liked, that is the crucial point. Survey after survey tells us that it matters enormously to girls to be liked by their friends and their teachers. I have witnessed this wish of girls to be popular, especially at the end of the school year. In they trail towards the teacher's desk bearing gifts and cards. Generally the girls will hang around a while until their present is  opened and suitably appreciated. On the other hand, boys are likely to plonk the present on the desk, move away, thinking no more of it.

Boys bear no animosity, in general to a telling off by their teachers. They take it on the chin and there is no lingering resentment. It is a fair cop. Girls, in my experience bear resentment towards a telling off. They give dirty looks, they mutter about your choice of clothing, they whisper to their friends and laugh with them, all the while looking at you. Sneery, pouty and spiteful. Too strong? I have taught for 30 years and I know. This criticism does not mean that there aren't some really lovely girls. There are - and I remember them fondly. But when I think back, it is the boys who have touched my heart in the main. Those boys were witty, kind and loyal to their mates. Some were struggling with the burden of masculinity that society places on their shoulders. Mostly, boys want to be sensitive, they want to speak not grunt and yet if they show emotion, some people deem them feeble and unmanly.

Schools need to help boys more. See through the bravado and instead of tutting, make every effort to engage them in their learning. So many schools write boys off, say they are unteachable, too noisy and too boisterous. That does not give anyone an excuse to ignore the boys, let them play cards at the back of the class, which I have seen for myself on several occasions. It is a waste of taxpayers' money and a waste of those young people's lives. Boys cannot be changed to fit the school, so clearly schools must make themselves more suitable for boys. Bring in more male teachers, provide opportunities for more physical exercise to burn off excess energy. Above all be respectful and see what boys have to give.

Pushy Parents - Beware

They are everywhere. Thankfully I no longer have to deal with them, but at one time I did – a lot. I was a teacher and I had three of my own children. So they were coming at me from two sides for quite some time.

As regards my own children, the parents of the cohorts of my two oldest children were the worst. Or at least I believed so, but then I hadn’t yet had any real experience of the pushy parent, only the competition some people engaged in about how long they had breast fed their babies.

My own parents, particularly my mum, just expected me to do what I had to do and to do it as well as I could. ‘’No one can do any more than their best, so just do your best.’  Recalling my mother’s advice, it seems clear to me that many contemporary parents would do well to take that stance rather than engage in the helicopter parenting that is so prevalent today.

In addition, contemporary parents are continually praising the slightest barely virtuous thing that the child does. The child says thank you and the parent is in rhapsodies. The child puts some rubbish in a bin, that it had initially dropped on the ground, and the praise is fulsome, ‘Well done Hugo, well done Cordelia,’ and so it goes.

It is no surprise then that it is the middle classes who are the pushiest of pushy parents. As a parent I wanted my children to do their best, and, naturally, to do well. My eldest child was not academically interested. He was intelligent enough but interested in other things. Because of this I worried about him and misguidedly tried to force him to be academic. I was foolish – in the extreme. To excuse myself to some slight degree, it felt as if everyone else was pushing their child to academic success and a great university, followed by a brilliant career. So I pushed too. I should not have done.

My other two children were academically inclined and also I was much more relaxed. They did not need pushing, because they pushed themselves. Their teachers must have liked me, for the simple reason that I never complained, demanded more homework or harder homework, or asked for my children to be paid more attention. There was just one moment of awkwardness at a parents’ evening for my second son, when his teacher said to me, ‘Your son has got long hair!’ My response was, ‘And you’ve got short hair. Can we talk about my son’s progress in science please.’

It is a commonplace to say that some parents are inclined to live out their own thwarted ambitions through their children. Never is this more evident than on the football field. Of this, I have experience. Dutifully, on Sunday mornings, I would turn up to watch football matches in which a child of mine was involved. The parents’ behaviour was shocking. The children were fine, aged between eight and twelve. Some of the parents watching would behave as if each match was a cup final and that each referee was a subhuman, happy to be abused. The referees were paid £5 to deal with as many as three matches some Sundays. They were doing it for the love of the game, not for the princely wages.

It is usually men who come to mind when you think of those yelling at football matches, but the women are every bit as bad. One freezing cold Sunday morning we headed off to Maltby, once a mining town in Yorkshire. The ground was hard, the wind was biting, but you stick around to support your child. There was an incident. One boy pushed another boy on the opposing team. There was a bit of a do between the boys, but soon attention was drawn away from them by their mothers, who were scrapping on the hard ground. One woman had said to the other, ‘You want to have a word with that lad of yours, he’s a bully.’ The other woman replied. ‘It’s not my fault love if your lad’s a puff and can’t stay on his own two feet.’ And down on the ground they went, much to the amusement of the spectators, but what about these women’s sons? They must have been truly embarrassed. What’s more, the boys had been made to shake hands by the pitiably paid referee, and as a result they were fine with each other.

It is often the case that pushing your child too hard or in a direction they do not want to go, will result in rebellion or burn-out. One woman I know who boasted continually about what a genius her child was and whose child was involved in  some worthy activity after school every day, rebelled aged 14 and did poorly in her GCSE’s. I often wonder what effect seeing her mother weeping because she had not got into the Maths Challenge team, aged 10, had on her. It could only have been detrimental. Life is full of knocks, so it would have been so much better to have said, ‘Oh well, you win a few you lose a few. You’ll be fine. Let’s go home and have tea.’