My two friends and I holidayed at the Torremolinos Beach Club Hotel for 7 nights. Our first impressions of the All-Inclusive establishment were pleasing. The service at reception on our arrival was quick, efficient and pleasant. The reception staff spoke excellent English and directed to our rooms within minutes of arriving. The rooms were clean, spacious and had splendid uninhibited views of the beach from the balcony. The bathroom had all the mod-cons (even a bi-day) and the shower was first class. The rooms were cleaned daily and the towels were replaced just as frequently.
The location of the hotel from clubs and bars was a 10-15 minutes taxi-drive away (at a cost of 15 Euros). For frequent night owls like my friends and I, it was disappointing not having the nightlife within walking distance. The evening entertainment held at the hotel in general was pretty non-eventful. Having bingo most nights was not a particular highlight of the vacation. However, it did appear to go down well with the other holiday-makers who mostly seem to be well beyond retirement age.
The food was good and plentiful. It catered for the British palate, so there was hardly any Spanish offerings, which personally was a pity. I think the hotel missed a trick there not offering, only if occasionally, paella and other local dishes. One or two people did complain about food poisoning. But as the manager explained to me, when the British come they eat their weight in food and consume enough alcohol to sink a battleship. From what I witness, I would tend to concur with him.
The hotel swimming pool was huge and looked fantastic. Unfortunately, as the weather was somewhat chilly, nobody dared to have a dip out of fear of catching pneumonia. But I guess when the weather gets warmer the pool is definitely a plus point for the hotel. Within the confines of the hotel there were plenty of pool tables, access to the Internet and other recreational activities to keep you occupied.
The most pleasing aspect of the holiday and why I would recommend it to anybody searching for an excellent value for money All-Inclusive deal was the hotel staff, from the manager downwards. All were extremely polite and did everything they could to help even under the most trying of circumstances. Special thanks goes to Jacky Lopez the Duty Manager at the Beach Club Hotel, who set an exemplary standard in customer service to which all his staff followed.
I wish I could say the same for the company we booked this trip with. Thomson were simply awful. They forgot to pick us up from the hotel on departure and we had to pay 30 Euros to get to the airport. We nearly missed our return flight to Gatwick. If you have any sense please book this first-rate hotel via another company because Thomson are completely pants.
Monday, 31 May 2010
Friday, 2 April 2010
Only Black Parents Can Halt This Tide Of Violence
It was a shocking crime even by today's standards, where people have become almost numbed by the amount of violence that they watch on TV or read in the tabloids.
On March 25th 2010, a gang numbering up to 30 boys and girls descended on Victoria Underground Station, armed with knives and other deadly weapons and took the life of a 15 year old boy. Sofyen Belamouadden, an aspiring footballer, whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time died in a violent and brutal manner.
The fact that this heinous event took place in broad daylight and at the height of the commuter rush hour, in a location a few hundred yards away from Scotland Yard tells you the total disregard that these young men and women have for authority. The belief that they could actually get away with such an awful crime without being detected is quite incredulous.
As in most of these murders in London and other inner-cities across the country, the common denominator are that the victims and perpetrators are young and black and the situation is getting worse. Over the years many initiatives and much government expenditure has been ploughed in trying to turn the tide of violence plighting the black community. But yet black-on-black crime spreads like an incurable cancer.
As this crisis deepens, black leaders have put the responsibility on teachers, blamed it on racism, unemployment and even slavery. However few if any never approach the heart of the matter. A stable nurturing family can help a black child beat all those obstacles and come out a decent and responsible member of society.
It is time (30 years too late in my opinion) for black people people to look at their parenting skills. If black families and communities do not take as their responsibility to help keep black boys from getting astray, it makes it frankly impossible for the rest of the wider society, from law enforcement agencies to business to government to help.
Too many black "baby fathers" make children as trophies and do nothing to raise them or show them decent masculinity. There are black mothers who are also violent and hopeless and do little to stop their sons (and sometimes daughters) being drawn into the pervasive black sub-culture of drugs, rap and violent crime.
The government needs to get tougher on the failing black parents of criminal children and force them to attend classes. Black children are vastly over-represented in penal institutions and foster care. Black families must bite the bullet and start taking responsibility for their children and not blame society for the truly chaotic situation that they have themselves created. It is only when black parents, along with black community leaders, black politicians and the wider black community realise this, and only then will this tragic descent into complete self-destruction be halted. The culture of non-responsibility and self-denial among Afro-Caribbean people needs to stop or else black people will become pariahs in society; feared and hated by all.
On March 25th 2010, a gang numbering up to 30 boys and girls descended on Victoria Underground Station, armed with knives and other deadly weapons and took the life of a 15 year old boy. Sofyen Belamouadden, an aspiring footballer, whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time died in a violent and brutal manner.
The fact that this heinous event took place in broad daylight and at the height of the commuter rush hour, in a location a few hundred yards away from Scotland Yard tells you the total disregard that these young men and women have for authority. The belief that they could actually get away with such an awful crime without being detected is quite incredulous.
As in most of these murders in London and other inner-cities across the country, the common denominator are that the victims and perpetrators are young and black and the situation is getting worse. Over the years many initiatives and much government expenditure has been ploughed in trying to turn the tide of violence plighting the black community. But yet black-on-black crime spreads like an incurable cancer.
As this crisis deepens, black leaders have put the responsibility on teachers, blamed it on racism, unemployment and even slavery. However few if any never approach the heart of the matter. A stable nurturing family can help a black child beat all those obstacles and come out a decent and responsible member of society.
It is time (30 years too late in my opinion) for black people people to look at their parenting skills. If black families and communities do not take as their responsibility to help keep black boys from getting astray, it makes it frankly impossible for the rest of the wider society, from law enforcement agencies to business to government to help.
Too many black "baby fathers" make children as trophies and do nothing to raise them or show them decent masculinity. There are black mothers who are also violent and hopeless and do little to stop their sons (and sometimes daughters) being drawn into the pervasive black sub-culture of drugs, rap and violent crime.
The government needs to get tougher on the failing black parents of criminal children and force them to attend classes. Black children are vastly over-represented in penal institutions and foster care. Black families must bite the bullet and start taking responsibility for their children and not blame society for the truly chaotic situation that they have themselves created. It is only when black parents, along with black community leaders, black politicians and the wider black community realise this, and only then will this tragic descent into complete self-destruction be halted. The culture of non-responsibility and self-denial among Afro-Caribbean people needs to stop or else black people will become pariahs in society; feared and hated by all.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Childhood Memory
The most vivid childhood memory was when I was selected for a trial with Middlesex County Cricket Club.
Up to that stage cricket had been my life. That's all I ever wanted to be, a professional cricketer. I would often dream of striding elegantly across the perfectly cut lawn of Lord's Cricket Ground, in my creased ironed whites, bat in hand, ready to do battle with the fastest bowlers in the world. I never wore a helmet in my fantasy as those were only for cissies. The only armoury I needed was the piece of oak in my hands.
I would produce the most fantastic and flamboyant of shots to all parts of the ground. Whatever they bowled to me, whether bouncers, inswingers, outswingers, full tosses or even yorkers, each ball which hurtled in my direction would be dispatched off my bat at twice the speed to the boundary. I was treating the most gifted of bowlers with utter disdain and contempt. My dream would eventually come to a close when my score was on 94 and with the last ball before lunch I would conjure up the most outrageous of shots, a straight six out of the stadium, to reach my century. I would walk off the pitch to a standing ovation, with my bat held aloft. My walk would be slow and deliberate in order to bathe in the applause from the adoring public. It was if I had come back from a victorious battle and my cricket bat was a samueri sword with which I had conquered the enemy. Somewhat melodramatic but I was only twelve at the time and I thought all things were possible.
The night before the trial I couldn't sleep. I was full of nervous energy. I wanted to be the best cricketer there but doubts kept creeping in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as good as I thought I was. However, I quickly dismissed these unpleasant notions.
The following morning I travelled the short bus distance to the ground. I was in confident and ebullient mood. I felt I was meeting my pre-ordained destiny. I imagined folk songs would be written about me extolling my virtues on the cricket field. I envisaged portraits of myself hanging in the National Gallery, long after I was dead. Blue plaques would be liberally dotted around the country by English Heritage to indicate where I was born, where I died, what restaurants I frequented and even what public loos I used. The plaque would simply be inscribed `The great man was here'. And everybody would instantly know who it was: Noel Winston Neville Gladstone Disraeli Reggae Graffie. It sounds absurd today but again I can only put it down to my youth.
It very soon dawned on me that the cream of the country's young cricketers was here sharing the same ambitions and dreams as myself. I felt I was an excellent player but compared to my contemporaries at the trial I was a Scunthorpe to their Man United. I was out of my league. A sickening feeling came over me which began in the pit of my stomach as if someone had kicked me in the testicals and they had permanently lodged in my throat. It was that defining moment that I brutally realised that my world had fallen around me and that however hard I tried I would never become a top-flight professional cricketer.
For several weeks I was inconsolable. My parents tried in vain to cheer me up, insisting that this was not the end, I could try other clubs. But I knew in my heart that the same result would occur. I had to face the fact that I was simply not good enough.
Since that inauspicious day in my life, over 25 years ago, I have never actually picked up a cricket bat in anger. I reckoned that if I could not play at the very top I would not want to participate at all. I occasionally watch the odd test match on television and I still sometimes dream that I am batting for England and scoring a century at Lord's. But now I know it is only a dream, never to be fulfilled, a mere childhood memory.
Up to that stage cricket had been my life. That's all I ever wanted to be, a professional cricketer. I would often dream of striding elegantly across the perfectly cut lawn of Lord's Cricket Ground, in my creased ironed whites, bat in hand, ready to do battle with the fastest bowlers in the world. I never wore a helmet in my fantasy as those were only for cissies. The only armoury I needed was the piece of oak in my hands.
I would produce the most fantastic and flamboyant of shots to all parts of the ground. Whatever they bowled to me, whether bouncers, inswingers, outswingers, full tosses or even yorkers, each ball which hurtled in my direction would be dispatched off my bat at twice the speed to the boundary. I was treating the most gifted of bowlers with utter disdain and contempt. My dream would eventually come to a close when my score was on 94 and with the last ball before lunch I would conjure up the most outrageous of shots, a straight six out of the stadium, to reach my century. I would walk off the pitch to a standing ovation, with my bat held aloft. My walk would be slow and deliberate in order to bathe in the applause from the adoring public. It was if I had come back from a victorious battle and my cricket bat was a samueri sword with which I had conquered the enemy. Somewhat melodramatic but I was only twelve at the time and I thought all things were possible.
The night before the trial I couldn't sleep. I was full of nervous energy. I wanted to be the best cricketer there but doubts kept creeping in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as good as I thought I was. However, I quickly dismissed these unpleasant notions.
The following morning I travelled the short bus distance to the ground. I was in confident and ebullient mood. I felt I was meeting my pre-ordained destiny. I imagined folk songs would be written about me extolling my virtues on the cricket field. I envisaged portraits of myself hanging in the National Gallery, long after I was dead. Blue plaques would be liberally dotted around the country by English Heritage to indicate where I was born, where I died, what restaurants I frequented and even what public loos I used. The plaque would simply be inscribed `The great man was here'. And everybody would instantly know who it was: Noel Winston Neville Gladstone Disraeli Reggae Graffie. It sounds absurd today but again I can only put it down to my youth.
It very soon dawned on me that the cream of the country's young cricketers was here sharing the same ambitions and dreams as myself. I felt I was an excellent player but compared to my contemporaries at the trial I was a Scunthorpe to their Man United. I was out of my league. A sickening feeling came over me which began in the pit of my stomach as if someone had kicked me in the testicals and they had permanently lodged in my throat. It was that defining moment that I brutally realised that my world had fallen around me and that however hard I tried I would never become a top-flight professional cricketer.
For several weeks I was inconsolable. My parents tried in vain to cheer me up, insisting that this was not the end, I could try other clubs. But I knew in my heart that the same result would occur. I had to face the fact that I was simply not good enough.
Since that inauspicious day in my life, over 25 years ago, I have never actually picked up a cricket bat in anger. I reckoned that if I could not play at the very top I would not want to participate at all. I occasionally watch the odd test match on television and I still sometimes dream that I am batting for England and scoring a century at Lord's. But now I know it is only a dream, never to be fulfilled, a mere childhood memory.
FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY - AN EXHIBITION COMMEMORATING MUHAMMAD ALI'S FIGHT WITH GEORGE FORMAN
As a long admirer of Muhammad Ali I had mixed feelings about this exhibition. I wondered whether it would do justice to one of my heroes.
My fears were unfounded. The exhibt is a series of powerful and intimate photographic portraits of a man regarded as the greatest athlete of any era.
The photographs on display were taken by David King when he was the art editor for the Sunday Times. King's 25 black and white pictures document Ali as he prepares for his showdown with George Forman for the world heavy weight boxing title.
The contest took place in Kinshasa, Zaire, in October 1974. It was hailed as the `Rumble in the Jungle'.
The first portrait you view as you enter the tiny gallery, is one revealing Ali's broad and muscled back being rubbed by a gnarled old hand. The raven colored hand is caught on film by the photographer with a slight blur movement on the boxer's brown skin. This contrasts vividly with the pitch-black background.
Another picture shows Ali in the boxing ring displaying his magnificent physique and presence. He shadow boxes, while spectators look on in awe and admiration. He dances around the ring in the same way as Rudolf Nureyev would dance on stage; with beauty, finesse and elegance.
A huge photograph sees Ali in boxing headgear staring straight at the camera and almost in a sense beyond it. The picture seems to elicit the message that somehow Ali was on a mission and no one would deprive him of his eventual goal, least of all his boxing rival George Forman. The picture had almost a mythical and spiritual quality to it.
As you walk down the stairs of the gallery there is a stunning picture on the landing. It is Ali pounding on a punch bag. It shows in sharp and brillant detail the copious amounts of sweat coursing out of what seems to be every pore of the boxer's gargantuan body.
In one portrait King puts half of Ali's face in silhouette, which enchances the remaining half of Ali's beautiful facial features. The years of boxing and Parkinson Disease at that stage, had not yet dealt a cruel blow to him.
The highlight of the exhibition is a series of marvellous head portraits, each displaying contrasting facial expressions of the boxer. Ranging from intensity to serenity.
These portraits which concludes the exhibition, aptly sum up Ali as a multi-faceted and complex person. There is no doubt that his persona transcended boxing.
Ali was a role model, icon, protester, leader and sportsman all rolled into one. David King has done a magnificent job in encapsulating this in his exhibition.
"Float Like A Butterfly" is at Proud Galleries in the Strand, London. The cost of entrance is free but donations are welcomed.
My fears were unfounded. The exhibt is a series of powerful and intimate photographic portraits of a man regarded as the greatest athlete of any era.
The photographs on display were taken by David King when he was the art editor for the Sunday Times. King's 25 black and white pictures document Ali as he prepares for his showdown with George Forman for the world heavy weight boxing title.
The contest took place in Kinshasa, Zaire, in October 1974. It was hailed as the `Rumble in the Jungle'.
The first portrait you view as you enter the tiny gallery, is one revealing Ali's broad and muscled back being rubbed by a gnarled old hand. The raven colored hand is caught on film by the photographer with a slight blur movement on the boxer's brown skin. This contrasts vividly with the pitch-black background.
Another picture shows Ali in the boxing ring displaying his magnificent physique and presence. He shadow boxes, while spectators look on in awe and admiration. He dances around the ring in the same way as Rudolf Nureyev would dance on stage; with beauty, finesse and elegance.
A huge photograph sees Ali in boxing headgear staring straight at the camera and almost in a sense beyond it. The picture seems to elicit the message that somehow Ali was on a mission and no one would deprive him of his eventual goal, least of all his boxing rival George Forman. The picture had almost a mythical and spiritual quality to it.
As you walk down the stairs of the gallery there is a stunning picture on the landing. It is Ali pounding on a punch bag. It shows in sharp and brillant detail the copious amounts of sweat coursing out of what seems to be every pore of the boxer's gargantuan body.
In one portrait King puts half of Ali's face in silhouette, which enchances the remaining half of Ali's beautiful facial features. The years of boxing and Parkinson Disease at that stage, had not yet dealt a cruel blow to him.
The highlight of the exhibition is a series of marvellous head portraits, each displaying contrasting facial expressions of the boxer. Ranging from intensity to serenity.
These portraits which concludes the exhibition, aptly sum up Ali as a multi-faceted and complex person. There is no doubt that his persona transcended boxing.
Ali was a role model, icon, protester, leader and sportsman all rolled into one. David King has done a magnificent job in encapsulating this in his exhibition.
"Float Like A Butterfly" is at Proud Galleries in the Strand, London. The cost of entrance is free but donations are welcomed.
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