Language, Language, Language!

It's the Prime Minister of the 1960s and '70s, Harold Wilson, to whom is attributed the saying "A week is a long time in politics."  It's a long time, too, in the life of this multi-faceted scribe, for whom the two sporting events that disrupted last weekend are already rapidly fading onto the crowded pages of history. 

On Saturday, with nothing on the calendar, I had assigned myself just one task, the preparation of a guide to the pronunciation of Welsh for a friend for whom a change in her family dynamics has suddenly spawned an interest in the language.  Foreigners learning to speak English have to cope with such confusing complications as the letters 'ough', in words like rough, through, nought, thorough and cough, and place names like Slough.  Welsh, by contrast, is very much a phonetic language.  With very few exceptions, the same letters are always pronounced the same way.  However, a lot of them differ from the way those same letters are treated in English, so I decided to help my friend by adapting a few pages from my text book into a simple guide to the 'code' that is the key to such apparent puzzles as 'hamgyffred' (comprehension) and 'llwyddodd' (managed) and place names like Ystradgynlais.

As the morning wore on, though, I felt the need for a break and, realising that only a few miles down the road some of my friends from both work and church were taking part in a fund-raising event, I took time out to go and watch.  Muddy Mayhem has been held for a number of years to support the work of the hospice situated just across the road from our church.  It's a 5-kilometre obstacle race, enhanced, as the name suggests, by lots of mud.  Last year it was held in the face of the 'Beast from the East'; this year the temperature was about 20 degrees higher so the mud was far less of a problem, although it did mean that the part of the course that went along a small stream was noticeably chilly ... as voiced by contenders using a variety of expressions when they entered it!

Sunday's excitement began with a slight rearrangement of my normal routine, as I forsook my usual duties on the end of a bell-rope for attendance at the early service in my own church, prior to a 10-mile drive up the road to board one of three coaches that conveyed team and supporters to Kent for a quarter-final tie in the FA Vase competition.

With the three other ties already decided on Saturday (each by a two-goal difference, as it happens: one 2-0 and the others both 3-1), Canterbury City, who ground-share with Faversham Town entertained the team that I support, Biggleswade FC (which is jointly managed by my former boss).  It was the first time either team had got this far in the competition, so the stakes were high and the game was hard-fought before a crowd of just over 600.

The visitors opened in their usual confident style, scoring only 7 minutes into the game, and seemed to be holding their own against an opposition strengthened by the recent addition of incoming players from higher leagues.  However an equalising goal in the dying minutes of the first half, matched by another just after the break, seemed to demoralise the boys in green.  The player who had scored the opening goal joined us on our coach for a brief chat as we waited for our return journey and he explained that, while those who had been with the side since the club was formed three years ago knew how to keep their wits, re-group and fight back, some of those with less experience were 'running around like headless chickens' and, despite a valiant spell of constant pressure on the home goal in the last quarter of the game, the ball couldn't be persuaded to go in the right place to secure a replay.

While extremely disappointing (not the only description to be heard!) a 2-1 defeat meant that Biggleswade were the best losing team of the round, it also leaves them free to consolidate their position at the top of the South Midlands League with a view to securing promotion in a couple of months' time.  For me, after a long and tiring day (I've never understood why road travel at 50 mph, whether driving or as a passenger, is so much more tiring than going 10 mph or more faster), I was able to resume the now familiar pattern I described here last week.  Now I'm on the brink of another weekend, but this time with no sporting highlights in view.