A King and The Flowers

Lums o the world, lets be serious for a moment.

I watched When We Were Kings this weekend. If you haven't seen it, let me give you a bit of background.

Its a documentary filmed around the George Foreman-Muhammad Ali world heavyweight boxing fight in Zaire in 1974, the famous Rumble in the Jungle. It has testament from the key players, the journalists, the trainers, fly on the wall access to the promoters, Foreman and of course the incomparable Muhammad Ali. Its an insight into the world of the day, the fashion and music, its amazing what good nick Kinshasa looks like its in and how clean and healthy everybody looks there, its only 8 years after independence right enough, Mobutu would take another 20 odd years to strip the country back to the stone-age.

But this is all about Ali. He was the first sportsman, maybe even the first personality I remember being aware of as a child and to see and hear him in this, in all his blustering glory is a joy. He is simply an unbelievable man, a sky scraping monument to self-belief, defiance, courage and beautiful talent. When he moves you cant help but watch him, he skips and shuffles like a ballet dancer, when he speaks, you listen and cant help but smile.

He either pours out heavenly rhyming bravado or the most incisive social comment. He talks of racial equality, social justice and "getting it on, because we don't get along" . He was the sharpest tack in the box, when one reporter, talking of the power of Foreman in his sparring matches said to Ali " I saw Foreman just yesterday..." and before he could finish, Ali says, "Ain't he ugly" reducing the entourage and gathered reporters to laughter. You cant not love the man, for his humour, his style, the bravery not only to climb in the ring with the most brutal fighters ever, but to stand faithfully and unwaveringly for his beliefs against the government and the orthodox white society of the deep south. He told everyone that he was the greatest and he was, and still is.

This week marked the 15th anniversary of the Dunblane Primary School shootings.

That was my school, my son went there and my nieces and nephews, some of them were in class 15 years ago. Every year I mark it in some personal way that means something to me and allows me to feel a little connected with all those that were affected that day. Its not something I think about doing, or even feel obliged to , its just on the days leading up to it you feel compelled to do something. So, on Sunday I woke at 8am and felt compelled to go and look for a snowdrop and take a picture.

The snowdrop was the little spring flower that came to symbolise the disaster and the appeal that it inspired. Snowdrops, I didn't think would be easy to find in East London so I kitted myself out like I was going on some endless quest to the furthest corners of the earth and struck off for Greenwich Park. It turns out snowdrops are not easy to locate even in a Royal Park, it took me about 3 hours to find a little clump, sheltering under a tree and trying to look coy among the infant crocuses. But the job was done for another year, I thought a bit, reflected and had a good walk in the fresh morning air, moistened with the finest of drizzle.

I had a knot in my stomach for weeks after that day, I would discretely well up for months and can honestly say that a day did not go past for many years when at least one thought, however fleeting would flash, or dally across my mind. And I didn't lose anyone, only a little history, memories of primary school somehow erased by the horror that occurred long after I had ran through the halls and playgrounds. I had only lost a piece of past, not my future as some parents had. Everyone at the school gates that morning probably felt relief when they learned it was not their child's class, I did, but it was the briefest of emotions, perhaps only lasting a second before being immediately drowned by the wails of anguish and unbridled grief of the families that were suffering, then all I felt was sick with sorrow. It was, and remains the worst day of my life, and as I said, it barely touched me. I hope I don't offend anyone writing about this, I know my old school class mates will have emotions around this week, some very acute because of personal loss, but those snowdrops come back every year and when they do, I think of us.

Lang may yer lum reek.