A year ago we were all in the doldrums when we failed, against all the predictions, to win the vote to become European City of Culture in 2008. The disappointment was a bitter blow for everyone involved in the bid and even for the man in the street who came to believe that we could somehow trounce the opposition and take our rightful place on a world stage. Did we get over it? Of course we did. Life's too short - and too precious - to dwell on what might have been. Disappointment is now not so much as a fact of life, but a way of life. So here we are again, in the throes of a national disaster that is so huge - apparently - that you'd think the end of the world is nigh. People are dying in Iraq, a 15-year-old boy is murdered for his mobile telephone and we are crying because we lost a football match. It might not seem fair. We may feel cheated. But the raw reality is that we didn't win through because the other team was better - and if you're a football fan in the North-East, you know exactly how that feels. Half an hour before the big game began the other night, my sister-in-law came round. Midway through a gruelling course of chemotherapy for cancer, her bare head covered in a scarf, she popped in to find out how I was doing. And though she likes football well enough, she said she was going to spend the following couple of hours taking her dog for a walk through the quiet streets. Putting things in perspective is something we all need to do from time to time. Above all, we surely need to stop treating millionaire football players like demi-gods who control the mood - and the fate - of the nation. Mr Beckham and company will tell us that they are hurting inside, that their sorrow is tangible, that they were tired or emotional or both. But contrast their hurt feelings with the pain of the North-East parents who tragically lost a third child this week after losing their first two in separate drowning accidents. We'll come back from this, promised the family, because we have to get on with our lives. Football? It really is just a game. ********** Macca made sure it didn't rain on his parade I thought at first I'd read it wrongly. When Sir Paul McCartney realised it was going to rain on his big concert in St Petersburg the other day, he ordered £20,000 worth of dry ice to be fired skywards to drive the rain clouds away. And it worked. The sun came out, and the concert, the 3,000th of his career, went ahead without a drop of rain. Well, what a fantastic idea. Almost the equivalent of walking on water. So why can't we do it here for key events? Wimbledon could go ahead every day, the Hoppings wouldn't suffer, and nor would all the posh frocks and expensive hats at Gosforth Park this afternoon. I never realised such things were in our power, though my son told me he recalled the Russians have often used it so it didn't rain on May Day parades (now you know where the song Don't Rain on My Parade came from). Perhaps the next government could give us a Minister of Weather who could fix it for us. I feel all cheered up now... ********** Gail is a good friend to Paul Paul Gascoigne seems to have come through his first week in the literary limelight with flying colours. His honesty and humility in countless reports have brought a lump to the throat as he's expressed his gratitude to his best pal Jimmy Five Bellies and to all his fans who have been willing him, as I have, to conquer his personal demons. What could have turned out to be a giant ego trip with plenty of razzmatazz has instead become a personal journey of recovery and we should all have our fingers crossed that nothing happens now to divert him. But for real loyalty and friendship one had to go no further than his first-ever girlfriend and then fiancée, Gail Pringle, from Dunston, Gateshead. In an interview this week she remembered him only in glowing and kindly terms and showed none of the bitterness or claims to fame that are so often found in the X-factor tales. ********** Free of smoke Not long to wait for the unveiling of Newcastle Airport's new departure lounges. And it's to be hoped that among the new cluster of eating places, shops and waiting areas there will be something to protect the non-smokers from those who light up. On Sunday afternoon the small smoking section upstairs in the airport was absolutely packed with travellers puffing merrily away, leaving at least three babies strapped in buggies red-eyed and clearly uncomfortable in their midst. Funny isn't it, that many smokers would say they were scared of flying, yet when it comes to shaving 10 years off their lives by smoking, as new evidence suggested this week, they don't give a flying fig. ********** Signs of old age I know I'm getting old but when did it become the done thing to whoop and whistle at concerts so loudly that it makes you wince in your seat? At Jamie Cullum's brilliant show at the City Hall on Tuesday, the packed audience - of all ages - was completely enthralled by the young man's exuberant performance. But even before a song ended, there they were, the whoopers and whistlers, clearly believing they were doing us all a favour by demonstrating their approval in such an ear-splitting way. I'm sure little Jamie, left, was thoroughly chuffed that he went down such a storm but the girl behind me could have shattered glass with her whistle. And yes, I do remember a time when girls didn't whistle as it wasn't considered ladylike. I told you
I'm getting old. ********** Feeling sorry, I doubt it A young friend of mine took great care the other night to park his car in a well-lit and busy shopping street while visiting friends nearby. Less than an hour later - still in broad daylight - he returned to find that someone had bashed in the driver's door and then just diddled off, leaving an 18-year-old with a bill for £800 for repairs - or the risk of seeing his already huge insurance premium pushed even further up. And what galls him further is the assumption already made by neighbours and friends that he must have caused the damage himself. Perhaps whoever did it had a twinge of guilt. But somehow I doubt it. ********** Choosing a birthday card for an 18 year old is not the piece of cake you'd think it would be. Nine out of 10 cards refer to drinking or being sick after drinking. Is that all being 18 means to young people - the chance to get drunk, legally? So much for the joys of becoming a grown-up. ********** There are people out there who don't like football. Or tennis. Or horse racing. Or cricket. Or golf. Or Big Brother. Or repeats of repeats of Only Fools and Horses. Or Friends. And they're not all women. I know this because they have called to tell me in the hope that my writing it down will make things different. It won't, of course, but at least I did my bit. ********** So who gets the £3 per car being charged for visitors to the Hoppings? The council? The Showman's Guild? Or a private security firm? Either way, I do think they could have cut the grass in the corner of the Town Moor allocated to the cars so that families who'd paid up did not have to tramp through knee-high grass - knee-high wet grass - back to their cars. | 
