Saying sorry to Gary and Sav!

As one of the usual 26,000-plus fans watching Derby v Swansea, I was tickled to see the bloke in front of me literally bowing down in homage every time Tealhinio (Gary Teal) or Robbie Savage (blond hair blowing in the wind) touched the ball.
Humbled Rams fan have transformed their attitude towards these two players of late - and gladly admitted they were wrong. Both Teal and Sav have been playing brilliantly under Nigel Clough's stewardship.
Nevertheless, some of the massed ranks of Rams fans are clearly squirming with niggling guilt for being so flamin' orrible to their own players in the past.
After months of yelling less than complimentary comments at the two Derby County stars, it's time to make amends.
Not sure that the new song, Teal Wonderland, about our Gary, cuts the mustard, though. It's lyrics go along the lines of: "He used to be **** but now he's all-right. Bet Gary just loves that little ditty!"
Anyway, thankfully some Rams fans are trying to make amends in other ways. The supporter I spotted clearly felt so guilty when the Derby boys did another star turn, that physically bowing down to the floor, arms outstretched in homage, was the only way to make up for his rotten ranting, even if it meant missing a goal or two.
Gary and Sav... may the force of humbled Rams fans be with you!

Are you Parent Number 1 or 2?

MIDDLE England and people across the globe who think we’ve all gone nuts are frothing at the mouth at what is claimed to be an assault on fatherhood – women being named as dads.
There has not been some amazing medical breakthrough to turn us all into hermaphrodites – it’s far more complicated than that.
The Embryology Bill, passed by Parliament, will make it possible for women who have had successful IVF with anonymous donor sperm to name anyone as their baby’s father or ‘second parent’ on the birth certificate.
“Put Gordon Brown on all the birth certificates,” urged one irate commentator. “Or Harriet Harman, or Roger Rabbit.”
To attempt to explain this perceived madness, the rule changes have come about because, under the current system, fertility clinics must consider a child’s need for a father before approving patients. Though this does not automatically deny treatment to single women and lesbians, the Government considers it discriminatory.
It plans a new requirement to consider “the need for supportive parenting”.
The fresh rule states: “The women receiving treatment with donor sperm can consent to any man or woman being the father or second parent.”
I’m no Einstein but if donor sperm is ‘the father’ then that’s the only fact that needs to be recorded, surely?
Also, I was never too hot at biology at school but I am absolutely certain a woman can’t be a dad.
As for being a ‘second parent’, surely that’s discriminatory in today’s politically correct Britain? Second rate, second in command, second class… being named ‘second parent’ could cause all manner of psychological difficulties in later life!
It’s hardly surprising the anti-politically correct brigade is having a field day. Online commentators from around the world have dubbed the British loonies, absurd, obscene and a disgrace. At least it gives them all a break from moaning about worldwide recession.
But while people rage about the role of a father being downgraded and birth certificates failing to provide a true record of a child’s genetic heritage, it is something else that really seems to irk.
They fear that this is another nail in the coffin of the basic nature of a man and a woman bringing up a child together as parents.
“British babies now have the same spiritual value as Cabbage Patch dolls,” a critic raged. “All the hoo-ha about child welfare, yet they are as easy come by as something from Toys r Us. If the human race sinks any further into the amoral mire, Armageddon might not be such a bad idea. We’re all raving mad.”
Point taken but we can hardly blame one rule on one piece of legislation about IVF for all that is wrong with Britain.
Nevertheless, I agree, we are all raving mad.
For a start couples, same sex or otherwise, are raving mad not to consider adoption instead of IVF. In Derby City alone there are always around 400 children in care. But rather than so much as glance in their direction, people become obsessed with having their own perfect baby while thousands of children face neglect and misery.
We’re also raving mad because we continue to act like kids in adulthood, giving up on relationships as easily as teenagers dumping their week-old boyfriends in the playground.
It’s OK when you’re 14 and without responsibilities but not so good if you’re a grown up parent of two, perhaps.
As for all those dysfunctional, screwed up kids, when they look back on the bad times, will the excuse be “I came from a broken home”, “I had a female father” or “I was brought up by my second (rate) parent”?
Perhaps we should axe the words mother and father altogether. Just call all parents Person A and Person B. Every time couples split up and meet someone new they can come into the family as Person C, D, E and so on. That should avoid any confusion for the kids!
Perhaps that New Zealand guy commenting on the Daily Mail’s website was right – Brits have lost the plot. Mind you, wasn’t it a Kiwi couple who named their child Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii?
Take heart. It’s not just us, is it? The whole world has gone nuts.

Why Rams fans reign supreme

There is a certain art to being an underdog. It demands skills that successful people can only dream about ever attaining.
It is in the very blood of Derby County fans and manifests itself superbly in the face of the biggest challenges.
For those of you who couldn’t be there, let me take you to Old Trafford on Tuesday night, a football stadium modestly called the Theatre of Dreams.
Lit up like Las Vegas, bright red neon signs shout out the club’s name, lest we should forget. Chance would be a fine thing.
Outside, a mass of burger bars and merchandise stalls, give the appearance of a tinkers’ fairground. A bit down market, I summised, for a club ranked the richest in any sport, with an estimated value of £897m.
It all makes me feel faintly queasy. You can almost smell the arrogance. In case you haven’t guessed, I am one of the many people who cannot stand Manchester United.
For every fan they have in Japan – because that’s where most of them live, I gather – there is a sane and sensible person over here who thinks that for one sports club to have so much is hopelessly unfair, destabilising and unhealthy.
And what does it get you? Fans all over the world who have never set foot in Manchester, hapless UK-born glory-hunters who latch on to the Red Devils because it’s easy to support a winning team and corporate boxes full of hangers on more interested in knocking back the vino than watching the game.
“Have you ever been to Manchester?” is the chant Rams fans love to yell at away supporters when Utd come to Pride Park.
“We support our local team,” was the key message they sent out to the massed ranks of Reds at a quiet Old Trafford. For a stadium that holds 76,000 you could have heard a pin drop at times. Well, you might have done if the black and white army hadn’t been so noisy. Fans didn’t even use their seats, standing up throughout the game, scarves held aloft or swirling wildly.
Home supporters, a tad irritated and clearly bemused by the exuberance of people supporting a struggling team in a lower division – who were losing – did have a feeble effort to bring us down. About half a dozen managed to muster: “You’re going down with a fiver in the bank,” to which our lot swiftly retorted. “We beat you with a fiver in the bank.”
Childish, I know, but it makes you feel better.
Love or hate football, everyone should respect the ceaseless devotion of Rams fans, their wit, repartee and stoical loyalty. They are easily among the best supporters in the land.
It was heartwarming to be among them, people like Adie Prince, 23, who reckoned he’d been a Rams fan so long “it probably started when I was a foetus”. He’d travelled from his home near London to be at the game – but was swift to point out that he hails from Kilburn. “I support my local team!”
Then there was 64-year-old Maureen Howorth who went to watch the Rams for the first time at the age of nine 55 years ago. She was at Old Trafford with her son, Ian, 40, having taken him to his first game when he was a boy.
The myth that women don’t like football is hopelessly out-of-tune with reality.
Among many Ramettes on the road were identical twin sisters, Ann and Beverly Green, 43, from West Hallam, supporters since the age of 10. They booked time off work to go to Old Trafford, as did thousands of others. More than 9,000 made the journey, from tots to pensioners, a family of fans.
Among older supporters was Spondon’s Richard Piggott, 62, a fan since 1957. “People sing ‘We’re Derby ‘til we die’ and they mean it,” he said.
It said it all for me on Tuesday night when many Man Utd’ fans left the stadium before the end of a game. No wild celebrations because they had clinched a trip to Wembley. I am so glad I support my local team.

Cloughie and Burtonians...

Every reader of the Evening Telegraph should spare a thought for all-shook-up Burtonians, me being one of them.
Now there’s an admission. Having worked on this newspaper for 14 years, the fact that I don’t actually originate from Derby is a fact I usually keep tucked away.
But not today. That’s because I feel torn in half like an old rag by the news that Cloughie jnr has left Burton Albion to take over the reins at Derby County.
I am delighted for Nigel, of course, but there is one problem. On the one hand I am a huge fan of Derby County, on the other I am a huge fan of Burton Albion.
Consequently, I feel emotionally drained and confused. I buy season tickets for both clubs. I take my sons to Rams games while my dad takes the lads to the Brewers, and, when time allows, I go to the Pirelli Stadium too.
I was there on Boxing Day along with my entire family – aged from seven to 70 – in corporate hospitality for the York City game. What a huge success that was. Not only did Burton win (as usual), the food was great, and 300 people were being catered for! Corporate was a complete sell-out, hardly surprising at £35 for a three-course meal, coffee and the match. Plus, in a sweet touch, the entire Brewers team mingled with guests before the game, signing autographs for the kids and stopping for chit-chats with Albion stalwarts.
“I bet you dread this don’t you,” I said to star striker Greg Pearson as he gamely posed for a snapshot with my son. He burst out laughing but, like all the Brewers boys, humbly performed his PR duties with a smile.
Now this is what football should be all about, I thought as I tucked into my roast beef – friendly, family-orientated and without an over-sized ego in sight.
More than that, I felt great pride in both the Brewers – flying high at the top of the Blue Square Premier – and Burton itself, the place I call home.
Forget the Cotswolds, London or Peak District beauty spots, there are few better places to be than Burton. No wonder Cloughie stayed with us for 10 years.
Locals call it “a big village” and, laughably, Westfield-blessed Derbeians often come to us to do their shopping.
“Well, it’s all so easily accessible and flat,” they tell me, “and you can park close to the shops.” I can also tell you that it has never taken me three-and-a-half hours to get out of a Burton car park.
A fellow Burtonian who moved to Worcestershire a few years ago goes cold turkey for the place. She misses the people, the aforementioned shopping, its compactness and down-to-earth attitude.
Like me she is feeling a tad weak and emotional just now. We were so proud to have Nigel on our side, you see. He helped to make Burton even more special. We’ll always be grateful to him for that.
As a Rams fan, I hope from the bottom of my heart that he can repeat his success at Derby.
And, as a Brewers fan, I hope new manager Roy McFarland – one of my favourite players from the 70s – can keep the lads on track for promotion. I have high hopes.
Long before this week’s machinations, both men appeared on posters in my young sons’ bedrooms. Each has a wall devoted to the Rams on one side, the Brewers on the other, a vibrant array of yellow, black and white.
“Don’t worry about Derby, mum,” said my 12-year-old. “Nigel is a brilliant manager. And with Roy at Burton (a former England central defender) we’ll have the best defence ever.”
Unfortunately there is no defence against being a football nut. That’s just something I have learned to live with.
Good luck Nigel and Roy!

Fancy being a 70-year-old mum?

“If I had another baby,” said my 70-year-old mother as I swept into her house from work to collect son number two, “would you give up work to look after it for me?”

My head shot round to face hers, agog with horror, only to watch her convulse into hoots of laughter. “Well, a 70-year-old in India has just had a baby girl, why not me?” she continued, warming to her theme. “A bit of IVF and I could be a mum again – maybe of triplets. And as I’ve helped to look after your kids for years, it’s payback time.”

A weird image of my mum nursing a baby sister 42 years my junior leapt into my head and I couldn’t help chortling at the improbability of it all.

This week the world discovered that Rajo Devi had given birth to her first child at 70. She is believed to be the oldest new mum in the world. Husband Bala Ram, 72, is said to be thrilled at finally conceiving. Apparently, in their community, there is a stigma attached to a couple’s failure to have a child.

Rajo, a delicate white-haired woman with the biggest new-mum smile imaginable, has beaten the previous oldest birth record held by a Romanian who had a baby at 67.

It’s all left me momentarily dumbstruck, not least because the moment I gave birth, at the tender age of 30, I felt as if I was 70. A combination of illness during pregnancy, blood pressure problems and intense fatigue caused by countless sleepless nights, left me looking like a worn-out yeti.

But like many mothers I went through it all again three years later because I dearly wanted another. And despite the motherly exhaustion, stresses and strains, wrinkles and crow’s feet, I have to say it’s the best thing I have ever done.

But would I do it again at 70? Absolutely not. Another baby would about kill me off now, never mind then. In fact, I am amazed that, though medical breakthroughs can make babies so late in life, ageing mothers are able to carry them without causing themselves severe health problems.

Then, of course, there’s the three score years and 10 argument. Should anyone be allowed to have a baby around the age we’re supposed to be nearing the end of the road?

In India, of course, the way of life is very different. Raho will reap the benefits of a joint family arrangement, which means all will rally round to care for the child come what may.

In Britain we are not so well blessed so age does matter, especially when you’re up half the night with a screaming baby or tearing around after a toddler with no sense of danger.

Nevertheless, I still felt my shackles rise when a male chum started ranting: “It’s disgusting. No woman over 50 should be having babies. It’s totally irresponsible. The menopause happens for a reason.”

Quite true but why, then, have men, for generations, been making babies well into their twilight years without anyone batting an eyelid?
It should come as no surprise to learn that, when it comes to geriatric parenting, a man holds the world record.
Nanu Ram Jogi, a farmer in the Indian state of Rajasthan, fathered his 21st child at the age of 90 last year.
Nanu could not remember exactly how many children he had produced with his four wives, but estimated that he had 12 sons, nine daughters and at least 20 grandchildren. Well, some people do get forgetful at that age.
“Women love me,” he said. “I want to have more children. I can survive another few decades and want to have children ‘til I am 100. Then maybe it will be time to stop.”
Nanu sparked quite a debate but I can’t recall him being attacked for his “disgusting behaviour”.

In fact there was a good-on-yer-son tendency to pat him on the back. One blogger commented: “Way to go man!”

And instead of lambasting him for his selfishness in being unlikely to see his kid grow up, there was discussion about his fertility success. Camel milk and a meaty diet of lamb, chicken and rabbit played their part, apparently.

There’s still no way I could give birth at 70, though. No, I’ll wait until I’m 91 - and kick Nanu’s record into touch. That will give everyone something to moan about. Now where can I buy some camel milk?

No money, wise old folk and Kilroy

To anyone shell-shocked by a redundancy notice or struggling in mountains of debt, the idea that the recession may be good for them could cause them to rip this column into tiny shreds.
A senior Tory who said just that this week has had a severe rollicking in these sensitive times.
Apparently he wrote on his blog: “I’ve been reading up on the impact of previous economic downturns on our health. Interestingly, on many counts, recession can be good for us. People tend to smoke less, drink less alcohol, eat less rich food and spend more time at home with their families.”
The latter being inevitable if you’ve just been made redundant, meant his comments went down about as well as a wichetty grub.
Nevertheless, I’m not about to jump on the Tory-bashing bandwagon. That’s because a colossal shift in the way we think, act and pay is taking place – and some of it is definitely for the better.
You may be familiar with star silver surfer geriatric1927, otherwise known as Peter Oakley, a Derbyshire 80-year-old who gained worldwide popularity and fame when he started posting video clips on YouTube.
His first posting was such a huge hit he received 4,000 e-mails. Since then, his thoughts have been read by millions, he has fans all over the world and he is courted by the media.
It’s all a bit much sometimes for a quiet pensioner who, when asked what his goal was for 2008 said: “It would just be nice to stay alive.”
Not asking for too much is the norm for Peter, an attitude described as refreshing by his fans.
They love the fact that he couldn’t give a monkeys about being a celebrity – are you listening jungle embarrassment Robert Kilroy-Silk? – and the fact that he is an old-fashioned gentleman – are you listening smut-aholic Jonathan Ross?
For me, Peter epitomises an honourable, sensible state of mind that is, I am glad to say, beginning to take a firm hold again.
He has something in spades that the entire world needs badly, especially Kilroy, Ross and American mortgage lenders – common sense.
The following is one of Peter’s many gems of wisdom: “In my day, at 21 you were considered to be a man, your wage was fixed and you cut your cloth according to your purse. You didn’t say: ‘What do I want’, you considered: ‘What do I need?’ ”
Isn’t that the fundamental principal, long since tossed aside, that is costing us so dear now?
Banks loaned money wrecklessly to those who couldn’t afford it. People took out mortgages that were way beyond their means.
And, when it all goes wrong, instead of recognising our own stupidity, we blame the money men for “encouraging us” – anyone, in fact, except ourselves.
Considering what we need rather than rushing out to buy what we want has suddenly become de rigueur again. It’s all about make-do-and-mend, shopping around – cutting your cloth to fit our purse. Peter was talking about a bygone age – the 20s and 30s – but his comments are as relevant today as they have ever been.
No wonder he has so many fans. For a man ostensibly just stating the obvious, it seems incredible to Peter that people find his take on life so thought-provoking.
One net reponse he received said: “The world is rotten. Pollution, corruption, crime, drugs – the news is filled with more and more bad news. But again, this week, you pulled me up Peter. And you’ve done it many times before. Your wise words have shown me there’s still hope in this world.”
If we all take a leaf out of Peter’s book, especially world leaders and East Midlands Euro MPs who prefer to build up their celebrity status than serve their constituents, I guess there is.

Derbyshire's first street shooting

Derby, the place I have always been so proud of, the city I have defended to the hilt, shopped, worked and played in, has suddenly been plunged into the mean streets league in my eyes.
The death of a 15-year-old, gunned down in Caxton Street, brought a tear to this mother’s eye and, I am sure many more parents, shocked by the savage act. Like me, a thought for their own children’s future safety may have flitted through their minds, too.
As for the youngster’s family and friends, their pain must be unbearable. How I feel for them.
I feel for Derby as a whole, too. This incident sets a new crime low for the city.
No longer can I boast that I could never bring my children up in a place like London because of the gang warfare and brutal murders among young people.
Liverpool, another place often in the news for gun crime, always felt a million miles away from Derby’s leafy streets.
When 11-year-old Rhys Jones, was shot in Croxteth on his way home from football practice, dying in his mother’s arms, I was horrified but comforted myself with the fact that it would never happen in Derby.
Of course I was being naive. But sometimes the only way to save your sanity is to push the truth to the dark recesses of your mind.
I know Derby has gangs, I know it will also have people without reason, conscience or the ability to conquer violent tendencies. No place is immune from that.
But this killing, this mindless act is so awful for us. It comes on top of another dreadful child-related news story that made my heart bleed this week. A 17-month-old boy, seen some 60 times by the authorities, died after enduring eight months of unimaginable torture.
The toddler suffered 50 injuries including a broken back, eight fractured ribs and ripped fingernails. His own mother and two men caused the death.
While a witch-hunt to blame the authorities goes on, I can only think about the depths of evil displayed by the perpetrators.
They appear to be devoid of human kindness or basic standards of decency, not to mention intelligence. If they were incapable of offering love, care and support to a child, they should have handed him over to people who could.
Like every sane parent out there, I am left in aching despair that anyone is capable of causing such dire harm to a tot too young to do anything other than cry for help – in this case only heard by those poised to snuff out his life.
And this all comes in a week when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we stopped what we were doing to honour the war dead on Armistice Day.
Two minutes to think about all the people, so often young men with their whole lives ahead of them, taken from us by a bomb or gun shot.
Whenever I hear the poignant notes of The Last Post I recall my history teacher at school crying as she told us about the misery endured by so many in the First World War trenches.
Some 20 million people died in the 1914-18 war, a whole generation lost.
It was regarded as the cull of the innocent. Unfortunately the cull of the innocent is still going on, but, mindlessly, without a call to arms being necessary.
Today’s cull is taking place in our own streets and behind closed doors.
In recent months, we’ve watched the world plunged into financial chaos, with all thoughts turned to rescuing our economy.
Perhaps, with equal passion and determination, all thoughts should be turned to restoring basic standards of human decency in every strata of society.
Or is that simply asking too much?
For all our sakes, I hope not.