365 Ways With Words

These Boots Were Made For Walking

Nothing lasts forever, so it was only a matter of time before these humble boots bit the dust. It is, perhaps, because they had taken their occupant to so many places that a eulogy was duly commissioned.

Within this august annuls of this online vehicle, I cannot recall extolling the virtues of Millets, the outdoor emporium situated in Stroud, but in that utilitarian shop was the boots' birth and entry into the story. On our way to Morocco to do a July recce for a student trip later in 2010, the Memsahib and meself decided that a stout pair of boots was in order – not too heavy and with the ability to allow the footsies to breathe in desert heat. In sickening lovey-dovey couple style, we bought matching his-and-hers.

They performed admirably on the holiday, even up the High Atlas mountains to the barren shores of Lake Tamda, although they felt a rather pompous luxury when following the Berber guide's dusty clad and flailing flip-flips. Nevertheless, now product-tested, I was content to use them on the school trip in October as all-purpose shoe leather/synthetic fabric to be worn when seeing ruined palaces, freezing butts off around the campfire singing songs about pigeons or traipsing around through the Saharan day. They even doubled as football boots against the barefoot local boys in the Tighza Village vs KGV Student 11-a side. The ability of the Moroccans to play shoeless on a loose gravelly surface has me wincing even now – and they would have happily played all day against a puffing and panting kaffir.

They had thought they would contentedly see out their days in the pretty bywaters of New Territories Hong Kong – up and down the sandy pathways of the country park they afforded stout protection on podcast-filled tramps up stream beds right towards the many audiobook frequented high hilltop vantage points. But in March of last year they were to see new life in the wintry move to the Czech Republic. By then age had seen their grip severely give so that snow and ice became more treacherous than it need be. On top of it all, with the onset of the next winter the right-hand sole had sprung a leak: each step through long grass or mud resulted in a dirty wet sock. The end time had come.

Thus, the long-used boots well and truly reached their allotted end and required a merciful putting out of their misery. And so, because the Memsahib's boots had also significantly deteriorated, to the local shops we went and, with the help of rectangular plastic, hey-presto! – two new sets of stylish and exciting footwear were adopted.

What new footwear joys await can only be imagined: the boots are dead – long live the boots!

Nelson Mandela is Dead! Long Live Nelson Mandela!

It can only be the most rabid of racists that is cheered by the news of Nelson Mandela's death. But enough column inches will be devoted to the one-time prisoner of Robben Island and latter President of South Africa that to offer a lifetime resumé here would seem superfluous, if not ridiculous.

But, such was his prominence, certainly in my teenage life, that it seems fitting to pay some sort of tribute to the man. In the popular media he appeared to be a modern-day political saint, a legendary figure in the fight against a nasty, semi-fascist state bent on separating people based on the amount of melanin in their skin. For years I would not buy South African fruit, and rejoiced when companies like Kodak bowed to international pressure and pulled out of the country. From my sanctimonious anti-apartheid ivory tower I knew not whether thousands of jobs were being cut; after all, the important thing was the principle, wasn't it?

The sanctity of his name also added a political hue to the humour of Only Fools and Horses, where the Trotters lived high up in Nelson Mandela House. He was of colossal importance in the UK.

That Nelson Mandela lived through such a turbulent personal life and yet extended to the nation the possibility of national reconciliation proves that the business of politics, although oft-murky, is not necessarily bereft of admirable principles or of those who use them. His tenure as president must surely be marked as a turning point on the path to national chaos. Another leader less genuine may have led the country towards a similar Zimbabwean experience – if not one much worse. The Rainbow Nation is slowly becoming a reality, even if the path to it remains a little rocky in places.

Nelson Mandela's shoes were difficult enough to fill at the time of his retirement. Thabo Mbeki's position was filled with mire, controversy and enough ill-thought opinion to fill a hideous tragi-comic library. Jacob Zuma and his ungirded loins appears to be faring little better. It's a horrible pretentious phrase, but it comes to mind; Whither South Africa!

I watched his long walk from jail – the live, slow march towards progress – with baited breath. Indeed, everyone who is anyone will want to remind the public just how close they were to the man, even if it was only through a five-minute interview and a quick snap taken beside his trademark Madiba batik shirt. For me, he remains the fickle beast that is a public figure with integrity. God knows there have been few enough of them, particularly in Africa. Long may his story inspire those with political aspirations towards a kinder stance and towards a climate of tolerance and reconciliation. Long live Nelson Mandela!

Lou Reed 1942-2013

Commiseratory words after a death are uncomfortably trite, yet necessary. They enable our loss to be vocalised. We can say our piece – and through them seek peace.

A wild being from birth, Lou Reed breathed music: "My God is rock n’roll. It’s an obscure power that can change your life. The most important part of my religion is to play guitar."

His soul shone through, a little too brightly for some. In 1975 Rolling Stone journo Paul Nelson aptly designated Reed as 'poet of destruction', an epithet that became more truthful as time passed. By 2010, the time we saw him sing ballads in Santiago de Compostela's majestic praza da Quintana, his clear love for the poetry with music we call songs was made tangible in the night time air. His tender, vulnerable heart, open and plain to all who heard, shone as an exotic and mesmerising jewel – at the same time Lauri Anderson's wordy precision proved a perfect cerebral counterbalance. That night remains with me as no small wonder, of what can be done when honesty is made tangible.

He really knew everyone – sang with them, played with them or worked with them; and fell out with more than a few.

I don't know every Lou Reed song. There are so many. It's not just that they are good: they meet the point of experience with minimum fuss and brutal honesty – urban soundtracks from fucked up junkies, low life scum and free-floating souls. We may not recognise ourselves as their subjects, but his songs remain pertinent, resilient, resonant and, if allowed, will touch the soul. That's the job of a poet.