The decision and policy makers cannot cope without pigeon holes. These are the broad categories of social types and groups into which we are placed and dare to cross over between during our four score years and ten.
We have all been slotted into one. You may wonder why you have received, through the post, a free copy of a glossy Lifestyle Magazine when your own is far from the same. This is because you fit the group in the wider population that mirrors and promotes the aspirations and, yes, even for a fairly innocuous publication, politics and social class of the publishers and whoever controls their direction and finances.
The mechanism by which we are corralled into a particular category came to my attention when one of my colleagues activated a link on a property website entitled ' What is like to live in this postcode?'.
Of course, you enter your own for a bit of a giggle. After all, what possible harm can a demographic area profile have on your perception of your neighbours, friends and acquaintances?
The headlines summarising the specific postcode did initially invoke some hilarity but closer reading of the text caused anger and distress in equal proportions.
Of course, the disclaimer for the presentation of commentary and statistics is made on the basis that it is on a broad postcode unit and not for a particular household. The strapline in this instance was "Poorer Singles in Local Authority Family Neighbourhood". The disclaimer states, to the effect that "an affluent family may live inside a postcode which has a lower than average financial standing". Given that a full postcode can pinpoint a relatively small grouping of properties can make any designation of status all encompassing.
My colleague apparently resides in an area of houses in bad repair, poor quality, small and pokey, low priced, amongst loutish, heavy drinking and prolifically fertile neighbours who purchase ample volumes of spirits, abhor books but are easily influenced by television advertising and direct marketing.
This latter characteristic suggests that no-one has a job and stays around at home or otherwise frequents the Beer-Off. Luddites look like geeks on the grounds that my colleagues neighbours and friends have a poor "take-up" of technological innovations, little experience of the internet and mainly watch Sky Satellite channels.
This enforced profile hardly indicates any potential for leisure time but the postcode grouping has the residents going to watch football matches, playing bingo, gambling, betting and have no apparent regard for fitness and cultural activities. This is surprising given the proceeding fact that car ownership is extremely low so by definition everyone indulges in the extremely healthy activity of walking everywhere or running for the bus.
Hand in hand with their derelict houses are wasteland gardens in which it is summised that very few have the inclination to invest in them apart from huge structures for aviaries.
DIY is apparently a necessity and is not at all a subject of enjoyment.
Is there in fact time for holidays within this existence? These are profiled as mainly in the UK and in holiday camps or a caravan. A throw away line in the continued assassination of the good families of this specific postcode is beyond contempt in "As one would expect, charity begins at home for this group".
To those of a nervous disposition living in this particular postcode do you immediately go out and buy a burglar alarm, barbed wire and an attack dog? Do you dare look your fellow residents in the eyes again or give them the time of day or a cup of sugar? Rather than chat on occasion over the garden fence do you now patrol it and record events on a CCTV?
To those responsible for this type of social profiling I would urge them to abandon their almost religious devotion to statistics and actually go and visit real people. They will be surprised and refreshed by what they see.
Thursday 31 January 2013
Wednesday 30 January 2013
The Earth Moved for me
All that was left was a framed and autographed photo of Nicholas Cage, a plastic replica Wehrmacht hand grenade and a drinks mat endorsed by the film crew of Captain Corelli's Mandolin.
We had been starstruck by the novel and film of the book of Corelli and in pursuit of something or other we had set off to holiday on the island of Kefalonia, to the west of the Greek mainland.
The settings for the key scenes of the film could not be found apart from the main geographical and physical topography of the island. All the buildings in the film had been fabricated from wood with a stone-effect exterior moulded from plaster of paris and, if surviving the many nautical miles in transport, were now probably stored in a studio warehouse in Hollywood or a suburb off. The island had been devastated by a massive earthquake in the 1950's and the classical Venetian influenced buildings of the main city, Argostoli and the main provincial towns had been lost in the main tremor, rattled to dust in the aftershocks or demolished on the grounds of instability and a hazard to the public.
Up on the hillsides we had seen hundreds of abandoned villas and farmhouses which were not cost effective or legally permissible to remove and lesser structures including garden and retaining walls were ripped and scarred by the ravages of the earthquake.
We, in the UK , are truly fortunate not to be in one of the volatile tectonic regions of the world as there is nothing like an earthquake to set you back a few years in the pursuit of a normal life. The early hours tremor of February 27th 2008 therefore created absolute terror and a great sense of humility when it rocked our corner of East Yorkshire.
Eldest daughter pre-empted the actual sustained vibration of the quake, measured at 5.2 on the Richter Scale , by screaming out "Errrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttthhhhhhhhqwwwwwwwwaaaayyyyyyyyykkkkkkkkke" just seconds before the rest of the family were shaken out of our beds.
I have no idea how she sensed that the earth was shifting but you do hear of such things as an eerie silence, the barking of dogs or the flight of wild birds as constituting a natural alert in such circumstances. I think that she was already in our bedroom when the sounds and sensations were experienced, being totally alien to UK inhabitants, but very familiar through graphic TV reports from around the world, disaster movies and, from a family visit to The British Museum, where they had a Japanese Earthquake Experience consisting of a gyrating hydraulic platform to attempt to simulate a lesser tremor from the 1995 Kobe City event.
The strange noise lasted about 30 seconds and the impact was akin to having your seat back kicked in by unruly kids in a cinema, dramatic but persistently annoying. Then, immediately after, just a perfect silence if you discounted the cacophony of domestic security alarms going off in the neighbourhood. First thing in a Civil Emergency situation is to switch on to local radio. The graveyard shift presenter was already receiving calls about the shaking although from the diplomatic tone of his voice you could tell he was quite used to receiving crank based calls from drunks at about the same time every day on similar earth-moving topics.
Gradually the news machine took on the story and by the 8am TV news there were eye witness accounts of chimney pots falling to the street, cracks appearing in walls and ceilings and a few incidences of structural weakness causing concern to the Borough Engineers. I could see no tangible worsening of my own collection of masonry and plaster cracks over which I conducted regular monitoring on a casual interest basis.
Over the following weeks I did get commissioned to advise on a few cases of earthquake damage from concerned homeowners. These did start to form a distinct pattern. The western side of the Hull urban area where becoming elevated above the floodplain has a chalk strata. The quake, whose epicentre was some 40 miles south in rural Lincolnshire, had potential to rock and jar the chalk casuing damage as opposed to the induced jelly wobble of the clay based soils further east. Any old Victorian plasterwork, the dry horsehair bonded type forced onto willow latts, was particularly vulnerable from working loose and my analysis attributed two large ceiling collapses and associated damage directly to the eathquake rather than just age related or poor maintenance led wear and tear or heavy handed paper-stripping by enthusiastic DIY'ers.
The strangest incident was in an older house just to the north of Hull city centre. The owners, a nice elderly couple had splashed out on new fitted carpets for the staircase, landing and front bedroom and these had been put in place professionally just two days before the quake date. They then went away for a weeks stay-away with relatives. On their subsequent return to the house, an end of terrace two-up, two-down example, they discovered that there had developed a uniform gap of two centimetres between the inner face of the gable end wall and the new carpets for the full length of the wall. Sighting in line along the gable wall did indicate a very slight bellying and slumping just at corresponding first floor level.
In the absence of any mitigating factors the homeowners were successful in their insurance claim for damage arising from an earthquake and inspite of strong resistance from their insurers to accept that, in the UK, such a peril could actually be experienced. We should be thankful.
(Edited from January 2012)
We had been starstruck by the novel and film of the book of Corelli and in pursuit of something or other we had set off to holiday on the island of Kefalonia, to the west of the Greek mainland.
The settings for the key scenes of the film could not be found apart from the main geographical and physical topography of the island. All the buildings in the film had been fabricated from wood with a stone-effect exterior moulded from plaster of paris and, if surviving the many nautical miles in transport, were now probably stored in a studio warehouse in Hollywood or a suburb off. The island had been devastated by a massive earthquake in the 1950's and the classical Venetian influenced buildings of the main city, Argostoli and the main provincial towns had been lost in the main tremor, rattled to dust in the aftershocks or demolished on the grounds of instability and a hazard to the public.
Up on the hillsides we had seen hundreds of abandoned villas and farmhouses which were not cost effective or legally permissible to remove and lesser structures including garden and retaining walls were ripped and scarred by the ravages of the earthquake.
We, in the UK , are truly fortunate not to be in one of the volatile tectonic regions of the world as there is nothing like an earthquake to set you back a few years in the pursuit of a normal life. The early hours tremor of February 27th 2008 therefore created absolute terror and a great sense of humility when it rocked our corner of East Yorkshire.
Eldest daughter pre-empted the actual sustained vibration of the quake, measured at 5.2 on the Richter Scale , by screaming out "Errrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttthhhhhhhhqwwwwwwwwaaaayyyyyyyyykkkkkkkkke" just seconds before the rest of the family were shaken out of our beds.
I have no idea how she sensed that the earth was shifting but you do hear of such things as an eerie silence, the barking of dogs or the flight of wild birds as constituting a natural alert in such circumstances. I think that she was already in our bedroom when the sounds and sensations were experienced, being totally alien to UK inhabitants, but very familiar through graphic TV reports from around the world, disaster movies and, from a family visit to The British Museum, where they had a Japanese Earthquake Experience consisting of a gyrating hydraulic platform to attempt to simulate a lesser tremor from the 1995 Kobe City event.
The strange noise lasted about 30 seconds and the impact was akin to having your seat back kicked in by unruly kids in a cinema, dramatic but persistently annoying. Then, immediately after, just a perfect silence if you discounted the cacophony of domestic security alarms going off in the neighbourhood. First thing in a Civil Emergency situation is to switch on to local radio. The graveyard shift presenter was already receiving calls about the shaking although from the diplomatic tone of his voice you could tell he was quite used to receiving crank based calls from drunks at about the same time every day on similar earth-moving topics.
Gradually the news machine took on the story and by the 8am TV news there were eye witness accounts of chimney pots falling to the street, cracks appearing in walls and ceilings and a few incidences of structural weakness causing concern to the Borough Engineers. I could see no tangible worsening of my own collection of masonry and plaster cracks over which I conducted regular monitoring on a casual interest basis.
Over the following weeks I did get commissioned to advise on a few cases of earthquake damage from concerned homeowners. These did start to form a distinct pattern. The western side of the Hull urban area where becoming elevated above the floodplain has a chalk strata. The quake, whose epicentre was some 40 miles south in rural Lincolnshire, had potential to rock and jar the chalk casuing damage as opposed to the induced jelly wobble of the clay based soils further east. Any old Victorian plasterwork, the dry horsehair bonded type forced onto willow latts, was particularly vulnerable from working loose and my analysis attributed two large ceiling collapses and associated damage directly to the eathquake rather than just age related or poor maintenance led wear and tear or heavy handed paper-stripping by enthusiastic DIY'ers.
The strangest incident was in an older house just to the north of Hull city centre. The owners, a nice elderly couple had splashed out on new fitted carpets for the staircase, landing and front bedroom and these had been put in place professionally just two days before the quake date. They then went away for a weeks stay-away with relatives. On their subsequent return to the house, an end of terrace two-up, two-down example, they discovered that there had developed a uniform gap of two centimetres between the inner face of the gable end wall and the new carpets for the full length of the wall. Sighting in line along the gable wall did indicate a very slight bellying and slumping just at corresponding first floor level.
In the absence of any mitigating factors the homeowners were successful in their insurance claim for damage arising from an earthquake and inspite of strong resistance from their insurers to accept that, in the UK, such a peril could actually be experienced. We should be thankful.
(Edited from January 2012)
Tuesday 29 January 2013
A nasty case of asteroids
It was quite an event, even to command the attention of the known world , when a meteorite fell out of the night sky in 1795 in a remote field just outside the small village of Wold Newton, East Yorkshire.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day of the 13th December 1795 an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retreived and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong paralells indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the national daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day. The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own super hero status.
(yeah, yeah, another repeated effort. Sorry)
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day of the 13th December 1795 an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retreived and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong paralells indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the national daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day. The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own super hero status.
(yeah, yeah, another repeated effort. Sorry)
Monday 28 January 2013
Verging on the ridiculous
They hide in the roadside verges, many of them are forgotten, more are neglected and some are so badly weathered that they have no recognisable features. No, not tramps but old milestones.
In the days of limitless Local Authority budgets for grass mowing or when farmers and homeowners regarded it as a civic duty to maintain the verges without fear of prosecution for health and safety or highways violations, the milestones were very prominent landmarks on any trunk road journey.
In modern forms of transport we may pay little attention to the passage of the miles unless keen to preserve some residual value and not rack up too much on the odometer. However, on foot or on horseback in bygone days the milestone was the equivalent of a sat-nav and essential to guage when to stop for human refreshment or to water or change mounts.
If average walking pace today is, what, four miles per hour on metalled pavements then I estimate this would be perhaps two miles per hour or less for someone with poor or no shoes, on rough potholed or waterlogged tracks and with cumbersome clothes notwithstanding carrying work tools, baggage or all their worldly possessions tied up in a brightly coloured hankie on the end of a stick. A journey on foot from Hull to York on roughly the same route as current roads would take a minimum of 20 hours or if confined to a daylight passage in winter, 3 days or on Midsummers Eve, the whole day with no stops for Druidistic type events. Under such duress ticking off the passing milestones would be very important. Spot a white horse, 10,000 points but carve your initials on a milestone 1 million points.
A few years ago I had a wonderful contract to track down milestones in East Yorkshire and report on their condition as they were Listed Structures. My brief included a few vague grid references or equally patchy physical descriptions of where I could find a specific marker. The actual task of locating 17th and 18th Century roadside artefacts was very difficult and time consuming, not helped where new roads and by-passes had left the original course as a picnic area ,cul de sac or an overgrown spur in the verge.
The stonework of a milestone had evidently been striking originally although utilitarian and functional. Recorded distances were etched in fine italic script under usually two bolder carved town names or with an affixed metal tablet with cast text performing the same role.
There were two main types of milestone, a basic almost headstone type and the grander two-tier examples which served as a step for mounting and dismounting a horse on the opportunity for a short rest. The stonework, weathering accepted often showed battle scars from modern vehicle impact. I expect that being caught short on a long journey would entail a quick swerve up and stop on the verge only to encounter a hidden mass in the long grass causing grounding or worse to the car and further discomfort to the already desperate motorist.
A number of the landmarks were just plain missing. I can imagine many rougher 18th and 19th century buildings in villages just off the old coaching routes having unusually good quality dressed stonework above the hearth or in an inglenook feature. Stones on the softer verges, at risk from splashing from passing traffic or now stuck in a gully or drain-off area had settled out of true and were a sorry sight. Perhaps there is a case to go out and retrieve these relics of bygone travel as they are obsolete and redundant as far as the modern road user is concerned.
I advocate that in a post apocalyptic world the milestone will become a surviving memorial to the way we led our hectic lives .Pilgrims in the future will marvel at the intricacy of the wording and pass on the folklore of such inscriptions as Hull 20, Leeds 40 and what a marvellous game of rugby league that must surely have been back in the day.
Retitled from 2011
In the days of limitless Local Authority budgets for grass mowing or when farmers and homeowners regarded it as a civic duty to maintain the verges without fear of prosecution for health and safety or highways violations, the milestones were very prominent landmarks on any trunk road journey.
In modern forms of transport we may pay little attention to the passage of the miles unless keen to preserve some residual value and not rack up too much on the odometer. However, on foot or on horseback in bygone days the milestone was the equivalent of a sat-nav and essential to guage when to stop for human refreshment or to water or change mounts.
If average walking pace today is, what, four miles per hour on metalled pavements then I estimate this would be perhaps two miles per hour or less for someone with poor or no shoes, on rough potholed or waterlogged tracks and with cumbersome clothes notwithstanding carrying work tools, baggage or all their worldly possessions tied up in a brightly coloured hankie on the end of a stick. A journey on foot from Hull to York on roughly the same route as current roads would take a minimum of 20 hours or if confined to a daylight passage in winter, 3 days or on Midsummers Eve, the whole day with no stops for Druidistic type events. Under such duress ticking off the passing milestones would be very important. Spot a white horse, 10,000 points but carve your initials on a milestone 1 million points.
A few years ago I had a wonderful contract to track down milestones in East Yorkshire and report on their condition as they were Listed Structures. My brief included a few vague grid references or equally patchy physical descriptions of where I could find a specific marker. The actual task of locating 17th and 18th Century roadside artefacts was very difficult and time consuming, not helped where new roads and by-passes had left the original course as a picnic area ,cul de sac or an overgrown spur in the verge.
The stonework of a milestone had evidently been striking originally although utilitarian and functional. Recorded distances were etched in fine italic script under usually two bolder carved town names or with an affixed metal tablet with cast text performing the same role.
There were two main types of milestone, a basic almost headstone type and the grander two-tier examples which served as a step for mounting and dismounting a horse on the opportunity for a short rest. The stonework, weathering accepted often showed battle scars from modern vehicle impact. I expect that being caught short on a long journey would entail a quick swerve up and stop on the verge only to encounter a hidden mass in the long grass causing grounding or worse to the car and further discomfort to the already desperate motorist.
A number of the landmarks were just plain missing. I can imagine many rougher 18th and 19th century buildings in villages just off the old coaching routes having unusually good quality dressed stonework above the hearth or in an inglenook feature. Stones on the softer verges, at risk from splashing from passing traffic or now stuck in a gully or drain-off area had settled out of true and were a sorry sight. Perhaps there is a case to go out and retrieve these relics of bygone travel as they are obsolete and redundant as far as the modern road user is concerned.
I advocate that in a post apocalyptic world the milestone will become a surviving memorial to the way we led our hectic lives .Pilgrims in the future will marvel at the intricacy of the wording and pass on the folklore of such inscriptions as Hull 20, Leeds 40 and what a marvellous game of rugby league that must surely have been back in the day.
Retitled from 2011
Sunday 27 January 2013
Odds and Sods
I am not a betting man and indeed I find the everyday intrusion of blatant gambling or other forms of chance and luck being masqueraded as a fun hobby or harmless pastime very annoying and not a little bit sad.
I can imagine the attraction of the portrayal of a poker game as sexy and sociable to some poor sop sat in his pants, alone in his room and stubbing the keys on his laptop or smart phone desperately trying to get some of that for himself.
The flip side of the coin is however a fascination, bordering on obsession, that I have with the mechanics of probability that a specific event or phenomena may occur.
For example, and in spite of the Lynx Astronaut challenge to compete for a seat on a souped up outer orbit space bus, the quoted odds of making it into such a selective and elite group is 13,200,000 to 1. If part of the qualifying criteria is for your application to be submitted with vouchers attached to said product deodorant sprays I would probably say that the expenditure may not be worth it in that it would not increase your chances of edging out another potential candidate.
I take some comfort, being a bit of an out-doorsey type person that the chances of being struck by lightning are quoted at 2,320,000 to 1. On this basis of low risk I do not really have to wear my wellington boots every time I venture out although I did panic during a heavy rainstorm when I realised that my best pair, inherited from my late Father in Law has steel toe caps. I expect that these would, in the event of a strike, self eject clear of my illuminated and crackling torso giving me a belated earthing or elated berthing, whatever.
In the course of our everyday lives we unknowingly put ourselves in potentially hazardous situations but it does not warrant too much concern because otherwise we would go nowhere and achieve nothing.
The working day does introduce some immediate risks. I am led to believe that I run the possibility of a shaving injury once in every 6585 shaves. Pondering this thought just the other morning caused me to loose concentration in that critical area of facial recess just between the lower lip and one of my chins, the highest one. The resultant minor knick but major blood loss was quite dramatic and I drove the first part of the route to work with dampened pieces of toilet tissue affixed giving me a stark image of how stupid I would look with a goatee beard at my age and with my moon-child facial characteristics.
An accident and injury with a chain saw is on shortened odds, apparently, of 4464 to 1 and for that reason I leave mine in the garage and wait for my friends and neighbours to offer to cut back the thick forested boundaries that surround my modest semi detached home. Visitors, penetrating the deep, dark vegetation seem a bit disappointed to find just a house rather than an enchanted castle in the concealed clearing.
I do not play golf but if I did I would probably never have the opportunity to brag about a hole in one as this is at 5000 to 1. Other sports in which I was once a serious competitor are now undertaken for basic health benefits which means a valid excuse not to break sweat, become out of breathe or purchase the correct clothing and equipment. Case in point, try running around the housing estate in steel toe capped welly boots.
I, like many, was inspired to exercise following the London Games but am totally realistic about not being ready for Rio in 2016. Let's face it, the odds of actually winning a medal at 662,000 to 1 lead me to heartily encourage the other 661,999 people with more motivation and aspirations to get on with whatever they are doing. I am quite happy just to spectate and give typically restrained British style encouragement. "Get in there, etc".
I am not too phased by a 1 in 88,000 probability of dating a Supermodel. My wife, after all, is a 1 in a million so no competition there.
I drive a lot of miles in a week, mostly on familiar local roads, and so am fortunate not to rely on public transportation of any kind. The odds of being killed on a 5-mile bus trip are 500,000,000 to 1 but against this is the sobering prospect of running the risk of a 77 to 1 chance of being injured by transport in general. I do not fly much apart from heading for overseas holiday destinations and statistically taking a plane remains one of the safest forms of transport. So you would think, but in the process of boarding your next flight try to get a glance at the pilot for any signs of incoherence, clumsiness or fatigue because the odds of getting a drunk one are quite shocking at 117 to 1.
Statistics and odds are interesting in themselves but can be manipulated and exploited to advantage. It is now a bit of a family joke that when I am asked when a particular movie, album or event took place and this includes my casual participation in the general knowledge round of TV's Mastermind I always say 1979. I have carefully calculated that sticking to this as an informed guess does not betray my ignorance or stupidity in that, working from the Birth of Jesus, I am running only a 1 in 2013 chance of being wholly wrong. Apparently that is just a bit better odds than fatally slipping in the bath or shower and I would take that any and everyday.
I can imagine the attraction of the portrayal of a poker game as sexy and sociable to some poor sop sat in his pants, alone in his room and stubbing the keys on his laptop or smart phone desperately trying to get some of that for himself.
The flip side of the coin is however a fascination, bordering on obsession, that I have with the mechanics of probability that a specific event or phenomena may occur.
For example, and in spite of the Lynx Astronaut challenge to compete for a seat on a souped up outer orbit space bus, the quoted odds of making it into such a selective and elite group is 13,200,000 to 1. If part of the qualifying criteria is for your application to be submitted with vouchers attached to said product deodorant sprays I would probably say that the expenditure may not be worth it in that it would not increase your chances of edging out another potential candidate.
I take some comfort, being a bit of an out-doorsey type person that the chances of being struck by lightning are quoted at 2,320,000 to 1. On this basis of low risk I do not really have to wear my wellington boots every time I venture out although I did panic during a heavy rainstorm when I realised that my best pair, inherited from my late Father in Law has steel toe caps. I expect that these would, in the event of a strike, self eject clear of my illuminated and crackling torso giving me a belated earthing or elated berthing, whatever.
In the course of our everyday lives we unknowingly put ourselves in potentially hazardous situations but it does not warrant too much concern because otherwise we would go nowhere and achieve nothing.
The working day does introduce some immediate risks. I am led to believe that I run the possibility of a shaving injury once in every 6585 shaves. Pondering this thought just the other morning caused me to loose concentration in that critical area of facial recess just between the lower lip and one of my chins, the highest one. The resultant minor knick but major blood loss was quite dramatic and I drove the first part of the route to work with dampened pieces of toilet tissue affixed giving me a stark image of how stupid I would look with a goatee beard at my age and with my moon-child facial characteristics.
An accident and injury with a chain saw is on shortened odds, apparently, of 4464 to 1 and for that reason I leave mine in the garage and wait for my friends and neighbours to offer to cut back the thick forested boundaries that surround my modest semi detached home. Visitors, penetrating the deep, dark vegetation seem a bit disappointed to find just a house rather than an enchanted castle in the concealed clearing.
I do not play golf but if I did I would probably never have the opportunity to brag about a hole in one as this is at 5000 to 1. Other sports in which I was once a serious competitor are now undertaken for basic health benefits which means a valid excuse not to break sweat, become out of breathe or purchase the correct clothing and equipment. Case in point, try running around the housing estate in steel toe capped welly boots.
I, like many, was inspired to exercise following the London Games but am totally realistic about not being ready for Rio in 2016. Let's face it, the odds of actually winning a medal at 662,000 to 1 lead me to heartily encourage the other 661,999 people with more motivation and aspirations to get on with whatever they are doing. I am quite happy just to spectate and give typically restrained British style encouragement. "Get in there, etc".
I am not too phased by a 1 in 88,000 probability of dating a Supermodel. My wife, after all, is a 1 in a million so no competition there.
I drive a lot of miles in a week, mostly on familiar local roads, and so am fortunate not to rely on public transportation of any kind. The odds of being killed on a 5-mile bus trip are 500,000,000 to 1 but against this is the sobering prospect of running the risk of a 77 to 1 chance of being injured by transport in general. I do not fly much apart from heading for overseas holiday destinations and statistically taking a plane remains one of the safest forms of transport. So you would think, but in the process of boarding your next flight try to get a glance at the pilot for any signs of incoherence, clumsiness or fatigue because the odds of getting a drunk one are quite shocking at 117 to 1.
Statistics and odds are interesting in themselves but can be manipulated and exploited to advantage. It is now a bit of a family joke that when I am asked when a particular movie, album or event took place and this includes my casual participation in the general knowledge round of TV's Mastermind I always say 1979. I have carefully calculated that sticking to this as an informed guess does not betray my ignorance or stupidity in that, working from the Birth of Jesus, I am running only a 1 in 2013 chance of being wholly wrong. Apparently that is just a bit better odds than fatally slipping in the bath or shower and I would take that any and everyday.
Saturday 26 January 2013
Life Cycle
I was fortunate to make some good friends through my cycling years whilst away at Trent Polytechnic, Nottingham in the early 1980's.
I did not really engage with those on my course which, over it's four years duration, sounds like I had a real attitude problem but frankly I did not have much in common with the other 90 or so students with whom I had lectures and tutorials on a daily basis.
I was more interested in my cycling and without any outlet within the activities of the Poly to do this I wandered astray and after finding the nearest bike shop to my digs I asked if there were any local clubs who were taking on new members. The bike shop was Langdale Lightweights in Mapperley, a suburb about three miles out of Nottingham City Centre and the owners, the Greens were friendly and helpful. They mentioned a few clubs in what was an active area for racing teams, what with the Raleigh bikes and a rich heritage of competition in the city and for some reason the Trent Valley Cycle Racing Team sounded progressive and interesting.
They met weekly in a church hall just down the road from the bike shop and I turned up one dark, late autumn night on foot. The hall quickly filled with riders and bikes, in their winter gear and with proper lights and equipment for the time of year. I was immediately made welcome by the team coach and my status as a student was evidently quite a novelty amongst an otherwise local membership from schoolboys and girls to seniors. I was asked all of the usual stereotypical questions about student life and I felt as though their only other experience of students was from watching The Young Ones on TV. Perhaps they thought I was a bit like the Rik Mayall character because I spoke without a Nottin'em accent and came from somewhere with a girly sounding name, Beverley. That made me a bit posh and affected.
I knew that I was in the right place because everyone talked and lived cycling and importantly competitive cycling which consisted of mass start road racing and individual time trialling. The sociable aspect of the club was matched by the training runs, circuit training in the hall and regular film nights when we would marvel at the grainy images of cycling epics such as 'Stars and Water Carriers' about the Tour of Italy and features on Eddy Merckx and his contemporaries.
Nottingham was a hotbed of cycling and hosted a round of the televised Kelloggs city centre races in 1983. All of the European stars were there and as I wandered about soaking up the pre-race atmosphere I bumped into Stephen Roche and nearly got run over by Jan Raas. It was a great evening and two of the Trent Valley lads were prominent in the junior support race and got their faces on TV.
The Saturday Club runs were an eye opener to me as I had only ridden on my own before but found myself paired up in a long drawn out group of around 20 as we left the busy city roads and headed towards a café in the Derbyshire Peak District or into Lincolnshire, to Grantham or east to Newark. It was necessary to concentrate so as not to cause an almighty pile up and the two by two convoy ebbed and flowed as each pair took it in turns to lead into the headwind or avoid potholes and roadside debris. Conversation was possible and I was again quizzed on student life and I certainly dispelled many myths and legends based on my own quite mundane existence.
After a few months on the chain gang and benefitting from the experience of my peers and seniors at the club they considered me ready for my first competitive event. I paid my subs and got a Racing Licence. My first ever event was a 37.5 miles hilly time trial and although the rider after me caught me I managed to prevent other humiliations and finished about half way down the field.
Shortly after the Trent Valley Cycle Racing Team entered a road race on the Lowdham circuit east of Nottingham and I made up the four man team. I got a mention in the local sports section of the newsapaper for my efforts which consisted of trying to help our best rider to win but getting 'baulked'- good word that- by a crash in the chasing group.
I did not really do a great deal and in the whole of my racing years only managed one win and a few lower placings. It is sad to say that I have dined out on those paltry acheivements ever since. However, the friendships I made in my Nottingham years were special to me and although I have drifted away in terms of time and locations I do recall those times as some of the most memorable and fulfilling in my involvement in cycling.
I was therefore thrilled to be contacted just this week by one of my former team mates whom I have not seen for the last 28 years and we are hoping to be able to get together, compare beer bellies and bald heads, and reminisce quite soon.
I did not really engage with those on my course which, over it's four years duration, sounds like I had a real attitude problem but frankly I did not have much in common with the other 90 or so students with whom I had lectures and tutorials on a daily basis.
I was more interested in my cycling and without any outlet within the activities of the Poly to do this I wandered astray and after finding the nearest bike shop to my digs I asked if there were any local clubs who were taking on new members. The bike shop was Langdale Lightweights in Mapperley, a suburb about three miles out of Nottingham City Centre and the owners, the Greens were friendly and helpful. They mentioned a few clubs in what was an active area for racing teams, what with the Raleigh bikes and a rich heritage of competition in the city and for some reason the Trent Valley Cycle Racing Team sounded progressive and interesting.
They met weekly in a church hall just down the road from the bike shop and I turned up one dark, late autumn night on foot. The hall quickly filled with riders and bikes, in their winter gear and with proper lights and equipment for the time of year. I was immediately made welcome by the team coach and my status as a student was evidently quite a novelty amongst an otherwise local membership from schoolboys and girls to seniors. I was asked all of the usual stereotypical questions about student life and I felt as though their only other experience of students was from watching The Young Ones on TV. Perhaps they thought I was a bit like the Rik Mayall character because I spoke without a Nottin'em accent and came from somewhere with a girly sounding name, Beverley. That made me a bit posh and affected.
I knew that I was in the right place because everyone talked and lived cycling and importantly competitive cycling which consisted of mass start road racing and individual time trialling. The sociable aspect of the club was matched by the training runs, circuit training in the hall and regular film nights when we would marvel at the grainy images of cycling epics such as 'Stars and Water Carriers' about the Tour of Italy and features on Eddy Merckx and his contemporaries.
Nottingham was a hotbed of cycling and hosted a round of the televised Kelloggs city centre races in 1983. All of the European stars were there and as I wandered about soaking up the pre-race atmosphere I bumped into Stephen Roche and nearly got run over by Jan Raas. It was a great evening and two of the Trent Valley lads were prominent in the junior support race and got their faces on TV.
The Saturday Club runs were an eye opener to me as I had only ridden on my own before but found myself paired up in a long drawn out group of around 20 as we left the busy city roads and headed towards a café in the Derbyshire Peak District or into Lincolnshire, to Grantham or east to Newark. It was necessary to concentrate so as not to cause an almighty pile up and the two by two convoy ebbed and flowed as each pair took it in turns to lead into the headwind or avoid potholes and roadside debris. Conversation was possible and I was again quizzed on student life and I certainly dispelled many myths and legends based on my own quite mundane existence.
After a few months on the chain gang and benefitting from the experience of my peers and seniors at the club they considered me ready for my first competitive event. I paid my subs and got a Racing Licence. My first ever event was a 37.5 miles hilly time trial and although the rider after me caught me I managed to prevent other humiliations and finished about half way down the field.
Shortly after the Trent Valley Cycle Racing Team entered a road race on the Lowdham circuit east of Nottingham and I made up the four man team. I got a mention in the local sports section of the newsapaper for my efforts which consisted of trying to help our best rider to win but getting 'baulked'- good word that- by a crash in the chasing group.
I did not really do a great deal and in the whole of my racing years only managed one win and a few lower placings. It is sad to say that I have dined out on those paltry acheivements ever since. However, the friendships I made in my Nottingham years were special to me and although I have drifted away in terms of time and locations I do recall those times as some of the most memorable and fulfilling in my involvement in cycling.
I was therefore thrilled to be contacted just this week by one of my former team mates whom I have not seen for the last 28 years and we are hoping to be able to get together, compare beer bellies and bald heads, and reminisce quite soon.
Friday 25 January 2013
The best-laid plans o' mice an' men
In a quiet moment, you know the type, in between noisy moments, I got sidetracked into attempting to answer the questions in the British Citizenship Test.
I failed.
It was very technical and I would actually challenge the majority of born and bred Brits to do it and contend that they too would fall down under such telling questions of pomp, circumstance, parliamentary procedure, demographics, religious convictions and who was the least talented and convincing James Bond. Apparently not a)Connery, b) Lazenby, c)Dalton, d) Brosnan or D).Craig.
I was never very good at written examinations so wondered if there might be a practical test by which to qualify for ongoing membership of these isles. Also, could I possibly be a bit picky about which specific constituent part of the British Isles I would like to be a citizen of?
I would definitely choose Scotland. This is not on account of the oil reserves, a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world, no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar, white pudding , a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or the beautiful wide open spaces but because I have some ancestry and within a couple of generations.
I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.
The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.
Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.
Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.
Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.
Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.
I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6. I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Tesco's will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder. Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up.
I failed.
It was very technical and I would actually challenge the majority of born and bred Brits to do it and contend that they too would fall down under such telling questions of pomp, circumstance, parliamentary procedure, demographics, religious convictions and who was the least talented and convincing James Bond. Apparently not a)Connery, b) Lazenby, c)Dalton, d) Brosnan or D).Craig.
I was never very good at written examinations so wondered if there might be a practical test by which to qualify for ongoing membership of these isles. Also, could I possibly be a bit picky about which specific constituent part of the British Isles I would like to be a citizen of?
I would definitely choose Scotland. This is not on account of the oil reserves, a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world, no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar, white pudding , a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or the beautiful wide open spaces but because I have some ancestry and within a couple of generations.
I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.
The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.
Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.
Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.
Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.
Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.
I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6. I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Tesco's will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder. Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up.
Thursday 24 January 2013
The Art of Smoking a Pipe
Having watched a few old movies over the Christmas break it really emphasised to me the dominant part played by smoking in everyday life as depicted by the film stars and then imitated by everyone else. It really was cool and sophisticated to light up and be enveloped in tobacco smoke whilst in general conversation, a dramatic or life threatening situation or even in the foreplay process with the opposite sex pending inter and post war love-making in fully clothed form and with both feet firmly planted on the ground.
As a youngster I ,of course, experimented with cigarettes but found it an unsustainable hobby on a cost basis. It was not so much the price of buying a packet of ten number six brand but the add-on's of a number of packets of Polo Mints to disguise the filthy habit from my parents. My smoking career started and ended within a matter of wheezy, catarrh inducing weeks at the age of 11.
I like to think that I gave it up on health grounds and with aspirations to be an athlete whereas in reality my Mum found me out.
In the last three decades there has been a squeeze on smoking to such an extent that it appears that only the hardcore participants and new starters are active. The ban on smoking in public places was the death knell for any social benefits that had long since been associated with it. Being able to offer a ciggy to a girl on a train, for example, was a good way of making an introduction and I saw it practiced successfully many a time on rail journeys in the 1980's whilst sat on my own at the other end of a carriage.
Nowadays, and as far from the golden age of smoking as possible, there is a distinct ugliness about someone holding a lit cigarette, standing forlornly outside their place of work or hiding in a smoking shelter in the beer garden of a public house. The only refuge now for a smoker may be in their vehicles whilst driving but don't get me started on my viewpoint of a dog-end being ejected out of an open car window into the street.
Unfortunate collateral damage for the decline in smoking cigarettes has been the virtual disappearance of the far more genteel and civilised art of pipe smoking.
I have a vested interest in mourning the demise of this activity in that my Grandad Dick was a lifelong pipe smoker.
The aromatic tobacco smell was very distinctive to our young noses but gave a overall sense of calm and contemplation whenever we were around our Grandad.
It was a ritual and art form to prepare the pipe to receive the tobacco. In the first instance it had to be cleared and cleaned of any residual debris from an earlier smoke and the paraphernalia for that was, to my memory, a small penknife blade and a wired, flexible pipe cleaner. I do not think that they are even manufactured today but were both fit for purpose and also to create sculptured figures of people or animals.
The tobacco was stored in small yellowish coloured metal tin with a tight fitting lid either bought as such or refilled from loose tobacco purchased at the local tobacconists. We would often give a new supply of his favourite brand, Erinmore, on birthdays and at Christmas.
I got the impression from watching my Grandad light up that this was the most skilful bit and warranting concentration and not a little huffing and puffing to force the mix to ignite under the flare of the match. Once active the sweet odour would waft and drift about. In the back of the black Austin A30 or A35, on a trip out, it was all pervading but we were happy to inhale and participate in the whole ceremonial performance that was smoking a pipe.
The risks associated with passive smoking in this way were, I am now led to believe, only 10% higher than non smokers. So, it was comparatively healthy as well as very civilised.
My Grandad lived up to the image of a pipe smoker. In much the same way as it is said that the rate at which you clean the lenses of your glasses is the speed at which your mind is operating, the pipe induced an opposite feeling of working to an altogether different set of conventions of time and effort.
My Uncle David told me about two such incidences of the place that the pipe held in his father's life.
When, as a young Carpenter working on a building site in Croydon, South London, he was summoned by the Foreman who, splendidly attired in a bowler hat, remarked officiously "If you knocked in as many nails as you light matches, we'd have finished the job by now".
In his later employment as Chief Rent Collector for Dunstable Town Council in Bedfordshire his job was to visit each house on the various residential estates to collect, in cash, the weekly rents. On foot, this gave him plenty of time to light up his pipe and in the resulting helpful and sociable frame of mind he would spend time with the tenants over a cup of tea in their kitchens or even help with little tasks drawing on his carpentry and gardening skills. His Manager at the Rent Office complained at the time it took for my Grandad to do his rounds. Unfortunately any plausible explanation of distances walked or the absence of tenants being responsible was spoiled by the fact that the Relief Collector, filling in whilst my Grandad was on holiday, completed the same task by mid afternoon.
The heyday of the pipe culminated in an Annual Award presented to a prominent public figure and from 1965 to 2003 the winners included Harold Wilson (1965), Peter Cushing (1968), Magnus Magnusson (1978), Ian Botham (1988), Rod Hull (1993) and the last recipient, Stephen Fry. The Award was scrapped in 2004. Iconic images of the pipe remain with fictional characters such as the detective and genius Sherlock Holmes and a lot of Hobbits and Dwarf's in the image of their creator, J R R Tolkein, a known partaker. The innocence of a tobacco pipe has also been hijacked by the negative images of use in drug culture.
My own memories around the art of pipe smoking are however strong and unsullied. I can still conjure up the smell of my Grandad's regular tobacco and the tap-tap sound of the pipe on a door jamb or fence post when exhausted of its contents.
Half hearted revivals have been attempted by fresh faced college graduates and beardy weirdo poseurs but I contend that pipe smoking was of a certain period and suited a specific temperament and character of person who enjoyed life and the company of others to the full. As they say, if you do not agree with my theory then "put it in your pipe and smoke it!".
As a youngster I ,of course, experimented with cigarettes but found it an unsustainable hobby on a cost basis. It was not so much the price of buying a packet of ten number six brand but the add-on's of a number of packets of Polo Mints to disguise the filthy habit from my parents. My smoking career started and ended within a matter of wheezy, catarrh inducing weeks at the age of 11.
I like to think that I gave it up on health grounds and with aspirations to be an athlete whereas in reality my Mum found me out.
In the last three decades there has been a squeeze on smoking to such an extent that it appears that only the hardcore participants and new starters are active. The ban on smoking in public places was the death knell for any social benefits that had long since been associated with it. Being able to offer a ciggy to a girl on a train, for example, was a good way of making an introduction and I saw it practiced successfully many a time on rail journeys in the 1980's whilst sat on my own at the other end of a carriage.
Nowadays, and as far from the golden age of smoking as possible, there is a distinct ugliness about someone holding a lit cigarette, standing forlornly outside their place of work or hiding in a smoking shelter in the beer garden of a public house. The only refuge now for a smoker may be in their vehicles whilst driving but don't get me started on my viewpoint of a dog-end being ejected out of an open car window into the street.
Unfortunate collateral damage for the decline in smoking cigarettes has been the virtual disappearance of the far more genteel and civilised art of pipe smoking.
I have a vested interest in mourning the demise of this activity in that my Grandad Dick was a lifelong pipe smoker.
The aromatic tobacco smell was very distinctive to our young noses but gave a overall sense of calm and contemplation whenever we were around our Grandad.
It was a ritual and art form to prepare the pipe to receive the tobacco. In the first instance it had to be cleared and cleaned of any residual debris from an earlier smoke and the paraphernalia for that was, to my memory, a small penknife blade and a wired, flexible pipe cleaner. I do not think that they are even manufactured today but were both fit for purpose and also to create sculptured figures of people or animals.
The tobacco was stored in small yellowish coloured metal tin with a tight fitting lid either bought as such or refilled from loose tobacco purchased at the local tobacconists. We would often give a new supply of his favourite brand, Erinmore, on birthdays and at Christmas.
I got the impression from watching my Grandad light up that this was the most skilful bit and warranting concentration and not a little huffing and puffing to force the mix to ignite under the flare of the match. Once active the sweet odour would waft and drift about. In the back of the black Austin A30 or A35, on a trip out, it was all pervading but we were happy to inhale and participate in the whole ceremonial performance that was smoking a pipe.
The risks associated with passive smoking in this way were, I am now led to believe, only 10% higher than non smokers. So, it was comparatively healthy as well as very civilised.
My Grandad lived up to the image of a pipe smoker. In much the same way as it is said that the rate at which you clean the lenses of your glasses is the speed at which your mind is operating, the pipe induced an opposite feeling of working to an altogether different set of conventions of time and effort.
My Uncle David told me about two such incidences of the place that the pipe held in his father's life.
When, as a young Carpenter working on a building site in Croydon, South London, he was summoned by the Foreman who, splendidly attired in a bowler hat, remarked officiously "If you knocked in as many nails as you light matches, we'd have finished the job by now".
In his later employment as Chief Rent Collector for Dunstable Town Council in Bedfordshire his job was to visit each house on the various residential estates to collect, in cash, the weekly rents. On foot, this gave him plenty of time to light up his pipe and in the resulting helpful and sociable frame of mind he would spend time with the tenants over a cup of tea in their kitchens or even help with little tasks drawing on his carpentry and gardening skills. His Manager at the Rent Office complained at the time it took for my Grandad to do his rounds. Unfortunately any plausible explanation of distances walked or the absence of tenants being responsible was spoiled by the fact that the Relief Collector, filling in whilst my Grandad was on holiday, completed the same task by mid afternoon.
The heyday of the pipe culminated in an Annual Award presented to a prominent public figure and from 1965 to 2003 the winners included Harold Wilson (1965), Peter Cushing (1968), Magnus Magnusson (1978), Ian Botham (1988), Rod Hull (1993) and the last recipient, Stephen Fry. The Award was scrapped in 2004. Iconic images of the pipe remain with fictional characters such as the detective and genius Sherlock Holmes and a lot of Hobbits and Dwarf's in the image of their creator, J R R Tolkein, a known partaker. The innocence of a tobacco pipe has also been hijacked by the negative images of use in drug culture.
My own memories around the art of pipe smoking are however strong and unsullied. I can still conjure up the smell of my Grandad's regular tobacco and the tap-tap sound of the pipe on a door jamb or fence post when exhausted of its contents.
Half hearted revivals have been attempted by fresh faced college graduates and beardy weirdo poseurs but I contend that pipe smoking was of a certain period and suited a specific temperament and character of person who enjoyed life and the company of others to the full. As they say, if you do not agree with my theory then "put it in your pipe and smoke it!".
Wednesday 23 January 2013
Boomerang
One criteria for choosing a caravan, if not the principal one, is being able to fit inside it.
The lady who came to view the old family caravan last week had been attracted by the promise of a cheap one in which I had euphemistically and romantically alluded to on GumTree as being ' perfect to start an adventure'.
She was however, and in politically correct speak, of incompatible proportions to said leisure vehicle.
She had to shimmy a bit sideways on to get through the doorway and I had clear visions of her having problems, in practical terms of actually holidaying in it , such as scorching her bum on the cooker during the process of just turning around slightly to get a tin of beans out of the top-locker cupboard behind.
Tactfully she intimated through a well practiced glance at her husband that she had really been looking for something a bit larger. I gracefully accepted their frank and honest opinion whilst having wicked thoughts about what would really meet her size requirements. Bus, Barn, B&Q Warehouse.
Secretly, inside I felt angry at their complete dismissal of the caravan which, for the last 38 years, had accommodated our family with exemplary distinction.
We had served a camping apprenticeship under canvas for many years. I have nightmares to this day about the night of the storm on the cliff top at Arisaig on the west coast of Scotland (later a location for the Local Hero movie), when my father had to park the VW Estate on the tent in conjunction with beach scavenged boulders to prevent us from being whisked away in the gale force winds. That is up there with my fear of flying ants after they populated our campsite and had to be thoroughly whacked with badminton racquets after swarming onto the tent flysheets. The tipping point for Mother came when, again in Scotland, it refused to stop raining for about ten days of our fortnight away and she presented an ultimatum to our Father that we book a bed and breakfast immediately in order to dry out our saturated souls.
This, I believe, was the catalyst for the purchase by my father, in 1975, of the caravan. That and the prospect of picking it up at a canny price in a bankruptcy sale of the exotically named company, for Grimsby, of Boomerang.
I was 12 years old at the time and mightily impressed by the new acquisition.
At that time I was convinced that only rich families could afford the luxury of a house on wheels. We had arrived in the smart set with our affluence displayed by it being parked on the driveway.
It smelt of freshly cut wood and this evocative odour persists to this day and never fails to take me back in time.
The interior seemed huge to me then. A single compartment with seating and tables at each end and separated by the side-by-side gas hob and sink unit and a wardrobe-like cupboard. Above head height, at least for an average sized twelve year old boy, was a bank of deep storage lockers and these were allocated to us siblings for our toys, books and games that would accompany us on the annual two week summer holiday and other seasonal breaks, weather permitting.
Other nooks and crannies under the bench seats took the bulkier items such as bedding and clothes. In the daytime the interior was comfortable and I loved nothing more than to be wedged into the outer corner of the seat in the big plastic bubble type front window and watch the world go by. There were, of course, chores to be done to help in the smooth operation of the holiday. On arrival at a site we all manhandled the caravan into position. I liked to wind down the stabilisers underneath onto the blocks of wood. Water had to be fetched from the utility block. We had huge plastic containers for this and it was a 2-child job to fill and then drag back. Imagine our amazement at the sight of a posh elderly couple with a water drum attached to wheels which could be pulled along like a golf trolley. The water supply to the caravan sink was operated by a rubber foot pump and it took some effort to get the pressure up for the tap to run..
Mealtimes were a bit more hectic. The small gas burners were overstretched to cater for our large family of 5 children and two adults plus, on occasion, a small friend as a guest. Mother worked miracles with re-hydrated Smash Mash and tinned mince beef.
Preparing for bedtime was another performance. If the camp site had a toilet building we would march there for a wash amongst the daddy long legs and perfumed disinfectant blocks. If not, for example on a remote Scottish Loch side pitch or if the weather was bad the whistling kettle had to come to the boil and the hot water rationed in the small stainless steel kitchen sink. It was a case of a lick and a promise with a flannel.
One end of the caravan, the childrens dormitory, went to bed first with the table top dropped to span the gap between the seats and padded out with the seat cushions. The bright orange flowery motif curtains, when closed, made everything really cosy. We had power from the battery in the car but only for a few hours and hazardous gas mantle wicks. These always had finger holes in them inspite of the known sanctions from poking them.
The eventual settling in of us children was followed by our parents going to bed at the other end. I think we must have all been asleep by about nine o'clock. I prayed for a night safe from gale force winds and that tickling feeling that meant waking everyone up to be escorted to the distant toilet block by torchlight for a wee-wee.
As we grew so the dimensions of the caravan shrank dramatically. We progressed to a large awning giving extra living space, two additional 2-man tents and a Punch and Judy style toilet tent. Our encampment did occupy quite a large area plus the inevitable space for the inevitable Swingball. It was an impressive site sight.
Our summer holidays were usually to Scotland or Northumberland. A few chilly half term breaks were to the Lake District but flooded or snowbound ground meant that the awning and tents could not be pitched. I slept at such times in the estate car with the back seats down.
The caravan enabled us to have great family holidays until we, the children, were ready to do our own thing.
Upon preparing it to be sold we came across many souvenirs and familiar things in the storage lockers. This included a long line of Jamboree and Scouting Bunting , stickers and cloth badges, numerous pens and pencils, National Trust scribble pads and attraction guide books. There were numerous oddments of games such as travel scrabble and chess and a vast supply of medical supplies such as insect repellent and sticking plasters.
Most interesting was about half a ton of materials made up of piles of pebbles, sea shells, strange shaped stones and a fine film of sandy deposits from beaches all around the British Coast. In retrospect their removal from the caravan may have significantly increased the fuel economy of the family car in towing the miniature geological collection for the last 38 years.
The lady who came to view the old family caravan last week had been attracted by the promise of a cheap one in which I had euphemistically and romantically alluded to on GumTree as being ' perfect to start an adventure'.
She was however, and in politically correct speak, of incompatible proportions to said leisure vehicle.
She had to shimmy a bit sideways on to get through the doorway and I had clear visions of her having problems, in practical terms of actually holidaying in it , such as scorching her bum on the cooker during the process of just turning around slightly to get a tin of beans out of the top-locker cupboard behind.
Tactfully she intimated through a well practiced glance at her husband that she had really been looking for something a bit larger. I gracefully accepted their frank and honest opinion whilst having wicked thoughts about what would really meet her size requirements. Bus, Barn, B&Q Warehouse.
Secretly, inside I felt angry at their complete dismissal of the caravan which, for the last 38 years, had accommodated our family with exemplary distinction.
We had served a camping apprenticeship under canvas for many years. I have nightmares to this day about the night of the storm on the cliff top at Arisaig on the west coast of Scotland (later a location for the Local Hero movie), when my father had to park the VW Estate on the tent in conjunction with beach scavenged boulders to prevent us from being whisked away in the gale force winds. That is up there with my fear of flying ants after they populated our campsite and had to be thoroughly whacked with badminton racquets after swarming onto the tent flysheets. The tipping point for Mother came when, again in Scotland, it refused to stop raining for about ten days of our fortnight away and she presented an ultimatum to our Father that we book a bed and breakfast immediately in order to dry out our saturated souls.
This, I believe, was the catalyst for the purchase by my father, in 1975, of the caravan. That and the prospect of picking it up at a canny price in a bankruptcy sale of the exotically named company, for Grimsby, of Boomerang.
I was 12 years old at the time and mightily impressed by the new acquisition.
At that time I was convinced that only rich families could afford the luxury of a house on wheels. We had arrived in the smart set with our affluence displayed by it being parked on the driveway.
It smelt of freshly cut wood and this evocative odour persists to this day and never fails to take me back in time.
The interior seemed huge to me then. A single compartment with seating and tables at each end and separated by the side-by-side gas hob and sink unit and a wardrobe-like cupboard. Above head height, at least for an average sized twelve year old boy, was a bank of deep storage lockers and these were allocated to us siblings for our toys, books and games that would accompany us on the annual two week summer holiday and other seasonal breaks, weather permitting.
Other nooks and crannies under the bench seats took the bulkier items such as bedding and clothes. In the daytime the interior was comfortable and I loved nothing more than to be wedged into the outer corner of the seat in the big plastic bubble type front window and watch the world go by. There were, of course, chores to be done to help in the smooth operation of the holiday. On arrival at a site we all manhandled the caravan into position. I liked to wind down the stabilisers underneath onto the blocks of wood. Water had to be fetched from the utility block. We had huge plastic containers for this and it was a 2-child job to fill and then drag back. Imagine our amazement at the sight of a posh elderly couple with a water drum attached to wheels which could be pulled along like a golf trolley. The water supply to the caravan sink was operated by a rubber foot pump and it took some effort to get the pressure up for the tap to run..
Mealtimes were a bit more hectic. The small gas burners were overstretched to cater for our large family of 5 children and two adults plus, on occasion, a small friend as a guest. Mother worked miracles with re-hydrated Smash Mash and tinned mince beef.
Preparing for bedtime was another performance. If the camp site had a toilet building we would march there for a wash amongst the daddy long legs and perfumed disinfectant blocks. If not, for example on a remote Scottish Loch side pitch or if the weather was bad the whistling kettle had to come to the boil and the hot water rationed in the small stainless steel kitchen sink. It was a case of a lick and a promise with a flannel.
One end of the caravan, the childrens dormitory, went to bed first with the table top dropped to span the gap between the seats and padded out with the seat cushions. The bright orange flowery motif curtains, when closed, made everything really cosy. We had power from the battery in the car but only for a few hours and hazardous gas mantle wicks. These always had finger holes in them inspite of the known sanctions from poking them.
The eventual settling in of us children was followed by our parents going to bed at the other end. I think we must have all been asleep by about nine o'clock. I prayed for a night safe from gale force winds and that tickling feeling that meant waking everyone up to be escorted to the distant toilet block by torchlight for a wee-wee.
As we grew so the dimensions of the caravan shrank dramatically. We progressed to a large awning giving extra living space, two additional 2-man tents and a Punch and Judy style toilet tent. Our encampment did occupy quite a large area plus the inevitable space for the inevitable Swingball. It was an impressive site sight.
Our summer holidays were usually to Scotland or Northumberland. A few chilly half term breaks were to the Lake District but flooded or snowbound ground meant that the awning and tents could not be pitched. I slept at such times in the estate car with the back seats down.
The caravan enabled us to have great family holidays until we, the children, were ready to do our own thing.
Upon preparing it to be sold we came across many souvenirs and familiar things in the storage lockers. This included a long line of Jamboree and Scouting Bunting , stickers and cloth badges, numerous pens and pencils, National Trust scribble pads and attraction guide books. There were numerous oddments of games such as travel scrabble and chess and a vast supply of medical supplies such as insect repellent and sticking plasters.
Most interesting was about half a ton of materials made up of piles of pebbles, sea shells, strange shaped stones and a fine film of sandy deposits from beaches all around the British Coast. In retrospect their removal from the caravan may have significantly increased the fuel economy of the family car in towing the miniature geological collection for the last 38 years.
Tuesday 22 January 2013
Happy birthday to Ally
A short birthday message to my lovely wife, Allison
So, it’s here, somewhat inevitable but nevertheless it crept up very quickly.
So, when you were young you did not think you would make it this far,
So, convention says that your best years are behind you but you will prove them wrong,
So, you may feel that you have lost your girlish spirit but I know you have not,
So, you feel that time has passed you by but you have lived every second to the full,
So, you expected to have more in your universe , but look who you brought into the world.
So, where is all that ‘me’ time? Well, it is lavished on others who are richer for it,
So, you have not done everything you expected. There is plenty of time for that going ahead,
So, you are not the one asking but the person to whom others look for wisdom and experience,
So, you may feel tired and without energy but you are actually very much in your prime,
So, you feel you have had your best half century already but it really starts today,
50, and counting.
Monday 21 January 2013
Pick your Nose
A terrible thing has happened to a local landmark.
I have spoken before about the nearby local public area known as Little Switzerland. This is a large former chalk quarry in the shadow of the north bank tower of the Humber Bridge. In conjunction with the accommodation of visitors coming to see the engineering marvel that stretches the River Humber, even after being relegated some way down the rankings of the world's longest single span, the derelict workings were landscaped and made fully accessible for recreation as a Country Park.
The configuration of the park is like a figure of eight or jokingly, a zero with a belt on. The northern side is in a steep tree lined bank running up to the main road. The western edge sweeps around in a more precipitous green algae covered chalk cliff below a large office park. To the east is a further face of soil and rock partly under the suspended roadway of the Bridge itself. The south side is hemmed in by the parallel course of the main railway link to Hull and the very busy A63 dual carriageway.
Most visitors approach from the river foreshore through two underpasses corresponding to the main transport axis but there is stepped access of a more challenging nature up the steeper slopes.
The first sight on entering by the most popular route is a large, about 60 feet high, bright white chalk promontory. In profile it is a bit like a scaled down Sphinx with forehead, nasal protusion and sweeping overhang of a chin. The shape is topped with a sort of mud and vegetation toupee.
The public pathway formed from railway sleepers, butted up close, passes just under the miniature wannabee Sphinx. An information board attesting to the origins of the minerals forming the cliff from the bed of a pre-prehistoric tropical ocean does mean that visitors dwell and linger in this position. Well, I mean that the parents and grandparents do and read the legend aloud but their offspring and charges have long since lost interest and wandered off to non-educational and therefore infinitely more interesting attractions.
In the summer months I have seen groups climbing and abseiling up and down the soft chalk face in a well supervised and safe manner. At other times mischievous youths have clambered up and got stuck. Their descent has been involuntary and not in good stlye. I have not been up that part myself but suspect that it actually feels much higher than it looks from ground level.
On occasion, following heavy rain or frost and snow there has been a collection of small rocks intermingled with bits of vegetation that have worked loose from the precipice and rolled down to nestle at the foot of the information display board. These are generally insignificant and silent expulsions which have had no influence of the striking profile of the feature. I expect that they were also unwitnessed by human eyes nor heard by human ears.
However, following the inclement weather through December and early 2013 the chalk has been assaulted by rain, snow and wind with the inevitable consequence that the whole of the bulbous projection has collapsed to the ground.
It is a sorry but also awesome sight. The lower slopes are strewn with large bright white and flint embedded boulders. It is the scene of a rock fall avalanche. It will not have been a silent event but I was not aware either by rumour, hearsay or an official announcement that something of this magnitude had happened.
I approached the largest piece of fallen debris. The chalk on the surface was almost powdery soft and saturated with moisture. It is probably the case that the cliff face simply dissolved in the elements and lost all semblance of structural form. A few amateur geologists were picking through the rocks. Their sentiment was short lived in anticipation of the collapse exposing something of interest from the entombment from primordial times.
It has been a drastic event. If the same had happened to a landmark building then an Appeal and campaign would already be well under way. However, being a natural landform its failure and demise is put down to erosion and an Act of God.
A walk into the Country Park will never be the same again. When the children were younger and the dogs active we were up there just about on a daily basis and that headland was special to us. At different angles and in varying shades of light, with our eyes screwed up in a squint or wide open in amazement it often took on the form of an enigmatic creature, perhaps a lion or a cat or a human head with a good strong nose which, unlike the Sphinx, had until recent events been its best feature.
I have spoken before about the nearby local public area known as Little Switzerland. This is a large former chalk quarry in the shadow of the north bank tower of the Humber Bridge. In conjunction with the accommodation of visitors coming to see the engineering marvel that stretches the River Humber, even after being relegated some way down the rankings of the world's longest single span, the derelict workings were landscaped and made fully accessible for recreation as a Country Park.
The configuration of the park is like a figure of eight or jokingly, a zero with a belt on. The northern side is in a steep tree lined bank running up to the main road. The western edge sweeps around in a more precipitous green algae covered chalk cliff below a large office park. To the east is a further face of soil and rock partly under the suspended roadway of the Bridge itself. The south side is hemmed in by the parallel course of the main railway link to Hull and the very busy A63 dual carriageway.
Most visitors approach from the river foreshore through two underpasses corresponding to the main transport axis but there is stepped access of a more challenging nature up the steeper slopes.
The first sight on entering by the most popular route is a large, about 60 feet high, bright white chalk promontory. In profile it is a bit like a scaled down Sphinx with forehead, nasal protusion and sweeping overhang of a chin. The shape is topped with a sort of mud and vegetation toupee.
The public pathway formed from railway sleepers, butted up close, passes just under the miniature wannabee Sphinx. An information board attesting to the origins of the minerals forming the cliff from the bed of a pre-prehistoric tropical ocean does mean that visitors dwell and linger in this position. Well, I mean that the parents and grandparents do and read the legend aloud but their offspring and charges have long since lost interest and wandered off to non-educational and therefore infinitely more interesting attractions.
In the summer months I have seen groups climbing and abseiling up and down the soft chalk face in a well supervised and safe manner. At other times mischievous youths have clambered up and got stuck. Their descent has been involuntary and not in good stlye. I have not been up that part myself but suspect that it actually feels much higher than it looks from ground level.
On occasion, following heavy rain or frost and snow there has been a collection of small rocks intermingled with bits of vegetation that have worked loose from the precipice and rolled down to nestle at the foot of the information display board. These are generally insignificant and silent expulsions which have had no influence of the striking profile of the feature. I expect that they were also unwitnessed by human eyes nor heard by human ears.
However, following the inclement weather through December and early 2013 the chalk has been assaulted by rain, snow and wind with the inevitable consequence that the whole of the bulbous projection has collapsed to the ground.
It is a sorry but also awesome sight. The lower slopes are strewn with large bright white and flint embedded boulders. It is the scene of a rock fall avalanche. It will not have been a silent event but I was not aware either by rumour, hearsay or an official announcement that something of this magnitude had happened.
I approached the largest piece of fallen debris. The chalk on the surface was almost powdery soft and saturated with moisture. It is probably the case that the cliff face simply dissolved in the elements and lost all semblance of structural form. A few amateur geologists were picking through the rocks. Their sentiment was short lived in anticipation of the collapse exposing something of interest from the entombment from primordial times.
It has been a drastic event. If the same had happened to a landmark building then an Appeal and campaign would already be well under way. However, being a natural landform its failure and demise is put down to erosion and an Act of God.
A walk into the Country Park will never be the same again. When the children were younger and the dogs active we were up there just about on a daily basis and that headland was special to us. At different angles and in varying shades of light, with our eyes screwed up in a squint or wide open in amazement it often took on the form of an enigmatic creature, perhaps a lion or a cat or a human head with a good strong nose which, unlike the Sphinx, had until recent events been its best feature.
Sunday 20 January 2013
Willy Wonka
I rode about everywhere on my bike in my early 20's.
This was partly out of necessity because I did, not at that time, have use of a car nor in fact, and of more relevance, had I taken a driving test.
At that age when there is an overwhelming sense of immortality and invincibility and with a bit of fitness it was no problem just setting off with a water bottle, spares and a rain cape stuffed into the back pockets of my racing jersey and seeing where the roads and prevailing winds would take you. Fully loaded up to cope with most eventualities I did resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame.
For recreation and what I loosely termed 'training' as I did participate in competitive cycle racing I could be quite ambitious in the distances covered although my common experience of being at the farthest possible point from home with no food, drink and a handful of loose change many might call recklessness.
Still, I did not have to make that phone call to my Father to be rescued or cadge a lift from anyone. It was just a case of fighting the hunger knock, hallucinations and fatigue and getting into a bit of a pedalling rhythm to cover the miles.
The proud boast about not calling for assistance is not strictly true.
I rode back to East Yorkshire from Nottingham where I was a student on a regular basis and in good calm weather I could do this in around 4 hours which, for a distance of 90 miles by the back roads through Newark, Lincoln and Brigg was surprisingly good.
I attempted the same journey on a Saturday during mid February. Leaving the Trent Bridge area of Nottingham in conditions of light snow and sleet I was soon battling a strong and persistent head wind from the north east. I can cope with heat and rain when cycling but an unfavourable wind is horrible.
After ten hours of what can only be described as frantic, desperate and inadvisable head down riding I had only reached the Humber Bridge crossing. The wind had turned more to the east and increased in speed to a level that caused the Bridge Board to close the carriageway to high sided traffic.
In order to cope with the now cross-wind I had to dismount and push my bike up the gradient of the bridge from the south bank. The wind was so strong that to proceed on foot and brace against being blown over involved walking and holding the bike at an acute angle so that I resembled an inverted 'V'. T
There was brief respite behind the large concrete blocks into which the suspension cables were secured and in the shelter of the main towers although on leaving the lee-side I was catapulted forward in the full, swirling maelstrom of the gale force.That was quite unnerving.
This last two miles of elevated road finished me off and I had no energy left to cope with the final 8 miles to Beverley. It was also getting dark and I had not accounted for the need to bring lights for what had always been more of a short hop than a long slog. I had after all reckoned that with an 8am departure I would be home for a late lunch.
The arrival of my Father in the car park of the visitor centre was a most welcome sight. I however was certainly not much of a pleasant sight. My face was red raw with the wind. The exertion over the previous hours had caved in my cheeks and my eyes were deep set, in shadow and looked as though I had been in a fight. Dried salt from the sweat of effort caked my forehead, cheeks and chin. The family dog would later revel in licking my face and so address quite efficiently a sodium deficiency.
My clothing was baggy and damp. I can recommend a ten hour cycle to those looking to lose weight but perhaps attempting it in a single action is not the healthiest way to do it.
A hot bath awaited me at the house. As I lowered myself in to the welcoming warm bubbles I felt a mixture of emotions and bodily sensations. I found myself weeping with relief at getting through the self imposed ordeal.
My feet and toes were numb from cold and insertion into the steaming water caused a great deal of discomfort. Even more alarming was my observation that my genitals had somehow disappeared into my scrotum and I was only reassured some hours later when they popped back out again at room temperature.
Apparently, I had inadvertently discovered a genetic trait amongst the male human species whereby the undercarriage retracts when faced with peril, stress or adversity. I could empathise with my distant ancestors although I appreciate that I had only been on a tough bike ride on a cold day and not, as may have been the case in pre-history, chased down by the likes of a sabre toothed tiger or similar carnivore with a blood lust.
This was partly out of necessity because I did, not at that time, have use of a car nor in fact, and of more relevance, had I taken a driving test.
At that age when there is an overwhelming sense of immortality and invincibility and with a bit of fitness it was no problem just setting off with a water bottle, spares and a rain cape stuffed into the back pockets of my racing jersey and seeing where the roads and prevailing winds would take you. Fully loaded up to cope with most eventualities I did resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame.
For recreation and what I loosely termed 'training' as I did participate in competitive cycle racing I could be quite ambitious in the distances covered although my common experience of being at the farthest possible point from home with no food, drink and a handful of loose change many might call recklessness.
Still, I did not have to make that phone call to my Father to be rescued or cadge a lift from anyone. It was just a case of fighting the hunger knock, hallucinations and fatigue and getting into a bit of a pedalling rhythm to cover the miles.
The proud boast about not calling for assistance is not strictly true.
I rode back to East Yorkshire from Nottingham where I was a student on a regular basis and in good calm weather I could do this in around 4 hours which, for a distance of 90 miles by the back roads through Newark, Lincoln and Brigg was surprisingly good.
I attempted the same journey on a Saturday during mid February. Leaving the Trent Bridge area of Nottingham in conditions of light snow and sleet I was soon battling a strong and persistent head wind from the north east. I can cope with heat and rain when cycling but an unfavourable wind is horrible.
After ten hours of what can only be described as frantic, desperate and inadvisable head down riding I had only reached the Humber Bridge crossing. The wind had turned more to the east and increased in speed to a level that caused the Bridge Board to close the carriageway to high sided traffic.
In order to cope with the now cross-wind I had to dismount and push my bike up the gradient of the bridge from the south bank. The wind was so strong that to proceed on foot and brace against being blown over involved walking and holding the bike at an acute angle so that I resembled an inverted 'V'. T
There was brief respite behind the large concrete blocks into which the suspension cables were secured and in the shelter of the main towers although on leaving the lee-side I was catapulted forward in the full, swirling maelstrom of the gale force.That was quite unnerving.
This last two miles of elevated road finished me off and I had no energy left to cope with the final 8 miles to Beverley. It was also getting dark and I had not accounted for the need to bring lights for what had always been more of a short hop than a long slog. I had after all reckoned that with an 8am departure I would be home for a late lunch.
The arrival of my Father in the car park of the visitor centre was a most welcome sight. I however was certainly not much of a pleasant sight. My face was red raw with the wind. The exertion over the previous hours had caved in my cheeks and my eyes were deep set, in shadow and looked as though I had been in a fight. Dried salt from the sweat of effort caked my forehead, cheeks and chin. The family dog would later revel in licking my face and so address quite efficiently a sodium deficiency.
My clothing was baggy and damp. I can recommend a ten hour cycle to those looking to lose weight but perhaps attempting it in a single action is not the healthiest way to do it.
A hot bath awaited me at the house. As I lowered myself in to the welcoming warm bubbles I felt a mixture of emotions and bodily sensations. I found myself weeping with relief at getting through the self imposed ordeal.
My feet and toes were numb from cold and insertion into the steaming water caused a great deal of discomfort. Even more alarming was my observation that my genitals had somehow disappeared into my scrotum and I was only reassured some hours later when they popped back out again at room temperature.
Apparently, I had inadvertently discovered a genetic trait amongst the male human species whereby the undercarriage retracts when faced with peril, stress or adversity. I could empathise with my distant ancestors although I appreciate that I had only been on a tough bike ride on a cold day and not, as may have been the case in pre-history, chased down by the likes of a sabre toothed tiger or similar carnivore with a blood lust.
Saturday 19 January 2013
His Masters Voice. Muted
Hanging out in a record shop was an important part of growing up.
It didn't matter if there was any intention or ability to actually buy anything. It was more a case of just being seen by your peer group and hoping that the first vinyl album your lifted out of the rack and studied intensely was not by Abba, Bing Crosby or St Winifreds School Choir, just to mention three possibles, randomly, completely and in no way in any order that could have happened in real life to anyone, ever.
I grew up in a small town of population about 5000 so when I say record shop I really mean the record counter in the old Woolworths. It took a trip to the nearest large town or a special excursion including a paddle steamer crossing of a major river to the regional city to reach a proper, bona fide, dedicated record store. These were, regrettably, infrequent experiences given the time, effort and cost involved.
I admit that I was a slow starter in showing any determined interest in music, or at least music other than in the collection of my parents. This did have some merits, a broad selection from Sandie Shaw to Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band, James Last and his Orchestra to The Chipmunks sing the Beatles.
To my recollection I was never witness to my parents buying a record from a shop although from time to time a large package would arrive at the house bearing the Readers Digest Record Club logo. In a stout box would be a themed series of large 33 rpm albums such as tunes from the movies or indicative of a certain trend or period in music from the 1950's and subsequent decades.
Pocket money budgets did determine what sort of records we could buy as children. The 'Music for Pleasure' releases, their covers suggesting a Top of the Pops quality were not by the authentic artists. I know not where they came from or who made them although if you listened very carefully you could, I am convinced, hear a bus passing in the street outside the recording venue or a door opening and closing. They were really that poor in every aspect. The soft porn images of scantily clad leggy ladies was perhaps a saving grace for the whole operation.
Cringingly I would play these versions to my friends thinking I was trendy and in tune with the latest sounds. I then moved onto albums of theme music from TV programmes and War Films. Looking back now I was terribly unfashionable and so far away from what my peer group were into at the time.
My first real album was a second hand purchase of Blondie- Paralell Lines. I wore this out from very frequent plays and in my adolescent mind I really thought that I had single handedly discovered the band and was solely responsible for their success in England.
My upbringing was in a loving and safe environment but for that it was very sheltered and I was naïve and impressionable. When my friends started to listen to and introduce me to the likes of Led Zeppelin, Queen and some heavy stuff such as Coliseum and Black Sabbath I felt as though I was betraying my parents and everything they stood for and had instilled in me.
It was, to me, very subversive music in sound, language and intent. The late 1970's was a great time to be into music and in the period of a few short years I experimented with disco (yes, I did), Punk, New Wave, New Romantics and finally settled on the Mod Movement. This was aided by wearing one of my Father's old work suits, grey and shiny, along with one of his thin ties, starched collar shirts and brown brogues. The suit swamped me. It was necessary to wear braces at their shortest setting in order that the tapered legs just hung above the shoes. This meant that the waist band was somewhere on my upper torso. The shoes were at least two sizes too small and after an evening at the village hall disco I could hardly walk.
The weekly hang-out in the record shop was an essential part of growing up and to help to decide in what direction your musical and social interests would go. We learnt that a common interest in music, whatever the genre, bridged any potential divisions of class, upbringing, outlook and opportunities that may be present, albeit through no fault of our own. Knowing the words, by heart, of a certain song could be an introduction to a new group of friends. A shared loyalty to a band broke down many barriers. You never forget the excitement and anticipation of the impending release of a new album or the tragedy in your own small world when your band announced a split up. I was for a short time quite popular because, on a Tuesday, when I went home from school for my dinner I was able to return with news of the weekly pop chart before anyone else knew the outcome.
I am therefore sad and disappointed with the closure this week of the HMV record store chain. This mega-organisation killed off the majority of the Independent Record Shops in its ascendancy on the High Street and now falls victim itself to the internet and e-commerce giants who have captured the market.
I am distraught for the youth of today who have been deprived of partaking in the equivalent of what was the highlight of my week at that age. There are other places for the youth of today to hang out of course, the mall, video game store and coffee shop but they are cold, insensitive and impersonal places and of no value whatsoever in the all important and character forming experiences of life.
It didn't matter if there was any intention or ability to actually buy anything. It was more a case of just being seen by your peer group and hoping that the first vinyl album your lifted out of the rack and studied intensely was not by Abba, Bing Crosby or St Winifreds School Choir, just to mention three possibles, randomly, completely and in no way in any order that could have happened in real life to anyone, ever.
I grew up in a small town of population about 5000 so when I say record shop I really mean the record counter in the old Woolworths. It took a trip to the nearest large town or a special excursion including a paddle steamer crossing of a major river to the regional city to reach a proper, bona fide, dedicated record store. These were, regrettably, infrequent experiences given the time, effort and cost involved.
I admit that I was a slow starter in showing any determined interest in music, or at least music other than in the collection of my parents. This did have some merits, a broad selection from Sandie Shaw to Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band, James Last and his Orchestra to The Chipmunks sing the Beatles.
To my recollection I was never witness to my parents buying a record from a shop although from time to time a large package would arrive at the house bearing the Readers Digest Record Club logo. In a stout box would be a themed series of large 33 rpm albums such as tunes from the movies or indicative of a certain trend or period in music from the 1950's and subsequent decades.
Pocket money budgets did determine what sort of records we could buy as children. The 'Music for Pleasure' releases, their covers suggesting a Top of the Pops quality were not by the authentic artists. I know not where they came from or who made them although if you listened very carefully you could, I am convinced, hear a bus passing in the street outside the recording venue or a door opening and closing. They were really that poor in every aspect. The soft porn images of scantily clad leggy ladies was perhaps a saving grace for the whole operation.
Cringingly I would play these versions to my friends thinking I was trendy and in tune with the latest sounds. I then moved onto albums of theme music from TV programmes and War Films. Looking back now I was terribly unfashionable and so far away from what my peer group were into at the time.
My first real album was a second hand purchase of Blondie- Paralell Lines. I wore this out from very frequent plays and in my adolescent mind I really thought that I had single handedly discovered the band and was solely responsible for their success in England.
My upbringing was in a loving and safe environment but for that it was very sheltered and I was naïve and impressionable. When my friends started to listen to and introduce me to the likes of Led Zeppelin, Queen and some heavy stuff such as Coliseum and Black Sabbath I felt as though I was betraying my parents and everything they stood for and had instilled in me.
It was, to me, very subversive music in sound, language and intent. The late 1970's was a great time to be into music and in the period of a few short years I experimented with disco (yes, I did), Punk, New Wave, New Romantics and finally settled on the Mod Movement. This was aided by wearing one of my Father's old work suits, grey and shiny, along with one of his thin ties, starched collar shirts and brown brogues. The suit swamped me. It was necessary to wear braces at their shortest setting in order that the tapered legs just hung above the shoes. This meant that the waist band was somewhere on my upper torso. The shoes were at least two sizes too small and after an evening at the village hall disco I could hardly walk.
The weekly hang-out in the record shop was an essential part of growing up and to help to decide in what direction your musical and social interests would go. We learnt that a common interest in music, whatever the genre, bridged any potential divisions of class, upbringing, outlook and opportunities that may be present, albeit through no fault of our own. Knowing the words, by heart, of a certain song could be an introduction to a new group of friends. A shared loyalty to a band broke down many barriers. You never forget the excitement and anticipation of the impending release of a new album or the tragedy in your own small world when your band announced a split up. I was for a short time quite popular because, on a Tuesday, when I went home from school for my dinner I was able to return with news of the weekly pop chart before anyone else knew the outcome.
I am therefore sad and disappointed with the closure this week of the HMV record store chain. This mega-organisation killed off the majority of the Independent Record Shops in its ascendancy on the High Street and now falls victim itself to the internet and e-commerce giants who have captured the market.
I am distraught for the youth of today who have been deprived of partaking in the equivalent of what was the highlight of my week at that age. There are other places for the youth of today to hang out of course, the mall, video game store and coffee shop but they are cold, insensitive and impersonal places and of no value whatsoever in the all important and character forming experiences of life.
Friday 18 January 2013
Hobby Horse
Yes, I think that I would eat horsemeat.
In fact I am convinced that on a school trip to France in the 1970's I was fed horse as a main course during one of those large host family gatherings and long, leisurely meals which are decried by the English as being typically French but secretly we, as a nation, yearn for the time and social skills to partake in something similar here. It was a bit chewy and grisly but flavoursome in a sweet sort of way.
The controversy this week that burgers supplied to the largest UK supermarkets were found to contain a small amount of horse has touched a bit of a nerve.
Notwithstanding the evaporation of any trust and loyalty we may have had as customers of the named outlets, well at least until it is time to actually go shopping, I feel that a good proportion of the outcry has been because of our attitude to horses themselves.
Is it right and proper to eat, whether unknowingly or not, a creature that has contributed to our economic and social growth, carried us to and from home and to battle, achieved almost mythical status as in the case of the famous steeds of our historical figures and even won us a few quid in a sporting arena? We have no qualms about consumption of beef, pork, lamb and chicken because they are principally bred for their meat and not any other characteristic, in spite of an element of charm and cuteness in some cases, mainly frolicking spring lambs, wobbly new born calves and scampering little piggies.
The horse is held particularly in part reverence and part fear by the English. The former is more than evident when coming across a horse and rider on our road network. Traffic grinds to a crawl to furtively pass by something with the combined girth of a fat man on a bicycle but yet the same care and diligence is not afforded to a fat man on a bicycle. There may be a few thousand points to be earned from a cheery, appreciative wave from a high-viz clad, firm thighed stick of a lass on top of the animal or an equally withering stare and hand signal if there is any suggestion of less than suitable respect being shown.
We fear horses because, lets face it they are big, heavy and muscley added to which they are skittish and unpredictable. Ask a striking miner or a Molotov throwing anarchist what figures amongst their most terrifying experiences and I am sure that facing a line of mounted riot police preparing to charge would be right up there. Even more likely to strike panic into small children than to ask them to walk past an unruly dog is asking them to walk behind a horse. A swift kick can be the result of an approach from the blind side, or at least the fear of such is sanction enough to give a very wide clearance.
Some distant relatives had a farm with horses and I remember clearly being a bit in awe of a beast close-up and even more so when allowed to sit on and astride it. I can appreciate from this very limited exposure that riding a horse is quite a dangerous thing even on the flat. Add to the equation a few hurdles, varied terrain, low tree boughs and every manner of potential noise and disturbance and it is a case of taking your life into your own hands in the name of recreation .
A horse formed a major asset for households in the 17th and 18th centuries as a means of transport for the better off , or to haul a cart or wagon by which the artisans and tradespersons could earn a living but was not indispensable being regularly traded and replaced as age, infirmity or economics dictated.
Stables in the cities and towns lent out horses for hire if a journey over a short distance was a necessity. If owners were not able to accommodate their horses within their own properties then business opportunities arose for liveried stables. Old sepia tint photographs of most urban streets of the late 19th and into the early 20th century often featured piles of horse dung and yet another allied commercial opportunity for this to be collected up and sold as manure.
Horses have had excellent endorsements in literature, for example, Black Beauty, on TV with such tear jerkers as 'On White Horses' and Follyfoot and the recent blockbuster movie and stage play of War Horse.
Most city centres have a statue of a mounted hero and the names of famous horses are well known. Try these as a bit of a quiz. Bucephalus (A t G), Copenhagen (D of W), Marengo (N B), Black Bess (D T) , Trigger (R R) and Hercules (S and S). Someone did tell me about the significance of the pose and number of legs in the air for an equine statue to the fate of the depicted dignatory, ie killed in battle or never actually partaking in any conflict.
So, the chain of events that led to the detection of horsemeat in our everyday food, has forced us, as a nation to examine our position and regard for these proud and dignified animals. We should remember that they are not immortal and often end up in the knackers yard to be processed for a range of products from glue to an ingredient in feedstuffs.
As I sat at the head of a line of traffic, just today, behind a slow moving horse I admit that I did lick my lips in anticipation of a juicy steak made from its ample rump and haunches which ranged about in front of me.
In fact I am convinced that on a school trip to France in the 1970's I was fed horse as a main course during one of those large host family gatherings and long, leisurely meals which are decried by the English as being typically French but secretly we, as a nation, yearn for the time and social skills to partake in something similar here. It was a bit chewy and grisly but flavoursome in a sweet sort of way.
The controversy this week that burgers supplied to the largest UK supermarkets were found to contain a small amount of horse has touched a bit of a nerve.
Notwithstanding the evaporation of any trust and loyalty we may have had as customers of the named outlets, well at least until it is time to actually go shopping, I feel that a good proportion of the outcry has been because of our attitude to horses themselves.
Is it right and proper to eat, whether unknowingly or not, a creature that has contributed to our economic and social growth, carried us to and from home and to battle, achieved almost mythical status as in the case of the famous steeds of our historical figures and even won us a few quid in a sporting arena? We have no qualms about consumption of beef, pork, lamb and chicken because they are principally bred for their meat and not any other characteristic, in spite of an element of charm and cuteness in some cases, mainly frolicking spring lambs, wobbly new born calves and scampering little piggies.
The horse is held particularly in part reverence and part fear by the English. The former is more than evident when coming across a horse and rider on our road network. Traffic grinds to a crawl to furtively pass by something with the combined girth of a fat man on a bicycle but yet the same care and diligence is not afforded to a fat man on a bicycle. There may be a few thousand points to be earned from a cheery, appreciative wave from a high-viz clad, firm thighed stick of a lass on top of the animal or an equally withering stare and hand signal if there is any suggestion of less than suitable respect being shown.
We fear horses because, lets face it they are big, heavy and muscley added to which they are skittish and unpredictable. Ask a striking miner or a Molotov throwing anarchist what figures amongst their most terrifying experiences and I am sure that facing a line of mounted riot police preparing to charge would be right up there. Even more likely to strike panic into small children than to ask them to walk past an unruly dog is asking them to walk behind a horse. A swift kick can be the result of an approach from the blind side, or at least the fear of such is sanction enough to give a very wide clearance.
Some distant relatives had a farm with horses and I remember clearly being a bit in awe of a beast close-up and even more so when allowed to sit on and astride it. I can appreciate from this very limited exposure that riding a horse is quite a dangerous thing even on the flat. Add to the equation a few hurdles, varied terrain, low tree boughs and every manner of potential noise and disturbance and it is a case of taking your life into your own hands in the name of recreation .
A horse formed a major asset for households in the 17th and 18th centuries as a means of transport for the better off , or to haul a cart or wagon by which the artisans and tradespersons could earn a living but was not indispensable being regularly traded and replaced as age, infirmity or economics dictated.
Stables in the cities and towns lent out horses for hire if a journey over a short distance was a necessity. If owners were not able to accommodate their horses within their own properties then business opportunities arose for liveried stables. Old sepia tint photographs of most urban streets of the late 19th and into the early 20th century often featured piles of horse dung and yet another allied commercial opportunity for this to be collected up and sold as manure.
Horses have had excellent endorsements in literature, for example, Black Beauty, on TV with such tear jerkers as 'On White Horses' and Follyfoot and the recent blockbuster movie and stage play of War Horse.
Most city centres have a statue of a mounted hero and the names of famous horses are well known. Try these as a bit of a quiz. Bucephalus (A t G), Copenhagen (D of W), Marengo (N B), Black Bess (D T) , Trigger (R R) and Hercules (S and S). Someone did tell me about the significance of the pose and number of legs in the air for an equine statue to the fate of the depicted dignatory, ie killed in battle or never actually partaking in any conflict.
So, the chain of events that led to the detection of horsemeat in our everyday food, has forced us, as a nation to examine our position and regard for these proud and dignified animals. We should remember that they are not immortal and often end up in the knackers yard to be processed for a range of products from glue to an ingredient in feedstuffs.
As I sat at the head of a line of traffic, just today, behind a slow moving horse I admit that I did lick my lips in anticipation of a juicy steak made from its ample rump and haunches which ranged about in front of me.
Thursday 17 January 2013
It's Chemistry
It was, first and foremost a test.
If you, as the proud recipient of a childrens' chemistry set, survived the experience of playing with it relatively unscathed then there was really nothing left in the world to cause you trouble for the rest of your growing years.
The reason for parents to put their offspring in harms way and at risk of injury to life and limb in such a way was perhaps to arouse an interest in science and that this may perhaps lead to a career path and livelihood.
Science in the 1970's when I was young was a new frontier. The Moon landings spawned many technologies which gradually filtered down as commercial products into everyday life. A computer in the home was still some way off unless you could spare a large room for the hardware suitably insulated against the heat generated by its operation and the noise from the cumbersome spinning drives and mechanical connections. The breakneck speed of computer development would soon mean that the best equipment in their day would soon be superceded by something as small and portable as a mobile phone.
A boxed chemistry set was a good introduction to all things scientific.
I got one for Christmas when I was about 10 years old. It came in a very large, rectangular but shallow box, wrapped in cellophane and with images of goggle-clad youngsters marvelling at the contents of a test tube.
The opening of the box lid revealed a wondrous sight. In vacuum formed polystyrene lay phials of crystals and powders. These were coarse granular or very fine in size and of a range of colours from the distinctive blue of copper sulphate to reddish manganese and back to bright white alum and chlorides.
In other smaller containers were pieces of magnesium ribbon, petrified wood and charcoal. Amongst the regular shapes was the contrasting bulbous glass burner with a rope wick projecting through the top. When filled with meths or white spirit (not included) and ignited it would spew forth a noxious black smoke and apparently with no actual production of meaningful heat.
A few tools were included consisting of spatulas, scoops, measuring spoons and wooden tapers. A plastic rack could be extracted from the packaging and be loaded up with sparkling test tubes. It was very tempting just to open up all the chemicals and expose them to a flame or other forms of stress and pressure but a condition of receiving the chemistry set was to sit patiently and read through, thoroughly and fully understand and appreciate the safety manual and instruction booklet. It was not fair. If I had been given a bike as a present instead I could have been riding about on it immediately, but no. The contents of the box demanded respect and caution. After all, some of the substances were poisonous or at best highly combustible.
After a few hours of tedious attention to guidelines and practice notes the only initiation into the wonderful world of chemistry now possible with my bedtime imminent was dipping a strip of litmus paper into my mug of drinking chocolate to see what ph level it recorded. The box was firmly closed by my parents and could not be opened until the next day.
That night I dreamed of explosions, toxic gas clouds and mayhem, all created by my sharp scientific mind and the cocktail of substances now at my disposal. In reality the range of experiments possible was quite tame.
Holding a strip of magnesium in Mother's best eyebrow tweezers I ignited it and marvelled at its intense white radiance. That image must have burned onto my retina as I continued to see the same light in everything for the remainder of the day. That did seem to be the most exciting thing out of the whole assembly.
In the proceeding days I misused and abused all of the contents. Test tubes, pristine when new, became blackened with soot from being held with forceps in the pungent flame of the meths burner. The chemicals with the lowest melting points did just that - melted and solidified to such an extent that I had to throw away the spoiled test tube and residues. There was some interest in the fizzing expansion of bicarbonate of soda but to be honest I had seen a better reaction from a teaspoon of Andrew's Liver Salts stirred into orange squash.
I did try to grow some crystals in the recommended solution of Isinglass which my grandparents told me had been used in the war to preserve eggs. This entailed trying to find the stuff in the local shops. The tin of Isinglass that was eventually found in Liptons Stores in town looked as though it had indeed sat at the back of a shelf since the early 1940's. The first step in crystal growing was making a concentrate with the blue copper sulphate and boiling it down until small crystalline shapes could be seen. The best ones were then meticulously tied up in a length of cotton and suspended in the Isinglass in a jam jar. Talk about watching paint dry. That would have been positively dynamic compared to the slow development of anything resembling a classic crystal shape in that jam jar.
It was not long before the inside of the chemistry set box resembled a complete mess of broken and stained glass , scattered or missing items, It was a complete mess.
I lost any interest in a career in chemistry at that point.
A few of my fellow pupils persisted in their home experiments and a couple of them went on to much greater things.
It was not too much of an advance for one particularly bright lad to start to develop a line in hallucinogenic drugs which was never going to end well for him.
Another of my contemporaries used his Father's credit card to purchase large amounts of seemingly random ingredients which arrived by post and carrier on an almost daily basis to his house. When combined and refined in exact quantities in his garden shed they became a most potent explosive. His persistence in encouraging chemical reactions displayed itself in his frequent late arrival for classes with a pockmarked, scabby or freshly blooded face and minus his eyebrows as a consequence of the timber shed being blown apart with him in it. I am not sure what he eventually went on to do with his life, if indeed he actually survived his dangerous adolescent years at all.
If you, as the proud recipient of a childrens' chemistry set, survived the experience of playing with it relatively unscathed then there was really nothing left in the world to cause you trouble for the rest of your growing years.
The reason for parents to put their offspring in harms way and at risk of injury to life and limb in such a way was perhaps to arouse an interest in science and that this may perhaps lead to a career path and livelihood.
Science in the 1970's when I was young was a new frontier. The Moon landings spawned many technologies which gradually filtered down as commercial products into everyday life. A computer in the home was still some way off unless you could spare a large room for the hardware suitably insulated against the heat generated by its operation and the noise from the cumbersome spinning drives and mechanical connections. The breakneck speed of computer development would soon mean that the best equipment in their day would soon be superceded by something as small and portable as a mobile phone.
A boxed chemistry set was a good introduction to all things scientific.
I got one for Christmas when I was about 10 years old. It came in a very large, rectangular but shallow box, wrapped in cellophane and with images of goggle-clad youngsters marvelling at the contents of a test tube.
The opening of the box lid revealed a wondrous sight. In vacuum formed polystyrene lay phials of crystals and powders. These were coarse granular or very fine in size and of a range of colours from the distinctive blue of copper sulphate to reddish manganese and back to bright white alum and chlorides.
In other smaller containers were pieces of magnesium ribbon, petrified wood and charcoal. Amongst the regular shapes was the contrasting bulbous glass burner with a rope wick projecting through the top. When filled with meths or white spirit (not included) and ignited it would spew forth a noxious black smoke and apparently with no actual production of meaningful heat.
A few tools were included consisting of spatulas, scoops, measuring spoons and wooden tapers. A plastic rack could be extracted from the packaging and be loaded up with sparkling test tubes. It was very tempting just to open up all the chemicals and expose them to a flame or other forms of stress and pressure but a condition of receiving the chemistry set was to sit patiently and read through, thoroughly and fully understand and appreciate the safety manual and instruction booklet. It was not fair. If I had been given a bike as a present instead I could have been riding about on it immediately, but no. The contents of the box demanded respect and caution. After all, some of the substances were poisonous or at best highly combustible.
After a few hours of tedious attention to guidelines and practice notes the only initiation into the wonderful world of chemistry now possible with my bedtime imminent was dipping a strip of litmus paper into my mug of drinking chocolate to see what ph level it recorded. The box was firmly closed by my parents and could not be opened until the next day.
That night I dreamed of explosions, toxic gas clouds and mayhem, all created by my sharp scientific mind and the cocktail of substances now at my disposal. In reality the range of experiments possible was quite tame.
Holding a strip of magnesium in Mother's best eyebrow tweezers I ignited it and marvelled at its intense white radiance. That image must have burned onto my retina as I continued to see the same light in everything for the remainder of the day. That did seem to be the most exciting thing out of the whole assembly.
In the proceeding days I misused and abused all of the contents. Test tubes, pristine when new, became blackened with soot from being held with forceps in the pungent flame of the meths burner. The chemicals with the lowest melting points did just that - melted and solidified to such an extent that I had to throw away the spoiled test tube and residues. There was some interest in the fizzing expansion of bicarbonate of soda but to be honest I had seen a better reaction from a teaspoon of Andrew's Liver Salts stirred into orange squash.
I did try to grow some crystals in the recommended solution of Isinglass which my grandparents told me had been used in the war to preserve eggs. This entailed trying to find the stuff in the local shops. The tin of Isinglass that was eventually found in Liptons Stores in town looked as though it had indeed sat at the back of a shelf since the early 1940's. The first step in crystal growing was making a concentrate with the blue copper sulphate and boiling it down until small crystalline shapes could be seen. The best ones were then meticulously tied up in a length of cotton and suspended in the Isinglass in a jam jar. Talk about watching paint dry. That would have been positively dynamic compared to the slow development of anything resembling a classic crystal shape in that jam jar.
It was not long before the inside of the chemistry set box resembled a complete mess of broken and stained glass , scattered or missing items, It was a complete mess.
I lost any interest in a career in chemistry at that point.
A few of my fellow pupils persisted in their home experiments and a couple of them went on to much greater things.
It was not too much of an advance for one particularly bright lad to start to develop a line in hallucinogenic drugs which was never going to end well for him.
Another of my contemporaries used his Father's credit card to purchase large amounts of seemingly random ingredients which arrived by post and carrier on an almost daily basis to his house. When combined and refined in exact quantities in his garden shed they became a most potent explosive. His persistence in encouraging chemical reactions displayed itself in his frequent late arrival for classes with a pockmarked, scabby or freshly blooded face and minus his eyebrows as a consequence of the timber shed being blown apart with him in it. I am not sure what he eventually went on to do with his life, if indeed he actually survived his dangerous adolescent years at all.
Wednesday 16 January 2013
Lost and Found
It is quite easy to lose something.
That was my defence when, as a teenager, I was held responsible by my parents and gleeful siblings for the misplacing of the key to the back door of our house. This was evident upon my return from monday night band practice.
It was a big deal at the time but I did not grasp the seriousness of the situation. My thoughtlessness and absentmindedness that led to the key going missing was a typical trait for a boy of my age, being pre-occupied with football, science fiction and an early interest in girls. I had simply put it in a safe place but forgot where that was.
Why, as a large family, I mused, was it that we only had one key for the back door? That was not a valid basis for mitigation of my misdemeanour. That was what I was told in plain English by my parents.
The house was now completely unguarded and my younger brothers and sisters feared the worst because beyond the back garden were open fields and every manner of nasty entity they could imagine would be able to waltz, shuffle, creep, sidle and sneak in unchallenged.
There was an external light on the outhouse wall but this only cast a defined arc which illuminated but a small portion of the patio and further exaggerated the potential for beasts and ghouls to be poised just beyond in the darkness.
There was only one solution. I would have to sit in the kitchen all night and keep guard.
The normal activities of the family went on until 10pm. Those of us on the washing-up rota completed the chore with the usual reluctance mixed with misappropriation of the bubbles from the Fairy Liquid. We each hoped to be the one to deplete the bottle of its last drop so that it could be used as a makeshift water pistol. The only other receptacles that were suited to a water fight were an empty perming fluid container from Mother's home-perms and one of those plastic lemons which contained lemon juice. The former only appeared perhaps every couple of months and the latter only in connection with Pancake Day. This explained why the detergent bottle was a coveted possession amongst us children.
The final task of the day, which was a tradition from I knew not when, was the setting of the placings at the breakfast table. Cloth, Tupperware beakers, cereal bowls, plates, knives, spoons, coffee cups for the parents, Variety Packs or large box of Cornflakes, sugar bowl and toast rack. As the last item was positioned everyone drifted away to bed to leave me on my own and with a long, nervy and uncomfortable night as the prospect ahead.
In the fashion of TV drama's involving an impending attack, intrusion or threat of such things I carefully angled a wooden kitchen chair under the back door handle as a further line of defence to my own presence. Out of the two, the chair, I admit would offer more resistance to any determined and motivated perpetrator. I had made sure that the inner door to the hallway was wide open and the light beyond was switched on to provide both a route of escape and some comfort to my predicament.
It was a windy night outside. An empty plant pot rolled across the patio. The low volume sound was amplified by the right angle of brick walling at the convergence of the house and the garage and sounded like a dustbin being moved by human hand. The elm tree at the bottom of the garden swayed and creaked making for more suspense and tension.
I tried to settle down on a chair. It was hard and unwelcoming. In the course of the evening in my quest to find a resting place I adopted many different positions involving straddling one or more of the chairs , prone across the refrectory bench seat, actually lying on the table amongst the place settings, stretched out on the worktops wedged under the wall cupboards and rashly, as a last resort sat on the drainer with my feet in the sink. I wistfully looked to the lighted hallway for one or both of my parents to appear and relieve me of my lone duty as house sentry but it was not to be. My tiredness was playing more tricks with my over-active imagination. I was convinced that it was common knowledge amongst all the local malefactors that 36 Churchill Avenue was having an involuntary open house.
The hours dragged by. I passed the time by carrying out an audit of the contents of the kitchen cupboards. I played a bit of make believe shop-keeper. The drawer containing the cutlery was never better ordered and tidy. One of the other drawers which had become crammed full of papers, batteries, elastic bands, screws and nails and every oddment from every pocket looked quite interesting at first but was not.
I made a few cups of coffee but could not understand why a hot drink did not make me sleepy. Restless, I returned to the initial wooden chair. A coat served as a cushion on the hard surface. The plastic carrier bag I had brought home with me from band practice was stuffed with a cushion sneaked in from the living room and wrapped in a woolly jumper from the ironing basket. If I kept perfectly still in that position I would avoid slipping off the chair or losing my makeshift pillow. Practicality over-ruled actual comfort.
I nestled my head into the soft and insulating warmth of the padded material. It was close to perfection apart from an annoyingly cold, sharp extrusion in my ear. I ran my fingers over the shaped outline. Rounded top, thin shaft and a rectangular end with a cerrated edge. It was without doubt the missing mortice key for the back door lock. I immediately retrieved it by tearing a hole in the polythene and with a ceremonial flourish pushed it into the lock and turned it. The click and engaging of the mechanism was most satisfying.
I did not repeat that unfortunate chain of events again. I have not however completely shaken off my tendency to, on occasion, misplace something important, even in my adult years. I am however still mystified as to how I managed to lose a fifteen foot long ladder in broad daylight. I expect it may turn up one day.
That was my defence when, as a teenager, I was held responsible by my parents and gleeful siblings for the misplacing of the key to the back door of our house. This was evident upon my return from monday night band practice.
It was a big deal at the time but I did not grasp the seriousness of the situation. My thoughtlessness and absentmindedness that led to the key going missing was a typical trait for a boy of my age, being pre-occupied with football, science fiction and an early interest in girls. I had simply put it in a safe place but forgot where that was.
Why, as a large family, I mused, was it that we only had one key for the back door? That was not a valid basis for mitigation of my misdemeanour. That was what I was told in plain English by my parents.
The house was now completely unguarded and my younger brothers and sisters feared the worst because beyond the back garden were open fields and every manner of nasty entity they could imagine would be able to waltz, shuffle, creep, sidle and sneak in unchallenged.
There was an external light on the outhouse wall but this only cast a defined arc which illuminated but a small portion of the patio and further exaggerated the potential for beasts and ghouls to be poised just beyond in the darkness.
There was only one solution. I would have to sit in the kitchen all night and keep guard.
The normal activities of the family went on until 10pm. Those of us on the washing-up rota completed the chore with the usual reluctance mixed with misappropriation of the bubbles from the Fairy Liquid. We each hoped to be the one to deplete the bottle of its last drop so that it could be used as a makeshift water pistol. The only other receptacles that were suited to a water fight were an empty perming fluid container from Mother's home-perms and one of those plastic lemons which contained lemon juice. The former only appeared perhaps every couple of months and the latter only in connection with Pancake Day. This explained why the detergent bottle was a coveted possession amongst us children.
The final task of the day, which was a tradition from I knew not when, was the setting of the placings at the breakfast table. Cloth, Tupperware beakers, cereal bowls, plates, knives, spoons, coffee cups for the parents, Variety Packs or large box of Cornflakes, sugar bowl and toast rack. As the last item was positioned everyone drifted away to bed to leave me on my own and with a long, nervy and uncomfortable night as the prospect ahead.
In the fashion of TV drama's involving an impending attack, intrusion or threat of such things I carefully angled a wooden kitchen chair under the back door handle as a further line of defence to my own presence. Out of the two, the chair, I admit would offer more resistance to any determined and motivated perpetrator. I had made sure that the inner door to the hallway was wide open and the light beyond was switched on to provide both a route of escape and some comfort to my predicament.
It was a windy night outside. An empty plant pot rolled across the patio. The low volume sound was amplified by the right angle of brick walling at the convergence of the house and the garage and sounded like a dustbin being moved by human hand. The elm tree at the bottom of the garden swayed and creaked making for more suspense and tension.
I tried to settle down on a chair. It was hard and unwelcoming. In the course of the evening in my quest to find a resting place I adopted many different positions involving straddling one or more of the chairs , prone across the refrectory bench seat, actually lying on the table amongst the place settings, stretched out on the worktops wedged under the wall cupboards and rashly, as a last resort sat on the drainer with my feet in the sink. I wistfully looked to the lighted hallway for one or both of my parents to appear and relieve me of my lone duty as house sentry but it was not to be. My tiredness was playing more tricks with my over-active imagination. I was convinced that it was common knowledge amongst all the local malefactors that 36 Churchill Avenue was having an involuntary open house.
The hours dragged by. I passed the time by carrying out an audit of the contents of the kitchen cupboards. I played a bit of make believe shop-keeper. The drawer containing the cutlery was never better ordered and tidy. One of the other drawers which had become crammed full of papers, batteries, elastic bands, screws and nails and every oddment from every pocket looked quite interesting at first but was not.
I made a few cups of coffee but could not understand why a hot drink did not make me sleepy. Restless, I returned to the initial wooden chair. A coat served as a cushion on the hard surface. The plastic carrier bag I had brought home with me from band practice was stuffed with a cushion sneaked in from the living room and wrapped in a woolly jumper from the ironing basket. If I kept perfectly still in that position I would avoid slipping off the chair or losing my makeshift pillow. Practicality over-ruled actual comfort.
I nestled my head into the soft and insulating warmth of the padded material. It was close to perfection apart from an annoyingly cold, sharp extrusion in my ear. I ran my fingers over the shaped outline. Rounded top, thin shaft and a rectangular end with a cerrated edge. It was without doubt the missing mortice key for the back door lock. I immediately retrieved it by tearing a hole in the polythene and with a ceremonial flourish pushed it into the lock and turned it. The click and engaging of the mechanism was most satisfying.
I did not repeat that unfortunate chain of events again. I have not however completely shaken off my tendency to, on occasion, misplace something important, even in my adult years. I am however still mystified as to how I managed to lose a fifteen foot long ladder in broad daylight. I expect it may turn up one day.
Tuesday 15 January 2013
Roberta's Emergency Knickers
It was not entirely clear, at first, why The Boy fell off his bike last August whilst out on a ride along the river path. After he had picked himself up, or rather scraped his youthful face off the loose dirt and dripped a bit of blood from his cerrated limbs onto his retro- Renault-Elf-Gitane cycling shirt we crowded around to conduct an investigation.
The path had always been a good surface to ride along. It had been established as part of the flood defences parallel to the main Hull to the rest of England Railway line and was popular as a scenic route to get from the Humber Bridge at the eastern end and the first settlement of North Ferriby. Beyond and westwards it formed part of a long distance cycle path that ended up at Liverpool and the Irish Sea.
In terms of Civil Engineering it was, to a lay persons eye, not too much of a challenge. Large profiled metal shuttering had been driven into the shoreline. Between the tide line and new steel barrier had been positioned huge granite boulders which were unnervingly set amongst deep voids that deterred those seeking to clamber down onto the foreshore mud. After stabilising the river bank a layer of chalk and minerals was laid and compacted to form the public right of way. A further raised level of soil formed the railway embankment carrying the twin passenger lines.
However, something was not quite right with the surface of the path. The Boy had taken the middle line, equidistant from the snarly teeth top of the driven piles and the security fence onto the track. This, on our closer scrutiny was now creased and torn. Squinting at the cracks and fissures gave a similar aspect as flying at a few thousand feet over the San Andreas Fault. The path was also no longer generally level and with a pronounced camber towards the river. A bike tyre entering the long groove had caused the rude introduction of grainy stones to teenage skin.
We took a photograph, not out of any thoughts of commencing litigation against anyone, but out of concern that if the condition worsened we may be deprived of a good cycle ride route.
Below is the photo from August 2012.
As points of reference please note the position of the Humber Bridge in the distance, the trails of rupture in the path, the far right side of the path with the top of the shuttering and boulders in view and the fencing just visible in the summer vegetation at the foot of the railway embankment.
Between the date of the photograph and November 2012 we did regularly speed along the track. At roughly weekly intervals this section of path did certainly appear to be on the move. We were doing a sort of time lapse study.
Subsequent negotiation of the 100 metre stretch became increasingly like taking the boards on a velodrome. There was still a lot of water sat against the metal piles, seemingly prevented from draining away. Whoever managed the land did erect some warning signs to cyclists, walkers and other uses. The Boy had his picture taken under the post and sign in the belief that he had indeed been a prior victim, perhaps one of many given the apparent acceptance that there was something amiss.
It was therefore a complete shock to me and The Boy at the weekend, just past, when we saw what had taken place in the same location over a matter of mere weeks. The same reference points can just about me made out on the next photograph. taken from just about the exact same spot from the summer.
Our very own landslip. The piles are now distorted into the appearance of the ribs of a ship. The red oxide bars running horizontally are, it seems, an addition to keep the metal lengths together. The flooded area is still present. The pathway is now kinked and with a steep downward slope from the foreground. As for the railway embankment it is slowly tearing apart. The line is still very much in use with a couple of inward and outbound journeys very few minutes.Me and The Boy will continue to pass along the track at our own peril.
We are seriously thinking about wearing red flannelette pants under our cycling shorts in the event that the railway line collapses and we have, in Jenny Agutter style, to whip off our undies and wave them frantically to bring the train to a safe halt.
The path had always been a good surface to ride along. It had been established as part of the flood defences parallel to the main Hull to the rest of England Railway line and was popular as a scenic route to get from the Humber Bridge at the eastern end and the first settlement of North Ferriby. Beyond and westwards it formed part of a long distance cycle path that ended up at Liverpool and the Irish Sea.
In terms of Civil Engineering it was, to a lay persons eye, not too much of a challenge. Large profiled metal shuttering had been driven into the shoreline. Between the tide line and new steel barrier had been positioned huge granite boulders which were unnervingly set amongst deep voids that deterred those seeking to clamber down onto the foreshore mud. After stabilising the river bank a layer of chalk and minerals was laid and compacted to form the public right of way. A further raised level of soil formed the railway embankment carrying the twin passenger lines.
However, something was not quite right with the surface of the path. The Boy had taken the middle line, equidistant from the snarly teeth top of the driven piles and the security fence onto the track. This, on our closer scrutiny was now creased and torn. Squinting at the cracks and fissures gave a similar aspect as flying at a few thousand feet over the San Andreas Fault. The path was also no longer generally level and with a pronounced camber towards the river. A bike tyre entering the long groove had caused the rude introduction of grainy stones to teenage skin.
We took a photograph, not out of any thoughts of commencing litigation against anyone, but out of concern that if the condition worsened we may be deprived of a good cycle ride route.
Below is the photo from August 2012.
As points of reference please note the position of the Humber Bridge in the distance, the trails of rupture in the path, the far right side of the path with the top of the shuttering and boulders in view and the fencing just visible in the summer vegetation at the foot of the railway embankment.
Between the date of the photograph and November 2012 we did regularly speed along the track. At roughly weekly intervals this section of path did certainly appear to be on the move. We were doing a sort of time lapse study.
Subsequent negotiation of the 100 metre stretch became increasingly like taking the boards on a velodrome. There was still a lot of water sat against the metal piles, seemingly prevented from draining away. Whoever managed the land did erect some warning signs to cyclists, walkers and other uses. The Boy had his picture taken under the post and sign in the belief that he had indeed been a prior victim, perhaps one of many given the apparent acceptance that there was something amiss.
It was therefore a complete shock to me and The Boy at the weekend, just past, when we saw what had taken place in the same location over a matter of mere weeks. The same reference points can just about me made out on the next photograph. taken from just about the exact same spot from the summer.
Our very own landslip. The piles are now distorted into the appearance of the ribs of a ship. The red oxide bars running horizontally are, it seems, an addition to keep the metal lengths together. The flooded area is still present. The pathway is now kinked and with a steep downward slope from the foreground. As for the railway embankment it is slowly tearing apart. The line is still very much in use with a couple of inward and outbound journeys very few minutes.Me and The Boy will continue to pass along the track at our own peril.
We are seriously thinking about wearing red flannelette pants under our cycling shorts in the event that the railway line collapses and we have, in Jenny Agutter style, to whip off our undies and wave them frantically to bring the train to a safe halt.
Monday 14 January 2013
Fresh Air Work Out
It is a time of year when memberships of Health Clubs and Gyms spike.
It may be difficult to get a session on the latest muscle torture equipment or a place in the fashion conscious aerobics studio such is the motivation amongst the financially enabled , albeit, potentially short lived to sweat out the excess weight accumulated over the last few weeks.
It can be a soulless and frankly, pointless task to try, in later life in particular to strive to achieve the body shape and level of fitness that in younger years just happened naturally.
What can be guaranteed for certain is a lightening of the contents of your wallet or purse and a collection of items of clothing that, after this bold initiative may never see the outside of a drawer or cupboard ever again, unless required for a Fancy Dress Party depiction of an athlete.
Me and The Boy have come into the New Year determined to get back to our respective peak performance weights and state of healthy well-being enjoyed from last summer. We are equally determined not to have to pay a penny to a third party to attain this.
Our bikes are paid for and apart from minor expenditure on general consumables, chain lubricants and refreshments we can look forward to a virtual freebie whenever we feel like it.
This is however, subject to our criteria of an air temperature above 4 degrees, dry, windless and with at least 60% of the sky being clear of cloud cover. To date, in 2013, this challenging set of requirements has been satisfied only twice.
I admit we did make one concession on the wind speed as this ramped up quite significantly between having the idea to going out for a ride and actually exiting the driveway.
We have not been alone on our excursions on two wheels.
We have rubbed shoulders with the 'newbies', the obvious recipients of brand spanking shiny bikes and a range of clothing to match. These are usually a husband and wife team, matching in everything including physical appearance and wearing Lycra items as a bit of a boost to their libidos. A quick totting up of the investment in the ensemble as we streak past the cautious and wobbling (in all parts and senses of the word) pair can easily exceed a few thousand pounds. Give it a few more weeks of struggling to enjoy a winter regime of cycling and the initial attraction of a revitalised relationship into the more sensual summer months may falter. The second hand market for quality 'his and hers' machines benefits from the impending matrimonials.
In addition there are the reluctant parents on their ancient shopper bikes accompanying a young child on their brightly coloured small wheeled leisure cycles. A nice idea for a gift but now very much regretted.
Other family groups can be seen with full sized bikes towing an infant in an enclosed lightweight pod or with a larger child hanging on to a one wheeled attachment from the seat post. I have seen an attempt by the trailing child, out of frustration or bedevilment to overtake the lead adult with frightening consequences for those embroiled in it but not a little amusement for the onlookers.
The reverence and admiration in which anyone on a bike was held amongst the wider public during and following the Olympic Games successes of Hoy, Pendleton, Kenny, Wiggins and so on has evidently vanished in favour of the normal disregard for safety and road presence.
In the space of twenty minutes during the most recent bike ride I had a football booted at me , albeit accidentally as part of a Dad and Lad kick-about in the street and a large bloke jump down in my path in his determination to check his fishing rod, trailed over the embankment railings, for a potential bite. The Boy, following me, was bemused by these attempted assaults on my persona but impressed, I believe, by my bike handling skills which kept me upright and in linear motion on both occasions. I was too startled to even attempt a sarcastic remark or make eye contact with my attackers.
We do have a contingency plan in the event of our riding criteria not materialising. We go walkabout. Over this last weekend we have covered 12 miles over two short 2 hour sessions. It does involve a different range of muscles to cycling, yes it does. Of course we are carrying our own respective body weights. We can now , from this activity, appreciate the position of walkers when approached silently from behind by fast moving cyclists . Perhaps we may refrain from this gleeful pursuit, of which we have previously been guilty and I am sure that we will be more understanding.
Above all, there is an overwhelming feeling of vitality and satisfaction upon return from such a strenuous activity in the fast fading light of an afternoon in deepest winter. Given the choice, however, we would infinitely rather be on our own two wheels than our own two feet.
It may be difficult to get a session on the latest muscle torture equipment or a place in the fashion conscious aerobics studio such is the motivation amongst the financially enabled , albeit, potentially short lived to sweat out the excess weight accumulated over the last few weeks.
It can be a soulless and frankly, pointless task to try, in later life in particular to strive to achieve the body shape and level of fitness that in younger years just happened naturally.
What can be guaranteed for certain is a lightening of the contents of your wallet or purse and a collection of items of clothing that, after this bold initiative may never see the outside of a drawer or cupboard ever again, unless required for a Fancy Dress Party depiction of an athlete.
Me and The Boy have come into the New Year determined to get back to our respective peak performance weights and state of healthy well-being enjoyed from last summer. We are equally determined not to have to pay a penny to a third party to attain this.
Our bikes are paid for and apart from minor expenditure on general consumables, chain lubricants and refreshments we can look forward to a virtual freebie whenever we feel like it.
This is however, subject to our criteria of an air temperature above 4 degrees, dry, windless and with at least 60% of the sky being clear of cloud cover. To date, in 2013, this challenging set of requirements has been satisfied only twice.
I admit we did make one concession on the wind speed as this ramped up quite significantly between having the idea to going out for a ride and actually exiting the driveway.
We have not been alone on our excursions on two wheels.
We have rubbed shoulders with the 'newbies', the obvious recipients of brand spanking shiny bikes and a range of clothing to match. These are usually a husband and wife team, matching in everything including physical appearance and wearing Lycra items as a bit of a boost to their libidos. A quick totting up of the investment in the ensemble as we streak past the cautious and wobbling (in all parts and senses of the word) pair can easily exceed a few thousand pounds. Give it a few more weeks of struggling to enjoy a winter regime of cycling and the initial attraction of a revitalised relationship into the more sensual summer months may falter. The second hand market for quality 'his and hers' machines benefits from the impending matrimonials.
In addition there are the reluctant parents on their ancient shopper bikes accompanying a young child on their brightly coloured small wheeled leisure cycles. A nice idea for a gift but now very much regretted.
Other family groups can be seen with full sized bikes towing an infant in an enclosed lightweight pod or with a larger child hanging on to a one wheeled attachment from the seat post. I have seen an attempt by the trailing child, out of frustration or bedevilment to overtake the lead adult with frightening consequences for those embroiled in it but not a little amusement for the onlookers.
The reverence and admiration in which anyone on a bike was held amongst the wider public during and following the Olympic Games successes of Hoy, Pendleton, Kenny, Wiggins and so on has evidently vanished in favour of the normal disregard for safety and road presence.
In the space of twenty minutes during the most recent bike ride I had a football booted at me , albeit accidentally as part of a Dad and Lad kick-about in the street and a large bloke jump down in my path in his determination to check his fishing rod, trailed over the embankment railings, for a potential bite. The Boy, following me, was bemused by these attempted assaults on my persona but impressed, I believe, by my bike handling skills which kept me upright and in linear motion on both occasions. I was too startled to even attempt a sarcastic remark or make eye contact with my attackers.
We do have a contingency plan in the event of our riding criteria not materialising. We go walkabout. Over this last weekend we have covered 12 miles over two short 2 hour sessions. It does involve a different range of muscles to cycling, yes it does. Of course we are carrying our own respective body weights. We can now , from this activity, appreciate the position of walkers when approached silently from behind by fast moving cyclists . Perhaps we may refrain from this gleeful pursuit, of which we have previously been guilty and I am sure that we will be more understanding.
Above all, there is an overwhelming feeling of vitality and satisfaction upon return from such a strenuous activity in the fast fading light of an afternoon in deepest winter. Given the choice, however, we would infinitely rather be on our own two wheels than our own two feet.
Sunday 13 January 2013
A hell of a hull from Hull
History can throw up some interesting connections.
One of the most unlikely to come to my attention is a link between the City of Hull, East Yorkshire, UK and Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, Marxist Revolutionary, although perhaps better recognised as the face most likely to stare back at you from a 'T' shirt.
I would say that not many people, and embarrassingly myself included, have a good practical comprehension of his background and significance to the political map in South America not having studied that period in history nor having yet seen the quite recent movies of his earlier Motorcycle Diaries and the two part dramatisation of his life and times.
Hull has in its own history being known to mix-it in a revolutionary way, for example in refusing entry to Charles II in the early part of the English Civil War. Hull has passionately defended its rights and liberties and even to the present day a strong socialist allegiance and sympathy is to be found in its Members of Parliament and grass roots activists.
Another thing that the Port has excelled in and has still managed to just about hold on to is the building of ships and it is this particular maritime activity that brought about the coming together of 'Che' and 'Ull'.
Earles Shipbuilding and Engineering Company was founded as a family enterprise in 1853 with its works in Victoria Dock, on the very eastern fringe of the Old Town, now a large genteel riverside housing estate. Up to the demise of the business in the depression of the 1930's around 700 vessels were built ranging from Royal Navy Cruisers to trawlers, coastal water freighters to luxury steam yachts including commissions by Tsar Alexander VI in 1873 and 1874 , the Khedive of Egypt and the Duke of Marlborough.
The company earned a reputation for excellence in engineering and naval architecture and the order book thrived through the last half of the 19th Century. Their championing of the triple expansion steam engine, and its upscaling to a commercial application giving class leading efficiency in power and fuel consumption, proved a sensible economic choice for such operators as the Wilson Line arguably from the late 1800's the largest shipping concern in the world.
This major customer came to purchase Earles in 1900 when the Joint Stock Company went into liquidation after labour and cash flow problems.
In new ownership and with a more passenger and freight orientated outlook the world markets were open to be exploited. In 1904 the Peruvian Railway Corporation placed an order for a Steam Ship to operate not on the ocean routes of the Pacific Coast but across the landlocked Lake Titicaca, lying at an altitude of 12,500 feet or more than two miles above sea level.
British built vessels from yards on the Thames and Clyde did already operate on the main crossing routes but these were of a smaller tramp steamer size whereas the subsequently made in Hull Inca at 220 feet long was considerably larger and able to carry bulk cargo and passengers in greater quantities.
The logistics of the commission required a special process and after initial construction on the banks of the River Humber the ship was then taken to pieces and the marked sections carefully packed to such a system that no part of the dismantled ship weighed more than 12 tons and the largest wooden case was no larger in dimension that ten feet by eleven. For an all in contract price of £22,285 (1905) ship parts were shipped in this 'knock-down' state to South America and then hauled by rail some 200 miles inland and uphill to the shores of Lake Titicaca. The pieced together steamer marked a new era in the Peruvian economy centred on the Lake.
By way of after sales service a replacement hull from Hull was sent out for attachment in the late 1920's and Inca continued as a major haulier for a further decade. Trade across the lake between settlements and inhabited islands as well as between Peru and neighbouring Bolivia was increasing and by the 1930's the ageing fleet was struggling to cope. Inca and its success resulted in a repeat order to Earles Shipbuilders in 1930 and the keel of Ollanta was laid down in Hull in the early summer months. Some 40 feet longer than her sister vessel, Ollanta was the latest thing in steamship travel taking 66 First Class Passengers and 20 Second Class with dining room, smoking rooms and promenade decks in addition to a deadweight capacity for 950 tons of cargo.
After a five month build in Hull the same dismantling and packing took place as with Inca and after a long sea and onward train journey the boxed kit arrived at Puno on the western side of the Lake.
A problem not seemingly encountered when the Inca was re-assembled in 1905 was evident to the Earles engineers accompanying the crated up Ollanta in that the local labour lacked suitable skills and experience for such a task.
A slipway had to be built from scratch and old railway equipment was cannibalised to make heavy machinery. Ingenuity and enterprise in conjunction with innovative engineering application saw Ollanta in full service by November 1931 only 8 months after the crates had been opened .
It was during the service of Ollanta that 'Che', when a student, took passage and my tortuous link is at last explained.
Inca was eventually scrapped in the 1990's although it was reported that this had been a hasty decision and the ship was actually in good lake-worthy condition.
Ollanta is still to be seen on Lake Titicaca although now in a more tourist income generating roll having been recently refurbished for genteel cruising rather than general haulage. The Yard Build Plate number for Ollanta at 679 indicated only a short remaining period of activity for Earles Shipbuilding in Hull before falling to the global depression.
As a contractural condition of the winding up order in 1933 no shipbuilding could take place on the Humber Bank site for a period of 60 years. Much of the equipment and the distinctive Earles Crane was sold off and ended up in Kowloon which saw emerging economies take over as the main source of new build ships which appears to have been maintained to the present day.
Other yards on the Humber frontage have in more recent years produced smaller specialist vessels and the latest demand has been driven to service the offshore turbine industry.
The halcyon years of maritime engineering excellence in the City may seem a very distant memory similarly the link between a Hull built steamer and Che Guevara but nevertheless, in the same fashion a viable future in renewable energy represents an undeniable wind of change.
One of the most unlikely to come to my attention is a link between the City of Hull, East Yorkshire, UK and Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, Marxist Revolutionary, although perhaps better recognised as the face most likely to stare back at you from a 'T' shirt.
I would say that not many people, and embarrassingly myself included, have a good practical comprehension of his background and significance to the political map in South America not having studied that period in history nor having yet seen the quite recent movies of his earlier Motorcycle Diaries and the two part dramatisation of his life and times.
Hull has in its own history being known to mix-it in a revolutionary way, for example in refusing entry to Charles II in the early part of the English Civil War. Hull has passionately defended its rights and liberties and even to the present day a strong socialist allegiance and sympathy is to be found in its Members of Parliament and grass roots activists.
Another thing that the Port has excelled in and has still managed to just about hold on to is the building of ships and it is this particular maritime activity that brought about the coming together of 'Che' and 'Ull'.
Earles Shipbuilding and Engineering Company was founded as a family enterprise in 1853 with its works in Victoria Dock, on the very eastern fringe of the Old Town, now a large genteel riverside housing estate. Up to the demise of the business in the depression of the 1930's around 700 vessels were built ranging from Royal Navy Cruisers to trawlers, coastal water freighters to luxury steam yachts including commissions by Tsar Alexander VI in 1873 and 1874 , the Khedive of Egypt and the Duke of Marlborough.
The company earned a reputation for excellence in engineering and naval architecture and the order book thrived through the last half of the 19th Century. Their championing of the triple expansion steam engine, and its upscaling to a commercial application giving class leading efficiency in power and fuel consumption, proved a sensible economic choice for such operators as the Wilson Line arguably from the late 1800's the largest shipping concern in the world.
This major customer came to purchase Earles in 1900 when the Joint Stock Company went into liquidation after labour and cash flow problems.
In new ownership and with a more passenger and freight orientated outlook the world markets were open to be exploited. In 1904 the Peruvian Railway Corporation placed an order for a Steam Ship to operate not on the ocean routes of the Pacific Coast but across the landlocked Lake Titicaca, lying at an altitude of 12,500 feet or more than two miles above sea level.
British built vessels from yards on the Thames and Clyde did already operate on the main crossing routes but these were of a smaller tramp steamer size whereas the subsequently made in Hull Inca at 220 feet long was considerably larger and able to carry bulk cargo and passengers in greater quantities.
The logistics of the commission required a special process and after initial construction on the banks of the River Humber the ship was then taken to pieces and the marked sections carefully packed to such a system that no part of the dismantled ship weighed more than 12 tons and the largest wooden case was no larger in dimension that ten feet by eleven. For an all in contract price of £22,285 (1905) ship parts were shipped in this 'knock-down' state to South America and then hauled by rail some 200 miles inland and uphill to the shores of Lake Titicaca. The pieced together steamer marked a new era in the Peruvian economy centred on the Lake.
By way of after sales service a replacement hull from Hull was sent out for attachment in the late 1920's and Inca continued as a major haulier for a further decade. Trade across the lake between settlements and inhabited islands as well as between Peru and neighbouring Bolivia was increasing and by the 1930's the ageing fleet was struggling to cope. Inca and its success resulted in a repeat order to Earles Shipbuilders in 1930 and the keel of Ollanta was laid down in Hull in the early summer months. Some 40 feet longer than her sister vessel, Ollanta was the latest thing in steamship travel taking 66 First Class Passengers and 20 Second Class with dining room, smoking rooms and promenade decks in addition to a deadweight capacity for 950 tons of cargo.
After a five month build in Hull the same dismantling and packing took place as with Inca and after a long sea and onward train journey the boxed kit arrived at Puno on the western side of the Lake.
A problem not seemingly encountered when the Inca was re-assembled in 1905 was evident to the Earles engineers accompanying the crated up Ollanta in that the local labour lacked suitable skills and experience for such a task.
A slipway had to be built from scratch and old railway equipment was cannibalised to make heavy machinery. Ingenuity and enterprise in conjunction with innovative engineering application saw Ollanta in full service by November 1931 only 8 months after the crates had been opened .
It was during the service of Ollanta that 'Che', when a student, took passage and my tortuous link is at last explained.
Inca was eventually scrapped in the 1990's although it was reported that this had been a hasty decision and the ship was actually in good lake-worthy condition.
Ollanta is still to be seen on Lake Titicaca although now in a more tourist income generating roll having been recently refurbished for genteel cruising rather than general haulage. The Yard Build Plate number for Ollanta at 679 indicated only a short remaining period of activity for Earles Shipbuilding in Hull before falling to the global depression.
As a contractural condition of the winding up order in 1933 no shipbuilding could take place on the Humber Bank site for a period of 60 years. Much of the equipment and the distinctive Earles Crane was sold off and ended up in Kowloon which saw emerging economies take over as the main source of new build ships which appears to have been maintained to the present day.
Other yards on the Humber frontage have in more recent years produced smaller specialist vessels and the latest demand has been driven to service the offshore turbine industry.
The halcyon years of maritime engineering excellence in the City may seem a very distant memory similarly the link between a Hull built steamer and Che Guevara but nevertheless, in the same fashion a viable future in renewable energy represents an undeniable wind of change.
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