1964.Little Brother

In the days before loft insulation and carpet underlay what did our ancestors do?

The basic answer is absolutely nothing.

Cheap and by modern standards plentiful energy could leak out of a house with no thought for environmental issues. Put another bucket of coal on the fire Auntie Maud. The luxury of a soft surface underfoot was reserved for the very wealthy and most of the population were happy with painted floorboards surrounding a small carpet square or the ubiquitous canvas or linoleum which came in many colours and shades based on grey or brown.

The enterprising or just thrifty few latched on to the idea of using old newspapers to lag the space between the ceiling joists in the roof space or to line the tongued and grooved boards beneath a surface finish of choice, usually, again linoleum.

In the days of the broadsheet daily papers there was a great volume of material for such use. In using the old printed pages this way a unique archive has been preserved in many of our homes ripe for discovery by subsequent generations. That is of course dependent on the actual conditions with silverfish, mice, damp, rot and decay the main threats to the preservation of what now constitute historic and social records.

It was down to a conscientious or again just tight, homeowner, moving into the house in York in the 1960's that led to my discovery this week of, amongst a great thick and matted layer of newsprint in a loft, an almost perfect copy of The Daily Express, dated Wednesday 23rd September 1964.

It is numbered 20,004, cost at three old pennies and incidentally the weather, recorded under the banner name, was cloudy and with some rain.

The front page is set out in a multitude of small column features covering stories on the tragic drowning of a toddler in a well in County Antrim, three men trapped in a shaft at an atomic testing site in Nevada, USA, a missing wife of an MP on a holiday behind the Iron Curtain (ask your parents about this), Screaming Lord Sutch intending to stand against Harold Wilson, the Labour Party Leader at his Huyton Constituency, Sean Connery straining a leg tendon whilst filming a James Bond movie in Spain, hospital bed queues at an all time high with 53,864 people on waiting lists in the North West alone and a girl from Wrexham was having her arm stitched on again.

The headline, almost lost in the filler stories, was about the Tory Party refusing to get into argumentative debates on TV with the Opposition. Nothing much changed there then in 49 years.

The paper is surprisingly gossipy and superficial through the large and difficult to manage sheets, a characteristic commonly found in the lesser tabloids today than to be expected from a quality publication. Perhaps a wednesday in 1964 was a quiet news day.

A good proportion of the pages is taken up by advertisements. Smirnoff Vodka has obviously maintained its market share over nearly half a century which cannot be said for Nelson and Cadets Filter Tip Cigarettes.

Popular brands also featured include Ovaltine, probably uniterrupted in coverage since the second world war, Harpic disinfectant, Goodyear Tyres, The Co-Operative Stores and wonderful Bovril.

As a sign of the times in 1964 there are what may have been regarded as the cutting edge of technology in Aldis slide projectors (again, ask your parents), products from Radio Rentals and the revolution that was a paint in an aerosol spray can. This last product warranted a full page spread of how and where to use it on whitewood furniture, toys and prams.

Many households will have been without the modern day expectation of central heating or even background heating other than with a coal fire (Two shillings for Pyruma fireback filler to stop heatloss) and Belling were hard selling their Radiant Convector Heaters, Fan Heaters and cookers under the motto "For all round warmth".

Lifestyle features were also prominent, not much different from today, with the promotion of a seven day milk diet targeted at housewives but also suitable for husbands, Tonic Wine, a Woman's Own ready reference wall chart with handy domestic tips and that problem of fatigue afflicting the over 40's but with Phyllosan available for fortification against being run down, dreary, niggly and nervous. What are the chances of finding a bottle of that nowadays?

Financial matters were also prominent from Midland Bank to Mutual Insurance Policies and Premium Bonds.

The 1960's were still an economic boom time in the UK and the 'Situations Vacant' page listed jobs in the industrial realms of Machine Tools, Aircraft Engineering, Yorkshire Imperial Metals, Wimpey Mechanical and Electrical, Welsh Steel, Diesel Engines, Ford Motor Company, Construction and Draughting. In contrast to today not a mention of call centres, domicillary care or careers in IT. (parents, ask your children about this).

There was evidently considerable activity in industry, manufacturing and civil works at the time. It was also a period when many UK Nationals emigrated to other parts of the Commonwealth and in the autumn of 1964 there was demand from Australia for telecommunications operatives, communications experts in Rhodesia, Waterworks specialists in Gambia, Cooks in the Falklands, Executive Electricians in Sarawak and those with drawing board experience for Tanganyika.

Social tittle tattle was rife on the inner pages.

Prince Charles, then aged 15 was quizzed by his headmaster at Gordonstoun School after a book of his essays went missing and his intelligence could not be readily assessed. James Lascelles, the 10 year old second son of the Earl of Harewood apparently had a nice day out at a Traction Engine Rally whilst leading fashion model Elanna Ellis was reported as saying that the business was , quote, "a great big bag of old rats". Not sure what became of her.

In entertainment the TV listings, shockingly restricted to only two channels included Z Cars at 8pm directly competing with The Fugitive on ITV, Coronation Street earlier on and quite a lot of educational content for schools.

In football Chelsea were at the top of the old First Division but only 9 games into the season with Sheffield United in second place. Liverpool, true to form, had not had a good start to the season and were languishing second from the bottom.

Football Pools, Greyhound Racing and Horse Racing still maintain their social standing today as they apparently did 49 years ago.

Hull City, my team could only manage a tuesday night 0-0 draw with Southend in the League Cup showing that they still needed a striker as today.

I conclude with a foray into the Horoscope of cloudy and possibly wet wednesday in September 1964.

This is particularly poignant for me as I seem to recall that the prediction was exactly right, unnervingly so in its relevance to my own circumstances.

Cancer: The day favours routine work but take no financial chances, Romance may cool off.

I took no risks that day as I recall and just sat around minding my own business in my terry nappy, filling it with my usual regularity and not attempting to digest any loose change lying around the house. I recall I may have been a bit moody with my Mother but then again I was only 14 months old at the time. I like to think that I have changed for the better in the interim.

Fanning the Flames of the American Dream

Every American drama and sit-com seems to be based in a white painted timber clad Colonial style house.

Jim Belushi lives in one, Raymond is liked by everyone in his. Very American apple pies sit in the open window. In the foreground in most images there are sprinklers in action on the lawn as the delivery boy rides past and throws the newspaper.

The mother characters in a good number of Hollywood blockbusters always seem to work in Real Estate showing them to prospective buyers. Mrs Bueller (Ferris's Mum), Elliot's Mum in E.T, even Marge Simpson had a go in her red blazer.

The house, clean cut, large and open is a mainstay of what middle America would have us believe is the epitome of a comfortable and affluent life.

The house type developed with the plentiful availability of both land and the natural resource of timber. They were easy to build using the skills of local tradespersons and of rapid construction with much of the load bearing timber frame being prefabricated off site and then transported in to be positioned on a custom made foundation slab. With the frame in position and the roof on, typically in mineral felt or wooden shingle, it was a relatively straight forward process to clad the vertical elevations in the distinctive wide overlapped boarding around the pre-formed window and door openings and then complete the internal services and rooms once watertight and weatherproof.

In all, a most attractive style of residence.

Timber frame was a dominant form for low rise residential development projects through the States. In effect the idea and methodology will have been brought over by migrants from Scandinavia, the Baltic and Northern Europe where the same factors of abundant timber were present.

In the UK there was a flirtation with timber frame buildings in Medieval times constructed from rough hewn boughs straight from the tree and held together with peg joints, wattle and daub, mud and other finishes dependant upon the local area. Prone to fire and collapse not many of the timber buildings have survived although the National Trust do retain some of the finest restored examples within their collection.

A few timber frame buildings arrived from Scandinavia in the post war period as part of the programme to rehouse those who were bombed out of their homes and were gratefully received by Local Authorities as an option to the ubiquitous prefabs and other weird and wonderful forms of construction amongst the rapidly expanding housing stock.

Many of these have since displayed irreparable defects, many latent in nature, and have had to be demolished and cleared to make way for what the British public like best, good old bricks and mortar.

A few National Building companies had a go at mass volume timber frame in the 1980's but disastrous efforts in terms of quality and applied skills destroyed any confidence in the construction form for two decades.

Enlightened self-builders began to see timber frame as a viable method to realise their dreams and in response to this new sector of demand there grew a fledgling and bespoke group of producers of kit-form houses.

The glossy books of house plans to be found on top shelves in WH Smiths and all good book stores wooed and seduced those intent on doing their own thing with a single new build project.

Timber frame became the system of choice for the upmarket and informed amongst the self builder. Manufacturers of kit based timber frames emerged and one in particular, Potton, assumed cult status quickly for quality and individuality of designs.

It was a condition of purchase that a specialist team from Potton accompanied the flat bed trucks carrying the sections and descended on the site for a couple of days to erect and fix them on a custom prepared foundation. The setting out of the floor pad was in itself a highly skilled requirement to ensure the accurate fit of the frame.

Thereafter the work to externally clad the frame, brick still being the British favourite, and complete all external and internal parts could be left to local trades.

This was the background to such a colonial style house that I was asked to check out on behalf of a prospective purchaser. It was a thing of beauty, a modern classic and the only one of its kind that I knew about in the county.

My inspection covered the main elements of the build. The frame system was indeed an example by the market leader and the team had weaved their magic. The external finish was perfection indicating that a good and diligent team had followed in their wake. The use of a rosemary clay tile for the roof, rustic reclaimed brick and pebble dash for the walls and with a couple of years of weathering made the property look as though it had been built in the 1930's.

This belied the highly energy efficient characteristics of the construction and the little eccentricities in the layout which gave the house prestige and charm.

I did spot, however, that a key feature was missing.

There were no weep holes at the base of the external walls by which any moisture from the weather or developing in the frame itself could escape. In the absence of venting there was a risk that in about 60 to 100 years time the frame will have rotted away into mulch.

The vendor of the house raised my observations with the frame makers and yes, the follow on trades had not adhered to that aspect of the specification. After finding out that the vents could be retro-fitted by carefully drilling out the mortar joints this was undertaken by the vendor in order to prevent the omission becoming the deal breaker in the sale.

My client, the buyer stipulated that I re-vist and verify the adequacy of the work.

I hired the ideal piece of equipment for the job, an endoscope. This consisted of a long stainless steel tube, hollow, with a bright bulb in the end and a viewing piece to peer into the dark recesses exposed by the new weep vents.

On a summers day this will have been an almost pleasurable activity but it was in the depths of winter and on the morning I had arranged to reinspect there was snow on the ground around the house.

I fashioned a padded and insulated cushion out of various coats and clothes from the boot of the car with my waterproof jacket as the outer layer. I could then lie down in a prone position at the level of the weep holes and push in the endoscope to view the detail.

The perimeter of the house was about 36 metres and with the perpendicular joints cut out at every metre. It would be a long job out in the cold. It was apparent that a valid inspection and note taking for each of the 36 holes would take about 2 minutes per hole. This gradually increased per hole as I had to walk about, stamp my feet and clap my hands to keep them from freezing up.

What I had not made an allowance for was the increase in temperature of the little bulb at the end of the scope.

I first noticed it when I inadvertently touched it as it was being withdrawn and was preparing to move to the next hole. It scorched my hand but a small snow drift by my side was available as some sort of immediate relief.

I thought nothing of just carrying on even with the temperamental equipment.

Through the outer brick leaf was the underlying detail of the timber frame including a polythene based vapour barrier. This was well inside the building and forming one of the layers including insulation and the marine ply gusset boarding.

On inserting the still hot probe I heard a frightful popping sound as the bulb burst and with a flash of flame, seemingly magnified to a firestorm magnitude in the viewfinder, the polythene melted.

I recoiled in shock and stood bolt upright listening for any screams from the house that it was on fire. I knelt down and in an alternate motion put an ear to the hole and then my nose with a cold tip and runny sniff to make out any sounds and smells of combustion.

I thought about packing some snow into the hole or even, as a last and vey desperate resort, directing a stream of urine through to extinguish any flames.

After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity to a guilty mind, nothing had happened. The ensdoscope hire company were obviously aware of the susceptibiity of the bulb to explode as they had included a plentiful supply in the carry case. I was able to complete the job with no other dramas.

The house, some 20 years on, is still a classic and much admired by all who see it. I do glance up the driveway every time I pass by on the main road mainly focusing on the small vertical weeps for any faint whiff of smoke. I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of starting a slow burner of a conflagration inside that fabulous timber frame.

Summer Set

At the age of 14 I wanted to be a farmer.

I was convinced about it and no parental logic could sway me. They did have a point as I had, just a few weeks prior, been convinced I wanted to join the army. As only wise parents can they would just gently guide and encourage me to find my true vocation. I hated that at the time. The whole agricultural career thing had really started after a holiday in Somerset staying on the farm of my Fathers' relatives. I suppose, at 14, I was at a delicate stage between being a stupid kid and wanting acceptance as a young adult. I felt that I could not do anything right in the eyes of my parents. It was partly justified as I had blown up the kitchen with volatile home made ginger beer, lost the keys to the house and was convinced that I had killed my Gran's dog. However, my parents did have faith in me. I hated that at the time.

Me and my two sisters were to set off a week ahead of the rest of the family to accept an invitation to stay for a few days with cousins in Taunton. We represented 3/7ths of the family and were put on the train at Scunthorpe with the other 4/7ths to travel later towing the caravan with the master plan that we would all meet up on the farm. In my mind I can visualise the departure on the train as somehow being in black and white and with me carrying a gas mask and string wrapped parcel. I was not however, an evacuee.

The train journey with a change at Birmingham was uneventful. No dodgy characters, no murders or sleuthing, no secret agent baggage drops. I must have been very heavily influenced by all things TV and movies at that age. It was still a big deal for the three of us who had never travelled unaccompanied before.

At Taunton we were welcomed by our Aunt and Uncle and had a busy few days being very well looked after. We went to some stately homes and learnt a lot. It was the summer holidays but there was educational content to be extracted from everything. We hated that at the time. We thoroughly tired out our, only two, cousins and they must have been mightily relieved when we departed for the next stage of our vacation.

The drive into the depths of Somerset was exciting in anticipation of what we could get up to. My fathers relatives had been builders in the immediate post war period  in Croydon and North London so plenty of work was on hand to rebuild the bombed out housing. Their hard graft had made their reward a large detached house, white rendered and red rosemary tiled up a long rhododendron lined driveway and overlooking a deep, beautiful pastured valley with a trout filled river running through it. The house, a mansion in our eyes with an unprecedented two staircases, was part of a working farm with adjacent crew yard, pole barns and livestock pens. Some miles distant was the main dairy operation with about 70 friesian cows and the milking parlour.

The sights, smells and bustle of the place really caught my imagination. I had taken on board the dream of being a farmer without grasping that it actually required a lot of hard work. In the following week we were very enthusiastic young farmers and participated in all the day to day requirements of an industrial scale business. The pigs had to be fed and mucked out. They were quite smelly and the sows would easily roll onto and crush their young.Extracting the tiny dead piglets was quite interesting in a gory sort of way. At the dairy we helped to herd the cows and were amazed that all of the beasts were individually named and could be recognised by their markings. I could not see any difference at all. They were all, to me, identical. The highlight of the week was a sheep-drive from the main farm across to the pasture at the dairy farm. We shouted and hollered at the vague animals, guided and cajoled them with our wooden staffs and took great delight in holding up the traffic through the narrow, high banked lanes. The job seemed to be an epic of mile upon mile when in fact I think it was only quite a short distance.

The not so highlight of the week was cleaning out the sheep dip. This was akin to child labour. Between the metal arrival and departure pens was a concrete lined channel, tapered to a narrow trench and wide enough at the top for a fat sheeps girth. The dipping season had just finished and the residue in the gully was a noxious mix of diluted sheep droppings, wool ringlets and pungent chemicals. The latter, fortunately, largely cancelled out the former. Buckets and brooms were the weapons of choice. In the summer heat the task was quite unbearable but we completed it, much to the surprise of our hosts who had obviously set it as a challenge for the townie kids. Even now, some 34 years later I still get a faint taste of the toxic cocktail if I bite my fingernails.

The stay on the farm flew by and when the rest of the family brought the caravan down we were relegated from the big house to an impromptu camp site in a field in the valley. I was very much taken with the farming life and was in a right stropping mood for the duration with my parents. The holiday did continue in the lovely surroundings of deepest rural Somerset, we picked mushrooms, walked the old railway courses, picked wild flowers, threw stones from bridge parapets at the fish below and dared each other to touch both horizontal strands of the electric fence.

When the time to leave came I cried for what I was leaving behind. I sulked and was unbearable through the long drive home. I stomped up to my room when we reached what now seemed like a very tiny, shed like house with a single staircase. From my pockets I emptied out my collected mementos. Amongst the bits of dry straw in the lining was a twist of chemically soaked wool, a pebble which later degraded into an actual piece of animal dung, a tag from the ear of a cow and my herding staff which, with great difficulty, had made the journey back straddled by the occupants of a very crowded car. Within a few weeks my love affair with farmng was over.I was convinced that I wanted to be someone who did surveying or whatever that was. Just be careful what you wish for because in my case it did come true.

Fruit Machine

Our back garden is a very productive place.

It has been for the 18 or so years that we have lived here.

The plum tree that we planted in an enthusiastic family ceremony one afternoon after a visit to the local garden centre did eventually bear fruit, so much so that the larger boughs buckled, split and fell under the sheer weight of Victoria's.

It did take a decade to reach such a stage.

In recent years it has remained prolific so much so that we have hoped that trespassers and scrumpers may wander in and just help themselves to the plentiful bounty. There is only so much that one family can cope with in terms of plum jam, plum chutney, stewed and steeped plums, plums in various alcoholic liquids, raw plums, plum wine, plum brandy, whole plums, halved and quartered plums and so on.

The neighbourhood does reach a point of saturation with all things plum and people cross over the road, take an alternative route or just use the car rather than risk walking past our driveway gates and be assailed with all things plum.

In stark contrast is the pear tree that we planted alongside and at the same time.

Whereas plums have been in over supply and therefore of lower perceived value as a delicacy and treat the pear tree has been the equivalent of the bearer of the golden fleece.

Just two pears have been harvested in the near two decades of careful nurturing and tending.

The same loving care has been lavished on our two tree orchard. There has been the autumn cutting back of the dead wood. Pruning according to the experts in the early spring. Spraying to discourage the parasitic and nuisance bugs. The struggle to secure a sticky strip around the trunk to challenge the climbing insects. We have even had a fine gauze netting on hand to cover up and protect both trees in the event of attack by swarms of predators or a biblical descent of locusts as a worst case scenario, more in the imagination of the children than an actual possibility in this part of Yorkshire.

The elusive brace of pears were also inedible being rock hard in density, positively woody in texture.

Still, we appear to have reached a watershed in the fortunes of our two ecological plantings this year.

The plum tree is completely devoid of any signs of fruit bearing and yet the pear is already sweeping and weeping low to the ground and that is just with the first bud growths that promise much.

I cannot say why this is taking place.

Nothing has changed in the immediate environment at the bottom of the garden. I did leave a bit of a wilderness due to the lawn mower breaking down half way through trying to cope with the long, tough, grainy grass in the first cut of the year.

It looked wonderful.

A splash of colour with grape hyacinths, the odd wild flower, random dense foliage and this seemed to attract a swarm of insects and early season bees. It may have been this cocktail of pollination that served as the catalyst for the pear over the plum.

It appears that springtime is late in the calendar this year, perhaps postponed by the long and persistently sub-zero temperatures early on. We are hopeful that the plum may yet activate and have a late rush to fill its boughs.

That will give us enough time to source the old faithfuls, the recipes for plum and pear jam, plum and pear chutney and the full range of plum and pear products.

The neighbours are in for a real treat but we won't tell them about that just yet. It would be strange if they all went on holiday in the same week in late August as they always seem to do.

The Footsie Index

I have never really given it much thought, how I connect to the Planet, but the other day on the radio some tomorrows world ecologically responsible person or TWERP as I refer to them got me thinking.

It was a simple concept.

As simple as walking about barefoot.

As human beings we have an electrical basis for our main functions. The Earth is also holding an electrical charge. Devoid of socks and footwear the Twerp was explaining that we are only truly capable of transferring our energy into the soil and strata beneath our own soles if completely unfettered.

It turns out that we are missing out on connectivity with Mother Earth if we insist on the insulation of our foot based portal with the latest fashions of shoes, boots and wellies.

I am comforted at times of storm fronts, thunder and lightning by the wearing of a good pair of wellington boots. A thick layer of rubber between me and the ground is some reassurance against not acting as a conduit or conductor in a highly charged atmosphere that is to be found in such an aggressive weather front.

A lad that I went to school with was the proud owner of a pair of Doc Martens. They were the boot of choice for the bully boys and equally a statement of affiliation to a certain youth culture.

The uppers in the original ox-blood red were striking and contrasting sharply with the laces which were best in bright yellow. The legend on the sole was of a patented air-wear composition, acid resistance and much more.

For all the strutting about and posturing that went part and parcel with the wearing of Doc Marts the lad was petrified that, on his walk home from school along by the river, if he fell in sporting the same they would with the air filled technology cause his feet to rise up to the surface first and he would be left dangling head down in a murky, watery grave.

I got the impression from his troubled teenage times and in his adult years a period in prison that he had little chance of attaining harmony and one-ness with Earth thanks to that very efficient footwear.

There may not be many opportunities to commune directly through our feet. I can think of a few such as on a seaside holiday when beachcombing barefoot can be exhilarating and then painful as sandy residues seep into the gaps between your toes end or are found for a few weeks after in the folds of your socks.

I walked about my garden today with nothing on my feet. This was only possible after a fingertip search for hazards which within my boundaries include ancient dog dirt (almost fossilised), shards of glass from when the football shattered the shed window, bits of various solar cell garden lights also succumbing to a sliced and poorly executed volley, fragments of plum coloured slate from the patio, bits of last November's fireworks, the shells of snails left holed and plundered by the local thrush population and the residue of many, many spiky, thorny and jagged plants that fell out of the big green recycling bag between flowerbed and the boot of the car.

With some hesitation the first tentative steps do feel strange.

The clammy, early morning dew soaked blades of grass gradually activate the senses in what we are told can be a gateway to our nervous system and wellbeing. There is certainly some awakening of an ancient and fundamental spirit but it can be difficult for our evolved minds to evaluate and appreciate.

We are, by throwing off the shackles imposed by sandals, plimsolls and flip-flops  trying to get in touch with our ancestors from pre-history who wandered about in leathery abandon au naturel.

The cooling action and textures of the natural earth , almost alien to our feet which convention and decency dictate we keep out of sight, are refreshing and exciting.

I can sympathise entirely with Bruce Willis in Die Hard With a Vengeance when he enacts the advice of a fellow plane passenger and makes fists of his feet to alleviate not just jet lag but the disappointment he must have felt in missing out on the excellent buffet in the Nakatomi Plaza.

So, try it.

The End of the Revolution

Losing your trusty bicycle can be a traumatic experience.

The actual loss can take many forms.

Take the situation where you are taking a fast descent on a loose mountain track, precipitous drop to one side, sheer overhanging cliff face above.

There is a trust and understanding between man and machine borne out of many hours in each other's company. If there were a way to quantify a mutual understanding between organic muscle and butted aluminium tubing then it would surely show an acceptance of each others capabilities and limitations.

One without the other cannot manage.

There will be situations where the automatic and miniscule flex of inanimate metal will be enough to counter a miscalculation of the human mind and rectify, in a split second, that possibility of a spill or mishap.

Similarly, the human eye can detect a fast approaching obstacle on the rough potholed sheep hewn channel and make an accurate adjustment to the path of the bike tyres so as to avoid calamity.

There may be an instance of both human error and mechanical defect and the consequence can be the parting of company and the loss of the bike into the abyss.

The demands on body and mind in pursuit of cycling can be exhausting particularly if you are an individual always striving for a faster speed, a shorter time for a regular route or a longer time in the saddle.

On a flat calm day with no resistance from road, wind or weather there can be an all pervading sensation of invincibility, immortality and super-human strength as the bike is propelled seemingly effortlessly. The impression of travelling at high velocity is remarkable even as you are passed and easily left behind by motor vehicles using the same carriageway.

On a stinker of a day the feeling of being held in suspension by wind and driving rain with no forward motion for the energy expended is demoralising and self defeating.

On such days you can lose interest in your bike. There is a mutual falling out and it will take some time and a return of perfect conditions to restore the relationship.

For all the supposed strength and suppleness of a bike frame it does remain with a finite life.

It can be lost to the dire failure of a main structural component.

The shock and awe of constant vibration and concussion over rough terrain will take its toll in loosening the atomic bonds between the constituents of metallic compounds. A fork can fracture and collapse. The main down tube can split open like a pod of peas. The axle can shear off under the transfer of weight from the rider jockeying for position either standing erect on the pedals to coax out reserves of power or crouched low to shelter from the buffeting effect of wind and turbulence.

The links in the chain may work apart and redistribute energy into a whiplash loss of contact and drive.

All of these things are an integral part of cycling.

The worst kind of loss however is when someone, under cover of darkness, forces open the garage doors and disappears into the night with the trusty bike oblivious to what the scratched, muddy, puncture prone and creaking cranked machine is really capable of.

Towards fulfillment in the sixth decade

Things that I have not yet done;

Run naked across a wide expanse of beach
Shouted something rude across a street at Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop (if together at the time)
Jumped out of an aircraft
Swum across a wide stretch of open water, fresh or saline
Taken part in a full marathon
Painted something in oils
Won anything in any form of competition
Managed to devour an Oilmans Breakfast of 16oz steak, various other meats, eggs, chips, etc
Had my stomach pumped
Fallen through a ceiling
Been victorious in a game of Scrabble on holiday with my wife
Dressed up in drag
Been entirely happy in wearing boating shoes with no socks
Executed a hand brake turn on a public road
Thrown a McDonalds product out of a moving car window
Eaten a meal without some of the food dropping onto my shirt front
Kept my shirt tail tucked into my trousers on a continuous basis
Had two suits to wear on rotation
Busking with just a descant recorder
Dyed my hair
Played a full round of golf
Burglary
Been the first to be picked for any type of sporting activity
Morris Danced
Written anything that has been published for money
Ridden a cow
Stared at the moon and howled
Driven an Aston Martin
Waved a flag in anger
Placed a one way bet in a High Street Bookies
Preached to the public
Base jumped
Used a spray can to write anything on a wall surface owned by the Local Authority
Cooked a soufflé
Fired an air rifle at a living creature intentionally to harm
Had a moustache or a commitment to facial hair
Chased someone in the street
Kicked in a plate glass window
Jumped a queue in a supermarket
Been civil to anyone riding a horse through a town
Volunteered in a community soup kitchen
Shown disrespect to Marmite
Knowingly left dog mess on a public pavement or area
Baked a fruit cake without assistance
Had the tidiest garden in the street, unless it has snowed.
Walked across the UK
Allowed my hair to be stroked by a chimpanzee
Visited the City of Liverpool
Invested in Ostriches or Jojoba
Played the Stock Market for selfish gain
Paid the local newsagent on presentation of his first bill
Watched an episode of Channel 4's Shameless
Shown any interest in how many pairs of shoes Carrie from Sex in The City possesses
Stared at a guinea pig
Stayed awake for more than 36 hours- ever
Launched a ship on request
Journeyed to the USA
Purchased or owned a Japanese built motor car
Owned a firearm
Read a book in one sitting
Stolen eggs from under a chicken
Contemplated jumping off a motorway bridge
Been friends with anyone Welsh
A victim of a pick pocket
Been the Mr Big of a Betterware or other pyramid selling organisation
Sold a body part, mine or otherwise
Serenaded anyone after a quick course of how to play a guitar and sing
Advanced further than 3rd Cornet in a brass band
Learnt another language to any level of natural fluency
Had my car parked by a Valet Service
Cut and eaten my toenails
Kicked an elderly person who might be a bit annoying
Been in a fight with a serving member of the clergy
Spoken with the Queen
Dressed up in any form of World War 2 uniform
Been stranded in quicksand
Set fire to a public building
Driven an omnibus
Had a pair of leather trousers
Jumped into my pants when suspended between two chair backs and I've been in a hurry
Owned a Jaeger suit
Kept a silk tie from going out of shape
Found an item of treasure trove
Scuba- dived
Bowled an over in proper cricket
Thrown a hand grenade
Skipped along a public highway like a girl
Consumed more than five pints of Guinness in any one sitting
Been mistaken for anyone famous
Sat quietly in a church when not in a formal service or event
Made a daisy chain
Run anyone over
Composed a hit record
Washed my hair in a mountain stream
Climbed Snowdon
Walked along an active railway line
Played on a stair lift in a private residence
Skied
Owned a watch of a type favoured by flyers or nautical types
Completed even a single side of a Rubik Cube
Won a two player video game involving running and shooting
Changed a spark plug in an engine
Worn my wedding kilt with 'T' shirt and plimsolls
Skated on ice with ice skates
Had highlights in my hair
Had any appreciation for the music of Coldplay
Organised a barn dance or beetle drive
Pretended to be foreign
Knowingly lied to a policeman
Found that the other man's grass is always greener or the sun shines brighter on the other side
Resisted humming parts of hymn tunes in the company of non-church goers
Loitered in a public convenience
Forged any coinage
Re-slated a house roof
Tarmac surfaced someone else's driveway
Obtained monies by deception
Smoked a pipe
Leased an allotment
Danced across a pedestrian crossing during the rush hour
Hidden a bar of Galaxy chocolate from another human being
Startled a fox
Swum with Dolphins
Squashed a spider
Agreed wholeheartedly with the idea that a tin can say exactly what it does at any one time
Defaced a public monument
Ascended in a hot air balloon and by definition descended in the same object
Been to Africa
Excavated a hole and created a garden pond
Tickled a trout
Made up any form of explosive from readily sourced domestic ingredients
Drunk more than 1 bottle of wine in any seven day period
Sat astride the ridge of a roof
Taken any form of narcotics
Had my own adult sized duffle coat
Travelled in a three wheeler car
Laughed at a Koala Bear, however ridiculous
Found a truffle in a forest
Walked behind a waterfall
Understood the apparent appeal of adopting a donkey that lives away all of the time
Loosened my necktie before 5.30pm on a weekday
Arson in a Naval Dockyard
Walked along and rattled a stick on the railings of a public park
Rolled down a grassy bank
Held a dance floor enthralled
Used a public address system
Had any form of cosmetic surgery
Learned to waltz
Played a character from Shakespeare in a proper performance
Had my portrait painted
Imagined that I was David Bowie
Mastered the pronunciation of the longest place name in the British Isles
Managed a soccer team
Held a membership of a Health Club or Gym for more than 6 months
Owned a pair of classic Converse All-Stars bovver boots
Possessed a flat cap
Run with the bulls at Pamplona
Walked out of the surf in slow motion wearing light blue coloured Speedo's
Sold any secrets to a rogue power
Successfully rubbed my head and tummy simultaneously in front of witnesses
Burped the anthem of any sovereign nation
Farted before anyone in a position of authority
Chained myself to railings in protest
Had any thoughts whatsoever about world domination
Personally undertaken a medical procedure on NHS premises
Thrown a spear
Wasted my vote
Karaoke singing
Delivered a baby
Invented anything to revolutionise modern living
Participated in any form of subversive plotting
Limbo danced
Extracted a tooth from my own head or anyone I know
Understood why anyone admits to coming from Essex
Walked on the hard shoulder of a motorway, barefoot
Performed street magic
Desired  to hang up a dream catcher in my house
Worn a gold medallion
Upset a gang, the Mafia or a Triad
Perfectly cooked a meal on a disposable barbecue bought from a Tesco Express
Brewed
Purged my colon
Spray painted a piece of tatty furniture to pass off as shabby-chic
Pointed a laser pen at an overflying civil aircraft
Jumped over the turnstile in a tube station
Pretended to be a serving police officer
Slapped a horse on its rump to see what it does
Eaten more than 3 pork pies in one sitting
Served on a Jury
Got stuck in the mud in a tidal estuary
Worried a badger
Travelled on the outside of a train
Spoken disrespectfully of a Chelsea Pensioner
Sported a toupee
Worn my pants above my trousers
Pulled the emergency cord in a railway carriage
Excited the attentions of a security guard
Rummaged in the bargain and end of line shelf at the supermarket
Had an urge to shave off my eyebrows
Envisaged ever developing a dislike for corned beef
Ridden a unicycle to work

Not really done much in the last 50 years. Not that bothered about it either.

Monks and their habits

I should have just parked up on the road end and walked.

It was however a cold day with a biting and deep chilling wind and that was enough of a deterrent to think about setting off down. what was nothing more than a rough, loose and very uneven farm track on foot.

So, I edged the car up over the kerb stones which formed the hammerhead of a residential cul de sac and bounced along from pothole to pothole in a seasickness inducing movement. The raised central ridge between the deep rutted channels was high enough to strike or caress the underside of the vehicle in equal and alternate measure.

At about the half way point of my reckless journey I felt that I would be lucky to actually get back to any tarmac surface without irreparably damaging the sump or suspension. It was not possible within the confines of the track to attempt a three point turn or even a hundred and three point turn.

The outer edge of my tyres were perilously close to just dropping off on either side into a shallow grave of a ditch that separated the right of way from the farmer's field.

My only course of action was to plough on, which did seem like the motion I was adopting, to my destination.

I had taken the appointment to meet the client by default.

There was no-one else available in the office when the call had come in and after an hour of a rather one sided conversation from the other end of the line I felt morally obliged to arrange a day, date and time for a site visit.

I was also intrigued by what the client had said were his longer term plans and a couple of days later I found myself on the terror trip down the track.

I felt that I was in a no-mans land, a remote and lonely place when in fact I was two fields into a three field wide Greenbelt between a suburb of the city and a commuter village and in clear view of upwards of fifty houses which backed onto the agricultural land.

Stick figures, dispersed but in each case comprising one large and one small apparently shapeshifting were in plain view and after squinting through my now mud splattered windscreen and driver-side window they gradually manifested as walkers and their dogs. The lanes and fields were obviously popular for such an activity being an extension to the residents own back gardens.

I could just make out my destination.

It was not so much the low grouping of derelict and tumble down buildings in the middle of the field as a large white panel van parked up and bearing the name of the clients business in large and gawdy sign writing.

I was waved to a stop up close behind the van.

The phone call from the previous days had referred to the very grand and auspicious sounding Haltemprice Priory as the venue for the meeting.

I had not been able to find the place on my otherwise up to date map of the area but had found an entry in a local history book attesting to the existence of a large Augustinian Monastery with buildings and land in the early 14th Century.

I could see that nothing of any substance or merit, at least above ground level, had survived the ravages of time and the pilfering of successive generations of the surrounding dwellers.

The only thing recognisable as being a former structure was what I though was just a pile of random rubble but on closer inspection in the company of the enthusiastic client it was possible to make out what had been walls, a few rough hewn roof timbers, pantiles and vague but once evidently quite prominent architectural features.

What I was being shown was in fact the former Haltemprice Priory Farm which occupied the former historic site but was itself pretty ancient.

Amongst sections of hand made thin facing bricks were remnants of dressed stone work which were too grand for a simple farmhouse and must therefore have come from the 1326 founded Augustinian premises. The stones formed parts of a plinth at the base of the former farmhouse walls and with quoins which balanced above but looked ready to teeter and fall in a light breeze.

Vegetation had also taken hold in the cracks and crevices of the derelict masonry serving to both protect from the elements but also causing further probing intrusion and fracturing.

Through the ivy and self seeded shrubs I could just make out a four centred moulded brick arch with quatrefoils to a panel above. This feature would not have looked out of place as a formal gateway to a major and regionally important establishment.

Most interesting to me was a carved stone shield of arms which although badly weathered and poorly defined was still legible with a date of 1584.

The client clambered through the rubble and invited me to follow him to a brick staircase tower but I declined because, frankly, the whole thing looked mightily unstable.

It was not so much the angle by which the tower was out of alignment or the absence of even one sound staircase tread but the odour of smoke and the blackened sooty residues on everything indicating that as recently as the night before someone had tried to set the place alight.

Some success had been had although the absence of a roof and the all pervading rain saturated materials had served as a good dampener on the aspirations of the would be arsonist.

The client was well into  proudly showing off his property investment but I was still cynical and sceptical.

The master plan was to restore the farmhouse to its former glory and then slowly applying for planning permission to bring the former monastic lands back into economic use for the 21st Century.

Just under the overgrown surrounds of the ruined pile the client was convinced that he had discovered the brick footings of an extensive arrangement of structures that were likely to have been the barns, workshops, blacksmiths forge, wash house and brewery of the Augustinian Monks.

He would be arguing the case for rebuilding from the footings as simple reinstatement but for occupation as prestigious private housing.

The wider landed areas he had researched as consisting of pike lakes, very productive tended gardens and cultivated plots all fed by natural springs that percolated through the sub soils.

His modern take was to landscape the site as a memorial garden or as a cemetery for eco and green internments and then set up an artesian well, pumping station and plant to capture and bottle for commercial sale the mineral water.

Considerable thought had gone into his vision although he did admit that the Planners, Local Councillors, English Heritage and the National Trust were all opposed to any form of development on such an historic site.

I could sympathise with his emotional outburst that "if them buggers really had a care for the place they would have done something to save it when it actually had any bollocks to show for itself".

That meeting in the windswept field was a few years ago now. As I drive today on any proper metalled roads affording a view over the Priory site I do glance across in case a small community has become established with attractive individual homes, a tasteful and reverential garden of remembrance, neatly trimmed organically crafted headstones and a bottling plant.

For an abundance of reasons nothing has yet manifested in that greenbelt stretch. In fact, year on year I find it more and more difficult to make out even the ruins of the farmhouse unless assisted by a thick and persistent plume of smoke as the budding arsonist returns to test the drying out properties of whatever is left that is capable of being torched.

Going Underground

I have unwittingly released the bees in my front garden.

The first cut of the year has opened up the lawn surface for the return of the solitary bees. I think that they must have been waiting patiently just for me to get organised with a hired lawn mower. Perhaps loitering in a temporary refuge such as a crack in the boundary wall and, amongst themselves divvying up the best locations. In bee terms the few square metres of grass in front of my house must be sought after because every spring, for a few weeks, they take up residence under the surface to excavate their nest cells.

In the first few years of my ownership of the bee garden with a house on it I was mystified by the appearance of small mounds of finely excavated soil. These were so carefully sifted that each constituent particle was cleanly separated from the next. The mounds, only about a dozen of them were a 1 millionth scale version of Mount Vesuvius, beautifully graded slopes with miniature scree and smoothed contours. In the central peak a large regular aperture forming the sole access to what I can only imagine to be a labyrinth of corridors and chambers.

The front lawn is always very dry and parched, even in winter because of the proximity to a large and thirsty Plane tree on the roadside verge. In full canopy there is no potential for moisture to reach ground level. Ideal conditions for a safe and damp free subterranean nursery. Far from ideal to support and sustain the growth of the magnolia that we planted a few years ago.

The well documented decimation of the wider population of bees will have explained the comparative lack of attendance in recent years but numbers and vigour appear to be somewhere close to revivalist proportions. I know this from an idle couple of minutes of informal census taking.

On a warm day the activity of the bees is quite exhausting to watch. Frequent comings and goings in search of pollen. The species allowing me to live in their territory are the Tawny Mining Bees or Andrena Fulva. Their foxy red bristly bodies are unnervingly attractive . No they are not gingers!.

I soon came to welcome the arrival of the bees and whilst they are engaged in their important procreation phase and also perpetuating the viability of the human race on this planet the front lawn slowly deteriorates into a unkempt toupee.

I can appreciate that proud and diligent gardeners may feel hysteria at the micro-mining taking place but I feel honoured and humbled to host the annual event.

(re-published on the anniversary of the return of the bees)

Unsung Heroes Part 2

I met the man just the once.

It was at his house perhaps now 10 years or more ago.

The name on the list of my appointments for the day had not really jumped out at me. As far as I knew the Mr T J Bolder that I was scheduled to see could as easily have been a salesman or an office worker or in fact in any form of gainful employment.

I parked up, half on the pavement on the steep slope of the village main street as close as I could safely manage to the modest 1960's built chalet style house without blocking the road, upsetting the pedestrians or encroaching on the bus stop.

The door was opened by a short, pale skinned man in his mid to late 50's. Untypical for my perception of what a man of this age should look like he had long ,greying hair, a bit unkempt and well down and over the collar of his faded sweat shirt. If I had come across him in the street I may have made a crass stock judgement on his appearance and crossed to the other side.

He was formal but with a mischievous glint in his eyes as though he were just performing an expected role and could as easily just be himself.

The interior of the house was functional but stylish and with a myriad of framed photographs on the walls of family, friends and, what I initially thought as strange, of a few recognisable famous personalities.

They were not obviously cut-outs from celebrity magazines or a purchase from a fan club or internet collector but appeared candid and authentic. In the background of the mostly black and white photo's I could clearly see the diminutive and rather shy figure of Mr Bolder looking embarrassed to be in such illustrious company.

A cluster of bright colour prints showed a character clutching a guitar and dressed in outrageously flamboyant lycra and leather. The face, heavily made up in foundation, blusher and mascara was a little bit familiar but I dismissed any link between the caricature and my host on the grounds of being far fetched and, in a village in East Yorkshire, frankly unheard of, albeit a bit weird and disturbing.

After a tour of the rooms I was escorted to the bottom of the garden. The same steep slope of the main street fell away sharply at the back of the house and after descending a series of concrete steps I came to a small brick built shed.

It was so much more than just a storage building.

The interior was fully fitted out and equipped as a music room and recording studio. Guitars, some of which I recognised as top marques were mounted on stands or just lay around as though discarded but a few moments prior to my arrival.

The control panel of a mixing desk was the same as I had seen on an Old Grey Whistle Test Special of some artist or other laying down the tracks of their latest album. Recording equipment filled one of the sides of the room giving the distinct impression of Dr Who's Tardis.

A few framed and what I thought were just spray painted twelve inch 33 rpm discs were proudly displayed on one of the walls but I was too polite and not a little bit short sighted to make an attempt to read what was meticulously etched beneath each. The contrast of silver, gold and platinum discs made an attractive decorative impression.

Mr Bolder was firmly back in his natural environment, I could tell, and I was disappointed that my next and distant appointment was looming and I was not able to stay and just find out more about the man.

As a follow up, when I got home later in the day, I did a rather opportunistic search on the internet.

Mr Bolder was evidently a bit of a musician and from the pedigree of his acquaintances in the photo gallery I thought that he may have been involved in some capacity in the production or creative aspects of other performers and artistes in his younger days. His demeanour was certainly rock and roll. He had been pretty laid back and with a self confidence born out of a natural talent and skill that only a few ,amongst many with aspirations only really attain.

A grainy black and white photograph thrown up by the search showed David Bowie with three others in performance on some smoke wafted live stage. The caption referred to the lead singer and his band. "The Spiders from Mars" and with the names of Ronson, Woodmansey and Bolder.

The same photograph of the very heavily made up glam style rocker that I had seen in a prominent position in the house was duplicated as being of Trevor Bolder, bass guitarist and producer of Uriah Heap from 1977 to 2011. There was a further reference to the participation of T. Bolder in the line up of Wishbone Ash for a short period in the early 1980's.

The discography was even more impressive. Amongst his studio credits were bass and also trumpet playing on Bowie's classic albums of Hunky Dory, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders from Mars, Aladdin Sane and Pin-Ups.

Add to his musicianship the talents of song writing and production and you have the all rounded persona that is Trevor Bolder. I heard only today of his death just yesterday at the age of just 62 after a long battle with cancer.

The tributes for his contribution to rock have come from an A to Z of the great and the good. He was a local lad, born and bred in Hull but he like many others from the city went out and conquered the world but always returned home and was more than happy to do so.

Tools

I have at some time had one or more of just about every power tool available.

This is remarkable in that I have never had to buy one brand new.

They have been given to me as a birthday present, I have inherited them or they have just turned up in my tool box.

My latest possession (inherited from my late Father) has been a power washer which is very satisfying to use and on its first day I operated it non stop for about 6 hours attacking just about everything from driveway to decking, garden paths and the front boundary wall.

This was in spite of me not having any of the correct fittings from the appliance to the hosepipe supply and the hosepipe to the tap on the house side. The machine worked wonders in the removal of the accumulated moss and lichen on all of the aforementioned surfaces but I still wonder what would have been the result if, with the appropriate fittings, I had achieved full stripping power.

Any hand tools I have are also hand me downs from my grandfather who was a carpenter although he would be upset at my use of his trusted screwdriver to bang in nails,his beloved  hammer to do everything but hammer and the graduaded and beautiful wood planes to smooth down masonry and copings.

Power tools do not last long in my hands.

I have cut through a number of mains cables with the electric hedge trimmer, burnt out my late father in laws Black and Decker drill by pushing it hard into a hole in reinforced concrete and I frequently forget to whip around the supply lead for the lawn mower at the end of each foray up the garden. Luckily for me I have a good domestic electrical system installed and the trip switch has, many a time saved me from a right hair raising frazzling. The demise of these power tools is unfortunate because all of the tools mentioned were top of their range, trusted and proven names and wonderfully crafted in the case of Grandad Dick's equipment.

I have a number of tools essential to my daily work.

The favourite is a huge wrecking bar that I wedge into and lift drain covers with or rip up floorboards in the understairs cupboard where the damage is less likely to be discovered for some time.

When approaching an occupied house to do my inspection I hang the solid metal bar over the top run of my folding aluminium ladders and it makes a great clanging and clanking sound which must fill the soul and spirit of the homeowner with dread.

Perhaps my longest serving tools are those I have used for maintenance on my collection of bicycles.

Campagnolo, an iconic manufacturer of components from Italy, has a range of tools which are not only perfect for the job but also aesthetically pleasing.

I have one of their long, slim, matt finished wrenches for undoing the mysterious bottom bracket which holds in place the axle for the cranks. Just handling the silken smooth tool it sends me into a bit of a daydream about fast, efficient and silent cycling and in this special place I have imagined, many times, a victory in the Tour de France or Giro d'Italia.

My other bike tools have remarkably survived being thrust into the back pockets of my race jerseys, taped up to the crossbar or seat tube or otherwise roughly treated when being dragged out on a ride.

The chain rivet remover is a work of art. I have only had to use it once for a running repair since 1979 but it is still  the first tool to be packed into any essential tool kit.

Any other tools I have are likely to have come out of a Christmas cracker but they are made of cheap, soft metals that just fold when touching a phillips head or slotted screw.

I can see the sense and long term reliability in going for the best makes, the leading and time served brands as they are of quality materials and forging and even with the worst abuse possible they prove to be almost indestructible.

This explains why the scruffy oldish man running a car boot sale stall exclusively dealing in old hand tools, antique power tools and the like is the most popular man in the field at 6am.

There is always a two to three deep crowd milling over the oil burnished metal and sweat worn wooden handled items on display and keen to hand over coins and notes, potentially many, many times the value of the goods when they were first purchased by craftsmen, keen amateurs and young, newly wed husbands looking to impress their new partners.

　

The Naked Truth

I stood on the front step of the Vicarage and rang the doorbell.

At the mention of the word Vicarage many will have a clear vision of a rambling almost Stately or Mansion House in leafy rural surroundings and but a stones throw from an historic and picturesque Parish Church. A genteel setting.

This is the traditional expectation, almost a given, for the residence of the clergy.

Certainly this will have been true for many centuries with a life in the Church being the destiny from birth of the second and third sons of the wealthy.

The vicar in an affluent area lorded it up over his flock in sumptuous splendour and plenty as though he had indeed been the first born and inherited the family title, home and landed estates. A church bursting at the seams with God Fearing Sunday worshippers funded this type of vocation and lifestyle but with the decline in numbers in the post war and more modern period something had to give.

A good proportion of the best examples of the Vicarage were subsequently sold off as private residences or ended up as care homes or in other forms of institutional use. "The Old Rectory" was to be found in every village and was often the most prestigious property to be found amongst artisan cottages, farmsteads and infill development.

The dispossessed clergy were relocated to new build houses often erected on retained Diocesan lands or even within the expansive grounds of the former residence.

I have had experience of a typical example of "The New Rectory. Usually an ugly red brick box, unimaginative, designed by a committee and soon proving to be impractical as a combined family dwelling and clergy office.

One such new build was impossible to live in with tiny, cramped rooms, small arrow slit windows and not a regular shaped room to be found. I had been instructed to measure up the house for an insurance assessment but found this to be a very difficult exercise without reverting to a set square, protractor and geometry tables, such was the irregularity and intentional out of true alignment of the main walls and partitions.

I later learned from a frustrated occupant that the design project, through a very well known Architectural Practice, had been seen as a loss leader in terms of fees and prestige and had been left in the hands of the new trainees at the firm.

Largely unsupervised a succession of inexperienced draughtspersons had contributed their own eccentricities and influences to the blueprint almost on a willy-nilly basis, perhaps as an afterthought late on a Friday afternoon or in a blur after a typically liquid lunch to mark the proximity of a weekend.

Other new build Vicarages have been a proving ground and test bed for the ideas of zealous and blinkered architects with the result being a confused fusion of traditional features of twisted chimney stacks, corbelled eaves and tumbling to gables with ecological innovations of solar panels, rainwater harvesting, ground source heat pumps and a reed bed sewerage system.

The particular vicarage attached to the doorbell that I had pushed was a plain and rather corporate looking place.

 It did not look out of sorts with its surroundings in an inner city area. The church next door had been rebuilt after its predecessor had been bombed in 1943 and was in the same mellow but otherwise unremarkable brick as the house.

I had parked my car with some trepidation, even in a well lit arc of light under a streetlamp because of the reputation of the district of being a bit rough and unruly. Opposite the vicarage was a low parade of neighbourhood shops including one each of chip shop, takeaway, newsagents, hairdressers and bakers of which at least one or more operated almost on a 24 hour basis and thereby guaranteeing the presence of loitering residents. The fear of crime was tangible to me but then I again I did live in quiet suburb and so every city noise and disturbance put me on edge. Generally the area was no worse or better than my own street for behavioural and social problems.

I was just looking out more for them in this case.

I was welcomed in to the house by my hosts, a husband and wife clergy team.

They had certainly put their rather unique ideas of décor and furnishing into action but somehow it seemed natural and homely.

I was one of two other visitors invited to share the meal. Inner city parishes do have to rely on all represented faiths in a spirit of ecumenical harmony to meet the ever present challenges. Regular shared worship and initiatives required a combined effort if only to make sure that enough stewards and organisers were assembled which could still be a struggle in a diminishing pool of members.

My fellow guests were the Senior Priest from the large almost cathedral status Catholic Church just off the city centre and his new protégé, a young Padre fresh from training in Rome. Affable and in good humour the tea party thrived and before long we were swopping stories about our lives and experiences as though we were long lost friends only recently reunited..

The young Priest, in fact a local lad, recounted how upon his arrival at his new position he had been pressed for information by, in particular, the older women parishioners of his upbringing and life before entering the faith.

They were obviously quite taken with the new, young and handsome priest and he was spoiled rotten with gifts of home baking and offers of help with his domestic chores.

The attitude of the ladies had however changed when it became common knowledge that he had been seen in the company of a woman.

This excited a mixture of intrigue and concern amongst the faithful in case the work of the devil was in play to turn the head and morality of their new man.

Veiled enquiries were directed at him to try to identify this woman and his every move in and out of the confines of the Church were carefully scrutinised.

At last the ringleader of the regular female worshippers was encouraged to confront the priest once and for all to quash the rumour mill and provide reassurance that his scared vows were intact.

He admitted that, yes, he had been with a woman.

Yes, they had spent quite a bit of time together.

Yes, they were on quite friendly, nay intimate terms.

Yes, he admitted, she had seen him naked.

This last revelation caused much understandable disquiet and dismay to his interrogator until the mischievous Priest revealed that the lady was his mother.

That fairly abysmal design of vicarage proved to have one saving grace, tremendous acoustics and this was no more ably demonstrated by the raucous laughter and merriment as we all fell about in unrestrained hysterics at the outcome of this tremendous story.

Yorkshire; in a League of its Own

I am not a born and bred Yorkshire Man. I admit that straight out.

I was actually born in Buckinghamshire but we will gloss over that particular issue.

I have lived 80% of my life in the North of England and of this 60% has been in God's Own County- Yorkshire.

That. of course, counts for nought in terms of claiming kinship to the true Tyke nation yet I cannot fail to acknowledge, be proud and bask in the reflected glory of the achievements of it's sporting sons and daughters .

This is no more evident than in Association Football.

Kicking a spherical object around is recorded throughout pre and ancient history, be it a pig bladder or the decapitated head of an enemy. The South American cultures are known to have played some form of the game. Football was banned in England in the Middle Ages as it was proving to be too much of a distraction for those who should have been at archery practice. It has always been a sport of the working classes and until the curse of the commercialism and cynicism of the modern TV subsidised leagues was generally something affordable in an otherwise hard pressed domestic budget. A pint, a pie and comradeship on a Saturday afternoon. There is not much else that is needed to sustain a working man beyond home and hearth.

The highest paid British players in the top flight are still, at heart, just ordinary lads from fairly humble origins who excelled at running and kicking rather than in the more academic disciplines. Give them a ball and you get the beautiful game.

With Yorkshire being the powerhouse of the Industrial base of the UK in its halcyon period until after the second world war it was only natural that the working man championed football either on the pitch itself or from the terraces.

Yorkshire was the birthplace of football as we now know it and the pioneers contributing to the modern game also hailed from these here parts.

FIFA and UEFA have officially recognised the role of the city of Sheffield in creating the model format on which the world's associations are now run.

The first ever club side was Sheffield FC founded in 1857. I am not sure if there were any other teams to compete against at that time but it is safe to say that as the first ever inter club match did not take place until 1860 Sheffield FC had a legitimate right to declare themselves global champions for those three successive years.

The inaugural fixture was an away one but against Hallam FC who were also from Sheffield so not too far to travel then. It was also therefore the first local derby game and as time has shown it was played on the oldest sports ground in the world, founded in 1804.

The Laws of Football, only really tweaked a bit since, were drawn up by a Hull man, Ebenezer Cobb Morley in 1863. This consisted of 23 rules.

Throughout its history other sons of Yorkshire have been major contributors to football.

Herbert Chapman was the first to introduce the use of numbers on shirts.

The Hogg brothers from Skelton, near York exported the game to Argentina in 1867 but that nation later developed their own version whereby in a 50/50 challenge with an English goalkeeper it is permissible for those of diminutive stature to make use of a hand to their advantage.

A Joseph Whitaker helped to establish football in Sicily but I will not offer any comment or observations on how that went, what with on going bribery, corruption and match-fixing cases still active.

George Raynor from Barnsley led the Swedish National Team to a Olympic Gold in 1948 and was never given credit for their third place and runners up positions in the post war World Cup tournaments.

Bill Nicholson from Scarborough was manager at Tottenham Hotspur in their famous double year of FA Cup and First Division victories.

This season has proven to be a most illustrious one for Yorkshire football teams.

I provide the following Roll of Honour but apologise if I inadvertently leave out Leeds United or any other teams. I will accept any other nominations from aggrieved supporters in due course.

Top of the pile is my own team, Hull City who were automatically promoted to the Premier League and remain as the sole representatives of Yorkshire amongst softie southerners, Mancs, those from the North East and the Midlands.

Doncaster Rovers, Bradford City and Rotherham also gained promotion from their hard fought divisions either automatically or through the drama of the Play-Offs.

Teams that maintained  current membership of their respective Leagues included Barnsley and Huddersfield (although only just), Leeds United (oh,alright then) both Sheffield teams and York City.

In the Evo Stik League the title was won by part timers North Ferriby United on goal difference after a long and hard competitive season and this after another stereotypically abysmal start to their campaign. They play on a small open sided ground wedged between a terrace of houses, the railway embankment and sewage treatment plant  in the middle of the commuter village and have in recent years punched well above their own weight in the league and non-league cup competitions.

For this reason my Award for best team in Yorkshire goes to North Ferriby United.

I was pleased to see that 18th position in Ferriby's League was occupied by the best named team in the global world of football, the former Frickley Colliery Athletic. There is always next season and believe it or not that is only a matter of about 9 weeks before it kicks off. I can't wait. I hate cricket.

Wonderful Amy

A friend of mine recently bought a large, red brick semi detached house in The Avenues area of our city. It is so called for obvious reasons. It is tree lined.

I have to qualify that point because there are many so named residential streets throughout the UK which are devoid of anything more than leylandii hedges or those ornamental trees which seemed like a good idea when seen at the local garden centre but subsequently prove to be most disappointing.

New housing estates similarly have iconic names to their cul de sacs and narrow car crammed looping roadways but as yet have no established lilac's, acacia's or fuschsia's to speak of.

At least in the now largely demolished parts of out cities and towns there was no pretence or snobbery in living on Gas Works Row, Sewer Lane or Slaughterhouse View.

Within The Authentic Avenues my friend lives on Park Avenue.

This is one of four broad and long streets running east to west with grand villas, terraces and a few individual residences with towers topped with ramparts together with other architectural eccentricities.

Amongst its collective occupants there is a constant dialogue and argument over in what order, into what hierarchy of desirability the four streets fall.

To outsiders the area has always been associated with those of the brown, wholegrain bread persuasion, readers of the Guardian newspaper and also who know how to cook such organic foods as lentils, chick peas and are not phased by houmus or sun dried tomatoes.

If the criteria for one-upmanship is purely based on the calibre of houses then perhaps my friends street would come out on top.

Park Avenue may have the highest proportion of detached three storey late Victorian examples but would be hard pushed by perhaps Victoria Avenue, followed by Westbourne and Marlborough. The two latter avenues are a bit narrower and less grand in appearance and their eastern sections, closer to the inner city, do have more of the larger properties sub divided into flats and bedsits or operating as Houses in Multiple Occupation. This may be frowned upon or just as easily ignored by the owner occupiers who are still, just about, in the majority.

Adopting the criteria of which street has the highest proportion of subsidence damaged housing is another way to allocate status to the area.

A common feature under just about all of the stock of buildings is a marsh. The local name of Newlands is rarely used as it may infer an association with the busy shopping street of almost the same name and detract from the residential character. It does explain the origins of the boggy ground in that Newlands relates to the reclamation of the land from a previous existence under the surface of a lake.

A few entrepreneurs and time served builders took on the land, which in the early to mid 1800's was regarded as being sufficiently distant from the city slums to be desirable and developed individual plots or blocks on a bespoke and later a more speculative basis. This was a piecemeal process on the basis of time but also explained the wide variety of sizes, styles and calibre of housing.

The unavoidable clay subsoils groaned under the imposed weight of bricks and mortar and in the early years following construction and occupation many homes settled and found a more natural level. Today this is clearly illustrated by the distinctive sloping and crowning of the timber floors, out of true doorheads and a degree of involuntary movement and separation between front and rear parts of the large and substantial dwellings.

In the intermittent drought years , but in more recent times on an almost alternate year basis the extraction of moisture from the clay by evaporation and primarily the action of the Avenues trees has wreaked havoc with the shallow pad foundations.

The two storey front bays were the first to subside followed by internal load bearing walls and then the breaking away of the slim two storey rear wing offshoots. It was a common sight following a drought year to see major structural works in progress in all of the four streets. Money from insurers was lavished on providing underpinning and remediation works. A flexible joint was the Engineers specification between the two main elements of the houses. Legal actions flourished between owners and the Council who as guardians of the offending trees were held liable for the subsidence problem.

Amazingly, in the midst of all the adverse publicity and large scale structural repairs which led to a clogging of the roads with builders vans and cement mixers intermittently over 20 years or so there was no tangible decline in the desirability of the area.

My friends house was so affected. Although stabilised on a new foundation there were still inherited features of distortion, quite discernible, to the main front elevation and throughout. Again this had not served to deter his purchase.

The third criteria on which to assess the hierarchy of the four streets is the number of blue heritage plaques relating to famous former residents.

The list is pretty impressive for such a concentrated area. Westbourne Avenue has, amongst its glitterati the versatile actor Ian Carmichael, the crime and suspense writer Dorothy L Sayers, Alan Plater, playwright and Joseph Boxall who had the honour of being the third most senior officer to survive the sinking of the Titanic. I have seen another plaque commemorating two pioneers of Hollywood movies, Ralph and Gerald Thomas on Westbourne.

Park Avenue was the home for some years of Anthony Minghella, film director whose work included The English Patient.

The house purchased by my friend has its own blue enamelled metal sign. The pioneer aviator Amy Johnson was a former occupant. She was the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia as well as many other milestone achievements.

On weekends a few cars do slow down at the roadside and camera lenses are thrust out to take a few furtive pictures. There is obviously still quite a following.

There is however a downside to the ownership of the home of a famous person. What is missing to assist in modern living is a driveway. Parking in The Avenues is very much a current problem as the area did not have to consider car ownership and use when it was first developed. My friend applied for Planning Permission to create an across the deep grass verge in front of his Park Avenue residence. The level of opposition from the Residents Committee, Heritage Organisations and the Council was strong and his application was refused.

In conveying his obvious disappointment and annoyance to me I did jokingly suggest that, given the illustrious former owner occupier, would he possibly have been more successful in trying to get consent for a small runway. We have not spoken since.

Beckham takes the biscuit.

For those of us men who are not entirely happy with their own body shape the news of the retirement from football of David Beckham produces very mixed feelings.

On the one hand his skills on the pitch will be missed, the long precision passes and dead ball kicks, that slow calculated game that meant that he did not have to run about too much in the 90 minutes of a crucial game. I have tried to emulate that particular aspect of his repertoire on many occasions down at the 5-a-side facility.

On the other we gleefully await his piling on of the pounds in body weight as that finely tuned athletic form returns to the natural cycle that we, of chubby status, find ourselves in.

At long last we will be able to resume walking about our homes in our pants without that inevitable and prejudicial judgement, a direct comparison with Becks, by our spouses and loved ones.

We can relax those straining stomach muscles that voluntarily go into spasm in the company of women.

Importantly we can probably now dismiss that fantastical thought of having our hair braided into cornrows, just for the summer holidays.

He has maintained the status of a bit of an Adonis for much of his period in the public gaze. This is surprising in that he is not the stereotypical figure for this high office. There may be a little bit lacking in his character, you know, he gives the impression of being a bit slow but yet I have invariably overheard exclamations and comments from his admirers upon seeing his latest marketing campaign.

The rest of the male species remain confused over what it is that women want based on their apparent infatuation with the Becks.

We have developed a keen and succinct sense of humour because we are told that this is appealing. David does not appear to have this, apart from that rather vague but mischievous grin.

Our sensitive side has been nurtured to be able to respond to the first indicators of  distress or upset and a hug or cup of tea is speedily despatched.

In the house, we have honed and extended our skill base from not just the noisy, dirty, tool-box based activities to operating the likes of the washing machine, steam iron and the Dyson.

And yet, I cannot myself visualise Becks having to do any of these things in any of his homes.

There must still be something he has that we can never attain. It is not Victoria.

I will continue to contemplate this modern conundrum whilst I finish off the lower half of the new packet of Digestives.  I can always go for a kick-about with the lads later. Get in there!

Old Chestnuts Are The Best

I have three standing jokes which I have shamelessly exploited in old and new company for the last few years.

My own family know them well and at gatherings, which are the proving ground of the jokes, they have even taken to pre-empting me and setting up spoilers that I am getting ready to say them.

I don't really mind that.

They still get said anyway and the reaction is still of sufficient uproar and humour to make it worthwhile. In fact, comment is made at the dinner table if we have got through a get-together and meal and coffee has been served if I have not managed to introduce them into a conversation, however tenuous or vague the relevance.

The first standing joke is a seasonal one.

It can only really be done at Christmas and specifically when the crackers are pulled. After the initial tension about who to pull the cracker with so that everyone at the table gets a go there is the reveal of the novelty item be it a set of miniature tools, a pack of cards, a shoe horn or sewing kit (Marks and Spencer £9.99). It is then the almost afterthought and very much anti-climax of reading out the witticism on the small piece of paper which has been tucked up, by the sweat shop staff in a Chinese industrial conurbation, into the folds of the party hat. The party faithful shift supervisors will no doubt be ruthless in their searching out of any handwritten pleas for rescue or respite which may be substituted in the crepe paper crown. After all, the enjoyment and sensibilities of the Westerners must not be upset by such potentially distressing revelations of the regime, nor everyone's Uncle John deprived of his annual, and a little bit tipsy, hilarity.

The usual jokes are there about what is black and white and read all over, what is yellow, smells of almonds and swings though the jungle, where does Napoleon keep his armies and so on and so forth. The owners of the intellectual rights to these classics must live out a luxurious and wealthy life on the back of, perhaps ten seconds a year in each and every celebrating household.

The answers, in the same order? A Newspaper. Tarzipan. Up his sleevies, of course.

When it is my turn to read out the contents of the cracker I ignore what is written and go for "What is the secret of good comedy?. Timing". The last word is pronounced immediately after the slight uplift of intonation in "comedy?" and before anyone has an opportunity to muse, ponder and hazard a guess.

Believe me, when first sprung on my family in the last century it was pretty funny. As you can well imagine the impact of it has waned just a little bit upon each successive telling. Nevertheless, an audience is an audience and one made up of loved ones is sympathetic and kind in its reaction. It is a gig in your home town. What can possibly go wrong with that?

The second standing joke is visual. It requires only one item for a performance.

A paper bag.

The purists do stipulate that a plain brown paper bag, about the size of a coffee table book is preferred for maximum effect. In these days of recyclable materials the brown paper bag is an endangered species. A single use is the best that can be expected and so they are rarely used in their traditional role at the high street grocers, the fruit and veg shop or other sources that in the past could always be relied upon. They have been replaced with those flimsy, almost transparent biodegradable plastic based carriers that seem to commence decomposing as soon as you take up the strain of the hand-cutting handles at the checkout.

It is now a surprise to find yourself with a brown paper bag but immediately the possibility of a performance looms up.

The best opportunity in recent years has been with the weekly delivery of my Takeaway Pizza (Thursdays). The generic white, corrugated cardboard box embossed in a red, white and green representation of the Leaning Tower of Pizza arrives in a large, reasonably heavy duty brown paper bag.

Before the food is served I enact the trick with the bag.

This involves holding it, open mouthed (the bag, not me), with a hooking action of my middle, ring and pinky digits on my right hand.. The thumb and index finger are tucked in just behind the top of the bag and out of sight of anyone else in the room paying attention. With the left hand I make the motions of throwing up an imaginary object and low and behold as it invisibly enters the bag I make a flicking action with the concealed thumb and finger which, to, again, anyone paying attention, gives the amazing impression of something of substance embedding itself in the bottom of the bag.

I do fear for the future of that particular joke. This is from the ongoing scarcity of the main prop and also the much higher expectations as to what constitutes a proper trick amongst the younger generations.

The third stalwart works on the basis of intrigue, suspense and usually the overhearing by the target audience of a small snatch of conversation, the end of a sentence.

The modern curse of the silent telephone call has proven to be the salvation of this particular joke. We have all been plagued by some distant auto-dialling machine that selects our home telephone number at random. (I personally lay the blame with Readers Digest for profiteering in the selling on of the personal details of the recipients of winning chances in their Prize Draw).

The first rings prime the machine and if picked up and answered then we are either prepared for an instant connection or in the loop for a callback within a few minutes.

If I am lucky enough to get to the phone first and hear that distinctive white noise I can start my joke to the effect of saying to the empty line "Yes, I understand. Yes, I am prepared. Heathrow, 9am tomorrow, flight to Caracas, use the name Mr Blue, Thank you, yes, I am committed, Goodbye".

Chances are that those who did not move to answer the phone are ear-wigging just in case the call is for them.

I re-enter the room, quite matter of fact and nonchalant but showing enough edginess and sophistication to be a credible member of a Sleeper Cell. Even after many, many performances on this theme I do get a good reaction of concern and anxiety from my children.

As for me, I am still awaiting my first real code-shrouded call. It will come one day and I am in a constant state of readiness to respond.

Twitching Net Curtains

There was a lot of activity at the end of the street.

In fact, I tend to think that what I could see was actually a Police cordon.

That was definitely a first for the area. Not just one officer on duty but three, edgy and nervously glancing at the cars and pedestrians as they either passed by as a matter of fact or were just a bit inquisitive about the unusual goings on. A few brave persons on foot were poised to ask that inevitable question about what was up but a stiffening and bristling of those on guard duty was enough to deter them.

The reason for the formal roadblock was not, obviously, down to a leaking gas or water main. I could not see a glow nor smell the distinctive odour attributable to an outbreak of fire. I suppose it could have been a murder or a domestic incident.

The traffic had slowed enough for me to glance past the street end. In the cul de sac beyond there was a fleet of squad cars and those big black, unmarked marias used to cart off the naughty boys and girls to the nearest police station.

More of the local constabulary could be seen chatting with some quite ominous looking para-military types in full combat gear and casually swinging machine pistols on their hip bones as they hung from heavy duty canvas strap from their padded shoulders.

It was a couple of days before the local  paper realised the newsworthiness of the event. They speculated wildly on the first front page account out of desperation to beat the free weeklies to the story.

Gradually some semblance of professional journalism emerged and in the following days an incredible tale was recounted.

The target of the attention of the authorities had been a single semi detached house in that quiet suburban road. It was just an ordinary red brick built place with a red rosemary tile roof, tidy woodwork and a neat front garden. In the windows hung those detestable net curtains giving just enough privacy and an implied  message of 'there's nothing worth looking at or to be bothered about here, thank you very much'.

After the initial assault on the house and its occupant and a good proportion of its contents had been removed by the task force the newspaper had published some internal photographs to pad out its now top feature.

The source of the pictures was not clear. They may have been acquired in a plain brown envelope from a person in an official capacity. In fact, one of the neighbours trusted with a key for those emergencies that always occur when the owner is away on a trip was responsible either willingly for a cash consideration or had been duped by a young, attentive reporter type.

Again, there was nothing remarkable about the house. A bit plain and drab to the décor and furnishings but nevertheless functional and comfortable. There were, however, a lot of shelves packed with weighty books in every room, lavatory included.

This was not the norm from my experience of the typical residents of the street. They usually had a small collection of those thick volumes produced with regular monotony by Reader's Digest on such subjects as Heritage, General Knowledge, The Royal Family and of course the Book of The Road. These themes were all that was required to answer the persistent queries of small children or settle a dispute after a Pub Quiz Night.

The shelving was stout and wall to wall, firmly fixed to the masonry and not flat pack or unstable if overloaded. Most of the horizontal surfaces of tables, window cills, kitchen worktops and even either side of the staircase treads were covered with files and loose papers and more were protruding out of a great variety of cardboard boxes distributed under and around the furniture.

I had seen similar ordered chaos in the homes of academics and those of respectable and apparently harmless eccentricity.

The former was applicable in this instance.

The owner occupier was a lecturer at the city University. One of those small columns on an inner page of the local paper gave a potted biography of the man. Born up North, state educated but bright, scholarship to a prestigious southern place of learning, excellent First Class Degree , a gap year of letting rip on a global circumnavigation, a stop off in the Soviet Union, post graduate studies to Doctorate level, teaching posts at a number of worthy establishments, then what to me appeared to be a bit of a breakdown in that he ended up here in a good steady but lower league of academia.

The high flyer appeared to have hit one of those glass ceilings.

His subject had always been Economics and Social History. In his first Uni year he had joined the Communist Party. It was a small branch of disaffected sons and daughters of the wealthy. His motivation was primarily to meet the volatile female members who were like nothing else he had encountered in his previous life. They were an active group, mainly because being of limited numbers they only required the hire of one mini-bus for a campaign outing to support striking comrades or attend regional and national conferences and gatherings.

The highlight of each successive year of being a card carrying Communist was a visit to the Motherland. These were officially received and he had built up quite a network of contacts in a number of State Departments.

His profile in the newspaper column all pointed to one outcome.

He was eventually recruited as a Spy. It was not at all glamorous or hazardous. A job in London had enabled him to mix and fraternise with women working in Ministry positions. His handlers seemed pleased with the information that he was able to gather. It was then a period of upheaval and political activity in the eastern states of the Soviet Bloc. Solidarity Trade Union in Poland had begun the process of  dismantling and then collapsing the Russian Empire. Their man in our city provided information of the level of support both collective and from powerful individuals on his side of the North Sea. A few in influential positions in UK Universities were exiles from behind the Iron Curtain and were befriended and quietly relieved of any matters of potential interest from their ongoing involvement with their beloved but imprisoned colleagues in the Old Country.

All of this was done with skill and diligence. To the neighbours he was just someone clever who worked at the University and was away a lot. His career in espionage lasted for 12 years being curtailed only by the change in outlook and regime brought about by the events around the fall of the Berlin Wall and the ensuing domino effect.

It would be  another decade before the day that I would drive past the end of his street.