Dear One Last Soul,
I am thinking about building my own house. I like the idea of it but actually have very little information on the practicalities and costs. My own grand design is for a low energy and high tech building, quite stylish, you know the sort, a bit cubist with lots of open plan space and glazed areas. Something in a timber frame would be nice. I have found a bit of land, well, actually I am quite happy to just bulldoze my existing, old and energy sapping dwelling and start from scratch. Can you help?
Well, here goes.
Confirm that the land is developable.
Draw up a plan of that dream house to comply with Regulations
Get Planning Permission
Initial Costs £14,189,60. (includes Architects fees of £11,100)
Make sure that you have enough funds for the job
Get Insurance and Warranties
Arrange temporary accommodation. Possibly with Mother in Law.
Setting Up Costs of £4978.93 plus ongoing Mortgage liabilities dependant on loan amount
Ready to get started on Stage 1- out of the ground
Deposit on timber frame
Hire some big yellow skips
Demolish old house, make good the site
Excavate for foundations
Pour concrete.
Drainage arrangements
Ground floor construction
Eco infrastructure for rainwater harvesting
Time costs for explaining to neighbours what it is all about
Costs £55,019.70
Stage 2- Schedule to delivery and assembling of the timber frame house kit.
Scaffold and Crane Hire
Reimburse neighbours for damaged fence from large lorry mounted crane
Labour
Ample tea and biscuits
Cost £29,681.87
Stage 3-getting wind and watertight
Roof covering, rainwater fittings, windows, doors, Solar Panels, external claddings
Tarpaulins just in case of rain
Wellies and Macintoshes
Cost £59,107.90
Stage 4-Getting the inside sorted
Plastering
Joinery
Services in place
Staircase
Upper floors
Home automation system
First Aid Kit for minor injuries
Cost £69,331.31
Stage 5- best bits
Finalise all services and fittings
Kitchen fit out
Bathroom installation
Tiling
Decoration
Cleaning and clearance of site debris
Landscaping
Bottle of Champagne
Cat flap
Invite Mother in law to housewarming and buy large bunch of flowers
Think about asking the neighbours around as a peace offering
Cost £24,398.75
Time elapsed, if to schedule ,from start to moving in, 20 weeks (optimistic)
Total Cost to build £256,708,06 including VAT (Land already owned in this example)
Net Build Cost therefore £205,366.45
Size of house created, 205m2 (2206 sq ft)
Cost per m2 £1252 of gross cost (£116 sqft)
Value of house when completed?.......in the eye of the beholder (Depends on location)
This represents very much the highest specification for a modern house. If you are not
feeling up to the challenge Barratt Homes can do it for £500 m2 but then again as my
old man says "you get what you pay for".
Thursday 31 October 2013
Wednesday 30 October 2013
The Smashing Pumpkins
Halloween must be a very confusing time for children in particular and especially so this year with a renewed onslaught by commercial interests to use the revenue from spooky related items as another attempt to jump start the economy.
I can sympathise with the very excited Tots (and adults) when informed that Halloween actually falls on a school night. How cruel is that?
I expect any moment now a directive from the ruling party that those failing to purchase flashing deelyboppers, plasticky face masks and fang shaped jelly sweets may risk having their benefit docked.
It is after all patriotic to take part in Halloween.
My local Tesco Express has been stocking everthing scary for weeks. I use the term scary to describe the ultra high sugar and chemical preservative content of the cocktail of things found in a typical goody bag.
The season presents an ideal opportunity for sweet manufacturers to offload their poorest selling lines by simply bagging them up as vampire snacks, witches vittels, frankensteins chewies or werewolf off-cuts. I will however purchase a large bag of miniature chocolate bars to keep by the front door in the event of callers .
There has been disappointment on my part from a very poor take up of such treats in the last couple of years. It is important to make an effort as any perceived lack of enthusiasm will surely result in an egging attack on the front of the house on the forthcoming mischief night.
Pumpkins, a poor mans savoury melon, have had a major resurgence.
My daughter, Alice found a real pumpkin patch just outside York and indulged in a late season Pick Your Own. I have never come across that before.
The celebrity cooks are thinking up wonderful treats involving members of the gourd and squash families. I thought the recipe for a fleshy pumpkin soup, infused with ginger and sherry was interesting. I followed the process faithfully. Hand scoop out and dispose of the seeds. Wash hands,optional, then claw out the insides setting aside in a heavy metal skillet. On low heat cook the flesh with butter. Add 1 pint of chicken stock, stir in previously prepared cooked onion and garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Find at the bottom of the food cupboard a brittle stick of cinnamon devoid of any flavour. Empty all or any Schwarz herb or spice jars from the top of the food cupboard. Boil down the mixture to a firmish but not stiff texture. Remove from the heat. Use a hand blender to produce a smooth mix. The crowning glory of the recipe is in its serving inside the shell. Unfortunately, my son had, during my cooking endeavours, cut out two eyes, a cartilage free nose hole and a wide toothy grin. My eagerness to serve up the soup was dashed by the sight of the rich, orangey and creamy mixture extruding out of the orifices of the pumpkin and all over the kitchen to a combination of morbid amusement and horror of the hungry onlookers. The whole effect was very dramatic and in some way I may have implied that the whole performance had been intentional as part of the evenings entertainment. For Halloween tea we ended up eating '1000 year old zombie eggs in blood on an upturned rustic gravestone'. Apparently, they are available in 57 varieties.
I can sympathise with the very excited Tots (and adults) when informed that Halloween actually falls on a school night. How cruel is that?
I expect any moment now a directive from the ruling party that those failing to purchase flashing deelyboppers, plasticky face masks and fang shaped jelly sweets may risk having their benefit docked.
It is after all patriotic to take part in Halloween.
My local Tesco Express has been stocking everthing scary for weeks. I use the term scary to describe the ultra high sugar and chemical preservative content of the cocktail of things found in a typical goody bag.
The season presents an ideal opportunity for sweet manufacturers to offload their poorest selling lines by simply bagging them up as vampire snacks, witches vittels, frankensteins chewies or werewolf off-cuts. I will however purchase a large bag of miniature chocolate bars to keep by the front door in the event of callers .
There has been disappointment on my part from a very poor take up of such treats in the last couple of years. It is important to make an effort as any perceived lack of enthusiasm will surely result in an egging attack on the front of the house on the forthcoming mischief night.
Pumpkins, a poor mans savoury melon, have had a major resurgence.
My daughter, Alice found a real pumpkin patch just outside York and indulged in a late season Pick Your Own. I have never come across that before.
The celebrity cooks are thinking up wonderful treats involving members of the gourd and squash families. I thought the recipe for a fleshy pumpkin soup, infused with ginger and sherry was interesting. I followed the process faithfully. Hand scoop out and dispose of the seeds. Wash hands,optional, then claw out the insides setting aside in a heavy metal skillet. On low heat cook the flesh with butter. Add 1 pint of chicken stock, stir in previously prepared cooked onion and garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Find at the bottom of the food cupboard a brittle stick of cinnamon devoid of any flavour. Empty all or any Schwarz herb or spice jars from the top of the food cupboard. Boil down the mixture to a firmish but not stiff texture. Remove from the heat. Use a hand blender to produce a smooth mix. The crowning glory of the recipe is in its serving inside the shell. Unfortunately, my son had, during my cooking endeavours, cut out two eyes, a cartilage free nose hole and a wide toothy grin. My eagerness to serve up the soup was dashed by the sight of the rich, orangey and creamy mixture extruding out of the orifices of the pumpkin and all over the kitchen to a combination of morbid amusement and horror of the hungry onlookers. The whole effect was very dramatic and in some way I may have implied that the whole performance had been intentional as part of the evenings entertainment. For Halloween tea we ended up eating '1000 year old zombie eggs in blood on an upturned rustic gravestone'. Apparently, they are available in 57 varieties.
Tuesday 29 October 2013
One for the road, plus 2,199,999.
The end of the line, a dead end, you only go to Hull if you have to.......heard it before, heard it today and those who have never visited the great City will continue to say it in the coming years.
Yet, for the estimated 2,200,000 immigrants who passed through Hull on the way to settlement in the United States, Canada and South Africa in the mid to late 19th Century it marked the beginning of the next stage of their arduous journey to find safety from persecution and to earn a living.
Arrival in the port will have brought a graphic realisation that their flight was progressing, particularly after a hellish three to four days of passage across the volatile North Sea from the Baltic Ports. At last, some firm soil under their feet and the prospect of a rapid train transfer across the country to the mass transit hub of Liverpool.
There had been a negligible trickle of migrants, around 1000 a year in the early part of the 19th century.
Risking sickness or a perishing at sea these early arrivals mainly settled in the emerging Industrial centres of England and quickly established communities in York, Leeds and Manchester. By the 1840's the transport of emigrants from Norway, Sweden and North Germany was big business for steamship companies who switched fully to passenger cargo or maintained a mix of goods and people.
The Wilson Line, a Hull based company, held a virtual monopoly of the routes. The generation of income from frequent crossings was tremendous but at the cost of quality and humane standards. This drew the attention of the Hull Board of Health, who had a running battle with the Wilson Line over poor and unacceptable standards of their passenger vessels. The Steamship Argo was likened to a little better than a cattle ship. Human excrement running down and sticking to the side of the superstructure was cited.
The inhumane conditions threatened not only the health and welfare of the poor transportees but also the wider City population.When ships arrivals did not coincide with the running times for ongoing trains the squalid conditions on board persisted with, largely, only the male emigrants allowed to venture out into the city. Outbreaks of Cholera in most of the European Ports demanded immediate action to prevent an epidemic amongst the local population. The Hull Sanitary Authority was formed in 1851, an early Quango, with responsibility for the wider urban area and the Port.
Main embarcation points in the central and eastern docks included the Steam Packet Wharf in the Humber Dock Basin or the Victoria Dock. The Minerva Hotel on the Dock Basin Quay served as offices for emigrant agents and became established as the hub of the operation. The threat to Health was serious and after 1866 the arrivees at Victoria Dock were not allowed to cross the town on foot and were kettled onto trains on the North Eastern Railway. Those arriving at the Dock Basin were invariably held on board. This was regarded as a safer option, particularly as confused and disorientated european migrants were at significant risk of exploitation by the inevitable presence of chancers and racketeers in the narrow dockside streets.
A major improvement and recognition of the vast human traffic through Hull was the construction, in 1871, of an Immigrant Waiting Room and allocation of a transit platform just on the southern edge of Paragon Station with a frontage to Anlaby Road. This building still survives as a Bar and Social Club for Hull City football supporters.
The building, a long, narrow, low slung brick and slate structure had actual but limited facilities for the comfort and convenience of immigrants. The prospect of a first wash, secure toilet and permanent landside shelter was well overdue.
From the building ticket agents could ply their business in a controlled environment against criminal activity. Once ashore, most passengers were despatched on the next leg of their journey within 24 hours. Those delayed for whatever reason and requiring lodgings had a limited choice evidently a Directive from the authorities to discourage even temporary settlement.
Twenty emigrant lodging houses were officially licenced in 1871. These were little more than dormitories accommodating between 20 and 80 people at a time.
The Waiting Room had to be extended within ten years. Arrivals continued to increase up to 1885 and the Hull and Barnsley Railway Company jumped in to capitalise on the trade with a second emigrant platform at their new Alexandra Dock development. The purpose built complex could take the largest of steamships and the prompt transfer of passengers to trains of 17 carriages, the last four being exclusively for baggage. The long trains had priority on the line with a monday morning departure for the 4 hour journey to Liverpool, the gateway to the United States and Canada.
The exodus from Europe was persistent and in 1904 the Wilson Line leased a separate landing station at Island Wharf at the Basin mouth being the fourth such facility across the waterfront. The income from this trade, for the Wilson Line, had made it the largest privately owned shipping line in the world. There was another ten years of peak profits from the transmigration business before the outbreak of the First World War ended the trade overnight.
Hull was the natural stepping stone for those escaping to a better percieved life in the west. Amongst the 2.2 million passing through was a documented, but estimated, 500,000 european Jews and up to 70,000 of Russian and Polish origin. Large numbers of Swedish, Norwegian and Danish migrants, mainly of hardy farming stock , were customers of The Wilson Line for resettlement in North America.
The Island Wharf has a permanent commemorative statue to the plight of the immigrants with a family sat amongst suitcases containing their worldly belongings , looking a bit apprehensive about what lies ahead.
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Northern_European_Family_-_geograph.org.uk_-_540649.jpg
Yet, for the estimated 2,200,000 immigrants who passed through Hull on the way to settlement in the United States, Canada and South Africa in the mid to late 19th Century it marked the beginning of the next stage of their arduous journey to find safety from persecution and to earn a living.
Arrival in the port will have brought a graphic realisation that their flight was progressing, particularly after a hellish three to four days of passage across the volatile North Sea from the Baltic Ports. At last, some firm soil under their feet and the prospect of a rapid train transfer across the country to the mass transit hub of Liverpool.
There had been a negligible trickle of migrants, around 1000 a year in the early part of the 19th century.
Risking sickness or a perishing at sea these early arrivals mainly settled in the emerging Industrial centres of England and quickly established communities in York, Leeds and Manchester. By the 1840's the transport of emigrants from Norway, Sweden and North Germany was big business for steamship companies who switched fully to passenger cargo or maintained a mix of goods and people.
The Wilson Line, a Hull based company, held a virtual monopoly of the routes. The generation of income from frequent crossings was tremendous but at the cost of quality and humane standards. This drew the attention of the Hull Board of Health, who had a running battle with the Wilson Line over poor and unacceptable standards of their passenger vessels. The Steamship Argo was likened to a little better than a cattle ship. Human excrement running down and sticking to the side of the superstructure was cited.
The inhumane conditions threatened not only the health and welfare of the poor transportees but also the wider City population.When ships arrivals did not coincide with the running times for ongoing trains the squalid conditions on board persisted with, largely, only the male emigrants allowed to venture out into the city. Outbreaks of Cholera in most of the European Ports demanded immediate action to prevent an epidemic amongst the local population. The Hull Sanitary Authority was formed in 1851, an early Quango, with responsibility for the wider urban area and the Port.
Main embarcation points in the central and eastern docks included the Steam Packet Wharf in the Humber Dock Basin or the Victoria Dock. The Minerva Hotel on the Dock Basin Quay served as offices for emigrant agents and became established as the hub of the operation. The threat to Health was serious and after 1866 the arrivees at Victoria Dock were not allowed to cross the town on foot and were kettled onto trains on the North Eastern Railway. Those arriving at the Dock Basin were invariably held on board. This was regarded as a safer option, particularly as confused and disorientated european migrants were at significant risk of exploitation by the inevitable presence of chancers and racketeers in the narrow dockside streets.
A major improvement and recognition of the vast human traffic through Hull was the construction, in 1871, of an Immigrant Waiting Room and allocation of a transit platform just on the southern edge of Paragon Station with a frontage to Anlaby Road. This building still survives as a Bar and Social Club for Hull City football supporters.
The building, a long, narrow, low slung brick and slate structure had actual but limited facilities for the comfort and convenience of immigrants. The prospect of a first wash, secure toilet and permanent landside shelter was well overdue.
From the building ticket agents could ply their business in a controlled environment against criminal activity. Once ashore, most passengers were despatched on the next leg of their journey within 24 hours. Those delayed for whatever reason and requiring lodgings had a limited choice evidently a Directive from the authorities to discourage even temporary settlement.
Twenty emigrant lodging houses were officially licenced in 1871. These were little more than dormitories accommodating between 20 and 80 people at a time.
The Waiting Room had to be extended within ten years. Arrivals continued to increase up to 1885 and the Hull and Barnsley Railway Company jumped in to capitalise on the trade with a second emigrant platform at their new Alexandra Dock development. The purpose built complex could take the largest of steamships and the prompt transfer of passengers to trains of 17 carriages, the last four being exclusively for baggage. The long trains had priority on the line with a monday morning departure for the 4 hour journey to Liverpool, the gateway to the United States and Canada.
The exodus from Europe was persistent and in 1904 the Wilson Line leased a separate landing station at Island Wharf at the Basin mouth being the fourth such facility across the waterfront. The income from this trade, for the Wilson Line, had made it the largest privately owned shipping line in the world. There was another ten years of peak profits from the transmigration business before the outbreak of the First World War ended the trade overnight.
Hull was the natural stepping stone for those escaping to a better percieved life in the west. Amongst the 2.2 million passing through was a documented, but estimated, 500,000 european Jews and up to 70,000 of Russian and Polish origin. Large numbers of Swedish, Norwegian and Danish migrants, mainly of hardy farming stock , were customers of The Wilson Line for resettlement in North America.
The Island Wharf has a permanent commemorative statue to the plight of the immigrants with a family sat amongst suitcases containing their worldly belongings , looking a bit apprehensive about what lies ahead.
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Northern_European_Family_-_geograph.org.uk_-_540649.jpg
Monday 28 October 2013
Busted
It always leads to utter confusion in our house.
All through yesterday there was a frequent interrogation as to "what actually is the real time?".
The cause of this uncertainty was the marking of the end of British Summer Time and the changing of the clocks.
We have the same argument every year as to whether it is a case of the putting them forward or adjusting them back. This is in spite of the mantra learned from childhood alongside the likes of "Every Good Boy Deserves Food", "Richard Of York Gave Battle in Vain", "Thirty Days has, etc, etc" of spring forward and fall back for the seasons of the change in the hour.
We have of course had a few near disasters of time keeping in the family and that is why just one of our number is entrusted to physically alter all of the timepieces in the house.
In the past everyone and I suspect even the family pets, took it upon themselves to carry out this task resulting in not just the loss of gain of one hour dependant upon the season but multiple hours.
To confuse the issue many of the new appliances and gadgets in the house automatically account for the change and as if by magic, overnight, do it themselves.
Many of those I have spoken to on the subject of this impromptu time travel just go to bed early on the saturday night and sleep through in a state of oblivion rather than stress out as I do.
I was determined that this year would be ordered and civilised and so I calculated when to set the alarm to arise at my normal 6am sunday start. A smart phone is so called because it does a lot of smart things without being asked. The outcome was that I leapt out of bed, ready to complete a whole lot of outstanding paperwork but at the unearthly hour of 5am.
It took a random sampling of the mantel clock, digital watch, cooker display and the LCD on the front of the DVD player to realise that I was up and about under, frankly, bogus pretences.
Consequently, the first day after the end of BST always seems to be inexplicably long, tiring and with the early onset of dusk, wholly demoralising.
I was therefore relieved to get back to some semblance of normal with today being a working day.
A bit stupified from lack of sleep in the preceeding 24 hours I got into the car only to see that I was horribly late for my first meeting at the office. Traffic was fairly normal even at that peak rush hour time but I put that down to it being school half term.
I rang ahead to announce my impending late arrival but the meeting must have already started as no-one could find time to answer.
Surprisingly I could get parked easily in front of the office, a first.
Unusually my colleagues had locked themselves in and must have been discussing issues in a darkened room as the blinds were still drawn.
I burst in through the inner door hoping , by diversionary tactics, to produce a laugh at my tardiness. The office was empty and quiet.
Had I got the wrong venue after all, I thought to myself.
Switching on my desk top PC I noticed the time. It was a good hour behind that displayed on the dashboard in my car. It all then became abundantly clear that once again I had failed to adjust that particular keeper of time. I was not so much angry at my own oversight as disapointed in the engineering credentials of Volkswagen in not having a smart clock unless of course they just excluded that item of specification for the UK market, out of a unique sense of Germanic humour.
All through yesterday there was a frequent interrogation as to "what actually is the real time?".
The cause of this uncertainty was the marking of the end of British Summer Time and the changing of the clocks.
We have the same argument every year as to whether it is a case of the putting them forward or adjusting them back. This is in spite of the mantra learned from childhood alongside the likes of "Every Good Boy Deserves Food", "Richard Of York Gave Battle in Vain", "Thirty Days has, etc, etc" of spring forward and fall back for the seasons of the change in the hour.
We have of course had a few near disasters of time keeping in the family and that is why just one of our number is entrusted to physically alter all of the timepieces in the house.
In the past everyone and I suspect even the family pets, took it upon themselves to carry out this task resulting in not just the loss of gain of one hour dependant upon the season but multiple hours.
To confuse the issue many of the new appliances and gadgets in the house automatically account for the change and as if by magic, overnight, do it themselves.
Many of those I have spoken to on the subject of this impromptu time travel just go to bed early on the saturday night and sleep through in a state of oblivion rather than stress out as I do.
I was determined that this year would be ordered and civilised and so I calculated when to set the alarm to arise at my normal 6am sunday start. A smart phone is so called because it does a lot of smart things without being asked. The outcome was that I leapt out of bed, ready to complete a whole lot of outstanding paperwork but at the unearthly hour of 5am.
It took a random sampling of the mantel clock, digital watch, cooker display and the LCD on the front of the DVD player to realise that I was up and about under, frankly, bogus pretences.
Consequently, the first day after the end of BST always seems to be inexplicably long, tiring and with the early onset of dusk, wholly demoralising.
I was therefore relieved to get back to some semblance of normal with today being a working day.
A bit stupified from lack of sleep in the preceeding 24 hours I got into the car only to see that I was horribly late for my first meeting at the office. Traffic was fairly normal even at that peak rush hour time but I put that down to it being school half term.
I rang ahead to announce my impending late arrival but the meeting must have already started as no-one could find time to answer.
Surprisingly I could get parked easily in front of the office, a first.
Unusually my colleagues had locked themselves in and must have been discussing issues in a darkened room as the blinds were still drawn.
I burst in through the inner door hoping , by diversionary tactics, to produce a laugh at my tardiness. The office was empty and quiet.
Had I got the wrong venue after all, I thought to myself.
Switching on my desk top PC I noticed the time. It was a good hour behind that displayed on the dashboard in my car. It all then became abundantly clear that once again I had failed to adjust that particular keeper of time. I was not so much angry at my own oversight as disapointed in the engineering credentials of Volkswagen in not having a smart clock unless of course they just excluded that item of specification for the UK market, out of a unique sense of Germanic humour.
Sunday 27 October 2013
Not the best pear I've had the pleasure of.
I have discovered the further perils of gardening.
Not that I have much to tend to after the recent house move into the City.
At the last place the back garden was 30 metres long, mainly to lawn with a few planted borders and trees. It took a lot of work to keep on top of the basic tasks and not having enough time due to earning a living did mean that I inevitably got a bit behind. The consequence being a scruffy and unruly wilderness. I enjoyed the winter snow cover because it made my garden look as good as those well tended ones in the road.
The opportunity to catch up was therefore over the occasional, time and energy permitting, long weekend and it was a period of concentrated work to trim the long hedge boundary, cut the grass and sculpt the edges , pull out the weedy growth from under the mini-orchard, tidy up the herbaceous borders and then take the accumulated green waste in a series of trips to the Civic Amenity Site on the far side of town.
There was no sitting back with a chilled beer and a cornish pasty upon completion of this work because the front of the house called out for the same attention.
This added another 40 metre run of high privet and a few screening shrubs just inside the boundary wall.
A large garden can be as much a source of stress as a pleasant place to try to relax and enjoy the results of your labours.
In the course of tending to that small suburban estate I self inflicted a few nasty wounds through enthusiastic but mainly mis-use of the hedge trimmer, lawn mower, hosepipe and pressure washer amongst the collection of power tools at my disposal. I was equally gung-ho with the traditional hand tools of sharp spade, fork, secateurs, edging tool, shears, trowel, hoe and rake. I still carry the scars on hands, legs and latterly my upper right side temple from the hazardous tanglings with these tools. The most recent seemingly an attempt to trim my sideburns with the electric hedge trimmer.
You would think therefore that moving to an inner city house with no meaningful garden land would increase my average life expectancy.
I have found that assumption to be flawed.
The forecourt faces north and so has had very little suitability to grow and sustain anything living apart from those hardy and indestructible leylandii's. They are horribly boring plants as well as contributing to many disputes between otherwise reasonable and peacefully co-existent neighbours.
My son has cleared the wooded thicket in a scorched earth approach and as a consequence I have i) a blank canvas and ii) very little exposure to dangers and perils. Sweet.
The back of the house is really just an extension to the shared Service Road with our bit being marked out in that ubiquitous block paving in a herringbone pattern (is there any other?) and a few flush mounted pin kerbs.
Sounds fairly innocuous and again of low peril.
Well, just beyond the bisecting road is a small recess of ground that apparently falls within the red line of my Title Deed Plan. It has a large and as yet unidentified species of weeping tree but severely choked by ivy and other parasitic growths.
Against my better judgement and just to conform to the male stereotype for stupidity when faced with danger I waded, just today, into the wilderness to try to save the tree from the stifling presence of the ivy and to clear out the recess which had become a bit of a litter and dead leaf trap in the eddying currents of the cul de sac.
It was a breezy day, apparently the starter on the forthcoming menu of the biggest storm front to hit the UK in years.
In a quiet moment between the gusts of wind and the usual inner city traffic noise I paused to catch my breath. I became aware of a dull thud of something passing close to my head and then making a "splat" sound onto the tarmac road. I could have been mistaken. It could have as easily been a blood vessel in my ageing brain or a reaction to the strain of work by the aforementioned scar tissue on my temple.
Within a minute or so of having resumed activity the same happened again but even closer.
A bow wave of disturbed air and a faint whiff of fruit invaded my personal space. It was a near miss. Not in the category of an aircraft event but a warning that the next incidence of the same action would involve injury for sure.
Retreating back onto the block paving some 15 metres away and towards the shelter of the house I stood still and waited. With every increase in the blustery wind came the thud, thud of more falling debris. The neighbours caravan took a direct hit and the object bounced off the roof so as to roll and land at my feet even at what I had considered as a safe distance from attack.
It was a large pear.
My experience of a pear tree was based on one that we had planted at the old house to celebrate the birth of one of our children. That sapling had struggled to get beyond a few feet high and at best gave forth, unwillingly, one or two rock hard fruits every fifth year.
The now evident source of the projectiles was a huge gangly monster of a growth adjacent to the lock up garages of the adjoining residential street. I had of course noticed and registered it as a tree but just not a fruiting one.
Now tuned into the impending hazard of being concussed or worse by solid, and to my inquisitive disgust, wholly inedible, pears I decided to take appropriate action.
My new neighbours must have been much amused by the sight of the new kid on the block wearing a builders hard hat, padded shouldered jacket, knee pads and steel toe capped wellies just to cut back a bit of stray foliage.
Not that I have much to tend to after the recent house move into the City.
At the last place the back garden was 30 metres long, mainly to lawn with a few planted borders and trees. It took a lot of work to keep on top of the basic tasks and not having enough time due to earning a living did mean that I inevitably got a bit behind. The consequence being a scruffy and unruly wilderness. I enjoyed the winter snow cover because it made my garden look as good as those well tended ones in the road.
The opportunity to catch up was therefore over the occasional, time and energy permitting, long weekend and it was a period of concentrated work to trim the long hedge boundary, cut the grass and sculpt the edges , pull out the weedy growth from under the mini-orchard, tidy up the herbaceous borders and then take the accumulated green waste in a series of trips to the Civic Amenity Site on the far side of town.
There was no sitting back with a chilled beer and a cornish pasty upon completion of this work because the front of the house called out for the same attention.
This added another 40 metre run of high privet and a few screening shrubs just inside the boundary wall.
A large garden can be as much a source of stress as a pleasant place to try to relax and enjoy the results of your labours.
In the course of tending to that small suburban estate I self inflicted a few nasty wounds through enthusiastic but mainly mis-use of the hedge trimmer, lawn mower, hosepipe and pressure washer amongst the collection of power tools at my disposal. I was equally gung-ho with the traditional hand tools of sharp spade, fork, secateurs, edging tool, shears, trowel, hoe and rake. I still carry the scars on hands, legs and latterly my upper right side temple from the hazardous tanglings with these tools. The most recent seemingly an attempt to trim my sideburns with the electric hedge trimmer.
You would think therefore that moving to an inner city house with no meaningful garden land would increase my average life expectancy.
I have found that assumption to be flawed.
The forecourt faces north and so has had very little suitability to grow and sustain anything living apart from those hardy and indestructible leylandii's. They are horribly boring plants as well as contributing to many disputes between otherwise reasonable and peacefully co-existent neighbours.
My son has cleared the wooded thicket in a scorched earth approach and as a consequence I have i) a blank canvas and ii) very little exposure to dangers and perils. Sweet.
The back of the house is really just an extension to the shared Service Road with our bit being marked out in that ubiquitous block paving in a herringbone pattern (is there any other?) and a few flush mounted pin kerbs.
Sounds fairly innocuous and again of low peril.
Well, just beyond the bisecting road is a small recess of ground that apparently falls within the red line of my Title Deed Plan. It has a large and as yet unidentified species of weeping tree but severely choked by ivy and other parasitic growths.
Against my better judgement and just to conform to the male stereotype for stupidity when faced with danger I waded, just today, into the wilderness to try to save the tree from the stifling presence of the ivy and to clear out the recess which had become a bit of a litter and dead leaf trap in the eddying currents of the cul de sac.
It was a breezy day, apparently the starter on the forthcoming menu of the biggest storm front to hit the UK in years.
In a quiet moment between the gusts of wind and the usual inner city traffic noise I paused to catch my breath. I became aware of a dull thud of something passing close to my head and then making a "splat" sound onto the tarmac road. I could have been mistaken. It could have as easily been a blood vessel in my ageing brain or a reaction to the strain of work by the aforementioned scar tissue on my temple.
Within a minute or so of having resumed activity the same happened again but even closer.
A bow wave of disturbed air and a faint whiff of fruit invaded my personal space. It was a near miss. Not in the category of an aircraft event but a warning that the next incidence of the same action would involve injury for sure.
Retreating back onto the block paving some 15 metres away and towards the shelter of the house I stood still and waited. With every increase in the blustery wind came the thud, thud of more falling debris. The neighbours caravan took a direct hit and the object bounced off the roof so as to roll and land at my feet even at what I had considered as a safe distance from attack.
It was a large pear.
My experience of a pear tree was based on one that we had planted at the old house to celebrate the birth of one of our children. That sapling had struggled to get beyond a few feet high and at best gave forth, unwillingly, one or two rock hard fruits every fifth year.
The now evident source of the projectiles was a huge gangly monster of a growth adjacent to the lock up garages of the adjoining residential street. I had of course noticed and registered it as a tree but just not a fruiting one.
Now tuned into the impending hazard of being concussed or worse by solid, and to my inquisitive disgust, wholly inedible, pears I decided to take appropriate action.
My new neighbours must have been much amused by the sight of the new kid on the block wearing a builders hard hat, padded shouldered jacket, knee pads and steel toe capped wellies just to cut back a bit of stray foliage.
Saturday 26 October 2013
Storm Front
Apparently there is a big storm front approaching the UK.
It is difficult to gauge what the Meteorological Office mean by an advanced warning of this type.
Is it code-speak for "uh-oh the end of the world is coming" or just a bit of a hype so that if anything lesser but still massive comes in from the Atlantic then we have been placed on alert.
There is in fact, and as humankind well know through the millennia, very little we can actually do against the forces of nature even if forewarned if not able to be forearmed. King Canute learned the hard way about that.
I have however given an appropriate weighting to the level of public hazard being indicated.
I live almost in the top of the trees, that being explained by the fact that the house is three storey and overlooks a public park.
To the front are some sizeable horse chestnut trees, now considerably lighter in their canopies after having been given a right battering by the local children in search of the crop of conkers and through the natural shedding of the leaf cover .The bedroom window is at middle branch level and I am regularly eye to eye with the resident population of grey squirrels who skip about, always busy and seemingly themselves making preparations for some apocalyptic event, or just hibernation season. One squirrel recently verbally abused me in a manner that both shocked and surprised me. Shocked because I do not recall ever having heard the creatures make a noise before and surprised because I don't think we had met before.
Having quite recently moved into the house and not inheriting any curtains or blinds (bought a sofa and two armchairs instead) there is a fascinating play of shadows on the bedroom wall by the light of the flickeringly faulty streetlamp during the night. Framed in the darkness there is the ebb and flow in the projected size of the boughs of the nearest chestnut tree. If awakened I use the silhouetted show as a sort of counting sheep exercise to try to drop off again. It can be quite effective as a relaxation technique but I am fearful of the terrifying manifestation of a giant squirrel shape looming up as one of their number makes their way home after a night out getting nuts or whatever.
In our few weeks in residence we have had some windy times but with the house being in a staggered echelon of similar properties and orientated north to south we have not yet borne the brunt of any gales or strong breezes.
Modern double glazing is also pretty good at excluding the sound of a storm and it is necessary to actually open a window and lean out to get any inkling of how violent the weather system is. There is a tree at the back of the house on what is our land and that may not fare as well in cyclonic conditions. It is of a weeping variety and with quite a bit of elasticity in its upper parts so that in just a stiff breeze it gives the impression of imminent collapse and failure. It also has no benefit of shelter from the prevailing westerly's and so may be an interesting indicator of the severity of the predicted storm.
Otherwise, I have ensured that the fridge is full and I have a bit of catch-up to do on DVD's and reading if best advised to stay put and sit out the bad weather. This is all well and good if, of course, the power supply remains unaffected so as back up I did panic buy some candles and stock up on torch batteries. I appeared to be the only person of a nervous disposition down at the local stores and stocking up for the event. The local population showed no urgency in arranging builders to check that their chimney pots and vulnerable masonry were well bedded in. I did not note anyone acting as advised to secure garden furniture and loose fence panels. The large DIY outlet did not have a ready supply of sandbags in case of tidal surge but did prominently display a vast array of fireworks.
I suppose that if we are in fact saved from the impending Armageddon it will be more than appropriate to blow something up in celebration.
It is difficult to gauge what the Meteorological Office mean by an advanced warning of this type.
Is it code-speak for "uh-oh the end of the world is coming" or just a bit of a hype so that if anything lesser but still massive comes in from the Atlantic then we have been placed on alert.
There is in fact, and as humankind well know through the millennia, very little we can actually do against the forces of nature even if forewarned if not able to be forearmed. King Canute learned the hard way about that.
I have however given an appropriate weighting to the level of public hazard being indicated.
I live almost in the top of the trees, that being explained by the fact that the house is three storey and overlooks a public park.
To the front are some sizeable horse chestnut trees, now considerably lighter in their canopies after having been given a right battering by the local children in search of the crop of conkers and through the natural shedding of the leaf cover .The bedroom window is at middle branch level and I am regularly eye to eye with the resident population of grey squirrels who skip about, always busy and seemingly themselves making preparations for some apocalyptic event, or just hibernation season. One squirrel recently verbally abused me in a manner that both shocked and surprised me. Shocked because I do not recall ever having heard the creatures make a noise before and surprised because I don't think we had met before.
Having quite recently moved into the house and not inheriting any curtains or blinds (bought a sofa and two armchairs instead) there is a fascinating play of shadows on the bedroom wall by the light of the flickeringly faulty streetlamp during the night. Framed in the darkness there is the ebb and flow in the projected size of the boughs of the nearest chestnut tree. If awakened I use the silhouetted show as a sort of counting sheep exercise to try to drop off again. It can be quite effective as a relaxation technique but I am fearful of the terrifying manifestation of a giant squirrel shape looming up as one of their number makes their way home after a night out getting nuts or whatever.
In our few weeks in residence we have had some windy times but with the house being in a staggered echelon of similar properties and orientated north to south we have not yet borne the brunt of any gales or strong breezes.
Modern double glazing is also pretty good at excluding the sound of a storm and it is necessary to actually open a window and lean out to get any inkling of how violent the weather system is. There is a tree at the back of the house on what is our land and that may not fare as well in cyclonic conditions. It is of a weeping variety and with quite a bit of elasticity in its upper parts so that in just a stiff breeze it gives the impression of imminent collapse and failure. It also has no benefit of shelter from the prevailing westerly's and so may be an interesting indicator of the severity of the predicted storm.
Otherwise, I have ensured that the fridge is full and I have a bit of catch-up to do on DVD's and reading if best advised to stay put and sit out the bad weather. This is all well and good if, of course, the power supply remains unaffected so as back up I did panic buy some candles and stock up on torch batteries. I appeared to be the only person of a nervous disposition down at the local stores and stocking up for the event. The local population showed no urgency in arranging builders to check that their chimney pots and vulnerable masonry were well bedded in. I did not note anyone acting as advised to secure garden furniture and loose fence panels. The large DIY outlet did not have a ready supply of sandbags in case of tidal surge but did prominently display a vast array of fireworks.
I suppose that if we are in fact saved from the impending Armageddon it will be more than appropriate to blow something up in celebration.
Friday 25 October 2013
Ugly Duckling or Golden Goose?
Saw one of them parked up down a street near my old house.
I had to drive around the full extent of the one-way system in order to make another pass to confirm what I had just seen.
At that time in the evening reverse rush-hour no-one, just no-one even attempts to re-enter the gyratory traffic system without a legitimate reason such as forgetting to lock up the house, put the baby seat and contents from their resting place on the front lawn into the back seat of the car or thinking that the gas hob has been left on.
I had heard about the folly of a baby Aston Martin car.
Clarkson and Co were very amused but ultimately dismissive of the vehicle as though it were a complete betrayal of that great marque.
It is a compact city car based on the Toyota IQ but re-badged and sumptuously upholstered in leather hides, aluminium brushed gadget surrounds, hi tech gear shift knob and real wood trim behind the classic radiator grille modelled on the normal stable of thoroughbred supercars.
The Japanese originated model can be purchased for £12,500 on the road but with the upscaling in style, pedigree and that name the Cygnet as it is called comes in at a staring price of £30,000, yes, staring in open mouthed fashion as well as starting.
The kerb rested example down the road was in bright electric blue and with just a peak of what seemed to be the most impractical plush white interior to seats and trim. The side-on view is that of a Toyota but the Aston bonnet badge, or its fixing onto a rather snub nosed front, suggests that something special may be lurking in the engine compartment.
Apparently there is not.
Those paying such big money for a small car would be ultimately very disappointed by a top speed of 106mph although possibly downhill and in a favourable tail wind given the 97 BHP output of the 1.33 litre petrol engine.
It is not as if the toytown car has any beauty, passion, road presence or appeal because it is just very, very ordinary.
On its launch the manufacturer already had 400 orders and was fully confident of selling 1500 cars a year.
The model has now been terminated from the company brochure in what has been announced as a strategic decision but with barely 150 actual sales from the production run the whole exercise appears to have been just one huge miscalculation of client loyalty and the gullibility of the wider wannabe population.
The cynical view was that in bringing out a low CO2 emission vehicle the average output across the Aston Martin catalogue of environmentally unfriendly beasts would be dramatically reduced. Fearful of stringent sanctions on polluting characteristics of V12's and V8's this was actually a clever ruse to meet EU targets without the need to dramatically damage the reputation of speed and pulling power.
Ironically ,Aston Martin may have actually created a classic car of the future in terms of its great rarity although a first casual browse through the nearly new pages of a dealership shows second hand prices at a much depreciated £19,000. Might be a good and sound speculative investment even at that price. It is so small that you could park it in your understairs cupboard or shove it up into the loft to appreciate into that future pension windfall or special bequest to dependants. Unfortunately there is strong current competition with possibly the massive over-order of unused radiators grilles for the Cygnet now being stuck on the front of the new shape and ever present Ford Fiesta.
Thursday 24 October 2013
Definitely Maybe
At the time I did not think that 'Maybe' was a very good name for a ship.
A piece of equipment to be relied upon in life threatening situations upon towering waves and seemingly bottomless troughs with the violent turbulence in between should have a stronger name, for sure. 'Maybe' would have suited a rowing boat or a dinghy. It is a name which inspires a bit of optimism in a lotta laughs sort of way, and would certainly be a sentiment called upon if such a small craft drifted into the bow shadow of a large aircraft carrier,bulk carrier or globe trotting multi storey cruise ship. 'Maybe' just does not give a feeling of invincibilty and confidence on the open seas or even the local boating lake.
The story behind the name is however interesting.
Commissioned by a wealthy Dutchman in 1933 the boat was designed to fulfill the dreams and aspirations of that individual and his family for travelling and adventure. During the war years it was hidden in a muddy backwater as it would have been quite a prize for some self important invader and no doubt commandered, requisitioned or just plain stolen away to some private wharf in the Fatherland. Post war it began to take part in the Tall Ships Races, a glamourous and evocative sounding lifestyle, the playground of the rich and famous. The image of crystal clear waters, powder blue skies and warm sunshine could not be more distant than the lock basin of Hull Marina on a murky wednesday afternoon in October through which 'Maybe' was being carefully teased.
I was a bit of a captive audience in that the inner lock gate was already open and my passage across on foot was postponed. The outer gate was in the early stages of mechanical activation to drain out the basin and allow the ship out into the also murky River Humber. I was effectively trapped for a few moments.
I feared the worst, in a sort of morbid and fascinated way, for the coming together of ship superstructure and the inanimate thing that is the landmass of West Hull as the long vessel swung into the basin from the busy Marina. One of the crew in the bows gave the universal symbol of a very close thing but no drama with a thumbs up although his colleague some sixty feet back at the wheel will have been unsighted and oblivious to how close he had been to an embarassing scrape and crunch. Either that or he was supremely skilled and proficient in tight quarter navigational techniques.
Now that the grand ship was directly in front of me as it awaited the seeping away of the waters I could see that the deck was littered with bodies. In between Ocean Racing and Corporate jollies the main role of the Dutchman's dream was as a sail training school.
The compliment on board looked to be a timid and apprehensive group of teenagers. This brings me back to the lack of inspiration and confidence in 'Maybe' and I imagine that their doting parents, signing off their offspring in loco parentis for a few days would be equally anxious. The shipping forecast would for the duration be avidly followed in kitchens and living rooms of those left at home.
So early in the voyage, about twenty minutes, it was a case of the only communication being 'do not touch anything', and relations between crew and pupils were distant and strange. The youngsters were huddled low on the plank deck, well kitted out in all weather gear and life jackets but nevertheless visibly shivering from cold and fear.
Within a few hours of leaving behind the familiar waterfront of Hull there would be the start of a very strong bond and trust between all those on board. The mooring ropes were loosely tied to the basin wall as the ship began to drop slowly and uniformly to the level of the wild river beyond the substantial timber outer gate. By now there was quite a large gathering on the quayside but mainly comprised of impatient types wanting to cross rather than having a passing or fleeting interest in how to get a Tall Ship through a narrow lock.
I would be home and warm in about half an hour whilst ship, crew and trainees would just be edging out towards Spurn Point and where the choppy waters of the Humber would look positively millpond-like in comparison to the ragings and swell of the North Sea.That would of course depend on whether the mist and drizzle lifted enough for them to appreciate their surroundings.
I did, I admit, feel a small twinge of envy about their adventure that lay ahead up the Yorkshire Coast towards Whitby and beyond.
Life on board a sailing ship of classical proportions promised much in the way of self discovery and motivation and those going out as hapless youths would return as fully rounded and confident citizens with a fresh and exciting new aspect on how they would conduct their own lives and futures on a positive course ................................................maybe.
Ah, yes, it is all very clear now. Clever.
(reproduced from exactly 12 months ago. Reason. Been out to a fish restaurant just down the road from the new house)
A piece of equipment to be relied upon in life threatening situations upon towering waves and seemingly bottomless troughs with the violent turbulence in between should have a stronger name, for sure. 'Maybe' would have suited a rowing boat or a dinghy. It is a name which inspires a bit of optimism in a lotta laughs sort of way, and would certainly be a sentiment called upon if such a small craft drifted into the bow shadow of a large aircraft carrier,bulk carrier or globe trotting multi storey cruise ship. 'Maybe' just does not give a feeling of invincibilty and confidence on the open seas or even the local boating lake.
The story behind the name is however interesting.
Commissioned by a wealthy Dutchman in 1933 the boat was designed to fulfill the dreams and aspirations of that individual and his family for travelling and adventure. During the war years it was hidden in a muddy backwater as it would have been quite a prize for some self important invader and no doubt commandered, requisitioned or just plain stolen away to some private wharf in the Fatherland. Post war it began to take part in the Tall Ships Races, a glamourous and evocative sounding lifestyle, the playground of the rich and famous. The image of crystal clear waters, powder blue skies and warm sunshine could not be more distant than the lock basin of Hull Marina on a murky wednesday afternoon in October through which 'Maybe' was being carefully teased.
I was a bit of a captive audience in that the inner lock gate was already open and my passage across on foot was postponed. The outer gate was in the early stages of mechanical activation to drain out the basin and allow the ship out into the also murky River Humber. I was effectively trapped for a few moments.
I feared the worst, in a sort of morbid and fascinated way, for the coming together of ship superstructure and the inanimate thing that is the landmass of West Hull as the long vessel swung into the basin from the busy Marina. One of the crew in the bows gave the universal symbol of a very close thing but no drama with a thumbs up although his colleague some sixty feet back at the wheel will have been unsighted and oblivious to how close he had been to an embarassing scrape and crunch. Either that or he was supremely skilled and proficient in tight quarter navigational techniques.
Now that the grand ship was directly in front of me as it awaited the seeping away of the waters I could see that the deck was littered with bodies. In between Ocean Racing and Corporate jollies the main role of the Dutchman's dream was as a sail training school.
The compliment on board looked to be a timid and apprehensive group of teenagers. This brings me back to the lack of inspiration and confidence in 'Maybe' and I imagine that their doting parents, signing off their offspring in loco parentis for a few days would be equally anxious. The shipping forecast would for the duration be avidly followed in kitchens and living rooms of those left at home.
So early in the voyage, about twenty minutes, it was a case of the only communication being 'do not touch anything', and relations between crew and pupils were distant and strange. The youngsters were huddled low on the plank deck, well kitted out in all weather gear and life jackets but nevertheless visibly shivering from cold and fear.
Within a few hours of leaving behind the familiar waterfront of Hull there would be the start of a very strong bond and trust between all those on board. The mooring ropes were loosely tied to the basin wall as the ship began to drop slowly and uniformly to the level of the wild river beyond the substantial timber outer gate. By now there was quite a large gathering on the quayside but mainly comprised of impatient types wanting to cross rather than having a passing or fleeting interest in how to get a Tall Ship through a narrow lock.
I would be home and warm in about half an hour whilst ship, crew and trainees would just be edging out towards Spurn Point and where the choppy waters of the Humber would look positively millpond-like in comparison to the ragings and swell of the North Sea.That would of course depend on whether the mist and drizzle lifted enough for them to appreciate their surroundings.
I did, I admit, feel a small twinge of envy about their adventure that lay ahead up the Yorkshire Coast towards Whitby and beyond.
Life on board a sailing ship of classical proportions promised much in the way of self discovery and motivation and those going out as hapless youths would return as fully rounded and confident citizens with a fresh and exciting new aspect on how they would conduct their own lives and futures on a positive course ................................................maybe.
Ah, yes, it is all very clear now. Clever.
(reproduced from exactly 12 months ago. Reason. Been out to a fish restaurant just down the road from the new house)
Wednesday 23 October 2013
Insurrection, Misdirection and Cats Whiskers
We may think and indeed firmly believe that we are sophisticated, savvy and streetwise and not at all susceptible to being scammed, conned or just plain ripped off.
It is a bit of a false sense of security brought about by our ability to instantly access news, information and events.
If something is reported and broadcast, for example, we tend to accept it as the truth. A viral message dissipated through the social networks can be seen by multitudes and then spread exponentially through friends and contacts.
It may have taken many years in the snail mail days for an urban myth to become established but not today. Andy Warhol in 1968 coined the phrase that in the future everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes. In the UK the equivalent sentiment is usually expressed as a "nine day wonder". In the same way under the great host of media at our fingertips some bit of intial gossip, hearsay, speculation or just downright fabrication can immediately attain the status of a legend in a matter of a few key strokes.
Imagine back to the era when the transmission of a message involved a foot or mounted messenger, smoke signals, semaphore flags, a carrier pigeon, telegraphic communication, telephone and even up until the modern fax machine. These in themselves and in their halcyon periods quite progressive means of relaying information pale into a dusty museum exhibit when set up against what we now have at our disposal in a handset, tablet or laptop.
It is not too long ago that the population, wanting some idea of what was going on in the wider world, would flock to a picture house to see the newsreels and even then the images and stories would already be quite out of date.
The emergence of broadcast radio must have seemed like a marvel of science being available for the benefit of the masses but equally and in the wrong hands a tool of propaganda, misinformation and for the spreading of fear and insecurity.
Take the 1938 airing by Orson Welles of The War of The Worlds. It has gone down in the history of broadcasting as perhaps the most legendary piece of drama in that it was believed to be a true account of an actual Martian invasion of the United States.
It was a first in many respects but also in a society with underlying and strong concerns and suspicions about modern life.
The original broadcast is 75 years old this coming Halloween, the 30th October.
In the same vein as a barely credible announcement every April 1st there will be of course many who would say that they would never be fooled by such an obvious and spooky stunt on All Hallows Eve.
However, the listening public were off guard on that particualr night and the matter of fact and unemotional voice of the master of a dramatic moment only served to make them unwilling and terrified witnesses and participants.
Even now in the century following ,the conspiracy theorists are very much active about the whole event.
One internet based organisation is of the idea that an actual alien invasion was attempted on that very night and in the small town of Grover's Mill in which the first part of the story was based and that the whole Welles thing was a smokescreen for a pitch battle between the townsfolk and the little green men which resulted in a strategic retreat by the inhabitants of the Red Planet.
The production by The Mercury Theatre, Welles' own repertory company was skillfully structured between supposed live on the ground first hand accounts of lights, the impact of what was thought to be a meteorite and explosions interspersed with a big band sound from a fictitious New York hotel.
In its ordinariness it was utterly believable.
The story is that a group of concerned academics from the geology department of Princeton University immediately set off for Grovers Mill upon hearing the news. They returned empty handed but without the access to an inter war forerunner of Facebook or Twitter they were not able to report what seemed to be a hoax.
The Police records of the night do include numerous panicky phone calls with the offering of information by the public on the number and location of falling meteors, apparent dead bodies in the streets, gas attacks, fires and military activity. The residents of New Jersey genuinely believed that they were on the front line of the alien insurrection.
In the inevitable assessment of the series of events it was estimated that the nationwide broadcast was heard by 6 million people and over a million had been affected by anxiety and alarm.
Actual accounts of the night include attempted evacuations by whole families in their motor cars, the gung ho attitude of armed groups ready to defend their homes and people in the streets anxiously watching the skies.
The power of a message delivered by radio was more than ably demonstrated by Welles and his actors.
Ripples of panic spread further as listeners, channel hopping between stations seeking their evening amusement , tuned into the dramatic account of Martian machines and death rays striding across the Hudson River.
Disclaimers had been given before the broadcast about realistic content but these had not obviously been taken on board. Proclamations of the end of the world were made in bars and churches.
In 1938 there was already cause for concern over conflict and upheaval what with the unrest in Europe and the seemingly unchecked rise of fascism. The measured tones of the voices reporting the pitch battle between Man and Invaders were what the public had become accustomed to huddled around their wireless sets in the comfort of their own homes.
The Halloween fright night was a masterful display by Orson Welles although he did appear to the press the following day as apologetic and embarrassed by his new found infamy. As for Grover's Mill, nothing much happened to capitalise on the brief moment of being the epicentre of the night apart from the occasional pub quiz question on the subject.
Could the same hype and horror be manufactured through todays far reaching and influential media of information and communication or just cynically used to cause mayhem and meltdown of our increasingly fragile and fragmented social, economic and religious existence?
It is a bit of a false sense of security brought about by our ability to instantly access news, information and events.
If something is reported and broadcast, for example, we tend to accept it as the truth. A viral message dissipated through the social networks can be seen by multitudes and then spread exponentially through friends and contacts.
It may have taken many years in the snail mail days for an urban myth to become established but not today. Andy Warhol in 1968 coined the phrase that in the future everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes. In the UK the equivalent sentiment is usually expressed as a "nine day wonder". In the same way under the great host of media at our fingertips some bit of intial gossip, hearsay, speculation or just downright fabrication can immediately attain the status of a legend in a matter of a few key strokes.
Imagine back to the era when the transmission of a message involved a foot or mounted messenger, smoke signals, semaphore flags, a carrier pigeon, telegraphic communication, telephone and even up until the modern fax machine. These in themselves and in their halcyon periods quite progressive means of relaying information pale into a dusty museum exhibit when set up against what we now have at our disposal in a handset, tablet or laptop.
It is not too long ago that the population, wanting some idea of what was going on in the wider world, would flock to a picture house to see the newsreels and even then the images and stories would already be quite out of date.
The emergence of broadcast radio must have seemed like a marvel of science being available for the benefit of the masses but equally and in the wrong hands a tool of propaganda, misinformation and for the spreading of fear and insecurity.
Take the 1938 airing by Orson Welles of The War of The Worlds. It has gone down in the history of broadcasting as perhaps the most legendary piece of drama in that it was believed to be a true account of an actual Martian invasion of the United States.
It was a first in many respects but also in a society with underlying and strong concerns and suspicions about modern life.
The original broadcast is 75 years old this coming Halloween, the 30th October.
In the same vein as a barely credible announcement every April 1st there will be of course many who would say that they would never be fooled by such an obvious and spooky stunt on All Hallows Eve.
However, the listening public were off guard on that particualr night and the matter of fact and unemotional voice of the master of a dramatic moment only served to make them unwilling and terrified witnesses and participants.
Even now in the century following ,the conspiracy theorists are very much active about the whole event.
One internet based organisation is of the idea that an actual alien invasion was attempted on that very night and in the small town of Grover's Mill in which the first part of the story was based and that the whole Welles thing was a smokescreen for a pitch battle between the townsfolk and the little green men which resulted in a strategic retreat by the inhabitants of the Red Planet.
The production by The Mercury Theatre, Welles' own repertory company was skillfully structured between supposed live on the ground first hand accounts of lights, the impact of what was thought to be a meteorite and explosions interspersed with a big band sound from a fictitious New York hotel.
In its ordinariness it was utterly believable.
The story is that a group of concerned academics from the geology department of Princeton University immediately set off for Grovers Mill upon hearing the news. They returned empty handed but without the access to an inter war forerunner of Facebook or Twitter they were not able to report what seemed to be a hoax.
The Police records of the night do include numerous panicky phone calls with the offering of information by the public on the number and location of falling meteors, apparent dead bodies in the streets, gas attacks, fires and military activity. The residents of New Jersey genuinely believed that they were on the front line of the alien insurrection.
In the inevitable assessment of the series of events it was estimated that the nationwide broadcast was heard by 6 million people and over a million had been affected by anxiety and alarm.
Actual accounts of the night include attempted evacuations by whole families in their motor cars, the gung ho attitude of armed groups ready to defend their homes and people in the streets anxiously watching the skies.
The power of a message delivered by radio was more than ably demonstrated by Welles and his actors.
Ripples of panic spread further as listeners, channel hopping between stations seeking their evening amusement , tuned into the dramatic account of Martian machines and death rays striding across the Hudson River.
Disclaimers had been given before the broadcast about realistic content but these had not obviously been taken on board. Proclamations of the end of the world were made in bars and churches.
In 1938 there was already cause for concern over conflict and upheaval what with the unrest in Europe and the seemingly unchecked rise of fascism. The measured tones of the voices reporting the pitch battle between Man and Invaders were what the public had become accustomed to huddled around their wireless sets in the comfort of their own homes.
The Halloween fright night was a masterful display by Orson Welles although he did appear to the press the following day as apologetic and embarrassed by his new found infamy. As for Grover's Mill, nothing much happened to capitalise on the brief moment of being the epicentre of the night apart from the occasional pub quiz question on the subject.
Could the same hype and horror be manufactured through todays far reaching and influential media of information and communication or just cynically used to cause mayhem and meltdown of our increasingly fragile and fragmented social, economic and religious existence?
Tuesday 22 October 2013
How to avoid problems in your back passage.
Just getting to know the new area a bit more.
Moved here nearly 6 weeks ago now.
After 18 years at the last house and the previous 4 years in that same suburb it is, to say the least ,an interesting experience.
There is a certain etiquette amongst our immediate neighbours in relation to tuesday bin collection day.
I thought that we had wheelie bin pixies as, on alternate weeks of our fledgling occupation, all of our waste receptacles gravitated to the back of the service road before 7am, full to the brim with our refuse, and then magically returned completely empty to their designated place behind our gates by the time I got back from work.
This had never happened in our former suburban retreat, in fact the bin would have to be blocking the pavement, have trapped a pensioner inside or caused a collision with the passing number 66 Bus to even attract any consideration of being moved.
I did have a few snarly glances from drivers/riders of mobility scooters who were quite prepared to just ram the bin rather than ease it to one side.
The practicalities of using the back road at the new place has caused me some concern.
About 15 years ago and at the far opposite end of the road I had been the Consultant in a prolonged and very protracted dispute between neighbouring owners over just the very same roadway arrangement.
Most conflict issues of this type ,which in themselves can over trivial matters ,are fuelled by a personality clash and my client and the other party could have been no farther polarised in background, outlook, temperament and behaviour.
The road is a common right of way along the rear of 20 properties and it bisects the immediate back gardens and a further sliver of land beyond. We have railings and gates having one of the better clearances but other properties have barely a car length from the back wall of the house. The only physical demarcation is in a continuous pin kerb, flush to the tarmac surface, having the appearance of the white tramlines around a sports pitch.
It is important for there to be reasonable use in terms of moving a vehicle, in the parking up of visitor cars or in receiving commercial van or truck deliveries.
For example, in order to enter my driveway I have to pass along and over my neighbours land. In leaving the same I have to reverse out over and back in before being able to progress in a forward gear. All of this two and three point turning has to be conducted within the boundary of the pin kerb.
This is a legitimate right for my neighbours to store touring caravans, camper vans, people carriers, yet more bins and the odd bit of household detritus or building materials on what is their territory even if it is up to the pin kerb position and impedes ease of access.
I think so far that we are on the equivalent of a yellow card on our committing of joint first offences in not assuming our logical turn on putting out the wheelies and also in not being strong enough to ask the sofa delivery lorry to leave some room to let others pass.
Nothing has been said directly by our new neighbours but we know that we will certainly have to try much harder after an evidently short honeymoon as we call it, or probation as they might well.
Being the new kids on the block will be difficult but it is also somehow quite exciting and rejuvenating for us being of a certain age. Inner City Living, eh.
Moved here nearly 6 weeks ago now.
After 18 years at the last house and the previous 4 years in that same suburb it is, to say the least ,an interesting experience.
There is a certain etiquette amongst our immediate neighbours in relation to tuesday bin collection day.
I thought that we had wheelie bin pixies as, on alternate weeks of our fledgling occupation, all of our waste receptacles gravitated to the back of the service road before 7am, full to the brim with our refuse, and then magically returned completely empty to their designated place behind our gates by the time I got back from work.
This had never happened in our former suburban retreat, in fact the bin would have to be blocking the pavement, have trapped a pensioner inside or caused a collision with the passing number 66 Bus to even attract any consideration of being moved.
I did have a few snarly glances from drivers/riders of mobility scooters who were quite prepared to just ram the bin rather than ease it to one side.
The practicalities of using the back road at the new place has caused me some concern.
About 15 years ago and at the far opposite end of the road I had been the Consultant in a prolonged and very protracted dispute between neighbouring owners over just the very same roadway arrangement.
Most conflict issues of this type ,which in themselves can over trivial matters ,are fuelled by a personality clash and my client and the other party could have been no farther polarised in background, outlook, temperament and behaviour.
The road is a common right of way along the rear of 20 properties and it bisects the immediate back gardens and a further sliver of land beyond. We have railings and gates having one of the better clearances but other properties have barely a car length from the back wall of the house. The only physical demarcation is in a continuous pin kerb, flush to the tarmac surface, having the appearance of the white tramlines around a sports pitch.
It is important for there to be reasonable use in terms of moving a vehicle, in the parking up of visitor cars or in receiving commercial van or truck deliveries.
For example, in order to enter my driveway I have to pass along and over my neighbours land. In leaving the same I have to reverse out over and back in before being able to progress in a forward gear. All of this two and three point turning has to be conducted within the boundary of the pin kerb.
This is a legitimate right for my neighbours to store touring caravans, camper vans, people carriers, yet more bins and the odd bit of household detritus or building materials on what is their territory even if it is up to the pin kerb position and impedes ease of access.
I think so far that we are on the equivalent of a yellow card on our committing of joint first offences in not assuming our logical turn on putting out the wheelies and also in not being strong enough to ask the sofa delivery lorry to leave some room to let others pass.
Nothing has been said directly by our new neighbours but we know that we will certainly have to try much harder after an evidently short honeymoon as we call it, or probation as they might well.
Being the new kids on the block will be difficult but it is also somehow quite exciting and rejuvenating for us being of a certain age. Inner City Living, eh.
Monday 21 October 2013
Eat up the miles
It was only intended to be a short bike ride to the end of the road and back.
It would, over that short distance, be sufficient to get used to the riding position, gear shifting, braking and steering of my new off roader.
Of course, it is essential to be wearing the correct gear even for a test ride and so I was attired in lycra knee length shorts emblazoned withe the logo of the local bike shop, a gawdily coloured trade team jersey and hard shell racing helmet.
In the somewhat distorted reflection of the hatchback of the family car I had the physique and demeanour of when I was in my twenties and actually competing in road races. I left it at that, satisfied in the image that I portrayed but kept it in mind not to glance sideways in any plate glass shop windows whose reflective image never lies and indeed can add a few extra pounds to add insult to obesity.
Fully intending to just ride up and down a bit I did not bother with my usual backpack full of spare inner tubes, puncture repair kits, assorted Allen keys, chain link tool, rainy day cape and full car foot pump. After a few passes of the front door that feeling of well being and alertness overwhelmed my better judgement and I found myself, in warmish mid October sunlight , heading out of the inner city along one of my favourite and well used trails. It was the course of the old railway line which wound its way along the back fences of the terraced houses, crossing a few of the main arterial roads, deep land drain cuttings and then through the weekend deserted industrial estate towards the modern residential estates on the very edges of the suburban sprawl.
I had supreme confidence in the mechanical condition of the brand new bike. It had a good pedigree, and the knobbly tyres just zipped along with minimum contact on the red tarmac of the track, or at least where the old rail track used to be.
After the congestion of the route as a consequence of the upsurge of interest in cycling in the summer months it was nice to have the way to myself save for the occasional dad with infant in buggy, dog walkers and youths clutching their beer cans, still shirtless even with the oncoming autumnal chill. Parts of the track were slippery with fallen leaves and the gypsy horses tethered on the verge had left a few prominent piles of dung which presented a challenge to avoid. There was the usual scattering of broken glass at the cut throughs from the housing estate, mattresses discarded in the hedgerows and a few electrical appliances protruding from the deeper vegetation. These things just added more colour to the glorious afternoon which had been unexpected after a few days of damp, misty weather.
I was flying along, further and further away in distance and intention from my original plan.
I reached the extent of the built up areas. The track carried on between the freshly ploughed fields. Its eventual terminus to the north east was a small seaside town and as a destination for a ride in season it was excellent with promenade tea shops and a broad outlook onto the sometimes azure haze of the North Sea.
However, anything not needed by the actual residents shut down at the end of September and there were scarce pickings to be had. I decided to just carry on to the first hamlet and then turn back which would give me enough time to devise an alternative route back to base. The ride went smoothly and I felt in very good form, surprisingly so after a bit of a lay-off from cycling and indeed any meaningful and beneficial exercise.
Passing back into civilisation I swung north on the public road to pick up another old railway course which ran back into the old part of the city. I estimated that my original 100 metre and back ride had now attained the ten mile distance mark.
It was at that moment at the gateway to a secondary school that my back tyre completly deflated down to the scrunching sound of the rim on concrete.
I was, as was typical, at the farthest point away from the house. I instinctively reached around for the backpack, the constant companion for the summer rides out before realising the folly and error of my impulse and downright stupidity.
I stopped riding as that would complicate the problem and resigned myself to progressing on foot.
In the far distance was the tall, slim and somewhat wonky smokestack which was exactly one mile from my house. Unfortunately I was about two miles away from the landmark itself. Walking along in full gear pushing a lame bike utilises a completely different set of muscles and I was now, of course directly carrying my own body weight rather than through the spring and elasticity of a frame, handlebars and chunky tyres. The shin splints were at first excruciating and then, surprisingly, got progressively worse. I strode out, stretched and lunged, skipped a bit, danced a jig and broke into a half jog to try to ease the pain. It didn't help.
Resting as much of my upper body on the stricken bike did give some relief but gave the impression that I was drunk in charge. Small children shouted to enquire what I had done as they stopped whatever they were up to between the houses. A few cars honked their horns, their occupants no doubt giggling at the old jokes of "get off and milk it" or "your back wheel's going round, mate" and other classics.
The three miles on foot dragged by.
I did discover a couple of shortcuts that I would have hesitated to use on two wheels and they must have shaved some tens of metres off my trek. I was by now beyond the large chimney and could spy the copper tinted dome of my local swimming baths, or old slipper baths as they used to be called.
I was in part elated mood, brought on more by lack of energy than being in sight of home.
It was time to rehearse the story I would recount to the family to explain my absence of two hours rather than the intended couple of minutes. I had cycled and almost got to running pace on foot so that would represent two out of the three disciplines in a very compact but Ironman style competition. Just seeing the top of the Municipal Baths was not sufficient to qualify for the swimming element to be met. I then remembered that my son had ,for that Sunday tea, prepared his famous dish of savoury mince with onions, garlic, carrots and peas under a thick buttered layer of mashed potato. It would just need warming up in the dish in the oven.
I decided to add it to my sporting endeavours for that afternoon as the third event in what I could legitimately refer to as a Shepherds Pie-athlon.
It would, over that short distance, be sufficient to get used to the riding position, gear shifting, braking and steering of my new off roader.
Of course, it is essential to be wearing the correct gear even for a test ride and so I was attired in lycra knee length shorts emblazoned withe the logo of the local bike shop, a gawdily coloured trade team jersey and hard shell racing helmet.
In the somewhat distorted reflection of the hatchback of the family car I had the physique and demeanour of when I was in my twenties and actually competing in road races. I left it at that, satisfied in the image that I portrayed but kept it in mind not to glance sideways in any plate glass shop windows whose reflective image never lies and indeed can add a few extra pounds to add insult to obesity.
Fully intending to just ride up and down a bit I did not bother with my usual backpack full of spare inner tubes, puncture repair kits, assorted Allen keys, chain link tool, rainy day cape and full car foot pump. After a few passes of the front door that feeling of well being and alertness overwhelmed my better judgement and I found myself, in warmish mid October sunlight , heading out of the inner city along one of my favourite and well used trails. It was the course of the old railway line which wound its way along the back fences of the terraced houses, crossing a few of the main arterial roads, deep land drain cuttings and then through the weekend deserted industrial estate towards the modern residential estates on the very edges of the suburban sprawl.
I had supreme confidence in the mechanical condition of the brand new bike. It had a good pedigree, and the knobbly tyres just zipped along with minimum contact on the red tarmac of the track, or at least where the old rail track used to be.
After the congestion of the route as a consequence of the upsurge of interest in cycling in the summer months it was nice to have the way to myself save for the occasional dad with infant in buggy, dog walkers and youths clutching their beer cans, still shirtless even with the oncoming autumnal chill. Parts of the track were slippery with fallen leaves and the gypsy horses tethered on the verge had left a few prominent piles of dung which presented a challenge to avoid. There was the usual scattering of broken glass at the cut throughs from the housing estate, mattresses discarded in the hedgerows and a few electrical appliances protruding from the deeper vegetation. These things just added more colour to the glorious afternoon which had been unexpected after a few days of damp, misty weather.
I was flying along, further and further away in distance and intention from my original plan.
I reached the extent of the built up areas. The track carried on between the freshly ploughed fields. Its eventual terminus to the north east was a small seaside town and as a destination for a ride in season it was excellent with promenade tea shops and a broad outlook onto the sometimes azure haze of the North Sea.
However, anything not needed by the actual residents shut down at the end of September and there were scarce pickings to be had. I decided to just carry on to the first hamlet and then turn back which would give me enough time to devise an alternative route back to base. The ride went smoothly and I felt in very good form, surprisingly so after a bit of a lay-off from cycling and indeed any meaningful and beneficial exercise.
Passing back into civilisation I swung north on the public road to pick up another old railway course which ran back into the old part of the city. I estimated that my original 100 metre and back ride had now attained the ten mile distance mark.
It was at that moment at the gateway to a secondary school that my back tyre completly deflated down to the scrunching sound of the rim on concrete.
I was, as was typical, at the farthest point away from the house. I instinctively reached around for the backpack, the constant companion for the summer rides out before realising the folly and error of my impulse and downright stupidity.
I stopped riding as that would complicate the problem and resigned myself to progressing on foot.
In the far distance was the tall, slim and somewhat wonky smokestack which was exactly one mile from my house. Unfortunately I was about two miles away from the landmark itself. Walking along in full gear pushing a lame bike utilises a completely different set of muscles and I was now, of course directly carrying my own body weight rather than through the spring and elasticity of a frame, handlebars and chunky tyres. The shin splints were at first excruciating and then, surprisingly, got progressively worse. I strode out, stretched and lunged, skipped a bit, danced a jig and broke into a half jog to try to ease the pain. It didn't help.
Resting as much of my upper body on the stricken bike did give some relief but gave the impression that I was drunk in charge. Small children shouted to enquire what I had done as they stopped whatever they were up to between the houses. A few cars honked their horns, their occupants no doubt giggling at the old jokes of "get off and milk it" or "your back wheel's going round, mate" and other classics.
The three miles on foot dragged by.
I did discover a couple of shortcuts that I would have hesitated to use on two wheels and they must have shaved some tens of metres off my trek. I was by now beyond the large chimney and could spy the copper tinted dome of my local swimming baths, or old slipper baths as they used to be called.
I was in part elated mood, brought on more by lack of energy than being in sight of home.
It was time to rehearse the story I would recount to the family to explain my absence of two hours rather than the intended couple of minutes. I had cycled and almost got to running pace on foot so that would represent two out of the three disciplines in a very compact but Ironman style competition. Just seeing the top of the Municipal Baths was not sufficient to qualify for the swimming element to be met. I then remembered that my son had ,for that Sunday tea, prepared his famous dish of savoury mince with onions, garlic, carrots and peas under a thick buttered layer of mashed potato. It would just need warming up in the dish in the oven.
I decided to add it to my sporting endeavours for that afternoon as the third event in what I could legitimately refer to as a Shepherds Pie-athlon.
Sunday 20 October 2013
Roll out the Barrel
A barrel of oil.
It is one of those much mentioned forms of unit measurement.
It features on the nightly news broadcasts whenever there is a crisis looming in the countries from where it is produced, or if a giant supertanker has become wedged on a reef and its contents are seeping out into the ocean.
It is a form of threat to dependent users with either over-supply or a choking off in the number of barrels in circulation.
It is a term very much in the public perception but just ask anyone to quantify it in common terms and misinformation, misinterpretation and mystery kick in to splendid extremes.
If it is any help in terms of visualisation, a barrel of oil is 42 gallons in the US measurement.
A volume of 42 gallons is still difficult to appreciate even if equated in terms of how much petrol, diesel oil or other petroleum based products it yields. Currently this is 19 gallons of petrol or 10 gallons of diesel with other by products as well. The refineries switch between the fuels dependent on demand and profitability. I can recall the days when diesel engined cars were rare and clunky with the high lead content petrol being dominant. Gradually the motorist was weaned off petrol with the enticement of cheaper diesel and more miles per gallon until firmly converted with, surprise, surprise a subsequent hike up in diesel fuel at the pumps.
One of the best illustrative guides to the quantity of a barrel of oil that I have come across relates to its equivalent power production.
For example, one barrel of oil provides a power output of 1.7 MegaWatt hours or reduced to laymans language it is the electricity used in 330 homes in the course of one hour.
The same power output by a human being on a bicycle pedalling at moderate speed would permit a distance of 33491 miles to be covered or one and a third laps around the equator.
On foot or in a gentle jogging mode the equivalent distance from Reykyavik to the South Pole and the long way around passing the North Pole would be acheivable or 14353 miles.
If tired of self propulsion then a popular form of transport, a motor scooter, on the same power trip would take you from New York to the tip of South Africa assuming a continuous land mass existed being a distance of 7891 miles.
In wanting a less sedantry form of two wheel motion or at least to have enough oomph to overtake something then on a 800cc motorbike a flit from London to Tehran would be a nice epic journey of 2702 miles.
Endurance swimmers are a bit of a breed apart and greased up and with someone looking out for person eating sharks, jellyfish, residues of an oil spill or a sewage plume a brave soul could expect to reach Dublin from New York (3168 miles).
Those wanting a four wheel road trip could use a large 3 litre diesel engined SUV to go from Rome to Copenhagen or in yer mams' citycar the range could be extended to drive the equivalent of that ultimate dream gap year experience across the US from Washington DC to Los Angeles.
The pattern as you can see if for an incremental increase in comfort of mode of transport and power output of the means of movement.
Take a tipper truck or fully loaded articulated lorry with you and you may only need one Yorkie Bar for the duration of London to Paris or Paris to Berne (in Switzerland).
Moving on to serious transport.
Imagine if you won a barrel of oil in a competition and could donate it towards a long haul flight to a destination of your choice. Well, by the time you had fastened your seat belt, put your tray in the upright position and mused the duty free card your 34 seconds of gifted travelling would be over. In air miles terms a paltry just over 5 miles covered.
That is not so bad when compared to a loaded container ship which if sponsored by you to the tune of a barrel of oil would travel only 3000 feet or roughly for modern vessels about three times its own bow to stern length.
A barrel of oil. Clearly, or not, a barrel of laughs.
It is one of those much mentioned forms of unit measurement.
It features on the nightly news broadcasts whenever there is a crisis looming in the countries from where it is produced, or if a giant supertanker has become wedged on a reef and its contents are seeping out into the ocean.
It is a form of threat to dependent users with either over-supply or a choking off in the number of barrels in circulation.
It is a term very much in the public perception but just ask anyone to quantify it in common terms and misinformation, misinterpretation and mystery kick in to splendid extremes.
If it is any help in terms of visualisation, a barrel of oil is 42 gallons in the US measurement.
A volume of 42 gallons is still difficult to appreciate even if equated in terms of how much petrol, diesel oil or other petroleum based products it yields. Currently this is 19 gallons of petrol or 10 gallons of diesel with other by products as well. The refineries switch between the fuels dependent on demand and profitability. I can recall the days when diesel engined cars were rare and clunky with the high lead content petrol being dominant. Gradually the motorist was weaned off petrol with the enticement of cheaper diesel and more miles per gallon until firmly converted with, surprise, surprise a subsequent hike up in diesel fuel at the pumps.
One of the best illustrative guides to the quantity of a barrel of oil that I have come across relates to its equivalent power production.
For example, one barrel of oil provides a power output of 1.7 MegaWatt hours or reduced to laymans language it is the electricity used in 330 homes in the course of one hour.
The same power output by a human being on a bicycle pedalling at moderate speed would permit a distance of 33491 miles to be covered or one and a third laps around the equator.
On foot or in a gentle jogging mode the equivalent distance from Reykyavik to the South Pole and the long way around passing the North Pole would be acheivable or 14353 miles.
If tired of self propulsion then a popular form of transport, a motor scooter, on the same power trip would take you from New York to the tip of South Africa assuming a continuous land mass existed being a distance of 7891 miles.
In wanting a less sedantry form of two wheel motion or at least to have enough oomph to overtake something then on a 800cc motorbike a flit from London to Tehran would be a nice epic journey of 2702 miles.
Endurance swimmers are a bit of a breed apart and greased up and with someone looking out for person eating sharks, jellyfish, residues of an oil spill or a sewage plume a brave soul could expect to reach Dublin from New York (3168 miles).
Those wanting a four wheel road trip could use a large 3 litre diesel engined SUV to go from Rome to Copenhagen or in yer mams' citycar the range could be extended to drive the equivalent of that ultimate dream gap year experience across the US from Washington DC to Los Angeles.
The pattern as you can see if for an incremental increase in comfort of mode of transport and power output of the means of movement.
Take a tipper truck or fully loaded articulated lorry with you and you may only need one Yorkie Bar for the duration of London to Paris or Paris to Berne (in Switzerland).
Moving on to serious transport.
Imagine if you won a barrel of oil in a competition and could donate it towards a long haul flight to a destination of your choice. Well, by the time you had fastened your seat belt, put your tray in the upright position and mused the duty free card your 34 seconds of gifted travelling would be over. In air miles terms a paltry just over 5 miles covered.
That is not so bad when compared to a loaded container ship which if sponsored by you to the tune of a barrel of oil would travel only 3000 feet or roughly for modern vessels about three times its own bow to stern length.
A barrel of oil. Clearly, or not, a barrel of laughs.
Saturday 19 October 2013
The Hills are Alive
The land is flat and not a little bit boring as you travel west and south westwards from East Yorkshire.
The slope of the Wolds is just glimpsed over your right shoulder when the A63 opens up into the wide three lane M62 motorway and there before you is just the vast openness of the lower part of the Vale of York , the flood plain down to the Humber/Trent/Ouse/Derwent corridor and beyond to the Thorne wastes.
There is no high ground for about 50 or more miles in each direction.
That is apart from a scattering of elongated hillocks, regularly shaped in the same effect as smoothing a meringue mix from a spoon onto a baking tray.
These landscape features appear to change every time I pass by on the ocassional shopping trip to Ikea at Leeds or into Sheffield with subtle changes in the alignment to the horizon and the gentle sloping rises from normal ground level.
Sad as I am I have not found any defined names or even local colloquialisms for these topographical mounds.
This is because they are entirely fashioned and formed by man from the waste and debris excavated in the coal mining process that was the predominant industry in the surrounding areas for much of the last 150 years.
On the fringes of the Selby Coalfield is a particularly large and grassy hill which looms up out of the usual low mist on a working day in any season of the year. It forms an important marker on our trips to West Yorkshire as it is the half way point of the journey. The motorway crosses, first, a canal with the array of brightly painted narrow boats and inland waterway pleasure craft and then the loose dressed site of what must be one of the biggest car boot sale venues in the region although these must fall on a sunday because we have never witnessed the mad scrap and brawl in full flow which accompanies such an event...well at least the ones we frequent.
The hill is now well established with grassland and vegetation but I do remember it's early incarnation as just a muddy pile about 30 to 40 years ago when we would travel past on the way to and from family vacations. At that time there was plenty of interest for a lad of my age in the ant-like movements of oversized tipper lorries, diggers, excavators and grading machines as they crawled over the fledgling mountain. It was a lifesize Tonka Toy experience and holding up a finger and thumb through the side window of the family VW Estate it felt like you were in control of the distant vehicles.
Of course, I was not bothered or indeed interested in how the waste rocks and soil had got there even though far beneath our very car there would be hundreds of coal miners working a shift and producing a seemingly endless supply of it.
There is now very little in the way of physical structures or infrastructure to even hint at the former dominance of the coal industry in West and South Yorkshire.
A common sight was of the headgear and winding houses above the mineshafts but these have now been demolished in spite of what are thought to be large reserves of coal still in situ. A bit of a giveaway for what was once a colliery community is a row or bank of rows of terraced houses left stranded in the middle of nowhere apart from a large hill of spoil. There is one such rural aspect terrace visible to the east of the M18 close to what I remember seeing as the structures of the Moor End Colliery.
Also victim to the demise of the industry and mines that we often passed on our travels (before the motorway network of today) included Rossington Main and Thurcroft to the south of Doncaster. Close to the M1 the former Markham Vale Colliery retains its spoil heaps but has undergone a transformation after the pit closure in 1994 as an Enterprise Area. Slowly the hills are being whittled away to create valuable commercial land.
The carriageways that make up the convergence of the main regional motorways between Leeds and Doncaster are frequently coned off for repairs as a consequence of mining related subsidence but this is merely regarded as an inconvenience rather than arousing a feeling of loss in the demise of a once proud industry and the large communities that relied upon it for their livelihoods.
Recent dramatic landslips from the man made hills onto main rail routes and roads, thankfully without any loss of life, have been another reminder of the origins of the raw materials and their potential instability.
Many of the spoil heaps still survive. I would like to see them assume the names of their donor coal mines in the future so that the rich heritage of that industry, which contributed so much to the powering of the nation through its industrial heyday , remains in living memory even after the last Collier has gone.
The slope of the Wolds is just glimpsed over your right shoulder when the A63 opens up into the wide three lane M62 motorway and there before you is just the vast openness of the lower part of the Vale of York , the flood plain down to the Humber/Trent/Ouse/Derwent corridor and beyond to the Thorne wastes.
There is no high ground for about 50 or more miles in each direction.
That is apart from a scattering of elongated hillocks, regularly shaped in the same effect as smoothing a meringue mix from a spoon onto a baking tray.
These landscape features appear to change every time I pass by on the ocassional shopping trip to Ikea at Leeds or into Sheffield with subtle changes in the alignment to the horizon and the gentle sloping rises from normal ground level.
Sad as I am I have not found any defined names or even local colloquialisms for these topographical mounds.
This is because they are entirely fashioned and formed by man from the waste and debris excavated in the coal mining process that was the predominant industry in the surrounding areas for much of the last 150 years.
On the fringes of the Selby Coalfield is a particularly large and grassy hill which looms up out of the usual low mist on a working day in any season of the year. It forms an important marker on our trips to West Yorkshire as it is the half way point of the journey. The motorway crosses, first, a canal with the array of brightly painted narrow boats and inland waterway pleasure craft and then the loose dressed site of what must be one of the biggest car boot sale venues in the region although these must fall on a sunday because we have never witnessed the mad scrap and brawl in full flow which accompanies such an event...well at least the ones we frequent.
The hill is now well established with grassland and vegetation but I do remember it's early incarnation as just a muddy pile about 30 to 40 years ago when we would travel past on the way to and from family vacations. At that time there was plenty of interest for a lad of my age in the ant-like movements of oversized tipper lorries, diggers, excavators and grading machines as they crawled over the fledgling mountain. It was a lifesize Tonka Toy experience and holding up a finger and thumb through the side window of the family VW Estate it felt like you were in control of the distant vehicles.
Of course, I was not bothered or indeed interested in how the waste rocks and soil had got there even though far beneath our very car there would be hundreds of coal miners working a shift and producing a seemingly endless supply of it.
There is now very little in the way of physical structures or infrastructure to even hint at the former dominance of the coal industry in West and South Yorkshire.
A common sight was of the headgear and winding houses above the mineshafts but these have now been demolished in spite of what are thought to be large reserves of coal still in situ. A bit of a giveaway for what was once a colliery community is a row or bank of rows of terraced houses left stranded in the middle of nowhere apart from a large hill of spoil. There is one such rural aspect terrace visible to the east of the M18 close to what I remember seeing as the structures of the Moor End Colliery.
Also victim to the demise of the industry and mines that we often passed on our travels (before the motorway network of today) included Rossington Main and Thurcroft to the south of Doncaster. Close to the M1 the former Markham Vale Colliery retains its spoil heaps but has undergone a transformation after the pit closure in 1994 as an Enterprise Area. Slowly the hills are being whittled away to create valuable commercial land.
The carriageways that make up the convergence of the main regional motorways between Leeds and Doncaster are frequently coned off for repairs as a consequence of mining related subsidence but this is merely regarded as an inconvenience rather than arousing a feeling of loss in the demise of a once proud industry and the large communities that relied upon it for their livelihoods.
Recent dramatic landslips from the man made hills onto main rail routes and roads, thankfully without any loss of life, have been another reminder of the origins of the raw materials and their potential instability.
Many of the spoil heaps still survive. I would like to see them assume the names of their donor coal mines in the future so that the rich heritage of that industry, which contributed so much to the powering of the nation through its industrial heyday , remains in living memory even after the last Collier has gone.
Friday 18 October 2013
Tall Stories
50 years living in the same house.
Quite an achievement.
Some may say that given the average period of occupancy between house moves at 7 years, or as it used to be perceived before the current recession and market downturn, this may be seen by some as an indication of a lack of aspiration or upward mobility.
Others may regard it as financial foolhardiness in not selling up and reinvesting with the regularity that the likes of Spencer, Alsop and Beeney advocate in order to surf that wave of equity in property.
However, if a house purchased in 1963 was seen as that much alluded to "forever" home and could meet easily all of the requirements of a family at its different stages of development then why bother to even contemplate a move elsewhere?.
That was the case with the property that I visited today.
It fronts a very busy main road corridor which carries a good few thousand vehicles in any cycle of daily activity to and from a large City.
It is exceptional and remarkable in that it is built over 5 original floors and the block formed by two others in the terrace is the only surviving example of its type of the wartime bombing, Town Planning and Redevelopment that has ravaged this particular urban environment.
Built in 1890 the property will have at that time been on the very edge of city. It now has that feeling of being more centrally located with extensive rooftop views from the top floor and not an open field or tract of land in sight.
The first occupants, when new, were evidently affluent Professional types with all that went with that lifestyle including live-in servants, a lower ground floor kitchen, scullery, pantry and laundry and a coach house in the rear garden.
The current and longstanding owners were selling up because the size and running costs were just too great for them in their retirement years.
In between the wars the property was carved up into 6 flats and letting rooms and this was how the property was taken on in the early 1960's. As well as providing ample space for a young and growing family it appears that the room layout was retained and provided a good source of income. The experience of being landlords under the same roof does not seem to have been too traumatic and with only two out of multiple tenants over half a century being troublesome.
There are indications of the original grandeur.
The fireplaces include tremendous marble edifices which could as easily form a headstone or epitaph monument. Covings are just about hanging in there against the force of gravity and its debilitating effect on old and weak horsehair bonded plasterwork. The extent of partitioning of the largest rooms, originally billiard table or small ballroom sized, can be seen from the interruption of the deep plaster cornices above lightweight and flimsy walls.
In the surface water flooding of late June 2007 the lower ground floor was inundated but was left to dry out in the natural process with no bothering of the insurance company. It has recovered well with none of the high tide marks, fungus or fustiness that inevitably accompany a period of a building being under water.
The owners were adamant that it was not a basement because it had full height windows and a level ground point of entry.
The ground or upper ground level was approached by once grand dressed stone steps with an ornate vine leaf motif wrought iron handrail. These features had seen better days with a bit of a list to starboard and a fine suspension of corroded metal in the eddying airflow around the front elevation.
Staircases and high vaulted lightwells permeated the centre of the house. The bannisters had a deep lustre to the woodwork where palms and fingers had grasped on ascending and descending over the last 122 years.
Over their period of ownership the now elderly couple had moved about between the floors and suites of rooms as their demands changed. They now resided on the first floor but only because it had the best staircasing on which to fix the runners for the chairlift.
In its heyday the posh occupiers had mainly lived on the first floor, above the densest smog zone and well away from the rising damp which was prevalent but generally disguised by fancy wall hangings and distemper.
The two top floors were singularly lacking in quality and style but then again they were purposely the accommodation for those in domestic service who did not expect any favours, airs or graces. Ceilings were lower, no decorative fireplaces and with smaller windows giving a restricted outlook.
Chauffeur, cook, housekeeper and skivvy would occupy these quarters and be grateful for it.
I was thrown in my thoughts temporarily by the sight of two artificial Christmas trees ready assembled in a corner. There existed a perpetual festive season in a part of the house now rarely visited and this had a certain attraction. A permanent Santa's Grotto.
At the top of the house, nestled tightly under the roof pitch there were indications of leaks to the slate covering, stains on the redundant chimney breasts and an air of abandonment. The pigeons had prized a way in around a broken skylight claiming the space for their own.
I was glad that I has been accompanied on the tour by the more agile one of the couple as by now I was a bit disorientated as to where and on what floor I was.
At five storeys up the view was broad with the Whiting Works of the nearest town just discernible at some 9 miles distance and the safety lights of the suspension bridge, at similar distance, blinking meekly in the low cloud. I could feel that first uneasiness of vertigo usually reserved for trips up a church bell tower or peering over a cliff edge.
The couple had obviously been very happy in that cavernous property but reluctantly they accepted that they were no longer able to cope. A small bungalow in the suburbs was their destination if the sale progressed.
As for the future of the house?
It would imminently be ripped apart, renovated and refurbished as essential preparation for the next century of occupation and use. Call it progress.
Quite an achievement.
Some may say that given the average period of occupancy between house moves at 7 years, or as it used to be perceived before the current recession and market downturn, this may be seen by some as an indication of a lack of aspiration or upward mobility.
Others may regard it as financial foolhardiness in not selling up and reinvesting with the regularity that the likes of Spencer, Alsop and Beeney advocate in order to surf that wave of equity in property.
However, if a house purchased in 1963 was seen as that much alluded to "forever" home and could meet easily all of the requirements of a family at its different stages of development then why bother to even contemplate a move elsewhere?.
That was the case with the property that I visited today.
It fronts a very busy main road corridor which carries a good few thousand vehicles in any cycle of daily activity to and from a large City.
It is exceptional and remarkable in that it is built over 5 original floors and the block formed by two others in the terrace is the only surviving example of its type of the wartime bombing, Town Planning and Redevelopment that has ravaged this particular urban environment.
Built in 1890 the property will have at that time been on the very edge of city. It now has that feeling of being more centrally located with extensive rooftop views from the top floor and not an open field or tract of land in sight.
The first occupants, when new, were evidently affluent Professional types with all that went with that lifestyle including live-in servants, a lower ground floor kitchen, scullery, pantry and laundry and a coach house in the rear garden.
The current and longstanding owners were selling up because the size and running costs were just too great for them in their retirement years.
In between the wars the property was carved up into 6 flats and letting rooms and this was how the property was taken on in the early 1960's. As well as providing ample space for a young and growing family it appears that the room layout was retained and provided a good source of income. The experience of being landlords under the same roof does not seem to have been too traumatic and with only two out of multiple tenants over half a century being troublesome.
There are indications of the original grandeur.
The fireplaces include tremendous marble edifices which could as easily form a headstone or epitaph monument. Covings are just about hanging in there against the force of gravity and its debilitating effect on old and weak horsehair bonded plasterwork. The extent of partitioning of the largest rooms, originally billiard table or small ballroom sized, can be seen from the interruption of the deep plaster cornices above lightweight and flimsy walls.
In the surface water flooding of late June 2007 the lower ground floor was inundated but was left to dry out in the natural process with no bothering of the insurance company. It has recovered well with none of the high tide marks, fungus or fustiness that inevitably accompany a period of a building being under water.
The owners were adamant that it was not a basement because it had full height windows and a level ground point of entry.
The ground or upper ground level was approached by once grand dressed stone steps with an ornate vine leaf motif wrought iron handrail. These features had seen better days with a bit of a list to starboard and a fine suspension of corroded metal in the eddying airflow around the front elevation.
Staircases and high vaulted lightwells permeated the centre of the house. The bannisters had a deep lustre to the woodwork where palms and fingers had grasped on ascending and descending over the last 122 years.
Over their period of ownership the now elderly couple had moved about between the floors and suites of rooms as their demands changed. They now resided on the first floor but only because it had the best staircasing on which to fix the runners for the chairlift.
In its heyday the posh occupiers had mainly lived on the first floor, above the densest smog zone and well away from the rising damp which was prevalent but generally disguised by fancy wall hangings and distemper.
The two top floors were singularly lacking in quality and style but then again they were purposely the accommodation for those in domestic service who did not expect any favours, airs or graces. Ceilings were lower, no decorative fireplaces and with smaller windows giving a restricted outlook.
Chauffeur, cook, housekeeper and skivvy would occupy these quarters and be grateful for it.
I was thrown in my thoughts temporarily by the sight of two artificial Christmas trees ready assembled in a corner. There existed a perpetual festive season in a part of the house now rarely visited and this had a certain attraction. A permanent Santa's Grotto.
At the top of the house, nestled tightly under the roof pitch there were indications of leaks to the slate covering, stains on the redundant chimney breasts and an air of abandonment. The pigeons had prized a way in around a broken skylight claiming the space for their own.
I was glad that I has been accompanied on the tour by the more agile one of the couple as by now I was a bit disorientated as to where and on what floor I was.
At five storeys up the view was broad with the Whiting Works of the nearest town just discernible at some 9 miles distance and the safety lights of the suspension bridge, at similar distance, blinking meekly in the low cloud. I could feel that first uneasiness of vertigo usually reserved for trips up a church bell tower or peering over a cliff edge.
The couple had obviously been very happy in that cavernous property but reluctantly they accepted that they were no longer able to cope. A small bungalow in the suburbs was their destination if the sale progressed.
As for the future of the house?
It would imminently be ripped apart, renovated and refurbished as essential preparation for the next century of occupation and use. Call it progress.
Thursday 17 October 2013
Yorkshire Riviera
Would you believe it!
I took this photograph in Robin Hood's Bay, North Yorkshire, UK, just today.
Could as easily be somewhere in the Mediterranean or California. It was a small window of opportunity as the blue skies lasted a mere few seconds after the picture was taken. That's more
like the Yorkshire Coast that we all know and love.......
I took this photograph in Robin Hood's Bay, North Yorkshire, UK, just today.
Could as easily be somewhere in the Mediterranean or California. It was a small window of opportunity as the blue skies lasted a mere few seconds after the picture was taken. That's more
like the Yorkshire Coast that we all know and love.......
Mid afternoon at the Oasis
Wednesday 16 October 2013
And Ziggy played guitar.......
Before my brain becomes addled and confused with age I felt it appropriate to list the live music gigs that I have been to.
In true listomania fashion I have broken these down into decades and where remembered the venue and name of the promotional tour. Here goes;
1970's
The Jam. Setting Sons tour at Brid Spa. Got Paul Wellers autograph on my tee-shirt. I was under the misapprehension that I was a mod in one of my Dad's suits.
The Police. Regatta de Blanc tour at Brid Spa. My sister got backstage with the band but no-one had a pen. She also panicked when her bra strap was undone whilst she was in a prime spot near the front.
1980's
Wham! The tour with the large lettered T shirts. Leicester de Montfort. Mate got his car broken into and everything stolen. Not sure if it was George or that other one who did it.
Thompson Twins. Into the Gap tour. Nottingham. Big hair and big hats.
The Simple Minds. New Gold Dream tour. Sheffield.
U2. War Tour. Derby. Bono climbing all over the speaker stacks but before people were interested enough to go through his bins.
David Bowie. Serious Moonlight Tour. NEC Birmingham. A real arena gig. Bad traffic jams.
The Stranglers. Rock City, Nottingham. Mate slept through the gig after eating some fungus.
Wishbone Ash. Got on a bus from Lincoln but more like a mystery tour.
Barclay James Harvest. Look them up if you've never heard of them before.
Spear of Destiny. Hull City Hall. Turns out he was Boy George's beau for some time.
Elkie Brooks. Nottingham. Just good music
The Dubliners. Sober first half, oblivious the other. St Patrick's Day, possibly
1990's
Paul Weller. Hull. He did not really need the other two from 1979.
Texas. Hull. The Hush- Lush.
Bernard Butler. Hull Blagged these last two through my brother who had done BB's album graphics.
Ocean Colour Scene. Hull. Best edge of britpop band.
Craig David. Sheffield. Went with daughter for first gig. Me and 15,000 females.
Beautiful South, Brid Spa. Fantastic live band
Lindisfarne. Beamish. Stumbled across them whilst looking for the musuem gift shop.
2000's
REM. KC Arena. Poured with rain but great gig.
The Beautiful South. Out in the forest clearing and my bald patch on the DVD.
Roland Gift, Soloing away from Fine Young Cannibals.
Tom Jones. Dalby Forest. One to see before he pops his welsh clogs.
Hem. Dalby Forest. Chilled out.
The Zutons. KC Arena. Before they were well known, Valerie.
Florence and the Machine. Will's first gig
Nitin Sawhney. Acoustic set on 5-Live Broadcast
James Taylor. Birmingham. What a great musician, performer and showman.
Joe Bonamassa. Brid Spa. Best guitarist in the world and just getting started.
Kiss. Sheffield. Wow.
Black Country Communion. Leeds. More Wow
Michael Schenker Group. Leeds. Rock and Roll
Martin Turners Wishbone Ash. Local town hall. You never lose it.
The Scorpions at Munich Olympiahalle a week before Christmas.
Walter Trout in a basement in York
John Cooper Clarke at the Opera House, York. F****** Brilliant
Joe Bonamassa in Sheffield. Bigger and better
Neil Young and Crazy Horse in Newcastle. Still going strong
Joe Satriani in Steel City. Awesome.
Sad thing is, nothing in the diary for the rest of 2013- yet
Thank you , goodnight.
In true listomania fashion I have broken these down into decades and where remembered the venue and name of the promotional tour. Here goes;
1970's
The Jam. Setting Sons tour at Brid Spa. Got Paul Wellers autograph on my tee-shirt. I was under the misapprehension that I was a mod in one of my Dad's suits.
The Police. Regatta de Blanc tour at Brid Spa. My sister got backstage with the band but no-one had a pen. She also panicked when her bra strap was undone whilst she was in a prime spot near the front.
1980's
Wham! The tour with the large lettered T shirts. Leicester de Montfort. Mate got his car broken into and everything stolen. Not sure if it was George or that other one who did it.
Thompson Twins. Into the Gap tour. Nottingham. Big hair and big hats.
The Simple Minds. New Gold Dream tour. Sheffield.
U2. War Tour. Derby. Bono climbing all over the speaker stacks but before people were interested enough to go through his bins.
David Bowie. Serious Moonlight Tour. NEC Birmingham. A real arena gig. Bad traffic jams.
The Stranglers. Rock City, Nottingham. Mate slept through the gig after eating some fungus.
Wishbone Ash. Got on a bus from Lincoln but more like a mystery tour.
Barclay James Harvest. Look them up if you've never heard of them before.
Spear of Destiny. Hull City Hall. Turns out he was Boy George's beau for some time.
Elkie Brooks. Nottingham. Just good music
The Dubliners. Sober first half, oblivious the other. St Patrick's Day, possibly
1990's
Paul Weller. Hull. He did not really need the other two from 1979.
Texas. Hull. The Hush- Lush.
Bernard Butler. Hull Blagged these last two through my brother who had done BB's album graphics.
Ocean Colour Scene. Hull. Best edge of britpop band.
Craig David. Sheffield. Went with daughter for first gig. Me and 15,000 females.
Beautiful South, Brid Spa. Fantastic live band
Lindisfarne. Beamish. Stumbled across them whilst looking for the musuem gift shop.
2000's
REM. KC Arena. Poured with rain but great gig.
The Beautiful South. Out in the forest clearing and my bald patch on the DVD.
Roland Gift, Soloing away from Fine Young Cannibals.
Tom Jones. Dalby Forest. One to see before he pops his welsh clogs.
Hem. Dalby Forest. Chilled out.
The Zutons. KC Arena. Before they were well known, Valerie.
Florence and the Machine. Will's first gig
Nitin Sawhney. Acoustic set on 5-Live Broadcast
James Taylor. Birmingham. What a great musician, performer and showman.
Joe Bonamassa. Brid Spa. Best guitarist in the world and just getting started.
Kiss. Sheffield. Wow.
Black Country Communion. Leeds. More Wow
Michael Schenker Group. Leeds. Rock and Roll
Martin Turners Wishbone Ash. Local town hall. You never lose it.
The Scorpions at Munich Olympiahalle a week before Christmas.
Walter Trout in a basement in York
John Cooper Clarke at the Opera House, York. F****** Brilliant
Joe Bonamassa in Sheffield. Bigger and better
Neil Young and Crazy Horse in Newcastle. Still going strong
Joe Satriani in Steel City. Awesome.
Sad thing is, nothing in the diary for the rest of 2013- yet
Thank you , goodnight.
Tuesday 15 October 2013
The Moon is made of Cheese
I like to see a public opinion poll. I enjoy participating sometimes in an on line survey and do my utmost to be truthful, honest and decent in my responses so as not to distort the result in case it is actually of any significance in shaping such things as Government policy or how we are allowed to lead our lives. A sampling of any proportion of the population can have interesting connotaions in terms of outcome. I remember a survey in a school magazine in which, curiously, the best single of the year also won the category of worst single of the year and with the same phenomena being recorded for best male artist and top group. The following very extensive list and in chronological order is a very recent offering from a poll taken amongst the subscribers of The Gadget Show. Having just seen the list myself does appear to imply that this particular group has exceeded itself in not just overall geek points but also in the display of a remarkable breadth and depth of general knowledge, social and economic development and history. Really a very clever and astute bunch of, predominantly I contest, single males. It is therefore to be applauded as a unique opinion. Many may not agree with a number of the entries and some are indeed just plain freakish. My own lifetime of gadget appreciation and use began in the late 1960's and early 1970's but many of the post war inventions were to be found in the house in which I grew up in. There are no cheap and nasty items. All, bar none, are examples of inspirational and durable engineering, product design and marketing, yes even the slinky.
See what you think...........................
1913 The zip
1914 Motorised movie cameras
1915 Pyrex
1916 Electric power drill
1917 Radio tuners
1918 The superheterodyne radio circuit
1919 The pop up toaster
1920 The hairdryer
1921 The modern lie detector
1922 Electric kettle
1923 Self-winding watch
1924 Loudspeaker
1925 Modern day can opener
1926 Tevelox robot
1927 Aerosol can
1928 Baird Television Department Company television
1929 Car radio
1930 Jet engine
1931 Electric razor
1932 Electric can opener
1933 The Teasmade
1934 Zippo lighter
1935 Radar
1936 First voice recognition machine
1937 Dirt Devil
1938 The biro
1939 Helicopter
1940 Modern colour television
1941 Artificial heart
1942 The turboprop engine
1943 The Slinky
1944 Kidney dialysis machine
1945 Clock radio
1946 Disposable nappy
1947 Kenwood food mixer
1948 First pager
1949 Photo-Pac disposable camera
1950 Alkaline batteries
1951 Power steering
1952 SAGE modem
1953 Black box flight recorder
1954 Regency pocket radio
1955 Breathalyser
1956 Behind the air hearing aid
1957 Casio digital watch
1958 Pacemaker
1959 Black and Decker cordless drill
1960 Stereos/hi-fis
1961 Kodak Instamatic
1962 LED
1963 The Telefunken 'mouse'
1964 Plasma television – University of Illinois
1965 Y. Hatano’s pedmoter
1966 El-Gi 1:12 Ferrari radio controlled car
1967 Polaroid
1968 Smoke detector
1969 The Internet
1970 Digital thermometer
1971 Busicom LE-120A Handy pocket calculator
1972 Multi socket power plug
1973 The Ethernet
1974 Breville sandwich maker
1975 Kodak digital camera
1976 Lithium batteries
1977 Mattel Electronic Football
1978 Victor HR-3300REK - first UK VHS video recorder
1979 Texas Instruments Speak and Spell
1980 Sony Walkman
1981 Epson HX-20 - the world's first laptop
1982 Sony Watchman - CD player
1983 Commodore 64
1984 Sony Discman
1985 The Leatherman
1986 Bose noise cancelling headphones
1987 Sony super VHS camcorder
1988 Digital mobile phones
1989 World Wide Web
1990 Nintendo Game Boy
1991 Nintendo SNES
1992 Palm Pilot
1993 Dyson vacuum cleaner
1994 Digital cordless telephone /Mega Drive
1995 PlayStation 1
1996 Audio Highway - world's first MP3 player
1997 Motorola StarTac
1998 Panasonic portable DVD player
1999 DVR by TiVo
2000 The Trek Tech/IBM - flash drive
2001 Apple iPod
2002 PlayStation 2
2003 Blackberry 6210
2004 Samsung OLED TV
2005 Xbox 360
2006 ScanDisk Micro SD
2007 Apple iPhone
2008 Beats by Dre
2009 Twitter
2010 Apple iPad
2011 Kindle Fire
2012 Nexus 7
2013 PlayStation 4
See what you think...........................
1913 The zip
1914 Motorised movie cameras
1915 Pyrex
1916 Electric power drill
1917 Radio tuners
1918 The superheterodyne radio circuit
1919 The pop up toaster
1920 The hairdryer
1921 The modern lie detector
1922 Electric kettle
1923 Self-winding watch
1924 Loudspeaker
1925 Modern day can opener
1926 Tevelox robot
1927 Aerosol can
1928 Baird Television Department Company television
1929 Car radio
1930 Jet engine
1931 Electric razor
1932 Electric can opener
1933 The Teasmade
1934 Zippo lighter
1935 Radar
1936 First voice recognition machine
1937 Dirt Devil
1938 The biro
1939 Helicopter
1940 Modern colour television
1941 Artificial heart
1942 The turboprop engine
1943 The Slinky
1944 Kidney dialysis machine
1945 Clock radio
1946 Disposable nappy
1947 Kenwood food mixer
1948 First pager
1949 Photo-Pac disposable camera
1950 Alkaline batteries
1951 Power steering
1952 SAGE modem
1953 Black box flight recorder
1954 Regency pocket radio
1955 Breathalyser
1956 Behind the air hearing aid
1957 Casio digital watch
1958 Pacemaker
1959 Black and Decker cordless drill
1960 Stereos/hi-fis
1961 Kodak Instamatic
1962 LED
1963 The Telefunken 'mouse'
1964 Plasma television – University of Illinois
1965 Y. Hatano’s pedmoter
1966 El-Gi 1:12 Ferrari radio controlled car
1967 Polaroid
1968 Smoke detector
1969 The Internet
1970 Digital thermometer
1971 Busicom LE-120A Handy pocket calculator
1972 Multi socket power plug
1973 The Ethernet
1974 Breville sandwich maker
1975 Kodak digital camera
1976 Lithium batteries
1977 Mattel Electronic Football
1978 Victor HR-3300REK - first UK VHS video recorder
1979 Texas Instruments Speak and Spell
1980 Sony Walkman
1981 Epson HX-20 - the world's first laptop
1982 Sony Watchman - CD player
1983 Commodore 64
1984 Sony Discman
1985 The Leatherman
1986 Bose noise cancelling headphones
1987 Sony super VHS camcorder
1988 Digital mobile phones
1989 World Wide Web
1990 Nintendo Game Boy
1991 Nintendo SNES
1992 Palm Pilot
1993 Dyson vacuum cleaner
1994 Digital cordless telephone /Mega Drive
1995 PlayStation 1
1996 Audio Highway - world's first MP3 player
1997 Motorola StarTac
1998 Panasonic portable DVD player
1999 DVR by TiVo
2000 The Trek Tech/IBM - flash drive
2001 Apple iPod
2002 PlayStation 2
2003 Blackberry 6210
2004 Samsung OLED TV
2005 Xbox 360
2006 ScanDisk Micro SD
2007 Apple iPhone
2008 Beats by Dre
2009 Twitter
2010 Apple iPad
2011 Kindle Fire
2012 Nexus 7
2013 PlayStation 4
Monday 14 October 2013
A Solution Solution.
Never had one before with a house;
A water meter.
I am a bit nervous about it to be honest.
Not sure what to expect in terms of the first demand for monies from Yorkshire Water and so have introduced a regime of water austerity measures to try to establish what useage represents, say the basic unit of £1.
I have of course heard both good and bad things about a metered supply.
Households with low occupancy appear to be at an advantage on a meter when compared to the levy of a standing order under the old water rates. Large family units have found, in direct contrast, a big hike in costs for this particular utility, but then again what's new in terms of outgoings for any of the utilities today.
My introduction to this new experience was on my hands and knees out on the pedestrian pavement on the day of the handover of the house from its former owners. In some sort of informal ceremony I was charged with the easing up of the stiff hinged metal hatch , prising out of the polystyrene dust cover and brushing aside the accumulated cobwebs and insect bodies in order to take the readings which would form the opening balance under our occupancy.
From thereon in, and every time a tap was turned or a pump in water bearing appliance switched on, I swear that I could hear a whirring away of the dials on the meter even though this was a practical impossibilty at such a distance and from my position behind the double glazing.
We had got into a bit of a deficit on power bills at the old, solid walled and draughty house and I did not want to have the same worries and anxieties that a drop into so called "fuel poverty" had caused at that time.
The period up until receipt of the first bill for water would therefore be on a trial and error basis.
Pipework connections in the new place for the dishwasher that we had lugged across the city boundary with us were found to be faulty. Perhaps a blessing in disguise given the significant volumes of water that cascade through dirty crockery from this labour saving type of appliance. Hand washing of plates, cups and cutlery does give a very real perception of how much water is being used but again I have no basis of information on which to guage the cost of a sink full of soapy water.
In the pursuit of water saving a wonderful invention has taken pride of place in the kitchen.
It is a bright red, rather peanut shaped piece of equipment known as a single cup water boiler. Rather than mess around with a kettle and potentially over fill or have to top up and re-heat the Morphy Richards branded thing can be accurately loaded up with the contents of the cup to be used and within 30 seconds a fierce geyser of boiling hot water is pumped out with a satisfying slurp.
That just really leaves for monitoring the daily requirements for personal washing and flushing of the loo.
In times of national drought and shortages there are regular initiatives to conserve water in the home. I remember from my childhood the insertion into the toilet cistern of an inflatable bag or other measures provided by the water companybut nothing could cut down water consumption as effectively as a good old brick. Most of the latest designs of WC's have a dual flushing button system for short or long functions but our inherited toilet does not.
Again, I hesitate to place an estimate on cost per flush but "pay-to-poo" makes me determined to get value for money by a prolonged occupancy in the lavatory with a book, magazine or the leftover sunday papers.
As for washing and bathing, well, me and the missus share the bath water, not at the same time in slushy romantic style with fragrant candles and a glass of wine, but on a purely functional basis. It is a case of a quick splash one after the other, before we both head off for work in the morning.
Life governed by a metered water supply will certainly be interesting and have its challenges after so many years of wastefulness, complacency and downright extravagance in the pursuit of cleanliness and hygiene.
The local swimming pool may soon notice a new phenomena of a ring of soapy scum around the ceramic tiling in the shallow end when I start my winter programme of regular water based activity. At £3.25 per swim session payable to the City Council Leisure Services I still think that I should be quids in on keeping my home water costs at a manageable level. That's what I call a good solution.
A water meter.
I am a bit nervous about it to be honest.
Not sure what to expect in terms of the first demand for monies from Yorkshire Water and so have introduced a regime of water austerity measures to try to establish what useage represents, say the basic unit of £1.
I have of course heard both good and bad things about a metered supply.
Households with low occupancy appear to be at an advantage on a meter when compared to the levy of a standing order under the old water rates. Large family units have found, in direct contrast, a big hike in costs for this particular utility, but then again what's new in terms of outgoings for any of the utilities today.
My introduction to this new experience was on my hands and knees out on the pedestrian pavement on the day of the handover of the house from its former owners. In some sort of informal ceremony I was charged with the easing up of the stiff hinged metal hatch , prising out of the polystyrene dust cover and brushing aside the accumulated cobwebs and insect bodies in order to take the readings which would form the opening balance under our occupancy.
From thereon in, and every time a tap was turned or a pump in water bearing appliance switched on, I swear that I could hear a whirring away of the dials on the meter even though this was a practical impossibilty at such a distance and from my position behind the double glazing.
We had got into a bit of a deficit on power bills at the old, solid walled and draughty house and I did not want to have the same worries and anxieties that a drop into so called "fuel poverty" had caused at that time.
The period up until receipt of the first bill for water would therefore be on a trial and error basis.
Pipework connections in the new place for the dishwasher that we had lugged across the city boundary with us were found to be faulty. Perhaps a blessing in disguise given the significant volumes of water that cascade through dirty crockery from this labour saving type of appliance. Hand washing of plates, cups and cutlery does give a very real perception of how much water is being used but again I have no basis of information on which to guage the cost of a sink full of soapy water.
In the pursuit of water saving a wonderful invention has taken pride of place in the kitchen.
It is a bright red, rather peanut shaped piece of equipment known as a single cup water boiler. Rather than mess around with a kettle and potentially over fill or have to top up and re-heat the Morphy Richards branded thing can be accurately loaded up with the contents of the cup to be used and within 30 seconds a fierce geyser of boiling hot water is pumped out with a satisfying slurp.
That just really leaves for monitoring the daily requirements for personal washing and flushing of the loo.
In times of national drought and shortages there are regular initiatives to conserve water in the home. I remember from my childhood the insertion into the toilet cistern of an inflatable bag or other measures provided by the water companybut nothing could cut down water consumption as effectively as a good old brick. Most of the latest designs of WC's have a dual flushing button system for short or long functions but our inherited toilet does not.
Again, I hesitate to place an estimate on cost per flush but "pay-to-poo" makes me determined to get value for money by a prolonged occupancy in the lavatory with a book, magazine or the leftover sunday papers.
As for washing and bathing, well, me and the missus share the bath water, not at the same time in slushy romantic style with fragrant candles and a glass of wine, but on a purely functional basis. It is a case of a quick splash one after the other, before we both head off for work in the morning.
Life governed by a metered water supply will certainly be interesting and have its challenges after so many years of wastefulness, complacency and downright extravagance in the pursuit of cleanliness and hygiene.
The local swimming pool may soon notice a new phenomena of a ring of soapy scum around the ceramic tiling in the shallow end when I start my winter programme of regular water based activity. At £3.25 per swim session payable to the City Council Leisure Services I still think that I should be quids in on keeping my home water costs at a manageable level. That's what I call a good solution.
Sunday 13 October 2013
Tomasz "celebrity" zewksi.
I was only just 10 years old at the time but some memories just persist in your mind throughout your whole life.
I am not talking about any life or death situation, abuse by a celebrity or neglect.
It is something far more important to a 10 year old than those, still traumatic scenarios.
It was when England, the football team ,failed to qualify for the 1974 World Cup tournament in Germany by only managing a one all draw with Poland at the old Wembley Stadium.
That result meant that the visitors progressed to the summer competition and the England players, although themselves dejected would no doubt find themselves as 'johnny no mates' on some beach in Spain or Portugal having to watch the games on a grainy, poorly tuned in TV and with commentary in the native language.
There can be no greater disappointment to a professional player than to have to sit out what is often cited as the greatest show on earth. It is the ultimate showcase of talent and athleticism. If represented by, say Selfridges or Harrods then the England squad would have found themselves sitting in their own deckchairs on the pavement outside Radio Rentals or Woolworths.
My own and no lesser feelings of despair, distress and frustrated anger from that particular failure by the National Team have been brought again to the fore with the impending match this week between England and Poland.
There are mitigating circumstances this time around.
In 1973 the match was the decider in the qualifying Group. Our lads just had to win. Poland just needed a solitary point.
This time around, although there have been other matches in the ensuing 40 years, Poland have nothing to play for but their pride having performed poorly in the round of matches in a tough group including Ukraine, Montenegro, Moldova and the making up the numbers team of part timers from San Marino (wherever that actually is in Europe or near Mexico from the sound of it).
England have to equal or better their main threat of automatic ticket booking for Brazil 2014, Ukraine who probably expect a goal fest against San Marino, already having leaked 46 goals with one single return themselves.
I have been immersed in footie from an early age so forgive my vagueness if I say that I think that I actually did watch the match live on the TV rather than imagining it or picking it up as a You Tube archive in my later adult life.
A live broadcast was very rare in the 1970's with a few important Internationals, the Home International series and the FA Cup Final.
I definitely must have watched it because of the dejected feelings that I so well remember. I did have a bit of a bad loser streak. Some three years earlier in 1971 I had attempted a head down charge on a friend of my big sister after she had expressed support for Arsenal who had just beaten my then team Liverpool in the FA Cup Final. The girl must have been a ballet dancer in the way that she sidestepped my bad tempered assault and left me a little bit stunned following a cranial impact on the kitchen sink unit.
I had a set procedure and ritual for a live evening TV game. Parentally imposed.
Homework, Tea, Wash, Pyjamas and dressing gown. The house occupants had learnt the hard way to be absolutely silent in the background. Younger brother, aged 4 would be in bed and my two sisters then 9 and 12 would be doing some activity out of sight and earshot.
In the Tv coverage there were of course the boring bits of introduction, recap of games to date,the all important table standings and the jabbering on of the guest pundits. Brian Clough was in controversial mood, obviously coveting a go at being England Manager if the night did not go as was widely expected in an England victory party. I liked him a lot for his individuality but mainly his downright rudeness and outspokeness. We all practiced his voice in the playground but no where as good as many performers of variety programmes such as Mike Yarwood.
The atmosphere in my parents' through lounge was tense. I was a bag of nerves, sweaty nose and fidgety legs sat on the pouffe as close as possible to the black and white television I could get without being told off.
I cannot remember who scored first but at one-one the game was finely poised for England to turn on the pace and style.
Brian Clough referred to the Polish goalkeeper as a clown for his antics and unpredicatability in a tight situation. He, Jan Tomaszewski, or as I called him Tommy Sheff Ski was expected to leak goals and throw the game to the better team in the second half.
I was already planning where the 1974 World Cup Planner from Shoot Magazine would have pride of place in my bedroom (shared with my brother). In the following 45 or so minutes of the match Mr Tommo Chef Sky ( I was inventive even at age 10) performed out of his skin in a dazzling display of reflex saves, parry's and just getting his body between the ball and the back of the net. If that was the act of a Clown then I would be queueing up to see Charlie Caroli at the earliest opportunity at Butlins Camp, Skegness (which I did actually do the following year). Brian Clough did make a tactical error that night in his premature dismissal of Tomma Zoo She and by doing so I believe that he made sure that he never did acheive his dream of managing the National side.
At the final whistle and the acceptance than Germany would not be calling I could see grown men crying in the Wembley terracing. Sir Alf's 1966 exploit was easily forgotten in the vitriol of the press and his critics. I was upset and probably went to bed without my drinking chocolate and custard creams as they would taste too bitter.
I am not sure what to expect this week with the Poland match. The odds and current form favour England but on an October night, under the floodlights and in front of a nervy crowd and my 50 year old self anything clownlike can happen.
I am not talking about any life or death situation, abuse by a celebrity or neglect.
It is something far more important to a 10 year old than those, still traumatic scenarios.
It was when England, the football team ,failed to qualify for the 1974 World Cup tournament in Germany by only managing a one all draw with Poland at the old Wembley Stadium.
That result meant that the visitors progressed to the summer competition and the England players, although themselves dejected would no doubt find themselves as 'johnny no mates' on some beach in Spain or Portugal having to watch the games on a grainy, poorly tuned in TV and with commentary in the native language.
There can be no greater disappointment to a professional player than to have to sit out what is often cited as the greatest show on earth. It is the ultimate showcase of talent and athleticism. If represented by, say Selfridges or Harrods then the England squad would have found themselves sitting in their own deckchairs on the pavement outside Radio Rentals or Woolworths.
My own and no lesser feelings of despair, distress and frustrated anger from that particular failure by the National Team have been brought again to the fore with the impending match this week between England and Poland.
There are mitigating circumstances this time around.
In 1973 the match was the decider in the qualifying Group. Our lads just had to win. Poland just needed a solitary point.
This time around, although there have been other matches in the ensuing 40 years, Poland have nothing to play for but their pride having performed poorly in the round of matches in a tough group including Ukraine, Montenegro, Moldova and the making up the numbers team of part timers from San Marino (wherever that actually is in Europe or near Mexico from the sound of it).
England have to equal or better their main threat of automatic ticket booking for Brazil 2014, Ukraine who probably expect a goal fest against San Marino, already having leaked 46 goals with one single return themselves.
I have been immersed in footie from an early age so forgive my vagueness if I say that I think that I actually did watch the match live on the TV rather than imagining it or picking it up as a You Tube archive in my later adult life.
A live broadcast was very rare in the 1970's with a few important Internationals, the Home International series and the FA Cup Final.
I definitely must have watched it because of the dejected feelings that I so well remember. I did have a bit of a bad loser streak. Some three years earlier in 1971 I had attempted a head down charge on a friend of my big sister after she had expressed support for Arsenal who had just beaten my then team Liverpool in the FA Cup Final. The girl must have been a ballet dancer in the way that she sidestepped my bad tempered assault and left me a little bit stunned following a cranial impact on the kitchen sink unit.
I had a set procedure and ritual for a live evening TV game. Parentally imposed.
Homework, Tea, Wash, Pyjamas and dressing gown. The house occupants had learnt the hard way to be absolutely silent in the background. Younger brother, aged 4 would be in bed and my two sisters then 9 and 12 would be doing some activity out of sight and earshot.
In the Tv coverage there were of course the boring bits of introduction, recap of games to date,the all important table standings and the jabbering on of the guest pundits. Brian Clough was in controversial mood, obviously coveting a go at being England Manager if the night did not go as was widely expected in an England victory party. I liked him a lot for his individuality but mainly his downright rudeness and outspokeness. We all practiced his voice in the playground but no where as good as many performers of variety programmes such as Mike Yarwood.
The atmosphere in my parents' through lounge was tense. I was a bag of nerves, sweaty nose and fidgety legs sat on the pouffe as close as possible to the black and white television I could get without being told off.
I cannot remember who scored first but at one-one the game was finely poised for England to turn on the pace and style.
Brian Clough referred to the Polish goalkeeper as a clown for his antics and unpredicatability in a tight situation. He, Jan Tomaszewski, or as I called him Tommy Sheff Ski was expected to leak goals and throw the game to the better team in the second half.
I was already planning where the 1974 World Cup Planner from Shoot Magazine would have pride of place in my bedroom (shared with my brother). In the following 45 or so minutes of the match Mr Tommo Chef Sky ( I was inventive even at age 10) performed out of his skin in a dazzling display of reflex saves, parry's and just getting his body between the ball and the back of the net. If that was the act of a Clown then I would be queueing up to see Charlie Caroli at the earliest opportunity at Butlins Camp, Skegness (which I did actually do the following year). Brian Clough did make a tactical error that night in his premature dismissal of Tomma Zoo She and by doing so I believe that he made sure that he never did acheive his dream of managing the National side.
At the final whistle and the acceptance than Germany would not be calling I could see grown men crying in the Wembley terracing. Sir Alf's 1966 exploit was easily forgotten in the vitriol of the press and his critics. I was upset and probably went to bed without my drinking chocolate and custard creams as they would taste too bitter.
I am not sure what to expect this week with the Poland match. The odds and current form favour England but on an October night, under the floodlights and in front of a nervy crowd and my 50 year old self anything clownlike can happen.
Saturday 12 October 2013
Holiday Plans 2018.
It was an unusual "WANTED" Notice that caught my eye in some glossy journal that I was browsing on the well worn faux leather sofa in my local takeaway whilst awaiting on the preparation of my Chicken Jalfrezi and portion of chips.
It was by mere chance that I had selected that particular publication as the choice on offer was typically broad and tempting from National Geographic to Top Gear, 'Which' Consumer Guide on PC's and Classic Ford Monthly.
In fact it was not too much of a dilemna.
Being a thursday regular in the place meant that I had pretty much digested all of the waiting area literature and possessed, as a consequence, a laymans knowledge of the anxieties of the Cappuchtuk Indians in their homeland territories where besieged by off road mountain bikers, best value for money in the city car sector, how to switch on and off a desktop monitor and how to eke out a few more horsepower from a Mark 1 Escort using nothing more than a ladies pop sock and a potato.
The scientific themed magazine that caught my eye with a cover photo of a view back down to earth from the Stratosphere acheived by a man from Leeds with a meteorological balloon and some gadgets from Maplins was a new addition to the Jolsha reference library.
Quietly rustling through the pages I saw that other features were on sustainable subterranean living in your own back garden, fuelling a motor car from used deep fat fryer oil, where to site a wind turbine without decapitating local children and growing cash crops on the vast acres of greenspace amongst some of the largest traffic islands in our national motorway network.
It was, I speculated, a fairly niche-appeal magazine. The smallprint next to the Editorial did not have any mention of circulation figures, perhaps too small to mention without embarassment.
The article capturing my attention related to a planned spaceflight for 2018.
It seems that everyone now is planning a spaceflight from Branson to Lynx Deodorant although with my laymans understanding these were just rich tourist forays into the upper atmosphere. The balloon man from Leeds was already there in his own way.
This scheduled endeavour was a proper pioneering effort.
The terminology was a manned "Flyby" of the planet Mars.
I could do nothing but read on, hoping that my Indian Takeaway was well down the cooking order in the flame reddened and fragrant back kitchen just a few yards away.
Mars!
An intriguing proposition. The most interesting in my mind of the planets in our solar system.
I was brought up to both fantasise about and fear the Red Planet in regular alternation. The family stereo blasted out Holsts Bringer of War on a regular basis and we could legitimately run around the through lounge and jump on the settee in joyous rapture (Aged 6). The broadcasting of 'War of the Worlds' on our black and white TV had the opposite effect as we cowered behind the same piece of battered but bulky furniture.
I was as a geeky teenager fascinated by the pictures of Mars from orbiting probes and much later by the actual landing on the surface by the Rover vehicle. Ray Bradbury's Chronicles of Mars remain amongst my favourite sci-fi works.
A "flyby" did at first sound a bit of a compromise. A bit of a fake spacetrip. A look-e-likey experience as is the trend in modern lives if you have no prospect of the real and authentic thing.
Nevertheless the plan was startlingly ambitious and especially as nothing was really yet in place in terms of infrastructure, and, oh yes, a spaceship.
It was the all encompassing obsession of some zillionaire guy but a bit of hype and column inches could do no harm in generating further interest and investors to ease the cash drain of the venture.
The idea of a manned flight to Mars was broached by Wernher von Braun in the early years of the space race in the late 50's and early 60's. It may have seemed a huge step up, even then, from the Moon landings , in themselves a pinnacle acheivement for humankind but the next logical progression.
The scale of the new "Mission to, but not touching down on, Mars" was difficult to comprehend but centred on dual aspects of the mode of transport and the resilience of the crew.
Rockets is rockets is rockets as far as I am concerned. They go up in a bang, light up the sky a lot and then cruise about in the endless cold silence of space before coming down on a parachute (Source; Look and Learn 1969).
The technology already exists for delivery but the potential weak spot in the whole operation would be the personnel.
An indicated round trip of 501 days in a cramped capsule in a hostile environment of nothingness would be a challenge never before faced by our species.
The article had a profile of the perfect crew for such a challenge. I was expecting, at minimum, an All-American duo of former Navy Seals or other square headed military types, but no.
The appeal was out for a middle aged couple, ideally husband and wife to front the expedition.
I would put forward myself and my better half for such an extended working type vacation with the following credentials.
We mostly get on together.
We like a different experience, for example we stayed 'off resort' once in Corfu and managed to fend for ourselves although the pool pump was a bit dodgy.
We could do with a bit of a change in direction, up and out to Mars being as much of a change as possible in our minds.
We both have driving licences and my three points should be expunged by now (thank you- not, Strathclyde Police and Procurator Fiscal).
We were both brought up on Vesta Curries and other dried and dehydrated foods and know how to stock and manage a deep freeze.
Caravanning does not seem too claustrophobic and so confinement in a capsule would be tolerable.
Wearing just one set of underwear for a year and a half suits me but may be a sticking point for the wife.
I am sure that we could handle the monotony of the interstellar travel. We have always had a long list of novels and autobiographies that we have been meaning to read but have been thwarted on annual holidays by baggage restrictions. I expect that the payload of a rocket is capable of taking a few hundred paperbacks.
The final stipulation, on which we would insist, would be a Travel Scrabble set specifically designed so that the tiles would not float about in the cabin.
Imagine losing a key piece into the electrical equipment on which a pivotal game in the 501 day series could depend.
nb.I attach a stamped self addressed envelope in anticipation of receiving an application form.
It was by mere chance that I had selected that particular publication as the choice on offer was typically broad and tempting from National Geographic to Top Gear, 'Which' Consumer Guide on PC's and Classic Ford Monthly.
In fact it was not too much of a dilemna.
Being a thursday regular in the place meant that I had pretty much digested all of the waiting area literature and possessed, as a consequence, a laymans knowledge of the anxieties of the Cappuchtuk Indians in their homeland territories where besieged by off road mountain bikers, best value for money in the city car sector, how to switch on and off a desktop monitor and how to eke out a few more horsepower from a Mark 1 Escort using nothing more than a ladies pop sock and a potato.
The scientific themed magazine that caught my eye with a cover photo of a view back down to earth from the Stratosphere acheived by a man from Leeds with a meteorological balloon and some gadgets from Maplins was a new addition to the Jolsha reference library.
Quietly rustling through the pages I saw that other features were on sustainable subterranean living in your own back garden, fuelling a motor car from used deep fat fryer oil, where to site a wind turbine without decapitating local children and growing cash crops on the vast acres of greenspace amongst some of the largest traffic islands in our national motorway network.
It was, I speculated, a fairly niche-appeal magazine. The smallprint next to the Editorial did not have any mention of circulation figures, perhaps too small to mention without embarassment.
The article capturing my attention related to a planned spaceflight for 2018.
It seems that everyone now is planning a spaceflight from Branson to Lynx Deodorant although with my laymans understanding these were just rich tourist forays into the upper atmosphere. The balloon man from Leeds was already there in his own way.
This scheduled endeavour was a proper pioneering effort.
The terminology was a manned "Flyby" of the planet Mars.
I could do nothing but read on, hoping that my Indian Takeaway was well down the cooking order in the flame reddened and fragrant back kitchen just a few yards away.
Mars!
An intriguing proposition. The most interesting in my mind of the planets in our solar system.
I was brought up to both fantasise about and fear the Red Planet in regular alternation. The family stereo blasted out Holsts Bringer of War on a regular basis and we could legitimately run around the through lounge and jump on the settee in joyous rapture (Aged 6). The broadcasting of 'War of the Worlds' on our black and white TV had the opposite effect as we cowered behind the same piece of battered but bulky furniture.
I was as a geeky teenager fascinated by the pictures of Mars from orbiting probes and much later by the actual landing on the surface by the Rover vehicle. Ray Bradbury's Chronicles of Mars remain amongst my favourite sci-fi works.
A "flyby" did at first sound a bit of a compromise. A bit of a fake spacetrip. A look-e-likey experience as is the trend in modern lives if you have no prospect of the real and authentic thing.
Nevertheless the plan was startlingly ambitious and especially as nothing was really yet in place in terms of infrastructure, and, oh yes, a spaceship.
It was the all encompassing obsession of some zillionaire guy but a bit of hype and column inches could do no harm in generating further interest and investors to ease the cash drain of the venture.
The idea of a manned flight to Mars was broached by Wernher von Braun in the early years of the space race in the late 50's and early 60's. It may have seemed a huge step up, even then, from the Moon landings , in themselves a pinnacle acheivement for humankind but the next logical progression.
The scale of the new "Mission to, but not touching down on, Mars" was difficult to comprehend but centred on dual aspects of the mode of transport and the resilience of the crew.
Rockets is rockets is rockets as far as I am concerned. They go up in a bang, light up the sky a lot and then cruise about in the endless cold silence of space before coming down on a parachute (Source; Look and Learn 1969).
The technology already exists for delivery but the potential weak spot in the whole operation would be the personnel.
An indicated round trip of 501 days in a cramped capsule in a hostile environment of nothingness would be a challenge never before faced by our species.
The article had a profile of the perfect crew for such a challenge. I was expecting, at minimum, an All-American duo of former Navy Seals or other square headed military types, but no.
The appeal was out for a middle aged couple, ideally husband and wife to front the expedition.
I would put forward myself and my better half for such an extended working type vacation with the following credentials.
We mostly get on together.
We like a different experience, for example we stayed 'off resort' once in Corfu and managed to fend for ourselves although the pool pump was a bit dodgy.
We could do with a bit of a change in direction, up and out to Mars being as much of a change as possible in our minds.
We both have driving licences and my three points should be expunged by now (thank you- not, Strathclyde Police and Procurator Fiscal).
We were both brought up on Vesta Curries and other dried and dehydrated foods and know how to stock and manage a deep freeze.
Caravanning does not seem too claustrophobic and so confinement in a capsule would be tolerable.
Wearing just one set of underwear for a year and a half suits me but may be a sticking point for the wife.
I am sure that we could handle the monotony of the interstellar travel. We have always had a long list of novels and autobiographies that we have been meaning to read but have been thwarted on annual holidays by baggage restrictions. I expect that the payload of a rocket is capable of taking a few hundred paperbacks.
The final stipulation, on which we would insist, would be a Travel Scrabble set specifically designed so that the tiles would not float about in the cabin.
Imagine losing a key piece into the electrical equipment on which a pivotal game in the 501 day series could depend.
nb.I attach a stamped self addressed envelope in anticipation of receiving an application form.
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