Are we there yet?

I have had to relinquish my membership of the Geek Club.

This is not on the basis of age, elevation to a certain level of natural all-knowingness or just the realisation that it just a little bit stupid and meaningless.

It is out of shame and embarrassment.

I have tendered my resignation on the grounds of not being aware of something tremendously interesting on my very doorstep.

As my family will verify, I am a seemingly endless reservoir of knowledge. Some of it is interesting, a bit of it is worth remembering for the purposes of life enrichment but I will be the first to admit to the fact that the bulk of it consists of useless facts and trivia.

My children, all now grown up, did readily absorb the knowledge that I was able to impart to them as a captive audience whilst out on a road trip, a walk, watching television or in any situation whatsoever. I did take advantage of the ability of their young minds to just absorb an infinitesimal amount of information. Some fabrications of the truth crept in, a few urban myths and in other cases I even amazed myself by producing a very detailed and unnecessarily complicated back story to flesh out a work of complete fiction.

I do know that some of the enthusiasm that I showed in pointing out and describing landscape features, rock formations, cloud shapes and sunsets, breeds of dog and old historic buildings  did enthuse my children and they maintain a healthy interest in such things.

I feel sorry when I see a car full of children with their attention taken by a TV screen set into the front seat headrests or their little faces illuminated by  a handheld video game console. Their parents or guardians up front do however look relaxed and composed as they have, in a disinterested and materialistic way, avoided having to address the barrage of questions which inquisitive and intelligent offspring are prone to throw up such as "What is that geological formation called?", " Mummy and Daddy, is that an Ox-bow lake?", "Remind us, which is the motte and which is the bailey?" or even "Are we there yet?".

This latter favourite of parental interrogation may have lapsed into obsolescence in modern life because lets face it, children and LED displays have a natural affinity and reaching a destination would be disappointing if inevitably meaning having to stop viewing or gaming, almost regardless of the duration of that journey.

My children were bombarded with facts, figures, statistics, assumptions, speculation and hearsay on each and every opportunity.

There was some educational content in terms of local history, socio-economic factors, geographical processes and human interest.

I had our home area and a radius of about 40 miles pretty well tied up on a factual basis. Old world war two bomb sites, redundant factories, former railway lines and features, interesting churches, homes of famous citizens, locations of gruesome contemporary crimes and murders, supposedly haunted buildings, boarded up terraces awaiting demolition, miscellaneous ruins, building sites with work in progress or pending, particularly muddy sections of the river, scorched tarmac with the outline of a burnt out car, scruffy front gardens and funny sounding street or place names.

I was therefore completely taken aback, shocked and totally embarrassed just yesterday afternoon to come across the magnificent ruins of a Medieval fortress in my home patch that I had no prior knowledge of.

I had let myself down but even more disappointing was that I had let my family down. How this had arisen I frankly have no rational explanation.

The vast array of towers and walls are in the village of Sheriff Hutton not too far to the north east of York. The village does have a mystical, magical name that just jumps out at you from a map. It is a compelling and evocative name . It is somewhere that must be visited.

I may have subconsciously noticed a road sign pointing in its direction whilst out driving over the last 33 years of living in the county but I cannot account for never actually having been there.

My children have not had the benefit of going there, seeing the Castle or taking in the many, many facts that I would normally have researched or simply made up to embellish and garnish that experience.

Myself? Well, I feel that I am mentally and spiritually impoverished by not having been to Sheriff Hutton until yesterday. I have a lot to do to make it up to my deprived offspring and compensate them for the gaping hole in their childhood experiences.

I am not sure where to start but usually Wikipedia and The National Trust website come up with the goods to alleviate the guilt and downright shame of it all.

House Calls

Once in a while I come across a gem of a property.

I am not talking about the elusive "WOW" factor in terms of square footage, number of bathrooms, acreage of Travertine tiles or the number of ipod docking points but just in the form in which it was originally built.

This week was a treat for me in coming across just one such property.

A cottage. Last lived in some fifty years ago.

Built in the latter years of the 19th Century as a pair of dwellings it has been maintained only as much as has been required to stop it falling down. The current owners, or rather custodians as they reside in a newer house on the site ,did put on a new roof about 5 years ago and had every intention to renovate and refurbish but the two catalyst components of time and money never coincided.

It is a traditional labourers cottage.

Long and narrow over two storeys. Solid brick walls with the bricks themselves made from clay excavated from a hole in the ground only a short horse drawn cart journey distant. The gutters are old cast iron, possibly original, mounted on brackets hammered in to the top courses of the wall and nestling just under the slope of the roof to catch the run-off.

Brickwork is in a bit of a haphazard bond but not untypical where built by field workers in between their labours on the large agricultural estates in the hamlet.

There is every type of window frame from sash cord to Yorkshire sliding sash and small fixed panes to narrow arrow type slits, all in a hand thrown glass with air bubbles and giving a strange outlook onto the world, a bit blurry and mottled.

The cottage is built out of a gentle northerly slope and the door to the lower part, in planked timber is reached by a flagstone step which is well worn with generations of footfalls.

At the end wall is the old earth closet toilet but this will not be salvageable as the single storey structure has long since parted company from the main building in the form of a wide jagged fracture. The main house gable wall above shows some signs of collateral damage although this was obviously anticipated by the amateur builders in their positioning of the metal dog bone tie bars on the outer face and anchored through onto the roof timbers.

The back wall has a bit of a kink and bulge but does not appear to be going anywhere in particular.

For a structure erected on a mere handful of foundation courses it is a miracle that it has survived over the years from surface water run-off down the hill, from its exposure to the prevailing westerlys and the periodic vibration from the main freight rail line just a few feet away.

I was enthralled by the whole character of the cottage. Unspoiled, authentic and charming.

I was not disappointed by the interior.

The first thing that came into view was a tin bath, propped up against the wall in the kitchen. It looked as those its last occupant had just left it there after a long soak of weary land-worked limbs. It stood close to the old range, an enamelled double oven type and with a drain off tap sticking out of the chimney breast. This was at the perfect height to cascade the boiling hot water from the back boiler into the tub. Enough scalding liquid evidently to clean a body, wash the pots and provide an overnight soak to the family clothes. It would be a social event, a bit of a public baptismal for the man of the house before giving way to the functional requirements of the rest of the household.

Adjacent to the tin bath was a galvanised bucket containing a copper posher, by which the laundry could be immersed and agitated until less grey white than before.

The kitchen would be the hub of the cottage. It still had a brick floor, undulating from localised settlement into the chalk topped clay and a beamed ceiling with a view through the wide pitched pine floorboards into the bedroom above.

Being long and narrow the house was a series of rooms connecting to others. The dimensions did not allow for a hallway. The best room was distinguishable as best by a thick canvas layer on the floor, faded wallcoverings and a cast iron fireplace flanked by Dutch tiles and a marble mantelpiece. I could imagine it's use just once a week on a Sunday or when visitors came to call.

There was no staircase to the first floor. A steeply angled ladder did the job.

I struggled to climb it. Upstairs was little more than one long room, about 40 feet from end to end. I was a bit hesitant to walk about on the wide pine planked boards as I had seen the flimsy ceiling joists on which they were supported.

The wood under foot had a unique sheen and patina around the shallow excavations left by the woodworm. I am average height but felt like a giant under the low, vaulted ceilings in part close and parallel to the external tiled slope. Much of the old plaster had fallen away from the walls leaving wispy growths of horse hair used as the original bonding agent.

In its early years the house will have relied upon candle sconces for lighting up the rooms and these were still in position.

I carefully dismounted the ladder as though passing through the decks of a ship before pulling the plank door shut behind me and returning to the comparative warmth of the outside world. It had been a privilege to bear witness to such a well preserved cottage. I may not come across another like it for some considerable time.

Well Hung Husband

For those of us mortal men who are not painters and decorators by profession or trade there should be an annual practical to keep our infrequently used skills up to date.

Wallpapering is a dying art amongst the male population for a number of reasons.

Our wives and partners are of course the decision makers in the household when it comes to the adornment of walls and ceilings. I believe that my missus may be one of the last of her generation to favour wallpaper. It is part of her heritage. Her own father was a prolifically gifted paste and paper hanger as was common to his generation and probably a couple of generations before that.

She spent many an hour in his company whilst he decorated the family home and consequently has an encyclopaedic knowledge of how to tackle every aspect of the task from under his tutorship.

I am extremely nervous and have great feelings of inadequacy when it comes to any form of DIY but especially wallpapering.

My uncertainty and fear starts with the initial  marking out of the room, wall length by wall length to ensure the most practical and efficient way of using the precious supply of expensive printed rolls.

Tradition and good sense dictates a start point in the middle of a wall even if it corresponds to a window opening or a doorway. I am of an age and upbringing that can only think and visualise in just over one dimension and so a right angled reveal or a room corner throws up a great challenge.

These features of a normal room pale into insignificance when faced by a light switch, a power point or any other three dimensional form over which the paste spread paper has to be cajoled, eased and negotiated under the sanction of just getting it completely wrong and having to start all over again on that particular drop.

I have to frequently consult my wife on how to tackle what to me seems like an insurmountable obstacle but may only be positioning and trimming around an architrave.

I am called upon to retrieve the pasting table from the car boot stock pile on average, say every 5 years when a room comes up for a makeover. Some may say that decorating is like leaning to ride a bike in that once you know how to do it, you never forget how to do it.

My personal experience is that this is a load of twoddle.

A quinquennial basis for any skill inevitably entails the need to start again from scratch notwithstanding that complete loss of confidence and ability from such a prolonged absence from the front line.

I have done some stupid things.

In a bid to impress my wife, shortly after we were married, I covertly sourced and planned to wallpaper the bedroom and all to be done whilst she was away on her nightshift at work.

I had on my own courageous judgement chosen a nice powder blue paper with delicate flowery pattern which would compliment our existing bedding and décor. The walls of the old house had been lined with one of those thin veneers of polystyrene in order to eke out some thermal efficiency from an otherwise heat porous solid brick external wall. I decided that stripping it off would be a major exercise and not achievable within my timescale or skill set.

The new paper was duly dipped and soaked in a water tray as I had researched in the information leaflets available from the DIY Megastore. I had not actually purchased that pre-pasted type of wallpaper before but the method, again, would suit my timescale to surprise and thrill my hard working wife.

In no time at all the room was completed and apart from a few bright white stripes where the polystyrene was visible at  poorly aligned jointed seams I felt it looked presentable, even a bit stylish and cosy.

My wife returned from work at 7am after a tiring 12 hour shift.

In the few moments of consciousness before she fell asleep in the newly spruced up boudoir she seemed very pleased with my efforts.

As I said, I had not actually purchased that pre-pasted type of wallpaper before. What was closer to the actual truth was that I had not at all purchased any paper which was pre-pasted.

My misconception of the product had meant that a normal pastable paper had just been wetted a bit and was only held vertically by a bit of moisture induced friction between paper and polystyrene.

In a nightmarish situation the decorations progressively, in the order of their hanging, peeled themselves away and my wife awoke, about mid afternoon in completely white walled surroundings that were confusing and disturbing in equal amount.

In spite of this major disaster I was, some 5 years or so later, asked by my wife to have another go. We had moved house in the intervening years, in fact we had relocated to another County altogether as though I had been enrolled in a protection programme for the ridiculously incompetent.

Skye High and Legless

I am just not good at heights. My most frightening experiences have involved heights. I do not like heights at all. This has caused much mirth and merriment amongst my family who, I am convinced, go out of their way to make sure I am exposed to some sort of height related threat at least three to four times a year. Holidays tend to throw up the most opportunities to scare me to a point of absolute petrification. The trip, during a holiday on the Isle of Skye, to The Quirang was a prime example. The natural feature comprises a raised plateau within a crown shaped surround of volcanic basalt rock at some altitude and quite something to see. In the days of frequent Norse raiders in the Scottish Islands or general banditry The Quirang provided a safe and impregnable refuge for residents and their valuable livestock. If it was difficult to be attacked by a determined and motivated enemy then I held little hope of actually getting there as a tourist. The road up to the car park on the inland side was a forerunner of what could be expected on foot. Steep, tight turns, a sharp falling away below and the precarious and alarming positioning of sheep above and below the road as though they had two short legs on one side to appear level and steady on the otherwise hostile gradient. We set off along a footpath across a meadow, fairly good going and then beyond a drystone wall the path took on an all too sinister and threatening route. It sat on the only shelf of level ground atop a very steep drop into the valley below. On a map it would be represented by a thin brown contour line amongst many similar and closely packed brown lines. It felt as thin and narrow as the actual representation on the map. Add to that the fact that it was a bit windy. After all it was August, more of the same rainy season which prevailed for the whole twelve months of the year on Skye. Anticipating wet weather I had my waterproofs on as standard day-wear. In the wind my anorak rippled and flapped which increased my already heightened sense of danger and instability. A few walkers approached us from the direction of The Quirang so to my mind the route was do-able unless of course they had given up and just turned back. I did not want to appear weak or uncommitted by asking them. The path continued along the ledge and then disappeared around a bend following the topography of the hillside. That was enough for me and I sat down on the upper path edge and went on strike. The rest of the family struck on and out of sight. Within a few minutes they had returned. The pathway was blocked by a couple of ladies obviously suffering from the same allergic reaction to the prospect of plummeting to a painful death as I was experiencing. That and the fact that what looked to the eye like a straight route was in fact quite uppy and downy and could take at least a couple of hours of quite energic hiking to reach the base of The Quirang. I proposed we go and find a tea shop somewhere and the others, not wanting to lose face at their defeat by the path, gratefully agreed. I suspected from the large numbers of the general public in view enjoying that landmark feature that there was probably a large and very accessible coach park on the seaward side only a short hop and skip away from The Quirang posing no difficulty whatsoever to the elderly, infirm or very young. Other situations where I feared for my life included accompanying my wife on one of her favourite activities of walking coastal paths. Nasty situations were encountered along both the high cliff routes in Cornwall and on the North Yorkshire coastline. I also have problems going over bridges where the planking of the walkway leaves a narrow gap affording a very clear and unambiguous viewpoint of white-water rapids. I was proud of myself in successfully negotiating the cliff side path and a suspension bridge up to Tintagel Castle for an evening of magical Arthurian legends acted out by puppeteers. On a day to day level my work also puts me in what I feel are hazardous situations as far as heights are concerned.

Assured that my right hand was holding on as tightly as humanly possible to the top of the ladder I extended my left hand to ease myself up with the intention of actually clambering up onto the flat section of house roof. At that point, on a 30 foot hired wooden ladder, my legs began to shake uncontrollably as though bared open on a nerve end. The builder who had ascended onto the flat roof just before me remarked with some amusement that I did not appear to be enjoying myself. He was absolutely right and I had added another sorry chapter to my list of high places that I should never have attempted to get to. The most recent similar experience was only just this morning. At the top of a newly converted and swankily refurbished former Brewery building was the means and therefore an impulsive invitation to get out on the roof for an inspection. I assembled my own trusted 15 foot aluminium ladder and released the catch handle which held the bubble type perspex skylight in position. Immediately freed from its restraint the lightweight dome caught the wind and was wrestled out of my hand. I grimaced in case the hatch actually blew off its hinge and cascaded down to the ground or worst still clattered down the roof of the adjoining Catholic Church. The force of the wind had not been apparent during my ground level working but at a height of over 50 feet there was quite a strong breeze. I put my head out over the shelter of the hatch surround. What was left of my head of hair was ruffled and there was a definite feeling of suction and negative pressure through the vast expanse of the building below me. In the depths of the empty building I could hear a door slam. I was sure that during my progression through the four floor levels I had secured all the internal doors. I listened for the sounds of footsteps. Nothing followed the resonance from the slamming door. I was now at the threshold for stepping out onto the flat roof. There was however no shelter from the wind and in the absence of a safety rail to the overhanging edge I declined to detach myself from the ladder which otherwise kept me connected to the ground. There were some good photo opportunities for my work. The strap for my camera was draped around my right hand as I was fearful of dropping it beyond reach or even over and into the precipice between the building and its near neighbours. One detail of a sagging gutter on a lower roof section had to be recorded. This meant my rotating on the ladder trying to simultaneously hold on to the top rung and the camera whilst operating the zoom focus. I had by now come to the attention of the city centre pigeons who were congregating in the sheltered dead spaces between the buildings. Not expecting any food they just milled around or expressed annoyance that I had trespassed into their exclusive domain. I narrowly escaped a couple of warning shots from the agitated birds. It was time to retreat back into the calm of the building. Unfortunately the bubble hatch in its vertical position was now out of my immediate reach without upsetting my delicate balance. The hatch was above a small plant room on the top floor. There were offcuts of electrical cable strewn on the floor and I selected one of the shorter lengths. Catching in the wind my lassoo was difficult to control and it took about 5 minutes to toss the cable around the catch mount with enough purchase to draw the cover down within reach. I was happy with my improvisation and started to dismantle my ladder. I then realised that my camera was missing. I had, after all that, left it on the roof just below the lip of the hatch. The process was repeated with some annoyance. The hatch was just as unruly as before. As I stretched to pick up the camera I could feel that all too familiar leg wobble starting. This could easily cause a vibrating effect down the angled ladder to its footing on what had formerly appeared as a non-slip concrete floor. In natural light flooding in through the open hatch, the floor was the most highly polished screeded finish I had ever seen. I carefully made my way to down. As with most of my self exposure to heights the moment of touch down with both feet is ecstatic. The spine tingling feeling associated with above ground levels continued as I made my way out of the building. The renovation of the old Brewery building had included the creation of a full floor to three storey height atrium, a very indulgent waste of otherwise lettable space but visually stunning. I descended the resin floored landings, treads and risers carrying all my equipment and ladders. The view over the handrails and clear glass balustrade panels left little to the imagination of the vertigo sufferer and at last arriving at ground floor level I felt like kneeling down in Papal style to kiss terra firma.

Cloud Making Factory

 

 

 

A photograph of Drax Power Station in Yorkshire on a bright November day. Often cited in it's old coal fired generating days as being a major contributor to the acid rain problems in Scandinavia. It now operates, I understand on bio-mass. On a chilly day the output from the cooling towers and main stack is dramatic and against a back drop of light and wispy mackerel clouds quite eerily beautiful.

 

 

Culture

The City of Hull  in the later Victorian period was a mass of densely packed terraced housing, particularly within a mile of the centre. These were arranged broadly under the term of smaller streets taking the form of off road pedestrian access Terraces, through-arch Parades and Courts, the more auspicious sounding Groves, fanciful Squares, pokey Lanes, multiple occupancy Buildings and the exotic sounding Villas. Thanks to the coming into fashion of sanitation, the intermittent submerging under high tide flooding, localised but devastating fires, dodgy building collapses and much later the combined influence of the urban demolition experts of Adolf, Herman and Co and hapless Town Planners the vast majority of these communities and tightly knit clusters of housing have disappeared completely or with just a surviving glazed street name plaque on a gable wall on a street frontage announcing an empty space or pathway leading nowhere. My wife's ancestors, emigrants from Germany and Sweden had a postal address of 'seventy one and a half' of a long lost street close to the Princes Dock area between the city centre and the River Humber. The old urban maps are almost solid black in colour as an illustration of the packed and stacked houses with little open space or greenery. It is not surprising that old photographs of the main City Parks of the time show large crowds promenading around enjoying looking onto anything not resembling a brick wall. It is conceivable that the sun never penetrated to the dark corners of many of the back to back courts and squares and the sight of an open and bright sky on a weekend will have been greatly welcomed. The main surviving type of smaller street in todays urban setting is the short pedestrian access terrace. This is typically set behind the street front building line and up until the 1970's the clearance between the two paralell lines of houses was fully open and ideal therefore to have continuous lines of washing, communal playground activities or the occasional street party to celebrate a Royal milestone or some sort of national victory. Sensitivity to the perceived need for people to have boundaries and private space led to the creation of individual forecourt gardens for the houses served by a narrow central footway. There are, to my knowledge only a couple of the fully open arrangements left although invariably these are used for off road parking which makes the whole terrace look untidy. As for clothes drying this is very difficult in such circumstances. The individual terraces were often the work of a single builder or developer, a small scale project with the houses being built for long term letting as was the dominant form of occupation in the Victorian period. One or more of the houses will have been reserved for the builder/developer and family members invariably the best ones in terms of floor area, external yard and orientation towards the sun. Every larger street in front of the smaller streets will have been built to a certain informal checklist with the creation of corner shops and premises for tradesmens activities. The commercial uses usually plumbers,joiners, undertakers, coal merchants and builders were set through an archway with double gates or a wicket gate leading to a courtyard with workshops and stables.Many archway properties of sturdy construction remain either in some form of small scale business use or with development of the outbuildings and backland for residential occupation. The old corner shops are still identifiable today although often heavily disguised behind residential frontages and modern infill brickwork. The retention of a corner shop as a going concern is very rare indeed. The Tesco effect being in play. The urban demolition and clearance of much of Hull's oldest and poorest calibre housing really stepped up a pace in the 1960's and 1970's. The streets south of Hessle Road, acre upon acre of dense terraced homes ,survive only now in name. The bustling communities whose livelihoods were dependant on employment on the Docks, aboard deep sea trawlers and in the fishing and processing related industries have been supplanted by a large commercial area which is abandoned and ghostly beyond business hours. The displaced residents were mainly re-housed on the large sprawling and bleak Council Estates positoned miles away on the periphery of the city. There were of course many benefit in terms of modern, dry, warm and healthy homes but at the loss of a sense of common purpose and community. However, only 30 years after being erected many replacement houses have themselves been demolished where faced with uneconomic repairs for latent defects.The use of timber frame, sectional construction, hung tiles and other more wacky systems have proven no match for good old red brick. The west Hull area around Hawthorn Avenue was identified for large scale compulsory purchase for demolition and clearance as recently as 2005-2006. Many homeowners reluctantly took the generous package on offer and moved out and away before the area deteriorated significantly with boarded up and security shuttered elevations dominating the streetscenes. The regeneration project recently foundered in the recessionary conditions leaving a few single owner occcupiers as the only residents in very depressing surroundings. New funding was discovered down the back of a sofa, somewhere in Westminster, allowing promises of relocation to be kept with the stranded and abandoned few. The regeneration that has taken place has included houses of striking appearance, three storeys, a gable balcony and glazed coloured brick panels. If these houses manage to remain standing for the same period of time as their predecessors they may be regarded with as much affection.

The former Quango behind the regeneration project did openly state that they had a policy of attracting a mixture of socio-economic groups to the new housing in the area so that there was an overall  improvement in the aspirations of the majority.

Sounds a bit like a form of social engineering through the back door, or rather the patio doors.

Starship Trooper

Top of The Pops was regular viewing in our house in the late 1960's and right through to the late 70's.

 

It was, amazingly, by todays TV output, just about the most progressive and wild show being broadcast on all of the three main channels.

 

It was a must see listing in the week's schedule if you wanted to be part of the school playground in-crowd and the inevitable Friday morning discussions on the performers, whether a particular act were miming (as I suspected most of them were), the fashions of the time, on which wrist to tie your tartan scarf or in what ear your should consider piercing and wearing a stud. I cannot recall if it was the right or left lobe that determined your sexual preference.

 

The formula for every week was startlingly similar.

 

One or two presenters who had attained top celebrity status through radio held forth in front of a very square looking studio audience, you know lads in tank tops, wide collars and Oxford Bag trousers, the lasses in their best flowery flocks and freshly coiffured hair. The position of media superstars was obviously too potent for some of the individuals as we now hear about in the investigations and prosecutions arising from longstanding sexual misconduct.

 

In the early years of TOTP there were of course no videos and so bands were on stage. In  the pre-internet times the Pop Chart Countdown with still photo's of the entries was the first opportunity to find out the risers and fallers.

 

Up to about that point the show was very modern and progressive but then there would be a bit of a relapse to the Old Variety Days. The wartime and 1950's to 60's radio broadcasts of comedy and general entertainment always featured a musical interlude. The Goon Shows had Max Geldray on Harmonica and Ray Ellington vocalist, Round the Horne had The Fraser Hayes Four a close harmony singing group amongst the most popular. For some reason a ground breaking Pop Show had to follow the tried and tested routines and that was where we were introduced to Pans People, or who were regularly referred to as "Sex on Legs" amongst my playground chums.

 

Of course they, as me, did not actually know what sex on legs meant. It was probably a matter of mimicking older siblings or our Dads who were more likely to be the target market for the performances of the dancing troupe.

 

The classic and best known line up consisted of what became household names of Dee Dee, Ruth, Flick, Andi, Babs and the rather boringly named, by comparison, Louise.

 

There were some tweaks in the members over the main televised years from 1968 to 1976 but a core element persisted to bring us interesting interpretations of Pop Songs which became a highlight of our Thursday night viewing, as long as, that is we had our pyjamas on and drank all of our drinking chocolate.

 

It was difficult not to laugh at some of the routines which were literal translations into dance of the lyrical content of some rather bland and one hit wonder type chart toppers or bubbling-unders. Six dancers did tend to physically fill the stage at TV Centre which did not leave much space for the inevitable props to embellish the gyratory movements and basic choreography. The photograph below depicts a typical mode of attire and stance. If anyone knows what the song behind this particular dance was then I would be pleased to hear. Also one of the ladies is missing from the picture if anyone can shed some light on that.

The Christmas Day TOTP in 1973 saw Pans People's interpretation of "Get Down" by Gilbert O'Sullivan involving pet dogs on pedestals with, inevitable chaos as the animals got distracted by the lights and sounds in the studio and one went off camera for a wee.

 

I was, in the halcyon days of Pans People, of the age 5 years to 13 years. I am sorry, but to a young lad of sheltered upbringing the ladies were quite a fascination even though they did look very, very old to me. As I said, they were more popular with older siblings and our Dads.

In fact, the classic line up were only themselves in their late teens and early twenties at the time. Denim numbers were popular but no two weeks were the same. I seem to recall quite hazily some very floaty frocks, big hats and a lot of military uniforms for some strange reason.

It was the peak time for sexism and political incorrectness in the 70's and Pans People did have more than their fair share of oglers, crude jibes and knockers. In the BBC TV series of Porridge with Ronnie Barker a typical line referred to the dancers, "There's one Special One,......beautiful Babs....dunno what her name is".

1976 saw the final performance of Pans People although the dance slot was briefly taken up by something called Ruby Flipper and then Legs and Co who just carried on the tradition. One of the latter troupe woke up the whole nation to proper dance routines by leaving for Hot Gossip, definitely the best thing that Sarah Brightman ever did, by far.

Lost in Space

It's true, or at least I think so.

One of the many recollections, from a celebrity pundit, on this day, the 50th Anniversary of the first broadcast of Dr Who was that it was always dark, cold and menacing outdoors when the programme was on.

This may be based in fact. Perhaps Dr Who was relied upon by the BBC to bolster the viewer ratings in the autumn and winter months and simply took an interstellar vacation in between.

I can vouch for the contribution of the menacing influence of a grim winter's evening to the overall ambience of those Saturday tea time broadcasts in my childhood.

It would just not be the same watching The Doctor battling to save a particular Universe from dire consequences against the backdrop of a sultry and sweaty July twilight.

The programme has had mixed fortunes and a dramatic fluctuation in its popularity with the viewing public over the fifty years of its existence. This did take the form of an enforced sabbatical for, amazingly, sixteen years until re-invented and revamped in 2005.

Perhaps that absence from our screens and psyche can explain some of the character traits, anxieties and hang-ups of a generation whose formative years did not overlap with the Dr Who experience. I am referring to those unfortunate souls born in 1989.

It would be an interesting exercise to take a straw poll amongst the psychiatric professions as to what proportion of their clients are under 24 years of age and have a strange feeling of some form of void and emotional gap in their lives for the first 16 of those.

It could explain a lot.

Granted, there have been many other things to fill that empty space.

The decision by the BBC to take Dr Who off the listings completely in 1989 did seem like a full funeral with honours although with that gift of hindsight now appears to have been a very clever strategic mothballing. There was a lot of competition vying for the attention of the target audience in the late 80's. It is not coincidental that 1989 was the launch  of the World Wide Web and that tantalising phrase used by Politicians of the time of "super-information highway". A well tried and proven formula centred on an old Police Box would seem, to the decision makers, to be a throwback to a more sedate and pedestrian age.

Soon to follow was the Pentium Processor and the cheap availability of computing power. This spawned a whole range of gadgets and products and the generation deprived of the wisdom and morality of The Doctor found solace and comfort in the iPod, Adidas 1 Trainers and then the portal onto the world, a sort of time machine in itself, You Tube in 2005.

Older siblings of the lost generation will have been into the Sci-Fi Scene within which Dr Who retained its position even if missing from the airwaves for so long and hopefully kept the popularity and fascination to the fore. Theirs will have been a wonderful childhood in the company of successive Time Lords, their entourage of assistants and assorted adversaries.

It was, as I vividly remember, a childhood living in the constant but exhilarating fear of the appearance of the Daleks, Cybermen and all other manner of creatures. The less humanoid the enemy, the more frightening it would be. Many a play session involved battling with aliens and entities from far off galaxies and many different epochs. You could, with a bit of imagination,  let rip and run riot simultaneously.

What of the lost generation?

Probably secreted away in a darkened room, eyes transfixed on a games console and relying on the virtual image for entertainment. A fabulous multi-layered and multi dimensional world it may be but it is artificially engineered and no substitute for the fantasies and complex scenarios of the independent and unsullied human mind.

The re-invention of Doctor Who in 2005 was pitched in perfectly to recapture those lost to Nintendo, Play Station and X-Box. They would however still have a lot of catching up to do for the missing 16 years of their lives. The therapy was instant and the episodes became even more exciting, with high tec special effects,  controversial same sex kissing, quite sad in places and with many metaphors for modern life woven into the storylines. No more the wobbling sets, dodgy props and nervy delivery of lines which were so apparent in the early black and white broadcasts but even so hardly noticeable given the originality of the material.

Tonight's special 50th Anniversary is to be marked by a broadcast to over 100 million viewers worldwide and at a point in time as we await the formal regeneration of the next custodian of the Tardis and Sonic Screwdriver.

I expect that the waiting rooms of Psychiatrists will be empty from Monday onwards as the lost generation will finally come to appreciate and understand the unstoppable force that is The Doctor.

I just hope it is not too late for some of them......................................................................................

Throw a sicky

I was wondering if John F Kennedy had a funny feeling at the start of this day all of those fifty years ago?

If he did, it may have been one of those strange 'should I get out of bed' sensations that all of us have experienced at one time or another. A brief feeling of foreboding can also flit across our consciousness, just for a mere second or two and so does not cause us to dwell and fret about it too much.

Such feelings can often be dismissed as laziness, sloth, a reluctance to go to work, for example, especially if there is a the good possibility of being criticised for not doing something you were supposed to. It could as easily be just a hangover or the fallout from a dodgy takeaway the night before.

Most of us have that quiet inner voice attributable to a Jiminy Cricket type conscience, our guardian Angel or our God. It does bear to be listened to. I can testify to that personally. Whilst driving at high speed towards the flyover into the centre of my home city I clearly received a cautionary message in my psyche to slow down which out of shock and surprise I obeyed immediately. In doing so I saved myself from the attentions of the police radar trap freshly established at the foot of the downslope of the road.

Portents and Omens have figured highly through history.

Whilst not one of those superstitious types I do have friends and acquaintances who are and will not venture out into the wide world without consulting their horoscope for the day or reading the tea leafs in the bottom of that first cuppa of the day.

Well, back to this date , the 22nd November and whether, armed with the information I am about to impart ,John Fitzgerald Kennedy may have opted to skip the Dallas engagements or perhaps requested a vehicle with a bullet proof screen if not wanting to disappoint his supporters in Texas.

From my basic research it appears that this specific date in history has had more than its fair share of deaths, natural or otherwise amongst the famous and infamous.

I would see that as a bit of a downer and perfect justification to perhaps not go out anywhere or place yourself in potentially harms way. I do not discount those who did actually err on the side of caution, stayed in bed and dropped dead anyway. I apologise in advance for highlighting mainly Brits out of the list of 135 personalities, so far.

1247 AD. Indicated as the day of the demise of Robin Hood. Erstwhile bandit with philanthropic approach to the distribution of wealth.
1773. Robert Clive, pseudo servant of the Crown with Imperialist intentions of his own.
1896. George Washington Gale Ferris, inventor of the Ferris Wheel. What goes around comes around. A bit of a revolutionary in his own right.
1900. Arthur S Sullivan, one of the composing duo with Mr Gilbert. Not Gilbert O'Sullivan.
1916. Jack London, author.

Now the spooky bit with both C.S Lewis and Aldous Huxley , authors on the same day in 1963.

Add JFK to the list and things just get worse in the following years with, amongst many others commemorated on 22nd November,

1980. Mae West. Now floating about in heaven.
1992. Sterling Holloway. Actor and original voice of Winnie the Pooh.
1993. Bill Bixby. Actor in the Incredible Hulk TV series.
1997. Michael Hutchence. Rock singer, Did everything in excess.
2007. Verity Lambert. Producer of the first Doctor Who series.

Not a good day to contemplate anything too ambitious. I just hope the conspiracy theorists do not read too much into it..........................................................................................................................

Haute Culture

The whole family engaged in a collective dance routine with shouts and hoops of delight at the announcement that Hull is to be UK City of Culture for 2017.

It was an emotional thing, a genuine outpouring of pride and joy for a population badly maligned and mauled in the popular media.

Such has been the tedious monotony of Hull as a butt of jokes about education, it MP's, lifestyle, eating habits, teenage pregnancies and the accent that any attempts to put up a justified response have been eroded and weakened as much as the self esteem and civic pride in the City itself.

The team putting together the bid for the award have done a marvellous service to Hull and they must be the first to be congratulated for their professionalism, humanity, humour and spirit. There is a tremendous short film in circulation which formed the final round of submissions by the shortlisted candidates and I found myself quite silenced and tearful after watching it a few days before the decision was made. It focused on the people of Hull and their quiet determination to succeed in life but also to enjoy themselves and now with the green light for 2017 to let the whole country and wider afield see the great and varied attractions and cultural offerings that its residents have always known about.

I am looking forward to the run up to the momentous year of events and have given some serious thought to what I could contribute.

I have in my 50 years, well at least in the first two decades, partaken in some drama productions. This was not on a voluntary basis but because I was too quiet and painfully shy not to resist being nominated by classmates and teachers. It appeared to have been a case of everyone else taking a step back in perfect unison to leave me supposedly out there implying a willingness to take on any acting part on offer.

My career on the boards started off in infants school in the role of Joseph in the annual Nativity Play. It was a non speaking part but I clearly recall it did entail a lot of standing around, receiving visitors to peer into a straw filled manger and adopting a doting stance towards baby and Mary character.

Perhaps it was only because my Mother had the best adaptive tea towel that I got the role with it being wrapped around my nervous sweaty head with a snake belt.

My CV expanded in Junior School playing the lead in a production which was attended by our local Member of Parliament. Again, a non speaking part so I was conscious of already being type-cast as a silent, docile and placid character actor by the age of about 8.

I did not and indeed to this day never have enjoyed being in the spotlight for anything and the mere recollection of what I was required to do brings out the old sweaty brow , damp nose and clammy hands.

I am sure that I would make a very interesting Case Study for a Psychiatrist based on my rapid rise to small town stardom, followed by a short slippery slope to obscurity all before age 9.  Culkin, I have respect for you.

I had a brief return to the stage at age 17 in a drama competition for a youth group, this time with a couple of bits of dialogue but they were fluffed in a hot nervy manner in front of an audience of about twenty in the Memorial Hall in the town.

Apart from a bit of eldest son public speaking at family do's and the occasional presentation at work I have largely been able to evade performing in public. I am therefore convinced that my contribution to Hull's cultural fest will not be in dramatic repertoire.

I did play in a brass band for a few years but did not progress any further than third cornet. I had some success by association with the band and its other diligent and dedicated members in regional competitions, national contests and by the age of 13 had travelled as far as Nottingham and Leicester to cower at the back of a concert hall and expel air into my instrument just hoping and praying that the required sound emerged at the other end.

Many other evenings were spent in a heavily smoke filled and beery practice room or in the equally unhealthy atmospheres of social clubs , Miners Welfares and old folks homes. I never practiced or even took any Royal College of Music Grade Exams and so firmly established the third cornet upturned beer crate as my own.

My Cultural contribution will not therefore be musically based.

I have never been able to juggle, roller skate, walk on stilts, do street magic or possess any other skill or art by which to astound and confound the public.

In terms of the finer things in life I have nothing to show as far as painting, drawing, sketching, sculpting or throwing clay are concerned.

Crafts are not a particular strength in my cultural repertoire be it at a fundamental level of papier mache, balloon animals, wicker articles or even crayoning inside the lines.

I have been known for my attempts at cut and paste and that is something that has come in useful in my adult working life in producing documents to accompany reports and submissions.

I like cycling but would not be willing to be sprayed a lilac metallic colour and sit for hour upon hour on a similarly tinctured bicycle in a still-life action pose for the enjoyment of tourists and shoppers. The same goes for other forms of human statuary, miming or self exhibitionism.

I am the first to admit to not having any street-cred and so performance poetry is a non starter and that would also be the case for stand up comedy or satirical prose.

Technically I have little to offer and so would be useless in offering my services in any lighting, sound or stage production roles. I am shy in coming forward in most things and so front of house activities, promotional work, compering or even ushering are non starters.

In fact I now realise that I have very little to offer in practical terms.

I am not despairing though.

My role in Hull's City of Culture year will still be important and pivotal in that I am widely recognised, well at least in family circles, in possessing a kick-ass high volume and ear splitting whistle through the insertion of two sets of paired fingers to take advantage of a freakishly ample lung capacity which rivals the best aerobic athletes and operatic tenors.

I expect to feature prominently on the recorded transmissions and media reports from the 365 days of cultural events, even if a raucous wolf whistle is not really that appropriate in the particular circumstances of say, a Tea Dance , Chamber Orchestra Recital, Poetry Reading, a Poignantly themed Play or stood gawping at a nice oil painting.

Chlorine

I am now getting used to living in a City, an inner city area of a city.

Fundamental things are just double checking that doors are secure, not leaving anything outside that is not firmly bolted down or otherwise has its own foundation and being a bit wary about picking up miscellaneous litter even though a well developed sense of good citizenship demands it of you.

That does paint a bit of a picture of insecurity and secularisation but in fact the relocation to the City has been a tremendous thing on many, many different levels. It is just a bit irksome that I did not think about doing it a decade or more ago.

I now have everything on my doorstep whereas in the suburban area recently vacated it took a car journey or long and tedious walk to get anywhere to do even the basics of everyday life.

The supermarket, in fact a choice of three, multiple free to use cash machines, a Post Office, excellent Chippie, baker, butcher and if you really need it, no doubt, a candlestick maker are all to hand. That is even before really exploring the new neighbourhood and its other delights behind eastern European language shop fronts, aromatic ethnic food stores, coffee shops, bars and bistros.

There is just not enough time to get around the surrounding streets, dwell on corners, gawp into shop windows and sit at a pavement cafe sipping a latte whilst watching the world go by.

I am at a stage in my fledgling status as an inner city dweller when I am just inventing a task or mission which takes me out and about for the sheer novelty and pleasure of being a part of the hustle and bustle. In a tenuous excuse I have ventured out to buy a ridiculously pricey cup cake, a newspaper, two bicycle tyre inner tubes, a dvd, a pair of socks and to cap it all I won two prizes out of a purchase of 5 raffle tickets at a Methodist Church Street Fair.

Life just does not get better than that and all within 200 metres of my house.

Day or night I will set out to the supermarket, through the narrow cut-through where I am on speaking terms with a large and mainly grumpy Staffordshire Terrier, to acquire a whimsical bunch of leeks, a packet of ready mixed batter or a bar of chocolate but only because I can. I do of course get dressed and wear stout shoes because, and rightly so. Tesco's do have a ban on shoppers in their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers as has previously been a regular sight in the Metropolis.

All of my immediate needs are therefore more than adequately serviced in my new environment.

What more does a man need?

Well, at 6.25am yesterday morning I set off on foot , a bit bleary eyed down the street with my tactical gear bag over my shoulder.

At 6.28am I pushed the button on the pedestrian crossing over the main approach road to the City Centre and 1 minute later joined the back of the queue at the Swimming Baths.

I was excited to be joining the ranks of the early risers at the Municipal Pool.

It is a beautiful building from 1905. High vaulted and skylight glazed above the azure waters (although backlit at that time on a winters morning). The layout is one of those that was commonplace in my early years with the changing cubicles on the actual pool side so that those unwilling to part with 20p for a locker can just leave the door open and keep an eye on their clothes and towels.

It was a bit of a scrap to get a place in one of the swim lanes and I assumed a slow pace in the wake of two large ladies who were actually surprisingly swift in gliding through the water whilst engaged in a range of conversational topics. They stopped at the end of each length as though to summarise their discussions and I could get past or at least for a short time.

Enthusiastic and stylish crawlers and full head immersion breast strokers in goggles ensured a good level of movement of the waters surface and in between trying to catch my breath I was regularly and resoundedly slapped in the face by turbulent chlorine infused waves. Each one completion of a length by me meant they passed me four times. 

My route from deep to shallow end became more and more indirect and erratic as further swimmers joined in the adults only session.

I soon reached my target of 10 lengths, a deliberate test distance to see how lungs, arms, legs and very un-web like fingers would cope with a new form of exercise. I was genuinely exhausted as I hauled my body up the stainless steel ladder onto the poolside.

The others in the pool carried on towards their own personal goals and imagined glories.

I was back home by 6.58am tucking into two shredded wheat, a pint of tea and a spoonful of peanut butter scooped straight from the jar before any of the family were even stirring from their slumbers.

A Four Letter Word. Work

From time to time my company are invited to attend at School Careers Evenings and we are more than happy to do so. This usually involves our preparation of a short powerpoint presentation about the Surveying Profession, a collection of enlarged photographs of some of the more interesting properties we have looked at in recent years, some frightening photographs of bad workmanship, rampant fungus or hazardous arrangements that defy all the laws of construction, physics and gravity and a few leaflets hurriedly obtained from our Professional Institution  outlining the broad range of actual work under the term of Surveying.

The typical event takes about 2 to 3 hours in the main school assembly hall or in a series of classrooms. We have a reasonable level of interest in what we have to offer although it is mainly the prompting and kettling action of parents that produces a vaguely interested child in front of us.

If I get a chance to trawl around the exhibitors I can clearly see what jobs are the current favourites amongst the 14 to 18 year old pupils attending. Top spot is always the legal profession followed by journalism, travel agency, sports therapy, accountancy , police force and armed services.

This will certainly be in sharp contrast to the league table of jobs, say at the equivalent school careers event of some 50 years ago where I would expect the top three positions to be taken up by Civil Servants, Teachers and Medical, with the armed forces and law still in the frame as a choice for a lifetime of employment. Go back some 80 years ago and I would expect the hierarchy to consist of Civil Servant either domestic or Commonwealth, Transport such as the Railways or Merchant Navy, Military, Engineering, Agriculture, Architecture and Law.

By way of actual research I have sourced the following list of forms of employment for Kingston Upon Hull from 1892. These come from a trade directory covering the main central city area which was at that time very densely populated with back to back terraces, numerous short off road terraces with a central footpath approach, larger town houses and the semi detached and detached villas of the better off. Some of the jobs are self explanatory but I have had to look up some of the terms which have been lost from public understanding over the ensuing century but were commonplace in the late Victorian period. The majority of the jobs are listed against male names although some will have been open to both men and women.

Sausage and skin dresser                            Bristle merchant                                 Letter carrier

Brick burner                                                 Rag merchant                                     Currier

Bird dealer                                                   Inventor & Patentee                           Seed crusher

Water Bailiff                                                Mast Maker                                       Wharfinger

Sail maker                                                    Lead grinder                                       Dry salter

Waterman                                                    Cooper                                                Cow keeper

Stamper G.P.O                                              Canvasser N.E.R                                Rullyman

Waggonette Proprietor                                 Stevedore                                          Tinner

Brass finisher                                                 Smack owner                                    Soot merchant

Lighterman                                                    Wardrobe dealer                              Oil Press Wrapper
                                                                                                                                            Maker

Tar distiller                                                     Corn Factor                                       Rate collector

Many of the jobs are specific to the maritime status of Hull as a trade and fishing port but are a very interesting insight into the life and times of our relatively near ancestors. The majority of the jobs have just died out although some do survive today in some guise or under a more technical description. 
A Rullyman was someone who worked the horse drawn carts onto which ships were unloaded. A job done for by containerisation of cargo. 
The job of a Soot Merchant has been described as collecting the waste from residences and then selling it to agriculture for spreading on the land being particularly good for forcing root vegetables. This job title also applied to the collection of night waste to be mixed into a very sticky mess.
A brick burner, usually a female occupation, had responsibility for maintaining the brick-firing kilns in the days when the excavation of clay and then manufacture of bricks was a very local operation. My late father in law remembers, when he was a child, the almost apocalyptic sight of the glow of brick kilns amongst the clay pits off Marfleet Lane in East Hull.

Some of the occupations were of the wealthier in the society of the time, the high flyers could be amongst the Master Mariners, Smack Owners, Wharfingers, Waggonette Proprietors and there was, of course,  no stopping those in the heady position of keeping their own cow.

(Smallprint.- yeah, yeah, another recycled effort from last year but one that needs another airing if ony to give an opportunity to speak loudly the lovely words in the job descriptions - very therapeutic) 

JFK'd

It is a conspiracy wrapped up in an irony.

This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK.

I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.

On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in antique font Letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.

Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.

It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.

Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK this year and in fact in only a few days time, the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll or at the window of the State Book Depository, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.

It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising opportunity through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.

I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitome of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.

 DVD's being sold by private individuals never seem to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty refuse to part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.

I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end. Any film that reverts to " 3 Years Later" within a few moments of the initial action can be misunderstood if you happen to be late to your cinema seat, fetching a choc-ice or having spilt a Diet Coke down your front.

I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.

I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK.

Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.

(reproduced from an earlier rant)

Never Mind the Ballast

For a few fleeting moments I felt like I had pulled off the greatest single purchase in consumer history.

The euphoria and adrenalin helped me to stoop forward and tug along the flat bed trolley. I could not otherwise have shifted it because it was loaded up with a tremendously dense and dead weight. The small wheels misbehaved as I exited the retail warehouse. My forward momentum by that stage propelled me through the security scanners and it was with no little relief that they did not erupt into a cacophony of wailing sirens. There would be no following large soled footfalls or a large firm hand on my shoulder asking me to return to the store. Not that I assure you I am at all familiar with the procedure to apprehend a ne'er do well shoplifter.

It was only a few minutes earlier that I had entered the large out of town DIY emporium. Messrs Block and Quayle have evidently done well for themselves although I suspect that the Hedge Fund that bought them out years ago soon packed them off to do market research on tooling in the Tiger Economies.

It was rare for me to know exactly what I was there to buy.

The usual scenario is to purchase a few small consumables, typically light bulbs, batteries, masking tape and an expensive pack of polished, individually crafted and waxed woodscrews but to emerge blinking into the harsh daylight of a sunday morning with much, much more. It has on occasion included another pasting table, another yard brush, house plants, one of those clever connectors from outside tap to hosepipe and spare bulbs for the Christmas Tree Lights (in August). It will, for me, always be an expensive excursion. Suffice to say my tool box is positively heaving with multiples all of the smaller items just listed.

I was after one specific category of product with a slight variation in format.

The lure of the lighting, kitchen, bathroom, decorating, garden and miscellaneous fixings aisles was shunned with a quick march along the full length of the walkway and into the outdoor part of the Builders Yard. It was here that my determination and single mindedness wavered, but then again that is nothing new when I am out of my comfort zone. It also occurs in bicycle shops, shoe shops and the lingerie departments of the major High Street Department Stores.

How difficult could it be to buy 5 bags of sharp sand and the same number of bags of ballast?

One whole side of the compound contained pallets and racking with at first glance identical thick polythene pacakaging and wording thereon. Only upon closer inspection were the descriptions of their contents different. Coarse, Fine, Mixed, pea, pebble, slate (grey and plum), pentland cobbles, scottish rocks, alpine mix, aggregate and others too technical to dwell on.

I whittled my choice down to about four specifications, then three and then the final two. I just went for it.

The bags were very, very heavy. It may have been a bit of a con if sold strictly on weight as the bags were sodden through from being out in all weathers. I struggled to lift the sharp sand off the larger pile. Conventional lifting by grabbing two corners, a bit like an old fashioned Coal Delivery Man, resulted in a complete loss of grip of the wet bags and they flopped back like a herring into the North Sea. Scooping up in the middle and draping over my arm was a better technique but resulted in much of the spongey content transferring onto my clothes. In any other environment I would be stared at as having an incontinence problem. The trolley which I realised I needed was sourced from its current user who was down another aisle. Under the combined weight of 10 bags of the sand and ballast it took a bit of effort to get it to roll. Other shoppers dived for cover or were unceremoniously clipped by the juggernaut if they dared to linger in the main thoroughfares.

Fortunately I had reached the checkout in a brief lull in activity in the store or else the rest of the punters had seen my extraordinarily haphazard progress and delayed their own exit.

Ten bags, I explained, five of each type. The purchase was tallied up with only two sweeps of the lazer. I prepared myself for the grand total. I asked the lady at the till to repeat the amount. Ten bags, about half a ton of material, enough to grace the landing pit at any long jump or triple jump Olympic Final, sufficient to have been ejected down the trouser legs of fledgling tunnellers from a POW Camp, plenty to make a Meerkat feel at home if one happened to be passing, more than enough on which to spread out a beach towel and dream. All for just £18.

You can understand my subsequent haste in leaving the store and that feeling of sheer pleasure in the thought of putting one over on a massive global conglomerate with world wide outlets for the first time ever. I might even be banned if they ever catch up with me.

Heidi Glum

I have had two situations in one day of being challenged as to my identity and purpose.

You hear about horrific tales of identity theft with consequential losses in monies and no end of trouble in, when the deception is revealed, just trying to establish to the Authorities that you are who you say you are and not someone who just claimed to be who you are.

Mine was not a matter of any third party passing off as me. For a few moments in both situations of being asked "who are you and what are you doing?" I forgot everything. That does not give a very good impression to the interrogator and immediately sets the alarm bells, both figuratively speaking and actually, ringing to raise the alarm.

In the first of the embarrasing moments I was stood on the pavement outside my Mother's house of over 30 years.

I had lived there on and off for about 8 years out of the three plus decades and being the one of five offspring closest to the family seat I was a regular visitor as a dutiful son hopes to be.

Ahead of me, up the garden path and just working her way through the outer porch door was my eldest daughter. It was a legitimate and, Hannah assured me, permission granted entry using the spare key for the purposes of retrieving a few of her possessions left there for safekeeping during the summer of our upheaval in moving house.

A white Scotty dog was at my ankles and at the end of one of those extendable leads was a lady, perhaps in her mid to late 70's, appropriately dressed for a late winter afternoon walk on the windswept acres of the Town Common.

"Margaret is away, I believe" was the first testing and probing question. I felt like an old Eastern European Spy with my next few words in reply determining if I would be accepted as plausible or rounded up and shot.

"Yes", I mumbled " she has gone to see her daughter in West Yorkshire".

This wording in retrospect did not help in identifying myself as a family member.

I did not help the stand-off any bit by joking to Hannah, still on the doorstep and curious about my adversary, " just go for the gold".

Then the inevitable demand for crucial information

"who are you and what are you doing?".

My hesitation must have seemed like floundering but it was borne out of sheer shock.

"I am Peter, Margaret's son".

The lady replied "I haven't met you before, have I, but I have met all of the others".

"That's strange" I said, "I am the one who lives nearest. The others refer to me as the idiot son closest to home". This attempt at humour did not go down well. I felt like making an appeal to the dog because he I did recognise from the fantastic photograph taken two years prior on the Common of friends and acquaintances of my late Father, all with their faithful hounds.

I commented about this momentous celebration of the Man and his great life and this seemed to satisfy the curiosity, albeit based on good neighbourliness, of the lady. I even walked a few yards down the road with her but our conversation was forced and was going nowhere.

Within a few minutes my second challenge arose.

This time it was two small, elderly women, clutching onto each other for security and stability. Their amalgamated form resembled a two headed mythical creature and this caused me to hesitate again when that inevitable double edged question reared up. I suppose that I was behaving in enough of a suspicious manner to justify the "who are you and what are doing?".

I had been trying to identify the lock-up garage, one out of three blocks of 5, that belonged to the key that I had been given by the Estate Agent for a nice top floor flat just around the corner from Margaret's House.

The key was an older type and so I could eliminate half of the garages on account of their newer replacement doors. The remainder were dispersed through the three terraced blocks and I was working methodically on inserting the key and trying the locks on all of these.

Unfortunately, at the very moment of being approached by the pair, I had rattled the door on the garage belonging to one of the old ladies and she did not approve.

They squared up to me, only about 5 feet tall both of them but about 6 feet in combined width as old ladies often metabolise into what with copious amounts of tea and cake.

I stuttered my reason for what appeared to them to be attempted breaking and entering. It must have sounded like "top flat", "no numbers", "trying doors" in that or any combination or order.

At least one of these vagueries seemed to pacify the duo and they then, unnecessarily went into a protracted back story of the owners and occupiers of the top floor flat as old ladies are prone to do when they have cornered a young man in a captive situation against a garage door.

They eventually pointed out where I needed to be in the courtyard but kept a pair of keen eyes on me as I inserted the key. It did not work even though it had fitted the lock quite nicely.

I could feel another awkward moment but quickly turning over the key I was able to validate my whole story, identity and purpose by triumphantly throwing up the flimsy metal door.

The ladies shuffled off, no doubt heading for more tea and cake in the flats.

I crawled into the darkened space to wait until my escape route was clear. By the Assistive Light on my phone I got out my driving licence just to verify that I was who I felt and thought I was after all.

Infamy in the Family Way

14th November 2013. In fact, yesterday.

Paraphrasing the famous rhetorical speech of Franklin D. Roosevelt it is "a day which will live in infamy". Of course that was on the 8th December 1941 and marking a momentous event in US and by implication, World History.

I am however referring to the discovery, horror upon horror ,that a family in a nearby town is already fully trimmed up for Christmas.

I was taken completely by surprise by the sight of the lounge decked out in all of its seasonal regalia and with the decorated and twinkling tree occupying a prominent position, or rather dominating one side of the room.

It had not been a case of a casual throwing up of the tree or a gradual assimilation into Santa's Grotto but a determined effort over the preceeding days to my visit to become fully established as an outpost of the North Pole.

Around the base of the 7 foot tall artificial tree were the family presents, nicely wrapped up in shiny foil , carefully tied off in ribbon and parcel type labels, swinging gently in the breeze generated by the opening of the front door to let me in.

The walls were festooned with paper chains, lovingly assembled by the children of the house, long tinsel twists and caricature figures of Father Christmas, Reindeer and Homer Simpson.

Whatever my feelings of shock and disbelief at the time this family were beyond criticism in terms of their forward planning and organisation.

Lets face it, the John Lewis TV advert was not yet a week old in the perception of the public. Iceland Frozen Foods had only just revealed their pigs in blankets and other specialist fare. Marks and Spencers were just setting out on their campaign with trance-like tripping references to Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz to offload their Christmas stock. Aldi and Lidl were still trying to shake off the suspicions of the British about their European origins with a sort of home grown Anglicised humour.

I did feel a bit sorry for the youngest children in the house. There were four of them, appearing to be under the age of 5 and on that day, a Thursday in term time, they were all at home wrapped up in blankets and lying around on the settee or carpet and with the youngest in a baby bouncer seat.

Amongst the fragrances of cinnamon and winter spice from the seasonal air freshener in the room was a faint but familiar odour reminiscent of my own children when under the weather, mewling and puking and with the succinctly termed bum-squirts. Poor loves. I would think that they were stressed out and confused by the arrival of the tree and all its accoutrements in their own home in mid November.

It is going to be a very long run in for the little mites, a sort of 12 Days plus 40 Days of Christmas. I would personally go a little insane in not having access to the special Radio or TV Times for another 3 weeks and being denied the sheer delight of putting a ring around selected and not to be missed movies. There are still another 15 days before the first Advent Calendar window can be prised open and a vague chocolate shaped devoured under the covers before breakfast. It will be another four weeks or so before the round of Playgroup and School Parties, assuming the occupants of that house recover sufficiently to return to their respective classes. It may be a few weeks before any of the neighbours catch up with their displays of lights and inflatable roof mounted characters, strangely including that Homer Simpson again.

I was a little bit enraged by this early start to Christmas.

This was borne out of my own strict policy of no tree and decorations before the second Saturday in December. Not one day before and not one day after.

I was possibly prepared to say something to who I fully expected to be errant and neglectful parents but the look of absolute calm and serenity on the faces of Mum and Dad convinced me of the absolute sense in their approach.

Everything was ready, wrapped, prepared and expected. They could relax in the run up to the Festival with no nasty surprises or last minute panic buying that in my experience just throws off any attempt at keeping a control on outgoings even after few months of scrimping and saving. They were ready to just enjoy it and as they say, "have a good one".

On the way back from this house of revelations I stopped off at the garden centre and placed an order for a large outdoor display of sledge, full reindeer compliment and a jolly rubberised Santa with complimentary lights and a guaranteed deliver date for the month of November. The Santa did have a striking resemblance to Homer Simpson.

Nicholas Colasanto behind bars

Not a lot of good stuff on TV nowadays so it is nice to have an opportunity to re-visit the classic comedy from the past .

I have returned to my listening habits of the 1960's with the BBC 4 Extra broadcasts of The Navy Lark and early Steptoe and Son, the 1970's with Dad's Army and The Likely Lads and some great satirical humour from the most political of decades, the 1980's. You cannot however beat the visual entertainment of the episodes of Cheers currently on most early evenings on E4 and in particular the memorable quotes from Nicholas Colasanto who played Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso until his untimely death after only three seasons.

Here is a brief snap-shot of the impact lines of a great comedian.

Coach: "Yeah, a beautiful school teacher." Diane: "And Sam is her favorite?" Coach: "Well, I can't say that, but Sam's the only one I ever saw her kiss." Diane: "They kissed?!?" Coach: "Yeah, I saw them smooching in the parking lot. I was putting up a notice here on the bulletin board." Diane: "With probing tongues?" Coach: "No Diane, with a thumbtack and my thumb.

 Coach: "Damn this thing, I've been shivering all the way over here." Diane: "Well, Coach, you don't have a coat on, it's 30 degrees outside." Coach: "Oh, thank God, I thought I had malaria."

Diane: "Coach, what do you do when you are so furious you have to do something?" Coach: "Well, I know you'll think it's kinda crazy, but, I, uh, I bang my head on the bar." Diane: "Doesn't sound crazy to me, might do me lots of good right now." Coach: "Well, Ok" {Bangs head on bar} Diane: "No, no"

　
 Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Norm. Normie, you want to hear a crazy, hopeless dream? I wanted to play baseball, and uh, maybe coach a little you know, and then afterward tend bar in a nice place. And look what happened to me?
Sam Malone: Coach, that's exactly what happened to you.
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Oh yeah. No wonder I'm such a happy guy.




 Cliff Clavin: When I was a lad, I went to see the movie Trapeze with Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis. Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: No kidding Cliffy, did you sit between them?



 
 Diane: Excuse me. Where is your bathroom?
Coach: Uh, next to my bedroom.

Coach: [answers the ringing telephone] Cheers... Yeah, just a sec.
Coach: [to everyone in the bar] Is there an Ernie Pantusso here?
Sam: That's you, Coach.
Coach: [to the person on the phone] Speaking.

Coach: I'm working on a novel. Going on six years now. I think I might finish it tonight.
Diane: You're writing a novel?
Coach: No, reading it.





　
Norm Peterson: Coach, you've had kids. Does a baby change you?
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Are you kidding Normie, it can't even change itself.


Diane Chambers: [about Sam's story] Coach, I think there's something rotten in the State of Denmark.
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: It's all that cheese


 Sam Malone: Coach, I'm having blackouts.
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: It's kind of a nice break in the day, isn't it Sam?



Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Diane, if you're looking for a place to stay, there's a lovely little inn up in Vermont my wife and I used to drive to all the time.
Diane Chambers: What inn?
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: In our station wagon

and many, many more.....................................