To us Thomson children the VW Camper Van seemed as big as a bus.
We, meaning the three older siblings, were all under the age of 10 when our parents introduced us to this mode of family transport in the late 1960's. (Chris was born in 1969 and Mark 1975 in the later LE and Variant period).
It was a second hand purchase as I seem to remember that it was a C or D suffix in classic white or in the days of poor UVA resistant auto paints a bit creamy off white and with a dark green panel around the iconic front badge.
It just turned up one day on the driveway. We were a bit excitable and it was quite an effort to clamber up into the vehicle. We needed help becuase we were not able to even move the sliding side door because of its combined weight and the height of the chrome handle.
In the back in which we could stand up with ease we were amazed to see a fitted kitchen with a sink and tap and large upholstered bench seats and right at the rear tailgate door another section which seemed as big as a double bed. Up front the driver could sit with two other passengers on another flat and plush cushioned arrangement in a very continental fashion. The steering wheel was immense and with our father struggling to get any response from the notoriously heavy handling characteristics of the model we felt even more like being on a form of public transport. The dashboard had very little by way of a display apart from a speedometer and petrol guage. A vivid memory is of the steering wheel being draped with old £1 notes and other paper denominations and being left to dry out in the hot summer air after a family trip out in a rowing boat during which we had all got a good soaking.
It was a marvellous vehicle for the journeys to visit grandparents as in the days before compulsory seat belts us children could just crawl about amongst the soft furnishings, stick our tongues out at following motorists from the refuge of the back seat or stop off and enjoy a freshly brewed cup of tea or hot orange squash.
In addition to the expansive interior there was that characteristic soundtrack of an aircooled VW engine. The engine which was at best a 1600cc although in reality more likely to be a 1300 cc version ear shatteringly laboured to propel about two tons of aggregated weight but gave out a terrific rattle and rasp. Tightly closed juvenile eyes made it easy to imagine a sporty porsche discounting of course the on-board catering arrangements and wall cupboards.
There was a bit of a downside in that all of us kids, bar none, were always prone to be violently travel sick with the rolling and unpredictable motion during any duration or length of a journey. I think that it was down to being completely unrestrained and sat either sideways on facing backwards.
Out and about we must have looked a bit like a hippy commune and I clearly recall seeing Flower Power people of that period looking at us in passing for any common interests.
Such was the spatial interior that I lost, for a few weeks, my best Action Man figure. It was explained to me, in my distressed state upon realising that the figure in its 1970 England World Cup was apparently lost, that it had probably fallen out on Newmarket Heath during a picnic outing. We did actually return there to search in vain. Imagine my joy upon finding it deep down inbetween the seating and the flimsy cardboard panel over the engine compartment.
I am not that sure how long the camper van was in use with our family but it must have only been a couple of years before purchase of the brand new 1971 Variant Squareback which my brother Mark has now restored to full noisy operation.
I have been saddened by the news that production of the Type 2 camper, or Kombi ceased recently at the last manufacturing plant in Brazil. Our old camper was one of the ten million that rolled off the line at Wolfsburg, Germany before the Boys from Brazil took over the model up until the cessation of activity some 64 years later.
It is the passing of an era but at least other generations will be saved from throwing up on a road trip so it is not all bad.
Friday, 28 February 2014
Thursday, 27 February 2014
Everything is Awesome
If you have ever had the misfortune to step on a Lego brick you will be aware that they are tough little things.
At that moment of searing pain and discomfort your first thought may not be one of admiration for Danish engineering and manufacturing. In stockinged feet the sensation is one of an involuntary foot massage by someone who has an intense dislike for you but has not expressed it at all until the very second of impact. In shoes or even work boots which can make short work of pebbles, debris and other detritus you are only too aware of something very strong and almost indestructible. Unwittingly kneeling on a brightly coloured plastic brick whilst crawling around tidying up after your offspring feels like the explosion of fragile cartlidge or that you have been shot.
Our house is always awash with bits of Lego and individual pieces can be found just about every day in the pile of the living room carpet, under furniture, in the folds of clothing, in the toe end of slippers and in the far corners where even the Dyson cannot reach.
I cannot fail to find this surprising and astounding given that the youngest of my children is nearly 19.
The allure of the building system is unending for young and old alike. In recent months the Lego accumulated over nearly quarter of a century in this household has been carefully sifted in the large transparent trunks in which it has been stored in the attic and sorted into its original sets, be it from small pocket money models of vehicles, free sets from McDonalds Happy Meals up to complex technical assemblies and very detailed character buildings and architectural homages to Frank Lloyd Wright and the movies featuring Indiana Jones.
The original instruction sheets were traced and acquired on E Bay and gradually the random mass of bricks began to reform into shapes which had been so familiar and joyful over the last 25 years.
Lego with an end product is good but such is the versatility of the vast array of sizes and their seemingly infinite combinations that the only restriction on what can be created is in the frailty of the mind or when it is children's bedtime.
An adult can spend as much time in a pool of Lego bricks as a child without embarassment or criticism.
I was the product of a generation brought up in a simpler time when entertainment peaked at the whittling of a wooden stick with a penknife. The only building blocks available to me were similarly made of wood and usually had the letters of the alphabet etched on their 6 sides. I did woodwork at Grammar School just missing out on the technological leap into metalwork, pottery and making shapes in polystyrene using a battery powered hot wire.
My younger brothers were by comparison so much more advanced and this was largely through their introduction to the medium of Lego.
My own three children were of the Lego-age and their creativity and spatial awareness flourished as a natural consequence.
I was allowed on occasion to participate in a Lego project whether the construction of a new purchase or in the assembly of some fantastic building or craft to travel in space, under the deepest oceans, into the darkest jungles or just into the back garden.
One of the most popular quests was to take on the challenge to form the tallest tower.
This was certainly a major task fully dependant on the very first brick pushed firmly into the flat and thin plastic base for stability and integrity.
I have often wondered just how high a Lego tower could be built from just one single base brick.
I am happy to report that some of the good people at The Open University have harnessed their minds to this pressing question. Using all of the laboratory equipment at their disposal Scientists played with a basic two by two brick and inserted it into a powerful hydraulic ram, usually a means to test materials to destruction. The idea was to exert continuous and increasing stress onto the Danish block. It was anticipated that the poor brick would explode and shatter scattering debris all around the testing facility. At an equivalent weight in excess of half an imperial ton something started to happen but rather than a violent reaction there was a bit of an anti-climax as the molecules gave up and the plastic collapsed in an almost molten blob.
The final weight recorded as the catalyst to the failure of the two by two was 432 KG.
In the knowledge of how much the sample brick weighed a simple extrapolation resulted in the fact that 432 KG was the same as a total of 375,000 similar bricks.
Stacked one on another, even if physically possible, the tower would be a massive height of 3591 metres or to assist in visualisation more than four times the height of the worlds tallest building, Burj Khalifa, fifteen times taller than Canary Wharf or twenty of the BT tower.
My children were successful in their construction project with their tower reaching the top of the living room door frame. It was a magnificent acheivement before the cataclysmic event that saw its ultimate failure as our pet dog ran through in reaction to the sound of someone ringing the bell and nudged the structure.
That was not something considered in the rather sanitised conditions of a laboratory.
At that moment of searing pain and discomfort your first thought may not be one of admiration for Danish engineering and manufacturing. In stockinged feet the sensation is one of an involuntary foot massage by someone who has an intense dislike for you but has not expressed it at all until the very second of impact. In shoes or even work boots which can make short work of pebbles, debris and other detritus you are only too aware of something very strong and almost indestructible. Unwittingly kneeling on a brightly coloured plastic brick whilst crawling around tidying up after your offspring feels like the explosion of fragile cartlidge or that you have been shot.
Our house is always awash with bits of Lego and individual pieces can be found just about every day in the pile of the living room carpet, under furniture, in the folds of clothing, in the toe end of slippers and in the far corners where even the Dyson cannot reach.
I cannot fail to find this surprising and astounding given that the youngest of my children is nearly 19.
The allure of the building system is unending for young and old alike. In recent months the Lego accumulated over nearly quarter of a century in this household has been carefully sifted in the large transparent trunks in which it has been stored in the attic and sorted into its original sets, be it from small pocket money models of vehicles, free sets from McDonalds Happy Meals up to complex technical assemblies and very detailed character buildings and architectural homages to Frank Lloyd Wright and the movies featuring Indiana Jones.
The original instruction sheets were traced and acquired on E Bay and gradually the random mass of bricks began to reform into shapes which had been so familiar and joyful over the last 25 years.
Lego with an end product is good but such is the versatility of the vast array of sizes and their seemingly infinite combinations that the only restriction on what can be created is in the frailty of the mind or when it is children's bedtime.
An adult can spend as much time in a pool of Lego bricks as a child without embarassment or criticism.
I was the product of a generation brought up in a simpler time when entertainment peaked at the whittling of a wooden stick with a penknife. The only building blocks available to me were similarly made of wood and usually had the letters of the alphabet etched on their 6 sides. I did woodwork at Grammar School just missing out on the technological leap into metalwork, pottery and making shapes in polystyrene using a battery powered hot wire.
My younger brothers were by comparison so much more advanced and this was largely through their introduction to the medium of Lego.
My own three children were of the Lego-age and their creativity and spatial awareness flourished as a natural consequence.
I was allowed on occasion to participate in a Lego project whether the construction of a new purchase or in the assembly of some fantastic building or craft to travel in space, under the deepest oceans, into the darkest jungles or just into the back garden.
One of the most popular quests was to take on the challenge to form the tallest tower.
This was certainly a major task fully dependant on the very first brick pushed firmly into the flat and thin plastic base for stability and integrity.
I have often wondered just how high a Lego tower could be built from just one single base brick.
I am happy to report that some of the good people at The Open University have harnessed their minds to this pressing question. Using all of the laboratory equipment at their disposal Scientists played with a basic two by two brick and inserted it into a powerful hydraulic ram, usually a means to test materials to destruction. The idea was to exert continuous and increasing stress onto the Danish block. It was anticipated that the poor brick would explode and shatter scattering debris all around the testing facility. At an equivalent weight in excess of half an imperial ton something started to happen but rather than a violent reaction there was a bit of an anti-climax as the molecules gave up and the plastic collapsed in an almost molten blob.
The final weight recorded as the catalyst to the failure of the two by two was 432 KG.
In the knowledge of how much the sample brick weighed a simple extrapolation resulted in the fact that 432 KG was the same as a total of 375,000 similar bricks.
Stacked one on another, even if physically possible, the tower would be a massive height of 3591 metres or to assist in visualisation more than four times the height of the worlds tallest building, Burj Khalifa, fifteen times taller than Canary Wharf or twenty of the BT tower.
My children were successful in their construction project with their tower reaching the top of the living room door frame. It was a magnificent acheivement before the cataclysmic event that saw its ultimate failure as our pet dog ran through in reaction to the sound of someone ringing the bell and nudged the structure.
That was not something considered in the rather sanitised conditions of a laboratory.
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Tuesday, 25 February 2014
Take Away Meal
It is very important to have a contingency plan for just about any scenario or predicament.
In the past I have considered a suitable course of action for the explosion of the sun and obliteration of our galaxy thanks to a bit of scaremongering in the Star Trek Annual of 1974. It arose because I took at face value the shattering implications of this for the 11 year old that I was but omitted to carry on reading over onto the next page which indicated that this event was not expected for something like a zillion years.
In the 1980's every household in the UK received a booklet about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. It was a case of taping up windows against a blast wave, sitting under the kitchen table after draping it with white sheets and stockpiling essential goods. The precautions recommended by the Civil Defence authorities at that time did not vary much from those shown in the grainy black and white Public Information films from a couple of decades earlier.
In the 1990's I suppose it was fear of terrorism from dissident domestic groups and in the early years of the 21st Century more of the same but upscaled to overseas factions adopting aircraft assaults and the threat of dirty bombs plus of course the doctrinally neutral climate change.
More recently there has been the damage and anxiety exerted by flood and storms with many having to take a crash course in filling up sandbags or barricading their homes against tidal or river surge.
On a mundane day to day basis a contingency plan is just good practice to cover escape from fire and to generally keep out of harms way.
However, at the moment my primary concern relates to Zombie Apocalypse.
This has been hammered home in my psyche by watching, back to back, the first two series of "The Walking Dead" which is set in the uncertain and desperate days following a non-specific combination of global catastrophes resulting in most of the world's population dressing down, drooling and snarling and a few brave souls trying to make sense of it all and survive within the tatters of a moral code of decency and compassion.
The drama is accentuated by no real explanation of what transpired but yet the disintegration of society and mankind is rapid and very, very violent.
In successive scenes in the TV series I have placed myself in the role of some of the main non-Zombie-fied characters and really soul searched as to what I would do in the reality of the situations portrayed. It is plain to see that things would not pan out well for me. I do not possess currently what could be described as a ruthless or selfish trait but such qualities would be paramount in the decision making process when confronted by one or worst case, a whole herd of Zombies.
This was illustrated by my walk back from a football match last evening. It is quite rare to get a large mass of bodies all moving in the same direction and at the same speed unless exiting from a stadium venue. We collectively lumbered along, a bit stiff limbed from sitting on hard seats and with limited legroom. The sensible amongst us were well wrapped up on a cold February night and this further influenced restricted movement. Our team had won and so there was an upbeat tone in the conversations but interspersed with grumbles about how laboured the performance had been. It was not a great stretch of the imagination to liken the exodus to the incoherent mutterings and random, erratic motions of Zombies. (No disrespect meant or implied to supporters of Hull City).
I took it on as a practice session.
If I kept towards the outer edge of the populus this would give me enough time to formulate that contingency plan. It was important not to draw attention to myself, make eye contact or even draw out of my coat pockets the last of the Extra Strong Mints that had got me through the tedious second half of the game. At least Zombies are a bit slow and I was confident of being able to outrun them unless they overran me or I got legged up by someone else trying to evade being eaten alive. I would be confident in being able to make my way home through the inevitable half chewed bodies, burnt out smouldering cars and abandoned military vehicles using all of the guile from a Cub Scout training that I have never forgotten.
I broke clear of the crowd just by the gates of the bread factory. Most Zombie movies feature a cohesive and attentive group of survivors, heavily armed and motivated. I was however on my own and fearful for other Johnny No-Mates in the post apocalyptic environment.
Reaching home I sneaked in under the electric door to the integral garage and closed it again before a full operating cycle. I calculated what would be required to blockade the stairwell up to the first floor which would be the main living area and from which to keep a look out over the street for marauding hordes. Behind closed blinds I felt that I could at last relax, safe for the time being from carnivorous neighbours and friends.
Of course, my daughter shattered my contingency plan by mentioning in passing that there were actually many different types of Zombie. Fast ones, bullet-proof ones, those able to spring and leap large obstacles, intelligent and reasoning ones, scheming and cantankerous ones. I would have to review my contingency for the Zombie Apocalypse or else I was at risk from being stuffed........and savoured as the main course.
In the past I have considered a suitable course of action for the explosion of the sun and obliteration of our galaxy thanks to a bit of scaremongering in the Star Trek Annual of 1974. It arose because I took at face value the shattering implications of this for the 11 year old that I was but omitted to carry on reading over onto the next page which indicated that this event was not expected for something like a zillion years.
In the 1980's every household in the UK received a booklet about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. It was a case of taping up windows against a blast wave, sitting under the kitchen table after draping it with white sheets and stockpiling essential goods. The precautions recommended by the Civil Defence authorities at that time did not vary much from those shown in the grainy black and white Public Information films from a couple of decades earlier.
In the 1990's I suppose it was fear of terrorism from dissident domestic groups and in the early years of the 21st Century more of the same but upscaled to overseas factions adopting aircraft assaults and the threat of dirty bombs plus of course the doctrinally neutral climate change.
More recently there has been the damage and anxiety exerted by flood and storms with many having to take a crash course in filling up sandbags or barricading their homes against tidal or river surge.
On a mundane day to day basis a contingency plan is just good practice to cover escape from fire and to generally keep out of harms way.
However, at the moment my primary concern relates to Zombie Apocalypse.
This has been hammered home in my psyche by watching, back to back, the first two series of "The Walking Dead" which is set in the uncertain and desperate days following a non-specific combination of global catastrophes resulting in most of the world's population dressing down, drooling and snarling and a few brave souls trying to make sense of it all and survive within the tatters of a moral code of decency and compassion.
The drama is accentuated by no real explanation of what transpired but yet the disintegration of society and mankind is rapid and very, very violent.
In successive scenes in the TV series I have placed myself in the role of some of the main non-Zombie-fied characters and really soul searched as to what I would do in the reality of the situations portrayed. It is plain to see that things would not pan out well for me. I do not possess currently what could be described as a ruthless or selfish trait but such qualities would be paramount in the decision making process when confronted by one or worst case, a whole herd of Zombies.
This was illustrated by my walk back from a football match last evening. It is quite rare to get a large mass of bodies all moving in the same direction and at the same speed unless exiting from a stadium venue. We collectively lumbered along, a bit stiff limbed from sitting on hard seats and with limited legroom. The sensible amongst us were well wrapped up on a cold February night and this further influenced restricted movement. Our team had won and so there was an upbeat tone in the conversations but interspersed with grumbles about how laboured the performance had been. It was not a great stretch of the imagination to liken the exodus to the incoherent mutterings and random, erratic motions of Zombies. (No disrespect meant or implied to supporters of Hull City).
I took it on as a practice session.
If I kept towards the outer edge of the populus this would give me enough time to formulate that contingency plan. It was important not to draw attention to myself, make eye contact or even draw out of my coat pockets the last of the Extra Strong Mints that had got me through the tedious second half of the game. At least Zombies are a bit slow and I was confident of being able to outrun them unless they overran me or I got legged up by someone else trying to evade being eaten alive. I would be confident in being able to make my way home through the inevitable half chewed bodies, burnt out smouldering cars and abandoned military vehicles using all of the guile from a Cub Scout training that I have never forgotten.
I broke clear of the crowd just by the gates of the bread factory. Most Zombie movies feature a cohesive and attentive group of survivors, heavily armed and motivated. I was however on my own and fearful for other Johnny No-Mates in the post apocalyptic environment.
Reaching home I sneaked in under the electric door to the integral garage and closed it again before a full operating cycle. I calculated what would be required to blockade the stairwell up to the first floor which would be the main living area and from which to keep a look out over the street for marauding hordes. Behind closed blinds I felt that I could at last relax, safe for the time being from carnivorous neighbours and friends.
Of course, my daughter shattered my contingency plan by mentioning in passing that there were actually many different types of Zombie. Fast ones, bullet-proof ones, those able to spring and leap large obstacles, intelligent and reasoning ones, scheming and cantankerous ones. I would have to review my contingency for the Zombie Apocalypse or else I was at risk from being stuffed........and savoured as the main course.
Monday, 24 February 2014
Lene Lovich was underdressed again....
It was tuesday morning, about 11am.
I just stood on the pavement and peeked in.
The owner of Spiders Night Club had answered my heavy handed knock with a preliminary glance through the small glazed pane in the upper part of the stout door. 'Man in a suit on the doorstep of a Club, and out of hours, pretty harmless' he must have thought, 'Man in a suit on the doorstep of Spiders out of hours-pretty cool' I thought back.
In true secret society speakeasy style the door swung open .
I was ready with a witty one liner password but stumbled on its delivery. "Hello, I'm here to collect my daughters jacket and my other daughters boyfriends cardigan" I said with the intended one liner now but a distant passing thought. It would come back to me later and out of context.
The request was acknowledged and the two items of clothes were handed over.
I could not help but comment that I had not been in Spiders since my sisters 16th birthday party in 1980.
From my kerbside viewpoint I had obviously not missed much by way of redecoration or refurbishment in the 3 decades since my one and only admittance but that was somehow reassuring and timeless.
The club had outlived Romeo and Juliets, outlasted Tiffany's, outshone the Silhouette Club and blasted Heaven and Hell out of existence.
Why?
Because at Spiders there has never been any pretention or competitive dressing up, no attempts at one-upmanship or wearing a DJ out of context, no latest fashions and certainly never any glitter or glam.
Spiders was true entertainment for those not allowed to turn up the speakers too high at home or wear black other than to something formal or terminal.
Metal, Rock, Punk, Indie and Motown are best heard very,very loud and in an alcoholic haze only possible through the sensible pricing of beer and spirits to match the budgets of students and those not yet in full employment.
Spiders was a destination and not a bad night out afterthought.
It is well out of the main city circuit of pubs and clubs. In fact you would be worried if you fell in with a group heading for the venue as they would seemingly be on their way home and not to continue the revelries. The industrial surroundings are bleak and, after 7pm, deserted so no consideration is required for the neighbours. Another distinct positive for the longevity of the club.
So here's to one of Hull's finest institutions, fondly remembered by multiple generations as a genuine place to enjoy yourself. I was glad that I had been asked to collect the forgotten belongings and see inside the secret world of Spiders.
I just stood on the pavement and peeked in.
The owner of Spiders Night Club had answered my heavy handed knock with a preliminary glance through the small glazed pane in the upper part of the stout door. 'Man in a suit on the doorstep of a Club, and out of hours, pretty harmless' he must have thought, 'Man in a suit on the doorstep of Spiders out of hours-pretty cool' I thought back.
In true secret society speakeasy style the door swung open .
I was ready with a witty one liner password but stumbled on its delivery. "Hello, I'm here to collect my daughters jacket and my other daughters boyfriends cardigan" I said with the intended one liner now but a distant passing thought. It would come back to me later and out of context.
The request was acknowledged and the two items of clothes were handed over.
I could not help but comment that I had not been in Spiders since my sisters 16th birthday party in 1980.
From my kerbside viewpoint I had obviously not missed much by way of redecoration or refurbishment in the 3 decades since my one and only admittance but that was somehow reassuring and timeless.
The club had outlived Romeo and Juliets, outlasted Tiffany's, outshone the Silhouette Club and blasted Heaven and Hell out of existence.
Why?
Because at Spiders there has never been any pretention or competitive dressing up, no attempts at one-upmanship or wearing a DJ out of context, no latest fashions and certainly never any glitter or glam.
Spiders was true entertainment for those not allowed to turn up the speakers too high at home or wear black other than to something formal or terminal.
Metal, Rock, Punk, Indie and Motown are best heard very,very loud and in an alcoholic haze only possible through the sensible pricing of beer and spirits to match the budgets of students and those not yet in full employment.
Spiders was a destination and not a bad night out afterthought.
It is well out of the main city circuit of pubs and clubs. In fact you would be worried if you fell in with a group heading for the venue as they would seemingly be on their way home and not to continue the revelries. The industrial surroundings are bleak and, after 7pm, deserted so no consideration is required for the neighbours. Another distinct positive for the longevity of the club.
So here's to one of Hull's finest institutions, fondly remembered by multiple generations as a genuine place to enjoy yourself. I was glad that I had been asked to collect the forgotten belongings and see inside the secret world of Spiders.
Sunday, 23 February 2014
Location, Location, Extortion, etc
I have finally located the most suitable building from which to run my campaign for villainous world domination.
It has been a long slog to find premises with the combination of intrinsic qualities of beauty, practical function, intimidating architecture and a few nooks and crannies to house the inevitable trappings of helicopter, submarine, various high performance cars and a shark tank.
I have considered many others but they have always fallen down on one or more aspects.
In the hierarchy of top notch arch criminals and megalomaniacs there has always been a distinct trend for headquarters. In the Bond Movies there were the usual palatial chateaux, mountain top fortresses, inside a hollowed out dormant volcano, undersea complexes and island based retreats. Other leaders of organisations have taken comfort well below ground in bunkers or have stayed on the move in submarines or aircraft. The buildings may have been super high tech and luxurious but most were in very inhospitable locations to reinforce secrecy and thwart potential attack from the authorities or from aspiring rival gangs.I also hear that the "in" thing are penguin butlers so they will need their own space.
That is all very good if you have the best in modes of transport with fast jet, blimp, hovercraft, hydrofoil or space rocket. My new first choice for HQ is readily accessible in the UK and not too far away from a regional airport which are distinct advantages. There has to be enough floor area to accommodate a major organisational structure what with minions, hoods, fixers, enforcers, secretarial and administrative support staff as well as hangers-on, work experience folk, interns and the occasional exchange student from like minded dark Empires.
My own quarters have to be pretty sumptious which goes without saying. Firstly, a large office complete with imposing hardwood desk, sofas and lots of flesh eating plants. The floor should be marbled apart from the section with the trap door above the shark and piranha pools.
The building in question already has a fantastic feature of a projecting glazed atrium in which I intend to spend many hours stroking a well groomed stubbled chin whilst stroking a small white fluffy dog (I have a cat allergy), tormenting captives or just plain old telling all and sundry of my infallible master plan.
The view out over the river is tremendous and provides a great backdrop for when I explode the helicopters carrying away those unfortunates who express a desire to opt out of the syndicate or as I call it, taking the money and running away.
I have it all planned and hope to be in residence quite soon. (fade away to the sound of mad laughter)
It has been a long slog to find premises with the combination of intrinsic qualities of beauty, practical function, intimidating architecture and a few nooks and crannies to house the inevitable trappings of helicopter, submarine, various high performance cars and a shark tank.
I have considered many others but they have always fallen down on one or more aspects.
In the hierarchy of top notch arch criminals and megalomaniacs there has always been a distinct trend for headquarters. In the Bond Movies there were the usual palatial chateaux, mountain top fortresses, inside a hollowed out dormant volcano, undersea complexes and island based retreats. Other leaders of organisations have taken comfort well below ground in bunkers or have stayed on the move in submarines or aircraft. The buildings may have been super high tech and luxurious but most were in very inhospitable locations to reinforce secrecy and thwart potential attack from the authorities or from aspiring rival gangs.I also hear that the "in" thing are penguin butlers so they will need their own space.
That is all very good if you have the best in modes of transport with fast jet, blimp, hovercraft, hydrofoil or space rocket. My new first choice for HQ is readily accessible in the UK and not too far away from a regional airport which are distinct advantages. There has to be enough floor area to accommodate a major organisational structure what with minions, hoods, fixers, enforcers, secretarial and administrative support staff as well as hangers-on, work experience folk, interns and the occasional exchange student from like minded dark Empires.
My own quarters have to be pretty sumptious which goes without saying. Firstly, a large office complete with imposing hardwood desk, sofas and lots of flesh eating plants. The floor should be marbled apart from the section with the trap door above the shark and piranha pools.
The building in question already has a fantastic feature of a projecting glazed atrium in which I intend to spend many hours stroking a well groomed stubbled chin whilst stroking a small white fluffy dog (I have a cat allergy), tormenting captives or just plain old telling all and sundry of my infallible master plan.
The view out over the river is tremendous and provides a great backdrop for when I explode the helicopters carrying away those unfortunates who express a desire to opt out of the syndicate or as I call it, taking the money and running away.
I have it all planned and hope to be in residence quite soon. (fade away to the sound of mad laughter)
Proposed Head Office for ThomCorp, Sammy's Point, Hull, East Yorkshire, UK, Europe, Earth
Saturday, 22 February 2014
Stuff
We live in an age, in a culture and with sufficient peer pressure to ensure that just about everyone has done one or more of the following;
Charity parachute jumped
Swum with dolphins
Participated in a fun run or Sky Ride
Walked to Machu Picchu
A selfie in a politically incorrect situation
Shoplifted
Been on TV
Holidayed abroad
Visited one of the Disneyland venues
Worn shorts in public in winter
Bought weekly provisions from Asda whilst in pyjamas
Contemplated or had a tattoo
Ski'd or snowboarded
Donated an organ
Been confused over bodily parts and musical keyboards
Been cautioned or arrested by the police
Urinated in a public place (male preserve only)
Been drunk on foreign soil
Known all of the words to the Rocky Horror Show
Had bad thoughts about David Cameron
Thought about acquiring a hand gun
Skipped a bit in the street
Watched a You Tube compilation of cat antics
Pretended to be on speaking terms with a celebrity
Regretted a haircut
At one time been a student
Drawn in steam on the inside of a shop window
Stood too close to a lit firework
Licked an ice cube tray to see what happens
Owned a Michael Jackson track
Fallen off a bicycle
Driven too fast
Overcooked a chicken
Slobbed out on a Pot Noodle
Experimented with illegal substances
Not washed out a paintbrush after use
Littered
Permitted an unauthorised item in the bagging area
Cheated at Scrabble
Worn the same pants on more than two consecutive days
Thrown something at a cat
Poked suspected mouse droppings with the lickable end of a pencil
Screamed at local TV coverage
Called in to a radio station
Won a chocolate bar according to a lucky wrapper
Never claimed the chocolate bar as above
Signed a petition to save a donkey
Relocated a spider
Squashed a spider if not willing to be relocated
Slept in a tent
Laid out on what was initially thought as dry ground
Promised to learn another language
Mis-identified a common woodland fern as a cannabis plant
Apologised to a neighbour for alerting the drug squad
Forgotten about the day for collection of the blue wheelie bin
Directed a complaint at a white van man
Stood on a cliff and thought about .....it...
Jostled on the Underground
Caught one or more hands in a letter box flap
Put tongue on the positive terminal of a 9 Volt battery
Really feel that £2.80 for a latte is extortionate
Squeezed into trousers at least one size too small
Tried a flavoured vodka based drink
Hummed Christmas Carols in July
Opened someone elses mail
Dieted and binged alternately
Done Tex Mex but not really understood it as a food concept
Queued outside an Apple Store
Parked in a Disabled bay
Messed about on an escalator
Drawn a rude chalk image on a council building
Wondered at the press coverage achieved by Kerry Catona
Painted face blue and pretended to be either Mel Gibson, a Smurf or an Avatar
Been to Amsterdam
Been disappointed by normal chocolate brownies
Put finger in a live electrical socket
Worn a baseball cap backwards
Poked fruit and veg at a street front vendors
Awaited a final demand notice for a utility bill
Denied hair loss
Eaten a whole packet of cream crackers
Pretended to be a secret agent
Scowled at the owner of a fouling dog
Collided with a lamp post on the pavement
Hidden a smashed ornament in the home
Kept counsel with Freemasons
Dozed off during a church sermon
Lingered in a revolving door
Failing to clear ice off a car windscreen before driving
Claimed to have eaten frogs legs
Stretched a maggot to breaking point
So why do I continue to be shocked and amazed when someone says that they have never had Marmite!
Charity parachute jumped
Swum with dolphins
Participated in a fun run or Sky Ride
Walked to Machu Picchu
A selfie in a politically incorrect situation
Shoplifted
Been on TV
Holidayed abroad
Visited one of the Disneyland venues
Worn shorts in public in winter
Bought weekly provisions from Asda whilst in pyjamas
Contemplated or had a tattoo
Ski'd or snowboarded
Donated an organ
Been confused over bodily parts and musical keyboards
Been cautioned or arrested by the police
Urinated in a public place (male preserve only)
Been drunk on foreign soil
Known all of the words to the Rocky Horror Show
Had bad thoughts about David Cameron
Thought about acquiring a hand gun
Skipped a bit in the street
Watched a You Tube compilation of cat antics
Pretended to be on speaking terms with a celebrity
Regretted a haircut
At one time been a student
Drawn in steam on the inside of a shop window
Stood too close to a lit firework
Licked an ice cube tray to see what happens
Owned a Michael Jackson track
Fallen off a bicycle
Driven too fast
Overcooked a chicken
Slobbed out on a Pot Noodle
Experimented with illegal substances
Not washed out a paintbrush after use
Littered
Permitted an unauthorised item in the bagging area
Cheated at Scrabble
Worn the same pants on more than two consecutive days
Thrown something at a cat
Poked suspected mouse droppings with the lickable end of a pencil
Screamed at local TV coverage
Called in to a radio station
Won a chocolate bar according to a lucky wrapper
Never claimed the chocolate bar as above
Signed a petition to save a donkey
Relocated a spider
Squashed a spider if not willing to be relocated
Slept in a tent
Laid out on what was initially thought as dry ground
Promised to learn another language
Mis-identified a common woodland fern as a cannabis plant
Apologised to a neighbour for alerting the drug squad
Forgotten about the day for collection of the blue wheelie bin
Directed a complaint at a white van man
Stood on a cliff and thought about .....it...
Jostled on the Underground
Caught one or more hands in a letter box flap
Put tongue on the positive terminal of a 9 Volt battery
Really feel that £2.80 for a latte is extortionate
Squeezed into trousers at least one size too small
Tried a flavoured vodka based drink
Hummed Christmas Carols in July
Opened someone elses mail
Dieted and binged alternately
Done Tex Mex but not really understood it as a food concept
Queued outside an Apple Store
Parked in a Disabled bay
Messed about on an escalator
Drawn a rude chalk image on a council building
Wondered at the press coverage achieved by Kerry Catona
Painted face blue and pretended to be either Mel Gibson, a Smurf or an Avatar
Been to Amsterdam
Been disappointed by normal chocolate brownies
Put finger in a live electrical socket
Worn a baseball cap backwards
Poked fruit and veg at a street front vendors
Awaited a final demand notice for a utility bill
Denied hair loss
Eaten a whole packet of cream crackers
Pretended to be a secret agent
Scowled at the owner of a fouling dog
Collided with a lamp post on the pavement
Hidden a smashed ornament in the home
Kept counsel with Freemasons
Dozed off during a church sermon
Lingered in a revolving door
Failing to clear ice off a car windscreen before driving
Claimed to have eaten frogs legs
Stretched a maggot to breaking point
So why do I continue to be shocked and amazed when someone says that they have never had Marmite!
Friday, 21 February 2014
Rock Cake and Roll Hero Part 2
This complete hatchet job on a very good lyric is dedicated to Will-he-is , our teenage son and for close family needs no explanation. The original song by Cameo is not the version I had in my head when I put it together so if you need a backing track to sing-a-long the best one is by the rock band Gun. Just run the track for the first 2 minutes and its ready to serve up........
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EWKphU0c5Q
Plate up, everybody say
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EWKphU0c5Q
Yo, that do cooking around the world
Got a recipe to show you, so tell all the chefs and sous
tell your mother, your sisters and your papa too
‘cause they feel a bit hungry and you’ll know just what to do
wash your hands in the sink like you don’t care
dry them on the apron or wave them in the air
Do your thing, do your thing, do your thing quick , son
Come on now Will, tell us what's for tea
Plate up, everybody say
When you hear tummies rumble, you've got to get it underway
Plate up, it's the food word
No matter where you say it, you'll know that you'll be heard
now , All you Master Chefs who think you can fry
There's got to be some seasoning and we know the reason why
You put on all the meals and act real cool
But ya got to cook stuff to make us all feel full
If there's music, we can use it, we need to boil
We don't have the time for aluminium foil
No grav-y, no grav-y, no grav-y for me, Thanks
Come on Will, tell us what's for tea
Plate up, all the family say
When you hear us call, you've got to get it underway
C'mon, all you people say
Plate up, Plate up , Food up
(rereleased from 2 years ago to the day)
(rereleased from 2 years ago to the day)
Thursday, 20 February 2014
Aneurin Bevan and Cross Selling Opportunities
CONFIDENTIAL FILE FOR UPLOAD TO CENTRAL DATABASE
PATIENT; Male, DOB 17.07.63.
NAME; P**** T******
Born Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire because he wanted to be close to his mother. Early years development fairly standard what with frequent nappy rash inspired by cotton terry nappies, regular drunken stupors from gripe water, often not able to sleep through the night with bogey man thoughts and strange bedroom wall shadows and progressing to terrible two's, troublesome three's and flippin' heck fours.
Early School Years. Younger sister had to sit in with him at infants due to teary outbursts. Slow mental and physical development. Small for quartile. Liked going home for dinners so lacking in playground and canteen social skills. Minor injuries of scuffed knees, loose toenail from errant concrete counter weight on garage doors, sleepy eye, dandruff and occasional fits of rage if Liverpool FC lost a football match. Likes running around aimlessly and climbing things. Good at kiss catch.
Puberty. Difficult. Prone to nervous sweats and timidity, particularly in front of opposite sex. Toxin levels high from infusion of talcum powder and products by Brut. Expressed shock at sprouting of body hair and voice took some time to settle down to baritone from squeaky soprano. Prone to development of pimples and spots, some of the more eruptive yellow and blackhead type. Floppy hair and often incongruous sense of fashion and grooming.
Early adult. Slow progress to reach optimum height of 5'10" but expressed disappointment at not being at least 6'. Continued nervous disposition and needs to learn to accept limitations. A bit gullible. More of a follower than pioneer.
Middle Age. Likes to think still aged 19 to 25. Takes on large physical challenges and fails. Refuses to accept natural ageing process and the importance of rest and relaxation. Afflicted by stress and general worries about the environment, the economy and the fortunes of Hull City. Predisposed to owning leather trousers. Recently bought a new mountain bike but only used once around the block.
Had appendix removed after initial diagnosis of bad wind proved wrong. Nearly died from peritonitis but signed waiver of legal rights thinking it was choices for hospital lunch menu.
Likely future care. Reassurance that hair loss and baldness is not that bad. Encouragement not to check for testicular abnormalities more than absolutely necessary or in public situations, eat more cheese and cheese based products.
..............................................................................................................................................................
FOR OFFICE USE ONLY:
Recommended Use of Confidential File Details for Marketing Opportunities for third parties;
Grecian 2000.
Wigs 'r' Us
Greenwoods Mens Outfitters
Personal Grooming Products
Subscription to Mens Health Magazine or Playboy
Cheese Producers
Wednesday, 19 February 2014
Minor Insurrection
Morris Cars amongst vehicles waiting on the quayside at Hull Docks in the late 1950's awaiting export around the globe.
Tuesday, 18 February 2014
Male Models
The Humbrol Airfix factory in Hull is no more. They took away the Hawker Hunter jet that sat just inside guarding the gate some years ago. As the factory site lapsed into adandonment someone vandalised the plane by smashing the canopy over the cockpit, molested the flight-suited dummy and spray painted ' I love You John' all over the fuselage. It is a matter for much speculation who was behind the attack. At face value, and looking at the protestation of love it was either a lone and love-struck woman who had reclaimed her beau from his own infatuation with model making or a coming-out gesture for a long time but closeted admirer of John. The Hunter aircraft had been brought to Hull on a low loader lorry in three parts. I imagine that the tube of polystyrene cement used to assemble the wings to the fuselage was about as big as a road tanker. If my own model making efforts were anything to go by I would also have expected to have seen a huge elastic band around the body of the plane as extra encouragement for the parts to bond together. Wing attachment was always the critical point of making up an Airfix kit plane. The full scale version had the advantage of some bona fide heavy lifting gear. I usually had a couple of upturned beakers with which to balance the heavily glue covered pieces until that magic moment when they adhered and could be worked on further. An important decision just hovering in the background was always whether to attach the landing gear or not. Most of my aircraft were destined for suspension from a shelf or the ceiling in my bedroom and so the very fiddly parts of the landing gear could be completely ignored which was a great time, labour and anxiety saving thing. If however, I had intentions of actually playing with the completed plane as part of an elaborate battlefield diorama then the intricate web of parts had to be used. Extraction of the flimsy parts was prone to failure. Any inattention to separating the moulded parts from the sprue (yes, a real word) using a Stanley knife could be fatal for the future of the model and destine it to a life of cotton dangling rather than high value playing. The landing gear was usually in three or four parts. A main strut with axle, a smaller bracing strut, the fuselage cover and the fat wheel. The skill in assembly was to get the wheel to spin on the axle but this, for my efforts, was very rare given the excessive distribution of the adhesive which was a consequence of my nerves and self imposed pressure to do a good job. Frustration was at such a peak that many models got abandoned and trashed at this stage. There was always a place in my battlefield scenarios for a downed and crashed plane although explaining why only part built aircraft were being sent to the front would take some doing. The real life Hunter was mounted on an authentic display plinth and at a jaunty angle to suggest motion in flight. I rarely used this as a means of display with my assembled planes because I could never find or form the short slot in the base of the model in which to insert the plinth. I am pleased to say that the Hunter did find a good home after the demise of the Airfix operations and is on display at a nearby museum attraction. As for my own creations they rarely survived. The cotton supporting the hanging planes usually stretched and snapped. The dioramas were scrapped as they became too expansive for my bedroom or the dining room table. A number of aircraft got buried in the garden after simulated crash landings. The toxic emissions from a burning plastic plane were an unpleasant but very necessary part of playtime. The majority just got regularly overpainted in alternate camouflage, silver or RAF blue-grey and were thrown away as they were just plain messy. I still look forward now as an adult with the same anticipation and excitement to assembling a model plane on the occasions that they are given to me as a present at birthdays or Christmas. About half way through the process I get the same old feeling of inadequacy and doubt. At the age of 50 I can gracefully concede and confine the part built plane to the box as I have other more important things to do. I may come back to it later however.
Monday, 17 February 2014
A Big Hull Landfall (revisited)
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 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. 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.
(reproduced from way back but thought should show again as I made the effort to take the photo yesterday)
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 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. 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.
(reproduced from way back but thought should show again as I made the effort to take the photo yesterday)
Sunday, 16 February 2014
Square Dealings
At one time the great city of Hull had a number of attractive central Squares around which will have stood a grand selection of gentlemen's residences, well to do professional offices and the usual Civic buildings required to smoothly run a large Port and regional capital.
Kingston Square is the only example to have survived to the present day.
It is built up on three sides and approached from the south from Albion Street/Jarratt Street. In the middle is a sheltered garden behind wrought iron railings and well tended shrubs. Loose dressed pathways criss-cross in a lattice and a few benches have been provided for locals and visitors to bide their time in what has proven to be a bit of an oasis amongst the thriving and noisy city centre.
On weekday evenings and saturdays there is a major influx of population attending performances at the New Theatre with its white edifice testifying to a visit by Charles Dickens in person to recount his newest stories. In addition to the increase in footfalls the circulatory road becomes clogged with coaches, mini-buses and private cars either dropping off or picking up their charges. The air becomes thick and headache inducing from the heavy toxic emissions of stationary but turned over engines.
At all other times it is a quiet place although during my 18 years of working from a converted 1833 town house in the terrace along the northern axis there was regular excitement from the squealing tyres of stolen vehicles from the nearby surface car parks, regular almost comedic pursuits of shoplifters and petty thieves by both uniformed and plain clothes police officers, raucous wedding parties having their group photos taken before a reception at the Kingston Theatre Hotel , the sound of sirens and tannoys erupting from the yard of the Central Fire Station, the telltale tinkling of broken sidelights contributing to another urban crime statistic, the huddle of the press upon the arrival of a star of stage or screen on the theatre steps and a lone piper practising a Highland Dirge in the open air in his lunchbreak.
The city of Hull has certainly lost out on the duplication of such events with the disappearance of all of its other such urban Squares through the combination of wartime bombing, what was intended to be philanthropic urban clearance, plain old demolition for the sake of public health or where through dereliction and on shore winds the poor original structures gave up and collapsed of their own accord.
Survival was evidently by the narrowest of fortunate circumstances.
There used to be a large, traditional church in the north eastern corner of the square but this fell to enemy action. The adjacent Church School remained under a multi-coloured tarpaulin for, in my personal recollection, at least 40 years before it was purchased from the Council for a token sum of £1 but only if the developer accepted sole responsibility and full monetary liability for its restoration to some form of economic use. It was subsequently turned into flats along with the adjoining former schoolmasters house.
On the western side of the square my Mother in Law regularly attended dances in her youth (now 84 and counting) at the Hull Co-Operative Institute although for many decades in the post war period only the dressed stone facade remained standing until encorporated into a new block of residential apartments. The aforementioned hotel was formerly the workshop and showroom for a nationally renowned Victorian dressmaker and it is easy to visualise the comings and goings of horse drawn carriages with the affluent patrons of that establishment.
Many of the north terrace properties including my own office were at one or more times under threat of demolition but the actions of the owners of those premises still in private occupation as houses were gallant and persuaded the City Council and Civic Society to advocate protection and preservation instead of redevelopment.
The street is the only one of its period still in existence in the postcode area thanks to the efforts of a few longstanding and enthusiastic residents. I did contribute to the cause in that my office was given a civic plaque for its generally sympathetic refurbishment although in reality we just got the judging panel a little bit tipsy on good sherry and the rest is history.
It was not a little bit of sadness that I relinquished my pension stake in the building after 18 years of continuous trading to move out to a new business unit on an trading estate. I now have no real reason to drive into and around Kingston Square unless it is to have a cup of tea with former neighbours in front of a roaring fire in the Yorkie Range in their best back parlour. It is like travelling back to a different period in time.
Kingston Square is the only example to have survived to the present day.
It is built up on three sides and approached from the south from Albion Street/Jarratt Street. In the middle is a sheltered garden behind wrought iron railings and well tended shrubs. Loose dressed pathways criss-cross in a lattice and a few benches have been provided for locals and visitors to bide their time in what has proven to be a bit of an oasis amongst the thriving and noisy city centre.
On weekday evenings and saturdays there is a major influx of population attending performances at the New Theatre with its white edifice testifying to a visit by Charles Dickens in person to recount his newest stories. In addition to the increase in footfalls the circulatory road becomes clogged with coaches, mini-buses and private cars either dropping off or picking up their charges. The air becomes thick and headache inducing from the heavy toxic emissions of stationary but turned over engines.
At all other times it is a quiet place although during my 18 years of working from a converted 1833 town house in the terrace along the northern axis there was regular excitement from the squealing tyres of stolen vehicles from the nearby surface car parks, regular almost comedic pursuits of shoplifters and petty thieves by both uniformed and plain clothes police officers, raucous wedding parties having their group photos taken before a reception at the Kingston Theatre Hotel , the sound of sirens and tannoys erupting from the yard of the Central Fire Station, the telltale tinkling of broken sidelights contributing to another urban crime statistic, the huddle of the press upon the arrival of a star of stage or screen on the theatre steps and a lone piper practising a Highland Dirge in the open air in his lunchbreak.
The city of Hull has certainly lost out on the duplication of such events with the disappearance of all of its other such urban Squares through the combination of wartime bombing, what was intended to be philanthropic urban clearance, plain old demolition for the sake of public health or where through dereliction and on shore winds the poor original structures gave up and collapsed of their own accord.
Survival was evidently by the narrowest of fortunate circumstances.
There used to be a large, traditional church in the north eastern corner of the square but this fell to enemy action. The adjacent Church School remained under a multi-coloured tarpaulin for, in my personal recollection, at least 40 years before it was purchased from the Council for a token sum of £1 but only if the developer accepted sole responsibility and full monetary liability for its restoration to some form of economic use. It was subsequently turned into flats along with the adjoining former schoolmasters house.
On the western side of the square my Mother in Law regularly attended dances in her youth (now 84 and counting) at the Hull Co-Operative Institute although for many decades in the post war period only the dressed stone facade remained standing until encorporated into a new block of residential apartments. The aforementioned hotel was formerly the workshop and showroom for a nationally renowned Victorian dressmaker and it is easy to visualise the comings and goings of horse drawn carriages with the affluent patrons of that establishment.
Many of the north terrace properties including my own office were at one or more times under threat of demolition but the actions of the owners of those premises still in private occupation as houses were gallant and persuaded the City Council and Civic Society to advocate protection and preservation instead of redevelopment.
The street is the only one of its period still in existence in the postcode area thanks to the efforts of a few longstanding and enthusiastic residents. I did contribute to the cause in that my office was given a civic plaque for its generally sympathetic refurbishment although in reality we just got the judging panel a little bit tipsy on good sherry and the rest is history.
It was not a little bit of sadness that I relinquished my pension stake in the building after 18 years of continuous trading to move out to a new business unit on an trading estate. I now have no real reason to drive into and around Kingston Square unless it is to have a cup of tea with former neighbours in front of a roaring fire in the Yorkie Range in their best back parlour. It is like travelling back to a different period in time.
Saturday, 15 February 2014
Flap in the back
Wearing dungarees and long johns have never really been fashionable, well not at least since the 1930's.
Then it was a necessity borne out of the need for a durable set of working clothes in the former and an item of clothing that you could live in all day and sleep in all night in the latter. In fact keeping to such attire meant that you did not have to waste any time at all changing clothes or washing over 24-7.
The lead singer of Dexy's Midnight Runners toyed with dungarees during their short prominence in pop but I do not recall any of my contemporaries rushing out to buy a pair and follow in that particular fashion unlike trying to imitate Bowie, Gary Numan or Wham. Long Johns do have some appeal and even today the trend for onesies may be seen as a modern version but without the button up bum flap or flies.
These two items of clothing were of course very American and a bit brash for the UK market and so the only exposure to the style would be through the TV screen and imported stateside programmes.
In the 1970's the new wave of US shows were still few and far between unlike current scheduling which give the impression of this country as a satellite 51st State.
One particular favourite in our house in my formative years was The Waltons.
This is not to be confused with the sextuplets from Liverpool some years later but the fictional family from the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The TV show, a bit of an early transatlantic soap opera, started out in its home country in 1972 and ran for 9 years. It was a regular broadcast I seem to remember on BBC2 on a monday or tuesday night and one that we all made sure we watched.
It was a gentle drama centred on a country-living family in a slap-board house with a saw mill business in an idyllic location but did cover many subjects of friction in family life and particularly so for the austere period of the Depression and leading up to the second world war.
The Head of the Waltons was John snr played by the actor Ralph Waite.
He was a great wearer of the aforementioned dungarees and long johns and with a lot of style and grace at least from monday to saturday with the only break for sunday best at church.
I was sad to hear that Ralph Waite passed away just this week at the age of 85.
It was a bit of a coincidence in that Cliffhanger, the movie had been shown on TV the same day in which he starred alongside Sylvester Stallone as a mild mannered and creatively talented mountain rescue helicopter pilot. This was a departure from his usual roles and certainly from the kind and steady patriarchal figure of John Walton who held together his large family in a moral and responsible way that struck a cord with my own privileged upbringing with loving parents and nearly as many siblings.
The closing scene in every weekly programme was a chorus of "Good Night" amongst all of the children, parents and the grandparents and we ourselves often adopted the same practice under our own roof. It could go on for some time and be a little bit tiresome but ultimately comforting and reassuring.
In his own life Ralph Waite admitted to struggling with alcoholism which impacted on his own family but overcame the addiction to develop political ambitions. This included an unsuccessful attempt to become a Democrat Governor for his home area and a further campaign to take over the Congressional seat of the late Sony Bono but again with no success.
Even though The Waltons TV show ended in 1981 the was enough popularity and demand to entice the cast into a series of Specials up until 1997. In the later years of his career he appeared as a supporting character in the NCIS crime series.
I will remember him with some fondness for the sentiment of his fatherly figure in The Waltons and for all that programme inspired in me and my family at the time and for many years afterwards. As for the dungarees and Long Johns, well they will be remembered also.
Then it was a necessity borne out of the need for a durable set of working clothes in the former and an item of clothing that you could live in all day and sleep in all night in the latter. In fact keeping to such attire meant that you did not have to waste any time at all changing clothes or washing over 24-7.
The lead singer of Dexy's Midnight Runners toyed with dungarees during their short prominence in pop but I do not recall any of my contemporaries rushing out to buy a pair and follow in that particular fashion unlike trying to imitate Bowie, Gary Numan or Wham. Long Johns do have some appeal and even today the trend for onesies may be seen as a modern version but without the button up bum flap or flies.
These two items of clothing were of course very American and a bit brash for the UK market and so the only exposure to the style would be through the TV screen and imported stateside programmes.
In the 1970's the new wave of US shows were still few and far between unlike current scheduling which give the impression of this country as a satellite 51st State.
One particular favourite in our house in my formative years was The Waltons.
This is not to be confused with the sextuplets from Liverpool some years later but the fictional family from the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The TV show, a bit of an early transatlantic soap opera, started out in its home country in 1972 and ran for 9 years. It was a regular broadcast I seem to remember on BBC2 on a monday or tuesday night and one that we all made sure we watched.
It was a gentle drama centred on a country-living family in a slap-board house with a saw mill business in an idyllic location but did cover many subjects of friction in family life and particularly so for the austere period of the Depression and leading up to the second world war.
The Head of the Waltons was John snr played by the actor Ralph Waite.
He was a great wearer of the aforementioned dungarees and long johns and with a lot of style and grace at least from monday to saturday with the only break for sunday best at church.
I was sad to hear that Ralph Waite passed away just this week at the age of 85.
It was a bit of a coincidence in that Cliffhanger, the movie had been shown on TV the same day in which he starred alongside Sylvester Stallone as a mild mannered and creatively talented mountain rescue helicopter pilot. This was a departure from his usual roles and certainly from the kind and steady patriarchal figure of John Walton who held together his large family in a moral and responsible way that struck a cord with my own privileged upbringing with loving parents and nearly as many siblings.
The closing scene in every weekly programme was a chorus of "Good Night" amongst all of the children, parents and the grandparents and we ourselves often adopted the same practice under our own roof. It could go on for some time and be a little bit tiresome but ultimately comforting and reassuring.
In his own life Ralph Waite admitted to struggling with alcoholism which impacted on his own family but overcame the addiction to develop political ambitions. This included an unsuccessful attempt to become a Democrat Governor for his home area and a further campaign to take over the Congressional seat of the late Sony Bono but again with no success.
Even though The Waltons TV show ended in 1981 the was enough popularity and demand to entice the cast into a series of Specials up until 1997. In the later years of his career he appeared as a supporting character in the NCIS crime series.
I will remember him with some fondness for the sentiment of his fatherly figure in The Waltons and for all that programme inspired in me and my family at the time and for many years afterwards. As for the dungarees and Long Johns, well they will be remembered also.
Friday, 14 February 2014
Valentines Day Mass Ache
I waited in line at the Tesco Express to hand over my loose coins.
It was one of those combined mini-supermarkets and petrol filling stations.
For the sake of just putting £6.50 of diesel into my car to get me home I found myself well down the queue for the checkouts behind, well, strangely, only a male customer base.
It was most unusual.
There was no female in sight.
It was a thursday.
It was unlikely that there was a football or rugby match at the Stadium just down the road. Perhaps there had been a fire at the local pub and everyone had been evacuated. I tried to get a glimpse onto the forecourt in case a bus was waiting to take a male voice choir to a concert.
There were no obvious reasons for this hiccup in demographics.
I decided to pay more attention to those between me and the checkout.
There were no burgeoning baskets of goods as was the normal case on a work day evening.
Everyone in the queue was however holding the same few items.
Bar none these included a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates and a pink envelope.
Behind me other men were entering the shop but did not make for the display of health magazines, motoring requisites or the chiller cabinet full of beers and wine. They simply loitered around the entrance at a large shelving array of floral displays, confectionery and cards looking a bit furtive and shifty.
I could appreciate the thought process, after all, I shared the male gene. There had to be enough of a gesture to show affection but under a budget of say, £10.
This resulted in a bit of agile mental arithmetic over a combination of gifts. Some of the men picked up one of everything but then had second thoughts and re-arranged the display. Others just selected one thing and then set off around the shop in search of other imaginative items to show that they had given considerable thought to the gift buying process.
They usually returned empty handed and looking even more frustrated and desperate. I shuffled along a little bit like a convict shackled to other offenders as transactions were completed.
The slow movement of the line allowed a bit of free thought amongst my fellow men. Logically, a bottle of wine seemed a good purchase to go with the flowers, chocs and cliched sentiment of a mass produced greetings card.
Yet more defections from the straggling line which took on, increasingly, a more fluid form like an agitated crowd. In a bit of an abstract chain of thought others decided upon a selection of fresh fruit, whipped cream and ready meals of a curried and exotic nature.
It was certainly a disgraceful display of ineptitude in all things romantic from those assembled. I was no better in that I had nothing to show for my participation in that Tesco Express apart from a VAT receipt for fuel. I decided that in future I would try to avoid any small supermarket on the eve of Valentines Day.
It was one of those combined mini-supermarkets and petrol filling stations.
For the sake of just putting £6.50 of diesel into my car to get me home I found myself well down the queue for the checkouts behind, well, strangely, only a male customer base.
It was most unusual.
There was no female in sight.
It was a thursday.
It was unlikely that there was a football or rugby match at the Stadium just down the road. Perhaps there had been a fire at the local pub and everyone had been evacuated. I tried to get a glimpse onto the forecourt in case a bus was waiting to take a male voice choir to a concert.
There were no obvious reasons for this hiccup in demographics.
I decided to pay more attention to those between me and the checkout.
There were no burgeoning baskets of goods as was the normal case on a work day evening.
Everyone in the queue was however holding the same few items.
Bar none these included a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates and a pink envelope.
Behind me other men were entering the shop but did not make for the display of health magazines, motoring requisites or the chiller cabinet full of beers and wine. They simply loitered around the entrance at a large shelving array of floral displays, confectionery and cards looking a bit furtive and shifty.
I could appreciate the thought process, after all, I shared the male gene. There had to be enough of a gesture to show affection but under a budget of say, £10.
This resulted in a bit of agile mental arithmetic over a combination of gifts. Some of the men picked up one of everything but then had second thoughts and re-arranged the display. Others just selected one thing and then set off around the shop in search of other imaginative items to show that they had given considerable thought to the gift buying process.
They usually returned empty handed and looking even more frustrated and desperate. I shuffled along a little bit like a convict shackled to other offenders as transactions were completed.
The slow movement of the line allowed a bit of free thought amongst my fellow men. Logically, a bottle of wine seemed a good purchase to go with the flowers, chocs and cliched sentiment of a mass produced greetings card.
Yet more defections from the straggling line which took on, increasingly, a more fluid form like an agitated crowd. In a bit of an abstract chain of thought others decided upon a selection of fresh fruit, whipped cream and ready meals of a curried and exotic nature.
It was certainly a disgraceful display of ineptitude in all things romantic from those assembled. I was no better in that I had nothing to show for my participation in that Tesco Express apart from a VAT receipt for fuel. I decided that in future I would try to avoid any small supermarket on the eve of Valentines Day.
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Whisked Away to Fantasy Land
They were always rolled out on special occasions. We otherwise rarely saw them anywhere, even on the wells stocked shelves at the local supermarket. We knew about them from glimpsing the delicacies on a wheeled trolley in a posh tea rooms or behind the shiny glass of the chiller cabinet in a restaurant. Of course, we were looking on them from afar through the open door if we passed by on the street or sneaked a quick, envious look through the window before being chided by the waiting staff in a silent, scornful stare. Sometimes when visiting relatives in a far off town we would be treated to a dessert which was partly made out of that elusive stuff but well concealed by cream, strawberry sauce or my favourite of sticky toffee. At Christmas there would appear in the food cupboard a brightly coloured cardboard packaging on which we would be given express instructions not to touch or even go near. I was not able to resist a peek into the box in the weeks preceding the festivities. A clear and brittle plastic moulded tray housed the perfectly round, ice white nest-like confectionery. They would soon be unpacked and the central recess filled with fruit, jelly and whipped topping. Our Gran was skilled at producing her own versions. Perfectly dome shaped with a pointed crest swept up like a Teddy Boy's quiff. The texture was matt surfaced and in a certain light there would be a crystalline type sheen which glistened enticingly. They had been formed and baked on a greaseproofed covered tray so as to have a smooth and glossy base with no fissures or flaws whatsoever. We were never party to their actual creation in the kitchen in Gran's bungalow. It was a mystery to us as young children how any form of ingredients could combine to create something so special. In the few seconds when everyone was distracted by the presentation of the finished product in the dining room of the through lounge I slipped away into the kitchen in search of, well I was not really sure, but some evidence of alchemy, strange forces or even a portal into another world. All I could find in the pedal bin was a lot of broken egg shells and a tightly twisted empty bag of caster sugar. In the sink was a large Pyrex mixing bowl with a whisk and traces of a stiffened conglomeration of indeterminate form. At the sound of "oohs" and "aahhs" in the other room I suspended my inquisitiveness and dashed through so as not to miss out on the giving out of the treat. Carefully arranged on a silver platter there were, I counted, enough for one each and one over. Two halves had been adhered together by a thick application of a luscious cream filling. I grasped mine with both hands and out of sight of the others savoured the touch, smell and taste not wanting to actually eat it and lose that magical experience. I did of course eat it adopting the method of smashing the sugared halves and picking over the sweet shards. They made my teeth ache. The sticky, partly set inside was chewy and such a contrast to the crumbly and powdery shell. It was over much too quickly and I always, never got to eat the spare one on the platter. Such was my lifelong love of meringues. Imagine my delight and astonishment at finding the monster meringue shown below just today. I cannot imagine anything as pleasurable for just £2 on a thursday dinner time.
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For the purposes of scale the meringue is on the bonnet of my car........................................
Wednesday, 12 February 2014
Elmer Twitch is dead
I had never heard of Larry Parnes before today.
His name was mentioned on one of those BBC 4 Extra quiz shows as the answer to a question in the "odd one out" round.
He was one of the great personalities of early British Rock and Pop in the 1950's and 1960's as manager of a very influential group of singer performers. His promotion of rock and rollers was based on catching the imagination of the young generation through slick marketing, hype and publicity and, above all, giving a sexual edge to those in his management.
It will have been quite a shock to the parents of teenagers and young adults, following on from the US invasion of the hip swinging Elvis, to realise that there was actually a home grown market for such crudity and impression of blatant promiscuity.
Parnes's stable of rock and rollers were the new idols of an increasingly affluent and youthful Britain.
Judge for yourself the impact on popular culture of the likes of Reginald Patterson, Roy Taylor, Richard Knellar, Chris Morris, Ray Howard, John Askew, Clive Powell and Malcolm Holland.
I can sense that there is now a rather frantic search of distant memories such as an old record collection of warped vinyl discs, recollections of a crackly radio broadcast or a flickering and oscillating black and white TV show of a live performance.
Today, such names do not immediately conjur up images of the rock and pop idols, more likely old time music hall performers, variety acts or folk singers.
These were the new celebrity class of their time and there was an emerging and affluent base of fans and enthusiasts of the scene keen to follow, idolise and spend money on them.
Larry Parnes knew what was required to manipulate and engineer the market for pop music and under his managerial guidance some of the rather plain and boring sounding people became overnight successes and household names. His was an all inclusive package of image, lifestyle and career advice which was the way to become established and ride the wave of hysteria in a very competitive market which had seen more than its fair share of one hit wonders and novelty acts.
Of principal importance was the re-naming of his charges and in the same order as above please give a warm welcome to;
Marty Wilde, Vince Eager, Dickie Pride, Lance Fortune, Duffy Power, Johnny Gentle, Georgie Fame and Nelson Keene.
There was definitely a bit of a theme going in the new images for the stars with the emphasis on strong and masculine traits and associations.
As for Elmer Twitch?
Well, he didn't make it to the billboards or neon lights over the theatre and studio doors to the venues of Great Britain. The individual intended to be launched and sustained in a life of pop stardom decided to keep his own name and I suppose that most of us with any interest in the history of rock and pop will have heard of Joe Brown.....really?
His name was mentioned on one of those BBC 4 Extra quiz shows as the answer to a question in the "odd one out" round.
He was one of the great personalities of early British Rock and Pop in the 1950's and 1960's as manager of a very influential group of singer performers. His promotion of rock and rollers was based on catching the imagination of the young generation through slick marketing, hype and publicity and, above all, giving a sexual edge to those in his management.
It will have been quite a shock to the parents of teenagers and young adults, following on from the US invasion of the hip swinging Elvis, to realise that there was actually a home grown market for such crudity and impression of blatant promiscuity.
Parnes's stable of rock and rollers were the new idols of an increasingly affluent and youthful Britain.
Judge for yourself the impact on popular culture of the likes of Reginald Patterson, Roy Taylor, Richard Knellar, Chris Morris, Ray Howard, John Askew, Clive Powell and Malcolm Holland.
I can sense that there is now a rather frantic search of distant memories such as an old record collection of warped vinyl discs, recollections of a crackly radio broadcast or a flickering and oscillating black and white TV show of a live performance.
Today, such names do not immediately conjur up images of the rock and pop idols, more likely old time music hall performers, variety acts or folk singers.
These were the new celebrity class of their time and there was an emerging and affluent base of fans and enthusiasts of the scene keen to follow, idolise and spend money on them.
Larry Parnes knew what was required to manipulate and engineer the market for pop music and under his managerial guidance some of the rather plain and boring sounding people became overnight successes and household names. His was an all inclusive package of image, lifestyle and career advice which was the way to become established and ride the wave of hysteria in a very competitive market which had seen more than its fair share of one hit wonders and novelty acts.
Of principal importance was the re-naming of his charges and in the same order as above please give a warm welcome to;
Marty Wilde, Vince Eager, Dickie Pride, Lance Fortune, Duffy Power, Johnny Gentle, Georgie Fame and Nelson Keene.
There was definitely a bit of a theme going in the new images for the stars with the emphasis on strong and masculine traits and associations.
As for Elmer Twitch?
Well, he didn't make it to the billboards or neon lights over the theatre and studio doors to the venues of Great Britain. The individual intended to be launched and sustained in a life of pop stardom decided to keep his own name and I suppose that most of us with any interest in the history of rock and pop will have heard of Joe Brown.....really?
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Woggle 2
Participation in fund raising activities was always a feature of growing up in the 1970's. Sponsored events were in their halcyon days with a sheet of paper emerging on a weekly basis on which to gather actual signatures or, by practice, some very good forgeries of the signatures of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and benevolent neighbours whom you dare not approach yet again with demands for monies. The most popular events were walking based. This could be a few laps around the school field during school hours, always a popular distraction from the usual learning timetable, or a mega walk of between 10 and 14 miles on a weekend. The latter was a major logistical event for not only the organisers, usually a well known charity, but also those taking part as over such distances there was a significant risk of dehydration, hunger or injury. If sponsorship was expressed in the usual manner of, say 1p or 2p per mile then this was readily subscribed to by family and friends. There was a later development whereby monetary promises were made on the basis of actually finishing the event. The amount, usually 10p looked good on the sponsorship form and did not involve complex mathematics to add up, but the total raised was often lower than anticipated. The period leading up to the event was exciting, similarly the actual participation on the day although often accompanied by blisters if a walk. The downside was that the money promised had to be physically collected, accounted for and handed over to someone in an official capacity. Interest ,post event did subside considerably and if constantly reminded, chased and hounded for the raised funds it was necessary for parents to be pleaded with to dip into their own pockets and clear the balance. Swimathons, bike rides, cake bakes, coconut ice competitions, tombolas and the good old jumble sales all served to bring in some cash although usually a larger target total required one or more combined events from the approved choices. As well as charitable concerns I was a seasoned fund raiser for my Scout Troop through the 'Bob a Job Week'. By the 1970's and following decimalisation the concept of the bob as a tangible monetary value was clouded in myth and vague memory. However, in the minds of those members of the public approached for a task by willing Cub Scouts the bob was the only payment for consideration even after what could be a half day garden or house clearance task or something equally as unpleasant, grubby and exploitative. The fund raising week brought out the most enterprising and competitive streaks in us Cubs. There was significant kudos in being the highest earner and every resource and effort was put into thinking of and putting into action schemes and projects to attain this status. I teamed up with a couple of friends from the Troop in a determined approach to the week. I had raided my Fathers garage and shed to equip our team with best chamois leather cloths, chrome cleaner and washing up liquid. We went door to door seeking out cars to wash, shampoo, dry and polish. Most owners avoided the issue by blatantly hiding behind curtains or just ignoring us altogether. We found that the sight of gleaming chrome met with the approval of customers who allowed us to do the business with their beloved vehicles. The best results were achieved by roughly abrading the chrome bumpers, trims, grilles,radiators and badges with wire wool before applying a thick coat of polish and buffing it up to a dazzling reflective state. On close inspection, if not seduced by the showroom or concourse standard of the metalwork, we had scratched and damaged the chrome possibly beyond repair. We were either very brave or very foolish in some of our ranging about seeking remuneration. One house, well beyond the familiar area of our town, was approached with some trepidation but such was the compulsion to be best earners. It was amongst an overgrown garden, the paintwork was peeling, render blown and falling away, the leaded windows smashed in places but nevertheless showing signs of occupancy. We jostled and joked amongst ourselves as we edged along the driveway, making ghostly noises, whispering werewolf howls and pretending to be zombies or offspring of Frankenstein. The most courageous of the group was pushed to the forefront to ring the bell. We waited. Somewhere within the dark and gloomy house we could hear doors opening, feet dragging and the thump thump of what could only be some form of walking stick or aid. There was a noticeable fallback from the doorstep as the door swung slowly open. The occupant did actually resemble a comic book wolf man, unruly hair, long side burns, yellowy-black teeth and, visible between shirt buttons and neck a veritable ruff of body hair. We screamed in girly unison and did not look back until we felt safe again on the public highway. This was not the wisest action on our part as we were in full cub scout uniform and therefore easily identifiable should there have been any recriminations for our disgraceful behaviour. I often think of this poor householder, perhaps himself a former scout and more than willing to help out in a good cause. We were still successful that year, a grand total of £10.50 raised between the three of us but yet at what cost? My fathers best washing equipment was ruined, similarly many cars which would today be regarded as classic marques had it not been for the shocking deterioration of every piece of chrome trim and fittings on a once pristeen example of bodywork.
(reworked from some time ago)
(reworked from some time ago)
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