In the alternative Gold Medal table for the London 2012 Olympic Games (if there were such a thing), the county of Yorkshire will have flown high through the elite performances of its sporting heroes on their bikes, in their boxing gloves and running shoes and indeed in all fields, tracks, pools and arenas.
This rich heritage of achievement by God's Own County will have contributed to the decision of the organisers of the 2014 Tour de France to up-baguettes and bring the entire entourage of that great cycle event to Yorkshire with the opening two stages.
The eyes of a worldwide viewing audience of 3 billion people will be on the sights and sounds of the great regional cities and towns and the beautifully expansive hills, moors, plains and dales will test the 200 riders to their limits.
Yorkshire is on a roll (buttie) and the ripples of anticipation and that hard to quantify feel good factor are spreading out like the proverbial earthquake zone from a fracking site.
The people of the largest County in England are on the up, goodness me, they might even get close to the rate of ascendancy of, yes, the Welsh who seem to have permeated every sphere of activity.
Others will benefit from this infusion of success and this is no more prominent than through the football leagues.
It has been an exceptional 2013-2014 season for club sides. In a mere 50km radius centred somewhere in the River Humber a full five of our football teams covering the Premier League to the Skrill North have in general terms, over-achieved.
This is not altogether unusual on an individual performance basis but for all five to be as though synchronised in effort and attainment is truly remarkable.
I have spent many idle moments trying to explain this current and strange alignment of fortunes.
The Olympic and Tour de France influences are contributors certainly. It may just be our time in the cyclical nature of things. The stars and planets in the firmament may be uniquely aligned. Personally, I have come to the conclusion that it is, as they say in a broad regional dialect "summat in the watter".
My concentric circle of magnificence straddles the great Humber and three of the five football clubs are on the waterfront. The other two, technically are on tributaries that feed into the great Estuary before it eventually drains one fifth of the UK into the North Sea.
I may be a bit premature in my celebrations of excellence in that the football season is still going culminating in the FA Cup Final on May 17th and in the run up to the traditional closing event our regional teams still have a bit to do.
Scunthorpe United, who have yo-yo'd up and down the lower leagues in the last decade have already secured automatic promotion to League One (the old third division) and may in fact end up as the highest achievers out of all of the crop.
Three teams are in their respective league play-offs with great rewards on offer.
North Ferriby United in the Skrill North have had a fantastic season, their first at that level after promotion from the Evo-Stik league just last year. After a traditionally dire start they have been vying for top spot for much of the last 8 months with AFC Telford and the positions were decided in the very last match with Ferriby dropping two points. It was a close run thing. The part timers from the village play tonight in the first away leg of the play offs.
One league up is Grimsby Town in the Conference. They lost their footing in the main Football League a couple of seasons ago. Just look up and down the teams in that table and there are some very familiar former big names including those once in the old First Division. Grimsby Town were in the top flight for some ten seasons back in the 1980's or thereabouts and I do admit to sneaking across the Humber Bridge more than once to see top flight matches at Blundell Park which amounts to treasonable behaviour for someone residing on the North Bank.
York City, somehow exuding refinement and poshness but not, are also in the position of play off contenders in League Two. This is a remarkable performance given that they are relatively new returnees to the main leagues after wallowing about in non-league football.
Again, the outcomes of the play-offs are yet to be decided but I have high hopes for the progress of North Ferriby, Grimsby Town and York City to the next stage.
The fifth regional team is Hull City.
As I write they need one more point from their last three games to survive for another season in the Premier League amongst the big boys. Aston Villa are odds on to roll over and donate the points this weekend as failing that they may be more difficult to coax out of Manchester United and Everton.
Two of the three relegation places are already allocated by my mathematical reckonings with City and five other teams considered to be at risk of taking that £30 million financial black hole.
Out of the regional sub-league (if indeed there were such a thing) Hull City are currently in fact the under-achievers although their participation in the FA Cup Final does represent a wild-card element. If Arsenal maintain their fourth position in the Premier League then Hull City, by default as cup finalists and regardless of the outcome take a European place bringing the prospect of overseas visitors to the KC Stadium for the first time since the Anglo-Italian Cup of the 1970's.
Exciting times and again, I put it all down to the waters which flow through the region like a mucky, muddy infusion of success.
Wednesday 30 April 2014
Tuesday 29 April 2014
How to.......stop a building falling down
I am not sure where the book came from in the first place but for the last 30 years it has followed me in my employment as a Surveyor often being the first item to be packed up when moving office, room, desk or on the rare occasion when I have a bit of a tidy up so that the stack of files and papers do not fall on and trap anyone getting too close.
I have had cause to refer to the wonderful architectural cross sections when I have come across a bit of baffling detail on an actual building. They are of a certain era showing true craftsmanship, quality materials and depicting repairs which would last and not just be a stop-gap measure.
The diagram shown here is for a recommended scheme by which to stop a building from falling down. The practice of shoring is rarely seen today for a number of reasons such as lack of physical space to erect the supporting frame, unsuitability of modern unseasoned timber, cost of timber and lack of knowledge and expertise of the form.
It may be a simple decision in economic terms to just let the building collapse. The structure could be irrevocably weakened by a fire or from ill thought out removal of load bearing elements through a poorly designed conversion or just heavy handed alterations.
In my home city I am aware of only one property with this type of support. I take students to have a look and many, even a few years into a Building Surveying Degree or otherwise with experience in the built environment express amazement at the scale and substance of a classic shoring system. The property in question is end of a terrace over three floors, a private house but with fantastic structural distortion to the side elevation as a consequence of the subsidence of clay soils. The side garden is at the foot of a railway embankment, therefore of made up ground and exposed to regular waterlogging from the natural drainage.
The shore is in the classic form with railway sleeper dimension supports angled from a huge sole plate and with an arrangement of hoop irons, folding wedges, vertical props, gusset nailed boardings and iron dogs.
The "crooked house" as it is locally known will never be occupied by an owner but does have a value and economic viabilty having been subdivided into small bedsit type flats.
I have never seen anyone coming or going on the almost daily passing of the property on my way to and from work but like to think that its residents are ex-seafarers, those with one leg shorter than the other or with inner ear problems. These three groups would feel well at home in an out of true environment and indeed may not actually sense that anything is at all unusual or slightly off horizontal.
Monday 28 April 2014
Top Gear for Dummies
Believe it or not but at the age of 50 I have just bought my first ever car.
Of course, I have had the use of motor cars since passing my test some three decades ago but these have been shared with siblings in the case of the little red 1966 Mini and thereafter and exclusively provided by the company or companies that I have worked for.
This continuity of access to vehicles is, I admit, quite remarkable and even more so where I have not been required to lay out any of my own money towards the purchase.
There have been some employers whose service I was in who did give a choice of car but only if you were willing to contribute over and above the bog standard issue of a typical Sales Rep set of wheels invariably a Ford, Vauxhall or Austin Rover. Other employers have just passed down through the hierarchy any surplus vehicles and as a starter in a couple of firms I found myself driving around in a rather plush but untrendy Mini Metro which had belonged to one of the Partner's wives and then a battered Fiesta Diesel whose former user had negligently wired in his own stereo and then rapidly removed it so that on my first day the exposed electrical connections caught fire and I had to bail out on the roadside until the acrid smoke had cleared.
Promotion through the ranks in one company was recognised by an upgrade to a sporty version of a mass produced Ford model which was great fun and I do not know how, to this day, I survived physically and in terms of keeping a clean licence given the extreme speeds and driving tactics that such horse power permitted on a daily basis. I was a typical company car driver, a bit like white van man but with four doors.
A change of job and location saw a bit of a come down in wheels and I pottered about for a couple of years in a clapped out Sierra Sapphire until the engine block fractured and then a Rover 214 which was a brand new model but still a bit naff and not really compatible with my mid to late 20's age range.
I ventured into self employment in the early 1990's so I was in charge of car purchases but technically the means of acquisition came through the business. The accountant gave advice on best policy in taxation and allowances which usually translated into "buy an estate car" and so my long association with four doors and a tailgate began and continues to the present day.
I did secretly yearn for that day when the accountant would ring up and say "you have earned so much that you need to pop down to the Porsche Dealership and buy something" but it never transpired.
I just maintained my reputation as Mr Sensible and stuck with, in succession, four Volvo Estates over the period 1994 to 2008 covering around 400,000 of largely trouble free miles and more recently two VW Passat Estates. In between I must have had my menopause as there was a brief flirtation with a bright racing blue Skoda Octavia VRS in which I let rip a bit although generally the accelaration and road holding did scare more than thrill, on occasion.
The business did make some bad decisions on company cars which I attribute to the motoring fickleness of the joint owner whose heart was swayed by the next new model to be lauded in the media. I tolerated the whims and fancies of the man as we worked well as a team but heck, the depreciation for makes of Mercedes (3), Alfa Romeo, Volvo XC70 and BMW X5 was astonishing notwithstanding the daily fuel costs which were extortionate.
In more recent years the company has acquired cars on a lease basis as this involves minimum up front payment and a reasonable monthly hire with the fun part being that it can just be handed back without the hassle of trying to dispose of it privately.
The foregoing represents my motoring history.
It is hardly anything of pedigree or note and if confided to Jeremy Clarkson he would certainly frown and roll his eyes a bit and put me down as a bit of a plodder rather than a petrol-head.
I am not ashamed of this labelling because although I like cars as do most males I am not obsessed with supercars or prestigious marques nor the superficial impression made by the car that you drive.
To me cars have always been a business tool and I have been more interested in reliability and fuel economy than their ability to drift, doughnut or scorch the tarmac at the traffic lights.
I have, saying that, had some head turning vehicles but mainly attributable to their very scruffy and dirty appearance or noisy mechanics from inadequate maintenance.
So, I have got thus far without buying a car for my own private use.
I have found the process a bit nerve racking to tell the truth what with the new experiences around arranging finance, sorting out V05 documents, insurance and MOT's but I am determined to adopt a new discipline, for once, of actually looking after the thing although that is another new skill set that I will have to learn. Apparently there is an engine thing under the flappy hinged panel at the front end that may need some consumables every now and then..........
Of course, I have had the use of motor cars since passing my test some three decades ago but these have been shared with siblings in the case of the little red 1966 Mini and thereafter and exclusively provided by the company or companies that I have worked for.
This continuity of access to vehicles is, I admit, quite remarkable and even more so where I have not been required to lay out any of my own money towards the purchase.
There have been some employers whose service I was in who did give a choice of car but only if you were willing to contribute over and above the bog standard issue of a typical Sales Rep set of wheels invariably a Ford, Vauxhall or Austin Rover. Other employers have just passed down through the hierarchy any surplus vehicles and as a starter in a couple of firms I found myself driving around in a rather plush but untrendy Mini Metro which had belonged to one of the Partner's wives and then a battered Fiesta Diesel whose former user had negligently wired in his own stereo and then rapidly removed it so that on my first day the exposed electrical connections caught fire and I had to bail out on the roadside until the acrid smoke had cleared.
Promotion through the ranks in one company was recognised by an upgrade to a sporty version of a mass produced Ford model which was great fun and I do not know how, to this day, I survived physically and in terms of keeping a clean licence given the extreme speeds and driving tactics that such horse power permitted on a daily basis. I was a typical company car driver, a bit like white van man but with four doors.
A change of job and location saw a bit of a come down in wheels and I pottered about for a couple of years in a clapped out Sierra Sapphire until the engine block fractured and then a Rover 214 which was a brand new model but still a bit naff and not really compatible with my mid to late 20's age range.
I ventured into self employment in the early 1990's so I was in charge of car purchases but technically the means of acquisition came through the business. The accountant gave advice on best policy in taxation and allowances which usually translated into "buy an estate car" and so my long association with four doors and a tailgate began and continues to the present day.
I did secretly yearn for that day when the accountant would ring up and say "you have earned so much that you need to pop down to the Porsche Dealership and buy something" but it never transpired.
I just maintained my reputation as Mr Sensible and stuck with, in succession, four Volvo Estates over the period 1994 to 2008 covering around 400,000 of largely trouble free miles and more recently two VW Passat Estates. In between I must have had my menopause as there was a brief flirtation with a bright racing blue Skoda Octavia VRS in which I let rip a bit although generally the accelaration and road holding did scare more than thrill, on occasion.
The business did make some bad decisions on company cars which I attribute to the motoring fickleness of the joint owner whose heart was swayed by the next new model to be lauded in the media. I tolerated the whims and fancies of the man as we worked well as a team but heck, the depreciation for makes of Mercedes (3), Alfa Romeo, Volvo XC70 and BMW X5 was astonishing notwithstanding the daily fuel costs which were extortionate.
In more recent years the company has acquired cars on a lease basis as this involves minimum up front payment and a reasonable monthly hire with the fun part being that it can just be handed back without the hassle of trying to dispose of it privately.
The foregoing represents my motoring history.
It is hardly anything of pedigree or note and if confided to Jeremy Clarkson he would certainly frown and roll his eyes a bit and put me down as a bit of a plodder rather than a petrol-head.
I am not ashamed of this labelling because although I like cars as do most males I am not obsessed with supercars or prestigious marques nor the superficial impression made by the car that you drive.
To me cars have always been a business tool and I have been more interested in reliability and fuel economy than their ability to drift, doughnut or scorch the tarmac at the traffic lights.
I have, saying that, had some head turning vehicles but mainly attributable to their very scruffy and dirty appearance or noisy mechanics from inadequate maintenance.
So, I have got thus far without buying a car for my own private use.
I have found the process a bit nerve racking to tell the truth what with the new experiences around arranging finance, sorting out V05 documents, insurance and MOT's but I am determined to adopt a new discipline, for once, of actually looking after the thing although that is another new skill set that I will have to learn. Apparently there is an engine thing under the flappy hinged panel at the front end that may need some consumables every now and then..........
Sunday 27 April 2014
Premier Point
It has been a difficult week.
I must clarify that statement for fear of seeming a bit insensitive to the tragedies and disasters that have befallen other parts of the world.
It has been a difficult week for fans of Hull City. There, I confirm that I am narrow minded, typically insular and ignorant to the pains, tribulations and soul searching that is going on elsewhere but in my own universe there is nothing quite as important as the battle of my football team to survive for another season .
It has been a week since I compiled my Spreadsheet of Doom, the usual analysis and guessing of the final few games for Hull City and the ten other teams hovering above the relegation places of the English Premier League.
In the short course of just one week and only one more game per team there has been a bit of movement in the dynamics of my Spreadsheet.
An unexpected couple of good results has lifted two of the previously "at risk" teams clear of the drop zone and they can relax for what is left of the season. The nervousness of the remainder has been heightened by matches between teams in the bottom 9 places, the elusive six pointers as they are called.
Yesterday, my team Hull City played away at fellow strugglers Fulham ,quietly confident of getting a result against a team that they thumped 6-0 in the corresponding home fixture. In the three seasons of top flight football Hull City have won five against Fulham perhaps the best record involving any Premier League Team. The home team have had a good string of results to lift their position slightly and do have a good squad of players, many overseas Internationals and solid domestics.
The First Half of the game was high tempo and end to end but with no score. I was a bit concerned as my team have the worst record of performance in the second half in the whole of the League and sure enough they were 2-0 down within three minutes and before the hour was up. Fulham were relentless in their pressure, speed of attack and fluidity of passing and Hull City were finding it hard to live with that.
The Craven Cottage ground is a bit old school on the banks of the Thames and with the spacious steel and corrugated sheet shed-like structures that typified most traditional venues up until the late 20th Century when the trend of scrapping and rebuilding or relocating completely became the norm. The crowd are about a metre from the touchline, close enough for players to catch the odour of a Tikka Pukka Pie or a Werthers Original or the spittle from an over enthusiastic fan venting euphoria or indignation.
The Hull City players are used to the spacious modern stadium experience and to some who have not come up through the lower leagues the proximity of humanity could be a bit off-putting.
Fulham's fans conveyed to their team that they had probably done enough for all three points and the festival atmosphere was contagious. The commentating team from BBC Radio Humberside were optimistic as ever and retained confidence in what has been a fantastically close knit team ethic under Steve Bruce's managership but with every passing minute there was a scaling down of their expectations. With the likely outcome being a defeat the regular presenter and the ex-Tiger summariser lost a bit of concentration. The Fulham substitute who had thumped home the first goal, an Iranian International, had his name mispronounced with the phonetic equivalent of "The Shagger" causing much initial mirth and then cautious back-tracking most likely after a bit of comment through the headphones from the BBC Producer.. Up to that point that event was the highlight of the game for me.
A loopy deflection, freakish in trajectory came off the cross bar and one of City's newest strikers was quickest to react and the roof of the net bulged. 2-1. In the following minutes Hull showed determination and Fulham began to wilt. The woodwork of the home team goal was battered and rattled. The other of the newest strikers who had been busy but in vain all day finally got his reward and City, previously down and out had salvaged a point. 2-2.
This result and those of the drop zone contenders have been fed into my Spreadsheet of Doom.
I cannot come to any firm conclusions yet and later today there is a pivotally important match between Sunderland and Cardiff City who occupy the bottom two automatic relegation places.
However, the standings are critically poised and in my analytical guesstimation my team just need the one more point to be safe. Definitely, maybe.
I must clarify that statement for fear of seeming a bit insensitive to the tragedies and disasters that have befallen other parts of the world.
It has been a difficult week for fans of Hull City. There, I confirm that I am narrow minded, typically insular and ignorant to the pains, tribulations and soul searching that is going on elsewhere but in my own universe there is nothing quite as important as the battle of my football team to survive for another season .
It has been a week since I compiled my Spreadsheet of Doom, the usual analysis and guessing of the final few games for Hull City and the ten other teams hovering above the relegation places of the English Premier League.
In the short course of just one week and only one more game per team there has been a bit of movement in the dynamics of my Spreadsheet.
An unexpected couple of good results has lifted two of the previously "at risk" teams clear of the drop zone and they can relax for what is left of the season. The nervousness of the remainder has been heightened by matches between teams in the bottom 9 places, the elusive six pointers as they are called.
Yesterday, my team Hull City played away at fellow strugglers Fulham ,quietly confident of getting a result against a team that they thumped 6-0 in the corresponding home fixture. In the three seasons of top flight football Hull City have won five against Fulham perhaps the best record involving any Premier League Team. The home team have had a good string of results to lift their position slightly and do have a good squad of players, many overseas Internationals and solid domestics.
The First Half of the game was high tempo and end to end but with no score. I was a bit concerned as my team have the worst record of performance in the second half in the whole of the League and sure enough they were 2-0 down within three minutes and before the hour was up. Fulham were relentless in their pressure, speed of attack and fluidity of passing and Hull City were finding it hard to live with that.
The Craven Cottage ground is a bit old school on the banks of the Thames and with the spacious steel and corrugated sheet shed-like structures that typified most traditional venues up until the late 20th Century when the trend of scrapping and rebuilding or relocating completely became the norm. The crowd are about a metre from the touchline, close enough for players to catch the odour of a Tikka Pukka Pie or a Werthers Original or the spittle from an over enthusiastic fan venting euphoria or indignation.
The Hull City players are used to the spacious modern stadium experience and to some who have not come up through the lower leagues the proximity of humanity could be a bit off-putting.
Fulham's fans conveyed to their team that they had probably done enough for all three points and the festival atmosphere was contagious. The commentating team from BBC Radio Humberside were optimistic as ever and retained confidence in what has been a fantastically close knit team ethic under Steve Bruce's managership but with every passing minute there was a scaling down of their expectations. With the likely outcome being a defeat the regular presenter and the ex-Tiger summariser lost a bit of concentration. The Fulham substitute who had thumped home the first goal, an Iranian International, had his name mispronounced with the phonetic equivalent of "The Shagger" causing much initial mirth and then cautious back-tracking most likely after a bit of comment through the headphones from the BBC Producer.. Up to that point that event was the highlight of the game for me.
A loopy deflection, freakish in trajectory came off the cross bar and one of City's newest strikers was quickest to react and the roof of the net bulged. 2-1. In the following minutes Hull showed determination and Fulham began to wilt. The woodwork of the home team goal was battered and rattled. The other of the newest strikers who had been busy but in vain all day finally got his reward and City, previously down and out had salvaged a point. 2-2.
This result and those of the drop zone contenders have been fed into my Spreadsheet of Doom.
I cannot come to any firm conclusions yet and later today there is a pivotally important match between Sunderland and Cardiff City who occupy the bottom two automatic relegation places.
However, the standings are critically poised and in my analytical guesstimation my team just need the one more point to be safe. Definitely, maybe.
Saturday 26 April 2014
Grumpy Communists and Tortillas
(written in response to the ban in some UK schools on football stickers as being disruptive and a distraction)
The build up to a Football World Cup Tournament is, at the best of times, pretty drawn out. This can start some two years before the actual summer competition and I would be the first to admit that a qualifying game between a group of enthusiastic part timers from somewhere like Andorra and Balakischakakhanistan and broadcast in terms of its sparse highlights late on a winters night can simply pass by without notice, unless of course the score is 42-0 or 9-9.
The real business only starts in my opinion with the release of the Official Collectable Sticker Album just a few months before kick-off.
My local Tesco Store has been piling high and giving away for free the album for the 2014 World Cup and I have so far resisted bringing home more than just the one.
My first foray into the wonderful world of footy cards and stickers was at the young age of 7.
I had seen for sale in the window of the town newsagent the album for the 1970 Mexico World Cup but was reluctant to ask my parents for extra pocket money as the cover price at 1s'6d in old money was well beyond my own sparse savings.
I started the usual ploy of lingering near to the display of albums and packets of stickers looking casual but trying hard to hide obvious excitement and anticipation of a prospective purchase. My harassed mother with, at that stage, three young children in tow, would be keen to get home from the trip to the shops and so for the good of the group any individual needs, however frivolous, had to be sidelined. I would have to be extra good in terms of behaviour, helpfulness and cheerful in nature in order to earn any concessions.
After a couple of weeks of exemplary manners and attending to my chores, doing my homework and being generally pleasant rather than moping and surly I was rewarded with a bright gloss covered album along with two packets of collectable cards at 6d each.
Of course, 1970 was also the year for the British public to become educated in and get used to the impending introduction of decimalisation.
The album cover and sticker packets were priced up not just in shillings and pennies but also the equivalent in 'new money'. The sticker price when expressed as 2.5 new pence seemed very cheap to my young mind. The inside rear cover of the album was also printed with a large table showing the conversion into decimalisation. Great progress was expected, in the opinions of TV pundits and on those boring programmes that my Father always watched on a monday night, with this massive transition into a less inward looking Britain.
The 1970 World Cup Album was to be my first real introduction to the rest of the world, or at least those nations that were good at football.
I was only 3 years old when England won the previous tournament and lets face it, the country has dined out on that tremendous achievement ever since. Some of that illustrious squad were still very much alive and kicking by the time I developed my interest and awareness in proper football.
The Mexico based competition of 1970 was to be held through the month of June although the first match between the host nation and the Soviet Union was on the 31st May.
By the time of the start I was already well on the way to filling up the album pages, one per national team but more than that I became engrossed in amassing every bit of information about the participating countries. This included geographical location, physical features, population and customs and even a bit of political background.
My parents were astounded by my sudden interest given that in my fledgling academic career up to the age of 7 I was not the most attentive or conscientious in anything at all educational.
I became a source of mind boggling facts and figures which could spurt forth at any time, however appropriate or not. Family meal times provided a captive audience for me to avail everyone of my latest discoveries. In church, on the way to school, in the car, walking to the shops; no place was a refuge for my passing on of new found knowledge.
The family would be forewarned of this when my sentences would start with "Did you know that........?" or "If you were in ..............", "The capital city of ..........", or "The main export of ...........".
The range of nations participating was to my mind like the whole wide world taking part.
In fact there were only 16. There were the dour and rather jowly looking faces of the Communist Bloc staring out from the respective pages for the Soviet Union, Romania, Czechoslovakia and Bulgaria. They had a reputation for being a bit rough and robotical which I put down to their doctrinal backgrounds and having to queue for everything.
The South American nations were exotic in being a mixture of very black players and quite tanned euro-types. I found out that this was down to quite a varied history of native races and Hispanic invaders, be it from Mexico through to El Salvador, Uruguay, Brazil and Peru.
I could not really understand how Israel had got to play as I had not associated them with football at all. Perhaps, I mused it was one of those situations where they were allowed to play as recompense for their political isolation.
The European nations I had seen some of in the long run in of qualifying games. I admired the efficiency of the West Germans and felt that after the 1966 defeat they deserved another go. The Belgians had qualified in their own right but I did not rate them at all. The Italians were my favourites apart from England because of their flair, flamboyance and flowing free play. The Swedes were there, as far as I could make out to represent the far north regions. The Moroccans had been the winners of the African zone but would find it difficult playing on grass rather than sand.
For the three weeks of games I was an avid follower.
I cannot actually recall watching any matches on the family black and white television as they were probably after my bedtime but even so a lot of images are firmly lodged in my mind. These must have come, mainly, from broadcasts in successive years of the classic goals and of course that magnificent Brazil squad including Pele, Jairzinho, Carlos Alberto , Rivelino, Tostao and many more in that iconic green and yellow strip.
The Gordon Banks save in the England defeat to Brazil has been played ever since as the greatest by a goalkeeper. The England defeat to West Germany and exit in the quarter finals was hugely disappointing especially after Mullery and Peters had quickly established a 2-0 lead before eventually losing 2-3 with the extra time winner from Gerd Muller.
The Final was, even looking back in my 50th year, perhaps the best ever as a display of skill and teamwork by the enigmatic Brazilians.
The 22nd June, the day after the final match, was a sad day for me after the intensity and sheer immersion into the spirit of the World Cup.
I had emerged however with a broader idea of what the planet was all about and the experience was certainly the catalyst and springboard to me getting used to the idea of an education.
The build up to a Football World Cup Tournament is, at the best of times, pretty drawn out. This can start some two years before the actual summer competition and I would be the first to admit that a qualifying game between a group of enthusiastic part timers from somewhere like Andorra and Balakischakakhanistan and broadcast in terms of its sparse highlights late on a winters night can simply pass by without notice, unless of course the score is 42-0 or 9-9.
The real business only starts in my opinion with the release of the Official Collectable Sticker Album just a few months before kick-off.
My local Tesco Store has been piling high and giving away for free the album for the 2014 World Cup and I have so far resisted bringing home more than just the one.
My first foray into the wonderful world of footy cards and stickers was at the young age of 7.
I had seen for sale in the window of the town newsagent the album for the 1970 Mexico World Cup but was reluctant to ask my parents for extra pocket money as the cover price at 1s'6d in old money was well beyond my own sparse savings.
I started the usual ploy of lingering near to the display of albums and packets of stickers looking casual but trying hard to hide obvious excitement and anticipation of a prospective purchase. My harassed mother with, at that stage, three young children in tow, would be keen to get home from the trip to the shops and so for the good of the group any individual needs, however frivolous, had to be sidelined. I would have to be extra good in terms of behaviour, helpfulness and cheerful in nature in order to earn any concessions.
After a couple of weeks of exemplary manners and attending to my chores, doing my homework and being generally pleasant rather than moping and surly I was rewarded with a bright gloss covered album along with two packets of collectable cards at 6d each.
Of course, 1970 was also the year for the British public to become educated in and get used to the impending introduction of decimalisation.
The album cover and sticker packets were priced up not just in shillings and pennies but also the equivalent in 'new money'. The sticker price when expressed as 2.5 new pence seemed very cheap to my young mind. The inside rear cover of the album was also printed with a large table showing the conversion into decimalisation. Great progress was expected, in the opinions of TV pundits and on those boring programmes that my Father always watched on a monday night, with this massive transition into a less inward looking Britain.
The 1970 World Cup Album was to be my first real introduction to the rest of the world, or at least those nations that were good at football.
I was only 3 years old when England won the previous tournament and lets face it, the country has dined out on that tremendous achievement ever since. Some of that illustrious squad were still very much alive and kicking by the time I developed my interest and awareness in proper football.
The Mexico based competition of 1970 was to be held through the month of June although the first match between the host nation and the Soviet Union was on the 31st May.
By the time of the start I was already well on the way to filling up the album pages, one per national team but more than that I became engrossed in amassing every bit of information about the participating countries. This included geographical location, physical features, population and customs and even a bit of political background.
My parents were astounded by my sudden interest given that in my fledgling academic career up to the age of 7 I was not the most attentive or conscientious in anything at all educational.
I became a source of mind boggling facts and figures which could spurt forth at any time, however appropriate or not. Family meal times provided a captive audience for me to avail everyone of my latest discoveries. In church, on the way to school, in the car, walking to the shops; no place was a refuge for my passing on of new found knowledge.
The family would be forewarned of this when my sentences would start with "Did you know that........?" or "If you were in ..............", "The capital city of ..........", or "The main export of ...........".
The range of nations participating was to my mind like the whole wide world taking part.
In fact there were only 16. There were the dour and rather jowly looking faces of the Communist Bloc staring out from the respective pages for the Soviet Union, Romania, Czechoslovakia and Bulgaria. They had a reputation for being a bit rough and robotical which I put down to their doctrinal backgrounds and having to queue for everything.
The South American nations were exotic in being a mixture of very black players and quite tanned euro-types. I found out that this was down to quite a varied history of native races and Hispanic invaders, be it from Mexico through to El Salvador, Uruguay, Brazil and Peru.
I could not really understand how Israel had got to play as I had not associated them with football at all. Perhaps, I mused it was one of those situations where they were allowed to play as recompense for their political isolation.
The European nations I had seen some of in the long run in of qualifying games. I admired the efficiency of the West Germans and felt that after the 1966 defeat they deserved another go. The Belgians had qualified in their own right but I did not rate them at all. The Italians were my favourites apart from England because of their flair, flamboyance and flowing free play. The Swedes were there, as far as I could make out to represent the far north regions. The Moroccans had been the winners of the African zone but would find it difficult playing on grass rather than sand.
For the three weeks of games I was an avid follower.
I cannot actually recall watching any matches on the family black and white television as they were probably after my bedtime but even so a lot of images are firmly lodged in my mind. These must have come, mainly, from broadcasts in successive years of the classic goals and of course that magnificent Brazil squad including Pele, Jairzinho, Carlos Alberto , Rivelino, Tostao and many more in that iconic green and yellow strip.
The Gordon Banks save in the England defeat to Brazil has been played ever since as the greatest by a goalkeeper. The England defeat to West Germany and exit in the quarter finals was hugely disappointing especially after Mullery and Peters had quickly established a 2-0 lead before eventually losing 2-3 with the extra time winner from Gerd Muller.
The Final was, even looking back in my 50th year, perhaps the best ever as a display of skill and teamwork by the enigmatic Brazilians.
The 22nd June, the day after the final match, was a sad day for me after the intensity and sheer immersion into the spirit of the World Cup.
I had emerged however with a broader idea of what the planet was all about and the experience was certainly the catalyst and springboard to me getting used to the idea of an education.
Friday 25 April 2014
Q
The art of queueing is the speciality of the British.
It is something to do with us being a conservative people. We are naturally reserved and cautious and not therefore prone to becoming too excitable or emotional in contrast to our European cousins and those farther afield.
I find this surprising as a trait in that you would fully expect those living in a cold to temperate climate to want to do something wild on a regular basis to get the blood and body temperature warmed up a bit.
I have been part of a queue today.
It was a typically long straggling line of persons in groups or on their own arranged around the outer perimeter of Hull City's still striking but now and amazingly 12 year old stadium.
The reason?
Well, the release of tickets for the prestigious FA Cup Final at Wembley on 17th May 2014.
Out of a total of in excess of 90,000 seats only a mere 25,000 have been made available for the team supporters and followers. This is a bit disappointing in that more than this number trailed down a mere two weeks ago for the semi final.
Demand and desperation is expected to be high and I hear that some bright spark has already advertised a ticket of face value £55 for more than ten times through the internet market place. Personally the sellers should be tracked down and named and shamed for what is blatant profiteering and gross anti-social behaviour. The pride of a belegured city in reaching such a great occasion should not be subject to what is euphemistically referred to as market forces, the law of supply and demand or in plain speak, touting or exploitation.
I have a 25% chance of getting to the final.
Phil, my honorary brother in law has really gone out to get me there but there is a possibility that he may not.
This is down to the reason for our presence together in the queue on a misty, damp and perishingly cold April morning.
Phil has two passes for the South Stand giving entitlement in the hierarchy of ticket sales to just two. Over a number of successive days this week the other holders have similarly stood in well ordered line. The permutations for ticket allocation have been complex making most of the mumbo jumbo of say, Easy Jet flight regulations , seemingly remedial.
On a basic calculation of say 15,000 pass holders and up to 10,000 corporate seat holders there will be no surplus for general sale at all on the allotted day of May 6th. If you make allowances for say, hospitalisation, births, deaths, marriages, work commitments, kidnap and forced fleeing of an average proportion of the population then a small handful of tickets may work their way back into the system.
The opposing team, Arsenal have been somewhat insulted by their matching allocation in that their average home gate at The Emirates is close to its capacity of 60,000 whereas the KC in Hull is just pushing 25,000 if away fans bother to turn up.
In the typically good spirit of the Football Association the balance of tickets, up to 40,000, are distributed to grass roots organisations for what remains the conclusion of the greatest football challenge competition in the world. I am still however a bit sceptical that there will be a full attendance on the day in that most people find Arsenal a bit boring and the rest are not really sure what Hull is.
I felt a bit sneaky making my way up the outside of the queue but with a coffee in hand I must have looked like a long serving participant who had just nipped out to try to warm up a bit. I telephoned to find out how far up the line Phil was and he gave me a succinct reference of "just past a green wheelie bin" and "looking onto parking space 182". I was with receipt of this information just walking on bay 187 and Phil popped out from the huddle.
He welcomed the beverage after having already spent two hours in the cold and I helped in pouring in the UHT milk, two twists of demerara and then retrieving a black biro out of my macintosh I gave a bit of a stir. This caused a mixture of horror and amusement amongst the queueing neighbours and that set the tone for the good natured atmosphere for the following hour and a half.
Those emerging from the distant ticket office having acheived their aim insisted on flaunting the oversized perforated items as they made their way back to the car park.
The progress of the line was agonisingly slow and ponderous. There was however no anxiety or niggling behaviour and no looking out for others stealing a few places. The only thing missing was perhaps a small musical ensemble, North Atlantic starlight and a bloody big and menacing iceberg.
The family immediately in front comprised four generations and their Hull City stories covered most of the glory,glory days of lets face it one of the greatest under-acheiving teams in FA history given the population of the city itself,.
I joked a bit about how much I liked queueing and was this the queue for the Primark seconds sale, for Coldplay tickets or Alton Towers.
Then it started to rain.
Phil and myself were by then just at the entrance to the ticket office and the warmth of the air blowers above the doors reached our frozen faces as though we had just emerged into the sunshine from a period of solitary confinement.
The actual grubby part of the whole process in handing over the cash was a bit of an anti-climax.
Phil pocketed the tickets and we parted in good spirits.
Job done. Well, in reality half the job.
We actually need a total of four tickets for our proposed expeditionary force to Wembley. Like the same number relating to musketeers I insist that it is all for one and one for all and so I have tried to call in a few favours.
I even asked in the local chippy if they knew of anyone with spares. The hunt goes on...........
It is something to do with us being a conservative people. We are naturally reserved and cautious and not therefore prone to becoming too excitable or emotional in contrast to our European cousins and those farther afield.
I find this surprising as a trait in that you would fully expect those living in a cold to temperate climate to want to do something wild on a regular basis to get the blood and body temperature warmed up a bit.
I have been part of a queue today.
It was a typically long straggling line of persons in groups or on their own arranged around the outer perimeter of Hull City's still striking but now and amazingly 12 year old stadium.
The reason?
Well, the release of tickets for the prestigious FA Cup Final at Wembley on 17th May 2014.
Out of a total of in excess of 90,000 seats only a mere 25,000 have been made available for the team supporters and followers. This is a bit disappointing in that more than this number trailed down a mere two weeks ago for the semi final.
Demand and desperation is expected to be high and I hear that some bright spark has already advertised a ticket of face value £55 for more than ten times through the internet market place. Personally the sellers should be tracked down and named and shamed for what is blatant profiteering and gross anti-social behaviour. The pride of a belegured city in reaching such a great occasion should not be subject to what is euphemistically referred to as market forces, the law of supply and demand or in plain speak, touting or exploitation.
I have a 25% chance of getting to the final.
Phil, my honorary brother in law has really gone out to get me there but there is a possibility that he may not.
This is down to the reason for our presence together in the queue on a misty, damp and perishingly cold April morning.
Phil has two passes for the South Stand giving entitlement in the hierarchy of ticket sales to just two. Over a number of successive days this week the other holders have similarly stood in well ordered line. The permutations for ticket allocation have been complex making most of the mumbo jumbo of say, Easy Jet flight regulations , seemingly remedial.
On a basic calculation of say 15,000 pass holders and up to 10,000 corporate seat holders there will be no surplus for general sale at all on the allotted day of May 6th. If you make allowances for say, hospitalisation, births, deaths, marriages, work commitments, kidnap and forced fleeing of an average proportion of the population then a small handful of tickets may work their way back into the system.
The opposing team, Arsenal have been somewhat insulted by their matching allocation in that their average home gate at The Emirates is close to its capacity of 60,000 whereas the KC in Hull is just pushing 25,000 if away fans bother to turn up.
In the typically good spirit of the Football Association the balance of tickets, up to 40,000, are distributed to grass roots organisations for what remains the conclusion of the greatest football challenge competition in the world. I am still however a bit sceptical that there will be a full attendance on the day in that most people find Arsenal a bit boring and the rest are not really sure what Hull is.
I felt a bit sneaky making my way up the outside of the queue but with a coffee in hand I must have looked like a long serving participant who had just nipped out to try to warm up a bit. I telephoned to find out how far up the line Phil was and he gave me a succinct reference of "just past a green wheelie bin" and "looking onto parking space 182". I was with receipt of this information just walking on bay 187 and Phil popped out from the huddle.
He welcomed the beverage after having already spent two hours in the cold and I helped in pouring in the UHT milk, two twists of demerara and then retrieving a black biro out of my macintosh I gave a bit of a stir. This caused a mixture of horror and amusement amongst the queueing neighbours and that set the tone for the good natured atmosphere for the following hour and a half.
Those emerging from the distant ticket office having acheived their aim insisted on flaunting the oversized perforated items as they made their way back to the car park.
The progress of the line was agonisingly slow and ponderous. There was however no anxiety or niggling behaviour and no looking out for others stealing a few places. The only thing missing was perhaps a small musical ensemble, North Atlantic starlight and a bloody big and menacing iceberg.
The family immediately in front comprised four generations and their Hull City stories covered most of the glory,glory days of lets face it one of the greatest under-acheiving teams in FA history given the population of the city itself,.
I joked a bit about how much I liked queueing and was this the queue for the Primark seconds sale, for Coldplay tickets or Alton Towers.
Then it started to rain.
Phil and myself were by then just at the entrance to the ticket office and the warmth of the air blowers above the doors reached our frozen faces as though we had just emerged into the sunshine from a period of solitary confinement.
The actual grubby part of the whole process in handing over the cash was a bit of an anti-climax.
Phil pocketed the tickets and we parted in good spirits.
Job done. Well, in reality half the job.
We actually need a total of four tickets for our proposed expeditionary force to Wembley. Like the same number relating to musketeers I insist that it is all for one and one for all and so I have tried to call in a few favours.
I even asked in the local chippy if they knew of anyone with spares. The hunt goes on...........
Thursday 24 April 2014
Unwelcome Social Trend In the Bagging Area
Choosing the perfect accessory to go shopping in town is a critical issue nowadays. I have been all ready to set off but have been thwarted by indecision and angst about the finishing touch to my attire.
I am talking about the selection process over what plastic carrier bag to take along.
I have a good collection of the things, always have but then that stems from the days of dog owning when a few bags squirrelled away in coat pockets were invaluable.Habits honed over 18 years of poop scooping do not get dropped overnight. On one very wet expedition with my two daughters, when they were very, we all ended up dogs included huddled in a steamed up telephone box awaiting the arrival of my wife in the car. In the mad dash through the storm to the place of refuge the girls had made good use of an extra waterproof layer in sporting fetching tabards made from Sainsbury plastic bags retrieved from the darkest depths of my Helly Hansen cagoule.
The big weekly shop was the opportunity to replenish the bag supply and the children were well trained in packing as few items as possible in each bag to maximise numbers. We were awash with the things briefly but they were soon used up and off we would soon be off again to restock under the guise of structured shopping.
We were regular customers at the local Sainsbury Supermarket but only because it was convenient and after a while we knew our way around the aisles which ultimately saved a lot of time in filling up the trolley.
It appears that there is quite an element of snobbery in the UK over where you shop and research in recent years has shown that more than half of Britons felt that their choice of supermarket was a reflection of their place on the social ladder. Just over 10% of those partaking in the same survey expressed a belief that you could appear more affluent by frequenting certain stores and to back this up the average UK citizen actually spends an extra £260 a year just to be seen amongst their aspirational peers.
Top of the tree in prestige is of course Waitrose with the distinctive green carrier bag displaying to casual observers that you are potentially a career professional, discerning shopper and one who places high priority on price as an indicator of quality.
Second in the league table of supermarket snobbery comes Sainsbury's in the orange bag corner followed by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. The store whose mantra is "every little helps" is regarded as being of very broad appeal attracting families with large discounted quantities of everyday household goods, OAP's with frequent rotation of useful bargains and the price conscious which, under inflationary conditions in the economy, includes just about everyone else.
Tesco pride themselves on a store in every postcode district and it is understood that every one pound in eight spent in the UK is through their tills.
Asda are the champions of hard working families originating from the former coalfields and heavy industry areas of the country and have also recently moved into developing smaller local stores to match the Tesco saturation tactics.
Morrisons in their yellow bags attract more close knit community types and since their integration with Safeway there is a widening of appeal to those defined as rural isolationists.
After the big five come the pretenders who have struggled to get recognition and acceptance mainly because of their European style and product ranges in spite of Brits not hesitating to go to a Lidl or Aldi whilst on their summer hols abroad to get those chocolate sandwich biscuits, Ritter Sports and strangely named crisps and savouries. Netto, the Danish supermarket, is regarded as being at the bottom of the pecking order and has suffered from many stereotypical misrepresentations.
It is an undeniable fact that in our choice of regular supermarket we may argue the case for frugality, economy, ecological ethics and convenience when we really base it on the desire to mix and match with "nice people just like us". So next time you reach for a plastic carrier bag on your way out to the shops just give a thought as to how you want to be perceived by the public at large.
I am talking about the selection process over what plastic carrier bag to take along.
I have a good collection of the things, always have but then that stems from the days of dog owning when a few bags squirrelled away in coat pockets were invaluable.Habits honed over 18 years of poop scooping do not get dropped overnight. On one very wet expedition with my two daughters, when they were very, we all ended up dogs included huddled in a steamed up telephone box awaiting the arrival of my wife in the car. In the mad dash through the storm to the place of refuge the girls had made good use of an extra waterproof layer in sporting fetching tabards made from Sainsbury plastic bags retrieved from the darkest depths of my Helly Hansen cagoule.
The big weekly shop was the opportunity to replenish the bag supply and the children were well trained in packing as few items as possible in each bag to maximise numbers. We were awash with the things briefly but they were soon used up and off we would soon be off again to restock under the guise of structured shopping.
We were regular customers at the local Sainsbury Supermarket but only because it was convenient and after a while we knew our way around the aisles which ultimately saved a lot of time in filling up the trolley.
It appears that there is quite an element of snobbery in the UK over where you shop and research in recent years has shown that more than half of Britons felt that their choice of supermarket was a reflection of their place on the social ladder. Just over 10% of those partaking in the same survey expressed a belief that you could appear more affluent by frequenting certain stores and to back this up the average UK citizen actually spends an extra £260 a year just to be seen amongst their aspirational peers.
Top of the tree in prestige is of course Waitrose with the distinctive green carrier bag displaying to casual observers that you are potentially a career professional, discerning shopper and one who places high priority on price as an indicator of quality.
Second in the league table of supermarket snobbery comes Sainsbury's in the orange bag corner followed by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. The store whose mantra is "every little helps" is regarded as being of very broad appeal attracting families with large discounted quantities of everyday household goods, OAP's with frequent rotation of useful bargains and the price conscious which, under inflationary conditions in the economy, includes just about everyone else.
Tesco pride themselves on a store in every postcode district and it is understood that every one pound in eight spent in the UK is through their tills.
Asda are the champions of hard working families originating from the former coalfields and heavy industry areas of the country and have also recently moved into developing smaller local stores to match the Tesco saturation tactics.
Morrisons in their yellow bags attract more close knit community types and since their integration with Safeway there is a widening of appeal to those defined as rural isolationists.
After the big five come the pretenders who have struggled to get recognition and acceptance mainly because of their European style and product ranges in spite of Brits not hesitating to go to a Lidl or Aldi whilst on their summer hols abroad to get those chocolate sandwich biscuits, Ritter Sports and strangely named crisps and savouries. Netto, the Danish supermarket, is regarded as being at the bottom of the pecking order and has suffered from many stereotypical misrepresentations.
It is an undeniable fact that in our choice of regular supermarket we may argue the case for frugality, economy, ecological ethics and convenience when we really base it on the desire to mix and match with "nice people just like us". So next time you reach for a plastic carrier bag on your way out to the shops just give a thought as to how you want to be perceived by the public at large.
Wednesday 23 April 2014
William Hague the Spoiler
In many respects I was a typical kid of the 1960's.
I wore shorts a lot, had a selection of 'T' shirts with pictures of modes of transport and inane slogans, sensible button up cardigans, a duffle coat and a selection of footwear from smart buckle up shoes to my absolute favourites- baseball boots or bovver boots as they were better known.
The clothes for which my parents worked hard to provide me with were soon spoiled from active outdoor play, crawling about in mud and foliage and rather messy eating habits at the table or on the move.
I remember this period in my life very well but with one lurking and disturbing aspect.
Most of the photographs of me in the family archive show a rosy cheeked face, unfashionable hairstyle all characteristically me but just below my chin the pictures always show me wearing a dickie bow tie.
One of the very earliest pictorial records is from about age 3 or 4 with me in a fetching short and bib all in one, starched white shirt and yes, a small dark blue bow tie on elastic. I do not know the origins of this rather formal attire for one of pre-school age but I suspect that it was just the in-thing of the time in which parents dressed their offspring to please grandparents and other relatives on occasional visits.
The style did persist and I have also seen the page in the album of when we attended the wedding of my Father's cousin in the early 1970's.. Sure enough I have, in addition to the shorts, white socks and nylon shirt that ever present dickie.
When not being worn that essential piece of a young lads wardrobe would be carefully placed in the top drawer of the small cabinet beside my bed amongst best socks and my prized possessions of used munitions, fossils, oddments of nuts, bolts and screws, collectable cigarette cards, seashells (unwashed and therefore a bit pungent) and dead insects laid out as though in state in a series of cotton wool lined matchboxes. It would emerge for church concerts when part of the uniform of the choir, band concerts as part of the uniform of the town brass band and embarassingly for such events as school disco's.
It did not seem strange at the time but looking back I was definitely the only one so dressed. I was not bullied remorselessly or even ridiculed which is, again, unusual given the propensity and sheer delight amongst children to target, pick on and make life unbearable for anyone who dares to be different in a peer group situation. This laissez faire attitude may have been because I was thought of as being a bit odd anyway although I like think that I just carried off the art of dickie bow tie wearing to a exceptional level. Not!.
I did eventually grow out of the elasticated fastening versions and progressed to the authentic tie-up type in my teenage and later years. This had a few outings again at brass band competitions and as I now recall with excruciating embarassment on a date at age 11 when staying at Butlins Skegness with the family of a school friend. The dickie bow was at that time working in a rather nice combo with a purple flecked sports jacket in which I had been confirmed by the Bishop of Lincoln. In the queue of excitable kids along the wall of the Butlins theatre waiting to be let in to see Charlie Caroli the Clown in his summer season by the sea I did attract a few amazed and shocked looks. It may have been the bow tie or the fact that my date was an older woman of at least thirteen. T
The art of bow tie wearing in public was of course irrevocably harmed by its adoption by the opinionated then young conservative William Hague for which he still has a lot to answer. This negativity was of course off set to some degree by the association of the bow tie with James Bond and other smooth operators in the movies and on television. There is a sense of occasion and mystery from sporting that piece of attire- just ask anyone in formal wear even though they might be reluctant to admit to it.
My most recent wearing of a dickie bow?
Well, I did enter into the Festive Spirit and wore a bright red and spotted example, although with broken fastener, to that last half day of work before the Christmas Holidays. It was an impulse decision but soon to be regretted when I caught a glimpse of myself in the glazed door to my office building. There is something cutesy and oldie worlde about a small red cheeked boy in a dickie bow but to be frank, my rather podgy and chinny profile made me look like a bit of a twat.
I wore shorts a lot, had a selection of 'T' shirts with pictures of modes of transport and inane slogans, sensible button up cardigans, a duffle coat and a selection of footwear from smart buckle up shoes to my absolute favourites- baseball boots or bovver boots as they were better known.
The clothes for which my parents worked hard to provide me with were soon spoiled from active outdoor play, crawling about in mud and foliage and rather messy eating habits at the table or on the move.
I remember this period in my life very well but with one lurking and disturbing aspect.
Most of the photographs of me in the family archive show a rosy cheeked face, unfashionable hairstyle all characteristically me but just below my chin the pictures always show me wearing a dickie bow tie.
One of the very earliest pictorial records is from about age 3 or 4 with me in a fetching short and bib all in one, starched white shirt and yes, a small dark blue bow tie on elastic. I do not know the origins of this rather formal attire for one of pre-school age but I suspect that it was just the in-thing of the time in which parents dressed their offspring to please grandparents and other relatives on occasional visits.
The style did persist and I have also seen the page in the album of when we attended the wedding of my Father's cousin in the early 1970's.. Sure enough I have, in addition to the shorts, white socks and nylon shirt that ever present dickie.
When not being worn that essential piece of a young lads wardrobe would be carefully placed in the top drawer of the small cabinet beside my bed amongst best socks and my prized possessions of used munitions, fossils, oddments of nuts, bolts and screws, collectable cigarette cards, seashells (unwashed and therefore a bit pungent) and dead insects laid out as though in state in a series of cotton wool lined matchboxes. It would emerge for church concerts when part of the uniform of the choir, band concerts as part of the uniform of the town brass band and embarassingly for such events as school disco's.
It did not seem strange at the time but looking back I was definitely the only one so dressed. I was not bullied remorselessly or even ridiculed which is, again, unusual given the propensity and sheer delight amongst children to target, pick on and make life unbearable for anyone who dares to be different in a peer group situation. This laissez faire attitude may have been because I was thought of as being a bit odd anyway although I like think that I just carried off the art of dickie bow tie wearing to a exceptional level. Not!.
I did eventually grow out of the elasticated fastening versions and progressed to the authentic tie-up type in my teenage and later years. This had a few outings again at brass band competitions and as I now recall with excruciating embarassment on a date at age 11 when staying at Butlins Skegness with the family of a school friend. The dickie bow was at that time working in a rather nice combo with a purple flecked sports jacket in which I had been confirmed by the Bishop of Lincoln. In the queue of excitable kids along the wall of the Butlins theatre waiting to be let in to see Charlie Caroli the Clown in his summer season by the sea I did attract a few amazed and shocked looks. It may have been the bow tie or the fact that my date was an older woman of at least thirteen. T
The art of bow tie wearing in public was of course irrevocably harmed by its adoption by the opinionated then young conservative William Hague for which he still has a lot to answer. This negativity was of course off set to some degree by the association of the bow tie with James Bond and other smooth operators in the movies and on television. There is a sense of occasion and mystery from sporting that piece of attire- just ask anyone in formal wear even though they might be reluctant to admit to it.
My most recent wearing of a dickie bow?
Well, I did enter into the Festive Spirit and wore a bright red and spotted example, although with broken fastener, to that last half day of work before the Christmas Holidays. It was an impulse decision but soon to be regretted when I caught a glimpse of myself in the glazed door to my office building. There is something cutesy and oldie worlde about a small red cheeked boy in a dickie bow but to be frank, my rather podgy and chinny profile made me look like a bit of a twat.
Tuesday 22 April 2014
Don't fence me in
Just a simple exercise that anyone can participate in.
Stand with a vantage point over either the front garden or back garden of the place that you call home.
You may have done it many, many times and taken comfort in the neat demarcation of fence, wall, hedge or other boundary markers. There is a definition and certainty in the enclosure of land and that which you can claim and call your own. It is a matter of feeling in possession whether you are an owner occupier, a tenant or just a casual custodian.
In the UK successive generations have been brought up under the culture of outright ownership, From the earliest documented records such as the Domesday Book completed in 1086 the title and respective rights attached to land ownership have formed the basis for wealth and power. In a small country such as hours a relatively small number of individuals control a disproportionate amount of it hence the motivation of the smallest denomination of a single householder to guard, protect and perpetuate that parcel of ground that represents our own compact kingdom and tiny, mainly rectangular domain.
What do we know or perceive about out own particular land holding?
I have moved house quite a few times over the years and when summoned into the lawyers offices to sign a contract to purchase there is usually a brief disclosure of the Deed Plan, outlining in thick red the extent of the purchase. Not every time but on a few such occasions I have been asked if the plan accurately represents what I think is being sold to me. Even the most diligent prospective purchaser on multiple viewings and wanderings would place a lower priority on the physical boundaries around the place than say, the condition of the kitchen and sanitary arrangements or even the age and serviceability of the domestic installations.
However, in my professional experience any subsequent irregularities, factual discrepances and encroachments in boundaries and their markers can cause significant ruptures and schisms in the lives of those drawn into dispute, squabbles and personality clashes which are inevitable consequences of a falling out.
Some situations are obvious. Take when a property becomes vacant. This may be down to owners moving on and leaving the house until a buyer is found, where a death occurs or in between the modern phenomena of a tenancy. To a mischievous neighbour the absence of a watchful adjoining owner affords an ideal opportunity to put up a new fence, grub up that hedge or demolish a wall and what if, in the process, a piece of land becomes annexed deliberately. This happens more frequently than you might expect. The new owners or occupiers will certainly notice a brand spanking new boundary marker but in that honeymoon period in the early months and indeed years there is a natural reluctance to point out what seems to be a change and encroachment.
I have seen cases of boundary dispute where adjoining owners have co-existed for a quarter of a century.
Upon reaching that milestone of making the final payment in the long term commitment of a mortgage a bundle of papers is usually sent by the lender amongst which is to be found the Title Plan. This may provide the first opportunity for many to appreciate what they have owned in physical form and taken for granted. Imagine the emotions dredged up by comparing the paper document and the lie of the land and finding that something is missing and has been enjoyed by someone else for all of those years.
In most of our lives paying off our mortgage usually coincides with, or at least it used to, more leisure time from early retirement or in the winding down process to leave the rat race. Statistically most boundary disputes are entered into by a person of mature age with the time and inclination to devote to what is an intensive and almost full time occupation in itself. I attended a seminar by a Surveyor whose specific sphere of expertise was in such disputes. He recounted that main protagonists fitted a certain profile not just in age and demographic but funnily enough with a high percentage driving a beige Austin Allegro and with a grown up daughter living in Canada.
Ever since disclosure of that information I have been keen to establish the motoring preferences and wider family tree of those approaching me to provide a professional input to what is invariably already a long running conflict and war of attrition.
I have, in describing a few of my own cases, intentionally avoided naming names and locations. This is partly out of my own ethical approach but mainly to protect those foolish enough to get into a boundary dispute in the first place.
Many are spawned from a clash of personalities, ideals, social background and manners. Such motivations cannot be quantified with a tape measure or discussed rationally and calmly in terms of common sense and practicalities. Take the two neighbours each occupying nice bungalows in half acre manicured grounds. You would expect to live out the rest of your years in quiet solitude in half an acre, independent and self sufficient from human contact but yet the two adjoining owners were fighting tooth and nail over the position of a line of concrete fence posts.
Some unscrupulous and bullying neighbours have taken liberties over frail and timid adjoining owners in the form of an aggressive land grab. These are the worst kind of dispute because of the atmosphere of intimidation and fear. I have had to spend more time in the guise of a therapist and social worker in such situations than in my survey work.
Modern housing estates are a rich seam of boundary disputes with in particular a lot of aggravation potential for a shared service road of the type that serves a number of houses from the end of a cul de sac. The house at the far end usually has ownership with those properties with frontages being granted a right of way. There is unfortunately only a sense of citizenship and reasonable behaviour between co-operative use and a decline into anarchy.
On one large residential development the builder had failed completely to provide any proper referencing of individual plots at the Land Registry but a larger failing was in the erecting of boundaries in a haphazard way so that successive owners could not identify what was and was not their territory.
I have spent many an hour studying legal documents trying to find some correlation to physical features on the ground in order to establish the true position of a boundary and return a war zone to a place of civility and peaceful co-existence as it may once have been remembered.
The best advice to those thinking about becoming embroiled and immersed in such issues. Just Don't.
Stand with a vantage point over either the front garden or back garden of the place that you call home.
You may have done it many, many times and taken comfort in the neat demarcation of fence, wall, hedge or other boundary markers. There is a definition and certainty in the enclosure of land and that which you can claim and call your own. It is a matter of feeling in possession whether you are an owner occupier, a tenant or just a casual custodian.
In the UK successive generations have been brought up under the culture of outright ownership, From the earliest documented records such as the Domesday Book completed in 1086 the title and respective rights attached to land ownership have formed the basis for wealth and power. In a small country such as hours a relatively small number of individuals control a disproportionate amount of it hence the motivation of the smallest denomination of a single householder to guard, protect and perpetuate that parcel of ground that represents our own compact kingdom and tiny, mainly rectangular domain.
What do we know or perceive about out own particular land holding?
I have moved house quite a few times over the years and when summoned into the lawyers offices to sign a contract to purchase there is usually a brief disclosure of the Deed Plan, outlining in thick red the extent of the purchase. Not every time but on a few such occasions I have been asked if the plan accurately represents what I think is being sold to me. Even the most diligent prospective purchaser on multiple viewings and wanderings would place a lower priority on the physical boundaries around the place than say, the condition of the kitchen and sanitary arrangements or even the age and serviceability of the domestic installations.
However, in my professional experience any subsequent irregularities, factual discrepances and encroachments in boundaries and their markers can cause significant ruptures and schisms in the lives of those drawn into dispute, squabbles and personality clashes which are inevitable consequences of a falling out.
Some situations are obvious. Take when a property becomes vacant. This may be down to owners moving on and leaving the house until a buyer is found, where a death occurs or in between the modern phenomena of a tenancy. To a mischievous neighbour the absence of a watchful adjoining owner affords an ideal opportunity to put up a new fence, grub up that hedge or demolish a wall and what if, in the process, a piece of land becomes annexed deliberately. This happens more frequently than you might expect. The new owners or occupiers will certainly notice a brand spanking new boundary marker but in that honeymoon period in the early months and indeed years there is a natural reluctance to point out what seems to be a change and encroachment.
I have seen cases of boundary dispute where adjoining owners have co-existed for a quarter of a century.
Upon reaching that milestone of making the final payment in the long term commitment of a mortgage a bundle of papers is usually sent by the lender amongst which is to be found the Title Plan. This may provide the first opportunity for many to appreciate what they have owned in physical form and taken for granted. Imagine the emotions dredged up by comparing the paper document and the lie of the land and finding that something is missing and has been enjoyed by someone else for all of those years.
In most of our lives paying off our mortgage usually coincides with, or at least it used to, more leisure time from early retirement or in the winding down process to leave the rat race. Statistically most boundary disputes are entered into by a person of mature age with the time and inclination to devote to what is an intensive and almost full time occupation in itself. I attended a seminar by a Surveyor whose specific sphere of expertise was in such disputes. He recounted that main protagonists fitted a certain profile not just in age and demographic but funnily enough with a high percentage driving a beige Austin Allegro and with a grown up daughter living in Canada.
Ever since disclosure of that information I have been keen to establish the motoring preferences and wider family tree of those approaching me to provide a professional input to what is invariably already a long running conflict and war of attrition.
I have, in describing a few of my own cases, intentionally avoided naming names and locations. This is partly out of my own ethical approach but mainly to protect those foolish enough to get into a boundary dispute in the first place.
Many are spawned from a clash of personalities, ideals, social background and manners. Such motivations cannot be quantified with a tape measure or discussed rationally and calmly in terms of common sense and practicalities. Take the two neighbours each occupying nice bungalows in half acre manicured grounds. You would expect to live out the rest of your years in quiet solitude in half an acre, independent and self sufficient from human contact but yet the two adjoining owners were fighting tooth and nail over the position of a line of concrete fence posts.
Some unscrupulous and bullying neighbours have taken liberties over frail and timid adjoining owners in the form of an aggressive land grab. These are the worst kind of dispute because of the atmosphere of intimidation and fear. I have had to spend more time in the guise of a therapist and social worker in such situations than in my survey work.
Modern housing estates are a rich seam of boundary disputes with in particular a lot of aggravation potential for a shared service road of the type that serves a number of houses from the end of a cul de sac. The house at the far end usually has ownership with those properties with frontages being granted a right of way. There is unfortunately only a sense of citizenship and reasonable behaviour between co-operative use and a decline into anarchy.
On one large residential development the builder had failed completely to provide any proper referencing of individual plots at the Land Registry but a larger failing was in the erecting of boundaries in a haphazard way so that successive owners could not identify what was and was not their territory.
I have spent many an hour studying legal documents trying to find some correlation to physical features on the ground in order to establish the true position of a boundary and return a war zone to a place of civility and peaceful co-existence as it may once have been remembered.
The best advice to those thinking about becoming embroiled and immersed in such issues. Just Don't.
Monday 21 April 2014
Hounds and Home
The small wire haired Jack Russell was sat on the porch floor with what I think was a Spaniel and one other dog which I could not identify.
He was obviously the king of the house and was used to bossing the others to do what he wanted.
On this particular day, Easter Monday Bank Holiday, he was sunning himself enjoying the enhanced warmth of an otherwise breezy early afternoon as the elevation of the porch was sheltered from the prevailing wind. The other two hounds sat on either side like guardians or acolytes sensitive to any movement of their leader which might spark a bark, a quick dash about the garden or a snap at the erratic intrusion of a butterfly or bee.
In terms of ambition the three together were pretty content with their lot. The house was well down a cinder track away from any busy main roads, being a modern replacement for an old and tumbled down cottage that had previously stood on the site for a couple of centuries. The only regular sounds were from distant trains heading to and from the coastal resorts and the nearest regional town, tractors in and between fields and a flypast by the bright yellow Sea King Air Sea Rescue helicopter which was stationed nearby on what remained as a former airfield.
The track went nowhere farther than the house, petering out into a rutted grass track beyond and then in faint outline only through the thick and matted grass of a land drainage ditch. The occupants of the house were rarely in during daylight hours and on this particular day had taken an opportunity to just go out and do something.
The dogs were trusted to hang about the house and gardens unrestrained because there was nowhere else to go, no temptations to draw them away and no hazardous influences because of the tranquil rural location.
They were well provided for with replenished water bowls, gelatinous chews and a rather macabre accumulation of pigs ears and trotters that had gradually worked their way from the porch out into the house grounds after brief flirtations of interest and then abandonment.
In their own minds they had been left as protectors of the family possessions and would fulfill their duty as best as they could even though challenged in terms of size and ground speed.
It had been a quiet spell for the three dogs in the moments before their ears pricked up at the first sound of the distinctive scrunch of wide mountain bike tyres on loose gravel. I had been working my way along the course of a land drain on two wheels sticking to a signposted bridleway some 200 metres north of the last metalled road. It had been hard going after the smooth surfaces of proper carriageways and a low gear had been a compromise and forward progress was laborious. The cool breeze was very welcome but I soon hoped to make a turn to the west and get the full benefit of a tail wind for much of the rest of my planned cycle.
I saw the farmhouse and welcome cinder track which had to be passed by quite close and noticed the neatly laid out private gardens and the agricultural buildings nestled behind.
All was still and calm.
Then something emerged from a shallow porch structure and appeared to rocket across the well tended grass on a well calculated tangent to meet my route square on to the house.
Whatever it was I could not at first discern.
Three heads, 12 legs and the strangest shape made up of different entities was hurtling at breakneck speed at less than 10 inches above the ground. In an instant the apparition distorted as its two outer parts branched off, slowed and stopped leaving a wiry chubby nucleus on that collision course with me.
I could now make out an angry and aggressive terrier and prepared to take evasive action. Kicking down on the pedals I managed to inject a couple more miles per hour into my forward motion and that was enough to propel me just beyond the bared teeth of that ferocious animal. It was only just beyond as I am convinced that I could feel hot dog breath on my bare shin and a wave of air from a swiftly closing jaw.
It was not a time to dwell on the narrowest of escapes and I put my head down and spun my legs as fast as I could whilst clunking through the available gears.
From the point of view of the dog it had been a commendable effort. The unwritten brief to defend the homestead had been adhered to and the malfeasant was now tearing away in a cloud of fine dust particles. The top dog, now out of sight, no doubt returned to a hero's reception from his sidekicks. His would be an afternoon of lazy luxury, the tale of bravery endlessly retold amongst a scattering of tasty dried but succulent animal appendages.
He was obviously the king of the house and was used to bossing the others to do what he wanted.
On this particular day, Easter Monday Bank Holiday, he was sunning himself enjoying the enhanced warmth of an otherwise breezy early afternoon as the elevation of the porch was sheltered from the prevailing wind. The other two hounds sat on either side like guardians or acolytes sensitive to any movement of their leader which might spark a bark, a quick dash about the garden or a snap at the erratic intrusion of a butterfly or bee.
In terms of ambition the three together were pretty content with their lot. The house was well down a cinder track away from any busy main roads, being a modern replacement for an old and tumbled down cottage that had previously stood on the site for a couple of centuries. The only regular sounds were from distant trains heading to and from the coastal resorts and the nearest regional town, tractors in and between fields and a flypast by the bright yellow Sea King Air Sea Rescue helicopter which was stationed nearby on what remained as a former airfield.
The track went nowhere farther than the house, petering out into a rutted grass track beyond and then in faint outline only through the thick and matted grass of a land drainage ditch. The occupants of the house were rarely in during daylight hours and on this particular day had taken an opportunity to just go out and do something.
The dogs were trusted to hang about the house and gardens unrestrained because there was nowhere else to go, no temptations to draw them away and no hazardous influences because of the tranquil rural location.
They were well provided for with replenished water bowls, gelatinous chews and a rather macabre accumulation of pigs ears and trotters that had gradually worked their way from the porch out into the house grounds after brief flirtations of interest and then abandonment.
In their own minds they had been left as protectors of the family possessions and would fulfill their duty as best as they could even though challenged in terms of size and ground speed.
It had been a quiet spell for the three dogs in the moments before their ears pricked up at the first sound of the distinctive scrunch of wide mountain bike tyres on loose gravel. I had been working my way along the course of a land drain on two wheels sticking to a signposted bridleway some 200 metres north of the last metalled road. It had been hard going after the smooth surfaces of proper carriageways and a low gear had been a compromise and forward progress was laborious. The cool breeze was very welcome but I soon hoped to make a turn to the west and get the full benefit of a tail wind for much of the rest of my planned cycle.
I saw the farmhouse and welcome cinder track which had to be passed by quite close and noticed the neatly laid out private gardens and the agricultural buildings nestled behind.
All was still and calm.
Then something emerged from a shallow porch structure and appeared to rocket across the well tended grass on a well calculated tangent to meet my route square on to the house.
Whatever it was I could not at first discern.
Three heads, 12 legs and the strangest shape made up of different entities was hurtling at breakneck speed at less than 10 inches above the ground. In an instant the apparition distorted as its two outer parts branched off, slowed and stopped leaving a wiry chubby nucleus on that collision course with me.
I could now make out an angry and aggressive terrier and prepared to take evasive action. Kicking down on the pedals I managed to inject a couple more miles per hour into my forward motion and that was enough to propel me just beyond the bared teeth of that ferocious animal. It was only just beyond as I am convinced that I could feel hot dog breath on my bare shin and a wave of air from a swiftly closing jaw.
It was not a time to dwell on the narrowest of escapes and I put my head down and spun my legs as fast as I could whilst clunking through the available gears.
From the point of view of the dog it had been a commendable effort. The unwritten brief to defend the homestead had been adhered to and the malfeasant was now tearing away in a cloud of fine dust particles. The top dog, now out of sight, no doubt returned to a hero's reception from his sidekicks. His would be an afternoon of lazy luxury, the tale of bravery endlessly retold amongst a scattering of tasty dried but succulent animal appendages.
Sunday 20 April 2014
Amnesty at Easter
I admit to some embarrassing incidents in my life.
There is that time I entered into a pact with Anthony Whitbread to punch our mutual friend Timothy Grant in the stomach so that left in his anticipated agony and distress we could then go to his house and play. At the age of 7 my devious and scheming plan backfired and after doing the deed I found myself excluded from the small, compact gang and playing, alone in my own bedroom.
When I was aged 11 my Father supervised me in going through the procedure of changing a wheel on the Morris Minor which was a requirement towards a Scout Badge. I must have shown some care, diligence and aptitude in removing the front nearside one as he left me to re-attach it on my own. It was during a family drive out to the seaside later in the day that the wheel began to show signs of instability. Only after the swift and decisive action of my Father to tighten up the loose nuts were we spared the sight of 25% of the car wheels making their own way to the beach at Cleethorpes.
In my teens there were other cringe-worthy events.
I invited a girl in one of my newly imposed co-ed classes to a disco with ticket and transport covered. Although we were both 14 there was already a noticeable maturity and development gap between the boys and girls in our year at school. During the slow numbers at the dance in a village hall the girl copped off with an older lad. He lived in her town and cheekily asked for a lift at the end of the evening as I was going that way anyway. The travel and coupling arrangements were just too embarrassing to explain to my Father who was the chauffeur for the night. To add insult to my injured pride the girl and lad snogged for the duration of the journey in the back seat whilst I sat uncomfortably up front receiving sideways glances of pity and sympathy from Father.
At 16 and having moved to a new town I was keen to fit in with a new peer group. They were soon to become renowned for under age drinking in particular amongst other nefarious activities. I made the mistake of downing at least 2 cans of Special Brew at a party before all panic set in with the announcement that the Police had arrived to clamp down on the under age activities. My special gift, in scenarios of potential trouble or prosecution, of a homing instinct kicked in and I eventually, but know not how, reached my house and sneaked in to sit on the foot of the stairs to try to steady a world spiralling out of control. Out of my downcast bleary eyes I spied a pair of diminuitive Thomas the Tank Engine slippers in front of me. It was my youngest brother, aged 4. I thought it strange that he should still be up, even for a Saturday night. Perhaps he had been allowed to catch a bit of the football on Match of the Day. The rest of the family responded to his concerned enquiries about my welfare and crowded around. How was it possible that they had all been staying up so late? The answer was clear when it was pointed out that it was only 8pm after all.
It was my own perception I was more cultured and sophisticated in my early 20's.
Playing at being a grown up meant going to the nicer country pubs in the area, making one pint last all night and engaging in meaningful conversation with like minded friends. At a picturesque and busy village inn a group of us had to sit in the restaurant area as the lounge and snug bars were full to heaving. Two couples dining together, a double date, got up after a few minutes of our arrival and vacated leaving an almost full bottle of red wine on the table. I made the move and it was shared around to be agreeably savoured and enjoyed. To my horror the same pair returned carrying dessert dishes after their short trip to the sweet trolley in another part of the dining room.
So, as you can see I have had more than my fair share of shameful escapades.
The majority are known, at least before this admission, only to close family and friends and I am only really reminded of them at get-togethers and on boozy nights of reminiscences amongst my peer group, now all celebrating their half century.
If I could travel back in time I may have acted differently or, at least with a better understanding of cause and effect, the implications of a course of behaviour or an action may have been considered. I have faint recollections of the events myself and do not lose sleep over them too much.
I wish that the same could be said about my collection of vinyl records.
I had a buying spree in 1979 after earning some decent money working for a few summer weeks on a mate's farm. My flush financial state coincided with the closing down sale of the sole record shop, a small independent, in our town. I was in there just about every day with my hard earned wage snapping up what I perceived to be absolute bargains of highly desirable and collectible vinyl albums.
What I did not appreciate was that the albums I bought were in the sale not for the purposes of liquidating the stock but because no-one in the town, population 30,000 souls had expressed a desire to purchase them when the shop was a viable and fully stocked going concern.
I realise now, aged 50 and staring every day at the Ikea storage unit containing my vinyl records that my motivation then to buy up the contents of the shop was on the grounds that I 'just could' with my new found proportionate wealth and not based on any rational choice or enjoyment of the actual groups and artists.
Many who have experience of a similar mental fugue state of what constitutes good music hide their record collections away in the loft space or boxed up at the back of the garage.
I am punishing myself for my embarrassing purchases by hiding them in plain sight.
Here, to illustrate my complete character lapse in all things recorded is a cross section of my record shelf. This revelation has been greatly assisted by The Boy who has recently alphabetised the sleeves and their contents. He is tidy like that but it has only served to emphasise my youthful folly in that small record shop. Oh, and I also spent a lot of my student grant on records from Selectadisc in Nottingham during the early 1980's. It was on my way to and from college every week day and open 'til late on weekends when I might have had too much to drink.
The following list of shame is an aggregated record of my records.
Barclay James Harvest (3 albums), Industrial folk rock from Lancashire, Duncan Browne (2 albums), actually pretty good and one of his tracks Criminal World was covered by Bowie, Horslips (4 albums) Irish rock band unnervingly sometimes sounding like Jethro Tull, Kid Creole and The Coconuts , perhaps a disco phase of mine, Prefab Sprout, Thompson Twins, Tomita (4 albums) Japanese keyboard of tone poems and concepts, Weather Report (2 albums), bought on the strength of one single track that I liked, Wishbone Ash (6 albums) and Yukihiro Takahashi, former member of Yellow Magic Orchestra.
I feel altogether better for this admission.
The overall tone and calibre of the collection has been uplifted by the merger with those meritous albums brought along by my wife to our marriage and to a large extent saved from archive storage or landfill by quite recent acquisitions by The Boy including Van Halen, Kiss, Michael Schenker, Led Zeppelin and The Scorpions. At least he will be saved, on the strength of his great taste in music, the inevitable post mortem and embarrassment of an old record collection in his own senior years. Of course I will take all credit for it.
(reproduced from 12 months ago)
There is that time I entered into a pact with Anthony Whitbread to punch our mutual friend Timothy Grant in the stomach so that left in his anticipated agony and distress we could then go to his house and play. At the age of 7 my devious and scheming plan backfired and after doing the deed I found myself excluded from the small, compact gang and playing, alone in my own bedroom.
When I was aged 11 my Father supervised me in going through the procedure of changing a wheel on the Morris Minor which was a requirement towards a Scout Badge. I must have shown some care, diligence and aptitude in removing the front nearside one as he left me to re-attach it on my own. It was during a family drive out to the seaside later in the day that the wheel began to show signs of instability. Only after the swift and decisive action of my Father to tighten up the loose nuts were we spared the sight of 25% of the car wheels making their own way to the beach at Cleethorpes.
In my teens there were other cringe-worthy events.
I invited a girl in one of my newly imposed co-ed classes to a disco with ticket and transport covered. Although we were both 14 there was already a noticeable maturity and development gap between the boys and girls in our year at school. During the slow numbers at the dance in a village hall the girl copped off with an older lad. He lived in her town and cheekily asked for a lift at the end of the evening as I was going that way anyway. The travel and coupling arrangements were just too embarrassing to explain to my Father who was the chauffeur for the night. To add insult to my injured pride the girl and lad snogged for the duration of the journey in the back seat whilst I sat uncomfortably up front receiving sideways glances of pity and sympathy from Father.
At 16 and having moved to a new town I was keen to fit in with a new peer group. They were soon to become renowned for under age drinking in particular amongst other nefarious activities. I made the mistake of downing at least 2 cans of Special Brew at a party before all panic set in with the announcement that the Police had arrived to clamp down on the under age activities. My special gift, in scenarios of potential trouble or prosecution, of a homing instinct kicked in and I eventually, but know not how, reached my house and sneaked in to sit on the foot of the stairs to try to steady a world spiralling out of control. Out of my downcast bleary eyes I spied a pair of diminuitive Thomas the Tank Engine slippers in front of me. It was my youngest brother, aged 4. I thought it strange that he should still be up, even for a Saturday night. Perhaps he had been allowed to catch a bit of the football on Match of the Day. The rest of the family responded to his concerned enquiries about my welfare and crowded around. How was it possible that they had all been staying up so late? The answer was clear when it was pointed out that it was only 8pm after all.
It was my own perception I was more cultured and sophisticated in my early 20's.
Playing at being a grown up meant going to the nicer country pubs in the area, making one pint last all night and engaging in meaningful conversation with like minded friends. At a picturesque and busy village inn a group of us had to sit in the restaurant area as the lounge and snug bars were full to heaving. Two couples dining together, a double date, got up after a few minutes of our arrival and vacated leaving an almost full bottle of red wine on the table. I made the move and it was shared around to be agreeably savoured and enjoyed. To my horror the same pair returned carrying dessert dishes after their short trip to the sweet trolley in another part of the dining room.
So, as you can see I have had more than my fair share of shameful escapades.
The majority are known, at least before this admission, only to close family and friends and I am only really reminded of them at get-togethers and on boozy nights of reminiscences amongst my peer group, now all celebrating their half century.
If I could travel back in time I may have acted differently or, at least with a better understanding of cause and effect, the implications of a course of behaviour or an action may have been considered. I have faint recollections of the events myself and do not lose sleep over them too much.
I wish that the same could be said about my collection of vinyl records.
I had a buying spree in 1979 after earning some decent money working for a few summer weeks on a mate's farm. My flush financial state coincided with the closing down sale of the sole record shop, a small independent, in our town. I was in there just about every day with my hard earned wage snapping up what I perceived to be absolute bargains of highly desirable and collectible vinyl albums.
What I did not appreciate was that the albums I bought were in the sale not for the purposes of liquidating the stock but because no-one in the town, population 30,000 souls had expressed a desire to purchase them when the shop was a viable and fully stocked going concern.
I realise now, aged 50 and staring every day at the Ikea storage unit containing my vinyl records that my motivation then to buy up the contents of the shop was on the grounds that I 'just could' with my new found proportionate wealth and not based on any rational choice or enjoyment of the actual groups and artists.
Many who have experience of a similar mental fugue state of what constitutes good music hide their record collections away in the loft space or boxed up at the back of the garage.
I am punishing myself for my embarrassing purchases by hiding them in plain sight.
Here, to illustrate my complete character lapse in all things recorded is a cross section of my record shelf. This revelation has been greatly assisted by The Boy who has recently alphabetised the sleeves and their contents. He is tidy like that but it has only served to emphasise my youthful folly in that small record shop. Oh, and I also spent a lot of my student grant on records from Selectadisc in Nottingham during the early 1980's. It was on my way to and from college every week day and open 'til late on weekends when I might have had too much to drink.
The following list of shame is an aggregated record of my records.
Barclay James Harvest (3 albums), Industrial folk rock from Lancashire, Duncan Browne (2 albums), actually pretty good and one of his tracks Criminal World was covered by Bowie, Horslips (4 albums) Irish rock band unnervingly sometimes sounding like Jethro Tull, Kid Creole and The Coconuts , perhaps a disco phase of mine, Prefab Sprout, Thompson Twins, Tomita (4 albums) Japanese keyboard of tone poems and concepts, Weather Report (2 albums), bought on the strength of one single track that I liked, Wishbone Ash (6 albums) and Yukihiro Takahashi, former member of Yellow Magic Orchestra.
I feel altogether better for this admission.
The overall tone and calibre of the collection has been uplifted by the merger with those meritous albums brought along by my wife to our marriage and to a large extent saved from archive storage or landfill by quite recent acquisitions by The Boy including Van Halen, Kiss, Michael Schenker, Led Zeppelin and The Scorpions. At least he will be saved, on the strength of his great taste in music, the inevitable post mortem and embarrassment of an old record collection in his own senior years. Of course I will take all credit for it.
(reproduced from 12 months ago)
Saturday 19 April 2014
Multi Tasking on Two Wheels
115 things observed on today's 60 mile bike ride (as close as possible to the order in which they presented themselves).
A manicured lawn
Brick paved driveway
Two cars per house
Course of old railway line
Blackthorn hedge
Distant motorway bridge
Busy crossroads
Ancient Manor House, possibly 16th century
Raging smokey bonfire
Scrap Car
Scorched tarmac in outline of torched vehicle
Village name with millenium plaque
Garden gnomes
Wind turbine
Old slag heap from Yorkshire Coal Field
Course of ditch
Plastic Tesco bag caught on a barb-wire fence
Polish beer can
Tractor in field spraying a crop
House being built, just at wall plate stage
Waste Skip in the road
Man hammering bits of wood for non-specific use
Open manhole with man and pumping wagon in attendance
Bystanders watching previous operation
Village shop (closed for lunch)
Eggs for sale at a house gate
Notice of garage clearance sale on lamp post
Family on bikes
Five bar gate
Entrance to River Derwent Tidal Barrier
Sheep droppings on path
Strongly sprung gate onto pasture land
Chalk track at base of steep flood defence
Cyclist approaching and passing by-not very friendly
Traffic cones around fresh tarmac
Winding narrow lane up to village
Hemingbrough Church Spire (sharp type)
Chinese Take-away in village street
Disused and abandoned former petrol station
Garden Centre (bit dire looking)
Small car towing huge caravan
Roe Deer running across a field
Another Village shop not open to trade
Asbestos roofed farm building in state of collapse
Dog walker
Possible drug dealing in side lane
Old Mansion House
Cooling Towers and large flume from Drax Power Station
Noisy farm dryer in operation
Rabbits in run on front lawn
New swing bridge over the Ouse
Cinder track
Derelict factory on edge of Selby
Old Toll Bridge
Timber wharf in state of decay
Garage selling micro-cars
Speed Humps
Pub beer garden (empty)
Bus stop
Pile of hay- former haystack
Loose chicken on the verge
BMW with gawdy white painted wheels on by-pass
Concrete Water Tower
Housing Estate of former pit workers
Under-age smokers in bus shelter
Suspicious looking van parked up
Someone having double glazing installed
Representation of solar system over 15 mile distance
Family having a picnic in a field
Dessicated rat
Bit of mining equipment (looks like coal face drill)
Skatepark fashioned out of mud and old carpets
Labyrinth cut out of a grass mound
Jogger looking a bit tired and fed up
Road bridge
Directional sign advertising food at pub in near by village
Old railway station now cafe
Camp Site (caravans and 1 solitary tent)
Iron sculpture of man fishing
Marina
Another Farm Shop
Modern housing estate
Camper Van parked across cycle path
Aerodrome for model aircraft flying
Distant view of York Minster Towers
Busy dual carriageway
Rusty chain link fence onto aforementioned busy road
Lady on bike with dog in front basket
Man on tricycle
Pile of gritting salt
Courting couple (possibly first or second date)
Temporary surface over York Racecourse
Legal College (now closed-hurrah)
Car Boot Sale (packing up stage)
Old Chocolate Factory
Red pleasure boat for hire
Large River Cruiser full of tourists
Millenium Bridge in Rowntree Park
Buggy pushing young mothers
Ice Cream Van with queue of customers
Church converted into pub
Lots of Geordie Revellers
Tesco Express
Supermarket of Oriental Supplies
Bus
Discarded pizza box (looks like funghi)
Council Offices
Roman Town Gate
Fish and Chip shop
Cobbled Street
Two three wheeled chopper bikes
Lady with purple hair and tattoos
and then me and Will retraced our route all the way back.............some things were still there, strangely the dessicated rodent had disappeared.
A manicured lawn
Brick paved driveway
Two cars per house
Course of old railway line
Blackthorn hedge
Distant motorway bridge
Busy crossroads
Ancient Manor House, possibly 16th century
Raging smokey bonfire
Scrap Car
Scorched tarmac in outline of torched vehicle
Village name with millenium plaque
Garden gnomes
Wind turbine
Old slag heap from Yorkshire Coal Field
Course of ditch
Plastic Tesco bag caught on a barb-wire fence
Polish beer can
Tractor in field spraying a crop
House being built, just at wall plate stage
Waste Skip in the road
Man hammering bits of wood for non-specific use
Open manhole with man and pumping wagon in attendance
Bystanders watching previous operation
Village shop (closed for lunch)
Eggs for sale at a house gate
Notice of garage clearance sale on lamp post
Family on bikes
Five bar gate
Entrance to River Derwent Tidal Barrier
Sheep droppings on path
Strongly sprung gate onto pasture land
Chalk track at base of steep flood defence
Cyclist approaching and passing by-not very friendly
Traffic cones around fresh tarmac
Winding narrow lane up to village
Hemingbrough Church Spire (sharp type)
Chinese Take-away in village street
Disused and abandoned former petrol station
Garden Centre (bit dire looking)
Small car towing huge caravan
Roe Deer running across a field
Another Village shop not open to trade
Asbestos roofed farm building in state of collapse
Dog walker
Possible drug dealing in side lane
Old Mansion House
Cooling Towers and large flume from Drax Power Station
Noisy farm dryer in operation
Rabbits in run on front lawn
New swing bridge over the Ouse
Cinder track
Derelict factory on edge of Selby
Old Toll Bridge
Timber wharf in state of decay
Garage selling micro-cars
Speed Humps
Pub beer garden (empty)
Bus stop
Pile of hay- former haystack
Loose chicken on the verge
BMW with gawdy white painted wheels on by-pass
Concrete Water Tower
Housing Estate of former pit workers
Under-age smokers in bus shelter
Suspicious looking van parked up
Someone having double glazing installed
Representation of solar system over 15 mile distance
Family having a picnic in a field
Dessicated rat
Bit of mining equipment (looks like coal face drill)
Skatepark fashioned out of mud and old carpets
Labyrinth cut out of a grass mound
Jogger looking a bit tired and fed up
Road bridge
Directional sign advertising food at pub in near by village
Old railway station now cafe
Camp Site (caravans and 1 solitary tent)
Iron sculpture of man fishing
Marina
Another Farm Shop
Modern housing estate
Camper Van parked across cycle path
Aerodrome for model aircraft flying
Distant view of York Minster Towers
Busy dual carriageway
Rusty chain link fence onto aforementioned busy road
Lady on bike with dog in front basket
Man on tricycle
Pile of gritting salt
Courting couple (possibly first or second date)
Temporary surface over York Racecourse
Legal College (now closed-hurrah)
Car Boot Sale (packing up stage)
Old Chocolate Factory
Red pleasure boat for hire
Large River Cruiser full of tourists
Millenium Bridge in Rowntree Park
Buggy pushing young mothers
Ice Cream Van with queue of customers
Church converted into pub
Lots of Geordie Revellers
Tesco Express
Supermarket of Oriental Supplies
Bus
Discarded pizza box (looks like funghi)
Council Offices
Roman Town Gate
Fish and Chip shop
Cobbled Street
Two three wheeled chopper bikes
Lady with purple hair and tattoos
and then me and Will retraced our route all the way back.............some things were still there, strangely the dessicated rodent had disappeared.
Friday 18 April 2014
Spreadsheet of Doom
SHOOT!, the football magazine of my childhood gave away, as a freebie, at the beginning of a new English League Season a slotted ladder and small tabs of all of that year's teams encouraging readers to use it to record the ups and downs of their own favourite.
Sure, it was free and fun albeit a bit slow to get going over the first half of the season especially under the old points system of two for a win and one for a draw.
As the competition hotted up after the Christmas games such a tab system would have been very useful and informative but in a household of five children it is a fact that stuff went missing, became mislaid, chewed up or in the Hoover.
A key point in the long English season would be the appearance on the Match of The Day league tables of the thick lines at the top to indicate the serious contenders for what was then the First Division title but more ominously and drastically at the bottom of the table the line represented a trapdoor inviting potential freefall through the lower divisions into obscurity, financial straits and an average crowd of three men and an unattached dog.
By the time those decisive lines appeared the SHOOT! league ladders would be decimated with only a handful of workable tabs so as to be just about useless. That nervousness at the back of my psyche at this time in the football season persists even into what is now my 50th year of which I can confidently say that 42 of them have been as a football fan.
Of course, as a starter supporter you have to go with a top team. I lived in Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk up to the age of about 10. The two nearest and reasonably achieving teams were Ipswich Town and Norwich but I started as a Chelsea supporter. Why? I am not really sure except the Chelsea team of that era were dominant and with great players including Peter Osgood, John Hollins and Peter Bonetti. Their kit could also be replicated with just blue shorts with a white stripe sewn on down the side and a blue polo shirt without the expense of an authentic one.
My allegiance switched to Liverpool soon after as I got a proper Umbro team kit for what must have been my 10th or 11th birthday and we moved northwards into Lincolnshire. I went with my father to my first football match at Scunthorpe United and the Liverpool connection was strong with the club having recently sold both Ray Clemence and Kevin Keegan and the rest is history. Scunthorpe were at that time persistent under-acheivers mostly in the old fourth division but I followed them keenly. It was Ok to support the local team but you also had to have a First Division allegiance and I stuck to Liverpool until a period of disillusionment at some time in the late 1970's when I flirted briefly with West Bromwich Albion. It was more out of spite for the Liverpool success and wanting to be different than anything serious.
1979 saw a move to Yorkshire and Hull City. I tagged along with new schoolmates to the old Boothferry Park which was a crumbling shadow of some former glory. It had its own railway spur to bring supporters from the city centre some 3 miles away but most arrived on foot after clogging up the surrounding streets with vehicles and buses.
There were good and bad times as a Hull City attendee. I will not dwell on the facts, suffice to say that the club were so very close to going out of business altogether on a few occasions.
In this current season with Hull City back in the top flight Premier League I am sorely missing those SHOOT! tabs because it is time to plot and predict the outcome of the final four to five games. I am not interested in the battle to win the title but in the fortunes of the 11 teams from mid table downwards who are perilously close to the three relegation places.
Hull City are, as I write, in thirteenth spot.
In the absence of slotted tabs and a bit of incompetence with Spreadsheets I have a lot of scribbled hand written notes which are revisited and reviewed regularly as games loom up and slip by.
Hull City's success in getting to the FA Cup Final has been a bit of a distraction and I have been shocked at how the points gaps between the eleven teams has condensed in the meantime.
Former write offs in my reckoning have suddenly hit form. The announcement a couple of weeks ago that on 36 points Hull City were safe from the drop has been premature and based on optimistic hope.
I have transposed my scribblings below. The order of teams is as per today's league position (18th April)
Current Points Team Games Left Points Predicted final
43 Stoke City 4- Cardiff, Spurs, Fulham, WBA 50
40 Crystal Palace 4- West Ham, Man City, L'Pool, Fulham 46
37 West Ham 4- Palace, WBA, Spurs, Man City 40
36 Hull City 5- Arsenal, Fulham, Villa, Man Utd, Everton 42
34 Aston Villa 5-S'hampton, Swansea, Hull, Man City, Spurs 37
33 Swansea 4- Newcastle, Villa, S'hampton, Sunderland 37
33 West Brom 5-Man City, West Ham, Arsenal, Sun'land, Stoke 36
32 Norwich City 4- Liverpool, Man Utd, Chelsea, Arsenal 32
30 Fulham 4- Spurs, Hull City, Stoke, Crystal Palace 31
29 Cardiff City 4- Stoke, Sunderland, Newcastle, Chelsea 31
26 Sunderland 5- Chelsea, Cardiff, Man Utd, WBA, Swansea 35
Final predicted positions
Stoke City
Crystal Palace
Hull City
West Ham
Swansea
Aston Villa
West Brom
Sunderland
-----------------------------------------The line of doom-------------------------------------------
Norwich City
Cardiff City
Fulham
Sure, it was free and fun albeit a bit slow to get going over the first half of the season especially under the old points system of two for a win and one for a draw.
As the competition hotted up after the Christmas games such a tab system would have been very useful and informative but in a household of five children it is a fact that stuff went missing, became mislaid, chewed up or in the Hoover.
A key point in the long English season would be the appearance on the Match of The Day league tables of the thick lines at the top to indicate the serious contenders for what was then the First Division title but more ominously and drastically at the bottom of the table the line represented a trapdoor inviting potential freefall through the lower divisions into obscurity, financial straits and an average crowd of three men and an unattached dog.
By the time those decisive lines appeared the SHOOT! league ladders would be decimated with only a handful of workable tabs so as to be just about useless. That nervousness at the back of my psyche at this time in the football season persists even into what is now my 50th year of which I can confidently say that 42 of them have been as a football fan.
Of course, as a starter supporter you have to go with a top team. I lived in Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk up to the age of about 10. The two nearest and reasonably achieving teams were Ipswich Town and Norwich but I started as a Chelsea supporter. Why? I am not really sure except the Chelsea team of that era were dominant and with great players including Peter Osgood, John Hollins and Peter Bonetti. Their kit could also be replicated with just blue shorts with a white stripe sewn on down the side and a blue polo shirt without the expense of an authentic one.
My allegiance switched to Liverpool soon after as I got a proper Umbro team kit for what must have been my 10th or 11th birthday and we moved northwards into Lincolnshire. I went with my father to my first football match at Scunthorpe United and the Liverpool connection was strong with the club having recently sold both Ray Clemence and Kevin Keegan and the rest is history. Scunthorpe were at that time persistent under-acheivers mostly in the old fourth division but I followed them keenly. It was Ok to support the local team but you also had to have a First Division allegiance and I stuck to Liverpool until a period of disillusionment at some time in the late 1970's when I flirted briefly with West Bromwich Albion. It was more out of spite for the Liverpool success and wanting to be different than anything serious.
1979 saw a move to Yorkshire and Hull City. I tagged along with new schoolmates to the old Boothferry Park which was a crumbling shadow of some former glory. It had its own railway spur to bring supporters from the city centre some 3 miles away but most arrived on foot after clogging up the surrounding streets with vehicles and buses.
There were good and bad times as a Hull City attendee. I will not dwell on the facts, suffice to say that the club were so very close to going out of business altogether on a few occasions.
In this current season with Hull City back in the top flight Premier League I am sorely missing those SHOOT! tabs because it is time to plot and predict the outcome of the final four to five games. I am not interested in the battle to win the title but in the fortunes of the 11 teams from mid table downwards who are perilously close to the three relegation places.
Hull City are, as I write, in thirteenth spot.
In the absence of slotted tabs and a bit of incompetence with Spreadsheets I have a lot of scribbled hand written notes which are revisited and reviewed regularly as games loom up and slip by.
Hull City's success in getting to the FA Cup Final has been a bit of a distraction and I have been shocked at how the points gaps between the eleven teams has condensed in the meantime.
Former write offs in my reckoning have suddenly hit form. The announcement a couple of weeks ago that on 36 points Hull City were safe from the drop has been premature and based on optimistic hope.
I have transposed my scribblings below. The order of teams is as per today's league position (18th April)
Current Points Team Games Left Points Predicted final
43 Stoke City 4- Cardiff, Spurs, Fulham, WBA 50
40 Crystal Palace 4- West Ham, Man City, L'Pool, Fulham 46
37 West Ham 4- Palace, WBA, Spurs, Man City 40
36 Hull City 5- Arsenal, Fulham, Villa, Man Utd, Everton 42
34 Aston Villa 5-S'hampton, Swansea, Hull, Man City, Spurs 37
33 Swansea 4- Newcastle, Villa, S'hampton, Sunderland 37
33 West Brom 5-Man City, West Ham, Arsenal, Sun'land, Stoke 36
32 Norwich City 4- Liverpool, Man Utd, Chelsea, Arsenal 32
30 Fulham 4- Spurs, Hull City, Stoke, Crystal Palace 31
29 Cardiff City 4- Stoke, Sunderland, Newcastle, Chelsea 31
26 Sunderland 5- Chelsea, Cardiff, Man Utd, WBA, Swansea 35
Final predicted positions
Stoke City
Crystal Palace
Hull City
West Ham
Swansea
Aston Villa
West Brom
Sunderland
-----------------------------------------The line of doom-------------------------------------------
Norwich City
Cardiff City
Fulham
To be continued......................................
Thursday 17 April 2014
The Sting
I am a lover of nature and natural things.
I always have been from a small child.
My earliest memories are of poking a fishing net enthusiastically into the local pond and extracting a whole load of wildlife from frog spawn and water boatmen to sticklebacks and water snails. At other times I have intentionally run open mouthed through a big cloud of swarming gnats, felt a stringy spiders web on my face and carefully rescued upside down wood lice from their panicky disorientation.
Respectful of other living things I have always tried to avoid squashing or swatting flies and bugs adopting a policy to encourage them to move on somewhere else with a gentle waft of something or directing them towards an open window.
One of my first inventions was a humane mousetrap. This worked on the principle of merely concussing the rodent with a lead leger weight which would drop down upon disturbance of a cork wedged into a wood knot hole in the floorboards in my bedroom from which I had observed a mouse movement. More recently I had great success trapping mice in a bin bag and carefully driving them up the road to be released into an affluent housing area where pickings and overall lifestyle would be enhanced.
I am the first to marvel at the grace and efficiency of a hovering sparrow hawk above the verge of the town by-pass. I seem to be the only motorist to appreciate this behaviour although many do sound their horns as I momentarily lose concentration and veer across the central white lines.
Urban foxes are also a regular sight and I am thrilled to catch the steely, confident glare in the eyes of a lazy fox as it meanders through the alleyways and passages of the city before strolling in front of my car at the traffic lights near Tesco's.
From my living room window I am entertained by the scampering antics of grey squirrels from bough to bough or on the ground as they dodge pedestrians and traffic in a hip hoppity type motion.
A few ducks find their way from the lake in the nearby park into surrounding house gardens and take up a vantage point on the roof of stowed caravans and cars to keep a look out for the many domestic cats who may fancy their chances.
My favourite sound in nature remains the collective noise of a flight of geese as they pass over in a low 'V' formation with co-ordinated honking and the distinctive swish of a great sweep of wings.
The Springtime dawns are noisy in my neighbourhood with birdsong mixed in with traffic and a few emergency services sirens. I have always had an intention to learn to identify birds from their calls but that may have to wait until I have much more time on my hands.
There are plenty of TV programmes about the natural world and I do take in a few of these if they capture my attention. A current series on the monkey world has been fascinating but also quite disturbing. To my mind monkeys are comical characters through their antics and mimickry. I am of that generation brought up to associate our nearest cousins with advertisements for PG Tips or co-stars of Clint Eastwood. I was therefore horrified to learn about the ruthless and murderous mindset of chimpanzees in their ethnic cleansing of other forest monkeys. I will view future re-runs of Planet of the Apes with considerably more understanding of the conflict politics of that species.
Really, we as humans have not progressed much further up the evolutionary scale apart from using weapons rather than bludgeoning our foes with our bare hands or throwing them bodily out of a high tree. We should not therefore be surprised about what nature has to contend with in order to survive amongst increasingly diminishing habitats and the pressure exerted by humankind.
Some commendable efforts are made by a few governments and individuals to save creatures from extinction. On a small scale we can leave food out for birds and hedgehogs.There is no shortage in charitable giving to rescue abused donkeys or dogs and cats. Younger generations seem to be more in tune with Conservation and nature and that can only be a good thing for the future.
I conclude with a topical although tenuous bit of humour in a nature theme which I have hijacked from a radio broadcast.
On a visit to a record shop I spied an old vinyl album entitled "The Wonderful World of Wasps".
The price at 50p excited my curiosity and the sleeve promised a startling and informative soundtrack of this enigmatic and much maligned insect. I hate to see people run in blind panic upon the approach of a wasp which, frankly, only makes the black and yellow creatures even more excitable. Anticipating a very atmospheric experience, perhaps narrated by a gravelly voiced celebrity, I lowered the stylus onto the 33rpm vinyl and sat back, eyes closed to enjoy. I must have quickly dozed off because I was startled by the clunk of the off switch . I could not recall any of the previous output about even the average life of a wasp.
Wholly attentive I played the record again. It was a disappointing offering of a few swishing blades of grass, a faint whirring of wings and a brief rubbing of legs.
Altogether I got the impression of a lazy insect and not the aggressive, dynamic soundtrack that I had expected.
A couple of days later I found my way back to that record shop. I accept that a 50p second or third hand purchase waives most of my consumer rights but I appealed to the proprietor to play the disc and give his opinion.
Granted, he was polite and attentive and duly played the record with headphones on so as not to disturb the one other customer for the day on the premises.
I could see that he had resolved the issue and sure enough he was kind enough to explain that I had been, in fact, playing the B side.
I always have been from a small child.
My earliest memories are of poking a fishing net enthusiastically into the local pond and extracting a whole load of wildlife from frog spawn and water boatmen to sticklebacks and water snails. At other times I have intentionally run open mouthed through a big cloud of swarming gnats, felt a stringy spiders web on my face and carefully rescued upside down wood lice from their panicky disorientation.
Respectful of other living things I have always tried to avoid squashing or swatting flies and bugs adopting a policy to encourage them to move on somewhere else with a gentle waft of something or directing them towards an open window.
One of my first inventions was a humane mousetrap. This worked on the principle of merely concussing the rodent with a lead leger weight which would drop down upon disturbance of a cork wedged into a wood knot hole in the floorboards in my bedroom from which I had observed a mouse movement. More recently I had great success trapping mice in a bin bag and carefully driving them up the road to be released into an affluent housing area where pickings and overall lifestyle would be enhanced.
I am the first to marvel at the grace and efficiency of a hovering sparrow hawk above the verge of the town by-pass. I seem to be the only motorist to appreciate this behaviour although many do sound their horns as I momentarily lose concentration and veer across the central white lines.
Urban foxes are also a regular sight and I am thrilled to catch the steely, confident glare in the eyes of a lazy fox as it meanders through the alleyways and passages of the city before strolling in front of my car at the traffic lights near Tesco's.
From my living room window I am entertained by the scampering antics of grey squirrels from bough to bough or on the ground as they dodge pedestrians and traffic in a hip hoppity type motion.
A few ducks find their way from the lake in the nearby park into surrounding house gardens and take up a vantage point on the roof of stowed caravans and cars to keep a look out for the many domestic cats who may fancy their chances.
My favourite sound in nature remains the collective noise of a flight of geese as they pass over in a low 'V' formation with co-ordinated honking and the distinctive swish of a great sweep of wings.
The Springtime dawns are noisy in my neighbourhood with birdsong mixed in with traffic and a few emergency services sirens. I have always had an intention to learn to identify birds from their calls but that may have to wait until I have much more time on my hands.
There are plenty of TV programmes about the natural world and I do take in a few of these if they capture my attention. A current series on the monkey world has been fascinating but also quite disturbing. To my mind monkeys are comical characters through their antics and mimickry. I am of that generation brought up to associate our nearest cousins with advertisements for PG Tips or co-stars of Clint Eastwood. I was therefore horrified to learn about the ruthless and murderous mindset of chimpanzees in their ethnic cleansing of other forest monkeys. I will view future re-runs of Planet of the Apes with considerably more understanding of the conflict politics of that species.
Really, we as humans have not progressed much further up the evolutionary scale apart from using weapons rather than bludgeoning our foes with our bare hands or throwing them bodily out of a high tree. We should not therefore be surprised about what nature has to contend with in order to survive amongst increasingly diminishing habitats and the pressure exerted by humankind.
Some commendable efforts are made by a few governments and individuals to save creatures from extinction. On a small scale we can leave food out for birds and hedgehogs.There is no shortage in charitable giving to rescue abused donkeys or dogs and cats. Younger generations seem to be more in tune with Conservation and nature and that can only be a good thing for the future.
I conclude with a topical although tenuous bit of humour in a nature theme which I have hijacked from a radio broadcast.
On a visit to a record shop I spied an old vinyl album entitled "The Wonderful World of Wasps".
The price at 50p excited my curiosity and the sleeve promised a startling and informative soundtrack of this enigmatic and much maligned insect. I hate to see people run in blind panic upon the approach of a wasp which, frankly, only makes the black and yellow creatures even more excitable. Anticipating a very atmospheric experience, perhaps narrated by a gravelly voiced celebrity, I lowered the stylus onto the 33rpm vinyl and sat back, eyes closed to enjoy. I must have quickly dozed off because I was startled by the clunk of the off switch . I could not recall any of the previous output about even the average life of a wasp.
Wholly attentive I played the record again. It was a disappointing offering of a few swishing blades of grass, a faint whirring of wings and a brief rubbing of legs.
Altogether I got the impression of a lazy insect and not the aggressive, dynamic soundtrack that I had expected.
A couple of days later I found my way back to that record shop. I accept that a 50p second or third hand purchase waives most of my consumer rights but I appealed to the proprietor to play the disc and give his opinion.
Granted, he was polite and attentive and duly played the record with headphones on so as not to disturb the one other customer for the day on the premises.
I could see that he had resolved the issue and sure enough he was kind enough to explain that I had been, in fact, playing the B side.
Wednesday 16 April 2014
Horse Play
Everyone knows the saying about leading a horse to water and not being able to do anything about the subsequent reluctance of that animal to take advantage of some liquid refreshment. I have often pondered on the meaning of that well bantered piece of part advice and part wisdom. It has been widely used in popular entertainment and culture as a mainstay to describe the tendency of man and beast to do exactly as they want to do in spite of best endeavours to persuade them otherwise.
I did not expect to ever experience the actual stubborness of a horse to do as I wanted it to do but just today this has been the case.
It is a common sight in many city and urban areas to see horses tethered on public land or waste ground to take advantage of free grazing. The animals always look a bit forlorn and forgotten by their masters as they stand motionless into the stiff breeze or wander about aimlessly on a heavy chain in a wide circle of compacted and chewed grass. It is evident however that they are tended to on a regular basis with topping up of the old bucket or ancient trough with fresh water and a few loosely strewn handfuls of oats to supplement what must be a rather boring diet.
The horses are of varied shapes, sizes and line of breeding. This is testament to the ancient practices of the Travellers with large and heavy horses to pull carts and wagons down to short legged Shetland ponies for, well, I think just a bit of fun.
The animals represent a form of legal tender, an asset base that can be readily traded (I use the term liquidated with reluctance given the recent controversy of horse meat in circulation) and are therefore cherished and prized even though it may not seem to be the case.
A line of horses on the roadside verge or, in my experience, in series along the raised flood defences keeping the River Hull in its meandering course can be both a stirring but also an intimidating thing. The animals have been hardened by periodic abuse and ridicule from lunatic passers-by who have no conscience or empathy with other creatures. It is natural for them not to court eye contact or even seek any companionship or affirmation. They remain distant and aloof.
I had been cycling along the river bank expecting to have to swoop down onto the lower section when my way would be impeded by an imposing silhouette of a horse. This had been necessary on all previous rides along the river corridor and I had developed a bit of a skill in negotiating the obstacle. This involved not losing any forward speed and momentum in the thicker grass which was difficult what with the rougher surface, prominent mole hills and concealed pothole. I usually had time the swoop and ascent so as not to get too close to the horses to cause them distress or even direct a swift kick of the hind legs in my direction. I practiced a few of these manoeuvres in readiness for encountering such animals but after two to three miles the bank remained empty apart from solitary joggers and a handful of dog walkers.
At one of the gates to the river path the reason for the absence of Traveller's horses was explained. Tied to the gate post was a very loud and formal printed notice from the Environment Agency demanding removal of all grazing beasts within a specified timescale with the sanction of monetary penalties or impounding of the horses.
I had not come across such draconian measure before but they appeared to have been successful.
It was not until three more miles along the river path that I encountered my first stumpy legged pony. It was legitimately there being free to roam on a pasture grazing as part of a smallholding whose land straddled the bank.
The small horse was one of half a dozen enjoying their freedom and perhaps in their own way flaunting their liberty in support of their bonded cousins. I approached the wooden stile on the bank top on my bike and dismounted in readiness to attempt a shoulder lift and carry of the cycle. I struggled to lift the heavy frame made more of a dead weight to my arms because of the fatigue of the ride thus far. Plan B was brought into play. This would entail lifting the bike so as to just clear the wooden barrier and lowering it down to the ground making sure it could stand upright on the other side. I would then follow through myself.
There was one problem.
The diminuitive pony was standing tight and close against the far side of the stile. It would not budge and so fulfilled the prophecy of doing just what it wanted to do.
I thought that it may be holding out for something sweet as most likely the frequent walkers and ramblers on the footpath would have morsels in their backpacks by which to tempt and coax the pony from its entrenched position. I patted my jersey pockets as though implying they contained a Mars or Snickers Bar but well knowing they were empty apart from bike spares and puncture catches.
The pony just remained perfectly still.
It was, if not quietly menacing, quite a comical sight with its long straggly fringe concealing any facial features or expressions. It reminded me of the Thelwell illustrations of my younger years and I had to laugh a little behind my increasing frustration at the stalemate situation.
I am a townie by nature and nurture and would not even contemplate an attempt to physically move the pony or shout at it to encourage a bit of leeway over the stile. I did momentarily lift up that fringe to make sure that I stroked its nose rather than accidentally poke it in the eye.
I dare not get too close as I feared retaliation in either a bite or a swift kick to my shins. The pony was becoming more and more interested in the knobbly tyres on my bike. One chewing motion through the rubber would mean a long walk home for me.
The stand-off was by now attracting a bit of attention and two more and larger free roaming horses were approaching as though quite prepared to wade in and assist their small relative.
I made a decision to just grab the bike and make a getaway. I calculated that the limited ground clearance and wide body of the pony would make a rapid reaction unlikely and so I just went for it and only stopped to look back at the next gateway some 200 metres further on.
The pony had not moved at all apart from a taunting swish of its grandly bouffant tail as though claiming the moral victory of that afternoon.
I did not expect to ever experience the actual stubborness of a horse to do as I wanted it to do but just today this has been the case.
It is a common sight in many city and urban areas to see horses tethered on public land or waste ground to take advantage of free grazing. The animals always look a bit forlorn and forgotten by their masters as they stand motionless into the stiff breeze or wander about aimlessly on a heavy chain in a wide circle of compacted and chewed grass. It is evident however that they are tended to on a regular basis with topping up of the old bucket or ancient trough with fresh water and a few loosely strewn handfuls of oats to supplement what must be a rather boring diet.
The horses are of varied shapes, sizes and line of breeding. This is testament to the ancient practices of the Travellers with large and heavy horses to pull carts and wagons down to short legged Shetland ponies for, well, I think just a bit of fun.
The animals represent a form of legal tender, an asset base that can be readily traded (I use the term liquidated with reluctance given the recent controversy of horse meat in circulation) and are therefore cherished and prized even though it may not seem to be the case.
A line of horses on the roadside verge or, in my experience, in series along the raised flood defences keeping the River Hull in its meandering course can be both a stirring but also an intimidating thing. The animals have been hardened by periodic abuse and ridicule from lunatic passers-by who have no conscience or empathy with other creatures. It is natural for them not to court eye contact or even seek any companionship or affirmation. They remain distant and aloof.
I had been cycling along the river bank expecting to have to swoop down onto the lower section when my way would be impeded by an imposing silhouette of a horse. This had been necessary on all previous rides along the river corridor and I had developed a bit of a skill in negotiating the obstacle. This involved not losing any forward speed and momentum in the thicker grass which was difficult what with the rougher surface, prominent mole hills and concealed pothole. I usually had time the swoop and ascent so as not to get too close to the horses to cause them distress or even direct a swift kick of the hind legs in my direction. I practiced a few of these manoeuvres in readiness for encountering such animals but after two to three miles the bank remained empty apart from solitary joggers and a handful of dog walkers.
At one of the gates to the river path the reason for the absence of Traveller's horses was explained. Tied to the gate post was a very loud and formal printed notice from the Environment Agency demanding removal of all grazing beasts within a specified timescale with the sanction of monetary penalties or impounding of the horses.
I had not come across such draconian measure before but they appeared to have been successful.
It was not until three more miles along the river path that I encountered my first stumpy legged pony. It was legitimately there being free to roam on a pasture grazing as part of a smallholding whose land straddled the bank.
The small horse was one of half a dozen enjoying their freedom and perhaps in their own way flaunting their liberty in support of their bonded cousins. I approached the wooden stile on the bank top on my bike and dismounted in readiness to attempt a shoulder lift and carry of the cycle. I struggled to lift the heavy frame made more of a dead weight to my arms because of the fatigue of the ride thus far. Plan B was brought into play. This would entail lifting the bike so as to just clear the wooden barrier and lowering it down to the ground making sure it could stand upright on the other side. I would then follow through myself.
There was one problem.
The diminuitive pony was standing tight and close against the far side of the stile. It would not budge and so fulfilled the prophecy of doing just what it wanted to do.
I thought that it may be holding out for something sweet as most likely the frequent walkers and ramblers on the footpath would have morsels in their backpacks by which to tempt and coax the pony from its entrenched position. I patted my jersey pockets as though implying they contained a Mars or Snickers Bar but well knowing they were empty apart from bike spares and puncture catches.
The pony just remained perfectly still.
It was, if not quietly menacing, quite a comical sight with its long straggly fringe concealing any facial features or expressions. It reminded me of the Thelwell illustrations of my younger years and I had to laugh a little behind my increasing frustration at the stalemate situation.
I am a townie by nature and nurture and would not even contemplate an attempt to physically move the pony or shout at it to encourage a bit of leeway over the stile. I did momentarily lift up that fringe to make sure that I stroked its nose rather than accidentally poke it in the eye.
I dare not get too close as I feared retaliation in either a bite or a swift kick to my shins. The pony was becoming more and more interested in the knobbly tyres on my bike. One chewing motion through the rubber would mean a long walk home for me.
The stand-off was by now attracting a bit of attention and two more and larger free roaming horses were approaching as though quite prepared to wade in and assist their small relative.
I made a decision to just grab the bike and make a getaway. I calculated that the limited ground clearance and wide body of the pony would make a rapid reaction unlikely and so I just went for it and only stopped to look back at the next gateway some 200 metres further on.
The pony had not moved at all apart from a taunting swish of its grandly bouffant tail as though claiming the moral victory of that afternoon.
Tuesday 15 April 2014
Bob a Jobski
Being a Boy Scout was the making of me as a responsible citizen.
It made me appreciate the natural order of things. I became self sufficient and self reliant but importantly came to understand the benefits of working towards a common cause.
The recent release of information from the National Security Archives that the Scouting Movement was being spied on by the British Secret Service over fears of infiltration by Communists has caused me to reflect on my time in the 1st Brigg Cub Scouts and the 2nd Brigg Grammar School Scouts.
I now wonder as to whether I was in fact a political pawn being manipulated and indoctrinated in Soviet propaganda.
Yes, we did know how to take over a public building securing all of the entrances and to hold a spankingly good Jumble Sale for charitable purposes.
We could immediately establish a communications network as long as the string between the empty baked bean tins did not become overstretched and snap mid message.
Give anyone in Red Patrol a milk bottle and an old raggedy tea towel and they could within minutes and with their parents permission fill it up with paraffin and fashion quite an effective storm lantern. You had to be careful not to spill the contents when alight as they were extremely flammable. Imagine the damage that could be done if you threw the thing!
On our route marches around North Lincolnshire we could be heard in full and hearty voice singing campfire songs such as "On Ilkley Moor bah tat", "B.I.N.G.O", "Old MacDonald had a collective Farm", and "We'll Keep the Red Flag Flying Here" and other jolly anthems about equality and the onset of the death of Capitalism.
On occasion our night hikes would take us close to the local aerodrome and we were happy to spend hour upon hour in the darkness jotting down plane numbers and their manoeuvres for later writing up in our log books.
On Bob a Job Week we were keen to target, I mean call upon, the largest and most affluent residences in the town and do a very shoddy impression of gardening, car washing, running errands and tidying up as a bit of a protest about exploitation of the workers and championing a fair wage for a fair days work. We were sensitive to the possibility of transgressing on the division of labour and made sure that we did not upset any of the local tradesmen and tradeswomen by depriving them of bona fide employment.
I liked the Boy Scout uniform but was the first to defend accusations of para-militarism by pointing out that in a war zone there were distinct limitations in wearing woolly socks with garters, short trousers and a neckerchief held in place by a woggle. As for the little hat with piping it gave scant protection from a light shower let alone an artillery barrage.
We were a competitive bunch in Red Patrol but mindful and respectful of the hierarchy of seniority and experience. I started off as a mere sixer before rising through the ranks to assistant and then full Patrol Leader. The necessary qualifications to progress up the party, I mean Patrol, were gained through the badge winning process. Within a few months I had an armful of insignia from successful completion of such disciplines as Balalaika playing, fomenting revolution, palace storming, distribution of wealth and making tasty and nutritious meals out of a potato.
They were indeed heady days in my impressionable youth but as for the idea of being under surveillance from MI5 that is clearly ridiculous and that is my opinion and that of my Comrades.
It made me appreciate the natural order of things. I became self sufficient and self reliant but importantly came to understand the benefits of working towards a common cause.
The recent release of information from the National Security Archives that the Scouting Movement was being spied on by the British Secret Service over fears of infiltration by Communists has caused me to reflect on my time in the 1st Brigg Cub Scouts and the 2nd Brigg Grammar School Scouts.
I now wonder as to whether I was in fact a political pawn being manipulated and indoctrinated in Soviet propaganda.
Yes, we did know how to take over a public building securing all of the entrances and to hold a spankingly good Jumble Sale for charitable purposes.
We could immediately establish a communications network as long as the string between the empty baked bean tins did not become overstretched and snap mid message.
Give anyone in Red Patrol a milk bottle and an old raggedy tea towel and they could within minutes and with their parents permission fill it up with paraffin and fashion quite an effective storm lantern. You had to be careful not to spill the contents when alight as they were extremely flammable. Imagine the damage that could be done if you threw the thing!
On our route marches around North Lincolnshire we could be heard in full and hearty voice singing campfire songs such as "On Ilkley Moor bah tat", "B.I.N.G.O", "Old MacDonald had a collective Farm", and "We'll Keep the Red Flag Flying Here" and other jolly anthems about equality and the onset of the death of Capitalism.
On occasion our night hikes would take us close to the local aerodrome and we were happy to spend hour upon hour in the darkness jotting down plane numbers and their manoeuvres for later writing up in our log books.
On Bob a Job Week we were keen to target, I mean call upon, the largest and most affluent residences in the town and do a very shoddy impression of gardening, car washing, running errands and tidying up as a bit of a protest about exploitation of the workers and championing a fair wage for a fair days work. We were sensitive to the possibility of transgressing on the division of labour and made sure that we did not upset any of the local tradesmen and tradeswomen by depriving them of bona fide employment.
I liked the Boy Scout uniform but was the first to defend accusations of para-militarism by pointing out that in a war zone there were distinct limitations in wearing woolly socks with garters, short trousers and a neckerchief held in place by a woggle. As for the little hat with piping it gave scant protection from a light shower let alone an artillery barrage.
We were a competitive bunch in Red Patrol but mindful and respectful of the hierarchy of seniority and experience. I started off as a mere sixer before rising through the ranks to assistant and then full Patrol Leader. The necessary qualifications to progress up the party, I mean Patrol, were gained through the badge winning process. Within a few months I had an armful of insignia from successful completion of such disciplines as Balalaika playing, fomenting revolution, palace storming, distribution of wealth and making tasty and nutritious meals out of a potato.
They were indeed heady days in my impressionable youth but as for the idea of being under surveillance from MI5 that is clearly ridiculous and that is my opinion and that of my Comrades.
Monday 14 April 2014
Speed and Power
 |
| Issue no. 1 |
I was beside myself with excitement on March 22nd 1974 when a new pocket money priced magazine for boys arrived at our local newsagents.
It was Speed and Power and was exactly as promised by the title with fantastic features on planes, cars, ship, trains and every imaginable form of transport from fanciful futuristic to ancient and traditional. The magazine survived for only 87 issues and that week of the final publication on 14th November 1975 was, to me, one of the darkest in my then 12 years of existence. I had managed to collect every issue inspite of being potentially thwarted by a massive price hike from 10p to 12p sometime in mid run. 
I was certainly a bit of a nerdy geek and insisted on boring my siblings and parents with what I thought were amazing facts and statistics about top speeds, payloads, tonnages, G Forces and fire power. My collection remains intact and from time to time I do browse through those colourful pages and can recall now, nearly 40 years on, the exact feelings lurking about in the mind of a speed and power mad young lad. 
Here are the majority of the front covers to give a one dimensional representation of the magazine but giving little away as to the actual quality of the photographs and writing within the covers. They are not quite in numerical order.
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