On yer bike

My background in cycling?

I was a late starter into competitive racing, in my early twenties ,with the main influencing factors being a seasonal farm job, further education and a death in the family.

The former gave me some cash to buy my first bike capable with a bit of tweaking and upgrading of equipment to enter road races and time trials. The second factor was going away to Polytechnic in Nottingham and in that city of great cycling pedigree I joined a local club which gave a structured edge to what up until then had been just playing on two wheels. Sadly, my Grandfather died but his legacy to me was invested (although not in the true financial sense of the word) in a custom made, lightweight bike which in today's money would more than match the price of a Pinarello or Colnago.

I still have that bike with its 531 Reynolds tubing and I am often stopped on the roadside by enthusiasts, mostly youngsters, who marvel at the lugwork, enamel lustre and the classic geometry lines. It still goes like stink even with a larger version of me on it.

My Palmares, or record of achievement, over my racing career?

One win, a few placings, enough money to pay for petrol on the way home from a few events and on a good day this would stretch to a bottle of Lucozade, some nice bits of kit won as prizes and enough fun and memories to last a lifetime.

I still dine out on that solitary victory mainly because of the look of incredulity and pride on the face of my Father when I came in over the line well ahead of the rest of the field. My achievement made it into a small paragraph in Cycling Weekly. It didn't matter that they mispelt my surname.

Typically for a student I had plenty of downtime. This was taken up with wide ranging training rides from Nottingham into the Peak District with a standing joke being about looking for tarts in Bakewell, south into Leicestershire and Rutland and easterly to Grantham and Skegness. On a balmy summer evening a group of four of us would blast down to Loughborough and back in a team time trial formation or just wander up to Harvey Hadden Stadium to watch our mates brave enough to take on the rough concreted surface of the outdoor track.

In my later working life I was able to sponsor a cycle racing team over 15 years. As they say, if you can't do it yourself give others the means to do it on your behalf. Sounds a bit dodgy but it was meant with the best intentions and motives.

With  a bit of experience in all things cycling comes a level of usefulness to the local cycling scene.
In recent years I have stood on countless corners as a Course Marshall, blown whistles amongst the trees of Dalby Forest at Mountain Bike World Cup Events, driven the Race Commissaire on British Championships , acted as Neutral Service from the back of my company car, stuck direction signs into the verges of country road verges, swept loose debris from  road junctions, seen the badly dislocated finger (first hand) on a Team GB rider and presented prizes on the podium to the best cyclists in the UK.

You may think that it all sounds exciting.

You are absolutely correct.

Inevitably cycling is one of those sports where nothing seems to happen for a long time and then everything kicks off at once. I live for my cycling to the present day  even if my age, physique and BMI combine to thwart my re-enactments of the great rides of the Grand Tours even just on the short pedal down to the local supermarket. Darn those electric bikes. I always set off to chase them down but they seem to go on forever.
When not on the bike or otherwise confined indoors by freakishly bad weather and domestic chores I have a fallback onto an extensive library of books and films.

There are four which I can recommend for an essential grounding in cycling for all, from the seasoned club rider to someone thinking about buying their first serious bike and venturing into the great outdoors.

"French Revolutions" by Tim Moore is a brilliant read about a non-cylist setting out to ride the entire course of the Tour de France in the year 2000. His is a trial of great physical discomfort but I agree with the critical acclaim of it as one of the funniest books about sport ever written.

"Domestique" by recent Tour rider Charly Wegelius gives a graphic insight into the (as the title purports) the true life ups and downs of a Tour Pro. Relevant to the Yorkshire Grand Depart is that Charly's Mum is from York. It is a compelling read and the description of race tactics is thrilling.

"Stars and Water Carriers" is a documentary film of the 1974 Tour of Italy. Its screening in the church hall meeting place of my first Cycling Club gave me the inspiration to just ride. It is a must see. I have just noticed that it is available, all of its 88 minutes, on You Tube.

"Breaking Away" is a 1979 rites of passage movie with cycling as a focal point of small town life and the aspirations of a group of friends. Some of the bike action is a bit dodgy but it is a real feel good film.

Have a happy time and be inspired in the great sport of cycling.

Genius, clever clogs, smarty pants, know it all........

I may be the youngest Peter in the world.

That is apart from the pop idol Peter Andre of whom I am constantly reminded on the predictive text function of my phone whenever I try to sign off a message.

It has been a popular christian name in the past.

History abounds with famous and infamous Peters from monarchs to revolutionary leaders, Saints to footballers, musicians to motivational speakers, golfers to regional news readers and Tour de France competitors.

There are of course countless more who remain anonymous but still exist as worthy bearers of that forename.

 I have often tried to find out my parents' motivation behind my naming whether a distant relative, to maintain the succession through the family line of a beloved name but so far the only person they have alluded to was the lead singer of 1960's pop group, Hermans Hermits, one Peter Noone. I have checked and that is actually his birth name and not a stage name fabrication so he is an authentic Peter which I find very comforting.

I have therefore decided to compile a few pieces of writings on the illustrious contributions of my namesakes.

Peter Roget was born in 1779. A lot like me he was obsessed as a child with making lists as part of a coping process but this was  many generations before the common diagnosis of OCD or ADD.

In his later life he suffered from depression but persisted in a most determined and focused manner to achieve great things. Not altogether like me after all. His was a truly remarkable personality, described by his colleagues and friends as being of a richly cultivated understanding. OK, that's where any resemblance in our characters ends.

In his lifetime he was a well respected and learned Physician, much published in his treatise on physiology and medical matters.

I admire him highly in his ability to think rationally and logically and these traits were put to good use in what must have been a precious leisure time during which he invented a pocket chess board and that curse of many a schoolboy, the logarithm slide rule.

He was a visionary in many disciplines and amongst his rare failures was an attempt to develop an early form of a computer.

His research around the viewing of the spokes of a wheel through apertures and the optical deceptions produced have been recognised as a pioneering work in the history of cinematography.

I am not sure how he found time in his busy schedule to do much more but Encyclopedia Britannica benefitted from his broad knowledge and wisdom.

The defining contribution of the great man, however, was his Thesaurus.

In the history of language, literature, expression and art this great work retains a unique place.

It was very much a life's work and labour of love being published in 1852 when Roget was in his early seventies. His childhood obsession had been put to good use in his old age and the scale of the endeavour ultimately served as a therapeutic pursuit for his depressive nature.

Perhaps he was a lexicographer all along and  the rest was just flim flam, hokum, legerdemain or just plain old smoke and mirrors.

The Grain Drain

Ahh, Elevenses on a working day.

Perhaps I should awake that little bit earlier and prepare a delicious and nutritious packed lunch, you know the one, yes, the one that everyone else seems to have. Woulda-coulda-shoulda and all that.

So instead I find myself out on the road seeking out a village shop.

I have every intention to purchase locally produced foods along the lines of a traditional ploughman's lunch but fall prey to a factory sealed plastic packaged sandwich, extra large but outrageously good value packet of mass manufactured savoury snacks, a very low chocolate content chocolate bar and a can of chemically charged carbonated pop. I use food in this instance for its comfort factor more so than to provide energy and motivation to see me through to at least tea-time.

Like a secretive squirrel I take my acquisitions in the car to a quiet spot to eat but as always with processed foodstuffs the actual feeling of satisfaction falls well short of the anticipation of the mobile feast.

Parked up in a field gateway and gazing out over an idyllic rural scene I often feel a pang of sadness that I did not pursue a career in agriculture.

At the age of 15 when it was time to make important choices about the forthcoming structure of education I was seriously thinking about being a Farm Manager. This set me apart from my schoolmates who were checking out a livelihood in the law, science, military and the fledgling but rapidly developing computer and information technology sectors.

I could see no  major obstacles in my way to being outstanding in my own field. I had however overlooked four important facts. 1) I was not the son of a farmer 2) I did not know any farmers 3) I had never worked on a farm 4) I had always lived in a town.

The British have a very idealised image of agriculture and always appear shocked and affronted when reminded that it in fact a massive industrial operation. Take the recent outcry and controversy surrounding the discovery of dodgy substances in our favourite supermarket bought meat products.

Farming is a very sophisticated business being not only industrialised but also politicised. The confidence in and stability of Governments relies upon the uninterrupted supply of our foodstuffs ranging from daily staples to luxury items. The ruling classes have seen the consequences of food shortages and famines on their status throughout history from the ancient world, in biblical times, the French Revolution and periodic riots and unrest in society. Even in todays supposedly efficient supply chain business I defy anyone not to have a small panic attack upon finding an empty or sparsely stocked shelf in their local Tesco or Asda. If the retail giants cannot ensure their own supply then what hope would we have in keeping our cupboards stocked in any crisis or scare.

The rapid increase in world population and pressures on crop yields from diminishing land availabilty and climate change is expected to transform the prospects and fortunes of our farmers for the first time in centuries. In the last few decades no-one has really wanted to be a farmer because of the economic instability of prices and of course, the bloody hard work that is involved. Sons of farming families have had to seek permanent employment beyond the farm to make anything like a decent living. The suicide rate amongst the agricultural population is one of the highest to illustrate the stress and anxiety associated with the industry. Statistic produced are interesting, for example the average ages of farmers in the United States, Japan and Australia are currently 58,66 and again 58 years respectively.

Investors and Speculators have already appreciated that investment in the world's food supply, given the extrapolated factors, represents one of greatest opportunities for wealth since the discovery of oil, gas and the availability of stocks and shares in technological innovations now indispensable to everyday life.

I had first hand experience of one of the main aspects of this commodity trading during one of my elevenses stops at a small rural petrol station/shop. Standing at the checkout I overheard a conversation between a local farmer and another customer, a known acquaintance. He was celebrating in having sold his next three years crop produce. In the stroke of a pen on a Futures Contract the farmer had eradicated the curse of uncertainty and price fluctuations and for once could plan and budget ahead at least for the next 36 plus months.

It sounded simple and fair to me.

That was until I realised that only 3% of the world's futures contracts are physically delivered with the 97% changing hands for cash. Traders and Brokers have latched on to the world's food supply as their next big punt and gamble after the boom and bust of the same sort of plundering foray into the world's money markets and global energy resources.

The derivatives have arrived. The wealthiest speculators are betting on the fundamental requirements of human existence. Control of the world's food resources, now and for the forseeable future, is in the hands of those whose prime motivation is to make money and lots of it.

Take Grain. It is a readily traded commodity because it is uniform unit size. In the United States 78% of grain production is for the feeding of livestock, in Europe around 50% and in the rest of the world 38%. This appears to be a wicked and wasteful use of a valuable staple intended to fatten up cattle to keep our steaks and burgers in the shop window.

Grain is regarded as a safe bet by the speculators but is it a moral thing to gamble on such a precious resource?

The agricultural stocks and inventories of world agriculture are currently at their lowest ever levels because we have consumed more than we have produced and inevitably the reserves have to be tapped to make up the shortfall. This brings about price fluctuations and the potential for even greater fiscal gains by those controlling the market.

Farmers may be content with some certainty in their incomes from future selling their crops but have never been in as much peril of losing control of their industry. This should be most concerning and worrying for us but we seem to be stumbling along oblivious to the implications and threats to the fundamental role of food in our existence, our health, social welfare and political stability.

Shake up on the Ponte Vecchio

It was a pleasantly warm day in Florence, Italy.

Those visitors to the city, like myself, from the colder climates of northern europe were dressed in short sleeved shirts and shorts. Amongst the aromatic odours from the confectioners, bakers, restaurants and trattoria's was the familiar and distinctive fragrance of sun tan lotion on pale freckly skin , a bit premature I thought for what was still only the third week in May.

The local population in contrast hustled through the straggling crocodiles of organised tours being distinguishable by their sporting of full winter coats and ski jackets in the relatively chilly conditions in an eminently fashionable style that only Italians can.

Progress on the flagstone and marble pavements of the narrow streets of three and more storey civic and residential buildings alternated between heat and shade. It was entirely possible to traverse the historic city either in full dazzling sunlight or perpetual cool shadows.

Care had to be taken in negotiating the hordes of tourists who were either wired up to a running commentary from their flag bearing guide at the head of the column or adopting a stop-start policy after catching sight of another ancient statue, church, facade or just a tempting menu displayed on a lecturn at a pavement cafe.
In addition to the groups were the freelancers consisting of individuals or hand-holding couples. They were somewhat obvious in their carrying of their copies of Baedeckers Guide to Florence as though on their own grand tour of the Tuscan region, a customary pursuit for many over the generations. Some clutched  worn paperback editions of Room with a View and Dan Brown's Inferno, the latter in imagining themselves as the main character Robert Langdon on a typically complicated and contrived trail of mystery, mayhem and controversy.

There is no doubting the pedigree of the city as a cradle of creativity in the arts, humanities and science. In the cool, pillared vaults of Santa Croce I wandered about a bit punch drunk with the monuments to Gallileo, Michelangelo, Dante, Da Vinci and Machiavelli all being captured within the same camera phone shot. Being too tight to purchase a definitive guide to the rest of the hallowed sons and daughters of Florence I remained ignorant of the contributions of many others to society, culture and philosophy.

By mid afternoon I was thinking that I had not yet, amongst the great architectural wonders, seen anything like a stone closed spandrel segmental arch bridge. My wife, on her second visit to Florence, sensed in a way that only 25 years of marriage can that I was on the trail of a stone closed spandrel segmental arch bridge and excitedly led me in a remedial but somehow romantic hand held way through further crowds towards the river, the Arno.

Emerging just ahead of me from a shady street after breaking free of my sticky right palm she stood back and gestured at some object of which she obviously had prior knowledge.

I had to just stand and stare.

It was indeed a truly magnificent example of that elusive, and now abbreviated "scssab".
The Ponte Vecchio.

I had of course seen photographs of the thing, not being a complete cultural philistine, but nothing in one dimension could have prepared me for the true scale and splendour of its graceful span over the river and the retained Medieval charm of the shops and kiosks lining the road.

The history bit.....built in 1345 after previous structures had been washed away in the frequently devastating power of the watercourse and after only just survived a similar fate in the 1966 inundation of the old city, it is indeed a unique sight.

Legends and fables abound.

The term bankruptcy is often associated with the practice of breaking up the tables of traders on the bridge by the authorities if the individual was unable to pay his debts.

The bridge was spared, undamaged with the retreat of the German army in 1944, this rumoured to be on the express orders of Hitler, perhaps like me a fan of a stone closed spandrel segmental arch. Other less notable and functional crossing points were destroyed.

 The retail identity of the bridge is firmly in the jewellery sector with small display frontages of high priced items and somewhat spoiled in my mind by a large, gawdy Rolex backlit sign.

I have a built in reflex to usher my wife away from high end goods emporiums but this was proving difficult given the mesmeric effect that the shop windows were having on her. We lingered and dwelled outside a few establishments, with me pretending to have some sophistication and secret affluence in peering dutifully over my wife's shoulder.

We had talked about purchasing a memento from Florence to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. There was some difference in opinion as to what form it would take. I favoured, perhaps, more of a city scene snow-globe type acquisition. It would be a case of compromise obviously taking into account Allison's own expectations of the item.

Something shiny away from the jewellery shops caught my attention and I stood and gawped at the collection of padlocks secured to the superstructure of the Ponte Vecchio.

Apparently it is a tradition, albeit of the modern era, for lovers to write their names or initials on a padlock, fasten it to the bridge and then throw the key into the Arno. Although a waste of a good stout lock it is deemed symbolic of the eternal bond as lovers.

Over the years thousands upon thousands of couples have patronised this practice ultimately to the fiscal benefit of the owner of, surprise, surprise, the only padlock shop trading on the bridge.

The custom became so popular amongst dewy eyed lovers that the city authorities decreed that the bridge was under threat of damage, in effect, from this form of romantic nostalgia.

I have ultimate confidence in a stone closed spandrel segmental arch to carry all manner of imposed loadings including a few extra tons of tempered and forged steel but the main injury to the historic bridge was from the physical attachment of the hasps to railings and the statue of a certain civic dignatory, a Mr Cellini.

I mused, on that hot afternoon about the sacrifices and inevitable price to be paid for love and all things symbolic about love. I concluded that it was 160 Euro's plus the cost of a confiscated padlock, the current sanction imposed by the Florentine City Fathers on those still intent on doing soppy and impetuous things involving vandalism of a public monument.

Now, where did I recall seeing those fabulous snow globes?

Parlez Vous Le Tour?

I grew up in a cycling family. We loved bikes. We lived bikes.

On one count there were 17 of them in the house and that was just the ones in everyday use. There were as many frames, wheels and components in the cellar, the shed and the lock-up garage which we promised to, one day, make up into full and serviceable cycles. The best laid plans never materialised because we were always out on the best two wheelers.

If we could not physically ride out due to the weather or having been grounded for bad behaviour  then plan B was to surround ourselves with the images of cycling.

The old films, some grainy and in black and white or in somewhat faded with age colours, of the Tour de France were watched very regularly but no less avidly on each viewing.

If any relatives or friends were planning a trip across the Channel we would pester them to get for us any newspapers, magazines or publications containing news stories, articles or reports and results of cycle races. Our knowledge of the french language was only that covered by our school text books, basic and formulaic at best and so it was a real challenge to translate anything as emotive, descriptive and technical as was the style of the main journalistic content around competitive cycling.

Gradually we would extract and remember key words and phrases from the review of a race as well as the main riders of the time. Given the opportunity to get out and about on our own bikes we would assume the personalities and dialogue of our heroes by being most flamboyant and exuberant in a fake Gallic accent (as if we knew what flamboyance and exuberant was really like!).

During a trip to Paris from East Yorkshire, on our bikes, my brother and I purchased authentic race team jerseys for Peugeot and La Redoute Motobecane and wore these with much posturing and posing. They cost us a good proportion of our whole holiday budget. We went hungry in the last few days of the vacation as a consequence of our youthful vanity and  foolishness. It was eminently worth it though. We looked the part even with our road bikes loaded down and cumbersome with panniers and saddle bags.
In our heads we were French bike racers living the life in Le Tour style and not just two Yorkshire lads on a jolly. The return to the UK was, in comparison, a massive anti-climax. Cyclists were little better than second class citizens, an annoyance to other road users and a bit weird, what with all of that unnecessarily flashy clothing with unusual foreign names but there was no taking away or diminishing our memories of that experience.

Even now, some 30 years later, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising whenever I catch a glimpse of images of the 200 strong field of the Tour de France or the sounds of the race from the chatter of the overhead helicopters to the rumble of the convoy of motorbike cameramen and support vehicles.
There is something special and unique surrounding the whole event.

You cannot help but be totally captivated even as a first time spectator or with no prior interest in the sport.
Plain and simple descriptive terms for a cycle race take on a mystical and evocative nature when conveyed in the French Language and you only really need to be familiar with a few to add to your enjoyment and appreciation of the world's greatest endurance event.

For those lucky enough to observe the race at close quarters I have drawn up a glossary of terms and in the chronological order in which they occur in the course of a typical stage.

Gendarmes.  The French Police force who are responsible for the safety of the riders, entourage and spectating public. Their presence is everywhere, even on the occasions when Le Tour ventures into other countries.

Caravane publicitaire- a cavalcade of liveried vehicles from main sponsors giving out freebies to the crowds from bottles of water to fly repellent.

Commissaire- the race officials either ahead of the race in readiness for breakaways by the riders or following. The Tour Organiser is always in his bright red car, in recent years a customised Skoda.

Service Course- a bright yellow car with spare bikes and wheels operating as a neutral spares and repairs service if riders get distanced or separated from their team cars.

Pilots- motorcycle riders mostly with pillion passengers from the press or television coverage, mobile race officials, the man with the chalk board for time distances.

Peleton- the main field of riders made up of trade teams with distinctive sponsor logos and comprising many different nationalities within each team.

Directeur Sportif- the manager of a team in the convoy of vehicles with radio contact to his riders and organising tactics, supplies , mechanical assistance and motivation.

Voiture Balai- the broom wagon or last vehicle in the convoy so  named because of the display of a witches broom to sweep up any abandoning riders.

Not forgetting the Tifosi- the cycling fans.

Allez Yorkshire

Perched on a long legged stool in the coffee shop window I had a clear view of the main pedestrian approach to the Leeds Arena.

I had arrived early, very early for the induction event for the 2014 Yorkshire Grand Depart but I could not contain my excitement surrounding the presence of the Tour de France in my home county for two days in July and my acceptance as a volunteer. I had set off from Hull allowing about 4 hours for what would normally be a 90 minute, at worst, car journey.

There was a background chatter amongst the latte's and muffins. Granted, a good proportion of the subject matter was the weekend shop and whether the rain, falling heavily outside, would put a stop to the planned barbecue in the back garden. In amongst the everyday however was a thread of conversation establishing a common interest and purpose amongst strangers centred on the summer weekend when Yorkshire would front the world sporting stage.

Many questions buzzed around the small seated groups on what was expected of the day's gathering and the forthcoming weeks when volunteer roles would be confirmed and training arranged. I glanced towards the direction of the enthusiastic voices. A mixed bunch indeed in terms of age and gender and with varying local accents which I could identify from each of the three Ridings of the county plus a bit of Lancs borders, Tees and Cumbrian lilts and neutral tones from further south showing a very wide demographic of people coming together.

There were a few obvious cyclists identified by their clutching of the current Cycling Weekly Magazine, strange sun tan line on arms and sticky up hair from airflow through an aerodynamic road helmet. I counted myself in their number by wearing my Bradley Wiggins 'T' Shirt purchased post 2012 Tour Win and worn in the middle of the Surrey countryside at the Olympic Road Race.

The rain continued to pour down splashing through the scaffolding on the Merrion Shopping Centre. A queue was developing in the sheltering overhang of the Arena more than an hour before the doors would be opened. A steady flow of cagoule clad and brolly stooped figures made the dash across the open plaza making a last minute deviation towards the straggling line or to take up a vantage point against the shiny tiled atrium of a tower block building.

I dithered unreasonably long over my sandwich and drink hoping for a break in the monsoon conditions before I made my final approach. The coffee shop population thinned gradually and I took this as my cue to join the others outside. That last few metres to the Arena was clear and open ground but in the deluge I would be rapidly saturated.

In the lee of a large building I mingled with others. It was a good spirited and excitable atmosphere. A few had been to the previous night's concert at the venue by the artist once again called Prince and remarked how well the place had scrubbed up in the elapsed 12 hours. The assembled crowd was also, by some accounts, larger than that commanded by the diminutive singer songwriter.

In the near distance the  line began to agitate and move with the opening of the doors. Supervisors checked us in and we made our way into the auditorium.

The arena, capacity about 13,000 was soon full. A combination of damp clothing and released body heat produced a distinct vapour cloud which added a big-gig type ambience to the gathering. The central stage display throbbed and strobed with a mass of multi-media predominantly green in hue from the branding of the main sponsor, Asda.

I introduced myself to immediate seated neighbours who were from Holmfirth and Huddersfield with the opener of what my allocated stage and sector was. We would be many miles apart on the day and it would be highly likely that we would never see each other again in our lifetimes but for the duration we were united in our enthusiasm for volunteering and playing a role in the greatest annual sporting event in the world. We sat back as the lights dimmed and began our adventure together.

Speechless

 Saw Michelangelo's David on the recent trip to Italy    
 I cannot put into words the experience.....................

                       

                                   

35,000 feet and a pork pie

I am generally regarded as being what they call a home-bod.

For those unfamiliar with the term it alludes to a person who rarely ventures out by choice, preferring the comforts of hearth and lounge to what could be regarded as anything more adventurous.

Some may view this in the same vein as a couch potato or lazy sloth but to those comfortable with the label it is actually a positive thing and should not be derided.

I am therefore reeling in self-amazement at what I have done and where I have been in just the last 8 days.
Take a week ago today. A nice early start to a saturday in May with a four hundred mile plus round trip to the FA Cup Final at Wembley Stadium, London. It was a long trek with a return home extending into the wee small hours not helped by the decision of contractors to dig up the M1 Motorway close to Sheffield overnight not having realised that 35,000  football fans would be making their way back up north to Hull through a crimped and pinched single lane of an otherwise three lane highway.

Within 12 hours I was again on the national motorway network but this time heading due west to Manchester and the proximity of the airport. Monday morning, early at 6am saw me on a Boeing 737-300 in economy class flying over London, Paris and the Swiss Alps into Pisa for a city break in the historic Firenze or Florence.

By friday I was back on my home territory and today I have spent the best part of the day in Leeds attending a training and induction session amongst 13,000 others for my stint as a Volunteer on Stage 2 of this years Tour de France during its Grand Depart in Yorkshire.

A momentous few days indeed with by my reckoning, and assisted by the announcement of the Jet2.com pilot for the European leg, an accumulated distance covered of 2000 miles.

Other statistics for the epic week, well, about 2 gallons of coffee, four packets of savoury snacks, three pork pies, five sandwiches either home made or shop-bought, two packets of chewing gum, a greek salad, authentic Tuscan cuisine of calzone, spaghetti carbonara and pizza, lots of bread coated in olive oil and balsamic , prunes and apricots, shredded wheat, lemon sorbet and three Tic-Tacs.

I feel that I have graduated to the status of a well seasoned traveller but after all, home is still best. I may have overdone it on the Tic-Tacs.

Renaissance Man

The usual rituals at the airport. I pat down my pockets and regularly root through and re-sort the hastily printed off travel vouchers and boarding cards for the pre-flight stage. I have had use of the overnight hotel accommodation and car park documents and place these towards the bottom of the pile. In the middle somewhere are the A4 sheets for the transfer bus upon arrival in Italy and confirmation of the booking at the grandly named Atlantic Palace Hotel although I was not aware from my schoolboy geography that Florence had any view of an ocean at all.

I feel that I have the correct clothing for travelling and not likely to look too much out of place, or just English, when stepping onto foreign soil. Slight panic about the whereabouts of my Passport until I locate it in the folds of the daily paper stuffed into the outer pocket of the suitcase.

Everything is in order.

Then I catch a glimpse of a rather chubby man in the reflection from the shiny plate glass of the Bureau de Change. He is a bit awkward looking and dishevelled in his attire and could do with a haircut. Yes, the crumpled traveller is me and the one thing that I have not achieved in the days before the trip abroad is to get a haircut.

There had been a few opportunities to get one as the pressure to complete my outstanding work projects, buy some clothes, pack and generally prepare took up all potentially idle time.

The consequence; a rather floppy fringe, scruffily thinning at the top, sticky out sides and a lot of that embarassing wavy growth around the neck and ears, not to mention a slight tint of ginger in out of control eyebrows. Altogether a let down especially with all of the other effort and expense to look sophisticatedly European.

Any of the previous confidence in my sattire evaporates which I cannot say for the newly formed beads of perspiration emerging in a tickling sensation amongst that unruly mop of hair and accompanying sprouting. I am reduced to a state of hot and bothered from cool and nonchalant.

The tone for the trip to Italy appears well and truly set. Unless........if my recollections of stereotypical Italians is not mistaken they are pretty good at a lot of things such as cooking, ice cream making, singing, playing the mandolin, football, art and somewhere deep down in my memory, hairdressing.

I am not sure of the origins of this passing thought whether down to watching old movies, associating barbers with flair and panache which the Italians have more than their fair share of or if I actually used to frequent a salon owned and run by an Italian.

As the air nozzle above my aeroplane seat further agitates and ridicules my bad hair I hatch a plan to get it sorted at the first opportunity upon arrival in Florence. The possible risks of this intention which I cannot actually quantify will certainly be far outweighed by the peace of mind of a good haircut. I convince myself of this as I doze off to the constant drone of the aircraft engines somewhere over France and The Alps before the ear-popping descent into the regional airport at Pisa.

The hot conditions in the coach on the 80km journey to Florence reduce me to a large poached blob. There is no relief on stepping out into the midday sun of the Tuscan valley which cradles the River Arno and the narrow streets stacked with Medieval buildings. I bump my wheeled case down the steps of a subway which gives safe passage under the busy intersection of the city centre road network. The air is slightly cooler and I linger awhile which goes against the nature of most British people when forced to use a subway on home territory. The subterranean passage is actually broad and well lit and built into the walls are a series of lock up shop units with one being a barbers. The tariff displayed in the window does not exceed 20 Euros for anything listed in Italian which gives me some assurance of not blowing my holiday money on vanity. The small salon is empty of customers and I wander in.

The proprietor is what can be described as young and trendy. It is quickly established that we share no common language whatsoever. In fact we do not appear to have any shared experiences to draw on. I make an attempt at representing, in hand movements, the phrase "short back and sides, please" but this is met with the universal raised hand of incomprehension. There are no style magazines lying around for reference which I find a bit unusual. In spite of the barrier of nationality, age and everything else I am directed to take a seat and am quickly swathed in towels and an oversized bib.

The music is cranked up to blistering. I take this to be a combination of standard working practice and avoidance of any attempt at dialogue. The actions of the scissors are swift and skillful and I am reassured that the barber has served his time in a similar environment. A bit worrying is the firing up of the clipper shears and the attachment of what looks to be a number 2 or even a number 1 cutter. My lank hair falls in clumps onto the shop floor and I can see my scalp and the shape of my skull in the mirror. I am powerless to stop the routine that I have set in motion. A sharp blade is stuck onto the end of a Stanley Knife and in a scraping action any residual tufts are deftly removed.

In a  flamboyant fluorish I am informed that I am done.

My reticence and hesitation half way through appears foolish given that I have just had the best ever haircut in my life. I think ahead to my planned visit to the Galleria to see the sculpture of David by Michelangelo with a  determination to make a close study for the tell tale signs that my barber had some ancestors assisting in that great work of scale and art in some way.

The Lives of Florentine Bikes

Bikes left locked up on the streets of Florence, Italy. Some are evidently in everyday use for commuting and leisure

A few of the tighter corners in the winding Medieval streets leave bicycles at risk from passing traffic

The grass grows quickly in the warm climate and if left for only a few days the bicycles blend into the foliage

Just beyond the old Fort Walls may be seen as a safer daily refuge.

Smarter bicycles are parked so as to be seen and admired, skirt guards are always in vogue

It is as though the frames blend into one another, a fusion of butted alloy tubings

Lock it or lose it is the same in any language, even the lyrical romanticism of native Italian

First Prize in the Competition for neatest Florentine bike park. 

The road rises steeply on the far bank of the Arno River. These bikes are just by the Ponte Vecchio

A family group

A few bicycles make their own way in the world

Some do not

(Florence/ Firenze- May 2014)

        In Memory of my Father, Donald. Amongst his many attributes he valued a good bike.

En Vacances

Alright. Bigger clue this time.

On my Hols

Just away for a few days.

Guess the place.

Tiger Feat. I LLLLLLove them

A grown man in a tiger onesie. He was wandering about against the flow of his fellow Hull City Supporters after the FA Cup Final. I can imagine that he must have been seriously overheated and de-hydrated based on my working knowledge of the performance of a cheap garment of purely synthetic material. That physiological factor alone could easily account for his erratic movement across the upper walkway. The rolled fabric tail hung forlornly down albeit with a slight metronome rhythm induced by the rolling gait.

OAP's had somehow been persuaded, perhaps by an accompanying  grandchild, to have their faces painted in classic tiger print. I don't think that I have ever seen a geriatric big cat but suspect that such great animals have a bit of natural dignity and just don't go out anywhere when not at their absolute best.

Elvis is from Hull and regularly attends big matches. Apparently.

In the 1980's and 1990's Hull City pioneered a range of football strips which make current flashy and flamboyant team issues look the equivalent of drab beige. Imagine if you can a gawdy, tiger skin print with tight swirls and detail and variations thereon. Opposing teams were reported as feeling ill when confronted by a fast moving attacking midfielder. A now rare assortment of those classic kits was proudly on show but with a public warning not to stare for too long for fear of a mesmeric attack.


Just a normal away-day for the City of Culture.

Fashion and Folly

Fashion. It changes rapidly.

I just don't. 

My personal wardrobe has remained pretty much the same for the last decade or more. 

I find that comforting. My wife finds it exasperating. I have had new clothes but if they are not Teflon coated, fire-proof, tear-proof or oil resistant then they never seem to last long. I do scrub up quite well when required and I do have some perception of what is to be expected of a man of my mature years in terms of hygiene and grooming. 

The most recent additions to my clothing collection, or rather collection of clothing have been functional and practical rather than shall we say stylish and sophisticated. I feel that they say a lot about me and what I am about. 

I tend not to venture out with an intention to purchase items but more go on an impulse. The special offers emblazoned across the display windows of TK Max and Primark do warrant a second look although it is true to say that any recent acquisitions have been bought for me, gifted at birthday or have just turned up on when dressing up is required for a high day, holy day, funeral or court appearance. I should qualify the last event being something to do with work and not a moral or other lapse on my part. 

Most recent? 

Well, a very effective high tec, moisture wicking away base layer garment that I wear for my cycling exploits. Prior to this revelation of fabric wonderment I would return home from a ride out like boil in the bag man, hot, sweaty and altogether bright red and unhealthy. The contrast now is amazing. I still weigh the same, perspire the same and yet I remain beautifully dry and therefore calm and a lesser tone of red. I have not studied the scientific explanation for this radical improvement in conditions and my performance. It is probably the equivalent of taking enhancing drugs even just for a ride up and down the route of the old East Coast railway line. Where that excess moisture goes, for it must surely still be produced by my efforts, I have no idea. It is not apparently converted into another waste product. I have no sensation of a trickling into my cycling shorts or into my socks and shoes. I am not followed along the track by a vapour cloud. I can skirt around promenading dogs without noticeably attracting a second glance or curious sniffing. It is truly a modern miracle of fibres and their weaving. 

Prior to that space-age garment I did splash out on some work shirts as I do tend to run them into the ground even with a reasonable rotation of wear and wash. I am in fact most comfortable in my two piece suit with formal collar and tie which does draw attention for the novelty of it in a modern working environment. It serves as my uniform and I am very rarely challenged for identification or quizzed on the purpose of my wanderings in and out of buildings and people's homes in the course of my day. In some areas of the town I am often mistaken as a policeman if wearing a white shirt and dark tie. This can cause some strange behaviour amongst those with something to hide or feel guilty about. I tend to perpetuate that perception by casually glancing in the direction of any congregating group or furtive individuals with my best impression of an inquisitive TV detective. 

Other items in my wardrobe are what you would call impulse buys. Merchandise from concerts features highly although I have not ever worn a tour t shirt in public. They do tend to be a bit garish and most of the performers have subsequently retired, gone bust, been imprisoned or have just gone out of the public eye.

Christmas is a good source of new clothes. My wife always gets me trousers and best shirt but they are usually ragged and tatty by the early new year. My brother in law hands me down a lot of trendy stuff and one of my favourite casual shirts is one donated by him from what must be 15 years ago. 

There is something reassuring about a pile of familiar clothes hung up or loosely arranged in the bottom of a cupboard. 

Each and every one has some association with a family event, a day out, a night in, a particular emotion, a good laugh or a long hard cry. 

If you look at photographs of me over the last two decades you might think that they were in fact taken on one single day because I am always dressed the same. Trusty Chino's and that checked green generously fitting shirt mostly. 

Having a fixed  range of clothes does have its distinct advantages. Take today. Wembley trip for the FA Cup Final with my team Hull City up against the mighty Arsenal. 

In 2008 I went to the Championship Play-Off Final at the same venue with my late Father, Phil and Peter for what turned out to be one of the greatest day trips in my and the club's history. A momentous moment with the winning goal bursting the net and two seasons in the Premier League. 

I am not naturally superstitious but being garment-challenged I can be assured of one important thing. My lucky pants from that day are alive and well and up for another airing. Hurrah, C'mon you 'Ull.

Post Apocalyptic Practicalities. A brief guide in pictures

                                          A pictorial guide to prepare for something apocalyptic.

                             Establish a mountain retreat. Excavate tunnels, chambers and burrows.

                        Get a tight fitting cover to the entrance to exclude zombies, aliens, survivors. 

                        Your supplies must be a varied range covering all nutritional needs and treats

                              The absolute essentials should be suitably stored in a dry,secure atmosphere

                            It is alright to stockpile a favourite tipple. Alcohol units will cease to be an issue

                        Sanitary facilities should be as good as you can achieve with zero water pressure

                           A luxurious retro-bathroom may distract you from the misery and horror generally

                       Keep a suitable vehicle fuelled up at a separate secure location, practical, not flash

                     A subtle barricade further in the valley could give precious seconds to repel raiders

                             Gather your precious possessions. They could be legal tender one day

                         Pass your spare time with, say, a creative art project using available resources

                       It may be a good opportunity to write that novel that you always wanted to do.

                       Keep special bonuses for special occasions-say, first 12 months underground

                                         Never underestimate the value of reliable cooking equipment

                     Music can be an essential form or relaxation. Avoid unhappy tunes

                             Keep an ear out for any indications of salvation or return of atmosphere

                                                        It does no harm to dream.

                             Share it with the person that you love the most in your brave new world

                               Above ground may have reverted to a strange hierarchy of beasts

                                              It won't hurt to just pray a bit either

'Kinnell, what's going on?

My attention span when younger was not very good. 

In fact it was between 25 and 30 minutes. I blame the TV scheduling in my formative years when the average programme was of that duration or in the case of those animated features just before weekday tea times as short as 5 minutes-thank you Hector the house, Captain Pugwash and Crystal Tips. I fully absolve, of course, Roobarb the dog and Custard the cat of any contribution to my attention deficit disorder as it probably was labelled many years later. 

In 1982 a drama series on the small screen make quite an impression on me and I managed to sit through all of the 5 part broadcast. 

It was Boys from the Black Stuff. 

It was one of those gritty and raw televisual experiences which to me, a middle class 19 year old, really pushed me out of my comfort zone. 

I was politically naive living in a nice, quiet market town of apparent affluence and full employment but yet the country at large was at 3 million out of work. This was the highest level since the depression of the 1930's and with a bubbling undertone of poverty, social injustice and industrial decline. 

The original work by Alan Bleasdale had emerged in 1978 as a short Play for Today illustrating that there were already problems in British Society and the national economy even before the watershed of blame usually reserved for the Government of Margaret Thatcher. The Tory party in power just added to the relevance of the issues and sentiments over the previous three years. 

The setting for the characters and the stage for the playing out of their stories was Liverpool but it could have been rolled out in any city or conurbation of the period. 

The Boys from the Black Stuff were a tarmac labouring gang with the inspiration being family and relatives of Bleasdale. Theirs was a constant battle against officialdom, specifically the Department of Social Security Benefit Fraud Inspectors, as survival in a bleak, job starved  market inevitably involved moonlighting and doing work for cash in hand whilst still drawing the dole. The Liverpool of 1982 had 1 in 5 unemployment. The Labour Exchanges were full of white working class males, skilled and unskilled, waiting to sign on and go through the demoralising and impersonal process of questioning and justifying their existence. The DSS were portrayed very badly in their inflexibility and protocols although Bleasdale had been very well advised by a disaffected former member of staff whose motivation to eventually quit was the relentless hounding and chasing of the poorest claimants for mere pennies. This contrasted sharply with the excesses of the City Bankers and the new Stavros "loads of money" culture. 

The main characters of the drama struck a distinct chord with the viewing public. They were ordinary working people thrust into desperate times and regarded as mere collateral damage by a Government intent on destroying the Unions under the guise of modernising the economy. Driven to illegality, fiddling the social, violence and to the edge of madness and depression some semblance of faith in their class, hopes and dreams still managed to cling on. 

Bleasdale was determined not to produce a documentary type basis for the storylines and in fact the overriding dramatic form was more operatic in the comedic mode not out of place in a Shakespearian or Thackeray play. The writing was sharp, thought provoking, melancholy and tear jerking in the extreme but humour was never far below the surface. As someone once said of Liverpudlians- they are all born comedians. The city had in previous decades thrived on the Mersey Beat generation, The Beatles, Pop Culture and a succession of renowned performers and celebrities. Liverpool was bubbling and happy. A few years before Boys from the Black Stuff one of the most popular BBC TV shows was the Liver Birds, a light and airy production. 

The new image in the bleak 1980's served as a shock to the perception of the city and its population. The relegation of the Liverpool workers as portrayed was swift and ruthless. As one of the characters says he had become "a second class citizen, a second rate man, no job, no place". 

There is a particularly poignant exchange between the husband and wife who made up one of the main sub-stories. Times are hard and there is little money and food coming into the house. The wife bemoans that there is "half a tub of marg, mondays milk and a pound of dead lettuce". The man replies that they will save on the electricity but the wife retaliates with "until they come and cut that off". Defiantly her husband states that "At least they can't cut me off- that's your job". The final words rests with the wife "I can't cut off what you haven't got". 

A laugh out loud moment in perfect balance is when in a downward spiral the lead character goes to see a Priest. Respectful and humble towards the clergyman he is asked to call him by his Christian name, Dan. The heartpouring of "I'm desperate Dan" is a laugh out loud moment amongst the misery and depression. 

The catchphrase of the cult figure of Yossa Hughes of "Gizza Job" was bandied about from the school playground to the workplace and became firmly entrenched in popular culture of the time and to the present day. 

Today there are fresh contemporary problems and the various political parties are attempting to gain momentum and a greater share of the vote through seemingly championing English jobs for English workers, anti-immigration and the influence either positive or negative of the EU. 

The series now 32 years old however remains relevant to current times in that the same issues prevail of unemployment, industrial decline and personal problems of money and the cumulative affect of realtionships and morale. The engagement of the 1982 British Public with the sentiments of Boys from the Black Stuff has not been replicated  in any drama production since which is a tremendous homage to the reality portrayed by Bleasdale and the cast. 

When asked if the programme would be made in 2014 Britain , Bleasdale modestly stated that the miserable storyboard would not get past the commissioning stage. The British Public demand more from their entertainment although perhaps and with sadness this is a reflection of the ultimate demise of working class culture. This is a strange phenomena given that ours is a time when the voiceless disenfranchised are becoming even more alienated which can only lead to rifts and fissures in our social base. 

Lacking in the Middle Wicket Department

I must have a gene missing.

I am English, born in Buckinghamshire, know most of the words for Jerusalem and can get a bit emotional if our nation acheives great things in sport.  My warm feelings can be quite expansive on seeing a home based cyclist triumph in the World Championships or if our domestic football teams take on and win against the usually more technical and skilful European teams.

I am sorry to say however that I just do not get cricket.

Such an admission , say 100 years ago will have done for any career aspirations I may have had in the Civil Service and 50 years ago in the Diplomatic Corps. I did have a Grammar School education with cricket being a mainstay of the summer term, and by default even got to play in a proper match against another similar establishment. At other times I would be volunteered to keep score. This involved sitting on a deckchair in front of the pavilion, yes we had our own such building from the 1930's on the school field, with a large score book ledger in which, in a series of binary strokes I would record balls per over, runs per over and the extra things, called extras where there was a no-ball or a by.

Essential equipment for this task was a pencil eraser. Fortunately for the morale and fortitude of the cricketers there was always a Master sat adjacent who would tell me what to write and when. His patience and calm demeanour were quite admirable given my obvious disinterest and incompetence. He was a true follower of the sport and I could see him fidget and grimace with each ball bowled as though he was out on the crease himself. Periodically he would exclaim admiration at a good shot or display of fielding followed by polite clapping of the hands which I always likened to a chip pan just reaching the temperature for the sliced potatoes to go in.

If I was typical for the student intake at the school then cricket was doomed to die out due to lack of ability and interest. To instil us in the sport we were introduced to playing cricket in the summer term and on a warmish, dry and breezy wednesday games lesson it could be quite pleasant an experience unless you were stood in the direct firing line  for one of the most barbaric weapons in existence- the cricket ball.

An evil thing. Red leather, raised ribbed stitching, hard and heavy. I was immediately alerted to the hazards associated with gravity and a cricket ball as I ran about madly to try to catch a high arching strike during a practice session. The ball plummeted through the humid air, gathering momentum before smacking painfully through my prayerful upturned hands and passing through with still enough velocity to embed itself on my thigh leaving an almost perfect imprint of leather on skin and tendon. Ouch, as I exclaimed at the time.

There was no sympathetic response for my pain, just a lecture on what I had done wrong. This was followed by a personal training session on what I can only describe as a torture rack. Where it lived during the 10 months of the year when it had no use was a mystery. A low wrought iron frame supported a cradle of engineered wooden strips in a shallow bowl. It was a bit like a park bench but after sat upon by the worlds heaviest person. A cricket ball, thrown with vigour into the contraption would take the contour line of the wood and shoot out the other side like a slingshot with the intention for the recipient or target to attempt a catch. Without the commensurate concentration the experience was startling and shocking.

Some of my peers were excellent cricketers. They fully embraced the tradition and knew all the terminology and ritualistic procedure. We were also forced to practice in the cricket nets which I felt akin to being a coconut on a fairground shy. The good players revelled in throwing down a bouncing ball of maiming potential to invoke utter panic or if taking up the bat sending a rocket missile back up the netted corridor leaving a small window of opportunity to dive for cover.

Some sense was made of cricket when relatives of my father took me to a first class match involving Somerset and Middlesex in the early 1970's. I had been invited to keep another young guest company. He was very posh and evidently a big enthusiast but quite gracious in providing authoritative answers to some , quite frankly, stupid questions and queries that I raised. I remember that it was a good day out, very civilised and polite.

The mystery of cricket however persists in my mind. The end of the football season in May heralds the start of the cricket and I am sorry to say that I remain cold and unemotional to it. 

Is there something wrong with me?

(re-issued from 2 years ago to the day)

The L.F Hum in the room

In the 1980’s a number of residents of Bristol, enough to be called a cluster, brought to the attention of the media the phenomenon known as “The Bristol Hum”.

This was described by the complainants as comprising a low frequency noise or a dull drone although there were as many descriptions as the numbers of those reporting it. The common affliction had reached the status of having its own name after people on the bus, in the shopping malls or just out and about in the city compared notes and agreed on the form of the sound although in reality individuals attributed it to things in their own local areas including ventilation fans on a brewery building, cooling towers on an industrial site or the convergence of main roads and motorways through the Portishead corridor.

What was a constant amongst the Hum Believers was that the low frequency sounds were there all of the time, would not go away and made their lives miserable. The vast majority of Bristolians however appeared wholly oblivious of the torment of the minority.

Monitoring by Environmental Health, Sound Engineers and other Specialists could not detect anything that could be controlled by existing legislation with the conclusion that there was no such thing as the Bristol Hum.

This was no comfort to those who continued to lose sleep, have a disturbed night or feel a slight madness coming on. Drastic measures taken to try to beat the buzz included insulating under beds, re-orientating the position of the bed, going away for prolonged holidays, considering moving from the area and a few resorted to sleeping in their cars or garden sheds.

Here is the science bit.

The elusive hum is part of the Infrasound spectrum. This resonates at around 50 Hertz or cycles per second although in some studies frequencies have been as high as 80 Hertz and as low as 20 Hertz. What is clear is that the sounds are difficult to locate. In addition to conventional sound the low frequencies can also exert pressure on the human ear but in a wide and flat sound band there is no real difference in perception by either left or right aural sensors making the positioning and discerning unclear thereby adding to the confusion.

Audiologists have divided those sensitive to Infrasound into three groups. The first are those who have low frequency tinnitus often mistaking humming sounds as coming from external sources such as noisy neighbours. The second group have enhanced sensitivity to low frequency but for no apparent reason although stress and anxiety are cited as catalysts. The third group have an awareness of a specific low frequency signal, not necessarily intense but enough to cause a nuisance.

 In less enlightened times in history those insistent on describing noises not detectable by others were at risk of being locked up or burnt at the stake. We may feel that we have the trappings of a more civilised, rational and tolerant society but there is still little sympathy and understanding of the suffering of the minority by those who should be administering some relief through medicine, counselling and therapy.

There are some signs of a slow improvement in the attitude of the caring sector towards Infrasound sensitivity but if the hum does not fall within the guidelines and parameters of Environmental Health and other Statutory Powers on noise and anti-social behaviour then very little can be done.

Infrasound is a powerful source.

The eruption of Krakatoa sent low frequency sounds on five circumnavigations of the earth. In the man made world the sounds of Concorde in full supersonic mode were detected over a 7000 miles distance.

We should not forget the purpose of the human sense of sound. Whilst it is taken for granted as a means of listening to music, communicating and media immersion it’s prime purpose in evolving Man was as an audio early warning system. Any unrecognisable or strange sounds still activate the fight or flight electrical signals in the brain although in modern life we are overwhelmed by noise from every quarter. Everyday life exposes us to low frequency emissions from power lines, underground trains, electricity transformers, industrial processes and traffic amongst many others.

The source of that annoying and disturbing hum and therefore something to blame for it is, however, as elusive as ever. 

If we cannot identify a cause for a specific problem then it tends to assume a magical, mystical and unworldly quality and we can hide behind such things as an explanation even if it is not a satisfactory one.  

Auckland in New Zealand had an outbreak of headaches and nausea attributable to a Hum Hotspot in recent years and scientists claimed to have isolated and recorded the offending sound. When broadcast via the internet those reporting feeling ill agreed almost unanimously that the low frequency drone was the one that had been heard. No specific source was ever attributed.

Conspiracy Theorists have sought an explanation of the phenomena through the use of Infrasound by the military as a weapon. Experimental research in the Cold War Years was indeed carried out but abandoned as it was not possible to adequately contain, concentrate and deploy a low freqiuency signal against an enemy and the risks of collateral damage were too high. There have been considered applications in crowd control in that a burst of sound can cause vomiting and diarrhoea but the potential contravention of Human Rights and common decency towards another human being fortunately still prevail.

There is a growing consensus amongst those who have studied the Infrasound subject that it may be individuals who are sensitised in a similar way to those with specific allergic reactions to certain substances. Therapies to deal with sensitivity to the hum have been based on trying to re-tune the brain using relaxation techniques and digitalised sounds of rainfall, rivers and oceans have been successful in screening out the low frequency annoyances.

One documented case study emphasises the ongoing difficulty in pinpointing any one specific cause. A continuous hum was a distraction to a resident of Chelmsford, Essex who had recently moved back to the UK after many years abroad. He had had no previous problems but this particular noise was a distraction every night causing loss of sleep and anxiety. The man took to wandering around the local area after dark trying to find the source with candidates being a grain dryer, power transformers and ventilation fans at a nearby Golf Club. None of his family and friends were aware of any sound annoyances. After 12 months it was a case of moving away to another area, this time some distance away in the Midlands. The new residence in a town was intended to introduce a general level of background noise in an attempt to screen out the hum. Agonisingly the same noise was present although with subtle differences. He was still awoken at 2am but now with the unwelcome side affects of teeth chattering and whole body resonance. Monitoring through conventional sources drew a blank. The Midlands residence was a newer property than that occupied in Chelmsford and the hum victim began to research modern construction methods and materials as a probable cause.

There may be some justification in this line of enquiry given the interaction between components in a typical house from the cavity wall to internal plasterboard, stud work and scope for resonance and vibration. The unfortunate man is now on the move again and is looking to carry on his experiment in a stone walled and thatched house next. If that fails to explain the suffering and torment then there are proposals to travel overseas again, stand on a mountainside, in the desert, on an ice-cap and on an island to try to make sense of the whole thing.