Allo, Allo, Allo. Qu'est-ce que nous avons ici, alors?

The Grand Depart of the 2014 Tour de France in Yorkshire will be safeguarded by the special race escort services of the Gendarmerie who will arrive en-masse in God's Own Country ahead of the stages starting from Leeds and York.

The contingent from the Garde Republicaine have an illustrious history having been founded in 1802 by Napoleon Bonaparte and in their modern role acting as custodians of the Elysee Palace and with responsibility for dignatories both domestic and foreign. Based in the French capital their uniform carries the Parisian coat of arms. One important difference from their duties on the continent will be the absence of their sidearm weapons which, under UK jurisdiction, have had to be left at the border.

They will be working alongside the huge team of the home-based organisation and liaising with police and attendant services as well as the 10,000 plus Tour Maker Volunteers who have been trained up to act on and off the route on the two stages of the race taking in the beautiful but challenging  Yorkshire scenery.

The Gendarmerie, likely to consist of two command vehicles and upwards of forty motorcycles will be a very visible presence on the race forming a protective cocoon around the convoy of 440 vehicles and the peleton of the best major Tour riders of their generation.

Their essential role is to scrutinise the route on a live action basis being alert to any intrusions on the closed roads and check off the already well documented and extremely detailed schedule of everyday road obstacles and street furnishings from traffic islands to speed bumps, crossing points, any surviving potholes and the whole range of signage, lamp posts and barriers that can be found on a typical English carriageway.

There can also be a potential risk from those attempting to enter the race route from their private house driveways although given the publicity and level of awareness surrounding the prestigious event as it passes through Yorkshire the number of those oblivious to something going on should be minimal.

In many previous Tours de France the Gendarmes have also been on foot acting as flag and route marshalls at key points. They have been an integral part of the Tour for many years home and abroad and will add further character to the race on English soil.

Copaca-barmy

They were a close group of friends.

It was one of those freakish combination of events that had brought them to this point in their young lives.
If you had the time, inclination and resources you might be able to track back through perhaps two or more generations of their relatives and plot how good fortune, misfortune, mishap or just sheer good luck had put those individuals in a particular place at a specific time and which started the chain of events to this very point.

If money was no problem you could even investigate genetic lines to indicate any predisposition to atheticism, agility, good hand to eye co-ordination and many other physical and mental traits that were a characteristic of the 8 youngsters.

The permutations behind such matters of conjecture numbered in their millions or could be further complicated by human migration cross country or across continents, freewill or enforced decisions, the prospect of illness and infertility, war, famine, pestilence and just plain accidental death.

In the timeframe of just two generations the most common cause of fatalities in their part of the world included gunshot wounds, being trampled by a herd of cows, drinking unadulterated ethanol spirit, falling off a horse, being crushed by a falling tree and venereal disease.

Life expectancy was a little over 40 years of age anyway and so a premature demise by other means than natural did not present too many difficulties in choice if any sort of an active life was sought .
A bleak picture so far for the distant relatives of our gang of eight.

Oh, I forgot to mention the hazards presented by the environment ranging from a risk of being swept away in a flash flood or landslip, scorched in a wildfire, falling through the earth's crust in a quake, struck by lightning, deep frozen in drifting snow, petrified in ash in a volcanic eruption or swept out to sea by a freakish wave.
Death could approach in the seemingly innocent guise of a sore throat, slight initial fever, yellowish skin tint, a burst or rupture of a vital organ, headache, itchy rash or with no prior warning before hitting the ground hard and for the final time.

Children born into this heritage and surviving to maturity were to be celebrated and what better way to give them a good head start in life than to give them a strong and distinctive name.

Our eight heroes possessed such names.

Dante, the oldest bore the name of a medieval scholar and writer from the other side of the world but picked out by proud parents themselves brought up in the catholic faith. His namesake had served the church well by putting the fear of God into the hearts and minds of the masses.

Victor, second eldest of the group was so named after the outcome of civil and political struggles in the history of the nation and in which various distant relatives had no doubt fought and possibly on opposing sides.

Maxwell was named after a brand of coffee made from the produce of the family plantation.

Bernard. A common name passed down through the male line of this particular family although its origins were lost to those of advanced years but still with a lucid living memory albeit of hazy and mixed up faces, times, places and people.

Oscar's parents had met in a darkened and intimate picture house back in their home town both being fans of the big screen. The issue of a boy and heir, out of wedlock, was frowned upon but their joy was unfettered by convention and they awarded themselves their own  academy award for best baby in the world.

Jo was a common shortened form in the South Americas of the ever popular and reverential Joseph with the choice in later life whether to maintain the two letter form or upgrade.

Fred's naming was a bit of a mystery. No-one else in the genealogical representation of that family had been called Fred, Frederick, Fredo, Alfred or even Freda on the maternal side. An uncle had, at one time, owned a tortoise called Fred but to think that perpetuating the memory of a reptile in a human family member was ridiculous. There had been rumours and hearsay about an affair between said Uncle, subsequently despatched on a long but non-specific journey, and the soon to be Fred's mother some 9 months before but never proven apart from an uncanny resemblance in certain facial features between the two.

The last and youngest of the intrepid band could in no way be confused in name with any other member. Indeed, apart from a well known comic book character and ability to mutate into a large , when angered or provoked, green coloured creature there were no other known namesakes. The lad even in his adolescent years did in his large build frame share a trait with the unfortunate graphic creation of the artists at Marvel and his mother and father did consider him too, to be rather incredible.

His presence amongst the eight was a perfect compliment to the cumulative skills and abilities and so Hulk, Dante, Victor, Maxwell, Oscar, Bernard, Fred and Jo had found their way to making up the backbone of the 2014 Brazil World Cup Football Squad.

Pulling the Other One

I have picked up a sporting injury.

Well, at least that is my side of the story.

In fact I am a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.

In the first place it is one of those leg muscle strains that has no outward signs of trauma or pain. It has, consequently,  been up to me to convey to passers-by, the casually inquisitive and my family a reasonable representation of the  shooting pains that have sent me into spasms and convulsions.

I cannot remember the previous incidence of an injury which I take to be good for a male of my age, body shape and resultant weighting imposed on limbs and joints. In a brief moment of being still and stationary  I get the impression that the affliction has healed itself only to be plunged into a distressed state once more by any slight movement. I have developed a laboured leg dragging limp which resembles that adopted by Kevin Spacey in "The Usual Suspects" movie but try as I can there is no immediate prospect of it gradually diminishing into a fast and nimble pace.

This has produced a range of reactions amongst those who have known me for a few years. Under my reduced mobility I was late for a meeting and the individual whom I have done business with for about 20 years had come out onto the street to look for me. He could not believe that the person approaching in a very slow and deliberately cautious manner was me and indeed before I had come into full focus he had offered forward a prayer for the poor wretch with apparently not much going for him in the world.

My family have been understandably concerned particularly as I am known to always be active and very rarely seen with feet up and at leisure. They have not though come to terms with my current injury and have continued to make requests for this and that, such and so-forth fully expecting for everything to be done instantly.

I have tried to conceal my lack of mobility by accepting to do my usual tasks and doing my best to undertake the responsibilities of my position in the household. What would normally be a short hop, skip and jump to the local Tesco Express for vital ingredients for a meal already well under production turned into journey of epic proportions.

The uneveness in the pavement became as major topographical features. Kerbs were as vertical cliff faces. Crossing the road and avoiding traffic was like dodging protruding rocks in rapid white waters. Everything else on a level plane was just tiring in the extreme. It was almost the case of sending out a search party in the absence of the wine, mixed spice and......oh, yes...me.

My working day was also not without obstacles and difficulties. There was some relief in driving in that there was little direct weight to be carried by the strained muscle and miniscule vertical or lateral movement. The problems came with getting in and out of the car and negotiating all of the other aspects involved with inspecting a house. The occupants were very sympathetic to my plight and most attentive in making sure that there were no child's toys or domestic pets potentially under foot. This made me feel a bit better and being buoyed by such support seemed to boost my adrenalin and stamina.

I should really have been laid up and resting the injured part but a busy schedule prevented such a luxury.

Through all of the above I maintained my story of a sporting injury. It was partly true. I had been out riding trails on my mountain bike and had covered 40 miles. My old limbs do tend to ache after such exertion and the occasional twinges and cramps on ascending a steep slope on the route were a reminder of my age.
Recovery time after such a ride is also now much longer. I do eat sensibly and have shed a few pounds through a mainly fruit salad and no picking diet in recent weeks in order to put less strain on my body.

It was in pursuit of a healthy meal that I found myself, after the ride, walking back from the shops with two carrier bags of nutritious and nourishing foodstuffs. On making my way through the Park I somehow caught my foot on a raised part of the road camber, stumbled forward and this action in extending to its very limit the elasticity of the muscle tissue prompted the excruciating pain. Those in proximity did glance around in my direction which I put down to their hearing a popping or twanging sound from my lower right leg. It took a further ten minutes to get into the house although only a mere few metres away from the incident.

I have felt foolish and not a little bit feeble and old by the whole experience.

The things we do for our sport indeed.

Looking Forward to Behaving Badly

I am looking forward to growing old disgracefully. It is, being of senior status, a good excuse to be many things that in a younger person would be regarded as disagreeable, outrageous and downright anti-social.

One argument for such behaviour is that the older generation deserve the right to be so inclined simply because they have survived to assume the role of Elders and purveyors of wise counsel.

Some just act and behave badly for the sheer hellraising thrill. Sometimes you may come across someone who has aged calmly, respectfully and desires naught but a quiet existence. It is a time, after a frenetic working life, to sit and read, listen to music, visit relatives, dote on grandchildren and, oh, yes, of being more likely, statistically, to start a boundary dispute with neighbours, get involved in campaigns against ethnic minorities, planning issues and young unmarried mothers and to champion wide open spaces and endangered wildlife to name but a few areas of focus.

On a Wednesday, in particular, which tends to be the busiest in my working week I am amazed by the sheer numbers of the retired population out and about in large rambling groups, on tandem bicycles or in two seater convertible sports cars. Single handedly this sector of the population is supporting the pub food industry, Milletts outdoor Supplies and the Mazda Car Corporation. It is an effort to be celebrated unless of course the outdoor activities come with a home made packed lunch, already owned hiking boots, cagoules and ski-poles and a compact beige coloured hatchback rather than a speedy roadster. Such things will not pull the nation out of recession but may favour the balance of payments.

I am not sure what group of senior citizens to adopt as my prospective role model.

That was until this last weekend when I became convinced that my future image and persona as a retiree should be based on the Mancunian Punk Poet, John Cooper Clarke, aged 64.

He is, and indeed, has always been a diminutive figure of a man. Lean, almost garden cane dimension spindly legs in drainpipe jeans, a shock of unruly frizzled hair and huge round lens sunglasses.

In fact, he has not changed much at all since I first came across him in the pages of NME and Smash Hits in the mid to late 1970's.

In the interim he has done well to outlive a drug fuelled diet and other excesses and did, on stage in York last Saturday night, remark that his friends were aghast at how much weight he had put on since his recent and successful rehab. On a proportional basis his friends could be right as an increase from about 5 stone to 6 stone is excessive.

He is a complete live wire. He hops around the stage between a small table laden high with his life's work of poems and observations and the microphone which he works with the skill of a frontman.

The audience are a good mix of those knowledgeable of his extensive back catalogue, the curious, those who have him on their list to see before he dies and a few who were only there to see the other acts on show including John Shuttleworth, impresario and keyboard wizard.

The works of John Cooper Clarke will be familiar to many of a certain age group.  In my mind, impressionable and formative in the late 1970's I recall his innovative  "Splat rhymes with Twat".

To a teenager as I was in that period the works of the rebellious and controversial performer could be savoured by playing his poems complete with their driving rock and roll backing track at full volume to annoy parents and siblings.

It was clever lyrically, mesmerising in rhythm and struck just the right tone of indifference mixed with outrage at the social and economic events of those tempestuous and uncertain times in the UK.

Performance artists were not afraid to show their political affiliations back in the day which contrasts sharply with current, spoon fed, sanitised and politically correct efforts.

It was not by any means superficial or sensationalist in form and content. It was just the truth which was held by a good proportion of the young population but fettered from expressing themselves by poor education, authority, suppression by the police and just being unemployed and hard up.

A few sparks did fly with the inner city riots in the early 1980's, support for the miners and later against the imposition of the Poll Tax. John Cooper Clarke captured that feeling and spirit of the generation aptly and with a rock star charisma.

The years subsequently may have seen him sidelined from his former role as a voice for the downtrodden and he was conspicuous by his absence from public life for a couple of decades but he has always written and archived the important issues.

His delivery of the spoken word remains hypnotic. There may be a slight stumbling over the staccato pronunciation and there is a reliance on reading his work from his holy scrolls but each poem was concluded with a full recollection from memory. He definitely still has it  up there in his rats nest of a hairstyle.

The prospect of my sporting a similarly striking and distinctive full head of hair is long gone and looking ahead to retirement there will be even less under current rates of receding action.

I can however work on the body shape, although realistically only after a serious and debilitating illness or self abuse, and the sophisiticated fashion sense as long as shoes, trousers, shirt and blazer can be sourced from my usual outlets of Hush Puppy, Farah slacks, Van Heusen and Marks and Spencer.

Hijacking some of  the inimitable words of John Cooper Clarke I am looking forward to being a F****** Pensioner and behaving F****** badly.

I do retain some good manners and the asterisks are only there for impact as I only really mean Flippin'.

Ya Big Jesse!

I have Scottish ancestors on my father's side consisting of my Gran from the far northern fishing town of Wick and my Grandfather from similar parts.

Consequently, I have deep rooted genes which dictate that I go all dewy eyed whenever I hear the bagpipes, know by heart the words of Auld Lang Syne, can fashion a passable porridge from scratch and there are distinct ginger tones in an attempted or lazy growth of facial hair. Although of generous intentions I can be quite frugal and tight with money.

As head of my branch of the family I have also tried to perpetuate Scottish type traditions with observance of such rituals as first-footing at New Years and the cooking of Haggis, neeps and tatties on Burns Night.

I am the proud owner of a kilt in which I was wed but have not been able to secure around my middle-aged girth for some years now. It is brought out on special occasions to prove to incredulous friends that indeed I did honour my Scottish heritage and is always well received. In fact many have commented that the Thomson Tartan weave is quite familiar but they are not sure why. I gloss over the fact that the reason for the deja-vu moment is that Vauxhall cars used the pattern for seat covers in their Astra model hatchbacks in the late 1970's and early 1980's.

We have enjoyed many a family vacation in the Old Country regardless of the blood sucking intentions of the midge population.

That moment of approaching and then crossing the border from England to Scotland, in itself a bit of an anti-climax really, has in recent years been celebrated by the playing on the Car CD of a certain evocative and emotional track- that of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae.

It first came to public attention in, I think, 1978 or 1979 after a video version was broadcast on the Channel 4 media and music show of The Tube presented by Jools Holland and the late Paula Yates.

In it an armour clad Jesse Rae wields his broadsword on the top of a Highland Peak and then appears in the same attire on top of a New York skyscraper with the ill fated twin towers just visible in the misty distance. The lyrics, in the terminology of a Sociologist, rue the day that proud Scots were forced to leave their homes and make their way in the brave new world.

The theme and sound of the track remains quite unique and many may recall it on the basis of my description although in fact it did not do much in the very competitive pop charts of that time.

For my 40th birthday my wife sought out a supplier of the otherwise elusive 'Over the Sea' recording through an E Bay seller and confirmed the order by phone. The voice on the other end of the line, in a lilting Scots Border region accent, confessed that he did have quite a stock of the things in his garage and that my wife's interest was quite a rarity.

He asked if she would like the CD autographed. You would be understandably suspicious over such an offer of an added bonus from a complete stranger in spite of a favourable seller rating.

My wife envisaged a hasty scrawl of limited authenticity but it turns out that the vendor was Jesse Rae himself.

It is clear that he has fallen on hard times, mainly brought on by one of those disagreements with a bank that usually and in Jesse Rae's case did prompt financial ruin.

His career had promised much and he was courted by big record companies and the prospect of big money but it did not go strictly to plan.

In 1981 he wrote "Inside Out" which was an international sensation and hit for New York soul and disco group Odyssey and still gets airplay even today. It is all too clear that the reaping of royalties for the record was not enough to stave off bankruptcy in 2002. He also co-wrote "This Time" for The Human League.

In more recent years he has made a few live appearances at Festivals and has provided rugby commentaries on Borders Radio.

As with many short lived but nevertheless iconic figures in the oh-so fickle pop music industry there has been a fading into relative obscurity and anonymity apart, that is from the special place that Jesse Rae has in our own family tradition whenever we boldly venture into Scotland and engage with our proud ancestry.

Link to Over the Sea

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOad0FU9zF8

Spots before my eyes

Normal Service will be resumed as soon as possible

Please do not adjust your viewing settings

Just over a week until the Tour de France and its Grand Depart in Yorkshire

Tour Makers. What to Wear.

I have seen that a common concern amongst Tour Makers is what to wear on our feet for those long hours that we will be on duty.

It is not an easy choice.

Sensible shoes or comfortable shoes. Boring shoes or those to reflect a more flamboyant character. Functional versus Fun.

Our actual postings, on and off route will to a certain extent dictate the final decision. Those up the upland and hilly sections of Stage 1 and Stage 2 would be best advised to have a good grip and water resistance whereas on a paved city street a more cushioned soul would be advisable.

I have therefore assembled a gallery of top ten shoes and boots for the great event.

See what you think.

The classic yellow welly.
                                            Just right for bog-hopping on Holme Moss

Functional and trendy Crocs. Urban or Rural applications on the route

A bit over the top but then again............

What we would probably be encouraged to wear if entertaining VIP's

Colour co-ordinated for 

                                                                          most of the Tour Jerseys

Graceful for crossing point duty

Flying the flag.
Good for Wayfinders to stand out.

Extra elevation for Flag Marshalls 

                                                     to see the riders approach

Cheeky Cow-girl look for deepest Richmondshire

Early riser Tour Makers. 

Make sure you've taken these off  before reaching your Check-In Locations.

The Mackintosh Movement

Hardly anyone in my home city seems to have a sensible raincoat.

In fact, having dashed from Tesco car park to the book shop it struck me how many people had no coat at all.

It is of course well into the month of June,  the summer season, but there has been a definite and regular pattern to the climate of each day and it should be taken for granted that it will rain at least once, in a sustained downpour or more likely a series of belting showers highlighting the inadequacies of old victorian urban drains and gullies and the fact that most modern city centre buildings afford no shelter whatsoever whereas with old architecture you could rely on some projecting eaves, a deep cill band or the fluorish of a canopy over the pavement.

Added to the need for upper body protection against the rain you would be expcting to see waterproof over-trousers and stout shoes or boots. Again, much of the population of the city lack such basic necessities to combat a new form of British Summer.

One sector of the shopping, working and just browsing number did appear to be very adequately and in most cases stylishly prepared- the over 60's. They are of the generation brought up on good old common sense and values. If it looks like it may rain, it probably will so take a coat or an umbrella. How often have you perceived that upon meeting a senior citizen for the first time they are staring at your shoes and making a judgement on your character, upbringing and manners by the very reflective qualities of buffed and polished shoe leather. I can appreciate the confusion produced in their mind by someone wearing a fluorescent pair of trainers, scruffy but top of the range and with a price tag which in old money would represent a weeks or more wages. Similarly, a well suited and booted individual intent on a con or criminal activity is already a welcome guest based on an unfortunate traditional stock judgement.

I was weather-specific attired for my venture across the city centre. Big winter coat and city shoes but thereby felt positively and inappropriately dressed. It was a cold day, windy and with no excuse on humidity or a sultry temperature to justify not being so dressed. The absence of a sensible raincoat did not seem to hasten anyone's stride to get out of the downpour or apparently dampen their humour or spirits. It was a though not having a raincoat was the norm and reinforced their status as young, carefree, happy go lucky and accepting of whatever circumstances they found themselves to be in. A sort of non-existent badge of honour.

The social divide in this country is, in my opinion, now becoming sharper and more polarised than ever before. The old perceived barriers in class, the glass ceilings of class are blurred and ill defined. There is some differentiation in terms of, for example, owner occupiers and renters although it is now documented that 1 in 6 of the UK population  live in private rented housing and likely to show a sustained increase in the coming years. There is media speculation with extreme and unrepresentative coverage in support of a news worthy under class and focussing on whether you purchase your electrical goods or just loot them,  congregate peacefully or riot.

I predict that in the not too distant future you will be defined and categorised on the basis of whether you have a sensible raincoat or you do not.

(Reproduced with better punctuation from 23.6.12)

You never forget your first...........proper bike.

The inheritance from my Grandfather was used to buy a bicycle.

Perhaps with hindsight the money should have been invested in a high interest earning account and if left untouched may have accrued to a tidy figure indeed , enough for a small sports car or a reasonable down payment on a house.

Gloriously I spent it all on the bright red frame and iconic Italian made components that have carried me for many tens of thousands, if not more, miles since my purchase all those years ago.

It was a serious racing machine and at that price, taking into account inflationary trends, the figure today would be regarded as a great extravagance. It was my first real bike.

Not that I had ever been lacking in the bike department given that our family house contained, on one count, over 30 machines ranging from a chunky wheeled starter with brackets for stabilisers through to the pedigree cycles of my Father.

A summer job working on a farm had raised enough to buy a lightweight 12 speed racer from a catalogue. Pearl white finish, thin razor edge alloy wheels, decent equipment for the price range. I spent my leisure hours charging about the countryside and before long looked the part, or some part, of an enthusiast of cycle sports. I soon became obsessed with the statistics of miles pedalled, hours duration of a run, average speed and top speed . A handlebar mouted odometer could also be most demoralising if I had overreached myself so that even the slightest incline in the road brought on a rapid tumbling of the numbers on the liquid crystal display.

The clothing came next. A lycra jersey with the trademark rear pockets to stow away inner tubes, puncture repair kit, tool kit, Mars Bars and a few coins for a phone call if I encountered any insurmountable technical or physical problems. My first involuntary dismount was soon to follow. It may have been a front wheel skid on a cowpat on the road or due to my inattention from a simple error of steering. Calmly, on my return to the house on foot pushing the damaged bike, my Father assessed and then promptly repaired the problem. What I had considered to be a terminal affliction was only a minor scrape and a slight twisting of alloy metals to an experienced mechanic like my Father.

The swish of racing tyres on tarmac, the rush of adrenalin on a fast descent, the chill of an early morning ride and a feeling of overwhelming well being and fitness cannot be surpassed by many things in life. I would disappear for a whole day at a time on the bike. My perceived invincibility often resulted in my realisation some 60 miles from home that I would struggle to make the return trip but with relentless pedal rhythym, not a little hunger induced hallucination and careful rationing of water and my last chocolate bar I would always make it back eventually, but not in good shape. Gradually the same distance out and back became easier and enjoyable. I could finish with a race against the traffic through the town and easily imagine a crowd thronged street and a finish line. I was ready for the next level of bike.

The red speed machine was hand built. I had found the small cycle shop in a suburb of Nottingham where I was a student. At first the proprietor seemed to speak a different language. It was bike-ese. Technical, dealing with brazings, tubing, sizings, guages, clearances, tolerances and angles. I thought it better to tell him how much I had to spend. We came to an understanding on a pre-declared budget basis.

Brian 'Pinky' Green was a Master Frame Builder. I was carefully measured for leg and arm reach, foot extension and many more dimensions which would contribute to a customised product. My input at this stage was a stipulation that it had to be in the brightest red metallic enamelled finish. Next, the components. They had to be Campagnolo. Skillfully crafted Italian made works of functional art. Upon lifting up the lid of the box containing the toothed chainset I was dazzled by the mastery of the faultless metal. The same sheen and quality persisted for the following 30 years of use and even when it was eventually retired from the bike it could still grace a position as a focal point in a living room- if permitted by the lady of the house.

I clearly recall my visit to the shop to collect the completed bike. The freewheel of the Campagnolo gear cluster clicked enticingly and seductively as Brian, his wife and son looking on, wheeled it out from the secretive enclave of his work room into the shop. I had eyes only for that thing of beauty and grace, forged from lightweight tubing with ornate brazing connections and the deepest hue of red that you could ever imagine. For some reason I gave it, her, the name of Loretta. It stuck and Loretta Langdale became an integral part of my life.

The current day Loretta has not changed much from the original. I have replaced a few components and upgraded and concealed the brake cables as has become the fashion. A recent re-enamelling with a stipulation for the same red went horribly wrong and Loretta came back a bit darker and a little less striking. I hid my tears of shame upon letting her down in such a way.

I am also ashamed to admit that I have not been out cycling much recently. There is always something more pressing that must be done before the mind, body and soul can be released on two wheels.

I did ride out yesterday, the first time for a while.

It was a great feeling and me and Loretta zipped along efficiently and as one entity. As a measure of my fitness I did manage to overtake two cyclists. One of them gave me look of incredulity from under the visor on his cycling helmet as though to say "how could a chubby man propel an off-red coloured bicycle so fast ?". He was about four years old and, granted he was sat in a baby seat behind his pedalling father. Nevertheless, to my mind it still counted as two cyclists as I flashed past in a blur of over-stressed lycra and a fine spray of perspiration.

Where the air is fresh and sweet

I would state without fear of contradiction that there are no great songs being written or likely to be written ever.

There are those emotive anthems which give a bit of padding to heart breaking stories on Surprise, Surprise or to the inspirational dedication of performers on The X-Factor and of course as a soundtrack to great sporting acheivements as at the Olympics.

What makes a great song?

There are many interlaced factors and nothing more pivotal than the period it was originally written.

This is the glue that binds together the lyrics and tune and truly makes for a classic and timeless song. In the very commercial and exploitative music business of today it is a case of churning out very formulaic tunes which to my seasoned ears sound very, very similar and therefore bland and ordinary.

This cannot be said for the writers and singer song-writers of say, the 1960's and certainly not for the likes of Gerry Goffin who died this week.

I was not really aware of his prolific output beyond his association with Carole King to whom he was married for some time but his discography includes 59 top forty hits. He worked with the greatest performers of the 1960's and successive decades and amongst his greatest works are the likes of "Natural Born Woman", "Will you still love me tomorrow", "Take good care of my baby", "The Locomotion", "Pleasant Valley Sunday", Do you know where your're going to", "Saving all my love for you", "Something better", "I'm into something good", "Don't ever change", "Tonight I celebrate my love", "It might as well rain until september", "Don't bring me down" and of course "Up on the roof".

I have been humming and attempting to piece together the words for all of these today and it has been an inspirational journey. That has to be a sign of a true classic, doesn't it?

Building a Dynasty before bedtime

It was going to be a high powered meeting with a local builder at his latest development site.

The appointment had been in my diary for a good few days and in preparation and usually in the wee small hours of the night my mind was hyperactive thinking about what would be required by way of background information and to second guess the inevitable barrage of questions that would arise.

Essential market intelligence had to be sourced through the usual channels and the builder had, by e-mail, forwarded a bundle of documents including plans, elevations, specifications and other relevant items for my consideration.

The site itself was not on the open market and the opportunity to purchase off-market was seen as a major opportunity and especially as any interest by the wider public would result in a massive inflating of the price in a mad clamour to purchase.The land was quite a rarity for the particular village location and would excite significant attention if at all advertised. In similar situations I had been required to sign a confidentiality clause with the parties involved being sensitive to any leak of details.

The mainly middle class occupants of what had been an artisan village were notorious for blocking any planning proposals in case a tree got damaged, wildlife got scared or the flora became trampled although their true motivation was to prevent any outsiders from moving in particularly if likely to be of a perceived undesirability such as a lottery winner, the nouveau-rich or, heaven forbid, someone without a university degree.

The surroundings were idyllic.

Access was from a leafy lane with high banked verges and in view was the Parish Church and the Manor House. The road was quiet with just local traffic and the occasional gal on a horse.

On the aerial photograph in my pack of information the land was a lush greensward with thick and mature hedging to its margins. The measurements provided by the builder indicated a sizeable parcel which would readily take a good sized detached house and still leave plenty of garden on all sides. There were only a few trees visible in the satellite sweep which would make clearance in readiness for foundations relatively straight forward. Big and broad canopied trees were usually trouble for a builder with either a Preservation Order in place or adoption by the aforementioned village guardians and for which they would lay down their Pinot at the drop of a Panama hat.

The day of the appointment arrived.

I felt as though I already knew the site intimately from my desk-top workings. I was confident in my research and the report was 80% formed in my mind subject to the actual fact finding during the site visit. After a trip to the local shop and  a couple of laps of the village later I rolled up perfectly on time. Punctuality always impresses.

The builder was parked up on the verge just along the road from the plot in his large and brand new grey pick-up truck. Even though we knew each other from a number of similar ventures there was a certain aloof attitude which was part and parcel of our respective professionalism. A formal handshake would establish our relationship for the next half hour or so.

We spoke in low, hushed tones even though there was no-one in sight and probably no other soul within half a mile.

It was then that a childs' head popped up over the steering wheel of the shiny pick-up. A chubby faced cherub of a boy grasped the wheel as he had no doubt observed his father to do. The builder assumed his more natural role of a doting father and extracted little George from the vehicle. We were introduced and my best funny face reserved for infants and pets won his confidence over.

The boy was two years old but was plucky and assured. Typically for age he had no awareness of road safety and had to be firmly gripped by the hand and led along by his father. I felt as though I was intruding on a private walkabout and kept a couple of paces behind.

It was then that George held out his other tiny hand inviting me to take it. The meeting would no longer be high powered. I took hold and the three of us made our way along the quiet lane with George jumping and swinging in the middle. That small action was enough to allow us grown-ups to lower our guard and reserve.

It was a wonderful moment. The purpose of the meeting was completely irrelevant now and conversation flowed easily into bringing up children (I have three grown up versions of my own), the value of play, the role of fathers in a family and all aspects of the important things to maintain that life/work balance so important in a busy and often hectic world. George kept hold of my hand until it was time for him to be levered back into his car seat.

Our behaviour must have been a strange sight to the few passers by and no doubt the village jungle drums will have spread the news of possibly a single sex family unit house hunting in the local area.

The prospect of a mass rallying of like minded well-to do's with  homophobic tendencies in the leafy confines of the village and before afternoon tea was something that I found most amusing.

The Art of Disguise

I have been to few meetings recently where those taking the stage have addressed the assembled masses as "You Guys".

I have tried very hard to be a modern man but have found this very informal style uncomfortable and not a little bit baffling.

I was brought up in the old school of being respectful to my elders and contemporaries and on the rare occasions that I have had to speak in public I have used the terminology which I was brought up with of "Ladies and Gentlemen" and that rather comedic phrase of "Boys and Girls".

It seems that "You Guys" is widely used in all manner of social situations and seems to be accepted as the norm by both  sexes and wider gender groups whom you would fully expect to be outraged and insulted by such a non-specific labelling.

I am not really sure where it came from.

Likely sources could be the media in general where laddish or pop culture behaviour rapidly establishes trends amongst the wider public.

The particular crowd at the recent meeting was of broad social background and age profile, many much older than myself and it would have been very interesting to ask a selection of them about their reaction to the generic address.

I can foresee some problems of misunderstanding and misinterpretation.

Take that phrase spoken in a broad Australian accent and it could be misconstrued as alluding to sexual orientation.

It would be easy to mishear the words in noisy surroundings as "Huge thighs",or equally derogatory terms.

As with most popular trends it will eventually fade into obscurity or be superseded by the next best invention such a "Earthlings", "You Prolls" or "Hey You!".

The campaign should really start straight away and what better time to begin, what with the England football team just losing out to Uruguay's best.

A Nice Bit of Subterranean Pinot

I am never more happy than when looking into a hole. 

It can be any type. Little or large. Wide or narrow. High up or low down. Easy or difficult to get to.

In my daily workload I am fortunate enough to have ample opportunities to peer into holes. 

That may sound a bit voyeuristic but a lot can be discovered by probing about in the darkest depths of a building. 

Take today. I have been spoilt for choice of the things. 

First up was a chance conversation with two builders digging out the footings for an extension behind a very old town centre property. If not the instigator of a hole I always enquire after others involved in digging holes. They had indeed found a few interesting things in their trench excavations including a whole clay pipe and a number of fine, thin replacement stems. That type of smoking implement was popular amongst the working menfolk being cheap and readily available making it also very disposable and many centuries later a common find. 

Next up in my work diary was a newly discovered cellar beneath a Georgian Town House. 

The new owner had been stripping out in preparation for renovations. A few old floorboards in the base of a kitchen pantry cupboard had looked a bit iffy. In fact for a recess intended to keep foodstuffs cool and dry the mere existence of a wooden floor was unusual. There would normally be an old quarry tile or red painted concrete base. 

After making good use of a large crowbar the gaping chasm of a cellar was revealed. I was summoned to give an opinion on the torchlight observations of dampness to the brickwork and whether there was any threat posed to the rest of the building given the intended investment in its restoration. 

It was a case of my having to limbo through the narrow gap in the old floor and feeling around, unsighted, for a firm footing so that I could ease my torso through. 

There were stone flagged steps down into the gloom. 

The handy courtesy light on my phone was the first illumination of the dark space for more than half a century or possibly longer. It was possible to stand, albeit slightly stooped, under the beautifully crafted vaulted brick ceiling and in a full 360 degree sweep I could make out the actual dimensions. The cellar was roughly twelve feet square and had evidently been in regular use in the halcyon days of the property as a Gentlemans Residence from the apperance of the rather menacing meat hook hammered into the apex of the brick vault. 

A shaft of daylight, just visible where my undignified entrance had stirred up the ancient dust came from an airbrick although largely obscured by some above ground obstruction. The handmade bricks will have come from a local manufacturer, thin and everyone with its own irregularities, flaws and impurities. 

In the far corner the former coal hole had been roughly backfilled probably in the modern era when the arrival of gas services had superseded the messy and heavy labour intensive domestic solid fuels. The cellar was actually quite dry after making allowances for normal moisture retention of masonry and the lack of adequate ventilation over a couple of generations of occupation. 

There was no sign of a high tide mark which so often hints at the periodic waterlogging of a cellar or the giveaway of an excavated sump and pump. I eased myself back out of the hole taking care not to bring its contents on my suit, already a bit grubby and fusty. 

I reported to the anxious owner that there was no cause for concern subject to improving ventilation. A lot would be dependant on his actual intentions for use of the cellar but for keeping a nice bottle of white wine at optimum serving temperature it would be absolutely perfect.

What, When, Where, Who?

As Tour Makers we are tasked to be the happy and helpful face of the Tour de France whilst it is on the roads of Yorkshire.

Some of us will be out in the back of beyond with no one to talk to except a few sheep and cattle or a clump of trees. A good proportion will however be in direct contact with the expected tens of thousands of spectators and those caught up in the whole atmosphere of the greatest annual sporting event in the world.
It will be an important aspect of the Tour Makers skillset to be able to deal with a wide range of questions. These will concern fairly mundane requirements of a bodily function type or requests for directions and guidance on best vantage points and other amenities.

There will of course be a few persons, perhaps first time race-goers, who are bursting with a new found curiosity in cycle racing and as a Tour Maker you should be prepared to be interrogated along the following lines.

1. Which one is Bradley Wiggins?

In fact, the expectations of the nation have been thwarted by the decision of Sir Brad not to ride for whatever reason of strategy or temperament. There are other hero options available.

2. How much would one of the bikes cost?

If you look on E-Bay you can bid for Chris Froome's bike at, currently, just over £7000. A team issue bike would about £8000 to £10,000.

3. Why do racing cyclists shave their legs?

This is purely for health reasons with the hazards of falls and to assist in the massage recovery process. It is not really to lower wind drag.

4. How long is the race stage today?

This information can be tailored dependant on whether you are on duty on Stage 1 of Stage 2. Most of the official guides are in kilometres but converted into good old miles the respective distances are 118 and 123.

5. Why is it called the Tour de France when it's in Yorkshire?

Yorkshire have had to bid for the privilege of hosting the opening stages . It has been a trend in the modern era for the race to start in different countries. Stage 4 returns to French shores.

6. What sort of speed to they get up to?

Tricky one. In 1903, the inaugral Tour the average speed was 25.679 km/hr. In 2013 it was 40.54 and with the current record at 41.6 km/hr in 2005. On the flat the race can top 40 mph and downhill towards 70mph.

7. Who is likely to win today and overall?

Stage 1 is suited to a bunch sprint so Mark Cavendish could be prominent. Stage 2 is a challenging route and the field could split so it is anyone's race.

8. What other Brits are in the race?

David Millar may be riding his last tour in Garmin Sharp colours. Steve Cummings is in the BMC squad. Alex Dowsett similarly for Movistar. 

9. What do the riders eat for breakfast and during the race?

Expect a meal of fruit, coffee, pasta and other carbohydrate loaded foodstuffs in the team hotel. On the road the riders are fed with energy bars and gels and with plenty of liquids to replenish those lost through exertion.

10. Where are Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen?

They will be somewhere in the media centre with plenty of Yorkshire Tea and Betty's buns to get them through the long days.

We Ran, They Ran, He Ran, She Ran, Iran

Monday 16th June 2014.

I am getting through a few jobs and tasks to clear the way for a World Cup evening.

I stayed up to watch the England v Italy match on saturday, not getting to sleep until about 2am early sunday morning. This could be attributed to the inevitable anti-climax of watching the national team play and the need for a post-mortem, autopsy, "what-if?" musings and statistical analysis but in fact ,and I am prepared to admit, it was down to consumption of an unwise mixture of spicy snacks, sugary sweets and gassy beer just before my normal going to bed time.

That and perching on the edge of my chair, shouting, screaming and cheering just the once did nothing to assist the digestive process.

Of course, a saturday night kick-off is just asking for trouble with a very long lead-in time amounting to at least 12 hours in a pub or even longer in the back garden with a barbecue, the neighbours, in-laws and best mates in attendance. I was staggered to witness the disappearance of a huge stack of boxed beer from its clever positioning at the supermarket checkout between my purchase of the morning paper and a visit to purchase something for lunch only a handful of hours later on.

Tonight is different though. It has been a working day. I am a bit tired and jaded.

Usually I would cherry-pick the most promising games to watch.

I love to see the speed and skills of the South American countries, the structural shape of the northern Europeans, the enthusiasm of the United States, optimism of the Japanese and the "just go for it" attitude of the African nations.

It has been an interesting start to the first group stage matches with a few upsets, scares and displays of rare fallibility of key players but above all, plenty of goals.

The Van Persie directed header ranks amongst the best I have seen in any league or competition.

The 8pm game this evening is one that I would normally be inclined to overlook. I know nothing about Iran and not too much more about their opponents Nigeria but I will be watching in the company of a new acquaintance from Iran which will be an interesting experience.

I expect that by the end of the evening I will be fluent in Persian in all of the usual football terms and chants relating to unwell tropical birds and the disputed parentage of the referee amongst many more sentiments that are not readily translatable in otherwise polite and civilised company.

What Fathers do Best

I have been celebrating Father's Day today by doing things that Fathers do best.

Here is a list of the things that I can recall in a very hectic day indeed.

Made myself a cup of tea
Did some paperwork for a couple of hours in the idyllic, calm quiet of a June morning.
Welcomed my son to the new day and made him a cup of tea.
Watched a bit of sunday television whilst shuffling a few more work papers.
Said good morning to my youngest daughter and made her a cup of tea.
Popped out on foot to the local supermarket to stock up on breakfast things.
Prepared the bacon to bake in the oven and sliced the croissants ready for a civilised butty
Kissed my wife good morning and made her a cup of tea
Serve up breakfast
Make another lot of cups of tea
Clear away the plates and cups and stack the dishwasher
Tidy own mess in the kitchen
Think about having that weekend shave
Think about it some more.
Experiment with perception of rugged look.
Fail
Go to the large B&Q to buy low energy light bulbs, a curtain pole and ring top curtains.
What a lot of choice. Confusing.
Think about looking in Yellow Pages for a curtain expert
Cruise the aisles of the big city supermarket for a few provisions
Return home and encourage son to mend the puncture on his bike
Take on supervisory role in said activity
Hands remain perfectly clean throughout
Congratulate son on doing a good job
Drill a few holes to hang the curtain pole, 60% of them successful
Struggle with the other 30% which coincide with the concrete lintel over the window
Bodge the fixing for the middle support bracket of the curtain pole. Await recriminations.
Cover my tracks for the above.
Have a look inside a pull cord light fitting that does not pull.
Think about looking in Yellow Pages for electrician
Climb on a chair and undo light fitting
Climb off chair and switch off ground floor lighting circuit
Resume precarious position on wooden chair on slippery tile floor
Loosen a few screws and hear them fall on the floor and roll somewhere out of sight.
Forget to note wiring connections on old fitting
Bodge the fixing of the new pull cord but congratulate myself when it works.
Hang around listening for fizzing sound or smell of smoke anyway
Cover my tracks for the above.
Euphorically attempt to repair faulty pull cord fitting for extractor fan.
Strategic withdrawal when realise a bit more involved
Change a few lightbulbs where correct type purchased from B&Q
Keep the others just in case
Move some furniture for a friend in the back of the estate car
Marvel at the load bay capacity of a VW Passat
Unload and re-assemble furniture for said friend
Leave the back seats folded flat in rebellious manner.
Drive to the petrol station to fill up wife's car for her drive to York to take daughter home
Enjoy a wonderful meal cooked by wife and think about cracking open a bottle of beer.
What goes best with lamb, mediterranean vegetables and apple crumble?
Console youngest daughter who is poorly and a bit down about things.
Offer to drive her to York.
Return that tantalising dewy sided Carlsberg to the fridge for another day.
Load up the car and take on the 80 mile round trip.
Glorious roads, wide and traffic free. Other dads must be snoozing off a boozy day.
Play Joe Bonamassa CD very loud for most of the return journey
Accelerate away from the traffic lights at the end of the by-pass startling a Nissan Micra driver
Wave at the old lady in the Micra.
Glance at rugged face in the rear wing mirror
Close but not quite.
Get home, tired but wonderfully happy.
A Perfect Father's Day.

N-N-N-N-Nineteen

We asked our son what he would like to do for his birthday, his 19th which is today.

It was one of those parental questions implying a degree of autonomy amongst your offspring but in fact is cleverly engineered to steer them towards what you have already planned for them or otherwise have in mind meeting the criteria of low cost and low hassle but critically for today, 14th June, not to overlap in any way, shape or form with the England World Cup match versus Italy.

I led with a few suggestions. These were the worst I could think of by way of softening his expectations for the day.

On the proposed short list.....

"How about a trip to find that head shaped sculpture somewhere near Warrington?",

"What about a walk into town and a celebratory latte and Danish at Starbucks? (I have a voucher)

"We could do a tour of the city museums" (They are free entry)

"Let's go for a pint at the local" (He doesn't drink and has a rather choice opinion on "the local")

"Pub Lunch down the road?". (Similarly vocal on that establishment)

All of the above must, really be quite insulting and downright patronising to a 19 year old.

In fact William, he has a name you know, was determined in what he wanted to on his special day and that was a 56 mile mountain bike trail ride.

That was a positive but the downside was that it inevitably involved me as well. He had ridden the same route on a magnificent solo effort over 6 long and hot hours just the week before and was naturally interested and not a little determined to get around in less time even with a reluctant old man in attendance.

I will be the first to admit that I did struggle a bit in the middle section of the ride, the muddiest and steepest sections and regretted my misguided bravado of churning out the pedal strokes to lead the way for the first part. After all it was flat and with no impeding breeze.

As soon as the terrain began to rise I fell behind by a few lengths and had to stock up on more than my fair share of the packet of Malted Milk biscuits. My reasoning was that the more I ate the less weight I had in my backpack amongst the spares, inner tubes, tool and puncture repair kit. It seemed perfectly rational at the time but then again if suffering from the dreaded cyclists bonk, or loss of energy, anything seems a good idea however absurd. It is evident that Malted Milks take at least half a day to get into your system because only now am I feeling the benefits. A bit of a waste of time after all.

We did eventually limp back to the house after five hours in the saddle. We were mud encrusted, I had an interesting pattern of sweat streaks down my face, (Will looked fresh as a daisy), a sensation in my right leg muscles with cramp, fatigue and a possible hernia competing for my attention but William had seen his birthday wish fulfilled.

Happy Birthday Son.

(We did stop once or twice and this idyllic scene made us stand and stare in utter amazement)

Money Doesn't always make the wheels go round

It is just an observation borne out during the experiences of Me and The Boy whilst cycling that the fatter and more unhealthy the fellow rider we meet and greet, the more expensive is his bike and the more outrageous his fashion sense.

This may be an indication of affluence, greater disposable income, a deprived childhood or a manifestation of the male menopause.

Given that a motorbike can be a swift bringer of injury or worse at the typically high speeds by which they are thrown around our country roads the bicycle is seen as a more perambulatory means of transport but with beneficial side effects for the heart, arteries, respiration and muscles generally. The benefits are of course only appreciated and enjoyed when a certain level of fitness has been attained. This could take upwards of six months of regular riding out to achieve and be noticeable in the loss of that shortness of breathe, wheezing and persistent perspiration from the first trips out in addition to a lesser degree of creaking and aching limbs.

The machines that we see straining and groaning under the well built gentlemen out on the highways and lanes are usually the very latest models, lightweight, high spec, alloy wheels and razor thin racing tyres, 18 speeds, deep enamelled paintwork and bearing such legendary names as Pinarello, Bianchi, Colnago and Wilier amongst equally meritorious and more commonplace Cannondales, Treks and Boardmans.

These are not by any means budget bikes.

The average price of a good road bike can set you back at least two thousand pounds and with bolt on extras that can increase to significantly more.

Then, there is the clothing. Branded gear is the most popular, either to match the bike frame manufacturer or replica strips of the main Pro and Trade Teams. Following the Olympic success of the British riders Me and The Boy observed and tallied up a major increase in the squad colours. The momentous victory of Bradley Wiggins in the summer Tour de France also spawned a multitude of wannabes and lookalikes in their Sky kit toiling along the by-pass or just posing around the towns and villages in their local area.

It is a though the flashy riders have been unleashed from years of repression and enforced dedication to domestic or business demands and are now free, at least on summer evenings and at weekends to let rip and recapture a lost youth or ambition.

I can personally endorse the social aspect of cycling as an important factor and pairs or small groups of riders can be seen heading out towards a country pub or a cyclist friendly café.

The bulging demographic, in all senses of the word, of those approaching or already at retirement age does mean that a good proportion of the population have time on their hands to enjoy social as well as the sporting and healthy living aspects of being astride a bike.

This is very apparent on a Wednesday afternoon which seems to be a popular time to escape the rat race or be enrolled on one of those courses to prepare yourself for looming retirement. Saddle bags bulge with packed lunches and a long, irregular line of riders set out on an organised jolly.

These are the longer and time served participants in cycling on old and rather antique looking bikes and equally faded and retro-jerseys or those all encompassing and less than flattering  fluorescent green high viz jackets or vests.

They contrast sharply with the aforementioned flashy riders on their costly Italian made machines and seemingly with no spares or tools to attend to the niggling mechanical problems or punctures that seem to be experienced on a much more frequent basis. Perhaps the large 4x4 vehicle some way back in the traffic is a wife or partner in a supporting role ready to move up to rescue or relieve in the event of breakdown of either bike or body.

The new arrivals to cycling are not just evident from their investment levels in equipment but invariably in their stance and attitude. I am not sure where they get their idea of pedalling style but it is not knees and elbows out as is often the case. They are also an unfriendly bunch with little or no nod of acknowledgement or hearty greeting when passing or being passed. This is attributable to a constant head down position consulting the handlebar mounted computer readout on cadence, average speed and miles covered as wheel as the array of other wired up or wireless contraptions to record heart rate and calories burned. The data can be accumulated and then downloaded to a software programme to be endlessly studied and analysed as part of a clinical self improvement project.

A pair of fat businessmen can take up a tangible portion of the road and they will insist on riding side by side in order to partake in an on two wheels form of networking or to compare notes on key interests.

Me and The Boy have been amused by such a sight.

I have kept a mental record of the aggregated value of the bicycles seen in such company and this is fast approaching the equivalent gross domestic product of a small third world nation. Still, if the weather is at all unsettled or there is a bit of a blustery breeze we have the roads to ourselves and the flash buggers are very noticeable by their absence. I do keep half an eye on the classified ads and internet selling sites for cheap second hand quality continental bikes which do appear with great frequency as their owners come to realise that the simple act of pedalling is quite a challenge after all.

Route Master

We have been well equipped and trained in readiness for our Tour Maker duties.

Hat, sensible versatile trousers, rain jacket or polo shirt, the prospect of an umbrella.

Flag technique, crossing point protocol, public relations and being happy to help.

This should prepare us for most foreseeable scenarios but in my experience of marshalling at local and national cycle events you should expect the unexpected so how about considering the following tools and aids.

Stiff Yard broom- you may want to spruce up that few square metres that you have responsibility for. There will always be a bit of wash-out from a field gate or pile of loose chippings with implications for traction or untimely punctures under narrow racing tyres.

Shovel- look out for road-kill on the carriageway which could have an impact on the race if becoming wedged in spokes or chain, not to mention sprayed up into the Peloton.

Flash liquid- that bollard, road signage or traffic light pole could do with a bit of a clean and polish from accumulated dirt and grime. Have pride in your surroundings.

Bin bag- always useful to gather up those pesky McDonalds bags that tend to drift about in the eddying currents of a hot tarmac road.

Can crusher- after having chased an empty can of strong lager along part of the Tour Route this is a useful piece of kit to exact some satisfying revenge.

Body armour- the riders, particularly in the latter miles of a race stage will seek to eject their empty and surplus water bottles in indiscrimate fashion. A salvaged and washed bidon is useful for your own cycling activities.

Crash helmet- complimetary to the body armour for more of a loopy throw of a bottle out of the peleton.

Thick skin- essential to deflect rude comments by the public, particularly those from older couples trying to tow a caravan to the seaside along the designated race route and expressing indignation about being delayed by a lot of push-bikes.

Shoe box- useful to collect wild animals who with little understanding of Bicycle racing tend to wander willy-nilly all over the road. Hedgehogs can be picked up using the aforementioned bin bag. Frogs and Toads can be cornered and scooped up. Ducks and ducklings can be steered to safety using the shoe-box lid.

Shepherds Crook- for those on the upland and moorland sections this is an essential piece of kit for those errant sheep and stubborn cattle.

Dog treats- it always helps to have some choccy drops available to coax that stray hound or panicked pet out of harms way.

Handy wipes-all of the above promote sticky hands and perspiring brows. You must be able to grip that flag and blow that whistle in a hygienically efficient manner.

Swiss Army Knife-just for those moments when you do need to get a stone out of a horses hoof.

Clothes Pegs- helps to keep barrier mounted hoardings in place if whipped up by the wind.

Duct Tape- multi purpose for fixing anything to anything.

Toothbrush and hairbrush or comb- of course you do want to look your very best in case Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen notice your contribution to the smooth passage of the Tour de France on Yorkshire soil.

Old Dogs and New Tricks

There have been some notable returns to public awareness by rock bands and celebrities in recent years.
Pink Floyd were coaxed out of semi retirement and temporarily put aside the differences between the band members to perform and thrill at Live 8.  Led Zeppelin similarly causing an overload of the internet from the clamour of those seeking the elusive tickets to a series of London gigs a few years ago. I tried over two days but could not stand the tension and stress of getting to the final payment page before everything crashed on the screen of my laptop.

 There has been some reluctance amongst the surviving original members of Monty Python to return to public performance this year with some highly publicised back-biting and airing of differences.

In spite of some significant periods of absence from the limelight, take Kate Bush, for example, the most faithful and  ardent fans may claim that their heroes have never really been away at all. There is a certain timelessness in the back catalogues of the best exponents of rock, pop, comedy and drama which means that they attract new devotees from successive generations which further perpetuates reputations and solvency.
It is important however to consider the motivation behind a long awaited return to public exposure. This can give added credibility if marking a landmark anniversary of that first and arguably best album release but less so if just fund raising to meet legal costs for long running copyright or inter-band disputes or to pay off an estranged spouse.

I recently went to see Neil Young and Crazy Horse live in concert. The music is still as good as ever especially if you close your eyes and it is somewhat of a shock to open them to see a  group of oldies on stage, sharing their own private jokes and reclaiming that sensation of when they were in their prime albeit a bit stiff limbed and laboured.

Musicians are more likely to just age naturally after their retirement from active service but only if they have escaped any long term health implications of a typically riotous, debauched and depraved existence. Everything would be stacked against attaining that average life expectancy given the exposure to hazards of passive smoking, late nights, fat filled arteries from junk food and additive infused M&M's.
History would certainly encourage most rock stars intending to cash in their pension to avoid swimming pools, fast cars, flying in adverse weather and all of the foregoing  with a skin full of alcohol or drugs.

It is different for our sporting heroes.

Take racing cyclists, who will have maintained long periods of peak athletic fitness , that is of course if not succumbing to performance enhancing drugs and the inevitable side effects that go with that choice.
Most cyclists can look forward to enjoying a reasonable longevity in the sport. Many will have started at a very early age with child, junior and youth competition before progressing to the senior ranks and for the most talented into the Professional ranks.

The halcyon days of cycle sport were, in my opinion, the successive Tours de France in the 1980's coinciding with my own late interest and participating in the local racing scene.

I followed the greats of the time and was fortunate to be able to see my heroes in action on a stage of the 1984 Tour. The best of the best included Fignon, Hinault, Lemond, Roche, Kelly, Millar, Delgado and the hard men from Holland, Belgium and Italy. Apart from the untimely death of Fignon in recent years most of the rest continue in some role in the sport that gave them a living.

Bernard Hinault works as a front man for the current Tour de France organisation. Sean Kelly, ever the mumbler, continues to give his wisdom on TV commentaries. Stephen Roche pops up now and again as a pundit, Greg Lemond has come out of self imposed isolation to ride on public participation events following a Tour Stage in his favourite mountain territory and I walked past Robert Millar at a local race in his guise as manager for an Elite Category team.

 They look as though they work out although as anyone in their middle years know there is a certain thickening of chest and protruding of the belly (particularly amongst males) which warrant the occasional sharp intake of breath if looking to impress.

Ageing cyclists retain, however, their physique in their legs and even though my heroes are very much of pensionable age I would hesitate to challenge any of them to a race around the block or attempt an overtaking manoevre if coming across them on the way back from the shops.

The Green Deal

I have just taken delivery of the uniform for my forthcoming role as a Tour Maker Volunteer on Stage 2 of the Tour de France hosted by the great county of Yorkshire.

It is very much in the branded colours of the principal sponsor of the volunteer programme, Asda, therefore quite a bright and in no way subtle shade of green.

The standard issue for the 10,000 persons giving up their own time to participate in an even larger overall organisation represents a huge monetary and logistical commitment by the supermarket and is to be commended. Of course, they will benefit from a massive visual presence in the global TV coverage of the event with volunteers tasked to occupy strategic positions at urban crossing points, at obstacles in the road and to alert the riders to other hazards from many potential sources including the general public, pets and wild animals, loose road surfaces, acts of sabotage and unattended bags and packages.

On the two Yorkshire Stages starting and finishing in Leeds, Harrogate, York and Sheffield respectively and in between taking in the varied and beautiful terrain of the county there will be upwards of 7500 volunteers on duty. If all were allocated to roadside positions this would equate to one bright green figure every 300 metres along the combined routes. Probably not in any line of sight in the twisting lanes and undulating moors and uplands but nevertheless close enough to give quite an impression of organisational efficiency.

Roughly half of the Yorkshire contingent will however be "off route" helping to direct spectators to positions to see the race, escorting the civic dignatories and celebrities, explaining the time schedules for the days racing and entourage, providing information on facilities such as the nearest toilets and where to get food and drink. It is entirely possible that some of those in hospitality and complimentary jobs may not even witness the race first hand.

As for the rest of the Tour Maker Uniform.

Well, it has been well thought out to cover most scenarios of British summertime weather although Yorkshire does tend to have a micro-climate of its very own regardless of the best national forecasts by the Met Office. If a hot day, although many will be making their way to their posts in the cooler break of dawn hours, there is a handy sized dispenser of sun block. This will be in regular use together with a snazzy Tour logo'd water bottle and a baseball cap to prevent sunburn, red blotchyness and heat stroke. It is not good to attempt to visualise that shade and the riot of colour when it clashes with the green !

It will be a long day for everyone and the clothing is flexible with, under a lightweight and hooded rain jacket, a light blue polo shirt, again emblazoned with the official legend for the event, track suit bottoms which zip off below the knees for ventilation purposes and all set off with a drawer string shoe back for snacks and the essential reference work of the Tour Handbook. We should be comfortable as well as superbly smart.

I admit that I have tried on the uniform but in the privacy of my own living room in the company of close family and not as a precursor to nipping down to the local shops on a bit of a pose. It will remain neatly arrayed on a coat-hanger in readiness for my deployment in just under 4 weeks time.

Personally, there is a bit of a downside.

Early on in the Volunteer Programme we were asked to provide our measurements for the issue of the corporate gear. I was in my usual winter months body shape crisis, low in confidence and self esteem and so played it ever so safe by stating XXL for everything. The positivity in Volunteering has been a prime motivation in a dietary and fitness regime in recent weeks, that and not wanting to catch a split-second glimpse of myself on the TV looking like a lurid green blimp and I have shed quite a few pounds to something more like my own perception of myself.

Unfortunately the Tour Maker uniform now tends to hang off me as though I have just walked through a strange shrink inducing mist. I just hope it is not a breezy July 6th because I will definitely catch the wind and flap giving the impression of an oversized lime-based Slushie. That will not make for good viewing on any form of media of the race. Just imagine that sight and accompanying sound if you can in HD or 3D format. It could irreparably damage Anglo-French relations for decades. Quelle Horreur

A Young One

Rik Mayall. Sad to read about his death at the age of 56 years. He was very much a regular on TV and in popular entertainment  in my formative years appearing as larger than life characters in The Young Ones, a Kick up The Eighties and The Comic Strip Presents.

In KUTE he was Kevin Turvey, an awkward and socially inept character who spoke with a broad west Midlands accent, a self-styled "investigative journalist" who still lived with his mother, wore a shapeless blue anorak, fancied a local girl called Theresa Kelly (who was never depicted), and rarely ventured outside his home town, Redditch in the West Midlands. Each week, his "investigations" amounted to little more than an over-excited, rambling, uninformed monologue delivered straight to camera. For the day after a broadcast on the previous evening all of my friends would speak in a classic Birmingham accent in recognition of the popularity of the character.

Rik Mayall best known, in my opinion, (putting your Bottom aside) for his Young Ones persona ,Rick who was a self-proclaimed anarchist studying sociology and/or domestic sciences (depending upon the episode). Rick championed bad poetry, and styled himself as the "The People's Poet", believing himself to be the "spokesperson for a generation".

He was in fact a closet  Cliff Richard  fan, or, as his punk housemate Vyvyan described him, "The classic example of an only child!"

Rick tried to impress the others using wit, and humour, despite not having any discernible grasp of either.Trying to appear one of the lads he participated in baiting and ridiculing the hippy Neil at every opportunity, using Neil as a target and an outlet. There were the continuous and violently slapstick assaults , fights and bickers with Vyvyan. His fawning and sycophancy was cringingly painful in his attempts to impress Mike, the smooth 'Flash Harry'.

In most memories of student or house sharing days everyone will have come across a self-absorbed character believing themselves to be the "most popular member", despite being disliked by virtually everyone under that roof.; Even though the prime motivation is hate you can rely on these thick skinned individuals to quote that they "really are terrific friends"with all involved. I suppose someone has to eventually progress to work in Human Resources don't they.

The humour in The Young Ones was crude and rudimentary drawing on childhood and schoolboy scenarios. This was illustrated in the November 1982 episode "Bambi" when Neil read graffiti aloud from Rick's History 'O' Level text book – "Prick is a wonker – signed, the rest of the class" which Rick dismisses as banter until Neil further reads "I agree with the rest of the class – signed teacher".

Mayall's depiction of Rik included a difficulty in saying the letter 'R' correctly and instead he enunciated a mixture of a "W" and a "V" sound. In the episode 'Bomb' he dictated his name to a woman who looked up in confusion and repeats it back as "Wick?". Vyvyan describes Rick's name as being spelled "with a silent P", as it is written on Rick's name card during the episode on University Challenge against Footlights College in the episode  'Bambi' (May 1984).

Rick's political beliefs varied, depending on how they fitted in with his particular situation, but can usually be categorised as, in his own pronunciation, wadical. Rick was confused in his political affiliations seeing himself as both a romantic revolutionary and follower of Lenin and Trotsky. In reality he had little understanding of the political ideals he purported to follow. During "Cash" he is shown with a copy of Marx's Das Capital, seemingly having fallen asleep while trying to read it.

In the tone of popularised Youth Culture of the period he claimed to dislike Margaret Thatcher in his threatening to blow up England with an atomic bomb in the episode "Bomb" if she "doesn't do something to help the kids, by this afternoon", and from negative references to Thatcher and the Tories mentioned in The Young Ones book Bachelor Boys. However, Rick sometimes displayed a markedly conservative mindset—contrary to the image he has adopted—as, again in "Bomb", while talking to an old man at the DHSS office (which he has mistaken for a post office).

Rick was vegetarian, agnostic, and wishes all men to love each other like brothers, except for Neil, whom he hates, (repeatedly calling him a "bloody hippy"): Nonetheless, nearly everything he did was hypocritical and self-serving.

Rick exaggerated or lied about his background, which is exposed in the final episode, Summer Holiday in June 1984 when it is suggested he comes from an upper class, Conservative background. He emerged as a closet transvestitie when, during the episode 'Nasty',  Neil finds a dress in Rick's wardrobe with his name stitched in it. In the episode 'Cash' Rick admits to Mike that he is unable to tell the time, a trait that both he and the educationally challenged Vyvyan have in common.

I was fortunate to see the stage show of The Young Ones in my student days in 1983 and the sheer anarchy, irreverence and extreme humour made quite an impression on me at the time and this has persisted for more than 30 years. Some may say that Rik Mayall was stereotyped in his performances but I remain of the opinion that he was a rare and original talent for his generation and we may not ever see his likes again.

The Next, Next 28 Days.

I am counting down the days to my duties as a Tour de France Tour Maker on Stage 2 of the Grand Depart in Yorkshire. 28 Days to go.

It has been a long process to date but I have just been provided with the two essential details for the 6th July.

The first is what I will be doing on the day and the second relates to the logistics to be able to get into position to do it.

My role will certainly involve a flag and a whistle.

I am being trained up in this discipline in a couple of days time and although I feel that I am pretty proficient in the skill from front-line volunteering at other major cycling events I will, because of the sheer honour of working on the Tour de France pay particular attention and regard to everything with fresh eyes and perceptions.

My allocated job will range from flag marshall to course or crossing marshall.

Given that my physical location is in open countryside just beyond the York Ring Road with but a few satellite commuter villages I do not expect to be holding back hordes of spectators.

Being within the first 10 miles of the start in York and if the race pattern follows a typical Tour de France stage the field of riders will be tightly bunched, chilled and chatting and with time to attend to calls of nature, tactical talks with their team manager, final adjustments to their bikes from the mobile mechanics or consulting the official doctor.

There are bound to be a few punctures on the Yorkshire roads even if carefully swept and polished by the Council who will be on show to a world stage as much as the rouleurs. Crashes and tumbles inevitably occur from a split second of inattention.

Conversely, a lone rider or small group could take the opportunity of a slow roll-out to launch one of those courageous and yet ultimately futile breakaways that give the perpetrators and their sponsors a good bit of TV exposure and does nothing to harm their ratings for the re-shuffle of firing and hiring at the end of the long hard season.

My day will begin with leaving home at about 4.30am to cover the 40 miles to my designated hub at a secondary school from where I will be bussed out to my position. This is to evade the large scale road closures required to provide a fully protective and traffic free corridor for the race. It will be organised chaos for those determined to see the worlds greatest annual sporting event and much worse for those who just want to pop down to the shops, as usual, for fags and milk.

The City of York has been magnificent in promoting its prestigious position as the start of a stage, albeit involving paying the Tour Organisation for that honour, and its residents and those in the regional catchment have been kept up to date with what is to take place.

I expect to be over-awed by the actual scale, the sights and sounds and the razzamatazz surrounding the event. It will be an emotional time. I just hope that I hold my flag the right way up, wave it in the correct manner and blow on that whistle, when called upon,  as though my life depended on it.

James Taylor. In search of.....

James Taylor?
Cannot place him.
Give me the first line of his most famous song, chart song that is.
No, hum the tune.
James Taylor.
What era was he prominent in?
Who did he hang out with?
Was he one of the two Taylor's who were in Duran Duran?
Was he the one who, no, that was James Brown, of course.
Has he done anything say, in the last 30 years?
Anything memorable that is.
Do they do his songs as backing to advertisements?
What about sitting on the sofa with Jonathan Ross , Graham Norton or Michael MacIntyre ?
Has he collaborated with anyone at all famous?
James Taylor.
Is he more of a songwriter than a singer?
Is he English, name like Taylor?
Films?
TV?
Christmas specials?
You say he's American? Well, you should have said that in the first place.
Is he politically active?
Did he know Elvis Presley?
How many wives has he had?
Was he married to Joan Collins?
What about famous offspring?
James Taylor. Sounds a bit familiar but can't quite place him.
Describe a CD cover of something he's done.
If I went into HMV where would I find his music?
I'm thinking Folky, Ballads, bordering on Country and Western.
Did he duet with Dolly Parton?, no that was Kenny Rogers.
I am visualising someone with a beard here. Help me out.
Did he do drugs?
Was he caught doing drugs?
Where does he live now?
Has he ever performed in this country?
Festivals?
Taylor. Quite a common name really.
James Taylor.
Try another one of his hits.
Is he on a You Tube feed that you can get on your smart phone?
Is he top of the list if I Google him?
Wikipedia says that he died in 1987. That sounds serious.
Oh no. That can't be right.
He has a current Facebook Page
I think I have heard that song of his, you know the one. "You've got a friend".
Ah, that James Taylor.
Of course.
I think I saw him once on Old Grey Whistle Test.
Great Man.
Great Performer that James Taylor.
I have his Greatest Hits on vinyl somewhere or other.
Is that what he looks like?
Never have guessed that one.