The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to my family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up. The series is repeated from some time in 2011.
Part 1; Africa
I never really knew and have great difficulty actually remembering my Grandfather on my father's side of the family. He died when I was about 4 or 5 years old. My only recollection is of a very strong smell of cigarettes in his presence and how he would produce from his cardigan a packet of sweet cigarettes for us when it was time to leave and go home. Other fragments of information came from my late father and a few bits of furniture or inherited objects that came with Gran when she moved in for the last 10 or so years of her long and generally healthy life. My grandfather worked for the Bank of British West Africa which helped to introduce modern banking to that part of the African continent. He travelled widely and had associations with business and trade in Liberia and I think Sierra Leone. Two objects that fascinated me as a small child epitomised the myths surrounding my grandfather.
The first is actually a pair of crocodiles. I am not sure if I contributed to loss of the lower jaw of one of the figures but I was not to know that carved ivory was quite brittle when roughly handled in play. They are about 6 inches long, perfectly straight, and with a girth of about the middle finger. The jaws have cerrated teeth and a gaping hole of a mouth that served well as a rest for a pencil or rolled up balls of plasticine but for which it was never intended. The reptiles had a flat belly underside and could sit flat and level on display. The tail tapered to a sharp point and the whole body had a raised series of scales. I would usually head for the crocodiles first in visiting the rather dark and grim inter war semi detached house where my grandparents lived.
The second object of fascination is a carved upright figure, standing about eight inches tall. It was skillfully carved by a native African out of a single piece of light, almost balsa or cork wood. This will have been sourced from what remained of a once extensive equitorial forest but decimated under a two pronged attack to clear land for farming and to provide fuel for a village hut or smallholding farmstead. The figure is very much a caricature, comic but authoritative, of a Colonial Officer, perhaps a Civil Servant or even a Missionary or Teacher. I liked to think, when young, that it was loosely based on my grandfather. The uniform includes a pith helmet in white pigment but now very much faded to a pale washy hue. The hat is removeable and has done well to accompany the figure through many Spring Cleans and a few house removals. His facial features are sharp with a regular but dominating nose starting well up on the forehead. The eyes are almond shaped, almost feminine in apearance. Thick fleshy lips sit above a proud chin. There remains some trace of a sunburnt skin tone but with bleaching and blotching from catching the sunlight after close to a century of exhibition and play. Attired in a khaki safari suit the figure is quite dapper. The skill of the carver has produced faint folds of linen and the suit is well tailored but cool for the sweltering climate. Incongruously the man is wearing boots with quite a Cuban heel and retaining a bright burnt-umber shade to depict leather. The pose is sitting or rather perching on a bench and at a desk to symbolise a position of relative powerand control in the Colony. The desk is typical for a Board School furnishing. Stout vertical supports, low bracing bar doubling up as a footrest, hinged heavy lid, inset ink well and a groove for a writing implement. The front face of the desk has symbols of a circle and triangle, almost masonic but not thought to be of any significance or menace.
The figure is a personalised souvenir of Empire because it was individually carved with patience and artistic understanding. It may well have been one, however, of thousands of similar brought to the river bank or quayside, city square or hotel steps, railway platform or other embarcation point to be thrust into the view or hands of departing Civil Servants, Financiers, Businessmen, Private Tourists and my Grandfather.
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
Sunday, 28 September 2014
Top Nosh
I love a Greek Salad.
My affection began on a family holiday to Kefallonia some years ago when the dish became a standing order every time we dined out at the local Tavernas.
There was some variation in the presentation from place to place and in-house specialities included little tweaks and additions to the mainstay ingredients of sliced tomatoes, thinly cut onion, chunky cucumber and the crumbled, cubed or regular cut Feta cheese.
It was an easy meal to replicate upon my return to the UK and I can honestly say that I have tried to include one in my menu on a weekly basis.
There is something therapeutic in its preparation, perhaps just in the wielding with intent of a small, sharp kitchen knife but mainly the riot of colour produced on the serving plate when ready to bring to the table and eat.
If feeling adventurous I have been known to include the odd olive or three, some salad leaves, salty anchovies, crispy croutons and switching the plate for a freshly baked french stick is a particular treat.
My most recent version just this week, to the outsider may have just appeared to be like any other.
There were the usual on the vine tomatoes, seasonal spring rather than red onions and authentic goats milk cheese. These had been sourced from the usual neighbourhood supermarket or in some cases I have had to shop around to get the best available ingredients.
What made the difference to the salad was the cucumber.
This had been given to me by the home owner at one of my work appointments who had harvested it from a large greenhouse in his garden.
The property which he had just bought and moved in to was rather special consisting of a 2002 dated farmhouse, a courtyard flanked by workshops, garages and offices and with a large central water feature stocked with huge and very colourful Koi Carp.
The house was on a hillside with fantastic views over the Vale of York and this exclusive accommodation and location obviously came at a premium.
Oh, I forgot to mention that there was also about 1000 acres of agricultural land, three tenanted farms, woodland, a piece of one of the most picturesque dale-type valleys in the East Yorkshire area and an indoor heated swimming pool.
The purchase price reflected the extensive nature and high calibre of what was a most prestigious rural estate to suit a Gentleman Farmer, a rock-star, a field sports fanatic or a lottery winner.
The new owner joked with me that he had only really bought the place because of the contents of the greenhouse and specifically the large and perfectly elongated vegetables.
That salad did taste better than all of my previous efforts and even surpassed those experienced in Greece that had started off my whole interest and infatuation with the dish.
I could not, at first, decide what had made the difference but then again it is not every day that you are presented with, in effect, a ten million pound cucumber.
My affection began on a family holiday to Kefallonia some years ago when the dish became a standing order every time we dined out at the local Tavernas.
There was some variation in the presentation from place to place and in-house specialities included little tweaks and additions to the mainstay ingredients of sliced tomatoes, thinly cut onion, chunky cucumber and the crumbled, cubed or regular cut Feta cheese.
It was an easy meal to replicate upon my return to the UK and I can honestly say that I have tried to include one in my menu on a weekly basis.
There is something therapeutic in its preparation, perhaps just in the wielding with intent of a small, sharp kitchen knife but mainly the riot of colour produced on the serving plate when ready to bring to the table and eat.
If feeling adventurous I have been known to include the odd olive or three, some salad leaves, salty anchovies, crispy croutons and switching the plate for a freshly baked french stick is a particular treat.
My most recent version just this week, to the outsider may have just appeared to be like any other.
There were the usual on the vine tomatoes, seasonal spring rather than red onions and authentic goats milk cheese. These had been sourced from the usual neighbourhood supermarket or in some cases I have had to shop around to get the best available ingredients.
What made the difference to the salad was the cucumber.
This had been given to me by the home owner at one of my work appointments who had harvested it from a large greenhouse in his garden.
The property which he had just bought and moved in to was rather special consisting of a 2002 dated farmhouse, a courtyard flanked by workshops, garages and offices and with a large central water feature stocked with huge and very colourful Koi Carp.
The house was on a hillside with fantastic views over the Vale of York and this exclusive accommodation and location obviously came at a premium.
Oh, I forgot to mention that there was also about 1000 acres of agricultural land, three tenanted farms, woodland, a piece of one of the most picturesque dale-type valleys in the East Yorkshire area and an indoor heated swimming pool.
The purchase price reflected the extensive nature and high calibre of what was a most prestigious rural estate to suit a Gentleman Farmer, a rock-star, a field sports fanatic or a lottery winner.
The new owner joked with me that he had only really bought the place because of the contents of the greenhouse and specifically the large and perfectly elongated vegetables.
That salad did taste better than all of my previous efforts and even surpassed those experienced in Greece that had started off my whole interest and infatuation with the dish.
I could not, at first, decide what had made the difference but then again it is not every day that you are presented with, in effect, a ten million pound cucumber.
Saturday, 27 September 2014
JT on the QT
This evening we are taking family and friends to see this great performer in concert. The photograph is the front cover of his 1977 album entitled JT. Still going strong and as good as ever.
Friday, 26 September 2014
The Skye's the limit
Against the backdrop of the Cuillin Mountains with their dark rocky shadows, across the bluey green waters of the tidal seawater loch and during the couple of hours, only, per day in which the horizontal driving rain or the bone chilling mist ceased to conceal everything from view I caught a brief glimpse of a shining jewel in the bay below the house.
After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.
On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.
The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.
If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.
It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if the mythical sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.
The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear. After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices. My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.
I reached the recently exposed pathway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.
I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground. I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded the kitchen garden of the house . In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway. In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.
After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.
On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.
The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.
If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.
It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if the mythical sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.
The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear. After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices. My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.
I reached the recently exposed pathway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.
I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground. I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded the kitchen garden of the house . In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway. In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Fish and Chips and Sherbert Lemons
The search for fish and chips in an unknown area can be problematic.
This was the case last week during our family holiday in the Scottish Highlands.
There can be had some guidance on the usual bulletin boards in a rented house or in the comments provided by previous guests. Amongst the raft of leaflets on local attractions and guide books on everything else there may be nestling a takeaway menu.
We did our best to self cater in the first few days having stocked up at a Co-Op in the nearest village on a daily basis either on a specific round trip of 8 miles along the single track roads or in passing on our way back from our activities and outings. About mid way through our Scottish week we had a yearning for something different and in a democratic process the YES vote went for fish and chips.
The variable internet at the holiday house meant that it was a case of wandering around the rooms looking for a signal strength of sufficient duration to log on a search for anything on our mobile phones. The best place was actually when sat at the wooden picnic table and bench set on the brick paved patio just above the steeply banked garden which ran down to the tow path of the Caledonian Canal.
This was acceptable and indeed very pleasant during the unseasonably warm September days but less so in the dark and midge laden air of an evening or into the night.
In the latter conditions I found a link to a local chippie called Sammy's.
The place had a good rating and a few glowing testimonials as to the quality and size of the portions from a range of anonymous persons but from such a geographical spread that they just had, like us, to be seasonal visitors.
A distinct advantage was that Sammy's was the closest to our location at only 4 miles away and so the hazardous and tortuous route on the darkened narrow roads, even more so in the hours of darkness was tolerable.
I set off with a small slip of paper handwritten with the choices of the family clasped in my left hand gripping the steering wheel in mortal fear of mis-judging a bend, stalling on a steep incline or having to reverse if meeting another vehicle on the roadway or a stray sheep.
There was a regular flow of double trailer wagons heavily laden with freshly cut timber from the large Forestry Commission sites further up the valley and these easily claimed the right of way even if best placed to manouvre into a shallow passing place.
The directions from the web page sent me to the main road and then across into a large 1950's Council Estate. The size of the estate was quite a shock at first for a visitor whose attentions were more drawn to the natural attractions of Ben Nevis, The Great Glen and the sea lochs but then again those servicing the lucrative tourist industry must, after all, live somewhere.
It was a tidy spot with neatly kept gardens and driveways and a busy flow of cars and pedestrians through its streets.
I looped around the main estate road in search of Sammy's and must have passed it without noticing it at the back of a parade of neighbourhood shops.
Back tracking I saw the illuminated sign in the shape of a caricatured prancing cod on a low post war single storey building and I pulled up on the courtyard in front.
The large window of the premises was a bit steamed up but there seemed to be a lot of people standing inside from hazy silhouetted shapes idling along in a clockwise direction. I expected all assembled to stare me out when I entered as I was in my vacation wear of shorts, sweat shirt and best bright trainers but they were an accepting and easy going crowd.
There were a lot of children milling about at a far counter or careering about on strap-on roller skates or those shoes with built in wheels in the sole. I found this unusual for the usual health and safety conscious environment of a fish and chip shop and it was certainly something I had not experienced south of the border.
The explanation was not one of unruly and undisciplined kids or slack and inattentive parenting but the fact that Sammy's was a most unusual combination of chippie and sweet shop.
The far counter, which was so much of a draw for the younger generation consisted of a large array of plastic trays with penny and three-penny goodies, chocolate bar displays and a multi-coloured Slushie machine which dispensed on demand a stream of bright and gawdy iced liquid into eagerly held plastic beakers.
Behind on about half a dozen shelves were the transparent bottle sized jars of boiled, fizzy, fruity, minty and flavoured sweets which I recognised from my own childhood when my meagre pocket money would be rapidly blown on a quarter of sherbet lemons, icing sugar coated bon bons or liquorice torpedo's.
This reminiscent sight was a real blast from the past and I could not help but stare at the wonderful goods on sale.
I must have been daydreaming of those idyllic years as I was startled by a gruff female voice asking me "Ken I be helping you with anything?".
I had reached the front of the queue in what seemed like an instant but was certainly more than twenty minutes.
In an obvious English manner I asked for four portions of fish and chips.This brought on a vague expression from the lady and the rest of the staff before I remembered that the correct order was for four fish suppers.
This was accepted and I congratulated myself on speaking the language only to spoil it with the comment of "that does include chips doesn't it".
This was the case last week during our family holiday in the Scottish Highlands.
There can be had some guidance on the usual bulletin boards in a rented house or in the comments provided by previous guests. Amongst the raft of leaflets on local attractions and guide books on everything else there may be nestling a takeaway menu.
We did our best to self cater in the first few days having stocked up at a Co-Op in the nearest village on a daily basis either on a specific round trip of 8 miles along the single track roads or in passing on our way back from our activities and outings. About mid way through our Scottish week we had a yearning for something different and in a democratic process the YES vote went for fish and chips.
The variable internet at the holiday house meant that it was a case of wandering around the rooms looking for a signal strength of sufficient duration to log on a search for anything on our mobile phones. The best place was actually when sat at the wooden picnic table and bench set on the brick paved patio just above the steeply banked garden which ran down to the tow path of the Caledonian Canal.
This was acceptable and indeed very pleasant during the unseasonably warm September days but less so in the dark and midge laden air of an evening or into the night.
In the latter conditions I found a link to a local chippie called Sammy's.
The place had a good rating and a few glowing testimonials as to the quality and size of the portions from a range of anonymous persons but from such a geographical spread that they just had, like us, to be seasonal visitors.
A distinct advantage was that Sammy's was the closest to our location at only 4 miles away and so the hazardous and tortuous route on the darkened narrow roads, even more so in the hours of darkness was tolerable.
I set off with a small slip of paper handwritten with the choices of the family clasped in my left hand gripping the steering wheel in mortal fear of mis-judging a bend, stalling on a steep incline or having to reverse if meeting another vehicle on the roadway or a stray sheep.
There was a regular flow of double trailer wagons heavily laden with freshly cut timber from the large Forestry Commission sites further up the valley and these easily claimed the right of way even if best placed to manouvre into a shallow passing place.
The directions from the web page sent me to the main road and then across into a large 1950's Council Estate. The size of the estate was quite a shock at first for a visitor whose attentions were more drawn to the natural attractions of Ben Nevis, The Great Glen and the sea lochs but then again those servicing the lucrative tourist industry must, after all, live somewhere.
It was a tidy spot with neatly kept gardens and driveways and a busy flow of cars and pedestrians through its streets.
I looped around the main estate road in search of Sammy's and must have passed it without noticing it at the back of a parade of neighbourhood shops.
Back tracking I saw the illuminated sign in the shape of a caricatured prancing cod on a low post war single storey building and I pulled up on the courtyard in front.
The large window of the premises was a bit steamed up but there seemed to be a lot of people standing inside from hazy silhouetted shapes idling along in a clockwise direction. I expected all assembled to stare me out when I entered as I was in my vacation wear of shorts, sweat shirt and best bright trainers but they were an accepting and easy going crowd.
There were a lot of children milling about at a far counter or careering about on strap-on roller skates or those shoes with built in wheels in the sole. I found this unusual for the usual health and safety conscious environment of a fish and chip shop and it was certainly something I had not experienced south of the border.
The explanation was not one of unruly and undisciplined kids or slack and inattentive parenting but the fact that Sammy's was a most unusual combination of chippie and sweet shop.
The far counter, which was so much of a draw for the younger generation consisted of a large array of plastic trays with penny and three-penny goodies, chocolate bar displays and a multi-coloured Slushie machine which dispensed on demand a stream of bright and gawdy iced liquid into eagerly held plastic beakers.
Behind on about half a dozen shelves were the transparent bottle sized jars of boiled, fizzy, fruity, minty and flavoured sweets which I recognised from my own childhood when my meagre pocket money would be rapidly blown on a quarter of sherbet lemons, icing sugar coated bon bons or liquorice torpedo's.
This reminiscent sight was a real blast from the past and I could not help but stare at the wonderful goods on sale.
I must have been daydreaming of those idyllic years as I was startled by a gruff female voice asking me "Ken I be helping you with anything?".
I had reached the front of the queue in what seemed like an instant but was certainly more than twenty minutes.
In an obvious English manner I asked for four portions of fish and chips.This brought on a vague expression from the lady and the rest of the staff before I remembered that the correct order was for four fish suppers.
This was accepted and I congratulated myself on speaking the language only to spoil it with the comment of "that does include chips doesn't it".
Wednesday, 24 September 2014
Teenage Farm Club
At the age of 14 I wanted to be a farmer.
I was convinced about it and no parental logic could sway me. They did have a point as I had, just a few weeks prior, been convinced I wanted to join the army. As only wise parents can they would just gently guide and encourage me to find my true vocation. I hated that at the time. The whole agricultural career thing had really started after a holiday in Somerset staying on the farm of my Fathers' relatives. I suppose, at 14, I was at a delicate stage between being a stupid kid and wanting acceptance as a young adult. I felt that I could not do anything right in the eyes of my parents. It was partly justified as I had blown up the kitchen with volatile home made ginger beer, lost the keys to the house and was convinced that I had killed my Gran's dog. However, my parents did have faith in me. I hated that at the time.
Me and my two sisters were to set off a week ahead of the rest of the family to accept an invitation to stay for a few days with cousins in Taunton. We represented 3/7ths of the family and were put on the train at Scunthorpe with the other 4/7ths to travel later towing the caravan with the master plan that we would all meet up on the farm. In my mind I can visualise the departure on the train as somehow being in black and white and with me carrying a gas mask and string wrapped parcel. I was not however, an evacuee.
The train journey with a change at Birmingham was uneventful. No dodgy characters, no murders or sleuthing, no secret agent baggage drops. I must have been very heavily influenced by all things TV and movies at that age. It was still a big deal for the three of us who had never travelled unaccompanied before.
At Taunton we were welcomed by our Aunt and Uncle and had a busy few days being very well looked after. We went to some stately homes and learnt a lot. It was the summer holidays but there was educational content to be extracted from everything. We hated that at the time. We thoroughly tired out our, only two, cousins and they must have been mightily relieved when we departed for the next stage of our vacation.
The drive into the depths of Somerset was exciting in anticipation of what we could get up to. My fathers relatives had been builders in the immediate post war period in Croydon and North London so plenty of work was on hand to rebuild the bombed out housing. Their hard graft had made their reward a large detached house, white rendered and red rosemary tiled up a long rhododendron lined driveway and overlooking a deep, beautiful pastured valley with a trout filled river running through it. The house, a mansion in our eyes with an unprecedented two staircases, was part of a working farm with adjacent crew yard, pole barns and livestock pens. Some miles distant was the main dairy operation with about 70 friesian cows and the milking parlour.
The sights, smells and bustle of the place really caught my imagination. I had taken on board the dream of being a farmer without grasping that it actually required a lot of hard work. In the following week we were very enthusiastic young farmers and participated in all the day to day requirements of an industrial scale business. The pigs had to be fed and mucked out. They were quite smelly and the sows would easily roll onto and crush their young.Extracting the tiny dead piglets was quite interesting in a gory sort of way. At the dairy we helped to herd the cows and were amazed that all of the beasts were individually named and could be recognised by their markings. I could not see any difference at all. They were all, to me, identical. The highlight of the week was a sheep-drive from the main farm across to the pasture at the dairy farm. We shouted and hollered at the vague animals, guided and cajoled them with our wooden staffs and took great delight in holding up the traffic through the narrow, high banked lanes. The job seemed to be an epic of mile upon mile when in fact I think it was only quite a short distance.
The not so highlight of the week was cleaning out the sheep dip. This was akin to child labour. Between the metal arrival and departure pens was a concrete lined channel, tapered to a narrow trench and wide enough at the top for a fat sheeps girth. The dipping season had just finished and the residue in the gully was a noxious mix of diluted sheep droppings, wool ringlets and pungent chemicals. The latter, fortunately, largely cancelled out the former. Buckets and brooms were the weapons of choice. In the summer heat the task was quite unbearable but we completed it, much to the surprise of our hosts who had obviously set it as a challenge for the townie kids. Even now, some 34 years later I still get a faint taste of the toxic cocktail if I bite my fingernails.
The stay on the farm flew by and when the rest of the family brought the caravan down we were relegated from the big house to an impromptu camp site in a field in the valley. I was very much taken with the farming life and was in a right stropping mood for the duration with my parents. The holiday did continue in the lovely surroundings of deepest rural Somerset, we picked mushrooms, walked the old railway courses, picked wild flowers, threw stones from bridge parapets at the fish below and dared each other to touch both horizontal strands of the electric fence.
When the time to leave came I cried for what I was leaving behind. I sulked and was unbearable through the long drive home. I stomped up to my room when we reached what now seemed like a very tiny, shed like house with a single staircase. From my pockets I emptied out my collected mementos. Amongst the bits of dry straw in the lining was a twist of chemically soaked wool, a pebble which later degraded into an actual piece of animal dung, a tag from the ear of a cow and my herding staff which, with great difficulty, had made the journey back straddled by the occupants of a very crowded car. Within a few weeks my love affair with farmng was over.I was convinced that I wanted to be someone who did surveying or whatever that was. Just be careful what you wish for because in my case it did come true.
I was convinced about it and no parental logic could sway me. They did have a point as I had, just a few weeks prior, been convinced I wanted to join the army. As only wise parents can they would just gently guide and encourage me to find my true vocation. I hated that at the time. The whole agricultural career thing had really started after a holiday in Somerset staying on the farm of my Fathers' relatives. I suppose, at 14, I was at a delicate stage between being a stupid kid and wanting acceptance as a young adult. I felt that I could not do anything right in the eyes of my parents. It was partly justified as I had blown up the kitchen with volatile home made ginger beer, lost the keys to the house and was convinced that I had killed my Gran's dog. However, my parents did have faith in me. I hated that at the time.
Me and my two sisters were to set off a week ahead of the rest of the family to accept an invitation to stay for a few days with cousins in Taunton. We represented 3/7ths of the family and were put on the train at Scunthorpe with the other 4/7ths to travel later towing the caravan with the master plan that we would all meet up on the farm. In my mind I can visualise the departure on the train as somehow being in black and white and with me carrying a gas mask and string wrapped parcel. I was not however, an evacuee.
The train journey with a change at Birmingham was uneventful. No dodgy characters, no murders or sleuthing, no secret agent baggage drops. I must have been very heavily influenced by all things TV and movies at that age. It was still a big deal for the three of us who had never travelled unaccompanied before.
At Taunton we were welcomed by our Aunt and Uncle and had a busy few days being very well looked after. We went to some stately homes and learnt a lot. It was the summer holidays but there was educational content to be extracted from everything. We hated that at the time. We thoroughly tired out our, only two, cousins and they must have been mightily relieved when we departed for the next stage of our vacation.
The drive into the depths of Somerset was exciting in anticipation of what we could get up to. My fathers relatives had been builders in the immediate post war period in Croydon and North London so plenty of work was on hand to rebuild the bombed out housing. Their hard graft had made their reward a large detached house, white rendered and red rosemary tiled up a long rhododendron lined driveway and overlooking a deep, beautiful pastured valley with a trout filled river running through it. The house, a mansion in our eyes with an unprecedented two staircases, was part of a working farm with adjacent crew yard, pole barns and livestock pens. Some miles distant was the main dairy operation with about 70 friesian cows and the milking parlour.
The sights, smells and bustle of the place really caught my imagination. I had taken on board the dream of being a farmer without grasping that it actually required a lot of hard work. In the following week we were very enthusiastic young farmers and participated in all the day to day requirements of an industrial scale business. The pigs had to be fed and mucked out. They were quite smelly and the sows would easily roll onto and crush their young.Extracting the tiny dead piglets was quite interesting in a gory sort of way. At the dairy we helped to herd the cows and were amazed that all of the beasts were individually named and could be recognised by their markings. I could not see any difference at all. They were all, to me, identical. The highlight of the week was a sheep-drive from the main farm across to the pasture at the dairy farm. We shouted and hollered at the vague animals, guided and cajoled them with our wooden staffs and took great delight in holding up the traffic through the narrow, high banked lanes. The job seemed to be an epic of mile upon mile when in fact I think it was only quite a short distance.
The not so highlight of the week was cleaning out the sheep dip. This was akin to child labour. Between the metal arrival and departure pens was a concrete lined channel, tapered to a narrow trench and wide enough at the top for a fat sheeps girth. The dipping season had just finished and the residue in the gully was a noxious mix of diluted sheep droppings, wool ringlets and pungent chemicals. The latter, fortunately, largely cancelled out the former. Buckets and brooms were the weapons of choice. In the summer heat the task was quite unbearable but we completed it, much to the surprise of our hosts who had obviously set it as a challenge for the townie kids. Even now, some 34 years later I still get a faint taste of the toxic cocktail if I bite my fingernails.
The stay on the farm flew by and when the rest of the family brought the caravan down we were relegated from the big house to an impromptu camp site in a field in the valley. I was very much taken with the farming life and was in a right stropping mood for the duration with my parents. The holiday did continue in the lovely surroundings of deepest rural Somerset, we picked mushrooms, walked the old railway courses, picked wild flowers, threw stones from bridge parapets at the fish below and dared each other to touch both horizontal strands of the electric fence.
When the time to leave came I cried for what I was leaving behind. I sulked and was unbearable through the long drive home. I stomped up to my room when we reached what now seemed like a very tiny, shed like house with a single staircase. From my pockets I emptied out my collected mementos. Amongst the bits of dry straw in the lining was a twist of chemically soaked wool, a pebble which later degraded into an actual piece of animal dung, a tag from the ear of a cow and my herding staff which, with great difficulty, had made the journey back straddled by the occupants of a very crowded car. Within a few weeks my love affair with farmng was over.I was convinced that I wanted to be someone who did surveying or whatever that was. Just be careful what you wish for because in my case it did come true.
Tuesday, 23 September 2014
Be prepared
The worst thing is to be caught totally unprepared for anything. Especially the weather.
There can actually be no excuse for being caught with the proverbial leg covering garments down around the ankles, bits of free range hen produce on our faces or just being left high, dry and helpless.
This is because of the undeniable fact that there is a vast amount of information available at our fingertips to give early or advanced warning about such phenomena as adverse weather,power cuts, food shortages, petrol tanker drivers industrial action and even through to what is the 'must have', and totally 'in' toy for Christmas.
Being of a certain age I find weather quite interesting.
I will intentionally linger around the morning TV broadcasts before going to work, channel hopping in order to see a definitive forecast for the day, and hopefully for the forthcoming days. I have, usually no specific or special plans that would cause to be shelved by precipitation, storm winds or a heat wave but such things are nice to know.
Invariably the foretelling of wet or dry spells, high or low pressure are at odds to the actual weather experienced in the proceeding period but I still find myself drawn towards a good 5 day forecast.
I am well prepared for the standard English seasons if they perform to type but this has not at all been the case in recent years. Damn you Global warming.
We have had drought inducing spring, very wet summers, a very late and protracted autumn and , so far this year, quite a mild and reasonable winter. There are of course local and regional variations and exceptions and I am sympathetic to those who in the last two days have been flooded out, battered by hurricane force gales and lost bits of their gardens to landslip.
Currently, I am trying to seek the general consensus on what to expect over the period of late November 2012 to January 2013 in terms of climate. (Assuming that the Mayan prediction of the end of the world around 21st December is woefully incorrect) .My hanging seaweed and sensitive garden foliage are not being very helpful in providing hints and indicators of what to expect. I missed the actual day that our resident Swift family vacated the soffit nest site and so cannot say in what direction , as a portent of approaching weather ,they went.
The nearest but not necessarily reliable fortune teller source comes from my local Tesco Express. It has stockpiled handy sized bags of table salt available in the external lockers between leftover soggy disposable summer barbecues and the solid fuel requisitions.
Why table salt and not gritting salt?
I have not been able to extract any answers from the shop staff either because they i) do not know ii) do not care or iii) they have signed a gagging order from Central Tesco Command not to enter into any speculative conversation with consumers because of the criminally exploitative level of mark up and profit in selling a cheap commodity subsequently marketed as an essential and potentially life saving product.
The big freeze of 2010 was something for which we, as a Nation, found ourselves wholly at the mercy of. The severity and duration of the great chill paralysed the activities and livelihoods of our society and economy for many weeks much to the amusement and consternation of our Northern European neighbours who just glided gracefully and competently by in their de-misted, heated seat, snow chain tyred cars into territory that even a common or garden UK heavy duty 4 x 4 fashion mobile could not contemplate.
I spent a good part of that time, certainly a few working days digging my car out from my driveway, on the roadside if having parked up or got stuck and from the office car park. The remainder of the period was in helping others, remarkably even less prepared than me, in similar embarassing situations.
I did learn a sober lesson from that feeling of complete and utter helplessness at the icy hands of nature and to over compensate, as always a British character trait, I have, well after the event, maintained snow and freezing weather kit and provisions in the car. I find that I have to justify this level of expeditionary supplies on a regular basis to those who remark about how heavily weighed down the boot on my car now looks. I have not, as yet, been stopped and searched by the Police on suspicion of carting around a body or the main part of a church porch lead roof covering. How unreassuring is that to a council tax contributor to the budget of the local force?
One major lapse, and for which I may pay dearly come the really adverse weather, was my succumbing to a nagging temptation and eating the Kendal Mint Cake bar on the hottest day of the year in August. Still, that did result in some levelling up of the rear suspension and a noticeable improvement in fuel consumption and the performance and life expectancy of my Continental Snow Tyres.
There can actually be no excuse for being caught with the proverbial leg covering garments down around the ankles, bits of free range hen produce on our faces or just being left high, dry and helpless.
This is because of the undeniable fact that there is a vast amount of information available at our fingertips to give early or advanced warning about such phenomena as adverse weather,power cuts, food shortages, petrol tanker drivers industrial action and even through to what is the 'must have', and totally 'in' toy for Christmas.
Being of a certain age I find weather quite interesting.
I will intentionally linger around the morning TV broadcasts before going to work, channel hopping in order to see a definitive forecast for the day, and hopefully for the forthcoming days. I have, usually no specific or special plans that would cause to be shelved by precipitation, storm winds or a heat wave but such things are nice to know.
Invariably the foretelling of wet or dry spells, high or low pressure are at odds to the actual weather experienced in the proceeding period but I still find myself drawn towards a good 5 day forecast.
I am well prepared for the standard English seasons if they perform to type but this has not at all been the case in recent years. Damn you Global warming.
We have had drought inducing spring, very wet summers, a very late and protracted autumn and , so far this year, quite a mild and reasonable winter. There are of course local and regional variations and exceptions and I am sympathetic to those who in the last two days have been flooded out, battered by hurricane force gales and lost bits of their gardens to landslip.
Currently, I am trying to seek the general consensus on what to expect over the period of late November 2012 to January 2013 in terms of climate. (Assuming that the Mayan prediction of the end of the world around 21st December is woefully incorrect) .My hanging seaweed and sensitive garden foliage are not being very helpful in providing hints and indicators of what to expect. I missed the actual day that our resident Swift family vacated the soffit nest site and so cannot say in what direction , as a portent of approaching weather ,they went.
The nearest but not necessarily reliable fortune teller source comes from my local Tesco Express. It has stockpiled handy sized bags of table salt available in the external lockers between leftover soggy disposable summer barbecues and the solid fuel requisitions.
Why table salt and not gritting salt?
I have not been able to extract any answers from the shop staff either because they i) do not know ii) do not care or iii) they have signed a gagging order from Central Tesco Command not to enter into any speculative conversation with consumers because of the criminally exploitative level of mark up and profit in selling a cheap commodity subsequently marketed as an essential and potentially life saving product.
The big freeze of 2010 was something for which we, as a Nation, found ourselves wholly at the mercy of. The severity and duration of the great chill paralysed the activities and livelihoods of our society and economy for many weeks much to the amusement and consternation of our Northern European neighbours who just glided gracefully and competently by in their de-misted, heated seat, snow chain tyred cars into territory that even a common or garden UK heavy duty 4 x 4 fashion mobile could not contemplate.
I spent a good part of that time, certainly a few working days digging my car out from my driveway, on the roadside if having parked up or got stuck and from the office car park. The remainder of the period was in helping others, remarkably even less prepared than me, in similar embarassing situations.
I did learn a sober lesson from that feeling of complete and utter helplessness at the icy hands of nature and to over compensate, as always a British character trait, I have, well after the event, maintained snow and freezing weather kit and provisions in the car. I find that I have to justify this level of expeditionary supplies on a regular basis to those who remark about how heavily weighed down the boot on my car now looks. I have not, as yet, been stopped and searched by the Police on suspicion of carting around a body or the main part of a church porch lead roof covering. How unreassuring is that to a council tax contributor to the budget of the local force?
One major lapse, and for which I may pay dearly come the really adverse weather, was my succumbing to a nagging temptation and eating the Kendal Mint Cake bar on the hottest day of the year in August. Still, that did result in some levelling up of the rear suspension and a noticeable improvement in fuel consumption and the performance and life expectancy of my Continental Snow Tyres.
Monday, 22 September 2014
Big Ben and a vase of flowers
We, as a family from England, certainly felt privileged to be in Scotland for the momentous occasion of the Referendum on whether or not the Nation attained Independence from the rest of the British Isles.
The drive up over the current disappointing border, to the soundtrack, as usual of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae proceeded a few days of familiarisation with the main issues of debate and we had all watched with interest the ebb and flow of the opinion polls on the seemingly 24/7 coverage in the media.
The outcome always seemed to be in the balance, or as the pundits said, it was too close to call.
The motorway past Gretna and Lockerbie gave no clues to the voting tendencies of the population living along its course but from time to time there was a view across fields to a bright blue and white hoarding in a front garden or on a roof top emblazoned with "YES". It was not until we drove through the massive city sprawl of Glasgow that the first "NO's" were seen and these were untidily grouped on waste land giving the appearance of more of an afterthought than a firm commitment.
On a basic count the "YES" camp were dominant and this was the case well into the Highlands and our destination of Fort William.
There were a few hand made banners with slogans on a patriotic theme, evidence of enthusiastic use of a colour photocopier and the splash of red, white and blue from a rare draped Union Flag.
Once again, there seemed little apparent desire in Scotland remaining as a member of the UK.
We forgot about the main issues as we started our wide range of activities from the base of a large bungalow whose garden sloped steeply down to the west bank of the Caledonian Canal which runs along the Great Glen rift valley from Fort William to Inverness.
Mountain bikes rattled and strained across the miles of forest trails, old railway courses and tow-path. Walking boots slipped and slithered along the mossy paths alongside rampant mountain streams or scrambling up over rocks and heather to get a vantage point towards Ben Nevis and the wooded valleys.
Our party crested the summit of an ancient hill fort and a couple of miles away, simultaneously, dashed down through tree lined walks back to sea level.
Whatever the days pursuits we would all meet up in the late afternoon and enjoy a meal, social time and then relax ahead of the next planned events.
The weather was unseasonably warm reaching 20 degrees plus by mid morning after a clearing sky of low cloud and mist which gave fantastic aspects of the towering Ben Nevis or "Big Ben" as the highest mountain in the country became affectionately known.
It was not however too hot for strenuous efforts on wheels or foot.
After two days we all took a trip to the Atlantic Coast and beach-combed along the dazzling white sands or waded through the crystal clear and almost tropical shallows. Our pockets became stuffed with wave-worn pebbles and trouser turn-ups collected the fine sand which would later find its way into the car and across the floors of the rented house.
There is something magical about turning over in your fingers a scavenged sea shell or a rounded stone especially in the days and weeks after a vacation.
The sea air brought on another drowsy spell amongst our group and 75% of the car occupants on the 40 mile return leg on beautifully sweeping red tarmac roads slept soundly.
Thursday, the day of the Referendum proper was marked by a drive some 4 miles to the nearest shop to collect a newspaper and a further two miles to the town to purchase an authentic Haggis and the ingredients for Tatties and Neaps. It was going to be a long session with the TV coverage from 10.30pm and with the first declarations not expected until 1am but we were determined to mark the historic occasion.
Trying to keep alert was difficult and 66.6% of the politically minded in the room dozed off having to be roused when a small crowd and temporarily vacant podium in a school hall or Civic Centre appeared on the TV.
We called a truce at 3am with only three results declared and all for the "NO" campaign.
Rising early in the darkness at 6am we were just able, through bleary eyes, to witness the final three results with the huge Highland area last of all but with the rejection of independence resounding across our Canal and Glen.
We were both elated and depressed by the outcome before coming to terms with the positivity of the record high turnout of voters which affirmed a strange Unity across the country after a potentially devisive campaign.
Friday, our last full day, was rounded off by an idyllic waterfall and a peak downhill speed of 30mph plus for our walking and riding contingents.
It was a magical week and we said out loud thanks in prayer for the weather and dramatic surroundings.
We were a sad and sorry lot on departing the Highlands but it could have been very different if the weather had been bad. Rather than ride 200km and walk 60km in the week we may have been confined to a succession of daily 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles and not just the two fully completed in our well earned downtime.
The drive up over the current disappointing border, to the soundtrack, as usual of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae proceeded a few days of familiarisation with the main issues of debate and we had all watched with interest the ebb and flow of the opinion polls on the seemingly 24/7 coverage in the media.
The outcome always seemed to be in the balance, or as the pundits said, it was too close to call.
The motorway past Gretna and Lockerbie gave no clues to the voting tendencies of the population living along its course but from time to time there was a view across fields to a bright blue and white hoarding in a front garden or on a roof top emblazoned with "YES". It was not until we drove through the massive city sprawl of Glasgow that the first "NO's" were seen and these were untidily grouped on waste land giving the appearance of more of an afterthought than a firm commitment.
On a basic count the "YES" camp were dominant and this was the case well into the Highlands and our destination of Fort William.
There were a few hand made banners with slogans on a patriotic theme, evidence of enthusiastic use of a colour photocopier and the splash of red, white and blue from a rare draped Union Flag.
Once again, there seemed little apparent desire in Scotland remaining as a member of the UK.
We forgot about the main issues as we started our wide range of activities from the base of a large bungalow whose garden sloped steeply down to the west bank of the Caledonian Canal which runs along the Great Glen rift valley from Fort William to Inverness.
Mountain bikes rattled and strained across the miles of forest trails, old railway courses and tow-path. Walking boots slipped and slithered along the mossy paths alongside rampant mountain streams or scrambling up over rocks and heather to get a vantage point towards Ben Nevis and the wooded valleys.
Our party crested the summit of an ancient hill fort and a couple of miles away, simultaneously, dashed down through tree lined walks back to sea level.
Whatever the days pursuits we would all meet up in the late afternoon and enjoy a meal, social time and then relax ahead of the next planned events.
The weather was unseasonably warm reaching 20 degrees plus by mid morning after a clearing sky of low cloud and mist which gave fantastic aspects of the towering Ben Nevis or "Big Ben" as the highest mountain in the country became affectionately known.
It was not however too hot for strenuous efforts on wheels or foot.
After two days we all took a trip to the Atlantic Coast and beach-combed along the dazzling white sands or waded through the crystal clear and almost tropical shallows. Our pockets became stuffed with wave-worn pebbles and trouser turn-ups collected the fine sand which would later find its way into the car and across the floors of the rented house.
There is something magical about turning over in your fingers a scavenged sea shell or a rounded stone especially in the days and weeks after a vacation.
The sea air brought on another drowsy spell amongst our group and 75% of the car occupants on the 40 mile return leg on beautifully sweeping red tarmac roads slept soundly.
Thursday, the day of the Referendum proper was marked by a drive some 4 miles to the nearest shop to collect a newspaper and a further two miles to the town to purchase an authentic Haggis and the ingredients for Tatties and Neaps. It was going to be a long session with the TV coverage from 10.30pm and with the first declarations not expected until 1am but we were determined to mark the historic occasion.
Trying to keep alert was difficult and 66.6% of the politically minded in the room dozed off having to be roused when a small crowd and temporarily vacant podium in a school hall or Civic Centre appeared on the TV.
We called a truce at 3am with only three results declared and all for the "NO" campaign.
Rising early in the darkness at 6am we were just able, through bleary eyes, to witness the final three results with the huge Highland area last of all but with the rejection of independence resounding across our Canal and Glen.
We were both elated and depressed by the outcome before coming to terms with the positivity of the record high turnout of voters which affirmed a strange Unity across the country after a potentially devisive campaign.
Friday, our last full day, was rounded off by an idyllic waterfall and a peak downhill speed of 30mph plus for our walking and riding contingents.
It was a magical week and we said out loud thanks in prayer for the weather and dramatic surroundings.
We were a sad and sorry lot on departing the Highlands but it could have been very different if the weather had been bad. Rather than ride 200km and walk 60km in the week we may have been confined to a succession of daily 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles and not just the two fully completed in our well earned downtime.
Sunday, 21 September 2014
Saturday, 20 September 2014
Scotland. The leaving of....
What Scotland means to me.
A big sadness when it's time to leave
(Glencoe)
Friday, 19 September 2014
Thursday, 18 September 2014
Scotland. Day of the Vote
What Scotland means to me.
Always an interesting way ahead
(The Great Glen Way)
Wednesday, 17 September 2014
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
Monday, 15 September 2014
Scotland. A mountain to climb.
A new dawn brings great promise.
(Ben Nevis from Muirsheardlich)
Sunday, 14 September 2014
Scotland. Not a fringe nation
What Scotland means to me.
The YES mooovement.
(Spean Bridge. The Great Glen)
Saturday, 13 September 2014
Friday, 12 September 2014
I heard that........pardon
It can be found at OSGB36 TA 410166 or WGS84 53:37.6264N 0:7.9113E
In the early weeks of autumn the clifftop path and surroundings between Kilnsea and Spurn Point are soft, organic and natural.
In the unfettered coastal winds anything not firmly rooted, bedded or bolted down is at risk from displacement. The abrasive effect of whipped up sand gives a premature ageing appearance to timber, brick and the hardy human residents of the narrow spit of land between Humber Estuary and North Sea. The farmers fields,harvested, cleared and freshly ploughed provide the rarity of harsh and regimented unnatural lines but an apt backdrop for the high concrete structure of the Kilnsea Sound Mirror.
An alien apparatus in style but with the appearance of a fifteen foot high severed and mounted big toe sticking out of the ground and with an indented nail as though hammered into smoothness with a heavy blunt object. It must have been cast in situ as transporting it overland would have involved the logistics of an Egyptian stone cutter and considerable forced and strained labour. The footings must have been dug deep and packed solid as the heavy loading of the superstructure remains pert and erect to this day.
The device was a crude manual forerunner of later radar systems with the concave surface of the dish acting as a receiver for the sounds of Zeppelins or other enemy aircraft approaching the mainland from hostile europe. The acoustic sensitivity was magnified by a microphone in the form of a trumpet head within the radius of the sound mirror which was hard wired to a Listener huddled in a slit trench in the damp clay soils surounding the installation.
This duty roster must have been feared and loathed given the perceived remoteness of the location and poor shelter from inclement conditions. The return trip from the garrison in Hull was around 60 miles and with only small villages and hamlets in between for sustenance, shelter and conversation. In the absence of technological aids the headphone wearing soldier would have to interpret the distance and bearing of any attackers on their own initiative and based on confidence in their aural powers. This role was not in vain as there were frequent Zeppelin raids along the East Coast during the 1914-1918 conflict. The ensuing damage to, and demoralisation of , the population may have highlighted some shortcomings in the communications from headset to interceptors.
In the unfettered coastal winds anything not firmly rooted, bedded or bolted down is at risk from displacement. The abrasive effect of whipped up sand gives a premature ageing appearance to timber, brick and the hardy human residents of the narrow spit of land between Humber Estuary and North Sea. The farmers fields,harvested, cleared and freshly ploughed provide the rarity of harsh and regimented unnatural lines but an apt backdrop for the high concrete structure of the Kilnsea Sound Mirror.
An alien apparatus in style but with the appearance of a fifteen foot high severed and mounted big toe sticking out of the ground and with an indented nail as though hammered into smoothness with a heavy blunt object. It must have been cast in situ as transporting it overland would have involved the logistics of an Egyptian stone cutter and considerable forced and strained labour. The footings must have been dug deep and packed solid as the heavy loading of the superstructure remains pert and erect to this day.
The device was a crude manual forerunner of later radar systems with the concave surface of the dish acting as a receiver for the sounds of Zeppelins or other enemy aircraft approaching the mainland from hostile europe. The acoustic sensitivity was magnified by a microphone in the form of a trumpet head within the radius of the sound mirror which was hard wired to a Listener huddled in a slit trench in the damp clay soils surounding the installation.
This duty roster must have been feared and loathed given the perceived remoteness of the location and poor shelter from inclement conditions. The return trip from the garrison in Hull was around 60 miles and with only small villages and hamlets in between for sustenance, shelter and conversation. In the absence of technological aids the headphone wearing soldier would have to interpret the distance and bearing of any attackers on their own initiative and based on confidence in their aural powers. This role was not in vain as there were frequent Zeppelin raids along the East Coast during the 1914-1918 conflict. The ensuing damage to, and demoralisation of , the population may have highlighted some shortcomings in the communications from headset to interceptors.
The structure remains now almost part of the natural landscape. Either by intention or luck the physical positioning of the Sound Mirror has prevented collapse and loss of the war relic over the fast receeding cliff line. If records are lost in the future I wonder what the historians of that time will make of this strange object?
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Windy Miller
There was uproar amongst the villagers when proposals became known for the erection of a wind powered turbine in their very back yard.
The usual emotional sentiments were expressed chiefly on the theme of why it had to be in their otherwise unspoiled area when there were plenty of wide open and unpopulated spaces elsewhere in the county. Rumour and hearsay thrived amongst the residents. There was an unfounded story from another parish where the constant whirring of just such a turbine drove man and beast to a state of demented frenzy and the weaker amongst the respective species threw themselves to an untimely death in a canal or a quarry or under the wheels of some vehicle or other or died of natural causes some years later .
Another tale was of a lady renowned for her special powers in things future and unworldly who claimed that the rotation of the turbine interfered with signals to her from the 'other' side.
In particularly stormy conditions in a southern county someone recalled hearing about turbine blades which had become severed from their tower and had pirouetted and spiralled through the village causing considerable damage to property and possessions.
Sporadic combustion of similar buildings was quite well known and could be substantiated in fact rather than being a subject of fiction.
The representatives of the Consortium, out of town Land Agents, behind the project put their case to a meeting around the village pump amongst barracking and jeering from an almost full contingent of the residents and a few curious by-standers who happened to be out rambling from the city.
The proposed location, it was argued, was ideal on the basis of its elevation and exposure to the prevailing westerly winds.
There was good access to the road network and for the benefit of those for whom the turbine would provide a mechanism for wealth and amenity.
There was to be direct employment for one operator and a house to be built adjacent for occupation by their family.
The spin-off prospects for other jobs in the village and surroundings were expected to be good particularly for those in the transport, haulage, distribution and marketing sectors.
Aesthetically the tower would be quite unobtrusive. Painted black the slender 74 foot high structure with a traditional ogee cap and the four bladed turbine atop would blend in with the hillside and be a mere vertical stripe against the skyline. Such was the design that it was anticipated that the building would attain local landmark status and reflect well on the forward thinking members of the village as being progressive and modern.
When put to a vote the motion to build the structure was passed unanimously. This was not really surprising as the only persons eligible to put their signatures on the paperwork were the Consortium comprising the main land owners and financiers. The rest of the population were largely silent as they were in the employment and tied housing of the aforementioned privileged few as agricultural workers, domestic staff or otherwise beholding for their livelihoods in trade and commerce.
The wind turbine as mentioned , more quaintly called a windmill was erected at Skidby Village in 1821 by Robert Garton, a millwright of nearby Beverley. It was heightened in 1878-1879 but any protests at that time were not recorded for posterity. The windmill was restored to operation in 1974 and is regularly open to the public to this day. The arguments against and for a wind turbine remain ostensibly the same from the early 19th Century to the 21st.
The usual emotional sentiments were expressed chiefly on the theme of why it had to be in their otherwise unspoiled area when there were plenty of wide open and unpopulated spaces elsewhere in the county. Rumour and hearsay thrived amongst the residents. There was an unfounded story from another parish where the constant whirring of just such a turbine drove man and beast to a state of demented frenzy and the weaker amongst the respective species threw themselves to an untimely death in a canal or a quarry or under the wheels of some vehicle or other or died of natural causes some years later .
Another tale was of a lady renowned for her special powers in things future and unworldly who claimed that the rotation of the turbine interfered with signals to her from the 'other' side.
In particularly stormy conditions in a southern county someone recalled hearing about turbine blades which had become severed from their tower and had pirouetted and spiralled through the village causing considerable damage to property and possessions.
Sporadic combustion of similar buildings was quite well known and could be substantiated in fact rather than being a subject of fiction.
The representatives of the Consortium, out of town Land Agents, behind the project put their case to a meeting around the village pump amongst barracking and jeering from an almost full contingent of the residents and a few curious by-standers who happened to be out rambling from the city.
The proposed location, it was argued, was ideal on the basis of its elevation and exposure to the prevailing westerly winds.
There was good access to the road network and for the benefit of those for whom the turbine would provide a mechanism for wealth and amenity.
There was to be direct employment for one operator and a house to be built adjacent for occupation by their family.
The spin-off prospects for other jobs in the village and surroundings were expected to be good particularly for those in the transport, haulage, distribution and marketing sectors.
Aesthetically the tower would be quite unobtrusive. Painted black the slender 74 foot high structure with a traditional ogee cap and the four bladed turbine atop would blend in with the hillside and be a mere vertical stripe against the skyline. Such was the design that it was anticipated that the building would attain local landmark status and reflect well on the forward thinking members of the village as being progressive and modern.
When put to a vote the motion to build the structure was passed unanimously. This was not really surprising as the only persons eligible to put their signatures on the paperwork were the Consortium comprising the main land owners and financiers. The rest of the population were largely silent as they were in the employment and tied housing of the aforementioned privileged few as agricultural workers, domestic staff or otherwise beholding for their livelihoods in trade and commerce.
The wind turbine as mentioned , more quaintly called a windmill was erected at Skidby Village in 1821 by Robert Garton, a millwright of nearby Beverley. It was heightened in 1878-1879 but any protests at that time were not recorded for posterity. The windmill was restored to operation in 1974 and is regularly open to the public to this day. The arguments against and for a wind turbine remain ostensibly the same from the early 19th Century to the 21st.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
Scotland - No (Part 1 of 2)
Ten lame reasons to vote No to independence and keep Scotland in the United Kingdom.
1. The blue of the saltire in the Union Flag gives it a bit of depth in colour.
2. It is essential to avoid shortages of Tunnock snowballs and caramel wafers.
3. Sean Connery would not be a very good King.
4. If the oil is running out fast then we want that as an excuse for financial meltdown as well.
5. The Queen should holiday in her own country at Balmoral.
6. There may be a chance that my local shop will finally accept a Scottish five pound note.
7. It is nice for the Tories to have lots of working class types to victimise.
8. All of those American tourist pounds should stay in the coffers for the good of the Union.
9. The Gold Medal Table for Great Britain at the Summer Olympics makes us all look better.
10. No one else can be trusted to produce an authentic haggis.
1. The blue of the saltire in the Union Flag gives it a bit of depth in colour.
2. It is essential to avoid shortages of Tunnock snowballs and caramel wafers.
3. Sean Connery would not be a very good King.
4. If the oil is running out fast then we want that as an excuse for financial meltdown as well.
5. The Queen should holiday in her own country at Balmoral.
6. There may be a chance that my local shop will finally accept a Scottish five pound note.
7. It is nice for the Tories to have lots of working class types to victimise.
8. All of those American tourist pounds should stay in the coffers for the good of the Union.
9. The Gold Medal Table for Great Britain at the Summer Olympics makes us all look better.
10. No one else can be trusted to produce an authentic haggis.
Tuesday, 9 September 2014
A Bridge Too Near
An idyllic cottage. Newly built but in sympathetic external rendering and under a smooth slate roof. In a few years and with a bit of superficial weathering the house will look as though it has been there for a century.
It would not look out of place on a seafront promenade or on one of those steep sided coastal locations running down to a picturesque harbour. It is the style that appeals to those seeking a weekend or seasonal holiday rental promising a bit of character but at the same time providing all of the mod cons that would make it a home from home for the duration.
The architectural style is Victoriana. A flaunched stack, corbelled stringer course to the upper wall, reconstituted stone cills, pebble dash and a cutesy timber porch with weatherboarding and finial post.
For those who would purchase outright it is something a bit different to that available in the brochures of the big National builders. It is far from a box even though the interior would vary little from most off the peg offerings on the large bleak residential estates which fringe our cities or infill our old industrial and manufacturing sites.
As with most things to do with property the key factor is location. The photograph below shows the view of the house from the rear garden. There is the same appeal in terms of individuality and style and with a nice feature being a traditional single storey off-shoot providing a utility room rather than a pantry or outhouse loo. The eye is however drawn to the concrete structure just visible above and to the left of the roof and a collection of thin cables running paralell.
In a more expanded view the purpose of the imposing structure is clear. It is the north tower of the Humber Bridge.
What are the implications for the residents of the picturesque cottage as a consequence of the proximity to this major estuary crossing point? It is hellishly noisy. The elevated carriageway is some 200 feet above the house roof level and there is a constant clanging as vehicles hit the expansion strip between the road section where it becomes part of the suspension sections.
The view from the front of the property is interesting but possibly a bit of a deal breaker.
It would not look out of place on a seafront promenade or on one of those steep sided coastal locations running down to a picturesque harbour. It is the style that appeals to those seeking a weekend or seasonal holiday rental promising a bit of character but at the same time providing all of the mod cons that would make it a home from home for the duration.
The architectural style is Victoriana. A flaunched stack, corbelled stringer course to the upper wall, reconstituted stone cills, pebble dash and a cutesy timber porch with weatherboarding and finial post.
For those who would purchase outright it is something a bit different to that available in the brochures of the big National builders. It is far from a box even though the interior would vary little from most off the peg offerings on the large bleak residential estates which fringe our cities or infill our old industrial and manufacturing sites.
As with most things to do with property the key factor is location. The photograph below shows the view of the house from the rear garden. There is the same appeal in terms of individuality and style and with a nice feature being a traditional single storey off-shoot providing a utility room rather than a pantry or outhouse loo. The eye is however drawn to the concrete structure just visible above and to the left of the roof and a collection of thin cables running paralell.
In a more expanded view the purpose of the imposing structure is clear. It is the north tower of the Humber Bridge.
What are the implications for the residents of the picturesque cottage as a consequence of the proximity to this major estuary crossing point? It is hellishly noisy. The elevated carriageway is some 200 feet above the house roof level and there is a constant clanging as vehicles hit the expansion strip between the road section where it becomes part of the suspension sections.
The view from the front of the property is interesting but possibly a bit of a deal breaker.
Monday, 8 September 2014
In at the Deep End
I come across, every year, a few properties with their own private swimming pool.
I always try to find out from the owners the approximate costs of running a pool but even though they may be chatty and willing to divulge every other detail about their property they can be most elusive on providing an answer to that specific line of enquiry.
This may simply be that they a) do not know, b) have never bothered to work it out c) it is too horrific to entertain or d) it is just not important because a) owning a pool has been a lifelong ambition, b) the luxury of a pool is beyond any quantified price c) it is too horrific to entertain (again).
The motivation behind digging a big hole, tiling and grouting it and then filling it up with water and chemicals can be diverse.
A few hardy souls just love to dip themselves in water and it is too much hassle to drag said body down to the Municipal Leisure Centre, what with its timings for different age groups and sexes. The health benefits, I can see, may outweigh the material costs, and having a pool for your own exclusive use does maintain its position in the hierarchy of status symbols although it will have been hard pressed by the latest "must haves" of electronic driveway gates, a heated driveway and paths, hot-tub, conservatory and orangery structures.
As a child I recall the mixture of elation and horror at being invited to a house with a swimming pool. The former for the rarity and the latter because I could not swim.
Of course, those early pools in the late 1960's and early 1970's were fully outdoor and even on the hottest day of an English Summer and after a week of pre-heating the experience of entering the water brought on a dramatic shaking and an adverse reaction to the perishing cold of the shallow end. Maintaining an outdoor pool has to be a labour of love as even with protective covers there is always the intrusion of vegetation, litter, bird droppings and the occasional drowned wild animal.
I knew of a few families whose pool dreams were tragically marred by accidents involving small children and domestic pets.
My more recent encounters with pools have included a few very expensive examples in their own dedicated buildings linked in to the main residence with a few rivalling some of the facilities that, as local residents we subsidise through payment of the Council Tax.
There are certainly therapeutic and psychological benefits associated with exercise in water, again a main motivation or excuse for some significant capital outlay or investment. There remains a degree of suspicion in the minds of prospective purchasers when thinking about buying a house with a swimming pool but that does not stop them from trying out the amenities on successive visits under the pretence of fact finding. That and measuring up for curtains.
A pool also provides a superb party venue and most come with the added specification of a sauna, smaller lounging or dipping tubs, recreational bar and seating area.
Whilst some pools are almost Olympic is size and stature the average ones are not quite large enough to embark on an aquatic adventure or record breaking attempt. Most are below 10 metres long and 4 metres wide which imposes the hazard of knocking yourself unconscious at the deep end after a spirited dive at the shallow end. Diving may also be a problem if actual depths are a bit restricted in the interests of safety and the costs of excavation in the construction process.
Perhaps the main justification for your own swimming pool is to be able to just do those things normally prohibited at the County Baths. A lot can be said for the luxury of being allowed to run, jump, bomb, splash, intimidate, bully and indulge in heavy petting in the privacy of your own home.
I always try to find out from the owners the approximate costs of running a pool but even though they may be chatty and willing to divulge every other detail about their property they can be most elusive on providing an answer to that specific line of enquiry.
This may simply be that they a) do not know, b) have never bothered to work it out c) it is too horrific to entertain or d) it is just not important because a) owning a pool has been a lifelong ambition, b) the luxury of a pool is beyond any quantified price c) it is too horrific to entertain (again).
The motivation behind digging a big hole, tiling and grouting it and then filling it up with water and chemicals can be diverse.
A few hardy souls just love to dip themselves in water and it is too much hassle to drag said body down to the Municipal Leisure Centre, what with its timings for different age groups and sexes. The health benefits, I can see, may outweigh the material costs, and having a pool for your own exclusive use does maintain its position in the hierarchy of status symbols although it will have been hard pressed by the latest "must haves" of electronic driveway gates, a heated driveway and paths, hot-tub, conservatory and orangery structures.
As a child I recall the mixture of elation and horror at being invited to a house with a swimming pool. The former for the rarity and the latter because I could not swim.
Of course, those early pools in the late 1960's and early 1970's were fully outdoor and even on the hottest day of an English Summer and after a week of pre-heating the experience of entering the water brought on a dramatic shaking and an adverse reaction to the perishing cold of the shallow end. Maintaining an outdoor pool has to be a labour of love as even with protective covers there is always the intrusion of vegetation, litter, bird droppings and the occasional drowned wild animal.
I knew of a few families whose pool dreams were tragically marred by accidents involving small children and domestic pets.
My more recent encounters with pools have included a few very expensive examples in their own dedicated buildings linked in to the main residence with a few rivalling some of the facilities that, as local residents we subsidise through payment of the Council Tax.
There are certainly therapeutic and psychological benefits associated with exercise in water, again a main motivation or excuse for some significant capital outlay or investment. There remains a degree of suspicion in the minds of prospective purchasers when thinking about buying a house with a swimming pool but that does not stop them from trying out the amenities on successive visits under the pretence of fact finding. That and measuring up for curtains.
A pool also provides a superb party venue and most come with the added specification of a sauna, smaller lounging or dipping tubs, recreational bar and seating area.
Whilst some pools are almost Olympic is size and stature the average ones are not quite large enough to embark on an aquatic adventure or record breaking attempt. Most are below 10 metres long and 4 metres wide which imposes the hazard of knocking yourself unconscious at the deep end after a spirited dive at the shallow end. Diving may also be a problem if actual depths are a bit restricted in the interests of safety and the costs of excavation in the construction process.
Perhaps the main justification for your own swimming pool is to be able to just do those things normally prohibited at the County Baths. A lot can be said for the luxury of being allowed to run, jump, bomb, splash, intimidate, bully and indulge in heavy petting in the privacy of your own home.
Sunday, 7 September 2014
Round and round
I was convinced that the circle of compacted grass was not of this world. Having watched 'Signs' I have developed a fear of the first metre and a half depth of Maize fields because that is the part that aliens always emerge from with sinister intent towards humankind. Anything beyond that depth and up to the entry ramp of the spacecraft I have no problem with. Get that far in the clutches of an Alien and you will be well beyond fear.
The circle in the field was mystifying because of its proximity to a busy road and a group of houses but with the latest version of a cloaking system such as that developed in 'Star Trek-The Way Home' even the densest of estate housing would be oblivious to the comings and goings of a spacecraft. I do suspect however that the Authorities have intentionally cluttered our streets with wheelie bins to give advance warning of an alien landing. Green for multi-purpose aliens, brown for those already residing deep in the bowels of the earth and blue for invaders of an aquatic outlook.
I am a bit confused by the newest small containers unless there is a race of mini-extra terrestrials heading for our planet. I have not even attempted to use the new wheelie small bin. Aarrgh, could it be the portal by which the MET's arrive in our very midst? (James Cameron- be aware that was my idea but I have not got around to a Patent yet). I got closer to the grass circle to investigate. The blades of grass were strangely arranged in submission and with abrasion marks as though the tastiest part of the shoots had been harvested in a systematic way.
The outer rim of the phenomenom was eroded in a shallow depression which worked out in a spiral configuration. I could attribute this to the decreasing rotational mass of the craft on landing. No indications of scorching or damage from the lift off process which indicated a very advanced form of propulsion. Certainly a well progressed race.
Within the scope of the circle were small patches of brown divot with a thriving range of flora and fauna. Could this be the very building blocks of the universe, a form of genetic growth boost? I picked up, smelled and tasted the brown residue- pungent and earthy but not without acidity and a fruity aroma. In the very centre of the ring I found a large metallic probe inserted into the soil to some depth. This could not be moved and I speculated this to be a very part of the flying saucer, perhaps an anchor to earth or a means to replenish energy supplies in an eco-friendly way some 2 million light years ahead of Honda making it available to the public. I could only stand and wonder at what the universe and our nearest space neighbours could teach us.
It was now quite dark and foreboding in that place. As I made my way quickly out of the field landing site I almost tripped over a gypsy horse tethered to a long rope and happily working its way around the lush vegetation. What frightful things that animal had witnessed we may never know,
The circle in the field was mystifying because of its proximity to a busy road and a group of houses but with the latest version of a cloaking system such as that developed in 'Star Trek-The Way Home' even the densest of estate housing would be oblivious to the comings and goings of a spacecraft. I do suspect however that the Authorities have intentionally cluttered our streets with wheelie bins to give advance warning of an alien landing. Green for multi-purpose aliens, brown for those already residing deep in the bowels of the earth and blue for invaders of an aquatic outlook.
I am a bit confused by the newest small containers unless there is a race of mini-extra terrestrials heading for our planet. I have not even attempted to use the new wheelie small bin. Aarrgh, could it be the portal by which the MET's arrive in our very midst? (James Cameron- be aware that was my idea but I have not got around to a Patent yet). I got closer to the grass circle to investigate. The blades of grass were strangely arranged in submission and with abrasion marks as though the tastiest part of the shoots had been harvested in a systematic way.
The outer rim of the phenomenom was eroded in a shallow depression which worked out in a spiral configuration. I could attribute this to the decreasing rotational mass of the craft on landing. No indications of scorching or damage from the lift off process which indicated a very advanced form of propulsion. Certainly a well progressed race.
Within the scope of the circle were small patches of brown divot with a thriving range of flora and fauna. Could this be the very building blocks of the universe, a form of genetic growth boost? I picked up, smelled and tasted the brown residue- pungent and earthy but not without acidity and a fruity aroma. In the very centre of the ring I found a large metallic probe inserted into the soil to some depth. This could not be moved and I speculated this to be a very part of the flying saucer, perhaps an anchor to earth or a means to replenish energy supplies in an eco-friendly way some 2 million light years ahead of Honda making it available to the public. I could only stand and wonder at what the universe and our nearest space neighbours could teach us.
It was now quite dark and foreboding in that place. As I made my way quickly out of the field landing site I almost tripped over a gypsy horse tethered to a long rope and happily working its way around the lush vegetation. What frightful things that animal had witnessed we may never know,
Saturday, 6 September 2014
The Straight and The Narrow
Is this the narrowest habitable house in the UK?
Located in an inner city area of Kingston Upon Hull, East Yorkshire, England
It's origins are unclear whether purpose built in or around 1900 either as a stand-alone dwelling or as part of a larger group of buildings. Archive Maps, the earliest available from 1855 for the locality show a mass of structures on the eastern side (right hand side on the top photograph) but the site is now largely occupied by a school or community premises. The house is occupied and the main part is taken up by a two-up and two-down arrangement of rooms providing living, kitchen and first floor bedrooms, The bathroom is a later, modern extension at the rear under a flat roof.
Located in an inner city area of Kingston Upon Hull, East Yorkshire, England
It's origins are unclear whether purpose built in or around 1900 either as a stand-alone dwelling or as part of a larger group of buildings. Archive Maps, the earliest available from 1855 for the locality show a mass of structures on the eastern side (right hand side on the top photograph) but the site is now largely occupied by a school or community premises. The house is occupied and the main part is taken up by a two-up and two-down arrangement of rooms providing living, kitchen and first floor bedrooms, The bathroom is a later, modern extension at the rear under a flat roof.
Friday, 5 September 2014
Pride and Prejudice
A recent newspaper report that caught my eye was that on the subject of the UK Citizenship Test and the fact that a high proportion of the resident population fared very poorly in answering the questions correctly.
I have give some thought to what should constitute a valid test based on modern life in this country, historic events and personalities, popular culture, sport and religion.
1. On old maps what colour was used to show the extent of the British Empire at its peak?
a) Pink b) Please not Pink c) Any colour other than pink d) Red
2. What is the correct order for making a cup of tea?
a) Tea bag, water, milk, sugar b) Water, tea bag, sugar, milk c) Milk, tea bag, sugar, water
3. If you order fish and chips, what sort of fish would you expect to be served?
a) Bream b) Cod c) Pollock d) Haddock
4. On finishing a McDonalds Drive-thru meal how do you deal with the packaging?
a) Throw it onto the street b) Throw it out of the moving car window c) Run it over
5. What coins are essential to use a telephone in a traditional kiosk?
a) Real ones b) Fake ones c) None because the phone is broken.
6. What chocolate is still made by a British owned company?
a) Nestle b) Cadbury c) Mars d) Thorntons
7. If you have an antimacassar in your home do you ?
a) Have no macassars b) Have an uncle macassar as well c) live in constant fear
8. The Scottish People are soon to vote on what?
a) Legalising deep fried chocolate bars b) Banning hunting of haggis c) A ballot paper
9. If you have a fifty pound note are you?
a) Supporting forgery gangs b) In charge of a colour photo-copier c) Unable to spend it
10. The alternative National Anthem of England is?
a) We are the Champions b) Three Lions c) That song by that chubby lass from the north
11. Which of these so called seaside towns actually fronts a river?
a) Cleethorpes b) Weston Super Mare c) Nairn d) All of these
12. The last night of the proms is what?
a) The last night of the proms b) The night the proms finish c) a waste of space
13. Can you recite any poems by Wordsworth?
a) Yes b) No
14. What did King Alfred famously do ?
a) Flunk cookery school b) Leave in the first round of Bake Off c) Burn some cakes
15. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was.......?
a) Father of Conan the Barbarian b) The curly haired one on The Professionals c) Pretentious
16. If you have a log burning appliance in your home you are..?
a) Lower middle class b) Upper working class c) A scavenger
17. Correctly colour code the wheelies bins in the correct order. General/Recycle/Food
a) Black/brown/blue b)Blue/black/brown c) Brown/blue/black
18. Which of the following is not the name of the inventor of that product?
a) Dyson b) Tunnocks c) Theakstons d) Multi Pack Flavoured Crisps
19. What is the biggest summit in Britain?
a) Snowdon b) Ben Nevis c) Summit Else d) Summit completely different
20. It's a braw, bricht, moonlicht nicht is what language?
a) German b) Dutch c) Swedish d) Scottish
21. The season of summer in England runs from....?
a) June to September b) 5th to 7th July c) 12 noon to 2pm d) Not sure
22. Which of the following number plate prefixes are European?
a) H b) LV c) PL d) F e) all of them
Answers on request.......yes, really.
I have give some thought to what should constitute a valid test based on modern life in this country, historic events and personalities, popular culture, sport and religion.
1. On old maps what colour was used to show the extent of the British Empire at its peak?
a) Pink b) Please not Pink c) Any colour other than pink d) Red
2. What is the correct order for making a cup of tea?
a) Tea bag, water, milk, sugar b) Water, tea bag, sugar, milk c) Milk, tea bag, sugar, water
3. If you order fish and chips, what sort of fish would you expect to be served?
a) Bream b) Cod c) Pollock d) Haddock
4. On finishing a McDonalds Drive-thru meal how do you deal with the packaging?
a) Throw it onto the street b) Throw it out of the moving car window c) Run it over
5. What coins are essential to use a telephone in a traditional kiosk?
a) Real ones b) Fake ones c) None because the phone is broken.
6. What chocolate is still made by a British owned company?
a) Nestle b) Cadbury c) Mars d) Thorntons
7. If you have an antimacassar in your home do you ?
a) Have no macassars b) Have an uncle macassar as well c) live in constant fear
8. The Scottish People are soon to vote on what?
a) Legalising deep fried chocolate bars b) Banning hunting of haggis c) A ballot paper
9. If you have a fifty pound note are you?
a) Supporting forgery gangs b) In charge of a colour photo-copier c) Unable to spend it
10. The alternative National Anthem of England is?
a) We are the Champions b) Three Lions c) That song by that chubby lass from the north
11. Which of these so called seaside towns actually fronts a river?
a) Cleethorpes b) Weston Super Mare c) Nairn d) All of these
12. The last night of the proms is what?
a) The last night of the proms b) The night the proms finish c) a waste of space
13. Can you recite any poems by Wordsworth?
a) Yes b) No
14. What did King Alfred famously do ?
a) Flunk cookery school b) Leave in the first round of Bake Off c) Burn some cakes
15. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was.......?
a) Father of Conan the Barbarian b) The curly haired one on The Professionals c) Pretentious
16. If you have a log burning appliance in your home you are..?
a) Lower middle class b) Upper working class c) A scavenger
17. Correctly colour code the wheelies bins in the correct order. General/Recycle/Food
a) Black/brown/blue b)Blue/black/brown c) Brown/blue/black
18. Which of the following is not the name of the inventor of that product?
a) Dyson b) Tunnocks c) Theakstons d) Multi Pack Flavoured Crisps
19. What is the biggest summit in Britain?
a) Snowdon b) Ben Nevis c) Summit Else d) Summit completely different
20. It's a braw, bricht, moonlicht nicht is what language?
a) German b) Dutch c) Swedish d) Scottish
21. The season of summer in England runs from....?
a) June to September b) 5th to 7th July c) 12 noon to 2pm d) Not sure
22. Which of the following number plate prefixes are European?
a) H b) LV c) PL d) F e) all of them
Answers on request.......yes, really.
Thursday, 4 September 2014
Rats
There is nothing like a rat to instill panic, fear and hysteria amongst the wider public. Given the statistical and anecdotal evidence on the physical numbers and therefore the strong possibility of one crossing your path on an hourly or daily basis this is quite understandable. The fear of rats is therefore somewhat akin to our perception of the fear of crime. I have had a fascination with the creatures since early childhood and have enjoyed moments of casual observation from a distance, sheer terror on a very close face to whisker basis and wrenching sadness as I maintain that a rat borne disease did for our dog, Toffy the German Pointer.
The rat has struggled for any semblance of good publicity. Carrier of plaque, scavenger capitalising on human hardship, deserter of a sinking ship, association with dirt, sewers and love cheats. I can think of perhaps one positive connotation being the British fighting forces in the North African desert. Even the good natured and intentioned although ultimately mercenary Pied Piper was done over by the supposed Civil minded Burghers of Hamlyn because he hung around with rats. Saying that, and with no names mentioned to protect the downright ugly, is it true that those in the rat catching and indeed broader rodent and pest control sector do have a resemblence, facially and in mannerisms to rats?
A particularly interesting rat kept me quite engaged as a young child.
It was just about discernible as a member of that species because it had been killed on the road and thereafter subjected to targeted running over by motorists across the full range of vehicles from bicycles, motorbikes, private cars, light vans, buses and large commercial trucks. In off peak hours of road use the tastier organs, chewy tendons, deep black eyeballs and fleshy parts provided sustenance to other members of its family and a wider range of carrion and just downright opportunists in the natural world .
Over time, the camber of the highway working with intermittent surface water run off and splash from tyres had eased the pulverised carcass over to the gutter. After some natural drying out in the sun the now hairless cadaver, flat and leathery assumed a certain lightness and was blown around like a dead leaf in the slipstream of the traffic. A combined vortex of HGV's and a light westerly breeze deposited the now almost transparent representation of a rat on the wide verge and that was where I came across it.
At first it took some staring to identify what indeed the curious item was. I thought at first that it was the insole from a shoe, the mocassin of a passing Sioux or one of those gristly dog chews made from gelatine or cow horn. With the aid of my faithful stick I was able to rearrange the exhibit. It was definitely a rat. It looked as though careful insertion of a bicycle pump would restore the thing to a more natural shape and recognisable form. I toyed with it out of morbid interest using the pointed end of the stick. It was so dry that there was no prospect of extruded materials and certainly nothing to keep maggots or insects at all engaged.
It could have endless possibilities for mischief and mayhem and I imagined secreting it away in a desk at school, leaving it around the house or on practical grounds it would make a nice bookmark to be left amongst the pages of a popular read in the municipal library. The combinations of fun that could come from that single object gave me a headache. For a few moments I assumed ownership of the artefact. I stood over it as though jealously guarding the discovery from other claimants. The face of a small child, pressed up in a snotty haze on the passenger side window of a passing car, displayed complete approval and a bit of envy at my good fortune. I was the intrepid explorer and seeker of treasure trove even though it was only the A15 trunk road.
As with most young lads of my age I soon became distracted by more interesting things on that very productive verge. A popped out catseye, the tail light from a Morris Marina, part of a number plate that was almost a full rude word but was good fun for that anyway and a used prophylactic which, when looped over the stick end, could be catipulted into someones back garden on the route home for tea. The implications arising from that subsequent discovery could be quite far reaching.
I can imagine that dried and dessicated rat being preserved for Millenia in that very spot and perpetuating the desire of small boys to challenge and frighten themselves until the next wave of boredom sets in.
The rat has struggled for any semblance of good publicity. Carrier of plaque, scavenger capitalising on human hardship, deserter of a sinking ship, association with dirt, sewers and love cheats. I can think of perhaps one positive connotation being the British fighting forces in the North African desert. Even the good natured and intentioned although ultimately mercenary Pied Piper was done over by the supposed Civil minded Burghers of Hamlyn because he hung around with rats. Saying that, and with no names mentioned to protect the downright ugly, is it true that those in the rat catching and indeed broader rodent and pest control sector do have a resemblence, facially and in mannerisms to rats?
A particularly interesting rat kept me quite engaged as a young child.
It was just about discernible as a member of that species because it had been killed on the road and thereafter subjected to targeted running over by motorists across the full range of vehicles from bicycles, motorbikes, private cars, light vans, buses and large commercial trucks. In off peak hours of road use the tastier organs, chewy tendons, deep black eyeballs and fleshy parts provided sustenance to other members of its family and a wider range of carrion and just downright opportunists in the natural world .
Over time, the camber of the highway working with intermittent surface water run off and splash from tyres had eased the pulverised carcass over to the gutter. After some natural drying out in the sun the now hairless cadaver, flat and leathery assumed a certain lightness and was blown around like a dead leaf in the slipstream of the traffic. A combined vortex of HGV's and a light westerly breeze deposited the now almost transparent representation of a rat on the wide verge and that was where I came across it.
At first it took some staring to identify what indeed the curious item was. I thought at first that it was the insole from a shoe, the mocassin of a passing Sioux or one of those gristly dog chews made from gelatine or cow horn. With the aid of my faithful stick I was able to rearrange the exhibit. It was definitely a rat. It looked as though careful insertion of a bicycle pump would restore the thing to a more natural shape and recognisable form. I toyed with it out of morbid interest using the pointed end of the stick. It was so dry that there was no prospect of extruded materials and certainly nothing to keep maggots or insects at all engaged.
It could have endless possibilities for mischief and mayhem and I imagined secreting it away in a desk at school, leaving it around the house or on practical grounds it would make a nice bookmark to be left amongst the pages of a popular read in the municipal library. The combinations of fun that could come from that single object gave me a headache. For a few moments I assumed ownership of the artefact. I stood over it as though jealously guarding the discovery from other claimants. The face of a small child, pressed up in a snotty haze on the passenger side window of a passing car, displayed complete approval and a bit of envy at my good fortune. I was the intrepid explorer and seeker of treasure trove even though it was only the A15 trunk road.
As with most young lads of my age I soon became distracted by more interesting things on that very productive verge. A popped out catseye, the tail light from a Morris Marina, part of a number plate that was almost a full rude word but was good fun for that anyway and a used prophylactic which, when looped over the stick end, could be catipulted into someones back garden on the route home for tea. The implications arising from that subsequent discovery could be quite far reaching.
I can imagine that dried and dessicated rat being preserved for Millenia in that very spot and perpetuating the desire of small boys to challenge and frighten themselves until the next wave of boredom sets in.
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
Eel do nicely, thank you
A freshwater Eel on your fishing hook was always bad news.
The moment the float disappeared under the choppy river surface there was no telling whether it was that elusive once in a lifetime catch to be photographed and mounted on the mantlepiece, or featured in Angling Times, or just a troublesome eel.
On that first strike and tautness of nylon line it was apparent that there was something of some substance attached by hook. A tugging resistance was exciting and as the line played out into the murky depths all your senses became accentuated and raw. It was a one on one confrontation with the natural world.
The line ,transluscent in the morning sun , glistened and small droplets of water fell away to create small concentric circles in the wake of the pursuit. The flexibility of a modern fibre glass fishing rod gave the impression of a relentless battle, arching dramatically, almost doubling up on itself but like a vaulting pole always springing back to its full reach.
Whatever was trying to get away was quite determined to do so and was heading towards the depths of the river and the clump of thick weeds at the edge of the far bank. It was bit and bit on who was winning. The line would slacken suddenly as though the hook had released its captor. The action of slowly reeling in the loose, flapping line was tentative and nervy but only served to annoy the protagonist and the run, stall and waiting game would start again.
After what seemed like hours but was only really a handful of minutes a silver flash briefly broke the surface. The glimpse was not enough to identify fish or eel and catching a second surge of energy the river dweller continued to make a bid for freedom. It was good sport, or as good as could be expected on a sleepy backwater.
Gradually the advantage turned in favour of the angler and more of the line was now back around the reel than in the water. Excitedly the green mesh landing net was prepared and pushed out just under the surface to receive the catch.
As the last few metres of line emerged there was the sight of a thick congealed slime, like that often seen around the mouths of grazing cows. This announced that it was an eel that had provided the entertainment. Not wanting to introduce the mucus into the fishing reel it was a case of swinging the rod end and the struggling, knotted eel onto the bank. The grass seethed and hissed under the contortions of the eel. Thoughts of retrieving the hook were discounted. The discorger could just not be manouevred into the reptilian mouth of small stubbly but sharp teeth and even if it was possible to grip and hold the eel it would only wrap itself tightly around hand and wrist and in a flume of more slime and extruded fluids.
The only course of action was to sever the line just above the last point of the congealed mess and throw the eel back into the river. Such an action did betray the creed of a dedicated angler who always strived to release a catch without apparent harm back to its habitat. However, eels, somehow did not come under the same category as a fish and warranted special treatment.
They are tough creatures and many caught had multiple hooks and strands of line about their bodies from previous frenzied feedings. I often though that anyone actually wanting to catch eels in our stretch of river could easily do so from a small boat with a metal detector and small net.
The moment the float disappeared under the choppy river surface there was no telling whether it was that elusive once in a lifetime catch to be photographed and mounted on the mantlepiece, or featured in Angling Times, or just a troublesome eel.
On that first strike and tautness of nylon line it was apparent that there was something of some substance attached by hook. A tugging resistance was exciting and as the line played out into the murky depths all your senses became accentuated and raw. It was a one on one confrontation with the natural world.
The line ,transluscent in the morning sun , glistened and small droplets of water fell away to create small concentric circles in the wake of the pursuit. The flexibility of a modern fibre glass fishing rod gave the impression of a relentless battle, arching dramatically, almost doubling up on itself but like a vaulting pole always springing back to its full reach.
Whatever was trying to get away was quite determined to do so and was heading towards the depths of the river and the clump of thick weeds at the edge of the far bank. It was bit and bit on who was winning. The line would slacken suddenly as though the hook had released its captor. The action of slowly reeling in the loose, flapping line was tentative and nervy but only served to annoy the protagonist and the run, stall and waiting game would start again.
After what seemed like hours but was only really a handful of minutes a silver flash briefly broke the surface. The glimpse was not enough to identify fish or eel and catching a second surge of energy the river dweller continued to make a bid for freedom. It was good sport, or as good as could be expected on a sleepy backwater.
Gradually the advantage turned in favour of the angler and more of the line was now back around the reel than in the water. Excitedly the green mesh landing net was prepared and pushed out just under the surface to receive the catch.
As the last few metres of line emerged there was the sight of a thick congealed slime, like that often seen around the mouths of grazing cows. This announced that it was an eel that had provided the entertainment. Not wanting to introduce the mucus into the fishing reel it was a case of swinging the rod end and the struggling, knotted eel onto the bank. The grass seethed and hissed under the contortions of the eel. Thoughts of retrieving the hook were discounted. The discorger could just not be manouevred into the reptilian mouth of small stubbly but sharp teeth and even if it was possible to grip and hold the eel it would only wrap itself tightly around hand and wrist and in a flume of more slime and extruded fluids.
The only course of action was to sever the line just above the last point of the congealed mess and throw the eel back into the river. Such an action did betray the creed of a dedicated angler who always strived to release a catch without apparent harm back to its habitat. However, eels, somehow did not come under the same category as a fish and warranted special treatment.
They are tough creatures and many caught had multiple hooks and strands of line about their bodies from previous frenzied feedings. I often though that anyone actually wanting to catch eels in our stretch of river could easily do so from a small boat with a metal detector and small net.
Tuesday, 2 September 2014
Fringe, Sir?
This is a list compiled by The Telegraph Newspaper of what they felt were the best jokes offered at this years Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
I have just repeated the order in which they were published in the paper but have indicated my top three in a sort of traffic light colour coding method- red as always being the best.
You may think otherwise..........
“I did a gig in a fertility clinic. I got a standing ovulation.”
Tim Vine: Timtiminee Timtiminee Tim Tim to You
(Pleasance Courtyard, One, until Aug 24)
“Dogs don’t love you. They’re just glad they don’t live in China.”
Romesh Ranganathan: Rom Wasn’t Built in a Day
(Pleasance Courtyard, Beneath, until Aug 24)
“Miley Cyrus. You know when she was born? 1992. I’ve got condiments in my cupboard older than that.”
Lucy Beaumont: We Can Twerk It Out
(Pleasance Courtyard, That, until Aug 24)
“I lost my virginity very late. When it finally happened, I wasn’t so much deflowered as deadheaded.”
Holly Walsh: Never Had It
Assembly George Square Studios, Five, until Aug 24
“The past is another country. Property is cheaper there.”
John-Luke Roberts: Stnad-Up
Voodoo Rooms, Free Fringe, until Aug 24
“I used to think an ocean of soda existed, but it was just a Fanta sea.”
Bec Hill in... Ellipses
Gilded Balloon, Turret, until Aug 24
“There are very few people at the Fringe these days doing Roman-numeral jokes. I is one.”
Chris Turner: Pretty Fly
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker Two, until Aug 25
“Most of my life is spent avoiding conflict. I hardly ever visit Syria.”
Alex Horne: Monsieur Butterfly
Pleasance Courtyard, Two, until Aug 24
“I’m not sexist – I’m not! That’s why I let my female workers work longer than the men so they can make the same money.”
Al Murray: The Pub Landlord’s Late Lock In
One-off gig on Aug 12
“Fun fact: did you know that HIV is actually Roman for “high five”? Pass it on – or, rather, don’t.”
Rhys James: Begins
Pleasance Below, until Aug 24
“The other day, I went to KFC. I didn’t know Kentucky had a football club.”
Nick Helm’s Two Night Stand at the Grand
Pleasance Grand, until Aug 12
“I’ve got nothing against teachers now. I’ve got friends that went to schools that were full of teachers.”
Dane Baptiste: Citizen Dane
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker Two, until Aug 24
“Wetherspoons? They’ve all got character. They’ve all got the same character.”
Liam Williams: Capitalism
Free Fringe: Laughing Horse@The Cellar Monkey, until Aug 25
“You can’t lose a homing pigeon. If your homing pigeon doesn’t come back, then what you’ve lost is a pigeon.”
Sara Pascoe vs History
Assembly George Square, Studio Two, until Aug 15
“I thought Benefits Street was a budget box of chocolates that you could buy at Lidl.”
Imran Yusuf: Roar of the Underdog
Underbelly, Wee Coo, until Aug 25
“Giving up smoking for 27 years is like wrestling a polar bear, in that it can make you quite tense.”
Dylan Moran, in Comedy Sans Frontières
Pleasance Grand, one-off gig
“You have to be careful in my country because we have bad cars and good wine, a dangerous combination.”
Francesco De Carlo: Italians do it Later
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker One, until Aug 25
“I’m Clive Anderson, in case you were thinking so that’s what happened to William Hague these past years...”
Clive Anderson, in What Does the Title Matter Anyway?
Underbelly, McEwan Hall, until Aug 19
“The reason I was never that scared of the enemy fighters in Star Wars is they look essentially like flying brackets.”
Will Adamsdale: Borders
Underbelly, Belly Button, until Aug 24
“In advertisements, there are just two types of women: wanton, gagging for it; or vacuous. We’re either coming on a window-pane, or laughing at salads.”
Bridget Christie: An Ungrateful Woman
Stand One, until Aug 25
“That song ends flatly. It’s like a sniper at Riverdance.”
Chris Turner: Pretty Fly
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker Two, until Aug 25
“A funny German comedian? For you, that’s like a Russian human-rights commission.”
Michael Mittermeier: Das Blackout
Gilded Balloon, Nightclub, until Aug 25
“There’s only four things you can be in life: sober, tipsy, drunk and hungover. Tipsy is the only one where you don’t cry when you’re doing it.”
James Acaster: Recognise
Pleasance Courtyard, Cabaret Bar, until Aug 24
“Like most liberals, I will do anything for the working classes, anything - apart from mix with them.”
Kevin Day: Standy Uppy
Gilded Balloon, Billiard Room, until Aug 25
“I’ve got type 1 diabetes. Diabetes is the only disease where I’ve had to stop half way through having sex to have a Kit Kat.”
Ed Gamble: Gambletron 5000
Pleasance Courtyard, Cabaret Bar, until Aug 24
“I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger eating a chocolate egg. I said, I bet I know what your favourite Christian festival is. He said, You have to love Easter, baby.”
Tim Vine: Timtiminee Timtiminee Tim Tim to You
Pleasance Courtyard, One, until Aug 24
“Due to the size of my social circle, a lads' holiday would resemble a romantic getaway.”
Phil Wang: Mellow Yellow
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker One, until Aug 24
“My dad said, always leave them wanting more. Ironically, that’s how he lost his job in disaster relief.”
Mark Watson: Flaws
Pleasance Courtyard, One, until Aug 24
“There’s only one thing I can’t do that white people can do, and that’s play pranks at international airports.”
Nish Kumar: Ruminations on the Nature of Subjectivity
Pleasance Courtyard, Beside, until Aug 24
“When my wife and I argue, we’re like a band in concert: we start with some new stuff, and then we roll out our greatest hits.”
Frank Skinner: Man in a Suit
Assembly George Square, Theatre, until Aug 24
I have just repeated the order in which they were published in the paper but have indicated my top three in a sort of traffic light colour coding method- red as always being the best.
You may think otherwise..........
“I did a gig in a fertility clinic. I got a standing ovulation.”
Tim Vine: Timtiminee Timtiminee Tim Tim to You
(Pleasance Courtyard, One, until Aug 24)
“Dogs don’t love you. They’re just glad they don’t live in China.”
Romesh Ranganathan: Rom Wasn’t Built in a Day
(Pleasance Courtyard, Beneath, until Aug 24)
“Miley Cyrus. You know when she was born? 1992. I’ve got condiments in my cupboard older than that.”
Lucy Beaumont: We Can Twerk It Out
(Pleasance Courtyard, That, until Aug 24)
“I lost my virginity very late. When it finally happened, I wasn’t so much deflowered as deadheaded.”
Holly Walsh: Never Had It
Assembly George Square Studios, Five, until Aug 24
“The past is another country. Property is cheaper there.”
John-Luke Roberts: Stnad-Up
Voodoo Rooms, Free Fringe, until Aug 24
“I used to think an ocean of soda existed, but it was just a Fanta sea.”
Bec Hill in... Ellipses
Gilded Balloon, Turret, until Aug 24
“There are very few people at the Fringe these days doing Roman-numeral jokes. I is one.”
Chris Turner: Pretty Fly
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker Two, until Aug 25
“Most of my life is spent avoiding conflict. I hardly ever visit Syria.”
Alex Horne: Monsieur Butterfly
Pleasance Courtyard, Two, until Aug 24
“I’m not sexist – I’m not! That’s why I let my female workers work longer than the men so they can make the same money.”
Al Murray: The Pub Landlord’s Late Lock In
One-off gig on Aug 12
“Fun fact: did you know that HIV is actually Roman for “high five”? Pass it on – or, rather, don’t.”
Rhys James: Begins
Pleasance Below, until Aug 24
“The other day, I went to KFC. I didn’t know Kentucky had a football club.”
Nick Helm’s Two Night Stand at the Grand
Pleasance Grand, until Aug 12
“I’ve got nothing against teachers now. I’ve got friends that went to schools that were full of teachers.”
Dane Baptiste: Citizen Dane
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker Two, until Aug 24
“Wetherspoons? They’ve all got character. They’ve all got the same character.”
Liam Williams: Capitalism
Free Fringe: Laughing Horse@The Cellar Monkey, until Aug 25
“You can’t lose a homing pigeon. If your homing pigeon doesn’t come back, then what you’ve lost is a pigeon.”
Sara Pascoe vs History
Assembly George Square, Studio Two, until Aug 15
“I thought Benefits Street was a budget box of chocolates that you could buy at Lidl.”
Imran Yusuf: Roar of the Underdog
Underbelly, Wee Coo, until Aug 25
“Giving up smoking for 27 years is like wrestling a polar bear, in that it can make you quite tense.”
Dylan Moran, in Comedy Sans Frontières
Pleasance Grand, one-off gig
“You have to be careful in my country because we have bad cars and good wine, a dangerous combination.”
Francesco De Carlo: Italians do it Later
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker One, until Aug 25
“I’m Clive Anderson, in case you were thinking so that’s what happened to William Hague these past years...”
Clive Anderson, in What Does the Title Matter Anyway?
Underbelly, McEwan Hall, until Aug 19
“The reason I was never that scared of the enemy fighters in Star Wars is they look essentially like flying brackets.”
Will Adamsdale: Borders
Underbelly, Belly Button, until Aug 24
“In advertisements, there are just two types of women: wanton, gagging for it; or vacuous. We’re either coming on a window-pane, or laughing at salads.”
Bridget Christie: An Ungrateful Woman
Stand One, until Aug 25
“That song ends flatly. It’s like a sniper at Riverdance.”
Chris Turner: Pretty Fly
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker Two, until Aug 25
“A funny German comedian? For you, that’s like a Russian human-rights commission.”
Michael Mittermeier: Das Blackout
Gilded Balloon, Nightclub, until Aug 25
“There’s only four things you can be in life: sober, tipsy, drunk and hungover. Tipsy is the only one where you don’t cry when you’re doing it.”
James Acaster: Recognise
Pleasance Courtyard, Cabaret Bar, until Aug 24
“Like most liberals, I will do anything for the working classes, anything - apart from mix with them.”
Kevin Day: Standy Uppy
Gilded Balloon, Billiard Room, until Aug 25
“I’ve got type 1 diabetes. Diabetes is the only disease where I’ve had to stop half way through having sex to have a Kit Kat.”
Ed Gamble: Gambletron 5000
Pleasance Courtyard, Cabaret Bar, until Aug 24
“I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger eating a chocolate egg. I said, I bet I know what your favourite Christian festival is. He said, You have to love Easter, baby.”
Tim Vine: Timtiminee Timtiminee Tim Tim to You
Pleasance Courtyard, One, until Aug 24
“Due to the size of my social circle, a lads' holiday would resemble a romantic getaway.”
Phil Wang: Mellow Yellow
Pleasance Courtyard, Bunker One, until Aug 24
“My dad said, always leave them wanting more. Ironically, that’s how he lost his job in disaster relief.”
Mark Watson: Flaws
Pleasance Courtyard, One, until Aug 24
“There’s only one thing I can’t do that white people can do, and that’s play pranks at international airports.”
Nish Kumar: Ruminations on the Nature of Subjectivity
Pleasance Courtyard, Beside, until Aug 24
“When my wife and I argue, we’re like a band in concert: we start with some new stuff, and then we roll out our greatest hits.”
Frank Skinner: Man in a Suit
Assembly George Square, Theatre, until Aug 24
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