Pick and Mix

He always seemed to have his finger up his nose.

Even as a small child I can only ever remember him with his finger up there.

Not just a casual one fingered exploration but a whole hearted obsession as though he was looking for something, a vague memory of something casually inserted and then long lost up his left nostril.

His parents would cry out in despair at the first indication of a digital probing.

They would invoke all of the best cliches from 'The Book of Parental Cliches' and in the chapter on the active discouragement of nose picking there were plenty to choose from. An everyday one was 'get your finger out or you'll not want your tea'. A further one, on a scare tactic basis was 'stop that or your brain will fall out'. If the threat of not being provided with a regular meal or a Dr Who type prospect of cerebral loss was not sufficient then there was always the stalwart of ' if the wind changes your finger will get stuck up there'.

None of these attempts at shaming or intimidation showed any success in curtailing the nose picking habit over his formative years up to the age of four. On the rare occasions that the nasal passage was free of his finger there was always trouble. He was always very, very snotty. When the mucus was not actually conglomerated between nose and top lip it was collected in a sticky mass between elbow and sleeve cuff. His mother tried all manner of biological and non-bio wash powders and detergents to lift and dissolve the horrible residue but nothing could shift it, not even resorting to a good old fashioned boil wash in her best saucepan on the gas cooker top.

The arm sweeping motion of nose wiping across his face became a source of great mimickry and amusement by those in his pre-school days. Small children can be very cruel when such an obvious characteristic of a classmate can be capitalised upon. Unfortunately, even the teaching staff picked up on his tendency and one of his tutors narrowly avoided referring to him as the snotty boy at a parents evening when face to face with his parents.

By the time the boy reached an age to attend the local Infants School he was more likely to be kept at home than run the gauntlet of name calling and bullying. It was a miserable existence for the boy and his family. There was talk of attending a Therapist who could devise alternative strategies to picking the nose. If a large fund could be raised there was even a six week Snot Camp option in the United States where tough love, periodic restraint of the active finger and chemical based treatments were avocated with some success according to independent research by leading authorities in their field. The thought of organising a Charitable Fund Raiser for something with such a social stigma attached to it was nightmarish on its own.

The boy was not deterred from his one fingered exploits. Soon the family came to accept that if the house was calm and quiet then it was because the boy was happily engaged in picking his nose.

Some years later when it was time to attend Senior School the boy was assisited by being one of a very large number of students and could enjoy reasonable anonymity. The runny noses and adenoidal problems began to give cause for concern amongst his parents. These factors and the onset of puberty resulted in the boy resembling a large, mobile and squeaky voiced organic blob, especially around the facial area where everything was either dripping, seeping or erupting.

The School medical officer, an avid viewer of TV programmes on embarassing bodies and teenage complaints, adopted the boy as a project and a challenge. Under regular observation as a guinea pig for bacteriological wipes, face washes and ointments there were miraculous results in complexion and skin texture. It was just the nasal area that continued to give problems.

Under consultation with the boys General Practitioner it was proposed that a medical operation simultaneously on adenoids and tonsils would go a long way to eliminating the irritations of the nasal passage' It was hoped that this would  give the boy the confidence to stop his nose picking habit for good. That would serve him well as he entered the adult world.

The procedures went well. The boy was recuperating splendidly. The Surgeon was completely satisfied and predicted great things in terms of ease of respiration and clarity of voice.

On the morning of being discharged from the hospital a final X-Ray was taken to give an indication of how the tissues and membranes were settling down in the nasal passage. A slight abnormality was noticed in the left passage which had not shown up before. At first it was thought to be a scar from the operation but the shape, profile and density of the object was not compatible with mere bruising or abrasion.

In an out-patient procedure a probe was manouevred up into the nose, a clever piece of equipment with a telescopic claw which could be manipulated to enclose, grip and then extract various sizes of obstruction from the main bodily orifices.

To the surprise of all attending the small retractable device retrieved a smooth edged reddish tinted pebble. The boys parents gasped. They recognised the hue and shape of the pebble from an area of loose dressed yard in the house that they had occupied when first married and had vacated when the boy was about 2 years old.

Everything now became very clear.

As a toddler the pebbles will have formed a fascination to an inquisitive mind. They could be picked up and discarded in a wonderful clattering sound like a heavy shower , loaded into toy cars, shaken in a Tommy Tippee cup like maracas. Best of all one of them could be carefully inserted into the left nasal opening, pushed hard up as far as it could go and then as a source of comfort and reassurance, of a fonder time,to be regularly felt and appreciated by a probing finger whenever there was an urge to do so.

Housey Housey

I find it a constant source of amusement and bemusement that owners of new houses re-stlye them to look olde and rustic and conversely owners of old houses go for an ultra-modern look.

There can be some quite striking effects of this irrational process but at the same time some right shockers.

Examples of the best and worst of this genre do come to mind. On the way to Spurn Point, that fragile spit of land just hanging out and surviving the relentless action of the North Sea, there is an old mid Victorian farmhouse.

On passing on the way to Spurn there is nothing remarkable about the squat, rustic brick and pantile building.It is what it was intended to be. However, on the return trip and with a fresh viewpoint the west side of the house glints and dazzles with a two storey full height glass atrium (I will not cheapen the effect by calling it a conservatory). The orientation of this structure gives a full 30 mile vista down the estuary, Humber Bridge like two sticks and a piece of string in the mid distance and the rising steam and acid rain inducing discharge from the West Yorkshire power stations on the curved horizon. The contrast between old and new is fantastic. Any aesthetic qualities of this fine example are more than cancelled out by attempts at rustification of a modern house.

I have spent many hours inspecting and identifying beamed ceilings in newly built houses as to whether they perform any actual structural role or are very faithful and authentic reproductions, including woodworm holes and trails, but in expanded polystyrene from B and Q. The rule, through my observations, is that the smaller the house the higher the actual proportion of attempts at imitation and mimickry of old features.

In some small way, the homeowners perpetrating these crimes are trying to recall things they have seen and themselves marvelled at in their own memories. There has been an onslaught and eradication of many traditional features in the housing stock which were commonplace even up to 20 years ago. Trends are pushed and pushed by magazines and TV shows. I am evidently in the minority as my home does not have any Travertine tiles anywhere, no fruit bowl shaped glass wash hand basins, no walk through wet room, an absence of a resin saturated pebbled floor or fifty inch wall mounted Plasma screens in each and every room including the loo.

I would like to promote the return to the UK housing stock of the following endangered features found in my travels. (actual locations in italics)
1) Sword Cupboard. A tall, slim alcove built storage facility adjacent to the fireplace to take blade and accoutrements. Also of similar dimensions to take a baseball bat but not a Samurai sword. Potentially useful to dry damp umbrellas. (Cottingham, Hull)
2) Sedan Chair House. A double doored integral compartment straight onto the street and linked to the house for seamless alighting from mobile chair to armchair. Easily suited to take a quad bike or jet-ski but not quite wide enough to allow full 360 degree circulation of a pool table.(Newbegin, Beverley)
3) Worktop Bath. Hidden under the kitchen preparation surfaces, an enamelled or even a tin bath revealed upon hinged operation of the worktop. Hot water taken directly from the sink taps. Allows bathing and potato peeling to be undertaken simultaneously. Also strong social benefits as the family bathtime and mealtimes can be combined. Also suitable for tie and dye.(Garden Village, Hull)
4) Bedroom ledge. A narrow platform of nose height clearance to the ceiling above a sleeping person accessible from the living room from a wooden ladder. Straw bedding optional. Creates additional space where there is a reasonable floor to ceiling height. Has been mimicked in London under the description of 'crash pad'. (Hotham, East Yorkshire)
5) Millrace. A natural stream or man made channel of water is directed through the main living area and is used to rotate turbines for self sufficiency in power. A bit noisy and damp but allowing intermittent capture of fresh fish. A bit of a conversation piece for visitors.(North Cave, East Yorkshire)
6) Dovecote. Every house should have one. White painted and ornate with multiple perching platforms to entice birds to rest. Internal honeycomb of roosting positions. When fully occupied by plump birds, rotate on pivot to close up the openings. Commence slaughter of captured birds, pluck, gut and place in freezer. (Village Farm, Bainton)
7) Meat hooks. Mount sinister looking barbed metal spikes into ceiling. Use for hanging of roadkill, aforementioned plump birds or drying out of training shoes. Also suitable for scaring young children.(Withernwick, East Yorks)
8) Rainwater Reservoir. A very deep, brick lined and sealed underground chamber fed by house downpipes.Sealed under large yorkstone slab in back garden. Pump attached to extract water for gardening, car washing and dolly tub. Also suitable as impromptu shelter against nuclear attack but not, obviously, flash flooding.(Winestead, Holderness)
9) Ballroom. A must for every house. Large room with specially sprung wooden floor, arched stained glass windows and chandelier. Glitter ball optional. Well suited for family dancing sessions or Zumba. May be misappropriated by menfolk for siting of pool table.(Southfield, Hessle)
10) Look-out. Small tower structure at highest point of the house roof. Orientated to give views of main road to spot return home of family members, intercom link to kitchen. Optional ball bearing gun mount to fend off apple scrumpers, double glazing or external coating salespersons and religious callers.(Blaydes House,High Street, Hull)
11) Moat. Works very well as secondary line of defence with item 10) above or as feeder stream for 5). Can also be useful as income source through charging Local Authority for disposal of dangerous waste . Not ideally suited for Koi.(Wressle, East Yorkshire)
12) Ice house. Cone shaped brick superstructure with deep chamber and shute to receive deliveries of large blocks of ice or 1000 bags of Sainsbury's ice cubes. Can double up as guest accommodation for Icelandic or Norwegian relatives or arctic-themed weddings (Cherry Burton, East Yorkshire)
13) Mausoleum/ Family Vault/Pet Cemetery . Useful facility to save on travel. If there are problems with sourcing ice blocks for 12) above then could be a shared use of the Ice house for this purpose. (Halsham, Holderness)
14) Resident Poltergeist. Can be blamed for accidental spillages or strange after-dark noises. (Brandesburton, East Yorkshire)
15) Living room garage. Take the front off your house and fit an up and over garage door and ramp. This will allow a car to be driven directly into your lounge for comfort and convenience. Wind down windows make a good serving hatch onto the kitchen. No need to get out of the car to unload shopping bags which is justification enough for such a drastic alteration to a perfectly good house. (Alliance Avenue, Hull)

Halloagain Halloween

Halloween must be a very confusing time for children in particular and especially so this year with a renewed onslaught by commercial interests to use the revenue from spooky related items as another attempt to jump start the economy.

The 'X' Factor has not helped by having their All Hallows special on a saturday and a spin off on the sunday evening only for the very excited Tots to be informed that Halloween actually falls on a school night. How cruel is that? I expect any moment now a directive from the ruling party that those failing to purchase flashing deelyboppers, plasticky face masks and fang shaped jelly sweets  may risk having their benefit docked. It is after all patriotic to take part in Halloween.

My local Tesco Express has been stocking everthing scary for weeks. I use the term scary to describe the ultra high sugar and chemical preservative content of the cocktail of things found in a typical goody bag. The season presents an ideal opportunity for sweet manufacturers to offload their poorest selling lines by simply bagging them up as vampire snacks, witches vittels, frankensteins chewies or werewolf off-cuts.

I will however purchase a large bag of miniature chocolate bars to keep by the front door in the event of callers . There has been disappointment on my part from a very poor take up of such treats in the last couple of years. It is important to make an effort as any perceived lack of enthusiasm will surely result in an egging attack on the front of the house on the forthcoming mischief night. Some local traders have been leafleted by the Police to deter them from selling eggs and flour to those intent on mayhem. Of course those with dreams of cake baking success will be very disappointed with this ban.

Pumpkins, a poor mans savoury melon, have had a major resurgence. My daughter, Alice found a real pumpkin patch just outside York and indulged in a late season Pick Your Own. I have never come across that before. The celebrity cooks are thinking up wonderful treats involving members of the gourd and squash families.

I thought the recipe for a fleshy pumpkin soup, infused with ginger and sherry was interesting. I followed the process faithfully. Hand scoop out and dispose of the seeds. Wash hands,optional,  then claw out the insides setting aside in a heavy metal skillet. On low heat cook the flesh with butter. Add 1 pint of chicken stock, stir in previously prepared cooked onion and garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Find at the bottom of the food cupboard a brittle stick of cinnamon devoid of any flavour. Empty all or any Schwarz herb or spice jars from the top of the food cupboard.  Boil down the mixture to a firmish but not stiff texture. Remove from the heat. Use a hand blender to produce a smooth mix.

The crowning glory of the recipe is in its serving inside the shell. Unfortunately, my son had, during my cooking endeavours, cut out two eyes, a cartilage free nose hole and a wide toothy grin. My eagerness to serve up the soup was dashed by the sight of the rich, orangey and  creamy mixture extruding out of the orifices of the pumpkin and all over the kitchen to a combination of morbid amusement and horror of the hungry onlookers.

The whole effect was very dramatic and in some way I may have implied that the whole performance had been intentional as part of the evenings entertainment. For Halloween tea we ended up eating '1000 year old zombie eggs in blood on an upturned rustic gravestone'. Apparently, they are available in 57 varieties.

Windscream

Things are always bouncing off the car windscreen.

The summer months are a terrible period for all manner of small flying insects who meet a swift and decisive fate on the smooth glass.

I remember a longstanding joke which went goes along the lines of "what is the last thing that goes through the mind of a fly when it hits a windscreen?- its bum!.

Late summer is the favourite time for the Local Authorities to undertake that most inefficient and messy of processes of re-surfacing. There is nothing sophisticated about putting down a gloopy substance, throwing on lots of loose chippings and then encouraging strangers in their vehicles to pass over and over until the conglomerated substance is tightly compressed into a passable carriageway. It can be a very dusty and noisy time and even at retarded speeds there is always that worrying sound of small stones shot blasting the underside of the car and wheel arches.

Sticky tarmac residues make individual chippings messy they find their way onto the soles of shoes and from there into homes and workplaces. A few weeks after peak surfacing when everything has settled down the motorist is once again lulled into that feeling of being untouchable behind the windscreen.

A lot of faith is placed in a few millimetres of multi-layered toughened glass. It is a cosy place to be when facing driving rain, a gale force wind or that mesmerising sweep of powdery snow as it is tunneled into your vision in the glare of bright beam headlights. My trust in the invincibility of my own windscreen was shattered when it.....well, shattered just yesterday.

Oncoming traffic, I suspect an unmarked white van, threw up a small projectile which cannoned into the lower right hand edge of the windscreen leaving a round, bullet hole type fracture. Within a micro-second the shock-waves spread out along a fault line directly into my line of sight. In the morning sunlight the depth of the crack caught the light just like the best Swarovski crystal in the window of the jewellers in the High Street.

I tentatively swept my hand over the inside face of the windscreen. It remained smooth and flawless which gave me some, although little comfort. Opening the window I pushed my fingers into the jagged hole.It was a fascinating feeling, a bit like that constant urge to touch a blister or a spot on your face. Under slight pressure I could see the surrounding glass flex and give. This was a bit of a cause for concern as I could imagine that a dip in the road or a speed bump could have the same effect but with more violence and resonance.

I had read somewhere that if the whole windscreen followed its design brief of breaking into a billion pieces rather than form jagged spears by which to sever the limbs and arteries of the driver, it was necessary to thrust something through to form a hole by which to have a view of the road ahead and hopefully steer the car to a safe rest. Normally my car is full of suitable implements. Odd shoes, wooden sticks, books, folders, plastic bottles and empty McDonalds coffee cups.

Strangely the car was devoid of anything suitable if you discounted an apple, CD boxes and a mobile phone. I decided to risk carrying on the journey so as to get nearer to the industrial estate near my own office where there was a depot of the National Windscreen franchise. I had a well planned morning of appointments and could not really cancel them.

This meant a nervy couple of hours of motoring expecting any second a sickening sound as the precursor to a full scale failure. Up and down a few streets, fill up with petrol, buy a sandwich, visit the supermarket to get the shopping for tea, park up and drink a McDonalds coffee, make a few phone calls and so on in my normal working day. It was with some relief that I pulled into the car park of the repair depot.

The technician voted the damage amongst the most severe he had seen for some time. I of course took a few photographs and rang a few people. It had been a frightening and sobering experience and one I would not hope to have again for another 30 years of motoring.

Ferry Tale

Usually by poor planning I was often the last passenger to get aboard the old Humber Ferry as it prepared to cast off and head from New Holland on the south bank across to the Corporation Pier at the end of Queen Street in Hull.

My family had moved from Brigg, in Lincolnshire to Beverley some 8 miles north of Hull in the august of 1979. My mates and formative years, I felt, had been left behind and until I became settled in the new house, school and town I found myself drawn back to familiar Brigg for weekends.

My peer group had just got through our 'O' Levels and before the results were known we intended to party hard through the summer. It was the time of party cans of beer and my friends all had older brothers who could get it for us. I cadged space on the floors of friends but as we were too young to drive we had the embarassment of having to rely on respective parents for lifts.

The drive to catch the return ferry on a sunday afternoon was always rushed. The roads to the ferry were all very rural and usually clogged with farmers harvesting , day-trippers looking for a pub lunch or somewhere to park up and read the papers. We usually arrived a bit like the flying squad in a cloud of dust and spray of gravel after having to make up time in the last couple of miles after a very slow impeded journey. Those arriving by train at the pier were taken straight down to the slipway but foot passengers had to endure the seemingly endless and often weather beaten walk on the old sleeper boards with the mud or tideline visible through the gaps.

Although last on the walkway I could see other poor souls making the same last ditch effort to catch the ferry and the whole scene must have looked a bit like a maniacal version of the Olympic walking event where everyone was cheating. It certainly caused shin ache and a lot of subsequent attempts to conceal either a very poor level of overall fitness or a skinful of beer the night before. I could barely speak if I had participated in the jetty sprint.

Once on board I could settle myself and regain some composure before seeking out a cup of tea or staying up on deck to observe the crossing. The journey usually took between 20 minutes and half an hour dependant on the strength of the tide but each sailing was slightly different in its initial direction to get into the deep water channel. The New Holland pier was directly opposite the St Andrew's Dock but the actual plotted course was quite tortuous to reach the Hull Pier adjacent to the old horsewash further to the east.

My older sister, on a crossing from Hull , along with a full contingent of passengers had to be recovered from the ferry by another vessel after it had run aground or broken down or both. The ferry to Hull had figured a lot in my teenage years. I had travelled on it during an exchange weekend with a scout troop in the west of the city.

Coming from a small and sleepy market town of about 3500 population it was a big event to go to a huge city like Hull with its built up skyline including and high rise blocks . I was usually quite anxious. My fears were of course wholly unjustified and irrational but played upon by the great mistrust between the north and south humber residents that must have been brewing unhealthily since at least Roman times if not before in pre-history.

On family shopping trips we would insist that our first stop was at Sydney Scarborough's, a record shop under Hull City Hall and with two floors of vinyl and pop artefacts. A wondrous place after being restricted to a record counter in our small town's Woolworths which only stocked the some of the top 20 singles on a good day. The ferry boats carried passengers and cars and was always, in my memory, busy being an essential form of transport where the equivalent road trip was in excess of 60 miles the long way around via the Boothferry Bridge.

I think that my last use of the ferry was shortly before the service was scrapped as it made way for the Humber Bridge. The vast project to complete the suspension bridge was in clear view of the ferry route for many years and must have been morale sapping for the crew and operational staff. The ferry boats fared very differently after being withdrawn from service.

The paddle steamer Lincoln Castle was for a short time moored at the foot of the North tower of the Humber Bridge and run as a pub and later in the same role in Grimsby before rotting away and suffering an unceremonious scrapping. Her sister vessel, PS Tattershall Castle managed to escape to London in 1981 and remains moored as a landmark on The Embankment and I understand has recently been refitted at great cost. I am sure that I will have also been aboard The Wingfield Castle prior to its withdrawal from service in 1974. She lives on the historic Hartlepool waterfront as an attraction of the maritime heritage of that town.

I sometimes go down to the Pier for a quiet moment of reflection although the area is far from a derelict backwater. The Deep, just on the old Sammy's Point at the mouth of the River Hull is a major draw for visitors who invariably stray across to experience the sights and sounds of the Old Pier.

The grand ticket office is now converted into stylish apartments .Long gone are the days of a last gasp dash from the ticket office to the Pier other than to get the last latte of the day at the small Cafe that now occupies the surviving and thriving riverside buildings.

The blur of Parklife

We have a large picture window which faces north with a view into the large public open space of an inner city park.

It is a busy place set between two of the main arterial roads that run along a north to south axis from the central city area.

There is housing on three sides from the inaugural 1863 built villas to our block of three storey town houses which was built in the late 1970's following demolition of a convent.

The park is ringed by a tarmac road which at 0.7 miles long and with no through traffic is a very popular route for joggers and runners. They can be seen passing on regular laps but definitely working on an easy multiple to gross up the distance say over 10 circuits, less or more. It can be a hazardous activity in that the park is criss-crossed by pathways which form a cut through for cyclists either commuting to work or just out for a leisurely ride.

The former category are usually mobile in the murky light just before dawn, without lights but donning a high viz jacket and chunky oversized workboots on their way to an industrial estate or even on their way back from an arduous nightshift. The latter are as brightly clad in lycra and on some sort of mission based on their fixation with a GPS system mounted on their handlebars.

At some point a runner and a cyclist will have a near miss but no words of blame or frustration are uttered because they have a mutual determination to achieve their own goals for that day.

An elderly couple are regular visitors to the edge of the rose garden opposite our window to do their daily Tai-Chi exercises. We have benefitted from their routine in that we can follow their graceful movements from the warmth and comfort of our own living room. I have on many saturday mornings had a complete workout just by following their routine closely. I did fall over once upsetting the smaller of the ornamental tables but the noise and my cries of pain thankfully went unnoticed. I should really take up a proper class as the pair look lithe and slim from a dedication to the discipline.

It has been conker season in recent weeks and the horse chestnut trees have taken a bit of a hammering from the sticks thrown up into their heavy leafed boughs in order to dislodge a sole spiny shell and the promise of a deep mahogany-red prize.

In fact, under the slightest breeze we can hear the regular sound of shells bouncing up from the road or after hitting a car parked on the verge. By the end of the week the tarmac is cloaked in a fine residue of conkers which have been pounded and ground into the surface giving it a powdery, yellow appearance.

I am an early riser if provisions are needed from the local Tesco on the main road which is reached through a narrow snicket from the eastern side of the park.  I dodge the fallen wheelie bins, rolling beer cans and pizza boxes which indicate a good level of pedestrian use overnight.

There are a few poor souls who number the benches in the park as one of their places to sleep if the hostel is full or they feel insecure and unable to cope with a crowd. They may find it difficult to get any rest or respite when an all night party erupts into being somewhere out of sight of our window vantage point. The eastern european contingent who live in some numbers in the streets surrounding the park like a good all-nighter and on a regular basis in the balmier summer months.

The onset of autumn has seen a thinning out of the foliage and we again have a clear view of the statue of a young Queen Victoria which was erected by public subscription in the early 1860's. She gazes out over what had been her domain. I often wonder what she would have made of the sights and sounds of the 21st Century.

The outlook is constantly changing from our window and it is a delight to just sit and watch the world go by.

Really Really Free

When a person (male) close to pensionable age rips off their shirt with buttons flying off like shrapnel you know that you are in for a good, if not a great evening's entertainment.

That may not be the case, for example , down at the local old folks home, in a geriatric ward or in the queue at the checkout of Lidl but in an old banana warehouse, converted into a live music venue in Hull on a saturday night where better to experience the characteristic madness that has been the style of John Otway since the early 1970's.

That name may sound a little bit familiar to those whose awareness of all things music was born in that decade.

Put him together with Wild Willy Barrett and you have a pop duo who were marked out by record company executives as the next best thing in the business. Unfortunately for them and for mankind the then current best thing kept going and they never really got a look in after their first and only hit of "Really Really Free" which featured on Top of the Pops in 1977.

The pair of performers went through a few break-ups and reunions in the disappointing years post 1977 but kept going with collaborative and solo albums and a dedication to appearing live in any venue that would take them.

They are an unlikely duo. Otway is an out and out self publicising extrovert singing and playing the guitar whilst Willy is far from wild, more mild in nature and a fantastically gifted and versatile musician of all things stringed and with an occasional use in the act of bagpipes.

Otway wears his M&S white shirt and black formal trousers with disrespect like a naughty schoolboy whilst Willy has a hat with a feather in it, well groomed pony tail, waistcoat and tie. He is more folky than anything else but dead pan and serious as the perfect foil to his hyperactive long time buddy.

They were among many good friends the Fruit, the venue in Hull.

Otway released his movie last year to critical acclaim and his loyal fan base raised the funds and participated in a few scenes in return for acknowledgement in the closing credits as Executive Producers.

The movie is about John Otway and his unenviable self proclamation as  "Rock and Roll's Greatest Failure". If you judge success in rock and roll on the basis of money in the bank and all of the trappings that go with it then his ultimate self criticism is justified. However, he is still out on the road today and if fans were represented by a monetary value, even nominally then Otway is certainly the richest man on the planet by that measure.

The pair were milling around at the beginning of the night holding court but never too far away from the joiner built display unit that held all of the merchandise from plectrums to tour T shirts, books to Blu-Ray copies of The Movie. That line of goods must form a tangible income stream to supplement their share of the door proceeds from a capacity crowd of about 200.

I was a fan back in the early 1980's and surprisingly could remember enough lyrics to sing along with a few of the set.

I recall clearly "I think it must have been the best dream I ever had" from perhaps skulking about as a teenager after having been dumped by a girlfriend or something like that. I have blanked out purposely most of the trauma of such a situation for a young lad.

The performance was a trademark blend of tight guitar and witty conversation about their origins in Aylesbury where they grew up and joined forces, early struggles to get noticed, the rapid ascent to fame and fortune and then the slow realisation, in comparison, that they were just ordinary jobbing songwriters and musicians who would have to graft for the next few decades to make a living.

It was a great night out.

I am not sure that in order to make ends meet Mr Otway sought out those shirt buttons to be re-attached in readiness for the following day and a train journey to a venue in St Helens.

                                           John Otway and Wild Willy at Fruit, Hull

Hole in the ground

Every town and village will have one or more of these as an important part of their history but may not realise it. Some have been simply filled in, others built upon, a few flooded intentionally and the remainder just forgotten.

These important features that pockmark our landscape are the brick pits

These areas excavated for their natural clays, if deemed suitable for moulding and hard-firing, contributed greatly to the growth of the stock of buildings from cottages to town halls and all manner of Civic projects from sewers to brick parapets, clock towers and public conveniences.

When first productive the brick fields will have been some way out of the built up areas , in many cases representing another source of income for landowners and entrepreneurs. Gradually the combination of urban growth and exhaustion of the clay deposits saw many swallowed up by housing developments.

My late father in law remembered as a young lad in the 1930's the glow of kilns and the strong and distinctive odour of sulphur from an area of East Hull where bricks were made. This information was of interest to me over half a century later when the same location was an estate of residential bungalows raising the issue of contamination.

Practical and far reaching implications of the transition from an industrial process to housing site were clear to see when former pits were used as a waste tip for the metal filings and detritus from a boiler and radiator factory in a West Hull suburb. Over time the land was deemed fit for development but such was the corrosive elements in the soil that sub site drainage pipes, in cast iron, simply rotted away. Persistent spillage of foul and surface water, undetected for many years, eventually undermined the foundations of a group of the houses. The salvage and underpinning was only just viable over demolition and clearance.

Other former excavations became valued as landfill sites and if beyond reasonable documentation and living memory these too soon became built on. If for commercial buildings with occupation over working hours only it was relatively easy to install methane alarms or adequate venting to resolve explosive and toxic issues. A housing estate in the West Midlands was found to have been built on a waste filled former brick field. The solution to the methane problem retrospectively was a network of pipes feeding a series of flare stacks which would, in the nightime hours, erupt into life giving the impression of Dante's Inferno to startled residents. The impact on demand, saleability and values was perhaps more striking to those who had purchased their dream house in a nightmarish setting.

In areas where there is less pressure for housing the brick pits have become a natural environment having been flooded and landscaped. These provide wild fowl wetlands, fishing lakes and stretches for watersports.

Whatever the fate of the brick pits over time their contribution is assured.

The often distinctive shades and hues of clay used for the local brick buildings give a unique appearance which can vary subtly in close neighouring settlements  just a few miles up the road.

A family that I came across out in the Holderness rural area towards the North Sea coast of East Yorkshire still used their own private brick pit. The boulder clay deposits are rich, heavy and almost copper in colour and make excellent building bricks. If their house or outbuildings require extending or altering the family just go out into the pit to source the raw material. This is compressed in their own moulds and dried naturally or by mechanical means to form customised and bespoke bricks.

Somehow, the excitement of having a Lego set would not, I expect, be appreciated by that family.

The big wide world

A regular spot in the school calendar is allocated to the mass exodus of students off the premises for one to two weeks for the purposes of gaining Work Experience.

I went through the process myself at age 16 but who, at that age actually knows what their vocation will be, apart from the Dalai Lama or those in direct succession to a throne.

The careers teacher at my secondary school had the attitude that she could have had any job she wanted but had obviously failed in that endeavour. Good motivational attitude there then. The school had longstanding links with local companies who in the distant past had expressed willingness to take on a pupil.Some of the associations were, from the list I was provided with, a bit out of date unless you had firm intentions of becoming a fellmonger, cordwainer or powder monkey.

Some employer attitudes were genuinely helpful. They had possibly been in that position themselves or were Old Boys of the school. Other employers simply saw it as one to two weeks of forced and unpaid labour. It was common for the work experience period to coincide with the impulsive ambition of proprietors to clean out the drains, gutters, litter and scrap strewn back yards or ancient dusty attics within the commercial areas of the town.

The choice of placement even to the unsure of mind could make or break the legitimate absence from normal school routine. The usual positions were with law firms, accountants, shop work, builders and in public service organisations. I was faintly interested in land and property so I was matched to a local firm of Surveyors, Valuers and Estate Agents. Dressed smartly I turned up at their town centre premises and was left sitting around for a couple of hours, blushing and getting in the way until one of the Partners asked if he could help, thinking I was a customer. The awkward moments of confirming by phone with the school that the firm had liability and responsibility for me for a week did not help my fragile confidence.

I was, by midday, allocated to the Drawing Office. The firm was very old fashioned but very traditional and covered all the disciplines required to service the landed and property interests of the county. My first period as an intern in the drawing office was a completely new experience. The Land Surveyor was designing a drainage scheme for an agricultural field out by the River Humber Bank in the wilds of Holderness. I assisted in clomping around in the muddy acres with a 3m tall red and white ranging pole whilst the surveyor frantically gesticulated where I should stand, stop, move, stop and so on for the rest of the day. At each point he took a reading of the level from his theodolite. The windy open field and an ever increasing distance between us made the scene quite comical. I returned home at the end of the day with a very ruddy and wind blown appearance.

The next day I was seconded to the Estates Management Department. I was provided with yet another 3m long pole but this time with a paint brush lashed to the top. My brief was to identify all dead trees in a wooded thicket on a managed farm and then paint on a white cross in a prominent position. This would enable a lumberjacking contractor to follow on and fell them. I stress that no training was given. The judgement of life and death in the hands of a 16 year old is both frightening and sobering. Even to this day, I cringe when I drive through that very area and see a large hole through an otherwise lush wooded copse. That was my lasting contribution to the landscape.

Day Three was with the Auction Department with some visits to the homes of the recently deceased to label chattels and with the Valuer identifying the more valuable artworks, silverware , furniture and valuables which would later be catalogued in a forthcoming Sale. In most of the empty and now rather depressing houses it would appear that relatives had already looted the best stuff or otherwise claimed it with a named sticky label.

Day Four was office based as the firm believed that I should have an insight into the administrative practices as well as the outdoor fun stuff. I suspect that the entire compliment of Partners and qualified Surveyors were away on a jolly at the races. I was during my confinement in the office heavily embroiled in the tittle tattle , rumour-mongering and downright bitchiness of the staff as they miraculously ran an efficient office and a poisoned personal  life at the same time. This was perhaps my first exposure to the wonders of multi-tasking and using the firms phone for long private phone calls. These were of course the days well before social networking and texting but the world still revolved and managed as well without.

My final day was accompanying one of the Partners on what he explained was a typical working day. A valuation of a house for possible sale, a Survey of a terraced house for a mortgage loan, measurement of a garden in a neighbour dispute , discussion with a house owner of planning potential to demolish the lovely house and build an office park and checking the standard of workmanship on a large building project.

The week had been both interesting and engaging and did shape my actual course of education from therein towards my eventual career as a Surveyor. I had been fortunate in my placement. I did hear a horrendous story where a pupil expressed a preference to work with animals and the school secured him a weeks work experience in a Butchers Shop.

Italian Passion in gloopy form

It was an impulse purchase, quite an extravagance at the time. It cost the equivalent of a few days provisions for my student existence or even the price of a text book for my course.The feeling of guilt was difficult to suppress but I managed it eventually.

But yet, thirty one years on it represents perhaps the best investment I have ever made because I still have it and at least one third of it is still there to be used.

It was the best of its kind at the time, hence its price tag compared to pale competitor products which promised the same effect but you just knew they would let you down. The brand name exudes respect and with a pedigree earned through reputation for quality, reliability and durability and not advertising images or hype.

I had of course learned the hard way about compromising and going for a cheap version. That fateful decision resulted in a complete malfunction of equipment and consequently an embarrassing and long walk home giving the impression that to the amused public at the sight of me that I, myself, had suffered a meltdown. I made the decision then to go for the best available on the market.

The product was Italian made. That does not perhaps instill the most confidence when you consider that German engineering is held in the highest regard- all of that Vorsprung durch technic stuff. Anything Italian is usually spoken about in terms of spirit, heart and passion which avoids having to answer the question "..but is it actually any good?". Take my wifes car of some years ago, a high mileage Alfa Romeo. I found it full of cuore but only from a distance which was usually with me sat in the cab of a recovery vehicle looking back at the sad and annoyingly frequent sight of it being transported back to our house or direct to the repair shop after yet another breakdown. The snapping of the timing belt was the final performance and not in very good circumstances on a busy city centre roundabout one dark and wet winters night. The Car of the Year 1999 had to be given away for nothing based on a market value of £1500 and a cost of repairs principally a new engine at considerably more. The Alfa is an example of more style than substance.

In direct contrast my acqusition was modest and unassuming and yet has proven to be of exceptional usefulness. It is a small plastic tub container. Matt white when bought but now with 31 years of fingerprints, mostly my own but including a few curious souls who handled it out of curiosity but mostly disbelief in its almost magical properties. The screw top lid in black, gloss coloured but also now worn from use. Around the container the distinctive logo of the company, one of the most iconic in the industry and intimately associated with the top echelon of the sport and its own heroes from the last five decades and perhaps longer.

The contents when I first revealed them were golden, unblemished and of a consistency that engendered confidence in its application on ball bearings, axles in bottom brackets and wheels, gear clusters, headsets, seat tubes and around the small plastic cogs that guide the chain around the drop-out positioned rear gear mechanism. It could be used sparingly because of its richness and that has been more than proven with the passage of time.

What is left in the tub is still potent and virile. There is a slight oily residue where perhaps I failed to store the material away from advised extremes in temperature. Given that I have over more than three decades moved from student digs, back to my parents, my first house purchase and a further 3 homes the environments have been quite varied and not conducive to stability and preservation.

I used the stuff today on those pesky small plastic cogs and the mountain bike became efficiently silent and smooth under pedal power. The distinctive odour of the precious remaining contents evoked many memories of using the elixir of motion. That and Swarfega which is the equivalent of Kryptonite to Superman.

I left a fresh set of grubby fingerprints on the rather battered container as I placed it carefully on a shelf in the garage. It would be a good bike ride in the knowledge that my Campagnolo Grease was carrying me effortlessly and frictionless over road, hill and dale.

Bone shaker

In the old days a bicycle could be relied upon to make a bit of a noise when travelling down the road.

This is no smear on the skills and reputations of budding bike mechanics who can spend hour upon hour tinkering with axles, sprockets, changers and spokes in order to get as close as possible to that elusive thing of fully silent running.

It is just a plain fact.

Rubber tyres produce friction on the carriageway, brake cables even on the smoothest surface will vibrate and oscillate ever so slightly, a well sprung saddle will emit a discernible resonance and the sound of a chain switching through the gears is such an evocative sound to a keen cyclist.

That was the old days.

The current range of bikes are. to the untrained eye. no different to those which have been around for decades and yet there are subtle changes to the geometry of the frame and the physical characteristics of the tubing and components which are akin to comparing an Iron Age chariot to a Formula 1 racing car.

The newest machines are lightweight and yet incredibly strong. There is a feeling of whip and flexibility when in full flight but not to compromise stability and confidence. The bike itself eats up the miles as though driven by its own combustion source rather than the muscles, sinews and coursing blood of the rider.

Of course, access to this technology comes at a hefty price tag with even the cheapest two wheeler costing in excess of £2000 and sometimes for the frame only.

There appears to be no shortage of buyers, however, motivated either by a desire for fitness or just to emulate their heroes who ride in the professional ranks.

My trusty racing bike is now 32 years old. It came with all of the authentic noises.

When originally assembled by Brian Green at Langdale in Nottingham it was the best that I could afford and thanks to an inheritance from my Grandfather Dick I was able to wheel it out of the shop with pride and determination to make good use of it.

I raced for a few years before work and family took precedence but I always planned to return to regular use either for leisure, health benefits or in competition. The latter involved a thought of dominating the over 40's race scene in my local area but now at the age of 51 I may have missed the opportunity to make a name for myself in the veteran category.

I do ride out regularly on my Langdale Lighweight in the spring and summer months and it has on occasion attracted interest from a younger generation of cyclists who show fascination and amazement at the Reynolds 531 tube frame, the downtube gear levers and surface mounted cables.

The bike remains in good condition mechanically. It is a joy to revive those long lost sensations of my peak performance years although this does involve shutting my eyes and a bit of grimacing as old limbs refuse to join in with the shameless fantasy. It is quite amusing to realise that most of the noises out on the road now come from me rather than the bike.

Bits and Bobs

I always felt sorry for an old schoolfriend of mine.

He had a great and distinctive name, the same as an iconic sporting star, one of the 1966 England World Cup winning team, a survivor of the Munich Air Crash which took the lives of some of his Manchester United colleagues and to the present day one of the most worthy ambassadors for club and country that you could hope for, selfless and dedicated to a game in which he earned his living and so many admirers.

You would think then , logically and rationally that my friend Robert or Bob Charlton would have a suitably majestic nickname by association ,one that if overheard would cause people to evoke their own memories of his namesake or make some remark along the lines of ...

"did you know, sonny, that you have the same name as one of the best long range and dead ball kickers in the whole of football?"

Even if tempted to reply " well actually, no-one has ever mentioned that before, who was he?" you could probably dine out or drink for free in any sporting club or football ground bar forever.

The hype machine that runs on the fuel of celebrity places great emphasis on same-named persons or if you happen to be a lookie likie for someone famous even if only one other person sees it in your facial features or mannerisms for a fleeting second or in a certain light.

Everything was set fair for Robert Charlton to sail through his life basking in the reflected glory of Bobby but yet the nickname that attached itself to him was that of "Chunky".

Alliteration is a key factor in many nicknames and so Chunky Charlton eminently met this requirement.

To add further insult this nickname was not even original and bespoke in that it was and remained simultaneously that of his older brother.

In order to differentiate the two there was the cumbersome sub-title of Little Chunky and Big Chunky.

This caused even more confusion as there was only a couple of years between them in age and on just about every day they could , apart from their home life, be within earshot of each other in the same school assembly hall, on the same playing field, in adjacent classrooms, at opposite ends of the canteen and on upper or lower levels of the double decker bus for the journey to and from the village in which they resided.

It is nearly forty years since I first met and went to school with Robert. I moved away with my family in 1979.

We have not met up for perhaps a dozen years but Christmas Cards and a few messages flit through the various media based channels, likes and dislikes seem to be compatible and we feature on a few Linked In forums and shared contact lists.

It is interesting how nicknames persist though and it was just the other day that I was asked out of the blue by another long since seen but mutual friend if I still had any contact with Chunky Charlton. In the instant the faimilar prefix was mentioned I was transported back over the decades.

Although we are now both a lot older, and, in my case, saggy and very grumpy, I can clearly recall what was a momentous period in our young lives.

We both fell for French girls on a school exchange and moped around like lovesick fools for a good many weeks, we regularly got drunk on Double Diamond from a party pack keg even being well under-age for alcohol, we shamelessly chatted up females regarding them as fair game , swopped soft porn but often topically on-message Mayfair Magazines and disgracefully got thrown off a Charity Carol Singing trip on one Christmas Eve for being loud, unruly, disorderly and disrepectful to those whose homes we had been invited to. That last one we could probably attribute to Big Chunky, rightly or wrongly so that otherwise our current senior status and respectability remains unblemished.

Still, who would ever bother to scrutinise the behaviour of anyone in the 1970's.?

Born and Bread

My wife's cousin, Graham, was visiting the UK from his naturalised home in Australia recently.

Born in Hull he emigrated with his family over 40 years ago but retains strong and fond memories of his Yorkshire roots.

Quickly recovering from his jet lag after the usual 20 plus hours travelling time between the hemispheres he wanted to have a drive around what had been his old haunts and before breakfast.

There was not much that he recognised along the Hessle Road corridor which is understandable given the process of demolition, clearance and re-development that took place in the inner west Hull area from the 1970's ostensibly in the name of progress. The population from the densely packed terraced Streets, Avenues , Groves and Courts off were given a vision of a new life in the broad open spaces of the satellite estates of the City but at the inevitable cost of community spirit and knowing who your neighbours were.

Road names, previously on the gable ends of well maintained two up and two down homes now hung askew on lamp posts in paralell streets of sparse industrial premises which buzzed with activity in daylight hours but became deserted and unfriendly after dusk.

A few of the larger buildings on the main road were recognised by Graham but were now being used for completely different and unrelated activities from what he knew them as. The old Picture House was a discount shoe warehouse, a former church sold bulky furniture, the Co-Operative Home Stores was the local undertakers. He remarked on how grubby and run down everything looked but to me, seeing the same things on a daily basis, I had not really noticed a decline and stagnation.

I sensed that Graham was also people watching. Perhaps it was a hope to see a face from his past although the memory of a persons features from 40 years ago ,however deep set does not have any built in allowance for the ravages of time, age and circumstances.

Hessle Road has not really changed in terms of footfalls and shopping activity over the decades although not many of the pedestrians , today, carried any bags or provisions as though they just felt they had to be out and about regardless. There may have been nothing much else to do at that time in the morning and being in the great outdoors will have been infinitely more healthy than a damp and mould infused house.

One familiar sight caused much excitement to, up to that moment, a rather weary and demoralised Graham. It was an old property over three floors which formed the end of a long Victorian terrace of shops but had been attached to a rather bland, modern  and featureless retail warehouse which was so much at odds with the character of the street. On the end wall just peering out beyond the warehouse was a once grand handwritten sign, now faded but with the name of Dixon's Bakery still legible, just.

A recessed entrance with blue wainscot boarding sat adjacent to a very traditional shop front. The portico, scrolled columns and plate glass window had resisted the pressures for modernisation. There was no brushed aluminium or anodised steel here. Just more woodwork and the same dark blue paintwork. It was still quite early in the morning and business from the bakery appeared to have been brisk because the only items on display were a few oven bottom bread cakes, macaroons, flaky pastry sausage rolls and fairy cakes. Obviously home baked the good were quaintly rough and irregular, all of varying sizes and shapes even though from the same batch.

Graham wandered in and was received by the baker, his wife and a back room full of family members as though he was a long lost relative. They got to chatting and it was at that point that Graham revealed that his father had at one time owned and run the very shop and he himself had lived above the premises for part of his early years.

This led to the resident family bringing out the photo albums and a book of old streetscenes of Hessle Road over the ages. The property featured on various shots in glorious black and white with passers by a bit blurry but identifiable in terms of the period by frock coats, sunday best suits, long pavement sweeping dresses, horses in the background pulling drays and carriages. Other views introduced cars from the 1950's and 60's and beehive and Brylcremed hair styles. The 1970's photos appeared to be in a large dust cloud as the terraced houses, just out of view, were being bulldozed into extinction.

Graham purchased a good proportion of the stock in the window representing somewhat of a bumper trading week for the business and had his picture taken standing at the counter which he said had not changed at all from his recollection of it apart from it seeming lower and less imposing.

This solid surviving piece of his memories was special and precious to Graham and I feel that it did form the highlight of his three week stay with us. Some weeks later I was driving past Dixons Bakery in the late afternoon. The shop window, framed in blue woodwork, seemed to have the same stock left on the shelf from the time of our visit and which Graham had not acquired. I secretly hoped that, with the windfall of sales to that Australian chap the family had taken a well earned break from the business, even just for one day or part of it.

Complimentary Angling

The footpath alongside the River Humber, between the newly blue painted Makro Cash and Carry building and the sharp right angled turn at the old Cod Farm, is a hive of activity at most times of the day, be it a weekday or at the weekend, with a regular spacing of anglers.

It is an exposed location.

A strong westerly wind whipping in from the Humber Bridge can make it a miserable place but made tolerable by the fact that it is somewhere to be by choice and anyway, a green fishing umbrella, lashed to the metal fencing above the flood defence wall can be the cosiest and most peaceful spot in the world, at least for a few hours. Thoughts and worries can tangibly diminish in that time.

They arrive on their bicycles or by car, never alone but in two's, three's or more. It seems to the outsider to be a closely knit bunch, a group of pals but of that level of aquaintance and friendship that means that there is no need to chat or say more than necessary after "now then me old mate".

The sessions have long been planned with reference to the Tide Tables. These can still be bought from most small newsagents in Hull and seem to sell out very quickly. Rods are assembled, tackle attached and then the deft process of threading the nylon line through the eyelets in the face of a gale force wind. This is nothing when compared to the keenness of moist,wind swept eyes and the dexterity of chilled fingers to attach the barbed hook with a proper,deck learned knot. The sort of knot with an actual name.

I have noticed in walking the path that the most popular time in terms of numbers of anglers is on the turn of the tide. There is a precipitous drop onto the sandbank at the base of the flood wall at the lowest tide. Tesco are certainly missing a few of their trolleys from the rib cage like protrusions out of the river bed accompanied by bits of mesh from the deteriorated fencing around what used to be an outdoor go-kart circuit and bits of heavy structural wood from a crumbling wharf. On rare, but increasingly common occasions there can be the carcass of a dead whale, bloated and fetid washed up on the mud. The flow upstream of such a massive volume of water from the distant North Sea cannot fail to bring with it the possibility of a catch.

Heavy ledger weights and multiple lead shot are hung on the line to try to prevent it from being dragged too far towards Goole. The bait of choice is strips of fish from a whitebait or reduced price stock from the nearby Asda's ice decked counter. You cannot fault the combination of patience and undisputed optimism amongst the anglers. I have often asked if they were having any luck. On a straw poll basis the consensus is that it is not the best day to catch anything.

They however persist and stare, mostly down at the returning waters , a finger on the slack line in front of the reel to sense any interest, however casual for the offering on the hook. Eels are usually the reward for a short burst of excitement but I can vouch that if professionally smoked those coaxed out of the muddy Humber are a rare and tasty treat.

The fishing rods stretch across the path at an angle from the fence. They are reluctantly moved, slightly, to make way for other users of the path such as cyclists on the Trans Pennine Trail or walkers. It is a case of weaving through on two wheels or tip toe-ing around severed fish heads and discarded lines. One angler can often be left in charge of multiple rods as their owners go for a wee in the scrubland where accessible from missing sections of security fence or venture down to B and Q, adjacent to Makro to price something up.

The menfolk quickly disperse under some form of non-verbal understanding and within minutes of the first person packing up and packing away the pathway is deserted apart from a few reeling gulls feasting on whatever has been left, intentionally, for them to clean up.

As with most fishing exploits it is not really the outcome that is important but the time spent doing it.

Top Hat

Was it a subconcious and collective decision by the male population of the world to go outside and about their business without a hat?

The whole thought process behind this momentous culture and fashion change must have started somewhere and with one individual because it appeared to have taken place overnight.

When was that momentous day?

Well, certainly towards the end of the decade that was the 1950's. In the preceeding period, in fact going back centuries, the wearing of a hat was a defining thing about your social status, affleunce, influence and intelligence.

I was fascinated to read about the passing of a Law in England in 1571 which made it compulsory and under the sanction of a fine or other equally draconian penalty for those over the age of 6 to wear a hat on Sundays and on National Holidays.

What hat to wear was also dictated to a large extent by your position in the hirearchy of the society of that period. Those of noble or gentlemanly standing could afford and were expected to wear a real hat, something to set them apart from the masses. At the other end of the social scale would be the impoverished and those still in poverty but fortunate enough to be bound in servitude or an apprenticeship. Their headgear usually comprised a basic wool or wool/silk mix flat cap, a bit like a Tam o'shanter. The imposition of such a law may have been primarily to boost a fledgling, emerging but still very much a cottage based textile industry . Lobbying by interested parties with vested interests may not have changed much over subsequent centuries on the basis of the success of the Elizabethan wool mix sales drive and forerunner of the 'Buy English' campaign.

Whatever the background of a person in 16th Century England it was very rare to come across anyone bareheaded. It may have been considered in the utmost bad taste and of poor culture to show forehead, crown, a head of lice infested hair , ringworm ravaged patches or just a plain bald pate.

The hat served as a symbol of respect and was also a means to express support for or against a particular idea or movement. In the former use the taking off, or doffing of a hat was expected in the company of your betters and elders. The throwing up of a hat was the simplest method of showing agreement and sympathy for a cause.

Phrases have persisted in the English language from the halcyon days of hat wearing. If a person of lower class was in need of alms, sustenance or just a favour then the practice of approaching a potential benefactor involved holding your hat in reverence as in 'cap in hand'.

Whilst citizens were compelled to wear a hat it was not a reason for rebellion or protest. The type of hat imposed on the wearer soon became established as a form of social identification, a badge to be proudly worn to show where you were from and that you were happy to remain firmly entrenched there with no real prospects or inclination to better yourself.

Fast foward a few centuries and hat wearing was heavily influenced in the 1930's and 1940's by the role models of the Big Screen. What better way to emulate the matinee idols of the time than mimicking them in their choice of hat and also their style of wearing it, tipped back as Bogart, tipped forward as Alan Ladd, askew as Cary Grant, optimistic and hopeful as James Stewart.

The other essential accessory for any hat was of course a cigarette with the glow of the tip made cool and chic under the brow of a homburg or fedora.

Any photograph of a streetscene or social gathering in the 1950's, anywhere in the western world emphasised the popularity of hats amongst the male population.

What appears to have sounded the death knell for hat wearing was the decade of the 1960's, a time of big expansive hair, expressions of individualism in huge gatherings, protests about everything and nothing and the real beginnings of social equality. Being upwardly mobile and not ashamed to admit it meant that the symbol of oppression and social stereotyping, deep set in the psyche of the male population just had to be left at home on the hat stand or relegated to the children's dressing up box.

My Grandfather, Dick was of that generation of not being properly dressed without his hat and was, to my fond recollections the last of a long line of my family and ancestry to maintain the trend and fashion on a daily and not just high day and holy day basis. My own Father went through a hat stage but then again that was part of the uniform of a Scout and followed by National Service.

Hat wearing today has come around full circle from the 16th Century but in a more sinister guise. The popular choice by far is the baseball cap but unfortunately this has become more a symbol of an underclass and as a badge of honour attracting unwanted attention and perpetuating a poor representation of those who wear them by the media. In the making of snap judgements about an individual, which is a trait of the less trusting in our society, the baseball cap immediately differentiates and condemns the wearer even though the motivation to be so attired is more of a fashion than any intentional social statement.

Myself and hats?

I attribute my bald head on the poor conditions imposed on my scalp by many years in my youth of the compulsory wearing of cub scout caps and, later, scout berets. I still live in hope of getting a phone call from a firm of lawyers who can guide me through the process of suing for loss of hair and opportunity on a no win, no fee basis.

Sweet and Sour Heavy Industry

The decline in the UK manufacturing and industrial base has been dramatic and alarming over the last 15 to 20 years or longer and we just did not realise it. Frankly, we do not really make anything anymore in this country. I accept that it is the turn of the emerging countries to have their industrial revolutions and all the trappings of materialism that go with that. There is, however, a very high price to pay for industrial decline. Human cost for loss of employment, income and self worth. Regional losses where identity with specific sectors has gone for ever. Landscape loss with the skyline devoid of chimneys, pit winding towers, flare stacks and the bulky buildings of production.

What I have missed, however are the smells of industry.

My childhood was accompanied by the over-riding odour from sugar beet factories. Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk and Brigg in Lincolnshire had two such factories and with a westerley wind there was the sweetish scent of rooted beet being crushed, boiled and processed into the best Tate and Lyle granulated, caster and icing sugars. The plant must have been one of the most productive in the UK for many years based on the constant sickly smells coursing through the town. Brigg also had a marmalade producer and on some days such was the combination of sweetness in the air that you just craved for something savoury or sour.

Our family moved to the Hull area in the late 1970's. Hull at that time was just starting to lose its fishing fleet of any tangible size following the Cod War with Iceland which negotiated itself to a conclusion in the mid 70's. The decline had been in progress even well before that. The smell of fish being cooked, processed, frozen and packed was however an assault on sensitive Lincolnshire noses. It was a standing stereotype of course but also a matter of pride for a thriving fish processing industry and a large bulk market frequented by suppliers,merchants and traders from all over the UK and the world. The traditional smoke houses were, by my time, very much an endangered species and many were demolished before their heritage value was really appreciated. At least two of the distinctive steep pitch roofed smokers still survive but only as ghostly hulks. Such buildings do not lend themselves to alternative or economic use.

The Eastern Docks were also a hive of activity and raw materials including cocoa beans arriving by freighter from exotic parts had only a short road journey to a processing plant in the Wincolmlee industrial area. The smell of chocolate wafted around the eastern suburbs and, windows wound down, the car soon filled with this pleasant aroma. Unfortunately that business closed down in 2010.

My first job in 1985 was in the city centre close to the former Hull Brewery on Silvester Street. The first industrial sized brewery was founded on the site in 1866 and carried on until Mansfield Brewery ceased operations in the late 1980's. The malty and hoppy smell also sat well on the taste buds and may even have contributed to the fairly laid back attitude of the few residents around Kingston Square just opposite the brewery.

Needlers sweet factory was a major source of emissions into the urban air of Hull. I would not have thought that the manufacture of such favourites as Blue Bird Toffees and Sensations boiled sweets would involve as complicated a production process to justify the plumes of smoke and steam from the imposing brick buildings.

The few surviving smells in Hull are high tech processes rather than hard graft and full scale manufacturing. Sutton Fields industrial estate some 4 miles to the north of central Hull has a heavy Yeast influence and at the eastern end of Leads Road we have Jane Asher to thank for a light sponge cake induced atmosphere from the vast factory, itself shaped like a large slice of victoria sponge.

The established residents of Hull will, like me,have noted the absence of the smells of industry. If you blindfolded a younger resident and asked them to identify, by smell, what the essence of Hull was today I would not be surprised by the answer of latte, twelve inch Sub and whatever has just escaped from the large water authority sewage treatment plant at Saltend.

Plan B of The Apes

I was pulling fleas out of the matted mane of Poncho, my best mate when there was a bit of a commotion up the road to our vantage point on The Rock.

Simpkins, Gonzalez and Vauxhall Viva, the rest of my posse were engaged in removing the sat nav shark fin aerial from a nearly new BMW when they caught sight of the suspicious movements of the occupants of a large white van.

Amongst the obvious hire vehicles carrying curious holidaymakers the commercial vehicle stuck out like a seagull amongst ducks.

Most visitors to the summit of The Rock were there for the unrivalled views over the British Territory, the Spanish Mainland to the north and with the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the far distant shore of the African Continent to the South of the Straits. That's what they purported to be doing but in fact they were here to see us perform as the infamous Barbary Macaques of Gibraltar.

We have quite a history you know from being brought here by Jack Tars in the 18th Century  and then firmly establishing ourselves under the very believable myth that if we were to leave then Gibraltar was fall from the control of the Brits. I thought that fear, a very real fear expressed by many of those making the ascent of a failed colonial conquest would perpetuate our presence for my generation and those succeeding us.

I should have suspected something was going on when during our regular foraging trips into the bins and harassing of the hapless tourists a few of a neighbouring gang of Barbary's including Sanchez, Burt Reynolds, Watney Red and Maggie Fatcher were pounced on by official looking types and made to wear a collar bedecked with a lozenge shaped device.

By some supernatural force emanating from the jewel on the collar that gang could always be located as though constantly watched by a higher power. It was spooky.

Disappointingly the antics of my own band of monkeys ranging from stealing food from the hands of adults, terrorising small children to drop and abandon their sweets and ice-creams, urinating on car windscreens and throwing pooh liberally through the sun roofs of coach parties brought us to the attention of the all seeing collar and we all found ourselves sporting this badge of honour.

Anyhow, back to the big white Transit.

Men clad in overalls spilled out and their surprisingly speedy movement over the car park tarmac caught us unawares and within a few minutes we had been rounded up in netting or those constricting ropes on the end of a stick.

Turns out that there were 30 of us picked out for special treatment. There had been culls and indiscriminate slaughtering in the past as our predecessors has testified but we thought that our value to attract tourist dollars, or Monkey Business as we called it, far outweighed a bit of overpopulation and bad behaviour.

Monkeys will be Monkeys was another of our witticisms.

We crouched and held onto each other in the darkness of the load bay of the van as it lurched and rolled down the steep mountain road towards, we knew not where. After a short drive the doors were thrown open and we were herded into wooden crates through which the outline of a large aircraft loomed out of the dazzling daylight.

The boxes containing us thirty now disgruntled monkeys, sensing that a cull was not the purpose, were dragged up a conveyor belt into the belly of the cargo plane and soon after a strange light headed sensation meant that we were airborne.

The flight dragged out for hours before we felt an ear drum bursting change of pressure and a loud and rude bump of wheels back on earth.

Wherever we had been sent to was bloody cold, damp and very green which was a shocking turnaround to what we had been used to up on The Rock.

A banner in the Customs Room bore the wording of "Welcome to Scotland". It meant nothing although Benjamin and Rooney recognised the thistle emblem from the clothing of a ginger haired touring party back home that we had had some fun with some years ago.

After a short road journey we were dumped into the inhospitable environment of a fenced compound with a sorry excuse for trees and a pale imitation of a rocky outcrop. This, it appears, was to be our permanent residence from here on in, our penalty for delinquent monkeying around on the Rock of Gibraltar.

(written ahead of the deportation of 30 Barbary Monkeys from Gibraltar to Blair Drummond Safari Park, Stirling, Scotland on the grounds of persistent bad behaviour)

Big Bang Theory....in practice

I am not sure for how many years the 'Boy's Own Book of Home Experiments' had sat on the bookshelf on the landing.

It was in a prominent and accessible position on a lower part of the shelving but something about a yellow hardbacked cover and the absence of any writing on the spine did not encourage an inquisitive mind to extract and open it.

I expect, when new, it will have had a very exciting and illustrated jacket cover showing keen youngsters amongst household implements, wearing safety goggles and having a jolly good time undertaking educational but enjoyable and healthy, fun packed science based activities. It was because it looked like a surplus school text book that it held no interest for me.

Where it had come from I do not know.

Perhaps a jumble sale, an inheritance from grand-parents or bought for pocket money after a clear out at the local library.

It came to my attention after my Uncle David had spoken about how he used to make his own sherbert. I could not remember all the ingredients after bicarb and citric acid and dared not risk concocting something which would turn out either highly caustic or poisonous. Thinking that the archived book may have come from Grandad Dick and Nanna Nelly's, Uncle David's and my own mother's parents, I made my way to the bookshelf and pulled the single volume out accompanied by a thick clump of falling  dust and dander.

The index immediately caught my interest. There were entries on how to make your own radio using a crystal, a colander and a coat-hanger, how to make a hovercraft using your mother's Hoover (be sure to ask permission first), how to embalm a domestic pet (make sure it is dead first) and, the most intriguing project; How to make a small explosive device. Of course, times were different then. A schoolfriend regularly used to order huge amounts of explosives under his father's name for the manufacture of fireworks for his own private use. The amount of scars on his face, on a monday morning, mainly from fragments of his garden shed/laboratory were still frightening if becoming very familiar to us classmates. Nowadays the delivery of such materials to a residential address would form part of a massive sting operation by the security services.

I scuttled away with the book as though I had stumbled on the alchemic formula for turning base metals into gold.

There was a list of items, everyday items in the house, which I collected up in nonchalant fashion so as not to attract the attention of siblings or parents. A Golden Syrup tin with tight fitting lid, length of hose pipe, night light or stunted candle, two bricks and  half a pound of plain flour. The tin was easily sourced but I had to make a couple of sandwiches from the residual contents before rinsing the tin out with hot water.I cut a length of hose pipe from the garden coil. Unfortunately and to the bemusement of my father the length came from the middle of the 100 foot pipe rather than, on reflection as a more sensible course of action, the very end. At least he now had two hosepipes almost equidistant in length. I found a night light in the attic from a backlit Christmas Nativity scene, the bricks came from under the half empty rainwater butt which then listed seriously and the flour from a glass Kilner Jar in the kitchen.

The assembly instructions, read in my bedroom, were very straightforward. 1) Carefully punch a small hole in the base of the tin commensurate with the girth of the hosepipe. The hole must be slightly off centre. 2) Insert night light/stunted candle and ensure it is level, stable and adjacent to the pipe mouth.3) Carefully place, to a depth no greater than 6/8ths of an inch, the flour around the nightlight/stunted candle.4)Place tin to straddle the two bricks allowing for the projecting pipe to run clear and with the open pipe end at least 3 feet away from the tin.5) Light the nightlight/stunted candle.Allow flame to fluorish 6) Quickly push on lid ,ensure it is tight to the rim. 7) Gently at first but with increasing pressure blow down the tube............Within one full exhalation the tin lid, in a roar and cloud of aerated flour shot up and almost buried itself into the ceiling.I had succeeded in the experiment but doubted that it would be a commercial success amongst demolition experts or terrorists unless fine flour dust could be relied upon to cause discomfort to asthmatics or those with a Gluten intolerance. Perhaps a bit too selective to be a weapon of terror.

I soon got bored of this basic form of explosives. I graduated to the real stuff. A friend who lived on a farm let me have a shotgun cartridge which I took apart and carefully seperated the gunpowder from the lead shot and wadding.The fine textured gunpowder formed a thin, black line along the external cill of my bedroom window between the two side opening casements. I formed a small mound of the powder at the far end and then lit a match. Very surprisingly to me, although I had no scientific knowledge or common sense of how ammunition would behave in the open, the ignited powder coursed and snaked along the softwood cill, spitting fire, making a raucous hissing and tearing sound before burying itself in the small end heap with a crescendo of smoke, flame and explosive noise. I quickly shut the window hoping that what I had just activated would  go away. It took a few minutes for the thick white smoke to clear and reveal the damage of a deep, burnt trench along the cill. I kept the curtains drawn for many months after until volunteering to go up a ladder and paint my bedroom window, purely because it was about due and certainly for no other reason. I did not pursue my interest in explosives or pyrotechnics after that.

I am, however constantly reminded of my 'Boys Own' experiments, flour and gunpowder based,  if I am driving into Hull City Centre from the east bank of the river. Standing opposite each other, only a roads width apart are two buildings. To the south the massive brick edifice of the Clarence Flour Mills and to the north the manufacturing site of the Shotwell gun cartridge company. How these two explosive processes have managed to peacefully co-exist is a matter of mystery to me. I do find myself simultaneously speeding up along that stretch of road whilst keeping a careful lookout for a small boy with a syrup tin, hosepipe, nightlight or stunted candle, a box of matches and engrossed in  a large , second hand, yellow colured hardback book, for instruction.

A labour of love

I think that I am still  involved in a professional role in the periodic supervision of a Cube House being built in Hull. I am not sure because to my knowledge it is not yet finished after 7 years.

This is a pure bred example, and not the shameful lip service to the genre which is starting to emerge in the brochures of the mass volume, low quality, speculative builders. Their versions have all the external appearance of a Cube House but merely as cladding to a very ordinary design and construction format. It is as though the Corporates all got a copy of Grand Designs as a Christmas present and went berserk taking on board the stylish bits but deliberately ignoring the essential substance.

Hence, you may see amongst the characterless acres of housing estates called such derivative names as Shipman Road (no Doctors have purchased there), Blackwater Way (actually flooded in 2007) and Wankley Dell (made that one up), the emergence of coloured composite panels, ceramic tile elevational treatments, excessive square metres of opaque glass blocks and some oddly angled masonry or fibre glass attachments. The sad thing is that these crude and insulting embellishments are being fully accepted and enthused about by the house buying public, or at least those who have the sizeable deposit needed to pass through into the Mortgage Lounge of the financiers to meet their colleague representative advisory person (CRAP) and be sold not just a mortgage but break-down cover and a raffle ticket.

The real Cube House I mention was started in 2005 and is now nearly ready for first occupation in 2011. The timescale involved is not, get lost Kevin McCleod, due to complex structural or planning issues but because the Architect, Builder, Project Manager, Funder, Navvy, Powder monkey and Tea Boy are all the same person and at the same time holding down a day job.

By definition the construction has taken place on the occasional evening during the week and with a more concentrated effort at weekends, during Bank Holidays and any general vacation entitlements. Add to these constraints a strong sense of authenticity and respect for the Cube House and great attention to detail and you have, dah, dah, dah . daaar, a 7 year labour of love.

My first site visit was at the steelwork stage. The bright red oxide finish was a bit overpowering as well as the sheer size and scale of the skeletal frame over three equivalent storeys but yet long and narrow in dimensions. The house was located on a narrow strip of land adjacent to a cemetery . In the earliest stages of emergence the locals and passers-by thought the structure was going to be a public convenience and even a crematorium for the internees which says a lot for the role of a bright yellow Planning Notice on a lampost or the actual validity of writing to all surrounding households to inform them of what was going to be built.

With the steelwork in place the intermediate floors were positioned and then the elevational finishes could be erected. The main south face of the house consisted entirely of glass blocks, individually sanded to combat any lethal solar magnifying effect and then mounted and reinforced in a framework. The appearance is exceptional in texture and impact. The eastern and northern elevations were fitted with a grey thermally insulated panelling and to the west, full floor to ceiling windows over the three floors.

The interior provides great flexibility as there are no loadbearing requirements. Natural light comes in a softened hue through the glass wall onto the stairways and with large glazed apertures and light wells illuminating efficiently all the accommodation. A stainless steel staircase is suspended above the ground floor and appears to float. At the front of the ground floor is the principal living area. A large open plan arrangement includes a kitchen. The space is open and airy to a full two storey height. There is a further day room behind a balcony above and with bedrooms and bathrooms beyond and above.

Internal floor area at over 2000 square feet  is more than double that available for the faux versions on a non-descript housing estate. I have had to advise and undertake an exercise in calculating the cost to build and ultimate value of the Cube House but this transcends all normal conventions. What price for 7 years of labour not to mention the thinking time during 7 years worth of waking hours? What price for hundreds of journeys to and from the site, builders merchants and maintaining a lifestyle in current residence? What price for missing out on time with family over 7 years?

It is not about price at all , it is about the underlying values.

Up the Spout

I shouted at my father yesterday afternoon.

It shocked me because in all of my years I had had no reason to do that.

His mild manner with which all of us had grown up with was not a sign of timidity or weakness but of a thoughtful and wise man assured in his own character and content to be in the midst of those he loved to be with.

We certainly knew, each of us, when we were in the wrong not by a stern voice of reproach but in a look which expressed a bit of disappointment albeit with enough compassion to enable us to be aware of what we had done and give ample opportunity to rescue the situation.

I have carried this lesson in parenting through to my own children and in their ability to cope with setbacks and drama's without fear I have found myself thanking the wisdom passed down through the generations of our family.

The circumstances of my tirade were not borne out of a bad situation.

There was no sense of frustration behind the outburst. Promises and pledges had not been broken. The bond of trust between a father and a son remained resolute. I was in a place in which thoughts of my father are foremost, that being pedalling along on a bicycle.

He had encouraged me to take to two wheels and was a regular spectator at competitive events both where I was taking part or otherwise attending as a keen enthusiast trying to fathom the secrets behind those who rode for their livelihoods in the professional ranks of cycle sport.

Yesterday afternoon I was riding out with my own son, a powerful nineteen year old who has become enthused with what cycling can do for mind, body, morale and spirit as much as I had been at that age and remain so into my fifties.

We were attempting the steepest incline in the region, the infamous Spout Hill.

It is of legendary gradient although the single black chevron on the Ordnance Survey sheet is a bit vague in putting it somewhere between 1 in 5 and 1 in 7.

I have been up it a few times and the sheer slope gives the impression that your forehead is perilously close to the tarmac road surface.

My son had been unsuccessful in a previous attempt not through lack of effort and physical ability but a very poor gear ratio on an otherwise wholly unsuitable dirt bike.

The hill begins immediately at the junction by the old water pump in the middle of the hamlet of Brantingham and on his infinitely more suited 29 inch wheeled, 27 geared mountain bike the challenge was very much on.

There are two modes of thought on tackling Spout Hill.

One is to start off in a comfortable gear and then gradually change down as forward momentum comes up against gravity and fatigue. The other is to just engage the lowest gear possible and keep pedalling as though your life depended upon it.

Between the two of us we covered both methods and probably reached that same stage of regret in our individual choices.

I just stuck it out on the middle ring across the biggest sprocket fearful of trying to flick the left hand changer onto the inner ring. My son was already spinning his pedals at more than 100 revolutions per minute which translated to very little actual linear movement.

Surprisingly for my age, as I keep reminding myself, and the fact that I had not been out for a week I felt quite comfortable in the relatively bigger gear. My legs felt good and although I was breathing deeply and heavily I had not reached anywhere near the usual sensation of burning lungs and the very real possibility of a heart attack.

The steepness of the slope was relentless. Other hills on our usual routes at least presented a false flat or a slight variation for a bit of a breather but not the Spout.

At about 200 metres into the ascent there is a widening out of the left hand verge, a tree and a beautiful viewpoint over Brantingham Dale and the old Church. This is a popular place for the brief respite of ramblers or a photo opportunity.

It was also one of my father's favourite locations and for that reason my mother sprinkled some of his ashes in the foliage by the tree at an informal family gathering after his passing in 2011.

My shout bordering on the madness of attention seeking was " look at me father, I'm nearly half way up!"

I am sure that although there was no openly human voice to break into the sounds of nature and those emanating from two dedicated cyclists on that unseasonably warm October day I am convinced that the spirit of my late father shouted some kind words of encouragement back.

The latter part of the hill presented no real obstacle and I reached not just the summit but a state of calm and supreme happiness.

Penny Falls

It's Hull Fair time again. A reminder that the year is approaching that latter quarter with some brief respite from the impending thought of going to and from work in the dark from the burst of lights and sounds from the rides and shows. Half a million visitors are expected.....

I gave in to a stereotypical middle aged geek urge to try to calculate the hourly income generation of Hull Fair.

This is my calculation based on guesstimate, prejudice, inappropriate stock judgements and not a very detailed knowledge of the economics of a very large, slick and efficient commercial enterprise.

I divided up the Fair into broad groups based on form and function, this covers the multi-million pound Mega Rides right down to the individual hawker with a fistful of helium balloons. I then estimated the average spend of a visitor to each category, how many visitors could be served at a time and how many times the transaction could be done per hour. For example, Bob Carvers Chip Emporium has about 15 servers who could turn around a punter every two minutes from order to payment therefore 30 per hour at an average spend of £7.40 assuming 2 portions of pattie, chips and peas. I applied this across the full range even down to Eva Petulengro Fortune Teller and stalker of Coronation  Street Stars who can, I guess, throw considerable uncertainty into the ongoing lives of 6 people per hour for £5 a go.

The full calculation is as follows;

Fast Food Concessions. Average take £3, 5 servings at a time, 2 minutes duration, 30 per hour, 50 stalls

Fortune Tellers. Average take £5, 1 at a time but with 5 caravan based clairvoyants, 10 minutes consultation, so 6 per hour.

Major Rides. £2.50 average fare, 25 per ride, 12 revolutions, cycles or inversions per hour, 20 such high tech marvels of inertia and motion.

Traditional side stalls. £1.50 per chuck, launch, shot, hook a duck, 10 people at a time, 2 minutes of adrenaline soaked enjoyment, 30 per hour across 40 very similar stalls with this years top promotion of Minions.

Special category for dart throwing stalls.£1.50 , 10 men, 2 minutes including a cigarette, 30 per hour, 20 anachronistic and chauvinistic booth operators.

Bob Carvers, carried over from the illustrative section above.

Children's rides. £1 fare from grandma's purse. 20 per ride unless the toy cars have not yet been dettol'd so allow for 75% occupancy, 12 sessions per hour, I reckon about 10 old style rides just surviving the high tech expectations of the under-5's.

Amusements/slots/falls. £2 average spend, a lot of 2p's, 50 punters per arcade, disillusionment kicks in with fresh blood every 5 minutes, 5 arcades all possibly operated by the same company.

One-off specials. Difficult to see how these actually pay the operators. Cost of £10 per person, teamed up possibly with a perfect stranger to be elastic-launched no-where and be photographed of how you would look faced with the your worst nightmare or entering the Big Brother House. 10 minute set up and ride time so only 5 boings per hour. Possibly 2 of these ridiculous pieces of showboating equipment.

Traditional stalls selling candy floss, toffee apples, liquorice whips. Average spend £2, well staffed so 10 people served at a time, 2 minutes customer interface time, 30 similar stalls but strong representation from Wrights of Brighouse.

Hawkers with balloons, light-up hats, battery operated pets in baskets, whistles reminiscent of childhood Punch and Judy but cringingly annoying after 5 seconds. £3 per spend, 12 sales per hour with 30 high viz vested sellers.

I think that I have covered all income generating areas but if you can think of any more please fill in the dotted lines and carry over to my gross figure....................................................................................
..........................................................................................................................................................
As the Americans always say incorrectly ' Now for the math'.

My hourly gross figure working through my calculations comes to £105,420 per hour for the peak evening sessions from 7pm to closing time.

This produces a global gross figure for the peak hours and over the 8 nights of the Fair of £3,373,440.

Making allowances for bad weather, exceptionally fine weather and those afraid of the dark who only attend in the daylight hours there is considerable scope for fluctuations in figures.

There are of course significant costs to be offset against this figure which I, no doubt, will ponder in the wee small waking hours of the next week or so.