As a family, a few years ago now, we booked a two week stay at a farmhouse type property on the magnificent Isle of Skye, the large almost foetus shaped landmass just off the west coast of mainland Scotland.
It was a long drive from our home in Yorkshire, some 8 to 9 hours, plus a trip across on one of the many passenger and vehicle ferries that supply and support the many communities who live offshore in that part of the UK.
As usual for a family holiday in Scotland where the weather cannot be relied upon we were well equipped with all sorts of activities from mountain bikes to electric guitar, a stock of DVD's (many holiday lets have a terrible collection) and a number of books.
It was a mighty strange experience to actually sit and read a book, "A Summer in Skye" in the very house in which it had been written back in the 1860's.
I had some inclination that I was close to one of the main settings for the book from Alexander Smiths superb detail on physical landscape. This was mainly through reading a passage whilst sat in the sun room overlooking the sea-loch below and finding a close match between the text and what I could actually see. It was not until a brief conversation, some five days into the stay, with an islander in a gift shop that the true fact emerged.
An impulse bid on-line for this hefty work left me with a copy withdrawn from a Municipal Library stock with hard cover and an ominous message on the inside cover not to return the book to the lending library if there was a contagious illness in the household. Exceptional nowadays this may have been a standard sticky insert for the 1950's library service.
The text of "A Summer in Skye" starts in Edinburgh with highly descriptive scenes of a bustling city and some not very complimentary remarks about the rougher residents of what are now the prime tourist spots. Well worth a read if you are in Edinburgh for any period of time.
The journey across Scotland has some general interest mainly reliance on horse and carriage and frequent stopovers at Inns.
Within the main title of the book I was shocked by the bleak and poverty stricken life of the Skye islanders whose reliance on the produce of land and sea was regularly interrupted by the inevitable fall of rain around seven feet over one extended and persistently wet period (in excess of 200 days continuous).
Alexander Smith was confined to his hosts' house through much of his stay on Skye because of the constant downpour and there are some excellent narratives on the experience of watching the incessant influence of moisture and its power in shaping life on the island.
The book is very broad in its coverage of the history of Skye and a few chapters comment on the many legends and superstitions from a race of giant warriors to witches with stories of local fatalities amongst fishermen and the crofters.
This sort of deep rooted folklore is very believable on a dark and stormy night in a holiday cottage miles from anywhere and with no points of reference or the comfort of street lights or traffic noises.
Any slight rattling of slates or rustling of trees is very foreboding in such a location.
Anyone looking to actively walk in the Cuillin Mountains, which could be seen looming up on the western horizon from the house, would be interested in relevant parts of the book as long as they are not travelling alone as some of the valleys and remote spots are evidently full of lost souls or the dispossessed.
Some of the chapters are a bit tedious and heavy going very much in the style of Fennimore Cooper (who is mentioned) and can be speed-read without spoiling the best bits of the book.
After my two week stay on Skye and faced with the prospect of a long motoring journey home I really enjoyed the description of Alexander Smith's own journey by slow boat which operated like a local bus service carrying boozy passengers, freight and livestock. An epic journey in itself. The man himself was deeply moved by his time on the island and even to modern visitors spending any time on the island this emotional link is forged easily and stays with you for years.
Thursday, 31 December 2015
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
Atlantis for £12.99
There are always a few souls who move house with the express intention of being in the new place just in time for Christmas.
This is either an indication of supreme confidence in the housing market or plain foolhardiness. If everything goes well, then it can be an experience of enhanced excitement combining the best elements of the festive season and all in new and unfamiliar surroundings, perhaps seeming like a holiday rather than a house move.
Conversely, imagine the stress and heartache if things do not come together and it is a case of sitting amongst boxes, half packed and unsure about whether to put up the tree(if it can be found in the Christmas Things box).
This latter scenario assumes that your move has been held up and you can stay put rather than having to leave and stay with relatives, in a hotel or take a cottage at a greatly inflated seasonal rate.
We moved our two goldfish over the Christmas period, very much on an impulse having seen a nice tank with pump and filter in the sale in one of the large warehouse type discount outlets so characteristic of retail parks on the edge of most UK cities.
The fish were not our choice of domestic pet.
One of our family friends, an Iranian was to introduce us to the Noorooz or Spring Equinox celebration which included in its symbolic table dressing a goldfish to represent new life.
I volunteered to provide a suitable fish and visited a local aquarium. A solitary classic goldfish in a cheap, round plastic bowl is a forlorn sight and so within a couple of days I revisited the shop and bought another one for company.
Being a new owner I read up a bit on husbandry issues such as feedstuffs and mealtimes, water hygiene, handling out of the water and general welfare. Keen to create a nice environment I filled the gravel bottomed receptacle with a Greek column, plastic foliage and a few interesting shaped pebbles and rocks from my own collection.
The bowl, not overly large in size, did look a bit overcrowded although as an obstacle course it did look interesting.
Two fish do excrete a lot and I found that the water became murky and foul smelling only a few days after a full change and clean. It cannot have been much fun and I did regularly find one or more of the goldfish at the surface appearing to be gasping for oxygen or muttering obscenities in my direction.
In spite of the slum-like conditions the fish did thrive although it was now abundantly clear that they were of two different breeds, one being big, bulbous and very gold and the other a bit fancier with a flowing tail and contrasting silver and bronze streaks along its slim flank.
The need for regular sluicing did become inconvenient and also a bit of an embarrassment to me.
I had, broadly, three options. Two were a cowardly way and one was the right thing to do.
The former included releasing the two fish in the ornamental lake in the local park or asking a big favour of a client whose office had a prominent feature fish tank in the reception of his office. I did not have great hopes for prolonged survival in the murky, green and litter strewn stagnant puddle by the cafe building. I would have to request visitation rights for any new lodgings in the clients office which could be awkward.
The right thing to do was to just spend some money on a proper tank and equipment.
The multiple listings on E bay and Gumtree contained attractive propositions but not being technical or practical any comments such as "needs attention", "supplied with non functioning pump" or "showing signs of fatigue" were a major disincentive to enquire further.
I searched the glossy on-line catalogues of major suppliers but this was disorientating and confusing, especially the self assembly option for the different components. Cost was also a bit above my budget.
So, during Christmas shopping I had wandered into the farthest aisles of BM Bargains and amongst the pet food and home cleaning products I saw the perfect new home for the fish.
It was a traditional rectangle, about 50cm by 25cm by 50cm. The weight of it when lifted from the shelf was not conclusive as to whether glass or plastic and the packaging was a definitely targeted at younger aquarianists rather than my age group.
An illustration did show a pump, filter, plant and sachet of fish food and that closed the sale for me for sure. Back home I made a bit of a drama out of transferring the lucky recipients to their new abode complete with humming of some national anthem type tune , perhaps "Atlantis The Brave" , and a flourish with, I forgot to mention, the free net to ensnare the excitable fish.
At least the open cesspool of the old bowl had been quiet and so switching on the pump and filter must have been deafening although that steady flow of oxygenated bubbles did seem to invigorate, refresh and illuminate the aquatic creatures.
It is now a few days into the new residency. The fish do seem happier and when looking at me, allowing for the distortion of the glass/plastic/perspex, my lip reading of their open mouthings is nothing but joy...................................................................................
This is either an indication of supreme confidence in the housing market or plain foolhardiness. If everything goes well, then it can be an experience of enhanced excitement combining the best elements of the festive season and all in new and unfamiliar surroundings, perhaps seeming like a holiday rather than a house move.
Conversely, imagine the stress and heartache if things do not come together and it is a case of sitting amongst boxes, half packed and unsure about whether to put up the tree(if it can be found in the Christmas Things box).
This latter scenario assumes that your move has been held up and you can stay put rather than having to leave and stay with relatives, in a hotel or take a cottage at a greatly inflated seasonal rate.
We moved our two goldfish over the Christmas period, very much on an impulse having seen a nice tank with pump and filter in the sale in one of the large warehouse type discount outlets so characteristic of retail parks on the edge of most UK cities.
The fish were not our choice of domestic pet.
One of our family friends, an Iranian was to introduce us to the Noorooz or Spring Equinox celebration which included in its symbolic table dressing a goldfish to represent new life.
I volunteered to provide a suitable fish and visited a local aquarium. A solitary classic goldfish in a cheap, round plastic bowl is a forlorn sight and so within a couple of days I revisited the shop and bought another one for company.
Being a new owner I read up a bit on husbandry issues such as feedstuffs and mealtimes, water hygiene, handling out of the water and general welfare. Keen to create a nice environment I filled the gravel bottomed receptacle with a Greek column, plastic foliage and a few interesting shaped pebbles and rocks from my own collection.
The bowl, not overly large in size, did look a bit overcrowded although as an obstacle course it did look interesting.
Two fish do excrete a lot and I found that the water became murky and foul smelling only a few days after a full change and clean. It cannot have been much fun and I did regularly find one or more of the goldfish at the surface appearing to be gasping for oxygen or muttering obscenities in my direction.
In spite of the slum-like conditions the fish did thrive although it was now abundantly clear that they were of two different breeds, one being big, bulbous and very gold and the other a bit fancier with a flowing tail and contrasting silver and bronze streaks along its slim flank.
The need for regular sluicing did become inconvenient and also a bit of an embarrassment to me.
I had, broadly, three options. Two were a cowardly way and one was the right thing to do.
The former included releasing the two fish in the ornamental lake in the local park or asking a big favour of a client whose office had a prominent feature fish tank in the reception of his office. I did not have great hopes for prolonged survival in the murky, green and litter strewn stagnant puddle by the cafe building. I would have to request visitation rights for any new lodgings in the clients office which could be awkward.
The right thing to do was to just spend some money on a proper tank and equipment.
The multiple listings on E bay and Gumtree contained attractive propositions but not being technical or practical any comments such as "needs attention", "supplied with non functioning pump" or "showing signs of fatigue" were a major disincentive to enquire further.
I searched the glossy on-line catalogues of major suppliers but this was disorientating and confusing, especially the self assembly option for the different components. Cost was also a bit above my budget.
So, during Christmas shopping I had wandered into the farthest aisles of BM Bargains and amongst the pet food and home cleaning products I saw the perfect new home for the fish.
It was a traditional rectangle, about 50cm by 25cm by 50cm. The weight of it when lifted from the shelf was not conclusive as to whether glass or plastic and the packaging was a definitely targeted at younger aquarianists rather than my age group.
An illustration did show a pump, filter, plant and sachet of fish food and that closed the sale for me for sure. Back home I made a bit of a drama out of transferring the lucky recipients to their new abode complete with humming of some national anthem type tune , perhaps "Atlantis The Brave" , and a flourish with, I forgot to mention, the free net to ensnare the excitable fish.
At least the open cesspool of the old bowl had been quiet and so switching on the pump and filter must have been deafening although that steady flow of oxygenated bubbles did seem to invigorate, refresh and illuminate the aquatic creatures.
It is now a few days into the new residency. The fish do seem happier and when looking at me, allowing for the distortion of the glass/plastic/perspex, my lip reading of their open mouthings is nothing but joy...................................................................................
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
Endangered Species
Once in a while I come across a gem of a property.
I am not talking about the elusive "WOW" factor in terms of square footage, number of bathrooms, acreage of Travertine tiles or the number of ipod docking points but just in the form in which it was originally built.
This week was a treat for me in coming across just one such property.
A cottage. Last lived in some fifty years ago.
Built in the latter years of the 19th Century as a pair of dwellings it has been maintained only as much as has been required to stop it falling down. The current owners, or rather custodians as they reside in a newer house on the site ,did put on a new roof about 5 years ago and had every intention to renovate and refurbish but the two catalyst components of time and money never coincided.
It is a traditional labourers cottage.
Long and narrow over two storeys. Solid brick walls with the bricks themselves made from clay excavated from a hole in the ground only a short horse drawn cart journey distant. The gutters are old cast iron, possibly original, mounted on brackets hammered in to the top courses of the wall and nestling just under the slope of the roof to catch the run-off.
Brickwork is in a bit of a haphazard bond but not untypical where built by field workers in between their labours on the large agricultural estates in the hamlet.
There is every type of window frame from sash cord to Yorkshire sliding sash and small fixed panes to narrow arrow type slits, all in a hand thrown glass with air bubbles and giving a strange outlook onto the world, a bit blurry and mottled.
The cottage is built out of a gentle northerly slope and the door to the lower part, in planked timber is reached by a flagstone step which is well worn with generations of footfalls.
At the end wall is the old earth closet toilet but this will not be salvageable as the single storey structure has long since parted company from the main building in the form of a wide jagged fracture. The main house gable wall above shows some signs of collateral damage although this was obviously anticipated by the amateur builders in their positioning of the metal dog bone tie bars on the outer face and anchored through onto the roof timbers.
The back wall has a bit of a kink and bulge but does not appear to be going anywhere in particular.
For a structure erected on a mere handful of foundation courses it is a miracle that it has survived over the years from surface water run-off down the hill, from its exposure to the prevailing westerlys and the periodic vibration from the main freight rail line just a few feet away.
I was enthralled by the whole character of the cottage. Unspoiled, authentic and charming.
I was not disappointed by the interior.
The first thing that came into view was a tin bath, propped up against the wall in the kitchen. It looked as those its last occupant had just left it there after a long soak of weary land-worked limbs. It stood close to the old range, an enamelled double oven type and with a drain off tap sticking out of the chimney breast. This was at the perfect height to cascade the boiling hot water from the back boiler into the tub. Enough scalding liquid evidently to clean a body, wash the pots and provide an overnight soak to the family clothes. It would be a social event, a bit of a public baptismal for the man of the house before giving way to the functional requirements of the rest of the household.
Adjacent to the tin bath was a galvanised bucket containing a copper posher, by which the laundry could be immersed and agitated until less grey white than before.
The kitchen would be the hub of the cottage. It still had a brick floor, undulating from localised settlement into the chalk topped clay and a beamed ceiling with a view through the wide pitched pine floorboards into the bedroom above.
Being long and narrow the house was a series of rooms connecting to others. The dimensions did not allow for a hallway. The best room was distinguishable as best by a thick canvas layer on the floor, faded wallcoverings and a cast iron fireplace flanked by Dutch tiles and a marble mantelpiece. I could imagine it's use just once a week on a Sunday or when visitors came to call.
There was no staircase to the first floor. A steeply angled ladder did the job.
I struggled to climb it. Upstairs was little more than one long room, about 40 feet from end to end. I was a bit hesitant to walk about on the wide pine planked boards as I had seen the flimsy ceiling joists on which they were supported.
The wood under foot had a unique sheen and patina around the shallow excavations left by the woodworm. I am average height but felt like a giant under the low, vaulted ceilings in part close and parallel to the external tiled slope. Much of the old plaster had fallen away from the walls leaving wispy growths of horse hair used as the original bonding agent.
In its early years the house will have relied upon candle sconces for lighting up the rooms and these were still in position.
I carefully dismounted the ladder as though passing through the decks of a ship before pulling the plank door shut behind me and returning to the comparative warmth of the outside world. It had been a privilege to bear witness to such a well preserved cottage. I may not come across another like it for some considerable time.
I am not talking about the elusive "WOW" factor in terms of square footage, number of bathrooms, acreage of Travertine tiles or the number of ipod docking points but just in the form in which it was originally built.
This week was a treat for me in coming across just one such property.
A cottage. Last lived in some fifty years ago.
Built in the latter years of the 19th Century as a pair of dwellings it has been maintained only as much as has been required to stop it falling down. The current owners, or rather custodians as they reside in a newer house on the site ,did put on a new roof about 5 years ago and had every intention to renovate and refurbish but the two catalyst components of time and money never coincided.
It is a traditional labourers cottage.
Long and narrow over two storeys. Solid brick walls with the bricks themselves made from clay excavated from a hole in the ground only a short horse drawn cart journey distant. The gutters are old cast iron, possibly original, mounted on brackets hammered in to the top courses of the wall and nestling just under the slope of the roof to catch the run-off.
Brickwork is in a bit of a haphazard bond but not untypical where built by field workers in between their labours on the large agricultural estates in the hamlet.
There is every type of window frame from sash cord to Yorkshire sliding sash and small fixed panes to narrow arrow type slits, all in a hand thrown glass with air bubbles and giving a strange outlook onto the world, a bit blurry and mottled.
The cottage is built out of a gentle northerly slope and the door to the lower part, in planked timber is reached by a flagstone step which is well worn with generations of footfalls.
At the end wall is the old earth closet toilet but this will not be salvageable as the single storey structure has long since parted company from the main building in the form of a wide jagged fracture. The main house gable wall above shows some signs of collateral damage although this was obviously anticipated by the amateur builders in their positioning of the metal dog bone tie bars on the outer face and anchored through onto the roof timbers.
The back wall has a bit of a kink and bulge but does not appear to be going anywhere in particular.
For a structure erected on a mere handful of foundation courses it is a miracle that it has survived over the years from surface water run-off down the hill, from its exposure to the prevailing westerlys and the periodic vibration from the main freight rail line just a few feet away.
I was enthralled by the whole character of the cottage. Unspoiled, authentic and charming.
I was not disappointed by the interior.
The first thing that came into view was a tin bath, propped up against the wall in the kitchen. It looked as those its last occupant had just left it there after a long soak of weary land-worked limbs. It stood close to the old range, an enamelled double oven type and with a drain off tap sticking out of the chimney breast. This was at the perfect height to cascade the boiling hot water from the back boiler into the tub. Enough scalding liquid evidently to clean a body, wash the pots and provide an overnight soak to the family clothes. It would be a social event, a bit of a public baptismal for the man of the house before giving way to the functional requirements of the rest of the household.
Adjacent to the tin bath was a galvanised bucket containing a copper posher, by which the laundry could be immersed and agitated until less grey white than before.
The kitchen would be the hub of the cottage. It still had a brick floor, undulating from localised settlement into the chalk topped clay and a beamed ceiling with a view through the wide pitched pine floorboards into the bedroom above.
Being long and narrow the house was a series of rooms connecting to others. The dimensions did not allow for a hallway. The best room was distinguishable as best by a thick canvas layer on the floor, faded wallcoverings and a cast iron fireplace flanked by Dutch tiles and a marble mantelpiece. I could imagine it's use just once a week on a Sunday or when visitors came to call.
There was no staircase to the first floor. A steeply angled ladder did the job.
I struggled to climb it. Upstairs was little more than one long room, about 40 feet from end to end. I was a bit hesitant to walk about on the wide pine planked boards as I had seen the flimsy ceiling joists on which they were supported.
The wood under foot had a unique sheen and patina around the shallow excavations left by the woodworm. I am average height but felt like a giant under the low, vaulted ceilings in part close and parallel to the external tiled slope. Much of the old plaster had fallen away from the walls leaving wispy growths of horse hair used as the original bonding agent.
In its early years the house will have relied upon candle sconces for lighting up the rooms and these were still in position.
I carefully dismounted the ladder as though passing through the decks of a ship before pulling the plank door shut behind me and returning to the comparative warmth of the outside world. It had been a privilege to bear witness to such a well preserved cottage. I may not come across another like it for some considerable time.
Monday, 28 December 2015
Revolutionary
It is very easy at my age (52) to be attracted by the thought of becoming an armchair cyclist.
I have had a good 2015 on my road bike, mostly following in the wake of my 20 year old son in what was his first racing season. If he can readily be described as being as fit as a butcher's dog then I am more like the old bulldog that you see tied up, breathless, outside the off licence on most High Streets.
My last ride out was in October, before the bad weather, but in fact only a trip to and from my office to drop off and pick up some paperwork. By road the office is just 3 miles away but by bike, and avoiding main traffic routes by using cycle paths and along the Humber river track the round trip is more like 14 miles.
Most serious cyclists continue regardless of the weather and rapidly darkening afternoons with a suitably equipped winter bike, ie with mudguards, chunky puncture resistant tyres and high intensity lights but at their peril given the atrocious state of the British road surfaces and unsympathetic or just plain ignorant motorists.
I did have what could have been a very bad accident a few years ago now when hit by a car overtaking a line of traffic on a dark night being fortunate to escape with just a sore shoulder and stiff neck from shattering the car windscreen.
I still have nightmares of seeing a set of headlights doubling to two pairs and heading straight for me and am understandably reticent about riding after nightfall. A large part of my survival of the impact was down to the quality of my then winter bike which, designed with clever tubing just absorbed everything and crumpled into a small heap. I did not have the inclination or resources thereafter to replace that durable bicycle.
Confined to a best road bike (built 1982) and a mountain bike (2013 impulse purchase) my season out on the road has to finish in October.
My weight inevitably piles on without that regular exercise even with the best intentions of consuming smaller portions and keeping off beer and sweets.
Armchair cycling takes over for a few months.
I may take on the same calorific values whilst watching the re-runs of the years classic European races but there is simply no opportunity to burn them off. I might feel inclined to make a pedalling motion in my slippers if the on screen action is exciting or perch on the edge of my seat as though leading out the peleton in the final straight but this minimal sort of motion does not really shift the fat.
It has been a good year for televised coverage of professional racing and many of the main terrestrial channels carry the likes of the Spring Classics, main national Tours and World Championships. With so much armchair cycling it can, even with perfect riding weather, be difficult to be motivated to actually mount up and go out. There is also the problem that having seen how easy the pro-riders make it look over the course of an undulating 150 mile race stage there can be a rapid realisation that it is actually hard, physical effort when struggling to get over the railway bridge on the ring road or battling a head wind through the suburbs, even before reaching any rising ground or challenging terrain.
The big decision that looms up around Christmas time is when to relinquish the comfort of the armchair for the initially sharp and painful bike saddle. The factors for consideration are many from what is on TV, the weather conditions, social calendar, state of the roads and reliability of the daylight.
I have surpassed previous years by actually venturing out on my mountain bike just this afternoon.
It was a small step, granted, some 10 laps around the city park that my house overlooks but it was a start. My body found it to be a bit of a rude awakening, made a lot of disgruntled noises and sent pain signals to my brain from lazy and atrophied limbs. It was also a bit hazardous with wandering pedestrians, dozy motorists, stray dogs, inattentive buggy pushing parents, joggers with headphones, family groups heading for the playground and a few children wobbling about on obviously new bicycles.
For all of the perils, it was just nice to get back on my bike again. Roll on 2016.
I have had a good 2015 on my road bike, mostly following in the wake of my 20 year old son in what was his first racing season. If he can readily be described as being as fit as a butcher's dog then I am more like the old bulldog that you see tied up, breathless, outside the off licence on most High Streets.
My last ride out was in October, before the bad weather, but in fact only a trip to and from my office to drop off and pick up some paperwork. By road the office is just 3 miles away but by bike, and avoiding main traffic routes by using cycle paths and along the Humber river track the round trip is more like 14 miles.
Most serious cyclists continue regardless of the weather and rapidly darkening afternoons with a suitably equipped winter bike, ie with mudguards, chunky puncture resistant tyres and high intensity lights but at their peril given the atrocious state of the British road surfaces and unsympathetic or just plain ignorant motorists.
I did have what could have been a very bad accident a few years ago now when hit by a car overtaking a line of traffic on a dark night being fortunate to escape with just a sore shoulder and stiff neck from shattering the car windscreen.
I still have nightmares of seeing a set of headlights doubling to two pairs and heading straight for me and am understandably reticent about riding after nightfall. A large part of my survival of the impact was down to the quality of my then winter bike which, designed with clever tubing just absorbed everything and crumpled into a small heap. I did not have the inclination or resources thereafter to replace that durable bicycle.
Confined to a best road bike (built 1982) and a mountain bike (2013 impulse purchase) my season out on the road has to finish in October.
My weight inevitably piles on without that regular exercise even with the best intentions of consuming smaller portions and keeping off beer and sweets.
Armchair cycling takes over for a few months.
I may take on the same calorific values whilst watching the re-runs of the years classic European races but there is simply no opportunity to burn them off. I might feel inclined to make a pedalling motion in my slippers if the on screen action is exciting or perch on the edge of my seat as though leading out the peleton in the final straight but this minimal sort of motion does not really shift the fat.
It has been a good year for televised coverage of professional racing and many of the main terrestrial channels carry the likes of the Spring Classics, main national Tours and World Championships. With so much armchair cycling it can, even with perfect riding weather, be difficult to be motivated to actually mount up and go out. There is also the problem that having seen how easy the pro-riders make it look over the course of an undulating 150 mile race stage there can be a rapid realisation that it is actually hard, physical effort when struggling to get over the railway bridge on the ring road or battling a head wind through the suburbs, even before reaching any rising ground or challenging terrain.
The big decision that looms up around Christmas time is when to relinquish the comfort of the armchair for the initially sharp and painful bike saddle. The factors for consideration are many from what is on TV, the weather conditions, social calendar, state of the roads and reliability of the daylight.
I have surpassed previous years by actually venturing out on my mountain bike just this afternoon.
It was a small step, granted, some 10 laps around the city park that my house overlooks but it was a start. My body found it to be a bit of a rude awakening, made a lot of disgruntled noises and sent pain signals to my brain from lazy and atrophied limbs. It was also a bit hazardous with wandering pedestrians, dozy motorists, stray dogs, inattentive buggy pushing parents, joggers with headphones, family groups heading for the playground and a few children wobbling about on obviously new bicycles.
For all of the perils, it was just nice to get back on my bike again. Roll on 2016.
Sunday, 27 December 2015
State of The Nation
A disrespectful adaptation of the speech by King George VI on the outbreak of war, 3rd September 1939. The actual transcript can be found at; http://www.royal.gov.uk/pdf/georgevi.pdf
In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.
For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.
Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.
We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.
It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.
Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.
But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.
This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.
It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.
We should all be calm and carry on at this time.
Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God. If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.
May he bless and keep us all
In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.
For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.
Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.
We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.
It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.
Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.
But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.
This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.
It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.
We should all be calm and carry on at this time.
Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God. If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.
May he bless and keep us all
Saturday, 26 December 2015
Pyjama Day is here again
It's nice to get into your pyjamas.
It evokes a feeling of comfort and safety that originates from my childhood.
I was privileged to come from a stable and loving home and that has been a strong influence in my adult life and in my own attempts at being a parent.
I am grateful for this and have come to realise that the freedom to wear my pyjamas whenever I felt like it, although perhaps seeming a bit superficial, was indicative of an overwhelming sense of well being.
An opportunity to do this on a working day can be few and far between nowadays as there is pressure on those in employment to maintain their status if only to stand still in terms of meeting the basic costs of a normal lifestyle.
It can be a real treat when everything falls into place to allow pyjamas to be adopted as the outfit of choice. The sensation is increased if it is still daylight outside.
There is a photograph posted up in the office, taken by a member of staff on her way in to work of two women stood on a the forecourt of a petrol station and convenience store at about half past eight in the morning in their dressing gowns, each clutching a loaf of bread and half a pint of sterilised-milk. It was an observation deep rooted in past age and culture but still relevant today.
This will have been a commonplace sight in the urban areas of the UK some fifty years ago in the good old days of the corner shop and therefore only a short dash for early risers to acquire their ciggies and consumables straight from their beds. There has been a big change in our retailing habits mainly forced upon us by the trend for large out of town Supermarkets. That natural instinct to provide for family can sometimes mean the same early-bird shopping requirement but the megastores have for some time imposed a ban on shoppers turning up in their nightwear to do their shopping.
It is also necessary for full enjoyment of pyjamas that there is a low likelihood of people calling to the house as greeting visitors on the doorstep can be a bit embarrassing. I have paid the window cleaner whilst so attired and he has not let me forget it with a tirade of tiresome jokes about my habit which has persisted for a good few years now.
With the necessary safeguards in place it is possible to relax and enjoy wearing your jammies without fear of ridicule or intrusion.
When in my pyjamas the reminiscences of childhood flood back.
I remember running around in the back garden in my Captain Scarlet jim-jams on those balmy and sultry summer evenings.
Then of course there were the long night time car journeys back home from grandparents when my siblings and I travelled in pyjamas under our clothes so that after falling asleep with the motion of the vehicle we could be just lifted out and tucked up in our bed.
I was a right one for feigning a tummy ache to avoid having to go to school and if successful in convincing my parents I could look forward to a full day in pyjamas on the settee watching television and dining on chicken noodle soup and Lucozade. Happy days indeed.
As a student I also spent a good proportion of my time in pyjamas but did feel a bit of a fraud if invited to a pyjama party.
As a parent I am proud to say that my own family have jealously guarded reserving a precious day between Christmas and New Year as an exclusive Pyjama Day when we just laze around, catch up an DVD's and feast on leftovers and the contents of the fridge.
We are not by any means complacent and indeed just this year two of the family introduced the Onesie to the occasion but to tell the truth I am not entirely convinced of its role in the proceedings.
(reproduced from 2012)
It evokes a feeling of comfort and safety that originates from my childhood.
I was privileged to come from a stable and loving home and that has been a strong influence in my adult life and in my own attempts at being a parent.
I am grateful for this and have come to realise that the freedom to wear my pyjamas whenever I felt like it, although perhaps seeming a bit superficial, was indicative of an overwhelming sense of well being.
An opportunity to do this on a working day can be few and far between nowadays as there is pressure on those in employment to maintain their status if only to stand still in terms of meeting the basic costs of a normal lifestyle.
It can be a real treat when everything falls into place to allow pyjamas to be adopted as the outfit of choice. The sensation is increased if it is still daylight outside.
There is a photograph posted up in the office, taken by a member of staff on her way in to work of two women stood on a the forecourt of a petrol station and convenience store at about half past eight in the morning in their dressing gowns, each clutching a loaf of bread and half a pint of sterilised-milk. It was an observation deep rooted in past age and culture but still relevant today.
This will have been a commonplace sight in the urban areas of the UK some fifty years ago in the good old days of the corner shop and therefore only a short dash for early risers to acquire their ciggies and consumables straight from their beds. There has been a big change in our retailing habits mainly forced upon us by the trend for large out of town Supermarkets. That natural instinct to provide for family can sometimes mean the same early-bird shopping requirement but the megastores have for some time imposed a ban on shoppers turning up in their nightwear to do their shopping.
It is also necessary for full enjoyment of pyjamas that there is a low likelihood of people calling to the house as greeting visitors on the doorstep can be a bit embarrassing. I have paid the window cleaner whilst so attired and he has not let me forget it with a tirade of tiresome jokes about my habit which has persisted for a good few years now.
With the necessary safeguards in place it is possible to relax and enjoy wearing your jammies without fear of ridicule or intrusion.
When in my pyjamas the reminiscences of childhood flood back.
I remember running around in the back garden in my Captain Scarlet jim-jams on those balmy and sultry summer evenings.
Then of course there were the long night time car journeys back home from grandparents when my siblings and I travelled in pyjamas under our clothes so that after falling asleep with the motion of the vehicle we could be just lifted out and tucked up in our bed.
I was a right one for feigning a tummy ache to avoid having to go to school and if successful in convincing my parents I could look forward to a full day in pyjamas on the settee watching television and dining on chicken noodle soup and Lucozade. Happy days indeed.
As a student I also spent a good proportion of my time in pyjamas but did feel a bit of a fraud if invited to a pyjama party.
As a parent I am proud to say that my own family have jealously guarded reserving a precious day between Christmas and New Year as an exclusive Pyjama Day when we just laze around, catch up an DVD's and feast on leftovers and the contents of the fridge.
We are not by any means complacent and indeed just this year two of the family introduced the Onesie to the occasion but to tell the truth I am not entirely convinced of its role in the proceedings.
(reproduced from 2012)
Friday, 25 December 2015
2011 Boxing Day remembered
I have very mixed feelings about today, Boxing Day 2011.
Typically for this country it is a bright, mild and breezy start. Very nice if you can sit in the sun in a sheltered spot. A bit bracing out in the open. There have been a few cars passing by the house, on the way to the Sales. Children's bikes have, it appears, taken a bit of a downturn in popularity this year as I have not seen any youngsters wobbling by on the road or pavement being chaperoned by an anxious red faced parent.
I have had a lazy first few hours. A bit of a tidy up, unload and load the dishwasher, hand-wash the larger pots, put some sausages to bake in the oven for a nice buttie, spend some time with my wife and children amongst the new gifts from Christmas Day.
It seems like an ordinary Boxing Day but it is in fact extraordinary because it is the first to come round since father died.
We, as a family, have been through the same heart wrenching feelings before.
My father in law, George was greatly missed at our Christmas table in 1995 and since then the Season has always invoked much emotion.
Boxing Day has become the opportunity for a big get-together. It has passed the time test and is now a tradition which assumes precedence over all other things. This can be both good and bad as being 'one side of the family centric' there are spouses who inevitably miss out on establishing their own tradition.
We all converge on the family home from as far away as America and all parts of the UK at this time. There is a full attendance of 19 on Boxing Day plus the occasional guests, so very much a full house.
This takes some organisation but there is always a warm and rowdy welcome, a fire in the grate, food and drink in abundance and the ever present ingredient of the unconditional love of family. The house is nicely trimmed up with paper chains, lanterns, holly and a real tree.
The seating of 19 does take some doing and the old suite, loaded well beyond capacity, is frequently re-aligned as one or more unfortunates disappear between the cushions. At the epicentre of the gathering has always been father. Usually in the kitchen when we arrive, hosting drinks and helping mother with the preparation of the food he bursts onto the scene in ginger wig and tam-o-shanter greeting the new arrivals with a mischeivous smile and laugh. We always remarked that, having been an only child, the size of the gathering must have been both joyful and a shock to father but strictly on a 99% to 1% ratio respectively.
He was always the last into the room of expectant faces in readiness for the distribution of the family gifts accompanied by the cheekily irreverent high pitched hoots of "Doornald" from the assembled masses.
He took up pride of place equidistant from tree and hearth seamlessly combining the operations of Santa and fire stoker. The youngest children took on the role of little helpers passing over the wrapped gifts to father.
The drama of the present giving was brilliant. Father's spectacles were up and down from their forehead position as he feigned squinting and illiteracy to the amusement and frustration of his audience. As everyone's pile of gifts grew we would encourage father to open his own which remained untouched.
These were reluctantly accepted and usually pushed down the side of his seat cushion to be opened later.
What can you buy for the man who asked for nothing and yet had everything that he ever wanted there in the room?
The toys and gadgets requiring batteries or mechanical attention were magically activated through fathers attentions, the kitchen table taking on the appearance of Santa's workshop. At the coming together of heavily laden tables for the meal I was privileged to sit at his side as he headed up the grown up's and his natural shyness and reticence to talk was forgotten in the presence of his closest family.
The Boxing Day meal always gave a further insight into the life and times of a quiet and reserved man of great intelligence, knowledge and wisdom. Today will certainly be one of mixed feelings.
Typically for this country it is a bright, mild and breezy start. Very nice if you can sit in the sun in a sheltered spot. A bit bracing out in the open. There have been a few cars passing by the house, on the way to the Sales. Children's bikes have, it appears, taken a bit of a downturn in popularity this year as I have not seen any youngsters wobbling by on the road or pavement being chaperoned by an anxious red faced parent.
I have had a lazy first few hours. A bit of a tidy up, unload and load the dishwasher, hand-wash the larger pots, put some sausages to bake in the oven for a nice buttie, spend some time with my wife and children amongst the new gifts from Christmas Day.
It seems like an ordinary Boxing Day but it is in fact extraordinary because it is the first to come round since father died.
We, as a family, have been through the same heart wrenching feelings before.
My father in law, George was greatly missed at our Christmas table in 1995 and since then the Season has always invoked much emotion.
Boxing Day has become the opportunity for a big get-together. It has passed the time test and is now a tradition which assumes precedence over all other things. This can be both good and bad as being 'one side of the family centric' there are spouses who inevitably miss out on establishing their own tradition.
We all converge on the family home from as far away as America and all parts of the UK at this time. There is a full attendance of 19 on Boxing Day plus the occasional guests, so very much a full house.
This takes some organisation but there is always a warm and rowdy welcome, a fire in the grate, food and drink in abundance and the ever present ingredient of the unconditional love of family. The house is nicely trimmed up with paper chains, lanterns, holly and a real tree.
The seating of 19 does take some doing and the old suite, loaded well beyond capacity, is frequently re-aligned as one or more unfortunates disappear between the cushions. At the epicentre of the gathering has always been father. Usually in the kitchen when we arrive, hosting drinks and helping mother with the preparation of the food he bursts onto the scene in ginger wig and tam-o-shanter greeting the new arrivals with a mischeivous smile and laugh. We always remarked that, having been an only child, the size of the gathering must have been both joyful and a shock to father but strictly on a 99% to 1% ratio respectively.
He was always the last into the room of expectant faces in readiness for the distribution of the family gifts accompanied by the cheekily irreverent high pitched hoots of "Doornald" from the assembled masses.
He took up pride of place equidistant from tree and hearth seamlessly combining the operations of Santa and fire stoker. The youngest children took on the role of little helpers passing over the wrapped gifts to father.
The drama of the present giving was brilliant. Father's spectacles were up and down from their forehead position as he feigned squinting and illiteracy to the amusement and frustration of his audience. As everyone's pile of gifts grew we would encourage father to open his own which remained untouched.
These were reluctantly accepted and usually pushed down the side of his seat cushion to be opened later.
What can you buy for the man who asked for nothing and yet had everything that he ever wanted there in the room?
The toys and gadgets requiring batteries or mechanical attention were magically activated through fathers attentions, the kitchen table taking on the appearance of Santa's workshop. At the coming together of heavily laden tables for the meal I was privileged to sit at his side as he headed up the grown up's and his natural shyness and reticence to talk was forgotten in the presence of his closest family.
The Boxing Day meal always gave a further insight into the life and times of a quiet and reserved man of great intelligence, knowledge and wisdom. Today will certainly be one of mixed feelings.
Thursday, 24 December 2015
Beyond the shoebox
I have always collected things. It may indicate a certain aspect of my personality or confirms that I am somewhere on that spectrum that everyone talks about. However, compared to the subject in my writing of today I am merely a dabbler..........
In early 2014, Hans Fex at the age of 46 could be described as being at not just a crossroads in his life but a simultaneous breaking and crisis point as well.
His house in Sterling, Virginia, USA was under threat of being repossessed by the bank. He was jobless, broke and depressed. He wasn’t shaving and was barely eating. But with the help of a couple of friends, he was about to launch on Kickstarter (Crowd Funding) a make-or-break project — clear acrylic “Mini Museums” filled with tiny artefacts he’d collected from around the world — in hopes of selling a few hundred.
The Mini Museum raced through the Internet like a comet, selling $750,000 worth of artefacts in the first eight days.
By the time they stopped accepting orders, Fex and his buddies had raised $1.8 million on Kickstarter, which enables entrepreneurs of any kind to propose a project and seek public funding, whether for an invention or a film or a musical album.
Such demand eventually took production out of their basements and back yards and all the way to China — where Fex and others carefully manufactured the small transparent blocks containing bits of such curiosities as a meteorite from Mars, a brick from Abraham Lincoln’s house and foil from Apollo 11. Then the tiny museums came back to Virginia, where they were shipped to people in 68 countries.
Fex launched a corporation, hired employees, and this past summer, rented office space in Fairfax City. In the autumn of this year, he announced the coming of Mini Museum 2, with pieces of the Hindenburg airship, meat from a 19,000-year-old mammoth leg and skin from a dinosaur. When the first round of museums went on sale in October, they sold out in 18 minutes.
When the project’s capacity of 3,100 units sold out, Fex and Mini Museum LLC had sold more than $1 million of the second edition of his brainstorm, conceived way back when he was in the early part of his junior school education, about, he recalls the age of 7.
“I’m really relieved to have gotten through that difficult stage of my life,” Fex said of that time nearly two years ago.
Now his small corporation is populated with friends and former co-workers from ThinkGeek, the Fairfax toy and apparel company, who work on specimens, talk about history and ideas for future Mini Museums, and “laugh like crazy every single day,” Fex said.
“And it is a really good feeling to make the Mini Museum after so many years of going around thinking about it,” he said. “And getting to make it with so many friends, that is a great, great feeling.”
Fex can still recall clearly when people from the bank were circling his home in 2014, preparing to foreclose on it. Meanwhile, he had tables in his kitchen and living room covered with items such as a T-Rex tooth, a mummy wrap and a rock from Mount Everest, with the plan being to slice them into small bits, label them clearly, and encase them in smooth acrylic blocks. A small booklet explaining the origin of each piece and its authenticity would accompany every Mini Museum.
But Fex could not have anticipated how enthusiastically the world would embrace his concept. Jamie Grove, a former ThinkGeek co-worker and Fex’s co-founder, said some design blogs noticed the project on Kickstarter and started spreading the word. Then a widely read blog called “This is Colossal” featured the Mini Museum, Grove said, followed by Kickstarter naming it a “Staff Pick” on its home page.
Grove and another ThinkGeek alumnus, Willie Vadnais, had been looking for a project and also wanted to help their friend extricate himself from his financial hole. They helped him with the marketing, “and then it just took off,” Grove said. “The reality is we could’ve sold a lot more, but we didn’t have the material.”
But after selling more than 7,000 versions of the original Mini Museums, in varying sizes from three- to five-inches high, the team could not make them at home.
They were contacted by another friend, John Fatemi, whose company Trendex had a plant in Dongguan, China. In the fall of 2014, Fex and Vadnais traveled there to supervise and help produce the museums over two months, with Chinese workers surprised to be side-by-side with their bosses.
Next came the shipping. Vast crates of boxes went first to California, then to Virginia, where the new company and new employees rushed to get the packages out by last Christmas while constantly updating their backers on Kickstarter.
A widespread community of supporters sprung up, and they were not disappointed.
“These MM sets are completely amazing!!” one customer wrote.
“Of the 79 successful projects that I have funded on Kickstarter, this is by far the most meaningful,” another commented. “You and your team have re-stoked the fires of my passion for life-long learning.”
For the second edition, which contains parts of a Neanderthal hand ax, an asteroid belt that is 4.5 billion years old and an Olympic torch, Fex and his crew did more advance preparation of the specimens and found a manufacturer in Long Island. They have a “touch edition” that allows the items to be removed and handled. And they are looking for a more efficient way to sell them, since the quick sellouts angered some would-be buyers, Grove said.
But sitting in his Fairfax office, Fex seemed a different, clean-shaven person from the man interviewed in his kitchen in February 2014. “Everyone here really cares about pleasing people,” he said. “This is about making people so excited and inspired, and making something that’s going to last for generations.”
(reproduced from an article by Tom Jackman-The Washington Post)
In early 2014, Hans Fex at the age of 46 could be described as being at not just a crossroads in his life but a simultaneous breaking and crisis point as well.
His house in Sterling, Virginia, USA was under threat of being repossessed by the bank. He was jobless, broke and depressed. He wasn’t shaving and was barely eating. But with the help of a couple of friends, he was about to launch on Kickstarter (Crowd Funding) a make-or-break project — clear acrylic “Mini Museums” filled with tiny artefacts he’d collected from around the world — in hopes of selling a few hundred.
The Mini Museum raced through the Internet like a comet, selling $750,000 worth of artefacts in the first eight days.
By the time they stopped accepting orders, Fex and his buddies had raised $1.8 million on Kickstarter, which enables entrepreneurs of any kind to propose a project and seek public funding, whether for an invention or a film or a musical album.
Such demand eventually took production out of their basements and back yards and all the way to China — where Fex and others carefully manufactured the small transparent blocks containing bits of such curiosities as a meteorite from Mars, a brick from Abraham Lincoln’s house and foil from Apollo 11. Then the tiny museums came back to Virginia, where they were shipped to people in 68 countries.
Fex launched a corporation, hired employees, and this past summer, rented office space in Fairfax City. In the autumn of this year, he announced the coming of Mini Museum 2, with pieces of the Hindenburg airship, meat from a 19,000-year-old mammoth leg and skin from a dinosaur. When the first round of museums went on sale in October, they sold out in 18 minutes.
When the project’s capacity of 3,100 units sold out, Fex and Mini Museum LLC had sold more than $1 million of the second edition of his brainstorm, conceived way back when he was in the early part of his junior school education, about, he recalls the age of 7.
“I’m really relieved to have gotten through that difficult stage of my life,” Fex said of that time nearly two years ago.
Now his small corporation is populated with friends and former co-workers from ThinkGeek, the Fairfax toy and apparel company, who work on specimens, talk about history and ideas for future Mini Museums, and “laugh like crazy every single day,” Fex said.
“And it is a really good feeling to make the Mini Museum after so many years of going around thinking about it,” he said. “And getting to make it with so many friends, that is a great, great feeling.”
Fex can still recall clearly when people from the bank were circling his home in 2014, preparing to foreclose on it. Meanwhile, he had tables in his kitchen and living room covered with items such as a T-Rex tooth, a mummy wrap and a rock from Mount Everest, with the plan being to slice them into small bits, label them clearly, and encase them in smooth acrylic blocks. A small booklet explaining the origin of each piece and its authenticity would accompany every Mini Museum.
But Fex could not have anticipated how enthusiastically the world would embrace his concept. Jamie Grove, a former ThinkGeek co-worker and Fex’s co-founder, said some design blogs noticed the project on Kickstarter and started spreading the word. Then a widely read blog called “This is Colossal” featured the Mini Museum, Grove said, followed by Kickstarter naming it a “Staff Pick” on its home page.
Grove and another ThinkGeek alumnus, Willie Vadnais, had been looking for a project and also wanted to help their friend extricate himself from his financial hole. They helped him with the marketing, “and then it just took off,” Grove said. “The reality is we could’ve sold a lot more, but we didn’t have the material.”
But after selling more than 7,000 versions of the original Mini Museums, in varying sizes from three- to five-inches high, the team could not make them at home.
They were contacted by another friend, John Fatemi, whose company Trendex had a plant in Dongguan, China. In the fall of 2014, Fex and Vadnais traveled there to supervise and help produce the museums over two months, with Chinese workers surprised to be side-by-side with their bosses.
Next came the shipping. Vast crates of boxes went first to California, then to Virginia, where the new company and new employees rushed to get the packages out by last Christmas while constantly updating their backers on Kickstarter.
A widespread community of supporters sprung up, and they were not disappointed.
“These MM sets are completely amazing!!” one customer wrote.
“Of the 79 successful projects that I have funded on Kickstarter, this is by far the most meaningful,” another commented. “You and your team have re-stoked the fires of my passion for life-long learning.”
For the second edition, which contains parts of a Neanderthal hand ax, an asteroid belt that is 4.5 billion years old and an Olympic torch, Fex and his crew did more advance preparation of the specimens and found a manufacturer in Long Island. They have a “touch edition” that allows the items to be removed and handled. And they are looking for a more efficient way to sell them, since the quick sellouts angered some would-be buyers, Grove said.
But sitting in his Fairfax office, Fex seemed a different, clean-shaven person from the man interviewed in his kitchen in February 2014. “Everyone here really cares about pleasing people,” he said. “This is about making people so excited and inspired, and making something that’s going to last for generations.”
(reproduced from an article by Tom Jackman-The Washington Post)
Wednesday, 23 December 2015
Boob News
THE EXPERIMENT;
The synopsis; A lot of scantily clad women assembling in one place, a bit like a Benny Hill sketch but entirely within the bounds of taste and political correctness. It is a happy go lucky atmosphere, bells and whistles are heard, a few football rattles, aerosol air horns, a retro-tambourine and a few catchy chants, not so much out of protest or militancy but with an excited expectancy or equivalent dread of something that could happen but it is unanimously hoped for that it will not.
It was not a dream but the inaugural meeting of the movement known as Boobquake.
The Theory; Setting aside any religious, ethnic or political grounds or reasons the Boobquake initiative was devised as a populist scientific experiment. The founder and organiser, a seismologist from an American University had taken it upon herself and women-kind at large to investigate a much publicised viewpoint of a prominent Religious Cleric that the reason for all the turmoil of earthquakes in the world was a direct consequence of, to put it bluntly, what he defined as loose women or more tactfully, the skimpy clothes worn by the same. In some cultures and faiths this remains certainly a strong moral standpoint. In the US educational system and in that particular Seismology Department such a verbal affront was considered to be worthy of a stand-off.
The Practice; There are, on any one day or within any suitable 24 hour monitoring period at least 100 earth tremors around the globe. The convening of the colourful and noisy get together was carefully orchestrated. Participants dressed down with all brands of underwear, lingerie and accessories to the fore.The seismic sensors were co-ordinated with the duration of the event. Independent adjudicators and Officials oversaw the whole event, perhaps with a downward gaze in the interests of modesty. A good time was had by all.
The Outcome; Considerable interest was generated by the exercise. Facebook played a prominent part in advertising and endorsing Boobquake. There was a media frenzy, but I cannot recollect having seen any live footage or reportage on the actual day in April 2011. The Cleric, the catalyst for the movement, and his supporters claimed that a tremor had hit Taiwan at the time of the experiment but this appears to have been disproved with the specific earthquake having taking place in the morning and therefore prior. Women's groups and activists were completely split in their opinions and so Boobquake was either a resounding success or an own goal.
The Conclusion; Such is science.
The synopsis; A lot of scantily clad women assembling in one place, a bit like a Benny Hill sketch but entirely within the bounds of taste and political correctness. It is a happy go lucky atmosphere, bells and whistles are heard, a few football rattles, aerosol air horns, a retro-tambourine and a few catchy chants, not so much out of protest or militancy but with an excited expectancy or equivalent dread of something that could happen but it is unanimously hoped for that it will not.
It was not a dream but the inaugural meeting of the movement known as Boobquake.
The Theory; Setting aside any religious, ethnic or political grounds or reasons the Boobquake initiative was devised as a populist scientific experiment. The founder and organiser, a seismologist from an American University had taken it upon herself and women-kind at large to investigate a much publicised viewpoint of a prominent Religious Cleric that the reason for all the turmoil of earthquakes in the world was a direct consequence of, to put it bluntly, what he defined as loose women or more tactfully, the skimpy clothes worn by the same. In some cultures and faiths this remains certainly a strong moral standpoint. In the US educational system and in that particular Seismology Department such a verbal affront was considered to be worthy of a stand-off.
The Practice; There are, on any one day or within any suitable 24 hour monitoring period at least 100 earth tremors around the globe. The convening of the colourful and noisy get together was carefully orchestrated. Participants dressed down with all brands of underwear, lingerie and accessories to the fore.The seismic sensors were co-ordinated with the duration of the event. Independent adjudicators and Officials oversaw the whole event, perhaps with a downward gaze in the interests of modesty. A good time was had by all.
The Outcome; Considerable interest was generated by the exercise. Facebook played a prominent part in advertising and endorsing Boobquake. There was a media frenzy, but I cannot recollect having seen any live footage or reportage on the actual day in April 2011. The Cleric, the catalyst for the movement, and his supporters claimed that a tremor had hit Taiwan at the time of the experiment but this appears to have been disproved with the specific earthquake having taking place in the morning and therefore prior. Women's groups and activists were completely split in their opinions and so Boobquake was either a resounding success or an own goal.
The Conclusion; Such is science.
6/10 , Could do with a bit more substance and analysis,
Monday, 21 December 2015
Warlords before bedtime
In my childhood years, in the late 1960's and early 1970's, there were two stock noises that you had to be able to do to fit in with your peer group.
The first was that of a machine gun.
Those were the days, let's face it only a couple of decades after the end of the Second World War when British and American cinema thrived on big budget, big loud noise movies centred on warfare, not just from 1939 to 1945 but Korea, Vietnam and many other theatres of conflict around the globe.
As the post war period progressed the identity of the enemy did change although did become a bit more vague, I suppose so as to not upset national sensibilities. It was an exchange of warring states for the likes of Fu Manchu, SPECTRE, terrorist affiliates and just plain old fashioned gangsters and warlords.
The physical method of creating a staccato machine gun sound is difficult to describe, you really just have to try it, suffice to say it involves clenched teeth, tongue in the bottom of the mouth and a rapid rate of exhalation to achieve the required rapid rate of fire. A spoken "da,da,da,da,da," does not count.
The best impression was always a bit messy with anyone within a few feet being sprayed with not just imaginary rounds of ammunition but also a lot of spittle. It was important to master breathing and running together so as not to keel over in a fainting fit.
Those able to combine all of these attributes could look forward to being chosen first from the line-up of team selection to be a Marine, Paratrooper, Special Forces Operative or Lone Wolf. It was an advantage if you could bring your own gun, or failing that, quickly whittle and fashion a piece of stick into an assault rifle, or at least in your own imagination.
There were plenty of role models to inspire you at that time with army action comic stories on sale in the newsagents or the emerging Warlord comic (although not until 1974)
The second quality to follow the first was the ability to die convincingly.
Keen viewing of war films and indeed cowboy movies did give a good idea of the correct noises and how to fall over dependant upon whether struck down by small arms fire, a sniper or a merciless volley of high velocity bullets.
The best sounds involved the phonetic equivalent of "AArrggghh" and "ugh" or fancy phrases of "donner und blitzen", "Gott im Himmel" and others whose sounds were suitably guttural and fatalistic but would not make any sense whatsoever to others.
A few amongst our regular war gaming gang could emit an ear piercing scream, perhaps those approaching the trauma of puberty and voices breaking. It may have been a bit girly sounding but was much admired in the peer group.
That type of sound in mainstream movies has actually achieved cult status and has become known as "The Wilhelm Scream" or in basic language, an accompanying stock sound effect for someone who is shot or falls down violently.
It is remarkably similar throughout its use because it was recorded in a sound booth and dubbed on in post production.
Although now known to have been used in films from the 1950's it was not until a Film Studies Class in the 1970's noticed its use in some 150 plus movies. It continues to feature to the present day.
The name is derived from a marginal character from a 1963 Western entitled "The Charge at Feather River", a Private Wilhelm who is sent from the ranks to fight hostile Native Americans but is cut down by either gunfire or an arrow with a unique, piercing scream.
The first use of the sound effect was traced back to its use in "Distant Drums"(1951), this time where an American Soldier is ravaged by an alligator whilst rescuing captives from a Seminole Tribe Stronghold.
A graduate of the Film School that identified its use, Ben Burtt went on in an illustrious movie career to pay homage to the "Wilhelm Scream" in his sound designer work in blockbuster movies including Star Wars and Indiana Jones where it was useful in the demise of Stormtroopers and Nazi's.
Its use remains as a bit of an in-joke and you may be able to spot one or more examples on the big screen releases of today.
There have been attempts to try to identify the actual person whose scream was laid down in the additional dialogue back in 1963.
The most likely candidate is thought to be Sheb Wooley who appeared in many movies of that era and well as having a US Billboard Number One smash hit with "Purple People Eater".
Whatever the origins of the "Wilhelm Scream" it has equivalent significance in movie history as the Amen Break enjoys in popular music.
The first was that of a machine gun.
Those were the days, let's face it only a couple of decades after the end of the Second World War when British and American cinema thrived on big budget, big loud noise movies centred on warfare, not just from 1939 to 1945 but Korea, Vietnam and many other theatres of conflict around the globe.
As the post war period progressed the identity of the enemy did change although did become a bit more vague, I suppose so as to not upset national sensibilities. It was an exchange of warring states for the likes of Fu Manchu, SPECTRE, terrorist affiliates and just plain old fashioned gangsters and warlords.
The physical method of creating a staccato machine gun sound is difficult to describe, you really just have to try it, suffice to say it involves clenched teeth, tongue in the bottom of the mouth and a rapid rate of exhalation to achieve the required rapid rate of fire. A spoken "da,da,da,da,da," does not count.
The best impression was always a bit messy with anyone within a few feet being sprayed with not just imaginary rounds of ammunition but also a lot of spittle. It was important to master breathing and running together so as not to keel over in a fainting fit.
Those able to combine all of these attributes could look forward to being chosen first from the line-up of team selection to be a Marine, Paratrooper, Special Forces Operative or Lone Wolf. It was an advantage if you could bring your own gun, or failing that, quickly whittle and fashion a piece of stick into an assault rifle, or at least in your own imagination.
There were plenty of role models to inspire you at that time with army action comic stories on sale in the newsagents or the emerging Warlord comic (although not until 1974)
The second quality to follow the first was the ability to die convincingly.
Keen viewing of war films and indeed cowboy movies did give a good idea of the correct noises and how to fall over dependant upon whether struck down by small arms fire, a sniper or a merciless volley of high velocity bullets.
The best sounds involved the phonetic equivalent of "AArrggghh" and "ugh" or fancy phrases of "donner und blitzen", "Gott im Himmel" and others whose sounds were suitably guttural and fatalistic but would not make any sense whatsoever to others.
A few amongst our regular war gaming gang could emit an ear piercing scream, perhaps those approaching the trauma of puberty and voices breaking. It may have been a bit girly sounding but was much admired in the peer group.
That type of sound in mainstream movies has actually achieved cult status and has become known as "The Wilhelm Scream" or in basic language, an accompanying stock sound effect for someone who is shot or falls down violently.
It is remarkably similar throughout its use because it was recorded in a sound booth and dubbed on in post production.
Although now known to have been used in films from the 1950's it was not until a Film Studies Class in the 1970's noticed its use in some 150 plus movies. It continues to feature to the present day.
The name is derived from a marginal character from a 1963 Western entitled "The Charge at Feather River", a Private Wilhelm who is sent from the ranks to fight hostile Native Americans but is cut down by either gunfire or an arrow with a unique, piercing scream.
The first use of the sound effect was traced back to its use in "Distant Drums"(1951), this time where an American Soldier is ravaged by an alligator whilst rescuing captives from a Seminole Tribe Stronghold.
A graduate of the Film School that identified its use, Ben Burtt went on in an illustrious movie career to pay homage to the "Wilhelm Scream" in his sound designer work in blockbuster movies including Star Wars and Indiana Jones where it was useful in the demise of Stormtroopers and Nazi's.
Its use remains as a bit of an in-joke and you may be able to spot one or more examples on the big screen releases of today.
There have been attempts to try to identify the actual person whose scream was laid down in the additional dialogue back in 1963.
The most likely candidate is thought to be Sheb Wooley who appeared in many movies of that era and well as having a US Billboard Number One smash hit with "Purple People Eater".
Whatever the origins of the "Wilhelm Scream" it has equivalent significance in movie history as the Amen Break enjoys in popular music.
Sunday, 20 December 2015
Woodsmoke and Mirrors
I was, for a time, addicted to pine furniture.
I look back now, surrounded by MDF, rubberwood and ash or oak effect laminate and can hardly believe it.
It started quite innocently. I had a few minutes to spare during my working day and was lured into a sleepy antique shop by the smell of caustic stripping fluid and Briwax polish. I was a fool. Of course I was going to succumb to the temptation of pine.
I was, at that time, a frequent visitor to the town of Horncastle, the self professed antiques centre of the Lincolnshire Wolds. The main through street is a blur of well lit shop windows displaying collectables and ephemera, even at the regulation speed limit of 30mph.
Anything and from anywhere can be easily purchased. If you know what you want then the proprietors of the town know where to source it from. The wilder or rarer the request, the more determined they are to scour the four corners of their shops for it.
In an antiques emporium in an old schoolhouse I saw them.
Nestled in between a commode on a stand and a glass cabinet of Toby Jugs were two deep reddish hued, pitch-pine church pews. They were substantial. Obviously a pair formed from a full nave to aisle length. The pew ends were shaped and comely, the back slats neat and regimented, the seat well worn by the corduroy and tweed of the worshipful. I had to have them.
As if by magic, a small bespectacled man appeared at my side and led me through a door at the rear of the shop. I found myself in his office. He wanted to know means of payment and if I was equipped to remove the goods from the shop. I was not sure of either.
Easy terms could be agreed if necessary. I handed over my debit card, frantically trying to think if the mortgage was due that day or tomorrow which would determine if I was in funds. I did not want to get into any sort of financial obligation to this man. With an electronic peep and staccato roll through of the acknowledgement slip my payment was approved.In retrospect I should have paid hard cash for a transaction that now had a permanent record in my bank statements.
Fortunately, the rear parcel shelf and seats in my car could be removed and folded down. The pews were bundled out of the shop by two leather apron wearing pine strippers. I was a bit worried by the all-pervading odour of the burly men, akin to soggy sheepdog and the forecourt of a petrol station. With expertise from a lifetime of moving and pushing bulky goods, I could visualise them on door-duty at the town night-spot on thursday girls night, the pews were soon in place and the hatchback was firmly banged shut.
One pew, presented to my young wife, was well received. Two pews however brought on reluctance and some hesitation. It took some time for me to persuade her that it was natural to have a nice pair.
Buffed up they looked magnificent and they went well with our village house. Like a cat having affirmation for dropping a dead mouse on the carpet I was now hooked on the pine-thing.
Over the next few months I must have boosted the profits of the members of the Horncastle Antiques Guild members.
My next acquisition was a pine cupboard. Probably from a school or vestry. Tall, large door with authentic wooden knob. Three shelves, a bit wormy but treatable. This was followed by a magnificent table. The dealer told me it had come from the preparation room in a bakers shop. Long, low, three drawers, fully restored in all its virgin white pine, unfinished. Stout and shapely legs, strong enough to sustain the heavy works of a Master bread maker. I could imagine the updraught of fine flour after the impact of warm, pliant dough on the table top. Bloomers, Crusty Cobs, Tiger Bread, Rolls and fancies would all have assumed a part of the character of the table.
In the house it fitted exactly into the chimney breast alcove in terms of depth and only slightly impeded the opening of the door from the dining room to the kitchen.
We did not really have much time to savour the pine table as we were about to move house. Our purchaser dragged on and on in the process and, at the eleventh hour of signing Contracts she had the audacity to offer a lower price than that agreed. Our own plans were in tatters. We offered the table as a sweetener to the deal. We had noticed that she had lingered in the dining room during her viewings of the house, drawing her hand with unreasonable pleasure along the grain of the table top.The negotiation was swiftly completed with no more dramas.
My addiction was worrying me now. In a backlash reaction I started to buy just anything that was not pine. A replica brass bell from the Titanic 1912, an enamel advertising sign for Pears soaps, a foxes head together with badly hound chewed ears, a wood burning stove, two tons of reclaimed brick-pavers, a selection of stone slabs one of which had obviously been used for practice by a monumental mason, a bundle of Look and Learn comics from the 1930's and a full set of The War Papers collection from the 1970's.
I knew I had to stop. The house move at some increased distance and a hefty Bridge Toll from the attractions of Horncastle served to be the antidote.
Many years later and we are down to a single pew.
I have a strong emotional connection to it. Notwithstanding it's beauty and provenance it also represented one of the first pieces of furniture bought in our pre-married life. I am however a realist and if our combined energy costs spiral as they did during the extreme weather of this time last year, I will have no hesitation in exploiting the chemically infused pine wood of the pew as a long and slow burning fuel on the living room coal fire.
(First written in December 2012)
I look back now, surrounded by MDF, rubberwood and ash or oak effect laminate and can hardly believe it.
It started quite innocently. I had a few minutes to spare during my working day and was lured into a sleepy antique shop by the smell of caustic stripping fluid and Briwax polish. I was a fool. Of course I was going to succumb to the temptation of pine.
I was, at that time, a frequent visitor to the town of Horncastle, the self professed antiques centre of the Lincolnshire Wolds. The main through street is a blur of well lit shop windows displaying collectables and ephemera, even at the regulation speed limit of 30mph.
Anything and from anywhere can be easily purchased. If you know what you want then the proprietors of the town know where to source it from. The wilder or rarer the request, the more determined they are to scour the four corners of their shops for it.
In an antiques emporium in an old schoolhouse I saw them.
Nestled in between a commode on a stand and a glass cabinet of Toby Jugs were two deep reddish hued, pitch-pine church pews. They were substantial. Obviously a pair formed from a full nave to aisle length. The pew ends were shaped and comely, the back slats neat and regimented, the seat well worn by the corduroy and tweed of the worshipful. I had to have them.
As if by magic, a small bespectacled man appeared at my side and led me through a door at the rear of the shop. I found myself in his office. He wanted to know means of payment and if I was equipped to remove the goods from the shop. I was not sure of either.
Easy terms could be agreed if necessary. I handed over my debit card, frantically trying to think if the mortgage was due that day or tomorrow which would determine if I was in funds. I did not want to get into any sort of financial obligation to this man. With an electronic peep and staccato roll through of the acknowledgement slip my payment was approved.In retrospect I should have paid hard cash for a transaction that now had a permanent record in my bank statements.
Fortunately, the rear parcel shelf and seats in my car could be removed and folded down. The pews were bundled out of the shop by two leather apron wearing pine strippers. I was a bit worried by the all-pervading odour of the burly men, akin to soggy sheepdog and the forecourt of a petrol station. With expertise from a lifetime of moving and pushing bulky goods, I could visualise them on door-duty at the town night-spot on thursday girls night, the pews were soon in place and the hatchback was firmly banged shut.
One pew, presented to my young wife, was well received. Two pews however brought on reluctance and some hesitation. It took some time for me to persuade her that it was natural to have a nice pair.
Buffed up they looked magnificent and they went well with our village house. Like a cat having affirmation for dropping a dead mouse on the carpet I was now hooked on the pine-thing.
Over the next few months I must have boosted the profits of the members of the Horncastle Antiques Guild members.
My next acquisition was a pine cupboard. Probably from a school or vestry. Tall, large door with authentic wooden knob. Three shelves, a bit wormy but treatable. This was followed by a magnificent table. The dealer told me it had come from the preparation room in a bakers shop. Long, low, three drawers, fully restored in all its virgin white pine, unfinished. Stout and shapely legs, strong enough to sustain the heavy works of a Master bread maker. I could imagine the updraught of fine flour after the impact of warm, pliant dough on the table top. Bloomers, Crusty Cobs, Tiger Bread, Rolls and fancies would all have assumed a part of the character of the table.
In the house it fitted exactly into the chimney breast alcove in terms of depth and only slightly impeded the opening of the door from the dining room to the kitchen.
We did not really have much time to savour the pine table as we were about to move house. Our purchaser dragged on and on in the process and, at the eleventh hour of signing Contracts she had the audacity to offer a lower price than that agreed. Our own plans were in tatters. We offered the table as a sweetener to the deal. We had noticed that she had lingered in the dining room during her viewings of the house, drawing her hand with unreasonable pleasure along the grain of the table top.The negotiation was swiftly completed with no more dramas.
My addiction was worrying me now. In a backlash reaction I started to buy just anything that was not pine. A replica brass bell from the Titanic 1912, an enamel advertising sign for Pears soaps, a foxes head together with badly hound chewed ears, a wood burning stove, two tons of reclaimed brick-pavers, a selection of stone slabs one of which had obviously been used for practice by a monumental mason, a bundle of Look and Learn comics from the 1930's and a full set of The War Papers collection from the 1970's.
I knew I had to stop. The house move at some increased distance and a hefty Bridge Toll from the attractions of Horncastle served to be the antidote.
Many years later and we are down to a single pew.
I have a strong emotional connection to it. Notwithstanding it's beauty and provenance it also represented one of the first pieces of furniture bought in our pre-married life. I am however a realist and if our combined energy costs spiral as they did during the extreme weather of this time last year, I will have no hesitation in exploiting the chemically infused pine wood of the pew as a long and slow burning fuel on the living room coal fire.
(First written in December 2012)
Saturday, 19 December 2015
Mine craft
I am not sorry to say that I am disappointed by the sight of a passing, child filled car with all of its junior occupants either with their heads down from engagement with their i-pads or necks craned watching a dvd on a screen affixed to the back of the front seat headrests.
There is just no interest whatsover shown in their surroundings which, even on a fairly mundane trip to the shops or visiting relatives, can yield forth many fascinating things from buildings to natural phenomena, man made features and many others.
I do blame the car driving parents or accompanying adults because a child engrossed in a movie or game is not likely to ask challenging questions or utter forth any comments requiring a considered answer.
This does make for a somewhat easier travelling experience but in no way contributes to the natural aptitude of children to absorb facts and figures.
When our own children were young and seatbelted up they were positively bombarded with "look at that", "see that over there", "did you know......?, "In 1860 a man called.....", and so on and so forth with very passing mile.
On a journey from our home in East Yorkshire to Leeds, usually to go to the Ikea Furniture Store, we would see some greats sights from the Humber Suspension Bridge to the misty silhouette of the Emley Moor TV Mast.
In between, there were many more fascinating facts to be mentioned.
The emission shrouded outline of the Scunthorpe Steel Plant was visible on the skyline.
We would soon drive past the old Capper Pass Smelting Works operated by Rio-Tinto Zinc and the British Aerospace factory at Brough.
A few fishermen at Gilberdyke would be huddled under their camouflage green umbrellas with only a rod-end to be seen in a network of ponds and unfortunately for them downwind of a large domestic waste tip that, even on the stillest of days could be smelt inside the cocoon of the car.
In the distance the huge cooling towers and smoke stack of a string of power stations sent up some interesting cloud shapes which could take on the presence of Godzilla fighting with a dinosaur or a Star Wars All Terrain Armoured Transport. The inhabitants of Sweden did not however appreciate the side effects of the water vapour carrying acid rain into the forests and lakes of their part of the world.
Just beyond Eggborough was the vast complex of a deep shaft coal mine, Kellingley Colliery seen on the outward journey to Ikea on the north side of the M62 Motorway.
On the south side was a huge man made slag heap from the mine spoils of getting on then for more than 30 years of production of coal for UK industrial and domestic use. This pile of debris was gradually being seeded and planted to become an interestingly shaped hill.
The mine itself occupied a vast area with a number of towers containing the winding gear to take hundreds of miners on a continuous rota of shift working and supporting uses for cleaning and shipping the raw material by rail to every point of the compass.
It took some but worthwhile effort to explain the processes and operations of British Coal to the children notwithstanding the political and economic machinations of the 1980's strike and its breaking, supply and demand linked to cheap imports and in later years the move towards cleaner, greener energy sources.
That same trip today would be on exactly the same roads but there would be a number of huge and significant differences causing the car to be pretty well silent.
The Humber Bridge, still a momentous monument to British Engineering is not now the longest single span of its type in the world. Scunthorpe Steel Works very recently went into Receivership after decades of quality rolled steel production. Capper Pass and its landmark chimney have long since been demolished and the site given over to large warehousing and distribution buildings.
The last Hawk fighter and trainer aircraft rolled off the production line a few years ago now at the old Blackburn Factory, latterly BAe Systems.
The anglers make use of the remains of a much older land-use consisting of the old brick clay pits.
The offensive smell of the waste tip is still present but has been improved by further burying in soil and entrapment of the methane gas for incineration.
The line of power stations including Drax and Eggborough have either been converted to bio-fuel or in the latter case is to be decommissioned.
The most tragic thing is the termination of operations just this week at Kellingley Mine sounding the death knell for the Coal Industry in the proud county of Yorkshire if not throughout the nation.
Perhaps the children, head down and goggle-eyed on a journey today are just realists and their parents are, like me, struggling to hold back tears from their eyes at the demise of so many jobs and livelihoods.
There is just no interest whatsover shown in their surroundings which, even on a fairly mundane trip to the shops or visiting relatives, can yield forth many fascinating things from buildings to natural phenomena, man made features and many others.
I do blame the car driving parents or accompanying adults because a child engrossed in a movie or game is not likely to ask challenging questions or utter forth any comments requiring a considered answer.
This does make for a somewhat easier travelling experience but in no way contributes to the natural aptitude of children to absorb facts and figures.
When our own children were young and seatbelted up they were positively bombarded with "look at that", "see that over there", "did you know......?, "In 1860 a man called.....", and so on and so forth with very passing mile.
On a journey from our home in East Yorkshire to Leeds, usually to go to the Ikea Furniture Store, we would see some greats sights from the Humber Suspension Bridge to the misty silhouette of the Emley Moor TV Mast.
In between, there were many more fascinating facts to be mentioned.
The emission shrouded outline of the Scunthorpe Steel Plant was visible on the skyline.
We would soon drive past the old Capper Pass Smelting Works operated by Rio-Tinto Zinc and the British Aerospace factory at Brough.
A few fishermen at Gilberdyke would be huddled under their camouflage green umbrellas with only a rod-end to be seen in a network of ponds and unfortunately for them downwind of a large domestic waste tip that, even on the stillest of days could be smelt inside the cocoon of the car.
In the distance the huge cooling towers and smoke stack of a string of power stations sent up some interesting cloud shapes which could take on the presence of Godzilla fighting with a dinosaur or a Star Wars All Terrain Armoured Transport. The inhabitants of Sweden did not however appreciate the side effects of the water vapour carrying acid rain into the forests and lakes of their part of the world.
Just beyond Eggborough was the vast complex of a deep shaft coal mine, Kellingley Colliery seen on the outward journey to Ikea on the north side of the M62 Motorway.
On the south side was a huge man made slag heap from the mine spoils of getting on then for more than 30 years of production of coal for UK industrial and domestic use. This pile of debris was gradually being seeded and planted to become an interestingly shaped hill.
The mine itself occupied a vast area with a number of towers containing the winding gear to take hundreds of miners on a continuous rota of shift working and supporting uses for cleaning and shipping the raw material by rail to every point of the compass.
It took some but worthwhile effort to explain the processes and operations of British Coal to the children notwithstanding the political and economic machinations of the 1980's strike and its breaking, supply and demand linked to cheap imports and in later years the move towards cleaner, greener energy sources.
That same trip today would be on exactly the same roads but there would be a number of huge and significant differences causing the car to be pretty well silent.
The Humber Bridge, still a momentous monument to British Engineering is not now the longest single span of its type in the world. Scunthorpe Steel Works very recently went into Receivership after decades of quality rolled steel production. Capper Pass and its landmark chimney have long since been demolished and the site given over to large warehousing and distribution buildings.
The last Hawk fighter and trainer aircraft rolled off the production line a few years ago now at the old Blackburn Factory, latterly BAe Systems.
The anglers make use of the remains of a much older land-use consisting of the old brick clay pits.
The offensive smell of the waste tip is still present but has been improved by further burying in soil and entrapment of the methane gas for incineration.
The line of power stations including Drax and Eggborough have either been converted to bio-fuel or in the latter case is to be decommissioned.
The most tragic thing is the termination of operations just this week at Kellingley Mine sounding the death knell for the Coal Industry in the proud county of Yorkshire if not throughout the nation.
Perhaps the children, head down and goggle-eyed on a journey today are just realists and their parents are, like me, struggling to hold back tears from their eyes at the demise of so many jobs and livelihoods.
Friday, 18 December 2015
Amnesty For Mr Tinkles
I am not a cat person.
I am a dog person but that does not prevent me from being sympathetic to felines when they are typically cast in films as scheming villains and evil malingerers.
Take Mr Tinkles for example.
In "Cats and Dogs", the movie, he is a white and very fluffy Persian and the constant and faithful companion of Mr Mason the bed ridden and semi unconscious owner of a Christmas Tree flocking factory.
However, the cutesy Tinkles is the mastermind behind a dastardly project to oust dogs from their rightful place as Man's Best Friend by making all humans allergic to them.
Of course the canines win through with the axis of evil, Mr Tinkles, sent away to live in a household destined for an endless round of tea party gatherings and being dressed up in a variety of girly costumes.
I firmly believe that Cats do have a rightful place in the world and I am therefore fully supportive of the move by a Siberian township to elect a cat as their new Mayor as a protest against the ineptitude and corruption of their current civic leadership.
The town, Barnual, population 700,000 overwhelmingly by 91 percent voted for Barsik, an 18 month old Scottish Fold breed to be the new head of the council.
Granted, only 5,400 bothered to cast a vote but the outcome was still decisive in the minds of the residents. A crowdsourcing campaign was also launched towards the cost for a huge billboard in the town centre with the election slogan of "Only mice don't vote for Barsik" along with a cutesy picture.
The Scottish Fold is quite a recent breed which can be traced back to 1961 when a white barn cat was found in Perthshire, Scotland. The main distinguishing feature , hence the name, is folded or floppy ears caused by a gene mutation. This owl-like appearance and a characteristic of being, for a cat, unusually loving has made the breed most sought after.
The look in Barsik's eyes has been taken to be one of concern for the townsfolk.
The former and human administrator of Barnaul had been in power for 5 years during which he was accused of abusing his powers and misappropriating a sum of 11 million roubles ( around £100,000) mainly through the sale of publicly owned land to developers with connections to his own family. His son, having fled to Thailand is also under investigation for fraud and embezzlement.
There has been precedent for cats holding public office in other parts of the world including Stubbs, elected to the position of mayor in an Alaskan town about 10 years ago.
Unfortunately, in spite of the massive backing for Barsik any final appointment is down to the Siberian Regional Governor. He is not thought to be a cat-lover
As for the crowdsourcing initiative, well, it has also been victim to a bit of apathy and only 1400 Roubles (£13) are currently in the kitty.
I am a dog person but that does not prevent me from being sympathetic to felines when they are typically cast in films as scheming villains and evil malingerers.
Take Mr Tinkles for example.
In "Cats and Dogs", the movie, he is a white and very fluffy Persian and the constant and faithful companion of Mr Mason the bed ridden and semi unconscious owner of a Christmas Tree flocking factory.
However, the cutesy Tinkles is the mastermind behind a dastardly project to oust dogs from their rightful place as Man's Best Friend by making all humans allergic to them.
Of course the canines win through with the axis of evil, Mr Tinkles, sent away to live in a household destined for an endless round of tea party gatherings and being dressed up in a variety of girly costumes.
I firmly believe that Cats do have a rightful place in the world and I am therefore fully supportive of the move by a Siberian township to elect a cat as their new Mayor as a protest against the ineptitude and corruption of their current civic leadership.
The town, Barnual, population 700,000 overwhelmingly by 91 percent voted for Barsik, an 18 month old Scottish Fold breed to be the new head of the council.
 |
| VOTE FOR ME |
Granted, only 5,400 bothered to cast a vote but the outcome was still decisive in the minds of the residents. A crowdsourcing campaign was also launched towards the cost for a huge billboard in the town centre with the election slogan of "Only mice don't vote for Barsik" along with a cutesy picture.
The Scottish Fold is quite a recent breed which can be traced back to 1961 when a white barn cat was found in Perthshire, Scotland. The main distinguishing feature , hence the name, is folded or floppy ears caused by a gene mutation. This owl-like appearance and a characteristic of being, for a cat, unusually loving has made the breed most sought after.
The look in Barsik's eyes has been taken to be one of concern for the townsfolk.
The former and human administrator of Barnaul had been in power for 5 years during which he was accused of abusing his powers and misappropriating a sum of 11 million roubles ( around £100,000) mainly through the sale of publicly owned land to developers with connections to his own family. His son, having fled to Thailand is also under investigation for fraud and embezzlement.
There has been precedent for cats holding public office in other parts of the world including Stubbs, elected to the position of mayor in an Alaskan town about 10 years ago.
Unfortunately, in spite of the massive backing for Barsik any final appointment is down to the Siberian Regional Governor. He is not thought to be a cat-lover
As for the crowdsourcing initiative, well, it has also been victim to a bit of apathy and only 1400 Roubles (£13) are currently in the kitty.
Thursday, 17 December 2015
Star Wars Seven
Brief synopsis;
STAR WARS VII
THE RETURN OF THE GENIE
The
scheming franchisees
of the Wonderful World
of Disney are once again active.
scheming franchisees
of the Wonderful World
of Disney are once again active.
In a strange disturbance in The Force,
Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called
Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called
to rescue Princess Jasmine from the scheming
Miley Cyrus whose powerful alter ego, H Montana
is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of
Miley Cyrus whose powerful alter ego, H Montana
is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of
the followers of Mickey Mouse. In a bold takeover of Lucas
Film there beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters,
thousands of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film
Film there beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters,
thousands of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film
releases. Oh, dear. The Empress, Kathleen Kennedy is in peril from spotty faced
executives whose idea of movies is based on a diet of animation and product placement.
executives whose idea of movies is based on a diet of animation and product placement.
Luke, aboard the Cadillac Falcon, accompanied in song by cute furry animals and a regenerated
Mary Poppins moves against forces of arch villain Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood stronghold.
Faced with the strange forces of bedknobs and broomsticks there is a massacre of any integrity and
credibility left in an organisation run by a group of Muppets. Luke is killed off as he is now too old
to appeal to an under 10's age group. His place is taken by a digitalised version of Zachary Efron
Mary Poppins moves against forces of arch villain Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood stronghold.
Faced with the strange forces of bedknobs and broomsticks there is a massacre of any integrity and
credibility left in an organisation run by a group of Muppets. Luke is killed off as he is now too old
to appeal to an under 10's age group. His place is taken by a digitalised version of Zachary Efron
Wednesday, 16 December 2015
Charismatic
Guess the prefix to these words, Charming, Fiddling, Calling, Snoring, Grunting.
No, it is not my name although many may feel it would be a perfect match.
It is in fact "Worm" and relates to the practice of trying to tease wiggly worms to the surface, originally to collect a supply of bait for fishing but since at least 1980 forming a sport with its own regulatory body and a World Championships.
The modern competitive era has been tracked back to a school fete in the English County of Cheshire which is located in the wet, temperate North West of the Country.
An inspired head teacher, looking to raise funds, promoted an event whereby participants were given a small patch of the school field and encouraged to charm, fiddle, call, snore and grunt any lurking worms over a 30 minute period and the winner being the person or persons attracting the highest number.
The first winner, a young lad called Tom Shufflebotham romped away with a grand total of 511 worms in the allotted half an hour. That tally remained as a sort of unofficial world record until 2009 when a 10 year old girl, as part of 3 person team, managed 567 worms.
That achievement made it into the authoritative publication of the Guinness Book of Records and I believe remains unbeaten since.
The popularity of, shall we refer to it as just Worm Charming, led to the creation of The International Federation of Charming Worms and Allied Pastimes and the formulation of 18 Rules.
These are as follows;
Each competitor to operate in a 3 x 3 metre plot.
Lots to be drawn to allocate plots.
Duration of competition to be 30 minutes, starting at about 2pm.
Worms may not be dug from the ground. Vibrations only to be used.
No drugs to be used! Water is considered to be a drug/stimulant.
Any form of music may be used to charm the worms out of the earth.
A garden fork of normal type may be stuck into the ground and vibrated by any manual means to encourage worms to the surface.
Garden forks to be suitably covered to prevent possible injury when being transported to and from the competition. No accidents please!
Each competitor to leave his/her fork in allocated plot on arrival.
A piece of wood, smooth or notched may be used to strike or 'fiddle' the handle of the garden fork to assist vibration.
Competitors who do not wish to handle worms may appoint a second to do so. The second shall be known as a 'Gillie'.
Each competitor may collect worms from his/her own plot only.
Worms to be handled carefully and collected in damp peat and placed in a suitable, named container provided by the organising committee.
A handbell to be rung about five minutes before the start of the competition.
Competitors to keep clear of competition plots until given the instruction "Get to your Plots".
The competitor who 'charms' the most worms to be the winner.
In the event of a tie, the winner to be decided by a further five minutes charming.
Charmed worms to be released after the birds have gone to roost on the evening of the event.
A most comprehensive and humane set of rules indeed!
It is interesting to see the standardisation of the method of charming being a four pronged fork and a piece of wood, typically 15cm's long and referrred to as "Twanging".
In other parts of the world, for the eccentricity often attributed to the English is actually found amongst other nations, additional methods include the rubbing of a metal bar over the sticky out end of a wooden stake, sawing a sapling and even insertion and use of a chainsaw into the ground. Some have danced to the theme of Star Wars and played the guitar but of course not within the official guidelines.
There are many Worm Charming Events every year in the UK, all strongly competitive and fun even if in the name of charitable benefit. Many participants form a team of three comprising a Charmerer, Pickerer and Counterer . There have been slack years for the number of worms coaxed out and in 1986 the World Champion only managed 40 and in 2010 the victorious Twanger had 43. The events are taken very seriously even to the extent of preparing to take part in the process known as "Worming-Up".
So what is the mesmerising or apparently mystic influence on the subterranean worms of the varied methods?
There are a few theories. Perhaps the most persuasive is that the man made vibration sound, to a worm (however they sense such things), is similar to that made by a fast approaching and hungry Mole, a main predator. A further explanation is that the worms mistake the sound for rain and make quickly for the surface to avoid being waterlogged in their burrows.
Whatever the actual reason for the emergence of worms from relative sub-soil safety this has not gone unnoticed to fishermen and indeed seagulls, the latter often observed stamping their feet to summon up a snack.
No, it is not my name although many may feel it would be a perfect match.
It is in fact "Worm" and relates to the practice of trying to tease wiggly worms to the surface, originally to collect a supply of bait for fishing but since at least 1980 forming a sport with its own regulatory body and a World Championships.
The modern competitive era has been tracked back to a school fete in the English County of Cheshire which is located in the wet, temperate North West of the Country.
An inspired head teacher, looking to raise funds, promoted an event whereby participants were given a small patch of the school field and encouraged to charm, fiddle, call, snore and grunt any lurking worms over a 30 minute period and the winner being the person or persons attracting the highest number.
The first winner, a young lad called Tom Shufflebotham romped away with a grand total of 511 worms in the allotted half an hour. That tally remained as a sort of unofficial world record until 2009 when a 10 year old girl, as part of 3 person team, managed 567 worms.
That achievement made it into the authoritative publication of the Guinness Book of Records and I believe remains unbeaten since.
The popularity of, shall we refer to it as just Worm Charming, led to the creation of The International Federation of Charming Worms and Allied Pastimes and the formulation of 18 Rules.
These are as follows;
Each competitor to operate in a 3 x 3 metre plot.
Lots to be drawn to allocate plots.
Duration of competition to be 30 minutes, starting at about 2pm.
Worms may not be dug from the ground. Vibrations only to be used.
No drugs to be used! Water is considered to be a drug/stimulant.
Any form of music may be used to charm the worms out of the earth.
A garden fork of normal type may be stuck into the ground and vibrated by any manual means to encourage worms to the surface.
Garden forks to be suitably covered to prevent possible injury when being transported to and from the competition. No accidents please!
Each competitor to leave his/her fork in allocated plot on arrival.
A piece of wood, smooth or notched may be used to strike or 'fiddle' the handle of the garden fork to assist vibration.
Competitors who do not wish to handle worms may appoint a second to do so. The second shall be known as a 'Gillie'.
Each competitor may collect worms from his/her own plot only.
Worms to be handled carefully and collected in damp peat and placed in a suitable, named container provided by the organising committee.
A handbell to be rung about five minutes before the start of the competition.
Competitors to keep clear of competition plots until given the instruction "Get to your Plots".
The competitor who 'charms' the most worms to be the winner.
In the event of a tie, the winner to be decided by a further five minutes charming.
Charmed worms to be released after the birds have gone to roost on the evening of the event.
A most comprehensive and humane set of rules indeed!
It is interesting to see the standardisation of the method of charming being a four pronged fork and a piece of wood, typically 15cm's long and referrred to as "Twanging".
In other parts of the world, for the eccentricity often attributed to the English is actually found amongst other nations, additional methods include the rubbing of a metal bar over the sticky out end of a wooden stake, sawing a sapling and even insertion and use of a chainsaw into the ground. Some have danced to the theme of Star Wars and played the guitar but of course not within the official guidelines.
There are many Worm Charming Events every year in the UK, all strongly competitive and fun even if in the name of charitable benefit. Many participants form a team of three comprising a Charmerer, Pickerer and Counterer . There have been slack years for the number of worms coaxed out and in 1986 the World Champion only managed 40 and in 2010 the victorious Twanger had 43. The events are taken very seriously even to the extent of preparing to take part in the process known as "Worming-Up".
So what is the mesmerising or apparently mystic influence on the subterranean worms of the varied methods?
There are a few theories. Perhaps the most persuasive is that the man made vibration sound, to a worm (however they sense such things), is similar to that made by a fast approaching and hungry Mole, a main predator. A further explanation is that the worms mistake the sound for rain and make quickly for the surface to avoid being waterlogged in their burrows.
Whatever the actual reason for the emergence of worms from relative sub-soil safety this has not gone unnoticed to fishermen and indeed seagulls, the latter often observed stamping their feet to summon up a snack.
Tuesday, 15 December 2015
Linguistic
A treat on a weekly basis on UK digital radio are the broadcasts of Round the Horne, a much loved series from the 1960's.
Amongst the great characters is Rumbling Syd Rumpo, a country bumpkin folk singer with many a tale to tell of goings on amongst the meadows and byres of rural England. The perfect delivery of the comic songs written by the main writers of RTH, Marty Feldman and Barry Took is from Kenneth Williams, the master of different voices and innuendo.
Undoubtedly Williams will have added to the classic material in his unique ad-lib style as well as being credited as creator.
Here are just three of his back catalogue from which you should get the themes and ideas of Syd's vocal and lyrical monologues.
Amongst the great characters is Rumbling Syd Rumpo, a country bumpkin folk singer with many a tale to tell of goings on amongst the meadows and byres of rural England. The perfect delivery of the comic songs written by the main writers of RTH, Marty Feldman and Barry Took is from Kenneth Williams, the master of different voices and innuendo.
Undoubtedly Williams will have added to the classic material in his unique ad-lib style as well as being credited as creator.
Here are just three of his back catalogue from which you should get the themes and ideas of Syd's vocal and lyrical monologues.
The Ballad of the Wogglers Mooly
Joe, he was a young cordwangler,
Munging greebles he did go, And he loved a bogler's daughter By the name of Chiswick Flo.
Vain she was and like a grusset
Though her gander parts were fine, But she sneered at his cordwangle As it hung upon the line.
So he stole a woggler's mooly
For to make a wedding ring, But the Bow Street Runners caught him And the judge said "He will swing."
Oh, they hung him by the postern,
Nailed his mooly to the fence For to warn all young cordwanglers That it was a grave offence.
There's a moral to this story,
Though your cordwangle be poor, Keep your hands off other's moolies, For it is against the law. |
Green Grow my nadgers, oh
I'll sing you one O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your one O?
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your one O?
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
I'll sing you two O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your two O?
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your two O?
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
I'll sing you three O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your three oh?
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your three oh?
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
I'll sing you four O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your four O?
Four's my wurdler's bent O,
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your four O?
Four's my wurdler's bent O,
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.
I'll sing you five O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your five O?
Five are the woglers up my spong,
Four for my wurdler's bent O,
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, it's ruined my cordwangle:
Wa-a-angle
Five are the woglers up my spong,
Four for my wurdler's bent O,
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, it's ruined my cordwangle:
Wa-a-angle
THE BLACK GRUNGER OF HOUNSLOW
|
||
Monday, 14 December 2015
Calorific
A repeat story from a couple of years ago but prompted by the news that the Mother of a co-worker has secured for me a fresh supply of that great Scottish delicacy, White Pudding.
Elizabeth always thinks of me when she goes to visit her family in Scotland.
That is mainly because I am one of the few people she knows who are not first generation Scottish but who actually like that delicacy from north of the border known as White Pudding. I do have Scottish ancestry through my grandparents and something in my genes has awoken a longing for periodic consumption.
I once spent my entire saved up holiday money, a fair few pounds even in the 1970's, in the supermarket on the Blair Atholl Camp Site, Perthshire on the stuff and I seem to remember that I ate it all myself over a few cooked breakfasts in the family tent.
I was not being greedy. The rest of my family could not bring themselves to eat any of it.
It was, in my juvenile opinion expressed at the time, their loss. I have some appreciation of their position because White Pudding is not the most aesthetically pleasing or particularly sophisticated of foods.
It can be a bit off putting in anaemic sausage form resembling those rare piles of dog excrement which are chalky white and coarsely textured when seen on the pavement or in the local park. Although not perceived to be a health hazard until the 1990's it was quite common for sheep's brains to be used as a binding agent in the mix. Of course the concerns over links to CJD, BSE or Scrapie have since outlawed this application for offal.
White Pudding can also be bought in slices which are more user-friendly and at least give some clue as to how they are to be cooked. Simply fried. You may be familiar with black pudding or blood pudding as it is sometimes called. The white version is similar in composition but only likely to be offered on a menu in Scotland, Ireland, Northumberland, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland.
It is an oatmeal based product and can be made from pork meat , beef suet or even in vegetarian format although in this latter example may resemble just a greasy porridge blob and no doubt can result in some unpleasant and noisy side effects.
My particular favourite is the pork composition with suet and bread added to the oatmeal base. This can also be made quite spicy from careful seasoning and therefore not dissimilar to haggis. It is most frequently found on a breakfast plate and compliments the usual sausage, fried egg, bacon, black pudding as per the Irish version or with the added English servings of mushrooms, tomatoes or kidneys.
It is also a bit more versatile and the classic serving is mince and tatties. The Scottish chippies have white pudding battered and crispy in hot oil and therefore an ideal main course for the culturally rooted deep fried mars bar. It can also make a nice savoury stuffing for a chicken.
I have rarely found it when scouring the chiller cabinets in my local Tesco or Sainsbury's .
I have on occasion but ultimately in vain searched the ethnic foods section hoping to stumble across a secret consignment behind the foods of the Orient and the Indian Sub Continent . That great source of rarer foods, the Farmers Market can sometimes yield forth a white pudding although you would stand a better chance of finding Ostrich, Zebra, Wild Bore or Kangaroo,
I have therefore to rely on the kindness of Elizabeth to smuggle out of the Old Country what I consider to be a real treat. Tomorrow is the day for me to take delivery of those exquisite slices which will take pride of place on my plate by mid morning. I cannot wait.
Elizabeth always thinks of me when she goes to visit her family in Scotland.
That is mainly because I am one of the few people she knows who are not first generation Scottish but who actually like that delicacy from north of the border known as White Pudding. I do have Scottish ancestry through my grandparents and something in my genes has awoken a longing for periodic consumption.
I once spent my entire saved up holiday money, a fair few pounds even in the 1970's, in the supermarket on the Blair Atholl Camp Site, Perthshire on the stuff and I seem to remember that I ate it all myself over a few cooked breakfasts in the family tent.
I was not being greedy. The rest of my family could not bring themselves to eat any of it.
It was, in my juvenile opinion expressed at the time, their loss. I have some appreciation of their position because White Pudding is not the most aesthetically pleasing or particularly sophisticated of foods.
It can be a bit off putting in anaemic sausage form resembling those rare piles of dog excrement which are chalky white and coarsely textured when seen on the pavement or in the local park. Although not perceived to be a health hazard until the 1990's it was quite common for sheep's brains to be used as a binding agent in the mix. Of course the concerns over links to CJD, BSE or Scrapie have since outlawed this application for offal.
White Pudding can also be bought in slices which are more user-friendly and at least give some clue as to how they are to be cooked. Simply fried. You may be familiar with black pudding or blood pudding as it is sometimes called. The white version is similar in composition but only likely to be offered on a menu in Scotland, Ireland, Northumberland, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland.
It is an oatmeal based product and can be made from pork meat , beef suet or even in vegetarian format although in this latter example may resemble just a greasy porridge blob and no doubt can result in some unpleasant and noisy side effects.
My particular favourite is the pork composition with suet and bread added to the oatmeal base. This can also be made quite spicy from careful seasoning and therefore not dissimilar to haggis. It is most frequently found on a breakfast plate and compliments the usual sausage, fried egg, bacon, black pudding as per the Irish version or with the added English servings of mushrooms, tomatoes or kidneys.
It is also a bit more versatile and the classic serving is mince and tatties. The Scottish chippies have white pudding battered and crispy in hot oil and therefore an ideal main course for the culturally rooted deep fried mars bar. It can also make a nice savoury stuffing for a chicken.
I have rarely found it when scouring the chiller cabinets in my local Tesco or Sainsbury's .
I have on occasion but ultimately in vain searched the ethnic foods section hoping to stumble across a secret consignment behind the foods of the Orient and the Indian Sub Continent . That great source of rarer foods, the Farmers Market can sometimes yield forth a white pudding although you would stand a better chance of finding Ostrich, Zebra, Wild Bore or Kangaroo,
I have therefore to rely on the kindness of Elizabeth to smuggle out of the Old Country what I consider to be a real treat. Tomorrow is the day for me to take delivery of those exquisite slices which will take pride of place on my plate by mid morning. I cannot wait.
Sunday, 13 December 2015
Etymologistic
There are numerous websites dedicated to the generation of names.
These at a basic level just give you a selection of names if you are undecided or just a bit numb with thinking about naming a child, pet or just about anything else.
I have written in the past on the shifting trends in popular children's names in some way an indicator of the social, economic and ethnic direction of a nation at any point in time. Names such as Albert, Clarence, Ethel and Norma, so prevalent in the early years of the twentieth century have been superseded by the likes of Alfie, Josh, Rhianna and India.
Other sites give you an opportunity to generate a name, using your own, that could be used in role playing or fantasy games which is an indication of the popularity and appeal of such things.
Fans of cult fiction can also insert their normal name and be provided with one which would not look out of place in your chosen genre of novel.
I thought that in an idle few hours on a cold, damp Sunday morning I should attempt to source a few versions of my name from available sites.
As you can see these cover a great range of cultural influences but equally some plain nonsense ones.
They are in no particular order but see if you can guess which one is my favourite
(Answer on Twitter @Langdale82)
This is my Christian name and surname in Runes
Golradir Telrúnya
My Elvish name, apparently, as in "in all of Rivendell the untidiest front lawn is to be found outside the home of Golradir Telrunya. The Council should make him cut the grass at least"
Wilibald Gamgee-Took of Bywater
"Gandalf, looked around at the band of brave Hobbits before sending Wilibad Gamgee-Took home with a sick note. The prospect of fighting with the dark forces of Middle Earth had make him a bit peeky.
Spike Scourge Thomson
Transformers are dedicated to freedom and do all that is in their power to defeat the Decepticons. Spike Scourge Thomson can go first..........
Angry Snake Steel Vendetta
Welcome to tonight's WWF Bill from Memphis with the undercard bout between Bone Crusher Mash Man and a first timer with a joke name..... ROUND ONE.....can someone call a Medic!
Bling Freak Biggie Doggy Dog
Mother F*****, who do you think you are!
Dazzlepuff Quickdust
TA bit of a twinkle toes in the fairy dell, light of foot and voice.
BurgundyNovember Lucifer
Whatever!
Turn Pulsarfall
A lesser known inhabitant of Tatooine who was relentlessly bullied by Luke Skywalker and his pals Windy and Biggs because of an inferior model of T-16 Speeder (his dad's old one) and a chronic inability to hit a Womp Rat in Beggar's Canyon.
|01010000|01100101|01110100|01100101|01110010|00100000|01010010|01101001|01100011|01101000|01100001|01110010|01100100|00100000|01010011|01110100|01100101|01110110|01100101|01101110|00100000|01010100|01101000|01101111|01101101|01110011|01101111|01101110|00001101
Binary
Tyr Ton
A low achieving occupant of the Planet Krypton but sensible in that he wears his pants under his trousers.
Mini Greentooth
Often found cowering under a four leaf clover, this tiny leprechaun is shy and retiring. Must be his tooth decay.
.--. . - . .-. - .... --- -- ... --- -.
Morse Code
Khal Peterark Greyjoy
Just a few walk on parts in Game of Thrones, no dialogue yet but has shown an aptitude for dying gruesomely in battlefield scenes when called upon.
Dirty Roger Rackham
AArgghh, the baddest pirate that sailed the seven seas, well a little bit naughty then as it does sound more like the name of an Accountant than a buccaneer.
Петер Чомсон
Cryrillic script, Comrade.
Everleaf Brookhelm
Actually a bit of a snitch and a particularly favourite informer for President Coriolanus Snow
Dandelion Celestial Prince
A beautiful and graceful unicorn. What more do I need to say?
These at a basic level just give you a selection of names if you are undecided or just a bit numb with thinking about naming a child, pet or just about anything else.
I have written in the past on the shifting trends in popular children's names in some way an indicator of the social, economic and ethnic direction of a nation at any point in time. Names such as Albert, Clarence, Ethel and Norma, so prevalent in the early years of the twentieth century have been superseded by the likes of Alfie, Josh, Rhianna and India.
Other sites give you an opportunity to generate a name, using your own, that could be used in role playing or fantasy games which is an indication of the popularity and appeal of such things.
Fans of cult fiction can also insert their normal name and be provided with one which would not look out of place in your chosen genre of novel.
I thought that in an idle few hours on a cold, damp Sunday morning I should attempt to source a few versions of my name from available sites.
As you can see these cover a great range of cultural influences but equally some plain nonsense ones.
They are in no particular order but see if you can guess which one is my favourite
(Answer on Twitter @Langdale82)
This is my Christian name and surname in Runes
Golradir Telrúnya
My Elvish name, apparently, as in "in all of Rivendell the untidiest front lawn is to be found outside the home of Golradir Telrunya. The Council should make him cut the grass at least"
Wilibald Gamgee-Took of Bywater
"Gandalf, looked around at the band of brave Hobbits before sending Wilibad Gamgee-Took home with a sick note. The prospect of fighting with the dark forces of Middle Earth had make him a bit peeky.
Spike Scourge Thomson
Transformers are dedicated to freedom and do all that is in their power to defeat the Decepticons. Spike Scourge Thomson can go first..........
Angry Snake Steel Vendetta
Welcome to tonight's WWF Bill from Memphis with the undercard bout between Bone Crusher Mash Man and a first timer with a joke name..... ROUND ONE.....can someone call a Medic!
Bling Freak Biggie Doggy Dog
Mother F*****, who do you think you are!
Dazzlepuff Quickdust
TA bit of a twinkle toes in the fairy dell, light of foot and voice.
BurgundyNovember Lucifer
Whatever!
Turn Pulsarfall
A lesser known inhabitant of Tatooine who was relentlessly bullied by Luke Skywalker and his pals Windy and Biggs because of an inferior model of T-16 Speeder (his dad's old one) and a chronic inability to hit a Womp Rat in Beggar's Canyon.
|01010000|01100101|01110100|01100101|01110010|00100000|01010010|01101001|01100011|01101000|01100001|01110010|01100100|00100000|01010011|01110100|01100101|01110110|01100101|01101110|00100000|01010100|01101000|01101111|01101101|01110011|01101111|01101110|00001101
Binary
Tyr Ton
A low achieving occupant of the Planet Krypton but sensible in that he wears his pants under his trousers.
Mini Greentooth
Often found cowering under a four leaf clover, this tiny leprechaun is shy and retiring. Must be his tooth decay.
.--. . - . .-. - .... --- -- ... --- -.
Morse Code
Khal Peterark Greyjoy
Just a few walk on parts in Game of Thrones, no dialogue yet but has shown an aptitude for dying gruesomely in battlefield scenes when called upon.
Dirty Roger Rackham
AArgghh, the baddest pirate that sailed the seven seas, well a little bit naughty then as it does sound more like the name of an Accountant than a buccaneer.
Петер Чомсон
Cryrillic script, Comrade.
Everleaf Brookhelm
Actually a bit of a snitch and a particularly favourite informer for President Coriolanus Snow
Dandelion Celestial Prince
A beautiful and graceful unicorn. What more do I need to say?
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