Gerbils.
Pretty cute little animals.
Very popular amongst parents as the ideal pet for their little angels.
They tick all the boxes being relatively cheap to purchase from the breeder or from the store in the High Street or on the Retail Park and easy to look after.
They are quite hygienic creatures, not too smelly and like to be handled so are quite sociable. Whilst tending to be more active in the evenings and at night they are sufficiently interesting and entertaining to young children so as not to be readily neglected and left to the doting parents to support and tend to.
In terms of life expectancy the average 3 to 5 years is about right to establish responsibilities and develop a fondness for the little thing so that when the inevitable arrives, well, you know................
So, a perfect pet, safe and clean.
No problems or questionable history to worry about......well, until a couple of weeks ago.
It is now widely held on the basis of scientific investigation that the cuddly, harmless Gerbil was responsible for the Black Death Plaque which in its most severe outbreak in the fourteenth century (1346 to 1353) saw the demise of around twenty five million people across Europe.
Later, in England, it contributed to the loss of around a fifth of the London population in the 1665 outbreak. There are sporadic outbreaks across the globe even today.
The Source of the disease is a bacteria called yersinia pestis which uses as a host the common flea, itself transported around in the hairy bodies of rodents.
The Black Death has always been blamed on the Black Rat, also referred to as the ship rat, roof rat or house rat or under its latin name of Rattus Rattus.
This much maligned creature came from tropical Asia before making its way, thanks to the spread of humans across the world.
The unfortunate Black Rat has been blamed for a greater number of human deaths than any natural catastrophe or war.
The recent research offering a pardon to rats is grounded in a study of tree rings at the time of the worst plaque occurences.
This shows that the climate coinciding with the large scale death toll was just too wet for rats to flourish providing them the alibi for their previous mass condemnation.
Plaque tended to show at European Ports several years after climate conditions favoured a massive upsurge in the number of rats. There were no permanent plaque reservoirs in Europe and so it must have been down to another rodent to distribute the human blood sucking fleas.
The only explanation appears to be that the fluffy, rather boring gerbil continued to carry the bacteria infected insects in Central Asia, their home territory, allowing it to spread into surrounding regions and again, turn up at the Gateway Ports to Europe.
You have to feel a bit sorry for the villainous rat although they cannot be completely exonerated from the rapid spread of Plaque as they did help the crafty gerbil as a complimentary carrier.
So, the status and reputation of the gerbil is under scrutiny. Parents must be having second thoughts if considering a purchase of a gerbil to thrill their offspring and I tend to have some sympathy for that. Perhaps there may be a revival in the attraction of rats as domestic pets. Perhaps not.
Saturday 28 February 2015
Friday 27 February 2015
Come Back Spock. We need You
I have pretended to know something about anything just to fit in.
I have swotted up on other things just to participate in a conversation and not to appear thick or ignorant. Other memories or snippets of facts and information have been dredged up from my subconscious to amaze myself and surprise and delight others.
I must have been a bit of a geek when younger in order to absorb what at the time were just useless statistics, bits of interest, mid blowingly boring titbits, hearsay, rumour and gobbledygook. Correction. I must have been one huge geek in order to have a brain full of what has made its way through a complex neurological and biological network to reach my mouth and spout forth.
It only takes a word to trigger the release of data.
Yesterday it was the overheard phrase of "A Black Hole in space consumes everything within its pull of gravity and welcomes it with a Cosmic Burp".
I admit to having been fascinated by the subject of Black Holes in space when I was a young kid.
It may, coincidentally, have been a subject entered into by characters on my favourite television programmes on science fiction and fantasy. It may even have been Mr Spock himself, from Star Trek. This thought has some poignancy with the passing of Leonard Nimoy the actor responsible for the portrayal of a rather dour, unemotional native of the Planet Vulcan and yet a personality that is infinitely memorable.
In my Star Trek Annual of 1971, when I was just 8 years old, there was a factual piece on what series of events would take place to herald the end of Earth and our Solar System. It scared me witless because it stated that our Sun, in the throes of death would explode and bring about the violent end of everything that I knew, loved and relied upon.
I was so upset by this inevitable occurrence that I failed to turn the page to see the explanation that there was really no need to worry as this would not take place for many millions or even billions of years.
Black Holes have been matters of discussion since the late 18th Century which is quite remarkable in that it has not been until the modern era with radio telescopes and X Ray Astronomy that there has been a chance to validate the speculation and conjecture of the preceeding two centuries.
A Yorkshire Rector, John Mitchell, in 1783 was responsible for starting the debate with a piece of written work that he submitted to the Royal Society. His theory was that the largest of stars exerted such a massive gravitational pull that any light emitted would simply be dragged back to its source. If that was the case then light would not grace the Planet Earth.
Mitchell excited many in the scientific community and the Academie in Paris was feted by one of its members, Laplace, who presented that the largest of the stars acting in this manner may in fact be invisible.
The term Black Hole may seem self explanatory but it originates from the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta. This was a prison cell intended to accommodate three persons but the story goes that it was once filled with 46 prisoners of whom 24 perished.
Thinking and musing remained prominent on the subject in the intervening years from the 18th Century.
Chandra, an Indian Scientist published his theory on the death of stars in the 1930's.
He worked out that when a star runs out of fuel it becomes a dense corpse termed a White Dwarf. Gradually it begins to shrink to infinite gravity. There were of course critics and non-believers amongst the Astronomical Community and their influence and throwing around of their weight did set back the theory of Black Holes.
This was to such an extent that Black Hole became the equivalent of a dirty word.
Obtaining funding for research proved difficult in such an environment and it was often necessary to persuade Agencies and the Military to allow use of their facilities and equipment. The US Air Force were using high altitude aircraft with X Ray detectors in their search for tell tale signs of nuclear testing by other nations and during one seconded flight the Astronomer Paul Money, recorded strong X Ray signals coming from points far beyond our known solar system.
It was not until the 1970's that The Cambridge Observatory satellite detected Sigmus XI, a Black Hole. Mitchell and his French contemporaries were indeed well ahead of their time.
A Black Hole is difficult to see anyway, likened to trying to spot a jet black cat in a coal cellar in the pitch black. Astronomers have realised this and have introduced the idea of the equivalent of a white cat to befriend the black cat. This is based on the theory that a Black Hole seizes matter creating a maelstrom effect and naturally the closely allied white feline would show some related reaction.
Many more Black Holes were evident with the improvements in sensitive equipment but what actually happens inside the ravenous monsters is still unknown.
It is predicted that gases at the centre attain infinite density destroying matter and time.
It would be a grisly fate but tempered by the widely held belief that a Black Hole may provide a gateway to another Universe.
It would not however be a pleasant experience for a human being dragged into a Black Hole. If entering head first then the gravitational forces would be higher causing the curiously named phenomena of spaghettification. That is quite an image.
I am sure that Mr Spock would have something to say about that.
I have swotted up on other things just to participate in a conversation and not to appear thick or ignorant. Other memories or snippets of facts and information have been dredged up from my subconscious to amaze myself and surprise and delight others.
I must have been a bit of a geek when younger in order to absorb what at the time were just useless statistics, bits of interest, mid blowingly boring titbits, hearsay, rumour and gobbledygook. Correction. I must have been one huge geek in order to have a brain full of what has made its way through a complex neurological and biological network to reach my mouth and spout forth.
It only takes a word to trigger the release of data.
Yesterday it was the overheard phrase of "A Black Hole in space consumes everything within its pull of gravity and welcomes it with a Cosmic Burp".
I admit to having been fascinated by the subject of Black Holes in space when I was a young kid.
It may, coincidentally, have been a subject entered into by characters on my favourite television programmes on science fiction and fantasy. It may even have been Mr Spock himself, from Star Trek. This thought has some poignancy with the passing of Leonard Nimoy the actor responsible for the portrayal of a rather dour, unemotional native of the Planet Vulcan and yet a personality that is infinitely memorable.
In my Star Trek Annual of 1971, when I was just 8 years old, there was a factual piece on what series of events would take place to herald the end of Earth and our Solar System. It scared me witless because it stated that our Sun, in the throes of death would explode and bring about the violent end of everything that I knew, loved and relied upon.
I was so upset by this inevitable occurrence that I failed to turn the page to see the explanation that there was really no need to worry as this would not take place for many millions or even billions of years.
Black Holes have been matters of discussion since the late 18th Century which is quite remarkable in that it has not been until the modern era with radio telescopes and X Ray Astronomy that there has been a chance to validate the speculation and conjecture of the preceeding two centuries.
A Yorkshire Rector, John Mitchell, in 1783 was responsible for starting the debate with a piece of written work that he submitted to the Royal Society. His theory was that the largest of stars exerted such a massive gravitational pull that any light emitted would simply be dragged back to its source. If that was the case then light would not grace the Planet Earth.
Mitchell excited many in the scientific community and the Academie in Paris was feted by one of its members, Laplace, who presented that the largest of the stars acting in this manner may in fact be invisible.
The term Black Hole may seem self explanatory but it originates from the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta. This was a prison cell intended to accommodate three persons but the story goes that it was once filled with 46 prisoners of whom 24 perished.
Thinking and musing remained prominent on the subject in the intervening years from the 18th Century.
Chandra, an Indian Scientist published his theory on the death of stars in the 1930's.
He worked out that when a star runs out of fuel it becomes a dense corpse termed a White Dwarf. Gradually it begins to shrink to infinite gravity. There were of course critics and non-believers amongst the Astronomical Community and their influence and throwing around of their weight did set back the theory of Black Holes.
This was to such an extent that Black Hole became the equivalent of a dirty word.
Obtaining funding for research proved difficult in such an environment and it was often necessary to persuade Agencies and the Military to allow use of their facilities and equipment. The US Air Force were using high altitude aircraft with X Ray detectors in their search for tell tale signs of nuclear testing by other nations and during one seconded flight the Astronomer Paul Money, recorded strong X Ray signals coming from points far beyond our known solar system.
It was not until the 1970's that The Cambridge Observatory satellite detected Sigmus XI, a Black Hole. Mitchell and his French contemporaries were indeed well ahead of their time.
A Black Hole is difficult to see anyway, likened to trying to spot a jet black cat in a coal cellar in the pitch black. Astronomers have realised this and have introduced the idea of the equivalent of a white cat to befriend the black cat. This is based on the theory that a Black Hole seizes matter creating a maelstrom effect and naturally the closely allied white feline would show some related reaction.
Many more Black Holes were evident with the improvements in sensitive equipment but what actually happens inside the ravenous monsters is still unknown.
It is predicted that gases at the centre attain infinite density destroying matter and time.
It would be a grisly fate but tempered by the widely held belief that a Black Hole may provide a gateway to another Universe.
It would not however be a pleasant experience for a human being dragged into a Black Hole. If entering head first then the gravitational forces would be higher causing the curiously named phenomena of spaghettification. That is quite an image.
I am sure that Mr Spock would have something to say about that.
Thursday 26 February 2015
Chalky White
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, their loss. I have some appreciation of their position because White Pudding is not the most aesthetically pleasing 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 sheeps 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.
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 myself in 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 . I have therefore to rely on the kindness of Elizabeth to source what I consider to be a real treat and I have just taken delivery of 8 chunky slices which will take pride of place on my plate in the morning. A great start to a weekend.
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, their loss. I have some appreciation of their position because White Pudding is not the most aesthetically pleasing 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 sheeps 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.
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 myself in 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 . I have therefore to rely on the kindness of Elizabeth to source what I consider to be a real treat and I have just taken delivery of 8 chunky slices which will take pride of place on my plate in the morning. A great start to a weekend.
Wednesday 25 February 2015
It takes Allsorts
In these days of unrestricted cycling on highways and by-ways (excepting motorways of course) it is hard to believe that it was not that many years ago when racing and competition was actually banned on public roads.
A few hardy souls flaunted the law by going out and competing in the early, early hours or in the dark and in secret locations out in the countryside on the fringes of the main city and urban areas of Britain.
Favoured regular courses were referred to in coded speak and these designations persist to the present day in the annual handbook of events promoted by the British Cycling Federation and the Road Time Trial Council.
The early riders against the clock were pioneers in trying to achieve a personal best and tackling national records over the distances of 10, 15, 25, 30, 50 and 100 miles and in the endurance events over 12 hours and 24 hours.
It was in the National 12 Hour Championships of 1967 that a truly astonishing athletic feat took place in establishing a distance of 277.25 miles at an average speed of just over 23mph.
This was a winning ride in the mixed event and a record that stood for a further 2 years.
The most remarkable fact was that it was achieved by the diminutive figure of the Yorkshire born and bred cyclist, Beryl Burton.
That day, 17th September 1967 was a perfect day for time trialling being still and dry as individual riders set off at 2 minute intervals on an out and back route around Leeds, Harrogate, Thirsk and York known as the V181, before entering a circuitous route for the remainder of the half day event to finish around Wetherby, North Yorkshire.
Beryl Burton set off at 7.42am on what will have been chilly early autumn morning before the conditions settled down to ideal for racing.
All of the male competitors had already left the starting position and Beryl was the first of the handful of women entrants to set off.
Beryl was a dedicated rider who pushed herself to superhuman efforts not just in competition but in her regular training sessions. This was in the days prior to the scientific approach and methods and with little or no understanding or application of nutrition or psychology that features so highly in modern sport.
Her strength of mind and purpose complimented the obvious physiological attributes that allowed her to dominate cycling for such a long period.
After 10 hours of riding that day in 1967 the majority of the earlier male starters had been caught by Beryl with her relentless pace and energy.
Her team of helpers gave her regular time checks as they criss crossed the finishing circuit to bring drink and food and give encouragement.
Gradually the then record holder Mike McNamara was being reeled in and Beryl later told of her reticence at the moment when she first saw him ahead and knew that she would definitely catch and then have to pass him. She was very competitive but was aware of the impact her superior ride could have on a fellow sports person.
In her own inimitable fashion Beryl, in preparing to overtake McNamara, reached into the back pocket of her Morley Cycling Club jersey and extracted one of her favourite treats, a liquorice allsort. She handed it to him with the words "Mike, have a sweetie" to which he responded "Thanks Love" before being left in her slipstream.
McNamara actually extended his own record on the day by 4.3 miles but this fell short of the new Burton National Record by 0.75 miles.
There was a bit of a do in the field at the finish with tea, cakes and probably something a bit stronger and the distance remains even today, some 40 years later, as the women's 12 hour record. It took another 2 years for the National Record to be reclaimed by a male rider which served to illustrate the enormity of the sporting prowess of Beryl Burton.
It was an illustrious career on the bike which included 7 World Titles, 96 National Records and the attainment of Best All Rounder for 25 consecutive years from 1959. To sum up her attitude there is a story told by a rider that she caught in a 25 mile Time Trial Event. As Beryl rode briefly alongside she said "Eh Lad, you're not trying" before disappearing up the road.
A few hardy souls flaunted the law by going out and competing in the early, early hours or in the dark and in secret locations out in the countryside on the fringes of the main city and urban areas of Britain.
Favoured regular courses were referred to in coded speak and these designations persist to the present day in the annual handbook of events promoted by the British Cycling Federation and the Road Time Trial Council.
The early riders against the clock were pioneers in trying to achieve a personal best and tackling national records over the distances of 10, 15, 25, 30, 50 and 100 miles and in the endurance events over 12 hours and 24 hours.
It was in the National 12 Hour Championships of 1967 that a truly astonishing athletic feat took place in establishing a distance of 277.25 miles at an average speed of just over 23mph.
This was a winning ride in the mixed event and a record that stood for a further 2 years.
The most remarkable fact was that it was achieved by the diminutive figure of the Yorkshire born and bred cyclist, Beryl Burton.
That day, 17th September 1967 was a perfect day for time trialling being still and dry as individual riders set off at 2 minute intervals on an out and back route around Leeds, Harrogate, Thirsk and York known as the V181, before entering a circuitous route for the remainder of the half day event to finish around Wetherby, North Yorkshire.
Beryl Burton set off at 7.42am on what will have been chilly early autumn morning before the conditions settled down to ideal for racing.
All of the male competitors had already left the starting position and Beryl was the first of the handful of women entrants to set off.
Beryl was a dedicated rider who pushed herself to superhuman efforts not just in competition but in her regular training sessions. This was in the days prior to the scientific approach and methods and with little or no understanding or application of nutrition or psychology that features so highly in modern sport.
Her strength of mind and purpose complimented the obvious physiological attributes that allowed her to dominate cycling for such a long period.
After 10 hours of riding that day in 1967 the majority of the earlier male starters had been caught by Beryl with her relentless pace and energy.
Her team of helpers gave her regular time checks as they criss crossed the finishing circuit to bring drink and food and give encouragement.
Gradually the then record holder Mike McNamara was being reeled in and Beryl later told of her reticence at the moment when she first saw him ahead and knew that she would definitely catch and then have to pass him. She was very competitive but was aware of the impact her superior ride could have on a fellow sports person.
In her own inimitable fashion Beryl, in preparing to overtake McNamara, reached into the back pocket of her Morley Cycling Club jersey and extracted one of her favourite treats, a liquorice allsort. She handed it to him with the words "Mike, have a sweetie" to which he responded "Thanks Love" before being left in her slipstream.
McNamara actually extended his own record on the day by 4.3 miles but this fell short of the new Burton National Record by 0.75 miles.
There was a bit of a do in the field at the finish with tea, cakes and probably something a bit stronger and the distance remains even today, some 40 years later, as the women's 12 hour record. It took another 2 years for the National Record to be reclaimed by a male rider which served to illustrate the enormity of the sporting prowess of Beryl Burton.
It was an illustrious career on the bike which included 7 World Titles, 96 National Records and the attainment of Best All Rounder for 25 consecutive years from 1959. To sum up her attitude there is a story told by a rider that she caught in a 25 mile Time Trial Event. As Beryl rode briefly alongside she said "Eh Lad, you're not trying" before disappearing up the road.
Tuesday 24 February 2015
Hands, Knees and Bumps, Daily
The quietest, most unassuming and, frankly quite boring and anonymous boy in my year at school surprised us all.
No, he was not a mass murderer, newly discovered son of a tycoon or had fathered 10 children by the age of 15 but announced, via a friend, that he was to make an attempt to get into the Guinness Book of Records.
Before we knew what he intended to try to do for this ambition we all, and some quite cruelly, speculated on what it could be. The smart money was on the record for the most timid personality, followed by the longest ever time taken for a voice to break and boy whose name was least known to his fellow students and masters even after 5 years in secondary education. The actual attempt to attain a paragraph in that most famous of publications was on the basis of crawling. We knew that he was a bit of a swot but this type of crawling was to be on all fours and for one whole day or however long it took to beat the current distance of 8 miles.
The long and protracted build up caught the imagination of the whole school with the catalyst being that we would all have a day off to witness the thing and also enjoy an academic free day in favour of a carnival of activities on and around the playing field. There was to be an inter house sports day with athletics events on the freshly painted running track following the end of the football and rugby season and some charitable endeavours of a bring and buy cake stall, tombola and some sideshows including the ever popular throw a heavy wet sponge at a teacher. For a consideration of 10p to a good cause, we suspected it to be the Staff Common Room Sherry Fund, we could forego our constrictive uniforms and come in whatever we wanted within some certain parameters. One of the sixth formers was to try to emulate the main record breaking attempt on crawling by taking on an even more obscure target of cutting the outer areas of the school field with only a pair of scissors.
The day arrived. The weather was perfect for those roped into the sports events and the rest as spectators. Dry and bright for early June and with a slight cooling breeze which rustled the sycamore trees up the school driveway and just noticeably rippled the candy stripe canvas canopies of the stalls.
The nerve centre for the crawler in our midst was a small caravan donated by a local charity. I recognised it as the same from which easter eggs were dispensed for those succesfully completing the annual sponsored walk some months before. He remained his usual modest self in spite of the attentions of the town newspaper and a mobile TV broadcast van from the BBC Regional programme.
I think he may have got a bit carried away in his initial announcement and was now mightily embarassed by how things had snowballed into a frenzy of media interest. His mother acted as a bit of a chaperone, minder and enforcer for which, being a rather large and domineering woman she was well suited.
It was however not every day in our sleepy market town that world records were taken on. A large crowd gathered on the start line of the crawling circuit. Various official looking types in Guinness blazers hovered around with clipboards and for some strange reason, stop watches in their hands. The Headmaster gave a speech about what a great and momentous day it was to be for the school and for.....erm,..( quick consultation of a piece of paper with the boys name on it) and then with a very dramatic and camp gesture he fired a small starting pistol into the air and the games began.
After about fifteen minutes we began to realise how boring and tedious the day was going to be as the pioneer crawler had only just reached the end of the starting straight. The group of small boys entrusted with the cricket score board as the public display of laps and distance covered fidgeted about and began to make up rude words with the pile of enamelled numbers, mostly 80085 as a very juvenile but nevertheless hilarious representation of BOOBS. We soon wandered off to check on the also very slow scissor grass cutting before getting changed for the supporting sports events.
A tannoy kept us updated on the snail-slow progress. We could see the entourage surrounding the intrepid crawler from any point on the playing field but with each successive lap there was a discernible thinning out of the crowd.
By 3.30pm Buses arrived to transport away at least half of the pupils to the outlying villages and only us who lived close by the school remained. Some 5 hours further ahead the light was fading quickly on what was fanfared as the record breaking lap and someone, later to be disciplined for it, let off a firework which seemed more of a sarcastic gesture than a celebration.
The poor crawler was by now in a sorry state, red raw on any body parts which had been in contact with the ground for the past 9 hours. He could not stand up or manage anything euphoric and I seem to remember he cried upon being congratulated by his mother. The successful newest record for that day made it into the Christmas Edition of the Guinness Book of Records but was surpassed even whilst being delivered from the printers to our local Woolworths and by some healthy distance.
I often think of .....,erm ......thingy....and how well he did that day for his few weeks of fame.
No, he was not a mass murderer, newly discovered son of a tycoon or had fathered 10 children by the age of 15 but announced, via a friend, that he was to make an attempt to get into the Guinness Book of Records.
Before we knew what he intended to try to do for this ambition we all, and some quite cruelly, speculated on what it could be. The smart money was on the record for the most timid personality, followed by the longest ever time taken for a voice to break and boy whose name was least known to his fellow students and masters even after 5 years in secondary education. The actual attempt to attain a paragraph in that most famous of publications was on the basis of crawling. We knew that he was a bit of a swot but this type of crawling was to be on all fours and for one whole day or however long it took to beat the current distance of 8 miles.
The long and protracted build up caught the imagination of the whole school with the catalyst being that we would all have a day off to witness the thing and also enjoy an academic free day in favour of a carnival of activities on and around the playing field. There was to be an inter house sports day with athletics events on the freshly painted running track following the end of the football and rugby season and some charitable endeavours of a bring and buy cake stall, tombola and some sideshows including the ever popular throw a heavy wet sponge at a teacher. For a consideration of 10p to a good cause, we suspected it to be the Staff Common Room Sherry Fund, we could forego our constrictive uniforms and come in whatever we wanted within some certain parameters. One of the sixth formers was to try to emulate the main record breaking attempt on crawling by taking on an even more obscure target of cutting the outer areas of the school field with only a pair of scissors.
The day arrived. The weather was perfect for those roped into the sports events and the rest as spectators. Dry and bright for early June and with a slight cooling breeze which rustled the sycamore trees up the school driveway and just noticeably rippled the candy stripe canvas canopies of the stalls.
The nerve centre for the crawler in our midst was a small caravan donated by a local charity. I recognised it as the same from which easter eggs were dispensed for those succesfully completing the annual sponsored walk some months before. He remained his usual modest self in spite of the attentions of the town newspaper and a mobile TV broadcast van from the BBC Regional programme.
I think he may have got a bit carried away in his initial announcement and was now mightily embarassed by how things had snowballed into a frenzy of media interest. His mother acted as a bit of a chaperone, minder and enforcer for which, being a rather large and domineering woman she was well suited.
It was however not every day in our sleepy market town that world records were taken on. A large crowd gathered on the start line of the crawling circuit. Various official looking types in Guinness blazers hovered around with clipboards and for some strange reason, stop watches in their hands. The Headmaster gave a speech about what a great and momentous day it was to be for the school and for.....erm,..( quick consultation of a piece of paper with the boys name on it) and then with a very dramatic and camp gesture he fired a small starting pistol into the air and the games began.
After about fifteen minutes we began to realise how boring and tedious the day was going to be as the pioneer crawler had only just reached the end of the starting straight. The group of small boys entrusted with the cricket score board as the public display of laps and distance covered fidgeted about and began to make up rude words with the pile of enamelled numbers, mostly 80085 as a very juvenile but nevertheless hilarious representation of BOOBS. We soon wandered off to check on the also very slow scissor grass cutting before getting changed for the supporting sports events.
A tannoy kept us updated on the snail-slow progress. We could see the entourage surrounding the intrepid crawler from any point on the playing field but with each successive lap there was a discernible thinning out of the crowd.
By 3.30pm Buses arrived to transport away at least half of the pupils to the outlying villages and only us who lived close by the school remained. Some 5 hours further ahead the light was fading quickly on what was fanfared as the record breaking lap and someone, later to be disciplined for it, let off a firework which seemed more of a sarcastic gesture than a celebration.
The poor crawler was by now in a sorry state, red raw on any body parts which had been in contact with the ground for the past 9 hours. He could not stand up or manage anything euphoric and I seem to remember he cried upon being congratulated by his mother. The successful newest record for that day made it into the Christmas Edition of the Guinness Book of Records but was surpassed even whilst being delivered from the printers to our local Woolworths and by some healthy distance.
I often think of .....,erm ......thingy....and how well he did that day for his few weeks of fame.
Monday 23 February 2015
Rambling on and on and on.......
So far on the walk along the old tracks and streets of Hull there has been no cause to make any decisions on a life determining scale.
Granted, the judgement of where and when to cross a busy road has had to be made.
On reaching the river it is surely that time to make a pivotal choice on whether to take the path along the top of the tidal defences or another route. It is an easy choice. The southerly wind is now storm force sending showers of flume and spray into the air and over the parked cars on the viewing area. Although the prevailing winds would be from left to right on the return walk to the city centre and therefore pushing a body away from the sloping defence wall there are, from frequent use of the route, three distinctly hazardous points where there would be no mercy from the gale.
The first is the 'U' shaped section of the path around the sluice of the land drain at its convergence with the estuary. Within a relatively short distance the storm would hurtle you towards the parapet wall of the drain outlet and then batter you head on in a struggle to get around the corner and back onto the path as it heads westwards.
The second is the narrow walkway along the top of the huge lock gates at the dock entrance. There is but a single strand chain link on either side which would be totally ineffective on such a tempestuous day.
The third, a section of the path fully open to the onslaught of the waves with no tidal barrier or respite from either the wind or the waves.
I was convinced by taking the worst case scenario to just back-track past the tractor and container compounds and head into town on the footpath of Hedon Road. It was still parallel to the river but quarter of a mile inland and therefore almost calm by comparison. Opting for caution or the cowards way was disappointing as the wide open views to the river and out to the North Sea are magnificent but they would still be there on another day.
More traffic noise, this time from the shoppers on the way to their rural homes from a good day in the city centre and retail parks. There is a return to the segregated path for bikes and those on foot and a few keen cyclists and dedicated joggers loom up in the far distance or sneak up unnanounced from behind. The cycle path is a bit of a compromise, mainly to improve the environmental credentials of the city. This is no more evident than the dramatic deviation in an otherwise straight and true route to allow for a King George Reign post box. On closer inspection the red paint is chipped and scuffed from pretty frequent impact by inattentive or just trusting bike riders.
The dominant industrial use on the Hedon Road corridor is the manufacture of static caravans destined for holiday parks around the UK and in Europe. These are rapidly produced on black metal chassis by workers armed with nail guns, glue guns and skilled in affixing composite panels to a wooden framework. Row upon row of statics sit in the yard, in quite unglamorous surroundings compared to their final destinations.
After a mile or so there comes the forecourt of HM Prison Hull. It is visiting time and family groups queue up at what is a very tiny door for what is a huge establishment. They fidget and brace themselves against the february wind from which they have no protection until they get inside the walled complex.
A hand car wash on a disused petrol sales forecourt is doing good business and a line of vehicles, which to me do not look at all grubby, await their turn to be swarmed over by a half dozen or so sponge wielding operatives.
There is a short stretch of sheltered road in the shadow of a large man made embankment. This was formed by the scrapings from the old Victoria Docks in readiness for what is now a big and affluent housing estate. The area has roads named after notable mariners or parts of ocean going ships and the housing ranges from balconied executive dwellings with river view to small two bed starter homes and flats with none. For such a populated area there is no-one to be seen out and about apart from three dog walkers.
The return to the walkway on the flood wall is not as hazardous as expected. At least there is now a low concrete barrier to deflect the strong wind up and over head height. It is a case of negotiating piles of driftwood and vegetation that the last high tide threw up and deposited on the path. There are also large, stranded pools of water from the same event. In the tidal surge, now some 8 weeks ago in December 2012 a number of the houses in the dock area were inundated as the flood walls were overwhelmed quite easily. I expected to see a few properties still under repair but could see none. Perhaps there had been a big push to get houses returned to normal in time for Christmas.
In front and in plain sight is the angular shape of The Deep, the world's, is it largest or only submarium. It is a truly striking intrusion into the skyline of Hull but there is no time to stand and admire it as the force of the gale blows us across and through the surface car park.
In the Old Town the blocking effect of the Georgian buildings from the wind means a noticeable increase in temperature, well at least peaking out at 7 Celsius. It is time to grab a well deserved coffee and there is quite a choice of outlets from the Multi-nationals to the small independents. Starbucks get the decision. There is a stool and counter seat in the window overlooking McDonalds on the opposite side of the pedestrianised area and after a relatively lonely three hour walk it is nice to get back in the midst of civilisation.
Unfortunately, in the space of only a few minutes indoors my limbs have seized up and I can hardly stand up to leave. My stiff jointed stance obviously amuses the more agile and Sanatagonised coffee drinkers and I hobble lamely out into the darkening late afternoon.
It is another two miles back to the house but in a due north direction I am given great assistance by the still potent force of the southerly gale and my cagoul fills out like a sailing ship hurtling me along Beverley Road and to the starting point of the ten mile round trip.
Granted, the judgement of where and when to cross a busy road has had to be made.
On reaching the river it is surely that time to make a pivotal choice on whether to take the path along the top of the tidal defences or another route. It is an easy choice. The southerly wind is now storm force sending showers of flume and spray into the air and over the parked cars on the viewing area. Although the prevailing winds would be from left to right on the return walk to the city centre and therefore pushing a body away from the sloping defence wall there are, from frequent use of the route, three distinctly hazardous points where there would be no mercy from the gale.
The first is the 'U' shaped section of the path around the sluice of the land drain at its convergence with the estuary. Within a relatively short distance the storm would hurtle you towards the parapet wall of the drain outlet and then batter you head on in a struggle to get around the corner and back onto the path as it heads westwards.
The second is the narrow walkway along the top of the huge lock gates at the dock entrance. There is but a single strand chain link on either side which would be totally ineffective on such a tempestuous day.
The third, a section of the path fully open to the onslaught of the waves with no tidal barrier or respite from either the wind or the waves.
I was convinced by taking the worst case scenario to just back-track past the tractor and container compounds and head into town on the footpath of Hedon Road. It was still parallel to the river but quarter of a mile inland and therefore almost calm by comparison. Opting for caution or the cowards way was disappointing as the wide open views to the river and out to the North Sea are magnificent but they would still be there on another day.
More traffic noise, this time from the shoppers on the way to their rural homes from a good day in the city centre and retail parks. There is a return to the segregated path for bikes and those on foot and a few keen cyclists and dedicated joggers loom up in the far distance or sneak up unnanounced from behind. The cycle path is a bit of a compromise, mainly to improve the environmental credentials of the city. This is no more evident than the dramatic deviation in an otherwise straight and true route to allow for a King George Reign post box. On closer inspection the red paint is chipped and scuffed from pretty frequent impact by inattentive or just trusting bike riders.
The dominant industrial use on the Hedon Road corridor is the manufacture of static caravans destined for holiday parks around the UK and in Europe. These are rapidly produced on black metal chassis by workers armed with nail guns, glue guns and skilled in affixing composite panels to a wooden framework. Row upon row of statics sit in the yard, in quite unglamorous surroundings compared to their final destinations.
After a mile or so there comes the forecourt of HM Prison Hull. It is visiting time and family groups queue up at what is a very tiny door for what is a huge establishment. They fidget and brace themselves against the february wind from which they have no protection until they get inside the walled complex.
A hand car wash on a disused petrol sales forecourt is doing good business and a line of vehicles, which to me do not look at all grubby, await their turn to be swarmed over by a half dozen or so sponge wielding operatives.
There is a short stretch of sheltered road in the shadow of a large man made embankment. This was formed by the scrapings from the old Victoria Docks in readiness for what is now a big and affluent housing estate. The area has roads named after notable mariners or parts of ocean going ships and the housing ranges from balconied executive dwellings with river view to small two bed starter homes and flats with none. For such a populated area there is no-one to be seen out and about apart from three dog walkers.
The return to the walkway on the flood wall is not as hazardous as expected. At least there is now a low concrete barrier to deflect the strong wind up and over head height. It is a case of negotiating piles of driftwood and vegetation that the last high tide threw up and deposited on the path. There are also large, stranded pools of water from the same event. In the tidal surge, now some 8 weeks ago in December 2012 a number of the houses in the dock area were inundated as the flood walls were overwhelmed quite easily. I expected to see a few properties still under repair but could see none. Perhaps there had been a big push to get houses returned to normal in time for Christmas.
In front and in plain sight is the angular shape of The Deep, the world's, is it largest or only submarium. It is a truly striking intrusion into the skyline of Hull but there is no time to stand and admire it as the force of the gale blows us across and through the surface car park.
In the Old Town the blocking effect of the Georgian buildings from the wind means a noticeable increase in temperature, well at least peaking out at 7 Celsius. It is time to grab a well deserved coffee and there is quite a choice of outlets from the Multi-nationals to the small independents. Starbucks get the decision. There is a stool and counter seat in the window overlooking McDonalds on the opposite side of the pedestrianised area and after a relatively lonely three hour walk it is nice to get back in the midst of civilisation.
Unfortunately, in the space of only a few minutes indoors my limbs have seized up and I can hardly stand up to leave. My stiff jointed stance obviously amuses the more agile and Sanatagonised coffee drinkers and I hobble lamely out into the darkening late afternoon.
It is another two miles back to the house but in a due north direction I am given great assistance by the still potent force of the southerly gale and my cagoul fills out like a sailing ship hurtling me along Beverley Road and to the starting point of the ten mile round trip.
Sunday 22 February 2015
Death to Disco
Timing is everything.
It could be that an idea comes together with the perfect alignment of time and place.
There could be a wave of public interest that carries something from relative obscurity to be regarded as a modern classic.
Having a good idea first gives a head start and can be critical in maximising publicity, profit and endurance of a product or service.
On the flip side, everything has its equivalent of a "sell by" or "use by" date and can either go out of fashion with a big noise or just fade into obscurity with some semblance of pride and character.
By 1976 the dance and social phenomenon of Disco was beginning to wane.
This was down to a number of factors including the emergence of alternative music scenes including the early signs of Punk and New Wave but mainly down to a rather weak and boring single beat formula and a lot of bland and nondescript artistes and songs.
Disco was not quite dead but was certainly in its last throes.
There appeared to be little hope for a stay of execution until in 1977 the release of the soundtrack and movie by Paramount Pictures of "Saturday Night Fever", a Robert Stigwood Production.
It had a realistically gritty and in places dark storyline centred around a group of Italian Americans in New York whose dead end jobs were only tolerated in order to produce the paychecks by which to let rip over the weekend in the Disco Clubs of Manhattan and the New York suburbs.
The film was relatively low budget for the period at $4 million dollars and the Studio had no great expectations of having a hit on its hands so much so that they waived their rights to Royalties for the soundtrack album before it was even released. The album surprised everyone with record pre-sales and held a position in the US Album Charts for 24 weeks.
The success was entirely down to the well crafted tracks contributed by the Bee Gees, comprising the talented brothers of Maurice, Barry and Robin Gibbs.
The opening of the film was to a distinctive walking beat with iconic bass and drums readily capturing the style and persona of the lead, John Travolta playing the downtrodden daytime Paint Shop worker but weekend Disco Dancer, Tony Manero.
The idea of the movie had been plagued with problems with the script struggling to be finalised, the main female lead not yet chosen and a director, called in a short notice getting to grips with the whole project.
As though a saving grace, it took the Bee Gees only a week after meeting the Producer to send through a cassette of tracks and six formed the nucleus of the soundtrack album.
These became established as hits in their own right, including "Stayin' Alive", "How deep is your love", "Night Fever", "More than a woman", "If I can't have you" and "You should be dancing".
The mixture of up beat tempos and melodic masterpieces were an ideal combination to capture the aspirational motives of the main characters.
The themes behind the action were often controversial and stark covering rape, suicide and ultimate disappointment in what life hands out to you.
The style aspects of great clothes, hair and attitudes to match summed up Disco Mania and the unique sounds behind Saturday Night Fever were widely regarded as being the saviours of the genre, or at least giving it some extension of popularity for a few more years. It was acknowledged as being a close thing but then again, timing is everything.
It could be that an idea comes together with the perfect alignment of time and place.
There could be a wave of public interest that carries something from relative obscurity to be regarded as a modern classic.
Having a good idea first gives a head start and can be critical in maximising publicity, profit and endurance of a product or service.
On the flip side, everything has its equivalent of a "sell by" or "use by" date and can either go out of fashion with a big noise or just fade into obscurity with some semblance of pride and character.
By 1976 the dance and social phenomenon of Disco was beginning to wane.
This was down to a number of factors including the emergence of alternative music scenes including the early signs of Punk and New Wave but mainly down to a rather weak and boring single beat formula and a lot of bland and nondescript artistes and songs.
Disco was not quite dead but was certainly in its last throes.
There appeared to be little hope for a stay of execution until in 1977 the release of the soundtrack and movie by Paramount Pictures of "Saturday Night Fever", a Robert Stigwood Production.
It had a realistically gritty and in places dark storyline centred around a group of Italian Americans in New York whose dead end jobs were only tolerated in order to produce the paychecks by which to let rip over the weekend in the Disco Clubs of Manhattan and the New York suburbs.
The film was relatively low budget for the period at $4 million dollars and the Studio had no great expectations of having a hit on its hands so much so that they waived their rights to Royalties for the soundtrack album before it was even released. The album surprised everyone with record pre-sales and held a position in the US Album Charts for 24 weeks.
The success was entirely down to the well crafted tracks contributed by the Bee Gees, comprising the talented brothers of Maurice, Barry and Robin Gibbs.
The opening of the film was to a distinctive walking beat with iconic bass and drums readily capturing the style and persona of the lead, John Travolta playing the downtrodden daytime Paint Shop worker but weekend Disco Dancer, Tony Manero.
The idea of the movie had been plagued with problems with the script struggling to be finalised, the main female lead not yet chosen and a director, called in a short notice getting to grips with the whole project.
As though a saving grace, it took the Bee Gees only a week after meeting the Producer to send through a cassette of tracks and six formed the nucleus of the soundtrack album.
These became established as hits in their own right, including "Stayin' Alive", "How deep is your love", "Night Fever", "More than a woman", "If I can't have you" and "You should be dancing".
The mixture of up beat tempos and melodic masterpieces were an ideal combination to capture the aspirational motives of the main characters.
The themes behind the action were often controversial and stark covering rape, suicide and ultimate disappointment in what life hands out to you.
The style aspects of great clothes, hair and attitudes to match summed up Disco Mania and the unique sounds behind Saturday Night Fever were widely regarded as being the saviours of the genre, or at least giving it some extension of popularity for a few more years. It was acknowledged as being a close thing but then again, timing is everything.
Saturday 21 February 2015
Suspicious Minds
I am sometimes a bit reluctant to display the contents of the boot of my car to the general public, be they casual passers-by, householders or, heaven forbid, enthusiastic members of the local neighbourhood watch.
The items are legitimate tools of my daily business but to many observers they may give the impression that I am up to no good whatsoever.
First out for use is always my set of folding ladders. In compact aluminium they are light and strong giving me the option of a pair of steps or a fifteen foot just off the vertical means of accessing loft spaces, clambering onto a roof, looking over high walls and getting up close and personal to windows and upper parts of a building. They are very good for unfastening a garden gate, for example, by clambering up and leaning over to loosen the bolt or catch. All of the above could be witnessed as suspicious behaviour.
Second up is a large heavy duty crowbar or wrecking bar. If hung over the rungs of the ladder when walking from car to job there can be an ominous sound of clanging and clattering which is enough to cause the net curtains of surrounding properties to twitch in interest and mobile phones to be reached for with the speed dial lined up to call the police. The bar is very good for prizing up the awkward and often corroded edges of drain hatch covers, easing open painted up doors and windows and teasing up floorboards to get a look underneath.
Other essential equipment from the car includes a torch, double pronged damp meter, 2 metre spirit level and a briefcase carrying smaller but equally important equipment such as screwdrivers, hammer, stanley knife, plumb line, mirror and a bit of French chalk.
In the main definition of a specific piece of current criminal legislation I could be seen as fulfilling most of the criteria of "going equipped".
I quote........
The offence of going equipped for theft can be a serious allegation linked to accusations of burglary or theft. Going equipped is an offence defined by section 25 of the Theft Act 1968.
If you accused of going equipped, the Prosecution must show that you:
- Had a tool or other article in your possession,
- That tool was intended for use in the course of a burglary or theft, and
- You were not at your home
Going equipped is an offence where the key issue relates to what the suspect intended to do with the tool in his possession. People frequently carry the tools during the course of their business or trade, but what defines the offence is the purpose for carrying out a theft or other dishonesty offence.
Common items that cause suspicion of going equipped are crowbars or bolt cutters. When considering the strength of an allegation, it is appropriate to look at the full circumstances of the incident such as whether the accused was carrying out a trade, or the time of day and location of the accused having such an item.
In mitigation I do wear a business suit and smart shoes and this has given some reassurance to those who might feel that I am up to any mischief. In all of my 30 or so years of going equipped I have only been challenged and called to explain myself a couple of times.
It may be a case of fooling the inquisitive and well meaning with misdirection of a formal appearance because they just do not seem to notice that I am wearing a mask and carrying, over my shoulder, a large canvas bag marked "SWAG".
It may be a case of fooling the inquisitive and well meaning with misdirection of a formal appearance because they just do not seem to notice that I am wearing a mask and carrying, over my shoulder, a large canvas bag marked "SWAG".
Friday 20 February 2015
Wicked Wednesday
Wednesday afternoons are a time of great restlessness in my world.
The feeling is borne out of a routine which was established in my student days back in the early to mid 1980's when the middle of the week was dedicated to skivving off from lectures and general studying for the pursuit of cycling.
I was at Polytechnic in Nottingham and on a misty early spring or balmy summer morning a full day on the bike saw a group of us getting well into the Peak District above Sheffield, into the depths of Derbyshire, south to Loughborough and Burton on Trent and all points of the compass. We thought nothing of covering 150 miles and more at a cracking pace, only stopping to have a tart in Bakewell or a cuppa in Ashbourne.
A wednesday was to be greatly anticipated and enjoyed especially when a certain level of fitness meant that it was really not a lot of effort. The days after and leading up to the next wednesday just dragged on, what with trying to get an education and survive on a meagre student grant.
I often think back to that time now when my midweek work diary is full and there is just no opportunity to get the bike out and just ride.
As it is I only really get an opportunity to cycle on a saturday and if recovered sufficiently on a sunday as well but there are many pressures and demands on my time and energy that inevitably prevent any two wheeled activity. Four hours a week is just not enough to develop any fitness or cardio-vascular benefits and so I just get even more frustrated and restless.
I have however done something about it this week, specifically on the wednesday just passed.
It was a premeditated rather than an impulsive act as I engineered my appointments so as to leave a gap of about 3 hours from 11am to 2pm when I could just disappear from the radar of my work colleagues and business partners without them being concerned for my safety or whereabouts or tempted to contact me with another job.
The weather, a bit iffy over previous days, was bright and dry but as I drove back to the house after my first appointment a few of the St George's flags flying on forecourt flagpoles were flapping to indicate a stiff westerly wind which detracted from the otherwise ideal conditions.
I was genuinely excited by the prospect of a wednesday skive as I could not really recall when I had last dared to abscond from my responsibilities in such a way.
Kitted out in my winter gear and accompanied by my son we set off on the course of the old Hornsea railway line which took us across the city centre behind the terraced houses, urban schools, industrial areas and wastelands until reaching the outer estates and then the open fields of rural East Yorkshire.
The first six miles or so are on red tarmac, reasonably smooth and well drained apart from a few sections where shallow tree roots have burrowed close to the surface making for a very bumpy and uncomfortable ride even with mountain bike suspension.
After crossing a busy main road at the remains of the old Coniston platform the track is just cinders, mud and a few patched potholes and after some rain in preceeding days it made for a great muddy mess.
Ten miles of it meant that upon our arrival on the Promenade at Hornsea on the East Coast both of us were speckled with mud over faces, exposed skin and heavily soiled on jackets, leggings and footwear.
The proprietor of the seafront cafe, bucket and spade emporium where I bought two steaming hot coffees offered me an old dishcloth to wipe away globules of mud caked onto my cheeks and nose as evidently my appearance was a bit disturbing to his other customers.
It was chilly on the sea wall where we sat and warmed ourselves up with the weak instant coffee before setting back for Hull.
The westerly bit into us as soon as we resumed the track. It was going to be a tough ride for the next hour and a half. There was more mud and glory on offer but rather than dodge around the larger mucky puddles we were past caring and just ploughed through raising a small bow wave, mini tsunami and vaporised cloud.
I sat behind my son for most of the ride whose strong pedalling was cutting through the wind and afforded me a bit of shelter to conserve my fast dwindling energy levels.
I was glad to just sit and wait for the traffic lights at the last main road crossing point for a few moments and even happier to pull up to the house having completed my challenge for that wednesday.
It was now a case of going back to work and I had twenty minutes to reach my 2,30 appointment just on the other side of the city centre. I scrubbed up well, or so I thought, and apart from a glowing red face and tousled fringe I felt that there were no real outward signs of my exertion over the previous hours.
During my inspection of the property at half past two I was conscious of the homeowner, a middle aged lady, staring at me as I worked. I put this down to her anxieties of having someone snoop around her house but she persisted in paying close attention to my every move. I thought it was a bit strange and not a bit creepy but all was made clear when I climbed back, a bit stiff legged, into the car and caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror.
Although I had washed my face to remove the railway mud pack I had omitted to do the same to my ears and sticking out from my cycle helmet they had received the brunt of the churned and thrown up mud. They were filthy and I could appreciate the intense interest of the lady in such an anomaly in a supposed professional person. I felt very embarrassed indeed and dashed home to clean up properly.
Thursday 19 February 2015
Doggy Style
I am always a bit nervous when calling at a house and to be greeted through a half opened front door by nervous home owners with the words "Are you alright with dogs?"
The fact that they have to ask that question can mean a number of things,
a) The aforementioned dogs do not like visitors
b) Some unfortunate souls have, in the past, been bitten
c) The dogs in fact rule the house and the human contingent are bound in servitude
d) There is a lot of dog mess everywhere.
e) Anyone calling at the house is likely to walk away covered in hairs and a distinctly damp doggy odour.
I am in fact keen on dogs, having been an owner of two beloved family pets over a period of nearly twenty years and am at ease in their company.
Dogs pick up on this sort of thing being more likely to be uneasy if they sense any inkling of panic or nervousness. If being introduced to one or more resident hounds for the first time I adopt a confident and loud manner and make it a priority to make physical contact straight away with either a pat on the head, a tousling of body hair or a facial close up to make eye contact.
If the petting is received with a low growl or negative body language I of course refrain from getting in their face and back off a bit. Dogs are not keen on being crowded out or hemmed in and I respect that. I know instantly within a couple of steps over the threshold if my acquaintance with the animal is going to be harmonious or acrimonious. I excused the Basset who just wet himself which I like to think was out of sheer anticipation of meeting me rather than a genetic bladder problem.
In most cases, after that initial display of mutual excitement and enthusiasm the situation settles down and I can get on with my job and the canine can get back to whatever it was doing, whether lazing around, watching sunbeams, enjoying daytime television or licking itself in an act of personal hygiene.
Today was just one of those slightly door ajar moments.
It was at a large and character 1930's house in Scarborough, North Yorkshire.
I had an appointment for midday and arrived on time to ring the bell. After the usual question about me and dogs I was confronted by a large head belonging to what I knew to be a German Pointer. Our own version of the same breed had been about the same size but this one was rather grey and grizzled around the muzzle indicating some seniority.
It was then that the Pointer was completely overshadowed by the bounding arrival of a second hound, one of the largest that I had ever come across. The head was monstrously huge and had I not been startled by the image I may have otherwise found its appearance to be comical. Talk about wrinkles, the face was one mass of folds and floppy skin with small beady eyes, flat nose and a small, almost rose petal mouth with tongue hanging out like a depiction of a medieval imbecile.
I recognised the breed straight away as that starring in the hit movie "Turner and Hooch", being the latter and with Tom Hanks playing the lead human role as Detective Turner.
I could not however recollect the actual formal name until provided with that information by the owners. The Dogue de Bordeaux or French Mastiff is one of the most ancient of French breeds being a working dog whose strength and size made it ideal for pulling carts, hauling heavy objects and for guard duty of livestock and property.
In spite of a long line of pedigree and breeders there were in the 1980's only 600 animals known to exist and had it not been for the big screen casting as the slobbering, well meaning and loyal Hooch the numbers may have dwindled to the edge of extinction.
The Scarborough dog, called Fezzywig, was only a puppy and yet in his welcome and attempted friendly mount of my front he loomed up to almost my own 5'10" height. I rubbed his ears and he leant in to me causing me to lose my footing and stagger back across the hallway. I remembered that the movie dog had a problem with prolific production of stringy saliva which was ejected over everyone and everything within a wide radius with the faintest twitch of the muzzle. There were the beginnings of this trait of the breed with a long strand just hanging down ready to be transferred to the leg of my suit.
In the meantime the Pointer, upstaged by the new upstart, had retired to its blanket adjacent to the staircase and looked suitably under-impressed and bored by the over the top performance of the young pretender.
I made the mistake of turning my back on Fezzywig and felt the full force of his gargantuan body on my backside as he playfully pushed me into the next room. The owners were struggling to control the dog which had by now adopted a tremendous momentum. I was only then notified that he liked to occasionally grab and gnaw on hands and fingers and I was encouraged to make my way upstairs which had obviously been established as being out of bounds.
I tried to recall when I had last had a Tetanus injection in case, on my return journey the threat of a bit of a chewing of digits took place.
My fears were unfounded as typically the dog had lost interest in me as quickly as we had become the best of buddies. I took my usual photograph of interesting pets encountered in my daily work and made a mental note to check if we still had, in our extensive DVD library a copy of the film classic featuring the oversized but cheeky monster dog.
The fact that they have to ask that question can mean a number of things,
a) The aforementioned dogs do not like visitors
b) Some unfortunate souls have, in the past, been bitten
c) The dogs in fact rule the house and the human contingent are bound in servitude
d) There is a lot of dog mess everywhere.
e) Anyone calling at the house is likely to walk away covered in hairs and a distinctly damp doggy odour.
I am in fact keen on dogs, having been an owner of two beloved family pets over a period of nearly twenty years and am at ease in their company.
Dogs pick up on this sort of thing being more likely to be uneasy if they sense any inkling of panic or nervousness. If being introduced to one or more resident hounds for the first time I adopt a confident and loud manner and make it a priority to make physical contact straight away with either a pat on the head, a tousling of body hair or a facial close up to make eye contact.
If the petting is received with a low growl or negative body language I of course refrain from getting in their face and back off a bit. Dogs are not keen on being crowded out or hemmed in and I respect that. I know instantly within a couple of steps over the threshold if my acquaintance with the animal is going to be harmonious or acrimonious. I excused the Basset who just wet himself which I like to think was out of sheer anticipation of meeting me rather than a genetic bladder problem.
In most cases, after that initial display of mutual excitement and enthusiasm the situation settles down and I can get on with my job and the canine can get back to whatever it was doing, whether lazing around, watching sunbeams, enjoying daytime television or licking itself in an act of personal hygiene.
Today was just one of those slightly door ajar moments.
It was at a large and character 1930's house in Scarborough, North Yorkshire.
I had an appointment for midday and arrived on time to ring the bell. After the usual question about me and dogs I was confronted by a large head belonging to what I knew to be a German Pointer. Our own version of the same breed had been about the same size but this one was rather grey and grizzled around the muzzle indicating some seniority.
It was then that the Pointer was completely overshadowed by the bounding arrival of a second hound, one of the largest that I had ever come across. The head was monstrously huge and had I not been startled by the image I may have otherwise found its appearance to be comical. Talk about wrinkles, the face was one mass of folds and floppy skin with small beady eyes, flat nose and a small, almost rose petal mouth with tongue hanging out like a depiction of a medieval imbecile.
I recognised the breed straight away as that starring in the hit movie "Turner and Hooch", being the latter and with Tom Hanks playing the lead human role as Detective Turner.
I could not however recollect the actual formal name until provided with that information by the owners. The Dogue de Bordeaux or French Mastiff is one of the most ancient of French breeds being a working dog whose strength and size made it ideal for pulling carts, hauling heavy objects and for guard duty of livestock and property.
In spite of a long line of pedigree and breeders there were in the 1980's only 600 animals known to exist and had it not been for the big screen casting as the slobbering, well meaning and loyal Hooch the numbers may have dwindled to the edge of extinction.
The Scarborough dog, called Fezzywig, was only a puppy and yet in his welcome and attempted friendly mount of my front he loomed up to almost my own 5'10" height. I rubbed his ears and he leant in to me causing me to lose my footing and stagger back across the hallway. I remembered that the movie dog had a problem with prolific production of stringy saliva which was ejected over everyone and everything within a wide radius with the faintest twitch of the muzzle. There were the beginnings of this trait of the breed with a long strand just hanging down ready to be transferred to the leg of my suit.
In the meantime the Pointer, upstaged by the new upstart, had retired to its blanket adjacent to the staircase and looked suitably under-impressed and bored by the over the top performance of the young pretender.
I made the mistake of turning my back on Fezzywig and felt the full force of his gargantuan body on my backside as he playfully pushed me into the next room. The owners were struggling to control the dog which had by now adopted a tremendous momentum. I was only then notified that he liked to occasionally grab and gnaw on hands and fingers and I was encouraged to make my way upstairs which had obviously been established as being out of bounds.
I tried to recall when I had last had a Tetanus injection in case, on my return journey the threat of a bit of a chewing of digits took place.
My fears were unfounded as typically the dog had lost interest in me as quickly as we had become the best of buddies. I took my usual photograph of interesting pets encountered in my daily work and made a mental note to check if we still had, in our extensive DVD library a copy of the film classic featuring the oversized but cheeky monster dog.
Wednesday 18 February 2015
Child's Play
A recent Report from The Children's Society in the UK expressed concerns that teenagers are becoming increasingly unhappy with their lives.
Amongst the reasons cited for the disgruntled mindset of the current youth of the country are school, appearance, choice and freedom.
I am the first to accept that we are living in very different times. There are economic undercurrents, Environmental issues, World Unrest, we are up to a NOW!85 album for goodness sake but when I was a teenager I never had time to even contemplate if I was worried about anything because I, like my peers, was just too busy getting on with things.
From getting up early to going to bed, early, the day was simply packed with activities.
Of course, during school term time there was the effort to get ready which in a household of 5 children was only kept from being chaotic by good adult supervision and a rota for the bathroom and the breakfast table.
We were always well turned out in school uniform, washed and brushed and with clean shoes. This enabled us to follow our Father as he strode off down the street to take on his role of Manager at a bank in the town. We would straggle along before peeling off at the top of the road to the school although on more than one occasion my younger brother just doubled back when out of sight and went home.
We did range about quite freely in our teenage years whereas with the modern phenomena of paranoia around stranger danger and the perception of crime many of todays young adults are driven about everywhere by over indulgent parents.
We stayed for dinner at the canteen. This was not one of these multiple choice affairs which feature in State Schools today and rival a reasonable bistro but with a menu that you could set your calendar by. Monday was fish fingers and chips, Tuesday liver and onions, Wednesday some form of meat in a pie, Thursday cold salad and Friday some other form of meat in some form of gravy. There was dessert including flapjack, treacle sponge pudding, spotted dick, chocolate sponge and Angel Delight on a strict rotation basis whether or not complimentary to or inducing an adverse reaction when combined with the main course. All washed down with tap water and ,oh yes, pink custard.
As for lessons, well we just stuck to the basics of the three 'R's as they say with a smattering of science, languages, arts, crafts, music and strenuous physical exercise. There was none of the variation found in the current curriculum such as multi faith studies, media studies, citizenship and vague arty-farty subjects for which everyone gets a certificate of merit.
There was a level of mutual respect between the teaching staff and us pupils although it was borne more out of fear and retribution rather than anything enlightened. I do not think that I ever knew the Christian names of any of my teachers in senior school unless bastardised into a nickname or if it was unusually hilarious and capable of being sung or put in an offensive rhyme.
We did have a clear objective in our schooling years whether to go on to a University, Polytechnic or College or go straight into employment. I can appreciate some of the anxiety of the current teenagers about what to do with their lives post-secondary education given the lack of meaningful full time jobs in the UK economy.
As for money in our pockets, well, I only had my pocket money which until I got a paper round was based on one new pence per year of age. This did not go very far other than my monthly comic/magazine, goodies and my flirting with being a smoker, briefly, one rebellious summer.
I was never a saver and shamefully this still applies into my 6th decade on the planet.
In the absence of personal wealth the only option was to make your own entertainment and this we did large.
What was better than having competitive foot running or bike races around the housing estate with your mates or going into battle armed with home made bows and arrows against the kids from the nearby council houses?
The local streams and ponds were teeming with sticklebacks, frogspawn and newts providing endless hours of fun from daybreak to dusk. Just take a net on a stick and a jam jar.
There were trees to climb, gardens and allotments to trespass through, small shops ripe for a five finger discount if in enough of a group to constitute a distraction for the proprietor, things to set alight and wait for the fire brigade, doors to knock on before running off, people to follow at random through the town just to see what they were up to, Bob a Job week once a year with a licence to wash cars and use all of my Father's chrome polish on gleaming bumpers and hub caps, animals to stalk and worry, girls to chase, catch and kiss, small kids to impress with bravado and daring near the railway line, river and on the bridge over the by-pass.
It all now sounds borderline delinquent and illegal but I like to think that all of these things were enacted in the right spirit and with not a malicious thought in our heads. Some friends did get arrested or died though.
Any prowess at sport, in music or in performing arts was hard earned through many hours of practice and sacrifice of time and effort. That was probably why I never did much in any discipline in my teenage years. Todays youth are just waiting around optimistically to be discovered by talent spotters whether singing flatly and nasally under their headphones at the Mall ,on a You Tube video or through posted on Facebook.
I can sense their frustration if by the age of 17 they have not signed to a record label or modelling agency or are not otherwise entrepreneurial millionaires.
Teenagers today are very fashion and image conscious. We were never too concerned about our appearance. Take a look in the family photo album from my mid teens and you will know this to be true. My idea of style was a pair of Lopez jeans, formal shoes, button up shirt and a cardigan. Pretty square you would be entitled to say but I can assure you that I did not stand out as being any different to my contemporaries. My hair style, or lack of it, was a bit of a basin cut, floppy fringe and with the later mature growth of sideburns which, if shaved off after the summer, just left a white stripe down the side of my head.
Perhaps we were innocent and naïve compared with the current crop of teenagers who have multi-media and Wikipedia at their fingertips. Perhaps we were happy to look up in a book or just wait if a question was needed to be answered rather than demanding immediacy. Perhaps we lived in a time of guaranteed employment and a job for life. Perhaps the world did not seem such a scary place because we were not force fed scaremongering news on a 24 hour basis. We did, it should not be forgotten, live under the threat of nuclear world war, civil and social unrest and turmoil but the key factor to maintaining our sanity and off setting those very modern ailments called childhood stress and unhappiness was that we knew how to play and have fun.
Amongst the reasons cited for the disgruntled mindset of the current youth of the country are school, appearance, choice and freedom.
I am the first to accept that we are living in very different times. There are economic undercurrents, Environmental issues, World Unrest, we are up to a NOW!85 album for goodness sake but when I was a teenager I never had time to even contemplate if I was worried about anything because I, like my peers, was just too busy getting on with things.
From getting up early to going to bed, early, the day was simply packed with activities.
Of course, during school term time there was the effort to get ready which in a household of 5 children was only kept from being chaotic by good adult supervision and a rota for the bathroom and the breakfast table.
We were always well turned out in school uniform, washed and brushed and with clean shoes. This enabled us to follow our Father as he strode off down the street to take on his role of Manager at a bank in the town. We would straggle along before peeling off at the top of the road to the school although on more than one occasion my younger brother just doubled back when out of sight and went home.
We did range about quite freely in our teenage years whereas with the modern phenomena of paranoia around stranger danger and the perception of crime many of todays young adults are driven about everywhere by over indulgent parents.
We stayed for dinner at the canteen. This was not one of these multiple choice affairs which feature in State Schools today and rival a reasonable bistro but with a menu that you could set your calendar by. Monday was fish fingers and chips, Tuesday liver and onions, Wednesday some form of meat in a pie, Thursday cold salad and Friday some other form of meat in some form of gravy. There was dessert including flapjack, treacle sponge pudding, spotted dick, chocolate sponge and Angel Delight on a strict rotation basis whether or not complimentary to or inducing an adverse reaction when combined with the main course. All washed down with tap water and ,oh yes, pink custard.
As for lessons, well we just stuck to the basics of the three 'R's as they say with a smattering of science, languages, arts, crafts, music and strenuous physical exercise. There was none of the variation found in the current curriculum such as multi faith studies, media studies, citizenship and vague arty-farty subjects for which everyone gets a certificate of merit.
There was a level of mutual respect between the teaching staff and us pupils although it was borne more out of fear and retribution rather than anything enlightened. I do not think that I ever knew the Christian names of any of my teachers in senior school unless bastardised into a nickname or if it was unusually hilarious and capable of being sung or put in an offensive rhyme.
We did have a clear objective in our schooling years whether to go on to a University, Polytechnic or College or go straight into employment. I can appreciate some of the anxiety of the current teenagers about what to do with their lives post-secondary education given the lack of meaningful full time jobs in the UK economy.
As for money in our pockets, well, I only had my pocket money which until I got a paper round was based on one new pence per year of age. This did not go very far other than my monthly comic/magazine, goodies and my flirting with being a smoker, briefly, one rebellious summer.
I was never a saver and shamefully this still applies into my 6th decade on the planet.
In the absence of personal wealth the only option was to make your own entertainment and this we did large.
What was better than having competitive foot running or bike races around the housing estate with your mates or going into battle armed with home made bows and arrows against the kids from the nearby council houses?
The local streams and ponds were teeming with sticklebacks, frogspawn and newts providing endless hours of fun from daybreak to dusk. Just take a net on a stick and a jam jar.
There were trees to climb, gardens and allotments to trespass through, small shops ripe for a five finger discount if in enough of a group to constitute a distraction for the proprietor, things to set alight and wait for the fire brigade, doors to knock on before running off, people to follow at random through the town just to see what they were up to, Bob a Job week once a year with a licence to wash cars and use all of my Father's chrome polish on gleaming bumpers and hub caps, animals to stalk and worry, girls to chase, catch and kiss, small kids to impress with bravado and daring near the railway line, river and on the bridge over the by-pass.
It all now sounds borderline delinquent and illegal but I like to think that all of these things were enacted in the right spirit and with not a malicious thought in our heads. Some friends did get arrested or died though.
Any prowess at sport, in music or in performing arts was hard earned through many hours of practice and sacrifice of time and effort. That was probably why I never did much in any discipline in my teenage years. Todays youth are just waiting around optimistically to be discovered by talent spotters whether singing flatly and nasally under their headphones at the Mall ,on a You Tube video or through posted on Facebook.
I can sense their frustration if by the age of 17 they have not signed to a record label or modelling agency or are not otherwise entrepreneurial millionaires.
Teenagers today are very fashion and image conscious. We were never too concerned about our appearance. Take a look in the family photo album from my mid teens and you will know this to be true. My idea of style was a pair of Lopez jeans, formal shoes, button up shirt and a cardigan. Pretty square you would be entitled to say but I can assure you that I did not stand out as being any different to my contemporaries. My hair style, or lack of it, was a bit of a basin cut, floppy fringe and with the later mature growth of sideburns which, if shaved off after the summer, just left a white stripe down the side of my head.
Perhaps we were innocent and naïve compared with the current crop of teenagers who have multi-media and Wikipedia at their fingertips. Perhaps we were happy to look up in a book or just wait if a question was needed to be answered rather than demanding immediacy. Perhaps we lived in a time of guaranteed employment and a job for life. Perhaps the world did not seem such a scary place because we were not force fed scaremongering news on a 24 hour basis. We did, it should not be forgotten, live under the threat of nuclear world war, civil and social unrest and turmoil but the key factor to maintaining our sanity and off setting those very modern ailments called childhood stress and unhappiness was that we knew how to play and have fun.
Tuesday 17 February 2015
The Great Indoors
The developments in equipment for indoor cycle training in recent years have seemed to me to be revolutionary, in more than one meaning of the word.
I bought, in the 1980's, what was then quite a sophisticated set of training rollers but by current standards would be regarded as just one step further than, say, stabilisers fitted to a child's bike.
By rollers, I mean a lightweight aluminium frame in to which were bolted three rotating drums which ran on nylon bearings. There were two at one end, which I will call by its technical name of "the back" and a single at the other end or "the front". A rubber band was looped between grooves to synchronise the movement of the single and inner of the pair.
A bike when positioned with the back wheel on the two back and front wheel on the single front cylinders could be pedalled in a carefree manner as though out on the open road itself.
That all sounds very good and a definite training advantage for an enthusiastic and dedicated cyclist not otherwise able to venture outside due to inclement weather, lack of time or a sudden loss of the aforementioned enthusiasm and dedication.
However, positioning and pedalling demanded a further requirement and that was being able to balance perfectly on the bike on top of the rolling road. To get to that stage it was necessary to manhandle the bike close and parallel to the contraption and at the same time clamber up onto a kitchen chair before the final lift of bike to make contact with the rollers and a swing of the leg to mount the saddle. Briefly, there would be no restraint or friction between the constituent parts until a panicky and erratic lunge to pull on the brake levers gave some stability and an opportunity to start pedalling and attain some momentum and balance at last.
The kitchen chair could be an obstruction if remaining close to right or left leg when pedalling began but it was essential not to disturb its position as any later attempt to dismount depended on it. There was not always a family member on hand to help with this part of the operation.
At last the training could begin with alternate fast and slow efforts, a few mad minutes and then relax and repeat. Indoor cycling does generate considerable latent heat from the physical effort of the rider and the kinetic energy developed by rubber tyres on nylon bearings.
Sweat pours out of every pore and orifice, causing a stinging sensation in the eyes and saturating clothing. It can be an unpleasant feeling for footwear to slowly fill with perspiration and there is always that lurking fear that the salt content from bodily extrusion will eventually rot away the bike frame and components, hopefully not when being ridden.
I soon discovered another hazard which was an inevitable side-effect of using my rollers.
The bearings, being man made, acted as a static electricity generator and after only a few minutes of rotation a considerable charge could be stored up. This was released through contact with another human being or an earthed item. The first time it happened to me resulted in a loud craaaaack and spark onto my tongue in the act of taking a drink of water from a cup. I was so startled that I just fell off in a tangle of limbs, bike parts, upturned kitchen chair and to the soundtrack of slowing spinning rollers and hysterical laughter from those who witnessed it.
That piece of fitness equipment, extreme danger aside, lasted from about twenty years before the elastic band snapped and I could not find a replacement.
Only last week I got around to buying the current equivalent training aid, a 21st Century miracle of engineering design and application compared to its positively Medieval predecessor.
There is no balancing required as the bike is firmly held by the rear axle and the front wheel simply sits in a moulded free-standing unit. The kitchen chair is redundant other than for seating in a kitchen as it is easy to just cock-a-leg over the crossbar and ease up onto the saddle. Pedalling can begin on a rock-solid bicycle with no thoughts of personal danger which is mighty comforting.
It is a pleasure to train indoors and I look forward to another two decades, at least, of effort without any forward or lateral motion whatsoever.
I bought, in the 1980's, what was then quite a sophisticated set of training rollers but by current standards would be regarded as just one step further than, say, stabilisers fitted to a child's bike.
By rollers, I mean a lightweight aluminium frame in to which were bolted three rotating drums which ran on nylon bearings. There were two at one end, which I will call by its technical name of "the back" and a single at the other end or "the front". A rubber band was looped between grooves to synchronise the movement of the single and inner of the pair.
A bike when positioned with the back wheel on the two back and front wheel on the single front cylinders could be pedalled in a carefree manner as though out on the open road itself.
That all sounds very good and a definite training advantage for an enthusiastic and dedicated cyclist not otherwise able to venture outside due to inclement weather, lack of time or a sudden loss of the aforementioned enthusiasm and dedication.
However, positioning and pedalling demanded a further requirement and that was being able to balance perfectly on the bike on top of the rolling road. To get to that stage it was necessary to manhandle the bike close and parallel to the contraption and at the same time clamber up onto a kitchen chair before the final lift of bike to make contact with the rollers and a swing of the leg to mount the saddle. Briefly, there would be no restraint or friction between the constituent parts until a panicky and erratic lunge to pull on the brake levers gave some stability and an opportunity to start pedalling and attain some momentum and balance at last.
The kitchen chair could be an obstruction if remaining close to right or left leg when pedalling began but it was essential not to disturb its position as any later attempt to dismount depended on it. There was not always a family member on hand to help with this part of the operation.
At last the training could begin with alternate fast and slow efforts, a few mad minutes and then relax and repeat. Indoor cycling does generate considerable latent heat from the physical effort of the rider and the kinetic energy developed by rubber tyres on nylon bearings.
Sweat pours out of every pore and orifice, causing a stinging sensation in the eyes and saturating clothing. It can be an unpleasant feeling for footwear to slowly fill with perspiration and there is always that lurking fear that the salt content from bodily extrusion will eventually rot away the bike frame and components, hopefully not when being ridden.
I soon discovered another hazard which was an inevitable side-effect of using my rollers.
The bearings, being man made, acted as a static electricity generator and after only a few minutes of rotation a considerable charge could be stored up. This was released through contact with another human being or an earthed item. The first time it happened to me resulted in a loud craaaaack and spark onto my tongue in the act of taking a drink of water from a cup. I was so startled that I just fell off in a tangle of limbs, bike parts, upturned kitchen chair and to the soundtrack of slowing spinning rollers and hysterical laughter from those who witnessed it.
That piece of fitness equipment, extreme danger aside, lasted from about twenty years before the elastic band snapped and I could not find a replacement.
Only last week I got around to buying the current equivalent training aid, a 21st Century miracle of engineering design and application compared to its positively Medieval predecessor.
There is no balancing required as the bike is firmly held by the rear axle and the front wheel simply sits in a moulded free-standing unit. The kitchen chair is redundant other than for seating in a kitchen as it is easy to just cock-a-leg over the crossbar and ease up onto the saddle. Pedalling can begin on a rock-solid bicycle with no thoughts of personal danger which is mighty comforting.
It is a pleasure to train indoors and I look forward to another two decades, at least, of effort without any forward or lateral motion whatsoever.
Monday 16 February 2015
Hole in the ground
I spent a lot of time in a place called Little Switzerland.
The name conjurs up all sorts of wonderful vistas, sparklingly clean air, towering snow capped peaks above neatly laid out handerkerchief meadows strewn with daisies, bracing hillside walks above steeply sided valleys and twinkling watercourses cavorting in white water like a meringue topping.
Unfortunately my version was little more than a large hole formed from mineral workings which periodically smelt rank and fetid, regularly flooded, often suffered from landslip to the eroded precipices and I hold personally to blame for the death of our Pointer dog, Toffy as the most likely source of the Weils disease that cut her short in her prime years.
Whoever first named that pit to allude to the beauty and majesty of an Alpine paradise must have not travelled very widely or was drunk at the time. The only possible link between the Swiss nation and the hole in the ground is loose and tenuous in that on the rare occasion that sunlight penetrates the swamp gas and algae infused hazy mist the residual chalk face could possibly and with squinty eyes resemble, perhaps, a light covering of snow, maybe.
I have seen photographs of the place in its heyday as a quarry in the latter part of the 1800's. Considerable activity from men and machines with the raw chalk being dug, chipped, blasted and coerced from its prehistoric resting place and then run out onto the bank of the River Humber where barges and shallow draught vessels waited at wooden quays to be loaded.
The black, bitumenous tower of a windmill remains as a sole surviving structure of what was a small community of houses and works. The operations on the site will have ceased sometime in the early part of the twentieth century and with many subsequent decades of the reclamation by nature back to a wilderness. In less sensitive locations, being close to the river and upwind of a town the large void will have formed a good resource for landfill for a few years at least and it's sister quarry within half a mile inland was commandered by the Council for such a purpose.
A few events transpired to salvage the quarry.
The Humber Bridge was built and the quarry , overlooking the structure, was ideally placed for transformation into a Visitor Centre with childrens play area and a large landscaped bowl shaped public park. The task to make the place hospitable was on a large scale. The only level access point was from the river bank and obstacles included a main line railway and, at that time, a dual carriageway forming the principal approach to Hull from the west. Tunnels were formed in smooth dressed concrete although now heavily disguised in what passes for urbanised art of dubious origin and showing that biology and human anatomy have not been taught in our local schools for some years.
Volunteers and possibly those on community service for urban art atrocities dug into the floor of the quarry and carved out paths and steps, laid down walkways in railway sleepers and cleared a good few tons of litter and deposited waste as a consequence of a free for all fly tipping practice.
The lowest parts were shaped into lagoons and pools but on chalk they invariably filled up and emptied at will. The startling green colour of the stagnant water did serve to warn off those intent on paddling but dogs and even a few skinny dippers could be at first heard and then seen splashing around in the murky shallows.
In the twilight hours and beyond the park was taken over by the youth wing of the society of Arsonists with the charring and collapse of many of the wooden bench seats, picnic tables, sculpture carvings and playground apparatus.
Still, in reasonable daylight and dry conditions it was a regular destination of choice for our young family with buggies, bikes and dog sled team. It took a good 1 mile uphill slog to get there from the house but we would spend many an hour circling the base of the cliffs, dragging sticks, skimming and throwing pebbles into the gaseous flouresecent mire and rescuing the dogs from face offs or worse with those squat ugly breeds and their killer mongrels. For our education there were information points through the park with pictures of dinosaurs, fossils and other illustrations of the local history aspects. It appears that the minerals in the quarry had origins in the carcasses of small crustaceans which had accumulated in the bed of a tropical sea some considerable millenia ago. Whosoever had dumped them in the quarry should have been prosecuted in my opinion.
It was also a place to take sunday visitors and with favourable weather it could be quite a pleasant family and social experience. The children, when small, enjoyed clambering up the banks and undulations. A shortcut we regularly took skirted the contours up the inner eastern face and over a few years we established a well worn path inspite of the treacherously loose ground, sheer drops and protruding and snaking tree roots that could easily catch out the inattentive. As with most regular haunts they do have only a finite attraction and use and we gradually drifted away from Little Switzerland in favour of lazer quest, bowling and hanging about in shopping malls which the children, now much older, also enjoyed.
A lasting memory is of Toffy the Pointer in her element chasing down a rabbit or squirrel but always and thankfully in vain. Her activities will have been watched by a cautious rat in a hole before its ultimate contribution to her untimely demise.
The name conjurs up all sorts of wonderful vistas, sparklingly clean air, towering snow capped peaks above neatly laid out handerkerchief meadows strewn with daisies, bracing hillside walks above steeply sided valleys and twinkling watercourses cavorting in white water like a meringue topping.
Unfortunately my version was little more than a large hole formed from mineral workings which periodically smelt rank and fetid, regularly flooded, often suffered from landslip to the eroded precipices and I hold personally to blame for the death of our Pointer dog, Toffy as the most likely source of the Weils disease that cut her short in her prime years.
Whoever first named that pit to allude to the beauty and majesty of an Alpine paradise must have not travelled very widely or was drunk at the time. The only possible link between the Swiss nation and the hole in the ground is loose and tenuous in that on the rare occasion that sunlight penetrates the swamp gas and algae infused hazy mist the residual chalk face could possibly and with squinty eyes resemble, perhaps, a light covering of snow, maybe.
I have seen photographs of the place in its heyday as a quarry in the latter part of the 1800's. Considerable activity from men and machines with the raw chalk being dug, chipped, blasted and coerced from its prehistoric resting place and then run out onto the bank of the River Humber where barges and shallow draught vessels waited at wooden quays to be loaded.
The black, bitumenous tower of a windmill remains as a sole surviving structure of what was a small community of houses and works. The operations on the site will have ceased sometime in the early part of the twentieth century and with many subsequent decades of the reclamation by nature back to a wilderness. In less sensitive locations, being close to the river and upwind of a town the large void will have formed a good resource for landfill for a few years at least and it's sister quarry within half a mile inland was commandered by the Council for such a purpose.
A few events transpired to salvage the quarry.
The Humber Bridge was built and the quarry , overlooking the structure, was ideally placed for transformation into a Visitor Centre with childrens play area and a large landscaped bowl shaped public park. The task to make the place hospitable was on a large scale. The only level access point was from the river bank and obstacles included a main line railway and, at that time, a dual carriageway forming the principal approach to Hull from the west. Tunnels were formed in smooth dressed concrete although now heavily disguised in what passes for urbanised art of dubious origin and showing that biology and human anatomy have not been taught in our local schools for some years.
Volunteers and possibly those on community service for urban art atrocities dug into the floor of the quarry and carved out paths and steps, laid down walkways in railway sleepers and cleared a good few tons of litter and deposited waste as a consequence of a free for all fly tipping practice.
The lowest parts were shaped into lagoons and pools but on chalk they invariably filled up and emptied at will. The startling green colour of the stagnant water did serve to warn off those intent on paddling but dogs and even a few skinny dippers could be at first heard and then seen splashing around in the murky shallows.
In the twilight hours and beyond the park was taken over by the youth wing of the society of Arsonists with the charring and collapse of many of the wooden bench seats, picnic tables, sculpture carvings and playground apparatus.
Still, in reasonable daylight and dry conditions it was a regular destination of choice for our young family with buggies, bikes and dog sled team. It took a good 1 mile uphill slog to get there from the house but we would spend many an hour circling the base of the cliffs, dragging sticks, skimming and throwing pebbles into the gaseous flouresecent mire and rescuing the dogs from face offs or worse with those squat ugly breeds and their killer mongrels. For our education there were information points through the park with pictures of dinosaurs, fossils and other illustrations of the local history aspects. It appears that the minerals in the quarry had origins in the carcasses of small crustaceans which had accumulated in the bed of a tropical sea some considerable millenia ago. Whosoever had dumped them in the quarry should have been prosecuted in my opinion.
It was also a place to take sunday visitors and with favourable weather it could be quite a pleasant family and social experience. The children, when small, enjoyed clambering up the banks and undulations. A shortcut we regularly took skirted the contours up the inner eastern face and over a few years we established a well worn path inspite of the treacherously loose ground, sheer drops and protruding and snaking tree roots that could easily catch out the inattentive. As with most regular haunts they do have only a finite attraction and use and we gradually drifted away from Little Switzerland in favour of lazer quest, bowling and hanging about in shopping malls which the children, now much older, also enjoyed.
A lasting memory is of Toffy the Pointer in her element chasing down a rabbit or squirrel but always and thankfully in vain. Her activities will have been watched by a cautious rat in a hole before its ultimate contribution to her untimely demise.
Sunday 15 February 2015
Thor
I was in my seventh year (1970) and just in infant's school when my class did a project on the great maritime explorer and adventurer Thor Heyerdahl.
He had just completed another epic sea journey in little more than a buoyant mud hut called Ra following on from his perhaps even more epic sea journey on his Kon Tiki raft in the late 1940's.
There was a lot for us young children to learn about the actual boat, how he survived the months at sea, the practicalities of eating, getting fresh water and of course, of great interest to developing minds - how he went to the toilet.
We made models of vessels that we would hope, ourselves, to sail around the great oceans aboard but our resources of loo rolls, milk cartons and margarine containers did have severe creative limitations.
What I do not remember being told about and I realise this only now in my 51st year was Heyerdahl's recording of his shock and dismay at the amount of pollution that he came across every day of his journey.
He had seen early signs of the use of the oceans as a dumping ground on his first rafting but the increase in waste and debris over the ensuing 20 to 25 years he found heartbreaking.
So how bad is the problem now, another near half century on?
Current estimates are that the amount of plastic found in the world's oceans is around 8.8 million tons.
An aid to assist in visualising this figure is that it would translate into five carrier bags full of the stuff for every foot of the whole of the earth's coastline.
Most of the debris consists not of obvious bulky items of bottles, containers, packaging, wrappers, etc but of small plastic particles averaging 5mm x 5mm x 1mm which are suspended at or just below the surface. The problem is lurking there but is impossible to detect by aircraft or satellite and may not be detectable even by boaters or divers amongst it.
The particles in being light are very mobile and become trapped and re-circulated in the main currents of the great oceans.
There are garbage patches in the Pacific, Indian Ocean and North Atlantic with not only pelagic plastics but chemical sludge and other pollutants.
The size of the Pacific Garbage Patch is unknown but has been estimated from sampling from 270,000 square miles (the size of Texas) to more than 5,800,000 square miles which is, staggeringly, twice the size of the continental United States.
In 2009 an Oceanography Vessel found that plastic debris was present in 100 consecutive samples taken at various depths and using different net sizes along a 1700 mile trawl through the Garbage Patch.
Unlike organic debris which biodegrades the plastic tends to disintegrate into ever smaller pieces while remaining a polymer. As the flotsam photodegrades yet smaller and smaller it forms a concentrated soup near the ocean surface and is readily ingested by aquatic organisms. It is not far from this point to a risk of the plastic entering the human food chain.
Those plastics which do decompose are not the end of the problem as toxic chemicals are released including PCB's and derivatives of polystyrene. In many of the sampled areas the overall concentration of plastics was found to be seven times greater than natural zooplankton.
Concerns have been expressed that the layer of pollution prevents light reaching into the oceans and the debris is also able to absorb toxins with potential to poison anything that eats it.
A clean-up coalition was formed in 2008 in the Pacific Region to try to identify methods to safely remove plastic and persistent organic pollutants. Commercial scale collection and recycling is an option and research has been undertaken on the potential to use the surface currents to let the debris drift to specifically designed points thereby keeping running costs at virtually zero but with efficiencies making for good projections of profitability from such an operation.
On a very small scale but actually up and running is the crafting of a soap dish made from recycled ocean plastic from beaches in Hawaii. Artist Groups use trash from the Garbage Patch to create clothing coining the new term of trashion.
The emphasis has tended to be on trying to cope with current concentrations of rubbish but active sources of the problem are well known around the Pacific Basin and where the other gyres of marine debris are to be found.
The majority of the plastic comes from five countries, China, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, The Phillipines and Vietnam. These nations appear to lack any real concerted waste management programmes resulting in resorting to disposal into the sea. The United States are an example of a country with a defined environmental policy and although not at all squeaky clean in contributing 77,000 tonnes (compared with 2.4 million tons from China) it is equally shocking that this is thought to mainly come from littering.
I conclude with recollections of my school project on Thor Heyedahl way back in 1970.
We as innocent children were not to know or appreciate then what we were, as part of the human race, storing up in terms of environmental impact and ecological hazard. Pollution and Climate change were not prominent in our infantile studies or to be honest of any interest or concern whatsover. We were far more fascinated and enthralled by trying to imagine drifting about on a raft and all adventurous things like that.
He had just completed another epic sea journey in little more than a buoyant mud hut called Ra following on from his perhaps even more epic sea journey on his Kon Tiki raft in the late 1940's.
There was a lot for us young children to learn about the actual boat, how he survived the months at sea, the practicalities of eating, getting fresh water and of course, of great interest to developing minds - how he went to the toilet.
We made models of vessels that we would hope, ourselves, to sail around the great oceans aboard but our resources of loo rolls, milk cartons and margarine containers did have severe creative limitations.
What I do not remember being told about and I realise this only now in my 51st year was Heyerdahl's recording of his shock and dismay at the amount of pollution that he came across every day of his journey.
He had seen early signs of the use of the oceans as a dumping ground on his first rafting but the increase in waste and debris over the ensuing 20 to 25 years he found heartbreaking.
So how bad is the problem now, another near half century on?
Current estimates are that the amount of plastic found in the world's oceans is around 8.8 million tons.
An aid to assist in visualising this figure is that it would translate into five carrier bags full of the stuff for every foot of the whole of the earth's coastline.
Most of the debris consists not of obvious bulky items of bottles, containers, packaging, wrappers, etc but of small plastic particles averaging 5mm x 5mm x 1mm which are suspended at or just below the surface. The problem is lurking there but is impossible to detect by aircraft or satellite and may not be detectable even by boaters or divers amongst it.
The particles in being light are very mobile and become trapped and re-circulated in the main currents of the great oceans.
There are garbage patches in the Pacific, Indian Ocean and North Atlantic with not only pelagic plastics but chemical sludge and other pollutants.
The size of the Pacific Garbage Patch is unknown but has been estimated from sampling from 270,000 square miles (the size of Texas) to more than 5,800,000 square miles which is, staggeringly, twice the size of the continental United States.
In 2009 an Oceanography Vessel found that plastic debris was present in 100 consecutive samples taken at various depths and using different net sizes along a 1700 mile trawl through the Garbage Patch.
Unlike organic debris which biodegrades the plastic tends to disintegrate into ever smaller pieces while remaining a polymer. As the flotsam photodegrades yet smaller and smaller it forms a concentrated soup near the ocean surface and is readily ingested by aquatic organisms. It is not far from this point to a risk of the plastic entering the human food chain.
Those plastics which do decompose are not the end of the problem as toxic chemicals are released including PCB's and derivatives of polystyrene. In many of the sampled areas the overall concentration of plastics was found to be seven times greater than natural zooplankton.
Concerns have been expressed that the layer of pollution prevents light reaching into the oceans and the debris is also able to absorb toxins with potential to poison anything that eats it.
A clean-up coalition was formed in 2008 in the Pacific Region to try to identify methods to safely remove plastic and persistent organic pollutants. Commercial scale collection and recycling is an option and research has been undertaken on the potential to use the surface currents to let the debris drift to specifically designed points thereby keeping running costs at virtually zero but with efficiencies making for good projections of profitability from such an operation.
On a very small scale but actually up and running is the crafting of a soap dish made from recycled ocean plastic from beaches in Hawaii. Artist Groups use trash from the Garbage Patch to create clothing coining the new term of trashion.
The emphasis has tended to be on trying to cope with current concentrations of rubbish but active sources of the problem are well known around the Pacific Basin and where the other gyres of marine debris are to be found.
The majority of the plastic comes from five countries, China, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, The Phillipines and Vietnam. These nations appear to lack any real concerted waste management programmes resulting in resorting to disposal into the sea. The United States are an example of a country with a defined environmental policy and although not at all squeaky clean in contributing 77,000 tonnes (compared with 2.4 million tons from China) it is equally shocking that this is thought to mainly come from littering.
I conclude with recollections of my school project on Thor Heyedahl way back in 1970.
We as innocent children were not to know or appreciate then what we were, as part of the human race, storing up in terms of environmental impact and ecological hazard. Pollution and Climate change were not prominent in our infantile studies or to be honest of any interest or concern whatsover. We were far more fascinated and enthralled by trying to imagine drifting about on a raft and all adventurous things like that.
Saturday 14 February 2015
Mud Mountain
The problem with having a mountain bike is that you have to bring it home covered in mud or worse after even the shortest of rides out and at whatever time of the year.
In the depths of winter it is not difficult to do this. In the better seasonal weather finding a soggy bit of ground or a large grubby puddle can take a bit more time and effort.
Today, mid february and in cold, misty and wet climatic condition I did not have to try too hard at all to get the bike and myself completely blathered.
Even on the city streets upon leaving the house the spatter pattern of urban grime began to take shape.
Vehicle engines leave a faint veneer of oil and fuel residues when they lean into a corner at a junction or come to a sudden stop at a traffic light junction or a pedestrianised crossing. Commercial lorries carrying building rubble and small domestic two wheeled trailers on their way to the Municipal waste site deposit bits of their loads into the gutter or farther out across the carriageway form where it takes on a creeping motion under passing wheels and footfalls back to the gutter.
A few tractors moving between the recreational parks leave a ribbed mound of dirt and soil which when diluted in rainfall becomes streaky and mixes well with the many other sources of rubbish on the carriageways.
After a couple of hundred metres the originally bright white enamelled finish on my cycle frame is indistinguishable from the filthy tarmac. As for myself, being faithful to the mountain bike code which dictates that I have no mudguards, I am spattered and spotted to face and over all of my practical, durable cycling gear.
It had been raining steadily for most of the early hours of that morning and I had stood in the shelter of the garage bay door to see if it would slow or abate enough for me to venture out on a planned ride out to the countryside beyond the western fringe of the city. That rainfall had been enough to fill up the main potholes on the route or accumulate over the drain grilles already full of water or struggling to cope if clogged up with the usual crisp packets, fast food wrappers or coagulated mass of cigarette butt ends.
There are some good, wide cycle only lanes working out from the central area but in busy saturday traffic and under the regular incursions of motorists into said lane it is a case of having to adopt a line very close and paralel to the kerb. This means a constant slopping and splashing through the newly formed puddles and in the hope that the larger pools are not concealing a deep trench or a collapsed manhole cover.
At frequent pauses in the ride at lights and junctions there can be looks, both horrific and amused, from motorists and pedestrians who catch a glimpse at my dirty face and generally soiled demeanour.
By the time I leave the suburbs behind my usually water resistant jacket and leggings are saturated and there is really no option other than to keep going and keep warm or otherwise stop and develop hypothermia. The other problem with having a mountain bike is that even if there is a firm intention to stay on the surfaced highways for the whole duration of a ride the temptation is always there, encouraged by knobbly tyres and a multitude of gears to go off road for a bit.
My usual circuit is quite flexible depending upon how I am feeling. The maximum loop which I regularly use for fitness and fun is forty miles but at key points it has default routes affording a short cut reducing the distance down to thirty or twenty miles. Unfortunately the deviations from the energetic full mileage are on old tracks, public footpaths, bridleways or ancient lanes perhaps last trod by monks or Vikings.
Today was a draining day after a busy week at work, a head cold and some, common at my age I am told, broken sleep patterns and so the thought of a quicker journey home seemed tempting. I was deceiving myself given the aggregation of all of the potential sources of water and moisture that had fallen in the previous few hours or had just stagnated over a number of days or even from the last serious snowfall about 14 days ago.
The mud was gloopy and very adhesive on tyres and moving bike parts. As the wheels rotated they picked up yet more of the sticky mess which proceeded through 180 degrees before getting wedged between tyre and frame. The chain and transmission took on the look of a conveyor belt on a river dredger, the rear gear mechanism disappeared in a globulous ball comprising not only mud but horse manure and, I suspect, a few traces of dog dirt.
The combined accumulation not only stifled any forward movement but added considerable dead weight to the bike. I lurched along under a strained momentum in my legs only to find friction and density winning easily. This went on for the whole of the off-road part of the return leg of the ride. A large puddle gave some respite in that as I careered through it a good proportion of the debris was loosened and fell off in a resounding splash.
Beyond the puddle the liquified stuff just sprayed upwards into my face and on my back I could feel larger divots cascading down after having been ejected into the air like a golfer struggling in a sand trap.
It took a partial immersion of the mountain bike into the crystal clear, momentarily, waters of a stream as it formed a passable Ford on the edge of the nearest picturesque village for me to be reminded that I had left home, two hours prior, on a bright white coloured cycle.
What a great day out. Fun.
In the depths of winter it is not difficult to do this. In the better seasonal weather finding a soggy bit of ground or a large grubby puddle can take a bit more time and effort.
Today, mid february and in cold, misty and wet climatic condition I did not have to try too hard at all to get the bike and myself completely blathered.
Even on the city streets upon leaving the house the spatter pattern of urban grime began to take shape.
Vehicle engines leave a faint veneer of oil and fuel residues when they lean into a corner at a junction or come to a sudden stop at a traffic light junction or a pedestrianised crossing. Commercial lorries carrying building rubble and small domestic two wheeled trailers on their way to the Municipal waste site deposit bits of their loads into the gutter or farther out across the carriageway form where it takes on a creeping motion under passing wheels and footfalls back to the gutter.
A few tractors moving between the recreational parks leave a ribbed mound of dirt and soil which when diluted in rainfall becomes streaky and mixes well with the many other sources of rubbish on the carriageways.
After a couple of hundred metres the originally bright white enamelled finish on my cycle frame is indistinguishable from the filthy tarmac. As for myself, being faithful to the mountain bike code which dictates that I have no mudguards, I am spattered and spotted to face and over all of my practical, durable cycling gear.
It had been raining steadily for most of the early hours of that morning and I had stood in the shelter of the garage bay door to see if it would slow or abate enough for me to venture out on a planned ride out to the countryside beyond the western fringe of the city. That rainfall had been enough to fill up the main potholes on the route or accumulate over the drain grilles already full of water or struggling to cope if clogged up with the usual crisp packets, fast food wrappers or coagulated mass of cigarette butt ends.
There are some good, wide cycle only lanes working out from the central area but in busy saturday traffic and under the regular incursions of motorists into said lane it is a case of having to adopt a line very close and paralel to the kerb. This means a constant slopping and splashing through the newly formed puddles and in the hope that the larger pools are not concealing a deep trench or a collapsed manhole cover.
At frequent pauses in the ride at lights and junctions there can be looks, both horrific and amused, from motorists and pedestrians who catch a glimpse at my dirty face and generally soiled demeanour.
By the time I leave the suburbs behind my usually water resistant jacket and leggings are saturated and there is really no option other than to keep going and keep warm or otherwise stop and develop hypothermia. The other problem with having a mountain bike is that even if there is a firm intention to stay on the surfaced highways for the whole duration of a ride the temptation is always there, encouraged by knobbly tyres and a multitude of gears to go off road for a bit.
My usual circuit is quite flexible depending upon how I am feeling. The maximum loop which I regularly use for fitness and fun is forty miles but at key points it has default routes affording a short cut reducing the distance down to thirty or twenty miles. Unfortunately the deviations from the energetic full mileage are on old tracks, public footpaths, bridleways or ancient lanes perhaps last trod by monks or Vikings.
Today was a draining day after a busy week at work, a head cold and some, common at my age I am told, broken sleep patterns and so the thought of a quicker journey home seemed tempting. I was deceiving myself given the aggregation of all of the potential sources of water and moisture that had fallen in the previous few hours or had just stagnated over a number of days or even from the last serious snowfall about 14 days ago.
The mud was gloopy and very adhesive on tyres and moving bike parts. As the wheels rotated they picked up yet more of the sticky mess which proceeded through 180 degrees before getting wedged between tyre and frame. The chain and transmission took on the look of a conveyor belt on a river dredger, the rear gear mechanism disappeared in a globulous ball comprising not only mud but horse manure and, I suspect, a few traces of dog dirt.
The combined accumulation not only stifled any forward movement but added considerable dead weight to the bike. I lurched along under a strained momentum in my legs only to find friction and density winning easily. This went on for the whole of the off-road part of the return leg of the ride. A large puddle gave some respite in that as I careered through it a good proportion of the debris was loosened and fell off in a resounding splash.
Beyond the puddle the liquified stuff just sprayed upwards into my face and on my back I could feel larger divots cascading down after having been ejected into the air like a golfer struggling in a sand trap.
It took a partial immersion of the mountain bike into the crystal clear, momentarily, waters of a stream as it formed a passable Ford on the edge of the nearest picturesque village for me to be reminded that I had left home, two hours prior, on a bright white coloured cycle.
What a great day out. Fun.
Friday 13 February 2015
British Aisles
I go shopping every day.
That is, I frequent one or more of the big four UK Supermarkets of Tesco, Sainsbury's, Asda and Morrisons mainly for a small purchase for my lunch as for £3 or less I can get a good healthy meal deal or not, depending upon how I feel or just to grab a few things for the office kitchenette or to replenish the home cupboards.
I have no real brand loyalty.
My work often involves me driving between 100 and 200 miles daily and it is just that a familiar retail logo and easy parking draws me to these Temples of Consumerism in whatever location I find myself around noon. It can be a disorientating affair in that once inside the large food halls I could be in any of the four because they are all set out in the same broad layout and order.
It is obvious that the designers of modern stores regard us shoppers as nothing more than laboratory rats with trolleys guided through a maze of aisles by the promise of rewards for being relieved of our own hard earned cash.
In Britain the total daily spend on food is £160 million and the four main protagonists scrap mercilessly amongst themselves for a lions share of this budget.
A leading global consumer analyst has stated that the principal challenge for supermarkets to be successful and profitable is to break the habits of their shopper customers. I fit the pattern of a very ritualised visitor to a shop in that I just get into the up and down aisle mentality and invariably pick and choose the same items so that the end bill can be estimated very close to the nearest penny every time.
In doing so I do not fit the profile of a customer that the Supermarkets like to encourage and am likely to thwart the multi-million pounds of investment that they put into brain scans, eyeball scans, live bird's eye footage and the use of crowd modelling software in order to nudge us into spending more than we had intended.
The setting out of supermarket aisles and their stocking with goods and products is in itself a specialism and as we trudge up and down, Zombie-like, we are unwittingly exposing ourselves to "impulse areas", "golden zones", "checkout arrays", "walk through queues", "environmental envelopes", "gondola ends", "power aisle", "signpost brands", "buy levels" and "traffic builders" amongst many other tricks of the trade.
The Golden Zones are found towards the end of the shopping experience and comprise displays and shelves of chocolate bars and other goodies. What better way to reward ourselves for completing the mundane task of the shopping by purchasing a special, personal treat. Analysts liken our being plied with candy to a rat being given cheese for getting to the end of an experiment.
Gondola Ends, also known as end-caps are exposed, short blocks of shelves at the end of aisles where special offers are found. Some unscrupulous retailers have played on our expectations of bargains in the end-caps by stocking them with full price goods with signage made to look like there is a give-away promotion.
The friendly and socially responsible sounding "Environmental Envelope" is nothing more than a shop within a shop. It is dressed with visual cues to suggest discounts, special offers or bargains suggesting to shoppers that some deal activity is going on.
It is a fact that two-thirds of us do not shop with a list because regular frequenting of a particular store has produced a mental map of the layout. Aisle markers are largely ignored but research has shown a distinct habit. This is that we only start to concentrate as we reach the middle of the aisles where we know to expect the most recognisable or "Signpost Brands" to be found. The Heinz logo tells us we are in tinned goods, Coca-Cola for the soft drinks and Guinness for the stout section.
Power Aisles or action alleys are used for one-off promotions where TV's or DVD players can be piled up informally in their display boxes. Often the items are unrecognised brands and cheap but shoppers are given the impression that there are indeed good deals to be had resulting in that extra spend which was not originally intended.
Leading brands are known to pay supermarket chains listing or placement fees to position their products at eye level, or roughly 1.6m above floor level. However, in studies involving eye tracking cameras it was noticed that shoppers naturally look lower than eye level to between waist and chest height. When global company Procter and Gamble realised this they requested lower and cheaper fee shelf positions. Their sales increased dramatically but supermarkets soon caught on and revised their listing fees structure accordingly.
Essential goods such as milk and bread can be placed right at the back of the supermarket. This forces shoppers to walk further but with Supermarkets hoping that on the way to get such provisions we walk past more potential purchases. However, studies showed that a long walk for a pint of milk and a loaf of bread only caused aggravation and annoyance amongst customers whereas placing quick buy essentials closer to the entrance made shoppers more likely to return to the store for such purchases.
Shopping. I used to enjoy it as a pleasurable chore...............
That is, I frequent one or more of the big four UK Supermarkets of Tesco, Sainsbury's, Asda and Morrisons mainly for a small purchase for my lunch as for £3 or less I can get a good healthy meal deal or not, depending upon how I feel or just to grab a few things for the office kitchenette or to replenish the home cupboards.
I have no real brand loyalty.
My work often involves me driving between 100 and 200 miles daily and it is just that a familiar retail logo and easy parking draws me to these Temples of Consumerism in whatever location I find myself around noon. It can be a disorientating affair in that once inside the large food halls I could be in any of the four because they are all set out in the same broad layout and order.
It is obvious that the designers of modern stores regard us shoppers as nothing more than laboratory rats with trolleys guided through a maze of aisles by the promise of rewards for being relieved of our own hard earned cash.
In Britain the total daily spend on food is £160 million and the four main protagonists scrap mercilessly amongst themselves for a lions share of this budget.
A leading global consumer analyst has stated that the principal challenge for supermarkets to be successful and profitable is to break the habits of their shopper customers. I fit the pattern of a very ritualised visitor to a shop in that I just get into the up and down aisle mentality and invariably pick and choose the same items so that the end bill can be estimated very close to the nearest penny every time.
In doing so I do not fit the profile of a customer that the Supermarkets like to encourage and am likely to thwart the multi-million pounds of investment that they put into brain scans, eyeball scans, live bird's eye footage and the use of crowd modelling software in order to nudge us into spending more than we had intended.
The setting out of supermarket aisles and their stocking with goods and products is in itself a specialism and as we trudge up and down, Zombie-like, we are unwittingly exposing ourselves to "impulse areas", "golden zones", "checkout arrays", "walk through queues", "environmental envelopes", "gondola ends", "power aisle", "signpost brands", "buy levels" and "traffic builders" amongst many other tricks of the trade.
The Golden Zones are found towards the end of the shopping experience and comprise displays and shelves of chocolate bars and other goodies. What better way to reward ourselves for completing the mundane task of the shopping by purchasing a special, personal treat. Analysts liken our being plied with candy to a rat being given cheese for getting to the end of an experiment.
Gondola Ends, also known as end-caps are exposed, short blocks of shelves at the end of aisles where special offers are found. Some unscrupulous retailers have played on our expectations of bargains in the end-caps by stocking them with full price goods with signage made to look like there is a give-away promotion.
The friendly and socially responsible sounding "Environmental Envelope" is nothing more than a shop within a shop. It is dressed with visual cues to suggest discounts, special offers or bargains suggesting to shoppers that some deal activity is going on.
It is a fact that two-thirds of us do not shop with a list because regular frequenting of a particular store has produced a mental map of the layout. Aisle markers are largely ignored but research has shown a distinct habit. This is that we only start to concentrate as we reach the middle of the aisles where we know to expect the most recognisable or "Signpost Brands" to be found. The Heinz logo tells us we are in tinned goods, Coca-Cola for the soft drinks and Guinness for the stout section.
Power Aisles or action alleys are used for one-off promotions where TV's or DVD players can be piled up informally in their display boxes. Often the items are unrecognised brands and cheap but shoppers are given the impression that there are indeed good deals to be had resulting in that extra spend which was not originally intended.
Leading brands are known to pay supermarket chains listing or placement fees to position their products at eye level, or roughly 1.6m above floor level. However, in studies involving eye tracking cameras it was noticed that shoppers naturally look lower than eye level to between waist and chest height. When global company Procter and Gamble realised this they requested lower and cheaper fee shelf positions. Their sales increased dramatically but supermarkets soon caught on and revised their listing fees structure accordingly.
Essential goods such as milk and bread can be placed right at the back of the supermarket. This forces shoppers to walk further but with Supermarkets hoping that on the way to get such provisions we walk past more potential purchases. However, studies showed that a long walk for a pint of milk and a loaf of bread only caused aggravation and annoyance amongst customers whereas placing quick buy essentials closer to the entrance made shoppers more likely to return to the store for such purchases.
Shopping. I used to enjoy it as a pleasurable chore...............
Thursday 12 February 2015
Greek Lessons
Depending upon who you speak to this nation of ours is either rotating out of control down the pan or holding it's own and showing those, otherwise so pale as to invisible to the naked eye, green shoots of recovery.
If I come across a business contact or even a competitor I try to slip into the conversation, after the usual pleasantries and reminiscences of the good old days, the innocently phrased question of ' how are you finding things at the moment?'.
If the answer is in the range of 'pretty good' to 'not bad' I can expect to see an announcement of the liquidation of their company within a few short months.
Sounds a bit harsh but invariably it is true.
We have all done the self denial bit and been so convinced by our on desperate thoughts that we find ourselves maintaining this as the official stance to the rest of the family, friends, neighbours, casual acquaintances, the man in the post office queue, the bloke in the next street who walks his dog past your house every day, the disembodied voice on the phone trying to get you to file a PPI claim and everyone in between.
Perhaps the hardest thing to do however is not to outwardly display any signs of a troubling commercial and financial position. This can prove to be the hardest and most stressful aspect of the whole thing. There must be two or more newish cars on the driveway, season passes must be upheld at the football club and with accompanying clients wined and dined like it was the FA Cup Final on a frosty November Tuesday night. Perhaps the children attend an expensive pre-school, preparatory school or private fee paying school. There are longstanding memberships to the health club, golf club and beauty therapist. The timeshare villa and other exclusive benefits which require a monthly payment and so on.
A tea time telephone call from the bank, credit card or store card companies can be screened with an answering machine but only for so long. The table in the hallway begins to fill up with official looking envelopes as a follow up from the lack of success in making personal contact.
Each and every purchase with plastic involves a sharp intake of breathe between tapping in of the pin number and that welcome message on the display to show that the transaction is completed. Even the sound of the cashpoint actually sorting and then ejecting the requested amount of notes is sweet and comforting.
By now I am sure that each and every one of you will have identified with at least one of the key indicators of personal financial problems. Many of us will have the means to deal with the hiccup in cashflow and shortfall between expenditure and income and will, head down just continue to work as hard as possible.
Some do not and can fall prey to poor advice or suffer from those intent on making money through unscrupulous and downright unfair practices.
The prominence of short term loans in prime time media is an indictment of the extent to which a good proportion of the UK public are struggling with even day to day monetary requirements.
Belts can be tightened, economies can be made and the likes of Sainsbury and Waitrose can be dismissed in favour of Lidl, Aldi, The Co-Op and the special offers thrown at us by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. Why not give the local, independent shop a try?. You used to.
The recessionary conditions have been with us now for getting on 5 years and there are clear signs that we have accepted and embraced the need for austerity and frugality. This is not a political doctrine but an enforced necessity to make sure that we can meet our prioritised outgoings and forego the less so.
Small treats and luxuries are still a requirement, and are actually therapeutic if only for the sake of providing a tonic and relief from depression and loss of self confidence. These can be as simple as a cheap DVD from a charity shop, one bottle of budget wine per week and a box of Maltesers on a Saturday night.
We have all had to make lifestyle choices and I think that we do feel, generally, a lot better for it. There can be a purging type feeling, a justification of a more spiritual nature and the throwing off of the shackles of materialism can be wholly liberating. It is an easy step after coming to this state of acceptance to then admit to others that you are having some difficulties.
Try it and you will be surprised how many of your close friends and associates are in the same situation. There is strength and encouragement to be had through such a shared experience and it may even last through the next boom, whenever that may eventually be, and we will be much better citizens for all that.
If I come across a business contact or even a competitor I try to slip into the conversation, after the usual pleasantries and reminiscences of the good old days, the innocently phrased question of ' how are you finding things at the moment?'.
If the answer is in the range of 'pretty good' to 'not bad' I can expect to see an announcement of the liquidation of their company within a few short months.
Sounds a bit harsh but invariably it is true.
We have all done the self denial bit and been so convinced by our on desperate thoughts that we find ourselves maintaining this as the official stance to the rest of the family, friends, neighbours, casual acquaintances, the man in the post office queue, the bloke in the next street who walks his dog past your house every day, the disembodied voice on the phone trying to get you to file a PPI claim and everyone in between.
Perhaps the hardest thing to do however is not to outwardly display any signs of a troubling commercial and financial position. This can prove to be the hardest and most stressful aspect of the whole thing. There must be two or more newish cars on the driveway, season passes must be upheld at the football club and with accompanying clients wined and dined like it was the FA Cup Final on a frosty November Tuesday night. Perhaps the children attend an expensive pre-school, preparatory school or private fee paying school. There are longstanding memberships to the health club, golf club and beauty therapist. The timeshare villa and other exclusive benefits which require a monthly payment and so on.
A tea time telephone call from the bank, credit card or store card companies can be screened with an answering machine but only for so long. The table in the hallway begins to fill up with official looking envelopes as a follow up from the lack of success in making personal contact.
Each and every purchase with plastic involves a sharp intake of breathe between tapping in of the pin number and that welcome message on the display to show that the transaction is completed. Even the sound of the cashpoint actually sorting and then ejecting the requested amount of notes is sweet and comforting.
By now I am sure that each and every one of you will have identified with at least one of the key indicators of personal financial problems. Many of us will have the means to deal with the hiccup in cashflow and shortfall between expenditure and income and will, head down just continue to work as hard as possible.
Some do not and can fall prey to poor advice or suffer from those intent on making money through unscrupulous and downright unfair practices.
The prominence of short term loans in prime time media is an indictment of the extent to which a good proportion of the UK public are struggling with even day to day monetary requirements.
Belts can be tightened, economies can be made and the likes of Sainsbury and Waitrose can be dismissed in favour of Lidl, Aldi, The Co-Op and the special offers thrown at us by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. Why not give the local, independent shop a try?. You used to.
The recessionary conditions have been with us now for getting on 5 years and there are clear signs that we have accepted and embraced the need for austerity and frugality. This is not a political doctrine but an enforced necessity to make sure that we can meet our prioritised outgoings and forego the less so.
Small treats and luxuries are still a requirement, and are actually therapeutic if only for the sake of providing a tonic and relief from depression and loss of self confidence. These can be as simple as a cheap DVD from a charity shop, one bottle of budget wine per week and a box of Maltesers on a Saturday night.
We have all had to make lifestyle choices and I think that we do feel, generally, a lot better for it. There can be a purging type feeling, a justification of a more spiritual nature and the throwing off of the shackles of materialism can be wholly liberating. It is an easy step after coming to this state of acceptance to then admit to others that you are having some difficulties.
Try it and you will be surprised how many of your close friends and associates are in the same situation. There is strength and encouragement to be had through such a shared experience and it may even last through the next boom, whenever that may eventually be, and we will be much better citizens for all that.
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