Rata-tatty-touille

Valentines Day is a time to treat your loved ones.

Perhaps a special breakfast in bed on a tray with a red rose in a cut glass vase with affirmations of affection in poetic offerings in outrageously extravagant cards. Some may make a full day of it to include a drive out to a country pub.

What about a slap up meal in a restaurant in the evening?.

Pretty normal occurrences in most places in the world where the particular Saints Day is celebrated.

There was however a recent exception to this type of normal behaviour in the North East England City of Sunderland.

Picture the scene.

The venue, trading under the name of Borneo Bistro regularly features highly on Trip Advisor as one of the top restaurants in Sunderland and has been built up to receive this level of accolade by the owner, Mr Kevin Smith over the last seven years.

The premises do not really fit the typical expectation for a Bistro or Restaurant resembling more of a light industrial shed in a somewhat rough looking area of town. The layout of tables is more like a transport cafe with plain melamine topped tables and metal frame, easy clean chairs. In some similar situations the term "spit and sawdust" is often a rather flattering description.

To capitalise on the generosity of the menfolk of Sunderland, who I would guess get more excited by their struggling football team than taking out the missus or girlfriend, the Borneo Bistro promoted a special meal for the price of £7.25. In fact it was not a Cordon Bleu or Gourmet experience but more of an "all you can eat" buffet.

A customer, Christopher Baker, aged 28 took up the offer. He was not however an obviously romantic type in that he arrived and dined alone. In fact, he had been previously barred from the eaterie by its owner for an unspecified reason but this did not prevent him from sneaking in and ordering the bargain buffet from the menu.

Being Valentines it was understandably a busy evening and Baker, on a CCTV monitoring system had in fact lingered a while until a small grouping of tables had been vacated by diners. This seemingly innocent and patient behaviour was in fact all part of a plan to enact a confidence trick.

Obviously hungry in the way that he tucked into the served dinner Baker was soon seen fiddling about under the tablecloth as though trying to produce something from his coat pocket. This action could be seen on CCTV footage as could the large rat that was retrieved from its cosy fleece lined lair and placed carefully on the floor against the skirting board.

Baker then dramatically jumped up and was seen to shout out in alarm about sighting the rodent and then demanding his money back, the con being to get a free meal.

The Bistro/Restaurant/Diner/Cafe, etc was rapidly vacated by the other customers which gave increased authenticity to the unwelcome and potentially unhygienic presence of vermin. Baker actually left the premises but was shortly to return in a distressed but insistent mood again demanding a refund of his £7.25.

The owner must have at first feared for his livelihood and what Trip Advisor might receive by way of feedback from the evening's diners. Showing some composure, remarkably in the circumstances, the owner began to smell a rat.

The creature, rather cowering than rampaging, its coat in black and white (in the colours incidentally of the nemesis of Sunderland Football Club- Newcastle United) was spotted and immediately arose considerable suspicion.

This was not a grubby, greasy, sticky, urine soaked and insanitary rat straight from the street or sewer but a rather clean and pristine rat. In fact, as the owner later testified it looked as though it had recently been groomed and sported a newly coiffured furry coat.

This was obviously a shop bought pet. Bravado was replaced by practicality and a tea towel and a box with airholes were used to easily capture what must have been a rather bewildered semi-tame animal after all. The commercial origins were confirmed by a Pest Control Officer who took away the cardboard prison and later reported releasing its contents into the wild, or as they say in Sunderland, just outside the city centre.

It was a Police matter to track down Mr Baker but the clear and unambiguous video footage made their job quite straightforward.

The Court Hearing found the perpetrator guilty of fraud by false representation and imposed the penalty of a 12 month Community Order with a rehabilitation activity requirement. He was also ordered to pay a £60 victim surcharge plus £7.25 compensation-the cost of his meal.

His legal representative had pleaded in his defence that " he had been drinking heavily and decided to buy a rat for his daughter by way of a present. Unfortunately, he then decided to go for a meal. He sat down and ate his meal. When he had finished the meal, he took the rat out. He is very remorseful for his behaviour."

It is not reported if he apologised to the rat.

Amen to that

The Amen break is a 6 to 7 second (4 bar) drum solo performed in 1969 by Gregory Cylvester "G. C." Coleman in the song "Amen, Brother" performed by the 1960s funk and soul outfit The Winstons.

It was actually the 'B' side of a single release "Color him Father" which got to number 7 in the American Billboard 100 and yet that distinctive phrase of snare, bass, hi-hats and crash symbol has become one of the most stolen pieces in the history of music making its way into tracks from rock,pop, hip-hop, gangsta , rave, hardcore techno, drum and bass and reggae.

The Copyright holder, The Winstons band leader, Richard L Spencer was not really expecting anything of the brief drumming contribution to his instrumental song and even with the very lucrative earning potential of its subsequent use by many artists over the next 40 years remained unbothered about what was legally due to him in royalties.

Sadly, the dynamic drummer died impoverished in 2006 and an on-line campaign has been recently established to raise funds to ensure that other surviving members of the band do not suffer the same injustice.

In the current litigation culture it is inconceivable that this situation should have arisen even with the apparent indifference of the beneficiaries to the fortune on offer. Recent high profile cases of infringement have seen notable legal rulings and the award of multi-million dollar awards and no doubt with many other settlements conducted behind doors or amicably in private.

It is, of course now more about the money than the artform, much more so than in 1969 when the unique break beat hit the airwaves.

The Winstons, now in name only may be criticised as being foolish or badly advised not to pursue legal action  but in fact their non-action contributed significantly to the cultural affluence of music and performance.

The track itself may easily have been consigned to the dusty archives had it not been recognised by other musicians as being something very special. The duration and intensity made it perfect to form a driving rhythm but this was only really made possible by the emergence of the piece of equipment of the Sampler in the mid to late 1970's.

This originally VCR sized machine was able to record and playback in a loop a multitude of sounds and the Amen Break began to be heard in Hip Hop records in 1989.

The first sampling used only a single bar loop of the break beat to create interesting and creative sounds. As the equipment developed it became possible to form yet more complex samples and these became the spine of many club and popular hits in the new scenes including rave, techno and electronica.

The 4 bar original was also deconstructed and manipulated into new patterns through the late 1980's and well into the 1990's. Many artists were producing acetate one-off discs or dub-plates and being cheap and quick it was possible to have one playable within the same day. The outcome was of a plentiful supply of tracks and even more absurd applications and self indulgences. The dub plates quickly wore out but from the humble beginnings of the Amen Break in 1969 there has  been an almost 24/7 release of 100's of tracks finding a cult following amongst DJ's and the Club Scene. The distinctive beat has not just been an underground phenomena but often features in the backing music for commercial advertisements, most recently for the Jeep Corporation.

Many have made a good living out of the property of the Winstons and third parties have sold it on by shamelessly exploiting the lax copyright. One company marketed the Break Beat as part of a Jungle Construction Kit in 2002 which ironically came under copyright law in their name. It was irrefutably the same material but technically subject to two copyrights.

It is a good story to illustrate the rise of sampling and the vagueries of legal and intellectual rights in music but it is not victimless. More recent Case Law has opted for a payment structure for sampling, however small the stolen sequence although there is a strong counter argument that over-protection can be more harmful than under protection.

Creativity in music in particular does build on what has gone before and even though The Winstons may be a long way off being millionaires their contribution has been and remains priceless.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwQLk7NcpO4

Celebrity Cooke

The sound of that distinctive mid Atlantic drawl, even though he was born in Salford, Lancashire,  announced 30 minutes of intellectual, balanced, informative, whimsical, satirical and political commentary that became a regular part of my first decade on the planet.

I first heard the broadcasts of Alistair Cooke in his Letters from America through the crackly old radiogram in the old family home but to someone of my young years I can only say that I had no idea whatsoever about what he was talking about.

The first line of his broadcast was one that I could understand in that it set the theme for his style of reporting but after that I was completely lost but just went along with it as it made me look intelligent and thoughtful.

Now some 40 years on I am beginning to comprehend the magnitude of the historical times in which Alistair Cooke lived and worked.

In context during his sphere of activity from 1946 to 2004 any news of great events of world significance took some time to reach the public domain which is in such direct contrast to the current era when the Twitter Feed and BBC 24 react instantaneously to an upload by an eye witness, an innocent bystander or a perpetrator. Further back in time it was a case of having to catch up on the news through a Pathe News feature accompanying a movie whilst sat in the cheap seats in the local picture house. Imagine the delay in not knowing about such things as the Battle of Trafalgar until the church bells peeled out over your city or town or the smoke rose from a distant beacon.

The correspondents of the Cooke era did seem, to me, to have a certain personality and social standing mixing it quite easily but respectfully with Royalty, Statesmen and what were considered to be proper global celebrity superstars. They were well spoken and affable, very cultured and suave. They also looked very, very old although even though at the time I was pretending to be engrossed in Letter from America Alistair Cooke was still very much in his prime in his mid sixties. The status he held as a bit of an institution himself gave the impression that he had been around for much, much longer.

What can I recall about the broadcasts?

I do  seem to remember that they were on a sunday although my privileged and secure upbringing in a loving family seemed to be a perpetual sunday. If indeed the case the radio will have been on in the family kitchen whilst Mother prepared the big roast dinner. I usually hung around on the pretence of helping with chores but actually to be first of the five of us kids to pick at the wonderfully crispy chicken skin or sneak away and devour the crispiest of the roast potatoes. A treacle sponge pudding started from a sticky sweet mix was a real treat if you got to eat it off a spoon scraped around the inside of the big ceramic mixing bowl.

That ritual of food preparation coincided with a golden age of broadcasting including such classics as The Navy Lark and The Clitheroe Kid which, in the practicality of timings meant that Alistair Cooke must have been on just about in the middle of the comedy shows.

I have managed to listen recently to just a few of the massive archive of output by the man. There is, behind the ramblings, digressions and whimsical anecdotes an actual structure to his offerings which I now realise represented a style well ahead of his time.

The subject matter was always interesting and captivating, particularly in its portrayal of the real lives of real Americans which could otherwise have been disappointing on the basis that my comprehension of Stateside life was founded on the TV shows of cops, maverick private detectives, soldiers of fortune, secret agents, the 6 million dollar man and of course cowboys. Saying that, the complex wanderings and verbal dexterity of Mr Cooke had me lost and confused just about every time but as a 10 year old it was not a matter of life and death.

I can appreciate what he was talking about now in my 51st year because I have accumulated through experience a broader understanding of world events and human behaviour.

Of course I have the great benefit afforded by the combination of hindsight and the mixed messages conveyed by the History Channel and Wikipedia.

This March 30th is the eleventh anniversary of the death of Alistair Cooke. I have missed him mainly because of his calm delivery and wonderful tone of voice. He was perfectly suited to his time and he remains, in my mind, an unsullied legend of the airwaves. In another lifetime his talents may have seen him hosting a chat show or a late night political debate or even worse taking up that graveyard shift on a sunday morning sat on a bright red sofa reviewing the newspapers.

Peer Pressure

A recent survey of 14 year olds in the United Kingdom revealed that they spend an average of 8 hours in every day in front of a screen, be it a computer, smart phone or video gaming.

I think back to when I was that age.

Of course, there were no computers in 1977 or at least nothing smaller than a large warehouse and with laptops and PC's but a germ of an idea in the research and development back rooms of companies that, frankly, may not even have been thought of themselves.

It would be a few more years before a few geeky types at my school were showing off their Sinclair ZX Spectrums which it is amazing to think now were amongst the first mainstream home computers.

As for phones, well my parents had quite a modern looking slimline land line one in the home hallway.

It was a drab, dark green wedge shaped thing with what we thought was a futuristic tone at the time. It was nothing exciting except when initially innocent lifting of the receiver allowed a bit of clandestine listening in to a party line conversation.

There was no roaming about with the handset which was well and truly connected by a stringy, curly cable and we were often jealous of the United States TV shows where the equivalent communication device had the longest of long cords giving a walkabout  capability through the house and garden.

It would, as with computing, be many years before the availability of a mobile phone or at least a truly portable one without a burgeoning shoulder carried battery pack.

In 1977 I just had use of the family phone but cannot recall now if anyone rang it to speak to me.

Video Gaming. Well, my earliest recollection is of a clunky table tennis or ping pong game from the early 1970's in barely two dimensions. On the black and white television we had there was no real colour stimulation and that was also the case for the actual on-screen action involving shaded in cursors which could move only up and down to bat back and forth a dot representing a ball. It was a case of getting quickly bored or having to give up with a pounding headache.

I had an idyllic childhood in a large, loving and active family and found my own entertainment not in front of screens but out and about in the neighbourhood, the green fields, in muddy stickleback teeming streams, gadding about on bikes or cobbled together go-karts or building elaborate dens in the boughs of trees or using materials pilfered from building sites or whatever just happened to be lying around.

I feel a bit sorry for today's early teens, all of that pressure to peer into a screen and for what must be no fun at all.

The True Price of Tea

What is nicer to contemplate than a cup of tea?

The ritual of a brew is the first thing that I do on a working day morning.

Filling up the kettle, preparing the tea bag in the cup, lining up the milk, toying with the idea of, perhaps, a spoonful of sugar, waiting patiently for the water to boil and then pouring it and watching the infusion take place is an important preparation for the day ahead.

A simple procedure, essentially British in nature and yet what could in fact be less British?.

The logistics? Tea from India, China or Africa. Sugar from the Caribbean.

In partaking of my early morning tea I am in fact reinforcing a lot of associations, some quite violent and distasteful from days of Empire and rooted in the very history of the world.

Tea, before the 1700's was a very expensive luxury import from China, taken neat in small cups and by all accounts sour and sharp. It was a social grace only to be afforded by the wealthy and upper classes and with celebrity endorsements by the wife of Charles the Second and Queen Anne. The tea was kept locked up in a secure caddie and location with the sort of jealous obsession afforded a drug stash. Johnson, the 17th Century pundit admitted to having an addiction to the drinking of tea with the words "tea solaces midnight and welcomes morning".

The aspirational aspects of taking tea became increasingly popular in the 18th Century and the addition of milk and sugar by the wider masses transformed it from a harsh to a sweet experience. Consumption surged and supply kept pace with the consequence that prices fell within the budget of the working classes. Marketing targeted tea drinking as a respectable practice which could be enjoyed by men and women alike in contrast to coffee which was firmly a male preserve.

Tea Gardens and venues flourished and at home the likes of Wedgewood produced budget tea services in earthenware and pottery. A visitor from Scandinavia was amused to see the working classes taking to tea drinking citing the image of coal carters milling around outside tables supping a welcome brew.

By 1900 every person in the UK was drinking 3 kilos of tea a year.

The ruling classes went out of their way to encourage tea drinking amongst the populus as a means of weaning workers off port, gin and other intoxicating liquors. The mild antiseptic properties of tea were seen to be beneficial as was the preparation with boiling water to kill microbes and germs. The Temperance Movement and Methodism advocated the practice to promote a sober workforce. In all it was a means of crude but effective social control.

Slowly the British image was being transformed from a nation of rowdy, boisterous drunkards intent on the demon drink to one of sophistication in the sipping of tea.

Many workers now ate in the late evening, around 7.30pm to 8.00pm and so tea and a sandwich taken at 4pm filled that gap.

We still perpetuate this ritual to some extent and have tended to forget the true price of tea and its very violent hinterland.

Early trade with China brought not just the imported leaf but also a lot of Opium leading to the opium wars of the period. This conflict led to the development of other sources and where better than within the British Empire where climate and labour were ideally suited. Calcutta in India was soon brought on stream followed by Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, which saw an influx of Tamils from South India to work the plantations. Whole socio-economic profiles of nations were therefore re-shaped by the consumer led thirst for tea.

Actual growing, tending and harvesting was low cost in the producing nations. The added value and profits went to the traders and merchants who funded large and fast Clipper sail ships to get the goods to London. A further,darker element linked to tea was the sugar trade with slave labour in the West Indies and Southern United States. Even after the abolition of slavery by Britain in the 1830's the supply of slave sugar persisted from Cuba and other non-aligned states.

We should not forget milk either as a powerful economic and nation shaping commodity.

In the early to mid 19th century it was a fact that most cows actually lived in the cities and larger towns. This was down to the need for rapid distribution to the market prior to reliable refrigeration. The development subsequently of the railway network in Britain permitted dairy farms to spread out into the suburbs and a more natural rural environment.

So, next time you are enjoying your cuppa just give some passing thought to the part that tea has played in social and economic history not only of Britain but of the wider world. It may leave a bitter taste.

Grannies doing it for themselves

We are familiar with stories emerging from China about unprecedented levels of economic growth, the aspirations of a people finding disposable income in their pockets and huge demand for consumer goods that we, in the west, take for granted.

The nation has also experienced a significant explosion in population from 502 million in 2002 to, just ten years later, 712 million. The impression we have is of a young and dynamic nation and yet by 2030 there will be an estimated 210 million over the age of 65 years.

Life in a new productive and market driven economy must be confusing for the elderly generation.

In the days of stark Communism prior to the new era there was a state encouragement of healthy exercise with all ages required to undertake a daily physical exercise routine. With a degree of materialism has come a lethargy and apathy amongst the youth sector leaving the 40 to 65 year olds to maintain the old traditions.

It is estimated that every day some 100 million retirees and seniors, mostly women partake in mass participation public line dancing.

This is seen as a way to keep fit in a country where medical care is expensive but also for socialising, interaction and general gossiping.

Often referred to as "Dancing Grannies" they have attracted the attentions of the Government, specifically the General Administration of Sport and the Ministry of Culture.

It seems that the dance routines, accompanied by a boom box blaring out old tunes and pop music is causing upset to the younger generation and residents close to what can be large and noisy gatherings of ladies in the early morning or evenings.

The line dancing takes place in public squares, open spaces and communal parks as massive urban and city expansion has reduced recreational facilities.

In Chinese society families have been encouraged to have their elders live-in rather than be put into a residential or assisted living care establishment. The open air congregating also serves to get the seniors out of the house which could be cramped and unfriendly.

In some major cities and towns the level of opposition to the dancing grannies has included bombardments with water balloons and human faeces, dog attacks and the wielding of a shotgun. A beleagured group of residents raised a small fortune to buy their own public address system with which to compete with and drown out the boom box elders.

The State position hardened in support of the majority of non-dancers with a Government representative commenting that "Old people haven't gone bad, it's bad people who have got old".

In order to control and suppress the line dancing phenomena, very much along the lines of dealing with spiritual or democratic opposition, the State produced a promotional  or instructional video of 12 specific and healthy routines. These were intended to outlaw and regulate the freestyle elbow wiggles and shoulder shakes so popular amongst the Grannies.

The official line has been that there are no longer different dance routines but unified national routines. The threat of a ban has aroused considerable emotion with publications of mocking cartoons and one Grandma Yan being most vociferous in challenging state intentions.

Faced with such rare public outcry there have been signs of a back-pedalling in the Draconian approach and the emphasis has been relaxed to proposing scientifically sound alternatives.

It appears that Granny power has persisted making the regular body moving and heart pumping its own best advertisement for a happy senior lifestyle.

Black Box

The tragedy of the air crash in the French Alps yesterday reminds all of us who have at one time or another flown in a commercial airliner that accidents can occur. Thankfully such events remain rare per passenger numbers but no less shocking for the statistics.

Aircraft safety has improved significantly since the early days of propellor planes and jet engines not just because of technological leaps forward but through a learning process largely attributed to essential data captured by the Black Box Flight Recorder.

Fatal accidents in particular involving the De Havilland Comet airliner in the 1950's served to diminish confidence in crash investigation. There were no survivors to offer evidence as to the final moments of a doomed flight and certainly no members of the flight deck crew as front line observers of what really happened.

Verdicts on crashes could only be based on the two main variables of human error or machine failure and did not really have any benefit in building in new systems and protocols by which a repetition of incidents could be avoided.

At around the time of the Comet disasters an Australian, David Warren, was attending a seminar in his role as a Fuel Scientist at the National Aeronautical Research Centre.

In between the interesting parts of lectures and briefings he passed the time by day dreaming about his recent purchase of  a tape recorder, quite a sophisticated piece of audio equipment for the time. He had visions of sneaking it into a concert by his favourite performer Tommy Dorsey and capturing the music live for his own entertainment.

One of the platform speakers at the seminar was commenting on the problems of diagnosing flight failures in the absence of any records of in flight information.

Warren, well known amongst his colleagues for lateral thinking, immediately started to consider how his prized acquisition could be applied to record the voices of pilots. On his return to work he circulated a memo to his superiors on the possibility of an aircraft flight recorder but this was dismissed and indeed Warren was criticised for devoting time to something that had nothing to do with his main job description.

His colleagues were however encouraging and helped to conceal his on-going research and development.

By 1957 a prototype was ready to be demonstrated but the Australian Aviation Authority remained uninterested. Their stance was that they did not need advice and such equipment had no immediate significance. It took a visitor from Britain to excite interest in Warren's idea and he was invited to make a presentation in London which was well received. On his way back to Australia lay-offs in Canada and the United States allowed  demonstrations which produced further interest.

It took a fatal crash in Queensland in 1960 for the Canberra Government to make flight recorders compulsory on all Australian passenger planes.

Amazingly, the equipment chosen was not home produced but an American version. It proved to be useless. An opportunity had been missed to market David Warren's invention also coming down to the fact that the military did not want to pay the $2000Aus to register the Patent even though it was for a far superior system.

In 1962 a further prototype was tested which was far more advanced than any of the competition in that it recorded not only all cockpit instruments but critically the screened and clear voices of the flight crew. Warren's version, nicknamed the "Red Egg" because of its distinctive shape by which intense impact, conflagration and pressure could be withstood. was the model for the Black Box..

In spite of frustration and constant thwarting by the authorities Warren persisted in his quest to produce what has become a vitally important tool by which to learn lessons and improve the safety of passenger flights for the millions who use that form of transport every day.

Debt, life and high finance

It could be true.

Alternatively, it could be a complete fabrication.

It is entirely possible to start a rumour that, through Chinese whispers, hearsay and gossip, develops into a full blown urban myth.

In this particular case I am not even sure when the event, that has now become stuff of legends, actually took place or is purported to have happened. The tale was already in circulation in the business community of Hull, East Yorkshire, UK when I first started work there in the mid 1980's.

How I first heard it may have been during those old style, long ,friday lunchtimes in a public house when some amongst our social group were quite used to downing five pints of John Smiths Bitter and then return to work for what must have been a long, drawn out and rather vague and blurry afternoon session.

Funny though, more business was transacted between 3pm and 5pm on the last working day of the week in some establishments than at any other time. The boozy and smoke filled sessions died out gradually under a combination of pressure of work and the introduction in some companies of alcohol breath testing.

The story?

A well known businessman in the town had been continually frustrated by his attempts to obtain money owed to him by a customer/associate/tenant/acquaintance. The status has become vague over the passage of time but is not really that important now.

Conventional debt collection channels had been followed.

Thirty Days to settle had come and gone.

One of those cheap thick mass produced rubber stamps for inking had been hammered onto a copy of the original Invoice. The tone of "Overdue Account" was polite but firm with the proviso that if the remittance had been paid whilst the reminder was in transit then apologies were due. The situation was not satisfactory as far as our man was concerned but there was no need to call in the cavalry.

Subsequent rubber stamps were applied with increasing vigour and urgency of message to yet more copy invoices as the amount remained outstanding.

The amount.....well, that was never mentioned in the story and could as easily have been a few pence, on the principle of the thing, or many thousands of pounds.

There was a complete lack of communication between the respective parties although such was, and still is, the parochial nature of commerce in Hull that there will have been many times when creditor and debtor will have passed in the street, on the road network or just missed each other at the sandwich shop or lunch time diner. Mutual friends and colleagues will have been aware of the increasing tension but it was not their role or purpose to mediate, interfere of get involved in any way.

Not many in the business environment of that time had a mobile phone. Those that were pioneering the medium could be seen struggling around with a shoulder bag containing a heavy battery and with ears glowing a disturbing red from the unfettered radiation of an oversized, by current standards, handset. The option of a text or quick reminder call was not therefore available, perhaps not for another decade.

A good old letter, threatening the use of a solicitor or a debt collection agency was to follow but was often just a ruse given that both routes entailed high administrative costs and fees which, for a smaller accrued amount was simply not viable.

The next to last resort, according to the tale, involved a physical visit to the last known residential or trading address of the debtor. This was unproductive. Those who made an art form out of persistent late or non-payment of a bill were well versed in evasion and avoidance tactics. Whole families could hide behind the curtains or furniture upon the signal of the designated look-out of the approach of someone intent on collection of monies or chattels. Staff, often unaware of anything more to do with the business than serving customers could legitimately swear ignorance as to the whereabouts of the boss or his likely movements in the forthcoming hours.

You can easily appreciate the utter frustration of our beleaguered individual. It was time to resort to the last resort and he could be forgiven for being forced into such a position.

Matters had not moved forward through conventional protocols. Every concession had been given but to no avail.

The next part of the story is a bit vague. Whether our man was driving around the City and just spotted the elusive debtor or it was a premeditated strategy to track him down by cruising up and down last known haunts is not clear.

Whatever the precursors it seems that a chain of events led to the unceremonious depositing of a live and rather frightened body in the boot of a large black saloon car.

There followed, well, I can only speculate, a bit of a grand tour of the highways and byways of the City of Hull by the two occupants of the vehicle, one sat in well sprung comfort and the other crouched, foetal like in the dark recesses behind the back seats.

The form of the conversation can only be speculated upon but was probably not on the subject of family, football, the previous evenings TV programmes and matters of world and national importance.

It appears that any indebtedness was settled during the course of that journey.

I did from time to time have to carry out work for the man although rarely involving the need for any contact other than a phone call to arrange an appointment.

Some years later that I found myself summoned to the offices of the innovative businessman to undertake further work. We chatted about normal things and found a few common interests and mutual acquaintances. This served to lessen my degree of nervousness in the one to one situation given the ongoing resonance of the whole legend in my mind.

He was, as I had always perceived, a down to earth bloke. He worked hard and expected others to be respectful and honourable in any business dealings with him and they could expect exemplary service and loyalty in return.

We got on well and the time passed quickly until he announced that we should drive out to the premises which required my professional attention.

Whilst he disappeared into an adjoining room to brief his secretary I made a quick telephone call to my own office, just to make sure, after all, better safe than sorry, that we did not owe him any money.

Storey Time

One Storey;

The bungalow was built just on the northern edge of the town. That is the current edge of the town which had expanded significantly in the post war and more modern period with an estate of commuter housing. A hundred years earlier the same location was well out of town, more rural than urban. Then, opposite stood the railway station, a good walk from the town centre. Now, opposite a trackless station building, with a new lease of life as a printers workshop. The land for the bungalow had been cheap on locational factors. It was also a strange wedge shaped parcel of land, narrow road frontage and opening out, long and bulbous. The longest boundary will have been close and parallel to the old railway line that Mr Beeching considered unviable. Excavations for the bungalow  foundations threw up a good supply of lumps of coal, perhaps falling from theladen tender of the constant stream of steam trains in the heyday of rail travel. Nothing else impeded the rapid construction of the bungalow. Some years later the owners considered the attachment of a conservatory on the inward facing rear elevation. Plans were drawn up, approved and quotations obtained for the work. The trenches for the dwarf walling were hand dug at first, close to the bungalow and then a JCB was brought in to continue the scraping and gouging of the clay soil. Progress was good but then the driver of the excavator signalled frantically that something was wrong. The bucket had broken through the crust of the site to reveal a hole. A test brick thrown in took some time to impact below. The surface was carefully scraped away to reveal not a hole but a chasm. The whole part of the inner site had been but a thin dome of soil beneath which was the remains of the Town Gas Works. Letters of enquiry were sent to Solicitors and the Council. The plant had certainly existed but was never documented or mapped. The only townsperson who remembered the burning of coal and production of gas in that part of the town  had died only weeks before. There was no redress through Law . It took about thirty tipper lorry loads of rubble to fill the hole before a raft foundation could be built to support the planned structure. Sitting out in the conservatory on a pleasantly warm evening watching the wildlife on the course of the old railway line was not really enough to compensate for the cost and stress of its manifestation .

Storey Two

The chalet style house looked good as I pulled up outside. Built in the 1970’s it had been newly renovated and refurbished and this cosmetic effect had taken perhaps 25 years off its appearance. My database had a record that it had been purchased just 6 months ago and for a price which clearly indicated that it must have been in quite a state of dereliction or abandonment. The proud new owner welcomed me in and gave me the grand tour. My visit was to appraise and value the house for a bank with the intention of releasing some of the equity achieved from the investment of renovation. The resurrection of the house had been a good one. I gave an opinion of where I thought the value was now and the owner was evidently pleased that his speculative venture had paid a healthy dividend. We got to talking all things property market. Then the owner asked if the demand for and value of a property could be affected by an untimely death in that property. I reassured him that this was not usually a problem as local memory was often short on such things. He came back hesitantly asking what about if there had been two untimely deaths and at the same time. I stalled with an answer which was fortunate as he gushed forth with the whole story. His house had previously been occupied by an elderly lady and her grown up son. The pair were inseperable, very reclusive and not a  little bit eccentric. Untidy garden, grubby always drawn net curtains, flaking paintwork, the same black spotted sticky fly paper in the porch. The sorts of things that kept the local children well away. One Christmas morning the pair had fallen out in a big way over who was to take the first bath. By heavy handed accident, it was thought, the mother was pushed over, impacted her head and died. The son, distressed and distraught then took his own life. That was a chapter in the history of the house. A couple of years later I noticed an advertisement for the sale of the house in the Thursday property supplement. Within a few days there was a sold sticker across the agents board. I had been right that local memory was often short on infamous events. I would not however like to be the first to break the news to the new owner particularly if they had any firm position on manslaughter and suicide on their own doorstep.

Storey Three

Three storey house. That description met one of my multiple criteria for a prospective purchase. A good number of the other boxes were also ticked for location, 4 bed rooms, newly fitted kitchen and bathroom , games room, decent sized garden and a garage. I rang the selling agents to enquire about a viewing. My own house was sold and I was in a strong position to proceed if I liked the property. Holding the line, the agent rang through to the vendor and after a few cross referenced conversations a mutually acceptable date and time to view was agreed. I took away a single sheet brochure for the property, minus a photograph as it was a very new listing and the particulars were still in a draft unapproved format. The approach to the property was through a newish development of four detached houses along a hard surfaced but private status roadway. The cul de sac terminated at a set of high metal gates set within a high perimeter fence more reminiscent of a prison than a private dwelling. I had to get out of the car to buzz for entry. I drove through into what could only be described as a compound. The only building was a squat cast concrete rectangle of only one story height under a flat reinforced slab roof and with a vented tower atop. The owner met me at the door and commenced a tour of the property. It was indeed three storeys of rooms but two of these were wholly subterranean having been purpose built in the 1970’s as the command bunker for the Local Authority in the event of a nuclear conflict. The tour was interesting and informative but coming away I was more than sure that bunker survivalist living was not at the top of my property shopping list.

The Accidental Aquarium

At the current rate of purchase, extrapolating 1 every three days, we should have at least 121 goldfish by this time next year.

In a household which has "done" that pet ownership thing with, in recollected order, a cat (two weeks due to disagreement between feline hairs and my own respiratory system), two dogs, various rodents, stick-insects, sea monkeys and those virtual Tamagotchi things, we were fairly confident that we were off duty and able to lead fairly normal lives. Been there , done that, got the scratch marks on the architraves to prove it (stick insects and sea monkeys cannot be blamed).

It had been fun, especially cavorting about with the much loved hounds, Elsie and Toffy who fitted in with our young family status and lifestyle. Their passing was pretty sad for all. The darkest of moments.

Well, not far off, for me was the close succession of  deaths of those electronic fob game thingeys when entrusted to me in my working day by my children whilst they were at school. Not sure they have forgiven me fully for that, even now in their twenties. Well, I will have to redeem myself before grandchildren arrive on the scene in the future. I can change, yes, with a bit of concentration small youngsters should be reasonably safe even without a reboot/reset switch.

Anyways, the goldfish:

The first one was purchased on thursday just passed as one of the required symbolic items to celebrate Iranian New Year (see fridays Blog entitled Norooz 2015).

The festival to mark the first day of Spring is heavy in tradition and symbolism with a goldfish representing New Life.

I had never purchased a fish before, apart that is from an ice encrusted counter at the supermarket or after haggling with an angling friend to offset an otherwise unrewarding 12 hours of sitting on a river bank with rod and tackle.

Being unsure of protocol and procedure I just wandered into a local Pet Store and said out loud to the assistants my intention.

I thought the process would be as easy as that but evidently live animals are not given out willy nilly without a bit of a lecture. I suppose it is all to do with consciousness, soul and spirit, respect for God's creatures and all that.

There followed twenty questions on the suitability of my house, proposed location for a fish, my income, political affiliations, religious convictions and whether I had a criminal record, well, at least the first two on the list.

The price of a goldfish was not displayed but being a newbie to aquarianism or whatever it is called I could buy a starter kit of plastic bowl with decorative gravel, droopy plastic plant, water treatment solution and a tub of granular food for £16.99. On this deal the fish came free. It was an offer too good to miss. Once on the hook (!!) I was shown through to the section of the shop with a huge wall of bubbling, brightly lit tanks.

I felt that I was rather whisked past the expensive looking tropical specimens, obviously reserved for the more discerning customers and made to stand in front of the, by comparison, cheap and cheerful, goldfish display.

The assistant revealed this was her first day at the shop and she was a bit nervous about dipping the small net into the congested tank. This was justified as the contents, numbering around 50 , scattered in a well practiced manoeuvre to thwart any attempt to diminish their group. She did ask if I had a preference but I thought if I chose a specific fish then we might be there a long time.

Random trawling netted a plumpish example which showed a bit of annoyance at being placed in a fairground type plastic bag and was no less active as I walked out of the shop to the car.

In my self congratulatory mood over completing this particular challenge I did not recall any of the parting guidance on how to set up the bowl, put the water in and importantly what to do with the collection of chemicals provided in the special offer. I was not even sure how to transfer the goldfish from the temporary bag.

Peering at each other through the polythene was our first real introduction.

At that stage ,un-named, the fish looked, well, a bit unsymmetrical. The one good eye blinked pitifully at me, the other just a pale, insipid looking blob. It was a faulty fish.

In any other consumer situation I suppose that I could have returned my purchase and exchanged it for a non-faulty one but there seemed to be an understanding between us at that moment which put that thought out of my mind.

Back home the family gathered around to welcome the goldfish.

Three of the four of us offered a name but we agreed to disagree on final choice and so three names it was.

In reverse order of originality, Goldie, Auric (as in the Christian name of the Bond villain Goldfinger) and Fesgely (snowy in Persian).

I don't suppose that goldfish answer to name and so this would not be as confusing as it could be.

After a couple of hours the fish appeared healthy and happy which meant that I had, more by luck than judgement, got the chemical cocktail to treat the chlorinated tap water in the correct proportions.

Close up, but this time through the distorting effect of the plastic bowl , Goldie Auric Fesgely mouthed what I thought was "thank-you". I felt powerful but in a benevolent way.

Within two days I was again in the the pet shop and returned with another goldfish, (true non-special offer single purchase price £1.69)  and a miniature piece of classical architecture with which to grace the newly formed kingdom. And so the aquarium began to take shape...............................................

Wartime Reparations

There are tasks, chores and projects that demand immediate attention. These are where delay or lack of conviction and resources can make things considerably worse even to the extent of putting persons or possessions in harms way. There are other things that can be put off indefinitely or just conveniently put  into the category of ' I might just get around to that'.

In our house such items are on a list somewhere and I seem to remember tentatively agreeing with my wife on a grand five year plan to attend to bits and pieces of domestic maintenance. This has at some time included clearance to the local tip of at least 10 years worth of shrivelled up Christmas Trees from my compost heap at the far end of the garden, painting of the external woodwork and fitting a new doorbell. In a frenzy of activity I actually completed these three particular tasks in one single afternoon. Unfortunately, my smugness and self congratulation was marred by the addition of three new items as my wife had taken the opportunity to review and supplement the grand plan.

A few years ago I was required to inspect a property to draw up a list of recommended repairs and improvements. The house was a semi detached just on the edge of one of the commuter villages. In its early years in the 1930's there was no doubting it will have been a desirable residence. Open field views to front , rear and north side. Pebble dash render to the walls, rosemary clay tile roof and possibly a rambling rose trained up the front wall. The front gable was in a black painted half timbering and with a faint distortion of the a few leaded paned windows from some 80 years of expansion and contraction in sunlight and the chill of the evening. At the time of my inspection it was a wreck. The occupants were local farmers and the house had been in the same family from around 1938 after a short few years of being rented out as an idyllic country cottage.

The appearance of the garden or rather its close resemblance to a farmyard did not bode well in my mind for the rest of the property. The front hedge was straggley and had obviously been driven through a few times in a tractor or other heavy machinery. There were no real open areas of the site beyond deposits of chicken coops, fencing and posts, dismantled sheds and plenty of corrugated asbestos or corroded iron sheeting at various precarious angles. It was a mess but everything and anything was in its place and readily accessible for potential use in the course of running an agricultural business.

The exterior of the house was in quite a sorry state. There were holes in the tiled roof. Large chunks of the pebble dash had fallen away exposing the powdery brick beneath. The gutters, if actually still affixed to the rotten fascia boards, were quite impressively populated by growths of grass and saplings. More windows were partially boarded than glazed or with the skilfull application of coloured fertiliser bags by way of draught proofing. Paintwork was largely absent from remaining woodwork.

It was however someone's sole residence.

A very old, toothless gentleman met me at the house gate having seen me admiring, or so he thought, his abode. He wore a large black trench coat which swamped his slightly built frame. He appeared to live in the garment permanently. The reddish bailer twine kept the flaps of the coat closed which was a blessing for the neighbourhood given the anticipated state of the rest of his demob suit. I was provided with a guided tour of the grounds but was fearful for my welfare amongst various sharp edges , protruding barbed wire and what would easily have passed for booby traps in a combat zone. I resorted to a tip-toeing action following my guide. The chap certainly enjoyed the company of others and chatted away on all manner of subjects which may not have been a regular occurence due to the appearance of the house and indeed himself. I was not at all looking forward to the materialisation of his offer of a nice cup of tea when we would eventually get indoors.

The front door was just about hanging on by its hinges. I closely followed the occupant because he well knew what floor joists remained capable of bearing someone's weight when the majority had just plain given up and collapsed into the sub floor. This was the general tone through the ground floor area. A coal fire was well alight in the grate and may have been so from perhaps 1939 from the sooty and grimy deposits on what may have once been quite nice wall coverings and paintwork. The kitchen consisted of a deep glazed ceramic sink and a free-standing pantry cupboard. I had glimpsed a similar arrangement, I think, in Hello magazine in the pad of some celebrity less the thick veneer of cooking fat, grease and mould. The living room doubled up as a bedroom for the gent whose outdoor working had contributed to arthritic and other conditions impeding any sprightliness up the stairs. He left me to check the first floor rooms. I had been prepared to be presented with a demand to sign an injury waiver for attempting the ascent. It transpired that he had not been upstairs for some considerable years. This explained the subsequent and undisturbed annexation of the three bedrooms and stained bathroom by a large number of pigeons.

Returning to the living/bedroom I was shown a large patch of willow lathes in the ceiling, close to the raggedy polythene clad window, where the horsehair bonded plaster had long since fallen away.

This state of affairs was explained away as being the fault of the Luftwaffe. A stray wartime bomber had decided to jettisone its sole remaining bomb into the darkness over a supposedly empty rural area of Yorkshire coming back from a raid on Leeds. Relieved of this load there was a better chance of running the gauntlet of night fighters and anti-aircraft guns to return to the Fatherland.

Given that it was now 2010 I felt absolute admiration for the old man in that he had successfully put off repairing that ceiling for , to date, 67 years. I am not really sure if he still half expected a cheque and apology in the post as part of long overdue war reparations. Respect.

Norooz 2015

The bright spots, burnt into my retinas from my foolish unprotected gawping at the full eclipse of the sun this morning, have only just about faded away.

The black disc of the moon was clearly visible through light cloud and although I was disappointed not to see mass hysteria and panic at the devouring of the sun by the ravenous celestial monster in the heavens it was quite a sight to behold nevertheless.

Next time around for the same phenomena I will be sure to have some heavy duty goggles which gives me 11 years to save up my loyalty points from Industrial Welding Supplies Inc.

It was a good precursor, however, for preparations to celebrate Persian New Year or Norooz (various other spellings are available) this evening under the cultural guidance of our Iranian friend Medhi.

We have enjoyed a total immersion into a different mindset through our friendship which has seen us enjoying the delicacy of sheep's head, cooking with saffron and many fragrant spices and herbs,discovering new tastes from huge parcels sent from Iran by Medhi's mother, eating a lot of crispy pan bottom cooked rice, drinking sophisticated blue flower tea and gallons of premium Persian tea laced with cardomom.

There will be four of us in Hull this evening joining the 300 million others around the world in a celebration of renewal and rebirth on what is the first day of Spring.

This is an ancient ceremony recognised by the United Nations as one of important cultural significance and first entering Persian historical records in the 2nd Century AD but even then already well established from 548 to 330 BC.

The marking of the Spring Equinox is rooted in  the Zoroastrian tradition and even attributed to Zoroaster himself.

The exact moment or Tahvil,  part of a 12 day festival, this year falls on March 21st in Tehran and in our house in East Yorkshire late on the evening of the day before.

In the run up to Norooz many religious traditions have come together and there are great gatherings and activities. One particular is the lighting of bonfires "Chahar Shan be suri",  to signify the shedding of old troubles and ill fortune and participants leap over the flames to get rid of their woes and troubles. Everyone takes part with a risk of bodily scorching or singeing but it is a joyous thing that is done.

On the night of Nooroz there is the laying out of a ceremonial table display known as the cloth of seven dishes or "Sofreh-ye haft sinn".

Gathered together are possessions of Holy Book, flowers and fresh shoots, bowl of goldfish, mirror, candles, painted eggs and seven foods all beginning with the Persian letter "S". The table stays dressed and laden for thirteen days of the festival.

To help Medhi celebrate we have attempted to seek out as many authentic Persian items as possible in our home area and have had to venture further afield for the more problematic.

The main foods are;

Sabzeh- lentil, barley or wheat sprouts to signify renewal.

Samanu- a sweet pudding made from wheatgerm for affluence.

Senjed-the dried fruit of the lotus tree to represent love.

Sir-garlic for medecine and health.

Sib or apple for health and beauty.

Somaq-berries to act as sunrise and

Serkeh, vinegar for age and patience.

Much of this is ceremonial so traditionally a meal is served such as Sabzi Polo Mati comprising rice, herbs and fish.

At the end of the thirteen days there is "Sizdeh Bedar" meaning "getting rid of the thirteenth" and greenstuffs are thrown into rivers or lakes as a symbolic return to nature.

We, as hosts, will do our best to honour the sentiments and meanings of Norooz for Medhi and by doing so learn yet more of the Persian heritage and way of life. Four of us will be attentive and thoughtful......I cannot say the same for the newly acquired Goldfish who seems a bit under-awed  by the whole thing.

Lion

In employment it is often prudent to have a Plan B, a fallback position, a rainy day option and the like.

Don't get me wrong. I have a great job from which I have had the privilege to earn a living for the last 30 years. Mine is one of those rare jobs where there is something different every day to capture the interest and challenge ideas, long held perceptions and practices. I work with good people and I get to meet new characters some of whom remain firm friends and acquaintances.

It is by no means all rosy and smooth going and there are times when the workload and accompanying paperwork can give me that feeling of just about treading water against an unceasing tide. When this occurs there are many triggers that can lift me out of my morose mood such as a long drive through unspoilt countryside to a distant appointment, a view out to sea from a crumbling cliff edge, low cloud in a steep sided dry valley on the Wolds or the antics of mad March hares in a newly tilled field with me as the only human witness.

I have in the past mused on what my fallback would be.

I may have toyed with a notion of running a bicycle shop which would be potentially idyllic given my long love affair with cycling or working in a cafe in some tourist destination where I would revel in a perfect live/work balance and meet interesting types.

There was that family holiday in the Ionian Islands of Greece when I was seduced by the idea of establishing a business in the sun and relaxed environment as a means of residing there on a more permanent basis. Asking around amongst Ex-Pats revealed a chronic shortage of two skills, being swimming pool maintenance and a commercial laundry. Neither are included in my skill set.

In Australia I passed a few moments in conversation with a Brit running a small roadside hypermarket. My perception of a great lifestyle and a means to earn a living was somewhat deflated by the man who just complained about being tied to a business which could as easily have been the situation back home.  A superb climate, outdoor activities and excellent standard of living appeared to be scant reward in his opinion for what was, after all, a role as just a shopkeeper.

My dream fallback ? -well I dare not really mention it now as it appears to be in danger of becoming extinct under impending banning legislation.

I am of course referring to Lion Taming.

The iconic appearance of that proud circus tradition is well rooted in my mind from childhood recollections of attending Big Top performances, watching grainy black and white broadcasts of shows, marvelling at big screen movies and even playing with my toy car models of giraffe and elephant transporters in Chipperfield livery.

There is by all accounts only one Lion Tamer left in the UK, surname, you should be able to guess- Chipperfield.

His family can trace their involvement with performing animals as far back as the Frost Fair of 1683 when the River Thames froze over for many months allowing it to function as a Fairground and Leisure Arena.

In the modern era pressure including physical threats, abuse and violence has dogged the professional and responsible reputation of the Lion Tamer role causing many to abandon the use of animals, from lions and tigers to elephants, giraffes, gorillas and chimpanzees in the name of entertainment.

Vociferous and media attention grabbing activists have boycotted Circus sites and yet have overlooked the critical fact that working with a mighty lion is based on mutual trust and respect.

As explained by the last lion tamer " They (the lions) have to perceive you as the alpha male, but you have to be the boss in a way that doesn’t force them to resent you or be afraid of you. It’s a fine line to walk, because if you’re too soft you’re perceived as weak, and if you’re too hard you’re seen as a threat, and either way you’re going to get hurt.You can’t afford to mistreat a lion or tiger, because eventually they will turn. They will realise they are a lot stronger, faster and more dangerous than you, and it can only end very badly.". 

Ironically, in a seemingly damning atmosphere in relation to the genre of Circus there are more touring today than for many decades. Granted these are mostly human acts in the tradition of trapeze, clowning, conjuring, juggling, and feats of strength but somehow the dwindling number of animal training artistes leaves a yawning gap in the age old experiences of circus audiences.

There is room for both under the Big Top and perhaps my fallback dreams of becoming a lion tamer may not yet be dead in the water. In the meantime........carry on with the day job.

Energy Bar

I meet a few people every year who make the massive lifestyle decision to build their own house.

Massive, because they are invariably making a bid to get away from the housing estate mentality and taking an opportunity to do something that they have always wanted to do.

This is usually made possible by a good many years of sacrifice in terms of saving up that big cash contribution to make up a conventional mortgage funding shortfall, trailing round model properties, attending Ideal Home Exhibitions, queueing at the checkout in WH Smith Newsagents to buy a raft of "Self Build" project magazines, watching archive broadcasts of Grand Design, collecting brick and timber samples, spending endless hours talking to wife, partner and children to convince them of the ethical and fiscal benefits and an equal amount of valuable time convincing yourself that what you intend to do is the right and proper thing.

A few years ago the emphasis was on floor area, style, individuality and making a bit of a statement.

There has, more recently, been a subtle change in that all of the foregoing are still major considerations but even more so are design features to try to achieve that elusive zero carbon footprint and energy self sufficiency.

In so much as there is a movement in the United States preparing for civil unrest of an apocalyptic event or series of events the same "Prepping" label applies to the new generation of self build exponents.

The motivations to achieve independence from the power companies and grid system of distribution are not always purely financial but borne also out of a genuine desire to use less energy.

There has been, in the Western economies an all encompassing obsession with growth. The average for the last few hundred years at 3% is regarded, by current governmental aspirations, as being barely acceptable to maintain the wealth and status of a nation. China, for example, is extremely disappointed to announce a dramatic collapse to only 7% annual growth from supreme performance in previous years.

Many commentators and analysts believe that the desire for growth will inevitably lead to the destruction of the world environment.

Growth is after all on an exponential track and so the magic 3% annual rate would, it is speculated, at a point around 400 years in the future lead to the boiling of the seas and the baking of the earth. Surprisingly this is not a consequence of global warming but an actual rise in temperature from the heat brought about our actual consumption of energy.

Currently, the western economies use five times more energy than the wider world average.

If we are truly serious in bringing the rest of the world, that is the developing nations and everyone else towards parity then that would mean finding five times more fossil fuels and natural resources. Arguably, we are already at tipping point for oil although the relentless recent  pursuit of shale gas extraction seems to have caused this major issue to be parked and briefly forgotten.

We, in the West, must realise that it is up to us individually and collectively to simply use less energy so that the rest of the world can take up the surplus without depleting already scarce natural resources.

It is possible.

It can be done but at a price of reduced expectations, a change in lifestyles and a major rethink of energy use.

Much of the existing and ageing housing stock in the UK does not readily take to energy saving measures apart from loft insulation, double glazing and an "A" rated domestic appliance. There have been developments in applying external insulation but best expectations for performance are still well below a purpose built property.

The shopping list for zero carbon and energy self sufficiency can include solar panels, battery storage, ground source or air source heating, wind turbines, solar gain and heat recirculation measures , triple glazing and a host of others not yet proven, ridiculously expensive or just a bit eccentric (bring in the worm/compost waste system)..

In addition you could consider a hybrid car that could be charged up at home, rainwater collection and filtration. livestock husbandry, a water bore hole and a large all year round vegetable garden and fruit orchard.

All of these measures do of course involve high investment and pulling together an architectural design to facilitate the necessary could leave you with a bit of a radical and offensive eyesore of a house.

Perhaps, after all we are not ready to accept this fundamental rethink of our lives and be pushed to the very limits of our comfort zone, particularly if there is a chance of upsetting the neighbours.

Crate Expectations

I remember, from my childhood, many TV real life dramas and animated features where the villain of the peace ended up being put into a packing crate and was mailed off, more often as not, to a place called Timbuctoo.

It seemed to me then to be a fitting form of retribution for those who had suffered at the hands of the perpetrator through the 90 minutes or so of the on screen adventure although it was a bit of a shock to find out that the destination with the funny name was in fact a real place in North Africa.

Perhaps the same thought process was a contributory factor behind the actions of Reg Spears who in 1964, aged 23 years, packed himself into a wooden crate and travelled by airfreight from London to Australia.

By way of background Spears was from Adelaide and an accomplished athlete in the Javelin who competed for Australia in the 1962 Commonwealth Games in Perth, Western Australia.

He was a large character, physically and in his outlook on life.

Prevented by injury from going to the Summer Games, the Tokyo Olympics in 1964 he turned up at the home of a former fellow athlete in London, England and crashed out there for much of the remainder of the year.

Spears, jobless and an amateur athlete was typically short of money and acquaintances remember that in order to get around the area he had a practice of standing out in the middle of the road, thumb outstretched forcing motorists to either give him a ride or run him down.

It appeared to be a bit of a season of partying and an easy going life for the affable Aussie but this was to be short lived as there was the more pressing matter of trying to get back to Adelaide to his family as it was close to the birthday of his daughter.

A job at London Airport working for Air France in the freight transport warehouse gave him an opportunity to save up towards a one-way flight and things were going well until his wallet was stolen and his funds were wiped out.

 It was a time for desperate measures.

The freight recieved at the airport where he was employed included crates used for animal transit and these were amongst the largest permitted at Imperial dimensions of 5 feet by 3 feet by 2 and a half feet.

Spears worked out that this volume would accommodate his large physique either sitting up with legs straight or lying back with legs bent. Friends helped him fabricate a box of that maximum size in their flat. To avoid being trapped if the crate were stacked tightly to a wall or other boxes it had two false ends with wooden release catches. The slatted wood had to be internally lined to avoid the contents being seen but there was still a good view out for the occupant.

In order to authenticate the posting of the crate and its cargo it was necessary to establish Companies in London and Perth. A label would indicate a fictitious inventory of Plastic Emulsion and to be signed and paid for on delivery, a major cost saving factor.

Spears had some intentions of selling his story, if successful to the Media to cover freight costs.

His London based friends took the box to the Airport to be checked in.

There were no concerns about potential for discovery, injury or fatality. Being an Aussie there could be no accusation of illegal entry if his plan were rumbled in his home nation.

The crate was equipped with supplies for an anticipated 30 hour incarceration. Foodstuffs included baked beans and liquids and with a torch, pillow, bag of clothing. a bottle to urinate in and all tied down with strapping in case the box were rotated in the process of loading and unloading on the flight.

To prepare himself for the possible starvation experience Spears fasted for the week before the journey with the same level of enthusiasm previously applied to his top flight athletic status.

There was an initial setback in that London Airport was fog bound delaying the flight until the following morning. Other worrying events were to follow. The first stopover was Paris then onto Bombay and Singapore. At each stop there was a risk of discovery and forced expulsion as the cargo in the hold was removed, supplemented and re-arranged. A fork lift truck in the hands of a novice driver did not engage the prongs correctly and Spears had to throw his body weight around to correct a potential nasty over balance and toppling.  He was able to get out when safe and stretch his cramped limbs and have a pee. On one occasion he forgot to remove an empty beer can of urine from atop the crate but the airport staff attributed this to a British worker rather than it arousing suspicions of a stowaway.

In the long dark hours Spears was left to his own imagination and thoughts. There was no real exposure to cold or discomfort and the thought of hundreds of passengers directly above the cargo hold having paid full fare was a matter of much amusement.

Arriving at Perth some 60 hours later saw the crate deposited in a Bonded Warehouse at the airport perimeter. Dressed in a crumpled suit Spears disengaged himself from the box, climbed out of a window and casually on reaching the street got a bus to the City Centre.

His final destination and daughters party was still 1600 miles away in Adelaide but in true Reg style he blagged rides and fares from the likes of a Catholic Priest and the Salvation Army.

He made the celebration in time but omitted to let his friends know of his safe arrival. This prompted concerned enquiries between London and a Sydney based journalist as to the whereabouts of the intrepid traveller.

When traced a media storm erupted and recriminations began. Spears was summoned to the Airline Offices to explain his actions and pay his outstanding airfreight bills but faced with embarrassment and bad publicity they agreed not to pursue compensation.

Spears did not at the time have any real intentions to make big money out of his fabulous story, he just wanted to get home, but retrospectively, now aged 73 he has expressed some regret that he did not exploit the tremendous amount of interest that his dramatic exploit generated on a worldwide basis and make a crate load of cash.

Bhutan the other foot.

In these current times of obscene weekly wage levels for Premier League footballers fuelled by extraordinary deals with broadcasters it is nice to hear of a grass-roots story associated with the sport.

There was of course the recent honouring of a goal scored by Stephanie Roche in Irish Football in its attaining second place in the FIFA 2014 Goal of the Year Award beating many of the best male players in the world.

However, the most heart-warming recent story has involved the national football team of Bhutan.

The tiny landlocked country, known as Land of the Thunder Dragon, wedged between India and China has struggled to overcome geographical, social and economic difficulties which to a certain extent have to be well established before any thoughts can be given to leisure or recreation of the population. The hereditary rulers, the Wangchuck Dynasty have been in power for the last hundred years and have controlled citizens through imposing compulsory national dress and through the philanthropic ideas of Gross National Happiness whereby a happy harmony is imposed balancing the spiritual and the material. The Buddhist Culture is strong and has caused conflict with an ethnic Nepalese enclave  in recent years. The landscape in the Himalayas is striking but tourism is controlled.

The national sport of archery has been dominant and it was only until students, studying overseas, returned and brought back the idea of football that things started to progress. There had been no exposure to the world of football prior to this particularly as television had been banned until the late 1990's.

Bhutan joined FIFA in the year 2000 giving eligibility to compete in Asian Tournaments and a few Friendly matches with near neighbours but still involving great distances to be travelled.

The team was made up of part timers and those in education with sparse resources and skills to call upon.

There was some early success with wins against Afghanistan, Montserrat and Guam but in the 18 games since 2008 Bhutan failed to run out winners in any form of competition.

Consequently, the outcome has been that Bhutan have been, officially, the worst international team of the 209 member associations within FIFA with no points earned.

The standard of play or rather the extent of being outclassed was emphasised by a defeat to Kuwait some 15 years ago which at 20-0 remains a record score. This did prompt additional investment in the sport with infrastructure changes including artificial turf pitches, an Academy Structure and a support network of medical and ancillary services.

The players have seen a more formal pay regime put in place although at £100 per month there is no comparison to even the lower league salaries in Europe and the wider world.

In the second preliminary round of qualification for the 2018 World Cup a few weeks ago, Bhutan were to play an away tie in Sri Lanka, themselves ranked 173rd by FIFA.

The hosts fully expected a bit of a goal-fest and before the match media interviews with Sri Lanka's national coach and captain aired a feeling of being belittled at having to play such a lowly band of no-hopers.

The fixture list for the early qualifiers included Cambodia v Macau, Timor Leste v Mongolia and Yemen v Pakistan but Bhutan trumped the lot by winning in Columbo by a solitary goal by Tshering Dorji.

Hopes have been heightened for further points to lift Bhutan out of the bottom place of the rankings and the return match in the Changlimithang Stadium, ringed by snow capped mountains in Thimpu is eagerly awaited.

After the historic away win there was no bonus payment to the squad and certainly no trip down to the Bentley or Porsche Car Showrooms to browse the latest models as befitting top footballers.

The team did celebrate however in a visit to a KFC Fast Food Restaurant just down the road from the hotel.

Don Quixote in a modern context

Up close to a wind turbine can be exhilarating.

Their emergence into many of our urban and rural skylines has been quite rapid although representing only a very small proportion of the many hundreds arrayed out of common sight in the offshore industrial wind farms on which we will increasingly rely upon to keep our lifestyle powered.

It can be difficult to actually judge the size and scale of a turbine from a distance as they all tend to assume the same perception of towering proportions but as you get closer some may shrink to a modest stump set above an individual factory or premises.

The really big examples, some 30 metres and more high, are majestic.

One such turbine is located on the western bank of the tidal River Hull, some 3 miles up from its convergence with the Humber and set amongst scrubland and large industrial premises of indeterminate operation and use. It dominates the location above the low slung warehouses and retail showrooms. The gantries and drab grey towers and chimneys of the chemical plants and adjacent paint factory are made to look small and insignificant. Viewed from the residential areas further to the west the turbine pops up as a surprise at the end of a quiet tree lined  street and above rooftops when totallly unexpected.

The course of the river is very lazy in this latter part of its meandering journey through East Yorkshire.It was low tide in the estuary about a mile or so southwards as the muddy waters were coursing and bubbling quite actively past the old and mainly derelict wharfs and at the foot of old concrete steps that now led nowhere.

Me and the Boy were walking along the raised flood defences today and the turbine  was not where it usually was. From previous walks the turbine always seemed to be closer to the blue metal bridge over Sutton Road but strangely it was well over to the south east and it would take some time for us to reach a position directly opposite.

The late afternoon was calm and bright. There was the usual traffic noise from the nearby inner ring road and the audible and regular clank as vehicles hit the expansion joint on the tarmac dressed metal of the bridge itself. The factories and commercial premises which followed the course of the river bank were already quiet and vacanting at that time of the day but it would take some time for the related congestion on the roads to clear. The gypsy horses ruled the footpath, tethered to long chains and sweeping wide arcs in the thick grass. We startled one of the horses which had obviouly been dozing, on all four legs, in the sunshine and we kept a wide berth around the others based on what we had seen as the mightily disgruntled reaction to being disturbed.

There was no noise whatsoever from the massive tri-blade arrangement of the turbine and we could not really understand the opposition  from local residents on the grounds of a persistent and intrusive hum or resonance. The mechanicals in the hub had manouevred the blades into the wind for optimum performance and they were churning around freely and with regular but silent monotony.

We stood and marvelled at the impression of the rotational strength easily becoming mesmerised and a bit dizzy after a few moments.

Something we had not previously noticed but now became very aware of was the casting of an ominous  shadow which chased us along the bank.The August sun, at 5pm, was almost directly behind the white colossus. The intermittent darkness passed over us and then projected a dark stain up and over the grey sheet metallic cladding of a warehouse building which nestled at the base of the main earthworks containing the river. The process repeated like a black-light searchlight and gave quite a disorientating and disturbing effect to the surroundings.

We likened the sensation to the over flight of a large flock of birds or a low flying and muted aircraft but in a sinister and Hitchcock style and not at all pleasurable.

The scene had become menacing and overbearing from the casting of the shadow and as we turned our backs on the turbine and averted our gaze there was a noticeable acceleration from our normal walking pace and we could not wait to get away and into the full sunlight.

Spending on Education

Unfortunately it is a human trait to try to cut a corner where possible, perhaps attempt to cheat the system particularly if the system is perceived to be faceless or too gargantuan in scale for any deliberate deception or deprivation to be even noticed. It is often cited as an excuse, to justify a cheat or render it legitimate in the mind of the perpetrator, that if  no single person has been hurt by a misdeed then it is perfectly OK and aceptable. However and deep down at a conscience level we all know that it is never the case. There is always a human element, a victim, a loss and a potential for suffering.

This was certainly the experience surrounding the school vending machine.

 It was meant to be an amenity for the whole contingent of the Grammar School that I attended in the early to mid 1970's. Any automated purveyor of refreshments was still a novelty in that period and particularly so in an educational environment. Such machines were only otherwise found in a railway station or at a cinema dispensing bars of chocolate, packets of sweets, bags of crisps and always with an adjacent drinks only version for hot beverages although of quite limited choice of tea and coffee,black or white and hot chocolate. It was some years later that the all singing, all dancing chilled drinks versions became commonplace.

The school vending machine was, unusually, located outdoors. It stood under a sloping verandah roof on the western side of a quadrangle of concrete yard, bounded not on four sides as the name suggests but only three and a half, so technically a thralfrangle, a word of almost Viking derivation. The verandah provided an open walkway from the main school entrance to the cloakrooms. Directly opposite and at an elevated height was the staffroom. To the south was the school office. The north side was a short dogleg continuation of the same cloakroom block. It was an area of very high footfalls at the commencement of the academic day and at break times from the timetable the yard was packed with noisy boys kicking around tennis balls in a ranging game of football, the younger intake swopping football cards and the remainder just milling about idly with no determined reason or purpose.

As an area of containment and supervision the yard was ideal. It was quite similar in form and function to the central courtyard of Colditz Castle which was a popular TV series of the time. The staff had an excellent vantage point overlooking the yard. Such was the elevation of the staff room that they could keep watch but with no prospect of themselves being seen other than above shoulder height. Those summoned to the corridor outside the room for chastisement or on an errand often testified to getting a very brief glimpse into a smoke filled den of worn and sagging easy chairs with coffee stain patterns, piles of mugs, collapsible cardboard boxes from the bakery around the corner and even a bottle or two partly drained of their alcoholic content.

We did, over time, deduce a few blind spots such as directly under the staff room windows where inter-pupil transactions and not a little bullying and intimidation could be exacted with impunity. The vending machine was in clear and plain sight of the staff unless of course there was a sufficient huddle of schoolboys acting as a screen and concealing mischief and mayhem.

The standard price for a very flimsy plastic cup filled with scalding hot liquid and a quarter inch of sludge in the bottom was two new pence. This was clearly a much subsidised price as in todays money that equates to only 14p. I do not recall who first discovered that a bolt washer, skimmed into the coin slot in the front of the machine, tricked the mechanism into dropping the cup into the hatch for it to be filled with the dry drinks powder and the boiling water. It was now open season for all and everything close to the dimensions of a 2p coin to be inserted. There was quite a black market trade in the small metal discs found on the building sites in the town which were pushed out of the back plates of electrical sockets for the cabling to be fed through. Trespass and potential for criminal damage could therefore be added to the principal misdemeanour. Many nuts and bolts on street signs, road signs and the property of the Council were loosened and their washers removed to serve as a new , illegal tender in the playground.

Foreign coins were also in good demand although in those days any overseas holidays were the privilege of the wealthy few in our midst so many quite extensive and notable coin collections held by parents, older siblings and even grandparents were raided and looted of the smaller denominations.

For a time it appeared that the whole school were involved and it was necessary for the self appointed master criminals to allocate time to those wanting a go and in strict queueing order. The mass congregating of the school within the quadrangle was ultimately the downfall of the scam. An alert member of staff eventually noticed how deserted the wider school campus was at break times and conferring with his colleagues the scale of the deception and con was soon evident.

There were to my recollection no perpetrators brought to justice because that would have been much too damage for the reputation of that otherwise reputable Grammar School if the whole school were implicated. We really did miss a stodgy and rather stale tasting but nevertheless hot beverage in the winter months following the enforced removal and disposal of the vending machine.

As an exercise in responsibilty, honesty and trust we surely sold our souls for a grubby handful of nothing.

Cash Registers

Money comes easily to some people.

It may be from the inheritance of a fortune, the germ of an idea that becomes an indispensable part of modern life, a piece of writing that captures the imagination of a generation, a natural skill that can be put to good exploitative use by others, stumbling across something valuable, from the proceeds of despicable crime or it is won in a game of chance or on the scratching away of a small sliver of silver.

I like one of the sayings attributed to the American multi millionaire J Paul Getty which shows a good attitude to and a wicked acceptance of his fantastic wealth, "Rise early, work hard, strike oil". On that mantra I can be severely criticised as performing only at just over 66% of my potential.

Money has always burnt a hole in my pockets and I find it very difficult to hold onto it for very long if at all. Not that I am upset or feel at a disadvantage by this trait. Indeed I have casually observed people with plenty of money whose main pursuit in life is not to lose it and this sadly produces much anxiety and stress that must serve to completely hamstring them from ever really enjoying the rewards of their endeavours, however it has been got.

It is often the case that the wealthiest are also the most cost conscious or what the rest of us refer to as tight. In the current but prolonged recession it is clear that around 85% of the nation is skint and retracting in their spending and confidence whilst the remaining percentage are cleaning up nicely, thank you very much, by being able to access cash or other funds. In adversity comes a determination to survive and resourcefullness and innovation emerge as a strong motivation. This may explain the upsurge in such operations as hand car washes, wheelie bin swiller outers and the chronically accident prone as customers for the sudden proliferation of accident lawyers.

Money can empower and faciltate great things but any reference to it still attracts derogatory and quite obscene terms. This is by no means a modern phenomena as early literature and drama refers in ribald and bawdy language throughout many centuries. My favourite term of 'filthy lucre' is reputed to have been a broad interpretation of a passage from the book of Leviticus by William Tyndale in his translation of the Bible in 1525.

It is clear that money can also cause great misery. Perhaps one of the best documented cases is that of Viv Nicholson. In 1961 there were few opportunities to win a lot of money but the main competition of the time was the football pools. I remember a regular caller to our house being the 'pools man' who would drop off and collect the weekly coupon. Talk about confusing to a young child. The form was ultra complex in its multiple boxes, permutations , red and black inkiness and it took a keen mathematical brain to work out how much had to be handed over in payment before the duplicate slip could be detached and propped up behind the clock on the mantelpiece. We never to my recollection won anything. Hopes were readily dashed by the dour voice at the end of the saturday football results if the pools forecast was poor or even moderate. Viv Nicholson won over £152,000 which in current monies equates to around £3 million. An unimaginable sum in the early sixties and with enough spending power to buy 306 standard Mini's or 54 average priced houses depending on whether you had an indoor toilet or not. Sadly a combination of personal tragedy, poor investments and the much coined 'Spend, Spend, Spend' approach did little for the rainy day account.

The prospect of winning £3 million pounds today may be met with cries of 'is that all?' because of the cheapening of money as a prize. Its easy availability to win with almost every commercial break on TV, on alternate pages of newspapers and glossy magazines or on the purchase of a lottery ticket means a much reduced perception of what is a life changing amount. We should just stand back and do a quick piece of mental arithmetic on how many years it would take of our current working income to reach such a figure. Adopting an average annual wage from the combined male and female figures makes it around 109 years.

The sight of Lottery winners is now so commonplace as to be overlooked as an event or to be acknowleged as good fortune. Some of the back stories of winners do attest to justice and entitlement but the majority do not.

Hard earned money by conventional and lawful means does have a special pedigree of its own. I can appreciate the dewy eyed sentiment of many who have trod this path that accumulating that first fortune was the best time of their lives.

I was told a great story in recent days about what having a nice amount of money can mean. It centres around a family from what was a hardcore coal mining town in South Yorkshire. A life downt' pit was replaced by a thriving business in the community which grew to multiple shops and consequential wealth. The matriarch of the family expressed delight to a long time friend in the town in announcing that they had just purchased a plane. As an indicator of sustainable wealth an aircraft is right up there with a yacht or overseas homes. It meant, above all, to the family that it now only took 20 minutes to get to Skegness. True class always shines through.

Werdz for Nerdz

I stumbled across the following whilst doing a bit of research on current technological developments, or was it browsing the internet for funny You Tube movies of cats singing, dogs dancing and babies absconding from their cots and over stairgates.

Strangely, all of the foregoing are to the theme music from Mission Impossible.

Did  Der, Did Der, Did Der, Did-Der, Did Der, Did Der, Did-Der, Did  Der, Diddleder, Diddleder, Diddleder, Didder...........................

See how easy it is to get distracted from a dedicated purpose with that distinctive soundtrack and a few hilarious images.

Anyways, my attention was drawn to what, to me, is a whole new range of vocabulary spawned by tech, computers and self professed clever folk who no doubt use the langauge to confuse and discomboobalise those not in the loop, in the know or in the same file sharing fraternity.

In the not too distant past the same persons will have developed a similar lingo relating to Hi-Fi equipment, early video gaming systems and those who had to do their own coding on what are now seen as extremely primitive and clunky personal computers.

Abolitionism (bioethics}.To eliminate involuntary sentient suffering through non violent behaviour.

Crypto-Anarchism. A cyber spatial realisation of anarchism. The desire to evade prosecution and harassment and to protect against mass surveillance and censorship.

Extropianism. A framework of values and standards to improve the human condition.

Historicism. The significance of an historical period, geographical place and local culture.

Post-Scarcity. The universal availability of goods and services through recycling and conversion.

Singularitarianism. A movement believing in the creation of superintelligence but for the benefit of humans.

Techno-Progressivism. The campaign for the convergence of technological and social change.

Technocentrism. Technology and its ability to control and protect the environment. A belief that humans have control over nature.

Technocracy. Governnment or organisation with decision makers being those with technological knowledge.

Technological singularity. A fear that progress is running away from humans and that artificial intelligence will exceed human intellectual capacity.

Technorealism. A critical examination of how technology might help or hinder.

Transhumanism. A cultural an intellectual movement to transform the human condition by developing and making widely available different technologies.

Technological Utopianism. Advances in science and technology will bring about a utopian society.

Sneakernet. The transfer of electronic information by physically transporting moveable media , ie by someone wearing sneakers.

and finally, the only term that I can possibly identify with......

Neo-Luddism. The opposing of all modern technology from weapons to global warming, surveillance and the exhaustion of natural resources.