Scrabble Babble

I like a game of Scrabble.

That is in spite of never, ever having won a game against my wife when we have found ourselves embarking in a tournament whilst on holiday in the UK when adverse weather or a plaque of midges imprisons us in a quaint cottage or log cabin.

The recent update of the Scrabble Dictionary has seen a huge increase in new permissible words.

I have selected a few.

Some of these I have heard in popular culture, in the media or on the street. The rest, well, they have just served to remind me never to play Scrabble with anyone under the age of, say 25, if I have any intention to record that elusive, first ever victory over anyone at all.

BEZZY best friend (18 points)

CAKEAGES charges in a restaurant for serving cake brought in from outside (15 points)

CAKEHOLE mouth (17 points)

DENCH excellent (11 points)

DEVO short for devolution (8 points)

GEOCACHE search for hidden containers using GPS as a recreational activity (16 points)

LOLZ laughs at someone else's or one's own expense (13 points)

LOTSA lots of (5 points)

NEWB newbie (9 points)

OBVS obviously (9 points)

ONESIE one-piece garment combining a top with trousers (6 points)

PODIUMED past tense of podium, finish in the top three places in a sporting competition (14 points)

RIDIC ridiculous (8 points)

SHIZZLE A form of US rap slang (18 points)

SHOOTIE type of shoe that covers the ankle (10 points)

SHOUTOUT public greeting, esp one broadcast via television or radio (11 points)

THANX thank you (15 points)

TUNEAGE music (8 points)

TWERKING type of dance involving rapid hip movement (16 points)

VAPE to inhale nicotine vapour (from an electronic cigarette) (9 points)

WUZ nonstandard spelling of was (15 points)

Technology and Electronic Communications

FACETIME talk with (someone) via the FaceTime application (15 points)

HACKTIVIST person who hacks computer systems for political reasons (22 points)

HASHTAG (on Twitter) word or phrase preceded by a hashmark, used to denote the topic of a post (14 points)

PWN defeat (an opponent) in conclusive and humiliating fashion (8 points)

SEXTING practice of sending sexually explicit text messages (15 points)

SHOWROOMING practice of looking at an item in a shop, using a smartphone to compare its price elsewhere, then

buying it online (20 points)

TWEEP person who uses the Twitter website (10 points)

WARBOT any robot or unmanned vehicle or device designed for and used in warfare (11 points)

WEBAPP an application program that is accessed on the internet (15 points)

Highest Scoring and Useful Words

CAZH casual (18 points)

CHECKBOX small clickable box on a computer screen (28 points)

CINQ number five (15 points)

COQUI type of tree-dwelling frog (16 points)

EMOJI digital icon used in electronic communication (14 points)

IXNAY nix (15 points)

OXAZOLE type of liquid chemical compound (23 points)

OXIC involving oxygen (13 points)

PACZKI round filled doughnut (23 points)

QAMUTIK sled with wooden runners (22 points)

QUINZHEE shelter made from hollowed-out snow (29 points)

Stone Walled

It is a conspiracy wrapped up in an irony.

This relates to my experiences of trying to buy a DVD of the 1991 Oliver Stone movie JFK. I saw it at the cinema when it first came out and in the following two point one decades I have endeavoured to acquire a copy to sit in my collection of great films and gracefully gather dust between occasional viewings.

On every visit to the fast diminishing number of High Street retailers of DVD's I have excitedly worked my way through the racks in search of the elusive film. In most there has been no trace whatsoever of a stock of the film. In some a tantalising divider card with JFK adhered in letraset or dymo-tape but empty of a prize.

Famous shop chains have withdrawn from DVD sales because of stiff competition from on-line retailers. WH Smith withdrew from the market and others have just gone to the wall altogether, namely Woolworths, Virgin latterly Zavvy and many small independents. I may have been able to save them from closure with my custom had it not been for the decision of some misguided executive at the distribution company to starve the market of copies of JFK.

It is definitely a conspiracy, possibly not directly targeted at me personally, but nevertheless causing me to think that it is.

Looking at it cynically I am of the opinion that with the 50th anniversary of the assassination of JFK next year the owners of the intellectual rights are building up for a massive exploitative release of every possible connotation of the film. Blu-Ray, interactive 3D as though you are on the grassy knoll, retro-style packaging, special boxed set with Oswald mask , unreleased footage and the usual 'where were you when......' hype.

It undoubtedly promises to be a good fund raising year through tributes and testimonials to JFK as well as the resurrection of controversy, rumour, speculation and hearsay on his private life and peccadillos.

I eventually coped with my thwarted efforts to secure the film by resorting to the epitomy of the freewheeling economy that is E Bay. Plenty of copies were being sold in the United States but not compatible with UK DVD players and my limited understanding of zones, pals and the like did not engender confidence in a speculative purchase.

Home sourced DVD's never seemed to appear in the listings. This can be taken as an indication of the allure of the movie by those who possess a copy and will through loyalty,not part with it, otherwise they would be ten a penny at car boot sales like, for example, films with Jennifer Anniston in them.

I admit that my main motivation to acquire a copy was to watch it again because I did not follow it that well when on the big screen all those years ago and with a degree of confusion arising over who was allied to whom, for what purpose and to what end.

I do recall it was a tremendous cast and that Kevin Costner, playing himself as someone else altogether was actually quite good although his role did rather merge in my mind with his Eliot Ness character in The Untouchables made some 4 years earlier.

I at last, but only recently, secured an original vintage DVD copy of JFK. Then irony upon irony it was shown as the 9pm Saturday feature film just this weekend past. I was livid and demoralised by the whole contrived series of events and the persistence of the conspiracy. My only really comfort is in the knowledge that I had only paid £4.50 including postage for my shelf copy.

Rise of the Machines

I liked the report on the news that some chap, either unable or unwilling to pay for a gymnasium membership, undertook to just run up and down his own staircase at home and by doing so shed some considerable weight.

I did belong to a gym about 20 years ago and got caught up in the whole culture of regular exercise making sure that I got in a session on the machines or in the pool at least every other day.

A house move, only about 100 yards across town, but involving a significant hike in mortgage payments meant that something had to be sacrificed and with some reluctance it was my gym family and fitness friends.

In the following two decades my body mass and wellbeing yo-yo'd.

Although I did my best to keep in shape through cycling, walking, fad-dieting and the one beneficial aspect of stress- involuntary weight loss these activities were not really as effective as a good, sweaty workout on a treadmill, rowing machine, free weights and a plough up and down the pool. albeit not in any recognisable fashion.

I have, in the last week, taken up the gym lifestyle again.

This has been possible not through any increase in disposable income but simply through the intense competition between the large number of commercial gyms that from time to time offer an unbelievable and irresistible promotion to attract new members.

In fact, the whole of the Hull based Thomson's signed up as part of a determined initiative to get or keep healthy and hopefully enjoy all of the benefits that go with that.

The etiquette of the gym has changed somewhat since my last experience.

The establishment that we have pledged allegiance to is in a large purpose built industrial style building which is the current trend.

There is piped, hip hop and trance music in the foyer and from the high vaulted ceiling hang a myriad of matt black audio speakers and Tv screens. In the old gym those partaking in exercise did so in almost reverential silence, suppressing sometimes quite obvious pain and strains with true British spirit and denial.

No longer the manual signing in at the counter but careful insertion of index finger into a sensor at the automatic turnstile type entrance. It seems that many members under old systems did allow others to use their membership details and identity to which the profit driven ompanies eventually got wise to and took measures to actively prevent.

The equipment is not just those previously mentioned but some quite high tech and futuristic machines targetting every muscle group individually which is a far cry from having to make do with a medicine ball, skipping rope, dumbell and just hoping for the best.

I was quite self conscious of working out back in the day and did spend a small fortune in a sports shop to look the part but no-one seems that bothered about a dress code nowadays. Anything goes apparently.

The average age appears to be mid twenties which is at least 10 years less than when I first started to attend back in the 1990's. I suppose that the 20 to 30 age group, in having to live  with parents, and avoiding outgoings associated with their own ownership of a home can afford to go to the gym as an integral part of their own lifestyle.

I am by quite some way amongst the senior of those toning and pumping up but there is no evidence that they are repulsed by being close to a red faced but enthusiastic oldie in old band tour T shirt, baggy, unflattering trackie bottoms, and last years plimsolls.

Turnip Prize

Art.

It can be a bit baffling, can't it?

What is heralded as the next best thing by the establishment, dealers and collectors may seem to the rest of us, like a bit of old rubbish put into a frame or mounted on a plinth.

Works that have made the big money and headlines have also courted controversy and consternation.

Who is to say, really, what is good art?

What may thrill and mesmerise one person may bore the pants off the next, and so on.

Personally I like a good old fashioned oil painting depicting a landscape, maritime scene or even a portrait of the rugged, expressioned face of an anonymous or long forgotten figure from history or who just caught the eye and imagination of the artist .

In recent years I have enjoyed tracking down the sculptures of Anthony Gormley which has taken the family as far south as Wessex, to the suburbs of Gateshead, Tyne and Wear, Greenwich on the Thames and in my local Sainsbury Homebase where they were, some years ago, selling coat pegs designed by the man himself.

I have also developed a fascination for the works of Peter Howson even to the point of getting sweaty palms and guilt pangs in seriously thinking about buying a small original painting from a gallery in Glasgow whilst on holiday in Scotland. I lost my nerve after realising that the purchase price would take up all of the vacation spending money and a bit more. I was not sure, on reflection, where I would actually display any acquisition as would be the right thing to do without being always on edge in case it got damaged, faded away in sunlight or spoiled by an enthusiastic, regular application of furniture polish.

I settled in the end for a copy of an album sleeve of the Beautiful South "Quench" featuring Howson's graphically striking character in a defensive fighting stance.

Well, it was announced today that the City of Hull, my home town, is to host the Turner Prize for art in 2017, also the year in which Hull celebrates its role as UK City of Culture.

In previous years and locations of the Prize there have been weird and wonderful entries and eventual winners including a stained and dishevelled bed with lots of accompanying garbage and detritus and even formaldehyde preserved creatures of field and sea.

Whatever the actual subjects and interpretations of what passes as art will be met with great expectation and excitement by the citizens of Hull upon the arrival of the prestigious competition in two years time.

I might just wander down and have a look.

Rae of Hope

I have Scottish ancestors on my father's side consisting of my Gran from the far northern fishing town of Wick and my Grandfather from similar parts.

Consequently, I have deep rooted genes which dictate that I go all dewy eyed whenever I hear the bagpipes, know by heart the words of Auld Lang Syne, can fashion a passable porridge from scratch and there are distinct ginger tones in an attempted or lazy growth of facial hair. Although of generous intentions I can be quite frugal and tight with money.

As head of my branch of the family I have also tried to perpetuate Scottish type traditions with observance of such rituals as first-footing at New Years and the cooking of Haggis, neeps and tatties on Burns Night.

I am the proud owner of a kilt in which I was wed but have not been able to secure around my middle-aged girth for some years now. It is brought out on special occasions to prove to incredulous friends that indeed I did honour my Scottish heritage and is always well received. In fact many have commented that the Thomson Tartan weave is quite familiar but they are not sure why. I gloss over the fact that the reason for the deja-vu moment is that Vauxhall cars used the pattern for seat covers in their Astra model hatchbacks in the late 1970's and early 1980's.

We have enjoyed many a family vacation in the Old Country regardless of the blood sucking intentions of the midge population.

That moment of approaching and then crossing the border from England to Scotland, in itself a bit of an anti-climax really, has in recent years been celebrated by the playing on the Car CD of a certain evocative and emotional track- that of "Over the Sea" by Jesse Rae.

It first came to public attention in, I think, 1978 or 1979 after a video version was broadcast on the Channel 4 media and music show of The Tube presented by Jools Holland and the late Paula Yates.

In it an armour clad Jesse Rae wields his broadsword on the top of a Highland Peak and then appears in the same attire on top of a New York skyscraper with the ill fated twin towers just visible in the misty distance. The lyrics, in the terminology of a Sociologist, rue the day that proud Scots were forced to leave their homes and make their way in the brave new world.

The theme and sound of the track remains quite unique and many may recall it on the basis of my description although in fact it did not do much in the very competitive pop charts of that time.

For my 40th birthday my wife sought out a supplier of the otherwise elusive 'Over the Sea' recording through an E Bay seller and confirmed the order by phone. The voice on the other end of the line, in a lilting Scots Border region accent, confessed that he did have quite a stock of the things in his garage and that my wife's interest was quite a rarity.

He asked if she would like the CD autographed. You would be understandably suspicious over such an offer of an added bonus from a complete stranger in spite of a favourable seller rating.

My wife envisaged a hasty scrawl of limited authenticity but it turns out that the vendor was Jesse Rae himself.

It is clear that he has fallen on hard times, mainly brought on by one of those disagreements with a bank that usually and in Jesse Rae's case did prompt financial ruin.

His career had promised much and he was courted by big record companies and the prospect of big money but it did not go strictly to plan.

In 1981 he wrote "Inside Out" which was an international sensation and hit for New York soul and disco group Odyssey and still gets airplay even today. It is all too clear that the reaping of royalties for the record was not enough to stave off bankruptcy in 2002. He also co-wrote "This Time" for The Human League.

In more recent years he has made a few live appearances at Festivals and has provided rugby commentaries on Borders Radio.

As with many short lived but nevertheless iconic figures in the oh-so fickle pop music industry there has been a fading into relative obscurity and anonymity apart, that is from the special place that Jesse Rae has in our own family tradition whenever we boldly venture into Scotland and engage with our proud ancestry.

Footnote; Jesse Rae was seen at the recent UK General Election in his full Highland regalia and looked mighty well.

Link to Over the Sea

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOad0FU9zF8

14 minutes to Meltdown

According to official Government guidance there is a critical time in any car journey taken by parents and children when everything kicks off and what could be a nice day out deteriorates into a big rumpus. A Survey of motorists has suggested that at precisely two hours and thirty seven minutes any children become agitated and begin to ask that question that crosses successive generations "are we nearly there yet?". Within fourteen minutes of this sign of boredom chances are that arguments start to break out.

I am disappointed and a little bit disillusioned when I see a car full of children but none of them are actually looking out to see or apparently show an interest in where they are on their journey.

It is a case of heads down with hand held video game or slightly raised up but only at the TV screen set in the rear of the front head restraints.

Granted, when I was a nipper the most sophisticated piece of in car entertainment was an I-Spy book, Travel Mastermind, suppressing being sick or squabbling with my brothers and sisters whilst we sat stuck to the black vinyl seats by the back of our bare legs and becoming increasingly hot , frazzled and irritable.

Otherwise, to wile away the miles of a long trip such as to our annual summer holiday in Scotland, Northumberland or Norfolk it was a case of watching the world go by out of the window if you had baggsied a seat to take advantage of it.

In the days before compulsory seat belts for back seat passengers it was easier to stand up behind the driver or front passenger and view from there.

I developed a great interests in the sights on the open road and this persists even today.

There were the landmarks that signalled our imminent arrival at a regular holiday venue.

Crossing the iconic Tyne Bridge in Newcastle meant that in just over an hour the distant turrets and towers of Bamburgh Castle would be in view and in a few more minutes after that we would be running through the loose, hot sand of the dunes onto the vast, wave lapped beach that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the known world, at least that in the perception of a 10 year old.

We would collectively count down the miles to the border with Scotland, always greatly anticipated but never failing to disappoint being marked only by a large blue and white thistle sign rather than a crossing into a strange, mist swirling, mountainous wonderland of lochs, glens and warlike kilt clad pipers.

It appears that Scotland is more of a frame of mind to a 10 year old than a momentous and deeply felt experience, at least for us children of half Scottish origin. My Father, an authentic Scot but born in Croydon was always a bit dewey eyed and emotional when safely reunited with his Kinsfolk for those two weeks of the year, give or take long distance travelling time.

I could be a bit of a nuisance in that I would always announce the obvious landmark or feature even though evidently visible and appreciated by all the occupants of the family car. I recall getting a slap on the leg by my parents, deservedly so in hindsight for my persistent chanting of "it's a dam", "it's a dam", "it's a dam" after seeing a dam somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It had been signposted for miles but I could not contain my excitement at the thought of seeing it. Not that I really knew what a dam was for. On my return some 30 or so years later I could just not see what all the fuss was about. My own children saw it as a grassy bank holding back an expanse of cold and faintly rusty coloured water. That was all.

I did become quite an expert on geographical phenomena and even more so after really taking to my senior school lessons in that subject. On the journeys to or through the more interesting parts of the British Isles I could easily identify a burial mound as opposed to just a grassy knoll, an ox bow lake rather than a pond, a scree slope from just a pile of loose rocks, granite precipices from chalky downs, a dry valley from a wet one and so on.

The majority of my fond memories have one thing in common. They were all part of the build up to a great family holiday. Conversely, when the fortnight was over and that was almost in the blink of an eye or so it seemed, there were those landmarks that signalled, as Mother always said, that we would soon be "back to normal", ie home life, school and all that went with those sorts of things.

These included flat, boring landscapes only broken by the looming presence of the power station cooling towers or the pit head winding gear near Doncaster. Then there was the reddening skyline above the huge British Steel Works at Scunthorpe as we came to within 10 miles of our home town and soon, on the farther horizon the white painted post windmill at Wrawby.

The drive up the slightly elevated and winding estate road to our house was depressing for those of us still awake even after melting into the plastic of the uncooled car interior.

We children then dopily went to check that our bedrooms had not been ransacked or pillaged by unknown imagined persons. We had no thoughts whatsoever to offer our exhausted parents any help in unloading the car of the detritus of two weeks under canvas or in a small caravan with five kids.

Now that I am a father myself I can appreciate that the anticipation and excitement of travel as felt by children is simply reversed in the grown ups.

Whilst the journey to and arrival at a holiday venue is undoubtedly exciting it does not mean a rest from the chores and responsibilities for adults.

Indeed it invariably means that it is the same work but made harder and more challenging in a different and unfamiliar environment.

The coming into view of the Doncaster wastelands and the intrusive industrial processes that made that part of the country the powerhouse that it was in the 1970's must have been a welcome sight and with it the promise of a slightly easier existence for our parents.

They hid their hopes of a brief respite and return to normality from us at the time and it is only really now that I am able to appreciate that particularly skilful trait of practical and effective parenting. Margaret and Donald, my heroes.

Blitz

I make a point of engaging with the elderly citizens of Hull if they have a good story to tell, particularly of the Blitz years of the Second World War.

It is remarkable that the City's suffering on a personal and wider community level has never been recognised within the heroics of that period. The statistics say it all. Out of the housing stock in the war years only 200 houses within a very sizeable urban area escaped any damage. The City was exposed to frontline bombing as the waves of aircraft headed across the North Sea and up the flarepath of the River Humber directly targeting the Port, warehousing, war industries and rail marshalling yards as their primary target or, if any payloads remained on board from a wider attack into the industrial areas of Yorkshire or Liverpool then, they were dumped on the way back over the Gity. An easy target following on from the fact that in the First World War ,Hull was the second most targeted area for Zeppelin bombing after London.

The archives for bomb damaged areas held by the City Council and private researchers is extensive and very detailed. In fact, the only missing information in the records are the names and addresses of  the Luftwaffe pilots although given the process of reconciliation and the emergence of memoirs as that generation fade away there is good potential to fill in any blanks that may still persist.I am sure that a mission to bomb Hull was regarded with as much trepidation for aircrews as for the population below.

I was intrigued to come across a strange feature out in the marshy areas of Holderness some 10 to 15 miles east of Hull. This comprised a series of regular and shallow excavations which from the air would resemble closely, or at least enough to cause confusion, the physical outline of the main dock basins of the large East Hull riverside facilities.

With carefully positioned lighting, a very visible pool of light amongst an otherwise blacked out area, the whole idea of the fabrication was to convince the incoming enemy aircarft that they were already over the docks and too high for accurate bombing. Panic and self doubt in navigation, bomb aiming and airmanship was encouraged by the illusion so that Hull would be abandoned as the primary target and the attack group would go to the secondary and other mission targets. I have yet to find out if this trickery actually worked to the advantage of the residents of the City although they will already have been alerted by the sirens and would hear the vorsprung durch technic engine tones from the damp and musty depths of their shelters.

The older residents, born and bred in the City do have stories to tell and it is only right and respectful for the younger generations to coax these out. It is impossible for us now to comprehend the mortal fear for life and property that would pervade everything from the drone of aircraft overhead and the accompanying sounds and sights of a full attack. An elderly lady on Park Street recalled to me the still vivid memory of her seeing daylight and the back garden of her childhood home from the street frontage as the concussion waves from a nearby bomb actually lifted up the house before carefully depositing it back exactly on its foundation walls.

I have spoken to survivors of the Bean Street incident when families emerging from a communal shelter, given the all clear, were going about their resumed business when a parachute dropped high explosive bomb released itself from temporary entanglement in a tree, fell to the ground and exploded with a significant loss of life. Ordnance which fell at that time, undetected, is on occasion excavated during urban redevelopment from the heavy clay soils of the city flood plain. I attended an exhibition of wartime photos in an East Hull Church, itself rebuilt following wartime destruction. I had not realised that the City was the last mainland target to be attacked in the final days of the war when a lone aircraft strafed and terrorised the population going about their shopping on Holderness Road.

There is also the story, now well set in local folklore, of the two bus drivers who, approaching the central section of Holderness Road from opposing directions had a simultaneous compulsion to pause a while at their last stops for no logical reason. The spooky event saved the lives of both drivers and their contingent of passengers as had the journeys played out to the exact time schedules then both vehicles will have converged on the spot and at a time when a high explosive bomb fell and wreaked tremendous damage across a wide radius or road and buildings.

Given the exposure of the City and its civilian population to war it is baffling that one of the few surviving bombed out buildings in the whole country, the Swan Picture House, about a mile north of the city centre is unable to be reserved , funded and established as a permanent site for a commemorative exhibition and archive of the life and times of the City through that period.

Gateway to Middle Earth

Some of the potholes in the road surface are deep. I half expect that a prompt to take evasive action may one day be the sight of a pair of hands and then the top of a head emerging sheepishly from such a chasm.

On my regular routes through the County I have a good working knowledge of the main potholes and can usually steer my way around and through the obstacle course without inconveniencing or knowingly causing a hazard to other road users.

Invariably I will have to take an unfamiliar highway or back road and these pose the biggest threat to tyres, shock absorbers and my coccyx, already suffering from the typically harsh driving seat position and suspension setting of a German made car.

On the narrower lanes it is the half metre or so from the roadside verge on the passenger side which displays the wear, tear and destructive impact of heavy lorries, farm traffic and the sheer volume of use for which they were never intended.

The surface can be fractured and pitted like the exposed bed of a dry stream. Loosely strewn fragments of tarmac and stones can be forced out and up under the pressure of vehicles akin to the shrapnel in a landmine.

In dry weather there is an abrasive effect under rubber tyres reducing pebble sized materials to pea gravel and further to a fine dust which swirls about in the slipstream.

Following rainfall the broken skin of the road fills up with water giving the appearance of a smooth, glassy layer and lulling the motorist into a false sense of security. The crunch of a wheel rim on the concealed edge of a crater is accompanied by a geyser spray of muddy, gritty water which disappears momentarily over the car roof before running down the windscreen and side windows in long, erratic, streaky rivulets.

On the principal transport routes the budget for pothole repairs has been put into action. High profile road works and infilling of the worst examples takes place usually directly proportionate to the number of claims lodged by road users for damage. This can be a patchwork of fresh surface dressings or if reaching a specific percentage of coverage it is more cost effective to strip away and renew a long section.

The recent spell of persistently cold weather caused droplets of water which had found their way into the pores of the road surface to freeze, expand and by the repetition over a number of day and night temperatures to perforate and break up the tarmac. New patches, resembling cow pats in a meadow, seem to be particularly vulnerable to this seeping attack by the expansion and contraction of a simple water molecule and by loosening the hot bitumastic bonding the same problem which prompted the repair in the first place returns.

The Highways Department do rely upon a sense of citizenship or equally the indignation of motorists to report where the road surface is breaking up. The first action of the Local Authority is to send someone out with an aerosol spray can to encircle the offending area. This can be taken as a recognition and grudging acceptance of a pothole but buys some considerable time before any actual repair works are implemented. At least the sight, in good visibility conditions, of what resembles an oversized game of noughts and crosses does give a chance to approaching road users to plot their course with a bit more ease and assurance.

Under recessionary conditions and tightening of budgets the pothole is guaranteed a prolonged infamy.  Most vehicle users accept them as a fact of life and to a certain extent relish the challenge to their driving skills in avoiding impact or the wrestling away of control which follows the entry into a rut, crevasse or trench. It may take, heaven forbid, actual tragedy or fatalities to produce a more determined attitude by the Local Authorities to this problem. In the meantime you may be best advised to add to the standard motorists tool kit a set of ladders, caving equipment and ropes, grappling hooks and a book of useful phrases to get along with the subterranean inhabitants of the planet be they of the persuasion of dwarves, goblins, trolls or the like.

Fleshpots of Yorkshire

"Spot the Nudist" was not really very challenging.

It was a game that a group of us in our later-teenage years had thought up on one of our reasonably regular, summer months only, trips out to Fraisthorpe Beach, just to the south of Bridlington on the East Yorkshire Coast.

A few of our number had successfully negotiated their driving test and if parents were trusting we could usually rustle up a small convoy of vehicles to take us the 15 miles or so from our home town.

Fraisthorpe village was nothing more than a small cluster of cottages and farmsteads and with the construction of a new, wide and straight main road to allow the population of industrial West Yorkshire to get to Bridlington before the sun went in the residents had been well and truly by-passed.

Before even reaching the back road to the hamlet there was a single track lane signposted for the beach and after a few twists and turns between raised verges and high hedges there came into sight the grassy hillocks that formed the soft boulder clay cliffs of this particular part of the North Sea coast.

At this point there was no view of the sea although with car windows down and the cassette players muted there was the reassuring and evocative sound of the waves rolling up the shore. We would spill out of our cramped transport, stretch and scratch a bit (male contingent only) and then delegate who would carry the barbecue, charcoal, utensils, breadcakes, burgers, sausages and condiments down onto the sand where we would establish a base camp for the activities of the day.

It was a popular spot especially on those rare occasions when the gales abated and the sun broke through the cloud cover. There were a few camper vans, hitched up touring caravans and large family gatherings behind brightly coloured windbreaks with screaming children showing frustration at having to wait an hour after eating their sandwiches and crisps before even thinking about the prospect of paddling to just below the knee in the icy ocean waters.

The beach formed a continuation of the majestic Bridlington Bay, an expansive crescent running from the high, white chalk cliffs of Flamborough topped with its functioning lighthouse all the way down to the low. muddy and rapidly receding Holderness coastline. It must have been on a shortlist in some Reichstag filing cabinet for possible invasion use by the Nazis because of its shallow inshore waters and shelved sandy beach and this had been second guessed by British Intelligence based on the number of large reinforced concrete tank traps strewn about. These were largely in a very sorry state from decades of attack by salt spray and winter storms being either burst and fractured or listing seriously. The very presence of such ugly obstacles probably cost Fraisthorpe an otherwise wholly justified classification as one of Britain's Best Beaches. They were just too massive to realistically and economically do anything to remove them. A few young holidaymakers fell off them every year after being told not to go near them and would have to make their way to local Accident and Emergency Departments which again would score low in any tourist amenity ratings.

We were not there for anything strenuous such as swimming, playing cricket or rounders or just digging sandcastles, after all we were teenagers and a barbecue with illicit alcohol was infinitely more interesting a prospect.

It was whilst lounging about that we devised the game of spotting the nudists, or to give them their proper name, Naturists.

I should state that those being the focus of attention of the game were not already naked and in view which would have, as I said, not been much of a challenge but could be anyone walking along the sands in a southerly direction because just farther along but at a discreet distance was the nude bathing area.

On the basis of our own essential research into this strange practice especially in what was definitelty a northerly climate the main participants tended to be a) hippy types, of both sexes and of a certain age who just didn't seem to care about showing off their ample bodies and b) lithe, tanned and healthy looking elderly men.

This latter category of naturist was one that we considered top points earner in our little game.

They were easy to spot. In addition to the aforementioned characteristics the men veritably skipped along the sands in short shorts and already bared chests and sporting nothing more than a small bum-bag, the contents of which we did not even want to contemplate.

We could spend hours on the game, inbetween drinking a lot of cheap cider and lager and scoffing half cooked or carcinogenically blackened objects, which had started off as a burger or a sausage.

The game seemed to us to get funnier and funnier as the alcohol flowed but looking back it is one of those memories that makes you cringe. The naked truth is always hard to face.

Putting the Boot in

In the boot of every car ever owned by the Thomson family you will find one or more of the following things. i) An old pair of mans pants- used but not too badly worn. ii) A bar of Kendal Mint Cake- well beyond the sell by date even for the last century. iii) A snow shovel- no sign of apparent use . iv) One drivers glove- the whereaboutsof the other being unknown v) Full set of replacement auto-bulbs vi) a lot of loose sea shells.

There is a certain prudency in the ready availability of items i) through to v).

Mans pants are durable and sturdy enough in the main part for longevity of service, even after a good few years actual use, as an oil dipstick cleaning cloth, general inside of windscreen cleaner and for that moment when a quick swipe and wipe  are just what is needed to alleviate the stress of maintaining a motor car.

In case of a rapid depletion of blood sugar levels the energy rich and sharply peppermint boost that comes from a bar of Kendal Mint Cake is just the tonic to get you home. As a normal purchase for consumption without any duress or mitigating cirumstances the bar is wholly unsatisfying. It causes a sugar-rush induced headache and, for those of a maturer age, a distinct ache amongst teeth enamel and fillings. However, under threat of being stranded in the usual amount of British winter or spring snowfall, or a vehicular breakdown mint cake comes into its own. Father always made sure there was some in the car at all times but not for eating.

The snow shovel may as well have been strapped to the mint cake such was the improbability of use of both.

A single drivers glove does not represent a disaster in either practical applications or fashion. It can still be useful when turning the starter handle of a Morris Minor or manhandling the products of travel sick youngsters from car to hedgerow.

The small plastic box, gawdy coloured for quick identification to the lower part and with a clear perspex hinged lid, containing a full set of bulbs for headlights, side lights, indicators and brake lights may have been provided with the car when brand new. My father was a great fan of VW's and such was their reliability of engine and frugality of other components that it was not at all surprising to find such a supply of bulbs still with the manufacturers or suppliers seal intact. That brings me to the loose sea shells.

Most of my childhood recollections of the long, always hot and sunny summer holidays and particularly the main fortnight family getaway was of beside the sea. I can remember most of the seaside towns and beaches or am reminded of others by a quick look through the array of photo albums if visiting mother. I think my near-drowning off a slippery slip way at about 4 years old was on the Isle of Wight. Up to the age of 10 I recall the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts, various stays in static caravans between the New Forest and the sea, a boarding house near Torquay. From age 10 we lived quite near the Lincolnshire coast with frequent trips to Cleethorpes, Skegness, Mablethorpe and Sutton on Sea. Further afield we camped on a clifftop on the west coast of Scotland and a short walk to the great beaches of Northumberland.

In all of these places I would make sure that I would return home with, ideally a bucket full of sea-shells or failing that some Tupperware container, plastic sandwich bag or as a last resort my own pockets. One child so depopulating a beach and rock pools of shells would not be seen as a threat to the environment. However, my siblings always did the same and so for each main holiday or day trip to the seaside our family alone could return with a good few pounds weight of shell booty.

It is not surprising that stray shells found their way into the far recesses of the car as they would be rattling and rolling about amongst the receptacles of, by the latter part of the day, a very sleepy set of children. The post-trip period would involve a tally of the assembled shells. Standard scallops, elongated razors, Mr Whippy cornet types, small winkles, mussel and conch- the latter was not at all native to Britain and would usually be a purchase from a sea front gift shop.

The novelty soon wore off and the shells, now a bit smelly from not being rinsed out, would be confined to a drawer or placed in the garden. Crafts did present an opportunity to use the shells to adorn plant pots and other vessels that had dared to be left out by parents. A decorated terracotta flower pot was always well received by grandparents or elderly relatives. The adhesion process was fun but very messy.

I seem to remember coating an otherwise perfectly good pot in thick gloopy plaster of paris or similar before pressing in a selection of sea shells. The finishing touch was a coat of varnish. The resulting gift was both useful and quite hazardous in terms of sharp edges. If there was still a good number of shells and cementatious  type substance left over then it was fair game to try to carry on the craft session covering anything not bolted down.

An item of great fascination to us children was a shell covered fire screen that one of our grandparents had made some years before. It was extremely heavy under the weight of the decorations and strained to stand upright in the hearth on its fashioned wooden feet. The varnish veneer had an age-worn hue and the shells were arranged by different type and expertly, in our considered opinion, by graduaded size.

I was reminded of the artistry of the screen only last week when it was displayed and sold at a car boot sale. It was immediately the subject of intense interest by a man in his 70's. He stood close scrutinising the workmanship. He lifted it up as though, like cash for gold, its worth was weight based. His wizened workmans hands caressed the now age bronzed mother of pearl. Eagerly he asked how much it was. I had no idea of monetary worth as opposed to the priceless nostalgic value. He offered £10 which for an early starting North Hull sale was unheard of in generosity. I was shocked enough to accept.

I apologised that a single shell was missing as I had knocked it off in a temper tantrum some 40 plus years earlier. He reassured me that I was not to worry as he had the exact perfect shell at home to restore it to its prime. Perhaps he had bought a car from our family in the last 50 years.

A Sporting Life

I am aware that what passes for Sports in our schools is now little more than larger scale soft play. Over the last three decades the competitive element of school sports has been whittled and eroded away in the interests of equality, liberalism, laziness and the culture of cotton wool wrapped health and safety.

What better way to avoid claims for injury or worse by not letting the little darlings do or participate in anything involving a bat and ball, or with any prospect or possibility of contact with another human being.

I am sorry but life is a contact sport from day one and to give the impression to our youngsters that competition is not necessary is just a case of selling them one huge fat lie that will not serve them any use in their subsequent adult lives.

I find it interesting that the Public School system in the UK still maintain a rough, tough and bloody sports regime and wth their graduates going on to dominate positions of authority in government, industry and commerce. Meanwhile, those who have endured a non-sports upbringing are pliable, manageable and very capable of being controlled and manipulated by those of a stronger competitive mentality.

My own secondary schooling and in particular the sports we partook of very much formed part of the process of natural selection.

Take, for example, the activity of the Long Jump. The long and narrow rectangle of the run-up and sandpit was, at our school, on the far side of the playing field, close and paralell to the fence line with private houses and under willow trees. The long jump only came into the curriculum in the summer term and its actual use could be measured in terms of a few hours only in that period. For the rest of the academic year the sandpit served the neighbourhood cats as a large litter tray or as a dumping ground for lawn and hedge trimmings from the adjoining houses. The sandpit was also handy for the under-age smokers as an ash tray and the boozers as somewhere to bury and conceal cans and bottles, intact or sharp jagged edged. Under such conditions the fear of i) Tripping on a run up, ii) Pulling a muscle iii) Twisting an ankle, paled into insignificance compared with the distinct possibility of contracting hepatitis, blood poisoning, actually bleeding to death or swallowing most of the large cloudlike haze of flies that favoured the sandpit for its primordial environment.  

We were also allowed free and usually unsupervised access to classical sporting weaponry including the steel javelin, leather clad discus and cannon ball dimension shot put.

There was a briefing way back in the first year of secondary school about not running up to retrieve a thrown javelin as this could lead to a painful case of being impaled through which your sports kit could become damaged and with some implications amongst parents should this occur. The etiquette of throwing in strict turn was also covered and well away from the running track or where the fatter kids would congregate after dropping out of the 800 metres heats. This was common sense after all but did not make any allowance for the one pupil in our class, a Traveller by descent, who we suspected was actually about 16 years old in a class of 13 year olds . He was catching up on a sketchy educational background. He had amazed his peers upon his arrival in school by being sufficiently tall enough to pee out of the window above the urinals in the boys cloakroom, a feat much copied by subsequent pupil intakes but never actually achieved. His magnificent although not altogether conventional javelin throw caught the fatter kids by surprise and scattered them with some sprightliness from what they had been told and understood as the safe zone on the playing field. 

The discus was a strange concept, a bit like an ancient frisbee. This sport did discriminate against those in our year who had smaller, feminine hands but we had our suspicions anyway at an early stage.

Shot Put was a chance to show off love bites on the neck from scuffles with the High School Girls but again fresh ones from the night before or even lunch time liaisons did introduce the potential for transmission of blood related maladies.

Pole Vault was available but without a mattress to land on it was not that popular. Only one pupil in our year embraced that discipline from the first year until school leaving age and had accumulated a nice cabinet full of certificates and awards for his, I must say frankly, stupidity and reckless self-endangerment.

Climatic conditions did not really impact on our being marched out onto the field for sports lessons. Exceptions being when the field was flooded, snowbound or cloaked in fog or on that one occasion, smoke, when someone set fire to the groundsmans shed. The indoor Gymnasium had similar torture equipment such as the vaulting horse( ex- Prisoner of War surplus), wall bars and climbing ropes. The sensation on legs and groin of using the ropes was quite an attraction for adolescent boys but with,again, some scope for the spreading of contagious conditions.

Most of us survived the competition and hazards of school sports with little or no mental or tissue damage. I am strongly of the viewpoint that through such activities we became well prepared for that ruthless and heartless, selfish and debilitating assault course that is everyday adult life.

Tools

I have at some time had one or more of just about every power tool available.

This is remarkable in that I have never had to buy one brand new.

They have been given to me as a birthday present, I have inherited them or they have just turned up in my tool box.

My latest possession (inherited from my late Father) has been a power washer which is very satisfying to use and on its first day I operated it non stop for about 6 hours attacking just about everything from driveway to decking, garden paths and the front boundary wall.

This was in spite of me not having any of the correct fittings from the appliance to the hosepipe supply and the hosepipe to the tap on the house side. The machine worked wonders in the removal of the accumulated moss and lichen on all of the aforementioned surfaces but I still wonder what would have been the result if, with the appropriate fittings, I had achieved full stripping power.

Any hand tools I have are also hand me downs from my grandfather who was a carpenter although he would be upset at my use of his trusted screwdriver to bang in nails,his beloved  hammer to do everything but hammer and the graduaded and beautiful wood planes to smooth down masonry and copings.

Power tools do not last long in my hands.

I have cut through a number of mains cables with the electric hedge trimmer, burnt out my late father in laws Black and Decker drill by pushing it hard into a hole in reinforced concrete and I frequently forget to whip around the supply lead for the lawn mower at the end of each foray up the garden. Luckily for me I have a good domestic electrical system installed and the trip switch has, many a time saved me from a right hair raising frazzling. The demise of these power tools is unfortunate because all of the tools mentioned were top of their range, trusted and proven names and wonderfully crafted in the case of Grandad Dick's equipment.

I have a number of tools essential to my daily work.

The favourite is a huge wrecking bar that I wedge into and lift drain covers with or rip up floorboards in the understairs cupboard where the damage is less likely to be discovered for some time.

When approaching an occupied house to do my inspection I hang the solid metal bar over the top run of my folding aluminium ladders and it makes a great clanging and clanking sound which must fill the soul and spirit of the homeowner with dread.

Perhaps my longest serving tools are those I have used for maintenance on my collection of bicycles.

Campagnolo, an iconic manufacturer of components from Italy, has a range of tools which are not only perfect for the job but also aesthetically pleasing.

I have one of their long, slim, matt finished wrenches for undoing the mysterious bottom bracket which holds in place the axle for the cranks. Just handling the silken smooth tool it sends me into a bit of a daydream about fast, efficient and silent cycling and in this special place I have imagined, many times, a victory in the Tour de France or Giro d'Italia.

My other bike tools have remarkably survived being thrust into the back pockets of my race jerseys, taped up to the crossbar or seat tube or otherwise roughly treated when being dragged out on a ride.

The chain rivet remover is a work of art. I have only had to use it once for a running repair since 1979 but it is still  the first tool to be packed into any essential tool kit.

Any other tools I have are likely to have come out of a Christmas cracker but they are made of cheap, soft metals that just fold when touching a phillips head or slotted screw.

I can see the sense and long term reliability in going for the best makes, the leading and time served brands as they are of quality materials and forging and even with the worst abuse possible they prove to be almost indestructible.

This explains why the scruffy oldish man running a car boot sale stall exclusively dealing in old hand tools, antique power tools and the like is the most popular man in the field at 6am.

There is always a two to three deep crowd milling over the oil burnished metal and sweat worn wooden handled items on display and keen to hand over coins and notes, potentially many, many times the value of the goods when they were first purchased by craftsmen, keen amateurs and young, newly wed husbands looking to impress their new partners.

　

Tomorrow is another day

Tomorrow, May 20th is Fathers birthday.

A few days before every 20th of May the phone lines, e -mails and skype would be frantically active as the five of us Thomson siblings conferred on the matter of what we could buy, either collectively or individually for the man who has everything and has never, in my memory, actually asked for anything from us.

This represents a great dilemna . In previous years we have presented him with vouchers for something that we thought he might like. These were well received in his rather shy and embarassed manner which was one of his endearing qualities. Surrounded by his large family it was easy for us to forget that he had grown up as an only child and very much left to make his own entertainment. Do not get me wrong. He was happy and at ease with us but quiet ,reflective and private moments will have been few and far between in our noisy and demanding home life.

His interests were a good source of ideas and over the years we would buy him gifts for the car, the garden, walking, home improvements, books, CD's and DVD's. I was perhaps too reliant on the seasonal stock of Homebase and tended to over do it on things for the fantastically colourful, fragrant and productive patio whch every year erupted with planters, pots and hanging baskets. One year it was a terracotta formed tube for strawberry plants, a bit like the seconds you would find in the skip at the back of the Sankey chimney pot factory.

Another year I became a follower of the fashion for strange garden ornaments and purchased a very scaled down Easter Island statue. It had caught my eye in a display in the outdoor section of the DIY store. It stood about 18 inches high in an authentic stone finish over the not so authentic plastic mould. I was fearful that, unlike the original full size figures, a stiff breeze would tip it over or even cause it to vacate the back garden via the boundary wall and have to be retrieved from the neighbours.

The garden theme seemed to be a productive seam and this was followed in successive years with  yet more hanging baskets, garden seating and the desperate last minute choice of a silver mirror ball that could , in its reflection of sunlight both produce a seemingly infinite vista of the lawn, shrubs and flower beds as well as a hazard to high flying aircraft.

The best celebrations were those when we would all be there- quite a difficult thing logistically to do but a momentous and joyful time. It could be an afternoon in the garden, just sat around talking in a group or with a chance of a private consultation to take advantage of his great experience and wise counsel in all worldly matters. Things that seemed insurmountable obstacles to us were shown to be easily manageable after such a session.

For his 70th birthday it was a full encampment of the family to the Lake District with riotous assembly, good food and wine and excellent company....and a lot of undulating rambling over hill and dale amongst them bloody daffodils.

2011 was a different birthday in that my own family attended a celebration over a chinese takeaway. It was a great night and many a complimentary comment was added to the written record of past meals. The phone kept ringing with the singing of Happy Birthday to Donald from siblings spread over the UK and the US.

We were not to know that we were at his last birthday party.

Tomorrow will be a strange day. The fourth May 20th without Father. He continues to be with us as we spend many moments in the family reminiscing over great times.

Knives for Fawkes

I came out of a secondary education with some decent qualifications that allowed me to pursue the career in which I am now at my quarter century. It actually seems just like a journey of a few minutes duration.

In a quiet moment I may log onto the Old Boys website of the school and see what is going on or if any of my contemporaries have achieved notoriety, anything else or sadly have passed away prematurely. I am that sort of age group where a dodgy prostate or a fast motorbike can finish you off.

In rash moments I have also enroled myself via what was Friends Reunited into my appropriate age group for Cheltenham Girls College but I am saddened that compassion was not obviously taught at that illustrious establishment on the basis that no-one has enquired about who I am or how I am or has admitted that they do not remember me. My back story, if any interest had been shown was that I had undergone gender realignment and, no, it did not hurt at all. I will be writing an enraged letter to the Head Teacher at the college about the poor welfare arrangements for former pupils.

Trawling through my actual own school magazines during a clear-out I was reminded that I had followed in the long faded footsteps of quite a character by the name of Thomas Percy who had attended the same place of learning in the mid to late 16th Century.

By all accounts a tall, striking character with a bit of a reputation as a ladies man in his adult years and a born leader and motivator. I have in comparison about 20% of his traits I am ashamed to say but can still identify with his motivation and his later place in English history.

His background was certainly not without connections and patronage from the great Percy dynasty which ran from their ancestral home at Alnwick Castle to some considerable distance beyond including some representation in East Yorkshire and the City of full true name Kingstown Upon Hull.

He was born in 1560 which was a busy time in England contributing to a few chapters of the nations history. Little is actually known about his early years other than he went to what was Beverley Grammar School, the oldest state school in England having been founded in 700 AD.

Born a Protestant he became disenchanted with the faith and at some time in the late 1500's he converted to Catholicism and embraced the doctrine leaving behind the erstwhile antics of his youth. I like to think that the Grammar School, as with myself, gave him a strong knowledge base and he became good at matters of finance and property. This proved quite useful in the company of others including Christopher Wright, John Wright, Robert Catesby and their impressionable compatriot Guido.

He was adept at raising monies for a particular quest and also skilful at negotiating leases on London properties including the undercroft to the House of Lords. The group, which may have been successful if left under the more prominent marshalling of Thomas Percy failed when Guido, or under his anglicised name Guy Fawkes was discovered just at the point of lighting the fuse in protest against Parliament. In full flight from the fury of the authorities Thomas was hunted down and reputedly killed by the same musket ball as Robert Catesby. His body was later exhumed and displayed on a pike as a lesson to those intent on the same protest path. I got detention once for something quite similar.

His name remains fairly unknown amongst the conspirators  in the regular telling of the tale of that 5th November but will always be mentioned with pride in the coming together of us Old Boys who never really did very much at all.

Flight of Fancy

A friend of mine recently bought a large, red brick semi detached house in The Avenues area of our city. It is so called for obvious reasons. It is tree lined.

I have to qualify that point because there are many so named residential streets throughout the UK which are devoid of anything more than leylandii hedges or those ornamental trees which seemed like a good idea when seen at the local garden centre but subsequently prove to be most disappointing.

New housing estates similarly have iconic names to their cul de sacs and narrow car crammed looping roadways but as yet have no established lilac's, acacia's or fuschsia's to speak of.

At least in the now largely demolished parts of out cities and towns there was no pretence or snobbery in living on Gas Works Row, Sewer Lane or Slaughterhouse View.

Within The Authentic Avenues my friend lives on Park Avenue.

This is one of four broad and long streets running east to west with grand villas, terraces and a few individual residences with towers topped with ramparts together with other architectural eccentricities.

Amongst its collective occupants there is a constant dialogue and argument over in what order, into what hierarchy of desirability the four streets fall.

To outsiders the area has always been associated with those of the brown, wholegrain bread persuasion, readers of the Guardian newspaper and also who know how to cook such organic foods as lentils, chick peas and are not phased by houmus or sun dried tomatoes.

If the criteria for one-upmanship is purely based on the calibre of houses then perhaps my friends street would come out on top.

Park Avenue may have the highest proportion of detached three storey late Victorian examples but would be hard pushed by perhaps Victoria Avenue, followed by Westbourne and Marlborough. The two latter avenues are a bit narrower and less grand in appearance and their eastern sections, closer to the inner city, do have more of the larger properties sub divided into flats and bedsits or operating as Houses in Multiple Occupation. This may be frowned upon or just as easily ignored by the owner occupiers who are still, just about, in the majority.

Adopting the criteria of which street has the highest proportion of subsidence damaged housing is another way to allocate status to the area.

A common feature under just about all of the stock of buildings is a marsh. The local name of Newlands is rarely used as it may infer an association with the busy shopping street of almost the same name and detract from the residential character. It does explain the origins of the boggy ground in that Newlands relates to the reclamation of the land from a previous existence under the surface of a lake.

A few entrepreneurs and time served builders took on the land, which in the early to mid 1800's was regarded as being sufficiently distant from the city slums to be desirable and developed individual plots or blocks on a bespoke and later a more speculative basis. This was a piecemeal process on the basis of time but also explained the wide variety of sizes, styles and calibre of housing.

The unavoidable clay subsoils groaned under the imposed weight of bricks and mortar and in the early years following construction and occupation many homes settled and found a more natural level. Today this is clearly illustrated by the distinctive sloping and crowning of the timber floors, out of true doorheads and a degree of involuntary movement and separation between front and rear parts of the large and substantial dwellings.

In the intermittent drought years , but in more recent times on an almost alternate year basis the extraction of moisture from the clay by evaporation and primarily the action of the Avenues trees has wreaked havoc with the shallow pad foundations.

The two storey front bays were the first to subside followed by internal load bearing walls and then the breaking away of the slim two storey rear wing offshoots. It was a common sight following a drought year to see major structural works in progress in all of the four streets. Money from insurers was lavished on providing underpinning and remediation works. A flexible joint was the Engineers specification between the two main elements of the houses. Legal actions flourished between owners and the Council who as guardians of the offending trees were held liable for the subsidence problem.

Amazingly, in the midst of all the adverse publicity and large scale structural repairs which led to a clogging of the roads with builders vans and cement mixers intermittently over 20 years or so there was no tangible decline in the desirability of the area.

My friends house was so affected. Although stabilised on a new foundation there were still inherited features of distortion, quite discernible, to the main front elevation and throughout. Again this had not served to deter his purchase.

The third criteria on which to assess the hierarchy of the four streets is the number of blue heritage plaques relating to famous former residents.

The list is pretty impressive for such a concentrated area. Westbourne Avenue has, amongst its glitterati the versatile actor Ian Carmichael, the crime and suspense writer Dorothy L Sayers, Alan Plater, playwright and Joseph Boxall who had the honour of being the third most senior officer to survive the sinking of the Titanic. I have seen another plaque commemorating two pioneers of Hollywood movies, Ralph and Gerald Thomas on Westbourne.

Park Avenue was the home for some years of Anthony Minghella, film director whose work included The English Patient.

The house purchased by my friend has its own blue enamelled metal sign. The pioneer aviator Amy Johnson was a former occupant. She was the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia as well as many other milestone achievements.

On weekends a few cars do slow down at the roadside and camera lenses are thrust out to take a few furtive pictures. There is obviously still quite a following.

There is however a downside to the ownership of the home of a famous person. What is missing to assist in modern living is a driveway. Parking in The Avenues is very much a current problem as the area did not have to consider car ownership and use when it was first developed. My friend applied for Planning Permission to create an across the deep grass verge in front of his Park Avenue residence. The level of opposition from the Residents Committee, Heritage Organisations and the Council was strong and his application was refused.

In conveying his obvious disappointment and annoyance to me I did jokingly suggest that, given the illustrious former owner occupier, would he possibly have been more successful in trying to get consent for a small runway. We have not spoken since.

Ikea

I do not mean to be a hypocondriac and indeed consider myself to have quite a robust and sturdy constitution.

This does not however prevent me from getting worried sometimes on health issues.

There are fairly frequent media campaigns on matters of concern in well being and in self diagnosis for various maladies and complaints. I was encouraged, and rightly so, by my family to attend a Well Man Clinic a few years ago which revealed that I was clinically obese but had acceptable cholesterol and a lung capacity that sent the small cardboard tube contraption right across the room much to the amazement of the Practice Nurse when I simply exhaled.  I challenged the weight issue on the basis that I believe the statistics to be from either wartime data when the population at large were not that large or, if on a European model, those puny and undersized mediterranean types.

As I get older there are a few aches and pains which I have decided to listen to and try to understand rather than fight and get all upset and depressed. Knees and hips have travelled plenty of miles and are bound to be a bit worn and abraded on cartiledge, muscle and tendon.

I did fall asleep a couple of weeks ago in a 48 year old foetal position which caused my left foot to be deprived of any circulation. As I jumped up startled by a sound in the house but mainly to hide the fact that I was dozing unofficially the foot just folded up in a classic dead leg and I crashed to the floor. Over the next 24 hours toes went black and blue from a very unnatural curling over. I actually thought for a moment that I had broken the little digits as I am certainly not double jointed. The family heard my collapse but chose to ignore it, even though micro-fragments of ceiling plaster will have been released to cascade down on the avid TV watchers.

Us men of a certain age are also pamphleted on the merits of checking out our dangly downers for any abnormalities. I admit to doing this quite regularly, as is prudent, although the people on the top deck of the 66 Bus, when it passes my house, are obviously not up to date with the latest medical recommendations. More fool them is what I say.

Anyway, my current concern springs from a recent radio broadcast. What was mentioned did hit home.

I firmly believe that, on the balance of probabilities and given the hard facts, I am a Viking.

Consider the physical facts, oh ,and my surname Thomson is a bit Scandinavian.

I have green eyes. Not too rare but more commonly found accompanied by red hair. My Father was a ginger and it is thought that the colouration skips a generation. My eldest daughter has pledged to have any red headed offspring adopted if she has the misfortune of having one. The ginger congregation has done well to spread the myth that they are artistic and creative and that they are the new blonde. Very clever. Adversity as we all know does breed considerable ingenuity and guile. If I let myself go a bit of a weekend there can be seen a slight ginge tinge in my stubble and certainly in any unruly eyebrow or nasal hair that escapes scrutiny.

I also love all things Scandinavian.

I was only really at ease driving a Volvo.

I found Ikea initially fascinating and stylish but now rather bland and a bit yesterday. This is likely to be due to some dilution of the ethos of Ikea to meet the market demands of the rest of europe and not because of a lack of flair from the very talented designers.

TV dramas and especially crime thrillers grounded in Copenhagen, Malmo or Trondheim are of great interest to me and I revel in hearing the tone and flow of the native language whilst concentrating hard on the subtitles.

I am drawn to women of Scandinavian bone structure and my wife is a clear illustration of this strong genetic trait.

I like swedes. They are amongst my favourite vegetables, boiled and mashed with butter and pepper.

After they knocked England out of the European Championships I supported Denmark out of a strange feeling of brotherhood.

I like being on the water, especially stood at the prow of a boat. This could of course be confused with admiring the acting talents of that Di Caprio guy.

Pillaging, or as they have restyled-it, car booting is a particular favourite activity.

One of my favourite movies was The Vikings with Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas from 1958 although I was shocked by how rubbish it was when recently shown on TV. I had of course built it up to epic and classic status in my mind and was quite embarassed after watching it with my son. Lame or what?

So, the evidence is very strong to suggest that I am of Viking descent. This does explain certain events and emotions during my formative years such as liking pickled fish, snow, smokey atmospheres, trolls, Daim Bars and wearing sandals in winter.

I am reluctant to go for the  test to determine within reasonable probability my genetic composition because I could not stand the disappointment that my name is not, according to one of those find your Viking name sites, Petr Sheeptipper.

Looking forward

Things that I have not yet done;

Run naked across a wide expanse of beach
Shouted something rude across a street at Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop (if together at the time)
Jumped out of an aircraft
Swum across a wide stretch of open water, fresh or saline
Taken part in a full marathon
Painted something in oils
Won anything in any form of competition
Managed to devour an Oilmans Breakfast of 16oz steak, various other meats, eggs, chips, etc
Had my stomach pumped
Fallen through a ceiling
Been victorious in a game of Scrabble on holiday with my wife
Dressed up in drag
Been entirely happy in wearing boating shoes with no socks
Executed a hand brake turn on a public road
Thrown a McDonalds product out of a moving car window
Eaten a meal without some of the food dropping onto my shirt front
Kept my shirt tail tucked into my trousers on a continuous basis
Had two suits to wear on rotation
Busking with just a descant recorder
Dyed my hair
Played a full round of golf
Burglary
Been the first to be picked for any type of sporting activity
Morris Danced
Written anything that has been published for money
Ridden a cow
Stared at the moon and howled
Driven an Aston Martin
Waved a flag in anger
Placed a one way bet in a High Street Bookies
Preached to the public
Base jumped
Used a spray can to write anything on a wall surface owned by the Local Authority
Cooked a soufflé
Fired an air rifle at a living creature intentionally to harm
Had a moustache or a commitment to facial hair
Chased someone in the street
Kicked in a plate glass window
Jumped a queue in a supermarket
Been civil to anyone riding a horse through a town
Volunteered in a community soup kitchen
Shown disrespect to Marmite
Knowingly left dog mess on a public pavement or area
Baked a fruit cake without assistance
Had the tidiest garden in the street, unless it has snowed.
Walked across the UK
Allowed my hair to be stroked by a chimpanzee
Visited the City of Liverpool
Invested in Ostriches or Jojoba
Played the Stock Market for selfish gain
Paid the local newsagent on presentation of his first bill
Watched an episode of Channel 4's Shameless
Shown any interest in how many pairs of shoes Carrie from Sex in The City possesses
Stared at a guinea pig
Stayed awake for more than 36 hours- ever
Launched a ship on request
Journeyed to the USA
Purchased or owned a Japanese built motor car
Owned a firearm
Read a book in one sitting
Stolen eggs from under a chicken
Contemplated jumping off a motorway bridge
Been friends with anyone Welsh
A victim of a pick pocket
Been the Mr Big of a Betterware or other pyramid selling organisation
Sold a body part, mine or otherwise
Serenaded anyone after a quick course of how to play a guitar and sing
Advanced further than 3rd Cornet in a brass band
Learnt another language to any level of natural fluency
Had my car parked by a Valet Service
Cut and eaten my toenails
Kicked an elderly person who might be a bit annoying
Been in a fight with a serving member of the clergy
Spoken with the Queen
Dressed up in any form of World War 2 uniform
Been stranded in quicksand
Set fire to a public building
Driven an omnibus
Had a pair of leather trousers
Jumped into my pants when suspended between two chair backs and I've been in a hurry
Owned a Jaeger suit
Kept a silk tie from going out of shape
Found an item of treasure trove
Scuba- dived
Bowled an over in proper cricket
Thrown a hand grenade
Skipped along a public highway like a girl
Consumed more than five pints of Guinness in any one sitting
Been mistaken for anyone famous
Sat quietly in a church when not in a formal service or event
Made a daisy chain
Run anyone over
Composed a hit record
Washed my hair in a mountain stream
Climbed Snowdon
Walked along an active railway line
Played on a stair lift in a private residence
Skied
Owned a watch of a type favoured by flyers or nautical types
Completed even a single side of a Rubik Cube
Won a two player video game involving running and shooting
Changed a spark plug in an engine
Worn my wedding kilt with 'T' shirt and plimsolls
Skated on ice with ice skates
Had highlights in my hair
Had any appreciation for the music of Coldplay
Organised a barn dance or beetle drive
Pretended to be foreign
Knowingly lied to a policeman
Found that the other man's grass is always greener or the sun shines brighter on the other side
Resisted humming parts of hymn tunes in the company of non-church goers
Loitered in a public convenience
Forged any coinage
Re-slated a house roof
Tarmac surfaced someone else's driveway
Obtained monies by deception
Smoked a pipe
Leased an allotment
Danced across a pedestrian crossing during the rush hour
Hidden a bar of Galaxy chocolate from another human being
Startled a fox
Swum with Dolphins
Squashed a spider
Agreed wholeheartedly with the idea that a tin can say exactly what it does at any one time
Defaced a public monument
Ascended in a hot air balloon and by definition descended in the same object
Been to Africa
Excavated a hole and created a garden pond
Tickled a trout
Made up any form of explosive from readily sourced domestic ingredients
Drunk more than 1 bottle of wine in any seven day period
Sat astride the ridge of a roof
Taken any form of narcotics
Had my own adult sized duffle coat
Travelled in a three wheeler car
Laughed at a Koala Bear, however ridiculous
Found a truffle in a forest
Walked behind a waterfall
Understood the apparent appeal of adopting a donkey that lives away all of the time
Loosened my necktie before 5.30pm on a weekday
Arson in a Naval Dockyard
Walked along and rattled a stick on the railings of a public park
Rolled down a grassy bank
Held a dance floor enthralled
Used a public address system
Had any form of cosmetic surgery
Learned to waltz
Played a character from Shakespeare in a proper performance
Had my portrait painted
Imagined that I was David Bowie
Mastered the pronunciation of the longest place name in the British Isles
Managed a soccer team
Held a membership of a Health Club or Gym for more than 6 months
Owned a pair of classic Converse All-Stars bovver boots
Possessed a flat cap
Run with the bulls at Pamplona
Walked out of the surf in slow motion wearing light blue coloured Speedo's
Sold any secrets to a rogue power
Successfully rubbed my head and tummy simultaneously in front of witnesses
Burped the anthem of any sovereign nation
Farted before anyone in a position of authority
Chained myself to railings in protest
Had any thoughts whatsoever about world domination
Personally undertaken a medical procedure on NHS premises
Thrown a spear
Wasted my vote
Karaoke singing
Delivered a baby
Invented anything to revolutionise modern living
Participated in any form of subversive plotting
Limbo danced
Extracted a tooth from my own head or anyone I know
Understood why anyone admits to coming from Essex
Walked on the hard shoulder of a motorway, barefoot
Performed street magic
Desired  to hang up a dream catcher in my house
Worn a gold medallion
Upset a gang, the Mafia or a Triad
Perfectly cooked a meal on a disposable barbecue bought from a Tesco Express
Brewed
Purged my colon
Spray painted a piece of tatty furniture to pass off as shabby-chic
Pointed a laser pen at an overflying civil aircraft
Jumped over the turnstile in a tube station
Pretended to be a serving police officer
Slapped a horse on its rump to see what it does
Eaten more than 3 pork pies in one sitting
Served on a Jury
Got stuck in the mud in a tidal estuary
Worried a badger
Travelled on the outside of a train
Spoken disrespectfully of a Chelsea Pensioner
Sported a toupee
Worn my pants above my trousers
Pulled the emergency cord in a railway carriage
Excited the attentions of a security guard
Rummaged in the bargain and end of line shelf at the supermarket
Had an urge to shave off my eyebrows
Envisaged ever developing a dislike for corned beef
Ridden a unicycle to work

Not really done much in the last 50 years. Not that bothered about it either.

Skint but happy

It did not matter at all if you did not have any money in your duffle coat pockets.

There was no need to skulk about hoping your parents would buy you something. Times were hard and a tight 1970's family budget did not stretch to fripperies.

For these and many other reasons the display window in the Toy Shop in our town was the best thing in the world and it cost nowt to stand and stare.

At one time every High Street would have its own Toy Shop, perhaps more than one. Gradually they have been squeezed out by the huge retail sheds of bland names and a policy of stack them high and sell them cheap. Perhaps the imagination of children at their play has also changed radically.

The place of my strongest childhood memories was called Moyses. It was set back from the marketplace in the town down a narrow walkway. The building was weathered old stone, higgledy-piggledy from some centuries of water softened foundations. At street level there was a large shallow bow window, almost fully down to pavement level and so therefore ideal for small children to have an excellent vantage point of what was being displayed. The cill of the window was just about the right height to sort of rest one knee whilst balancing on the leading leg and allowing a snotty nose to press up against the egg-shell brittle glass.

Each of the panes, of which there were 60, was different. Varying amounts of small air bubbles set in the transparent sand formed material, a few streaks, lots of flaws and impurities to distort the image. If there was a sizeable group of children crowded around the window some poor soul would find themselves directly in front of and having to look through a bulls-eye pane, an infinity swirl of mottled glass.

The centrepiece and principal attraction of the Toy Shop window was a railway set. A scene set in a busy station but with everything you could imagine in terms of activities and topography just around the corner. Small scale model vehicles waited on a taxi rank, there were lorries , trucks and buses acting out a typical day in model railway land. Even smaller human figures stood around, were set in working poses or just idling away the time behind a newspaper. The steep hillside was covered with a coarse green layer and with authentic trees and foliage competing for a foothold on, an otherwise, grey painted rocky effect papier mache strata. In any period of attention by the waiting children a black steam train, electric powered, would emerge from a hole in the hillside, carriages and wagons behind and career through the station with no intention to stop and pick up the pile of waiting post, a few milk churns, straw bales and, of course, passengers. This loop continued all day although I liked to think they had switched it on just for me.

The rest of the display area on the same level as the train set was taken up by model cars, a Ford Escort in police colours, red mini's, pale green Morris Minors, a Ford Tipper lorry, buses and coaches. These sat on top of their bright cardboard boxes with the logo's of Corgi, Matchbox by Lesney and Hotwheels by Mattel. I was never able to resist just ripping open the boxes upon purchase but I have no regrets upon seeing the prices asked now for mint and pristine packaged vehicles. I just feel a bit sad that full play potential was never acheived, evidently.

On an upper level were the boxed plastic kits of planes, ships, cars and even a limited run of historical figures. The best job in the world, to my young mind, would be that of  the model maker for the display window. A free airfix kit, glue, paints and the skill to produce a very authentic scaled down version of a tank or a battle scene diorama. My efforts were usually abandoned in a vapour  induced spiders web of polystyrene cement and haphazard camouflage painting on a vehicle where the wheels would not turn or always fell off.

Highest up in the window were the aircraft suspended on fine thread so as to be seen flying unassisted. I tried this as well with poor results and a few holes in my bedroom ceiling. In the spotlit display a slight breeze from the operation of the shop door would cast a shadow of wings and fuselage over the model railway and I half expected the scaled figures to run and dive for cover from the Stuka or Focke Wulf rather than wait for the arrival of the Spitfire and Hurricane.

It is funny but even now after some forty years I can visualise that wondrous free show complete with my own in-head soundtrack of engines and the noises of commerce and commotion. The magical window certainly made up for my own disappointing efforts at model making. There are not many traditional Toy and Model shops left but you can guarantee a good crowd at the window especially those of my age group with no chance for the children to get a look in.

UP!

In this country we are conditioned to own our own home.

Some of us might actually love where we live and regard it as something beyond material value. We would however be naive and self deluding in denying  the significant contribution that being an owner occupier provides to our status, wealth and how our peers see us.

Many have been persuaded by the political ideologies but just as many have been deceived, demoralised and ruined in pursuit of the fulfilment of that particular dream.

It could be the case that everyone has their price when it comes to relinquishing their property but now and again a news story emerges that puts us all to shame.

One such individual, Edith Macefield, caught the attention of the world's media in 2006 when she declined a more than generous offer from a Developer for her 108 year old former farmhouse which took up a small but critical part of a large regeneration project in Seattle, USA.

The house, in which she had lived for many decades, was a quaint, characterful one and a half storey place although of reasonable size at 1000 square feet. More than likely given its agricultural origins it will have stood for much of that time in clear, open countryside .

Gradually the Ballard Suburb of Seattle grew with other residences before undergoing a further transition into a commercial district culminating in the attentions of big money backers and builders to create a huge five floor complex including Mall type shopping, leisure facilities and business operations.

Edith Macefield was 85 years old at the time of the offer to purchase and many would have encouraged her to take the $1million dollars as her just entitlement and with which to live out the rest of her days in comfort and security.

The house, at the time had been appraised by Realtors at around a tenth of its development value.

In declining the offer Edith attained folk hero status although her only motivation was to avoid being put in a Care Establishment. Her own mother had been mistreated in an Old Peoples Home and Edith had brought her home determined to look after her. As though just relived to be back with family her mother passed away within a couple of days.

The development progressed rapidly without the land beneath Edith's house and very soon outflanked it on three sides with towering blank elevations.

She soldiered on regardless living her life  and tending her garden and was indifferent to the representatives of the developers who regularly called by to see if she was alright. Many were dismissed curtly but politely but a friendship was struck between Edith and the Site Construction Supervisor, Barry Martin to such an extent that he became in effect her carer providing her with three meals a day and even living in over a weekend. This continued until her death at home in 2008.

The unlikely alliance resulted in a book and the Supervisor was left the house as a bequest subject to the specific condition that it was not to end up in the hands of the developer.

Continuing the cult status established by Edith the Disney Corporation used the house as a publicity stunt for their animated film "Up" in 2009 and attached a large array of colourful helium balloons to the roof.

Local supporters of Edith's stand adopted balloon displays in the same way and a local tattoo artist received ten commissions from customers for his ink on skin representation of the  distinctive house silhouette.

Barry Martin, following the instructions of his benefactor, sold the house in 2009 to a Seattle businessman who intended to use it as a training business for $310,000. It was hoped that a new owner would ensure survival of what very much a was a tourist attraction but the bank foreclosed on a loan and the vacant property was boarded up.

As recently as March this year the future of the iconic property was threatened when it failed to attract any bids at an auction by the mortgagees in possession. A few fans of Edith attended the sale clutching multicoloured balloons but to date the ongoing interest in all that she stood for has not resulted in the willingness of the community or a wealthy patron to continue the battle against the relentless pace of development.

Watch that space..........

The Bubble Gum Years. Part 1

I laughed out loud.

Other customers in the queue in the small village shop, just a couple of weeks ago, edged, perceptibly, away from me thinking that I had gone stark raving mad.

They may have had some justification for their concerns.

There I was, a middle aged man, in a business suit running his hands through the loose contents of a large Tupperware tub on the serving counter and not only laughing but gleefully muttering to himself. I may also have crudely paraphrased Charlton Heston's outburst from the end of the 1968 movie Planet of the Apes, "You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!"

It was, on reflection, a perfect sentiment upon my discovery that Anglo Bubblegum was back on sale.

Those of a certain generation will clearly recall the confectionery and its distinctive packaging.

It was a pocket money goodie, one of those amongst Fruit Salad and Black Jack Chews, that could be acquired from the local newsagents or sweet shop at 8 to an old penny although I seem to remember that an Anglo Bubbly was at more of a premium price, say half a penny each.

The wrapper was bright blue, yellow and pink around the flattened oval of the bubble gum itself with tight paper twists holding it all together. In my early childhood in the 1970's it was a main purchase with my weekly allowance after deductions for Speed and Power Magazine, a lucky bag, Sherbet Fountains and Refreshers.

There was a certain anticipation and excitement about the gum. It tasted good, was the perfect accompaniment for hour upon hour of playing out and also gave a bit of entertainment and peer to peer competition in the actual feat of trying to blow the biggest bubble.

I would say, with confidence, that there will not have been a week in my life between the ages of 8 and 14 without an Anglo Bubbly in my sticky hands, adhered to my clothing, speckled on my face or with difficult to extract traces in my eyebrows and fringe.

As adolescence kicked in there were far more important things to consider and gradually I became weaned off bubble gum.

It was the case that I just did not spend as much time or at least did not notice the wide range of products in the sweetie section of my local shop or in the regimented display at Woolworth's Pick and Mix.

I am not therefore sure of the timeline involved in the disappearance of Anglo's from sale or indeed if they ever went out of production at all.

Like most childhood goodies there was a degree of scaling down in size in austere times and inflationary pressures soon meant that the rate of exchange for the aforementioned Fruit Salads and Black Jacks went down to 1 a penny.

Tastes changed amongst the younger consumers with the onset of the 1980's and to the present day with the dominance  of space dust, tic-tacs, branded and collectable items and a certain gullibility for slickly advertised and marketed Haribo and, currently, Maoam sweets.

That moment of joyous outcry in the village shop was a release of pent up emotions upon seeing a revamped Anglo Bubble Gum. It brought back those moments of happy but sometimes quite painful and frustrating choice of what type and quantity of goodies to put into the white paper bag at the sweet shop.

It was a challenge to make my pocket money stretch to the maximum. Of course the decisions were made more difficult in that most of my cash had already gone on Anglo Bubblies which I could feel nestling comfortingly and reassuringly in the grip of my tiny, sweaty palm.