The Beautiful Yorkshire Coast
Filey Bay
 |
| Dunes |
 |
| Towering cliffs |
 |
| Rooftop view |
Panoramic Splendour
Friday, 31 July 2015
Thursday, 30 July 2015
The Dark Side of Work
I have had first hand experience of the effect of inadequate sleep on my ability to function as a rational and normal human.
This was a particularly dark and bleak period now some 20 years ago being brought on by overwork, stress and what, with family support and having sought professional help, was actually nothing at all to worry about.
It was a case of my exhausted mind playing tricks.
We are only now really beginning to understand the damage done to a body by not only limited sleep but also at the wrong time.
This is certainly the case with those brave souls who work night shifts and in particular those who have done so for a long period.
It has always been the common opinion that our bodies have an infinite capacity to adapt to working a night shift but medical based findings have shown that this is just not the case.
This may explain why those on a long term night shift pattern have a higher incidence of diabetes, coronary heart disease and even cancer.
Our bodies are hard wired genetically, and this has developed over many thousands of years of evolution, to a 24 hour cycle of activity. Our vital organs only work properly when the DNA dictates in any cyclical pattern. Digestion of food is more efficient in the daytime again an explanation for higher levels of obesity in those who work at night.
Our metabolic system also functions differently in the hours of darkness,
Various studies have shown that our powers of reasoning, cognitive performance and processing are so impaired if still awake at 4am, as in a typical night working shift, so as to be similar to being under the influence of alcohol. It is therefore difficult to think straight at that time in the morning.
It is natural for us to sleep at night for many purposes, that of rest, relaxation and recuperation rather than putting in a few hours of work.
Scientific research involving wiring up the natural body-clock of a mouse to a set of lights gave an amazing insight into the way the brain and its electrical charges operate. The resultant on-off display has been applied to the study of the same programming in human DNA.
So what are the health implications for those who have to work on a long term night shift pattern?
They are pretty dire indeed.
After just 10 years of night working the brain can be seen as having aged 6 years beyond the normal expectation.
More sobering is the contention that life can be significantly shortened in the pursuit of employment overnight.
I have immense respect for those long term night shift workers that I have met over the years. One lady was in her fortieth year of such work at a fish processing factory in my home town. It was good, steady and paid employment but she seemed to be oblivious to the actual harm that persistent tiredness through lack of sleep was having on her physical well being.
Perhaps she was just too knackered to be bothered at all by it.
This was a particularly dark and bleak period now some 20 years ago being brought on by overwork, stress and what, with family support and having sought professional help, was actually nothing at all to worry about.
It was a case of my exhausted mind playing tricks.
We are only now really beginning to understand the damage done to a body by not only limited sleep but also at the wrong time.
This is certainly the case with those brave souls who work night shifts and in particular those who have done so for a long period.
It has always been the common opinion that our bodies have an infinite capacity to adapt to working a night shift but medical based findings have shown that this is just not the case.
This may explain why those on a long term night shift pattern have a higher incidence of diabetes, coronary heart disease and even cancer.
Our bodies are hard wired genetically, and this has developed over many thousands of years of evolution, to a 24 hour cycle of activity. Our vital organs only work properly when the DNA dictates in any cyclical pattern. Digestion of food is more efficient in the daytime again an explanation for higher levels of obesity in those who work at night.
Our metabolic system also functions differently in the hours of darkness,
Various studies have shown that our powers of reasoning, cognitive performance and processing are so impaired if still awake at 4am, as in a typical night working shift, so as to be similar to being under the influence of alcohol. It is therefore difficult to think straight at that time in the morning.
It is natural for us to sleep at night for many purposes, that of rest, relaxation and recuperation rather than putting in a few hours of work.
Scientific research involving wiring up the natural body-clock of a mouse to a set of lights gave an amazing insight into the way the brain and its electrical charges operate. The resultant on-off display has been applied to the study of the same programming in human DNA.
So what are the health implications for those who have to work on a long term night shift pattern?
They are pretty dire indeed.
After just 10 years of night working the brain can be seen as having aged 6 years beyond the normal expectation.
More sobering is the contention that life can be significantly shortened in the pursuit of employment overnight.
I have immense respect for those long term night shift workers that I have met over the years. One lady was in her fortieth year of such work at a fish processing factory in my home town. It was good, steady and paid employment but she seemed to be oblivious to the actual harm that persistent tiredness through lack of sleep was having on her physical well being.
Perhaps she was just too knackered to be bothered at all by it.
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
Coffee Grounds Zero
Can we ever have enough coffee shops?.
It seems that our High Streets, Pubs,Retail Parks, Petrol Stations, Hospitals, Museums and even the quaint village shop are awash with places for us to acquire our daily quota of coffee.
It is a fact that 85% of Britons visit a coffee shop at least once a week and 20% of these on a daily basis.
We may think that we have attained a higher plane of sophistication in our drinking habits and I am the first to admit that when indulging myself in a favourite National Chain outlet I can sometimes invent a bit of a fanciful notion but yet we lag significantly behind our European neighbours. The Germans consume three times more than us and the Finns up to five times.
Coffee is seriously challenging tea as our national beverage mainly down to the sensations of ambience, creativity and social interaction that go with the multitude of venues serving up latte's, capuccino's, choca-mocha's and many a variation of the same.
We are a country of habitual coffee drinkers for all of the cost and addiction involved in this legal high.
The business of coffee shops is now seen by strategists as a backbone to the financial performance of the UK economy which follows on from the statistics of the frequency of our patronage and loyalty to the main players in the High Street.
In actual monetary terms we can spend £177 per person per year and yet out of a price of say, £2.50 for a latte as little as 10 pence is the cost of the beans. The retailers promote the value added elements of marshmallows and cream on some of their blends and we are quite happy to pay at a level perhaps five times the main ingredient.
Many of the big chains of coffee shops actually spend more on their trademark take-away cups than the raw material.
I amongst many have felt a bit overwhelmed when confronted by a blackboard list of possible purchases and in a variety of sizes and embellishments.
I did find it surprising to discover that all of the products come from only two types of beans, Arabica and Robusta.
The former is a sensitive species, temperamental to grow but with a subtle taste. Robusta, as the name suggests, grows easily just about everywhere else but has a coarser, less refined taste. The demand for coffee has been a major boost for the countries who grow it in volume. Brazil remains as the top producer but closely followed by Vietnam and then into Africa.
As consumers we are becoming aware of the social and economic issues of coffee and a major part of our decision over where we drink it will be based on the ethical marketing claims by Starbucks, Costa, Cafe Nero and others. We may insist on some form of Fair Trade acknowledgement and sustainable forest support in order to feel at ease and to further enhance and endorse our visit to the coffee shop.
The Espresso Revolution is quite recent, within the last 15 years and we have seen year on year growth in the businesses in the industry. Starbucks, as one example, now have around 21,000 shops in the United States and continue to saturate towns and cities on a worldwide basis.
At this point I could go on about the Tax situation surrounding the big retailers or rather their clever accountancy practices in exploiting perfectly legal loopholes but frankly, I cannot be bothered.
It appears therefore that we just cannot get enough coffee.
It seems that our High Streets, Pubs,Retail Parks, Petrol Stations, Hospitals, Museums and even the quaint village shop are awash with places for us to acquire our daily quota of coffee.
It is a fact that 85% of Britons visit a coffee shop at least once a week and 20% of these on a daily basis.
We may think that we have attained a higher plane of sophistication in our drinking habits and I am the first to admit that when indulging myself in a favourite National Chain outlet I can sometimes invent a bit of a fanciful notion but yet we lag significantly behind our European neighbours. The Germans consume three times more than us and the Finns up to five times.
Coffee is seriously challenging tea as our national beverage mainly down to the sensations of ambience, creativity and social interaction that go with the multitude of venues serving up latte's, capuccino's, choca-mocha's and many a variation of the same.
We are a country of habitual coffee drinkers for all of the cost and addiction involved in this legal high.
The business of coffee shops is now seen by strategists as a backbone to the financial performance of the UK economy which follows on from the statistics of the frequency of our patronage and loyalty to the main players in the High Street.
In actual monetary terms we can spend £177 per person per year and yet out of a price of say, £2.50 for a latte as little as 10 pence is the cost of the beans. The retailers promote the value added elements of marshmallows and cream on some of their blends and we are quite happy to pay at a level perhaps five times the main ingredient.
Many of the big chains of coffee shops actually spend more on their trademark take-away cups than the raw material.
I amongst many have felt a bit overwhelmed when confronted by a blackboard list of possible purchases and in a variety of sizes and embellishments.
I did find it surprising to discover that all of the products come from only two types of beans, Arabica and Robusta.
The former is a sensitive species, temperamental to grow but with a subtle taste. Robusta, as the name suggests, grows easily just about everywhere else but has a coarser, less refined taste. The demand for coffee has been a major boost for the countries who grow it in volume. Brazil remains as the top producer but closely followed by Vietnam and then into Africa.
As consumers we are becoming aware of the social and economic issues of coffee and a major part of our decision over where we drink it will be based on the ethical marketing claims by Starbucks, Costa, Cafe Nero and others. We may insist on some form of Fair Trade acknowledgement and sustainable forest support in order to feel at ease and to further enhance and endorse our visit to the coffee shop.
The Espresso Revolution is quite recent, within the last 15 years and we have seen year on year growth in the businesses in the industry. Starbucks, as one example, now have around 21,000 shops in the United States and continue to saturate towns and cities on a worldwide basis.
At this point I could go on about the Tax situation surrounding the big retailers or rather their clever accountancy practices in exploiting perfectly legal loopholes but frankly, I cannot be bothered.
It appears therefore that we just cannot get enough coffee.
Tuesday, 28 July 2015
Stick Up
The Post It Note.
A small yellow rectangle of paper can surely not have played such a prominent role in modern life.
It was actually, or at least the low tactile adhesive, designed by accident before, eventually, much thought on a practical use led to its marketing as a product to ease the burden of commerce. Wholly unintentionally it has become the curse of the office environment. This is even where there may be a sweeping Mission Statement making various jargonistic allusions to a specific business running as a paperless operation.
I have always said that the paperless office and the promise of increased leisure time represent the biggest falsehoods in the late 20th and early 21st century workplace.
The Post It Note is more likely to be used as a tool for bullying by the stronger elements in the workforce against the weak. In fact, a critical, biting or just plain cruel comment circulated on the small slip with or without recourse to the self adhesive strip can be soul destroying for the hapless victim or target of the campaign.
Whatever it's intended use it is, at the same time, loved, feared, loathed and tolerated.
The office is of course the natural environment for the Post It Note although I have come across other and more unusual applications in the course of my own working life.
Take the large terraced house in the University District which was occupied by a group of First Year Students from overseas.
Many of the intake had arrived in the late summer, some weeks before the beginning of the academic year for the purpose of having a practical grounding in the English language and a working knowledge of the main customs and conventions.
The majority will have had no command of the language beyond their equivalent of secondary education and will have been heavily influenced by the lyrics of pop songs and videos posted on various social media sites. This gives them a slang based perception of English, perhaps not altogether a barrier to communicating with their peer group amongst UK and other overseas students but certainly in more formal surroundings where a sentence or trusted phrase is necessary and more appropriate.
The walls throughout the student house were littered with a rainbow arrangement of Post It Notes which I soon realised accorded with the different nationalities who resided there. The Chinese contingent, and I kid you not, were using the original and best known colour of the product, in canary. The Africans had adopted the green, a flamboyant nucleus of students from southern europe were pink and those from the nations of the former Soviet Union persisted with the red.
What had drawn me to the conclusion of the colour coded segregation was that each and every Post It Note was affixed to something and bore the name of that object in the respective native language and then the English.
This made for quite a welcome splash of colour to the otherwise and typical use of neutral and drab shades to the decor.
It seemed to be a good and practical system based on the rapid rise to fluency of the household by the first few weeks of the academic term.
The other application was, I found, sad and not a little bit disturbing.
It was a family house. Living there was a nuclear family unit of mum, dad and 2.6 kids which in reality can be rounded up to a full 3 offspring.
I am not sure of the back story of the family but my arrival was obviously at a time of a significant breakdown in relations between the parents and their children.
This was clearly illustrated by the proliferation of Post It Notes throughout all of the habitable rooms. They were written on in a grown up script and the bold text was intended to act as guidance, instruction and a warning to what must have been a mutinous, lethargic, sullen and downright useless group of children within those four walls.
The kitchen was most plastered in yellow slips bearing such orders as "Shut fridge door after use", "Wash up any plates and cutlery immediately", "Do not lick spoon after dipping in food", "Load and unload the washer if it is empty or full","Sweep the floor of crumbs", " Only boil enough water for use" and " Do not take food without asking", "Last person in to lock the door".
Hallway, main reception rooms, cloakroom, landing, bedrooms and bathroom were similarly festooned in almost military commands. One from each covered such disciplines as "Leave shoes in a neat pile", "No eating in the Lounge", "Set the dining table for meals as per rota", "Flush loo after use and WASH HANDS!", "No pushing on the stairs", "Make own beds in the morning", "Remove dirty plates to kitchen", "Do not leave towels on the floor". In fact the tone of intsructions was very much like those found commonly in a Guest House, Bed and Breakfast Establishment or a Remand Home.
The whole situation was quite oppressive and depressing.
This was compounded by actually meeting the three young members of the family, the beleagured element who, to me, seemed just like normal kids just demoralised and confused.
Their parents on the other hand had lost it and were resorting to desperate measures to, in their minds, regain a modicum of order and control in the house.
I was a bit mischeivous but felt it my moral responsibility to try to resolve a wholly unsatisfactory and unhealthy domestic situation.
So, out of sight, I scribbled on a blank Post It Note the contact details for Childline which I had Googled on my phone. I said a silent prayer that upon seeing such a cry for help, ostensibly from their youngsters the parents would come to their senses and just talk in a rational manner with perfectly rational children and return to what must have been, at one time, a happy home.
A small yellow rectangle of paper can surely not have played such a prominent role in modern life.
It was actually, or at least the low tactile adhesive, designed by accident before, eventually, much thought on a practical use led to its marketing as a product to ease the burden of commerce. Wholly unintentionally it has become the curse of the office environment. This is even where there may be a sweeping Mission Statement making various jargonistic allusions to a specific business running as a paperless operation.
I have always said that the paperless office and the promise of increased leisure time represent the biggest falsehoods in the late 20th and early 21st century workplace.
The Post It Note is more likely to be used as a tool for bullying by the stronger elements in the workforce against the weak. In fact, a critical, biting or just plain cruel comment circulated on the small slip with or without recourse to the self adhesive strip can be soul destroying for the hapless victim or target of the campaign.
Whatever it's intended use it is, at the same time, loved, feared, loathed and tolerated.
The office is of course the natural environment for the Post It Note although I have come across other and more unusual applications in the course of my own working life.
Take the large terraced house in the University District which was occupied by a group of First Year Students from overseas.
Many of the intake had arrived in the late summer, some weeks before the beginning of the academic year for the purpose of having a practical grounding in the English language and a working knowledge of the main customs and conventions.
The majority will have had no command of the language beyond their equivalent of secondary education and will have been heavily influenced by the lyrics of pop songs and videos posted on various social media sites. This gives them a slang based perception of English, perhaps not altogether a barrier to communicating with their peer group amongst UK and other overseas students but certainly in more formal surroundings where a sentence or trusted phrase is necessary and more appropriate.
The walls throughout the student house were littered with a rainbow arrangement of Post It Notes which I soon realised accorded with the different nationalities who resided there. The Chinese contingent, and I kid you not, were using the original and best known colour of the product, in canary. The Africans had adopted the green, a flamboyant nucleus of students from southern europe were pink and those from the nations of the former Soviet Union persisted with the red.
What had drawn me to the conclusion of the colour coded segregation was that each and every Post It Note was affixed to something and bore the name of that object in the respective native language and then the English.
This made for quite a welcome splash of colour to the otherwise and typical use of neutral and drab shades to the decor.
It seemed to be a good and practical system based on the rapid rise to fluency of the household by the first few weeks of the academic term.
The other application was, I found, sad and not a little bit disturbing.
It was a family house. Living there was a nuclear family unit of mum, dad and 2.6 kids which in reality can be rounded up to a full 3 offspring.
I am not sure of the back story of the family but my arrival was obviously at a time of a significant breakdown in relations between the parents and their children.
This was clearly illustrated by the proliferation of Post It Notes throughout all of the habitable rooms. They were written on in a grown up script and the bold text was intended to act as guidance, instruction and a warning to what must have been a mutinous, lethargic, sullen and downright useless group of children within those four walls.
The kitchen was most plastered in yellow slips bearing such orders as "Shut fridge door after use", "Wash up any plates and cutlery immediately", "Do not lick spoon after dipping in food", "Load and unload the washer if it is empty or full","Sweep the floor of crumbs", " Only boil enough water for use" and " Do not take food without asking", "Last person in to lock the door".
Hallway, main reception rooms, cloakroom, landing, bedrooms and bathroom were similarly festooned in almost military commands. One from each covered such disciplines as "Leave shoes in a neat pile", "No eating in the Lounge", "Set the dining table for meals as per rota", "Flush loo after use and WASH HANDS!", "No pushing on the stairs", "Make own beds in the morning", "Remove dirty plates to kitchen", "Do not leave towels on the floor". In fact the tone of intsructions was very much like those found commonly in a Guest House, Bed and Breakfast Establishment or a Remand Home.
The whole situation was quite oppressive and depressing.
This was compounded by actually meeting the three young members of the family, the beleagured element who, to me, seemed just like normal kids just demoralised and confused.
Their parents on the other hand had lost it and were resorting to desperate measures to, in their minds, regain a modicum of order and control in the house.
I was a bit mischeivous but felt it my moral responsibility to try to resolve a wholly unsatisfactory and unhealthy domestic situation.
So, out of sight, I scribbled on a blank Post It Note the contact details for Childline which I had Googled on my phone. I said a silent prayer that upon seeing such a cry for help, ostensibly from their youngsters the parents would come to their senses and just talk in a rational manner with perfectly rational children and return to what must have been, at one time, a happy home.
Monday, 27 July 2015
Magic Bum
There is a long running radio broadcast show "Genius" hosted by Dave Gorman where members of the public present an idea to a celebrity guest who adjudges whether it warrants the title of genius. The following are the entries from Series One.
The two hooded coat: For protecting your date from the rain. - Winning Genius
The democratic bus: The passengers get to say where the bus goes. - Not a Genius
Taxi driver: Paul Kalli taking shoes as insurance. - Genius
100-metre-high running shoes: To make sprint racing easier. - Genius
The bespoke multi-bladed razor head mould: to make shaving quicker. - Not a Genius
Placing prisoners on exercise bikes attached to the national power grid. - Winning Genius
The science of opposites: Discovering the opposite of an item by examining its function - Not a Genius
Dancing maths teachers: To encourage greater numbers to study maths. - Genius
Build weighing scales into shoes so you can watch your weight on the go. - Genius
Adopt appropriate regional accents for weather forecasts so you know which part to listen to. - Genius
Make the Isle of Wight symmetrical to increase tourism. - Winning Genius
A-bear-toir: Places where naughty children go to have their teddy bears destroyed. - Not a Genius
Dating insurance: Pay a pound per week, and the person who is dumped gets all of the money. - Not a Genius
The torture box: To punish inanimate items. - Winning Genius
Zip-up animal suits: An animal wears the suit, and when it dies you put another animal inside, but it looks the same. - Genius
The conveyer duvet: A duvet cover which surrounds the bed, so that if you pull it towards you, whoever is sleeping with you still has the duvet covering them. - Not a Genius
Gambling ATM Machines: A gambling machine built into all cash points so when you need a £10 you can try and win it even if you only have a few pounds in your account. - Not a Genius
Only Women Voting : Because of the 80 year difference in men being able to vote and women, we should spend the next 61 years with only women voting - Winning Genius
Fizzy Onion Juice : Red or White? Carbonated juice of an onion as a summer time drink. Good with cheese, and vodka. Well we do it with lemons! - Not a Genius
Day of the Week Lotto : An international lottery program where the order of the days of the week are chosen at random. Bonus ball on leap years, and a rollover for unclaimed Tuesdays. - Genius
Cat Bars : As men have bars filled with dancing girls, women should have bars filled with cats. Thus relieving stress. - Not a Genius
Have swimming lanes built next to cycling lanes. - Not a Genius
Virtual reality headsets for chickens: Genius
Vans delivering fattening food should be constantly moving so that people have to run and get fit if they want the food. - Not a Genius
Wire pianos to lights which are held by members of a choir. When one of the lights is lit , the choir member holding it sings a particular note. - Winning Genius
The two hooded coat: For protecting your date from the rain. - Winning Genius
The democratic bus: The passengers get to say where the bus goes. - Not a Genius
Taxi driver: Paul Kalli taking shoes as insurance. - Genius
100-metre-high running shoes: To make sprint racing easier. - Genius
The bespoke multi-bladed razor head mould: to make shaving quicker. - Not a Genius
Placing prisoners on exercise bikes attached to the national power grid. - Winning Genius
The science of opposites: Discovering the opposite of an item by examining its function - Not a Genius
Dancing maths teachers: To encourage greater numbers to study maths. - Genius
Build weighing scales into shoes so you can watch your weight on the go. - Genius
Adopt appropriate regional accents for weather forecasts so you know which part to listen to. - Genius
Make the Isle of Wight symmetrical to increase tourism. - Winning Genius
A-bear-toir: Places where naughty children go to have their teddy bears destroyed. - Not a Genius
Dating insurance: Pay a pound per week, and the person who is dumped gets all of the money. - Not a Genius
The torture box: To punish inanimate items. - Winning Genius
Zip-up animal suits: An animal wears the suit, and when it dies you put another animal inside, but it looks the same. - Genius
The conveyer duvet: A duvet cover which surrounds the bed, so that if you pull it towards you, whoever is sleeping with you still has the duvet covering them. - Not a Genius
Gambling ATM Machines: A gambling machine built into all cash points so when you need a £10 you can try and win it even if you only have a few pounds in your account. - Not a Genius
Only Women Voting : Because of the 80 year difference in men being able to vote and women, we should spend the next 61 years with only women voting - Winning Genius
Fizzy Onion Juice : Red or White? Carbonated juice of an onion as a summer time drink. Good with cheese, and vodka. Well we do it with lemons! - Not a Genius
Day of the Week Lotto : An international lottery program where the order of the days of the week are chosen at random. Bonus ball on leap years, and a rollover for unclaimed Tuesdays. - Genius
Cat Bars : As men have bars filled with dancing girls, women should have bars filled with cats. Thus relieving stress. - Not a Genius
Have swimming lanes built next to cycling lanes. - Not a Genius
Virtual reality headsets for chickens: Genius
Vans delivering fattening food should be constantly moving so that people have to run and get fit if they want the food. - Not a Genius
Wire pianos to lights which are held by members of a choir. When one of the lights is lit , the choir member holding it sings a particular note. - Winning Genius
Sunday, 26 July 2015
Tales of a Grand Tour
The clash between Stephen Roche and Roberto Visentini at the 1987 Giro d’Italia (The Tour of Italy being one of the three major tours including Le Tour de France and The Vuelta Espana) remains one of the most-talked about conflicts between team mates at a Grand Tour.
Roche’s subsequent story is familiar to all cycling fans. It was a momentous year for the Irishman who completed a very rare triple of the Tours of France, Italy and also becoming World Champion. This feat was only achieved by one other, the dominant Eddy Merrckx and arguably in a very different era of the sport.
Behind the star billing of Roche whatever became of Roberto Visentini?
It seems that even today, he’s still angry about what happened. It may be one of the longest held grudges in cycling history.
I was initially under the impression that the handsome and charismatic Visentini was a bit of a poster-boy in his home country but having read more widely he was obviously incredibly talented as a junior, winning the Italian championships in 1975 and later that year adding the world title to his Palmares.
Three years on, at the age of just twenty, he turned professional for the Italian Vibor team. Many talented juniors have found the transition to the professional level demanding, but it didn’t appear to have been difficult for the man from Brescia. He was entered into the Giro in his debut season, and finished in an incredible fifteenth place in addition to winning the best young rider title.
The following years would see him go from strength to strength as he continued to improve on his General Classification position in the race, as well as winning a number of stages.
He also claimed victories in the major events of the Giro del Trentino and Tirreno-Adriatico, amongst other events.
In 1985 it looked likely he would win the Giro d’Italia, having worn the pink jersey for nine days. However, he had to pull out of the race before the end due to illness. Finally, in 1986, he would win the race overall, beating the likes of Greg LeMond and Francesco Moser.
So, he returned in 1987 as defending champion. But among his team mates on the Carrera team was Stephen Roche, who was in the form of his life. He had just won the Tour of Romandie as amongst an impressive early season had won or placed well in races. Visentini had also been at the same events but Roche in his book "My Road to Victory" claimed that the Italian had given no help to him or the team and had not really performed himself. Team management decided they would start with two team leaders but before and during the early stages of the race there were lots of arguments between the two in the battle for supremacy within the team. An Italian on an Italian team and riding on home territory would always be better supported and Roche sensed that Visentini was the golden boy.
In the first week of The Giro, Roche was in the leader's Pink jersey and carried it for a total of 10 days but with no help from the pro-Italian element of the Carrera Team. After a crash, injury and resultant lack of confidence Roche lost the jersey to his Co-Leader and as far as fans and the media were concerned the race was all over.
Roche seized his opportunity to win the race on the fifteenth stage to Sappada. Going against team orders, he attacked early on a descent and was away with two other riders.
Directeur sportif Davide Boifava drove alongside in the team car and told Roche to stop the attack, but he continued on. Behind, there was the farcical sight of Carrera team chasing their own man. They were quickly exhausted and did a deal with another Italian team to chase Roche down.
It was a gamble that just about paid off for Carrera who recaptured the break but on the final ascent more aggressive riding from the Irishman saw Visentini losing over 6 minutes. Roche managed to take over pink by five seconds from Switzerland’s Tony Rominger.
Visentini, his chances of a repeat victory gone was livid afterwards, as were the Italian fans.
Despite receiving extreme abuse from the tifosi over the last few days, and a threat to his lead from Erik Breukink, Roche hung on to win the race overall by nearly four minutes from the Scottish climber Robert Millar. Roche's main allies were team member Eddy Schepers and his faithful mechanic, Patrick Valke. The Italian press called Roche a Judas and with his colleagues being referred to as The Rebel and Satan respectively.
Roche left the Carrera team at the end of the year. Whilst Visentini stayed on, he never won another race. He continued to compete for another three years for a number of smaller Italian teams, but his heart was not in it any more. He retired from the sport in 1990.
The Italian was interviewed a number of years later about his career, and despite the many highlights it seems he still cannot shake off the events of the ’87 Giro.
He admitted it was the biggest disappointment of his career.“Being attacked by opponents was normal, but it was my team mate and I could just not stomach it, I sometimes lost to star riders like Moser and Saronni, but I never complained. Roche’s attack was unacceptable.”
He wasn’t just unhappy with Roche though, but with the team manager Boifava too.
“If the captain is in the lead, the team must help him. Roche, however, attacked me. But the real crime was by the team management; clueless, heartless.
Visentini's reaction to the management was extreme. “At the end of the race, I went to Davide Boifava with some plastic bags containing the bike which I had sawn into pieces.”
Asked about Roche’s assertion that Visentini had declared before the Giro that he would not go to the Tour de France to help the Irishman, he said: “All excuses to deflect blame after what had happened.”
In fact, Roche had known early on in the Giro that Visentini had booked his holidays for July and would not therefore be available to offer to help Roche win in France in return for handing over the Giro without any fuss.
Visentini ended up pulling out, having broken his wrist on the penultimate stage.
By this time there was some acceptance in the Carrera ranks that Roche was the best rider in the race.
Roche’s subsequent story is familiar to all cycling fans. It was a momentous year for the Irishman who completed a very rare triple of the Tours of France, Italy and also becoming World Champion. This feat was only achieved by one other, the dominant Eddy Merrckx and arguably in a very different era of the sport.
Behind the star billing of Roche whatever became of Roberto Visentini?
It seems that even today, he’s still angry about what happened. It may be one of the longest held grudges in cycling history.
I was initially under the impression that the handsome and charismatic Visentini was a bit of a poster-boy in his home country but having read more widely he was obviously incredibly talented as a junior, winning the Italian championships in 1975 and later that year adding the world title to his Palmares.
Three years on, at the age of just twenty, he turned professional for the Italian Vibor team. Many talented juniors have found the transition to the professional level demanding, but it didn’t appear to have been difficult for the man from Brescia. He was entered into the Giro in his debut season, and finished in an incredible fifteenth place in addition to winning the best young rider title.
The following years would see him go from strength to strength as he continued to improve on his General Classification position in the race, as well as winning a number of stages.
He also claimed victories in the major events of the Giro del Trentino and Tirreno-Adriatico, amongst other events.
In 1985 it looked likely he would win the Giro d’Italia, having worn the pink jersey for nine days. However, he had to pull out of the race before the end due to illness. Finally, in 1986, he would win the race overall, beating the likes of Greg LeMond and Francesco Moser.
So, he returned in 1987 as defending champion. But among his team mates on the Carrera team was Stephen Roche, who was in the form of his life. He had just won the Tour of Romandie as amongst an impressive early season had won or placed well in races. Visentini had also been at the same events but Roche in his book "My Road to Victory" claimed that the Italian had given no help to him or the team and had not really performed himself. Team management decided they would start with two team leaders but before and during the early stages of the race there were lots of arguments between the two in the battle for supremacy within the team. An Italian on an Italian team and riding on home territory would always be better supported and Roche sensed that Visentini was the golden boy.
In the first week of The Giro, Roche was in the leader's Pink jersey and carried it for a total of 10 days but with no help from the pro-Italian element of the Carrera Team. After a crash, injury and resultant lack of confidence Roche lost the jersey to his Co-Leader and as far as fans and the media were concerned the race was all over.
Roche seized his opportunity to win the race on the fifteenth stage to Sappada. Going against team orders, he attacked early on a descent and was away with two other riders.
Directeur sportif Davide Boifava drove alongside in the team car and told Roche to stop the attack, but he continued on. Behind, there was the farcical sight of Carrera team chasing their own man. They were quickly exhausted and did a deal with another Italian team to chase Roche down.
It was a gamble that just about paid off for Carrera who recaptured the break but on the final ascent more aggressive riding from the Irishman saw Visentini losing over 6 minutes. Roche managed to take over pink by five seconds from Switzerland’s Tony Rominger.
Visentini, his chances of a repeat victory gone was livid afterwards, as were the Italian fans.
Despite receiving extreme abuse from the tifosi over the last few days, and a threat to his lead from Erik Breukink, Roche hung on to win the race overall by nearly four minutes from the Scottish climber Robert Millar. Roche's main allies were team member Eddy Schepers and his faithful mechanic, Patrick Valke. The Italian press called Roche a Judas and with his colleagues being referred to as The Rebel and Satan respectively.
Roche left the Carrera team at the end of the year. Whilst Visentini stayed on, he never won another race. He continued to compete for another three years for a number of smaller Italian teams, but his heart was not in it any more. He retired from the sport in 1990.
The Italian was interviewed a number of years later about his career, and despite the many highlights it seems he still cannot shake off the events of the ’87 Giro.
He admitted it was the biggest disappointment of his career.“Being attacked by opponents was normal, but it was my team mate and I could just not stomach it, I sometimes lost to star riders like Moser and Saronni, but I never complained. Roche’s attack was unacceptable.”
He wasn’t just unhappy with Roche though, but with the team manager Boifava too.
“If the captain is in the lead, the team must help him. Roche, however, attacked me. But the real crime was by the team management; clueless, heartless.
Visentini's reaction to the management was extreme. “At the end of the race, I went to Davide Boifava with some plastic bags containing the bike which I had sawn into pieces.”
Asked about Roche’s assertion that Visentini had declared before the Giro that he would not go to the Tour de France to help the Irishman, he said: “All excuses to deflect blame after what had happened.”
In fact, Roche had known early on in the Giro that Visentini had booked his holidays for July and would not therefore be available to offer to help Roche win in France in return for handing over the Giro without any fuss.
Visentini ended up pulling out, having broken his wrist on the penultimate stage.
By this time there was some acceptance in the Carrera ranks that Roche was the best rider in the race.
Saturday, 25 July 2015
The Tragedy of Genius
Sometimes the exploits and antics of an individual really capture my interest and one such person featured in a recent BBC4 Extra dramatisation was Geoffrey Pyke.
The man may not have been at the forefront of public perception but he contributed greatly to the Nation and particularly so in the rarified times of conflict when a wild and crazy idea often stood a good chance of success, if a measure of that success was the shortening of a war and the saving of countless lives or even a single life.
I have never seen any film footage or audio recordings of Geoffrey Pyke but my generation, 1960's baby boomers, will certainly recall with affection his close relative the scientist Magnus Pyke, flailing arms and exaggerated gesticulations and all. Certain characteristics follow the family lineage and my visualisation and appreciation of Geoffrey Pyke has certainly been helped by my memories of Dr Magnus.
The earlier Pyke was born in 1894. He engendered a reputation for eccentricity and genius in his ideas, inventions and schemes but equally exasperated and frustrated many who came across him, particularly those in authority.
In the first world war he persuaded a Newspaper to infiltrate him into Berlin to report back but he was captured shortly after arriving and had to make an escape from prison and make his way back to the UK. He was however declared a hero by his media employers and lived well off this status.
Between the wars he became self taught in playing the investment market and his scientific system of dabbling in stocks and shares made him a fortune. This he used to open a school where pupils were encouraged to pursue their own interests in a free and easy environment with a non-punishment or reprimand regime. The idea was largely an antidote to his own years in secondary education when he was the victim of remorseless bullying and victimisation. It was a success in its unique way but drained him of his wealth and it was after only a few years that the educational establishment was forced to close.
His aptitude for thinking well out of the box was well suited to the war effort from 1939. His first initiative was to try to oust Adolf Hitler by popular demand and he attempted this by sending students into Nazi Germany, disguised as golfers with clubs and clipboards to try to demonstrate in a public straw poll that Hitler was in fact not at all popular. The failure was inevitable but then hindsight is a wonderful thing.
With genius and individualism comes strange behaviour and traits. Geoffrey Pyke spent most of his working days in his pyjamas and would only eat herring. He was obsessed with not being cramped or constricted by furniture and possessions and he rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys to elevate all of his belongings up to ceiling height to give a clear, open plan and spacious work space during his office hours. I personally like that idea and can see some contemporary applications in modern lifestyles.
From brainstorming, Geoffrey Pyke soon moved on to actual engineered inventions from a motorised sledge to an actual tracked, all terrain vehicle, The Weasel which went into production and with many still mobile and in use well into the post war period in Polar Exploration.
His behaviour and appearance, very much along the lines of a mad professor were not widely accepted particularly in North America here he was seconded on joint research and development projects. He was reputed to have met the Canadian Prime Minister with trouser flies wide open which only added to their mistrust and frustrations of a strange man.
The radio drama that introduced me to Geoffrey Pyke revolved around two of his wartime inventions. These had come about in his time with British Combined Operations- a think-tank reporting back and with the interest of Winston Churchill and Lord Mountbatten.
Project Habbakuk was to be a huge ocean going aircraft carrier made from reinforced ice. The main constituent of the huge vessel was Pykrete, a mixture of water and wood pulp which when frozen exhibited tremendous strength, durability and stability and was also virtually bomb and torpedo proof. The idea progressed to a prototype on a Canadian Lake and it survived a whole summer. The D Day invasions caused the project to be abandoned although Pykrete had proven to be a workable and viable structural material.
It appears that after this personal disappointment Geoffrey Pyke found it very difficult to reach the same influential people and became forgotten and ignored insite of numerous authoratative writings and consultancy posts in a nation emerging from a crippling war.
.In 1948, increasingly pessimistic and despairing about the world and the direction it was taking he took his own life. His legacy, even to the present day, has not in my opinion really been recognised with due credit and acknowledgement. We can only stand back and speculate on what he may have contributed to the nation and wider world had he reached what may well have been his most fruitful and productive years. We will never know and we are poorer for that fact.
The man may not have been at the forefront of public perception but he contributed greatly to the Nation and particularly so in the rarified times of conflict when a wild and crazy idea often stood a good chance of success, if a measure of that success was the shortening of a war and the saving of countless lives or even a single life.
I have never seen any film footage or audio recordings of Geoffrey Pyke but my generation, 1960's baby boomers, will certainly recall with affection his close relative the scientist Magnus Pyke, flailing arms and exaggerated gesticulations and all. Certain characteristics follow the family lineage and my visualisation and appreciation of Geoffrey Pyke has certainly been helped by my memories of Dr Magnus.
The earlier Pyke was born in 1894. He engendered a reputation for eccentricity and genius in his ideas, inventions and schemes but equally exasperated and frustrated many who came across him, particularly those in authority.
In the first world war he persuaded a Newspaper to infiltrate him into Berlin to report back but he was captured shortly after arriving and had to make an escape from prison and make his way back to the UK. He was however declared a hero by his media employers and lived well off this status.
Between the wars he became self taught in playing the investment market and his scientific system of dabbling in stocks and shares made him a fortune. This he used to open a school where pupils were encouraged to pursue their own interests in a free and easy environment with a non-punishment or reprimand regime. The idea was largely an antidote to his own years in secondary education when he was the victim of remorseless bullying and victimisation. It was a success in its unique way but drained him of his wealth and it was after only a few years that the educational establishment was forced to close.
His aptitude for thinking well out of the box was well suited to the war effort from 1939. His first initiative was to try to oust Adolf Hitler by popular demand and he attempted this by sending students into Nazi Germany, disguised as golfers with clubs and clipboards to try to demonstrate in a public straw poll that Hitler was in fact not at all popular. The failure was inevitable but then hindsight is a wonderful thing.
With genius and individualism comes strange behaviour and traits. Geoffrey Pyke spent most of his working days in his pyjamas and would only eat herring. He was obsessed with not being cramped or constricted by furniture and possessions and he rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys to elevate all of his belongings up to ceiling height to give a clear, open plan and spacious work space during his office hours. I personally like that idea and can see some contemporary applications in modern lifestyles.
From brainstorming, Geoffrey Pyke soon moved on to actual engineered inventions from a motorised sledge to an actual tracked, all terrain vehicle, The Weasel which went into production and with many still mobile and in use well into the post war period in Polar Exploration.
His behaviour and appearance, very much along the lines of a mad professor were not widely accepted particularly in North America here he was seconded on joint research and development projects. He was reputed to have met the Canadian Prime Minister with trouser flies wide open which only added to their mistrust and frustrations of a strange man.
The radio drama that introduced me to Geoffrey Pyke revolved around two of his wartime inventions. These had come about in his time with British Combined Operations- a think-tank reporting back and with the interest of Winston Churchill and Lord Mountbatten.
Project Habbakuk was to be a huge ocean going aircraft carrier made from reinforced ice. The main constituent of the huge vessel was Pykrete, a mixture of water and wood pulp which when frozen exhibited tremendous strength, durability and stability and was also virtually bomb and torpedo proof. The idea progressed to a prototype on a Canadian Lake and it survived a whole summer. The D Day invasions caused the project to be abandoned although Pykrete had proven to be a workable and viable structural material.
It appears that after this personal disappointment Geoffrey Pyke found it very difficult to reach the same influential people and became forgotten and ignored insite of numerous authoratative writings and consultancy posts in a nation emerging from a crippling war.
.In 1948, increasingly pessimistic and despairing about the world and the direction it was taking he took his own life. His legacy, even to the present day, has not in my opinion really been recognised with due credit and acknowledgement. We can only stand back and speculate on what he may have contributed to the nation and wider world had he reached what may well have been his most fruitful and productive years. We will never know and we are poorer for that fact.
Friday, 24 July 2015
Fishy Business
I acquired a goldfish. It was one of the symbolic items to adorn the table for Iranian New Year which we hosted for a good friend. I have never owned a fish before and so I was guided in my purchase by the local pet shop. The best offer was a free fish with any of their budget offer aquariums plus food ,oxide red gravel and a stringy also bright crimson artificial plant. After the celebrations the fish looked a bit lonely and so I just bought another one. I soon became a regular in the store looking to enrich the lives of my two new pets. They do have rather limited scope for activities apart from swimming, eating and pooping and so I decided to adorn their underwater kingdom, about the size of a motorcycle helmet with some classical architecture. What better than a bit of Atlantis to start off the process.
The fish seemed to appreciate and enjoy their introduction to legend, mythology and classic structures and so I began to look out for other ornaments. What a lot of choice there is on the market. Here are just a few.
A baronial and Arthurian theme with this ruined castle .
This pagoda would be a real chill out place
Rough terrain style. A bit DIY
Appropriate if the fish tank has a view of the family TV
Second World War retro plane
For fish with ambition to travel, how about a down-town cityscape
Thursday, 23 July 2015
I'm Loving Angles Instead
A favourite pastime when I was little was playing with salt and sand.
This usually entailed pouring out the whole house supply of, in particular, domestic white table salt onto a dinner tray and spending hours making trails through it with a toy motor car. Sand was similarly spread about on a worktop indoors or on top of a paving slab outdoors and coursed through with more vehicles or a handful of plastic soldiers. Sand was readily available in our street where there was always new house construction under way. I justified taking a few loads in my plastic seaside bucket in that if left in situ it would only develop into a large litter tray for the neighbourhood cats.
These two main granular materials were not the most satisfying that could be used because they were subject to the science, physics or just natural phenomena of the angle of repose. If I had been familiar with this principle at under ten years of age I may have not even bothered to attempt to use them as play media and perhaps opted for something with a bit more mass, pliability and scope for fun.
Apparently the study of the characteristics of granular materials is quite a wide discipline with significance to an extent of which I had no knowledge. It features in many day to day things from civil engineering projects through to manufacturing, bulk storage and production, geology and safety and even in the natural world.
The scientific explanation is simply that when materials such as my two favourite childhood playthings but also foodstuffs from wheat to bran, shredded coconut to wheat and malt to coffee beans are poured out onto a horizontal surface a conical pile will form. The angle of repose will determine the stability of the material or how much friction there is between the surfaces and shapes of the particles. In mechanics the same applies and refers to the maximum angle at which an object can rest on an inclined plane before it begins to slide.
Of course every small child knows this to be fact, even if not fully cogniscent with the theory. For example, my childhood trike, if left on the ramp of the driveway was always destined to break free of any friction with the surface and roll out into the public highway causing an obstruction and downright hazard.
Having in my later years read a bit more about such scientific matters I have been amazed by the adoption of the angle of repose in nature.
Some of the smallest and most sedate of creatures have, by harnessing the theory, ensured their survival and indeed have flourished and multiplied in numbers and health in their environments which have been under constant threat from predators and Man.
The incongruously but under close scrutiny aptly named antlions and wormlions excavate conical shaped pits in the loose sand of their habitats. Their efforts involve flinging loose sand up the incline of the pit so that it settles and initially stabilises at the critical angle of repose. The materials are therefore sensitive and stable until the smallest of insects unwittingly enters and finds itself activating the inherent instability which causes the victim, shortly to comprise lunch, to cascade into the base of the pit where the expectant diner awaits. Even if the visitor seems to have resisted tripping the trap the host can project loose sand grains up into the mouth of the inverted cone which acts as a catalyst to encourage the tit-bit to tumble to its fate.
Now, I wonder what the angle of repose was when I fell off that easy chair in the garden . For a chubby male aged 52 years it looks to be about 180 degrees.
(previously published on this day some years ago now)
This usually entailed pouring out the whole house supply of, in particular, domestic white table salt onto a dinner tray and spending hours making trails through it with a toy motor car. Sand was similarly spread about on a worktop indoors or on top of a paving slab outdoors and coursed through with more vehicles or a handful of plastic soldiers. Sand was readily available in our street where there was always new house construction under way. I justified taking a few loads in my plastic seaside bucket in that if left in situ it would only develop into a large litter tray for the neighbourhood cats.
These two main granular materials were not the most satisfying that could be used because they were subject to the science, physics or just natural phenomena of the angle of repose. If I had been familiar with this principle at under ten years of age I may have not even bothered to attempt to use them as play media and perhaps opted for something with a bit more mass, pliability and scope for fun.
Apparently the study of the characteristics of granular materials is quite a wide discipline with significance to an extent of which I had no knowledge. It features in many day to day things from civil engineering projects through to manufacturing, bulk storage and production, geology and safety and even in the natural world.
The scientific explanation is simply that when materials such as my two favourite childhood playthings but also foodstuffs from wheat to bran, shredded coconut to wheat and malt to coffee beans are poured out onto a horizontal surface a conical pile will form. The angle of repose will determine the stability of the material or how much friction there is between the surfaces and shapes of the particles. In mechanics the same applies and refers to the maximum angle at which an object can rest on an inclined plane before it begins to slide.
Of course every small child knows this to be fact, even if not fully cogniscent with the theory. For example, my childhood trike, if left on the ramp of the driveway was always destined to break free of any friction with the surface and roll out into the public highway causing an obstruction and downright hazard.
Having in my later years read a bit more about such scientific matters I have been amazed by the adoption of the angle of repose in nature.
Some of the smallest and most sedate of creatures have, by harnessing the theory, ensured their survival and indeed have flourished and multiplied in numbers and health in their environments which have been under constant threat from predators and Man.
The incongruously but under close scrutiny aptly named antlions and wormlions excavate conical shaped pits in the loose sand of their habitats. Their efforts involve flinging loose sand up the incline of the pit so that it settles and initially stabilises at the critical angle of repose. The materials are therefore sensitive and stable until the smallest of insects unwittingly enters and finds itself activating the inherent instability which causes the victim, shortly to comprise lunch, to cascade into the base of the pit where the expectant diner awaits. Even if the visitor seems to have resisted tripping the trap the host can project loose sand grains up into the mouth of the inverted cone which acts as a catalyst to encourage the tit-bit to tumble to its fate.
Now, I wonder what the angle of repose was when I fell off that easy chair in the garden . For a chubby male aged 52 years it looks to be about 180 degrees.
(previously published on this day some years ago now)
Wednesday, 22 July 2015
Tree Mail
In Melbourne, Australia there has been a longstanding initiative to repopulate urban areas with trees following decades of loss of these natural elements in the cityscape.
The benefits have been quite noticeable with an increase in oxygen in the environment as well as feelings of well being and togetherness amongst citizens who have trees outside their homes and in the roadways and highways. The 70,000 trees are mapped in a project called Urban Forest Visual, with each tree assigned an identification number.The city authorities gave each tree its own identification credentials in the form of an e mail address to allow members of the public to report any fallen or damaged boughs, vehicle impact or any other matters of concern.
There has been a fantastic response from Melbourne citizens who have felt empowered by their implied adoption of the trees.
Another unexpected side effect has been that individual trees have been bombarded with emailed love letters using the unique Identification codes.
Since launching in May 2013, a supporting website for the Project has received more than 3,000 emails to individual trees.
The emails have come from as far afield as Russia, Germany, the US, Britain, Hungary, Moldova, Singapore, Brazil, Denmark and Hong Kong.
Some of the trees’ fans have never set foot in the city:
Here is a sample of the fan mail received;
Brush Box (ID 1039919) 14 July 2015
Hello, dear Tree. I read about this wonderful project and suppose to write you from another side of Earth - Russia. I hope you have a good care and don’t sick. One day we will meet, may be.
English Elm (ID 1032245) 14 July 2015
Are you and your fellow English Elms enjoying the Ashes series as much as we in England are, and are you giving the native Aussie trees some stick over their team’s performance.
Chinese Elm (ID 1289990) 19 February 2015
Hi tree, My Name is Tina I’m from Germany. I like trees all over the world, you know. Let me tell you something about German trees. They live in huge woods and because it rains often in Germany they almost never suffer from draught. This might sound heavenly to you but believe me Germany is not heavenly in winter - it’s freezing cold and quite dark. I wish I could come and tell you more about them but Australia is damn far away from here.Keep away from fire! Sending you best wishes from Germany
It appears that the most popular tree is a 13metre-tall Golden Wych Elm (ID 1028612) on Punt Road estimated to be about 70 years old.
The tree has received seven emails to date, including this one on 30 January:
Hi tree on the corner of Punt Road and Alexandra Avenue and that little street that goes up the side, How are you? How old are you? I’ve always wondered about you ever since my slightly strange driving instructor (who always smelled like cat food and peppermints) told me you were his favourite tree.I hope they don’t knock you down.
The project is part of a wider push to revitalise Melbourne’s greenery, with aims to double canopy cover from 20% to 40% by 2040.
An aptly named City Official, a Councillor Wood believes this will cool the city’s summertime temperatures by 4C.
More than four in 10 of Melbourne’s trees will be lost over the next 20 years due to old age.
Having planted 12,000 new trees in the past four years, the city is on track to replace those trees and increase canopy cover.
Councillor Wood is pleased with the project’s success. “We know that Melburnians are passionate about their trees, parks and gardens. We were surprised and delighted to find that many people all over the world feel the same way.”
The benefits have been quite noticeable with an increase in oxygen in the environment as well as feelings of well being and togetherness amongst citizens who have trees outside their homes and in the roadways and highways. The 70,000 trees are mapped in a project called Urban Forest Visual, with each tree assigned an identification number.The city authorities gave each tree its own identification credentials in the form of an e mail address to allow members of the public to report any fallen or damaged boughs, vehicle impact or any other matters of concern.
There has been a fantastic response from Melbourne citizens who have felt empowered by their implied adoption of the trees.
Another unexpected side effect has been that individual trees have been bombarded with emailed love letters using the unique Identification codes.
Since launching in May 2013, a supporting website for the Project has received more than 3,000 emails to individual trees.
The emails have come from as far afield as Russia, Germany, the US, Britain, Hungary, Moldova, Singapore, Brazil, Denmark and Hong Kong.
Some of the trees’ fans have never set foot in the city:
Here is a sample of the fan mail received;
Brush Box (ID 1039919) 14 July 2015
Hello, dear Tree. I read about this wonderful project and suppose to write you from another side of Earth - Russia. I hope you have a good care and don’t sick. One day we will meet, may be.
English Elm (ID 1032245) 14 July 2015
Are you and your fellow English Elms enjoying the Ashes series as much as we in England are, and are you giving the native Aussie trees some stick over their team’s performance.
Chinese Elm (ID 1289990) 19 February 2015
Hi tree, My Name is Tina I’m from Germany. I like trees all over the world, you know. Let me tell you something about German trees. They live in huge woods and because it rains often in Germany they almost never suffer from draught. This might sound heavenly to you but believe me Germany is not heavenly in winter - it’s freezing cold and quite dark. I wish I could come and tell you more about them but Australia is damn far away from here.Keep away from fire! Sending you best wishes from Germany
It appears that the most popular tree is a 13metre-tall Golden Wych Elm (ID 1028612) on Punt Road estimated to be about 70 years old.
The tree has received seven emails to date, including this one on 30 January:
Hi tree on the corner of Punt Road and Alexandra Avenue and that little street that goes up the side, How are you? How old are you? I’ve always wondered about you ever since my slightly strange driving instructor (who always smelled like cat food and peppermints) told me you were his favourite tree.I hope they don’t knock you down.
The project is part of a wider push to revitalise Melbourne’s greenery, with aims to double canopy cover from 20% to 40% by 2040.
An aptly named City Official, a Councillor Wood believes this will cool the city’s summertime temperatures by 4C.
More than four in 10 of Melbourne’s trees will be lost over the next 20 years due to old age.
Having planted 12,000 new trees in the past four years, the city is on track to replace those trees and increase canopy cover.
Councillor Wood is pleased with the project’s success. “We know that Melburnians are passionate about their trees, parks and gardens. We were surprised and delighted to find that many people all over the world feel the same way.”
Tuesday, 21 July 2015
Batty Law Cases #1
LONDON, England -- A bizarre legal battle over a minute's silence in a recorded song has ended with a six-figure out-of-court settlement.
British composer Mike Batt found himself the subject of a plagiarism action for including the song, "A One Minute Silence," on an album for his classical rock band The Planets.
He was accused of copying it from a work by the late American composer John Cage, whose 1952 composition "4'33"" was totally silent.
On Monday, Batt settled the matter out of court by paying an undisclosed six-figure sum to the John Cage Trust.
Batt, who is best known in the UK for his links with the children's television characters The Wombles, told the Press Association: "This has been, albeit a gentlemanly dispute, a most serious matter and I am pleased that Cage's publishers have finally been persuaded that their case was, to say the least, optimistic.
"We are, however, making this gesture of a payment to the John Cage Trust in recognition of my own personal respect for John Cage and in recognition of his brave and sometimes outrageous approach to artistic experimentation in music."
Batt credited "A One Minute Silence" to "Batt/Cage."
Before the start of the court case, Batt had said: "Has the world gone mad? I'm prepared to do time rather than pay out. We are talking as much as £100,000 in copyright.
"Mine is a much better silent piece. I have been able to say in one minute what Cage could only say in four minutes and 33 seconds."
Batt gave a cheque to Nicholas Riddle, managing director of Cage's publishers Peters Edition, on the steps of the High Court, in London.
Riddle said: "We feel that honour has been settled.
"We had been prepared to make our point more strongly on behalf of Mr Cage's estate, because we do feel that the concept of a silent piece -- particularly as it was credited by Mr Batt as being co-written by "Cage" -- is a valuable artistic concept in which there is a copyright.
"We are nevertheless very pleased to have reached agreement with Mr Batt over this dispute, and we accept his donation in good spirit."
"A One Minute Silence" has now been released as part of a double A-side single.
(source. CNN,Com 2002)
(source. CNN,Com 2002)
Monday, 20 July 2015
Reach for the Sky. Part Two
I have read widely on fitness issues relating to cycling and in particular preparing for the sporadic intense efforts that are an integral part of competition.
As I mentioned in yesterday's blog I have, with my son, entered a very hilly 65 mile Sportive, the Big G which is now only 5 days away.
There are some 650 riders signed up and although it is not really a race there will be those hell-bent on bettering their times recorded in previous events and others trying hard to achieve performance targets of 3, 4 or more hours.
The field will be a very broad cross section of cycling enthusiasts from seasoned club riders to those captivated by the euphoria of the Tour de France broadcasts on TV, weekend trippers, pro-team lookalike poseurs, family groups, willing volunteers and unwilling participants, athletic club members and a number of hardcore riders who, in the spring and summer months criss-cross the country just to take part in a Sportive.
These have increased in popularity so much so that one can be found just about every weekend -somewhere.
My own physical and mental preparation has not however been anything special.
I do get in a good saturday ride of around 40 to 60 miles peaking at 100 miles but work and family commitments otherwise restrict me during the week to, at best a short mountain bike off -road expedition to and from my office, about 14 miles in total.
I try to get to the gym for two sessions a week of forty minutes of weights just to strengthen my upper body if only to make sure that I can hold onto the handlebars.
The prospect of the long, difficult and mainly uphill ride in the Big 'G' Sportive has been daunting and so it was decided with my son that we should, a week before the event, set off and reconnoitre the course.
Two days ago we awoke to warm, bright weather, ideal for riding out apart from a gusty nuisance wind from the west. Getting to the event headquarters involved a 9 mile two wheeled negotiation of the city suburbs and green belt and into a head wind this was exhausting in itself.
We enacted a rolling start from the back gates of the HQ without any fuss or ceremony passing through the first village and a small but sharp climb over a railway bridge. The first left turn brought us smack bang into the strong wind and I did have some serious reservations about my ability to last out another 63 miles plus the return leg back home.
My son was riding well and I tucked into the shelter of his slipstream which would save me a few percentage points of energy. I spent much of the next few hours in the same position.
We are very familiar with the roads through South Dalton, Holme, Lund and North Dalton from our regular saturday outings but were now riding these in the opposite direction to normal. A favourite 3 mile descent was now a drag of an ascent but compensated for by a 4 to 5 mile fast downhill stretch to Wetwang with the rare assistance of a briefly helpful tail wind.
Leaving Wetwang involved tackling Life Hill a long straight climb with a sweeping turn before another struggle for me up to the busy Sledmere junction. Traffic was heavy with day trippers from West Yorkshire making their way to the seaside interspersed with men, my age, behaving badly on high powered motorbikes.
Fimber roundabout stands at the base of a wickedly steep hill. My son waltzed up easily whereas I did a sort of moonwalk with lots of pedalling but very little forward motion. I was saved by a sharp left turn towards Burdale and the plummet down a gravel strewn high banked lane into the valley which snaked to Thixendale.
I punctured at the base of a chalky and flinty cliff and messed around for the next thirty minutes with a repair kit before giving up with rubber solution glue and cure-c-cure patches and deciding to just put in a new inner tube.
It was I suppose a bit of a rest but the still air was stifling and overheated. With some relief we started riding again. My damp, sweaty clothes which could have been uncomfortable were now quite cooling.
We strayed from the official route just beyond Thixendale missing out a looping section by accident. Unfortunately our improvised left turn took us up a 16% gradient or in old money, 1 in 7 which served us right for our error. It was another five miles to get back to the circuit and another sharp uphill out of Huggate. A few walkers and locals were sat in the sun at the Wolds Inn enjoying comparative shelter from the wind nursing a hand pulled pint. I envied them as I took another swig of lukewarm water from the bottle slung on the downtube of my trusty bike.
We were now on the homeward leg and running south meant that the wind was a lesser irritation from the right.
The road was well surfaced and fast into the picturesque Warter with its row of thatched cottages on the village green but we were soon climbing again and my limbs were now aching in a major way. My doubts about completing the practice ride returned in direct proportion to the spasms and cramps in my legs and a new twinge in one knee.
This was before encountering Nunburnholme Hill. By far the longest and steepest it represented a real kick in the teeth and I am sorry to say that I had no option but to get off, or rather, nearly fall off and walk. My son was already over the summit and out of sight. A young woman on a mountain bike rode up to me and joined me in the walk of shame for a few minutes before restarting and disappearing over the rise in the road.
I did catch her up on the magnificent three mile descent although you could say that as she had stopped for a chocolate bar break that did not count.
My energy was badly depleted from the effort so far and I had to again go off route but this time intentionally to get to the Co-Op in Market Weighton. I scoffed, on the pavement side, a whole malt loaf washed down with lucozade hoping that any nutritional benefit would work their way through before I got home. It did not and the final 10 miles through a dry valley, past Grannies Attic and again over that railway bridge was yet more painful and a real test of my resolve and stamina.
I told my son to make his own way from this point as I was holding him back and he agreed although respectfully resistant at first.
The imaginary finish line was crossed with a sense of relief rather than achievement sobered by the further 9 miles to home.
My legs locked completely with 5 miles to go and the only relief was to stand up on the pedals and stretch followed by low gear fast pedalling. I was out of water and food by now but dare not stop at a shop in case I could not get back in the saddle let alone get my leg over the cross-bar to dismount.
The sight of my street was most welcome. It had been an interesting experiment. I am not sure if it helped in either physical or mental preparation for the actual event. That is yet to be seen.
As I mentioned in yesterday's blog I have, with my son, entered a very hilly 65 mile Sportive, the Big G which is now only 5 days away.
There are some 650 riders signed up and although it is not really a race there will be those hell-bent on bettering their times recorded in previous events and others trying hard to achieve performance targets of 3, 4 or more hours.
The field will be a very broad cross section of cycling enthusiasts from seasoned club riders to those captivated by the euphoria of the Tour de France broadcasts on TV, weekend trippers, pro-team lookalike poseurs, family groups, willing volunteers and unwilling participants, athletic club members and a number of hardcore riders who, in the spring and summer months criss-cross the country just to take part in a Sportive.
These have increased in popularity so much so that one can be found just about every weekend -somewhere.
My own physical and mental preparation has not however been anything special.
I do get in a good saturday ride of around 40 to 60 miles peaking at 100 miles but work and family commitments otherwise restrict me during the week to, at best a short mountain bike off -road expedition to and from my office, about 14 miles in total.
I try to get to the gym for two sessions a week of forty minutes of weights just to strengthen my upper body if only to make sure that I can hold onto the handlebars.
The prospect of the long, difficult and mainly uphill ride in the Big 'G' Sportive has been daunting and so it was decided with my son that we should, a week before the event, set off and reconnoitre the course.
Two days ago we awoke to warm, bright weather, ideal for riding out apart from a gusty nuisance wind from the west. Getting to the event headquarters involved a 9 mile two wheeled negotiation of the city suburbs and green belt and into a head wind this was exhausting in itself.
We enacted a rolling start from the back gates of the HQ without any fuss or ceremony passing through the first village and a small but sharp climb over a railway bridge. The first left turn brought us smack bang into the strong wind and I did have some serious reservations about my ability to last out another 63 miles plus the return leg back home.
My son was riding well and I tucked into the shelter of his slipstream which would save me a few percentage points of energy. I spent much of the next few hours in the same position.
We are very familiar with the roads through South Dalton, Holme, Lund and North Dalton from our regular saturday outings but were now riding these in the opposite direction to normal. A favourite 3 mile descent was now a drag of an ascent but compensated for by a 4 to 5 mile fast downhill stretch to Wetwang with the rare assistance of a briefly helpful tail wind.
Leaving Wetwang involved tackling Life Hill a long straight climb with a sweeping turn before another struggle for me up to the busy Sledmere junction. Traffic was heavy with day trippers from West Yorkshire making their way to the seaside interspersed with men, my age, behaving badly on high powered motorbikes.
Fimber roundabout stands at the base of a wickedly steep hill. My son waltzed up easily whereas I did a sort of moonwalk with lots of pedalling but very little forward motion. I was saved by a sharp left turn towards Burdale and the plummet down a gravel strewn high banked lane into the valley which snaked to Thixendale.
I punctured at the base of a chalky and flinty cliff and messed around for the next thirty minutes with a repair kit before giving up with rubber solution glue and cure-c-cure patches and deciding to just put in a new inner tube.
It was I suppose a bit of a rest but the still air was stifling and overheated. With some relief we started riding again. My damp, sweaty clothes which could have been uncomfortable were now quite cooling.
We strayed from the official route just beyond Thixendale missing out a looping section by accident. Unfortunately our improvised left turn took us up a 16% gradient or in old money, 1 in 7 which served us right for our error. It was another five miles to get back to the circuit and another sharp uphill out of Huggate. A few walkers and locals were sat in the sun at the Wolds Inn enjoying comparative shelter from the wind nursing a hand pulled pint. I envied them as I took another swig of lukewarm water from the bottle slung on the downtube of my trusty bike.
We were now on the homeward leg and running south meant that the wind was a lesser irritation from the right.
The road was well surfaced and fast into the picturesque Warter with its row of thatched cottages on the village green but we were soon climbing again and my limbs were now aching in a major way. My doubts about completing the practice ride returned in direct proportion to the spasms and cramps in my legs and a new twinge in one knee.
This was before encountering Nunburnholme Hill. By far the longest and steepest it represented a real kick in the teeth and I am sorry to say that I had no option but to get off, or rather, nearly fall off and walk. My son was already over the summit and out of sight. A young woman on a mountain bike rode up to me and joined me in the walk of shame for a few minutes before restarting and disappearing over the rise in the road.
I did catch her up on the magnificent three mile descent although you could say that as she had stopped for a chocolate bar break that did not count.
My energy was badly depleted from the effort so far and I had to again go off route but this time intentionally to get to the Co-Op in Market Weighton. I scoffed, on the pavement side, a whole malt loaf washed down with lucozade hoping that any nutritional benefit would work their way through before I got home. It did not and the final 10 miles through a dry valley, past Grannies Attic and again over that railway bridge was yet more painful and a real test of my resolve and stamina.
I told my son to make his own way from this point as I was holding him back and he agreed although respectfully resistant at first.
The imaginary finish line was crossed with a sense of relief rather than achievement sobered by the further 9 miles to home.
My legs locked completely with 5 miles to go and the only relief was to stand up on the pedals and stretch followed by low gear fast pedalling. I was out of water and food by now but dare not stop at a shop in case I could not get back in the saddle let alone get my leg over the cross-bar to dismount.
The sight of my street was most welcome. It had been an interesting experiment. I am not sure if it helped in either physical or mental preparation for the actual event. That is yet to be seen.
Sunday, 19 July 2015
Touch the Sky.Part One
Overcome with a new found, or rather rediscovered, level of fitness through a return to regular cycling I have done something which I may come to regret.
I have entered, with my son, one of those Sportive bike events.
In response to an upsurge in activity on two wheels in recent years there has been, released, a pent up demand for something more to do than just a few regular circuits or the usual run out to a cafe and back.
The Sportive model has filled that need for a challenge, professionally run and organised rather than the usual self imposed discipline and crucially the opportunity to establish a personal best over a specified distance. This continues the theme set by GPS Apps such as Strava. There are other Apps available but Strava is the most subscribed to and I have witnessed many a recklessly head down and frantic rider obviously seeking to top the leader board on a popular local circuit or just down to the shops and back.
The event we have put our names down for, Big 'G' ,is a well respected Sportive run by an equally well respected Hull based cycling club, named to commemorate and celebrate one of its most respected members.
It has been going a few years now and offers a range of ability and fitness graded routes in and around the picturesque East Yorkshire Wolds and with a brief crossing of the border into North Yorkshire.
It is extremely hilly with a number of long and steep climbs.
There is some payback to be had with a few long and exhilarating descents and some great views over dry valleys, towards the distant North Sea coast and across the expansive Vale of York but still hilly which imposes a level of difficulty for even the fittest of cyclists.
We signed up for the 105km route which in imperial terms is 65 miles but the metric distance sounds more impressively representative of the effort needed.
Our entries were accepted, although there were no qualifying conditions apart from having legs, a heart and your own bike, as numbers 450 and 451 out of a total permitted field of 800.
I had ridden parts of the circuit and driven most of it as part of my volunteer duties as driver for officials in a number of successive Elite Cyclist races over the last 21 years.
Powering up the climbs in a two litre car behind a peleton of 60 or so riders had I recall been a struggle requiring good clutch control and calculated speed often in only first or second gear on the steepest gradients.
Many of the hills on the Big 'G' are spoken of in hushed terms by those who know of them.
Most are cleverly avoided wherever possible by the taking of an alternative road even if involving a much longer detour during a planned ride out for fitness or leisure.
Whilst filling in the on-line entry, I did experience some real feelings of fear and foreboding at the prospect of tackling these climbs.
I may have noticeably improved my fitness but that does not make lugging my still portly frame up a hill any easier.
I hate any road surface other than a pancake flat one.
In preparation my trusty 33 year old racer was sent to the local bike shop to have a new chainset fitted. The Big 'G' website Q and A section recommended a range of gears from a 34 inner ring to a 50 outer with the caveated proviso that this should be enough for a fitter rider.
I took the advice offered and asked the mechanic, Steve, to meet this specification. He did have some reservations whether such equipment could be retro fitted based on the antiquity of my bike but after a bit of head scratching decided to have a go. Complexities would involve lengthening the chain, moving the front changer and making sure that the jockey wheels on the rear mechanism did not get snagged as the chain ran through.
I left my machine in the hands of an expert.
The other important factors of physical and mental preparation were entirely down to me and me alone.
(Part 2 to follow tomorrow)
I have entered, with my son, one of those Sportive bike events.
In response to an upsurge in activity on two wheels in recent years there has been, released, a pent up demand for something more to do than just a few regular circuits or the usual run out to a cafe and back.
The Sportive model has filled that need for a challenge, professionally run and organised rather than the usual self imposed discipline and crucially the opportunity to establish a personal best over a specified distance. This continues the theme set by GPS Apps such as Strava. There are other Apps available but Strava is the most subscribed to and I have witnessed many a recklessly head down and frantic rider obviously seeking to top the leader board on a popular local circuit or just down to the shops and back.
The event we have put our names down for, Big 'G' ,is a well respected Sportive run by an equally well respected Hull based cycling club, named to commemorate and celebrate one of its most respected members.
It has been going a few years now and offers a range of ability and fitness graded routes in and around the picturesque East Yorkshire Wolds and with a brief crossing of the border into North Yorkshire.
It is extremely hilly with a number of long and steep climbs.
There is some payback to be had with a few long and exhilarating descents and some great views over dry valleys, towards the distant North Sea coast and across the expansive Vale of York but still hilly which imposes a level of difficulty for even the fittest of cyclists.
We signed up for the 105km route which in imperial terms is 65 miles but the metric distance sounds more impressively representative of the effort needed.
Our entries were accepted, although there were no qualifying conditions apart from having legs, a heart and your own bike, as numbers 450 and 451 out of a total permitted field of 800.
I had ridden parts of the circuit and driven most of it as part of my volunteer duties as driver for officials in a number of successive Elite Cyclist races over the last 21 years.
Powering up the climbs in a two litre car behind a peleton of 60 or so riders had I recall been a struggle requiring good clutch control and calculated speed often in only first or second gear on the steepest gradients.
Many of the hills on the Big 'G' are spoken of in hushed terms by those who know of them.
Most are cleverly avoided wherever possible by the taking of an alternative road even if involving a much longer detour during a planned ride out for fitness or leisure.
Whilst filling in the on-line entry, I did experience some real feelings of fear and foreboding at the prospect of tackling these climbs.
I may have noticeably improved my fitness but that does not make lugging my still portly frame up a hill any easier.
I hate any road surface other than a pancake flat one.
In preparation my trusty 33 year old racer was sent to the local bike shop to have a new chainset fitted. The Big 'G' website Q and A section recommended a range of gears from a 34 inner ring to a 50 outer with the caveated proviso that this should be enough for a fitter rider.
I took the advice offered and asked the mechanic, Steve, to meet this specification. He did have some reservations whether such equipment could be retro fitted based on the antiquity of my bike but after a bit of head scratching decided to have a go. Complexities would involve lengthening the chain, moving the front changer and making sure that the jockey wheels on the rear mechanism did not get snagged as the chain ran through.
I left my machine in the hands of an expert.
The other important factors of physical and mental preparation were entirely down to me and me alone.
(Part 2 to follow tomorrow)
Saturday, 18 July 2015
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.
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.
Friday, 17 July 2015
Star Quality
The five-angled Star Fruit, also known as carambola, is a waxy, yellow-green fruit that originated in the sultry, tropical area of Sri Lanka. A common citrus fruit in the Southeastern Asia and Pacific Island regions for centuries, star fruit dates as far back as the 2,000-year-old Silk Road trade route between China and Rome during the Tang Dynasty.
The fruit grows on a small, bushy evergreen tree, first bearing clusters of small lilac, bell-shaped flowers which become the oblong fruits. Today, this lovely fruit is cultivated in Australia, South America, Hawaii, and Florida. Because they're known to be intolerant of cold and actually die in freezing weather, it's best to grow them in more moderate temperatures.
Obviously, the most unique visual quality of the star fruit is its shape - that of a perfect star when it's cut across the middle. There are two varieties; the challenge is telling them apart, which you'll want to do, because one is deliciously sweet – described as a cross between an apple and a grape – and the other puckeringly sour. As a general rule, the sweet type has thicker flesh. Some contain two to five tiny, edible seeds in the centre of each angled cell.
One of the great benefits of star fruit is that the entire thing – waxy coat and all – can be enjoyed.
Besides the more common yellow variety, which may have touches of brown on the outer ridges (although there are several sweet types that are white) this is one fruit that can be purchased while it’s still green and set aside for a few days to ripen to perfection. If too ripe, however, the fruit turns yellow and develops brown spots. It refrigerates well, which is a good way to extend their shelf life. Uses for star fruit include juice drinks or blends, smoothies, salsa, chutney, and salads, although they're also good to eat as is, like an apple. To a first time consumer of Star Fruit there may be some familiarity of taste to raw pea-pods. Cooked, the tart varieties work well for imparting a uniquely tart zing to poultry, meat, and seafood dishes, and even cooked desserts. As a garnish, they're unrivaled.
Because they have a tendency to bruise, it's best to buy star fruits while they're firm, and handle with care.
It's comes as no surprise that the greatest amount of nutrients in star fruit is derived from vitamin C, providing 76 percent of the daily recommended value in a single one-cup serving.
The C content in star fruit helps ward off colds, flu, and any other type of infection. Science has shown that individuals in extreme arctic climates, such as military personnel, skiers, or researchers, experience a significant risk reduction – as much as 50 percent – for developing a cold when ingesting healthy amounts of vitamin C. Another reason vitamin C is called an essential vitamin is because it's needed by the body to form collagen in the bones, cartilage, muscle, blood vessels, and aids in the absorption of iron. Also, one of the most notorious consequences of a lack in vitamin C is scurvy, which early sailors discovered and remedied with all types of tropical fruits, including star fruit. Although it's rare, scurvy can have severe consequences, so treatment for patients with scurvy typically begins with vitamin C.
Smaller amounts of dietary fibre, copper, pantothenic acid, and potassium (which can prevent muscle cramps by increasing blood circulation) are important components of this fruit. B-complex vitamins like folates, riboflavin, and pyridoxine (Vitamin B6) are also present and team up to perform various synthetic functions inside the body, such as forming metabolising enzymes.
The average star fruit contains around 30 calories (fewer than any other tropical fruit per serving), so with its high fiber content, it's a great choice for anyone wanting to lose weight, prevent constipation, and keep their system running smoothly. It also helps prevent the absorption of LDL ("bad") cholesterol while protecting the colon from toxic substances, by binding to cancer-causing chemicals that happen to be passing through.
The antioxidants offer their own benefits, including the neutralization of harmful free radicals that can cause inflammation. Flavonoids such as quercetin, epicatechin, and gallic acid offer this benefit, as well.
Traditional Brazilian folk medicine made use of star fruit as a diuretic, an expectorant, and cough suppressant. The leaves and fruit have been used to stop vomiting; placed on the temples to ease headache; for poultices to relieve chickenpox and rid the body of parasitic infestation. Powdered seeds reputedly have a sedative effect. However, dialysis patients or those with possible renal failure symptoms have reportedly developed neurological symptoms, and are advised to strictly avoid eating star fruit.
However, consume star fruits in moderation because they contain fructose, which may be harmful to your health in excessive amounts.
Now for a bit of science.......pay attention at the back.
Inhibitory effects of tropical fruits on midazolam hydroxylase activity of CYP3A (a major xenobiotic (a chemical compound such as a drug, pesticide, or carcinogen foreign to a living organism) metabolising enzyme in human liver microsomes were evaluated. Eight tropical fruits – papaw, dragon fruit, kiwi fruit, mango, passion fruit, pomegranate, rambutan, and star fruit –were tested. The juice of star fruit showed the most potent inhibition of CYP3A.
The addition of a star fruit juice in testing resulted in the almost complete inhibition of midazolam hydroxylase activity.
Preliminary results of another extensive study supported the use of A. carambola (star fruit) as an anti-inflammatory agent and introduced new possibilities for its use in skin disorders. Star fruit was noted for being rich in antioxidants and polyphenolic compounds, which inhibit reactive oxygen species. O-glycosyl flavonoid components such as quercetin, rutin (a component in fruits shown to protect against heart attack and stroke) and cyanidin were identified, and insoluble fibers slowed the absorption of carbohydrates to significantly reduce blood glucose levels.
The fiber content of star fruit can help prevent cardiovascular disease by reducing serum triglyceride and total cholesterol levels. Selective activity against brain tumor cells also was observed, and an extract from the leaves was shown to be effective against liver carcinoma cells.
Hanging on the tree, they look like odd little lanterns. It's when you slice star fruits around the middle that they render the perfect star formation that is so fun to serve as a garnish or in salads with other succulent fruits. This exotic tropical fruit is also grown in the warmest areas of the U.S., and there are two main varieties that are sour and sweet.
But beyond its ability to render any salad more colorful and tasty, star fruit is packed with vitamin C as an infection fighter, plus antioxidants, flavonoids, copper, pantothenic acid, and potassium. Studies have shown it to be effective against such diseases as liver cancer and diabetes, with more studies continuing.
For all of these great properties why is it that I have not seen them on sale in the supermarket for a good few years now?
(source; Mercola.com)
Thursday, 16 July 2015
Board Stiff
Every American drama and sit-com seems to be based in a white painted timber clad Colonial style house.
Jim Belushi lives in one, Raymond is liked by everyone in his. Very American apple pies sit in the open window. In the foreground in most images there are sprinklers in action on the lawn as the delivery boy rides past and throws the newspaper.
The mother characters in a good number of Hollywood blockbusters always seem to work in Real Estate showing them to prospective buyers. Mrs Bueller (Ferris's Mum), Elliot's Mum in E.T, even Marge Simpson had a go in her red blazer.
The house, clean cut, large and open is a mainstay of what middle America would have us believe is the epitome of a comfortable and affluent life.
The house type developed with the plentiful availability of both land and the natural resource of timber. They were easy to build using the skills of local tradespersons and of rapid construction with much of the load bearing timber frame being prefabricated off site and then transported in to be positioned on a custom made foundation slab. With the frame in position and the roof on, typically in mineral felt or wooden shingle, it was a relatively straight forward process to clad the vertical elevations in the distinctive wide overlapped boarding around the pre-formed window and door openings and then complete the internal services and rooms once watertight and weatherproof.
In all, a most attractive style of residence.
Timber frame was a dominant form for low rise residential development projects through the States. In effect the idea and methodology will have been brought over by migrants from Scandinavia, the Baltic and Northern Europe where the same factors of abundant timber were present.
In the UK there was a flirtation with timber frame buildings in Medieval times constructed from rough hewn boughs straight from the tree and held together with peg joints, wattle and daub, mud and other finishes dependant upon the local area. Prone to fire and collapse not many of the timber buildings have survived although the National Trust do retain some of the finest restored examples within their collection.
A few timber frame buildings arrived from Scandinavia in the post war period as part of the programme to rehouse those who were bombed out of their homes and were gratefully received by Local Authorities as an option to the ubiquitous prefabs and other weird and wonderful forms of construction amongst the rapidly expanding housing stock.
Many of these have since displayed irreparable defects, many latent in nature, and have had to be demolished and cleared to make way for what the British public like best, good old bricks and mortar.
A few National Building companies had a go at mass volume timber frame in the 1980's but disastrous efforts in terms of quality and applied skills destroyed any confidence in the construction form for two decades.
Enlightened self-builders began to see timber frame as a viable method to realise their dreams and in response to this new sector of demand there grew a fledgling and bespoke group of producers of kit-form houses.
The glossy books of house plans to be found on top shelves in WH Smiths and all good book stores wooed and seduced those intent on doing their own thing with a single new build project.
Timber frame became the system of choice for the upmarket and informed amongst the self builder. Manufacturers of kit based timber frames emerged and one in particular, Potton, assumed cult status quickly for quality and individuality of designs.
It was a condition of purchase that a specialist team from Potton accompanied the flat bed trucks carrying the sections and descended on the site for a couple of days to erect and fix them on a custom prepared foundation. The setting out of the floor pad was in itself a highly skilled requirement to ensure the accurate fit of the frame.
Thereafter the work to externally clad the frame, brick still being the British favourite, and complete all external and internal parts could be left to local trades.
This was the background to such a colonial style house that I was asked to check out on behalf of a prospective purchaser. It was a thing of beauty, a modern classic and the only one of its kind that I knew about in the county.
My inspection covered the main elements of the build. The frame system was indeed an example by the market leader and the team had weaved their magic. The external finish was perfection indicating that a good and diligent team had followed in their wake. The use of a rosemary clay tile for the roof, rustic reclaimed brick and pebble dash for the walls and with a couple of years of weathering made the property look as though it had been built in the 1930's.
This belied the highly energy efficient characteristics of the construction and the little eccentricities in the layout which gave the house prestige and charm.
I did spot, however, that a key feature was missing.
There were no weep holes at the base of the external walls by which any moisture from the weather or developing in the frame itself could escape. In the absence of venting there was a risk that in about 60 to 100 years time the frame will have rotted away into mulch.
The vendor of the house raised my observations with the frame makers and yes, the follow on trades had not adhered to that aspect of the specification. After finding out that the vents could be retro-fitted by carefully drilling out the mortar joints this was undertaken by the vendor in order to prevent the omission becoming the deal breaker in the sale.
My client, the buyer stipulated that I re-vist and verify the adequacy of the work.
I hired the ideal piece of equipment for the job, an endoscope. This consisted of a long stainless steel tube, hollow, with a bright bulb in the end and a viewing piece to peer into the dark recesses exposed by the new weep vents.
On a summers day this will have been an almost pleasurable activity but it was in the depths of winter and on the morning I had arranged to reinspect there was snow on the ground around the house.
I fashioned a padded and insulated cushion out of various coats and clothes from the boot of the car with my waterproof jacket as the outer layer. I could then lie down in a prone position at the level of the weep holes and push in the endoscope to view the detail.
The perimeter of the house was about 36 metres and with the perpendicular joints cut out at every metre. It would be a long job out in the cold. It was apparent that a valid inspection and note taking for each of the 36 holes would take about 2 minutes per hole. This gradually increased per hole as I had to walk about, stamp my feet and clap my hands to keep them from freezing up.
What I had not made an allowance for was the increase in temperature of the little bulb at the end of the scope.
I first noticed it when I inadvertently touched it as it was being withdrawn and was preparing to move to the next hole. It scorched my hand but a small snow drift by my side was available as some sort of immediate relief.
I thought nothing of just carrying on even with the temperamental equipment.
Through the outer brick leaf was the underlying detail of the timber frame including a polythene based vapour barrier. This was well inside the building and forming one of the layers including insulation and the marine ply gusset boarding.
On inserting the still hot probe I heard a frightful popping sound as the bulb burst and with a flash of flame, seemingly magnified to a firestorm magnitude in the viewfinder, the polythene melted.
I recoiled in shock and stood bolt upright listening for any screams from the house that it was on fire. I knelt down and in an alternate motion put an ear to the hole and then my nose with a cold tip and runny sniff to make out any sounds and smells of combustion.
I thought about packing some snow into the hole or even, as a last and vey desperate resort, directing a stream of urine through to extinguish any flames.
After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity to a guilty mind, nothing had happened. The ensdoscope hire company were obviously aware of the susceptibiity of the bulb to explode as they had included a plentiful supply in the carry case. I was able to complete the job with no other dramas.
The house, some 20 years on, is still a classic and much admired by all who see it. I do glance up the driveway every time I pass by on the main road mainly focusing on the small vertical weeps for any faint whiff of smoke. I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of starting a slow burner of a conflagration inside that fabulous timber frame.
Jim Belushi lives in one, Raymond is liked by everyone in his. Very American apple pies sit in the open window. In the foreground in most images there are sprinklers in action on the lawn as the delivery boy rides past and throws the newspaper.
The mother characters in a good number of Hollywood blockbusters always seem to work in Real Estate showing them to prospective buyers. Mrs Bueller (Ferris's Mum), Elliot's Mum in E.T, even Marge Simpson had a go in her red blazer.
The house, clean cut, large and open is a mainstay of what middle America would have us believe is the epitome of a comfortable and affluent life.
The house type developed with the plentiful availability of both land and the natural resource of timber. They were easy to build using the skills of local tradespersons and of rapid construction with much of the load bearing timber frame being prefabricated off site and then transported in to be positioned on a custom made foundation slab. With the frame in position and the roof on, typically in mineral felt or wooden shingle, it was a relatively straight forward process to clad the vertical elevations in the distinctive wide overlapped boarding around the pre-formed window and door openings and then complete the internal services and rooms once watertight and weatherproof.
In all, a most attractive style of residence.
Timber frame was a dominant form for low rise residential development projects through the States. In effect the idea and methodology will have been brought over by migrants from Scandinavia, the Baltic and Northern Europe where the same factors of abundant timber were present.
In the UK there was a flirtation with timber frame buildings in Medieval times constructed from rough hewn boughs straight from the tree and held together with peg joints, wattle and daub, mud and other finishes dependant upon the local area. Prone to fire and collapse not many of the timber buildings have survived although the National Trust do retain some of the finest restored examples within their collection.
A few timber frame buildings arrived from Scandinavia in the post war period as part of the programme to rehouse those who were bombed out of their homes and were gratefully received by Local Authorities as an option to the ubiquitous prefabs and other weird and wonderful forms of construction amongst the rapidly expanding housing stock.
Many of these have since displayed irreparable defects, many latent in nature, and have had to be demolished and cleared to make way for what the British public like best, good old bricks and mortar.
A few National Building companies had a go at mass volume timber frame in the 1980's but disastrous efforts in terms of quality and applied skills destroyed any confidence in the construction form for two decades.
Enlightened self-builders began to see timber frame as a viable method to realise their dreams and in response to this new sector of demand there grew a fledgling and bespoke group of producers of kit-form houses.
The glossy books of house plans to be found on top shelves in WH Smiths and all good book stores wooed and seduced those intent on doing their own thing with a single new build project.
Timber frame became the system of choice for the upmarket and informed amongst the self builder. Manufacturers of kit based timber frames emerged and one in particular, Potton, assumed cult status quickly for quality and individuality of designs.
It was a condition of purchase that a specialist team from Potton accompanied the flat bed trucks carrying the sections and descended on the site for a couple of days to erect and fix them on a custom prepared foundation. The setting out of the floor pad was in itself a highly skilled requirement to ensure the accurate fit of the frame.
Thereafter the work to externally clad the frame, brick still being the British favourite, and complete all external and internal parts could be left to local trades.
This was the background to such a colonial style house that I was asked to check out on behalf of a prospective purchaser. It was a thing of beauty, a modern classic and the only one of its kind that I knew about in the county.
My inspection covered the main elements of the build. The frame system was indeed an example by the market leader and the team had weaved their magic. The external finish was perfection indicating that a good and diligent team had followed in their wake. The use of a rosemary clay tile for the roof, rustic reclaimed brick and pebble dash for the walls and with a couple of years of weathering made the property look as though it had been built in the 1930's.
This belied the highly energy efficient characteristics of the construction and the little eccentricities in the layout which gave the house prestige and charm.
I did spot, however, that a key feature was missing.
There were no weep holes at the base of the external walls by which any moisture from the weather or developing in the frame itself could escape. In the absence of venting there was a risk that in about 60 to 100 years time the frame will have rotted away into mulch.
The vendor of the house raised my observations with the frame makers and yes, the follow on trades had not adhered to that aspect of the specification. After finding out that the vents could be retro-fitted by carefully drilling out the mortar joints this was undertaken by the vendor in order to prevent the omission becoming the deal breaker in the sale.
My client, the buyer stipulated that I re-vist and verify the adequacy of the work.
I hired the ideal piece of equipment for the job, an endoscope. This consisted of a long stainless steel tube, hollow, with a bright bulb in the end and a viewing piece to peer into the dark recesses exposed by the new weep vents.
On a summers day this will have been an almost pleasurable activity but it was in the depths of winter and on the morning I had arranged to reinspect there was snow on the ground around the house.
I fashioned a padded and insulated cushion out of various coats and clothes from the boot of the car with my waterproof jacket as the outer layer. I could then lie down in a prone position at the level of the weep holes and push in the endoscope to view the detail.
The perimeter of the house was about 36 metres and with the perpendicular joints cut out at every metre. It would be a long job out in the cold. It was apparent that a valid inspection and note taking for each of the 36 holes would take about 2 minutes per hole. This gradually increased per hole as I had to walk about, stamp my feet and clap my hands to keep them from freezing up.
What I had not made an allowance for was the increase in temperature of the little bulb at the end of the scope.
I first noticed it when I inadvertently touched it as it was being withdrawn and was preparing to move to the next hole. It scorched my hand but a small snow drift by my side was available as some sort of immediate relief.
I thought nothing of just carrying on even with the temperamental equipment.
Through the outer brick leaf was the underlying detail of the timber frame including a polythene based vapour barrier. This was well inside the building and forming one of the layers including insulation and the marine ply gusset boarding.
On inserting the still hot probe I heard a frightful popping sound as the bulb burst and with a flash of flame, seemingly magnified to a firestorm magnitude in the viewfinder, the polythene melted.
I recoiled in shock and stood bolt upright listening for any screams from the house that it was on fire. I knelt down and in an alternate motion put an ear to the hole and then my nose with a cold tip and runny sniff to make out any sounds and smells of combustion.
I thought about packing some snow into the hole or even, as a last and vey desperate resort, directing a stream of urine through to extinguish any flames.
After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity to a guilty mind, nothing had happened. The ensdoscope hire company were obviously aware of the susceptibiity of the bulb to explode as they had included a plentiful supply in the carry case. I was able to complete the job with no other dramas.
The house, some 20 years on, is still a classic and much admired by all who see it. I do glance up the driveway every time I pass by on the main road mainly focusing on the small vertical weeps for any faint whiff of smoke. I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of starting a slow burner of a conflagration inside that fabulous timber frame.
Wednesday, 15 July 2015
1983 and all of that
The lyrics in bold type below are from a 1983 track by the Hull group Red Guitars. Entitled "Good Technology" it was the bands most successful release. The words and sentiments are very much of that decade and after recently hearing the grating guitar and staccato delivery for the first time in perhaps 30 years I felt that there was a real case for an update for the 21st Century. The original video can be found on the link below.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cs0OkiCZNRI
We've got photographs of men on the moon
We've got some grainy photographs of the farthest planet in our solar system Pluto
We've got water that is good for us
We've got sorts of energy drinks and gels, fully isotonic and sugar free
We've got coffee that's instantaneous
We've got latte, capuccino, chai latte, americano and all in a small home machine
We've got buildings that are very tall
We've got buildings that are very, very tall- even in the UK
We've got cigarettes that are low in tar
We've replaced cigarettes with those electronic vapour efforts
We've got policemen can tell us who we are
What are policemen?
We can reproduce a work of art
We can buy adult colouring in books
We've got missiles can tear the world apart
We've told other nations that they cannot have bad things like that
Good, good, good, good, good, good technology
Oh, you mean The Apple Corporation
We've got trains that run underground
We've got underpaid and exploited Tube employees who are justified in striking
Aeroplanes that fly very fast
Aeroplanes that sometimes fall out of the sky
We've got music that is popular
Don't kid yourself Coldplay
We've got machines that sound like orchestras
We've got machines that have replaced orchestra's
We've got ability to transplant a heart
We're close to being able to transplant a human head
We've got freezers full of body parts
We've not been caught yet
We've got computers that can find us friends
We've got Facebook to make us enemies
We know roughly when the world will end
We know that we might not be able to do anything about it anyway
Good, good, good, good, good, good technology
Oh, just bought shares in Skynet, wonderful organisation building cyborgs
We've got animals with transistors in
We've got animals grown in a test tube
We've got pills that can make you slim
We've got pills to do you in
We've got factories turning frozen chickens out
What's a factory?
We've got ovens that cook in seconds flat
We've got Takeaways that can do the cooking for us
We've got plastics that are indestructible
We've got oceans full of non-degradable man-made materials
We've got deodorants that make us smell of flowers
We've got deodorant based CFC's that are killing off all things in nature
We've got detergents to clean up the sea
We've got a short memory if you read the previous two lines
We've got sounds can turn you inside out
We've got a loss of much of our mid range hearing as a consequence
Sometimes I wonder what it is all about
Sometimes I just despair what it is all about
There's lots of leisure time to sit and work it out
Frankly, that;s the biggest lie and myth of the 21st Century
There's a TV show I've got to see
There's another series of TOWIE to avoid like the plague
Good, good, good, good, good, good technology
Good technology
Good heavens
The album featuring the Good Technology track was reviewed by Melody Maker at the time .."a suitcase full of freshly crafted tunes, intelligent thought-provoking lyrics and razor edged, always cutting sounds...nothing less than astounding"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cs0OkiCZNRI
We've got photographs of men on the moon
We've got some grainy photographs of the farthest planet in our solar system Pluto
We've got water that is good for us
We've got sorts of energy drinks and gels, fully isotonic and sugar free
We've got coffee that's instantaneous
We've got latte, capuccino, chai latte, americano and all in a small home machine
We've got buildings that are very tall
We've got buildings that are very, very tall- even in the UK
We've got cigarettes that are low in tar
We've replaced cigarettes with those electronic vapour efforts
We've got policemen can tell us who we are
What are policemen?
We can reproduce a work of art
We can buy adult colouring in books
We've got missiles can tear the world apart
We've told other nations that they cannot have bad things like that
Good, good, good, good, good, good technology
Oh, you mean The Apple Corporation
We've got trains that run underground
We've got underpaid and exploited Tube employees who are justified in striking
Aeroplanes that fly very fast
Aeroplanes that sometimes fall out of the sky
We've got music that is popular
Don't kid yourself Coldplay
We've got machines that sound like orchestras
We've got machines that have replaced orchestra's
We've got ability to transplant a heart
We're close to being able to transplant a human head
We've got freezers full of body parts
We've not been caught yet
We've got computers that can find us friends
We've got Facebook to make us enemies
We know roughly when the world will end
We know that we might not be able to do anything about it anyway
Good, good, good, good, good, good technology
Oh, just bought shares in Skynet, wonderful organisation building cyborgs
We've got animals with transistors in
We've got animals grown in a test tube
We've got pills that can make you slim
We've got pills to do you in
We've got factories turning frozen chickens out
What's a factory?
We've got ovens that cook in seconds flat
We've got Takeaways that can do the cooking for us
We've got plastics that are indestructible
We've got oceans full of non-degradable man-made materials
We've got deodorants that make us smell of flowers
We've got deodorant based CFC's that are killing off all things in nature
We've got detergents to clean up the sea
We've got a short memory if you read the previous two lines
We've got sounds can turn you inside out
We've got a loss of much of our mid range hearing as a consequence
Sometimes I wonder what it is all about
Sometimes I just despair what it is all about
There's lots of leisure time to sit and work it out
Frankly, that;s the biggest lie and myth of the 21st Century
There's a TV show I've got to see
There's another series of TOWIE to avoid like the plague
Good, good, good, good, good, good technology
Good technology
Good heavens
The album featuring the Good Technology track was reviewed by Melody Maker at the time .."a suitcase full of freshly crafted tunes, intelligent thought-provoking lyrics and razor edged, always cutting sounds...nothing less than astounding"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)