What Maisie did at Hull

My name is Maisie.

I am a cute, small to medium sized dog. People like me because I have canine movie star looks, you know, Disney-esque.

Margaret is the human lady who lives with me and we get on well even though I am sometimes a bit mischievous. I get plenty of exercise with good long walks over the rabbit-rich grasslands just up the road from the house and good food. Cheesy Cheddars are a favourite.

In all, it is as they say, a dog's life.

Things have changed in recent years, The man that also lived with me went away a few years ago and everyone was very sad. I am reminded of him often especially up in the carpet of flowers through the woodland every Spring.

Margaret, you know, who lives with me is very busy most of the time when I don't need her. There is always music in the house from her playing that large piece of furniture that she keeps in my sitting room or from a box high up above the cool cupboard in the kitchen where some of my food is kept.

I have a lot of visitors (although of course they say they have come to see Margaret), and I get thoroughly spoilt with titbits and offcuts although after the treats and the usual pleasantries I leave them to it and wander off to relax on Margaret's bed or on my blanket at the top of the stairs. I can see a lot of the garden from there in case of invasion by neighbouring cats.

On occasion Margaret makes something called "arrangements" and is soon readying clothes and a bag. I know this to be the precursor to a very long "shopping trip" as it is referred to although I know it means a holiday or some such disruption to my routine.

There has been a lot of excitement in the last two weeks with news of a baby called Syd arriving and Margaret who loves children almost as much as she loves me is going to see him.

A girl arrived a few hours after Margaret clicked shut the door (dragging a suitcase with her) and took me for a walk. She stayed over for a few nights often referring to bits of paper with information on my welfare, entertainment and feeding. I gave the impression of being helpful in seeking out an internet password before the girl settled down in front of the television.

Then that man arrived. I think he is called Peter.

He knows Margaret, in fact he does look like her a bit. He is quite excitable and I have to keep him amused by doing daft dog activities like rolling over, attempting to bite his nose and barking a lot.

I was taken out of the warm house and, I must say, rather bundled into the back seat of a car that smelled of bacon and lettuce sandwiches and discarded formerly hot beverages. The girl sat next to me for what seemed like a long, dark journey until we reached what they call the city of Hull.

I have never seen so many houses in all of my life or people or cars come to think of it. The new place, could be my base for a couple of days or longer, is arranged upside down to mine and Margaret's gaff. The hyperactive man and his family live up the stairs and I sleep down the stairs. Odd indeed.

I am settled in with a lot of pointing and the humans role play by pretending to be me. Their imitation of me climbing onto a settee is comical and rather disrespectful.

On the first morning of my residential placement I was taken for a walk by mayhem man.

Their big wide open space, because surely everyone has one,  is actually just across the road from the house. There are no rabbit trails but a lot of daft ducks and geese. Those squirrels are mad and hell-bent on getting up the nearest tree as soon as they see me.

After my breakfast another man, a tall, quiet character took me out for a longer trek with tarmac and concrete under my paws and we met up with all of my new co-habitees at another upside down home called Meddys Flat.

Peter, or loony as I like to think of him, then took me on another route.

He talks a lot to himself, although probably directed at me, and as for the drone of his humming and that incessant whistling- well, how irritating is that?

We went through some dodgy looking alleyways on the way to, he explained, a Post Office to send a parcel for that Syd baby although I am not sure how he knows Margaret's acquaintances as well.

At the Post Office I thought I heard Peter mutter a rude word upon reading a sign saying "No Dogs Allowed". He hesitated a bit as though contemplating doing something bad and then, cheeky or what, he tied my extendable dog lead to a pavement bollard with me on the end of it.

Looking furtive he then made quickly for an open door, looked back and went in. I was left alone.

It was quite busy and noisy in the street with a lot to look at. So this was city lifestyle. Interesting concept. Perhaps where I live in Beverley should try something similar.

Then, outrageous indeed. A fat bulldog with respiratory issues was tied up next to me without any form of introduction and so I turned my back on him. No class or culture I thought.

It was a mere few seconds, as Peter insisted upon saying (lots of times), before he emerged. I made the usual pleased to see you gestures that humans like, you know pavement dancing and tail wagging.

A bit further along the street it was another piece of street furniture that took a loose reef knot to secure me as that Peter, who obviously relished the thought that he had got away with it the first time, went into another shop, this time one smelling of fresh bred, herbs and spices.

I thought I might get a small snack out of it but ......no.

We were soon back in that big open space and I welcomed the soft touch of grass, mud and leaves under my now urban-acclimatised paw pads. I celebrated with a wee . Peter was happy that I did it and it was his turn to do a sort of pavement dance outside the place where he lived.

We have an understanding, me and Pete and Margaret will never find out what happened. As they apparently say what goes on in the city stays in the city.

Kissing the Pink

Weekday family evenings are very different now.

We still prepare our dinner,  eat together, catch up on each other's day and watch a little bit of television but there is an undercurrent in the polite proceedings that suggests that an intense competitiveness is minutes away from erupting.

None of us want to make the first move.

It is a waiting game.

Then someone makes a tentative suggestion that we should push the sofa to the side of the room and manhandle the newly purchased  snooker table into a central position from its resting position behind the door from the living room to the hallway.

On a late summer break in a holiday cottage in Cornwall the games room was a regular haunt for the family, particularly if the morning was wet or dull but with the promise of better weather later on. We thought about using the folding ping-pong table but the prospect of strenous activity whilst on vacation, other than leisure walking, cycling and running away from the breakers on the beach was too much to contemplate.

The snooker table was an ideal proposition, a bit like golf, involving short periods of effort and concentration but technical enough to be exciting.

I was brought up watching the Pot Black snooker programme on the BBC, or at least was allowed to stay up late, after 10pm, when sleeping over at my grandparents bungalow. Although I can, when recalling the broadcasts see the full range of colours of the balls and the bright green baize of the table that was of course impossible as the 1970' was in the good old black and white TV era. There was some skill in the descriptive powers of the commentators in holding the attention of a viewing audience not otherwise able to differentiate any contrast in colours whatsoever.

One of my school friends of my teenage years had his own snooker table of which I was very envious although I laugh about that now because it was about 2 feet by 1 foot with cues the size of leaded pencils and balls about the same as those in a sixpenny worth of aniseed balls.

We did play for hours on that mini table even though there was no real challenge involved.

Snooker did dominate UK television for much of the 1980's and 1990's with some notable characters although known more for personality traits such as being totally boring, unable to read or regularly succumbing to the self destructive demons of drink and drugs.

There were snooker halls in most High Streets or back streets off but most parents would actively discourage their offspring from going anywhere near such establishments because of their perceived association with criminals, gangsters and the aforementioned duo of demons.

Pool was a compromise being more widely available in the back room of pubs, in the public areas at such venues as bowling alleys or as I found, in my late teens and early twenties in the student union. Claiming a game involved placing your stack of coins on the table edge and awaiting your turn. In a crowded and noisy environment, under the critical gaze of strangers it was difficult to concentrate or reach any level of consistency.

In later adult life there is little scope to take time out from work, family and life commitments to indulge in such activities and without any practice the fundamental aspects of the game are rapidly lost.

On confronting the holiday cottage snooker table we were initially at a loss about what to do.

Coastal Cornwall, or at least where we were, has a poor internet signal and so there was no resorting to Google to find out the setting out of the balls and their values when potted.

Each of us had an idea and could not agree on the order of colours or their location in relation to each other.

A compromise was cobbled together. Scoring produced a similar range of opinions. We all knew that the black ball was worth seven points and tried to work back through pink, blue, green, brown and yellow or whatever was the right progression after potting a red.

Our eventual system was based on one point per red and two and more up to seven for the colours.

A foul shot was minus one regardless of the colour and a missed turn.

All four of us would play in one game with me often as not being responsible and ultimately liable for keeping the scorecard.

Over the week of a very competitive running tournament, where the temporary absence of those in our party meant that a sneaky practice was under way, the best of us managed a top score of 27 and with an average bouncing about in the low single figures.

I found from in my very mediocre performances that just one successful shot, usually freakishly in, off and not as intended was enough to feel happy and fulfilled.

The first few days back home were strangely empty even though we were otherwise busy at work or study.

It was then that purely by chance my wife came across a snooker table in the furniture section of a local charity shop. It was second or more hand, a bit worn in places, incomplete in a full set of balls and with only one slightly warped cue. At £27 it was deemed a bargain especially as the Argos Catalogue had it brand new for £99.99. I picked it up later to be wedged into the back of the family estate car.

Folding out the legs and referring to a spirit level we could start to play again. We felt complete, a bit like finding a beloved pet after it had wandered off seemingly lost.

As I write, my wife and son are battling it out in a sort of stand-off around the snooker table. The overall standard of play across the family has improved a little and our average scores have crept up into the upper single figures.

We do have worries that a wayward shot may shatter the glass display cabinet or indent the decorative finish on the walls but that should reduce with more practice sessions.

It has become a regular activity on an evening or at the weekend and frankly, we cannot imagine what it would be like without the snooker table.

The Art of Seduction in Chocolate

I can be controversial if I want to be.

It may be a case of "no more Mister Nice Guy"if I feel particularly strongly about something in my life, surroundings or in the wider world.

Let's face it, there is considerable upheaval and strife across the globe with much cause for concern.

One specific issue has really given me a lot of angst in recent weeks. It may not sit well with many of you but I must state categorically, and from first hand experience that the lady does not love Milk Tray.

In fact, in the hierarchy of boxes of chocolate that a man can buy for that special women in his life I would say that Milk Tray is pretty low down, perhaps third or fourth division and bordering on non-league status.

 First issue relates to the packaging. There is the classic deep blue colour which is a characteristic of the manufacturer Cadbury and over the years the lid has been embellished with floral designs, brightly embossed piping detail and quite gawdy swirls. Classic it may be but cheap it definitely looks.

Second issue are the chocolates themselves with very little having changed since the product first appeared in UK shops in 1915. All of the favourites are there with praline, hazelnut whirl, fudge, strawberry delight, orange truffle and that detestable Turkish Delight although now whether due to political correctness or to comply with Place of Origin legislation this is now called Exotic Delight.

It was a surprise to me to learn that Milk Tray is still one of the nation's favourites with annual sales of over 8 million boxes a year.

This must be due in a large part to the clever marketing  from 1968 to 2003 using a James Bond type character referred to as The Milk Tray Man.

There were, in this period some nineteen adverts with fantastical story boards of intrigue, suspense, mystery and allure culminating in the elusive dark clad figure performing implausible stunts and all to leave a box of chocolates under that strap-line "And all because the lady loves milk tray" before disappearing in the nick of time out of a window (typically involving a parachute jump from a precipice).

These dramatic representations could be no farther than the actual reality of a husband, boyfriend or lover purchasing the item at a petrol station or late night convenience store before discarding it on the back seat of the car, or perhaps sneaking the lid open to extract one of the nicer praline treats whilst driving.

The most hazardous experience may be paralell parking the car or not falling over kid's toys on the front lawn.

There can be an attempt to conceal the now rather battered box of chocolates behind your back or just thrust it into the lap of the recipient whilst they are watching "The Only Way is Essex" or "Downton Abbey" on iplayer .

Seeing the Cadbury livery very rarely excites passion or wild abandon rather a withering stare that can be translated into "so you couldn't stretch to Ferrero Rocher or oversized Toblerone then?"

The level of sales do indicate a generation of men impressionable and gullible to the association with James Bond. The period of the adverts, incidentally involving six actors, did coincide with the baby boomers, by then in full time employment, reasonably affluent and in stable relationships with chocolate in boxed or loose form being a main weapon in their armoury of seduction and charm.

The product has however been firmly entrenched in UK culture over the last 100 years and that has led to the the new TV campaign to seek out a new Milk Tray Man.

The job description appears quite clear

"The successful applicant will take on the coveted job as the Milk Tray Man. This will see the chosen individual become the face of Cadbury Milk Tray. As part of the job you may be required to partake in PR, Social Media and TV marketing activity throughout 2016. The contract will last for the entire year."

I will refrain from applying not just because of my family and work commitments but because of my fear of heights, flights in helicopters and an allergic reaction to anything resembling a polo neck jumper.

Big Bank Theory

I rarely hear it nowadays but an important question that was always asked by children to their peers without embarassment or reserve was "What does your dad do?".

The answers would be very different today to the stock responses of, say, the 1970's when employment would include steel worker, heavy engineer, shipbuilder, aircraft technician and various trades in the automotive industry. You could easily replace those in the current economy with Call centre operative, training officer, fund raiser and permanent student.

I was extremely proud to say that my Father was a Bank Manager.

He had joined Lloyds Bank at aged 15, in the Post War Years,  and took early retirement at 55 having worked his way up to Bank Manager in a succession of small town branches.

I can say that we moved house with my Father's job on average every four years and, freakishly, in alphabetical order of places.

In my Father's time a Bank Manager was a most respected position in any town. Certainly on a par with the Doctor and Priest being held in high esteem as guardian of the financial interests of the customers as much as the latter professions in health and faith.

It was a responsible role.

Personal Finances were just that, a matter to be discussed in a discreet and sensitive way whether it involved a request for a loan, an extension of an overdraft or setting up an account. Customers who were prudent and frugal in paying in regularly and saving could be rewarded with consideration for a mortgage at a time when home ownership was quite rare. It was a big commitment and even when a few hundred pounds could buy a decent brand new house there would be much soul searching over taking on such a debt burden. My Father had a quiet and reassuring nature which gave customers confidence in themselves.

We were well used to his prolonged silences but knew that he was just thinking through all of the options and that wise counsel would prevail. He had impeccable judgement of money propositions and those making them.

I would be taken along on some appointments with him, many at weekends as Bank Managers were like Public Servants, on call at anytime to deal with requests and problems of a financial nature. I was the only one in my schoolroom to have been on a fishing trawler, to an Auction Sale and to have swum in a private swimming pool on an invitation from a farming customer.

Visits to my Father's bank branch were thrilling when I was young.

It was a traditional Bank within a dressed stone edifice bearing a date stone from 1910 and with high entrance steps up into a vaulted, high ceilinged banking hall.

Counter Staff knew everyone who came into the bank from their long serving employment and that constancy was reflected in the loyalty of customers over successive generations. As well as holding court from his office my Father was in demand in the community and his Financial experience and acumen proved useful to the Junior Chamber of Commerce, various Charitable concerns and organisations.

I benefitted no-end from being the son of a Bank Manager in terms of basking in reflected respect and consequently had to behave responsibly or at least not get caught when doing anything ill-judged.

The Bank Manager held a special position in their town and suburban branches. We, as a family, were briefed on what to do if taken hostage by criminals looking to get into the vault which I found exciting if not a bit scary.

Over his four decades of service to the same bank my Father saw the onset of changes in practice and in particular the introduction of technology such as automated cash machines, centralised decision making, call centres, credit scoring and the pressures to cross sell life insurance and other financial services under the banner of retail banking.

These non-core activities did not sit well with him. He was not at all averse to progress but could see that the role of a Bank Manager was being phased out.

I think that his early retirement in the early 1990's was at exactly the right time for him to get out of banking even though it was a profession that he had loved.

He may not  recognise what passes for a High Street Banking Hall today.

You might be mistaken for thinking that you have wandered into a bistro, pub or coffee shop with the brash, open plan nature of a typical 21st century branch. There are no counter positions, rather an array of self service machines to pay in or withdraw and with bank staff or colleagues as they are referred to acting as meeters and greeters. The part played by a traditional Bank Manager is no longer discernible.

The merits of a specific individual, like my Father, have been firmly supplanted by standardisation of products and services, a bit like the McDonalds fast food model giving the same experience in whatever branch you find yourself drawn in to.

Gone is the personal approach and the level of trust that comes with eye to eye contact. We do, granted, swap allegiance to banks with the same frequency as say changing utility suppliers but mainly because we have not been encouraged to be loyal by receiving good service.

Perhaps the banking crisis of 2008 and beyond may have been avoided or mitigated under the old, well proven system. We cannot say for sure but the decision makers in the banking industry are, I have no doubt, now thinking that their intentional  diminishing of the importance of the local Bank Manager was a huge error of judgement.

The Old Ones are the Best

An interesting scam was worked into the script of todays BBC 4Extra broadcast of the classic comedy duo of Steptoe and Son.

The original production entitled "The Three Feathers" was from February 1972 in its radio from but from two years earlier on TV featuring the trademark sarcasm, wit, back biting, profanities, insults and wonderful political incorrectness portrayed by Wilfrid Brambell as Albert, old man Steptoe and Harry H Corbett as his long suffering but self defeating son, Harold.

The crackly and variable sound quality only adds to the authenticity of the characters and the Oil Drum Lane location. Even though I remember watching the TV shows they are, in my recollection, always in stark black and white. This, I realise was down to the fact that my parents did not give in to getting a colour television until about 1985. Nevertheless the entertainment value was in no way diminished.

The plot in this episode centres on the return to the Rag and Bone Yard by an excited and very enthusiastic Harold. On his rounds he has bought a commode at a knock-down price of seven pounds from a seemingly naïve housewife plus a few balloons as sweetener for her children.

Harold's attendance at a Greater London Council Nightschool class on identifying antiques has paid off as he recognises the quite modest piece of furniture as having a significantly higher value than he shelled out. Old man Steptoe also recognises a quality piece but he is aghast to be shown a glazed ceramic piss pot under the exquisitely upholstered seat. The potty has a fleur de lys motif and Harold speculates that it must have belonged to the Prince Regent, possibly from the Brighton Pavilion residence. His paltry outlay is expected to be rewarded with a pay day at auction of at least £200.

Harold is a dreamer and in his mind he has already spent the windfall on a selection of haute couture and goods as befitting the perception of the gentleman what he is.

There is a knock at the door and an irate man enters the scruffy living room. He is the husband of the duped housewife and furious at the disreputable business practice of the scrap traders. Harold is adamant that he will not give the commode back and so the visitor offers to buy it back for £150. A cheque is written out for that amount. The man insists that he will send specialist furniture removers within a couple of days rather than Harold attempting to return it directly to his home.

The departure of the man and the beneficial deal done results in considerable mirth and celebration from Harold although his Old Man is strangely quiet as he disapproves of the whole affair.

Another caller at the door announces himself with a double barrelled name as a Rome based antiques dealer touring the area to acquire stock to crate up and sell to the Italian market. He looks around nonchalantly dismissing the Capo de Monte and Clarice Cliff before focusing in on the Regency Commode. He is in raptures over it claiming it as one of the best examples he has ever seen.

There is no question that he must have it. The offer is £600 if no-one else is interested. Harold comes clean by disclosing that it is sold but the other party are not really that keen and are highly likely to pull out. The offer stands but dependant on it still being available in a couple of days time and subject to provenance as to its use under a royal bottom. Handshakes appear to seal the transaction.

The episode tracks forward over 48 hours which have been eventful in the Tatters Yard. Harold has placated the angry husband by handing over £300 but in the knowledge that he already has £150 in the bank so he is only £150 down. The promise of a £600 receipt is still enticing and even though the affluent dealer has not returned to honour the purchase Harold remains buoyant and confident of carrying through the coup.

The only downer comes from Old Man Steptoe. His world weary experience has made him uneasy of everything that has transpired and his own investigations have revealed a number of critical issues. The cheque for the £150 is bouncing around the bank account. An independent furniture expert has declared the commode to be a very recently crafted reproduction and indeed one of 14 similar he has seen in as many days.

Harold is understandably incandescent at being the victim of a scam where the perpetrators have included the housewife, her kids, the alleged husband and the toff dealer. He sets off from the premises clutching the potty determined to exact mischief with it on the GLC on whom he attributes all of the blame for his misfortune. Cue the theme music and raucous applause from the live studio audience. A real classic.

Stand and Deliver

It has often been said of me that I am pessimistic about many things in life.

I admit that I am more of a "glass half empty than a glass half full type" of guy.

This is for no other reason than that in my fifty plus years I have just kept me eyes and ears open to try to filter out the truth from the opposite which is, frankly, bullshit.

You cannot really go very much wrong if you work to the maxim that "if it looks too good to be true then it probably is".

I hope that lessons will have been learned, albeit painfully by those drawn in, from the Investment scam enacted by the company known as Practical Property Portfolio (PPP)  a few years ago. The following is a broad summary of the scheme sourced and supplemented from the case study pages of the UK Serious Fraud Office.

"The purchase of a property ,not for owner occupation but to let under the now well known term Buy-to-let developed as an alternative to more conventional forms of investment in the years from around 2001.

Based in Gateshead, in the North East of England ,Practical Property Portfolio Ltd was one such business, attracting investors from around the UK through its national press advertising. Many aspiring to starting or expanding a personal portfolio of properties for a retirement fund or unearned source of income were attracted by adverts in such as the Financial Times which waxed lyrical about the money that could be made by purchasing cheap properties in the north of England. These,  the company would refurbish and let out to "social housing" tenants. The company would supervise all the refurbishment, find the tenants and even collect the rent.

Investors would sit back and wait for the money to roll in"

PPP sold around 4,000 residential properties in the north of England, taking in funds of around £80 million.  Though mostly from small private investors for single properties there were also some investment companies who would multi-buy.

The PPP scheme was that properties, typically urban "Coronation Street" type houses, would be offered at a package price of £25,000 to include refurbishment and letting to vetted tenants to provide rental income as well as profit on eventual re-sale.

On my own patch in Hull, East Yorkshire there was an upsurge in transactions in the lowest price range of housing, typically pre-war built 2 bed houses in tightly packed streets with front doors straight onto the pavement or in short off road blocks served by a shared footpath. A few property dealers were evidently out to source suitable houses for the PPP model. Deals were done on doorsteps with owners perhaps close to being repossessed or visited by the bailiffs pursuing debts.

There was a good potential pool in the inner city areas, somewhat run-down and poorly resourced and indeed large tracts were in the early consultation stages for Regeneration, a euphemistic term for demolition, clearance and redevelopment.

It appears that around 1000 investors subscribed to the scheme. What was promised was attractive with a comparatively cheap buying in cost, especially to those used to the much higher prices of the South East and London, a promise of some capital growth and a guaranteed return of 15%.

I spoke to one distant investor.

I had been asked by a mortgage lender to inspect and value a particular address with the access details being PPP in Gateshead. I pride myself on a good knowledge of Hull streets but could not locate the property from the details provided. In frustration at a constant engaged tone on the PPP phone line (they seemed very busy indeed) I opted to ring a contact number for the mortgage applicant. After a few rings a very posh voice answered. When politely asked about his investment property he replied that he actually had no idea as he had left all matters with the developer.

On another occasion a people carrier pulled up at an address to let me in for a survey and a bunch of burly Geordies wearing, one and all, silk backed waistcoats spilled out to let me into a semi derelict house. They gave a rather sterile, word for word spiel on what they intended to do by way of refurbishment but could not give me a definite time scale for this to be completed. The party left quickly, apparently on a tight time scale for similar viewings across the City on that day. I was left standing on the pavement trying to comprehend what I had just experienced.

However, what started seemingly as a genuine commercial venture sank into one of deliberate fraud and misrepresentation.

Buyers, many of whom did not inspect the properties were receiving some rental income but it was coming from new money put into the PPP scheme by other investors.  Properties were not being refurbished or let.

The shocking standard of some houses was filmed by an investor who had used her pension savings and wanted to see what she had bought.  Instead of an asset upgraded to provide her with an income she saw a burnt out derelict shell in a row of houses vandalised and graffiti marked.

Over successive years many investors received notification from Hull Council that their property (ies) were to be Compulsorily Purchased under the Regeneration Area. A derelict property would only be compensated to the sum of a few thousand pounds, in some cases perhaps representing about one fifth of their capital outlay.

Complaints led Northumberland Police and the SFO to look into PPP.

The investigation culminated in five people being charged in 2007.  When the case came to trial, all five pleaded guilty to conspiracy to defraud investors.  Investor claims when the company was wound up totalled £16 million.  It is thought that almost £65 million of funds was providing no real return on investment.

Some will have little sympathy for those who may have have lost their shirts because of the arguably highly cynical nature of the exercise.

Some of PPP's literature highlighted how increasing divorce rates and buyers being priced out of the market were driving up demand for rental accommodation, which it said was good news for investors.Many of the ads targeted investors in the south-east of England and claimed the north was "bursting with investment opportunities within the social housing sector".

The extravagant claims about just how much money people could make should have rung alarm bells.

One piece of PPP literature said that from a single investment of £24,000 to buy the first property, "your portfolio will grow over the next five years so that the investor will have a portfolio worth (big letters) In excess of £250,000".

The property market suffered a significant downturn under the credit crisis from 2009 which affected confidence levels for investment in that sector.

However, in the last 12 to 15 months there has been some resurgence in demand and values.The rental market promises good income to a landlord and  I expect to see, pretty soon, a rash of adverts in the Quality National Papers along the same principles as the above. If it looks too good to be true............

Palletics

I was hopeless at the subject of Economics.

The law of suppy and demand, the influence exerted on price by demand, economics in a free market or a central state control one were all equally confusing and baffling. My golden rule for coping with any economics question was to think of an answer in my mind and then reverse it when asked to commit to a seminar discussion or to paper in an exam.

A prime example of a product that behaves in a strange way in terms of economics in the big wide world is the wooden pallet, an inexpensive and low grade assembly that is used to shift cargo using a fork lift truck from ship to shore, on road and rail and to the point of delivery in our High Streets or out of town retail parks.

First used in any volume in the mid 1930's the pallet is made from the cheapest part of a commercially grown tree.

If the outer rings of a softwood tree can be regarded, in a food analogy, as the filet mignon at prime price for fancy uses then the heartwood destined for pallets is the hamburger.

It is still critical to any sawmill supply business as there is a good level of income from volume sales.
This is another cornerstone of economics as is the maxim of a famous chain of stores of stack them high and sell them low.

However, the availability of the lumber from which pallets are made is subject to other pressures in the market.

The construction industry is a main consumer of softwood for roof trusses, floor joists and boards, skirtings, architraves, staircases and all other manner of fixtures and fittings. If there is a period of boom in the house-building industry in particular then shortages of timber can be experienced and as a consequence, (there is that factor of scarcity of supply), the price of timber goes up and that humble, easily assembled product of the pallet becomes out-priced that being, of course, if any timber can be sourced for that purpose in the first place.

There could be a switch to hardwood if necessary but a house boom inspired rush for softwood is inevitably the pre-cursor for an upsurge in demand for hardwood which is used for products such as flooring and furniture which purchasers of a new house require as well.

So, booming industry results in a shortage of pallets.

This was certainly the case due to the huge demand from China and India for raw materials under the full steam ahead of their respective massive growth and productivity.

I recall seeing large billboards and even newspaper advertisements appealing for pallets, any second hand pallets, and many companies will have made a good living out of that business model. There were also, on motorway corridors, large and fascinating structures assembled from pallets awaiting despatch to ports, freight depots, railway marshalling points, distribution centres and all points in between.

As with most economic systems there is always a boom and bust cycle. I did learn that much from my hours in the lecture theatre at Polythechnic (pre-Uni status) and from personal experience I have been in a business sector that has been bouncing along in a deep recessionary trough for the last 8 years after, in hindsight, what was a pretty sustained overheated market boom in the pre-ceeding period.

In broad summary, the humble pallet can be taken to be a key indicator of the state of trade in the global economy.

Presently I am a bit concerned about a slump in world markets. This is not down to my avid following of stock markets, financial indices or media reports (although I was shocked and angry at the recent job losses in the UK Steel Industry) but from the apparent glut of pallets readily available for DIY and craft projects.

A surplus pallet can be recycled to form just about everything according to the innovative website of designrulz.com which I recently stumbled across in my broader research.

There is no shortage of clever, practical ideas from shoe rack to garden furniture set, decking to bike storage unit, porch swing to stair-casing, pet bed to stools and chairs, bin store to screen fencing, home cinema seating to wine bottle rack and many others.

This sphere of demand produces yet more confusion to my understanding of economics. I might just purchase a second hand pallet and reduce it to matchwood and see if that helps alleviate my stress and anxiety over the whole thing. Palletical intrigue indeed.

Agincourt and all that

There seems to be a lot of discussion in almost every walk of life about what it is to be English.

Some may simply say that they have always been so as a matter of pride and patriotism. There are always St George's Cross flags flying even if not coinciding with a fixture involving the national football team. Others may feel a bit beleagured by the constant media coverage of a perceived imminent invasion by foreigners. A few may think that they are already in a minority in their own local area.

Personally, I am a bit concerned by this upsurge in celebrating and commemorating Englishness particularly where it involves dragging up some long distant battle, invasion, siege or  resistance which should remain confined, for all its merits,  to a history book.

As a nation we are part of a larger, much larger global community. We fought against  most of our European neighbours at one time or another and although usually declaring ourselves the victor in the slaughter and human misery. Llets face it, the fact that not much changed as a consequence made it a victory on purely technical rather than righteous grounds.

Historic foes, now our friends do not seem to dwell on their past as much as we do. It may all be just diversionary tactics.

I think that all of the postering is because we are a bit confused about our own standing in the hierarchy of social classes that is the defining feature of English life.

There has been, since the era depicted by the TV series Downton Abbey, a huge change in  social mobility. In that programme the class differences were accentuated by the attitudes, behaviour and prejudices of those whether upstairs or downstairs although amongst their own class each were strikingly similar. The Lord of the Manor was head of the hereditary family and the Head Butler was Lord of the domestic staff.

What movement has there been in the class structure over my own lifetime, ie the past half decade?

It is obvious that the segment of the population that would with pride regard themselves as working class has declined because industry and the old working practices have declined. The parameters of the middle class have blurred and as a consequence the numbers have increased. The upper or ruling class remain stagnant in spite of some injection of new bloodlines and new money.

Try explaining the composition of English society to an overseas visitor  and you will appreciate how bewildering it is. So what, today, can be reasonably relied upon as a tell tale sign of someone's social standing.

The social anthropologist, Kate Fox, published a work entitled "Watching the English" in the early years of the new century. Last year she reviewed the research and findings to see if  we are still a nation obsessed with and yet dismissive of the class structure.

She highlighted two important factors in giving away the class to which someone belongs and they are the words we use and  how we say them.

Seven words in particular put down a marker to our social position.

If responding to an unclear enquiry the use of "Pardon?" is a lower middle or middle-middle indicator. The upper middle class will say "sorry-what?" or "What-sorry?". Surprisingly both the upper class and working class will use "What?" although the latter may drop the "t".

What we call the toilet is a defining thing. Upper classes refer to "loo" or the phonetic  "lavuhtry" and even "bog" if used with humour is acceptable. The working class use "toilet" but those with aspirations above their station can be caught out by using "powder room", "conveniences", "Gents" and "Ladies".

Table habits are also cited as class defining. A "napkin" is now upper middle and upper territory with "serviette" being relegated to the lower class.

If you refer to the family evening meal as "tea" you are working class whereas the higher social order use "dinner" or "supper". Another giveaway is that tea is served around 6pm but dinner nearer 8pm being a throwback to working hours in manual and executive employment respectively.

Those with a "settee" or "couch" are no higher than middle-middle but if you have a "sofa" then you are upper-middle or higher.

As for the room in which the aforementioned item of furniture is usually found? A settee is invariably found in lounges or living rooms but a sofa forms part of the ambience of a sitting or drawing room.

Even foodstuffs can be used as a guage of our class. The upper classes refer to the sweet course at the end of a meal as "pudding" but if you as a guest ask after a "dessert" or "afters" then notwithstanding it to be rude you should also think about fetching your own coat before leaving.

Confusion and ambiguity abound in our own minds about the class structure in this country so is it any surprise that we try so hard to define the essence of Englishness as an excuse to avoid having to deal with it.

Fashion Police

Can you imagine being prohibited from wearing certain colours and types of clothing material on the basis of your social standing? 

We may not be too far from that in some respects today but in England in the 15th and 16th Centuries, particularly in the Tudor Period the Sumptuary Laws imposed a restriction on just those things dependant on your class. 

Henry the Eighth, known to be a bit of a snazzy dresser passed an Act to this effect in 1510 building on earlier legislation from the mid 1400's. There was the sanction of prosecution and financial penalty for both men and women should they transgress the rules and Henry continued to broaden the scope to cover fabrics and fabric length. 

Elizabeth the First took it upon herself to reinforce the restrictions from her father's reign even to the extent of recommending that each Parish appoint two watchers for transgressors and take responsibility for bringing offenders to Court. 

At a time of a rapidly expanding Empire across the known and New World Queen Elizabeth cited that serious problems could be caused to the Realm by "the excess of apparel and the superfluity of unnecessary foreign wares". 

A Statute in 1574 gave a specific list of items which covered every aspect of Elizabethan costume.

Strictly reserved for the Queen and Royal Family were purple silk and sable fur. The highest nobility of the land had permitted use of crimson and scarlet velvet. Lower ranks but still of noble birth could wear tinselled cloth, (cloth woven with gold and silver), also in embroidery. 

Means testing with an income over £100 a year permitted adornment with lynx and civet cat fur, enamelled buttons, chains, silk,satin and damask. 

The only non-nobles who could sport clothing above their station were those in service to the Queen in diplomatic, legal or other court offices. 

What was available to the ordinary working person in the kingdom? 

It was no use in hard physical and manual labour of the day to wear fancy embellished outfits and labourers and apprentices just went for the practicality of lighter linen (a product of the flax plant), wool of which there was an abundance or sheepskin similarly. Most of the workers would have only one set of clothing anyway unless they were in domestic service when liveries as a reflection of the Master's wealth and prestige were exempt from the Sumptuary laws. 

In order to protect the dominance of the wool export market in England there was a strong protectionist policy by Elizabeth and this prohibited the import and manufacture of cotton. It would be a further 200 years before a combination of Colonial Plantation imports and the Whitney Cotton Gin made the cloth readily available for mass appeal. 

There were other motivations behind the legislation. 

An emerging nouveau riche of gentlemen of means, making their fortunes in trade and commerce, had to be controlled. If dressed as a noble then the otherwise rigid social structure would become blurred and indistinct. Being upwardly mobile was an unknown quantity in that era. Social conformity and etiquette had to be protected from incursions by the riff-raff. 

Fashion could also bankrupt those putting on a show for progressing up the ladder, after all a class system had to work efficiently with no lookie-likies. 

Tweaking of the laws did see some strange applications to everyday apparel. Tailors were obliged to enter into a covenant to control the amount of fabric used in hose, or Medieval leggings.One servant of a merchant tailor was detained at her Majesty's pleasure for possession and display of an "outrageous great pair of hose" and others were similarly convicted. Thomas Bradshaw, a tailor, had to witness the removal of all of the stuffings and linings from what was deemed an unacceptable hose and then suffered the embarassment of being led to his house to be chastised by his wife. 

Fines and jail time of up to three months were the common penalties and although not high at fourpence for every day of the offence this was enough to cause problems to many of the working classes. 

Perhaps, as today, the greatest disincentive to flounting the laws was public opinion. 

Wearing something that did not fit into society's perception of acceptability could be the target for ridicule and even the Elizabethans were a bit image conscious after all.

One in the Eye

Forget about the medals, awards, honours and commercial endorsements. It may in some unfortunate circumstances be necessary to sell, pawn or donate all of the gold, silver, bronze and cut-glass if for example the athlete encounters hard times, financially or in terms of a decline in previously robust and durable health.

Yes, they are important but perhaps the greatest accolade that a sportsman or woman aspires to is have a street, a building, a stadium or something with a physical presence named after them. It is usually the case that the naming of the thing is in the birth town, home town or a location with a strong mutual identity. There may be family members or distant relatives still residing there and travelling through a street, avenue, square or driving over a bridge, past a civic centre, sports hall or medical centre bearing the same name must be a matter of pride.

There have been some situations where the name has had to be unceremoniously revoked.

This may follow allegations, proven or not ,of cheating such as in the taking of performance enhancing drugs or post-sporting career scandal and illegalities. Perhaps a bit of a slap in the face is where the naming rights are just sold off to the highest bidder. The general populus and in particular members of a City or Town Authority or Council can be fickle but using the argument of supplementing the public purse or reflecting outrage or opinion by auctioning off the naming rights to the highest bidder is a strong one.

A prominent example of this was the removal of Arnold Schwarzenneger's name from the football stadium in his home town of Graz, Austria. This was a decision by the town's Officials in an ongoing row over the death penalty in the USA, illegal in Austria, where Arnie attained the position of Governor of California.

 It was quite a high profile falling out and many believe that because of what has been said that Arnie will definitely not be back some time soon.

One of my all time sporting heroes has a pleasant urban square named after him in Carrick on Suir in the Republic of Ireland or Eire.

Sean Kelly dominated the Professional Cycle Racing scene in Europe in the 1980's with wins in the great Classics as well as performing to a remarkable consistency to win a succession of Green Jerseys in the Tour de France.

From a farming background Sean Kelly was quiet and reserved and he seemed destined to carry on working on the land until he discovered a natural affinity and athletic ability on the bike. He was Irish National Junior Champion at age 16 and took a senior Licence with further prominent wins before moving to live and race in Northern France in 1976.

To sum up Kelly's ethos and spirit a reporter wrote

"It is customary to talk of Kelly as quintessentially an Irish rider. For my part, though, I think it helps to place Kelly better as a cyclist to see him as the last of the Flemish riders.It stands for a certain type of mentality, willing to suffer, narrowly focussed, and hard, hard, hard. Kelly had all this in him from his Irish small-farm background: the outside loo;the dogs that have to be chained before you can step from your car; the one career possible, as a bricklayer on a construction site, stretching away and away into the grey mists. On the positive side, along with the self-reliance, came a physical strength that even by peasant standards is impressive. In a profession of iron wills, there is no one harder".

 For all of that implied coldness and selfish determination I did like Kelly.

He had a presence on the bike and could excel on the flat as well as dragging his body up the punishing mountains. In post race interviews as winner or, failing that, a main  protagonist in the frantic action over the previous three to six hours his expressed feelings of being intellectually outclassed showed in a slow, hesitant speech, almost stuttering and struggling for words.

This did not prevent him, in retirement and to the present day from commentating on big races for commercial broadcasters. Granted, there are some long awkward silences and some barely audible and recognisable words and sentiments but it is all part of the package for one of the greatest road cyclists of all time.

I did have the privilege of slapping him on his back as he edged his bike  through the crowds at the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle in 1989.

I think he came 2nd or 3rd behind the winner Frans Massen. I vowed, silently in my head, to leave that hand unwashed forever as an act of honouring Sean Kelly. That promise did not last beyond the end of the day.

I did think, however of a more befitting tribute to this sporting hero and my first ever house purchase came to bear a rustic carved plaque with the naming rights of "Kelly Cottage".

The sign came along on subsequent house moves ending up on the garden shed at our last house and now it lies on the shelving in the garage amongst a collection of bits of bike, but nevertheless a place of honour and reverence.

Cuban Horse Power 1976 style

Sporting Heroes, I have had a few although they have had to be quite exceptional in many fields, courts, tracks and courses in order to meet my strict qualifying criteria.

Most of those in my Hall of Fame have been footballers but surprise, surprise not many from recent years. I am sorry to say that there is little respect and admiration for them because of their huge pay packets and profiles which are more about their off pitch lives, loves and excesses than for skill and courage in open play.

My first footie hero was Peter Osgood who played for Chelsea in the 1960's and 70's , a lanky, athletic player but clever and crafty in attack and a scorer of some of the greatest goals in what I call the black and white era of the game.

I was a collector of football cards and one of the first albums that I saved up for along with the packets of stickers was for the Mexico World Cup in 1970.

There was, and I can still feel now, that certain excitement about spending an old sixpence worth of my pocket money or the newly introduced decimal equivalent on a new packet with its image of Booby Moore being carried aloft on the shoulders of the victorious England Team from just four years earlier.

The realisation that other nations played football was quite a shock.

I soon switched my allegiance to Pele and his exotic and magical Brazil team mates. If the English game was black and white then the different version played by Brazil was positively multicolour.

I enjoyed most sports and reckoned myself to be a good runner in the sprint and up to 800 metres. There was a big step up in sporting activity at Secondary education level from juniors. Out went the bean bags, hoops, spoon and egg and in came a proper running track, sharp javelins and dusty, sand and dog mess filled long-jump pits.

1976 was Olympic Games year with the host country Canada. I was determined to watch the spectacle avidly.

The main stadium was in Montreal and I soon became aware of a new sporting hero in the persona of the Cuban runner, Alberto Juantorena.

He was of striking appearance well, in my opinion, being even lankier and more athletic than Peter Osgood and complimented by long sideburns and a mop of almost Afro style hair.

It was clear that he had natural ability to move with power and speed and not, as many commentators alluded to, because of the adoption of the shady, drug fuelled programmes on which other Communist countries appeared to be relying upon in track, field, gym and boxing ring in order to perform to medal standard.

In his younger years he had been destined for a basketball career having been selected for streaming into that sport but a Polish Coach in Cuba encouraged Juantorena to take things seriously and pursue some initial promise at the distance of 400m on the track. His progress was quite rapid under a dedicated training regime reaching the 400 metre semi finals at Munich in 1972, a gold medal at the 1973 World University Games (400m) and also the Pan American Games in the run up (!!!!) to the Montreal Summer Olympics.

It was not until the year of the Games that he discovered a talent for the 800 metre distance. The intensity of competing in heats for two gruelling events in Montreal tested him to his limits but he won through to take the Gold Medal in both and only three days apart.

I remember watching the spectacle of the well built Cuban trouncing the opposition. He became not only the first non-English speaker to be victorious in the 800m but also set a new low altitude World Record in the 400 metres.

Heroic performances indeed and thereafter I adopted his high stepping running style when doing my usual circuits around the housing estate where I lived, aged 13. There the comparison ended. If only I had been able to get hold of an Afro and stick on sideburns I would have, in my fertile imagination, been the spitting image of the athlete known as El Caballo-The Horse.

Alberto Juantorena is still fit and strong today at the age of 65. His career at his peak was cut short by injury from being flat-footed, controversy and a political boycott by Cuba of the 1984 Los Angeles Games. 

How to Scare Your Children. Part 1

It is important in modern parenting to be truthful but also entertaining as far as bringing up the children is concerned. Sometimes one of these stipulations may be at the expense of the other. This is where the myths and legends are born that stay in the memory of your children forever. They remain fresh and alive because they served to excite, stimulate and to be honest, petrify, young, formative and inquisitive minds at the time.

Even when they reach adulthood, when things gets a bit more serious, this memory resource kicks in and reminds them that ,at heart, they are still children, your children. Their fondest recollections may be based on a complete fabrication of nonsense but that is perfectly fine because they have assimilated all the information themselves and have come to their own reasoned understanding which will serve them well for the rest of their lives.

Take the story told to our three children about the invisible giant who lived in the next street to ours.

He/she/it, not wanting to judge giants on a gender basis, would be sat up on the telephone wires every time we walked to town from our house.

We would gradually pick up speed as we approached the cut through snicket over which the giant had a great vantage point. The children would skulk along, heads down in order to avoid any form of eye contact with the creature. I may have mentioned that people could be turned to stone in such an event. What a ridiculous thing to say to impressionable children. Everyone knows that it is the Gorgons that do that to onlookers. A giant is more inclined to just eat you and grind your bones as a substitute for flour for home baking -possibly a sign of intolerance to wheat products.

Perhaps I should not have provided a running commentary on what the giant was doing as we passed by under his swinging feet but it felt right to keep the children up to date with the behavioural traits of such an uncommon creature for our local area.

The high fencing flanking the snicket, when we eventually reached it, did provide some shelter from the persistent staring and drooling of the grumpy giant and we were glad to duck into the narrow passage after being stuck out in the open of the roadway.

From the relative sanctuary of our refuge we could glance back timidly at the sight of the telephone wire sagging and straining under the great flabby weight of that fearsome and intimidating figure. We always planned to come back by another, much longer but definitely safer route as laden with bulging shopping bags we could be easily picked off one by one.

The giant resided there for many, many years but behaviour and attitude towards us did not improve with familiarity.

As the children grew up and got more independent they did not feel that they wanted to go on the usual trips to the shops with their parents and started to go out with their friends, firstly on their scooters and bikes and then by bus and later by car. The treading of the usual path under the malevolent gaze of the giant was no longer a large part of our lives.

We moved house, a little further away and had no cause to use the snicket as a cut through to town. Many years later I found myself on that street but sadly the giant had upped and left. I conveyed the news to my now older teenage children and we were a bit sad but also optimistic that the giant had moved on to somewhere with a better view than a residential street.

Personally I blamed the telephone company for driving the giant away. I suppose that they have a responsibilty to replace wires where the outer weatherproof cover has separated from the actual cable and hangs down as though under the haunches of a fantastical but clinically obese mythical entity.

Whodunnit?

A certain smell, a specific taste, a distinctive sound, the touch of a material;

These all act as triggers to open up the vast bank of memories buried in the human brain hard drive.

To me the distinctive odour of Dettol brings back instantly the recollections of junior school and in particular the wooden recorder musical instruments. These were dipped in the opaque solution of antiseptic after each session in an attempt to kill off the germs from multi-child use. I did suffer from travel sickness when young. This may have been due to the very plasticky interiors of the cars of the 1970's, being squashed on the back seat amongst my four brothers and sisters or as a natural consequence of always scoffing down my sweets and goodies straight away rather than rationing them through the journey.

Various "old wives" remedies and quack practices were tried to combat the otherwise surefire event of my vomiting in a confined space or over my fellow passengers. The favourite, obviously on a low cost option was for me to be sat on a broadsheet newspaper from the onset of a road trip. Whether this actually worked through some freakish alignment of body energy or just psychologically was questionable but either way I ended up with newsprint blackened trousers and ink stained sweat-reddened back of the legs.

The specific taste I soon came to associate with being in the car was that of the medecine I was then required to take to counter nausea and illness. It was disgusting and I invariably threw up within a few minutes of taking it, regardless or not if we had actually started on a trip.

A very distinctive sound that I recall from childhood but came to dread was the "breep-breep" tone of the slimline home telephone. The land line phone was quite futuristic in the 1970's, a cheese wedge shape with lightweight handset and with our version being in a sort of avocado green. Although often announcing something pretty mundane the ring tone could also announce sad news and I clearly remember the anguish and emotional upheaval in the voices of my parents upon hearing about the death of close family and relatives. Although actually a rare occurence any hint of mortality impacted a lot on my young mind. Even now I have a sense of great trepidation when the phone rings. It is a relief, frankly if the voice on the other end of the line is an automated message about PPI or a distant and exotic accent from an overseas call centre.

Touch is also an evocative sense to me. This may be that from a favourite toy, a familiar shape or a textured surface such as my old cuddly blanket. That particular item of fabric survived well into my 20's ending up as a small fragment that I used to clean my bike,

So far I have attributed a trigger effect to four of the human senses.

The fifth, although in no particular order is of course sight.

I may upset quite a few people by saying that an abiding memory is that of feeling very poorly upon any sight whatsoever of the great British actress, Margaret Rutherford.

She is, I acknowledge a national treasure through her cinematic and stage performances but in her role as the amateur sleuth, Miss Marple-a creation of murder mystery writer Agatha Christie I am immediately reminded of faking sickness in order to skive off school.

I was a nervy child and any, even minor incident or upset in school time would start off a phantom stomach ache, imaginary head fever or trumped up dramatic reaction giving the impression that I was close to death. I found that very rapid breathing over, say, five minutes could invoke a dizziness and state of near collapse and that was quite a useful method to arouse concern amongst the teaching staff resulting in a phone call my parents for me to be collected or a ride home in a staff members car.

Margaret Rutherford was always on the television in a black and white film when I was comfortably reclined under an eiderdown in the living room in familiar surroundings. Although ecstatically happy to be at home and before my siblings got back from their schooling the whole process of twagging off did come at a price to my physical and mental state.

Even though some four decades ago I cannot now watch any movies from Margaret Rutherford's illustrious and long serving career which is a massive disservice to the great old lady.

Perhaps one day I might feel able to enjoy such classic films as Murder Most Foul, Blithe Spirit and The Importance of Being Earnest without those otherwise, in the day, useful side effects.

Roots

Mrs P is a regular client. Over the years she has called upon me  to provide advice on various property related matters from buying and selling to disputes over leasehold covenants, building defects, in more recent years following earthquake damage to a ceiling and just last week when a heavy mirror decided to fall off the wall in her flat with no prior warning.

She is a nice senior lady, long time retiree from working in a bank and apart from the usual aches and pains that go with advancing years leads an active life.

On my recent summoning, my last call of that day, Mrs P handed me a very oversized wine glass, almost full to the brim with a rich, pinky, reddish liquid.

Overcoming a squeamishness in case it was a blood sample she wanted me to take to the hospital for her, I then thought about having to decline the offer of alcohol as I was still at work and in the car.

It was beetroot juice.

Apparently she was now drinking significant amounts of it on a daily basis. Fruit juices are perfectly fine but my previous experience of drinks made from vegetables has not been pleasant. Usually an impulse buy, when having been persuaded by clever packaging in the organic aisles of the supermarket, I have been disappointed and disgusted in equal proportion by foul odour emitting liquids of dodgy hue,  with unidentified earthy bits in suspension and one hell of an after taste, not to mention discolouration to teeth, tongue and lips.

The Mrs P serving of beetroot was in complete contrast. Cool from the fridge, odourless (the beetroot, not Mrs P), and smooth in texture it was a most surprisingly refreshing treat.

Obviously a big fan of beetroot , Mrs P showed me the carton in which it had been purchased at her local Waitrose.

In pop culture style it was branded "Beet-it" with bright lettering and images and with much of the printed surface promoting the health and related benefits of the stuff. There was some emphasis on the blending in of 10% apple juice in order to counter the usual muddy tints and suggestions in natural, unadulterated beetroot.

My attention was drawn immediately to a warning that consumption can lead to a pinkish tint in urine. I made a short mental note not to panic and call my doctor if that sort of side effect materialised later on that evening. I am at that age when anything out of the ordinary in bodily functions can be a cause for concern indeed.

Beetroot; it is a fascinating root vegetable with a bit of an understated pedigree.

There are references to beet in 800BC with it being grown in that allotment known as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and also offered to the Greek deities at Delphi. The latin name of Beta Vulgaris, roughly meaning I think in literal translation, rude beet, is not really self promoting compared to more sexily name vegetables such as potato, turnip, swede and carrot.

Grown widely in Europe and Scandinavia it formed a diet staple in pickled form, salads, borsch and accompanying herring dishes. Those who have unwittingly spilt beetroot juice on their clothes will know well of the intensity of staining potential as a direct illustration of the application of the extract in food colouring.

Mrs P had obviously been attracted in her new favourite tipple to the alleged medicinal properties of the stuff. In the early civilisations and Middle Ages beetroot was used to temper blood ailments, digestion problems and as a source of vitamins and minerals (although not known by any name in the pre enlightenment era).

The producers of "Beet-it" do reinforce the health benefits of their juice with references and on-line links to ongoing research by mainly sports scientists.

2014/2015
"Dietary nitrate modulates cerebral blood flow parameters and cognitive performance in humans"
2013
"Effects of nitrate on the power-duration relationship for severe-intensity exercise"
"Beetroot juice can significantly benefit athletic performance at altitude"
"Effects of nitrate supplementation via beetroot juice on contracting rat skeletal muscle microvascular oxygen pressure dynamics"
"Beetroot juice and exercise: pharmacodynamic and dose-response relationships"
2012
"Acute dietary nitrate supplementation improves dry static apnea performance"
"Blood pressure-lowering effects of beetroot juice and novel beetroot enriched bread products in normotensive male subjects"
2011
"Acute dietary nitrate supplementation improves cycling time trial performance"
"A toast to health and performance! Beetroot juice lowers blood pressure and the O2 cost of exercise"
2010
"Dietary nitrate supplementation enhances muscle contractile efficiency during knee-extensor exercise in humans"
2009
"Dietary nitrate supplementation reduces the O2 cost of low-intensity exercise and enhances tolerance to high-intensity exercise in humans"
2008
"Acute blood pressure lowering, vasoprotective, and antiplatelet properties of dietary nitrate via bioconversion to nitrite"
2007
"Effects of dietary nitrate on oxygen cost during exercise"

Impressive list by all accounts.

I am through my second big carton of "Beet-it" since my introduction to it by Mrs P.

I do feel more able to cope with the intensive efforts of road and mountain bike riding which may be an affect of the oxygenisation of my bloodstream. My memory appears sharper, at least to me and not those people....um, err, ooh...oh yes, my wife and son what I live with.

Perhaps, and best of all I can now sprint to the upstairs loo without being out of breath in order to watch with fascination as an almost fluorescent pink stream of urine courses into the bright white ceramic pan.

Mettle and Steel

I lived from 1971 to 1979 in Brigg, a Lincolnshire town in what is usually described as the North Midlands or just the North East of England.

It was a smallish place with a busy through road, two river crossings and all that I recall by way of industry was a sugar beet processing plant, and a bicycle and marmalade factory- I stress the latter were two separate business operations.

Looking back it was a happy time. We had moved with my father's job and everything was new and fresh.

They were my formative years, I realise that now.

At age 8 there was not too much to worry about giving plenty of time to pursue the most important things such as playing out, riding a bike, exploring the local area and football. My family life was blessed with loving parents and, after the arrival of my youngest brother, Mark in 1975 there were five of us children in total, so quite a houseful.

We were free, with such a stable footing in life to just get on with being children and we made the most of it.

Of course there were a few downsides. School was one of them.

I was a quiet and painfully shy child, heaven knows why what with coming from a large family, and this was a hindrance in my first few years in new academic surroundings. The town Junior School was one of those inter-war built types with a covered verandah walkway with classrooms off. A common accident would be a child walking into an suddenly outward opening. glazed door as a member of staff went for a crafty cigarette in the staff room.

I did participate in most things on offer, in the choir, drama and music groups and I was quite good at running and sports in general. In education I was a bit of a plodder but got through the very devisive bit of social engineering that was the 11-plus examination.

This took me to the Boys Grammar School, founded in the 1600's by a Cromwellian and still steeped in history and tradition including a number of boarding pupils. I think that my year intake were the first not to be required to wear short trousers.

For all the burden of heritage it was a very active establishment in curriculum and extra-curriculum activities including a Scout Troop in which I got to sail, canoe, climb, camp under canvas and legitimately set fire to things. Happy times indeed.

The teaching staff were very much in the Old School style being strict but fair but you could accept and respect them for it. In true Grammar School ethos the emphasis was on preparing its pupils to progress to a University course but the mid to late 1970's, on hindsight, was the beginning of the end for this time served path through life.

Many of my Junior School friends did not pass the 11-Plus exam and so were sent to the new, brash Secondary Modern Co-Ed Comprehensive on the edge of the town. The mother of my best friend really laid into me upon hearing that her son had not got through the selection process and I had. Her sad, anguished and angry outburst had a great impact on my innocent ears and still sits heavily with me now, some four decades later.

I meandered through senior school, not at all sure what I wanted to do by way as a job.

A bit of sound advice and guidance was needed and in the course of a Chemistry lesson, I do not remember the date or time, the teacher set the scene of how our lives might play out.

Brigg was about 9 miles from the nearest large town of Scunthorpe.

Often the brunt of jokes about its spelling such as "who put the c**t in Scunthorpe?" or a perception, typically unfounded, about its inhabitants it was a boom town around one of the largest Steel Works in Europe.

In the 1970's it expanded at a startling rate as the main employer British Steel employed thousands coming from all over the UK. The industry operated using the latest technology and the huge blast furnace buildings sprawled over and dominated the east side of the town. From the hill overlooking the plant you could see right into the fiery heart of the production process.

It was tough and dangerous work but well paid and seen as promising a job for life.

The chemistry teacher, digressing from some experiment or other with lithium, gave us a lot to think about in perhaps for the first time putting our future choices in focus.

I was fifteen and approaching the time to make a decision about staying on at the Grammar for two extra years or leaving to go to a vocational college or to find a job. He said that with plentiful employment at the Steel Works we could all leave school and after an Apprenticeship in the Furnaces, Rolling Mills or support industries would be sitting pretty with money enough to buy a car, a house and settle down as tax paying citizens. In contrast, those thinking about the academic route of two more school years and say, three to four years at University, would not reach the same earning potential for the duration and until then would be living at home with mummy and daddy, relying on lifts and handouts and constituting a drain on the finances of the nation. You could postpone indefinitely any thoughts of home ownership and perhaps, getting a girlfriend.

Confusing times indeed on all fronts. I could have done without additional angst, what with being a pubescent, spotty faced teenager at the time.

The advice and guidance, even so bleakly put, would prove to be a pivotal point for me.

I opted for the academic route but many of my friends went to work for British Steel and thrived in that heavy industry.

I  moved away from Brigg with my family in 1979 and inevitably lost touch with my friends in the town.

Scunthorpe established itself as a centre of excellence for Steel putting millions of pounds into the local economy through the pay packets of its workers and those who relied upon the presence of the manufacturing giant for support and ancillary operations from lorry haulage firms to kiosk sandwich makers.

The job for life expectation began to unravel with the short term gains of privatisation from 1988 and changes in global markets for steel, principally the emergence of China as a major producer at much lower unit cost.

It is with great sadness that I heard the news just yesterday of the imminent large scale redundancies at the Scunthorpe Steel Works by its Indian owners, Tata. This brought back to me the emotions aroused by that period in my life when decisions had to be made that would set in motion a new direction and succession of events. It is a fragile existence indeed.

Twinned with Midsomer-unfortunately.

In a small town, circa 4000 population, not much really happens, even on year to year basis.

There is a fairly stable population in terms of numbers apart from minor fluctuations to the positive or negative brought about by natural deaths, marriages and births or in the case of one notable year, a murder.

It was the talk of the town, the murder because no one in the living archive of the residents could remember having one before within the Parish Boundary.

Technically, the location of the untimely death was visible from my bedroom window, if I, as the teenager I was, leaned out of the casement, sat on the external sill, and hung on to the internal window board with the other free hand or by a grip of the knees. In actuality, I could only really see a clump of trees and the contrasting grey appearance of asbestos cement sheeting that formed the group of buildings where the murder had been committed.

Peeked at behind prayer-hands, with trepidation, from the main road when passing in our parents' car, the wider view was of a sorry looking establishment that was whispered to have been a Prisoner of War Camp in the 1940's. My own expectations for a prison camp were of course based on what I had seen on such films as The Great Escape, The Wooden Horse and the TV series Colditz.

Even with the most fertile parts of my imagination, what had survived the decades after the drifting away in repatriation or settlement of the Italian former occupants was a great disappointment. Any guard towers, high barbed wire fences and surrounding minefields were long gone, if at all they had existed in the first place to watch over about 100 enemy soldiers whose own nation had capitulated to the Allies and who were likely to have no appetite whatsoever for conflict, fascism or partnering in any thousand year dictatorship.

A few shop fronts on Main Street had exotic Mediterranean sounding names for the proprietors of the ice cream parlour, bakery, general provisions and the beer-off. It would seem that their particular walk to liberation after the end of the war had just been across the railway lines, a matter of a few hundred yards into the town. The businesses were now in the hands of a second generation of self-imposed exiles who had assimilated into the home grown population easily and profitably.

Post- war the camp had been used to accommodate seasonal agricultural workers although many of the low, long and narrow huts had collapsed from lack of maintenance between storm damage or had suffered from vandalism and arson. The land on which the camp had been built did change hands a few times until finally owned and used by a local farmer as a place to store potatoes, sugar beet and hay bales.

Tramps and other vagrants were regularly seen kicking their way through the undergrowth and the brittle sectional concrete panels in order to gain some shelter from the wind. The shells of the huts would afford some respite from a prevailing northerly but the homeless would be in for a rude shock in wet weather as the corrugated asbestos sheets, angled to form the roof, were largely fractured, holed, missing or perforated.

The atmosphere of the place was, to us kids, foreboding. In any other group of under-used or abandoned structures around the town there would be frequent dares in our gang to commit damage, set something afire, snog a lass or just smash any remaining windows.

In the case of the old camp we kept well clear and nothing was spoken of it.

That was, until the murder.

We heard about it from one of our group who lived just down the road. He rode madly, on his Raleigh Chopper bike into the recreation ground where the rest of us were engaged in one of those epic football matches. I was about to even up the score at 42 goals for each team when his unstable, high speed approach threw me off my perfect shape for that shot.

He gesticulated, being a bit out of breath, that the Police had sealed off the road up at the camp and that something had kicked off and big style. Murder was mentioned. Not caring for our jackets and coats which were left as makeshift goalposts on the playing field, we made our way out of the kissing gate and over the railway crossing towards the edge of town.

No one wanted to take the lead so we made our way forward and with increasing hesitancy along the rough grass verge resembling a mob crowd looking for trouble but at the same time not really wanting any.

At first the camp entrance was obscured by a bend in the road but then we could clearly see a Police presence, now consisting of two of the local panda cars and an unmarked van. At the sight of our approach one of the Constables, known to us under an unflattering nickname, muttered to a colleague and made to cut us off before we got too close.

There was history between us and him.

He always seemed to know when an older bother or sister of our group had purchased and passed on a bottle of cider for our consumption under the railway bridge. If any graffiti appeared on Civic property he always sought us out at our somewhat predictable hang-outs to check our hands and pocket contents for evidence. He had an uncanny sense that our bikes, in the fading twilight of a summers evening, would be lacking operational lights. Many a time we were ambushed and reported to our parents.

Now, however, as he walked over the look on the face of the young Policeman was not the usual one we saw. This time it lacked any glee, mock incredulity and he was devoid of any sarcastic or stereotypical coppers comments. We were concentrating on this impending confrontation when the siren of an ambulance made us jump and panic on the verge as it came up behind us. The Constable waved it through but held up the palm of his right hand in that universally recognisable sign of 'Stop!'.

No one in our group spoke. I had half expected an excited cacophony of questions about the nature of the incident and whether there had been blood or other gore, what had been the weapons used and if any perpetrator had been apprehended. The silence was deafening. There would be plenty of opportunities to unravel the full story in the local newspaper or by eavesdropping the conversations of our parents and our elders in the town for some time to come.

I think that the young police officer was genuinely affected by the whole situation. His fresh complexion implied that he cannot have been in the Force for more than a few months. We respected his demeanour and quietly slunk away. That moment marked a distinct improvement in our subsequent relationship with the local constabulary and that individual in particular. We did share a common bond after all. Like our group, it must have been his first experience of murder as well.

Comrade Peter and Spaghetti Hoops

How often have you heard a grumble that there is just too much use of foreign TV shows in todays UK television schedules?

I have often returned home to realise that my family after a days normal viewing have adopted a faint Australian and American accent which linguists would argue places them somewhere between Ramsey Street and Central Perk.

Looking back to my childhood television viewing in the late 1960's and early to mid 1970's has made me realise that in fact there were as many overseas series then as now, if not more.

Amongst my favourites were The Flashing Blade, Belle and Sebastien, The White Horses and Robinson Crusoe predominantly dubbed in dodgy English over French. These were good, easy going stories revolving around, respectively, swashbuckling chevalier fighting, mountain rescue, equestrian pursuits and shipwreck on a desert island.

It would be difficult to read anything more into the tales than the facts presented at face value.

That was until the emergence into prime time children's viewing of a series called "The Singing Ringing Tree" on the BBC in 1962 and rolling out at numerous times over the next two decades.

Made in the then Communist East Germany in 1957 it was a Fairy Tale centred on a tree with magical powers together with the key standard ingredients of  heroine, hero, and arch-villain engaged in fantastic and perilous adventures involving freakish creatures including an oversized dewy eyed goldfish and a white horse (or possibly a unicorn-I cannot quite remember).

It is not clear which individuals in the BBC Purchasing Department thought it a good idea to buy in a programme from behind the Iron Curtain.

In the style of the Brothers Grimm the Singing Ringing Tree was packed full of hidden messages, political doctrine, moralistic and egalitarian ideals and as such had proven to be very popular in its country of origin although was, before coming to Britain, actually withdrawn from broadcast by the Communist Authorities.

The heroine was a haughty and aloof Princess who was detached from the people, selfish and vain but who became beautiful and beloved through being kind to animals and those in trouble.

The hero, the archetypal handsome hulk was turned by a curse into a most unconvincing grizzly bear in what can only really be described as a brown, shaggy onesie suit.

Their epic battle is against an evil and scheming dwarf who was most menacing in demeanour and motives.

In the Soviet Bloc there had been a directive by Stalin to keep the people feeling happy and engaged in the State even if not actually so. He saw positives in promoting traditional stories in spoken word, singing or acting to engender utopianism and joyous togetherness amongst the great diversity of a communist empire. Even better, a fairy tale could be a cover for political messages and to mould and control young minds.

So what  did British children make of the fairy tale/propaganda/subversive aspects of the Singing Ringing Tree?

I was both enthralled and terrified in equal proportions at the 3 part version of the original DDR film when aired across tea time on school nights especially in the winter months when at 5pm it was very dark outside.

This soon became a bit of an obsession, a bit like staring at a dead animal carcass in the road or picking at a crusty scab on a cut knee, very much bordering on mental disturbance.

The original production was in glorious colour but as my family did not own a colour television until 1985 I can only visualise the images and action in graphic black and white. This perhaps accentuated the stark communist message contained in the gradual awakening of the Princess to a social conscience and the conflict against a fascist dwarf. In some respects the programme was rude, crude and lewd but also emotionally touching and with an ultimate redemption for the righteous and just.

Getting on with my life as a responsible adult I often put the experience of watching the Singing Ringing Tree well at the back of my mind.

However, whenever in a group of my peers it is never too long before we begin to speak in hushed tomes about the collective consciousness generated by exposure to this programme. Many of my contemporaries, now in their early 50's appear not a little traumatised by what started off as an innocent bit viewing over a typical weekday tea of baked beans or spaghetti hoops. I can see the signs in the form of a bit of a nervous twitch or a furtive search for activity in the street or across a crowded public bar which could announce  the imminent arrival of the State Secret Police.

The very strange goldfish

                                                                          What a lovely couple

Hull Fair; In celebration of.

Hull Fair is a festival for the City.

It is magnificent that the travelling week long Fair retains its status as the largest of its type in Europe and possibly the world.

There are many challengers but I can confidently say that the people of Nottingham in particular have had a fair goose-ing again this year based on the 2015 Hull Fair.

I was going to write about the Fair from an historic and reflective aspect. Something like, for the 18th Century;

"I drove my beast and fowl all the way along the Anlaby Road Turnpike for to sell and trade on the showground but got turned away by the Police Community Support Officers and then incurred a penalty fine for inappropriate use of the bus lane for herding"

or, 19th century ;

"I travelled to the fairground by hansom cab, cost me a silver shilling which is outrageous profiteering, and  proceeded to have my frock coat, gaiters and spats ruined by the many puddles on the rough landed area. Subsequently and to my horror my top hat fell off on the Waltzers and I got stir fry noodle stains and Bratwurst on my irish linen shirt front"

or popular 20th Century;

"I was at the fair in my full Teddy Boy gear cruisin' and a-bruisin' for a bust-up when a large group of Emo's approached and made me feel quite melancholy and gawdily over dressed. They always look so clean and stylish or, my Bay City Roller scarf, tied tightly around my wrist got snagged on the top of the junior roller coaster and I had to be cut free and rescued by the emergency services"

and, finally, current 21st century;

"We went, yeah, on the rides, ok, yeah and it was minging, yeah because Chazzer right, tried to take a piccy, yeah,  on his i-phone but wicked, right his mam tagged him, yeah and, right,he had to go back to the school, right, yeah to teach a year 12 class, yeah, LOL. Catch us on Facebook or Twitter"


I opted, however, for a more socio-economic approach mainly because there have been many letters sent to the local press in criticism of how, in dire times of credit crisis and cut backs, people still have disposable income to lavish on the attractions of the Fair.

Let me be clear on my position on this.

The week of Hull Fair is as set in stone in the family calendar, outlook express and text alerts as nothing else apart from Easter and Christmas and is therefore budgeted for.

In the weeks prior to the arrival of the Fair there is a noticeable shortage of 2p's and 10p's in the local economy because they have been secreted away for the slots and falls.

Small children are subversively indoctrinated with Peppa Pig and Toy Story so that they are more than thrilled to be bought a foil based inflatable of their favourite characters.

Menfolk frequently disappear to their sheds to practice throwing darts at playing cards stuck onto odd pieces of melamine kitchen worktop.

The Atkins or other high protein diets are accelerated in preparation for being surrendered to a polystyrene tray of Bob Carvers's gritty chips, mushy peas and a pattie.

Teenagers are seen stretching themselves from door frames or on the climbing apparatus at the reccy lest they fail to reach the minimum height for going on the Hammer of Thor, Upside-Downie, round and roundie Mega ride.

The Fair is for all ages and it is perfectly possible to pass a few hours there with little or no expenditure other than a paper wrapped packet of Wrights of Brighouse brandy snap and a past best sell by date pomegranate.

The whole event is about atmosphere. It is a collective enjoyment of a heritage and feeling shoulder to shoulder with fellow citizens who are also having a difficult time making ends meet or have an unopened letter on their kitchen table from their employer which is just too hard to get around to opening because, odds on, it is not a thank you and a hard earned and fully justified bonus.

That is just not plain fair. There are not many things, after all, in our modern lives, that are.