The approach to Christmas brings to the fore all of the customs and rituals of our family that make it such a special time.
Just today I have telephoned the butcher to order the turkey.
That sounds like quite an ordinary thing to do but the butcher is in the the town where we used to live and we moved away just over 2 years ago. In the 23 years of living there I think that the sum total of my visits to the butcher's shop was, yes 23, and specifically for the poultry order. In spite of the regular infrequency, if that is a true definition, the staff always welcomed me as though I was in and out as part of a weekly shopping routine. Today's phone call, a bit impersonal I know, was no different and it was a case of "Oh hello Mr T, what can we do for you this year?". If I dither over the weight of the bird then my near quarter of a century record of purchases seems to have been retained somewhere in the expansive archive of the shop and can be recalled to remind me seemingly at an instant.
There are many other important components of our traditional family Christmas from searching out the box of decorations from the far recesses of the roof space, unravelling the mysteriously entwined coloured lights even if carefully placed in a neat arrangement some 12 months before, buying enough cards so as not to be caught out by a surprise delivery from old friends, finding an assured supply of satsuma's and Brussel Sprouts and having a meeting to decide i)the protocol for pyjama day (a sacred occasion whereby all of us flop out for the day and refuse to answer the door and telephone) and ii) whether that day should include a showing of the authentic black and white or re-mastered colour version of Capra's "A Wonderful Life".
The foregoing are all within our control which means that we just have to delegate tasks to ensure that everything arrives on the doorstep in time.
Something is, however, radically different this year.
If I can be forgiven for borrowing a famous line from Star Wars and with not long before the release of the seventh movie in the franchise "I sense a disturbance in the firs".
I refer of course to the seeking out and purchase of the Christmas Tree.
As with our loyalty to the previously local butcher we have visited the same garden centre (now well on the other side of town) for the last 25 or so years for this critical aspect of the celebrations.
They have always had a good stock of fresh trees, unwrapped and so able to be rotated and eyed up as though in a beauty pageant.
What are we looking for in a tree?
Well, a bit of natural symmetry, depth of greenery, reasonable height, non-drop needles and the promise of a wonderful pine smell to greet us every morning on the run up to December 25th and for as long as possible until twelfth night.
In the old house, a 1920's build we could accommodate a seven foot tree plus the stand and a second tree was bought to sit on the open balcony on the front elevation. Having moved to a boxy 1970's place (where I can on tip-toes touch the ceiling) we are somewhat restricted to between five and six feet.
The custom of driving up to the garden centre on the second saturday in December was always highly anticipated. One year, on an impulse we bought a tree that would not fit inside the car and so had to strap it crudely to the roofbars and make a long roundabout route home to avoid cross winds and the attention of the police.
The cause for concern this year is that the garden centre is no more.
It was a longstanding and multi-generational family business which had developed over a series of fields on the eastern edge of a sought after commuter village. Inevitably as the demand for residence in the village grew so the land would come to the attention of a house builder and sure enough, as I speak, the first foundation slabs for oversized and overpriced executive dwellings are in place.
In the summer the stock, barrels and locks of the family operation were sold off and we have, over the ensuing 6 months, struggled with the prospect of having to go elsewhere for our Christmas Tree.
We have not as yet resolved the dilemna and it is getting increasingly closer to the weekend on which the purchase must be made.
In a perfect world we may have sought testimonials from potential suppliers and customer feedback from past shoppers but we are, we realise, completely on our own on this.
Watch this space.............
Monday 30 November 2015
Sunday 29 November 2015
Kick it Hard Lily
(I wrote this back in 2002 and felt it was worth another run out having just watched an international match between England and Bosnia women's teams. The skill and athleticism that is required has propelled the women's game into the hierarchy of sport across the world. My story shows the pioneering spirit in the early days of the game)
The second highest career goalscoring record behind the great Brazilian Pele is credited to a much lesser known player whose games were played over the years 1920 to 1951.
Her name was Lily Parr. Her total of over 1000 goals is remarkable enough an achievement but even more so given the turbulence of the times which covered the implications and complications of two world wars, a major economic depression in-between and the emotive political and social events for the acceptance of women in the male dominated world in just about every walk of life.
The mass and necessary recruitment of women as a labour force to cover for the conscripted male workers into the First World War drew the attention of the Government to the wider health and welfare issues of women. A healthy and happy female workforce were more productive and less likely to be troublesome and potentially militant.
The Preston, Lancashire based manufacturers Dick, Kerr and Company had been established in 1900 specialising in the tram and light railway sector but switched to essential war work in 1915 making ammunition. The factory employed a predominantly female staff on the production lines and within the remit of keeping key workers fit and healthy a football team was formed taking the company name.
The second highest career goalscoring record behind the great Brazilian Pele is credited to a much lesser known player whose games were played over the years 1920 to 1951.
Her name was Lily Parr. Her total of over 1000 goals is remarkable enough an achievement but even more so given the turbulence of the times which covered the implications and complications of two world wars, a major economic depression in-between and the emotive political and social events for the acceptance of women in the male dominated world in just about every walk of life.
The mass and necessary recruitment of women as a labour force to cover for the conscripted male workers into the First World War drew the attention of the Government to the wider health and welfare issues of women. A healthy and happy female workforce were more productive and less likely to be troublesome and potentially militant.
The Preston, Lancashire based manufacturers Dick, Kerr and Company had been established in 1900 specialising in the tram and light railway sector but switched to essential war work in 1915 making ammunition. The factory employed a predominantly female staff on the production lines and within the remit of keeping key workers fit and healthy a football team was formed taking the company name.
Rival industrial and manufacturing companies also former their own teams and around 150 were registered within what became a very competitive league structure. The Munitions Cup, played for in 1917, by the Munitionettes as a wider descriptive term for the participating ladies teams was watched by a crowd of 10,000 at the ground of the great Preston North End. The crowd attending raised £600 for wounded soldiers.
The ladies game was not confined to the war years and by the early 1920's it was well established and experiencing its halcyon days. The Dick, Kerr Ladies were prominent and played 60 competitive matches during the 1921 season in front of an aggregate attendance of 900,000. A crowd of 53,000 was present at Goodison Park in Liverpool to watch the Dick, Kerr Ladies beat close rivals St Helens Ladies.
The success and genuine support for the ladies league caused grave concern amongst the crusty old Football League administrators and in a calculated but spiteful move they issued a ban on the use of any League grounds for the playing of ladies matches. In their expert evidence to support the ban various medical practitioners were produced to express concern over what dangerous impact playing football could have on fertility and femininity. The ban remained in place until 1971.
The Dick, Kerr Ladies continued to flourish and amongst their honours were multiple league titles, International victories including tours to France and the USA and reaching a pinnacle in 1937 becoming World Champions. Against the well entrenched establishment and remnants of the austerity of the Victorians which still dominated society and attitudes the team were the first in the women's game to wear shorts.
Archive photographs of the team resemble a line up of dancing girls, nimble,graceful and lithe but wearing heavy leather football boots and with a bit of a sun tan. The team fell out with the Dick, Kerr bosses over some undefined 'tut-trouble at factory' and reformed as Preston Ladies until 1965.
The significance of the achievements of the Dick, Kerr Ladies cannot be understated.
They were brave pioneers at a time when women had no real voice in politics or society. They rose above the petty and what would always be temporary concessions required by the circumstances of the First World War and continued to excel and attract a very good following and fan base through the heady days of the 1920's.
The names of Lily Parr, Florrie Redford and Alice Kell amongst all of the players have tended to be forgotten apart from dedicated archivists who maintain an excellent web based resource. The stars of the team were inducted into the Football League Hall of Fame but as a gesture it was too late and a bit patronising.
Lily Parr was challenged by a male goalkeeper to try to score a spot-kick past him. He had observed her obvious footballing skill and ability, in particular her reputed very hard shot, but was under the impression that it only looked to be a hard kick in the company of other women team mates. Taking up the challenge Lily was seen to smile when the unfortunate chauvinistic keeper was taken off to hospital with a broken arm from the impact of her penalty kick.
The ladies game was not confined to the war years and by the early 1920's it was well established and experiencing its halcyon days. The Dick, Kerr Ladies were prominent and played 60 competitive matches during the 1921 season in front of an aggregate attendance of 900,000. A crowd of 53,000 was present at Goodison Park in Liverpool to watch the Dick, Kerr Ladies beat close rivals St Helens Ladies.
The success and genuine support for the ladies league caused grave concern amongst the crusty old Football League administrators and in a calculated but spiteful move they issued a ban on the use of any League grounds for the playing of ladies matches. In their expert evidence to support the ban various medical practitioners were produced to express concern over what dangerous impact playing football could have on fertility and femininity. The ban remained in place until 1971.
The Dick, Kerr Ladies continued to flourish and amongst their honours were multiple league titles, International victories including tours to France and the USA and reaching a pinnacle in 1937 becoming World Champions. Against the well entrenched establishment and remnants of the austerity of the Victorians which still dominated society and attitudes the team were the first in the women's game to wear shorts.
Archive photographs of the team resemble a line up of dancing girls, nimble,graceful and lithe but wearing heavy leather football boots and with a bit of a sun tan. The team fell out with the Dick, Kerr bosses over some undefined 'tut-trouble at factory' and reformed as Preston Ladies until 1965.
The significance of the achievements of the Dick, Kerr Ladies cannot be understated.
They were brave pioneers at a time when women had no real voice in politics or society. They rose above the petty and what would always be temporary concessions required by the circumstances of the First World War and continued to excel and attract a very good following and fan base through the heady days of the 1920's.
The names of Lily Parr, Florrie Redford and Alice Kell amongst all of the players have tended to be forgotten apart from dedicated archivists who maintain an excellent web based resource. The stars of the team were inducted into the Football League Hall of Fame but as a gesture it was too late and a bit patronising.
Lily Parr was challenged by a male goalkeeper to try to score a spot-kick past him. He had observed her obvious footballing skill and ability, in particular her reputed very hard shot, but was under the impression that it only looked to be a hard kick in the company of other women team mates. Taking up the challenge Lily was seen to smile when the unfortunate chauvinistic keeper was taken off to hospital with a broken arm from the impact of her penalty kick.
Saturday 28 November 2015
Tipping Point
As occupants of Earth we are just about at a peak point for most of our natural resources.
This is a reference to a presumption that we have taken out more of the minerals and fuels over time than are left in the ground. The big oil and big coal dependency of the industrial world has depleted resources to a critical level and with no real dedication to developing enough sustainable and renewable forms to make any transition seamless or painless.
The western world is toying with wind, wave and solar energy generation but avoiding any decisions on nuclear power which remains contentious and costly although as part of a mixed base of power production there are distinct benefits. The emerging economies cannot be denied their own 21st Century industrial revolutions and will fully exploit this through increasing use of oil and coal to meet consumer demand from their citizens.
Fossil fuels are still there to be discovered but at an increasing level of expenditure in monetary and environmental terms. Territorial claims or intrusions are already taking place in Antarctica and other remote yet beautiful areas of the world where inhospitable terrain and climate have formed a very effective first line of defence against the exploitative tendencies of mankind.
I am therefore pleased to report that we can, as a species, relax in the knowledge that at least one natural resource remains wholly abundant after a comparatively recent discovery in Siberia.
It appears that the Russians have access to ten times the previously estimated global reserves of diamonds.
It has been a known fact for some decades to a privileged few in the higher echelons of power that the harsh tundra and permafrost of Siberia is fair twinkling with the things. It has been a best kept secret because of the previous principal role of Siberia as a large depository for political prisoners and others sentenced to exile. The same criteria that made it suitable as a large penitentiary such as a virtual absence of roads and other transport links prevented exploitation of the diamond fields. This was in spite of the widespread clamour for and use of the precious stones in Russian industry as bits for drills, mining equipment, angle grinders, saws and even medical scalpels. The engineering sector in Russia concentrated on the manufacture of synthetic diamonds to meet their immediate requirements faced by the prohibitive cost of mining and extracting the natural versions from the ground. The vast majority of diamonds in such heavy duty use are not of gem quality, before there is a mass exodus of prospectors from all parts of the Russian Federation, but of a crude , immense density and durability.
In a pioneering quest of trying to extract this resource the Mir Diamond Mine at Yakutia in Siberia was first excavated in 1955. The hole in the ground could only be worked for 5 months of the year because of the influence of the permafrost. By the time of the closure of the operation in 2011 it had reached a depth of 525 metres in a series of reducing concentric circles with broad ledges for access by man and machines. In terms of scale and depth it represented one of the largest man made holes in the surface of the planet. The price paid in the suffering of the labour force in such a harsh environment will have been incalculable and in no way compensated for by the revelation that 20% of the diamonds were of gem quality. The abandonment of Mir was made easier by the relaxation of the former suppressed information that ,farther north into the tundra and wastes ,the diamonds just lay about on the surface.
The location is the Popigai Meteor Crater. It is the seventh largest impact crater so far found on the earth's crust and at 35 million years old, give or take a few millennia, happened at roughly the same time as those in North America. The crater is 60 miles across and the fiery impact of the meteor into the graphite based geology formed a fine material which on closer inspection in the 1970's was found to be of super compressed diamonds, and lots of them. To date, only an area representing 0.3% of the landed area in the crater has been exploited but there are predictions that if the same volume is present through the other 99.7% then 147 billion carats or hundreds of thousands of tons are there for the taking.
The region remains very inaccessible being 2000 miles away from the course of the Trans-Siberian Railway and sparsely populated apart from inherited clusters of inhabitants left over from Stalin's Gulags. The Russians expect the extraction of the impact diamonds to revolutionise their economy in a plentiful supply of shiny tipped tools to facilitate the manufacture of cheap technology and make it readily available so reducing dependence on imports and the output whims and fancies of other industrial nations.
I find no comfort however in the thought of possessing beautifully tooled and engineered products when huddled in the dark and cold of an energy starved, power cut existence some time soon.
This is a reference to a presumption that we have taken out more of the minerals and fuels over time than are left in the ground. The big oil and big coal dependency of the industrial world has depleted resources to a critical level and with no real dedication to developing enough sustainable and renewable forms to make any transition seamless or painless.
The western world is toying with wind, wave and solar energy generation but avoiding any decisions on nuclear power which remains contentious and costly although as part of a mixed base of power production there are distinct benefits. The emerging economies cannot be denied their own 21st Century industrial revolutions and will fully exploit this through increasing use of oil and coal to meet consumer demand from their citizens.
Fossil fuels are still there to be discovered but at an increasing level of expenditure in monetary and environmental terms. Territorial claims or intrusions are already taking place in Antarctica and other remote yet beautiful areas of the world where inhospitable terrain and climate have formed a very effective first line of defence against the exploitative tendencies of mankind.
I am therefore pleased to report that we can, as a species, relax in the knowledge that at least one natural resource remains wholly abundant after a comparatively recent discovery in Siberia.
It appears that the Russians have access to ten times the previously estimated global reserves of diamonds.
It has been a known fact for some decades to a privileged few in the higher echelons of power that the harsh tundra and permafrost of Siberia is fair twinkling with the things. It has been a best kept secret because of the previous principal role of Siberia as a large depository for political prisoners and others sentenced to exile. The same criteria that made it suitable as a large penitentiary such as a virtual absence of roads and other transport links prevented exploitation of the diamond fields. This was in spite of the widespread clamour for and use of the precious stones in Russian industry as bits for drills, mining equipment, angle grinders, saws and even medical scalpels. The engineering sector in Russia concentrated on the manufacture of synthetic diamonds to meet their immediate requirements faced by the prohibitive cost of mining and extracting the natural versions from the ground. The vast majority of diamonds in such heavy duty use are not of gem quality, before there is a mass exodus of prospectors from all parts of the Russian Federation, but of a crude , immense density and durability.
In a pioneering quest of trying to extract this resource the Mir Diamond Mine at Yakutia in Siberia was first excavated in 1955. The hole in the ground could only be worked for 5 months of the year because of the influence of the permafrost. By the time of the closure of the operation in 2011 it had reached a depth of 525 metres in a series of reducing concentric circles with broad ledges for access by man and machines. In terms of scale and depth it represented one of the largest man made holes in the surface of the planet. The price paid in the suffering of the labour force in such a harsh environment will have been incalculable and in no way compensated for by the revelation that 20% of the diamonds were of gem quality. The abandonment of Mir was made easier by the relaxation of the former suppressed information that ,farther north into the tundra and wastes ,the diamonds just lay about on the surface.
The location is the Popigai Meteor Crater. It is the seventh largest impact crater so far found on the earth's crust and at 35 million years old, give or take a few millennia, happened at roughly the same time as those in North America. The crater is 60 miles across and the fiery impact of the meteor into the graphite based geology formed a fine material which on closer inspection in the 1970's was found to be of super compressed diamonds, and lots of them. To date, only an area representing 0.3% of the landed area in the crater has been exploited but there are predictions that if the same volume is present through the other 99.7% then 147 billion carats or hundreds of thousands of tons are there for the taking.
The region remains very inaccessible being 2000 miles away from the course of the Trans-Siberian Railway and sparsely populated apart from inherited clusters of inhabitants left over from Stalin's Gulags. The Russians expect the extraction of the impact diamonds to revolutionise their economy in a plentiful supply of shiny tipped tools to facilitate the manufacture of cheap technology and make it readily available so reducing dependence on imports and the output whims and fancies of other industrial nations.
I find no comfort however in the thought of possessing beautifully tooled and engineered products when huddled in the dark and cold of an energy starved, power cut existence some time soon.
Friday 27 November 2015
28 Years Later
The 1987 Tour de France is remembered for a number of key contributing factors.
The first stage or Prologue and a following split day with a road race and team time trial were in Berlin, at that time still a divided city. The race was wide open due to the retirement of the dominant and rather dictatorial Bernard Hinault, Greg Lemond was absent whilst nursing a gunshot wound to the buttocks and Laurent Fignon had bottomed out on form and confidence.
The second defining characteristic was that the race was run over a record 25 stages and was widely held as being one of the fastest in speed and hottest in weather terms on record.
The Yellow jersey changed shoulders more than any Tour to date as an indication of the competitiveness amongst the peleton until eventually won by the Irishman Stephen Roche.
It was also notable for the participation for the first time in the history of the Tour by a British sponsored trade team , ANC Halfords, made possible through the sponsorship and chaotic management of Tony Capper, a businessman who had made his money by selling the ANC parcel delivery franchise and just fancied himself as a cycling impresario if not only for the thrill of driving the team car at speed in the frantic race convoy of a major european cycling tour.
The team who had been awarded a wild card place in the 1987 Tour de France on the basis of early season results was a bit out of its depth from Stage 1 through a combination of exhaustion, inadequate equipment and low morale amongst the riders arising from not being paid as per their contracts.
I wrote about the elements of fiasco and farce just a couple of days ago in "Give it Large", alluding to the character of Tony Capper, often described as larger than life.
I recently came across a feature in the UK publication Cycling Weekly (October 1st 2015) which added a further dimension to the 1987 story of ANC Halfords and one very remarkable coincidence.
Out of the nine members of the team only four managed to limp through and complete the epic 4,331km Tour, amongst them the 23 year old Adrian Timmis.
Now aged 51 Timmis runs a bike shop in the English Midlands and admits to not having ridden that regularly in more recent years although having been a pro-Rider I do not think that you lose that motivation and determination to fiercely compete on a bike even if just back and forth from the shops or out with family and friends.
There is an iconic photograph of Timmis and his team mate Malcolm Elliott in the last week of the 1987 Tour at the foot of the massive Alpe d'Huez climb, a wriggling route ending at a ski station with a viscious ascent made up by 21 hairpins, each cruelly numbered to further demoralise those attempting to get up it.
The British pair were in difficulty after the first couple of weeks and a 110 mile run up to the foot of the climb.
Timmis does not recall much about that day, July 21st, no doubt a strategy to blank out the pain and suffering of the gruelling physical process of pedalling a bike in such an endurance event.
On the same day this year (2015) Timmis returned to the Alpe d'Huez and using the actual or authentic equipment including his Peugeot racing bike and kit from 28 years ago made the same ascent.
His reasons for doing this included part of the celebrations to mark his milestone 50th birthday and that this years Tour was to finish in Paris on the same day as his triumphant finishing ride all those years ago.
It took some planning especially renovating the bike which he had actually sold in 1988 but was able to buy back after tracking it down through social media. He had kept the memorabilia of jersey, race number 228 , shoes and Oakleys and managed to source other items through e-bay.
I find it annoying amongst natural athletes that they can maintain their weight and get back to fitness rapidly. Timmis weighed in for the 2015 ride some 4kg lighter than his peak racing years and using the latest in scientific training and nutrition claimed to have found the potentially hellish ride an absolute pleasure.
He cites that he would have been an even better rider back in the day had he been able to harness the strength he had as a 23 year old Pro with the knowledge and techniques that are available to all now.
Unbeknown to Timmis, until the morning of his ride up Alpe d'Huez, was that July 21st 2015 also happened to be the actual day of the funeral of Tony Capper. A very wierd but strangely apt coincidence.
The first stage or Prologue and a following split day with a road race and team time trial were in Berlin, at that time still a divided city. The race was wide open due to the retirement of the dominant and rather dictatorial Bernard Hinault, Greg Lemond was absent whilst nursing a gunshot wound to the buttocks and Laurent Fignon had bottomed out on form and confidence.
The second defining characteristic was that the race was run over a record 25 stages and was widely held as being one of the fastest in speed and hottest in weather terms on record.
The Yellow jersey changed shoulders more than any Tour to date as an indication of the competitiveness amongst the peleton until eventually won by the Irishman Stephen Roche.
It was also notable for the participation for the first time in the history of the Tour by a British sponsored trade team , ANC Halfords, made possible through the sponsorship and chaotic management of Tony Capper, a businessman who had made his money by selling the ANC parcel delivery franchise and just fancied himself as a cycling impresario if not only for the thrill of driving the team car at speed in the frantic race convoy of a major european cycling tour.
The team who had been awarded a wild card place in the 1987 Tour de France on the basis of early season results was a bit out of its depth from Stage 1 through a combination of exhaustion, inadequate equipment and low morale amongst the riders arising from not being paid as per their contracts.
I wrote about the elements of fiasco and farce just a couple of days ago in "Give it Large", alluding to the character of Tony Capper, often described as larger than life.
I recently came across a feature in the UK publication Cycling Weekly (October 1st 2015) which added a further dimension to the 1987 story of ANC Halfords and one very remarkable coincidence.
Out of the nine members of the team only four managed to limp through and complete the epic 4,331km Tour, amongst them the 23 year old Adrian Timmis.
Now aged 51 Timmis runs a bike shop in the English Midlands and admits to not having ridden that regularly in more recent years although having been a pro-Rider I do not think that you lose that motivation and determination to fiercely compete on a bike even if just back and forth from the shops or out with family and friends.
There is an iconic photograph of Timmis and his team mate Malcolm Elliott in the last week of the 1987 Tour at the foot of the massive Alpe d'Huez climb, a wriggling route ending at a ski station with a viscious ascent made up by 21 hairpins, each cruelly numbered to further demoralise those attempting to get up it.
The British pair were in difficulty after the first couple of weeks and a 110 mile run up to the foot of the climb.
Timmis does not recall much about that day, July 21st, no doubt a strategy to blank out the pain and suffering of the gruelling physical process of pedalling a bike in such an endurance event.
On the same day this year (2015) Timmis returned to the Alpe d'Huez and using the actual or authentic equipment including his Peugeot racing bike and kit from 28 years ago made the same ascent.
His reasons for doing this included part of the celebrations to mark his milestone 50th birthday and that this years Tour was to finish in Paris on the same day as his triumphant finishing ride all those years ago.
It took some planning especially renovating the bike which he had actually sold in 1988 but was able to buy back after tracking it down through social media. He had kept the memorabilia of jersey, race number 228 , shoes and Oakleys and managed to source other items through e-bay.
I find it annoying amongst natural athletes that they can maintain their weight and get back to fitness rapidly. Timmis weighed in for the 2015 ride some 4kg lighter than his peak racing years and using the latest in scientific training and nutrition claimed to have found the potentially hellish ride an absolute pleasure.
He cites that he would have been an even better rider back in the day had he been able to harness the strength he had as a 23 year old Pro with the knowledge and techniques that are available to all now.
Unbeknown to Timmis, until the morning of his ride up Alpe d'Huez, was that July 21st 2015 also happened to be the actual day of the funeral of Tony Capper. A very wierd but strangely apt coincidence.
Thursday 26 November 2015
The Santa Clause
When surveying a house I do make a point of being pleasant to the occupiers, be they the owners, tenants or just someone seconded from amongst a stock of reliable relatives, friends and trustworthy neighbours to let me in to do my job.
This is, apparently, quite unusual for my profession who have established a reputation for being dour, unfriendly and tight lipped when in work mode.
I can see that there are some merits in this approach as many property sellers hang on your every expression, body language nuance and scribble on site notes for an indication of a good or adverse survey result. The final word is always that of the home owner with the question asked either tentatively or confidently "everything alright then?".
I find that it is best to be honest and whilst not betraying the confidences of my own client, the buyer, to give an indication of the outcome albeit in broad terms but at least making it clear that there may be a few more hurdles to overcome before the removal van arrives.
Chatting with occupiers puts them at ease and they are more likely to come clean about problems with the house in a way that if disclosed to a prospective purchaser would undoubtedly be a deal breaker. Liability to or actual flooding, roof leaks, dodgy workmanship, disputes over boundaries and neighbours from Hell can all make their way into a general conversation if all parties are at ease. Such disclosures are the bread and butter for a Surveyor. It makes us look good at our job to reveal information unknown or unsuspected by our clients.
By far the greatest source of essential information are the children in a house.
On arrival my initial outside inspection routine seems to be fascinating to them.
I lug about my ladders, sometimes clambering up them to look into a gutter. I stare up at the roof and chimney stacks with concentrated effort. Binoculars are dredged out from deep pockets for use or my old faithful 100 metre long tape is deployed to measure the length of a garden or the perimeter of the property. or my performance I have an audience and there are invariably small tousled heads and cheeky expressions to be seen, on and off, at the windows or doors. I cannot but smile and be amused by this activity.
On ringing the front bell it is the children who get to the door first and welcome me in as they would a long lost relative.
They have been on alert for perhaps a couple of days about someone coming around to look at the house. "It's the Mister, its's the Mister" is heard as a parent is summoned to allow me across the threshold.
I often wonder what a child thinks that I am there for.
They may or may not have been told that their home is being sold. This alone could be a quite traumatic and uncertain time for them. No doubt they have been told again and again to keep their room tidy in readiness for Sir Veyor or whoever of grand sounding and mysterious name.
Children do invest a lot of time and effort in the places that they live and their concerns about what is going to happen are wholly understandable.This is often overlooked or marginalised.
Just today I was shown around a house by a six year old boy as though he was the actual title deed holder.
We had built up a mutual respect through his mimicking my use of binoculars with his fluorescent green plastic ones and an uncannily similar pacing action to mine- up and down- him indoors, me outside. I have a set system for an inspection to make sure that I do not overlook anything but the little lad had his own agenda involving my checking out the toys in his bedroom before anything else.
I quietly but firmly said that he could show me around every room in the house as long as it was in the order I needed. He seemed happy with having been consulted on this.
It was hard for me to concentrate with his constant chatter which covered every subject of crucial importance to a six year old from superheroes to spiders, dinosaurs to guns and a lot about his dad who it appears was away in the army. I had been a child once and I could identify with his unconditional enthusiasm for life.
Consequently I was soon engaged in deep conversation and not a little bit of argument about the hierarchy of comic book and cartoon characters, who were the fiercest carnivores and how potato or spud guns of my era were infinitely superior to his impressive collection of pump action sticky dart weapons.
The boy's mother, hovering in the doorway of each room in succession, (after all I was a stranger), seemed to be enjoying a bit of a respite from the hundred mile an hour whirlwind that was her son. There were more children to be attended to in other parts of the house and it was a chance for them to wrestle back some quality time with their Mum.
Me and the lad were inseparable for the following 40 minutes.
I liked to think that in some way I was promoting Surveying as a possible career path for him in, say 14 to 18 years time or at least putting in a first strike to poison ground for the law, accountancy or journalism as a vocation.
The little boy, however, was far more devious than I could have thought. Perhaps the law was to be his forte inspite of my best efforts.
One upstairs room was all that remained to be inspected. The door was firmly shut. Being a 1930's style property with original panelled timber internal doors the handle, probably Bakelite, was too high for the lad to operate.
I made to open it and sensed a presence uncomfortably close to my right leg. The boy was trying to get in there, for some reason, before me.
His mother shouted up from the hallway that the room was actually out of bounds to small humans because it was being used to store the children's Christmas presents as yet unwrapped and therefore clear to see.
I had to casually block the path of the inquisitive youngster in order to assure the lady that the grotto remained secure. Slipping through between the door and architrave unaccompanied I did what I had to do but in a room crammed full of wonderful boxed toys and games this was as difficult as it was distracting.It was like stumbling into the elve's workshop at the North Pole.
It was going to be a good Christmas Morning for all of the 6 year olds and younger under that roof, that was for sure.
I squeezed out onto the landing again only to be interrogated by the boy as to whether Santa had been and what was there for him. I, for once was grateful to revert to type as a dour, un-talkative Surveyor.
As I left the house I caught a certain expression on the face and in the eyes of the boy's mother.
We understood each other perfectly in that we had performed our respective responsibilities to maintain the excitement and magic that would be making its way down the chimney in four weeks time.
This is, apparently, quite unusual for my profession who have established a reputation for being dour, unfriendly and tight lipped when in work mode.
I can see that there are some merits in this approach as many property sellers hang on your every expression, body language nuance and scribble on site notes for an indication of a good or adverse survey result. The final word is always that of the home owner with the question asked either tentatively or confidently "everything alright then?".
I find that it is best to be honest and whilst not betraying the confidences of my own client, the buyer, to give an indication of the outcome albeit in broad terms but at least making it clear that there may be a few more hurdles to overcome before the removal van arrives.
Chatting with occupiers puts them at ease and they are more likely to come clean about problems with the house in a way that if disclosed to a prospective purchaser would undoubtedly be a deal breaker. Liability to or actual flooding, roof leaks, dodgy workmanship, disputes over boundaries and neighbours from Hell can all make their way into a general conversation if all parties are at ease. Such disclosures are the bread and butter for a Surveyor. It makes us look good at our job to reveal information unknown or unsuspected by our clients.
By far the greatest source of essential information are the children in a house.
On arrival my initial outside inspection routine seems to be fascinating to them.
I lug about my ladders, sometimes clambering up them to look into a gutter. I stare up at the roof and chimney stacks with concentrated effort. Binoculars are dredged out from deep pockets for use or my old faithful 100 metre long tape is deployed to measure the length of a garden or the perimeter of the property. or my performance I have an audience and there are invariably small tousled heads and cheeky expressions to be seen, on and off, at the windows or doors. I cannot but smile and be amused by this activity.
On ringing the front bell it is the children who get to the door first and welcome me in as they would a long lost relative.
They have been on alert for perhaps a couple of days about someone coming around to look at the house. "It's the Mister, its's the Mister" is heard as a parent is summoned to allow me across the threshold.
I often wonder what a child thinks that I am there for.
They may or may not have been told that their home is being sold. This alone could be a quite traumatic and uncertain time for them. No doubt they have been told again and again to keep their room tidy in readiness for Sir Veyor or whoever of grand sounding and mysterious name.
Children do invest a lot of time and effort in the places that they live and their concerns about what is going to happen are wholly understandable.This is often overlooked or marginalised.
Just today I was shown around a house by a six year old boy as though he was the actual title deed holder.
We had built up a mutual respect through his mimicking my use of binoculars with his fluorescent green plastic ones and an uncannily similar pacing action to mine- up and down- him indoors, me outside. I have a set system for an inspection to make sure that I do not overlook anything but the little lad had his own agenda involving my checking out the toys in his bedroom before anything else.
I quietly but firmly said that he could show me around every room in the house as long as it was in the order I needed. He seemed happy with having been consulted on this.
It was hard for me to concentrate with his constant chatter which covered every subject of crucial importance to a six year old from superheroes to spiders, dinosaurs to guns and a lot about his dad who it appears was away in the army. I had been a child once and I could identify with his unconditional enthusiasm for life.
Consequently I was soon engaged in deep conversation and not a little bit of argument about the hierarchy of comic book and cartoon characters, who were the fiercest carnivores and how potato or spud guns of my era were infinitely superior to his impressive collection of pump action sticky dart weapons.
The boy's mother, hovering in the doorway of each room in succession, (after all I was a stranger), seemed to be enjoying a bit of a respite from the hundred mile an hour whirlwind that was her son. There were more children to be attended to in other parts of the house and it was a chance for them to wrestle back some quality time with their Mum.
Me and the lad were inseparable for the following 40 minutes.
I liked to think that in some way I was promoting Surveying as a possible career path for him in, say 14 to 18 years time or at least putting in a first strike to poison ground for the law, accountancy or journalism as a vocation.
The little boy, however, was far more devious than I could have thought. Perhaps the law was to be his forte inspite of my best efforts.
One upstairs room was all that remained to be inspected. The door was firmly shut. Being a 1930's style property with original panelled timber internal doors the handle, probably Bakelite, was too high for the lad to operate.
I made to open it and sensed a presence uncomfortably close to my right leg. The boy was trying to get in there, for some reason, before me.
His mother shouted up from the hallway that the room was actually out of bounds to small humans because it was being used to store the children's Christmas presents as yet unwrapped and therefore clear to see.
I had to casually block the path of the inquisitive youngster in order to assure the lady that the grotto remained secure. Slipping through between the door and architrave unaccompanied I did what I had to do but in a room crammed full of wonderful boxed toys and games this was as difficult as it was distracting.It was like stumbling into the elve's workshop at the North Pole.
It was going to be a good Christmas Morning for all of the 6 year olds and younger under that roof, that was for sure.
I squeezed out onto the landing again only to be interrogated by the boy as to whether Santa had been and what was there for him. I, for once was grateful to revert to type as a dour, un-talkative Surveyor.
As I left the house I caught a certain expression on the face and in the eyes of the boy's mother.
We understood each other perfectly in that we had performed our respective responsibilities to maintain the excitement and magic that would be making its way down the chimney in four weeks time.
Wednesday 25 November 2015
Give it Large
The investment in British Cycling in the long roll up to the London Olympics and through, as I wrote about, a couple of days ago, the generosity of the cycling community in the name of the tragic Dave Rayner have been responsible for the slick professionalism, scientific approach and precision planning embodied in the main ambassadors in the sport, The Sky Team.
Before that it was a case that talented British riders had to go it alone with continental based teams and for much of the post-war period the idea of a British team by identity and style must have seemed so far out of reach.
I seem to recall that at least one Tour de France was run on the lines of National Squads and British riders did compete although trade team loyalties as in "remember who pays your salary" figured highly in race day tactics.
Home grown riders did possess ability but this country has not until recently regarded itself as a cycling nation and consequently for many years money through a dedicated financial sponsorship structure was sparse and sporadic and certainly not in the amounts required to take a team into Europe for the Classics or the pinnacle of most careers, a ride in the Tour de France.
In the mid 1980's one larger than life individual, Tony Capper put himself and his millions at the service of catapulting a British Racing Team onto the heady stage of the Tour de France.
There was a certain brashness and haphazard approach in his approach to the task as appeared to have been the case in his business dealings that had netted him his fortune.
Capper had some misadventures in the taxi business (in one version of the story his business partner committed suicide, in another he sold the company and it was only later realised by the new owners that it wasn't his to sell). Chequered is the word that is most often used to describe this portion of Capper's career.In the early eighties, with Thatcher's Britain championing entrepreneurial acumen, Capper set up an overnight delivery company, Associated Nationwide Couriers (ANC) - think DHL, Excel or the like. ANC was, essentially, run on the same principal as Interflora, a franchise operation where local franchisees paid to use the name and access the central network. It's also the way taxi companies are often organised, and Capper knew the taxi trade.
ANC's growth was rapid.
Within five years, the company had become big enough to be taken over by British and Commonwealth Shipping, leaving Capper a wealthy man. How wealthy is always a question, but it was wealthy enough for him to live in exile in the tax shelter in the Irish Sea that is the Isle of Man.
In growing ANC, Capper had involved the company with various sports sponsorship opportunities - darts, athletics and football. In 1984 he was approached by a British racer, Mick Morrison, looking for sponsorship. The following year, ANC was sponsoring a team of British pros riding on the domestic circuit.
Capper - a brash and arrogant forty-something, chain-smoking, pie-eating, Coke-swilling giant of a man (wider than he was tall is the kind way of describing his girth) - quickly set about taking a Thatcherite approach to the sport. History and tradition were bunkum - 'Whatever you've done in the past, it's wrong,' he would tell people. Cycling was a business, he was a businessman and he knew best.
British cycling at the time was still over-shadowed by Tom Simpson's death, was very insular and parochial.
To give an idea of how hidebound British cycling was: though continental racing was just a ferry-ride away, domestic teams were limited to no more than six riders, a rule which effectively forced them to narrow their horizons and race only in the UK. A lot of people involved in the sport in the UK took a holier-than-thou approach to the continental scene, writing it off as drug-fuelled and corrupt, unlike the saintly pure local scene they championed. They wanted nothing to do with it.
Capper took a practical approach to the restrictions imposed upon him - he set up three different teams: ANC-Freight Rover, Lycra-Halfords and Interrent-Dawes. They co-operated in domestic races - down to splitting winnings across the squads - and gave Capper a larger pool of riders to draw from when he ventured forth and took on the European peloton, where the combined squads raced as ANC-Halfords.Capper was a man on a mission, a man with a dream, a dream which had come to him when he visited the Alpe d'Huez stage of the 1985 Tour de France: his dream was to put a British team into the Tour de France and bring them home safely. And to achieve that dream Capper knew that winning domestic trophies like the Milk Race wouldn't cut the mustard. His riders would have to show themselves at races like Paris-Nice and the Classics.
Malcolm Elliott, who Capper signed to ride for ANC in 1986, had this to say of Capper's ambition, when he recalled this part of his career in his 1990 autobiography, Sprinter"Not that many riders were bothered about [the Tour de France] anyway. I used to think: What do we want to go into that for anyway? None of us realised it at the time but this was the only way ahead. We'd started riding a few races abroad but a ride in the Tour seemed outlandish and we just humoured him. Capper was a trail-blazer, I'll give him that. ANC were the first fully-fledged British team to compete abroad consistently."
The trail Capper blazed was meteoric.
In June 1987 the Société du Tour de France gave him the nod he'd been waiting for: they were part of the 1987 Tour de France. From one rider in 1984 to five in 1985 and three teams in 1986, Capper was about to set foot on cycling's biggest stage.
Where the Société du Tour de France most failed the ANC-Halfords riders was in the way they handed out their wild-card entries to the Tour. It was not until June, a month before the race started, that the team was informed it could ride the race. In true chaotic style the riders were featured on the BBC childrens show, Blue Peter, when the news of the ride was announced.
In order to get that nod from the Société du Tour de France, ANC-Halfords had bust a gut from the beginning of the season, throwing themselves into races in the hope of grabbing the attention of the Tour's organisers. (That may have changed today, the wild-cards announced earlier, but it is still a problem within individual teams, who leave the last of their selection until as late as possible, with the consequence that some riders knacker themselves getting selected and then have nothing left for the race itself.)The ANC-Halfords guys, in their quest to catch the eye of the Société du Tour, showed themselves in races like the GP d'Ouverture, the Ruta del Sol, the Tour of the Mediterranean, Paris-Nice, Het Volk, Bordeaux-Paris, the Tour of Limburg. At the Flèche Wallonne Paul Watson finished sixth. At the Amstel Gold Malcolm Elliott finished third. At the Midi Libre in May Adrian Timmis won a stage. These hurried exertions meant that the team was exhausted even before the Tour de France had reached the grand départ in West Berlin.
Capper's failures, for such an apparently successful businessman, were surprisingly simple: the team was shoddily organised. From riders' contracts through support staff down to finances, Capper hardly got a thing right. That he even made it as far as 1987 and the Tour de France was an amazing achievement.
Having built ANC Capper sold it to British and Commonwealth Shipping in 1986, but he chose to retain control of the company's cycling interests himself, through a management company he set up called Action Sports. This created a confusion which only became apparent when the team collapsed, with some of the riders contracted to Action Sports and some contracted directly to ANC. When the team collapsed, those contracted to Action Sports were left penniless. Those contracted to ANC only eventually recovered some of the monies owed to them.Another problem Capper created was in not recruiting soigneurs, mechanics and other support staff, preferring instead to hire them in on an ad hoc basis. Apart from Griffiths as directeur sportif, the team doesn't appear to have had any other permanent non-cycling staff beyond three people who manned its Stoke-on-Trent office. What this meant during the Tour de France was that there was considerable disorganisation - and strife - behind the scenes. Among the soigneurs, the mechanics and the directeur sportif, no one seemed to know where they were supposed to stand in the pecking order.
Much of this wasn't helped by Capper imposing himself above his own directeur sportif and insisting on driving the lead car in the race convoy, even though he wouldn't be able to help the team's riders. For Capper, the thrill of driving a car at rally speeds in the Tour's convoy seemed to be a reward he felt was due to him for sponsoring a team in the first place.
But the real problem Capper created was in budgetary restraint, or the lack thereof. Here's how Phil Griffiths, who Capper recruited in 1985 to act as his directeur sportif, described Capper's approach to budgeting:
"Tony Capper was always a gambler. The guy spent the ANC-Halfords budget by the Milk Race [in May] every year. That was his strategy. Spend it, win the Milk Race and then go back to the board to get enough to cover the rest of the season."
That tactic worked when Capper was in charge of ANC himself and could treat the company as his own personal fiefdom. But in 1987, he having cashed his chips in, there were new hands at the helm. And when the 'please sir, can we have some more' request came in, they ignored it. The first the riders knew of any problem was during the Tour when some of them discovered that their salaries had not landed in their bank accounts. The phone calls from home for Capper were also increasing in their frequency and it was clear that all was not well.
Exhausted riders could do nothing but drop out if the race. Capper simply used the abandoned riders' hotel bookings to accommodate family, friends and business associates.
The team turned up for the opening Prologue in Berlin and were promised the best equipment such as specialist time-trial cycles. Instead, they rode the opening time trial on standard road bikes, with only four disc wheels between nine riders. After a gruelling three weeks of a particularly hot and fast Tour only four riders looked like they had a chance to make it to Paris. The only success was Malcolm Elliot's third place on one stage. The best ranked cyclist in the general classification was Adrian Timmis, ranked 70th
As the Tour enjoyed it's last day in the mountains, the La Plagne to Morzine stage, with the race within four days of Paris, Capper climbed into the team's Citroën and, promising he would rejoin them for their post-race celebratory dinner in Paris, drove off and was never seen again.
After the Tour de France, the ANC team was only revived for a few races. Joey McLoughlin won the first Kellogg's Tour of Britain and Malcolm Elliott won two stages in the Nissan Classic in Ireland. By the end of the season, the team ran out of money and was no more.
It would take a couple of decades for British Cycling to recover from that fiasco and feel confident enough to have another go. If anything the Capper Business Plan had embodied all of the "what not to do"aspects of putting together a credible and competitive racing team for the European scene and thankfully lessons have been learned as can be seen from recent and sustained successes.
(Sourced from Cycling Weekly, Rouleur, Podium Cafe, Wikipedia, Wide Eyed and Legless)
Before that it was a case that talented British riders had to go it alone with continental based teams and for much of the post-war period the idea of a British team by identity and style must have seemed so far out of reach.
I seem to recall that at least one Tour de France was run on the lines of National Squads and British riders did compete although trade team loyalties as in "remember who pays your salary" figured highly in race day tactics.
Home grown riders did possess ability but this country has not until recently regarded itself as a cycling nation and consequently for many years money through a dedicated financial sponsorship structure was sparse and sporadic and certainly not in the amounts required to take a team into Europe for the Classics or the pinnacle of most careers, a ride in the Tour de France.
In the mid 1980's one larger than life individual, Tony Capper put himself and his millions at the service of catapulting a British Racing Team onto the heady stage of the Tour de France.
There was a certain brashness and haphazard approach in his approach to the task as appeared to have been the case in his business dealings that had netted him his fortune.
Capper had some misadventures in the taxi business (in one version of the story his business partner committed suicide, in another he sold the company and it was only later realised by the new owners that it wasn't his to sell). Chequered is the word that is most often used to describe this portion of Capper's career.In the early eighties, with Thatcher's Britain championing entrepreneurial acumen, Capper set up an overnight delivery company, Associated Nationwide Couriers (ANC) - think DHL, Excel or the like. ANC was, essentially, run on the same principal as Interflora, a franchise operation where local franchisees paid to use the name and access the central network. It's also the way taxi companies are often organised, and Capper knew the taxi trade.
ANC's growth was rapid.
Within five years, the company had become big enough to be taken over by British and Commonwealth Shipping, leaving Capper a wealthy man. How wealthy is always a question, but it was wealthy enough for him to live in exile in the tax shelter in the Irish Sea that is the Isle of Man.
In growing ANC, Capper had involved the company with various sports sponsorship opportunities - darts, athletics and football. In 1984 he was approached by a British racer, Mick Morrison, looking for sponsorship. The following year, ANC was sponsoring a team of British pros riding on the domestic circuit.
Capper - a brash and arrogant forty-something, chain-smoking, pie-eating, Coke-swilling giant of a man (wider than he was tall is the kind way of describing his girth) - quickly set about taking a Thatcherite approach to the sport. History and tradition were bunkum - 'Whatever you've done in the past, it's wrong,' he would tell people. Cycling was a business, he was a businessman and he knew best.
British cycling at the time was still over-shadowed by Tom Simpson's death, was very insular and parochial.
To give an idea of how hidebound British cycling was: though continental racing was just a ferry-ride away, domestic teams were limited to no more than six riders, a rule which effectively forced them to narrow their horizons and race only in the UK. A lot of people involved in the sport in the UK took a holier-than-thou approach to the continental scene, writing it off as drug-fuelled and corrupt, unlike the saintly pure local scene they championed. They wanted nothing to do with it.
Capper took a practical approach to the restrictions imposed upon him - he set up three different teams: ANC-Freight Rover, Lycra-Halfords and Interrent-Dawes. They co-operated in domestic races - down to splitting winnings across the squads - and gave Capper a larger pool of riders to draw from when he ventured forth and took on the European peloton, where the combined squads raced as ANC-Halfords.Capper was a man on a mission, a man with a dream, a dream which had come to him when he visited the Alpe d'Huez stage of the 1985 Tour de France: his dream was to put a British team into the Tour de France and bring them home safely. And to achieve that dream Capper knew that winning domestic trophies like the Milk Race wouldn't cut the mustard. His riders would have to show themselves at races like Paris-Nice and the Classics.
Malcolm Elliott, who Capper signed to ride for ANC in 1986, had this to say of Capper's ambition, when he recalled this part of his career in his 1990 autobiography, Sprinter"Not that many riders were bothered about [the Tour de France] anyway. I used to think: What do we want to go into that for anyway? None of us realised it at the time but this was the only way ahead. We'd started riding a few races abroad but a ride in the Tour seemed outlandish and we just humoured him. Capper was a trail-blazer, I'll give him that. ANC were the first fully-fledged British team to compete abroad consistently."
The trail Capper blazed was meteoric.
In June 1987 the Société du Tour de France gave him the nod he'd been waiting for: they were part of the 1987 Tour de France. From one rider in 1984 to five in 1985 and three teams in 1986, Capper was about to set foot on cycling's biggest stage.
Where the Société du Tour de France most failed the ANC-Halfords riders was in the way they handed out their wild-card entries to the Tour. It was not until June, a month before the race started, that the team was informed it could ride the race. In true chaotic style the riders were featured on the BBC childrens show, Blue Peter, when the news of the ride was announced.
In order to get that nod from the Société du Tour de France, ANC-Halfords had bust a gut from the beginning of the season, throwing themselves into races in the hope of grabbing the attention of the Tour's organisers. (That may have changed today, the wild-cards announced earlier, but it is still a problem within individual teams, who leave the last of their selection until as late as possible, with the consequence that some riders knacker themselves getting selected and then have nothing left for the race itself.)The ANC-Halfords guys, in their quest to catch the eye of the Société du Tour, showed themselves in races like the GP d'Ouverture, the Ruta del Sol, the Tour of the Mediterranean, Paris-Nice, Het Volk, Bordeaux-Paris, the Tour of Limburg. At the Flèche Wallonne Paul Watson finished sixth. At the Amstel Gold Malcolm Elliott finished third. At the Midi Libre in May Adrian Timmis won a stage. These hurried exertions meant that the team was exhausted even before the Tour de France had reached the grand départ in West Berlin.
Capper's failures, for such an apparently successful businessman, were surprisingly simple: the team was shoddily organised. From riders' contracts through support staff down to finances, Capper hardly got a thing right. That he even made it as far as 1987 and the Tour de France was an amazing achievement.
Having built ANC Capper sold it to British and Commonwealth Shipping in 1986, but he chose to retain control of the company's cycling interests himself, through a management company he set up called Action Sports. This created a confusion which only became apparent when the team collapsed, with some of the riders contracted to Action Sports and some contracted directly to ANC. When the team collapsed, those contracted to Action Sports were left penniless. Those contracted to ANC only eventually recovered some of the monies owed to them.Another problem Capper created was in not recruiting soigneurs, mechanics and other support staff, preferring instead to hire them in on an ad hoc basis. Apart from Griffiths as directeur sportif, the team doesn't appear to have had any other permanent non-cycling staff beyond three people who manned its Stoke-on-Trent office. What this meant during the Tour de France was that there was considerable disorganisation - and strife - behind the scenes. Among the soigneurs, the mechanics and the directeur sportif, no one seemed to know where they were supposed to stand in the pecking order.
Much of this wasn't helped by Capper imposing himself above his own directeur sportif and insisting on driving the lead car in the race convoy, even though he wouldn't be able to help the team's riders. For Capper, the thrill of driving a car at rally speeds in the Tour's convoy seemed to be a reward he felt was due to him for sponsoring a team in the first place.
But the real problem Capper created was in budgetary restraint, or the lack thereof. Here's how Phil Griffiths, who Capper recruited in 1985 to act as his directeur sportif, described Capper's approach to budgeting:
"Tony Capper was always a gambler. The guy spent the ANC-Halfords budget by the Milk Race [in May] every year. That was his strategy. Spend it, win the Milk Race and then go back to the board to get enough to cover the rest of the season."
That tactic worked when Capper was in charge of ANC himself and could treat the company as his own personal fiefdom. But in 1987, he having cashed his chips in, there were new hands at the helm. And when the 'please sir, can we have some more' request came in, they ignored it. The first the riders knew of any problem was during the Tour when some of them discovered that their salaries had not landed in their bank accounts. The phone calls from home for Capper were also increasing in their frequency and it was clear that all was not well.
Exhausted riders could do nothing but drop out if the race. Capper simply used the abandoned riders' hotel bookings to accommodate family, friends and business associates.
The team turned up for the opening Prologue in Berlin and were promised the best equipment such as specialist time-trial cycles. Instead, they rode the opening time trial on standard road bikes, with only four disc wheels between nine riders. After a gruelling three weeks of a particularly hot and fast Tour only four riders looked like they had a chance to make it to Paris. The only success was Malcolm Elliot's third place on one stage. The best ranked cyclist in the general classification was Adrian Timmis, ranked 70th
As the Tour enjoyed it's last day in the mountains, the La Plagne to Morzine stage, with the race within four days of Paris, Capper climbed into the team's Citroën and, promising he would rejoin them for their post-race celebratory dinner in Paris, drove off and was never seen again.
After the Tour de France, the ANC team was only revived for a few races. Joey McLoughlin won the first Kellogg's Tour of Britain and Malcolm Elliott won two stages in the Nissan Classic in Ireland. By the end of the season, the team ran out of money and was no more.
It would take a couple of decades for British Cycling to recover from that fiasco and feel confident enough to have another go. If anything the Capper Business Plan had embodied all of the "what not to do"aspects of putting together a credible and competitive racing team for the European scene and thankfully lessons have been learned as can be seen from recent and sustained successes.
(Sourced from Cycling Weekly, Rouleur, Podium Cafe, Wikipedia, Wide Eyed and Legless)
Tuesday 24 November 2015
Sleep less in Seattle
It is a story that just about everyone has heard about.
Not so much a story now, some 44 years on, but rather a legend.
It was, and still remains, of course a crime of aerial hijacking and for some 8 hours and 23 minutes the crew and passengers of a commercial airliner were in fear for their lives.
I was fascinated by the tale when I was young but it is one of those things that just gets filed away in the memory banks as you get older and much more important issues take precedent. It does not take much to retrieve though and the catalyst recently was the use of the identity of the perpetrator in the US TV series, Prison Break. The character portrayed was, in my opinion, quite plausible being unassuming, quiet and enigmatic although little is actually known about the hijacker apart from a name Dan Cooper and a photofit picture drawn up by the victims on the plane.
The event took place on 24th November 1971 on an internal flight by North West Orient Airlines from Portland, Oregon to Seattle in Washington State.
A one way ticket was purchased for $20US by a Dan Cooper. On first impression he was .by his suited attire and briefcase, a businessman on a trip between cities.
It was a typical early winters day for that part of the country with mist, cloud and rain. In the days before automated travellators and covered gates extending directly to the fuselage it was a case of ground-staff issuing umbrellas to the passengers for the short walk across the tarmac to the aircraft, designated NWO-305.
Mr Cooper took up his seat towards the rear of the aircraft, put on dark glasses and ordered a whisky and soda before lighting up a cigarette.
The stewardess was beckoned by the man and given a piece of paper. Being busy and also thinking that the note was an attempted chat-up by the suave looking passenger the stewardess put it straight into her apron pocket. The plane was hurtling down the runway and in the air when Cooper advised the stewardess that she had better read and take in the contents of the note.
After reading she had no option but to take it hurriedly but calmly to the cockpit.
The Captain found the content straight to the point along the lines of "You are being hijacked, no funny business. I want $200,000 US and four parachutes to be brought aboard upon landing in Seattle".
All through the period of peril none of the flight crew actually saw Cooper.
The Chief Stewardess was the go-between and a junior member of the attendants was required to sit alongside as a hostage. They testified to the briefcase on Cooper's lap containing electrical wires, battery and eight red sticks assumed to be explosives.
The situation was reported on radio to Seattle Air Traffic Control and after a few tense minutes, which must have seemed like a lifetime to those involved, confirmation was given that the money and parachutes would be waiting at the arrivals gate.
To the 3 crew on the flight deck the plan of the hijacker seemed clear. When in possession of the money and the passengers released, as agreed, the four parachutes would enable Cooper along with his captives to ditch the plane. If the FBI were planning to sabotage the parachutes then this would backfire as all of them would have to be tampered with therefore putting innocent lives at risk.
The news of the hijack must have been leaked to the public as there was a large throng of spectators at the Seattle Airport Terminal with a prime vantage point as flight 305 landed.
The Captain, fearful that the threatened detonation so close to the buildings could inflict significant casualties, decided to taxi past and park up on the periphery of the airport.
Three to four Bags containing the $200,000 ransom, specified to be in $20 US notes, in todays money about $1 million US, had to be lugged on board by the female junior attendant as well as the four heavy and bulky parachutes.
On take off to the new destination of Mexico there were only crew on board with Cooper.
Instructions were given to fly low and slow which suggested to the crew that the hijacker was indeed planning to jump.
The junior member of the crew appeared in the cockpit having been released and the intercom crackled with an angry and frustrated voice complaining that the rear door and steps would not deploy. The Captain could barely hear the words over the sound of wind from the back of the plane but reassured Cooper that if the plane slowed a bit then the steps would lower easily.
Warning lights on the cockpit display acknowledged that the steps were down in position and a bump sound was taken to be the departure of the hijacker and his ill gotten gains into the open skies.
In an attempt to pinpoint the location of the jumper the position of the plane was confirmed to the Authorities and a manhunt began immediately on the ground.
No trace was found in the rugged terrain on the county line between North Oregon and South Washington State. Dan Cooper, or as he became known, D B Cooper had disappeared completely.
The case remains open today amongst considerable speculation and fantasy about the fate of the audacious hijacker.
Those who know the remote territory into which the parachutes will have fallen are of the opinion that D B Cooper perished as an explanation for the absence of any trail of either the man or the money.
Those who were held for the 8 or so hours and the investigators of the crime still clearly recall the trauma of the experience not helped by the fact that the legend continues to live on.
Not so much a story now, some 44 years on, but rather a legend.
It was, and still remains, of course a crime of aerial hijacking and for some 8 hours and 23 minutes the crew and passengers of a commercial airliner were in fear for their lives.
I was fascinated by the tale when I was young but it is one of those things that just gets filed away in the memory banks as you get older and much more important issues take precedent. It does not take much to retrieve though and the catalyst recently was the use of the identity of the perpetrator in the US TV series, Prison Break. The character portrayed was, in my opinion, quite plausible being unassuming, quiet and enigmatic although little is actually known about the hijacker apart from a name Dan Cooper and a photofit picture drawn up by the victims on the plane.
The event took place on 24th November 1971 on an internal flight by North West Orient Airlines from Portland, Oregon to Seattle in Washington State.
A one way ticket was purchased for $20US by a Dan Cooper. On first impression he was .by his suited attire and briefcase, a businessman on a trip between cities.
It was a typical early winters day for that part of the country with mist, cloud and rain. In the days before automated travellators and covered gates extending directly to the fuselage it was a case of ground-staff issuing umbrellas to the passengers for the short walk across the tarmac to the aircraft, designated NWO-305.
Mr Cooper took up his seat towards the rear of the aircraft, put on dark glasses and ordered a whisky and soda before lighting up a cigarette.
The stewardess was beckoned by the man and given a piece of paper. Being busy and also thinking that the note was an attempted chat-up by the suave looking passenger the stewardess put it straight into her apron pocket. The plane was hurtling down the runway and in the air when Cooper advised the stewardess that she had better read and take in the contents of the note.
After reading she had no option but to take it hurriedly but calmly to the cockpit.
The Captain found the content straight to the point along the lines of "You are being hijacked, no funny business. I want $200,000 US and four parachutes to be brought aboard upon landing in Seattle".
All through the period of peril none of the flight crew actually saw Cooper.
The Chief Stewardess was the go-between and a junior member of the attendants was required to sit alongside as a hostage. They testified to the briefcase on Cooper's lap containing electrical wires, battery and eight red sticks assumed to be explosives.
The situation was reported on radio to Seattle Air Traffic Control and after a few tense minutes, which must have seemed like a lifetime to those involved, confirmation was given that the money and parachutes would be waiting at the arrivals gate.
To the 3 crew on the flight deck the plan of the hijacker seemed clear. When in possession of the money and the passengers released, as agreed, the four parachutes would enable Cooper along with his captives to ditch the plane. If the FBI were planning to sabotage the parachutes then this would backfire as all of them would have to be tampered with therefore putting innocent lives at risk.
The news of the hijack must have been leaked to the public as there was a large throng of spectators at the Seattle Airport Terminal with a prime vantage point as flight 305 landed.
The Captain, fearful that the threatened detonation so close to the buildings could inflict significant casualties, decided to taxi past and park up on the periphery of the airport.
Three to four Bags containing the $200,000 ransom, specified to be in $20 US notes, in todays money about $1 million US, had to be lugged on board by the female junior attendant as well as the four heavy and bulky parachutes.
On take off to the new destination of Mexico there were only crew on board with Cooper.
Instructions were given to fly low and slow which suggested to the crew that the hijacker was indeed planning to jump.
The junior member of the crew appeared in the cockpit having been released and the intercom crackled with an angry and frustrated voice complaining that the rear door and steps would not deploy. The Captain could barely hear the words over the sound of wind from the back of the plane but reassured Cooper that if the plane slowed a bit then the steps would lower easily.
Warning lights on the cockpit display acknowledged that the steps were down in position and a bump sound was taken to be the departure of the hijacker and his ill gotten gains into the open skies.
In an attempt to pinpoint the location of the jumper the position of the plane was confirmed to the Authorities and a manhunt began immediately on the ground.
No trace was found in the rugged terrain on the county line between North Oregon and South Washington State. Dan Cooper, or as he became known, D B Cooper had disappeared completely.
The case remains open today amongst considerable speculation and fantasy about the fate of the audacious hijacker.
Those who know the remote territory into which the parachutes will have fallen are of the opinion that D B Cooper perished as an explanation for the absence of any trail of either the man or the money.
Those who were held for the 8 or so hours and the investigators of the crime still clearly recall the trauma of the experience not helped by the fact that the legend continues to live on.
Monday 23 November 2015
Perhaps the best £30 I have ever spent
Well, not the whole suit obviously for only £30.
A Crowd Funding Appeal to restore and digitise
Neil Armstrong's historic spacesuit raised more than the
original target of $500,000 through 9477 contributors.
That makes me the proud sponsor of a rivet....hurrah!!
Sunday 22 November 2015
Call him Dave
It is often hoped for that out of tragedy something good may emerge.
Not many people other than those involved in cycling will know the name of Dave Rayner.
He was born in 1967 in West Yorkshire in the North of England into a cycling family with his father having been a first category racer or what is now referred to as Elite.
As with most youngsters surrounded by all things cycling Dave Rayner joined his first local club at the age of 12 and his talent was soon to be shown with a National Road Race Title to his name at the age of 17.
UK cycling at that time did not really offer a career path and those good enough to turn professional were in a small pool of domestic riders and although regularly competing all over the country it was rather parochial compared to the continental scene.
A few home grown riders packed a bag and on a shoestring budget and with little in the way of language skills just tried out the French, Belgian, Italian and Spanish way of cycling life. It was a case of racing and attempting to win primarily to get noticed but also to get some prize money to cover not just race day expenses but also basic living costs.
Homesickness and an inability or unwillingness to integrate with the host nations and lifestyle saw for many riders who rather than risk starvation, just returned to these shores none the wiser for the experience. It was of course in the days before social media, mobile phones and personal computers with little or no chance of regualr contact with family and friends to provide encouragement.
A few excelled after showing immediate skill and tactical acumen being nursed through academy teams and catching the eye of the managers of the second string and professional racing teams. This promotion opened up great opportunities and reasonable salaries which could be topped up with win bonuses and the generosity of the sponsors.
In the seventies and eighties there was a career in cycling for Paul Sherwen and John Herety from England, Robert Millar from Scotland and the most accomplished pair from Ireland notably Steven Roche and Sean Kelly.
Dave Rayner's natural affinity for the sport made him an ideal candidate to progress further and he went to Italy at the beginning of 1984 and rode for the G.S.Porcari-Fanini-Berti Team.
He was riding with the likes of Mario Cipollini and Andrea Tafi and remained there until the end of 1986. In 1985 Dave came 14th in the Junior World Road Race Champs and 5th in the World Junior Team Time Trial Champs at Stuttgart.
In 1987 Dave won the under 22 award in the Milk Race and then turned pro for the Interent-Yugo Team in Britain.
In 1988 he joined the Raleigh-Banana Team, won the under 22 award again in the Milk Race and came 8th overall.
1989 saw him with Raleigh-Banana again and 8th overall again in the Milk Race and for the 3rd year running [a record] he won the under 22 award again.
He joined the Banana-Falcon Team in 1990 and in that year won the Scottish Provident Criterium Series overall.
In 1991/2 he went to Holland and rode for the Buckler Team under former World Champion Jan Raas. He went to the USA for 1993 joining the I.M.E-Health Share Team which was not very successful so for 1994, his final season he came back to Britain and joined the Lex-Townsend Team, coming 2nd in the National Criterium Champs in Milford Haven.
Tragically, Dave Rayner died aged 27 after an incident with a doorman outside the Maestro nightclub, in Manningham Lane, Bradford.
He was put on a life support machine at Bradford Royal Infirmary but died next day.
In November 1994. the nightclub worker was charged with manslaughter but, when the case came to court on 18 November 1995, the judge decided that there was not enough evidence to charge him and, having already pleaded guilty to a charge of common assault, the defendant was instead put on probation and ordered to complete 100 hours of community service. In effect he was able to walk freely away.
This sentencing came as a complete shock to the Rayner supporters."We arrived at the court for a 10am start, and both sets of lawyers and the judge went into chambers telling us nothing," said David's father John. "After three hours they told us there was not enough evidence to link Johnson with the death of our David."
Serena, David's wife said: "We have been badly let down by the Crown Prosecution Service".However, she ruled out further action, saying: "I believe Dave would want us to get on with our lives now but at the end of a year's wait it is a sad way to end. Just think, his life was worth only 100 hours of community service."
A lasting tribute to the memory of Dave Rayner was sought and what better way to achieve this than through a funding scheme to support home grown riders in the European race scene. Financial support of this type would mean one less worry when living abroad and allow more time to concentrate on the all important training and racing. The cycling community responded with generosity and support.
Amongst the first beneficiaries of the fund set up in Rayner's memory to support young British riders racing abroad was Dave Millar who only retired this year after a momentous career which earned him the respect of the peleton especially after returning to the professional ranks after a doping ban. Support was also given to Danny Webb, who raced in Belgium and France, Paul Moore and Daniel Moore and the super domestique (team rider) Charly Wegelius, now a team manager.
Since its inception over £600,000 in grants has been given to 350 riders to enable them to race abroad including, most recently champions like Adam Yates and regular winners including Dan Martin and Ian Stannard.
I do remember Dave Rayner in his racing days as his meteoric rise was at the same time as my much less so with competitive cycling. I can appreciate what it took to be an Elite category rider as a main job from my own exertions as an amateur which yielded nothing more than one win in a minor event and a few placings for points and Dave Rayner has my utmost respect.
I have tried to put back something into cycling after it has, and continues to give me much enjoyment, mainly through being a sponsor of a local team for fifteen years until quite recently.
The Dave Rayner Fund does benefit in a small way from my efforts in that old jerseys bearing the name of my company when obsolete after a few seasons are retrieved from the rather fusty back room of a local bike shop and sold for £5 with all proceeds going to aspiring young riders.
Dave Rayner should be well pleased with the contribution made in his name to the huge success of British cycling in recent years with Olympic triumphs, Tour de France wins and major placings on podiums.
Out of tragedy does come something good. Nice One Dave.
Not many people other than those involved in cycling will know the name of Dave Rayner.
He was born in 1967 in West Yorkshire in the North of England into a cycling family with his father having been a first category racer or what is now referred to as Elite.
As with most youngsters surrounded by all things cycling Dave Rayner joined his first local club at the age of 12 and his talent was soon to be shown with a National Road Race Title to his name at the age of 17.
UK cycling at that time did not really offer a career path and those good enough to turn professional were in a small pool of domestic riders and although regularly competing all over the country it was rather parochial compared to the continental scene.
A few home grown riders packed a bag and on a shoestring budget and with little in the way of language skills just tried out the French, Belgian, Italian and Spanish way of cycling life. It was a case of racing and attempting to win primarily to get noticed but also to get some prize money to cover not just race day expenses but also basic living costs.
Homesickness and an inability or unwillingness to integrate with the host nations and lifestyle saw for many riders who rather than risk starvation, just returned to these shores none the wiser for the experience. It was of course in the days before social media, mobile phones and personal computers with little or no chance of regualr contact with family and friends to provide encouragement.
A few excelled after showing immediate skill and tactical acumen being nursed through academy teams and catching the eye of the managers of the second string and professional racing teams. This promotion opened up great opportunities and reasonable salaries which could be topped up with win bonuses and the generosity of the sponsors.
In the seventies and eighties there was a career in cycling for Paul Sherwen and John Herety from England, Robert Millar from Scotland and the most accomplished pair from Ireland notably Steven Roche and Sean Kelly.
Dave Rayner's natural affinity for the sport made him an ideal candidate to progress further and he went to Italy at the beginning of 1984 and rode for the G.S.Porcari-Fanini-Berti Team.
He was riding with the likes of Mario Cipollini and Andrea Tafi and remained there until the end of 1986. In 1985 Dave came 14th in the Junior World Road Race Champs and 5th in the World Junior Team Time Trial Champs at Stuttgart.
In 1987 Dave won the under 22 award in the Milk Race and then turned pro for the Interent-Yugo Team in Britain.
In 1988 he joined the Raleigh-Banana Team, won the under 22 award again in the Milk Race and came 8th overall.
1989 saw him with Raleigh-Banana again and 8th overall again in the Milk Race and for the 3rd year running [a record] he won the under 22 award again.
He joined the Banana-Falcon Team in 1990 and in that year won the Scottish Provident Criterium Series overall.
In 1991/2 he went to Holland and rode for the Buckler Team under former World Champion Jan Raas. He went to the USA for 1993 joining the I.M.E-Health Share Team which was not very successful so for 1994, his final season he came back to Britain and joined the Lex-Townsend Team, coming 2nd in the National Criterium Champs in Milford Haven.
Tragically, Dave Rayner died aged 27 after an incident with a doorman outside the Maestro nightclub, in Manningham Lane, Bradford.
He was put on a life support machine at Bradford Royal Infirmary but died next day.
In November 1994. the nightclub worker was charged with manslaughter but, when the case came to court on 18 November 1995, the judge decided that there was not enough evidence to charge him and, having already pleaded guilty to a charge of common assault, the defendant was instead put on probation and ordered to complete 100 hours of community service. In effect he was able to walk freely away.
This sentencing came as a complete shock to the Rayner supporters."We arrived at the court for a 10am start, and both sets of lawyers and the judge went into chambers telling us nothing," said David's father John. "After three hours they told us there was not enough evidence to link Johnson with the death of our David."
Serena, David's wife said: "We have been badly let down by the Crown Prosecution Service".However, she ruled out further action, saying: "I believe Dave would want us to get on with our lives now but at the end of a year's wait it is a sad way to end. Just think, his life was worth only 100 hours of community service."
A lasting tribute to the memory of Dave Rayner was sought and what better way to achieve this than through a funding scheme to support home grown riders in the European race scene. Financial support of this type would mean one less worry when living abroad and allow more time to concentrate on the all important training and racing. The cycling community responded with generosity and support.
Amongst the first beneficiaries of the fund set up in Rayner's memory to support young British riders racing abroad was Dave Millar who only retired this year after a momentous career which earned him the respect of the peleton especially after returning to the professional ranks after a doping ban. Support was also given to Danny Webb, who raced in Belgium and France, Paul Moore and Daniel Moore and the super domestique (team rider) Charly Wegelius, now a team manager.
Since its inception over £600,000 in grants has been given to 350 riders to enable them to race abroad including, most recently champions like Adam Yates and regular winners including Dan Martin and Ian Stannard.
I do remember Dave Rayner in his racing days as his meteoric rise was at the same time as my much less so with competitive cycling. I can appreciate what it took to be an Elite category rider as a main job from my own exertions as an amateur which yielded nothing more than one win in a minor event and a few placings for points and Dave Rayner has my utmost respect.
I have tried to put back something into cycling after it has, and continues to give me much enjoyment, mainly through being a sponsor of a local team for fifteen years until quite recently.
The Dave Rayner Fund does benefit in a small way from my efforts in that old jerseys bearing the name of my company when obsolete after a few seasons are retrieved from the rather fusty back room of a local bike shop and sold for £5 with all proceeds going to aspiring young riders.
Dave Rayner should be well pleased with the contribution made in his name to the huge success of British cycling in recent years with Olympic triumphs, Tour de France wins and major placings on podiums.
Out of tragedy does come something good. Nice One Dave.
Saturday 21 November 2015
Taking Stock
Gravy is generally defined as a type of sauce made from meat juices, often combined with broth or milk, and thickened with a starch such as flour or cornflour.
It can also be the reduced juices left from cooking the main course favourites amongst joints of meat, cuts of fish or any type of poultry.
Although it is fairly simple to make, many home cooks have a difficult time making flavourful, smooth gravy.
How true that is.
You can have the best researched, sourced, crafted and served up meal in the world and yet it can be remembered for ever or consigned to the pedal bin depending on what the gravy was like (if of course it is a meal that can be served with gravy as an accompaniment).
I have experienced the sheer panic of cooking a meal only to realise, on carrying it through to the dinner table, that I have not made any gravy. The situation can be resolved by a quick dash back into the kitchen and a rummage through the drawers for a stock cube, one of those small pre-prepared globules of stock in a blister pack or very much as a last resort four teaspoons of dry gravy granules in half a pint of boiled water.
I have sometimes cheated and bought a ready made sachet of the stuff with which to surprise and amaze dinner guests particularly if, shamefully, I claim it to be all of my own creation. Marks and Spencers and Waitrose, I thank you.
Intentionally planned gravy, as part of a menu, on the other hand can be delicious and it is a real skill to decant off the best juices from the chicken, beef or lamb joint and blend in a few ingredients and seasoning to really emphasise the goodness which may otherwise have been simply poured down the sink when cooled and congealed into something unappetising or after an overnight stagnation on the worktop, if too tired to wash up after the meal, wholly inedible.
Taste must however be complimented by the consistency of the liquid. The English comic Tony Hancock summed up the ideal qualities for the sauce in saying that "my mother was a bad cook but at least her gravy used to move about".
If too runny then any foodstuffs in its way can be swamped, drowned and even washed off the plate. Too thick and there is the potential embarrassment of not being able to pour it out of the pan or gravy boat, or even worse it falls out in one solid mass causing distress around the table from fallout and splashback.
It cannot be overpowering either. I have been tempted, on occasion, to lace a basic gravy mix with a bit of paprika, turmeric or chilli powder or all three at the same time resulting in quite a fierce and fiery outcome which can destroy the subtle flavours of just about any main course.
The liberal addition of wine or beer is a matter for judgement and conviction over what effect is being attempted. It can work well but there is always the risk that it will not, and we are back to the aformentioned hunt for an alternative set of ingredients with which to start again.
The best gravy secrets are those handed down through the generations of a family although such has been the revolution in cooking styles, recipes and the availability of produce not so much on the old seasonal basis but all year round from different parts of the globe that there has been a strong temptation to adapt and reinvent the traditional versions of gravy.
The emergence of nouvelle cuisine in the 1980's saw gravy used as an art-form usually in the faint flourish of what was referred to as a stock reduction or even a wishy washy, transparent jus. With the miniscule amounts applied by pipette or syringe you could easily be fooled into calling out for the gravy to be brought from the kitchen not realising that it was already on the plate.
Eating habits have also changed over the last few generations.
The formality of a meal has often been forgone for a laptop tv dinner or in our family where the younger adults just move to and from from kitchen to living room in a sort of grazing action. There is nothing at all wrong with this but I was brought up with a big sunday roast as the highlight of the weekly menu. Us children would have to wait until our father got home from a rare but regular pub session on the Sabbath before being able to sit down and enjoy wonderful food and flavours from mothers endeavours in the few hours after the end of the church family service.
Idyllic and a bit "Waltons" it may sound and I accept that those my age may have been the last to have this type of ritualistic mealtime.
I do not however have any fears that gravy will become extinct under the pressures exerted by modern lifestyles, social and economic demographics. If I do get a few emotional wobbles thinking about the tragedy of this as a possibility then I just go down to my local fast food outlet and buy a piping hot, delicious and very comforting polystyrene tray of chips and gravy. Long live gravy!!!!
It can also be the reduced juices left from cooking the main course favourites amongst joints of meat, cuts of fish or any type of poultry.
Although it is fairly simple to make, many home cooks have a difficult time making flavourful, smooth gravy.
How true that is.
You can have the best researched, sourced, crafted and served up meal in the world and yet it can be remembered for ever or consigned to the pedal bin depending on what the gravy was like (if of course it is a meal that can be served with gravy as an accompaniment).
I have experienced the sheer panic of cooking a meal only to realise, on carrying it through to the dinner table, that I have not made any gravy. The situation can be resolved by a quick dash back into the kitchen and a rummage through the drawers for a stock cube, one of those small pre-prepared globules of stock in a blister pack or very much as a last resort four teaspoons of dry gravy granules in half a pint of boiled water.
I have sometimes cheated and bought a ready made sachet of the stuff with which to surprise and amaze dinner guests particularly if, shamefully, I claim it to be all of my own creation. Marks and Spencers and Waitrose, I thank you.
Intentionally planned gravy, as part of a menu, on the other hand can be delicious and it is a real skill to decant off the best juices from the chicken, beef or lamb joint and blend in a few ingredients and seasoning to really emphasise the goodness which may otherwise have been simply poured down the sink when cooled and congealed into something unappetising or after an overnight stagnation on the worktop, if too tired to wash up after the meal, wholly inedible.
Taste must however be complimented by the consistency of the liquid. The English comic Tony Hancock summed up the ideal qualities for the sauce in saying that "my mother was a bad cook but at least her gravy used to move about".
If too runny then any foodstuffs in its way can be swamped, drowned and even washed off the plate. Too thick and there is the potential embarrassment of not being able to pour it out of the pan or gravy boat, or even worse it falls out in one solid mass causing distress around the table from fallout and splashback.
It cannot be overpowering either. I have been tempted, on occasion, to lace a basic gravy mix with a bit of paprika, turmeric or chilli powder or all three at the same time resulting in quite a fierce and fiery outcome which can destroy the subtle flavours of just about any main course.
The liberal addition of wine or beer is a matter for judgement and conviction over what effect is being attempted. It can work well but there is always the risk that it will not, and we are back to the aformentioned hunt for an alternative set of ingredients with which to start again.
The best gravy secrets are those handed down through the generations of a family although such has been the revolution in cooking styles, recipes and the availability of produce not so much on the old seasonal basis but all year round from different parts of the globe that there has been a strong temptation to adapt and reinvent the traditional versions of gravy.
The emergence of nouvelle cuisine in the 1980's saw gravy used as an art-form usually in the faint flourish of what was referred to as a stock reduction or even a wishy washy, transparent jus. With the miniscule amounts applied by pipette or syringe you could easily be fooled into calling out for the gravy to be brought from the kitchen not realising that it was already on the plate.
Eating habits have also changed over the last few generations.
The formality of a meal has often been forgone for a laptop tv dinner or in our family where the younger adults just move to and from from kitchen to living room in a sort of grazing action. There is nothing at all wrong with this but I was brought up with a big sunday roast as the highlight of the weekly menu. Us children would have to wait until our father got home from a rare but regular pub session on the Sabbath before being able to sit down and enjoy wonderful food and flavours from mothers endeavours in the few hours after the end of the church family service.
Idyllic and a bit "Waltons" it may sound and I accept that those my age may have been the last to have this type of ritualistic mealtime.
I do not however have any fears that gravy will become extinct under the pressures exerted by modern lifestyles, social and economic demographics. If I do get a few emotional wobbles thinking about the tragedy of this as a possibility then I just go down to my local fast food outlet and buy a piping hot, delicious and very comforting polystyrene tray of chips and gravy. Long live gravy!!!!
Friday 20 November 2015
The Syd Lectures. #1
Hello Syd,
we have not met yet but I thought it would be nice to impart to you some of the knowledge and experience from my own life.
You never know, it may be useful to you at some point, hopefully helpful or at least a guide about what not to do in certain circumstances.
I have drawn on memories and events from a number of points in my life and I have tried to put these in some sort of chronological order rather than on the criteria of importance.
In the first of my Syd Lectures I will cover the crucial period of 0 to 7 years.
Here goes;
Look after your hair, shampoo regularly using a mild soapy mix, Johnson's is a good brand
Dress like a little boy then those commenting casually will not think you are a girl
At the seaside do not try to fill your bucket with water from a perilous slip way
Do not go bright red and feel guilty every time a policeman speaks to you
Too much Sour grape flavour juicy fruit chewing gum will make you sick
Always hold onto a climbing frame with two hands when showing off to girls
Even if encouraged by your peers, do not ask your mummy what "Spunky" means
Playing kiss catch with girls is ok even if you know you can run faster
If pushing a younger child on a large proper bike, do not let go at speed (ask Auntie Susan)
Do not charge money for the neighbourhood kids to feel a fractured skull (as above)
It is right to feel strange when seeing two women fighting on a beach in Norfolk
If a local building burns down, stick to the story that you had nothing to do with it
Faking a tummy ache to skive off school inevitably means having to catch up later
As above, watching daytime TV black and white films is no substitute for an education
Always defend Baked beans over spaghetti hoops
If in a motor scrap yard with your daddy do not fill your pockets with car bonnet badges
The red line on the bottom of the shallow end of a swimming pool means deeper water
Do not remark out loud on the nasal hair of an elderly female spinster auntie
Wear home made hand knitted jumpers with pride , other children are just jealous
Christmas presents from old ladies are exactly what you wanted, alright!
Never allow yourself to be volunteered to be Joseph in a pre-school Nativity play
If you take all of your best toy cars to school on an activity day, they will get stolen
Do not get caught inviting yourself to tea at a best friends house
An electrical socket on a Christmas tree may be finger sized but it is not meant for that
Pets do die
Adult False teeth can sometimes be left in the same drawer you expect to find goodies
A Superhero outfit can be made from nothing and will save your parents a fortune
Wearing a dickie bow tie can be cool
Go with the flow if introduced to playing a musical instrument, excepting a descant recorder
It is normal for hot milk to come out of the nasal orifice
Enjoy the music played by your mummy and daddy. It will be special to you later on in life
to be continued....
we have not met yet but I thought it would be nice to impart to you some of the knowledge and experience from my own life.
You never know, it may be useful to you at some point, hopefully helpful or at least a guide about what not to do in certain circumstances.
I have drawn on memories and events from a number of points in my life and I have tried to put these in some sort of chronological order rather than on the criteria of importance.
In the first of my Syd Lectures I will cover the crucial period of 0 to 7 years.
Here goes;
Look after your hair, shampoo regularly using a mild soapy mix, Johnson's is a good brand
Dress like a little boy then those commenting casually will not think you are a girl
At the seaside do not try to fill your bucket with water from a perilous slip way
Do not go bright red and feel guilty every time a policeman speaks to you
Too much Sour grape flavour juicy fruit chewing gum will make you sick
Always hold onto a climbing frame with two hands when showing off to girls
Even if encouraged by your peers, do not ask your mummy what "Spunky" means
Playing kiss catch with girls is ok even if you know you can run faster
If pushing a younger child on a large proper bike, do not let go at speed (ask Auntie Susan)
Do not charge money for the neighbourhood kids to feel a fractured skull (as above)
It is right to feel strange when seeing two women fighting on a beach in Norfolk
If a local building burns down, stick to the story that you had nothing to do with it
Faking a tummy ache to skive off school inevitably means having to catch up later
As above, watching daytime TV black and white films is no substitute for an education
Always defend Baked beans over spaghetti hoops
If in a motor scrap yard with your daddy do not fill your pockets with car bonnet badges
The red line on the bottom of the shallow end of a swimming pool means deeper water
Do not remark out loud on the nasal hair of an elderly female spinster auntie
Wear home made hand knitted jumpers with pride , other children are just jealous
Christmas presents from old ladies are exactly what you wanted, alright!
Never allow yourself to be volunteered to be Joseph in a pre-school Nativity play
If you take all of your best toy cars to school on an activity day, they will get stolen
Do not get caught inviting yourself to tea at a best friends house
An electrical socket on a Christmas tree may be finger sized but it is not meant for that
Pets do die
Adult False teeth can sometimes be left in the same drawer you expect to find goodies
A Superhero outfit can be made from nothing and will save your parents a fortune
Wearing a dickie bow tie can be cool
Go with the flow if introduced to playing a musical instrument, excepting a descant recorder
It is normal for hot milk to come out of the nasal orifice
Enjoy the music played by your mummy and daddy. It will be special to you later on in life
to be continued....
Thursday 19 November 2015
House at Pooh Corner
I like the idea of living in a self sufficient way, ideally producing your own food and off the grid of mains services. Many may share this ideal lifestyle but only a few can emulate it because of constraints imposed by cost, officialdom and a lack of confidence to radically alter everyday practices. Here are just two success stories that I have come across in the media, coincidentally from Spain which seems to have that rare combination of factors in land, climate and a pioneering spirit to make the dream of self sufficiency a reality.
Case Study 1. If it wasn't for you meddling kids......
It’s a utopian fantasy- discover a ghost town and rebuild it in line with your ideals-, but in Spain where there are nearly 3000 abandoned villages (most dating back to the Middle Ages), some big dreamers have spent the past 3 decades doing just that.
There are now a few dozen “ecoaldeas” - ecovillages - in Spain, most build from the ashes of former Medieval towns. One of the first towns to be rediscovered was a tiny hamlet in the mountains of northern Navarra.
It was rediscovered in 1980 by a group of people living nearby who had lost their goats and “when they found their goats, they found Lakabe”, explains Mauge Cañada, one of the early pioneers in the repopulation of the town.
The new inhabitants were all urbanites with no knowledge of country life so no one expected them to stay long. At first, the homes weren’t habitable so they lived 14 in a large room. Slowly they began to rebuild the homes and the gardens.
When they first began to rebuild, there was no road up to the town so horses were used to carry construction materials up the mountain. There was no electricity either so they lived with candles and oil lamps.
After a few years, they erected a windmill by hand, carrying the iron structure up the hill themselves. “Even though it seems tough and in some ways it was, but you realise you're not as limited as you think,” says Mauge. “There are a lot of things people think they can't do without a lot of money and there's never been money here.”
In the early years, they generated income by selling some of their harvest and working odd jobs like using their newfound construction experience to rebuild roofs outside town. Later they rebuilt the village bakery and sold bread to the outside world.
Their organic sourdough breads now sell so well that today they can get by without looking for work outside town, but it helps that they keep their costs at a minimum as a way of life. “There's an austerity that's part of the desire of people who come here,” explains Mauge. “There's not a desire for consumption to consume. We try to live with what there is.”
Today, the town generates all its own energy with the windmill, solar panels and a water turbine. It also has a wait list of people who’d like to move in, but Mauge says the answer is not for people to join what they have created, but to try to emulate them somewhere else.
“If you set your mind to it and there's a group of people who want to do it, physically they can do it, economically they can do it. What right now is more difficult is being willing to suffer hardship or difficulties or… these days people have a lot of trouble living in situations of shortage or what is seen as shortage but it isn't.”
(source; Mail on Line)
Case Study 2. I shit you not!
Just north of Pamplona, Spain, there’s an old farmhouse that’s been abandoned for 60 years. The house is isolated from society—five miles from the nearest town and a mile from a village of 50 people. And come this spring after the original building has been dismantled a new eco-house erected using the original recycled materials it will run on poop.
The poop-powered house is a project of Meghan Sapp and Iñigo Arana of engineering start-up PlanetEnergy. When it’s finished, it will be 100% self-sufficient for energy—which means making sure any poop that comes out goes right back in.
According to Sapp, the company’s founder and CEO, the house is a demonstration for the company’s EnergyCommunities initiative. She explains “Based on the ‘use what ya got’ principle, we design systems that take advantage of available resources to supply existing and future demand with a waste-first focus.”
The hot water, in-floor heating, and cooking gas in the house will come from biogas, while solar and wind will provide electricity.
The biogas will be created from organic waste from the bathroom and kitchen, as well as manure from four horses (the couple currently have two).
Sapp and Arana will also grow their own produce on the property.
Using biogas as energy isn’t new—last year the UK launched a poo bus that ran on human waste—but Sapp hopes that her home will inspire individuals to use biogas on a small scale—in apartment buildings, for example.
The house cost the couple about half a million euros( £350,000) and they expect to make it back in less than five years, says Sapp.
The two began construction on the house in June this year and hope to move in by the spring.
(Source Planet Energy and Quartz)
Case Study 1. If it wasn't for you meddling kids......
It’s a utopian fantasy- discover a ghost town and rebuild it in line with your ideals-, but in Spain where there are nearly 3000 abandoned villages (most dating back to the Middle Ages), some big dreamers have spent the past 3 decades doing just that.
There are now a few dozen “ecoaldeas” - ecovillages - in Spain, most build from the ashes of former Medieval towns. One of the first towns to be rediscovered was a tiny hamlet in the mountains of northern Navarra.
It was rediscovered in 1980 by a group of people living nearby who had lost their goats and “when they found their goats, they found Lakabe”, explains Mauge Cañada, one of the early pioneers in the repopulation of the town.
The new inhabitants were all urbanites with no knowledge of country life so no one expected them to stay long. At first, the homes weren’t habitable so they lived 14 in a large room. Slowly they began to rebuild the homes and the gardens.
When they first began to rebuild, there was no road up to the town so horses were used to carry construction materials up the mountain. There was no electricity either so they lived with candles and oil lamps.
After a few years, they erected a windmill by hand, carrying the iron structure up the hill themselves. “Even though it seems tough and in some ways it was, but you realise you're not as limited as you think,” says Mauge. “There are a lot of things people think they can't do without a lot of money and there's never been money here.”
In the early years, they generated income by selling some of their harvest and working odd jobs like using their newfound construction experience to rebuild roofs outside town. Later they rebuilt the village bakery and sold bread to the outside world.
Their organic sourdough breads now sell so well that today they can get by without looking for work outside town, but it helps that they keep their costs at a minimum as a way of life. “There's an austerity that's part of the desire of people who come here,” explains Mauge. “There's not a desire for consumption to consume. We try to live with what there is.”
Today, the town generates all its own energy with the windmill, solar panels and a water turbine. It also has a wait list of people who’d like to move in, but Mauge says the answer is not for people to join what they have created, but to try to emulate them somewhere else.
“If you set your mind to it and there's a group of people who want to do it, physically they can do it, economically they can do it. What right now is more difficult is being willing to suffer hardship or difficulties or… these days people have a lot of trouble living in situations of shortage or what is seen as shortage but it isn't.”
(source; Mail on Line)
Case Study 2. I shit you not!
Just north of Pamplona, Spain, there’s an old farmhouse that’s been abandoned for 60 years. The house is isolated from society—five miles from the nearest town and a mile from a village of 50 people. And come this spring after the original building has been dismantled a new eco-house erected using the original recycled materials it will run on poop.
The poop-powered house is a project of Meghan Sapp and Iñigo Arana of engineering start-up PlanetEnergy. When it’s finished, it will be 100% self-sufficient for energy—which means making sure any poop that comes out goes right back in.
According to Sapp, the company’s founder and CEO, the house is a demonstration for the company’s EnergyCommunities initiative. She explains “Based on the ‘use what ya got’ principle, we design systems that take advantage of available resources to supply existing and future demand with a waste-first focus.”
The hot water, in-floor heating, and cooking gas in the house will come from biogas, while solar and wind will provide electricity.
The biogas will be created from organic waste from the bathroom and kitchen, as well as manure from four horses (the couple currently have two).
Sapp and Arana will also grow their own produce on the property.
Using biogas as energy isn’t new—last year the UK launched a poo bus that ran on human waste—but Sapp hopes that her home will inspire individuals to use biogas on a small scale—in apartment buildings, for example.
The house cost the couple about half a million euros( £350,000) and they expect to make it back in less than five years, says Sapp.
The two began construction on the house in June this year and hope to move in by the spring.
(Source Planet Energy and Quartz)
Wednesday 18 November 2015
Life Before Readers Digest
I often find myself staring at a range of publications in the local newsagents when waiting to be served at the counter.
They are not, as you may be thinking, the glossy top shelf pornographic magazines because they are nowhere near the counter, being at the back of the shop between the wines and spirits, adjacent to the baked goods and opposite a selection of useful domestic items. In fact they are generally out of sight of the staff operating the tills.
Anyway, the published item I am invariably transfixed with is the current edition of Old Moore's Almanac which is always to be found displayed above the chocolates and mints.
I have never summoned up enough courage to buy one, let alone pick one up and browse its contents.
This may be down to the depiction of astrological and zodiacal ephemera in which I have no interest whatsoever. This has not always been the case as in a superstitious phase in my teenage years I did place a lot of emphasis on what the daily horoscope from Russel Grant had in store for me although it was alternately, exciting or mind blowingly boring.
I perceive an Almanac to be something along these lines mixing star signs with magical, moral and practical things. I would liken it to a sort of Wikipedia for those without access to the internet.
Having researched a bit about Almanacs to broaden my understanding I have frankly been fascinated by their origins and development.
In the halcyon days of Almanacs in the 16th and 17th Centuries the many and varied publications were best sellers only bettered by the Bible. The origins have been traced back to Ancient Babylon in pressed and embossed terracotta tablets with State records and advice on domestic affairs, travel and such practicalities as the best time of the year to eat fish.
The actual derivation of the word, almanac is unclear with speculation that it refers to "all months", a calendar or sundial. Most promoted their content on heavenly observations and on the back of astronomy and science came the broader subjects of health, ethnic and folk lore and just about everything else considered to be useful to the masses.
By the 16th Century the most successful Almanacs mixed practicality with wisdom, superstition with history, natural life cycles and using past events to make predictions about the future. To a certain extent this played on the illiteracy and poor education of the majority of the populus who were thrilled by prognostication in particular.
Subjects covered brought certain things within reach of the poor such as a guide to amateur surgery, how to shoe a horse, have knowledge of rights and laws, how to write a will, advice on bills and bonds and managing an apprentice. There was a strong bias towards natural cycles and the rhythm of life with country dwellers, farmers and shepherds referring to an almanac in their daily lives. They could be informed about the best time to plant crops, when rents days fell, the dates and locations of fairs for stock and hiring.
Specialised pamphlets were targeted at seamen, weavers, constables, rural clergy and salesmen as an indication of a wide popularity and reliance on the imparted knowledge. They were cheap and often poorly printed and after reading would find a use as toilet paper, drawer liners or simply discarded.
A readership of 400,000 by the 1570's represented one almanac for every four households of the time which was astounding.
Publications were also entertaining and touched on taboo issues around wooing, bedroom activities of a sexual nature and informed on historical and predicted events. Circulation also drew in advertising revenues for domestic products, spectacles, false teeth and spurious quack remedies and medicines.
People wanting to understand and appreciate the texts for themselves were encouraged to learn reading and there was an upsurge in literacy in this period.
By the 17th Century the place and popularity of almanacs was struggling.
There had been a big change in the demographic of the country with an exodus to the towns and cities away from the countryside. There was also a perceived failure in previously reliable prognostications and prophecy. Major national events such as the execution of Charles 1st, the English Civil War, Plaque, Fire of London and the 1660 Restoration were unforeseen and confidence waned.
Almanacs had represented an uneasy co-existence between religion, science, astrology and folk-lore but could not survive the fragmentation of these parts as the new discipline of science began to attack longstanding thought and conventions.
In our modern world we expect there to be a year on year linear development of all things but the strength of the almanac was founded in the cyclical processes in nature that were tuned to and balanced with each other.
The Old Moore's publication which calls out to me from the sweetie counter can be had for just over £2. I acknowledge that it draws together things useful to a 21st century lifestyle such as Lotto numbers and football pools but I cannot see myself as a purchaser.
Of course, I can see the value of a handy and inexpensive reference work should I find myself needing to remove one of my organs, take my livestock to market (do goldfish count as livestock?), plant that cash crop or when uncertain about the right time to eat fish.
They are not, as you may be thinking, the glossy top shelf pornographic magazines because they are nowhere near the counter, being at the back of the shop between the wines and spirits, adjacent to the baked goods and opposite a selection of useful domestic items. In fact they are generally out of sight of the staff operating the tills.
Anyway, the published item I am invariably transfixed with is the current edition of Old Moore's Almanac which is always to be found displayed above the chocolates and mints.
I have never summoned up enough courage to buy one, let alone pick one up and browse its contents.
This may be down to the depiction of astrological and zodiacal ephemera in which I have no interest whatsoever. This has not always been the case as in a superstitious phase in my teenage years I did place a lot of emphasis on what the daily horoscope from Russel Grant had in store for me although it was alternately, exciting or mind blowingly boring.
I perceive an Almanac to be something along these lines mixing star signs with magical, moral and practical things. I would liken it to a sort of Wikipedia for those without access to the internet.
Having researched a bit about Almanacs to broaden my understanding I have frankly been fascinated by their origins and development.
In the halcyon days of Almanacs in the 16th and 17th Centuries the many and varied publications were best sellers only bettered by the Bible. The origins have been traced back to Ancient Babylon in pressed and embossed terracotta tablets with State records and advice on domestic affairs, travel and such practicalities as the best time of the year to eat fish.
The actual derivation of the word, almanac is unclear with speculation that it refers to "all months", a calendar or sundial. Most promoted their content on heavenly observations and on the back of astronomy and science came the broader subjects of health, ethnic and folk lore and just about everything else considered to be useful to the masses.
By the 16th Century the most successful Almanacs mixed practicality with wisdom, superstition with history, natural life cycles and using past events to make predictions about the future. To a certain extent this played on the illiteracy and poor education of the majority of the populus who were thrilled by prognostication in particular.
Subjects covered brought certain things within reach of the poor such as a guide to amateur surgery, how to shoe a horse, have knowledge of rights and laws, how to write a will, advice on bills and bonds and managing an apprentice. There was a strong bias towards natural cycles and the rhythm of life with country dwellers, farmers and shepherds referring to an almanac in their daily lives. They could be informed about the best time to plant crops, when rents days fell, the dates and locations of fairs for stock and hiring.
Specialised pamphlets were targeted at seamen, weavers, constables, rural clergy and salesmen as an indication of a wide popularity and reliance on the imparted knowledge. They were cheap and often poorly printed and after reading would find a use as toilet paper, drawer liners or simply discarded.
A readership of 400,000 by the 1570's represented one almanac for every four households of the time which was astounding.
Publications were also entertaining and touched on taboo issues around wooing, bedroom activities of a sexual nature and informed on historical and predicted events. Circulation also drew in advertising revenues for domestic products, spectacles, false teeth and spurious quack remedies and medicines.
People wanting to understand and appreciate the texts for themselves were encouraged to learn reading and there was an upsurge in literacy in this period.
By the 17th Century the place and popularity of almanacs was struggling.
There had been a big change in the demographic of the country with an exodus to the towns and cities away from the countryside. There was also a perceived failure in previously reliable prognostications and prophecy. Major national events such as the execution of Charles 1st, the English Civil War, Plaque, Fire of London and the 1660 Restoration were unforeseen and confidence waned.
Almanacs had represented an uneasy co-existence between religion, science, astrology and folk-lore but could not survive the fragmentation of these parts as the new discipline of science began to attack longstanding thought and conventions.
In our modern world we expect there to be a year on year linear development of all things but the strength of the almanac was founded in the cyclical processes in nature that were tuned to and balanced with each other.
The Old Moore's publication which calls out to me from the sweetie counter can be had for just over £2. I acknowledge that it draws together things useful to a 21st century lifestyle such as Lotto numbers and football pools but I cannot see myself as a purchaser.
Of course, I can see the value of a handy and inexpensive reference work should I find myself needing to remove one of my organs, take my livestock to market (do goldfish count as livestock?), plant that cash crop or when uncertain about the right time to eat fish.
Generation Game
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A computer generated poem using my one line contribution and the use of
www.permugram.org
Tuesday 17 November 2015
Robbie The Robot's Poetry Slam
Watching a lot of Science Fiction in my formative years helped me to formulate a strategy for survival should the planet earth actually be
a) invaded by Martians,
b) hit by an asteroid
c) overwhelmed by a virus,
d) succumb to the insidious influence of plants,
e)engulfed by the melting ice caps,
f) be infiltrated by reptilian shape shifters and
g) attacked by weaponised Clangers from the Moon.
Little did I expect that any of these would cause me concern in my adult life but in recent years I have been disturbed by quite a few of the above.
There is frequent coverage of a near miss by a large lump of space rock and the Ebola outbreak has been a tragedy for all of those caught up in it. Genetically Modified crops could I suppose upset the ecology of the world and be our undoing in the longer term. Climate Change is already causing significant damage through unpredictable events which can scorch or inundate dependant on where you reside on the globe. It is some relief that Martians, in the words of HG Wells, keeping a watchful eye on the Earth, may just feel there is too much going on to make an invasion feasible.
As for the Clangers.....well, I remain on alert as they are, I understand,intending a bit of a comeback.
Shape shifters, according to various You Tube videos, are already amongst us but are probably finding our social customs and human traits a bit difficult and may give up and go back to wherever they came from.
I have omitted so far to mention that all of the above pale into insignificance in the face of the greatest perceived threat to mankind...from Artificial Intelligence and in particular in robot form.
My immersion in Science Fiction included comic books and the big screen ,mostly black and white movies, with depicted robots. They were quite intimidating and menacing and yet there was a faithful adherence to the notional Laws of Robotics which protected humans from harm.
The defining differences between Man and Artificial Intelligence are the ability for compassion and imagination which could not be duplicated by algorithyms, digitalisation or an ability to mimic reasoning or ordinary human traits.
In many films where mankind is seemingly doomed to enslavement by the machines and robots the day is always saved by an act of self-sacrifice or an expression of love.
What better way to distinguish humanity than through what epitomises these qualities than through poetry of which there is a vast resource over the millenia.
My childhood fears, irrational though they were, of a robot takeover have been reawakened by my stumbling across a website called "Bot or Not".
This is a Turing Test type site. In 1950 the computer scientist Alan Turing devised the test bearing his own name as a way of verifying machine intelligence. It produces a situation in which a human judge talks to both a computer and a human through a computer terminal. Based on the answers alone the judge has to determine which is which.
"Bot or Not" features examples of poems and you, assuming the role of judge, have to guess if they are computer or human in origin.
Examples provided include classic poems from literature and also those formulated from algorithms or by using other automated forms of generating text.
Submissions are invited from readers through notbotpoems.gmail.com.
Can you decide who wrote the following which I have edited down a bit- Bot or Not?
a) i feel great, today is a good day, i love you, i like this, nice to meet you
b) MY DESIRE BEAUTIFULLY LUSTS AFTER YOUR SEDUCTIVE ENTHUSIASM
c) The Moon rises like a small shore...Gulls travel like rough gulls.
d) I am the dark on the night. The past of love gone stale.
I have posted the answers on my Twitter Page for those interested. @Langdale82
As a clue, the ratio of answers is three to one.
I am no more assured of the future now than when I was seduced by images of it through the Sci-Fi of my younger years. I am still a bit disappointed in it all because I am sure that I was promised that I would have a jet-pack by now.
a) invaded by Martians,
b) hit by an asteroid
c) overwhelmed by a virus,
d) succumb to the insidious influence of plants,
e)engulfed by the melting ice caps,
f) be infiltrated by reptilian shape shifters and
g) attacked by weaponised Clangers from the Moon.
Little did I expect that any of these would cause me concern in my adult life but in recent years I have been disturbed by quite a few of the above.
There is frequent coverage of a near miss by a large lump of space rock and the Ebola outbreak has been a tragedy for all of those caught up in it. Genetically Modified crops could I suppose upset the ecology of the world and be our undoing in the longer term. Climate Change is already causing significant damage through unpredictable events which can scorch or inundate dependant on where you reside on the globe. It is some relief that Martians, in the words of HG Wells, keeping a watchful eye on the Earth, may just feel there is too much going on to make an invasion feasible.
As for the Clangers.....well, I remain on alert as they are, I understand,intending a bit of a comeback.
Shape shifters, according to various You Tube videos, are already amongst us but are probably finding our social customs and human traits a bit difficult and may give up and go back to wherever they came from.
I have omitted so far to mention that all of the above pale into insignificance in the face of the greatest perceived threat to mankind...from Artificial Intelligence and in particular in robot form.
My immersion in Science Fiction included comic books and the big screen ,mostly black and white movies, with depicted robots. They were quite intimidating and menacing and yet there was a faithful adherence to the notional Laws of Robotics which protected humans from harm.
The defining differences between Man and Artificial Intelligence are the ability for compassion and imagination which could not be duplicated by algorithyms, digitalisation or an ability to mimic reasoning or ordinary human traits.
In many films where mankind is seemingly doomed to enslavement by the machines and robots the day is always saved by an act of self-sacrifice or an expression of love.
What better way to distinguish humanity than through what epitomises these qualities than through poetry of which there is a vast resource over the millenia.
My childhood fears, irrational though they were, of a robot takeover have been reawakened by my stumbling across a website called "Bot or Not".
This is a Turing Test type site. In 1950 the computer scientist Alan Turing devised the test bearing his own name as a way of verifying machine intelligence. It produces a situation in which a human judge talks to both a computer and a human through a computer terminal. Based on the answers alone the judge has to determine which is which.
"Bot or Not" features examples of poems and you, assuming the role of judge, have to guess if they are computer or human in origin.
Examples provided include classic poems from literature and also those formulated from algorithms or by using other automated forms of generating text.
Submissions are invited from readers through notbotpoems.gmail.com.
Can you decide who wrote the following which I have edited down a bit- Bot or Not?
a) i feel great, today is a good day, i love you, i like this, nice to meet you
b) MY DESIRE BEAUTIFULLY LUSTS AFTER YOUR SEDUCTIVE ENTHUSIASM
c) The Moon rises like a small shore...Gulls travel like rough gulls.
d) I am the dark on the night. The past of love gone stale.
I have posted the answers on my Twitter Page for those interested. @Langdale82
As a clue, the ratio of answers is three to one.
I am no more assured of the future now than when I was seduced by images of it through the Sci-Fi of my younger years. I am still a bit disappointed in it all because I am sure that I was promised that I would have a jet-pack by now.
Sunday 15 November 2015
Pom Pom Tiddly I Pom
I was close to staying in last night rather than making that first tentative step to going to what is my nearest local public house.
It had been a busy day around the house including a rare foray into the far corners of my own loft space, well, after all I go into other people's roof voids every day seeking problems so my own does not have the same appeal if it is just for storage.
We had family around, all women, and so us menfolk were required to make ourselves scarce whilst things were discussed but more specifically multiple woollen pom-poms made. Youngest daughter, in her early 20's is aiming to produce 100 plus as her contribution to Christmas decorations at a city theatre.
There were 60 made by the four piece workers in a very short period from late afternoon to tea time using what I can only describe as fiendishly cunning bits of technology cutting many minutes from the traditional pom pom method of two circles cut out of cardboard.
The living room soon became covered with stray strands of fluffy, glitter speckled wool on the floor, furniture and up the stairs to the bathroom. The latter being a consequence of plentiful cups of tea to assuage the dehydration associated with frantic wool winding.
Earlier in the week I had been chatting with a neighbour on all manner of neighbourhood issues when I mentioned the nearest pub. He actually knew it quite well from periodic visits and liked it as it had atmosphere, good beer and interesting local characters for entertainment. I think we sort of agreed to going there on a non specific timescale although 8pm on the coming saturday was a possibility.
At ten minutes to eight on the allotted day I was the only male in the house who seemed at all bothered about a trip to the pub. I had even had a wash and changed out of my housework clothes.
The other two feigned tiredness and disinterest although secretly, I suspected, were enjoying rare invisibility such was the concentration of the wool crafting ladies.
I was by now trying to invent an excuse not to venture out. The words "I'm not going on my own" came forth in the tone of a petulant child. Apart from the blur of working hands there was no other movement or reaction to my statement. I know, I thought, if it is raining then I could legitimately claim sanctuary under some or other adverse weather clause.
As I popped my head out of the front door who should be walking past, hunched up in his cagoule, but my neighbour.
It was a complete coincidence of timing but enough to persuade me that the pub was on. I shouted up the stairs to the industrial workshop that I was going out. I took the deafening silence as acceptance of my intention.
The walk through the Park gateway and up the main road was unpleasantly wet with large pools and puddles and the occasional pavement wash from a passing vehicle, intentional or not to catch out a pedestrian. It was a short walk and within a few minutes me and my neighbour were in the Lounge Bar.
As pubs go it was finely traditional and in an authentic way rather than following the trend of false ageing using a selection of antiquities sourced from a large corporate warehouse.
For a saturday night it was not that busy although a small huddle of inebriated men made up for that with loud and crude language before stumbling out to a waiting taxi pointing in the direction of the city centre. That left a handful of drinkers just sat quietly on the red buttoned leather upholstery with elbows on dark wood tables staring into their glasses.
The bar, a stubby 'L' shape had a good selection of hand drawn ales and a week long Beer Festival promotion with guest tipples from Real Ale and Micro Brewery producers. I was not sure how much a pint cost as I had not bought one for some years in my self imposed exile. £3 a pint did not seem too extortionate and I went for a Nottingham Dark Ale seeking reassurance in having been a student in that city where I had drunk more than my fair share of Mild and Stout dark ales.
Previous conversations with my neighbour have been conducted out of doors usually as I have returned from work and he, recently retired, has just got back after a long cycle ride. Bikes is something we have in common and all things cycling make for a good ice breaker in any company. I do have to hide obvious envy at the very impressive array of bikes in his garage and his new found leisure time which I find increasingly scarce under my current workload.
The beer and friendly ambience in the pub put us both ease. We chatted giving a potted version of our life stories interspersed with cycling experiences and time flew by. 11pm suddenly loomed prompting the first embarrassing silence of the evening. It was a sign that we had completed the first of our indoor conversations.
The pub scored well in my reckoning. No hassle, no loud music, enough of a view of a big screen TV to keep in touch with world news and a good selection of potato chips.
It had been a good experience and if the pom pom production line continues to roll on I may well find myself back there next saturday.
It had been a busy day around the house including a rare foray into the far corners of my own loft space, well, after all I go into other people's roof voids every day seeking problems so my own does not have the same appeal if it is just for storage.
We had family around, all women, and so us menfolk were required to make ourselves scarce whilst things were discussed but more specifically multiple woollen pom-poms made. Youngest daughter, in her early 20's is aiming to produce 100 plus as her contribution to Christmas decorations at a city theatre.
There were 60 made by the four piece workers in a very short period from late afternoon to tea time using what I can only describe as fiendishly cunning bits of technology cutting many minutes from the traditional pom pom method of two circles cut out of cardboard.
The living room soon became covered with stray strands of fluffy, glitter speckled wool on the floor, furniture and up the stairs to the bathroom. The latter being a consequence of plentiful cups of tea to assuage the dehydration associated with frantic wool winding.
Earlier in the week I had been chatting with a neighbour on all manner of neighbourhood issues when I mentioned the nearest pub. He actually knew it quite well from periodic visits and liked it as it had atmosphere, good beer and interesting local characters for entertainment. I think we sort of agreed to going there on a non specific timescale although 8pm on the coming saturday was a possibility.
At ten minutes to eight on the allotted day I was the only male in the house who seemed at all bothered about a trip to the pub. I had even had a wash and changed out of my housework clothes.
The other two feigned tiredness and disinterest although secretly, I suspected, were enjoying rare invisibility such was the concentration of the wool crafting ladies.
I was by now trying to invent an excuse not to venture out. The words "I'm not going on my own" came forth in the tone of a petulant child. Apart from the blur of working hands there was no other movement or reaction to my statement. I know, I thought, if it is raining then I could legitimately claim sanctuary under some or other adverse weather clause.
As I popped my head out of the front door who should be walking past, hunched up in his cagoule, but my neighbour.
It was a complete coincidence of timing but enough to persuade me that the pub was on. I shouted up the stairs to the industrial workshop that I was going out. I took the deafening silence as acceptance of my intention.
The walk through the Park gateway and up the main road was unpleasantly wet with large pools and puddles and the occasional pavement wash from a passing vehicle, intentional or not to catch out a pedestrian. It was a short walk and within a few minutes me and my neighbour were in the Lounge Bar.
As pubs go it was finely traditional and in an authentic way rather than following the trend of false ageing using a selection of antiquities sourced from a large corporate warehouse.
For a saturday night it was not that busy although a small huddle of inebriated men made up for that with loud and crude language before stumbling out to a waiting taxi pointing in the direction of the city centre. That left a handful of drinkers just sat quietly on the red buttoned leather upholstery with elbows on dark wood tables staring into their glasses.
The bar, a stubby 'L' shape had a good selection of hand drawn ales and a week long Beer Festival promotion with guest tipples from Real Ale and Micro Brewery producers. I was not sure how much a pint cost as I had not bought one for some years in my self imposed exile. £3 a pint did not seem too extortionate and I went for a Nottingham Dark Ale seeking reassurance in having been a student in that city where I had drunk more than my fair share of Mild and Stout dark ales.
Previous conversations with my neighbour have been conducted out of doors usually as I have returned from work and he, recently retired, has just got back after a long cycle ride. Bikes is something we have in common and all things cycling make for a good ice breaker in any company. I do have to hide obvious envy at the very impressive array of bikes in his garage and his new found leisure time which I find increasingly scarce under my current workload.
The beer and friendly ambience in the pub put us both ease. We chatted giving a potted version of our life stories interspersed with cycling experiences and time flew by. 11pm suddenly loomed prompting the first embarrassing silence of the evening. It was a sign that we had completed the first of our indoor conversations.
The pub scored well in my reckoning. No hassle, no loud music, enough of a view of a big screen TV to keep in touch with world news and a good selection of potato chips.
It had been a good experience and if the pom pom production line continues to roll on I may well find myself back there next saturday.
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