Family, close friends, work colleagues, neighbours. The top four categories of relationships.
I would like to add a further layer under the label of 'people who we do not actually know but we wave to regularly'.
There are some set-in-stone members of this club established from childhood and these include Policemen, bus drivers, Automobile Association mechanics, juggernaut drivers (although more of a gesticulation to honk the air horns than a definitive wave), irrationally the pilots and crew of aircraft at 30,000 plus feet altitude and train drivers just at the point of going under a pedestrian bridge.
As a child passenger in my Parent's VW's there was great glee in waving at other VW's on the road. In the 1960's and 1970's the marque was probably quite rare and, pre-single european economic market, regarded as a foreign luxury. A bit like the place now held by Marmite (First blog history mention) in the ethnic food section of Stateside hypermarkets.
Under the current market domination of the VW brand any attempt to emulate the childhood wave would resemble juvenile dementia or look like a panic stricken attempt to alert the authorities to abduction or mistreatment.
The attitude of motorists and their passengers has also changed dramatically and any hint of a hand signal, even an innocent wave, from a passing vehicle can be misconstrued as an invitation to road rage. I grew up, I now acknowledge in much more innocent times. A wave was then a wave and not a declaration of war.
I am on waving terms with a Lollipop Lady on my short drive to the office. She has been a regular for many years at the school crossing in front of the main entrance to All Saints Juniors and I was on speaking terms when passing the time of day at dropping off and picking up times for my own children now some 15 years ago. My youngest went to Secondary level some 6 years ago.
Our waving is probably a continuation of our last conversation at that time, a semaphore based communication around the merits and rivalry of our respective footie teams, mine Hull City and hers the mighty Leeds United. Her team have yo-yo'd through peaks and troughs over the last 15 years from Champions League semi's to rapid insolvency and a series of relegations to the lower leagues. I have waved sympathetically and with due respect on the mornings after a particularly bad result for her team. Hull City's brief two seasons in the Premier League and a series of humiliations did lead me to consider taking a more roundabout route to the office on many monday mornings after the regular weekend defeats.
Now that our respective teams are in the same lower league and play each other quite regularly there is a definite edge and oneupmanship in our gestures. I am grateful that her duites involve holding onto a fluorescent lollipop stick in her right hand and stopping traffic with the raised palm of her left hand as if I time my drive at well below 20mph over the successive speed bumps outside the school I can avoid her celebratory wave when her team thump 3 or more goals past The Tigers. The Lollipop wave takes a mere 3 seconds but is a nice constant in a changing world.
The other crossing point at the eastern gate of the playground has had a massive turnover of quite grumpy and officious jobs-worths with no intention of fraternising with the enemy.
It is a bad thing to admit to but I would probably not recognise the Lollipop Lady out of context of the school gates or the jauntily worn peaked high viz cap, dazzlingly bright and reflective banded all weather knee length coat and her Doctor Martin bovver boots.
Sunday, 31 January 2016
Saturday, 30 January 2016
Beach Hut Huddle
The occasion of my Wife's birthday in January always introduces a challenge to find something interesting and engaging to do to celebrate it even though she is the first to advocate austerity after the extravagances of December.
It is a difficult balancing act involving detailed research and calling upon my somewhat limited imagination and inspiration. The process this year was no different. I should know by now not to buy anything based on a picture in a brochure. It can only lead to disappointment, or at least in the vast majority of purchases.
This flaw in my character can be traced back to my childhood years.
I spent a good couple of years saving up tokens from packets of Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum for the purpose of sending away for a camera which was attractively depicted in their catalogue. I was too innocent to comprehend that the equivalent spend to amass the required number of tokens would be a direct reflection of the quality of the item. Sure enough. It was rubbish, a cheap plastic thing and it just didn't work.
Nevertheless, the six months it took to arrive after posting the tokens was one of intense excitement for me. Every day I would await the click of the front gate announcing the passage of the postman up the garden path only to have my hopes dashed.
I did not learn from that bitter experience.
Even today the shop window that is E Bay and Amazon, although glossy and detailed in its presentation of products, is no guarantee, for me, of a completely happy transaction. There is consumer law and legislation about defective goods and services but I base my level of customer satisfaction on the difference between that initial surge of adrenaline on pushing the "BUY NOW" key and what subsequently arrives in the mail a few days later.
I am not saying that sellers seek to bamboozle and hoodwink, rather I have unreasonably high expectations of the shopping process.
There is one stand-out purchase in my 50 odd years as a member of the western capitalist ideal. That was a week ago. It was the hire, for my Wife's birthday on a Saturday in January , of a seafront Beach Hut overlooking North Bay, Scarborough on the Yorkshire Coast.
I am not sure where the idea came from.
My in-laws, on a Christmas stay in Scarborough a couple of years ago had use of similar as part of their accommodation but otherwise me and beach huts have no connection.
Out of season the array of Promenade positioned wooden structures are almost invisible, doors usually boarded up against the ravages of storm surges and salt sprays, primary colours dulled and shrouded in fog, mist and graffiti.
Those owned and managed by the Local Authority remain dormant until at least Easter when bookings can be made. In recent years a swanky development of holiday apartments at North Bay included construction of a few rows of brightly painted, traditional timber clad and felt shingle roofed beach huts.
These sold rapidly to those for whom a beach hut is an essential part of a British seaside holiday, a place to be enjoyed and cherished out of the wind and driving rain but also appealing to an emerging culture of investors who could generate an income from rentals.
A phone call to the number on an on-line sales brochure elicited that the privately owned beach huts were indeed available even in the damp and cold conditions at the beginning of a New Year.
For the sum of £25 it could be hired from 9am to 6pm on the chosen day.
What was included? I enquired of the sales office. "an electric kettle, a lightbulb, a cold water tap over a sink and two canvas deckchairs" was the answer.
The written confirmation of the booking, received a few days later, was two pages of conditions and restrictions with quite severe sanctions for misuse or misappropriation. I understood why as a prime sea front location could serve as a great pitch to vend fast food, hot drinks, dog walking accessories and to cater for the brave souls striding out over the sands blowing away their own cobwebs and excesses.
The birthday girl and four of us guests arrived early on the Saturday.
The key would not work in the lock but a workman was summoned and arrived with his miracle WD40 spray. This expelled the corrosive moisture from the mechanism and we were in.
It was a small space. In metric units, about 3 metres square including, on the back wall, a worktop with stainless steel basin and cupboards beneath. The interior was spartan with a rustic wash effect painted planking and linoleum floor covering. Last occupation was indicated by a small string of Christmas lights, an artificial tree and a faint but distinctive odour of plum pudding and mulled wine.
We crowded in, or rather just got out of the wind and heavy cold air. This was an instant relief although we were well prepared with multiple layers of clothing of thick winter coats, hats, gloves ,scarves, blankets and rugs.
As first priority the kettle was filled and emptied into the two hot water bottles and rationed out for ten minutes per person. The contracted two deckchairs were actually four deckchairs but I had to perch on the worktop. A cup of tea followed quickly although I had only packed three cups in the wicker picnic hamper.
The tide was out giving a broad view of sand and rock pools with the silhouette of the historic Scarborough Castle on its clifftop to the south east and the white tented effect roofs over the Sea Life Centre to the north.
Although early on a saturday it was busy. Free out of season car parking was a bonus and there were large family groups on the beach and everyone seemed to have one or more free ranging dogs. One of the beach hut doors was left open by which to soak up the atmosphere but also to retain as much bodily generated warmth as possible within the thin wooden walls.
We had planned on a fish and chip lunch or early tea and so just took snacks and a birthday cake made by our son. I gave in to the cold and on a trip to a seafront supermarket under the posh apartments found the essential items of Pot Noodles, savoury filled pastry slices, crisps and chocolate.
The kettle was not allowed to get cold for the duration.
A few of our party went for an hours walk along the Bay. I stayed behind in the sentry box and tried to get comfortable across two deckchairs under blankets and with both, refilled hot water bottles. This proved impossible. It was a restless sixty minutes that seemed so much longer.
With everyone back we sang Happy Birthday to my wife and finished off the great home baked cake with our second or third gallon of tea. Word association games and people watching passed the time. To onlookers we must have resembled a Care Home outing huddled in our sensible clothes. We laughed at little bit of self imposed adversity but were grateful for the shelter and companionship.
It was a happy and relaxed few hours but inevitably we came to the mutual decision that we had had enough of the experience.
We were by now chilled to the bones and awash with a combination of tea, cake and curried noodles.
The twin attractions of the Scarborough South Bay Amusement Arcades and Fish and Chip Shops were calling out to us.
We must have looked a bedraggled sight making our way back along the Promenade rosy cheeked and stiff limbed to the car but all agreed that we would return, but only on the hottest day of the year.
It is a difficult balancing act involving detailed research and calling upon my somewhat limited imagination and inspiration. The process this year was no different. I should know by now not to buy anything based on a picture in a brochure. It can only lead to disappointment, or at least in the vast majority of purchases.
This flaw in my character can be traced back to my childhood years.
I spent a good couple of years saving up tokens from packets of Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum for the purpose of sending away for a camera which was attractively depicted in their catalogue. I was too innocent to comprehend that the equivalent spend to amass the required number of tokens would be a direct reflection of the quality of the item. Sure enough. It was rubbish, a cheap plastic thing and it just didn't work.
Nevertheless, the six months it took to arrive after posting the tokens was one of intense excitement for me. Every day I would await the click of the front gate announcing the passage of the postman up the garden path only to have my hopes dashed.
I did not learn from that bitter experience.
Even today the shop window that is E Bay and Amazon, although glossy and detailed in its presentation of products, is no guarantee, for me, of a completely happy transaction. There is consumer law and legislation about defective goods and services but I base my level of customer satisfaction on the difference between that initial surge of adrenaline on pushing the "BUY NOW" key and what subsequently arrives in the mail a few days later.
I am not saying that sellers seek to bamboozle and hoodwink, rather I have unreasonably high expectations of the shopping process.
There is one stand-out purchase in my 50 odd years as a member of the western capitalist ideal. That was a week ago. It was the hire, for my Wife's birthday on a Saturday in January , of a seafront Beach Hut overlooking North Bay, Scarborough on the Yorkshire Coast.
I am not sure where the idea came from.
My in-laws, on a Christmas stay in Scarborough a couple of years ago had use of similar as part of their accommodation but otherwise me and beach huts have no connection.
Out of season the array of Promenade positioned wooden structures are almost invisible, doors usually boarded up against the ravages of storm surges and salt sprays, primary colours dulled and shrouded in fog, mist and graffiti.
Those owned and managed by the Local Authority remain dormant until at least Easter when bookings can be made. In recent years a swanky development of holiday apartments at North Bay included construction of a few rows of brightly painted, traditional timber clad and felt shingle roofed beach huts.
These sold rapidly to those for whom a beach hut is an essential part of a British seaside holiday, a place to be enjoyed and cherished out of the wind and driving rain but also appealing to an emerging culture of investors who could generate an income from rentals.
A phone call to the number on an on-line sales brochure elicited that the privately owned beach huts were indeed available even in the damp and cold conditions at the beginning of a New Year.
For the sum of £25 it could be hired from 9am to 6pm on the chosen day.
What was included? I enquired of the sales office. "an electric kettle, a lightbulb, a cold water tap over a sink and two canvas deckchairs" was the answer.
The written confirmation of the booking, received a few days later, was two pages of conditions and restrictions with quite severe sanctions for misuse or misappropriation. I understood why as a prime sea front location could serve as a great pitch to vend fast food, hot drinks, dog walking accessories and to cater for the brave souls striding out over the sands blowing away their own cobwebs and excesses.
The birthday girl and four of us guests arrived early on the Saturday.
The key would not work in the lock but a workman was summoned and arrived with his miracle WD40 spray. This expelled the corrosive moisture from the mechanism and we were in.
It was a small space. In metric units, about 3 metres square including, on the back wall, a worktop with stainless steel basin and cupboards beneath. The interior was spartan with a rustic wash effect painted planking and linoleum floor covering. Last occupation was indicated by a small string of Christmas lights, an artificial tree and a faint but distinctive odour of plum pudding and mulled wine.
We crowded in, or rather just got out of the wind and heavy cold air. This was an instant relief although we were well prepared with multiple layers of clothing of thick winter coats, hats, gloves ,scarves, blankets and rugs.
As first priority the kettle was filled and emptied into the two hot water bottles and rationed out for ten minutes per person. The contracted two deckchairs were actually four deckchairs but I had to perch on the worktop. A cup of tea followed quickly although I had only packed three cups in the wicker picnic hamper.
The tide was out giving a broad view of sand and rock pools with the silhouette of the historic Scarborough Castle on its clifftop to the south east and the white tented effect roofs over the Sea Life Centre to the north.
Although early on a saturday it was busy. Free out of season car parking was a bonus and there were large family groups on the beach and everyone seemed to have one or more free ranging dogs. One of the beach hut doors was left open by which to soak up the atmosphere but also to retain as much bodily generated warmth as possible within the thin wooden walls.
We had planned on a fish and chip lunch or early tea and so just took snacks and a birthday cake made by our son. I gave in to the cold and on a trip to a seafront supermarket under the posh apartments found the essential items of Pot Noodles, savoury filled pastry slices, crisps and chocolate.
The kettle was not allowed to get cold for the duration.
A few of our party went for an hours walk along the Bay. I stayed behind in the sentry box and tried to get comfortable across two deckchairs under blankets and with both, refilled hot water bottles. This proved impossible. It was a restless sixty minutes that seemed so much longer.
With everyone back we sang Happy Birthday to my wife and finished off the great home baked cake with our second or third gallon of tea. Word association games and people watching passed the time. To onlookers we must have resembled a Care Home outing huddled in our sensible clothes. We laughed at little bit of self imposed adversity but were grateful for the shelter and companionship.
It was a happy and relaxed few hours but inevitably we came to the mutual decision that we had had enough of the experience.
We were by now chilled to the bones and awash with a combination of tea, cake and curried noodles.
The twin attractions of the Scarborough South Bay Amusement Arcades and Fish and Chip Shops were calling out to us.
We must have looked a bedraggled sight making our way back along the Promenade rosy cheeked and stiff limbed to the car but all agreed that we would return, but only on the hottest day of the year.
Friday, 29 January 2016
Moneybags
Money comes easily to some people.
It may be from the inheritance of a fortune, the germ of an idea that becomes an indispensable part of modern life, a piece of writing that captures the imagination of a generation, a natural skill that can be put to good exploitative use by others, stumbling across something valuable, from the proceeds of despicable crime or it is won in a game of chance or on the scratching away of a small sliver of silver.
I like one of the sayings attributed to the American multi millionaire J Paul Getty which shows a good attitude to and a wicked acceptance of his fantastic wealth, "Rise early, work hard, strike oil". On that mantra I can be severely criticised as performing only at just over 66% of my potential.
Money has always burnt a hole in my pockets and I find it very difficult to hold onto it for very long if at all. Not that I am upset or feel at a disadvantage by this trait. Indeed I have casually observed people with plenty of money whose main pursuit in life is not to lose it and this sadly produces much anxiety and stress that must serve to completely hamstring them from ever really enjoying the rewards of their endeavours, however it has been got.
It is often the case that the wealthiest are also the most cost conscious or what the rest of us refer to as tight. In the current but prolonged recession it is clear that around 85% of the nation is skint and retracting in their spending and confidence whilst the remaining percentage are cleaning up nicely, thank you very much, by being able to access cash or other funds. In adversity comes a determination to survive and resourcefulness and innovation emerge as a strong motivation. This may explain the upsurge in such operations as hand car washes, wheelie bin swiller-outers and the chronically accident prone as customers for the sudden proliferation of accident lawyers.
Money can empower and facilitate great things but any reference to it still attracts derogatory and quite obscene terms. This is by no means a modern phenomena as early literature and drama refers in ribald and bawdy language throughout many centuries. My favourite term of 'filthy lucre' is reputed to have been a broad interpretation of a passage from the book of Leviticus by William Tyndale in his translation of the Bible in 1525.
It is clear that money can also cause great misery. Perhaps one of the best documented cases is that of Viv Nicholson. In 1961 there were few opportunities to win a lot of money but the main competition of the time was the football pools. I remember a regular caller to our house being the 'pools man' who would drop off and collect the weekly coupon. Talk about confusing to a young child. The form was ultra complex in its multiple boxes, permutations , red and black inkiness and it took a keen mathematical brain to work out how much had to be handed over in payment before the duplicate slip could be detached and propped up behind the clock on the mantelpiece. We never to my recollection won anything. Hopes were readily dashed by the dour voice at the end of the saturday football results if the pools forecast was poor or even moderate. Viv Nicholson won over £152,000 which in current monies equates to around £3 million. An unimaginable sum in the early sixties and with enough spending power to buy 306 standard Mini's or 54 average priced houses depending on whether you had an indoor toilet or not. Sadly a combination of personal tragedy, poor investments and the much coined 'Spend, Spend, Spend' approach did little for the rainy day account.
The prospect of winning £3 million pounds today may be met with cries of 'is that all?' because of the cheapening of money as a prize. Its easy availability to win with almost every commercial break on TV, on alternate pages of newspapers and glossy magazines or on the purchase of a lottery ticket means a much reduced perception of what is a life changing amount. We should just stand back and do a quick piece of mental arithmetic on how many years it would take of our current working income to reach such a figure. Adopting an average annual wage from the combined male and female figures makes it around 109 years.
The sight of Lottery winners is now so commonplace as to be overlooked as an event or to be acknowledged as good fortune. Some of the back stories of winners do attest to justice and entitlement but the majority do not.
Hard earned money by conventional and lawful means does have a special pedigree of its own. I can appreciate the dewy eyed sentiment of many who have trod this path that accumulating that first fortune was the best time of their lives.
I was told a great story in recent days about what having a nice amount of money can mean. It centres around a family from what was a hardcore coal mining town in South Yorkshire. A life downt'' pit was replaced by a thriving business in the community which grew to multiple shops and consequential wealth. The matriarch of the family expressed delight to a long time friend in the town in announcing that they had just purchased a plane. As an indicator of sustainable wealth an aircraft is right up there with a yacht or overseas homes. It meant, above all, to the family that it now only took 20 minutes to get to their favourite seaside resort of Skegness. True class always shines through.
It may be from the inheritance of a fortune, the germ of an idea that becomes an indispensable part of modern life, a piece of writing that captures the imagination of a generation, a natural skill that can be put to good exploitative use by others, stumbling across something valuable, from the proceeds of despicable crime or it is won in a game of chance or on the scratching away of a small sliver of silver.
I like one of the sayings attributed to the American multi millionaire J Paul Getty which shows a good attitude to and a wicked acceptance of his fantastic wealth, "Rise early, work hard, strike oil". On that mantra I can be severely criticised as performing only at just over 66% of my potential.
Money has always burnt a hole in my pockets and I find it very difficult to hold onto it for very long if at all. Not that I am upset or feel at a disadvantage by this trait. Indeed I have casually observed people with plenty of money whose main pursuit in life is not to lose it and this sadly produces much anxiety and stress that must serve to completely hamstring them from ever really enjoying the rewards of their endeavours, however it has been got.
It is often the case that the wealthiest are also the most cost conscious or what the rest of us refer to as tight. In the current but prolonged recession it is clear that around 85% of the nation is skint and retracting in their spending and confidence whilst the remaining percentage are cleaning up nicely, thank you very much, by being able to access cash or other funds. In adversity comes a determination to survive and resourcefulness and innovation emerge as a strong motivation. This may explain the upsurge in such operations as hand car washes, wheelie bin swiller-outers and the chronically accident prone as customers for the sudden proliferation of accident lawyers.
Money can empower and facilitate great things but any reference to it still attracts derogatory and quite obscene terms. This is by no means a modern phenomena as early literature and drama refers in ribald and bawdy language throughout many centuries. My favourite term of 'filthy lucre' is reputed to have been a broad interpretation of a passage from the book of Leviticus by William Tyndale in his translation of the Bible in 1525.
It is clear that money can also cause great misery. Perhaps one of the best documented cases is that of Viv Nicholson. In 1961 there were few opportunities to win a lot of money but the main competition of the time was the football pools. I remember a regular caller to our house being the 'pools man' who would drop off and collect the weekly coupon. Talk about confusing to a young child. The form was ultra complex in its multiple boxes, permutations , red and black inkiness and it took a keen mathematical brain to work out how much had to be handed over in payment before the duplicate slip could be detached and propped up behind the clock on the mantelpiece. We never to my recollection won anything. Hopes were readily dashed by the dour voice at the end of the saturday football results if the pools forecast was poor or even moderate. Viv Nicholson won over £152,000 which in current monies equates to around £3 million. An unimaginable sum in the early sixties and with enough spending power to buy 306 standard Mini's or 54 average priced houses depending on whether you had an indoor toilet or not. Sadly a combination of personal tragedy, poor investments and the much coined 'Spend, Spend, Spend' approach did little for the rainy day account.
The prospect of winning £3 million pounds today may be met with cries of 'is that all?' because of the cheapening of money as a prize. Its easy availability to win with almost every commercial break on TV, on alternate pages of newspapers and glossy magazines or on the purchase of a lottery ticket means a much reduced perception of what is a life changing amount. We should just stand back and do a quick piece of mental arithmetic on how many years it would take of our current working income to reach such a figure. Adopting an average annual wage from the combined male and female figures makes it around 109 years.
The sight of Lottery winners is now so commonplace as to be overlooked as an event or to be acknowledged as good fortune. Some of the back stories of winners do attest to justice and entitlement but the majority do not.
Hard earned money by conventional and lawful means does have a special pedigree of its own. I can appreciate the dewy eyed sentiment of many who have trod this path that accumulating that first fortune was the best time of their lives.
I was told a great story in recent days about what having a nice amount of money can mean. It centres around a family from what was a hardcore coal mining town in South Yorkshire. A life downt'' pit was replaced by a thriving business in the community which grew to multiple shops and consequential wealth. The matriarch of the family expressed delight to a long time friend in the town in announcing that they had just purchased a plane. As an indicator of sustainable wealth an aircraft is right up there with a yacht or overseas homes. It meant, above all, to the family that it now only took 20 minutes to get to their favourite seaside resort of Skegness. True class always shines through.
Thursday, 28 January 2016
Challenger 30 years on. Touch the Face of God*
I am one of the generation, born in the 1960's, for whom space and it's exploration represented the absolute future. I watched the grainy black and white television broadcast of the Armstrong Moon landing which led me to expect to be living on the moon or another planet in my adult years. At minimum I felt that I was promised a jet pack. The development of the NASA Space Shuttle was a natural evolution for mankind's pioneering of space and I followed, excitedly, its first flight and graceful glide back to earth. The tragic event of exactly 30 years ago today seemed to mark the end of an era. Many hopes and dreams were shattered that day.
On January 28, 1986, the American shuttle orbiter Challenger broke up 73 seconds after liftoff, bringing a devastating end to the spacecraft’s 10th mission. The disaster claimed the lives of all seven astronauts aboard, including Christa McAuliffe, a teacher from New Hampshire who had been selected to join the mission and teach lessons from space to schoolchildren around the country. It was later determined that two rubber O-rings, which had been designed to separate the sections of the rocket booster, had failed due to cold temperatures on the morning of the launch. The tragedy and its aftermath received extensive media coverage and prompted NASA to temporarily suspend all shuttle missions.
In 1976, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) unveiled the world’s first reusable manned spacecraft, known as the space shuttle. Five years later, shuttle flights began when Columbia traveled into space on a 54-hour mission. Launched by two solid-rocket boosters and an external tank, the aircraft-like shuttle entered into orbit around Earth. When the mission was completed, the shuttle fired engines to reduce speed and, after descending through the atmosphere, landed like a glider. Early shuttles took satellite equipment into space and carried out various scientific experiments.
After "Teacher in Space" Christa McAuliffe was killed during the 1986 Challenger disaster, her backup, a former math teacher named Barbara Morgan, served as a mission specialist during a 2007 flight of the shuttle Endeavor.
Challenger, NASA’s second space shuttle to enter service, embarked on its maiden voyage on April 4, 1983, and made a total of nine voyages prior to 1986. That year, it was scheduled to launch on January 22 carrying a seven-member crew that included Christa McAuliffe, a 37-year-old high school social studies instructor from New Hampshire who had earned a spot on the mission through NASA’s Teacher in Space Program. After undergoing months of training, she was set to become the first ordinary American citizen to travel into space.
The mission’s launch from Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral, Florida, was delayed for six days due to weather and technical problems. The morning of January 28 was unusually cold, and engineers warned their superiors that certain components—particularly the rubber O-rings that sealed the joints of the shuttle’s solid rocket boosters—were vulnerable to failure at low temperatures. However, these warnings went unheeded, and at 11:39 a.m. Challenger lifted off.
Seventy-three seconds later, hundreds on the ground, including the families of McAuliffe and the other astronauts on board, stared in disbelief as the shuttle broke up in a forking plume of smoke and fire. Millions more watched the wrenching tragedy unfold on live television. Within instants, the spacecraft broke apart and plunged into the ocean, killing its entire crew, traumatising the nation and throwing NASA’s shuttle program into turmoil.
Shortly after the disaster, President Ronald Reagan appointed a special commission to determine what went wrong with Challenger and to develop future corrective measures. Headed by former secretary of state William Rogers, the commission included former astronaut Neil Armstrong and former test pilot Chuck Yeager. Their investigation revealed that the O-ring seal on Challenger’s solid rocket booster, which had become brittle in the cold temperatures, failed. Flames then broke out of the booster and damaged the external fuel tank, causing the spacecraft to disintegrate. It is thought that the protective crew compartment was ejected clear of the inferno and that the astronauts may have been conscious for the four minutes of the descent but did not survive the impact into the ocean.
The commission also found that Morton Thiokol, the company that designed the solid rocket boosters, had ignored warnings about potential issues. NASA managers were aware of these design problems but also failed to take action. Famously, scientist Richard Feynman, a member of the commission, demonstrated the O-ring flaw to the public using a simple glass of ice water.
After the accident, NASA refrained from sending astronauts into space for more than two years as it redesigned a number of the shuttle’s features. Flights began again in September 1988 with the successful launching of Discovery. Since then, the space shuttle has carried out numerous important missions, including the repair and maintenance of the Hubble Space Telescope and the construction of the International Space Station. On February 1, 2003, a second space shuttle disaster rocked the United States when Columbia disintegrated upon re-entry, killing all aboard. While missions resumed in July 2005, the space shuttle is slated for retirement in 2011.
Ten years after the Challenger tragedy, two large pieces from the spacecraft washed ashore on a Florida beach. The remaining debris is now stored in a missile silo at Cape Canaveral.
(Source; History.com) *Used in a speech by Ronald Reagan, US President 1986
On January 28, 1986, the American shuttle orbiter Challenger broke up 73 seconds after liftoff, bringing a devastating end to the spacecraft’s 10th mission. The disaster claimed the lives of all seven astronauts aboard, including Christa McAuliffe, a teacher from New Hampshire who had been selected to join the mission and teach lessons from space to schoolchildren around the country. It was later determined that two rubber O-rings, which had been designed to separate the sections of the rocket booster, had failed due to cold temperatures on the morning of the launch. The tragedy and its aftermath received extensive media coverage and prompted NASA to temporarily suspend all shuttle missions.
In 1976, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) unveiled the world’s first reusable manned spacecraft, known as the space shuttle. Five years later, shuttle flights began when Columbia traveled into space on a 54-hour mission. Launched by two solid-rocket boosters and an external tank, the aircraft-like shuttle entered into orbit around Earth. When the mission was completed, the shuttle fired engines to reduce speed and, after descending through the atmosphere, landed like a glider. Early shuttles took satellite equipment into space and carried out various scientific experiments.
After "Teacher in Space" Christa McAuliffe was killed during the 1986 Challenger disaster, her backup, a former math teacher named Barbara Morgan, served as a mission specialist during a 2007 flight of the shuttle Endeavor.
Challenger, NASA’s second space shuttle to enter service, embarked on its maiden voyage on April 4, 1983, and made a total of nine voyages prior to 1986. That year, it was scheduled to launch on January 22 carrying a seven-member crew that included Christa McAuliffe, a 37-year-old high school social studies instructor from New Hampshire who had earned a spot on the mission through NASA’s Teacher in Space Program. After undergoing months of training, she was set to become the first ordinary American citizen to travel into space.
The mission’s launch from Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral, Florida, was delayed for six days due to weather and technical problems. The morning of January 28 was unusually cold, and engineers warned their superiors that certain components—particularly the rubber O-rings that sealed the joints of the shuttle’s solid rocket boosters—were vulnerable to failure at low temperatures. However, these warnings went unheeded, and at 11:39 a.m. Challenger lifted off.
Seventy-three seconds later, hundreds on the ground, including the families of McAuliffe and the other astronauts on board, stared in disbelief as the shuttle broke up in a forking plume of smoke and fire. Millions more watched the wrenching tragedy unfold on live television. Within instants, the spacecraft broke apart and plunged into the ocean, killing its entire crew, traumatising the nation and throwing NASA’s shuttle program into turmoil.
Shortly after the disaster, President Ronald Reagan appointed a special commission to determine what went wrong with Challenger and to develop future corrective measures. Headed by former secretary of state William Rogers, the commission included former astronaut Neil Armstrong and former test pilot Chuck Yeager. Their investigation revealed that the O-ring seal on Challenger’s solid rocket booster, which had become brittle in the cold temperatures, failed. Flames then broke out of the booster and damaged the external fuel tank, causing the spacecraft to disintegrate. It is thought that the protective crew compartment was ejected clear of the inferno and that the astronauts may have been conscious for the four minutes of the descent but did not survive the impact into the ocean.
The commission also found that Morton Thiokol, the company that designed the solid rocket boosters, had ignored warnings about potential issues. NASA managers were aware of these design problems but also failed to take action. Famously, scientist Richard Feynman, a member of the commission, demonstrated the O-ring flaw to the public using a simple glass of ice water.
After the accident, NASA refrained from sending astronauts into space for more than two years as it redesigned a number of the shuttle’s features. Flights began again in September 1988 with the successful launching of Discovery. Since then, the space shuttle has carried out numerous important missions, including the repair and maintenance of the Hubble Space Telescope and the construction of the International Space Station. On February 1, 2003, a second space shuttle disaster rocked the United States when Columbia disintegrated upon re-entry, killing all aboard. While missions resumed in July 2005, the space shuttle is slated for retirement in 2011.
Ten years after the Challenger tragedy, two large pieces from the spacecraft washed ashore on a Florida beach. The remaining debris is now stored in a missile silo at Cape Canaveral.
(Source; History.com) *Used in a speech by Ronald Reagan, US President 1986
Wednesday, 27 January 2016
French Lessons
Opportunistic or misguided can be words which can readily apply in the business world where a scheme could as easily lead to a fortune as cause ruin and misery.
I know from personal experience all about this although I was, I admit only 10 years old but convinced that my fame and wealth would be in maggot farming. I seem to remember that this rather strange ambition was borne out of my shortage of pocket money with which to purchase a pint, or more realistically half a pint or a beaker full of maggots for fishing. Why not, I thought, grow some for my own use and have plenty to sell wholesale to the angling shop or to my friends.
The actual process behind my master plan was, upon actual research, unpleasant involving animal hearts, bran buckets and clouds of egg laying flies. I made a decision not to go ahead on very convincing business grounds or rather my Mother found out and banned me from having anything more to do with that aspect of agriculture.
The same sort of initial enthusiasm but quick to evaporate was evident today in a suburb of my home city.
A large polythene tunnel, often seen covering acre upon acre of horticultural fields and housing everything from broccoli to soft fruits, was unceremoniously wedged at an angle in the only slightly larger back garden of a semi detached house.
It was quite a landmark in the street being visible from many of the neighbouring and surrounding residencies so not intended to cultivate an illegal cash crop.
I was disappointed, on lifting back the tunnel flaps, to see that it was in fact empty of anything alive but had clearly and until recently served as the safe and cosy environment for some organism.
The occupier noticed my vacant expression on discovering the vacant under cover area and felt that he had to explain what had gone on in there.
He and a French friend had taken to heart part of a speech by the Mayor of London, the eccentric Boris Johnson in 2015 on the occasion of a meeting with Alain Juppe, onetime Prime Minister of France, then Mayor of Bordeaux.
Juppe, perhaps feeling a bit overwhelmed by the size of Johnson's London catchment commented that his Atlantic Coast city environ with a population of just under 240,000 was the ninth biggest in his country. On the basis that, to Johnson's understanding, London was home to around a quarter of a million French Nationals he retorted that he was therefore an elected leader of the sixth biggest French city on earth.
That Boris, love him or loathe him, he just loves a moment, or a lifetime of oneupmanship in the media spotlight.
This fact, one of great contention does actually range from 66,000 documented French passport holders in London (Source; UK Office of National Statistics) to 86,000 (2011 UK Census) around 300,000 according to the French Consulate and home grown British estimates of upwards of 400,000, had made the house occupier and his Gallic acquaintance think.
If there was indeed a sizeable resident population from across the Channel then perhaps a sympathetically French venture could tap into the market and earn them a tidy income.
If you consider stereotypical aspects of Franco-culture against my observations of the poly-tunnel then you would expect it to have been used to cultivate what?,
Garlic,
truffles,
aniseed,
pomegranates, or
olives?
The business idea planned and enacted by the likely pair was snail farming or as it is known Heliculture.
To those already involved in this pursuit which has seen UK production expand from 30,000 snails in the year 2000 to around three quarters of a million currently it is seen as perhaps one of the easiest forms of farming.
It takes up very little space with a concentration of 200 snails per square square metre in the breeding stage and 300 in the same area when being "fattened" for eating. This has prompted a few Heliculturalists to begin in the modest surroundings of a back garden only serving to encourage my host.
Start up costs are modest and snails just get on with breeding and growing with little interference.
A popular breed is Helix aspersa, a fast growing garden species related to the common garden snail. From eggs they morph into tiny snails called hatchlings before developing on a diet of natural vegetation and water spray delivered feed. A free range option has its benefits for welfare and health although within the cocoon of the poly tunnel the snails occupied crates and pens under temperature controlled conditions.The life cycle from hatch to harvest takes around 16 weeks making it possible to have 3 crops every year.
In readiness for the dining table the snails are purged through starvation as an extreme method or more humanely placed in bran for a week or fed with milk.
Snails have been elevated to gourmet status in popular French culture although do have proven nutritional benefits in being fat free, high in vitamins A,C and D and amino acids.
The product range of some of the larger UK farms includes live, blanched out of their shells, fully cooked braised, garlic dressed shelled, oven ready , in a herb and wine sauce and snail caviar.
It appears the Heliculture Partnership in my local area soon foundered through over-optimistic expectations of demand, a poor supply chain network (one of the two entrepreneurs only had an unreliable old van), a low volume of production so as to make uneconomic and when it came down to it, no real appetite within 100 miles of the polythene tent for this gastronomic treat.
Well, what did you expect in Yorkshire?
I know from personal experience all about this although I was, I admit only 10 years old but convinced that my fame and wealth would be in maggot farming. I seem to remember that this rather strange ambition was borne out of my shortage of pocket money with which to purchase a pint, or more realistically half a pint or a beaker full of maggots for fishing. Why not, I thought, grow some for my own use and have plenty to sell wholesale to the angling shop or to my friends.
The actual process behind my master plan was, upon actual research, unpleasant involving animal hearts, bran buckets and clouds of egg laying flies. I made a decision not to go ahead on very convincing business grounds or rather my Mother found out and banned me from having anything more to do with that aspect of agriculture.
The same sort of initial enthusiasm but quick to evaporate was evident today in a suburb of my home city.
A large polythene tunnel, often seen covering acre upon acre of horticultural fields and housing everything from broccoli to soft fruits, was unceremoniously wedged at an angle in the only slightly larger back garden of a semi detached house.
It was quite a landmark in the street being visible from many of the neighbouring and surrounding residencies so not intended to cultivate an illegal cash crop.
I was disappointed, on lifting back the tunnel flaps, to see that it was in fact empty of anything alive but had clearly and until recently served as the safe and cosy environment for some organism.
The occupier noticed my vacant expression on discovering the vacant under cover area and felt that he had to explain what had gone on in there.
He and a French friend had taken to heart part of a speech by the Mayor of London, the eccentric Boris Johnson in 2015 on the occasion of a meeting with Alain Juppe, onetime Prime Minister of France, then Mayor of Bordeaux.
Juppe, perhaps feeling a bit overwhelmed by the size of Johnson's London catchment commented that his Atlantic Coast city environ with a population of just under 240,000 was the ninth biggest in his country. On the basis that, to Johnson's understanding, London was home to around a quarter of a million French Nationals he retorted that he was therefore an elected leader of the sixth biggest French city on earth.
That Boris, love him or loathe him, he just loves a moment, or a lifetime of oneupmanship in the media spotlight.
This fact, one of great contention does actually range from 66,000 documented French passport holders in London (Source; UK Office of National Statistics) to 86,000 (2011 UK Census) around 300,000 according to the French Consulate and home grown British estimates of upwards of 400,000, had made the house occupier and his Gallic acquaintance think.
If there was indeed a sizeable resident population from across the Channel then perhaps a sympathetically French venture could tap into the market and earn them a tidy income.
If you consider stereotypical aspects of Franco-culture against my observations of the poly-tunnel then you would expect it to have been used to cultivate what?,
Garlic,
truffles,
aniseed,
pomegranates, or
olives?
The business idea planned and enacted by the likely pair was snail farming or as it is known Heliculture.
To those already involved in this pursuit which has seen UK production expand from 30,000 snails in the year 2000 to around three quarters of a million currently it is seen as perhaps one of the easiest forms of farming.
It takes up very little space with a concentration of 200 snails per square square metre in the breeding stage and 300 in the same area when being "fattened" for eating. This has prompted a few Heliculturalists to begin in the modest surroundings of a back garden only serving to encourage my host.
Start up costs are modest and snails just get on with breeding and growing with little interference.
A popular breed is Helix aspersa, a fast growing garden species related to the common garden snail. From eggs they morph into tiny snails called hatchlings before developing on a diet of natural vegetation and water spray delivered feed. A free range option has its benefits for welfare and health although within the cocoon of the poly tunnel the snails occupied crates and pens under temperature controlled conditions.The life cycle from hatch to harvest takes around 16 weeks making it possible to have 3 crops every year.
In readiness for the dining table the snails are purged through starvation as an extreme method or more humanely placed in bran for a week or fed with milk.
Snails have been elevated to gourmet status in popular French culture although do have proven nutritional benefits in being fat free, high in vitamins A,C and D and amino acids.
The product range of some of the larger UK farms includes live, blanched out of their shells, fully cooked braised, garlic dressed shelled, oven ready , in a herb and wine sauce and snail caviar.
It appears the Heliculture Partnership in my local area soon foundered through over-optimistic expectations of demand, a poor supply chain network (one of the two entrepreneurs only had an unreliable old van), a low volume of production so as to make uneconomic and when it came down to it, no real appetite within 100 miles of the polythene tent for this gastronomic treat.
Well, what did you expect in Yorkshire?
Tuesday, 26 January 2016
Face; The Facts
Police officers with the ability to remember the faces of almost everyone they have ever seen are helping to crack down on crime. These individuals , known as "super-recognisers"with their unusual natural abilities are being deployed in a bid to keep the streets of London safe.
They are the people in possession of an extraordinary ability to recognise men, women and children they barely know. When put to the test "super-recognisers" can recall up to 95% of the faces seen compared to the average person, who remembers just 20%.
For this reason New Scotland Yard deploys an elite team of 140 officers across the Capital to try to capture the most wanted criminals.
The specialist team can recognise people from images just by seeing one or two features
PC Gary Collins is the Met's top super-recogniser and has identified more than 800 suspects from photographs, CCTV and his time policing the streets. His beat is Hackney, one of the capital's worst areas for crime. "Whenever an incident happens they'll call me in and show me the footage straight away. "I'll look [at it] and say, 'Yeah I know that person, I know him from this area or I stopped him on this occasion,' and it's just putting a name to the face."
Super-recognition is now seen as one of the Met's most powerful tools
This ability is thought to be a gift of nature, giving tools to identify someone perhaps only once fleetingly glimpsed. Even more impressive is that it is not necessary to see the whole face to make a positive identification.
"Quite a lot of people I have identified just from their various facial parts, some by their eyes, one guy I've identified by his nose," said PC Collins. "He had a scarf covering the bottom half of his face and a hood covering the top half, which was hanging over his eyes."He pleaded guilty in court, so we got it right, which was quite pleasing."
The features of people in crowds are quickly scanned by super-recognisers looking for criminals
Dr Josh Davis, a forensic facial identification expert from the University of Greenwich, is conducting a study into super-recognisers and their abilities. He spoke about his research after putting officers to the test. "We have tested them on passport images taken 10 years ago and they are still able to recognise where they've seen faces before," he said. "We think super-recognition is nature, rather than nurture, but I can't say 100%. People tend to emerge in their 20s and 30s, We're not really finding any super-recognisers in their teens so far."
Incredible as the skills of a super-recogniser are on the face of it, there are limitations. Research shows they struggle to identify people outside their own race. Detective Chief Inspector Mick Neville, head of the Metropolitan Police's central forensic image team, said: "There is clear, quite politically incorrect scientific evidence that certain people do see their own race better So the best person to identify a Chinese person, is somebody who's Chinese; the best person to identify a black person is a black person.".Though the "cross-race effect," as it is known, is not entirely clear-cut, said Dr Davis. "There are definitely some white officers in the super-recognition team working in communities that have a large ethnic minority, who pretty much only identify people from that ethnic minority," he added.
Mr Neville wants to more than triple the number of super-recognisers in his team and said there should be 500 working in London. He believes facial recognition will soon be as crucial as fingerprints and DNA in creating a mosaic of a suspect's crime history. His team employs a technique called "face net", where super-recognisers identify the same person committing several offences, for which they can be charged and face heavier penalties."In the past you would've just been convicted for the one crime based on CCTV and probably get a suspended sentence."But if the judge sees 10 or more offences, people go to prison," he added.
To date, the biggest test for the Police super recognisers has been the summer riots in 2011.
PC Collins was able to identify heavily disguised rioter Stephen Prince, who was seen throwing petrol bombs at police officers.As a result of his powers of recognition, Prince was caught, convicted and sent to prison, "It was a good result," said PC Collins.
Super-recognisers were also instrumental in locating murdered teenager Alice Gross last year.
They viewed thousands of hours of grainy, low-quality CCTV and within days identified the schoolgirl and at-that-point unidentified suspect Arnis Zalkalns, allowing them to draw a timeline which eventually led the discovery of the schoolgirl's body in the River Brent.
More recently, super-recognisers helped make more than 200 arrests at the annual Notting Hill carnival, using their skills to scan the crowds for wanted criminals and troublemakers. With successes such as these, it is clear why super-recognition is increasingly being seen as one of the most vital tools in the Met's fight against crime.
The most logical question given the advances in technology in recent years is can computers outperform people?
Super-recognisers are not the only tool open to the authorities when chasing a face. The ever-expanding field of facial recognition software offers the mechanical alternative to human talent, the science against the art.
But which offers the best chance of catching the criminal, now and in the future?
The facial recognition technology presents extraordinarily diverse options, from unlocking phones to feeding the right cat, but it is in the area of law-enforcement it provokes the strongest reactions. Trialled by authorities across the globe, in the UK it is being put through its paces by Leicestershire Police, who recently defended its use at the Download music festival, saying it was an "efficient and effective" way of tracking known offenders.Whilst the principle is simple, taking measurements of prominent features and comparing it with a database of photos, the practice is fiendishly complex. One restricting factor is that CCTV cannot always provide the best pictures,
Prof Raouf Hamzaoui from the Faculty of Technology at De Montfort University, said: "In ideal conditions, computers can outperform people, going through millions of possibilities in seconds.
"But with low quality pictures, typical of CCTV, where there is darkness, facial coverings, blurring and so on, the software struggles and the human does better.
On top of this concerns about computer processing power, the reliability of databases and ever-present fears over civil liberties and data protection, have dogged the concept. However, as with many technologies, the potential of the system is only starting to be realised. Prof Hamzaoui said: "The algorithms will be refined but for the time being, it looks like the human element will continue to win - after all it took millions of years of evolution to develop.
(Source; Lauren Potts, BBC News, October 2015)
They are the people in possession of an extraordinary ability to recognise men, women and children they barely know. When put to the test "super-recognisers" can recall up to 95% of the faces seen compared to the average person, who remembers just 20%.
For this reason New Scotland Yard deploys an elite team of 140 officers across the Capital to try to capture the most wanted criminals.
The specialist team can recognise people from images just by seeing one or two features
PC Gary Collins is the Met's top super-recogniser and has identified more than 800 suspects from photographs, CCTV and his time policing the streets. His beat is Hackney, one of the capital's worst areas for crime. "Whenever an incident happens they'll call me in and show me the footage straight away. "I'll look [at it] and say, 'Yeah I know that person, I know him from this area or I stopped him on this occasion,' and it's just putting a name to the face."
Super-recognition is now seen as one of the Met's most powerful tools
This ability is thought to be a gift of nature, giving tools to identify someone perhaps only once fleetingly glimpsed. Even more impressive is that it is not necessary to see the whole face to make a positive identification.
"Quite a lot of people I have identified just from their various facial parts, some by their eyes, one guy I've identified by his nose," said PC Collins. "He had a scarf covering the bottom half of his face and a hood covering the top half, which was hanging over his eyes."He pleaded guilty in court, so we got it right, which was quite pleasing."
The features of people in crowds are quickly scanned by super-recognisers looking for criminals
Dr Josh Davis, a forensic facial identification expert from the University of Greenwich, is conducting a study into super-recognisers and their abilities. He spoke about his research after putting officers to the test. "We have tested them on passport images taken 10 years ago and they are still able to recognise where they've seen faces before," he said. "We think super-recognition is nature, rather than nurture, but I can't say 100%. People tend to emerge in their 20s and 30s, We're not really finding any super-recognisers in their teens so far."
Incredible as the skills of a super-recogniser are on the face of it, there are limitations. Research shows they struggle to identify people outside their own race. Detective Chief Inspector Mick Neville, head of the Metropolitan Police's central forensic image team, said: "There is clear, quite politically incorrect scientific evidence that certain people do see their own race better So the best person to identify a Chinese person, is somebody who's Chinese; the best person to identify a black person is a black person.".Though the "cross-race effect," as it is known, is not entirely clear-cut, said Dr Davis. "There are definitely some white officers in the super-recognition team working in communities that have a large ethnic minority, who pretty much only identify people from that ethnic minority," he added.
Mr Neville wants to more than triple the number of super-recognisers in his team and said there should be 500 working in London. He believes facial recognition will soon be as crucial as fingerprints and DNA in creating a mosaic of a suspect's crime history. His team employs a technique called "face net", where super-recognisers identify the same person committing several offences, for which they can be charged and face heavier penalties."In the past you would've just been convicted for the one crime based on CCTV and probably get a suspended sentence."But if the judge sees 10 or more offences, people go to prison," he added.
To date, the biggest test for the Police super recognisers has been the summer riots in 2011.
PC Collins was able to identify heavily disguised rioter Stephen Prince, who was seen throwing petrol bombs at police officers.As a result of his powers of recognition, Prince was caught, convicted and sent to prison, "It was a good result," said PC Collins.
Super-recognisers were also instrumental in locating murdered teenager Alice Gross last year.
They viewed thousands of hours of grainy, low-quality CCTV and within days identified the schoolgirl and at-that-point unidentified suspect Arnis Zalkalns, allowing them to draw a timeline which eventually led the discovery of the schoolgirl's body in the River Brent.
More recently, super-recognisers helped make more than 200 arrests at the annual Notting Hill carnival, using their skills to scan the crowds for wanted criminals and troublemakers. With successes such as these, it is clear why super-recognition is increasingly being seen as one of the most vital tools in the Met's fight against crime.
The most logical question given the advances in technology in recent years is can computers outperform people?
Super-recognisers are not the only tool open to the authorities when chasing a face. The ever-expanding field of facial recognition software offers the mechanical alternative to human talent, the science against the art.
But which offers the best chance of catching the criminal, now and in the future?
The facial recognition technology presents extraordinarily diverse options, from unlocking phones to feeding the right cat, but it is in the area of law-enforcement it provokes the strongest reactions. Trialled by authorities across the globe, in the UK it is being put through its paces by Leicestershire Police, who recently defended its use at the Download music festival, saying it was an "efficient and effective" way of tracking known offenders.Whilst the principle is simple, taking measurements of prominent features and comparing it with a database of photos, the practice is fiendishly complex. One restricting factor is that CCTV cannot always provide the best pictures,
Prof Raouf Hamzaoui from the Faculty of Technology at De Montfort University, said: "In ideal conditions, computers can outperform people, going through millions of possibilities in seconds.
"But with low quality pictures, typical of CCTV, where there is darkness, facial coverings, blurring and so on, the software struggles and the human does better.
On top of this concerns about computer processing power, the reliability of databases and ever-present fears over civil liberties and data protection, have dogged the concept. However, as with many technologies, the potential of the system is only starting to be realised. Prof Hamzaoui said: "The algorithms will be refined but for the time being, it looks like the human element will continue to win - after all it took millions of years of evolution to develop.
(Source; Lauren Potts, BBC News, October 2015)
Monday, 25 January 2016
Burns Night 2016
On this Burn's Night 2016, I would definitely choose Scottish as preferred Nationality.
This is not on account of;
a) oil and gas reserves (although at current risk from the oil price fall)
b) a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world,
c) no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar,
d) the phenomena that is white pudding ,
e) a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or
f) the beautiful wide open spaces
but because I have some ancestry on my Father's side and within a couple of generations.
I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.
The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.
Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.
Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.
Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.
Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.
I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6.
Picture from The New York Public Library
I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Waitrose will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder.
Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up about that.
This is not on account of;
a) oil and gas reserves (although at current risk from the oil price fall)
b) a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world,
c) no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar,
d) the phenomena that is white pudding ,
e) a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or
f) the beautiful wide open spaces
but because I have some ancestry on my Father's side and within a couple of generations.
I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.
The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have summised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosones away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.
Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.
Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.
Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a loch-side in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.
Page 5 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.
I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 6.
I have acquired a set of ingredients including beef heart, lamb lungs and oatmeal and, on this 25th January Robert Burns Night in commemoration of that great Scots Son and poet, they are blended and cooking through nicely in the oven. Served with neaps and tatties we will soon, as a family be feasting on a traditional Haggis. The wrapper in which it was purchased from Waitrose will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the next week before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder.
Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart on Freeview so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up about that.
Sunday, 24 January 2016
Sight for Sore Eyes
Ask someone to touch their own eyeballs and the common response would be nothing short of disgust, outrage or complete disbelief.
Yet to those of the population who are contact lens wearers this is an everyday practice.
I admit that on first being fitted for contacts nearly 25 years ago I found the process very, very unnatural and difficult. Some dexterity and patience is needed to go through the extraction of a new lens from its foil sealed saline solution packaging and balancing the floppy disc on the tip of a finger before careful negotiation onto the eyeball. There is a split second when the elasticity of the actual lens switches allegiance from fingertip to eyeball followed by a slight antiseptic type stinging and smarting before sight is returned in full definition and clarity.
I do not mean to discourage those thinking of taking up lens wearing because it is a great and liberating thing and the progress in the technology of lenses has been remarkable.
I remember a conversation with a former colleague who had some of the first commercially available lenses. These were hard and inflexible discs made out of perspex. The manufacture was crude and rough with a thick cross section of plastic and a wide outer edge so much so that they had to be hand finished in the factory by abrasion with emery paper to improve the fit and comfort.
I cannot imagine how uncomfortable these must have felt attached to the eyeball but many wearers will have endured the pain and suffering just to be in the first new wave of fashion.
My first lenses had to be sterilised between periods of use in a small portable plug in unit and with regular check-ups for any irritation, damage or infection which tended to be an inevitable feature in those early days. Within a few years the concept of daily use lenses was introduced and the next generation were light, permeable and also with UV protection.
I did exploit the advances in technology by keeping my lenses in for very long periods and also, inadvisedly, sleeping with them still in place.
Being an emotional person my frequent welling ups and tear production obviously helped to keep my eyes moist and the lenses firmly adhered to allow me to ignore the explicit instructions of the manufacturers and my Optician.
I have very rarely lost a lens either from it simply falling out or from a mysterious disappearance where I suspect it just curls over and shrivels up and retreats to that space between the back of the eyeball and the brain. The latest lenses are not at all discernible when worn and on a couple of occasions I have actually tried to put in a new lens on top of an existing one not realising that there was one already in position.
In the two and a half decades of wearing lenses my regular check-ups show that my vision has remained fairly constant which is impressive given the potential for age related wear and tear and other medical and physiological influences to impair sight.
My former optician, or whatever specialist term now applies, championed the cause for the study of the health and welfare of the eyes as an indicator of other bodily ailments and although he did not flag up any warning signs in my case he was able to alert other patients to problems of cholestrol and potentially debilitating illness to be brought to the attention of Physicians and other Health Sector practitioners for further diagnosis and treatment.
The gift of sight is very precious and only really appreciated when it starts to become noticeably impaired or compromised.
Sat in the opticians waiting area just today I was entertained and informed by the screening of a short presentation on the miraculous and wondrous composition and operation of the human eye to an extent that I had not really realised or appreciated.
Perhaps I will take out my long standing current lenses tonight, after all they are about 4 weeks old and a bit crusty although being a great fan of this optical marvel I am reluctant to admit to this readily or in polite company.
Yet to those of the population who are contact lens wearers this is an everyday practice.
I admit that on first being fitted for contacts nearly 25 years ago I found the process very, very unnatural and difficult. Some dexterity and patience is needed to go through the extraction of a new lens from its foil sealed saline solution packaging and balancing the floppy disc on the tip of a finger before careful negotiation onto the eyeball. There is a split second when the elasticity of the actual lens switches allegiance from fingertip to eyeball followed by a slight antiseptic type stinging and smarting before sight is returned in full definition and clarity.
I do not mean to discourage those thinking of taking up lens wearing because it is a great and liberating thing and the progress in the technology of lenses has been remarkable.
I remember a conversation with a former colleague who had some of the first commercially available lenses. These were hard and inflexible discs made out of perspex. The manufacture was crude and rough with a thick cross section of plastic and a wide outer edge so much so that they had to be hand finished in the factory by abrasion with emery paper to improve the fit and comfort.
I cannot imagine how uncomfortable these must have felt attached to the eyeball but many wearers will have endured the pain and suffering just to be in the first new wave of fashion.
My first lenses had to be sterilised between periods of use in a small portable plug in unit and with regular check-ups for any irritation, damage or infection which tended to be an inevitable feature in those early days. Within a few years the concept of daily use lenses was introduced and the next generation were light, permeable and also with UV protection.
I did exploit the advances in technology by keeping my lenses in for very long periods and also, inadvisedly, sleeping with them still in place.
Being an emotional person my frequent welling ups and tear production obviously helped to keep my eyes moist and the lenses firmly adhered to allow me to ignore the explicit instructions of the manufacturers and my Optician.
I have very rarely lost a lens either from it simply falling out or from a mysterious disappearance where I suspect it just curls over and shrivels up and retreats to that space between the back of the eyeball and the brain. The latest lenses are not at all discernible when worn and on a couple of occasions I have actually tried to put in a new lens on top of an existing one not realising that there was one already in position.
In the two and a half decades of wearing lenses my regular check-ups show that my vision has remained fairly constant which is impressive given the potential for age related wear and tear and other medical and physiological influences to impair sight.
My former optician, or whatever specialist term now applies, championed the cause for the study of the health and welfare of the eyes as an indicator of other bodily ailments and although he did not flag up any warning signs in my case he was able to alert other patients to problems of cholestrol and potentially debilitating illness to be brought to the attention of Physicians and other Health Sector practitioners for further diagnosis and treatment.
The gift of sight is very precious and only really appreciated when it starts to become noticeably impaired or compromised.
Sat in the opticians waiting area just today I was entertained and informed by the screening of a short presentation on the miraculous and wondrous composition and operation of the human eye to an extent that I had not really realised or appreciated.
Perhaps I will take out my long standing current lenses tonight, after all they are about 4 weeks old and a bit crusty although being a great fan of this optical marvel I am reluctant to admit to this readily or in polite company.
Saturday, 23 January 2016
Job for Life?
According to a study by researchers at the auspicious Oxford University in league with the Consultants Deloitte there will be a potentially significant shift in employment over the next twenty years.
Based on my experience of the last twenty years what else could we expect, what with the decimation of traditional heavy industries, redundancies in previously thought jobs for life and even a thinning out of the Professions.
The latest research predicts that more than a third of current jobs in the United Kingdom are at risk of being taken over by a robot.......or some sort or manifestation.
I am not surprised by this. My generation were brought up with vivid Science Fiction visions of a robot race. The Laws of Robotics gave some comfort although these were of course only in writing and any robot dead set on mischief would surely overlook these . Scary and sobering a though it was although balanced out by the exciting prospect that if this worse case scenario did not occur then our lives would be so much easier thanks to a subservient robot population doing all of the boring chores and daily tedium.
Artificial Intelligence has developed at lighting speed in my lifetime and seemingly with an even more rapid pace in just recent years. The robots of my childhood were clunky and chunky, a bit like dustbins with fairy lights but gradually these came to be more humanoid in shape, dimensions and behaviour even back to the Cybermen on Doctor Who and now with a very lifelike demeanour and attitude.
The Oxford University academics Michael Osborne and Carl Frey calculated how susceptible to automation each UK job is based on nine key skills required to perform it;
social perceptiveness,
negotiation,
persuasion,
assisting and caring for others,
originality,
fine arts,
finger dexterity,
manual dexterity and
the need to work in a cramped work space.
The research was originally carried out using detailed job data from the United States O*NET employment database. The analysis for UK jobs was made by adapting the findings to corresponding occupations in the UK based on Office for National Statistics job classifications. For the purpose of the UK study, some US occupations were merged. In these cases, the probabilities were calculated as weighted averages of the probabilities of automation for each US occupation within the group.
Some job names have been edited for clarity. Where average salary has been mentioned, the median has been used. Figures are not available for occupations in the military, or for politicians. This may excite the conspiracy theorists. If robots did take over not only our jobs but our lives then an army would be needed to destroy them and politicians to well,.....I'm not really sure about their role in such a scenario.
So who are the potential losers, the fairly safe and those whose jobs remain firmly in human hands?.
Social workers, nurses, therapists and psychologists are among the least likely occupations to be taken over as assisting and caring for others, which involves empathy, is a crucial part of the job.
Roles requiring employees to think on their feet and come up with creative and original ideas, for example artists, designers or engineers, hold a significant advantage in the face of automation.
Additionally, occupations involving tasks that require a high degree of social intelligence and negotiating skills, like managerial positions, are considerably less at risk from machines according to the study.
Your job is safer if you negotiate, help others or come up with original ideas.
In contrast, while certain sales jobs like telemarketers and bank clerks may involve interactive tasks they do not necessarily need a high degree of social intelligence, leaving them exposed to automation.
As more advanced industrial robots gain improved senses and the ability to make more coordinated finger and hand movements to manipulate and assemble objects, they will be able to perform a wider range of increasingly complex manual tasks.
However, manipulation in unstructured environments — like the tasks that must be performed by a house cleaner — are still beyond the scope of automation for the foreseeable future.
Sophisticated algorithms are challenging a number of office and administrative support roles, particularly in legal and financial services.
Machines are already beginning to take on a number of tasks carried out by legal professionals by scanning thousands of documents to assist in pre-trial research.
As for my own job. Well, I had better start digging that bunker and stockpiling supplies for my new role as Chartered Surveyor to the Human Struggle against the robot masters. After all, it is predicted that I may have a lot more time on my hands.
Take the test.......http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-34066941 I await your call to join me.
Based on my experience of the last twenty years what else could we expect, what with the decimation of traditional heavy industries, redundancies in previously thought jobs for life and even a thinning out of the Professions.
The latest research predicts that more than a third of current jobs in the United Kingdom are at risk of being taken over by a robot.......or some sort or manifestation.
I am not surprised by this. My generation were brought up with vivid Science Fiction visions of a robot race. The Laws of Robotics gave some comfort although these were of course only in writing and any robot dead set on mischief would surely overlook these . Scary and sobering a though it was although balanced out by the exciting prospect that if this worse case scenario did not occur then our lives would be so much easier thanks to a subservient robot population doing all of the boring chores and daily tedium.
Artificial Intelligence has developed at lighting speed in my lifetime and seemingly with an even more rapid pace in just recent years. The robots of my childhood were clunky and chunky, a bit like dustbins with fairy lights but gradually these came to be more humanoid in shape, dimensions and behaviour even back to the Cybermen on Doctor Who and now with a very lifelike demeanour and attitude.
The Oxford University academics Michael Osborne and Carl Frey calculated how susceptible to automation each UK job is based on nine key skills required to perform it;
social perceptiveness,
negotiation,
persuasion,
assisting and caring for others,
originality,
fine arts,
finger dexterity,
manual dexterity and
the need to work in a cramped work space.
The research was originally carried out using detailed job data from the United States O*NET employment database. The analysis for UK jobs was made by adapting the findings to corresponding occupations in the UK based on Office for National Statistics job classifications. For the purpose of the UK study, some US occupations were merged. In these cases, the probabilities were calculated as weighted averages of the probabilities of automation for each US occupation within the group.
Some job names have been edited for clarity. Where average salary has been mentioned, the median has been used. Figures are not available for occupations in the military, or for politicians. This may excite the conspiracy theorists. If robots did take over not only our jobs but our lives then an army would be needed to destroy them and politicians to well,.....I'm not really sure about their role in such a scenario.
So who are the potential losers, the fairly safe and those whose jobs remain firmly in human hands?.
Social workers, nurses, therapists and psychologists are among the least likely occupations to be taken over as assisting and caring for others, which involves empathy, is a crucial part of the job.
Roles requiring employees to think on their feet and come up with creative and original ideas, for example artists, designers or engineers, hold a significant advantage in the face of automation.
Additionally, occupations involving tasks that require a high degree of social intelligence and negotiating skills, like managerial positions, are considerably less at risk from machines according to the study.
Your job is safer if you negotiate, help others or come up with original ideas.
In contrast, while certain sales jobs like telemarketers and bank clerks may involve interactive tasks they do not necessarily need a high degree of social intelligence, leaving them exposed to automation.
As more advanced industrial robots gain improved senses and the ability to make more coordinated finger and hand movements to manipulate and assemble objects, they will be able to perform a wider range of increasingly complex manual tasks.
However, manipulation in unstructured environments — like the tasks that must be performed by a house cleaner — are still beyond the scope of automation for the foreseeable future.
Sophisticated algorithms are challenging a number of office and administrative support roles, particularly in legal and financial services.
Machines are already beginning to take on a number of tasks carried out by legal professionals by scanning thousands of documents to assist in pre-trial research.
As for my own job. Well, I had better start digging that bunker and stockpiling supplies for my new role as Chartered Surveyor to the Human Struggle against the robot masters. After all, it is predicted that I may have a lot more time on my hands.
Take the test.......http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-34066941 I await your call to join me.
Friday, 22 January 2016
Happy Birthday
A short birthday message to my lovely wife, Allison
It’s here, another birthday, somewhat inevitable but nevertheless it crept up very quickly.
When you were young you did not think you would make it this far,
Convention says that your best years are behind you but you will prove them wrong,
You may feel that you have lost your girlish spirit but I know you have not,
You feel that time has passed you by but you have lived every second to the full,
You expected to have more in your universe , but look who you brought into the world.
Where is all that ‘me’ time you may ask? Well, it is lavished on others who are richer for it,
You have not done everything you expected........ yet. There is plenty of time for that going ahead,
You are not the one asking but the person to whom others look for wisdom and experience,
You may feel tired and without energy but you are actually very much in your prime,
You wanted to make a noise and be heard but your true value is being able to listen,
You wanted to start a revolution. Who is to say that you have not?
You feel you have had your best half century already but it really continues today,
Thursday, 21 January 2016
Galloping Gourmet
Yes, I think that I would eat horsemeat.
In fact I am convinced that on a school trip to France in the 1970's I was fed horse as a main course during one of those large host family gatherings and long, leisurely meals which are decried by the English as being typically French but secretly we, as a nation, yearn for the time and social skills to partake in something similar here. It was a bit chewy and grisly but flavoursome in a sweet sort of way.
The controversy in recent years that burgers supplied to the largest UK supermarkets were found to contain a small amount of horse certainly touched a bit of a nerve.
Notwithstanding the evaporation of any trust and loyalty we may have had as customers of the named outlets, well at least until it is time to actually go shopping, I feel that a good proportion of the outcry has been because of our attitude to horses themselves.
Is it right and proper to eat, whether unknowingly or not, a creature that has contributed to our economic and social growth, carried us to and from home and to battle, achieved almost mythical status as in the case of the famous steeds of our historical figures and even won us a few quid in a sporting arena? We have no qualms about consumption of beef, pork, lamb and chicken because they are principally bred for their meat and not any other characteristic, in spite of an element of charm and cuteness in some cases, mainly frolicking spring lambs, wobbly new born calves and scampering little piggies.
The horse is held particularly in part reverence and part fear by the English. The former is more than evident when coming across a horse and rider on our road network. Traffic grinds to a crawl to furtively pass by something with the combined girth of a fat man on a bicycle but yet the same care and diligence is not afforded to a fat man on a bicycle. There may be a few thousand points to be earned from a cheery, appreciative wave from a high-viz clad, firm thighed stick of a lass on top of the animal or an equally withering stare and hand signal if there is any suggestion of less than suitable respect being shown.
We fear horses because, lets face it they are big, heavy and muscley added to which they are skittish and unpredictable. Ask a striking miner or a Molotov throwing anarchist what figures amongst their most terrifying experiences and I am sure that facing a line of mounted riot police preparing to charge would be right up there. Even more likely to strike panic into small children than to ask them to walk past an unruly dog is asking them to walk behind a horse. A swift kick can be the result of an approach from the blind side, or at least the fear of such is sanction enough to give a very wide clearance.
Some distant relatives had a farm with horses and I remember clearly being a bit in awe of a beast close-up and even more so when allowed to sit on and astride it. I can appreciate from this very limited exposure that riding a horse is quite a dangerous thing even on the flat. Add to the equation a few hurdles, varied terrain, low tree boughs and every manner of potential noise and disturbance and it is a case of taking your life into your own hands in the name of recreation .
A horse formed a major asset for households in the 17th and 18th centuries as a means of transport for the better off , or to haul a cart or wagon by which the artisans and tradespersons could earn a living but was not indispensable being regularly traded and replaced as age, infirmity or economics dictated.
Stables in the cities and towns lent out horses for hire if a journey over a short distance was a necessity. If owners were not able to accommodate their horses within their own properties then business opportunities arose for liveried stables. Old sepia tint photographs of most urban streets of the late 19th and into the early 20th century often featured piles of horse dung and yet another allied commercial opportunity for this to be collected up and sold as manure.
Horses have had excellent endorsements in literature, for example, Black Beauty, on TV with such tear jerkers as 'On White Horses' and Follyfoot and the recent blockbuster movie and stage play of War Horse.
Most city centres have a statue of a mounted hero and the names of famous horses are well known. Try these as a bit of a quiz. Bucephalus (A t G), Copenhagen (D of W), Marengo (N B), Black Bess (D T) , Trigger (R R) and Hercules (S and S). Someone did tell me about the significance of the pose and number of legs in the air for an equine statue to the fate of the depicted dignatory, ie killed in battle or never actually partaking in any conflict.
So, the chain of events that led to the detection of horsemeat in our everyday food, has forced us, as a nation to examine our position and regard for these proud and dignified animals. We should remember that they are not immortal and often end up in the knackers yard to be processed for a range of products from glue to an ingredient in feedstuffs.
As I sat at the head of a line of traffic, just today, behind a slow moving horse I admit that I did lick my lips in anticipation of a juicy steak made from its ample rump and haunches which ranged about in front of me.
In fact I am convinced that on a school trip to France in the 1970's I was fed horse as a main course during one of those large host family gatherings and long, leisurely meals which are decried by the English as being typically French but secretly we, as a nation, yearn for the time and social skills to partake in something similar here. It was a bit chewy and grisly but flavoursome in a sweet sort of way.
The controversy in recent years that burgers supplied to the largest UK supermarkets were found to contain a small amount of horse certainly touched a bit of a nerve.
Notwithstanding the evaporation of any trust and loyalty we may have had as customers of the named outlets, well at least until it is time to actually go shopping, I feel that a good proportion of the outcry has been because of our attitude to horses themselves.
Is it right and proper to eat, whether unknowingly or not, a creature that has contributed to our economic and social growth, carried us to and from home and to battle, achieved almost mythical status as in the case of the famous steeds of our historical figures and even won us a few quid in a sporting arena? We have no qualms about consumption of beef, pork, lamb and chicken because they are principally bred for their meat and not any other characteristic, in spite of an element of charm and cuteness in some cases, mainly frolicking spring lambs, wobbly new born calves and scampering little piggies.
The horse is held particularly in part reverence and part fear by the English. The former is more than evident when coming across a horse and rider on our road network. Traffic grinds to a crawl to furtively pass by something with the combined girth of a fat man on a bicycle but yet the same care and diligence is not afforded to a fat man on a bicycle. There may be a few thousand points to be earned from a cheery, appreciative wave from a high-viz clad, firm thighed stick of a lass on top of the animal or an equally withering stare and hand signal if there is any suggestion of less than suitable respect being shown.
We fear horses because, lets face it they are big, heavy and muscley added to which they are skittish and unpredictable. Ask a striking miner or a Molotov throwing anarchist what figures amongst their most terrifying experiences and I am sure that facing a line of mounted riot police preparing to charge would be right up there. Even more likely to strike panic into small children than to ask them to walk past an unruly dog is asking them to walk behind a horse. A swift kick can be the result of an approach from the blind side, or at least the fear of such is sanction enough to give a very wide clearance.
Some distant relatives had a farm with horses and I remember clearly being a bit in awe of a beast close-up and even more so when allowed to sit on and astride it. I can appreciate from this very limited exposure that riding a horse is quite a dangerous thing even on the flat. Add to the equation a few hurdles, varied terrain, low tree boughs and every manner of potential noise and disturbance and it is a case of taking your life into your own hands in the name of recreation .
A horse formed a major asset for households in the 17th and 18th centuries as a means of transport for the better off , or to haul a cart or wagon by which the artisans and tradespersons could earn a living but was not indispensable being regularly traded and replaced as age, infirmity or economics dictated.
Stables in the cities and towns lent out horses for hire if a journey over a short distance was a necessity. If owners were not able to accommodate their horses within their own properties then business opportunities arose for liveried stables. Old sepia tint photographs of most urban streets of the late 19th and into the early 20th century often featured piles of horse dung and yet another allied commercial opportunity for this to be collected up and sold as manure.
Horses have had excellent endorsements in literature, for example, Black Beauty, on TV with such tear jerkers as 'On White Horses' and Follyfoot and the recent blockbuster movie and stage play of War Horse.
Most city centres have a statue of a mounted hero and the names of famous horses are well known. Try these as a bit of a quiz. Bucephalus (A t G), Copenhagen (D of W), Marengo (N B), Black Bess (D T) , Trigger (R R) and Hercules (S and S). Someone did tell me about the significance of the pose and number of legs in the air for an equine statue to the fate of the depicted dignatory, ie killed in battle or never actually partaking in any conflict.
So, the chain of events that led to the detection of horsemeat in our everyday food, has forced us, as a nation to examine our position and regard for these proud and dignified animals. We should remember that they are not immortal and often end up in the knackers yard to be processed for a range of products from glue to an ingredient in feedstuffs.
As I sat at the head of a line of traffic, just today, behind a slow moving horse I admit that I did lick my lips in anticipation of a juicy steak made from its ample rump and haunches which ranged about in front of me.
Wednesday, 20 January 2016
Lost for Words
The remains of two men were washed up on North Sea beaches about 350 miles apart – in the Netherlands and Norway,
Their identities remained a mystery until a worldwide appeal found they had bought identical wetsuits from a sports shop in the French port of Calais.
Relatives of two Syrian men who had gone missing in France for months contacted a Norwegian newspaper which paid for DNA tests to establish the identities of the two, in their twenties.
Mouaz Al Balkhi and Shadi Omar Kataf were known to have fled their country's civil war last year and had made their way across Asia and Europe with the intention to seek a new life in Britain.
They purchased wetsuits together on October 7 at Calais sports retailer Decathlon, along with hand paddles, snorkels and diving masks.
Soon after Mr Balkhi, an electrician from Damascus, was found washed up on the Dutch island of Texel.
The remains of Mr Kataf, who had fled a refugee camp in territory controlled by ISIS, were only discovered in January on Lista in the south of Norway.
The pair were finally linked when an appeal for information through Interpol by Norwegian police provided a match on the basis of the identical wetsuits.
Analysis of the chip sewn in the labels then traced them to the store in Calais.
The plight of the two Syrians, whilst tragic, serves to illustrate the increasing risks that migrants are willing to take to reach Britain after fleeing persecution and war.
(sourced from The Daily Mail, Dover Express, BBC World Service 2015)
Their identities remained a mystery until a worldwide appeal found they had bought identical wetsuits from a sports shop in the French port of Calais.
Relatives of two Syrian men who had gone missing in France for months contacted a Norwegian newspaper which paid for DNA tests to establish the identities of the two, in their twenties.
Mouaz Al Balkhi and Shadi Omar Kataf were known to have fled their country's civil war last year and had made their way across Asia and Europe with the intention to seek a new life in Britain.
They purchased wetsuits together on October 7 at Calais sports retailer Decathlon, along with hand paddles, snorkels and diving masks.
Soon after Mr Balkhi, an electrician from Damascus, was found washed up on the Dutch island of Texel.
The remains of Mr Kataf, who had fled a refugee camp in territory controlled by ISIS, were only discovered in January on Lista in the south of Norway.
The pair were finally linked when an appeal for information through Interpol by Norwegian police provided a match on the basis of the identical wetsuits.
Analysis of the chip sewn in the labels then traced them to the store in Calais.
The plight of the two Syrians, whilst tragic, serves to illustrate the increasing risks that migrants are willing to take to reach Britain after fleeing persecution and war.
(sourced from The Daily Mail, Dover Express, BBC World Service 2015)
Tuesday, 19 January 2016
Amazon. The Other one
I am just reading the book by David Grann entitled "The Lost City of Z".
He tells the story of the English explorer Colonel Percy Harrison Fawcett and his obsessive quest to find evidence of an ancient lost civilisation in the deepest regions of the Amazon jungle up until 1925 when he simply vanished into that part of South America.
Harrison first came to my attention only a few months ago when he was cited as a potential influence on Steven Spielberg for the fictional character of Indiana Jones.
This was down to his legendary fitness, stamina and resistance to the sickness and injury that afflicted and caused the demise of many of his exploration colleagues. In stetson hat and neckerchief he often stood up to arrow and physical attacks by native tribesmen to make a show of courage and friendship. At great personal risk he befriended many of the natives who viewed travellers with suspicion based on exploitation of their number by those seeking the black gold of tree rubber or kidnap for slavery or ransom.
Amongst the Native Amazonia tribes were the Pacaguara, Parintinin and Kanichana.
The latter was feared in the knowledge that they were cannibalistic. Those enemies or trespassers caught would feel fortunate if bonded into slavery as the other option was to be roasted or boiled and eaten. Human meat and its consumption was more symbolic than a staple of a diet. Everything would be used up and as a special treat the womenfolk would enjoy sucking out the marrow from the bleached cooked bones.
The endurance of Harrison is to be much admired and contemporaries attributed this to a super human metabolism linked to a complete lack of fear in difficult circumstances.
In his own words he would lecture those brave or foolhardy enough to sign up to one of his expeditions to just Don't fall sick or get injured. This would slow down the rest of the party ,drain resources and leave everyone exposed to attack or privation.
I always thought that the Amazon basin would be a veritable larder of foodstuffs from plentiful fish in the rivers to edible plants and animals under the broad jungle canopy. In reality nothing could be farther than the truth and Harrison found this out the hard way by being starved, dry and delirious on many occasions when an exploration was delayed or got lost long after running out of supplies.
The natives seemed healthy and immune from most of the things that killed the europeans and other exploration parties and also had massive stockpiles of food in the knowledge that little could be harvested in an emergency situation.
In being accepted by many of the tribes Harrison was able to see first hand the clever use by the native tribes of natural medicinal herbs as well as using traditional methods and skills to hunt down otherwise invisible and elusive wild pigs, monkeys and tasty fowl.
Many other dangers and problems were faced by those penetrating the rain forests. Progress up rivers and tributaries on rafts or in canoes was a bit easier but many regions remained unmapped and a bend in a river could disguise perilous white water rapids or the fast approaching precipice of a waterfall.
On foot it was necessary to hack away the thick vegetation with a hand machete whilst hip deep or worse in sticky and pungent mud. In a full, sweaty day only a few hundred yards may have been possible by way of progress.
The climate also played a huge part in any exploration with humid and stagnant air, torrential rainstorms, flash floods and intermittent baking heat.
Perhaps the greatest threat however was from the fauna and flora.
The following is a list I have compiled from a few chapters of Grann's Book.
Finger and limb eating Piranhas, electric eels emitting 650 volts causing paralysis and drowning , monstrous anaconda, wild pigs, poison frog with toxins on their skin capable of killing 100 people, coral snake, scuba ants, ticks acting like leeches, flesh eating red hairy chiggers , cyanide squirting centipedes, parasitic worms causing blindness, berne flies who could probe through layers of clothes to lay eggs under the skin, piums, biting flies which if untreated caused blood seeping lesions, kissing bugs which bite the lips leaving a protozoan in the bloodstream that 20 years later can cause death by heart or brain swelling.
There were of course mosquitoes promoting bone crusher fever to elephantiasis, polvorina flies like powder on the skin causing madness through the need to scratch incessantly, gnat bites , yellow fever, a risk of stingrays, sand flies carrying parasites which destroy flesh around mouth, nose and limbs giving a leprous appearance, poisonous plants, maggots laying eggs inside the skin and able to resist attempts to remove using nicotine, corrosive material or squeezing flesh.
A standard expedition medical kit would seem to most of us to be heavyweight with gauze bandages,iodine for bites, permanganate of potash for cleaning vegetables and arrow wounds, a pencil knife to cut out flesh from snakebites or gangrene, and opium.
In most instances of use it was feeble and ineffective.
I have every admiration for Fawcett and his Amazonian exploits. His disappearance in the jungle along with his son in 1925 has only served to compound the Fawcett legend. Many have embarked on expeditions subsequently to try to find out what happened to the intrepid explorer and few have returned alive not physically or mentally scarred by the experience.
He tells the story of the English explorer Colonel Percy Harrison Fawcett and his obsessive quest to find evidence of an ancient lost civilisation in the deepest regions of the Amazon jungle up until 1925 when he simply vanished into that part of South America.
Harrison first came to my attention only a few months ago when he was cited as a potential influence on Steven Spielberg for the fictional character of Indiana Jones.
This was down to his legendary fitness, stamina and resistance to the sickness and injury that afflicted and caused the demise of many of his exploration colleagues. In stetson hat and neckerchief he often stood up to arrow and physical attacks by native tribesmen to make a show of courage and friendship. At great personal risk he befriended many of the natives who viewed travellers with suspicion based on exploitation of their number by those seeking the black gold of tree rubber or kidnap for slavery or ransom.
Amongst the Native Amazonia tribes were the Pacaguara, Parintinin and Kanichana.
The latter was feared in the knowledge that they were cannibalistic. Those enemies or trespassers caught would feel fortunate if bonded into slavery as the other option was to be roasted or boiled and eaten. Human meat and its consumption was more symbolic than a staple of a diet. Everything would be used up and as a special treat the womenfolk would enjoy sucking out the marrow from the bleached cooked bones.
The endurance of Harrison is to be much admired and contemporaries attributed this to a super human metabolism linked to a complete lack of fear in difficult circumstances.
In his own words he would lecture those brave or foolhardy enough to sign up to one of his expeditions to just Don't fall sick or get injured. This would slow down the rest of the party ,drain resources and leave everyone exposed to attack or privation.
I always thought that the Amazon basin would be a veritable larder of foodstuffs from plentiful fish in the rivers to edible plants and animals under the broad jungle canopy. In reality nothing could be farther than the truth and Harrison found this out the hard way by being starved, dry and delirious on many occasions when an exploration was delayed or got lost long after running out of supplies.
The natives seemed healthy and immune from most of the things that killed the europeans and other exploration parties and also had massive stockpiles of food in the knowledge that little could be harvested in an emergency situation.
In being accepted by many of the tribes Harrison was able to see first hand the clever use by the native tribes of natural medicinal herbs as well as using traditional methods and skills to hunt down otherwise invisible and elusive wild pigs, monkeys and tasty fowl.
Many other dangers and problems were faced by those penetrating the rain forests. Progress up rivers and tributaries on rafts or in canoes was a bit easier but many regions remained unmapped and a bend in a river could disguise perilous white water rapids or the fast approaching precipice of a waterfall.
On foot it was necessary to hack away the thick vegetation with a hand machete whilst hip deep or worse in sticky and pungent mud. In a full, sweaty day only a few hundred yards may have been possible by way of progress.
The climate also played a huge part in any exploration with humid and stagnant air, torrential rainstorms, flash floods and intermittent baking heat.
Perhaps the greatest threat however was from the fauna and flora.
The following is a list I have compiled from a few chapters of Grann's Book.
Finger and limb eating Piranhas, electric eels emitting 650 volts causing paralysis and drowning , monstrous anaconda, wild pigs, poison frog with toxins on their skin capable of killing 100 people, coral snake, scuba ants, ticks acting like leeches, flesh eating red hairy chiggers , cyanide squirting centipedes, parasitic worms causing blindness, berne flies who could probe through layers of clothes to lay eggs under the skin, piums, biting flies which if untreated caused blood seeping lesions, kissing bugs which bite the lips leaving a protozoan in the bloodstream that 20 years later can cause death by heart or brain swelling.
There were of course mosquitoes promoting bone crusher fever to elephantiasis, polvorina flies like powder on the skin causing madness through the need to scratch incessantly, gnat bites , yellow fever, a risk of stingrays, sand flies carrying parasites which destroy flesh around mouth, nose and limbs giving a leprous appearance, poisonous plants, maggots laying eggs inside the skin and able to resist attempts to remove using nicotine, corrosive material or squeezing flesh.
A standard expedition medical kit would seem to most of us to be heavyweight with gauze bandages,iodine for bites, permanganate of potash for cleaning vegetables and arrow wounds, a pencil knife to cut out flesh from snakebites or gangrene, and opium.
In most instances of use it was feeble and ineffective.
I have every admiration for Fawcett and his Amazonian exploits. His disappearance in the jungle along with his son in 1925 has only served to compound the Fawcett legend. Many have embarked on expeditions subsequently to try to find out what happened to the intrepid explorer and few have returned alive not physically or mentally scarred by the experience.
Monday, 18 January 2016
Tar Very Much
Cigarette or tobacco cards began in the mid-19th century as premiums, enclosed in product packaging.
They were usually issued in numbered series of twenty-five, fifty, or larger runs to be collected, spurring subsequent purchases of the same brand.
Typically, these small cards feature illustrations on one side with related information and advertising text on the other. The height of cigarette card popularity occurred in the early decades of the 20th century, when tobacco companies around the world issued card sets in an encyclopaedic range of subjects.
After a slump during the First World War, popularity resumed, with new emphasis on film stars, sports, and military topics. Plants, animals, and monuments of the world remained perennially favourite themes.
While most cards were produced by conventional offset or other economical commercial printing processes, a few series were issued as original gelatin silver photographs or printed on silk or linen fabric; others were created as puzzles or paper toy cut-outs.
The appeal of contemporary cigarette cards fell by the 1950s, ceasing their production and distribution.
Thanks to the decision by the New York Public Library (NYPL)to open up their digital archives to the public domain just this year (2016) the Library's extensive, international collection of tobacco cards, which now numbers more than 125,000 individual items, including more than 3000 complete sets is now available for unrestricted use.
Most acknowledgements in the donations are in the name of George Arents, He did not collect cigarette cards but provided an endowment for the continued growth of his comprehensive collection on tobacco (whose processing and packaging had provided his fortune), which he had begun donating to NYPL in 1944.
In addition to literature and artworks, the tobacco collection's scope has come to encompass a wide range of visual materials and printed ephemera associated with that commodity. The cigarette cards were acquired by curators in the 1960s and later .
The number of Tobacco and Cigarette companies producing collectors cards in the halcyon days of the genre is indicative of the popularity of smoking amongst the population at large and prior to the knowledge of the risks to health of nicotine and tar constituents.
Some of the names are still around today including the global concerns of John Player, Wills, British and American Tobacco, Lambert and Butler and others are deeply rooted in popular culture even if no longer trading such as Capstan, Pirate, Copain, Mitchells and the evocative sounding Churchman.
The cigarette cards covered many topics and subjects and with my compilation of a brief A to Z being representative of a very small proportion of the total breadth and depth of studies.
Actresses, Birds, Cricket Players, Dogs, Eggs,Feminine Beauty, Gods, History, Insignia, Jockeys, Kings of England, Legends, Motorcycle Racing, Natural History, Ocean Liners, Paintings, Queens, Race Horses, Stagecoaches, Theatres, Undressing, Vehicles, World War 2, X-rated, Yachts and Zoos.
The more obscure collections include racism, family violence, banana peels, wombats, turnstiles, spanking, poor persons, see saws, robberies and dingos.
The cards also teased and titillated with some pretty risque posed photographs of ladies undressing, models posing and a lovely lady below from Peru messing about on her flower clad bicycle.
Almost makes you want to take up smoking..................................or cycling in South America.
(Photo reproduced gratefully from the New York Public Library Archives)
They were usually issued in numbered series of twenty-five, fifty, or larger runs to be collected, spurring subsequent purchases of the same brand.
Typically, these small cards feature illustrations on one side with related information and advertising text on the other. The height of cigarette card popularity occurred in the early decades of the 20th century, when tobacco companies around the world issued card sets in an encyclopaedic range of subjects.
After a slump during the First World War, popularity resumed, with new emphasis on film stars, sports, and military topics. Plants, animals, and monuments of the world remained perennially favourite themes.
While most cards were produced by conventional offset or other economical commercial printing processes, a few series were issued as original gelatin silver photographs or printed on silk or linen fabric; others were created as puzzles or paper toy cut-outs.
The appeal of contemporary cigarette cards fell by the 1950s, ceasing their production and distribution.
Thanks to the decision by the New York Public Library (NYPL)to open up their digital archives to the public domain just this year (2016) the Library's extensive, international collection of tobacco cards, which now numbers more than 125,000 individual items, including more than 3000 complete sets is now available for unrestricted use.
Most acknowledgements in the donations are in the name of George Arents, He did not collect cigarette cards but provided an endowment for the continued growth of his comprehensive collection on tobacco (whose processing and packaging had provided his fortune), which he had begun donating to NYPL in 1944.
In addition to literature and artworks, the tobacco collection's scope has come to encompass a wide range of visual materials and printed ephemera associated with that commodity. The cigarette cards were acquired by curators in the 1960s and later .
The number of Tobacco and Cigarette companies producing collectors cards in the halcyon days of the genre is indicative of the popularity of smoking amongst the population at large and prior to the knowledge of the risks to health of nicotine and tar constituents.
Some of the names are still around today including the global concerns of John Player, Wills, British and American Tobacco, Lambert and Butler and others are deeply rooted in popular culture even if no longer trading such as Capstan, Pirate, Copain, Mitchells and the evocative sounding Churchman.
The cigarette cards covered many topics and subjects and with my compilation of a brief A to Z being representative of a very small proportion of the total breadth and depth of studies.
Actresses, Birds, Cricket Players, Dogs, Eggs,Feminine Beauty, Gods, History, Insignia, Jockeys, Kings of England, Legends, Motorcycle Racing, Natural History, Ocean Liners, Paintings, Queens, Race Horses, Stagecoaches, Theatres, Undressing, Vehicles, World War 2, X-rated, Yachts and Zoos.
The more obscure collections include racism, family violence, banana peels, wombats, turnstiles, spanking, poor persons, see saws, robberies and dingos.
The cards also teased and titillated with some pretty risque posed photographs of ladies undressing, models posing and a lovely lady below from Peru messing about on her flower clad bicycle.
Almost makes you want to take up smoking..................................or cycling in South America.
(Photo reproduced gratefully from the New York Public Library Archives)
Sunday, 17 January 2016
Race Relations
Talent always shows through in everything from academic performance through to the arts and in particular in sporting endeavours.
In today's environment of multi-culturalism and such initiatives as kick racism out of football it really is the case that anyone with talent can progress and acheive the heady heights of their chosen pursuit.
It was so very different in the latter years of the 19th Century when success in life was determined by social class, wealth and patronage and the colour of your skin. It was near impossible for the underprivileged or minorities to have a route into the elitism of sports and it was this prejudicial barrier that Marshall Walter Taylor took on to become the first african american athlete to be a world champion in track and road cycling.
Born in 1878 and in the Deep South of the USA Marshall Taylor could not have found himself in a more hostile and negative setting for an aspiring black athlete.
He was an obviously natural bike rider and with his first cycle at the age of 12 he was taken on by a local bicycle shop to attract customers by stunt and trick riding on the pavement outside. It was his attire of a soldiers uniform that earned him the nickname "Major Taylor" which stuck for his adult racing career.
His first race was won at the age of 13 (1891). By the age of 15 he held the amateur track record over a one mile distance but was subsequently barred because of his colour.
In a 75 mile road race in Indiana he suffered racial threats so much so that he felt compelled to move his base to the more tolerant Massachussets on the east coast.
Racism in the Southern States was very prominent in cycle sport of the period.
White riders regularly conspired in their tactics to beat Major Taylor including boxing him in and culminating in a physical assault and choking by another competitor. The perpetrator was fined but with no other penalties or sanctions imposed.
Spectators also impeded and interfered with his racing and assaults with nails and ice were not unusual.
Being an amateur bike racer made it necessary to have a serious day-time job to subsidise racing and he worked as a mechanic for the Worcester Cycle Manufacturing Company who also sponsored him with a bike and equipment.
Professional Racing began at the age of 18 and he was very soon regarded as the most formidable rider in America. His greatest supporter was Theodore Roosevelt who was an avid follower of Major Taylor's career.
In 1896 a six day race at Madison Square Gardens in New York was attended by 5000 people and in an international field he impressed particularly in lapping the field in one of the events.
In 1898 he held 7 world records over distances of 2 miles to 25 miles followed by a six week period in 1899 in which he established a further 7 world records.
In his professional racing Major Taylor won 29 out of 49 races and became World Champion in 1899.
The more extensive and mature cycle racing of Europe beckoned and a tour in 1902 to France was soon followed by exhibitions and racing in the Southern Hemisphere including Australia and New Zealand.
An active racing programme did take its toll physically. We know about the drug controversies of modern bike racing and the sophisticated compounds in circulation but in the early 20th Century many riders relied upon nitroglycerine to keep them awake and stimulated during events.
A famous quote from Major Taylor indicated the hallucinatory powers of nitro when he claimed to have a difficulty racing on the track from an imaginary character wielding a knife.
He retired at age 32 giving the advice to those african americans keen to emulate his success on two wheels to rather find and pursue their own best talent.
In spite of making a considerable fortune from Professional Cycling Major Taylor lost it all through a combination of bad investments, persistent illness and the Stock Market Crash. He was buried in a paupers grave and it was not until 1948 that his contribution to cycling was acknowledged with fellow riders paying for a proper memorial to be erected in a Chicago Cemetery.
As with many great achievers recognition is not in their own lifetime. It is only in the modern era that Major Taylor has been lauded for his pioneering of not only african americans but his records and impact in the sport. His name is now found on street signs and a Velodrome. The film rights for his life story have been sold and a big screen dramatisation is eagerly awaited.
(Photograph gratefully taken from the collection in the New York Public Library under the 6th January 2016 release of archives to the public domain))
In today's environment of multi-culturalism and such initiatives as kick racism out of football it really is the case that anyone with talent can progress and acheive the heady heights of their chosen pursuit.
It was so very different in the latter years of the 19th Century when success in life was determined by social class, wealth and patronage and the colour of your skin. It was near impossible for the underprivileged or minorities to have a route into the elitism of sports and it was this prejudicial barrier that Marshall Walter Taylor took on to become the first african american athlete to be a world champion in track and road cycling.
Born in 1878 and in the Deep South of the USA Marshall Taylor could not have found himself in a more hostile and negative setting for an aspiring black athlete.
He was an obviously natural bike rider and with his first cycle at the age of 12 he was taken on by a local bicycle shop to attract customers by stunt and trick riding on the pavement outside. It was his attire of a soldiers uniform that earned him the nickname "Major Taylor" which stuck for his adult racing career.
His first race was won at the age of 13 (1891). By the age of 15 he held the amateur track record over a one mile distance but was subsequently barred because of his colour.
In a 75 mile road race in Indiana he suffered racial threats so much so that he felt compelled to move his base to the more tolerant Massachussets on the east coast.
Racism in the Southern States was very prominent in cycle sport of the period.
White riders regularly conspired in their tactics to beat Major Taylor including boxing him in and culminating in a physical assault and choking by another competitor. The perpetrator was fined but with no other penalties or sanctions imposed.
Spectators also impeded and interfered with his racing and assaults with nails and ice were not unusual.
Being an amateur bike racer made it necessary to have a serious day-time job to subsidise racing and he worked as a mechanic for the Worcester Cycle Manufacturing Company who also sponsored him with a bike and equipment.
Professional Racing began at the age of 18 and he was very soon regarded as the most formidable rider in America. His greatest supporter was Theodore Roosevelt who was an avid follower of Major Taylor's career.
In 1896 a six day race at Madison Square Gardens in New York was attended by 5000 people and in an international field he impressed particularly in lapping the field in one of the events.
In 1898 he held 7 world records over distances of 2 miles to 25 miles followed by a six week period in 1899 in which he established a further 7 world records.
In his professional racing Major Taylor won 29 out of 49 races and became World Champion in 1899.
The more extensive and mature cycle racing of Europe beckoned and a tour in 1902 to France was soon followed by exhibitions and racing in the Southern Hemisphere including Australia and New Zealand.
An active racing programme did take its toll physically. We know about the drug controversies of modern bike racing and the sophisticated compounds in circulation but in the early 20th Century many riders relied upon nitroglycerine to keep them awake and stimulated during events.
A famous quote from Major Taylor indicated the hallucinatory powers of nitro when he claimed to have a difficulty racing on the track from an imaginary character wielding a knife.
He retired at age 32 giving the advice to those african americans keen to emulate his success on two wheels to rather find and pursue their own best talent.
In spite of making a considerable fortune from Professional Cycling Major Taylor lost it all through a combination of bad investments, persistent illness and the Stock Market Crash. He was buried in a paupers grave and it was not until 1948 that his contribution to cycling was acknowledged with fellow riders paying for a proper memorial to be erected in a Chicago Cemetery.
As with many great achievers recognition is not in their own lifetime. It is only in the modern era that Major Taylor has been lauded for his pioneering of not only african americans but his records and impact in the sport. His name is now found on street signs and a Velodrome. The film rights for his life story have been sold and a big screen dramatisation is eagerly awaited.
(Photograph gratefully taken from the collection in the New York Public Library under the 6th January 2016 release of archives to the public domain))
Saturday, 16 January 2016
Fabrication
On January 6th 2016 the New York Public Library granted access to all Public Domain items in its digital collections so that everyone has the freedom to enjoy and reuse these materials in anyway that they feel.
It is a major concession to all.
Amongst the 672,297 items in the vast collections of the NYPL I have been attracted to those below which are images from the prefabrication of the Statue of Liberty in 1883 in Paris prior to its dismantling and shipping out to New York.
The photos form part of the "Album de la Construction de la Statue de la Liberte" from the lens of Albert Fernique of the iconic sculpture of Frederic Auguste Bartholdi.
They are from the Miriam and Ira Wallach Collection.
It is a major concession to all.
Amongst the 672,297 items in the vast collections of the NYPL I have been attracted to those below which are images from the prefabrication of the Statue of Liberty in 1883 in Paris prior to its dismantling and shipping out to New York.
The photos form part of the "Album de la Construction de la Statue de la Liberte" from the lens of Albert Fernique of the iconic sculpture of Frederic Auguste Bartholdi.
They are from the Miriam and Ira Wallach Collection.
Friday, 15 January 2016
Russian Big Muff Takeover
I always wanted to be ultra cool and play the guitar, well actually that is
a bit of a fib. I actually wanted to be able to carry around a guitar case and
give the impression that I knew how to play it. Kudos without the effort is ok in my reckoning.
In my teens the girls always went for the guy on lead guitar or bass in even a school band, let alone the contemporary rock bands of the time.
The closest I got to being that cool was by hanging out with a local band and doing a bit of roadie-ing although at venues nothing grander than a function room, smoke filled and beer stained, above a pub on a main road in a city suburb. I did have the donkey jacket with tartan lining (more practical and warmer than an authentic Harrington), drainpipe trousers (not Levi Strauss or Wrangler Jeans) and my dads winkle picker shoes and so looked the part of a beatnik sort.
I have no aptitude or indeed patience to learn a musical instrument apart from a descant recorder and a trumpet/cornet and this meant that any attempt to master the guitar was doomed from the start.
I do have a great admiration for those who can play, not just chords and the usual "smoke on the water", other standard riffs or "Kumbaya and there is still nothing better than a live gig with the likes of Joe Bonamassa, Joe Satriani, Walter Trout, Michael Schenker, Matthias Jabs, Paul Stanley, and other greats of rock whom I I have been able to see over the last couple of decades.
My son is a self taught guitarist and produces some great sounds from his Ibanez electric and acoustic instruments. I cannot but marvel at his playing.
I have just be reading about a Crowd Funding initiative through the US based Kickstarter Scheme which seems to have generated considerable excitement amongst the electric guitar playing population.
It appears that the "Frantone Peachfuzz" is to come back into production. I am none the wiser but this small metal boxed effects pedal has attained legendary and cult status since its arrival in 1997.
Anyone venturing into the guitar section of a music shop or on-line catalogue will see a vast array of these bits of gear and so any wider recognition must signify something pretty special. The Peachfuzz has been voted in the top 50 fuzztones of all time which is some accolade indeed. I
In my teens the girls always went for the guy on lead guitar or bass in even a school band, let alone the contemporary rock bands of the time.
The closest I got to being that cool was by hanging out with a local band and doing a bit of roadie-ing although at venues nothing grander than a function room, smoke filled and beer stained, above a pub on a main road in a city suburb. I did have the donkey jacket with tartan lining (more practical and warmer than an authentic Harrington), drainpipe trousers (not Levi Strauss or Wrangler Jeans) and my dads winkle picker shoes and so looked the part of a beatnik sort.
I have no aptitude or indeed patience to learn a musical instrument apart from a descant recorder and a trumpet/cornet and this meant that any attempt to master the guitar was doomed from the start.
I do have a great admiration for those who can play, not just chords and the usual "smoke on the water", other standard riffs or "Kumbaya and there is still nothing better than a live gig with the likes of Joe Bonamassa, Joe Satriani, Walter Trout, Michael Schenker, Matthias Jabs, Paul Stanley, and other greats of rock whom I I have been able to see over the last couple of decades.
My son is a self taught guitarist and produces some great sounds from his Ibanez electric and acoustic instruments. I cannot but marvel at his playing.
I have just be reading about a Crowd Funding initiative through the US based Kickstarter Scheme which seems to have generated considerable excitement amongst the electric guitar playing population.
It appears that the "Frantone Peachfuzz" is to come back into production. I am none the wiser but this small metal boxed effects pedal has attained legendary and cult status since its arrival in 1997.
Anyone venturing into the guitar section of a music shop or on-line catalogue will see a vast array of these bits of gear and so any wider recognition must signify something pretty special. The Peachfuzz has been voted in the top 50 fuzztones of all time which is some accolade indeed. I
It is the invention of a very interestingly
eccentric lady by the name of Frances Blanche from whom Frantone is derived as
the company name. She dabbled with electronics from the age of 10 and in
1995 brought out a unique internal overdrive pedal that became known as "Hep
Cat". This was borne out of necessity as she could not afford the leading
production fuzz pedal model, The Russian Big Muff by Electro-Harmonix (Warning;
Do not search on the internet for Russian Big Muff for obvious reasons).
The company of Frantone was launched that year on the back of the well received Hep Cat and under progressive improvement and a good following amongst professional and amateur guitarists the Peachfuzz soon followed (1997). It did not generate enough for Fran to live off and she went to work for Electro Harmonix for three years before going back full time in self employment.
What sets the Frantone products apart in the market is that they are hand made and precision engineered. The circuit boards are hand assembled, similarly the cases with their silk screen printed designs and such quality is intended to last not just in the reliability of the electronics but under the rigours and intensive use by professional musicians.
Those who have taken to the Peachfuzz in particular have cited its "thick, rich effect that is capable of blowing your dangly bits off", which is technical enough to imply it is a nice sound. Others have mentioned a "high end sparkle" and at full on settings for the tone, volume and fuzz you can, evidently, expect great things to happen.
Fran, who has a prolific video presence,
http://www.frantone.com/designwritings/design_writings.html
on just about every subject has not sat back on the success of Peachfuzz and has brought out an extensive catalogue of effects pedals under such evocative and magical names as Cream Puff, Vibutron, Sputnik, The Sweet Germanium Transistorised Fuzztone, 2000 New York City Big Muff,Hi-Ball, Boobox, Sandwich Optical Compression, Bassweet, Acoust-a-Boost, Glacier Hyper Modulation and Thunderhead.
The Peachfuzz went out of production in 2009, perhaps coinciding with the global economic downturn and the drying up of bank lending for commercial ventures but is soon to return through a Kickstarter endorsement.
The generosity of the Kickstarter Community has been fantastic, no doubt assisted by the incentive reward of being able to pre-order one of the new versions with a donation of just US$295.
It all gives a new meaning, if I can borrow the idiom, to putting the pedal to the metal.
Happy fuzzing.
The company of Frantone was launched that year on the back of the well received Hep Cat and under progressive improvement and a good following amongst professional and amateur guitarists the Peachfuzz soon followed (1997). It did not generate enough for Fran to live off and she went to work for Electro Harmonix for three years before going back full time in self employment.
What sets the Frantone products apart in the market is that they are hand made and precision engineered. The circuit boards are hand assembled, similarly the cases with their silk screen printed designs and such quality is intended to last not just in the reliability of the electronics but under the rigours and intensive use by professional musicians.
Those who have taken to the Peachfuzz in particular have cited its "thick, rich effect that is capable of blowing your dangly bits off", which is technical enough to imply it is a nice sound. Others have mentioned a "high end sparkle" and at full on settings for the tone, volume and fuzz you can, evidently, expect great things to happen.
Fran, who has a prolific video presence,
http://www.frantone.com/designwritings/design_writings.html
on just about every subject has not sat back on the success of Peachfuzz and has brought out an extensive catalogue of effects pedals under such evocative and magical names as Cream Puff, Vibutron, Sputnik, The Sweet Germanium Transistorised Fuzztone, 2000 New York City Big Muff,Hi-Ball, Boobox, Sandwich Optical Compression, Bassweet, Acoust-a-Boost, Glacier Hyper Modulation and Thunderhead.
The Peachfuzz went out of production in 2009, perhaps coinciding with the global economic downturn and the drying up of bank lending for commercial ventures but is soon to return through a Kickstarter endorsement.
The generosity of the Kickstarter Community has been fantastic, no doubt assisted by the incentive reward of being able to pre-order one of the new versions with a donation of just US$295.
It all gives a new meaning, if I can borrow the idiom, to putting the pedal to the metal.
Happy fuzzing.
Thursday, 14 January 2016
World of Frogs
Frogs are in crisis.
This I find quite upsetting because my childhood did involve quite a lot of activities around frogs, ponds and watercourses in the days when no second thought was really given to the chances of falling in, getting a booter or tragically, suffering a drowning which was quite a regular statistic for that time.
Ranging about quite freely even when very young I would marvel at the bubbling cauldron of a field ditch or a shady pool where water boatmen would skim about the surface and sticklebacks would dart into the weedy shallows if pursued by a brightly coloured nylon net on a long, flimsy bamboo pole. Strange gassy bubbles would burst unannounced and randomly out of the muddy deposits and erupt in a burp of some odorous content, concentric circles would be seen with no apparent creator, a silver flash caught the late afternoon sunlight as a fish propelled itself at its own shadow or a languishing fly who dared to rest on the tight ,glassy miniscus.
The current concerns about the frog population are indicative of the trend in more recent years for their natural habitats to be lost, either dried up from changes in the water table as agricultural demand takes any ground water supplies, filled in to counter litigation for injury or death even from trespassing youngsters, built over with housing or commercial development or turned into a neglected toxic swamp from choking weed and algae.
To some extent the natural environments have been replaced by ornamental ponds and water features in domestic gardens but this has been only a short term life raft for frogs. The world of the frog has been condensed into the dimensions of a typical back garden whereas, since the dawn of time, they have been free to roam about at will from damp flower bed to beck to stream to pond to lake and so on.
The main implication of a much more restrictive habitat is that frogs are now more likely to in-breed and we all know, on a human scale, that a consequence of such does not bode well in the longer term. Cousins, idiots and all that speculation.
There are other threats and these can be regarded as being more of a spin-off from changes in the climate. There was a certain interdependence between the species residing in natural bodies of water and a time in the seasons for the cycles of reproduction, nurture and growth to maturity for each so that the circle of life was perpetuated but not so as to infringe on each other. It now appears that the newt population is spawning much earlier than it has before and this coincides with, unfortunately, the main period when frogspawn is at its peak. This provides a veritable feast for the newly emerged newts but with a devastating effect on the numbers and welfare of their former co-habitees. Nature or natural conspiracy?
I have not seen frog spawn or in fact any abundance of young hatched frogs for some years. The stretch of common land in the Greenbelt between western Hull and one of its satellite towns has declined significantly in its role as a breeding ground for the amphibious creatures. A few years ago the local residents undertook a campaign to herd frogs across the busy main road with a supervised crossing point to minimise the quite disturbing sight of one dimensional frogs which had been squashed flat by the constant traffic.The warning road sign on approaching the stretch of road has also just recently disappeared as an indictment of unsustainability of this once thriving environment.
It would be a terrible shame for the frog population to diminish further and inconceivable for their numbers to reach anything like an 'at risk' level. It may be time now to create more ponds and water areas of expansive dimensions as part of this buzz word for bio-diversity before it is too late for the species and they are forced to retreat from all but close contact with humans.
We can all do our little bit. A starting point would be to make all children fully proficient in open water swimming and survival techniques and as parents, a bit more sympathetic and understanding on the phenomena of a booter.
This I find quite upsetting because my childhood did involve quite a lot of activities around frogs, ponds and watercourses in the days when no second thought was really given to the chances of falling in, getting a booter or tragically, suffering a drowning which was quite a regular statistic for that time.
Ranging about quite freely even when very young I would marvel at the bubbling cauldron of a field ditch or a shady pool where water boatmen would skim about the surface and sticklebacks would dart into the weedy shallows if pursued by a brightly coloured nylon net on a long, flimsy bamboo pole. Strange gassy bubbles would burst unannounced and randomly out of the muddy deposits and erupt in a burp of some odorous content, concentric circles would be seen with no apparent creator, a silver flash caught the late afternoon sunlight as a fish propelled itself at its own shadow or a languishing fly who dared to rest on the tight ,glassy miniscus.
The current concerns about the frog population are indicative of the trend in more recent years for their natural habitats to be lost, either dried up from changes in the water table as agricultural demand takes any ground water supplies, filled in to counter litigation for injury or death even from trespassing youngsters, built over with housing or commercial development or turned into a neglected toxic swamp from choking weed and algae.
To some extent the natural environments have been replaced by ornamental ponds and water features in domestic gardens but this has been only a short term life raft for frogs. The world of the frog has been condensed into the dimensions of a typical back garden whereas, since the dawn of time, they have been free to roam about at will from damp flower bed to beck to stream to pond to lake and so on.
The main implication of a much more restrictive habitat is that frogs are now more likely to in-breed and we all know, on a human scale, that a consequence of such does not bode well in the longer term. Cousins, idiots and all that speculation.
There are other threats and these can be regarded as being more of a spin-off from changes in the climate. There was a certain interdependence between the species residing in natural bodies of water and a time in the seasons for the cycles of reproduction, nurture and growth to maturity for each so that the circle of life was perpetuated but not so as to infringe on each other. It now appears that the newt population is spawning much earlier than it has before and this coincides with, unfortunately, the main period when frogspawn is at its peak. This provides a veritable feast for the newly emerged newts but with a devastating effect on the numbers and welfare of their former co-habitees. Nature or natural conspiracy?
I have not seen frog spawn or in fact any abundance of young hatched frogs for some years. The stretch of common land in the Greenbelt between western Hull and one of its satellite towns has declined significantly in its role as a breeding ground for the amphibious creatures. A few years ago the local residents undertook a campaign to herd frogs across the busy main road with a supervised crossing point to minimise the quite disturbing sight of one dimensional frogs which had been squashed flat by the constant traffic.The warning road sign on approaching the stretch of road has also just recently disappeared as an indictment of unsustainability of this once thriving environment.
It would be a terrible shame for the frog population to diminish further and inconceivable for their numbers to reach anything like an 'at risk' level. It may be time now to create more ponds and water areas of expansive dimensions as part of this buzz word for bio-diversity before it is too late for the species and they are forced to retreat from all but close contact with humans.
We can all do our little bit. A starting point would be to make all children fully proficient in open water swimming and survival techniques and as parents, a bit more sympathetic and understanding on the phenomena of a booter.
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