Amongst the great railway journeys in the world one of my favourites does not really figure in say, the top ten thousand.
There are no dramatic mountain peaks hovering vertically overhead, no sheer drops into a raging torrent in the bottom of the valley, no risk of rock falls or landslide in a constant battle against the forces of nature, no need to carve a snaking route through a harsh environment with dynamite or to provide an armed on board presence to discourage attack and insurrection.
My journey starts at a typical red brick railway station in the west of Hull commuter town of Hessle.
The old ticket office sits at street level in a leafy suburb and looking onto large late Victorian properties originally built as superior residences for the well to do of the East Riding but now either split into flats or operating in the Health and Social Care sectors.
In terms of progress in the latter part of the 19th Century having a railway station at your front door would be quite an attraction, a modern amenity. The platform for trains to Hull is set at a lower level following the topography of a narrow plateau between Hessle Cliff and a further, shallower slope down to the Humber Foreshore.
For those venturing westwards and served by the far platform it is a case of using a large metal gantry bridge with the accompanying whistle of a prevailing wind as it hugs the contours. The Station, once employing perhaps upwards of a dozen employees is now unmannned and only frequented by the distant voice of the announcer over the tannoy. As the sound system suddenly bursts into life with someone playing a xylophone those waiting can be seen to be startled or grimacing in equal numbers.
The early morning trains are the short local ones, two sections, bench seats, no frills, deserted apart from a few shop workers and early bird shoppers. I am excited as we move off. There is some deep rooted emotion about being conveyed by a train. I have tried to fight it by refusing to stand on a bridge to await the arrival of a specific named or numbered engine with binoculars, camera and anorak.
As part of my self imposed therapy I stare out of the window. On the north side of the line to Hull leaving Hessle stands a large area of post war built housing infilling between the grand Victorian Villas and a small terrace of railway workers cottages. Once isolated and well out of the town the neat engineering brick faced properties are now hemmed in and squeezed by industry. The train rattles over a bridge where it crosses Hessle Haven although in land drain guise before it widens at the estuary mouth. I recall many a ship launch sideways into the tidal outlet of the same watercourse just out of sight.
As business and commerce has followed the trend over the last decade or so to vacate the old central city areas it has relocated to the floodplain between Hessle and West Hull. There are acre upon acre of sheds, multi purpose with the same basic pattern and style being adapted for either office, showroom, factory or recreational use. The out of town retailers have followed with large Sainsbury and Aldi stores. The new Park and Ride has also become established and always, when overlooked from the competing train, seems to be well patronised.
The low rise business district contrasts sharply with the large and tall edifice of a Hotel with coffee shop franchise and Health Club but even this yellow stone monument is dominated by the powder blue stanchions of the Arco Warehouse. The span and tension in the metalwork creates a huge clear working space for the storage and distribution of every manner of safety equipment. At 6pm every evening a fleet of parcel carriers leave the premises, straining on their axles to meet the 24 hour delivery promise for steel capped work boots or padded ear defenders and so much more. The articulated trucks complete a 12 hour cycle of peak activity on the industrial estate which started with the vans and lorries going to and from the wholesale fruit and flower market at its eastern end.
Having run quite close and paralell to the river and business district the railway line turns inland, north easterly at about the position of Cod Farm, a promontory, man made into the river where lines of filleted fish were hung out to air dry in the halcyon days of the trawling industry. Large mounds of gravel and salt can be seen in the marshalling yards where in the 1970's the sections of the Humber Suspension Bridge were assembled and gathered before being floated up river and lifted into position.
There is another estate of factories including a large manufacturer of Yorkshire Puddings but of older and now rather dated buildings. I avert my gaze from an area of open ground where, to the open mouthed amazement of the occupants of a train from London to Hull, a man was seen having sexual relations with a tethered goat.
The older terraced housing on the outer approaches to the city made way in the 1960's for bland modern council houses . Current demolition and clearance has led to some striking town houses in deep glazed brick panels with gable balconies and neat wrought iron fenced in forecourts. Nice but probably only good and sustainable for about 50 years whereas the former housing had survived over 100 including wartime bombing.
A series of level crossings frustrate the busy city traffic but a vast improvement from the 1950's when constant rail freight traffic to and from the thriving docks meant that the crossing gates on the main arterial roads of Hull were closed for a cumulative total of 15 hours a day. My window flashes in and out of light and shade as the train passes under the Anlaby Road Flyover, one of the civil engineering remedies to bypass the physical severance of the road by the rail lines.
Houses close to the course of the railway have metal tie bars in their brickwork to counter the rattling and wobbling effect that a procession of diesel engines, and steam engines before can exact on an already fairly unstable foundation on a shrinkable clay.
The Infirmary is a large sprawl of old and very modern buildings, mostly in the shadow of the now very dated multi storey tower of Hull Royal. The train is slowing now, tic-tac sounding across points where the main lines into Hull Station converge. I laugh aloud at a piece of humorous graffitti on the underside of a road bridge and depair at the rest of the indiscriminate and illiterate offerings on walls, obsolete signal boxes and on every other accessible available surface.
The vast arched profile of Paragon Station is in view, a magnificent example of functional and beautiful architecture, much featured in film and television. It will have been marvelled at by the 2.2 million immigrants awaiting transit from Hull to Liverpool and beyond at a turbulent time in their own lives and world history over 100 years ago. Their onward journey will have been of epic and dramatic proportions. My own, about 6 miles and 7 minutes.
Thursday, 30 June 2016
Wednesday, 29 June 2016
Burning Down The House-almost
Every American drama and sit-com seems to be based in a white painted timber clad Colonial style house.
Jim Belushi lives in one, Raymond is liked by everyone in his. Very American apple pies sit in the open window. In the foreground in most images there are sprinklers in action on the lawn as the delivery boy rides past and throws the newspaper.
The mother characters in a good number of Hollywood blockbusters always seem to work in Real Estate showing them to prospective buyers. Mrs Bueller (Ferris's Mum), Elliot's Mum in E.T, even Marge Simpson had a go in her red blazer.
The house, clean cut, large and open is a mainstay of what middle America would have us believe is the epitome of a comfortable and affluent life.
The house type developed with the plentiful availability of both land and the natural resource of timber. They were easy to build using the skills of local tradespersons and of rapid construction with much of the load bearing timber frame being prefabricated off site and then transported in to be positioned on a custom made foundation slab. With the frame in position and the roof on, typically in mineral felt or wooden shingle, it was a relatively straight forward process to clad the vertical elevations in the distinctive wide overlapped boarding around the pre-formed window and door openings and then complete the internal services and rooms once watertight and weatherproof.
In all, a most attractive style of residence.
Timber frame was a dominant form for low rise residential development projects through the States. In effect the idea and methodology will have been brought over by migrants from Scandinavia, the Baltic and Northern Europe where the same factors of abundant timber were present.
In the UK there was a flirtation with timber frame buildings in Medieval times constructed from rough hewn boughs straight from the tree and held together with peg joints, wattle and daub, mud and other finishes dependant upon the local area. Prone to fire and collapse not many of the timber buildings have survived although the National Trust do retain some of the finest restored examples within their collection.
A few timber frame buildings arrived from Scandinavia in the post war period as part of the programme to rehouse those who were bombed out of their homes and were gratefully received by Local Authorities as an option to the ubiquitous prefabs and other weird and wonderful forms of construction amongst the rapidly expanding housing stock.
Many of these have since displayed irreparable defects, many latent in nature, and have had to be demolished and cleared to make way for what the British public like best, good old bricks and mortar.
A few National Building companies had a go at mass volume timber frame in the 1980's but disastrous efforts in terms of quality and applied skills destroyed any confidence in the construction form for two decades.
Enlightened self-builders began to see timber frame as a viable method to realise their dreams and in response to this new sector of demand there grew a fledgling and bespoke group of producers of kit-form houses.
The glossy books of house plans to be found on top shelves in WH Smiths and all good book stores wooed and seduced those intent on doing their own thing with a single new build project.
Timber frame became the system of choice for the upmarket and informed amongst the self builder. Manufacturers of kit based timber frames emerged and one in particular, Potton, assumed cult status quickly for quality and individuality of designs.
It was a condition of purchase that a specialist team from Potton accompanied the flat bed trucks carrying the sections and descended on the site for a couple of days to erect and fix them on a custom prepared foundation. The setting out of the floor pad was in itself a highly skilled requirement to ensure the accurate fit of the frame.
Thereafter the work to externally clad the frame, brick still being the British favourite, and complete all external and internal parts could be left to local trades.
This was the background to such a colonial style house that I was asked to check out on behalf of a prospective purchaser. It was a thing of beauty, a modern classic and the only one of its kind that I knew about in the county.
My inspection covered the main elements of the build. The frame system was indeed an example by the market leader and the team had weaved their magic. The external finish was perfection indicating that a good and diligent team had followed in their wake. The use of a rosemary clay tile for the roof, rustic reclaimed brick and pebble dash for the walls and with a couple of years of weathering made the property look as though it had been built in the 1930's.
This belied the highly energy efficient characteristics of the construction and the little eccentricities in the layout which gave the house prestige and charm.
I did spot, however, that a key feature was missing.
There were no weep holes at the base of the external walls by which any moisture from the weather or developing in the frame itself could escape. In the absence of venting there was a risk that in about 60 to 100 years time the frame will have rotted away into mulch.
The vendor of the house raised my observations with the frame makers and yes, the follow on trades had not adhered to that aspect of the specification. After finding out that the vents could be retro-fitted by carefully drilling out the mortar joints this was undertaken by the vendor in order to prevent the omission becoming the deal breaker in the sale.
My client, the buyer stipulated that I re-vist and verify the adequacy of the work.
I hired the ideal piece of equipment for the job, an endoscope. This consisted of a long stainless steel tube, hollow, with a bright bulb in the end and a viewing piece to peer into the dark recesses exposed by the new weep vents.
On a summers day this will have been an almost pleasurable activity but it was in the depths of winter and on the morning I had arranged to reinspect there was snow on the ground around the house.
I fashioned a padded and insulated cushion out of various coats and clothes from the boot of the car with my waterproof jacket as the outer layer. I could then lie down in a prone position at the level of the weep holes and push in the endoscope to view the detail.
The perimeter of the house was about 36 metres and with the perpendicular joints cut out at every metre. It would be a long job out in the cold. It was apparent that a valid inspection and note taking for each of the 36 holes would take about 2 minutes per hole. This gradually increased per hole as I had to walk about, stamp my feet and clap my hands to keep them from freezing up.
What I had not made an allowance for was the increase in temperature of the little bulb at the end of the scope.
I first noticed it when I inadvertently touched it as it was being withdrawn and was preparing to move to the next hole. It scorched my hand but a small snow drift by my side was available as some sort of immediate relief.
I thought nothing of just carrying on even with the temperamental equipment.
Through the outer brick leaf was the underlying detail of the timber frame including a polythene based vapour barrier. This was well inside the building and forming one of the layers including insulation and the marine ply gusset boarding.
On inserting the still hot probe I heard a frightful popping sound as the bulb burst and with a flash of flame, seemingly magnified to a firestorm magnitude in the viewfinder, the polythene melted.
I recoiled in shock and stood bolt upright listening for any screams from the house that it was on fire. I knelt down and in an alternate motion put an ear to the hole and then my nose with a cold tip and runny sniff to make out any sounds and smells of combustion.
I thought about packing some snow into the hole or even, as a last and vey desperate resort, directing a stream of urine through to extinguish any flames.
After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity to a guilty mind, nothing had happened. The ensdoscope hire company were obviously aware of the susceptibiity of the bulb to explode as they had included a plentiful supply in the carry case. I was able to complete the job with no other dramas.
The house, some 20 years on, is still a classic and much admired by all who see it. I do glance up the driveway every time I pass by on the main road mainly focusing on the small vertical weeps for any faint whiff of smoke. I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of starting a slow burner of a conflagration inside that fabulous timber frame.
Jim Belushi lives in one, Raymond is liked by everyone in his. Very American apple pies sit in the open window. In the foreground in most images there are sprinklers in action on the lawn as the delivery boy rides past and throws the newspaper.
The mother characters in a good number of Hollywood blockbusters always seem to work in Real Estate showing them to prospective buyers. Mrs Bueller (Ferris's Mum), Elliot's Mum in E.T, even Marge Simpson had a go in her red blazer.
The house, clean cut, large and open is a mainstay of what middle America would have us believe is the epitome of a comfortable and affluent life.
The house type developed with the plentiful availability of both land and the natural resource of timber. They were easy to build using the skills of local tradespersons and of rapid construction with much of the load bearing timber frame being prefabricated off site and then transported in to be positioned on a custom made foundation slab. With the frame in position and the roof on, typically in mineral felt or wooden shingle, it was a relatively straight forward process to clad the vertical elevations in the distinctive wide overlapped boarding around the pre-formed window and door openings and then complete the internal services and rooms once watertight and weatherproof.
In all, a most attractive style of residence.
Timber frame was a dominant form for low rise residential development projects through the States. In effect the idea and methodology will have been brought over by migrants from Scandinavia, the Baltic and Northern Europe where the same factors of abundant timber were present.
In the UK there was a flirtation with timber frame buildings in Medieval times constructed from rough hewn boughs straight from the tree and held together with peg joints, wattle and daub, mud and other finishes dependant upon the local area. Prone to fire and collapse not many of the timber buildings have survived although the National Trust do retain some of the finest restored examples within their collection.
A few timber frame buildings arrived from Scandinavia in the post war period as part of the programme to rehouse those who were bombed out of their homes and were gratefully received by Local Authorities as an option to the ubiquitous prefabs and other weird and wonderful forms of construction amongst the rapidly expanding housing stock.
Many of these have since displayed irreparable defects, many latent in nature, and have had to be demolished and cleared to make way for what the British public like best, good old bricks and mortar.
A few National Building companies had a go at mass volume timber frame in the 1980's but disastrous efforts in terms of quality and applied skills destroyed any confidence in the construction form for two decades.
Enlightened self-builders began to see timber frame as a viable method to realise their dreams and in response to this new sector of demand there grew a fledgling and bespoke group of producers of kit-form houses.
The glossy books of house plans to be found on top shelves in WH Smiths and all good book stores wooed and seduced those intent on doing their own thing with a single new build project.
Timber frame became the system of choice for the upmarket and informed amongst the self builder. Manufacturers of kit based timber frames emerged and one in particular, Potton, assumed cult status quickly for quality and individuality of designs.
It was a condition of purchase that a specialist team from Potton accompanied the flat bed trucks carrying the sections and descended on the site for a couple of days to erect and fix them on a custom prepared foundation. The setting out of the floor pad was in itself a highly skilled requirement to ensure the accurate fit of the frame.
Thereafter the work to externally clad the frame, brick still being the British favourite, and complete all external and internal parts could be left to local trades.
This was the background to such a colonial style house that I was asked to check out on behalf of a prospective purchaser. It was a thing of beauty, a modern classic and the only one of its kind that I knew about in the county.
My inspection covered the main elements of the build. The frame system was indeed an example by the market leader and the team had weaved their magic. The external finish was perfection indicating that a good and diligent team had followed in their wake. The use of a rosemary clay tile for the roof, rustic reclaimed brick and pebble dash for the walls and with a couple of years of weathering made the property look as though it had been built in the 1930's.
This belied the highly energy efficient characteristics of the construction and the little eccentricities in the layout which gave the house prestige and charm.
I did spot, however, that a key feature was missing.
There were no weep holes at the base of the external walls by which any moisture from the weather or developing in the frame itself could escape. In the absence of venting there was a risk that in about 60 to 100 years time the frame will have rotted away into mulch.
The vendor of the house raised my observations with the frame makers and yes, the follow on trades had not adhered to that aspect of the specification. After finding out that the vents could be retro-fitted by carefully drilling out the mortar joints this was undertaken by the vendor in order to prevent the omission becoming the deal breaker in the sale.
My client, the buyer stipulated that I re-vist and verify the adequacy of the work.
I hired the ideal piece of equipment for the job, an endoscope. This consisted of a long stainless steel tube, hollow, with a bright bulb in the end and a viewing piece to peer into the dark recesses exposed by the new weep vents.
On a summers day this will have been an almost pleasurable activity but it was in the depths of winter and on the morning I had arranged to reinspect there was snow on the ground around the house.
I fashioned a padded and insulated cushion out of various coats and clothes from the boot of the car with my waterproof jacket as the outer layer. I could then lie down in a prone position at the level of the weep holes and push in the endoscope to view the detail.
The perimeter of the house was about 36 metres and with the perpendicular joints cut out at every metre. It would be a long job out in the cold. It was apparent that a valid inspection and note taking for each of the 36 holes would take about 2 minutes per hole. This gradually increased per hole as I had to walk about, stamp my feet and clap my hands to keep them from freezing up.
What I had not made an allowance for was the increase in temperature of the little bulb at the end of the scope.
I first noticed it when I inadvertently touched it as it was being withdrawn and was preparing to move to the next hole. It scorched my hand but a small snow drift by my side was available as some sort of immediate relief.
I thought nothing of just carrying on even with the temperamental equipment.
Through the outer brick leaf was the underlying detail of the timber frame including a polythene based vapour barrier. This was well inside the building and forming one of the layers including insulation and the marine ply gusset boarding.
On inserting the still hot probe I heard a frightful popping sound as the bulb burst and with a flash of flame, seemingly magnified to a firestorm magnitude in the viewfinder, the polythene melted.
I recoiled in shock and stood bolt upright listening for any screams from the house that it was on fire. I knelt down and in an alternate motion put an ear to the hole and then my nose with a cold tip and runny sniff to make out any sounds and smells of combustion.
I thought about packing some snow into the hole or even, as a last and vey desperate resort, directing a stream of urine through to extinguish any flames.
After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity to a guilty mind, nothing had happened. The ensdoscope hire company were obviously aware of the susceptibiity of the bulb to explode as they had included a plentiful supply in the carry case. I was able to complete the job with no other dramas.
The house, some 20 years on, is still a classic and much admired by all who see it. I do glance up the driveway every time I pass by on the main road mainly focusing on the small vertical weeps for any faint whiff of smoke. I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of starting a slow burner of a conflagration inside that fabulous timber frame.
Tuesday, 28 June 2016
Well Hung
At some point in my adult years there has been a serious disconnect between manufacturers of trousers and makers of shirts.
I know that in the current upheaval and unrest on a global, regional and national scale that this rift in the fashion world should be amongst the least of my worries but when walking along a street in full view of the public there is nothing worse than finding that my shirt tail is hanging out.
To a person like myself who has a certain professional image to portray the detachment of shirt tails from waistband assumes some significance.
I do, of course, have a belt and I have been known to wear braces but there is something, more fundamental in play.
There has been a change in styling and sizing of formal work shirts over the last 20 to 30 years. From post war generous cuts and long tails, intended to cater for wearing an undershirt or vest as was the expectation the movement has been to a slimmer fit with sharper non ballooning tailoring.
In order to maximise the profits of manufacturers there has been a noticeable cut back in the amount of cloth used and there, frankly, lies the problem of my involuntary undressing on a public street.
I am comforted in the knowledge that my particular problem is one that has inspired many, many hours of thought and design.
A number of patents have been issued to keep shirts tucked into trousers.
For example, U.S. Pat. No. 6,175,993 entitled “Shirt-Locking Device,” provides a pin type means for fastening a sliding weight upon the lower portions of a shirt or the side of an undergarment to retain the shirt from becoming un-tucked by a double or two part fastening means.
There is more;
U.S. Pat. No. 5,276,923 entitled “Shirt Hold-Down Device,” discloses a central elastomeric web or harness arrangement, having concave sides to accommodate an individual's groin area, with a plurality of tethers extending longitudinally and laterally upwardly from the central web, with each tether including a clip-type fastener for securing to a perimeter portion of an individual's shirt to prevent it from riding upwardly.
U.S. Pat. No. 5,313,669 for “Clothing Anchor Apparatus,” is in the form of a garter type apparatus for securing in the crotch area and attached to the lower edge of a shirt to retain the shirt in position.
U.S. Pat. No. 6,397,393 entitled “Clothing Combination Comprising A Self-Releasing Bonding Means,” discloses an arrangement for maintaining a shirts and pants or a shorts and shirt combination together by means of hook and loop material which is said to provide a self releasing arrangement.
U.S. published application 2004/0154069 is for an “Adjustable Shirt-Tapering System,” for the use of hook and loop fastenings for forming custom fitted as it were shirt-tails to prevent the shirt from becoming untucked and presenting a messy and untidy appearance.
While there have been previous developments or technologies going back well into the 19th century , most of the prior art technologies have required mechanical modifications which have interfered in one way or another with the normal use and comfort of the clothing.
A perfect solution is still awaited.
My affliction of always fidgeting with my shirt tails will no doubt persist.
I know that in the current upheaval and unrest on a global, regional and national scale that this rift in the fashion world should be amongst the least of my worries but when walking along a street in full view of the public there is nothing worse than finding that my shirt tail is hanging out.
To a person like myself who has a certain professional image to portray the detachment of shirt tails from waistband assumes some significance.
I do, of course, have a belt and I have been known to wear braces but there is something, more fundamental in play.
There has been a change in styling and sizing of formal work shirts over the last 20 to 30 years. From post war generous cuts and long tails, intended to cater for wearing an undershirt or vest as was the expectation the movement has been to a slimmer fit with sharper non ballooning tailoring.
In order to maximise the profits of manufacturers there has been a noticeable cut back in the amount of cloth used and there, frankly, lies the problem of my involuntary undressing on a public street.
I am comforted in the knowledge that my particular problem is one that has inspired many, many hours of thought and design.
A number of patents have been issued to keep shirts tucked into trousers.
For example, U.S. Pat. No. 6,175,993 entitled “Shirt-Locking Device,” provides a pin type means for fastening a sliding weight upon the lower portions of a shirt or the side of an undergarment to retain the shirt from becoming un-tucked by a double or two part fastening means.
There is more;
U.S. Pat. No. 5,276,923 entitled “Shirt Hold-Down Device,” discloses a central elastomeric web or harness arrangement, having concave sides to accommodate an individual's groin area, with a plurality of tethers extending longitudinally and laterally upwardly from the central web, with each tether including a clip-type fastener for securing to a perimeter portion of an individual's shirt to prevent it from riding upwardly.
U.S. Pat. No. 5,313,669 for “Clothing Anchor Apparatus,” is in the form of a garter type apparatus for securing in the crotch area and attached to the lower edge of a shirt to retain the shirt in position.
U.S. Pat. No. 6,397,393 entitled “Clothing Combination Comprising A Self-Releasing Bonding Means,” discloses an arrangement for maintaining a shirts and pants or a shorts and shirt combination together by means of hook and loop material which is said to provide a self releasing arrangement.
U.S. published application 2004/0154069 is for an “Adjustable Shirt-Tapering System,” for the use of hook and loop fastenings for forming custom fitted as it were shirt-tails to prevent the shirt from becoming untucked and presenting a messy and untidy appearance.
While there have been previous developments or technologies going back well into the 19th century , most of the prior art technologies have required mechanical modifications which have interfered in one way or another with the normal use and comfort of the clothing.
A perfect solution is still awaited.
My affliction of always fidgeting with my shirt tails will no doubt persist.
Monday, 27 June 2016
Time Team Generation
Joanne's Dad is of that age group who experienced the austerity of the post war years, ration books and scarcities. He is of the self sufficient generation who, although making do with what they had did not compromise, did not sacrifice on the quality of a job or task and acheived great things for their families and communities. All of this without recourse to credit or debt.
Even long since retired from business, industry, commerce and public service this generation continue to contribute in a huge way to the smooth running of this country. They voluntarily run the charities, clubs, societies and places of worship. Wise counsel is available free of charge to family, friends, neighbours and strangers in the street and hemmed in on the bus. Unfortunately the best advice borne out of experience is not accepted in the most gracious or willing manner by those who are younger and feel they know and have seen everything already.
The generation provide childcare, a transport and catering service to their grandchildren and regularly place their homes, chattels and physical welfare at the mercy of inquisitive and inexhaustible pre-school infants.They are the invisible economy but without which everything would grind to a halt or tumble into chaos. The Bank of Mum and Dad are always open for business and on generally favourable and not always too judgemental terms.
The most endearing quality of the generation is however their ability to produce, as if by magic, anything obscure, obsolete, out of date or otherwise untraceable even after the warehouses of E-Bay, Amazon and Gumtree have been scoured but with no success. This is because their experience has taught them never to throw anything away that could, over the course of, say the next 50 to 60 years or a lifetime, prove in any way, shape or form, useful.
The vast accumulated resources of this generation can be found in loft storage spaces, the back portion of every conceivable cupboard and drawer, in old biscuit tins and jam jars on the shelving in a garage or shed and although not catalogued can be accessed immediately and with no upheaval or fuss. Some things are just not manufactured anymore but in aggregate this generation hold immeasurable supplies of washers, nuts and bolts of Imperial sizes, jubilee clips, screws, nails, brackets and fixings for every conceivable breakdown, repair or renewal project in the home, garden and on the car.
This is not the amassing of possessions to satisfy materialism but an ultimate practicality and resourcefulness that in successive generations has just not been present.They have not at all been left behind in the information age but do not require the latest technology in home PC's . They read the local paper, listen to the local news and are not averse to just opening a book and setting off on a new line of interest.
Joanne's Dad is a true representative of the generation. If your phone number is not in his address book or speed dial you will easily miss out on the prospect of a bargain, price reduction or a sale at any outlet within the city boundary. He has that depth and breadth of local knowledge that provides an answer to the questions of who lived and worked where, when and for how long, Such information is just not available anywhere else and cannot be bought at any price. Back dated copies of the local newspaper- no problem.
Joanne calls it hoarding but it is the ultimate in re-cycling, sustainable living and self sufficiency which is something that the current generation aspire to but will never, ever attain. Even the back garden of a former childhood home, as Joanne recalls, was an integral part of the family resource as her dad regularly buried everything and anything from cots to car parts in it.
I can imagine, some 1000 years in the future, that location formerly known as Carden Avenue, proving quite a mysterious conundrum for archaeologists from the varied range of excavated relics. Included in the subterranean storage is the body shell of a three-wheeler car, multiple tyres and perhaps more than one engine.
There was a complete method to the whole system of archiving.
It is with great pride that Joanne remembers a day trip, as a child, to the seaside when the family car, another three-wheeler, developed a broken road-spring. This could have spoiled everything on the day out but it was not a problem. It was simply a case of returning home and with shovel in hand, her dad digging over the garden at the exact spot where a spare part had been carefully planted. Harvested, cleaned and fitted it was not too long before they were back , heading east to Withernsea.
Even long since retired from business, industry, commerce and public service this generation continue to contribute in a huge way to the smooth running of this country. They voluntarily run the charities, clubs, societies and places of worship. Wise counsel is available free of charge to family, friends, neighbours and strangers in the street and hemmed in on the bus. Unfortunately the best advice borne out of experience is not accepted in the most gracious or willing manner by those who are younger and feel they know and have seen everything already.
The generation provide childcare, a transport and catering service to their grandchildren and regularly place their homes, chattels and physical welfare at the mercy of inquisitive and inexhaustible pre-school infants.They are the invisible economy but without which everything would grind to a halt or tumble into chaos. The Bank of Mum and Dad are always open for business and on generally favourable and not always too judgemental terms.
The most endearing quality of the generation is however their ability to produce, as if by magic, anything obscure, obsolete, out of date or otherwise untraceable even after the warehouses of E-Bay, Amazon and Gumtree have been scoured but with no success. This is because their experience has taught them never to throw anything away that could, over the course of, say the next 50 to 60 years or a lifetime, prove in any way, shape or form, useful.
The vast accumulated resources of this generation can be found in loft storage spaces, the back portion of every conceivable cupboard and drawer, in old biscuit tins and jam jars on the shelving in a garage or shed and although not catalogued can be accessed immediately and with no upheaval or fuss. Some things are just not manufactured anymore but in aggregate this generation hold immeasurable supplies of washers, nuts and bolts of Imperial sizes, jubilee clips, screws, nails, brackets and fixings for every conceivable breakdown, repair or renewal project in the home, garden and on the car.
This is not the amassing of possessions to satisfy materialism but an ultimate practicality and resourcefulness that in successive generations has just not been present.They have not at all been left behind in the information age but do not require the latest technology in home PC's . They read the local paper, listen to the local news and are not averse to just opening a book and setting off on a new line of interest.
Joanne's Dad is a true representative of the generation. If your phone number is not in his address book or speed dial you will easily miss out on the prospect of a bargain, price reduction or a sale at any outlet within the city boundary. He has that depth and breadth of local knowledge that provides an answer to the questions of who lived and worked where, when and for how long, Such information is just not available anywhere else and cannot be bought at any price. Back dated copies of the local newspaper- no problem.
Joanne calls it hoarding but it is the ultimate in re-cycling, sustainable living and self sufficiency which is something that the current generation aspire to but will never, ever attain. Even the back garden of a former childhood home, as Joanne recalls, was an integral part of the family resource as her dad regularly buried everything and anything from cots to car parts in it.
I can imagine, some 1000 years in the future, that location formerly known as Carden Avenue, proving quite a mysterious conundrum for archaeologists from the varied range of excavated relics. Included in the subterranean storage is the body shell of a three-wheeler car, multiple tyres and perhaps more than one engine.
There was a complete method to the whole system of archiving.
It is with great pride that Joanne remembers a day trip, as a child, to the seaside when the family car, another three-wheeler, developed a broken road-spring. This could have spoiled everything on the day out but it was not a problem. It was simply a case of returning home and with shovel in hand, her dad digging over the garden at the exact spot where a spare part had been carefully planted. Harvested, cleaned and fitted it was not too long before they were back , heading east to Withernsea.
Sunday, 26 June 2016
Foot Soldiers
Is it just me or has the balance of power when attempting to cross a main road on a pedestrian crossing transferred to the oncoming motorists?
I am sure, from my own recollections over the last 50 years that this was not the case.
In fact the overriding impression of crossing the road in my childhood is based on the traffic flow coming to an immediate and courteous halt at the first hint, indication or even tentative motion of a pedestrian on the pavement towards the kerbside.
This is a long way from the process today where it is more a case of making eye contact with the road users and pleading for their permission to step out.
Theirs is, by all accounts, a discretionary power dependant upon
a)whether they like the look of you,
b) based on their judgement of your ability to speedily negotiate the manoeuvre so as not to hold them up on their journey or even
c) simply whether they think they can get away with not stopping at all.
I am beginning to hate having to wave by way of thanks for the privilege of crossing the road and so much so that I am more likely to find an alternative place to do so. I am putting myself in some peril as a consequence.
There is no denying that there is a political and cultural background to this basic requirement.
It is a very good example of the historical pattern in British motoring law of seeking to reconcile the competing aims of different interest groups and working within the constraints of what is acceptable to public opinion.
The reliance by successive governments on good sense and civic duty amongst all parties involved, from drivers to pedestrians has become eroded, and we are now at the situation where crossing the road is now a problematic and potentially devisive issue.
There may be other contributing factors of a socio and economic bent such as the power complex of being behind the wheel but fettered by the frustrations of motorists where average uk road speed is only 23.6mph and the "us and them" stand-off between car drivers and those on foot.
It was in the 1930's that the first pedestrian crossings were introduced as a response to concern over rising road deaths, particularly of those on foot, an inevitability with the increase of vehicle numbers.
In the opening decades of the emergence of cars into daily life public opinion was firmly with pedestrians but in the inter war period middle class car ownership and all of the aspirational things that went with it saw a shift in its favour.
It was not long before pedestrians began to be criticised for erratic behaviour.
Motorists as a social class in themselves became a powerful lobbying group but could not prevent the imposition of insurance obligations and the likelihood of disqualification for careless or reckless driving.
The Highway Code published in 1931 was an attempt at creating some understanding of the mutual responsibilities of all road users but only as a code appealing for good manners.
Not surprisingly it did not really work and road fatalities remained shockingly high.
In the ten years up to 1937 some 14,000 children were killed on the roads.
Imposition of a 30mph speed limit in built up areas saw a slight fall in pedestrian deaths.
A more formal designation of crossing points was also introduced but local authorities were not consistent across the country. There were examples of illuminated signs, electric traffic lights, kerbside post markers and "checkon" crossings made up of black and white squares.
The Transport Minister in the 1930's Lord Hore-Belisha gave his name to the amber coloured but unlit globe beacons on seven foot high poles that marked crossing points . In the first four months of their appearance on British streets 3000 of the 15000 in London were vandalised being regarded as legitimate targets for stones and other projectiles.
The crossings themselves only reignited the public controversy about the relationship between pedestrians and motorists as issues of legal rights of way remained vague and unclear.
In a high profile legal case Lord Montagu had been fined only 30 guineas for killing a woman with a 35mph impact which led to a prominent newspaper claiming that punishment for homicide depended upon the rank and status of the person killed.
Other cases saw legal opinion penalising pedestrians for stepping out on a crossing without giving due notification to the motorist.
These judgements did nothing to reduce the considerable ambiguity about the point at which the motorist could reasonably be expected to slow down and stop.
And so we are at the present day. Nothing much has really changed.
I am sure, from my own recollections over the last 50 years that this was not the case.
In fact the overriding impression of crossing the road in my childhood is based on the traffic flow coming to an immediate and courteous halt at the first hint, indication or even tentative motion of a pedestrian on the pavement towards the kerbside.
This is a long way from the process today where it is more a case of making eye contact with the road users and pleading for their permission to step out.
Theirs is, by all accounts, a discretionary power dependant upon
a)whether they like the look of you,
b) based on their judgement of your ability to speedily negotiate the manoeuvre so as not to hold them up on their journey or even
c) simply whether they think they can get away with not stopping at all.
I am beginning to hate having to wave by way of thanks for the privilege of crossing the road and so much so that I am more likely to find an alternative place to do so. I am putting myself in some peril as a consequence.
There is no denying that there is a political and cultural background to this basic requirement.
It is a very good example of the historical pattern in British motoring law of seeking to reconcile the competing aims of different interest groups and working within the constraints of what is acceptable to public opinion.
The reliance by successive governments on good sense and civic duty amongst all parties involved, from drivers to pedestrians has become eroded, and we are now at the situation where crossing the road is now a problematic and potentially devisive issue.
There may be other contributing factors of a socio and economic bent such as the power complex of being behind the wheel but fettered by the frustrations of motorists where average uk road speed is only 23.6mph and the "us and them" stand-off between car drivers and those on foot.
It was in the 1930's that the first pedestrian crossings were introduced as a response to concern over rising road deaths, particularly of those on foot, an inevitability with the increase of vehicle numbers.
In the opening decades of the emergence of cars into daily life public opinion was firmly with pedestrians but in the inter war period middle class car ownership and all of the aspirational things that went with it saw a shift in its favour.
It was not long before pedestrians began to be criticised for erratic behaviour.
Motorists as a social class in themselves became a powerful lobbying group but could not prevent the imposition of insurance obligations and the likelihood of disqualification for careless or reckless driving.
The Highway Code published in 1931 was an attempt at creating some understanding of the mutual responsibilities of all road users but only as a code appealing for good manners.
Not surprisingly it did not really work and road fatalities remained shockingly high.
In the ten years up to 1937 some 14,000 children were killed on the roads.
Imposition of a 30mph speed limit in built up areas saw a slight fall in pedestrian deaths.
A more formal designation of crossing points was also introduced but local authorities were not consistent across the country. There were examples of illuminated signs, electric traffic lights, kerbside post markers and "checkon" crossings made up of black and white squares.
The Transport Minister in the 1930's Lord Hore-Belisha gave his name to the amber coloured but unlit globe beacons on seven foot high poles that marked crossing points . In the first four months of their appearance on British streets 3000 of the 15000 in London were vandalised being regarded as legitimate targets for stones and other projectiles.
The crossings themselves only reignited the public controversy about the relationship between pedestrians and motorists as issues of legal rights of way remained vague and unclear.
In a high profile legal case Lord Montagu had been fined only 30 guineas for killing a woman with a 35mph impact which led to a prominent newspaper claiming that punishment for homicide depended upon the rank and status of the person killed.
Other cases saw legal opinion penalising pedestrians for stepping out on a crossing without giving due notification to the motorist.
These judgements did nothing to reduce the considerable ambiguity about the point at which the motorist could reasonably be expected to slow down and stop.
And so we are at the present day. Nothing much has really changed.
Saturday, 25 June 2016
Magical Mystery Pour
It poured and poured and although the cast of the 2012 York Mystery Plays were persevering in their performances it was the decision of a headset-clad producer to call them off until the storm passed.
In true British fashion the audience clapped and cheered as the beret-clad centurions, whirling dervish angels and 1940's styled main protagonists dashed for the nearest stage exit. We looked around nervously in case Sir Cliff Richard was lurking and intent on an impromptu recital of his back catalogue.
At three rows back in the south grandstand we remained dry and warm although the row just in front was receiving a bit of wind driven rainfall as it hit the roof above. It was a dilemna whether to offer our scare supply of umbrellas to rows 1 and 2 if their predicament worsened. I fiddled with the Velcro fastener on my black executive type brolly just in case the elderly couple directly in front showed signs of succumbing to the torrent.
The storm rumbled on.
A few persistent rumbles of thunder.
A perceptible flash of lighting above the back drop of the chapel ruins.
The sound of emergency vehicles on the nearby road.
The actor in the role of Jesus had just been in the resurrection process and was eulogising outside the tomb when the temporary abandonment was called. He was in good humour and his gesture skywards with upturned palms was appreciated by the sell out crowd who had earlier dodged a similar downpour to get into the reception area and bar for the once in a decade event. I had been at the 2002 performance in the magnificent setting within York Minster where a low pressure system would not have otherwise constituted a problem.
The enforced and unscheduled interval was about 10 minutes during which the rain intensified and then abated leaving the slatted wooden stage hellishly slippery which was quite appropriate given the theme of the plays. We anticipated the falling of a few angels under such conditions.
Another raucous ovation as the hundreds in the cast returned.
The centurions were in transparent emergency ponchos, similarly the angels but with the main characters remaining in costume and character. We were amazed at their resilience and ability to immediately assume the great emotion and pathos of the scene they had been compelled, by an Act of God, to vacate.
The ponchos did detract slightly, I felt, although I was entirely sympathetic given that the following evenings performance was now only 40 minutes away and the prospect of being in the open air in damp attire for another 4 hours was something only battle hardened survivalists would be expected to tolerate.
It was indeed a magical mystery play and I had a lovely warm and all pervading feeling but could not guaranteee that it was partly due to a wet folding plastic seat in row 3.
In true British fashion the audience clapped and cheered as the beret-clad centurions, whirling dervish angels and 1940's styled main protagonists dashed for the nearest stage exit. We looked around nervously in case Sir Cliff Richard was lurking and intent on an impromptu recital of his back catalogue.
At three rows back in the south grandstand we remained dry and warm although the row just in front was receiving a bit of wind driven rainfall as it hit the roof above. It was a dilemna whether to offer our scare supply of umbrellas to rows 1 and 2 if their predicament worsened. I fiddled with the Velcro fastener on my black executive type brolly just in case the elderly couple directly in front showed signs of succumbing to the torrent.
The storm rumbled on.
A few persistent rumbles of thunder.
A perceptible flash of lighting above the back drop of the chapel ruins.
The sound of emergency vehicles on the nearby road.
The actor in the role of Jesus had just been in the resurrection process and was eulogising outside the tomb when the temporary abandonment was called. He was in good humour and his gesture skywards with upturned palms was appreciated by the sell out crowd who had earlier dodged a similar downpour to get into the reception area and bar for the once in a decade event. I had been at the 2002 performance in the magnificent setting within York Minster where a low pressure system would not have otherwise constituted a problem.
The enforced and unscheduled interval was about 10 minutes during which the rain intensified and then abated leaving the slatted wooden stage hellishly slippery which was quite appropriate given the theme of the plays. We anticipated the falling of a few angels under such conditions.
Another raucous ovation as the hundreds in the cast returned.
The centurions were in transparent emergency ponchos, similarly the angels but with the main characters remaining in costume and character. We were amazed at their resilience and ability to immediately assume the great emotion and pathos of the scene they had been compelled, by an Act of God, to vacate.
The ponchos did detract slightly, I felt, although I was entirely sympathetic given that the following evenings performance was now only 40 minutes away and the prospect of being in the open air in damp attire for another 4 hours was something only battle hardened survivalists would be expected to tolerate.
It was indeed a magical mystery play and I had a lovely warm and all pervading feeling but could not guaranteee that it was partly due to a wet folding plastic seat in row 3.
Friday, 24 June 2016
Noah's Lark
It was 9 years ago to this very day that it rained. I can remember it very well for a number of small, trivial reasons and two massive ones.
The day started off with the sighting by me and The Boy of a wild deer which was, with no regard to its own welfare, just grazing and gazing within the excavated bowl of the new road junction about 2 miles from our house. How it had got into the inner sanctum was not clear and after our initial wonderment at just having seen such a timid, sprightly creature, we did express concern about how it might get back into its more natural environment farther up the wooded hillside swopping a forest ride for the busy dual carriageway.
We were on the way to the unreasonably early start of a car boot sale at a new venue for us. It had promised well from chatting with other sellers at our usual recreational field pitch. It was in more affluent catchment area, close to a motorway junction for casual passing buyers, well established and popular or so we had been told. It actually turned out to be well away from any population areas, off the main traffic flows, in an old chicken farm and quite a dead loss in terms of actual trade. We had arrived early and were directed by a toothless old boy, the smallholder, to a narrow, claustrophobic pitch even for one outside, right in the middle of an old strawberry field complete with canes and wires.
It was the first sale we had participated at that we had not been pounced upon by dealers and scavengers as soon as we had opened the tailgate of the car. That did not promise much for the rest of our confinement in that place because we were now well and truly trapped by the slow build up of other sellers. There would be no possibility of leaving early even if we felt like giving the whole thing up. The first couple of hours dragged by with only a few pounds sterling to show for our endeavours. My best offering of a Champions League Final programme, £8 from WH Smiths, was looking a bit sorry and curling up at the edges in quite a fierce and persistent heat from the sun and with no respite from any shelter or shade.
The Boy first remarked on some quite magnificent towering cloud structures that had sailed from the west into the otherwise powder blue sky. They were like nothing I had ever seen before, and I had always made a point of commenting on such phenomena with the children and so knew what constituted a noteworthy cluster. Billowing, dazzling white. The occasional vapour trails of high flying passenger jets seemed to punch through the meringue-like peaks which again was something I had not seen before.
We were certainly witnessing quite an unusual formation.
Such was our concentration on the clouds that our entire stock and the pasting table itself could have been whisked away by unscrupulous car-booters and we would not have noticed.
Our meteorological observations made the morning fly by.
Then a gap in our closely packed row opened up as a fellow seller expressed frustration and upped and went and we too made our escape.
The afternoon was to be at the 90th birthday party of a family friend. Me and the Boy were quite radiant facially from a south facing morning and were expecting to attract attention as a consequence from the other guests.
As we arrived at Clarice's house for a garden party the mountainous Cumulus, which had followed us from the farmyard into town were in freefall.
The collapse resembled a slow motion avalanche into a dirty grey full sky cover of rain cloud and with a strong driving wind now developing. The party, momentarily basking in the heat , had to retreat indoors in what became a torrential downpour and with no indications of a reprieve or even a brief sunny interval.
The rain continued for the next 36 hours and developed into the misery of the 2007 Hull flood.
As a consequence of the overwhelming of the foul and surface water drainage systems across large parts of the urban and suburban areas over 8,600 households (20 000 people) were affected. Of these 6,300 people were forced to live in temporary accommodation with over 1400 people in caravans in gardens .
This day, the ninth anniversary of the floods has followed on from a very disturbingly similar spate of weather for much of June. There has been heavy and persistent rainfall most days. The clay soils which form much of the low lying Hull urban area have quickly filled up and as in 2007 it will not take much more precipitation to replicate the flood.
Lessons have been learned from the events of 9 years ago today .
I am definitely planning on taking a cagoule to Clarice's 99th birthday bash which is in a couple of days time as those big clouds, hanging about for the duration, look a mighty bit ominous.
The day started off with the sighting by me and The Boy of a wild deer which was, with no regard to its own welfare, just grazing and gazing within the excavated bowl of the new road junction about 2 miles from our house. How it had got into the inner sanctum was not clear and after our initial wonderment at just having seen such a timid, sprightly creature, we did express concern about how it might get back into its more natural environment farther up the wooded hillside swopping a forest ride for the busy dual carriageway.
We were on the way to the unreasonably early start of a car boot sale at a new venue for us. It had promised well from chatting with other sellers at our usual recreational field pitch. It was in more affluent catchment area, close to a motorway junction for casual passing buyers, well established and popular or so we had been told. It actually turned out to be well away from any population areas, off the main traffic flows, in an old chicken farm and quite a dead loss in terms of actual trade. We had arrived early and were directed by a toothless old boy, the smallholder, to a narrow, claustrophobic pitch even for one outside, right in the middle of an old strawberry field complete with canes and wires.
It was the first sale we had participated at that we had not been pounced upon by dealers and scavengers as soon as we had opened the tailgate of the car. That did not promise much for the rest of our confinement in that place because we were now well and truly trapped by the slow build up of other sellers. There would be no possibility of leaving early even if we felt like giving the whole thing up. The first couple of hours dragged by with only a few pounds sterling to show for our endeavours. My best offering of a Champions League Final programme, £8 from WH Smiths, was looking a bit sorry and curling up at the edges in quite a fierce and persistent heat from the sun and with no respite from any shelter or shade.
The Boy first remarked on some quite magnificent towering cloud structures that had sailed from the west into the otherwise powder blue sky. They were like nothing I had ever seen before, and I had always made a point of commenting on such phenomena with the children and so knew what constituted a noteworthy cluster. Billowing, dazzling white. The occasional vapour trails of high flying passenger jets seemed to punch through the meringue-like peaks which again was something I had not seen before.
We were certainly witnessing quite an unusual formation.
Such was our concentration on the clouds that our entire stock and the pasting table itself could have been whisked away by unscrupulous car-booters and we would not have noticed.
Our meteorological observations made the morning fly by.
Then a gap in our closely packed row opened up as a fellow seller expressed frustration and upped and went and we too made our escape.
The afternoon was to be at the 90th birthday party of a family friend. Me and the Boy were quite radiant facially from a south facing morning and were expecting to attract attention as a consequence from the other guests.
As we arrived at Clarice's house for a garden party the mountainous Cumulus, which had followed us from the farmyard into town were in freefall.
The collapse resembled a slow motion avalanche into a dirty grey full sky cover of rain cloud and with a strong driving wind now developing. The party, momentarily basking in the heat , had to retreat indoors in what became a torrential downpour and with no indications of a reprieve or even a brief sunny interval.
The rain continued for the next 36 hours and developed into the misery of the 2007 Hull flood.
As a consequence of the overwhelming of the foul and surface water drainage systems across large parts of the urban and suburban areas over 8,600 households (20 000 people) were affected. Of these 6,300 people were forced to live in temporary accommodation with over 1400 people in caravans in gardens .
This day, the ninth anniversary of the floods has followed on from a very disturbingly similar spate of weather for much of June. There has been heavy and persistent rainfall most days. The clay soils which form much of the low lying Hull urban area have quickly filled up and as in 2007 it will not take much more precipitation to replicate the flood.
Lessons have been learned from the events of 9 years ago today .
I am definitely planning on taking a cagoule to Clarice's 99th birthday bash which is in a couple of days time as those big clouds, hanging about for the duration, look a mighty bit ominous.
Thursday, 23 June 2016
Tufty Bits
We were taught at a very early age how to safely cross the road. It was evidently not as simple as that.
School crossing patrols which had only been used experimentally and operated by the Police since the late 1930's were officially adopted in 1953.
It took another couple of years for the distinctive "children crossing" signs or lollipop to become part of early years and later school days and very much now a part of the usual street furniture.
The highest risk group of children was seen to be those of pre-school age and in 1952 The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents (RoSPA) founded the Teddy Club for the under sixes and the Lookout Club for older children (1953). This latter target group were introduced to the motto "always alert", probably meant to allude to "all-ways alert".
Another venture by RoSPA, after concerns over the potential conflict between children and an ever increasing volume of traffic on the nation's roads in the boom economy of the post war era. was the Tufty Club, a slick and professional operation compared to the previous efforts.
I am proud to have been a member of the Tufty Club, the phenomenally successful initiative for road safety launched in 1961 for the under fives age group.
In its first year the Tufty Club was joined by 35,000 children.
In a franchise type arrangement the Tufty squirrel character was featured on greetings cards, toothbrushes, card games, handkerchiefs, jigsaws and many other promotional items.
I was drawn into the merchandising being the proud owner of a Tufty Club pin badge which I seem to recall was given out as part of an educational programme at my own school.
In its efforts to educate pre-school children RoSPA especially tried to persuade women to carry the message. This was mainly through an encouragement for mothers to read the Tufty Club literature to their children.
The Best selling Tufty Books by the author Elsie B Mills reinforced the gender division with male role models in the form of Mr Wise Owl and Dr White Rabbit but with Tufty always making sure that his mummy was with him when he crossed the road.
The message was perhaps one of the first to use the power of marketing after many previous,
quite haphazard and amateurish attempts.
Such was the enduring and interesting cloaking of a simple set of guidance that even now, nearly half a century after being a member of the Tufty Club I can still remember the mantra of;
"At the kerb-Halt",
"Look Right, Look Left",
"Look Right Again",
and then "If all clear- quick march".
The campaign proved to be most lucrative for RoSPA and contributed to the ability of the organisation to fund and greatly reduce the danger imposed to young children in crossing the road.
School crossing patrols which had only been used experimentally and operated by the Police since the late 1930's were officially adopted in 1953.
It took another couple of years for the distinctive "children crossing" signs or lollipop to become part of early years and later school days and very much now a part of the usual street furniture.
The highest risk group of children was seen to be those of pre-school age and in 1952 The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents (RoSPA) founded the Teddy Club for the under sixes and the Lookout Club for older children (1953). This latter target group were introduced to the motto "always alert", probably meant to allude to "all-ways alert".
Another venture by RoSPA, after concerns over the potential conflict between children and an ever increasing volume of traffic on the nation's roads in the boom economy of the post war era. was the Tufty Club, a slick and professional operation compared to the previous efforts.
I am proud to have been a member of the Tufty Club, the phenomenally successful initiative for road safety launched in 1961 for the under fives age group.
In its first year the Tufty Club was joined by 35,000 children.
In a franchise type arrangement the Tufty squirrel character was featured on greetings cards, toothbrushes, card games, handkerchiefs, jigsaws and many other promotional items.
I was drawn into the merchandising being the proud owner of a Tufty Club pin badge which I seem to recall was given out as part of an educational programme at my own school.
In its efforts to educate pre-school children RoSPA especially tried to persuade women to carry the message. This was mainly through an encouragement for mothers to read the Tufty Club literature to their children.
The Best selling Tufty Books by the author Elsie B Mills reinforced the gender division with male role models in the form of Mr Wise Owl and Dr White Rabbit but with Tufty always making sure that his mummy was with him when he crossed the road.
The message was perhaps one of the first to use the power of marketing after many previous,
quite haphazard and amateurish attempts.
Such was the enduring and interesting cloaking of a simple set of guidance that even now, nearly half a century after being a member of the Tufty Club I can still remember the mantra of;
"At the kerb-Halt",
"Look Right, Look Left",
"Look Right Again",
and then "If all clear- quick march".
The campaign proved to be most lucrative for RoSPA and contributed to the ability of the organisation to fund and greatly reduce the danger imposed to young children in crossing the road.
Tuesday, 21 June 2016
Homer Entertainment System
He is a moralist, a sage, the thinking man's non thinking hero, extraordinary human, role model to those who should know better and he can also come up with some classic comedic lines.
Here is a collection of what are arguably the best of Homer Simpsons gifts to the world...........................
Operator! Give me the number for 911!
Oh, so they have internet on computers now!
Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like...love!
Just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand.
I'm normally not a praying man, but if you're up there, please save me Superman.
Son, if you really want something in this life, you have to work for it. Now quiet! They're about to announce the lottery numbers.
Well, it's 1 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids.
Maybe, just once, someone will call me 'Sir' without adding, 'You're making a scene.'
Marge, don't discourage the boy! Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals! Except the weasel.
Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?
You know, boys, a nuclear reactor is a lot like a woman. You just have to read the manual and press the right buttons.
Lisa, if you don't like your job you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American way.
When will I learn? The answer to life's problems aren't at the bottom of a bottle, they're on TV!
Son, when you participate in sporting events, it's not whether you win or lose: it's how drunk you get.
I'm going to the back seat of my car, with the woman I love, and I won't be back for ten minutes!
[Meeting Aliens] Please don't eat me! I have a wife and kids. Eat them!
What do we need a psychiatrist for? We know our kid is nuts.
Marriage is like a coffin and each kid is another nail.
Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.
The only monster here is the gambling monster that has enslaved your mother! I call him Gamblor, and it's time to snatch your mother from his neon claws!
When I look at the smiles on all the children's faces, I just know they're about to jab me with something.
I'm having the best day of my life, and I owe it all to not going to Church!
Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling and foxy boxing and such and such.
I'm not a bad guy! I work hard, and I love my kids. So why should I spend half my Sunday hearing about how I'm going to Hell?
Getting out of jury duty is easy. The trick is to say you're prejudiced against all races.
It's not easy to juggle a pregnant wife and a troubled child, but somehow I managed to fit in eight hours of TV a day.
Lisa, Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos.
I want to share something with you: The three little sentences that will get you through life. Number 1: Cover for me. Number 2: Oh, good idea, Boss! Number 3: It was like that when I got here.
Oh, people can come up with statistics to prove anything, Kent. 14% of people know that.
Remember that postcard Grandpa sent us from Florida of that Alligator biting that woman's bottom? That's right, we all thought it was hilarious. But, it turns out we were wrong. That alligator was sexually harrassing that woman.
Old people don't need companionship. They need to be isolated and studied so it can be determined what nutrients they have that might be extracted for our personal use.
How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?
Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover.
Homer no function beer well without.
I've always wondered if there was a god. And now I know there is -- and it's me.
Kill my boss? Do I dare live out the American dream?
If something goes wrong at the plant, blame the guy who can't speak English.
I'm never going to be disabled. I'm sick of being so healthy.
I like my beer cold, my TV loud and my homosexuals flaming.
Alcohol is a way of life, alcohol is my way of life, and I aim to keep it.
All my life I've had one dream, to achieve my many goals.
Dad, you've done a lot of great things, but you're a very old man, and old people are useless.
But Marge, what if we chose the wrong religion? Each week we just make God madder and madder.
I think Smithers picked me because of my motivational skills. Everyone says they have to work a lot harder when I'm around.
Dear Lord.. The gods have been good to me. For the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect just the way it is. So here's the deal: You freeze everything the way it is, and I won't ask for anything more. If that is OK, please give me absolutely no sign. OK, deal.
That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college!
Beer: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.
If something's hard to do, then it's not worth doing
I'm in no condition to drive...wait! I shouldn't listen to myself, I'm drunk!
'To Start Press Any Key'. Where's the ANY key?
Here is a collection of what are arguably the best of Homer Simpsons gifts to the world...........................
Operator! Give me the number for 911!
Oh, so they have internet on computers now!
Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like...love!
Just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand.
I'm normally not a praying man, but if you're up there, please save me Superman.
Son, if you really want something in this life, you have to work for it. Now quiet! They're about to announce the lottery numbers.
Well, it's 1 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids.
Maybe, just once, someone will call me 'Sir' without adding, 'You're making a scene.'
Marge, don't discourage the boy! Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals! Except the weasel.
Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?
You know, boys, a nuclear reactor is a lot like a woman. You just have to read the manual and press the right buttons.
Lisa, if you don't like your job you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American way.
When will I learn? The answer to life's problems aren't at the bottom of a bottle, they're on TV!
Son, when you participate in sporting events, it's not whether you win or lose: it's how drunk you get.
I'm going to the back seat of my car, with the woman I love, and I won't be back for ten minutes!
[Meeting Aliens] Please don't eat me! I have a wife and kids. Eat them!
What do we need a psychiatrist for? We know our kid is nuts.
Marriage is like a coffin and each kid is another nail.
Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.
The only monster here is the gambling monster that has enslaved your mother! I call him Gamblor, and it's time to snatch your mother from his neon claws!
When I look at the smiles on all the children's faces, I just know they're about to jab me with something.
I'm having the best day of my life, and I owe it all to not going to Church!
Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling and foxy boxing and such and such.
I'm not a bad guy! I work hard, and I love my kids. So why should I spend half my Sunday hearing about how I'm going to Hell?
Getting out of jury duty is easy. The trick is to say you're prejudiced against all races.
It's not easy to juggle a pregnant wife and a troubled child, but somehow I managed to fit in eight hours of TV a day.
Lisa, Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos.
I want to share something with you: The three little sentences that will get you through life. Number 1: Cover for me. Number 2: Oh, good idea, Boss! Number 3: It was like that when I got here.
Oh, people can come up with statistics to prove anything, Kent. 14% of people know that.
Remember that postcard Grandpa sent us from Florida of that Alligator biting that woman's bottom? That's right, we all thought it was hilarious. But, it turns out we were wrong. That alligator was sexually harrassing that woman.
Old people don't need companionship. They need to be isolated and studied so it can be determined what nutrients they have that might be extracted for our personal use.
How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?
Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover.
Homer no function beer well without.
I've always wondered if there was a god. And now I know there is -- and it's me.
Kill my boss? Do I dare live out the American dream?
If something goes wrong at the plant, blame the guy who can't speak English.
I'm never going to be disabled. I'm sick of being so healthy.
I like my beer cold, my TV loud and my homosexuals flaming.
Alcohol is a way of life, alcohol is my way of life, and I aim to keep it.
All my life I've had one dream, to achieve my many goals.
Dad, you've done a lot of great things, but you're a very old man, and old people are useless.
But Marge, what if we chose the wrong religion? Each week we just make God madder and madder.
I think Smithers picked me because of my motivational skills. Everyone says they have to work a lot harder when I'm around.
Dear Lord.. The gods have been good to me. For the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect just the way it is. So here's the deal: You freeze everything the way it is, and I won't ask for anything more. If that is OK, please give me absolutely no sign. OK, deal.
That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college!
Beer: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.
If something's hard to do, then it's not worth doing
I'm in no condition to drive...wait! I shouldn't listen to myself, I'm drunk!
'To Start Press Any Key'. Where's the ANY key?
Monday, 20 June 2016
Headhunting
Going to the barbershop is not usually an openly emotional experience.
In my youth it was a place of dread. This was because the reputation of the local barber, ominously nicknamed "Slash Harry". He was the old, traditional style practitioner with blunt scissors, a toothless comb, a shop floor very rarely swept and a conversational style centred around football, holidays, immigration and his mother in law.
On one occasion he caught the lobe of my ear with his clippers. You would not think that a small fleshy protuberance could contain so much blood. He dabbed at the wound, in front of an increasingly nervous assembly of waiting customers, with a styptic pencil intended to stem the flow. He asked if he should wrap it up and I recall saying in shock, that I would just take it with me as it was.
As a teenager I looked to have a bit more in a haircut and went to a proper ladies hairdressing salon in the town. This was also a traumatic experience, not down to any fault of the stylists but down to my shyness and embarrassment of unwittingly staring down a cleavage or having said boobs brushing against me as scissors were skillfully operated in close proximity.
I often felt hot and bothered and to such an extent that I could quite easily steam up the whole of the shop window single handedly.
In my student years I could get away with no hairstyle at all. A floppy fringe went well with donkey jacket, combat trousers and suede boots.
I had to smarten up when entering full time employment for the first time but my job involved a lot of driving and so if I felt a haircut was necessary I would just seek out a barbers wherever I happened to be. There was no consistency in my cut illustrating that unlike McDonalds you just cannot rely on the same product every time in that sphere of business.
A lot of people eventually settle down to a sole barber or hairdresser, with the selected salon assuming a role only really matched by the parish priest, bank manager and publican.
There is a certain comfort in the routine of getting a haircut and a definite feeling of invigoration after the deed has been done. I can well understand how my wife can spend three to four hours having a hair-do for all of the assumed benefits of being in good company, chatting in confidence and that holistic good feeling that accompanies it.
It was only by my fourth decade that I could count myself as a loyal customer and patron of an establishment in my local town centre. It is nice to just wander in and entrust everything to an expert. My perception of a visit to a barber had, from my early years, been that they would only attempt what you asked them to and no more. In the better salons it is a case of being told what would suit you best and that is an unrivalled personal service.
My workload continued to keep me on the road and a brief glimpse of an unkempt and neglected hairline in my rear view mirror would get me thinking about seeking an out of town salon. It was then a case of having to avoid my regular stylist for fear of causing upset until my hair had grown back to cuttable length.
I did experiment with different appearances but mainly out of boredom or just as a bit of latent rebellion. There was a very cropped cut that made me look like a football hooligan, a return to the floppy fringe although in my fifth decade no longer endearing,cute and geeky and on a visit to Florence, Italy a bit of a hatchet job down to a misunderstanding in language terms.
I do have a challenging hairline and have inherited a receding hairline from my Father.
The impact of a thinning forehead of hair and a monk-like bald patch has, I admit, had some effect on my confidence in more recent years.
I have resisted going for an all over clipper cut opting for a sort of comb-over or a return to a longer fringe.
On a hot day or after strenuous exercise the cover-up operation fails miserably and I resemble an overcooked or boiled ham.
So, just today I made the decision to have a drastic cut.
It was an easy decision to make at what I now regard as my new local barber, a brash Turkish run shop on a busy road just off the city centre.
In return for asking for a "Number 2-all over" my previous resistance and reluctance to accept my baldness simply fell away.
Each stroke of the clippers accentuated the shape of my head which, frankly, I had not appreciated as it had been concealed for decades under my largely unruly mop. It surprised me as being quite a reasonably regular one.
I felt a confidence and assurance from seeing my reflection in the salon mirror which was a new and exciting sensation.
All of my worries were as nothing and I left the salon proud to be the newest recruit to the middle aged shaven head club.
In my youth it was a place of dread. This was because the reputation of the local barber, ominously nicknamed "Slash Harry". He was the old, traditional style practitioner with blunt scissors, a toothless comb, a shop floor very rarely swept and a conversational style centred around football, holidays, immigration and his mother in law.
On one occasion he caught the lobe of my ear with his clippers. You would not think that a small fleshy protuberance could contain so much blood. He dabbed at the wound, in front of an increasingly nervous assembly of waiting customers, with a styptic pencil intended to stem the flow. He asked if he should wrap it up and I recall saying in shock, that I would just take it with me as it was.
As a teenager I looked to have a bit more in a haircut and went to a proper ladies hairdressing salon in the town. This was also a traumatic experience, not down to any fault of the stylists but down to my shyness and embarrassment of unwittingly staring down a cleavage or having said boobs brushing against me as scissors were skillfully operated in close proximity.
I often felt hot and bothered and to such an extent that I could quite easily steam up the whole of the shop window single handedly.
In my student years I could get away with no hairstyle at all. A floppy fringe went well with donkey jacket, combat trousers and suede boots.
I had to smarten up when entering full time employment for the first time but my job involved a lot of driving and so if I felt a haircut was necessary I would just seek out a barbers wherever I happened to be. There was no consistency in my cut illustrating that unlike McDonalds you just cannot rely on the same product every time in that sphere of business.
A lot of people eventually settle down to a sole barber or hairdresser, with the selected salon assuming a role only really matched by the parish priest, bank manager and publican.
There is a certain comfort in the routine of getting a haircut and a definite feeling of invigoration after the deed has been done. I can well understand how my wife can spend three to four hours having a hair-do for all of the assumed benefits of being in good company, chatting in confidence and that holistic good feeling that accompanies it.
It was only by my fourth decade that I could count myself as a loyal customer and patron of an establishment in my local town centre. It is nice to just wander in and entrust everything to an expert. My perception of a visit to a barber had, from my early years, been that they would only attempt what you asked them to and no more. In the better salons it is a case of being told what would suit you best and that is an unrivalled personal service.
My workload continued to keep me on the road and a brief glimpse of an unkempt and neglected hairline in my rear view mirror would get me thinking about seeking an out of town salon. It was then a case of having to avoid my regular stylist for fear of causing upset until my hair had grown back to cuttable length.
I did experiment with different appearances but mainly out of boredom or just as a bit of latent rebellion. There was a very cropped cut that made me look like a football hooligan, a return to the floppy fringe although in my fifth decade no longer endearing,cute and geeky and on a visit to Florence, Italy a bit of a hatchet job down to a misunderstanding in language terms.
I do have a challenging hairline and have inherited a receding hairline from my Father.
The impact of a thinning forehead of hair and a monk-like bald patch has, I admit, had some effect on my confidence in more recent years.
I have resisted going for an all over clipper cut opting for a sort of comb-over or a return to a longer fringe.
On a hot day or after strenuous exercise the cover-up operation fails miserably and I resemble an overcooked or boiled ham.
So, just today I made the decision to have a drastic cut.
It was an easy decision to make at what I now regard as my new local barber, a brash Turkish run shop on a busy road just off the city centre.
In return for asking for a "Number 2-all over" my previous resistance and reluctance to accept my baldness simply fell away.
Each stroke of the clippers accentuated the shape of my head which, frankly, I had not appreciated as it had been concealed for decades under my largely unruly mop. It surprised me as being quite a reasonably regular one.
I felt a confidence and assurance from seeing my reflection in the salon mirror which was a new and exciting sensation.
All of my worries were as nothing and I left the salon proud to be the newest recruit to the middle aged shaven head club.
Sunday, 19 June 2016
Fathers Day #1
I have been celebrating Father's Day today by doing things that Fathers do best.
Here is a list of the things that I can recall in a very hectic day indeed.
Made myself a cup of tea
Did some paperwork for a couple of hours in the idyllic, calm quiet of a June morning.
Welcomed my son to the new day and made him a cup of tea.
Watched a bit of sunday television whilst shuffling a few more work papers.
Said good morning to my youngest daughter and made her a cup of tea.
Popped out on foot to the local supermarket to stock up on breakfast things.
Prepared the bacon to bake in the oven and sliced the croissants ready for a civilised butty
Kissed my wife good morning and made her a cup of tea
Serve up breakfast
Make another lot of cups of tea
Clear away the plates and cups and stack the dishwasher
Tidy own mess in the kitchen
Think about having that weekend shave
Think about it some more.
Experiment with perception of rugged look.
Fail
Go to the large B&Q to buy low energy light bulbs, a curtain pole and ring top curtains.
What a lot of choice. Confusing.
Think about looking in Yellow Pages for a curtain expert
Cruise the aisles of the big city supermarket for a few provisions
Return home and encourage son to mend the puncture on his bike
Take on supervisory role in said activity
Hands remain perfectly clean throughout
Congratulate son on doing a good job
Drill a few holes to hang the curtain pole, 60% of them successful
Struggle with the other 30% which coincide with the concrete lintel over the window
Bodge the fixing for the middle support bracket of the curtain pole. Await recriminations.
Cover my tracks for the above.
Have a look inside a pull cord light fitting that does not pull.
Think about looking in Yellow Pages for electrician
Climb on a chair and undo light fitting
Climb off chair and switch off ground floor lighting circuit
Resume precarious position on wooden chair on slippery tile floor
Loosen a few screws and hear them fall on the floor and roll somewhere out of sight.
Forget to note wiring connections on old fitting
Bodge the fixing of the new pull cord but congratulate myself when it works.
Hang around listening for fizzing sound or smell of smoke anyway
Cover my tracks for the above.
Euphorically attempt to repair faulty pull cord fitting for extractor fan.
Strategic withdrawal when realise a bit more involved
Change a few light bulbs after correct type purchased from B&Q
Keep the others just in case
Move some furniture for a friend in the back of the estate car
Marvel at the load bay capacity of a VW Passat
Unload and re-assemble furniture for said friend
Leave the back seats folded flat in rebellious manner.
Drive to the petrol station to fill up wife's car for her drive to York to take daughter home
Enjoy a wonderful meal cooked by wife and think about cracking open a bottle of beer.
What goes best with lamb, mediterranean vegetables and apple crumble?
Console youngest daughter who is poorly and a bit down about things.
Offer to drive her to York.
Return that tantalising dewy sided Carlsberg to the fridge for another day.
Load up the car and take on the 80 mile round trip.
Glorious roads, wide and traffic free. Other dads must be snoozing off a boozy day.
Play Joe Bonamassa CD very loud for most of the return journey
Accelerate away from the traffic lights at the end of the by-pass startling a Nissan Micra driver
Wave at the old lady in the Micra.
Glance at rugged face in the rear view mirror
Close but not quite.
Get home, tired but wonderfully happy.
A Perfect Father's Day.
Here is a list of the things that I can recall in a very hectic day indeed.
Made myself a cup of tea
Did some paperwork for a couple of hours in the idyllic, calm quiet of a June morning.
Welcomed my son to the new day and made him a cup of tea.
Watched a bit of sunday television whilst shuffling a few more work papers.
Said good morning to my youngest daughter and made her a cup of tea.
Popped out on foot to the local supermarket to stock up on breakfast things.
Prepared the bacon to bake in the oven and sliced the croissants ready for a civilised butty
Kissed my wife good morning and made her a cup of tea
Serve up breakfast
Make another lot of cups of tea
Clear away the plates and cups and stack the dishwasher
Tidy own mess in the kitchen
Think about having that weekend shave
Think about it some more.
Experiment with perception of rugged look.
Fail
Go to the large B&Q to buy low energy light bulbs, a curtain pole and ring top curtains.
What a lot of choice. Confusing.
Think about looking in Yellow Pages for a curtain expert
Cruise the aisles of the big city supermarket for a few provisions
Return home and encourage son to mend the puncture on his bike
Take on supervisory role in said activity
Hands remain perfectly clean throughout
Congratulate son on doing a good job
Drill a few holes to hang the curtain pole, 60% of them successful
Struggle with the other 30% which coincide with the concrete lintel over the window
Bodge the fixing for the middle support bracket of the curtain pole. Await recriminations.
Cover my tracks for the above.
Have a look inside a pull cord light fitting that does not pull.
Think about looking in Yellow Pages for electrician
Climb on a chair and undo light fitting
Climb off chair and switch off ground floor lighting circuit
Resume precarious position on wooden chair on slippery tile floor
Loosen a few screws and hear them fall on the floor and roll somewhere out of sight.
Forget to note wiring connections on old fitting
Bodge the fixing of the new pull cord but congratulate myself when it works.
Hang around listening for fizzing sound or smell of smoke anyway
Cover my tracks for the above.
Euphorically attempt to repair faulty pull cord fitting for extractor fan.
Strategic withdrawal when realise a bit more involved
Change a few light bulbs after correct type purchased from B&Q
Keep the others just in case
Move some furniture for a friend in the back of the estate car
Marvel at the load bay capacity of a VW Passat
Unload and re-assemble furniture for said friend
Leave the back seats folded flat in rebellious manner.
Drive to the petrol station to fill up wife's car for her drive to York to take daughter home
Enjoy a wonderful meal cooked by wife and think about cracking open a bottle of beer.
What goes best with lamb, mediterranean vegetables and apple crumble?
Console youngest daughter who is poorly and a bit down about things.
Offer to drive her to York.
Return that tantalising dewy sided Carlsberg to the fridge for another day.
Load up the car and take on the 80 mile round trip.
Glorious roads, wide and traffic free. Other dads must be snoozing off a boozy day.
Play Joe Bonamassa CD very loud for most of the return journey
Accelerate away from the traffic lights at the end of the by-pass startling a Nissan Micra driver
Wave at the old lady in the Micra.
Glance at rugged face in the rear view mirror
Close but not quite.
Get home, tired but wonderfully happy.
A Perfect Father's Day.
Saturday, 18 June 2016
Messy Ferguson
I often think about the tractor that nearly killed me.
That is a bit harsh on the tractor as the circumstances that threatened to curtail my young life were entirely down to my own folly.
I was working on a farm as a summer vacation job.
My main role was to use a front loader attachment to lift the newly formed straw bales from the stubble-strewn field onto a flat bed trailer where they were carefully man-handled and bonded to prevent any falling off when the full load was towed to the stackyard, a mile or so away.
I was not yet , at that age, a car driver and so my experience of manouevring any type of vehicle, and in particular a heavy machine like a tractor was limited.
I was learning the technique very much through the hands on process. A bit of training in the farmyard gave me a grasp of the basics such as starting and turning over the engine, mastering the throttle and brakes and using the controls to lift, lower and manipulate the crab-like claws of the front loader.
On a bumpy, cropped field and with the dead weight of straw bales to be raised and steered onto the trailer there were additional difficulties and many things to consider, judge and concentrate on.
I am the first to admit that at that age I was a daft lad. I cannot have been alone in having a certain feeling of invincibility and immortality stemming from anticipation of a long and fruitful life ahead.
The combination of a machine with a powerful engine and the feeling of wellbeing in the constant fresh air made for a heady cocktail and after only a few days of work I was throwing the tractor around like it was a go-kart.
I was quite adept and efficient at the main task being able to negotiate rapidly what was a fairly mundane procedure. Approach, grab, stabilise, elevate, reverse, swing around and deposit.
The days flew by as two of us worked methodically around the 20 acre field. The weather was not too hot, even for August, and on the old tractor typically a model with no cab I was getting a healthy looking tan. Regular drink and food stops, sat in the stubble or increasingly higher on the trailer were like a holiday picnic and it was a bit of a struggle to get back to work after such a pleasant break from the monotony.
It was after one such pause that I put myself very much in harms way.
The next tranche of bales for collection was on the farthest section of the field which was on a shallow gradient down to a wooded valley.
In convoy, me and the old stalwart and my co-worker towing the large and now emptied trailer made our way across the rutted ground. I was by now confident in my driving ability, a bit too over confident for the terrain.
I decided to race the other lumbering vehicle. It's driver was a seasoned farm worker with due respect for his rig.He did not respond to my challenge.
I had not accounted for the affect of the slope on the stability of the tractor, accentuated by the excessive speed of perhaps 15mph. The front loader arms were raised just above my eyeline so as to give me an uninterrupted view ahead but in retrospect, this served to upset the whole centre of gravity. A sensibly driven and appropriately weighted tractor is one of the most stable vehicles you could ask for, witness the millions of farmers for whom reliability and durability are key factors for their machines.
In the hands of a stupid lad however, the whole dynamic was changed.
I noticed a slight twitch in the steering as the pitch of the field deprived the wheels on the right hand side of full traction. The loader arms were no longer flat across my vision. I could feel myself losing grip on the bucket seat. The left hand alignment of wheels began to lift up and in what seemed like slow motion the tractor started to tip over.
The absence of a cab or even a basic roll cage afforded no protection and I was on the way to a very messy, albeit hopefully quick and painless death.That was the best I could hope that my parents would be told.
To this day, some 30 plus years on, I do not know what factors intervened to save me from what seemed like an inevitable end.
I like to think that I was earmarked for another purpose and I still offer up a prayer of thanksgiving for my salvation.
Others may speculate that there may have been a molehill, boulder, a clump of mud or a divot that was the catalyst in this situation.
I worked out the short remaining time of my summer job with all due care and attention.
I have not been near a tractor since.
That is a bit harsh on the tractor as the circumstances that threatened to curtail my young life were entirely down to my own folly.
I was working on a farm as a summer vacation job.
My main role was to use a front loader attachment to lift the newly formed straw bales from the stubble-strewn field onto a flat bed trailer where they were carefully man-handled and bonded to prevent any falling off when the full load was towed to the stackyard, a mile or so away.
I was not yet , at that age, a car driver and so my experience of manouevring any type of vehicle, and in particular a heavy machine like a tractor was limited.
I was learning the technique very much through the hands on process. A bit of training in the farmyard gave me a grasp of the basics such as starting and turning over the engine, mastering the throttle and brakes and using the controls to lift, lower and manipulate the crab-like claws of the front loader.
On a bumpy, cropped field and with the dead weight of straw bales to be raised and steered onto the trailer there were additional difficulties and many things to consider, judge and concentrate on.
I am the first to admit that at that age I was a daft lad. I cannot have been alone in having a certain feeling of invincibility and immortality stemming from anticipation of a long and fruitful life ahead.
The combination of a machine with a powerful engine and the feeling of wellbeing in the constant fresh air made for a heady cocktail and after only a few days of work I was throwing the tractor around like it was a go-kart.
I was quite adept and efficient at the main task being able to negotiate rapidly what was a fairly mundane procedure. Approach, grab, stabilise, elevate, reverse, swing around and deposit.
The days flew by as two of us worked methodically around the 20 acre field. The weather was not too hot, even for August, and on the old tractor typically a model with no cab I was getting a healthy looking tan. Regular drink and food stops, sat in the stubble or increasingly higher on the trailer were like a holiday picnic and it was a bit of a struggle to get back to work after such a pleasant break from the monotony.
It was after one such pause that I put myself very much in harms way.
The next tranche of bales for collection was on the farthest section of the field which was on a shallow gradient down to a wooded valley.
In convoy, me and the old stalwart and my co-worker towing the large and now emptied trailer made our way across the rutted ground. I was by now confident in my driving ability, a bit too over confident for the terrain.
I decided to race the other lumbering vehicle. It's driver was a seasoned farm worker with due respect for his rig.He did not respond to my challenge.
I had not accounted for the affect of the slope on the stability of the tractor, accentuated by the excessive speed of perhaps 15mph. The front loader arms were raised just above my eyeline so as to give me an uninterrupted view ahead but in retrospect, this served to upset the whole centre of gravity. A sensibly driven and appropriately weighted tractor is one of the most stable vehicles you could ask for, witness the millions of farmers for whom reliability and durability are key factors for their machines.
In the hands of a stupid lad however, the whole dynamic was changed.
I noticed a slight twitch in the steering as the pitch of the field deprived the wheels on the right hand side of full traction. The loader arms were no longer flat across my vision. I could feel myself losing grip on the bucket seat. The left hand alignment of wheels began to lift up and in what seemed like slow motion the tractor started to tip over.
The absence of a cab or even a basic roll cage afforded no protection and I was on the way to a very messy, albeit hopefully quick and painless death.That was the best I could hope that my parents would be told.
To this day, some 30 plus years on, I do not know what factors intervened to save me from what seemed like an inevitable end.
I like to think that I was earmarked for another purpose and I still offer up a prayer of thanksgiving for my salvation.
Others may speculate that there may have been a molehill, boulder, a clump of mud or a divot that was the catalyst in this situation.
I worked out the short remaining time of my summer job with all due care and attention.
I have not been near a tractor since.
Friday, 17 June 2016
Terms of Endearment
Another June thing.
It is the end of the academic year for the student population in the city.
To them it has probably felt like a very long period of their lives. The first year students began their journey just hours after the disclosure of their A Level results when, dependant upon their grades there will have been a clamour and a panic to reserve their accommodation for the forthcoming September or October start.
Most freshers are encouraged to take up rooms in the official and managed Halls of Residence so as to find their feet in a strange city, make a few friends and at least get two sustaining meals a day.
Subsequent academic years are usually spent out in shared houses run by owner landlords and it is these, a good proportion of them that I get to see at this time of the year.
Contracts for letting are usually over 48 to 50 weeks of the year which gives only a very small window of opportunity for attending to redecoration, re-fitting, new carpets and the heavy industrialised process of removing blu-tac from wallpaper.
The main student streets, in June, are a hive of activity as white vans descend with contractors and cleaners vying for parking spaces with rubbish skips and forecourt frontages piled high with more than worse for wear furniture and furnishings.
It is also a good opportunity for the houses to be inspected and re-valued for the purposes of extracting any equity to go towards such refurbishments or to fund the acquisition of yet more housing stock.
In past years, and as a consequence of historically lower house price in the city than the national average it was common for wealthy or financially astute parents to buy a house to accompany their beloved sons and daughters for their 3 or 4 year secondment to the University.
In the period of the 1980's onwards there was a good prospect for capital growth over the short period of an academic course notwithstanding the generation of rents from fellow students and acquaintances who took up residence. A double whammy as it would be referred to with hindsight.
Indeed, an appreciation in values over a short term could set up the offspring nicely with any surplus available to go towards a deposit on a first proper residence in employment , finance that little run-around or a year off before having to get a job.
A combination of factors eventually put an end to this money spinning enterprise such as house prices in the city reaching parity with other regions, lack of liquidity amongst the Bank of Mum and Dad and an inability to really compete with the professional landlords in terms of standards, management and marketing.
A few parents were left, in effect, holding the baby, after their young adult children had graduated and gone. The houses in the best student areas rarely got to the open market but rather were traded between owners and landlords or their property managers like a life sized game of Monopoly.
The top ten owner landlords in the city now dictate the market. Rents are expressed as fully inclusive of internet, utilities and the weekly service of a cleaner or concierge. Fitting out can rival the best budget hotels with flat screen TV's, leather settees and with rooms being en suite and comfortable, a far cry from my own experiences as a student in the early 1980's when, as a rule, first one up in the morning had responsibility for shuffling away the slug trails and emptying the mouse traps.
No wonder my generation of students got a reputation for being lazy. It was just down to being squeamish.
The current students have it quite a lot easier in their living environment but I would not repeat my time now given the uncertainties in the post graduate employment market and in the economies of the world as a whole.
Imagine if student houses were, freakishly the only surviving examples of 21st Century living after some cataclysmic event.
What would future generations make of them?
To start with there would be a general conception that the race of students were colour blind. This would be based on the all pervading use of magnolia and pastel shades for walls, ceilings and floor coverings.
Perhaps the population did not have any teeth or means of chewing based on the evidence that all sustenance was taken in liquid form with an alcoholic content. Excavations of poorly kept and overgrown gardens would reveal masses of brown coloured bottles, aluminium cans and small shot glasses.
It would appear that most tuition took place through a television screen or laptop with Playstation and Xbox being very popular and over subscribed providers of knowledge and life skills.
There would be little on which to base assumptions of on what the students were fed although it would appear to have been delivered in a large, square cardboard box on a daily basis and sponsored by the Italian nation.
Icons figured highly in popular student culture and each individual room of habitation would display one or more of the following images in glossy colour. Leafy vegetation and the flag of somewhere called Jamaica, a busty woman by the name of Kelly Brook, a hound lying on its back on a dog house looking upwards, various black men of gangster reputation and a reference to a place called Nirvana.
Many student residences were evidently being progressively improved and will have resembled a construction site given the abundance of Men at Work signs and hazard warning lights of a flashing variety.
Nocturnal activity was apparently the norm with curtains being infrequently drawn to let in microbe killing UV rays.
A principal trait of the student race was an eye for a bargain. A mantra passed down in colloquialisms was of "Buyonegetonefree" along with "Happy Hour" and common exclamations, thought to be close to ecstasy, of "Wowcher".
Enemies were abundant and the term "Bloody Students" is thought to be a reference to regular clashes with the indigenous population over noise, insensitive posh accents and strangely disappearing lap tops and bicycles from what were thought to be sound and secure stockades of academia.
As I trail around the hastily vacated and sorry looking shared houses I wonder whatever happened to their occupants on the long, hazardous and enlightening journey down south from whence they came.
It is the end of the academic year for the student population in the city.
To them it has probably felt like a very long period of their lives. The first year students began their journey just hours after the disclosure of their A Level results when, dependant upon their grades there will have been a clamour and a panic to reserve their accommodation for the forthcoming September or October start.
Most freshers are encouraged to take up rooms in the official and managed Halls of Residence so as to find their feet in a strange city, make a few friends and at least get two sustaining meals a day.
Subsequent academic years are usually spent out in shared houses run by owner landlords and it is these, a good proportion of them that I get to see at this time of the year.
Contracts for letting are usually over 48 to 50 weeks of the year which gives only a very small window of opportunity for attending to redecoration, re-fitting, new carpets and the heavy industrialised process of removing blu-tac from wallpaper.
The main student streets, in June, are a hive of activity as white vans descend with contractors and cleaners vying for parking spaces with rubbish skips and forecourt frontages piled high with more than worse for wear furniture and furnishings.
It is also a good opportunity for the houses to be inspected and re-valued for the purposes of extracting any equity to go towards such refurbishments or to fund the acquisition of yet more housing stock.
In past years, and as a consequence of historically lower house price in the city than the national average it was common for wealthy or financially astute parents to buy a house to accompany their beloved sons and daughters for their 3 or 4 year secondment to the University.
In the period of the 1980's onwards there was a good prospect for capital growth over the short period of an academic course notwithstanding the generation of rents from fellow students and acquaintances who took up residence. A double whammy as it would be referred to with hindsight.
Indeed, an appreciation in values over a short term could set up the offspring nicely with any surplus available to go towards a deposit on a first proper residence in employment , finance that little run-around or a year off before having to get a job.
A combination of factors eventually put an end to this money spinning enterprise such as house prices in the city reaching parity with other regions, lack of liquidity amongst the Bank of Mum and Dad and an inability to really compete with the professional landlords in terms of standards, management and marketing.
A few parents were left, in effect, holding the baby, after their young adult children had graduated and gone. The houses in the best student areas rarely got to the open market but rather were traded between owners and landlords or their property managers like a life sized game of Monopoly.
The top ten owner landlords in the city now dictate the market. Rents are expressed as fully inclusive of internet, utilities and the weekly service of a cleaner or concierge. Fitting out can rival the best budget hotels with flat screen TV's, leather settees and with rooms being en suite and comfortable, a far cry from my own experiences as a student in the early 1980's when, as a rule, first one up in the morning had responsibility for shuffling away the slug trails and emptying the mouse traps.
No wonder my generation of students got a reputation for being lazy. It was just down to being squeamish.
The current students have it quite a lot easier in their living environment but I would not repeat my time now given the uncertainties in the post graduate employment market and in the economies of the world as a whole.
Imagine if student houses were, freakishly the only surviving examples of 21st Century living after some cataclysmic event.
What would future generations make of them?
To start with there would be a general conception that the race of students were colour blind. This would be based on the all pervading use of magnolia and pastel shades for walls, ceilings and floor coverings.
Perhaps the population did not have any teeth or means of chewing based on the evidence that all sustenance was taken in liquid form with an alcoholic content. Excavations of poorly kept and overgrown gardens would reveal masses of brown coloured bottles, aluminium cans and small shot glasses.
It would appear that most tuition took place through a television screen or laptop with Playstation and Xbox being very popular and over subscribed providers of knowledge and life skills.
There would be little on which to base assumptions of on what the students were fed although it would appear to have been delivered in a large, square cardboard box on a daily basis and sponsored by the Italian nation.
Icons figured highly in popular student culture and each individual room of habitation would display one or more of the following images in glossy colour. Leafy vegetation and the flag of somewhere called Jamaica, a busty woman by the name of Kelly Brook, a hound lying on its back on a dog house looking upwards, various black men of gangster reputation and a reference to a place called Nirvana.
Many student residences were evidently being progressively improved and will have resembled a construction site given the abundance of Men at Work signs and hazard warning lights of a flashing variety.
Nocturnal activity was apparently the norm with curtains being infrequently drawn to let in microbe killing UV rays.
A principal trait of the student race was an eye for a bargain. A mantra passed down in colloquialisms was of "Buyonegetonefree" along with "Happy Hour" and common exclamations, thought to be close to ecstasy, of "Wowcher".
Enemies were abundant and the term "Bloody Students" is thought to be a reference to regular clashes with the indigenous population over noise, insensitive posh accents and strangely disappearing lap tops and bicycles from what were thought to be sound and secure stockades of academia.
As I trail around the hastily vacated and sorry looking shared houses I wonder whatever happened to their occupants on the long, hazardous and enlightening journey down south from whence they came.
Thursday, 16 June 2016
The Visitors
They're back.
Our house guests, the Martin Family have wintered as usual in Africa and have returned to take up residence in their now 10 year old mud nest miraculously affixed to the coarse render and timber soffits high up in the overhanging eaves. Navigating from sub-Saharan regions to East Yorkshire is a marvel on its very own.
For them the eaves are an ideal location. The sun moves across, lengthening the shadows, from about 11am and for a brief moment the khaki coloured cluster of clay, speckled and reinforced by straw and dried grasses is flooded with light before spending the rest of the day in the cooling shade.
There is a long view up the garden and plenty of potential for the parents to harvest, on the wing, the sporadic rise and swarm of insects ,throughout the neighbourhood, which forms their staple diet.
The flight into the nest is a technical ascent. The distinctive forked tailed, bluey black and stark contrasted white under-bellied birds swoop around paralell to the rear of the house. Their reflections in the double glazed windows are brief and like short bursts of lightening as they rotate from dark to a flash of brightness. The frequent passage in this manner gives good reference points for the approach at speed and also checks for the presence of their arch nemesis, the common house sparrow who is not averse to raid to pillage and attack the adult Martins, eggs and young. At the last minute of the fly-past there is a precise trimming of the wings and tail to thrust, in the gathered momentum, directly vertical, pulling a few 'G's and gracefully gliding into the miniscule aperture of their home. The exit is a near parachute jump of an operation as the tight ball of feathers descends until there is enough air to plump up and expand the wings for an instant take off and rocket departure into the wide skies above.
For us it is far from an ideal location. The nest is directly above the window of the rear bedroom and the double doors to the sitting room. The arrival in the late Spring is confirmed by the first few grainy droppings on the timber decking which have to be pressure washed away before the organic materials permeate and deep stain and tarnish the timber. It becomes a regular bi-weekly and certainly a weekend chore to remove the deposits before they accumulate into a sizeable, rocky obstruction to the actual opening of the door or resemble a stockpile in a guano production facility. As testament to the precarious position of a home made of dried mud we have found, on occasion, small fragments of the outer walls at ground level, the odd impacted and shattered egg and sadly, the bedraggled remains of an undeveloped baby bird. We act as enthusiastic observers and also respectful undertakers for our visitors.
The casement of the rear bedroom cannot be fully opened from April to September as in the full easy-clean position the outer upper edge is within touching distance of the nest. The external ledge of the frame also collects droppings and has to be scoured clean.
Sitting on the bed and squinting into the late afternoon and early evening sun does give a reverse birds eye view of the manoevre to enter the nest and can provide some idle minutes of thought, interest, education and amazement.
It is our pleasure to host our summer guests and any thought of knocking away the lifeless nugget of a nest during the bleak winter of their absence in Africa is easily dismissed with a brief and distant recollection of those balmy , wing swept evenings in the warm English season.
Our house guests, the Martin Family have wintered as usual in Africa and have returned to take up residence in their now 10 year old mud nest miraculously affixed to the coarse render and timber soffits high up in the overhanging eaves. Navigating from sub-Saharan regions to East Yorkshire is a marvel on its very own.
For them the eaves are an ideal location. The sun moves across, lengthening the shadows, from about 11am and for a brief moment the khaki coloured cluster of clay, speckled and reinforced by straw and dried grasses is flooded with light before spending the rest of the day in the cooling shade.
There is a long view up the garden and plenty of potential for the parents to harvest, on the wing, the sporadic rise and swarm of insects ,throughout the neighbourhood, which forms their staple diet.
The flight into the nest is a technical ascent. The distinctive forked tailed, bluey black and stark contrasted white under-bellied birds swoop around paralell to the rear of the house. Their reflections in the double glazed windows are brief and like short bursts of lightening as they rotate from dark to a flash of brightness. The frequent passage in this manner gives good reference points for the approach at speed and also checks for the presence of their arch nemesis, the common house sparrow who is not averse to raid to pillage and attack the adult Martins, eggs and young. At the last minute of the fly-past there is a precise trimming of the wings and tail to thrust, in the gathered momentum, directly vertical, pulling a few 'G's and gracefully gliding into the miniscule aperture of their home. The exit is a near parachute jump of an operation as the tight ball of feathers descends until there is enough air to plump up and expand the wings for an instant take off and rocket departure into the wide skies above.
For us it is far from an ideal location. The nest is directly above the window of the rear bedroom and the double doors to the sitting room. The arrival in the late Spring is confirmed by the first few grainy droppings on the timber decking which have to be pressure washed away before the organic materials permeate and deep stain and tarnish the timber. It becomes a regular bi-weekly and certainly a weekend chore to remove the deposits before they accumulate into a sizeable, rocky obstruction to the actual opening of the door or resemble a stockpile in a guano production facility. As testament to the precarious position of a home made of dried mud we have found, on occasion, small fragments of the outer walls at ground level, the odd impacted and shattered egg and sadly, the bedraggled remains of an undeveloped baby bird. We act as enthusiastic observers and also respectful undertakers for our visitors.
The casement of the rear bedroom cannot be fully opened from April to September as in the full easy-clean position the outer upper edge is within touching distance of the nest. The external ledge of the frame also collects droppings and has to be scoured clean.
Sitting on the bed and squinting into the late afternoon and early evening sun does give a reverse birds eye view of the manoevre to enter the nest and can provide some idle minutes of thought, interest, education and amazement.
It is our pleasure to host our summer guests and any thought of knocking away the lifeless nugget of a nest during the bleak winter of their absence in Africa is easily dismissed with a brief and distant recollection of those balmy , wing swept evenings in the warm English season.
Wednesday, 15 June 2016
State of Play
THERE are football fanatics who can effortlessly recall how many times a South American team other than Brazil has reached the World Cup finals.
Few, however, could tell you the last time a team of Caucasian separatists defeated the descendants of Chagossian exiles, or how the record stands between Scandinavian indigenous peoples and unrecognised Somali statelets.
Such were the match-ups last week in Abkhazia, a breakaway region of Georgia, where a collection of aspiring states, micro-nations and other minority communities staged a “World Football Cup”. The participants are unaffiliated to FIFA.
The tournament, organised by the Confederation of Independent Football Associations (CONIFA), brought together a dozen teams ranging from Northern Cyprus to the United Koreans of Japan.
Founded in 2013, CONIFA provides a platform for the forgotten football associations of the world. It claims to skirt the politics that often plague sports and divide peoples. The first world championship was staged in 2014; this year’s was the second.
Some competitors, such as Iraqi Kurdistan, were well-organised and expertly trained. Others were endearingly incompetent, but crowds were merciful: the hapless Chagossians were cheered off the field after every loss. The teams included amateurs and a few professionals from their respective homelands (as with Székely Land, an ethnic Hungarian area in Romania) or their diasporas abroad (as with Western Armenia, whose Armenian inhabitants were deported by the Ottomans during the first world war).
Shunned by most of the international community, Abkhazia , which broke off from Georgia in the early 1990s and has been openly backed by Russia since 2008, is hungry for recognition of any kind. Some here hope FIFA’s acceptance of Kosovo (which broke off from Serbia) as a member last month will become a precedent for the Abkhaz national team.
Other stateless peoples and regions, too, are accepted by FIFA: Palestine has been a member since 1998. The Abkhazian team’s nail-biting win in the tournament championship on Sunday, against Panjab (a team representing the global Punjabi diaspora, whose homeland is split between India and Pakistan), may reinforce its claims to sporting legitimacy.
Whether CONIFA intended it or not, choosing Abkhazia as the host was something of a political decision. Georgia remains furious at any attempt to legitimise the breakaway region. Per-Anders Blind, CONIFA’s head, said Georgian officials had contacted European governments to ask them to discourage their citizens from entering Abkhazia through Russia, which it considers illegal entry onto occupied territory. (A government spokesman said only that his country works with its allies to prevent violations of Georgian law.) The teams traveled through Russia anyway, fearing that if they tried to enter Abkhazia from Georgia, they would be stopped by authorities.
12 teams reached the 2016 Finals although there were withdrawals, suspensions and reinstatements in the weeks running up to the opening fixture.
The Stateless Nations as well as Abkhazia, the hosts included;
Aymara; an indigenous nation straddling modern Bolivia, Peru and Chile with an ancestry pre-dating the Inca's who enslaved and suppressed them.
Ellan Vannin; representing the Isle of Man
Padania; covering eight regions in the north of Italy
County of Nice; located in Southern France around the resort of Nice
Raetia; a Province in Roman Times now across parts of the Tirol, Bavaria and Lombardy.
Somaliland in southern Africa
Chagos Islands; actually as uninhabited archipelago in the Indian Ocean apart from the US Base at Diego Garcia
Iraqi Kurdistan
Panjab
United Koreans of Japan
Northern Cyprus
The Romani People
Sapmi; northern parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia
Western Armenia
Szekely Land; around Transylvania
There are 35 current members of CONIFA. amongst them Heligoland, Tibet and Darfhur.
The tournament also served the political purposes of the teams. The Chagossians used it as a platform to voice their anger at the British government for forcing their relatives from the Diego Garcia atoll in the late 1960s. And for Abdillahi Mur, who played for Somaliland, a secessionist region of Somalia, it was a chance to prove his ancestral homeland is not as violence-ridden as the stereotypes would have it. “We don’t want to be seen as people who just have wars.”
It was, by all accounts, a great tournament but somehow bearing in mind the bigger picture the results were not really that important.
(Reproduced with edited sections from The Economist and BBC News sources)
Few, however, could tell you the last time a team of Caucasian separatists defeated the descendants of Chagossian exiles, or how the record stands between Scandinavian indigenous peoples and unrecognised Somali statelets.
Such were the match-ups last week in Abkhazia, a breakaway region of Georgia, where a collection of aspiring states, micro-nations and other minority communities staged a “World Football Cup”. The participants are unaffiliated to FIFA.
The tournament, organised by the Confederation of Independent Football Associations (CONIFA), brought together a dozen teams ranging from Northern Cyprus to the United Koreans of Japan.
Founded in 2013, CONIFA provides a platform for the forgotten football associations of the world. It claims to skirt the politics that often plague sports and divide peoples. The first world championship was staged in 2014; this year’s was the second.
Some competitors, such as Iraqi Kurdistan, were well-organised and expertly trained. Others were endearingly incompetent, but crowds were merciful: the hapless Chagossians were cheered off the field after every loss. The teams included amateurs and a few professionals from their respective homelands (as with Székely Land, an ethnic Hungarian area in Romania) or their diasporas abroad (as with Western Armenia, whose Armenian inhabitants were deported by the Ottomans during the first world war).
Shunned by most of the international community, Abkhazia , which broke off from Georgia in the early 1990s and has been openly backed by Russia since 2008, is hungry for recognition of any kind. Some here hope FIFA’s acceptance of Kosovo (which broke off from Serbia) as a member last month will become a precedent for the Abkhaz national team.
Other stateless peoples and regions, too, are accepted by FIFA: Palestine has been a member since 1998. The Abkhazian team’s nail-biting win in the tournament championship on Sunday, against Panjab (a team representing the global Punjabi diaspora, whose homeland is split between India and Pakistan), may reinforce its claims to sporting legitimacy.
Whether CONIFA intended it or not, choosing Abkhazia as the host was something of a political decision. Georgia remains furious at any attempt to legitimise the breakaway region. Per-Anders Blind, CONIFA’s head, said Georgian officials had contacted European governments to ask them to discourage their citizens from entering Abkhazia through Russia, which it considers illegal entry onto occupied territory. (A government spokesman said only that his country works with its allies to prevent violations of Georgian law.) The teams traveled through Russia anyway, fearing that if they tried to enter Abkhazia from Georgia, they would be stopped by authorities.
12 teams reached the 2016 Finals although there were withdrawals, suspensions and reinstatements in the weeks running up to the opening fixture.
The Stateless Nations as well as Abkhazia, the hosts included;
Aymara; an indigenous nation straddling modern Bolivia, Peru and Chile with an ancestry pre-dating the Inca's who enslaved and suppressed them.
Ellan Vannin; representing the Isle of Man
Padania; covering eight regions in the north of Italy
County of Nice; located in Southern France around the resort of Nice
Raetia; a Province in Roman Times now across parts of the Tirol, Bavaria and Lombardy.
Somaliland in southern Africa
Chagos Islands; actually as uninhabited archipelago in the Indian Ocean apart from the US Base at Diego Garcia
Iraqi Kurdistan
Panjab
United Koreans of Japan
Northern Cyprus
The Romani People
Sapmi; northern parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia
Western Armenia
Szekely Land; around Transylvania
There are 35 current members of CONIFA. amongst them Heligoland, Tibet and Darfhur.
The tournament also served the political purposes of the teams. The Chagossians used it as a platform to voice their anger at the British government for forcing their relatives from the Diego Garcia atoll in the late 1960s. And for Abdillahi Mur, who played for Somaliland, a secessionist region of Somalia, it was a chance to prove his ancestral homeland is not as violence-ridden as the stereotypes would have it. “We don’t want to be seen as people who just have wars.”
It was, by all accounts, a great tournament but somehow bearing in mind the bigger picture the results were not really that important.
(Reproduced with edited sections from The Economist and BBC News sources)
Tuesday, 14 June 2016
Senior Moment
If you meet someone for half an hour, every three years, over the last 15 years would you recall their name, face or the reason for their very regular appearance?
Such is one aspect of my workload.
On the stated time interval I am required to inspect the homes of senior persons who have used the locked up value in their properties to provide a source of income in their retirement.
This can be amongst the nicest of my professional tasks as I get to meet so me very interesting people.
Of course there is a downside and over the last two or so weeks I have received instructions for three of my triennial jobs only to be informed that the owner occupiers have died. I find myself in very familiar surroundings but with the most important human element now absent. It is a strange feeling to wander about in a property devoid of furniture , and cherished belongings although in all of my visits to those empty spaces I can still recall the conversations and friendly times with their former occupants.
I was therefore a bit anxious about seeing a particular address in my diary for today.
It was only after reading the formal instruction that I could see that the owner was still in residence.
Mrs D, as I shall refer to her for reasons of confidentiality, took a little bit longer than in previous years to open the front door to me.
Now 88 years old I had first met her back in 2003.
She was, way back then, already long since retired and enjoying gardening and baking in the pleasant surroundings of her house in a bustling market town in Yorkshire, UK.
Over the years the lawns and borders remained tended and tidy although increasingly through the endeavours of her grown up son.
I gave my usual greeting and also showed my identity details which were necessary as Mrs D's vision had deteriorated noticeably over the period from my last visit. She said that she recognised my voice and reassured of my intentions told me to just carry on and do what I had to do.
I do tend to loiter when meeting elderly persons and enjoy engaging them in small talk conversation as they are purveyors of the most interesting life stories and experiences.
Mrs D had parked her wheeled walking frame and was now sat in an upright armchair in her living room.
Enquiring how the last three years had treated her I was given an almost A-Z of medical conditions and afflictions although she was the first to admit that most were down to her advancing years. She now had one artificial knee cap and had recently returned from a long hospital stay.
Being a Yorkshire Lass born and bred Mrs D did not spare me any details of a particular operation which the Consultant had told her was only really carried out on women who had given up sex. She had told him that she had not really been asked. Her mischievous delivery of that line ironed out any wrinkles and worry lines in her face and she looked hardly out of her 60's.
Her energy and spirit I found to be most inspiring.
With reduced mobility and impeded faculties most of her time was spent in the company of audio books and radio broadcasts. Already an avid listener of the classics she had found it difficult to find new works to enjoy especially not being confident with the newer authors. The listening library had done well to keep her supplied to date but even their resources were struggling to keep up.
Her Yorkshire heritage was grounded in the countryside and her main stipulation was for books with a rural or outdoor theme. I found myself almost crying with laughter when Mrs D told me that on this brief she had most recently been sent "How to assemble a greenhouse" by Alan Titchmarsh.
I was still giggling to myself as I drove away from the house.
We had parted with a sort of provisional diary date for three years hence.
I will do my best to honour that appointment and I fully expect Mrs D to be on exceptionally good form when we meet up again in 2019.
Such is one aspect of my workload.
On the stated time interval I am required to inspect the homes of senior persons who have used the locked up value in their properties to provide a source of income in their retirement.
This can be amongst the nicest of my professional tasks as I get to meet so me very interesting people.
Of course there is a downside and over the last two or so weeks I have received instructions for three of my triennial jobs only to be informed that the owner occupiers have died. I find myself in very familiar surroundings but with the most important human element now absent. It is a strange feeling to wander about in a property devoid of furniture , and cherished belongings although in all of my visits to those empty spaces I can still recall the conversations and friendly times with their former occupants.
I was therefore a bit anxious about seeing a particular address in my diary for today.
It was only after reading the formal instruction that I could see that the owner was still in residence.
Mrs D, as I shall refer to her for reasons of confidentiality, took a little bit longer than in previous years to open the front door to me.
Now 88 years old I had first met her back in 2003.
She was, way back then, already long since retired and enjoying gardening and baking in the pleasant surroundings of her house in a bustling market town in Yorkshire, UK.
Over the years the lawns and borders remained tended and tidy although increasingly through the endeavours of her grown up son.
I gave my usual greeting and also showed my identity details which were necessary as Mrs D's vision had deteriorated noticeably over the period from my last visit. She said that she recognised my voice and reassured of my intentions told me to just carry on and do what I had to do.
I do tend to loiter when meeting elderly persons and enjoy engaging them in small talk conversation as they are purveyors of the most interesting life stories and experiences.
Mrs D had parked her wheeled walking frame and was now sat in an upright armchair in her living room.
Enquiring how the last three years had treated her I was given an almost A-Z of medical conditions and afflictions although she was the first to admit that most were down to her advancing years. She now had one artificial knee cap and had recently returned from a long hospital stay.
Being a Yorkshire Lass born and bred Mrs D did not spare me any details of a particular operation which the Consultant had told her was only really carried out on women who had given up sex. She had told him that she had not really been asked. Her mischievous delivery of that line ironed out any wrinkles and worry lines in her face and she looked hardly out of her 60's.
Her energy and spirit I found to be most inspiring.
With reduced mobility and impeded faculties most of her time was spent in the company of audio books and radio broadcasts. Already an avid listener of the classics she had found it difficult to find new works to enjoy especially not being confident with the newer authors. The listening library had done well to keep her supplied to date but even their resources were struggling to keep up.
Her Yorkshire heritage was grounded in the countryside and her main stipulation was for books with a rural or outdoor theme. I found myself almost crying with laughter when Mrs D told me that on this brief she had most recently been sent "How to assemble a greenhouse" by Alan Titchmarsh.
I was still giggling to myself as I drove away from the house.
We had parted with a sort of provisional diary date for three years hence.
I will do my best to honour that appointment and I fully expect Mrs D to be on exceptionally good form when we meet up again in 2019.
Monday, 13 June 2016
Ironing and the Evil Empire
Saturday morning. No specific date. Somewhere in the UK.
After a few very bright and warm starts to previous days I awoke this morning to more of a typical seasonal chill. That overcast sky, a light breeze and a coolness in the air sets your senses alive.
The downside is that in such an invigorating atmosphere there is a compulsion for men to do some chores.
I filtered through the main criteria.
a) Something that could be done indoors and in my pyjamas.
b) Not too challenging to prevent watching TV
c) An activity done standing up
d) High satisfaction level.
In a sort of mental pie chart I ringed the respective segments of all the requirements. It brought me to one conclusion only; a bit of ironing.
Men should really relish the task of doing some ironing. It involves some technical skill in operating a complex and sometimes unruly apparatus, an eye for detail, problem solving when trying to create smooth and regular surfaces, application of controlled strength and the ultimate achievement of taking a task over from her indoors with the earning of some brownie points and potential domestic credits to go towards the assuaging of guilt when attending a football match or similar activity.
Confronted with a basket full of clothes for ironing can be intimidating but with careful pacing and progress this can soon be tackled. This encourages discipline and patience.
There is also the opportunity to catch up with a backlog of TV or a DVD from that list of "intended movies to watch but never have the time".
The choice of viewing for this mornings session was easy. Star Wars-Return of the Jedi.
Now, when ironing, the powers of observation, perhaps lacking in the male of the species, are accentuated as are all of the senses . Even after having watched that film on countless occasions since it came out in 1983, at least once or twice a year , I began to notice a number of fairly schoolboy errors that the Empire unwittingly exposed itself to which led, ultimately to its downfall. Of course, hindsight is a wonderful gift but there were very serious flaws in the design and administrative functions of the Empire which should have been picked up by at least Darth Vader if not the Emperor himself. In no particular running order these include;
1) Fitting of rear view mirrors to Imperial Speeders
The speeder is a wonderful piece of kit. A cross between a dragster and a Harley Davidson. Good riding position and with a long reach and upright handlebar and primary control set up. It is very manouvreable in forested areas such as Endor and fast. However, when battling with the Rebel Alliance there can be a tendency to physically turn and glance back at a vanquished foe leaving a significant risk of careering into an upturned clump of tree roots. The reasonably straight forward task of bolting on rear view wing mirrors would allow a degree of gloating for a chalked up death of an enemy whilst ensuring safe, high velocity forward movement.
2) Secondary entrances to underground control bunkers.
The large complex to generate the defence shield for the new Imperial Space Station was safely secreted below the surface of the forests of Endor. It was very well guarded and nigh impregnable by rebel forces. That was until an Ewok happened to mention to Han and Leia's assault team that there was a back door. The reason for this is not at all clear or explained. Furthermore, the master control to the door could technically be susceptible to infiltration by an R2-D2 Unit, widely known to be sympathetic to the rebel alliance.
3) No anti- Ewok measures on Imperial equipment.
The Ewok's, cuddly to look at but no doubt determined flea infested and smelly creatures were wholly underestimated and indeed ignored by the Imperial Forces in their occupation of Endor. As small as children the Ewok's could have been easily contained using many items purchased from Mothercare such as anti-child door catches, stair gates, reins, by confiscation of bows and arrows, slings and an embargo on using logs and tree trunks as improvised weapons.
The ease in which an impulsive Ewok stole one of the Speeders and others got into one of the AT-ST's was easily preventable with a stout locking mechanism.
4) Better familiarisation for Stormtroopers on Ewok ways
As covered in point 3) above the Ewoks were not considered to be a danger. With ignorance comes fear and even with the battle on Endor seemingly winnable by the Imperial Troops they were seen to be running away in a blind panic when confronted by a rowdy, visually intimidating but still disorganised and silly counter attack. A Stormtrooper placing a firm hand on the top of the head of an Ewok at arms length has effectively subdued and frustrated his enemy. I was frankly surprised that the Ewoks were carniverous on the basis of their attempt to barbecue Han Solo. A determined approach by the Empire to winning the hearts and minds of the indigenous Ewoks with food parcels and improved cooking utensils will have paid dividends very quickly. Remember, the Ewok nation only sided with the Rebels because Leia happened to have a snack bar as an offering and the little creatures clearly associated food with friendship.
5) Improved armour for troops and equipment
The ease in which rocks, boulders, vine woven ropes, arrows and timber crafted weaponry decimated such an accomplished military force was worthy of an enquiry at the very highest level. The emphasis on lightness and speed in the design and assembly of vehicles and body armour which had served the Empire well in their other theatres of war was not appropriate to Endor. The installation of a simple roll cage in the AT-ST will have served to deflect a double trunk attack. Kevlar vests and groin guards worn underneath the distinctive white uniforms of the Stormtroopers will have prevented piercing by the crude airborne armaments. A heavier grade of helmet would deflect the sticks and stones hurled by the furry attackers.
6) Forward Planning
A single shield generator without a back up and when the new improved Death Star was not self sufficient in shield generation was a major oversight. The Emperor is clearly to blame in that his own Imperial State Rooms were fully completed and furnished with no expense spared and yet other primary functions were behind schedule. There is invariably trouble when a Despot takes charge of projects because they often lack the managerial and organisational skill to prioritise issues. beyond those required to satisfy a massive ego.
Engrossed in the combination of film and ironing the time flew by.
After a few very bright and warm starts to previous days I awoke this morning to more of a typical seasonal chill. That overcast sky, a light breeze and a coolness in the air sets your senses alive.
The downside is that in such an invigorating atmosphere there is a compulsion for men to do some chores.
I filtered through the main criteria.
a) Something that could be done indoors and in my pyjamas.
b) Not too challenging to prevent watching TV
c) An activity done standing up
d) High satisfaction level.
In a sort of mental pie chart I ringed the respective segments of all the requirements. It brought me to one conclusion only; a bit of ironing.
Men should really relish the task of doing some ironing. It involves some technical skill in operating a complex and sometimes unruly apparatus, an eye for detail, problem solving when trying to create smooth and regular surfaces, application of controlled strength and the ultimate achievement of taking a task over from her indoors with the earning of some brownie points and potential domestic credits to go towards the assuaging of guilt when attending a football match or similar activity.
Confronted with a basket full of clothes for ironing can be intimidating but with careful pacing and progress this can soon be tackled. This encourages discipline and patience.
There is also the opportunity to catch up with a backlog of TV or a DVD from that list of "intended movies to watch but never have the time".
The choice of viewing for this mornings session was easy. Star Wars-Return of the Jedi.
Now, when ironing, the powers of observation, perhaps lacking in the male of the species, are accentuated as are all of the senses . Even after having watched that film on countless occasions since it came out in 1983, at least once or twice a year , I began to notice a number of fairly schoolboy errors that the Empire unwittingly exposed itself to which led, ultimately to its downfall. Of course, hindsight is a wonderful gift but there were very serious flaws in the design and administrative functions of the Empire which should have been picked up by at least Darth Vader if not the Emperor himself. In no particular running order these include;
1) Fitting of rear view mirrors to Imperial Speeders
The speeder is a wonderful piece of kit. A cross between a dragster and a Harley Davidson. Good riding position and with a long reach and upright handlebar and primary control set up. It is very manouvreable in forested areas such as Endor and fast. However, when battling with the Rebel Alliance there can be a tendency to physically turn and glance back at a vanquished foe leaving a significant risk of careering into an upturned clump of tree roots. The reasonably straight forward task of bolting on rear view wing mirrors would allow a degree of gloating for a chalked up death of an enemy whilst ensuring safe, high velocity forward movement.
2) Secondary entrances to underground control bunkers.
The large complex to generate the defence shield for the new Imperial Space Station was safely secreted below the surface of the forests of Endor. It was very well guarded and nigh impregnable by rebel forces. That was until an Ewok happened to mention to Han and Leia's assault team that there was a back door. The reason for this is not at all clear or explained. Furthermore, the master control to the door could technically be susceptible to infiltration by an R2-D2 Unit, widely known to be sympathetic to the rebel alliance.
3) No anti- Ewok measures on Imperial equipment.
The Ewok's, cuddly to look at but no doubt determined flea infested and smelly creatures were wholly underestimated and indeed ignored by the Imperial Forces in their occupation of Endor. As small as children the Ewok's could have been easily contained using many items purchased from Mothercare such as anti-child door catches, stair gates, reins, by confiscation of bows and arrows, slings and an embargo on using logs and tree trunks as improvised weapons.
The ease in which an impulsive Ewok stole one of the Speeders and others got into one of the AT-ST's was easily preventable with a stout locking mechanism.
4) Better familiarisation for Stormtroopers on Ewok ways
As covered in point 3) above the Ewoks were not considered to be a danger. With ignorance comes fear and even with the battle on Endor seemingly winnable by the Imperial Troops they were seen to be running away in a blind panic when confronted by a rowdy, visually intimidating but still disorganised and silly counter attack. A Stormtrooper placing a firm hand on the top of the head of an Ewok at arms length has effectively subdued and frustrated his enemy. I was frankly surprised that the Ewoks were carniverous on the basis of their attempt to barbecue Han Solo. A determined approach by the Empire to winning the hearts and minds of the indigenous Ewoks with food parcels and improved cooking utensils will have paid dividends very quickly. Remember, the Ewok nation only sided with the Rebels because Leia happened to have a snack bar as an offering and the little creatures clearly associated food with friendship.
5) Improved armour for troops and equipment
The ease in which rocks, boulders, vine woven ropes, arrows and timber crafted weaponry decimated such an accomplished military force was worthy of an enquiry at the very highest level. The emphasis on lightness and speed in the design and assembly of vehicles and body armour which had served the Empire well in their other theatres of war was not appropriate to Endor. The installation of a simple roll cage in the AT-ST will have served to deflect a double trunk attack. Kevlar vests and groin guards worn underneath the distinctive white uniforms of the Stormtroopers will have prevented piercing by the crude airborne armaments. A heavier grade of helmet would deflect the sticks and stones hurled by the furry attackers.
6) Forward Planning
A single shield generator without a back up and when the new improved Death Star was not self sufficient in shield generation was a major oversight. The Emperor is clearly to blame in that his own Imperial State Rooms were fully completed and furnished with no expense spared and yet other primary functions were behind schedule. There is invariably trouble when a Despot takes charge of projects because they often lack the managerial and organisational skill to prioritise issues. beyond those required to satisfy a massive ego.
Engrossed in the combination of film and ironing the time flew by.
Sunday, 12 June 2016
Erection
It is a striking thing, a mass of vertical stone but in the case of Rudston Monolith in East Yorkshire, UK the impression is both awe inspiring and somehow menacing.
The 7.6 metre high, hand hewn monolith is the tallest standing stone in Britain and dominates the corner of the Rudston Village Churchyard in which it has stood since the late Neolithic period or early Iron Age, between 4000 BC and 800 BC.
The gritstone rock has two flat faces and a pinnacle, the latter having been capped in lead in 1773.
If you look closely there is a surface feature possibly being the footprint of a dinosaur.
It has been an object of much study and speculation as to its purpose, historical significance, the origin of the stone itself and why it was positioned, perfectly vertical in this location, a remote rural area just inland from the Yorkshire Coastline.
Periodic excavations suggest there is a further 1.5 metres below the surface and numerous skulls found in situ point to a sacrificial site of Pagan Man.
At an estimated weight of 40 metric tonnes the rough conglomerate gritstone is alien to the Rudston area of clay,silt, sand and gravel overlaid on Flamborough Chalk.
The closest deposits of the rock are at Cayton Bay just to the south of Scarborough and in more distant locations in the Cleveland Hills.
It is not clear where the monolith material was sourced from but whether near or far the physical effort required for early man to bring it to Rudston is another mind-boggling issue.
The quarrying will have been a major endeavour in itself with stone axes and wooden implements the only tools available. Well before the invention of the wheel it is thought that tree trunks may have been used to form a rolling road to take the Monolith to a watercourse.
The geography of the era will have been challenging in the absence of nothing more than foot worn tracks at best and the thickly wooded landscape before clearance for farming. The longest leg of the journey, from either of the speculated staring points, will have involved similar intensive labour with the full 9m or so dead weight man handled onto a crude raft or platform fashioned from dried beech or similar for maximum buoyancy and stability.
The distant ancestors of the current Rivers Derwent and Rye ran through to the Vale of Pickering also likely to have been under water for some seasons of the year.
An alternative theory, but infinitely more hazardous, is that the Monolith was floated down the River Esk to Whitby followed by a sea journey. Neolithic and Iron Age Man were not really known as mariners. Tidal variations and the rocky cliffs above Flamborough Head may not have been readily navigable.
Smaller rivers and streams, meandering through the countryside would present tight bends and perilous shallows for negotiation by the abnormal load.
The final part of the epic haulage presented further difficulties of undulating terrain. The whole journey is ilkely to have taken many months or years.
The Monolith, perfectly erect, will have formed a focal point for Pagan rituals and in the surrounding topography there are a number of burial mounds with, from archaeological studies estimating around 1000 graves, a good proportion of the original resident population for that era.
Christianity was introduced to the area around 615 AD with conversion of the Parisii Tribe and following the usual practice any Pagan Temples were replaced with a Christian Church.
The Rudston Monolith will have been spared from destruction by its sheer size and strength but not so any wooden or similar structures in proximity.
Coming across the imposing stone in the churchyard is still a sobering sight even after quite a few touristy-type excursions to show it to friends and relatives.
The gritstone has not weathered or tarnished over the millenia although does bear graffitti and other etchings from visitors over the last couple of centuries. It is a rare object .
We may not unravel its full story or fully appreciate what took place in its shadow at the height of its potency and influence.
The 7.6 metre high, hand hewn monolith is the tallest standing stone in Britain and dominates the corner of the Rudston Village Churchyard in which it has stood since the late Neolithic period or early Iron Age, between 4000 BC and 800 BC.
The gritstone rock has two flat faces and a pinnacle, the latter having been capped in lead in 1773.
If you look closely there is a surface feature possibly being the footprint of a dinosaur.
It has been an object of much study and speculation as to its purpose, historical significance, the origin of the stone itself and why it was positioned, perfectly vertical in this location, a remote rural area just inland from the Yorkshire Coastline.
Periodic excavations suggest there is a further 1.5 metres below the surface and numerous skulls found in situ point to a sacrificial site of Pagan Man.
At an estimated weight of 40 metric tonnes the rough conglomerate gritstone is alien to the Rudston area of clay,silt, sand and gravel overlaid on Flamborough Chalk.
The closest deposits of the rock are at Cayton Bay just to the south of Scarborough and in more distant locations in the Cleveland Hills.
It is not clear where the monolith material was sourced from but whether near or far the physical effort required for early man to bring it to Rudston is another mind-boggling issue.
The quarrying will have been a major endeavour in itself with stone axes and wooden implements the only tools available. Well before the invention of the wheel it is thought that tree trunks may have been used to form a rolling road to take the Monolith to a watercourse.
The geography of the era will have been challenging in the absence of nothing more than foot worn tracks at best and the thickly wooded landscape before clearance for farming. The longest leg of the journey, from either of the speculated staring points, will have involved similar intensive labour with the full 9m or so dead weight man handled onto a crude raft or platform fashioned from dried beech or similar for maximum buoyancy and stability.
The distant ancestors of the current Rivers Derwent and Rye ran through to the Vale of Pickering also likely to have been under water for some seasons of the year.
An alternative theory, but infinitely more hazardous, is that the Monolith was floated down the River Esk to Whitby followed by a sea journey. Neolithic and Iron Age Man were not really known as mariners. Tidal variations and the rocky cliffs above Flamborough Head may not have been readily navigable.
Smaller rivers and streams, meandering through the countryside would present tight bends and perilous shallows for negotiation by the abnormal load.
The final part of the epic haulage presented further difficulties of undulating terrain. The whole journey is ilkely to have taken many months or years.
The Monolith, perfectly erect, will have formed a focal point for Pagan rituals and in the surrounding topography there are a number of burial mounds with, from archaeological studies estimating around 1000 graves, a good proportion of the original resident population for that era.
Christianity was introduced to the area around 615 AD with conversion of the Parisii Tribe and following the usual practice any Pagan Temples were replaced with a Christian Church.
The Rudston Monolith will have been spared from destruction by its sheer size and strength but not so any wooden or similar structures in proximity.
Coming across the imposing stone in the churchyard is still a sobering sight even after quite a few touristy-type excursions to show it to friends and relatives.
 |
| Not me in picture |
The gritstone has not weathered or tarnished over the millenia although does bear graffitti and other etchings from visitors over the last couple of centuries. It is a rare object .
We may not unravel its full story or fully appreciate what took place in its shadow at the height of its potency and influence.
Saturday, 11 June 2016
The Quiet Life
Things that I have not yet done;
Run naked across a wide expanse of beach
Shouted something rude across a street at Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop (if together at the time)
Jumped out of an aircraft
Swum across a wide stretch of open water, fresh or saline
Taken part in a full marathon
Painted something in oils
Won anything in any form of competition
Managed to devour an Oilmans Breakfast of 16oz steak, various other meats, eggs, chips, etc
Had my stomach pumped
Fallen through a ceiling
Been victorious in a game of Scrabble on holiday with my wife
Dressed up in drag
Been entirely happy in wearing boating shoes with no socks
Executed a hand brake turn on a public road
Thrown a McDonalds product out of a moving car window
Eaten a meal without some of the food dropping onto my shirt front
Kept my shirt tail tucked into my trousers on a continuous basis
Had two suits to wear on rotation
Busking with just a descant recorder
Dyed my hair
Played a full round of golf
Burglary
Been the first to be picked for any type of sporting activity
Morris Danced
Written anything that has been published for money
Ridden a cow
Stared at the moon and howled
Driven an Aston Martin
Waved a flag in anger
Placed a one way bet in a High Street Bookies
Preached to the public
Base jumped
Used a spray can to write anything on a wall surface owned by the Local Authority
Cooked a soufflé
Fired an air rifle at a living creature intentionally to harm
Had a moustache or a commitment to facial hair
Chased someone in the street
Kicked in a plate glass window
Jumped a queue in a supermarket
Been civil to anyone riding a horse through a town
Volunteered in a community soup kitchen
Shown disrespect to Marmite
Knowingly left dog mess on a public pavement or area
Baked a fruit cake without assistance
Had the tidiest garden in the street, unless it has snowed.
Walked across the UK
Allowed my hair to be stroked by a chimpanzee
Visited the City of Liverpool
Invested in Ostriches or Jojoba
Played the Stock Market for selfish gain
Paid the local newsagent on presentation of his first bill
Watched an episode of Channel 4's Shameless
Shown any interest in how many pairs of shoes Carrie from Sex in The City possesses
Stared at a guinea pig
Stayed awake for more than 36 hours- ever
Launched a ship on request
Journeyed to the USA
Purchased or owned a Japanese built motor car
Owned a firearm
Read a book in one sitting
Stolen eggs from under a chicken
Contemplated jumping off a motorway bridge
Been friends with anyone Welsh
A victim of a pick pocket
Been the Mr Big of a Betterware or other pyramid selling organisation
Sold a body part, mine or otherwise
Serenaded anyone after a quick course of how to play a guitar and sing
Advanced further than 3rd Cornet in a brass band
Learnt another language to any level of natural fluency
Had my car parked by a Valet Service
Cut and eaten my toenails
Kicked an elderly person who might be a bit annoying
Been in a fight with a serving member of the clergy
Spoken with the Queen
Dressed up in any form of World War 2 uniform
Been stranded in quicksand
Set fire to a public building
Driven an omnibus
Had a pair of leather trousers
Jumped into my pants when suspended between two chair backs and I've been in a hurry
Owned a Jaeger suit
Kept a silk tie from going out of shape
Found an item of treasure trove
Scuba- dived
Bowled an over in proper cricket
Thrown a hand grenade
Skipped along a public highway like a girl
Consumed more than five pints of Guinness in any one sitting
Been mistaken for anyone famous
Sat quietly in a church when not in a formal service or event
Made a daisy chain
Run anyone over
Composed a hit record
Washed my hair in a mountain stream
Climbed Snowdon
Walked along an active railway line
Played on a stair lift in a private residence
Skied
Owned a watch of a type favoured by flyers or nautical types
Completed even a single side of a Rubik Cube
Won a two player video game involving running and shooting
Changed a spark plug in an engine
Worn my wedding kilt with 'T' shirt and plimsolls
Skated on ice with ice skates
Had highlights in my hair
Had any appreciation for the music of Coldplay
Organised a barn dance or beetle drive
Pretended to be foreign
Knowingly lied to a policeman
Found that the other man's grass is always greener or the sun shines brighter on the other side
Resisted humming parts of hymn tunes in the company of non-church goers
Loitered in a public convenience
Forged any coinage
Re-slated a house roof
Tarmac surfaced someone else's driveway
Obtained monies by deception
Smoked a pipe
Leased an allotment
Danced across a pedestrian crossing during the rush hour
Hidden a bar of Galaxy chocolate from another human being
Startled a fox
Swum with Dolphins
Squashed a spider
Agreed wholeheartedly with the idea that a tin can say exactly what it does at any one time
Defaced a public monument
Ascended in a hot air balloon and by definition descended in the same object
Been to Africa
Excavated a hole and created a garden pond
Tickled a trout
Made up any form of explosive from readily sourced domestic ingredients
Drunk more than 1 bottle of wine in any seven day period
Sat astride the ridge of a roof
Taken any form of narcotics
Had my own adult sized duffle coat
Travelled in a three wheeler car
Laughed at a Koala Bear, however ridiculous
Found a truffle in a forest
Walked behind a waterfall
Understood the apparent appeal of adopting a donkey that lives away all of the time
Loosened my necktie before 5.30pm on a weekday
Arson in a Naval Dockyard
Walked along and rattled a stick on the railings of a public park
Rolled down a grassy bank
Held a dance floor enthralled
Used a public address system
Had any form of cosmetic surgery
Learned to waltz
Played a character from Shakespeare in a proper performance
Had my portrait painted
Imagined that I was David Bowie
Mastered the pronunciation of the longest place name in the British Isles
Managed a soccer team
Held a membership of a Health Club or Gym for more than 6 months
Owned a pair of classic Converse All-Stars bovver boots
Possessed a flat cap
Run with the bulls at Pamplona
Walked out of the surf in slow motion wearing light blue coloured Speedo's
Sold any secrets to a rogue power
Successfully rubbed my head and tummy simultaneously in front of witnesses
Burped the anthem of any sovereign nation
Farted before anyone in a position of authority
Chained myself to railings in protest
Had any thoughts whatsoever about world domination
Personally undertaken a medical procedure on NHS premises
Thrown a spear
Wasted my vote
Karaoke singing
Delivered a baby
Invented anything to revolutionise modern living
Participated in any form of subversive plotting
Limbo danced
Extracted a tooth from my own head or anyone I know
Understood why anyone admits to coming from Essex
Walked on the hard shoulder of a motorway, barefoot
Performed street magic
Desired to hang up a dream catcher in my house
Worn a gold medallion
Upset a gang, the Mafia or a Triad
Perfectly cooked a meal on a disposable barbecue bought from a Tesco Express
Brewed
Purged my colon
Spray painted a piece of tatty furniture to pass off as shabby-chic
Pointed a laser pen at an overflying civil aircraft
Jumped over the turnstile in a tube station
Pretended to be a serving police officer
Slapped a horse on its rump to see what it does
Eaten more than 3 pork pies in one sitting
Served on a Jury
Got stuck in the mud in a tidal estuary
Worried a badger
Travelled on the outside of a train
Spoken disrespectfully of a Chelsea Pensioner
Sported a toupee
Worn my pants above my trousers
Pulled the emergency cord in a railway carriage
Excited the attentions of a security guard
Rummaged in the bargain and end of line shelf at the supermarket
Had an urge to shave off my eyebrows
Envisaged ever developing a dislike for corned beef
Ridden a unicycle to work
Not really done much in the last 53 years. Not that bothered about it either.
Run naked across a wide expanse of beach
Shouted something rude across a street at Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop (if together at the time)
Jumped out of an aircraft
Swum across a wide stretch of open water, fresh or saline
Taken part in a full marathon
Painted something in oils
Won anything in any form of competition
Managed to devour an Oilmans Breakfast of 16oz steak, various other meats, eggs, chips, etc
Had my stomach pumped
Fallen through a ceiling
Been victorious in a game of Scrabble on holiday with my wife
Dressed up in drag
Been entirely happy in wearing boating shoes with no socks
Executed a hand brake turn on a public road
Thrown a McDonalds product out of a moving car window
Eaten a meal without some of the food dropping onto my shirt front
Kept my shirt tail tucked into my trousers on a continuous basis
Had two suits to wear on rotation
Busking with just a descant recorder
Dyed my hair
Played a full round of golf
Burglary
Been the first to be picked for any type of sporting activity
Morris Danced
Written anything that has been published for money
Ridden a cow
Stared at the moon and howled
Driven an Aston Martin
Waved a flag in anger
Placed a one way bet in a High Street Bookies
Preached to the public
Base jumped
Used a spray can to write anything on a wall surface owned by the Local Authority
Cooked a soufflé
Fired an air rifle at a living creature intentionally to harm
Had a moustache or a commitment to facial hair
Chased someone in the street
Kicked in a plate glass window
Jumped a queue in a supermarket
Been civil to anyone riding a horse through a town
Volunteered in a community soup kitchen
Shown disrespect to Marmite
Knowingly left dog mess on a public pavement or area
Baked a fruit cake without assistance
Had the tidiest garden in the street, unless it has snowed.
Walked across the UK
Allowed my hair to be stroked by a chimpanzee
Visited the City of Liverpool
Invested in Ostriches or Jojoba
Played the Stock Market for selfish gain
Paid the local newsagent on presentation of his first bill
Watched an episode of Channel 4's Shameless
Shown any interest in how many pairs of shoes Carrie from Sex in The City possesses
Stared at a guinea pig
Stayed awake for more than 36 hours- ever
Launched a ship on request
Journeyed to the USA
Purchased or owned a Japanese built motor car
Owned a firearm
Read a book in one sitting
Stolen eggs from under a chicken
Contemplated jumping off a motorway bridge
Been friends with anyone Welsh
A victim of a pick pocket
Been the Mr Big of a Betterware or other pyramid selling organisation
Sold a body part, mine or otherwise
Serenaded anyone after a quick course of how to play a guitar and sing
Advanced further than 3rd Cornet in a brass band
Learnt another language to any level of natural fluency
Had my car parked by a Valet Service
Cut and eaten my toenails
Kicked an elderly person who might be a bit annoying
Been in a fight with a serving member of the clergy
Spoken with the Queen
Dressed up in any form of World War 2 uniform
Been stranded in quicksand
Set fire to a public building
Driven an omnibus
Had a pair of leather trousers
Jumped into my pants when suspended between two chair backs and I've been in a hurry
Owned a Jaeger suit
Kept a silk tie from going out of shape
Found an item of treasure trove
Scuba- dived
Bowled an over in proper cricket
Thrown a hand grenade
Skipped along a public highway like a girl
Consumed more than five pints of Guinness in any one sitting
Been mistaken for anyone famous
Sat quietly in a church when not in a formal service or event
Made a daisy chain
Run anyone over
Composed a hit record
Washed my hair in a mountain stream
Climbed Snowdon
Walked along an active railway line
Played on a stair lift in a private residence
Skied
Owned a watch of a type favoured by flyers or nautical types
Completed even a single side of a Rubik Cube
Won a two player video game involving running and shooting
Changed a spark plug in an engine
Worn my wedding kilt with 'T' shirt and plimsolls
Skated on ice with ice skates
Had highlights in my hair
Had any appreciation for the music of Coldplay
Organised a barn dance or beetle drive
Pretended to be foreign
Knowingly lied to a policeman
Found that the other man's grass is always greener or the sun shines brighter on the other side
Resisted humming parts of hymn tunes in the company of non-church goers
Loitered in a public convenience
Forged any coinage
Re-slated a house roof
Tarmac surfaced someone else's driveway
Obtained monies by deception
Smoked a pipe
Leased an allotment
Danced across a pedestrian crossing during the rush hour
Hidden a bar of Galaxy chocolate from another human being
Startled a fox
Swum with Dolphins
Squashed a spider
Agreed wholeheartedly with the idea that a tin can say exactly what it does at any one time
Defaced a public monument
Ascended in a hot air balloon and by definition descended in the same object
Been to Africa
Excavated a hole and created a garden pond
Tickled a trout
Made up any form of explosive from readily sourced domestic ingredients
Drunk more than 1 bottle of wine in any seven day period
Sat astride the ridge of a roof
Taken any form of narcotics
Had my own adult sized duffle coat
Travelled in a three wheeler car
Laughed at a Koala Bear, however ridiculous
Found a truffle in a forest
Walked behind a waterfall
Understood the apparent appeal of adopting a donkey that lives away all of the time
Loosened my necktie before 5.30pm on a weekday
Arson in a Naval Dockyard
Walked along and rattled a stick on the railings of a public park
Rolled down a grassy bank
Held a dance floor enthralled
Used a public address system
Had any form of cosmetic surgery
Learned to waltz
Played a character from Shakespeare in a proper performance
Had my portrait painted
Imagined that I was David Bowie
Mastered the pronunciation of the longest place name in the British Isles
Managed a soccer team
Held a membership of a Health Club or Gym for more than 6 months
Owned a pair of classic Converse All-Stars bovver boots
Possessed a flat cap
Run with the bulls at Pamplona
Walked out of the surf in slow motion wearing light blue coloured Speedo's
Sold any secrets to a rogue power
Successfully rubbed my head and tummy simultaneously in front of witnesses
Burped the anthem of any sovereign nation
Farted before anyone in a position of authority
Chained myself to railings in protest
Had any thoughts whatsoever about world domination
Personally undertaken a medical procedure on NHS premises
Thrown a spear
Wasted my vote
Karaoke singing
Delivered a baby
Invented anything to revolutionise modern living
Participated in any form of subversive plotting
Limbo danced
Extracted a tooth from my own head or anyone I know
Understood why anyone admits to coming from Essex
Walked on the hard shoulder of a motorway, barefoot
Performed street magic
Desired to hang up a dream catcher in my house
Worn a gold medallion
Upset a gang, the Mafia or a Triad
Perfectly cooked a meal on a disposable barbecue bought from a Tesco Express
Brewed
Purged my colon
Spray painted a piece of tatty furniture to pass off as shabby-chic
Pointed a laser pen at an overflying civil aircraft
Jumped over the turnstile in a tube station
Pretended to be a serving police officer
Slapped a horse on its rump to see what it does
Eaten more than 3 pork pies in one sitting
Served on a Jury
Got stuck in the mud in a tidal estuary
Worried a badger
Travelled on the outside of a train
Spoken disrespectfully of a Chelsea Pensioner
Sported a toupee
Worn my pants above my trousers
Pulled the emergency cord in a railway carriage
Excited the attentions of a security guard
Rummaged in the bargain and end of line shelf at the supermarket
Had an urge to shave off my eyebrows
Envisaged ever developing a dislike for corned beef
Ridden a unicycle to work
Not really done much in the last 53 years. Not that bothered about it either.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)