30th July (yesterday) marked the 50th anniversary of the 1966 FIFA World Cup Final, the greatest ever moment for the England national football team.
There have been plenty of events to mark the half century and an overwhelming nostalgia that has been a bit of a diversion from the embarrassing fact that in the intervening period the nation has been a flop on the pitch in competitive tournaments.
The iconic words of the TV commentator, Kenneth Wolstenholme, in the final seconds of the Final have been resonating across the airwaves in recent days and most of us can do a pretty good rendition of "They think it's all over.....etc, etc".
The BBC TV coverage was not the only media broadcast on that day and for those, and there were still a good proportion in the mid 1960's, who did not own or have sight of a television the radio gave access to all of the action.
I was not aware of the radio broadcast of the Final until a couple of days ago when it was made available on the internet.
The two man team included Brian Moore, one of the main presenters whom I grew up watching in the 1970's and 1980's on commercial ITV and Maurice Edelston.
I thought it would be a fitting tribute to the World Cup Anniversary to attempt to transcribe the first 13 minutes of the commentary or at least in an abridged way in real time with the emphasis on the actual passages of play and the interaction between the players on each team.
There is one player out of the twenty two who started the game who does not seem to get a mention in the first 13 minutes. See if you can work out who it is.
West Germany kick off with Haller on a damp and skiddy turf following rain, foul play with free kick Bobby Moore gets the ball to Ray Wilson, given away to Haller, then to Peters and Bobby Charlton, Nobby Stiles, unmarked, takes the first shot but blocked by Weber . Emmerich to Beckenbauer deep in his own half, Overath blocked by George Cohen then to Moore, Hurst, Peters towards the penalty area, to Bobby Charlton then Peters again but out for a goal kick.
Taken by keeper Tilkowski to Schnellinger with long ball intercepted by Moore, Alan Ball moving forward, one two between Hunt and Cohen but into touch. Schnellinger takes throw in to Shultz in the sweeper role, pass to Held, but tackled by Moore, bounces to Emmerich, Held then shoots wide with 2 minutes gone. He was offside although weaknesses in the England defence exploited. Free kick follows.
Emmerich loses to Stiles, Cohen misplaced pass to Held. Jack Charlton collects and crosses to Moore, to Hunt then Hurst blocked by Weber, Schnellinger to Held and inside to Emmerich. Cut out by Stiles passing to Alan Ball then Bobby Charlton. Beckenbauer steals and spots Schnellinger through to Emmerich, inside to Halle and Weber who catches Wilson in the defence unawares but out of play.
Throw in by Halle to Schnellinger, Wolfgang Weber loses to Wilson with loose ball finding Moore, Jack Charlton in defence, not much composure and Moore again but beaten by Hottges and Beckenbauer but out of play.
Throw in by Jack Charlton, Stiles who tries to shoot. Halle collects, plays to Weber in the England penalty area then to Emmerich but well wide for another throw-in.
Alan Ball takes throw to Ray Wilson then Moore, Hurst looking for space and finds Peters, Hurst bad return, throw in again. Ball unable to pass Hottges who gives to Schultz and then back to black clad keeper Tilkowski.
Play reseumes and Stiles wins, he is one of England's heroes in the tournament, Moore to Wilson, Haller challenges, Stiles again to Peters, Hurst chases but Tilkowski gathers and throws out to Schnellinger on 6 minutes gone in the match and still no score ,0-0.
Beckenbauer tackled by Stiles and plays in Charlton who returns to Stiles, tries to shoot but cleared by Schulz. Jack Charlton in defence loses to Weber then to Haller who shoots hitting Wilson with Banks in the England goal only able to put it out for the first corner of the game on 7 minutes.
Haller takes, out by Jack Charlton to Alan Ball, to Hurst and Bobby Charlton, Hunt on the left , Hurst, Stiles, Hunt, Hurst collides with Tilkowski who goes down injured. Ball bobbing about in the penalty area. Whistle goes with keeper still down although under a fair challenge.
High tempo game with West German's man for man marking with Schnellinger on Alan Ball, Beckenbauer on Charlton and Weber on Hunt. Overath tries to let in Held but Jack Charlton to Ball to Peters who shoots across the goal with Tilkowski putting out for England's first corner. Magnificent shot by Peters and good save.
Corner met by Hunt on the volley but wide. The West Germans seem to fall over quite easily and are known for play acting and feigning injury. Weber told to get on with the game by the referee.
Tilkowski recovered. Held on to Haller who is fouled and earns a free kick 15 yards out.
Sparse England wall just Bobby Charlton and Geoff Hurst. Beckenbauer takes free kick. Out by Moore to Bobby Charlton, attack by Alan Ball with Charlton on the overlap, Peters shoots across and just past the post.
England have improved greatly during the Tournament with Peters coming into the side for the Uruguay game and finding his form.
Weber for West Germany to Schnellinger up to Held but headed out weakly by Wilson straight to Haller who shoots low through players and a flailing Banks to score for West Germany. A soft goal on 13 minutes after a bad mistake by Wilson. Not much power behind it but Banks seemed unsighted.
So West Germany first blood in this 1966 World Cup Final.
Sunday, 31 July 2016
Saturday, 30 July 2016
End of Days
At two minutes to midnight yesterday, July 29th 2016, I reached out across the bed and gave my wife a cuddle.
She was fast asleep but I thought that with the Apocalypse, the end of the world, the end of days imminent at midnight it would be nice to go out in an embrace with a loved one.
I need not have worried because after dozing off in the snuggled up position I awoke to the usual 6am alarm in full realisation that me and the other billions of global inhabitants were alive and in various states of wellness.
My initial and very real fears were prompted by various media reports that certain Religious Sects and Doomsayers had predicted that friday the 29th July, just gone would be the last for our planet.
It was not a vague premonition.
"You Tubers" had viewed, in their millions, a number of graphically illustrated and rather mechanically voice dubbed commentaries of Scripture and Text backed justifications for the event.
There have of course been many similar key dates for planetary eradication and in my own lifetime I can recall loonies and fundamentalists walking around with sandwich boards announcing "The End is Nigh". In my teenage years there was the very real threat of nuclear confrontation between the Superpowers.
In just the last 20 years we have had the prospect of the Millenium Bug, the 2009 financial meltdown, a 2011 Rapture, the 2012 Mayan and 2015 e-bible fellowship apocalypse's (or is it apocalypti) huge cyber threats, Ebola and Zika viruses and then yesterday's suggestion by End Times Prophecies.
So, such predictions are nothing new and even farther back in history famous personages have put forward their own arguments for Armageddon. Nostradamus opted for 2012 although this is now thought to be a mistake and 2023 is more likely. At least that gives a bit more time to plan ahead and stock up the bunker.
Martin Luther predicted no later than 1600. Christopher Columbus in his lesser known incarnation as an author saw no later than 1656. Even the Yorkshire, England based mystic Mother Shipton had a go and in her book published in 1862 she predicted that the world would end in 1861.
The most recent scaremongering has been brought about by a supposed "Polar Flip" or a change in the polarity of the Earth's magnetic field seen by some online theorists to be a catalyst for global earthquakes and a rolling cloud to engulf and destroy all in its wake.
This phenomena of a shift in the magnetic field has been researched as happening every 200,000 to 300,000 years although the people who know about such things, NASA, state that the last reversal was in fact more than 600,000 years ago. That post dates this as the cause of the cataclysmic events that did for the dinosaurs but has not swayed the Dooms-dayers in citing it as summoning global destruction.
NASA base their opinion on geological and fossil records from past magnetic polarity changes which did not show anything like a dramatic sequence of events.
So, waking up this morning next to my wife, still asleep, and making my way to the local shop to buy a newspaper and waffles seemed an idyllic way to start a new day and era.
However, who is to say that I was just dreaming. I may have been incinerated, as predicted, at midnight and it was just my notional spirit wandering aimlessly in the scorched landscape in search of a distant memory of the Tesco Express Supermarket at the end of what used to be my street, my city, my country.....................the world.
She was fast asleep but I thought that with the Apocalypse, the end of the world, the end of days imminent at midnight it would be nice to go out in an embrace with a loved one.
I need not have worried because after dozing off in the snuggled up position I awoke to the usual 6am alarm in full realisation that me and the other billions of global inhabitants were alive and in various states of wellness.
My initial and very real fears were prompted by various media reports that certain Religious Sects and Doomsayers had predicted that friday the 29th July, just gone would be the last for our planet.
It was not a vague premonition.
"You Tubers" had viewed, in their millions, a number of graphically illustrated and rather mechanically voice dubbed commentaries of Scripture and Text backed justifications for the event.
There have of course been many similar key dates for planetary eradication and in my own lifetime I can recall loonies and fundamentalists walking around with sandwich boards announcing "The End is Nigh". In my teenage years there was the very real threat of nuclear confrontation between the Superpowers.
In just the last 20 years we have had the prospect of the Millenium Bug, the 2009 financial meltdown, a 2011 Rapture, the 2012 Mayan and 2015 e-bible fellowship apocalypse's (or is it apocalypti) huge cyber threats, Ebola and Zika viruses and then yesterday's suggestion by End Times Prophecies.
So, such predictions are nothing new and even farther back in history famous personages have put forward their own arguments for Armageddon. Nostradamus opted for 2012 although this is now thought to be a mistake and 2023 is more likely. At least that gives a bit more time to plan ahead and stock up the bunker.
Martin Luther predicted no later than 1600. Christopher Columbus in his lesser known incarnation as an author saw no later than 1656. Even the Yorkshire, England based mystic Mother Shipton had a go and in her book published in 1862 she predicted that the world would end in 1861.
The most recent scaremongering has been brought about by a supposed "Polar Flip" or a change in the polarity of the Earth's magnetic field seen by some online theorists to be a catalyst for global earthquakes and a rolling cloud to engulf and destroy all in its wake.
This phenomena of a shift in the magnetic field has been researched as happening every 200,000 to 300,000 years although the people who know about such things, NASA, state that the last reversal was in fact more than 600,000 years ago. That post dates this as the cause of the cataclysmic events that did for the dinosaurs but has not swayed the Dooms-dayers in citing it as summoning global destruction.
NASA base their opinion on geological and fossil records from past magnetic polarity changes which did not show anything like a dramatic sequence of events.
So, waking up this morning next to my wife, still asleep, and making my way to the local shop to buy a newspaper and waffles seemed an idyllic way to start a new day and era.
However, who is to say that I was just dreaming. I may have been incinerated, as predicted, at midnight and it was just my notional spirit wandering aimlessly in the scorched landscape in search of a distant memory of the Tesco Express Supermarket at the end of what used to be my street, my city, my country.....................the world.
Friday, 29 July 2016
Bog Standard #2
Following on from yesterdays blog here are further hazards associated with the smallest room in the house.........
Some instances of toilet-related deaths are attributed to the drop in blood pressure due to the parasympathetic nervous system during bowel movements. This effect may be magnified by existing circulatory issues.
It is further possible that people succumb on the toilet to chronic constipation, because the Valsalva maneouvre is often dangerously used to aid in the expulsion of faeces from the rectum during a bowel movement. This means that people can die while "straining at stool." In chapter 8 of their Abdominal Emergencies, David Cline and Latha Stead wrote that "autopsy studies continue to reveal missed bowel obstruction as an unexpected cause of death".
A 2001 Sopranos episode "He is Risen" shows a fictional depiction of the risk, when the character Gigi Gestone has a heart attack on the toilet of his social club while straining to defecate.
In the Victorian era, there was a perceived risk of toilets exploding.
These scenarios typically include a flammable substance either accidentally or deliberately being introduced into the toilet water, and a lit match or cigarette igniting and exploding the toilet. The technology of toilets has not really progressed in the last century and more as illustrated by an event in 2014 when a branded fitting ,Sloan's Flushmate pressure-assisted flushing system which uses compressed air to force waste down the drain was recalled after the company received reports of the air tank failing under pressure and shattering the porcelain.
There have been well documented incidences in history to clearly illustrate the love/hate relationship of Man and his plumbing installations.
In 1945, the German submarine U-1206 was sunk after a toilet malfunctioned, resulting in water coming in to the submarine, which when coming into contact with a battery, created chlorine gas, meaning the submarine had to resurface. At the surface, they were sunk by Allied Forces.
King Wenceslaus III of Bohemia was murdered with a spear while sitting in the garderobe on August 4, 1306.
George II of Great Britain died on the toilet on October 25, 1760 from an aortic dissection. According to Horace Walpole's memoirs, King George "rose as usual at six, and drank his chocolate; for all his actions were invariably methodic. A quarter after seven he went into a little closet. His German valet de chambre in waiting heard a noise, and running in, found the King dead on the floor." In falling he had cut his face.
Professor Ioan P. Culianu was shot dead while on the toilet in the third-floor men's room of Swift Hall on the campus of the University of Chicago on 21 May 1991, in a possibly politically-motivated assassination. His killer has never been caught.
Edmund II of England died of natural causes on November 30, 1016, though some report that he was stabbed in the bowels while attending the outhouse.
Similarly, Uesugi Kenshin, a warlord in Japan, died on April 19, 1578, with some reports stating that he was assassinated on the toilet.
Lenny Bruce died of a heroin overdose on August 3, 1966 while sitting on the toilet, with his arm tied off.
Elvis Presley died, aged 42, on August 16, 1977, in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. "Sitting on the toilet, he toppled like a toy soldier and collapsed onto the floor, where he lay in a pool of his own vomit. His light blue pyjamas were around his ankles." according to someone first on the scene, "For some reason—perhaps involving a reaction to the codeine and attempts to move his bowels — he experienced pain and fright while sitting on the toilet. Alarmed, he stood up, dropped the book he was reading, stumbled forward, and fell face down in the fetal position. He struggled weakly and drooled on the rug. Unable to breathe, he died."
According to medical speculation, a plausible cause of Elvis' death was that previously mentioned Valsalva maneuovre (essentially straining on the toilet leading to heart stoppage — plausible because Elvis suffered constipation, a common reaction to drug use)
Air Canada Flight 797 was destroyed on June 2, 1983 with 23 fatalities after an in-flight fire began in or around the rear lavatory.
Michael Anderson Godwin, a convicted murderer in South Carolina who had his sentence reduced from death by the electric chair, sat on the metal toilet in his cell while fixing his television. When he bit one of the wires, the resultant electric shock killed him. Another convicted murderer, Laurence Baker in Pittsburgh, was electrocuted while listening to the television on home-made earphones while sitting on a metal toilet.
A collision between a disabled Cessna 182 and a row of portable toilets on May 2, 2009 at Thun Field (south-east of Tacoma), despite an engine failure at 150 feet (46 m) altitude, ended without fatalities; The toilets "kind of cushioned things" for the 67-year-old pilot.
British businessman and Conservative politician Christopher Shale was found dead in a portable toilet at the Glastonbury Festival on June 26, 2011. It is suspected he died of a heart attack.
Aboard ship the head and fittings associated with the head are cited as one of the most common reason for the sinking of tens of thousands of boats of all types and sizes.Heads typically have through-hull fittings located below the water line to draw flush water and eliminate waste. Boats are sunk when fittings fail or the toilet back siphons.
Urban legends have been reported regarding the dangers of using a toilet in a variety of situations.
Several of them have been shown to be questionable. These include some cases of the presence of venomous spiders although in the Australian outback the Redback spider who has reputation for hiding under toilet seats. These recent fears have emerged from a series of hoax emails originating in the Blush Spider hoax, which began circulating the internet in 1999.
Spiders have also been reported to live under seats of aircraft, however, the cleaning chemicals used in the toilets would result in an incompatibility with spider's survival.
In large cities like New York City, sewer rats often have mythical status regarding size and ferocity, resulting in tales involving the rodents crawling up sewer pipes to attack an unwitting occupant. Of late, stories about terrorists booby trapping the seat to castrate their targets have begun appearing.
Another myth is the risk of being sucked into an aircraft lavatory as a result of vacuum pressure during a flight.
I used to spend a lot of time in the loo as a natural refuge from everyday life. Book in hand it is a nice place to be.
I will have to review my position in the light of the hazards and perils now associated with this natural process.
Some instances of toilet-related deaths are attributed to the drop in blood pressure due to the parasympathetic nervous system during bowel movements. This effect may be magnified by existing circulatory issues.
It is further possible that people succumb on the toilet to chronic constipation, because the Valsalva maneouvre is often dangerously used to aid in the expulsion of faeces from the rectum during a bowel movement. This means that people can die while "straining at stool." In chapter 8 of their Abdominal Emergencies, David Cline and Latha Stead wrote that "autopsy studies continue to reveal missed bowel obstruction as an unexpected cause of death".
A 2001 Sopranos episode "He is Risen" shows a fictional depiction of the risk, when the character Gigi Gestone has a heart attack on the toilet of his social club while straining to defecate.
In the Victorian era, there was a perceived risk of toilets exploding.
These scenarios typically include a flammable substance either accidentally or deliberately being introduced into the toilet water, and a lit match or cigarette igniting and exploding the toilet. The technology of toilets has not really progressed in the last century and more as illustrated by an event in 2014 when a branded fitting ,Sloan's Flushmate pressure-assisted flushing system which uses compressed air to force waste down the drain was recalled after the company received reports of the air tank failing under pressure and shattering the porcelain.
There have been well documented incidences in history to clearly illustrate the love/hate relationship of Man and his plumbing installations.
In 1945, the German submarine U-1206 was sunk after a toilet malfunctioned, resulting in water coming in to the submarine, which when coming into contact with a battery, created chlorine gas, meaning the submarine had to resurface. At the surface, they were sunk by Allied Forces.
King Wenceslaus III of Bohemia was murdered with a spear while sitting in the garderobe on August 4, 1306.
George II of Great Britain died on the toilet on October 25, 1760 from an aortic dissection. According to Horace Walpole's memoirs, King George "rose as usual at six, and drank his chocolate; for all his actions were invariably methodic. A quarter after seven he went into a little closet. His German valet de chambre in waiting heard a noise, and running in, found the King dead on the floor." In falling he had cut his face.
Professor Ioan P. Culianu was shot dead while on the toilet in the third-floor men's room of Swift Hall on the campus of the University of Chicago on 21 May 1991, in a possibly politically-motivated assassination. His killer has never been caught.
Edmund II of England died of natural causes on November 30, 1016, though some report that he was stabbed in the bowels while attending the outhouse.
Similarly, Uesugi Kenshin, a warlord in Japan, died on April 19, 1578, with some reports stating that he was assassinated on the toilet.
Lenny Bruce died of a heroin overdose on August 3, 1966 while sitting on the toilet, with his arm tied off.
Elvis Presley died, aged 42, on August 16, 1977, in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. "Sitting on the toilet, he toppled like a toy soldier and collapsed onto the floor, where he lay in a pool of his own vomit. His light blue pyjamas were around his ankles." according to someone first on the scene, "For some reason—perhaps involving a reaction to the codeine and attempts to move his bowels — he experienced pain and fright while sitting on the toilet. Alarmed, he stood up, dropped the book he was reading, stumbled forward, and fell face down in the fetal position. He struggled weakly and drooled on the rug. Unable to breathe, he died."
According to medical speculation, a plausible cause of Elvis' death was that previously mentioned Valsalva maneuovre (essentially straining on the toilet leading to heart stoppage — plausible because Elvis suffered constipation, a common reaction to drug use)
Air Canada Flight 797 was destroyed on June 2, 1983 with 23 fatalities after an in-flight fire began in or around the rear lavatory.
Michael Anderson Godwin, a convicted murderer in South Carolina who had his sentence reduced from death by the electric chair, sat on the metal toilet in his cell while fixing his television. When he bit one of the wires, the resultant electric shock killed him. Another convicted murderer, Laurence Baker in Pittsburgh, was electrocuted while listening to the television on home-made earphones while sitting on a metal toilet.
A collision between a disabled Cessna 182 and a row of portable toilets on May 2, 2009 at Thun Field (south-east of Tacoma), despite an engine failure at 150 feet (46 m) altitude, ended without fatalities; The toilets "kind of cushioned things" for the 67-year-old pilot.
British businessman and Conservative politician Christopher Shale was found dead in a portable toilet at the Glastonbury Festival on June 26, 2011. It is suspected he died of a heart attack.
Aboard ship the head and fittings associated with the head are cited as one of the most common reason for the sinking of tens of thousands of boats of all types and sizes.Heads typically have through-hull fittings located below the water line to draw flush water and eliminate waste. Boats are sunk when fittings fail or the toilet back siphons.
Urban legends have been reported regarding the dangers of using a toilet in a variety of situations.
Several of them have been shown to be questionable. These include some cases of the presence of venomous spiders although in the Australian outback the Redback spider who has reputation for hiding under toilet seats. These recent fears have emerged from a series of hoax emails originating in the Blush Spider hoax, which began circulating the internet in 1999.
Spiders have also been reported to live under seats of aircraft, however, the cleaning chemicals used in the toilets would result in an incompatibility with spider's survival.
In large cities like New York City, sewer rats often have mythical status regarding size and ferocity, resulting in tales involving the rodents crawling up sewer pipes to attack an unwitting occupant. Of late, stories about terrorists booby trapping the seat to castrate their targets have begun appearing.
Another myth is the risk of being sucked into an aircraft lavatory as a result of vacuum pressure during a flight.
I used to spend a lot of time in the loo as a natural refuge from everyday life. Book in hand it is a nice place to be.
I will have to review my position in the light of the hazards and perils now associated with this natural process.
Thursday, 28 July 2016
Bog Standard #1
The 2000 Ig Nobel Prize in Public Health was awarded to three physicians from the Glasgow Western Infirmary for a Case Report on wounds sustained to the buttocks due to collapsing toilets.
This was attributed to the age related weakening of the porcelain fittings, many dating from the earliest instances of Victorian Public Health.
Furthermore, injuries are frequently sustained by people who stand on toilet seats to reach a height, and slip. There are also instances of people slipping on a wet bathroom floor or from a bath and concussing themselves on the fixture.
It is certainly a dangerous activity to go to the toilet and yet it is such a regular and mundane event in our lives that we may not be totally aware to the possibility of a range of hazards or choose to ignore them if in a hurry to do our business.
The following, and continued in the following blog, contains a sorry catalogue of some of the pitfalls and dangers of using a lavatory or bathroom.
In young boys, one of the most common causes of genital injury is when the toilet seat falls down while they are standing at the toilet. Just the thought of that is enough to make your eyes water.
Smaller children run the risk of drowning if they fall headfirst into the toilet bowl. There are also plenty of urban myths and hearsay cases of forcible immersion into a toilet as part of an initiation ritual at a school, organisation or in the military or as just plain bullying.
Injuries to adults include bruised buttocks, tail bones, and dislocated hips from unsuspectingly sitting on the toilet bowl rim because the seat is up or loose. Most modern floor mounted water closets are quite low set to the floor and a twinge or muscle spasm can occur whilst mounting and leaving the sitting position.
Injuries can also be caused by pinching of the skin on bottom or thighs due to splits in plastic seats or by splinters from wooden seats, or as documented in the research of the Ig Nobel Prize Winners the collapse of a toilet itself under the weight of the user.
Older high tank cast iron or lead-lined wooden cisterns have been known to detach from the wall when the chain is pulled to flush, causing injuries to the user. These are heavy and cumbersome fittings and happily not many are left in toilet compartments following modernisation in many homes.
Toilet related injuries are also surprisingly common, with some estimates ranging up to 40,000 injuries in the US every year.
In the past, this number would have been much higher, due to the material from which toilet paper was made. This was shown in a 1935 Northern Tissue advertisement which depicted splinter free toilet paper.
In 2012, 2.3 million toilets in the United States, and about 9,400 in Canada, were recalled due to faulty pressure-assist flush mechanisms which put users at risk of the fixture exploding.
There are also injuries around sanitary ware caused by animals. Some black widow spiders like to spin their web below the toilet seat because insects abound in and around it. Therefore, several persons have been bitten on their nether regions while using a toilet, particularly in the case of an outhouse facility. Although there is immediate pain at the bite site, these bites are rarely fatal.
It has been reported that in some cases rats crawl up through toilet sewer pipes and emerge in the toilet bowl, so that toilet users may be at risk of being bitten by a rat. However, many rat exterminators do not believe this, as pipes, at generally six inches wide, are too large for rats to climb and are also very slippery. Reports by janitors are always on the top floor, and could involve the rats on the roof, entering the soil pipe through the roof vent, lowering themselves into the pipe and then into the toilet.
In a very rare incident in May 2016, an 11 ft snake, a reticulated python, emerged from a squat toilet and bit the man using it on his penis at his home in Chachoengsao Province, Thailand. Both victim and python survived.
That must have been quite a shock to all parties involved.
(continues with the following blog..............)
source for #1 and #2; Wikipedia. Ig Nobel Prize Winners
This was attributed to the age related weakening of the porcelain fittings, many dating from the earliest instances of Victorian Public Health.
Furthermore, injuries are frequently sustained by people who stand on toilet seats to reach a height, and slip. There are also instances of people slipping on a wet bathroom floor or from a bath and concussing themselves on the fixture.
It is certainly a dangerous activity to go to the toilet and yet it is such a regular and mundane event in our lives that we may not be totally aware to the possibility of a range of hazards or choose to ignore them if in a hurry to do our business.
The following, and continued in the following blog, contains a sorry catalogue of some of the pitfalls and dangers of using a lavatory or bathroom.
In young boys, one of the most common causes of genital injury is when the toilet seat falls down while they are standing at the toilet. Just the thought of that is enough to make your eyes water.
Smaller children run the risk of drowning if they fall headfirst into the toilet bowl. There are also plenty of urban myths and hearsay cases of forcible immersion into a toilet as part of an initiation ritual at a school, organisation or in the military or as just plain bullying.
Injuries to adults include bruised buttocks, tail bones, and dislocated hips from unsuspectingly sitting on the toilet bowl rim because the seat is up or loose. Most modern floor mounted water closets are quite low set to the floor and a twinge or muscle spasm can occur whilst mounting and leaving the sitting position.
Injuries can also be caused by pinching of the skin on bottom or thighs due to splits in plastic seats or by splinters from wooden seats, or as documented in the research of the Ig Nobel Prize Winners the collapse of a toilet itself under the weight of the user.
Older high tank cast iron or lead-lined wooden cisterns have been known to detach from the wall when the chain is pulled to flush, causing injuries to the user. These are heavy and cumbersome fittings and happily not many are left in toilet compartments following modernisation in many homes.
Toilet related injuries are also surprisingly common, with some estimates ranging up to 40,000 injuries in the US every year.
In the past, this number would have been much higher, due to the material from which toilet paper was made. This was shown in a 1935 Northern Tissue advertisement which depicted splinter free toilet paper.
In 2012, 2.3 million toilets in the United States, and about 9,400 in Canada, were recalled due to faulty pressure-assist flush mechanisms which put users at risk of the fixture exploding.
There are also injuries around sanitary ware caused by animals. Some black widow spiders like to spin their web below the toilet seat because insects abound in and around it. Therefore, several persons have been bitten on their nether regions while using a toilet, particularly in the case of an outhouse facility. Although there is immediate pain at the bite site, these bites are rarely fatal.
It has been reported that in some cases rats crawl up through toilet sewer pipes and emerge in the toilet bowl, so that toilet users may be at risk of being bitten by a rat. However, many rat exterminators do not believe this, as pipes, at generally six inches wide, are too large for rats to climb and are also very slippery. Reports by janitors are always on the top floor, and could involve the rats on the roof, entering the soil pipe through the roof vent, lowering themselves into the pipe and then into the toilet.
In a very rare incident in May 2016, an 11 ft snake, a reticulated python, emerged from a squat toilet and bit the man using it on his penis at his home in Chachoengsao Province, Thailand. Both victim and python survived.
That must have been quite a shock to all parties involved.
(continues with the following blog..............)
source for #1 and #2; Wikipedia. Ig Nobel Prize Winners
Wednesday, 27 July 2016
Chocolate Burp
It repeats on you a bit does Chocolate Lager but I felt that I had to write a review because I liked it.
Straight off, I should point out that I am not a big drinker. If there was such a thing as a market mechanism to trade my unused Alcohol Units then I would be pretty well off, perhaps even a millionaire but hey-what.
My consumption is usually one bottle of wine per week and that is usually sipped away whilst cooking the friday night chilli meal for the family and so that does not really count, does it?
I am often required to buy bottled beer if we are expecting family or visitors on a special get-together or celebration and I am very much an impulse purchaser not so much the well known brands but strangely named brews such as Bishop's Finger, Banana Beer and fruit infusions.
The row of beer pumps in my local real ale pub ( by local I mean that I have been in once in three years) remains a mystery to me and even more so now with the emergence of Craft Beers from small independent breweries out of someones shed, garage or industrial unit.
The Chocolate Lager was a birthday gift from my sister in law and her partner, nestled in a presentation box from an on-line store amongst a bar of chocolate and oversized chocolate buttons by the Brighton born Montezuma company.
I will admit that the bar and buttons were greedily consumed but for some reason I found that I had a bit of a problem in accepting that the smoked glass 330ml bottle was a valid tipple.
Whoever heard of beer and chocolate together in a liquid apart from a terrible, freakish accident in the plastic carrier back coming back from the shops?
The lager is a collaboration between Montezuma and the Hogs Back Brewery in Tongham, just to the south east of Aldershot, Surrey, UK.
Fortunately for beer drinkers in the UK and indeed worldwide this fusion is, as the bottle label states, "about as good as it gets". The use of such words as "project" and "head on collision" in the marketing blurb does, to me, suggests that the collusion was probably not that natural or symbiotic but rather an experimental project that went unbelievably, pleasantly well.
My initial reluctance to pop the bottle cap was in part and I admit now, down to a recent bad experience with a craft beer, in this case a Chocolate Porter. Part showing off and part curious I had ordered a pint of the stuff at a Father's Day pub meal with my loved ones and it was (the beer), in polite terms, horrendous. I could see a place for it after 10pm at night if there was no drinking chocolate in the house and as a perfect accompaniment for a digestive biscuit but no way as a social or regular drink.
The Hogs Back/Montezuma Chocolate Lager would indeed have to be remarkable to salvage my confidence.
First taste?
Straight from the fridge, very refreshing. A light texture, good gaseous bubbles and then a faint taste of something familiar from way back in my consciousness, a sort of flash flavour blend of all of my favourite chocolate bars ever plus a bowl of Coco-Pops. That may sound an endorsement of the product by Augustus Gloop but I should clarify the sensations on my tongue and palate.
The chocolate is subtle or even fleeting and does not intrude on the wonderful and distinctive malted barley in the lager nor is there any aftertaste or bitterness.
If you are able to overcome the same sort of reticence that I felt upon first seeing the bottle then you are in for a real treat.
I recommend that it is best drunk on its own to savour the flavour.
You can buy it direct on line or from some of the main UK Supermarkets where it retails at £2 for a 330ml bottle, about the same price as a gourmet bar of chocolate.
Straight off, I should point out that I am not a big drinker. If there was such a thing as a market mechanism to trade my unused Alcohol Units then I would be pretty well off, perhaps even a millionaire but hey-what.
My consumption is usually one bottle of wine per week and that is usually sipped away whilst cooking the friday night chilli meal for the family and so that does not really count, does it?
I am often required to buy bottled beer if we are expecting family or visitors on a special get-together or celebration and I am very much an impulse purchaser not so much the well known brands but strangely named brews such as Bishop's Finger, Banana Beer and fruit infusions.
The row of beer pumps in my local real ale pub ( by local I mean that I have been in once in three years) remains a mystery to me and even more so now with the emergence of Craft Beers from small independent breweries out of someones shed, garage or industrial unit.
The Chocolate Lager was a birthday gift from my sister in law and her partner, nestled in a presentation box from an on-line store amongst a bar of chocolate and oversized chocolate buttons by the Brighton born Montezuma company.
I will admit that the bar and buttons were greedily consumed but for some reason I found that I had a bit of a problem in accepting that the smoked glass 330ml bottle was a valid tipple.
Whoever heard of beer and chocolate together in a liquid apart from a terrible, freakish accident in the plastic carrier back coming back from the shops?
The lager is a collaboration between Montezuma and the Hogs Back Brewery in Tongham, just to the south east of Aldershot, Surrey, UK.
Fortunately for beer drinkers in the UK and indeed worldwide this fusion is, as the bottle label states, "about as good as it gets". The use of such words as "project" and "head on collision" in the marketing blurb does, to me, suggests that the collusion was probably not that natural or symbiotic but rather an experimental project that went unbelievably, pleasantly well.
My initial reluctance to pop the bottle cap was in part and I admit now, down to a recent bad experience with a craft beer, in this case a Chocolate Porter. Part showing off and part curious I had ordered a pint of the stuff at a Father's Day pub meal with my loved ones and it was (the beer), in polite terms, horrendous. I could see a place for it after 10pm at night if there was no drinking chocolate in the house and as a perfect accompaniment for a digestive biscuit but no way as a social or regular drink.
The Hogs Back/Montezuma Chocolate Lager would indeed have to be remarkable to salvage my confidence.
First taste?
Straight from the fridge, very refreshing. A light texture, good gaseous bubbles and then a faint taste of something familiar from way back in my consciousness, a sort of flash flavour blend of all of my favourite chocolate bars ever plus a bowl of Coco-Pops. That may sound an endorsement of the product by Augustus Gloop but I should clarify the sensations on my tongue and palate.
The chocolate is subtle or even fleeting and does not intrude on the wonderful and distinctive malted barley in the lager nor is there any aftertaste or bitterness.
If you are able to overcome the same sort of reticence that I felt upon first seeing the bottle then you are in for a real treat.
I recommend that it is best drunk on its own to savour the flavour.
You can buy it direct on line or from some of the main UK Supermarkets where it retails at £2 for a 330ml bottle, about the same price as a gourmet bar of chocolate.
Tuesday, 26 July 2016
Office Politics
Some have regarded this particular bit of research to be, perhaps, the most satisfying, most incisive academic study of the past century.
It is not a thesis to work out why the world is in such a confrontational state, nor a panacea for modern life stress and tensions or even a formula to work out who will actually be the new James Bond.
Thanks to the skills and dedication of one Professor David Sims, who published it in the journal "Organisation Studies" we now have, in the public domain a worthy document called "You Bastard" or with a rather long winded full title of "A Narrative Exploration of the Experience of Indignation Within Organisations".
"Our patience with forming interpretations and reinterpretations of others' behaviour is not unlimited," writes Sims. "The time comes when we lose interest in trying to understand, and conclude that another person is behaving in a way that is simply unacceptable. The internal discourse changes from one in which the other is 'construed as behaving strangely' or as 'seeing the world differently' or even as mistaken; the discourse becomes one in which they are 'wrong', 'wicked', 'simply a bastard' and should be treated as such."
From his vast experience working in and with businesses and universities, Sims selected three cases in which people came to define a colleague - generally a senior manager - as a bastard.
I apologise to my female readers in that Bastard of course refers to the male gender. I will not dwell on any equivalent labelling for office staff of the fairer sex although, no doubt, there could be a lengthy treatise on that subject alone.
"No special efforts are required to collect such narratives," remarks Sims, "many organisational members are marinated in them. The narratives raise a wide range of the issues involved in considering the experience of indignation in organisations.
However, the narratives make no attempt to cover the complete range of those who might be designated 'bastards'."
Those in a large office environment where politics and gang warfare prevail may be able to identify a colleague that is referred to as the "Clever Bastard".
This title is attached to the person that everyone knows is clever, but are not too surprised that they could not always understand them.
Another category is "Bastard Ex-machina" This character is identified by the trait that, when the heat is on and you need support, the individual will never be there.
Finally, there is the Devious Bastard, whose tale is too subtly complex to relate here in just a sentence or two.
This is not just about bastards as Sims has been quick to point out. It is equally a fascination with the people who ultimately decide what label to attach to what colleague.
Most office workers felt angry at the behaviour of the designated bastard but research found that they were even more angry because they could not make sense of that behaviour without thinking of the person as a bastard, and this felt like failure to them". Perhaps deep down we are all compassionate and understanding by feeling bad in this way.
But beneath that frustration, Sims cautions, there's often something akin to pleasure:
"There is a warm glow to be had in knowing that someone can be looked down on as a bastard."
Source; The Guardian Newspaper July 2008 article by Marc Abrahams editor of Improbable Research.
It is not a thesis to work out why the world is in such a confrontational state, nor a panacea for modern life stress and tensions or even a formula to work out who will actually be the new James Bond.
Thanks to the skills and dedication of one Professor David Sims, who published it in the journal "Organisation Studies" we now have, in the public domain a worthy document called "You Bastard" or with a rather long winded full title of "A Narrative Exploration of the Experience of Indignation Within Organisations".
"Our patience with forming interpretations and reinterpretations of others' behaviour is not unlimited," writes Sims. "The time comes when we lose interest in trying to understand, and conclude that another person is behaving in a way that is simply unacceptable. The internal discourse changes from one in which the other is 'construed as behaving strangely' or as 'seeing the world differently' or even as mistaken; the discourse becomes one in which they are 'wrong', 'wicked', 'simply a bastard' and should be treated as such."
From his vast experience working in and with businesses and universities, Sims selected three cases in which people came to define a colleague - generally a senior manager - as a bastard.
I apologise to my female readers in that Bastard of course refers to the male gender. I will not dwell on any equivalent labelling for office staff of the fairer sex although, no doubt, there could be a lengthy treatise on that subject alone.
"No special efforts are required to collect such narratives," remarks Sims, "many organisational members are marinated in them. The narratives raise a wide range of the issues involved in considering the experience of indignation in organisations.
However, the narratives make no attempt to cover the complete range of those who might be designated 'bastards'."
Those in a large office environment where politics and gang warfare prevail may be able to identify a colleague that is referred to as the "Clever Bastard".
This title is attached to the person that everyone knows is clever, but are not too surprised that they could not always understand them.
Another category is "Bastard Ex-machina" This character is identified by the trait that, when the heat is on and you need support, the individual will never be there.
Finally, there is the Devious Bastard, whose tale is too subtly complex to relate here in just a sentence or two.
This is not just about bastards as Sims has been quick to point out. It is equally a fascination with the people who ultimately decide what label to attach to what colleague.
Most office workers felt angry at the behaviour of the designated bastard but research found that they were even more angry because they could not make sense of that behaviour without thinking of the person as a bastard, and this felt like failure to them". Perhaps deep down we are all compassionate and understanding by feeling bad in this way.
But beneath that frustration, Sims cautions, there's often something akin to pleasure:
"There is a warm glow to be had in knowing that someone can be looked down on as a bastard."
Source; The Guardian Newspaper July 2008 article by Marc Abrahams editor of Improbable Research.
Monday, 25 July 2016
Jersey Boys
I have a favourite cycling racing jersey.
It is one of the iconic designs from the continental road race teams of the halcyon 1980's era.
I clearly recall buying it in 1984 out of my hard pressed funds as an impoverished student in that hotbed of cycling, Nottingham in the English Midlands. I may have had to give up eating for a couple of days to buy it, such was it's attraction to me as new participant in competitive bike racing.
There is always one of those essentials in life that loom up but rarely coinciding with the ability to hand over cash for it.
It is a gloriously bright and striking design with numerous panels in yellow with sponsor names picked out in black, white upper and lower panels and red sleeves with contrasting white logo's.
The thing with continental trade team jerseys is that they seemed very exotic and to the comparatively dour British equivalents of the era possessing a mystique and with a great resonance of cycling pedigree and heritage.
In this case the main sponsor Kwantum Hallen Decosol was, I think, the Dutch equivalent of the B and Q Home and DIY Store in the UK so after all, pretty mundane.
The team was formed after the European season of 1983 when the dominant TI-Raleigh team split up because of longstanding tension between former world champion Jan Raas and the fascinating and colourful team leader Peter Post.
Seven cyclists followed Post to the new Panasonic-team and six cyclists joined Raas to form the Kwantum team.
The ranks of the team were expanded into a group of all-rounders to cope with the long and arduous racing calendar which ran from the early Spring Classics to the Autumn World Championships. The mainly Dutch but also Belgian riders included Neven, Nijdam, Peeters, Prijm, Raas himself,Van der Poel, the veteran Zootemelk, Wijnands and a rarity for that era, an American, Doug Shapiro.
In their first year, the team managed to win the red jersey for intermediate sprints and one stage in the 1984 Tour de France, the Amstel Gold Race and the Dutch national road championship.
After the 1984 season, Jan Raas retired from an illustrious career as an active cyclist and became team manager.
In 1985 the Kwantum team had a successful year with two Tour de France stages, the Tour of Luxembourg, Paris–Tours, Paris–Brussels, the Tirreno–Adriatico, the Tour of Belgium, again the Dutch national road championship, and perhaps against all the odds the World cycling championship where Joop Zoetemelk triumphed aged 38 with Greg Lemond and Moreno Argentin in the other medal places.
By 1986 was the team was waning and the most important victory was the Tour of Belgium by Nico Emonds.
In all it was a brief flurry of success over just three main seasons but the prominence of the distinctive jersey at the head of a major race peleton and on the podium reinforced its status in cycle racing history.
The DNA of Kwantum Hallen has proven to be strong and there is a well defined family tree in professional cycling that shows lineage through successive teams of SuperConfex (1988) with Maasen and Van Hooydonk, the Buckler Team (1989) Vanderaerden and Rooks, the Word Perfect Squad (1993) with Bekker and Moncassin, the 1995 Novell Team with the erratic but prolific Abdujaparov, followed in 1996 by Rabobank under somewhat of a doping cloud, the short lived Blanco and Belkin in 2013 and the present day incarnation of Lotto Jumbo. .
As for my own jersey it is a bit battered after 30 plus years with a small hole in the right arm from a crash.The colours are however as bright as the day it was bought.
I am no longer compatible to the jersey size (a tactful way of saying I am now chubby) but my bike-mad son has taken it out for a few rides recently and it is a much admired bit of bike history.
In fact it is priceless (or with similar available for up to £100 on E Bay)
It is one of the iconic designs from the continental road race teams of the halcyon 1980's era.
I clearly recall buying it in 1984 out of my hard pressed funds as an impoverished student in that hotbed of cycling, Nottingham in the English Midlands. I may have had to give up eating for a couple of days to buy it, such was it's attraction to me as new participant in competitive bike racing.
There is always one of those essentials in life that loom up but rarely coinciding with the ability to hand over cash for it.
It is a gloriously bright and striking design with numerous panels in yellow with sponsor names picked out in black, white upper and lower panels and red sleeves with contrasting white logo's.
The thing with continental trade team jerseys is that they seemed very exotic and to the comparatively dour British equivalents of the era possessing a mystique and with a great resonance of cycling pedigree and heritage.
In this case the main sponsor Kwantum Hallen Decosol was, I think, the Dutch equivalent of the B and Q Home and DIY Store in the UK so after all, pretty mundane.
The team was formed after the European season of 1983 when the dominant TI-Raleigh team split up because of longstanding tension between former world champion Jan Raas and the fascinating and colourful team leader Peter Post.
Seven cyclists followed Post to the new Panasonic-team and six cyclists joined Raas to form the Kwantum team.
The ranks of the team were expanded into a group of all-rounders to cope with the long and arduous racing calendar which ran from the early Spring Classics to the Autumn World Championships. The mainly Dutch but also Belgian riders included Neven, Nijdam, Peeters, Prijm, Raas himself,Van der Poel, the veteran Zootemelk, Wijnands and a rarity for that era, an American, Doug Shapiro.
In their first year, the team managed to win the red jersey for intermediate sprints and one stage in the 1984 Tour de France, the Amstel Gold Race and the Dutch national road championship.
After the 1984 season, Jan Raas retired from an illustrious career as an active cyclist and became team manager.
In 1985 the Kwantum team had a successful year with two Tour de France stages, the Tour of Luxembourg, Paris–Tours, Paris–Brussels, the Tirreno–Adriatico, the Tour of Belgium, again the Dutch national road championship, and perhaps against all the odds the World cycling championship where Joop Zoetemelk triumphed aged 38 with Greg Lemond and Moreno Argentin in the other medal places.
By 1986 was the team was waning and the most important victory was the Tour of Belgium by Nico Emonds.
In all it was a brief flurry of success over just three main seasons but the prominence of the distinctive jersey at the head of a major race peleton and on the podium reinforced its status in cycle racing history.
The DNA of Kwantum Hallen has proven to be strong and there is a well defined family tree in professional cycling that shows lineage through successive teams of SuperConfex (1988) with Maasen and Van Hooydonk, the Buckler Team (1989) Vanderaerden and Rooks, the Word Perfect Squad (1993) with Bekker and Moncassin, the 1995 Novell Team with the erratic but prolific Abdujaparov, followed in 1996 by Rabobank under somewhat of a doping cloud, the short lived Blanco and Belkin in 2013 and the present day incarnation of Lotto Jumbo. .
As for my own jersey it is a bit battered after 30 plus years with a small hole in the right arm from a crash.The colours are however as bright as the day it was bought.
I am no longer compatible to the jersey size (a tactful way of saying I am now chubby) but my bike-mad son has taken it out for a few rides recently and it is a much admired bit of bike history.
In fact it is priceless (or with similar available for up to £100 on E Bay)
Sunday, 24 July 2016
Five Years
I am ashamed to admit that I do not have many photographs of my father.
Although still a shameful thing I attribute it to the fact that my father was always behind the lens of a camera and not in front of it. In fact, being the reserved and private person that he was it was inevitable that he would shy away from having his picture taken in a family group or where there was any possibility of it making its way into the local paper, for example.
The few pictures that I do have are understandably very precious to me. There is a common theme in all of them and that is something to do with the sport of cycling.
My favourite is of us both leaning against the safety barriers of a town centre race on a friday evening in summer.
I am on duty as a Marshall at the event and my father has made his way through to the inner part of the course to seek out the best vantage point for the duration of the 30 laps plus five minutes. Although the circuit is noisy with the tannoy system and the applause laden murmur of an appreciative viewing public we have found time to talk about all things cycling.
It is our common interest, one instilled in me by him from his own adventures as a youth and young adult. His heyday was in the post war years when the bicycle was a combination of the transport of choice for the masses and an enforced necessity for the austere times.
On the rare occasions that he felt sufficiently at ease to speak freely of his exploits there would be a mischievous glint in his eye and a boyish expression would take over his world weary brow. There were, to me, fantastical tales of overseas bike rides to Holland and France when still in his teenage years. This coincided with the exchange rate in favour of the Pound Sterling over the guilder and franc which allowed the week or so excursion abroad to resemble that of a visit by a tycoon.
I was encouraged in my cycling in that there was always a succession of bikes available in the house to meet every age group and ability. They were all maintained in pristine working condition even though the paintwork had certainly seen better times. I bought my first serious bike, an ice white 12 speed racer using wages from a seasonal farm job. He advised me on the best make and model. On this cycle I took part in my first amateur race . My father was driver, trainer and mechanic all in one, never critical but just pleased that I was getting as much out of the sport as he obviously had.
We would also trail around the country watching top competitive races featuring the best home grown riders and the few, but increasingly common events where the European and global stars would take part. This, in the space of a few months, took us to the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle, The Leeds Classic and a good few regional cities where we could see fast and furious circuit racing.
Inevitably we would drift apart in our respective roles of father and son through my work pressures and his early retirement but for three weeks every year we would be reunited in our love of cycling with the daily broadcasts of live action and the evening highlights on Channel 4 and latterly the ITV network of the epic Tour de France. The outcome of the daily stages would be analysed and summarised in a telephone call or if I was able to call in at the house we would engage in long conversations over what had taken place. This would build over the 20 plus stages until the finale of the stage into Paris and the frantic bunch sprint for that honour.
He always appreciated the talents of each of the top riders but did not witness the British Victories of Wiggins and Froome in the following years. I found myself watching these great wins on my own with a very heavy heart and sorely missing the great mutual joy and thrill of what should have been a common experiences.
These feelings are very much in the forefront of my emotions today, July 24th 2016 which marks the fifth anniversary of his passing. I am watching the final stage of this years Tour de France with my own son, William, himself a keen cyclist and therefore carrying on the family affinity for the sport.
In 2014 I was a volunteer Tour Maker on the race itself on Stage 2 from York to Sheffield which was an opportunity that I never expected to have in my lifetime. I did feel and very much so, the spirit of my father with me as I patrolled up and down the crowd line.
He would have loved the whole experience.
Although still a shameful thing I attribute it to the fact that my father was always behind the lens of a camera and not in front of it. In fact, being the reserved and private person that he was it was inevitable that he would shy away from having his picture taken in a family group or where there was any possibility of it making its way into the local paper, for example.
The few pictures that I do have are understandably very precious to me. There is a common theme in all of them and that is something to do with the sport of cycling.
My favourite is of us both leaning against the safety barriers of a town centre race on a friday evening in summer.
I am on duty as a Marshall at the event and my father has made his way through to the inner part of the course to seek out the best vantage point for the duration of the 30 laps plus five minutes. Although the circuit is noisy with the tannoy system and the applause laden murmur of an appreciative viewing public we have found time to talk about all things cycling.
It is our common interest, one instilled in me by him from his own adventures as a youth and young adult. His heyday was in the post war years when the bicycle was a combination of the transport of choice for the masses and an enforced necessity for the austere times.
On the rare occasions that he felt sufficiently at ease to speak freely of his exploits there would be a mischievous glint in his eye and a boyish expression would take over his world weary brow. There were, to me, fantastical tales of overseas bike rides to Holland and France when still in his teenage years. This coincided with the exchange rate in favour of the Pound Sterling over the guilder and franc which allowed the week or so excursion abroad to resemble that of a visit by a tycoon.
I was encouraged in my cycling in that there was always a succession of bikes available in the house to meet every age group and ability. They were all maintained in pristine working condition even though the paintwork had certainly seen better times. I bought my first serious bike, an ice white 12 speed racer using wages from a seasonal farm job. He advised me on the best make and model. On this cycle I took part in my first amateur race . My father was driver, trainer and mechanic all in one, never critical but just pleased that I was getting as much out of the sport as he obviously had.
We would also trail around the country watching top competitive races featuring the best home grown riders and the few, but increasingly common events where the European and global stars would take part. This, in the space of a few months, took us to the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle, The Leeds Classic and a good few regional cities where we could see fast and furious circuit racing.
Inevitably we would drift apart in our respective roles of father and son through my work pressures and his early retirement but for three weeks every year we would be reunited in our love of cycling with the daily broadcasts of live action and the evening highlights on Channel 4 and latterly the ITV network of the epic Tour de France. The outcome of the daily stages would be analysed and summarised in a telephone call or if I was able to call in at the house we would engage in long conversations over what had taken place. This would build over the 20 plus stages until the finale of the stage into Paris and the frantic bunch sprint for that honour.
He always appreciated the talents of each of the top riders but did not witness the British Victories of Wiggins and Froome in the following years. I found myself watching these great wins on my own with a very heavy heart and sorely missing the great mutual joy and thrill of what should have been a common experiences.
These feelings are very much in the forefront of my emotions today, July 24th 2016 which marks the fifth anniversary of his passing. I am watching the final stage of this years Tour de France with my own son, William, himself a keen cyclist and therefore carrying on the family affinity for the sport.
In 2014 I was a volunteer Tour Maker on the race itself on Stage 2 from York to Sheffield which was an opportunity that I never expected to have in my lifetime. I did feel and very much so, the spirit of my father with me as I patrolled up and down the crowd line.
He would have loved the whole experience.
Saturday, 23 July 2016
Armchair Critic
The lure of a bargain is enticing for many what with today's ever increasing cost of living.
There can be a certain thrill in bagging an item at either a marked down price, as in one of those clearance baskets at the end of a supermarket aisle, or even better when perceived in our own judgement to be a bit of a steal.
The item or items in question do not have to be luxury, collectables or rarities. They can be as simple as a foodstuff, a piece of clothing or in my case a DVD or CD. I may not get to view or listen to such a purchase for weeks on end but I am comforted in the knowledge that it was a bargain.
For larger ticket goods it is certainly prudent to shop around a bit.
My greatest acquisition was a family car with every extra you could think of including a pop up television in the dashboard and all for a consideration at half of the list price that it had left the showroom to the first owner a mere 12 months before. It was a case of just being in the right place at the right time.
The task of bargain shopping is complicated when entrusted by a close relative to seek out something with their money.
This was the case over the last couple of weeks for my wife who was asked by her Mum to buy an armchair.
Not just any armchair but one to match a two seater settee which was on order from a large national retailer and with an impending delivery date from the factory.
The same make and model of armchair on a brand new basis really pushed the budget for the re-furnishing project and this started a hunt for a lower price through the internet. The Outlet for the national chain did stock returned and reconditioned chairs of the exact same type and at much reduced price. The snag was that the operation was based in Scotland and did not deliver. Even at the lower price the additional cost for a minimum ten hour round trip to collect did not really represent much of a saving.
It was through the alternative market place of E Bay that the exact item was located.
I work on the principle that if something sounds too good to be true then it is and this dictum has so far served me well because, let's face it, there are persons out there who make their living out of ripping other people off by promising everything for very little but for a reason only later realised by the victim.
I was understandably sceptical therefore about the internet advertised armchair which was the exact make, model and colour of the one sought and at less than a quarter of the retail price. The sellers indicated that it was only one week old.
My wife, who is an excellent judge of character, offered the asking price.
I agreed to a 100 mile each way drive (almost local) to clinch the deal and arrangements were made for me to pick up and pay at the weekend which was only three days away.
For each of the nights leading up to the road trip to collect the armchair I suffered a recurring and fitful dream.
It involved the loading bay of my estate car.
The opening took on the alternating forms of the gaping mouth of a Great White Shark with a full compliment of menacing teeth to a tiny aperture about the size of a kitchen cabinet.
Whatever the physical form and dimensions I found myself, in dream state, attempting to push into it a taupe coloured, plush cushioned leather armchair.
This state of panic had been brought about by a nagging uncertainty that had seeped into my subconscious that the actual chair would be too big to fit into the car and the journey across the country would be a wasted one.
I had, of course, checked and double checked the manufacturers measurements for the specific chair from their on line information and had even taken a tape measure to the back of the car to see what tolerances were involved.
All of my anguish was down to the very close correlation indeed of chair size to car load bay.
It would be a tight fit for sure.
On the motorway heading westwards this morning my fears remained strong. Even more terrifying was that I had no credible Plan B.
It was only after man-handling the chair out of the sellers house that, with a bit of manipulation I was able to shut the hatch firmly down and relax.
The job was done.
On the return drive I rehearsed a modest acceptance of my logistical genius in anticipation of glowing praise from my Mother in Law, shamelessly basking in the collective glory that was principally all of my Wife's doing.
This soon turned to disappointment and not a little embarrassment.
I will no doubt have nightmares about the whole thing as the armchair, the perfect bargain, was just too big to fit through any of the doors to the house.
It remains, snug and secure in the back of my car. Now, what about Plan B, C, D,....................etc.
Friday, 22 July 2016
Uprooted
In the early 1970's we lived in a house with a huge Elm tree at the bottom of the garden.
I am not sure how old it was but it certainly predated the property by some considerable period. Well before the residential estate was developed it will have stood on its own on the headland between farmer's fields and at some distance from the town which had gradually encroached with an expanding population.
It was a typical example of the species.
A broad, rough bark trunk of 3 to 4 metre girth supported a crown and strong boughs which towered above the roof height of the house and in season supporting and sustaining a vast, billowy canopy of green, healthy leaves.
For all of that majesty it was menacing and frightening in a full blown storm and yet everyone's friend in casting a cooling shadow on the hottest days of the summer.
The first signs of Dutch Elm Disease on our tree were quite subtle.
A yellowish tint could be seen in the foliage and a gradual thinning out of the leaves made the tree look frail and vulnerable.
It was when the largest of the branches began to systematically fall off and crash to the ground, even in the stillest of air conditions, that we knew that something drastic had to be done to primarily put our Elm out of its pain and misery but also to save ourselves from serious injury.
We began to see and hear in the media about the devastating disease which in a relatively short time killed around three quarters of the twenty million trees throughout the UK as well as having a similarly disastrous impact on stocks in France, Canada and North America.
The disease affecting Elms had been studied in Holland in the early years of the twentieth century but the initial strains were curable and many affected trees recovered fully.
The 1970's version, it soon became apparent, was much more potent and seemingly untreatable with insecticide or even Old Wives remedies such as hammering in copper nails being wholly ineffective.
The deadly virus came from a fungus, itself spread by winged adult beetles which were particularly active in their flight patterns in a succession of dry, hot months in the period 1970 to 1975.
I had not realised the iconic status of the Elm in the landscape of many regions in the UK.
It tended to be sidelined compared to the mighty oak whose timbers played an important role in the national history from everyday domestic use to the construction of ships so important to trade and Empire and so assuming an heroic role in the perception of the nation.
The Elm was however just as important and its rapid submission to an insect spread fungus was a reason for distress and sadness amongst the population.
Our beloved elm had to be surgically dismantled in accordance with the instructions of the Local Council and Forestry Commission.
Removal of the bark did allow the residual timber to be safely used. There was no shortage of local residents expressing an interest in taking away logs and boughs for their open fires or the new emerging phenomena of the wood burning appliance which was a major spin off amongst the tragic demise of the species.
As a final act a tractor was drafted in from the open fields beyond our rear garden boundary to heave out the trunk and roots which, already weakened from the fungus, came out very easily to leave a large gaping void in more than one sense of the word.
In the inevitable post-mortem for this national, natural disaster the investigators soon came to focus on a shipment of Rock Elm Logs which had been imported for use by the Royal Navy to a port on the South Coast of England from North America.
The new virulent strain of the fungus was found amongst the logs and was regarded to be the source of the outbreak. Ironically it appears that the fungus, initially exported in diseased timbers to the North American continent from Europe had now returned to wreak havoc as though in vindictive revenge.
We had moved away from that house by the late 1970's.
It was a relocation brought about by our Father's work but we had all been affected by the loss of the tree.
As if to acknowledge this none of us offered even a quick look back as we drove out of the street for the last time.
It will have been just too much to see all of the blue sky above the roof of the old place where once had been the huge green, animated canopy of our Elm.
Thursday, 21 July 2016
Sex Please
A recent commentary by a Domain Name Company indicated that, in the UK alone, there are 20 million word searches a month for websites containing the word "sex".
I was actually quite surprised that it was only that for the monthly tally.
This is based on the impression perpetuated by the media that we are a nation completely obsessed and voyeuristic on the matter of sex, sexual antics of the great and infamous and things to titillate and thrill.
There is no disputing that sex is a good selling tool for anything from perfume to beer, cars to yoghurt breakfast cereal to shampoo and hence the current initiative by the marketeers of the Internet Company to release their infographic to promote the new .sx domain name series. These are specifically targeted at those with websites with an adult content.
I took it upon myself to analyse this figure of 20 million UK searches per month, of course for research value only.
The appearance of 'sex' in an internet search, and inevitably included in the count, can arise from an entirely innocent perspective.
For example, followers of anything to do with the reality TV show The Only Way is Es-sex will be hitting the keyboard on a very regular basis. The viewing figures for the first few series were regularly above one million per show and ,with a typical audience profile of social media savvy under 30's. even a fifty percent inquisitiveness over what the main protagonists get up to out of the camera focus can account for about two million 'es-sex' searches a month.
The current estimated population of the counties of Middlesex, Sussex and Essex (again) is in aggregate in the region of 6.37 million.
It is reasonable to assume that on any one day there will be a measurable volume of internet searches along the lines of "builders in Middle-sex", "plumbers in Middle-sex", "yoga classes in Middle-sex", "Child day care in Middle-sex" and similarly throughout Sus-sex and Es-sex.
If I were to warrant a guess on numbers I would for a starter exclude the under 5's age group for not being able to reach a computer (unless Leap-Pad has progressed since my children had one), those too old or nervous to have access to the internet, tenants with no responsibility for contacting a tradesperson and the childless.
I have been careful not to double count a household where either spouse could take it upon themselves to make that search to get someone to sort out that hanging-off guttering or that leaky tap.
By my reckoning the net figure would be around 2 million eligible persons. If diligent about home maintenance, the welfare of their kids and the suppleness of their bodies they could, feasibly, make one internet search per week, therefore 8 million monthly searches including the three letters of "sex".
I feel some sympathy for those searching the internet in pursuit of a hobby or interest who unwittingly become a 'sex' word statistic.
Those who look after Church premises, a valued but ever diminishing band of faithful and loyal parishioners, may want to extend their experience and knowledge by making an internet search for the opinions and recommendations of other sextons.
What I anticipate to be a small minority of Master Mariners may feel in the mood to treat themselves to a new navigational apparatus and search accordingly for sextants.
Couples desperate to have their own family may have some apprehensions over fertility treatment in case they end up, as a result of the IVF procedure, with sextuplets.
I have not personally felt any compulsion to do so but those contemplating a soiree, function or other entertainment may wish to enquire, via the internet, about the availability of a sextette in their local area or willing to travel.
A solitary mathematician may have temporarily forgotten how many zero's there are in a sextillion. 21 to be exact.
These, I admit, minority groups would only add a small number to my running total but must be considered in the big picture of sex word accounting.
I would like to acknowledge the contribution to the minority sex words by the Scrabble Word Finder.
A further source of sex searches would come from those challenged by just spelling or plain stupidity and I have attempted to guesstimate a figure for those searching for types of
a) insex commonly found in the UK,
b) sextional concrete garages ,
c) those interested in vivisextion, and not forgetting
d) the apparently increasing number of motorists reliant on sat-nav systems and concerned about congestion and delays at key traffic intersextions.
Of course, there are those who are actually intent on accessing a pornographic website, apparently ,from the same infographic source being 12% of all websites ,and do this blatantly with just the word 'sex' and with or without any prefixes or suffixes dependant on any particular penchants or tendencies that they may have.
The grand total, in my broad minded research therefore indicates a more realistic participation of 33 million per month. That accounts for about half the UK population engaged in what can only be described as 'sex' word games and on a regular basis. I do make an exception for, and exclude, regular players of Scrabble in this statistic.
I will next be contemplating the correlation between this fact and the persistence of the depressed economy and double dip recession in this country. I do find this flagging surprising given the level of apparent stimulation in other parts of the population at large.
I was actually quite surprised that it was only that for the monthly tally.
This is based on the impression perpetuated by the media that we are a nation completely obsessed and voyeuristic on the matter of sex, sexual antics of the great and infamous and things to titillate and thrill.
There is no disputing that sex is a good selling tool for anything from perfume to beer, cars to yoghurt breakfast cereal to shampoo and hence the current initiative by the marketeers of the Internet Company to release their infographic to promote the new .sx domain name series. These are specifically targeted at those with websites with an adult content.
I took it upon myself to analyse this figure of 20 million UK searches per month, of course for research value only.
The appearance of 'sex' in an internet search, and inevitably included in the count, can arise from an entirely innocent perspective.
For example, followers of anything to do with the reality TV show The Only Way is Es-sex will be hitting the keyboard on a very regular basis. The viewing figures for the first few series were regularly above one million per show and ,with a typical audience profile of social media savvy under 30's. even a fifty percent inquisitiveness over what the main protagonists get up to out of the camera focus can account for about two million 'es-sex' searches a month.
The current estimated population of the counties of Middlesex, Sussex and Essex (again) is in aggregate in the region of 6.37 million.
It is reasonable to assume that on any one day there will be a measurable volume of internet searches along the lines of "builders in Middle-sex", "plumbers in Middle-sex", "yoga classes in Middle-sex", "Child day care in Middle-sex" and similarly throughout Sus-sex and Es-sex.
If I were to warrant a guess on numbers I would for a starter exclude the under 5's age group for not being able to reach a computer (unless Leap-Pad has progressed since my children had one), those too old or nervous to have access to the internet, tenants with no responsibility for contacting a tradesperson and the childless.
I have been careful not to double count a household where either spouse could take it upon themselves to make that search to get someone to sort out that hanging-off guttering or that leaky tap.
By my reckoning the net figure would be around 2 million eligible persons. If diligent about home maintenance, the welfare of their kids and the suppleness of their bodies they could, feasibly, make one internet search per week, therefore 8 million monthly searches including the three letters of "sex".
I feel some sympathy for those searching the internet in pursuit of a hobby or interest who unwittingly become a 'sex' word statistic.
Those who look after Church premises, a valued but ever diminishing band of faithful and loyal parishioners, may want to extend their experience and knowledge by making an internet search for the opinions and recommendations of other sextons.
What I anticipate to be a small minority of Master Mariners may feel in the mood to treat themselves to a new navigational apparatus and search accordingly for sextants.
Couples desperate to have their own family may have some apprehensions over fertility treatment in case they end up, as a result of the IVF procedure, with sextuplets.
I have not personally felt any compulsion to do so but those contemplating a soiree, function or other entertainment may wish to enquire, via the internet, about the availability of a sextette in their local area or willing to travel.
A solitary mathematician may have temporarily forgotten how many zero's there are in a sextillion. 21 to be exact.
These, I admit, minority groups would only add a small number to my running total but must be considered in the big picture of sex word accounting.
I would like to acknowledge the contribution to the minority sex words by the Scrabble Word Finder.
A further source of sex searches would come from those challenged by just spelling or plain stupidity and I have attempted to guesstimate a figure for those searching for types of
a) insex commonly found in the UK,
b) sextional concrete garages ,
c) those interested in vivisextion, and not forgetting
d) the apparently increasing number of motorists reliant on sat-nav systems and concerned about congestion and delays at key traffic intersextions.
Of course, there are those who are actually intent on accessing a pornographic website, apparently ,from the same infographic source being 12% of all websites ,and do this blatantly with just the word 'sex' and with or without any prefixes or suffixes dependant on any particular penchants or tendencies that they may have.
The grand total, in my broad minded research therefore indicates a more realistic participation of 33 million per month. That accounts for about half the UK population engaged in what can only be described as 'sex' word games and on a regular basis. I do make an exception for, and exclude, regular players of Scrabble in this statistic.
I will next be contemplating the correlation between this fact and the persistence of the depressed economy and double dip recession in this country. I do find this flagging surprising given the level of apparent stimulation in other parts of the population at large.
Wednesday, 20 July 2016
1545 and all that
Yesterday was an anniversary of the sinking of the Mary Rose, flagship of the English monarch Henry the Eighth in 1545.
In a manouvre in battle against the French fleet the huge and heavily armed warship, actually in His Majesty's Service since 1511, foundered as water poured in through the lower gun ports.
The vessel sank rapidly with the death of the vast majority of the 500 crew and in the mud of the Solent seabed a lasting memorial was laid to rest or at least for around 425 years.
In a prolonged period of salvage and scientific restoration since the 1970's some 19,000 artefacts have been recovered and where possible restored. The ship was the equivalent of a small town in its range of services and the specialities of those on board from the fighting crew to cooks, quartermasters, surgeons, joiners, fitters and engineers.
The following is a selection of some of the items, mundane and domestic, artistic and precious, personal and unique, utilitarian and military, poignant and melancholy, anachronistic or still applicable to our modern lifestyles.
Boatswains Whistle on lanyard
Wood and leather bellows
Oak, poplar and pine tankard, pitch lined
Sandglasses
Leather thigh boots
Backgammon set
Hand fishing reel
Pewter Chamberpot
Swivel Guns
Quill nibs
Wooden trencher plates
Pewter flasks and flagons
Lantern in poplar wood
Candleholder and copper snuffer
Yew Longbows
Tally sticks
Folding table stand
Calfskin book cover
Cowhorn inkpot
Fiddle in cattleskin box
Heavy cannon
Octagonal beech balance set
Nit combs
Priming wires
Singlehanded navigation dividers
Skeletal traces of rats
Pocket sundial
Spile
Pepper Mill
Pomander in leather scabbard
Bobbins
Pewter and wooden spoons
Woollen hat
Linen bandage roll in resin and pitch
Anti-boarding nets
Shoes
Manicure set
Wedding and signet rings
Bone figurine
Scogger sleeve
Cowrie Shell
Swords and daggers
Elm wood mallet
Pewter syringe
Copper alloy cauldron
Elm ladle
Rough and smooth stone cannon shot
Cast bronze ships bell
Linstocks
Leather mittens
Sword hanger
Piston whistle
Pendant drop
Thimbles
Beef bones
Chain mail
Leather tool holder
Paternoster
Powder horn lids
Wicker flask
Pewter alloy flasks
Carpenters brace and bit
Chalk reel
Complete skeleton of small dog (thought to have been trapped in a cabin below decks at the sinking)
In a manouvre in battle against the French fleet the huge and heavily armed warship, actually in His Majesty's Service since 1511, foundered as water poured in through the lower gun ports.
The vessel sank rapidly with the death of the vast majority of the 500 crew and in the mud of the Solent seabed a lasting memorial was laid to rest or at least for around 425 years.
In a prolonged period of salvage and scientific restoration since the 1970's some 19,000 artefacts have been recovered and where possible restored. The ship was the equivalent of a small town in its range of services and the specialities of those on board from the fighting crew to cooks, quartermasters, surgeons, joiners, fitters and engineers.
The following is a selection of some of the items, mundane and domestic, artistic and precious, personal and unique, utilitarian and military, poignant and melancholy, anachronistic or still applicable to our modern lifestyles.
Boatswains Whistle on lanyard
Wood and leather bellows
Oak, poplar and pine tankard, pitch lined
Sandglasses
Leather thigh boots
Backgammon set
Hand fishing reel
Pewter Chamberpot
Swivel Guns
Quill nibs
Wooden trencher plates
Pewter flasks and flagons
Lantern in poplar wood
Candleholder and copper snuffer
Yew Longbows
Tally sticks
Folding table stand
Calfskin book cover
Cowhorn inkpot
Fiddle in cattleskin box
Heavy cannon
Octagonal beech balance set
Nit combs
Priming wires
Singlehanded navigation dividers
Skeletal traces of rats
Pocket sundial
Spile
Pepper Mill
Pomander in leather scabbard
Bobbins
Pewter and wooden spoons
Woollen hat
Linen bandage roll in resin and pitch
Anti-boarding nets
Shoes
Manicure set
Wedding and signet rings
Bone figurine
Scogger sleeve
Cowrie Shell
Swords and daggers
Elm wood mallet
Pewter syringe
Copper alloy cauldron
Elm ladle
Rough and smooth stone cannon shot
Cast bronze ships bell
Linstocks
Leather mittens
Sword hanger
Piston whistle
Pendant drop
Thimbles
Beef bones
Chain mail
Leather tool holder
Paternoster
Powder horn lids
Wicker flask
Pewter alloy flasks
Carpenters brace and bit
Chalk reel
Complete skeleton of small dog (thought to have been trapped in a cabin below decks at the sinking)
Tuesday, 19 July 2016
Natural Selection
Mankind messing with nature is always going to be regarded with suspicion.
It is the stuff of science fiction and. often as not, in literature and movies ending very badly for the perpetrators if the hero or heroine of the story triumphs or potentially for the whole population if the day cannot be saved by a great act of bravery or self sacrifice.
Throughout history, there have been more modest attempts to manipulate species to serve and benefit mankind.
The Egyptians introduced cats to protect their grain stores from infestation by rodents. The Mongoose proved to be an aid to keep snakes away from contact with humans in a home setting. In the UK the domesticated ferret remains both a pet and a working animal being a natural born hunter of vermin.
There have been some major errors of judgement in using nature against nature, however, which have had long lasting implications for the habitat and indigenous species of many countries.
Sparrows are now commonplace in many environments but were an example of the introduction of an otherwise alien species, in this case to control insect numbers which could threaten agriculture.
Perhaps the most well known misguided practice was the release into the wilds of Australia of Cane Toads in the 1930's to counter the damaging influence of Cane Beetles on the sugar crop. The decision to do this came from reports from Hawaii that the amphibian had been successful in increasing the yield and output of sugar cane on the Pacific Island. The outcome of an initial release of only 101 Cane Toads was a rapid invasion across the continent and with hindsight is now widely regarded as having been a bad idea.
Such mistakes have not however stopped scientific research and a recent initiative to reduce the global numbers of disease spreading mosquitos has shown initial success.
The mosquito, in tropical regions of the world, has had a devastating effect on the health of populations.
The insect is a carrier of fatal and debilitating diseases including malaria, West Nile virus, dengue (pronounced den-gee), yellow fever and the current newsworthy Zika virus.
To date the only weapons in the armoury against mosquitos have been chemical based, the widespread distribution of mosquito nets and control of natural environments.
The battle against mosquitos has taken a new form with a genetically modified version of the male of the species having been developed in a laboratory for release into the wider global population of the insect.
The male mosquito is not the core of the problem as it is the female that bites and spreads disease.
The GM male has been provided with a self limiting gene or "kill switch" which, after impregnation of the female causes the offspring to be born with only a short life expectancy.
The female population of mosquitos have not been able to differentiate the GM modified males from the natural males and in tests carried out in Brazil, Panama and the Cayman Islands the numbers of insects have been decimated by as much as 90% by the insurgency of the "friendly" mossies.
The Aedes Aegypti mosquito, the carrier of the Zika Virus has been shown as being vulnerable to the kill switch but it is only now that data has been compiled to show that, as well as the success of destroying mosquitos there has been a tangible reduction in the incidences of the disease itself.
This has given the green light to extend the GM scheme and it is planned for 3.3 million males to be released into the Zika affected zones over a 9 month period.
For all of the public fears and misconceptions over genetically modified anything a major selling point for the project is its claimed neutral impact on other species and the environment.
At best insecticides have a 30% to 50% success rate but they also tend to kill everything and with a risk of contaminants entering the human food chain.
The fate of the dominant male GM mosquitos after they have had their way with the, lets face it, gullible and rather promiscuous native females causing the genocide of the species has not been mentioned in the discussion and research papers of the scientists.
I just hope that they do not grow to, say, prehistoric Pterodactyl size and prey on the now healthy and thriving Zika free population of children. Irony or what?
It is the stuff of science fiction and. often as not, in literature and movies ending very badly for the perpetrators if the hero or heroine of the story triumphs or potentially for the whole population if the day cannot be saved by a great act of bravery or self sacrifice.
Throughout history, there have been more modest attempts to manipulate species to serve and benefit mankind.
The Egyptians introduced cats to protect their grain stores from infestation by rodents. The Mongoose proved to be an aid to keep snakes away from contact with humans in a home setting. In the UK the domesticated ferret remains both a pet and a working animal being a natural born hunter of vermin.
There have been some major errors of judgement in using nature against nature, however, which have had long lasting implications for the habitat and indigenous species of many countries.
Sparrows are now commonplace in many environments but were an example of the introduction of an otherwise alien species, in this case to control insect numbers which could threaten agriculture.
Perhaps the most well known misguided practice was the release into the wilds of Australia of Cane Toads in the 1930's to counter the damaging influence of Cane Beetles on the sugar crop. The decision to do this came from reports from Hawaii that the amphibian had been successful in increasing the yield and output of sugar cane on the Pacific Island. The outcome of an initial release of only 101 Cane Toads was a rapid invasion across the continent and with hindsight is now widely regarded as having been a bad idea.
Such mistakes have not however stopped scientific research and a recent initiative to reduce the global numbers of disease spreading mosquitos has shown initial success.
The mosquito, in tropical regions of the world, has had a devastating effect on the health of populations.
The insect is a carrier of fatal and debilitating diseases including malaria, West Nile virus, dengue (pronounced den-gee), yellow fever and the current newsworthy Zika virus.
To date the only weapons in the armoury against mosquitos have been chemical based, the widespread distribution of mosquito nets and control of natural environments.
The battle against mosquitos has taken a new form with a genetically modified version of the male of the species having been developed in a laboratory for release into the wider global population of the insect.
The male mosquito is not the core of the problem as it is the female that bites and spreads disease.
The GM male has been provided with a self limiting gene or "kill switch" which, after impregnation of the female causes the offspring to be born with only a short life expectancy.
The female population of mosquitos have not been able to differentiate the GM modified males from the natural males and in tests carried out in Brazil, Panama and the Cayman Islands the numbers of insects have been decimated by as much as 90% by the insurgency of the "friendly" mossies.
The Aedes Aegypti mosquito, the carrier of the Zika Virus has been shown as being vulnerable to the kill switch but it is only now that data has been compiled to show that, as well as the success of destroying mosquitos there has been a tangible reduction in the incidences of the disease itself.
This has given the green light to extend the GM scheme and it is planned for 3.3 million males to be released into the Zika affected zones over a 9 month period.
For all of the public fears and misconceptions over genetically modified anything a major selling point for the project is its claimed neutral impact on other species and the environment.
At best insecticides have a 30% to 50% success rate but they also tend to kill everything and with a risk of contaminants entering the human food chain.
The fate of the dominant male GM mosquitos after they have had their way with the, lets face it, gullible and rather promiscuous native females causing the genocide of the species has not been mentioned in the discussion and research papers of the scientists.
I just hope that they do not grow to, say, prehistoric Pterodactyl size and prey on the now healthy and thriving Zika free population of children. Irony or what?
Monday, 18 July 2016
A bringing up
I often reflect on my childhood years.
They were happy and safe but I am aware that many of my generation were not so blessed.
My upbringing was and even in my 50's remains the life's work of my parents and that is a strong motivation for me as father to my own children, themselves in their 20's.
I was born in the early 1960's at a time when the profile of family life in Britain was in the process of a revolution.
Over the half a decade up to the 1970's the number of divorces increased from around 7500 to well over 110,000. It was the emergence of the single parent family with one and half million children in such a unit by the late 1970's and currently at a whopping 1 in 4 children.
I was not really aware of any of my contemporaries with only one parent apart from those where a father or mother had died prematurely from illness or in an accident. I put this down to my own circumstances and the environment in which I lived.
Sociologists attribute my situation as a consequence of social class. Children found themselves invariably classified under the sphere of occupation of their father in the traditional role of bread winner. Class was, until well into the 20th century, the determining factor for the chances in life that you could expect. Many may argue that this still holds true.
There were major economic changes in play in Britain to slow the rate of growth in the immediate post-war years. These included the decline in manual working, the loss of jobs in traditional Industries and strong competition from other emerging global economies which the older uk labour structure and in comparison, higher wages could not compete with.
In social factors there was a move away from larger cities and towns into better suburbs and new settlement areas. This saw a fracturing of family bonds with grandparents no longer to be found next door or just around the corner and gradually excluded from a daily or influential role in the lives of their grandchildren.
The trade off was improved housing, being healthier, warmer and safer.
Our family moved to a brand new house in the mid 1970's with open views to fields and plenty of space to roam about and play. Our Gran did make the move to live in the next street and my maternal grandparents were also happy to be uprooted from the South and moved to a nearby village within cycling distance if we wanted to visit.
I appreciate now that we were very privileged to be able to benefit from the wisdom and experience of both sets of our elders.
My generation were also amongst the first in the modern era to have such things as our own bedroom, pocket money and the determination, in my case, of my parents to give me and my four siblings everything that we needed.
This was perhaps the most revolutionary aspect of the period with children becoming the centre of attention by parents.
We were not required to give much in return and actually got away with making no real contribution to the smooth running of the family house apart from, when feeling guilty, to clear the dining table, wash up on occasion and keeping our rooms tidy.
This was a distinct contrast to previous generations who were expected to go out to work at an early age in order to contribute to the family income, be seen but not heard and speak only when spoken to.
As a family we always sat down to eat together at the table and we were encouraged to discuss and comment on any concerns or worries or just ask questions on subjects which had aroused our curiosity. I regard this upbringing to be the major character forming factor in my own life and it is a worthy model that I have tried to emulate with my own children.
My brothers, sisters and me did not realise at the time but it is now very clear that we were the epitome of a modern family and doing our best to make the most of the brave new, post nuclear age.
(source; Invention of Childhood BBC Four Extra)
They were happy and safe but I am aware that many of my generation were not so blessed.
My upbringing was and even in my 50's remains the life's work of my parents and that is a strong motivation for me as father to my own children, themselves in their 20's.
I was born in the early 1960's at a time when the profile of family life in Britain was in the process of a revolution.
Over the half a decade up to the 1970's the number of divorces increased from around 7500 to well over 110,000. It was the emergence of the single parent family with one and half million children in such a unit by the late 1970's and currently at a whopping 1 in 4 children.
I was not really aware of any of my contemporaries with only one parent apart from those where a father or mother had died prematurely from illness or in an accident. I put this down to my own circumstances and the environment in which I lived.
Sociologists attribute my situation as a consequence of social class. Children found themselves invariably classified under the sphere of occupation of their father in the traditional role of bread winner. Class was, until well into the 20th century, the determining factor for the chances in life that you could expect. Many may argue that this still holds true.
There were major economic changes in play in Britain to slow the rate of growth in the immediate post-war years. These included the decline in manual working, the loss of jobs in traditional Industries and strong competition from other emerging global economies which the older uk labour structure and in comparison, higher wages could not compete with.
In social factors there was a move away from larger cities and towns into better suburbs and new settlement areas. This saw a fracturing of family bonds with grandparents no longer to be found next door or just around the corner and gradually excluded from a daily or influential role in the lives of their grandchildren.
The trade off was improved housing, being healthier, warmer and safer.
Our family moved to a brand new house in the mid 1970's with open views to fields and plenty of space to roam about and play. Our Gran did make the move to live in the next street and my maternal grandparents were also happy to be uprooted from the South and moved to a nearby village within cycling distance if we wanted to visit.
I appreciate now that we were very privileged to be able to benefit from the wisdom and experience of both sets of our elders.
My generation were also amongst the first in the modern era to have such things as our own bedroom, pocket money and the determination, in my case, of my parents to give me and my four siblings everything that we needed.
This was perhaps the most revolutionary aspect of the period with children becoming the centre of attention by parents.
We were not required to give much in return and actually got away with making no real contribution to the smooth running of the family house apart from, when feeling guilty, to clear the dining table, wash up on occasion and keeping our rooms tidy.
This was a distinct contrast to previous generations who were expected to go out to work at an early age in order to contribute to the family income, be seen but not heard and speak only when spoken to.
As a family we always sat down to eat together at the table and we were encouraged to discuss and comment on any concerns or worries or just ask questions on subjects which had aroused our curiosity. I regard this upbringing to be the major character forming factor in my own life and it is a worthy model that I have tried to emulate with my own children.
My brothers, sisters and me did not realise at the time but it is now very clear that we were the epitome of a modern family and doing our best to make the most of the brave new, post nuclear age.
(source; Invention of Childhood BBC Four Extra)
Sunday, 17 July 2016
A Coming Out
You can do you utmost to bury something so that it does not come back to
a) Incriminate you
b) Cause others to think significantly less of you
c) bite you on your bum
d) destroy your own perception of yourself.
The word 'bury' I use is not in an actual context involving a deep hole under the patio but to mean conveniently misplacing, stowing away safely or hiding in such a place that only you know the whereabouts and to a certain extent can exert control over its on-going fate.
A garden shed is an ideal place because wives and partners have no compulsion or interest to delve into the dank, dark cobwebbed interior. At the same time such poor conditions, unless it is a sooper-dooper modern insulated and heated shed are not conducive to the storage of personally treasured, monetary valued or perishable items.
The loft may be a consideration especially if there is an accompanying myth of insects, moths and rodents of sufficiently fearful proportions to deter a casual interest by the aforementioned spouses. Just an allusion to a dodgy operating stowaway ladder may be enough of a factor to discourage access.
Out of the two options of shed or loft I can certainly attest to the roof void as being the more popular for men-folk to stash embarrasing things ranging from an excellent and sequential collection of classic Playboy Magazines, informative and authoritative a publication that it is, vinyl records from the Disco or New Romantic eras, love letters from former girlfriends, soppy gifts from the same, bits of abandoned Airfix models ,unwanted and unsolicited gift packs of Brut aftershave.
In a new relationship there can be a stand off over what can be introduced into the new joint home.
Items with any association whatsoever with former partners are not generally welcome. An expressed intention to take the stuff to the tip can be seen as a major gesture of understanding and commitment. If ceremoniously removed via the back door there can be a good opportunity to hide the stuff in the car and later transfer it, via the front door, up and into the loft for a perpetuity of blissful ignorance.
I have recently had cause to seriously consider the undignified consignment of some embarrasing things to, at best, a landfill site.
In the course of my Mother having a good sort out in the longstanding family house I have been confronted with bits of my past and in particular my formative teenage years.
At the back of one of the attic storerooms a suitcase was discovered.
The contents upon opening have been wicked away for the last 33 years. They represent a major part of my life from age 11 to 15. They are all of my school exercise books from a Grammar School education.
Upon seeing this blast from my past I was completely mortified.
Just about every square inch of every book was covered in stupid and meaningless scribbles,doodles, fountain pen ink-blots, incomplete words and phrases, various spiral shapes in ball point and other rubbish.
I flicked through the pages of the exercise books from the many subjects and it was the same sorry show.
I had lost any opportunity to exercise a parental right of lecturin on the value of a diligent education by proudly exhibiting a complete lack of studious exertions to my own offspring.
I had forgotten or rather selectively chose to ignore that I had been a shy and awkward teenager, and a real geek.
Over 33 years those painful experiences of puberty and pimples had, in my mind, transformed into a mix of Tom Browns Schooldays, The Breakfast Club, American Pie, High School Musical and Back to The Future (The first one).
In reality and in that time I was not at all cool, not even close to being the leader of the gang or not even that popular because I must have been a little bit weird. To heap on more embarrasment amongst the tatty books I found many scrawled references to, obviously, my favourite band of the time.
Who was that in the mid to late 1970's?
It was a great period of musical transition, proper megastars, totally anthemic tunes and the emergence of the super groups for the next decade and more.
If I am truthful and admit to it being The Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band will you think any less of me than you do already after this catalogue of shameful confessions?
Where are the bin bags.....?
a) Incriminate you
b) Cause others to think significantly less of you
c) bite you on your bum
d) destroy your own perception of yourself.
The word 'bury' I use is not in an actual context involving a deep hole under the patio but to mean conveniently misplacing, stowing away safely or hiding in such a place that only you know the whereabouts and to a certain extent can exert control over its on-going fate.
A garden shed is an ideal place because wives and partners have no compulsion or interest to delve into the dank, dark cobwebbed interior. At the same time such poor conditions, unless it is a sooper-dooper modern insulated and heated shed are not conducive to the storage of personally treasured, monetary valued or perishable items.
The loft may be a consideration especially if there is an accompanying myth of insects, moths and rodents of sufficiently fearful proportions to deter a casual interest by the aforementioned spouses. Just an allusion to a dodgy operating stowaway ladder may be enough of a factor to discourage access.
Out of the two options of shed or loft I can certainly attest to the roof void as being the more popular for men-folk to stash embarrasing things ranging from an excellent and sequential collection of classic Playboy Magazines, informative and authoritative a publication that it is, vinyl records from the Disco or New Romantic eras, love letters from former girlfriends, soppy gifts from the same, bits of abandoned Airfix models ,unwanted and unsolicited gift packs of Brut aftershave.
In a new relationship there can be a stand off over what can be introduced into the new joint home.
Items with any association whatsoever with former partners are not generally welcome. An expressed intention to take the stuff to the tip can be seen as a major gesture of understanding and commitment. If ceremoniously removed via the back door there can be a good opportunity to hide the stuff in the car and later transfer it, via the front door, up and into the loft for a perpetuity of blissful ignorance.
I have recently had cause to seriously consider the undignified consignment of some embarrasing things to, at best, a landfill site.
In the course of my Mother having a good sort out in the longstanding family house I have been confronted with bits of my past and in particular my formative teenage years.
At the back of one of the attic storerooms a suitcase was discovered.
The contents upon opening have been wicked away for the last 33 years. They represent a major part of my life from age 11 to 15. They are all of my school exercise books from a Grammar School education.
Upon seeing this blast from my past I was completely mortified.
Just about every square inch of every book was covered in stupid and meaningless scribbles,doodles, fountain pen ink-blots, incomplete words and phrases, various spiral shapes in ball point and other rubbish.
I flicked through the pages of the exercise books from the many subjects and it was the same sorry show.
I had lost any opportunity to exercise a parental right of lecturin on the value of a diligent education by proudly exhibiting a complete lack of studious exertions to my own offspring.
I had forgotten or rather selectively chose to ignore that I had been a shy and awkward teenager, and a real geek.
Over 33 years those painful experiences of puberty and pimples had, in my mind, transformed into a mix of Tom Browns Schooldays, The Breakfast Club, American Pie, High School Musical and Back to The Future (The first one).
In reality and in that time I was not at all cool, not even close to being the leader of the gang or not even that popular because I must have been a little bit weird. To heap on more embarrasment amongst the tatty books I found many scrawled references to, obviously, my favourite band of the time.
Who was that in the mid to late 1970's?
It was a great period of musical transition, proper megastars, totally anthemic tunes and the emergence of the super groups for the next decade and more.
If I am truthful and admit to it being The Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band will you think any less of me than you do already after this catalogue of shameful confessions?
Where are the bin bags.....?
Saturday, 16 July 2016
More Senior Moments
It is my birthday tomorrow.
I have been asked, by my loved ones, on the run up to this anniversary for any ideas on what I would like by way of a present or presents.
In my usual flippant style I have in response requested world peace, another pop at a referendum, a pair of leather trousers (or is it trouser?), the availability of Lionel Messi (if not incarcerated for his monetary imprudence) on a free transfer to Hull City (newly promoted via the play-offs to the English Premier League), a global restriction of Twitter access to wannabee celebrities and a final decision on who is to be the next James Bond.
My impending age change is not one of life's milestones.
I will be 53 years old, frankly, a bit of a non-age.
On the upside I am still within my preferred drop down age range on internet survey forms and my car insurance may show a preferential rate upon next renewal. A win-win there!
My attitude to getting old has always been quite relaxed as I am a firm believer in mental age rather than actual physical age.
This has been supported by results for those on-line brain games that can be used to pass a few minutes whilst waiting for a doctors appointment, emergency dental work, the bank call centre after having lost or misplaced my bank card or that interminable waste of time spent in the stacking system of the mobile phone company having mis-keyed in my passcode, ironically a representation of my date of birth.
I have a mischievous streak in my deep set brain functions which is fundamental to keeping me feeling young and vital.
This invariably gets me into trouble with my outpourings being frequently misunderstood by family, friends and work colleagues as a coarseness, vulgarity, political incorrectness, sexist and controversial. That may be the case but my flippancy is meant in good humour. Those that know me will, hopefully, testify if needs be in Court that I do not have a malicious, venemous or vindictive bone, sinew, corpuscle or dandruff flake about my person.
I expect that at some time when in the company of those who do not know my personality I will have my come-uppence and face serious reprimand or sanction.
I may have had a fortunate escape just last week when I suggested to a small group of female car boot shoppers that they could clamber into the back of my estate car if they needed to try on any of the clothing on display. It was generally received well but could as easily have been misconstrued as menacing, sinister or just downright creepy.
I got a bit bored after using that line more than just the once and yes, it did sound a bit like a bungled attempt at abduction the more I offered it as part of a very poor attempt at salesmanship.
All of the above has served to divert the conversation from a suggested shortlist of birthday pressies for tomorrow.
In actuality, I do not want for or need anything.
I have plenty of material possessions to meet my everyday demands.
I am blessed by a roof over my head and food in the cupboards.
I am well provided for with people who love me and, for all of my faults and failing, unconditionally at that.
If pressed however for that ideal gift I would opt for a good, old fashioned stiff bristle sweeping brush.
That may seem strange but remember I will be 53 years old tomorrow.
That, to my mind, earns me the right to be outrageously outspoken, tetchy, grumpy and opinionated but above all, and this is where the broom comes in, determined , in a bit of a citizen protest, to clean up the horribly littered and glass strewn foot passage at the end of my street that takes me most mornings to get my old man essentials of newspaper, milk and consumables.
I have been asked, by my loved ones, on the run up to this anniversary for any ideas on what I would like by way of a present or presents.
In my usual flippant style I have in response requested world peace, another pop at a referendum, a pair of leather trousers (or is it trouser?), the availability of Lionel Messi (if not incarcerated for his monetary imprudence) on a free transfer to Hull City (newly promoted via the play-offs to the English Premier League), a global restriction of Twitter access to wannabee celebrities and a final decision on who is to be the next James Bond.
My impending age change is not one of life's milestones.
I will be 53 years old, frankly, a bit of a non-age.
On the upside I am still within my preferred drop down age range on internet survey forms and my car insurance may show a preferential rate upon next renewal. A win-win there!
My attitude to getting old has always been quite relaxed as I am a firm believer in mental age rather than actual physical age.
This has been supported by results for those on-line brain games that can be used to pass a few minutes whilst waiting for a doctors appointment, emergency dental work, the bank call centre after having lost or misplaced my bank card or that interminable waste of time spent in the stacking system of the mobile phone company having mis-keyed in my passcode, ironically a representation of my date of birth.
I have a mischievous streak in my deep set brain functions which is fundamental to keeping me feeling young and vital.
This invariably gets me into trouble with my outpourings being frequently misunderstood by family, friends and work colleagues as a coarseness, vulgarity, political incorrectness, sexist and controversial. That may be the case but my flippancy is meant in good humour. Those that know me will, hopefully, testify if needs be in Court that I do not have a malicious, venemous or vindictive bone, sinew, corpuscle or dandruff flake about my person.
I expect that at some time when in the company of those who do not know my personality I will have my come-uppence and face serious reprimand or sanction.
I may have had a fortunate escape just last week when I suggested to a small group of female car boot shoppers that they could clamber into the back of my estate car if they needed to try on any of the clothing on display. It was generally received well but could as easily have been misconstrued as menacing, sinister or just downright creepy.
I got a bit bored after using that line more than just the once and yes, it did sound a bit like a bungled attempt at abduction the more I offered it as part of a very poor attempt at salesmanship.
All of the above has served to divert the conversation from a suggested shortlist of birthday pressies for tomorrow.
In actuality, I do not want for or need anything.
I have plenty of material possessions to meet my everyday demands.
I am blessed by a roof over my head and food in the cupboards.
I am well provided for with people who love me and, for all of my faults and failing, unconditionally at that.
If pressed however for that ideal gift I would opt for a good, old fashioned stiff bristle sweeping brush.
That may seem strange but remember I will be 53 years old tomorrow.
That, to my mind, earns me the right to be outrageously outspoken, tetchy, grumpy and opinionated but above all, and this is where the broom comes in, determined , in a bit of a citizen protest, to clean up the horribly littered and glass strewn foot passage at the end of my street that takes me most mornings to get my old man essentials of newspaper, milk and consumables.
Friday, 15 July 2016
PG Tipping Point
There is a tipping point for everything.
Depending upon which publication holds more sway, erstwhile ones like New Scientist or The Spectator or less so but more entertaining ones like Punch and The Dandy we have either passed or are fast approaching the tipping point for our natural resources of oil, coal, natural gas and sustainable forested fuels. This is a matter of grave concern for our current generation and somewhat more for those that will follow us if we do not pioneer alternative and viable energy sources now.
However, nothing is as serious as my discovery within the last two minutes that we, as a household, have depleted our supply of tea bags to one single, rather sorry and ragged example. The situation has not been entirely unexpected but we have kidded ourselves in more recent weeks that our massive over supply, gifted or stock-piled at Christmas and in the dark early months of the year would last out well into the summer.
For some inexplicable reason we have taken to consuming vast amounts of tea, ordinary tea with milk. This represents a revolutionary trend and I cannot think why. Of course, the serving of a hot beverage is a stalwart of hospitality and politeness. The spike in tea drinking has not however been prompted by sudden influx of visitors and guests. We have just started to drink more. Psychologists discuss......
We have previously championed the more exotic teas such as the washy and tasteless but healthy green version,spicy and hot aftertasting lemon and ginger infusions and flirted with a fruity selection .This being known to the wider family has resulted in the earlier months of the year in a completely full to bursting cupboard of brightly coloured packets of bags, strings attached or not, organic loose blends, some aristocratically named and fancy packaged teas, some mixes that should never have been attempted and a few jokey and rather irreverent versions such as 'Builders Tea'.
My Mother in Law has acted as the supreme guardian of our tea-caddy and has regularly brought in large boxes of Yorkshire Tea, PG Tips and Tesco's own brand and these have been gratefully received but subsequently plundered in a shameful and extravagant manner. We did slip her a cup of Earl Grey in error after the bags got mixed in with the standard tea. Her reaction was grounded on a love of real tea and short of spitting it out she was most disgruntled with the fragranced cuppa put before her. It was not, she insisted, what should be served under the name of a tea.
In response to the domestic emergency of reaching our last tea bag I have had to revert to drastic measures. At the very back of the cupboard, only reachable by standing on a kitchen chair, I discovered a small rectangular box of loose breakfast tea. It was necessary for me to read the instructions for use because I had gone soft and of addled mind by having been used to just throwing a perforated tea bag in the pot and placing all my faith and trust in the manufacturers for a tolerable strength, colour and reviving experience.
One heaped teaspoon per cup did not seem enough but I followed the recommended amount and the ritualistic practices of warming the pot, allowing 3 to 4 minutes for mashing and then pouring carefully in the absence of a strainer. On reflection it was the best cuppa of the day, the week, the month and possibly the whole year to date. As I downed the last dregs from the mug I came across the residue of the loose leafed tea and remembered why tea bags had come to dominate the market. They are just less messy and so much more convenient.
That last tea bag will be cherished for its qualities, however grubby and stained it may appear....well until the next tea break at about 9.45pm. We may, as a family, have to fight over it but in a harsh, selfish world that is to be expected. Now, what can we expect when the oil does run out?
Depending upon which publication holds more sway, erstwhile ones like New Scientist or The Spectator or less so but more entertaining ones like Punch and The Dandy we have either passed or are fast approaching the tipping point for our natural resources of oil, coal, natural gas and sustainable forested fuels. This is a matter of grave concern for our current generation and somewhat more for those that will follow us if we do not pioneer alternative and viable energy sources now.
However, nothing is as serious as my discovery within the last two minutes that we, as a household, have depleted our supply of tea bags to one single, rather sorry and ragged example. The situation has not been entirely unexpected but we have kidded ourselves in more recent weeks that our massive over supply, gifted or stock-piled at Christmas and in the dark early months of the year would last out well into the summer.
For some inexplicable reason we have taken to consuming vast amounts of tea, ordinary tea with milk. This represents a revolutionary trend and I cannot think why. Of course, the serving of a hot beverage is a stalwart of hospitality and politeness. The spike in tea drinking has not however been prompted by sudden influx of visitors and guests. We have just started to drink more. Psychologists discuss......
We have previously championed the more exotic teas such as the washy and tasteless but healthy green version,spicy and hot aftertasting lemon and ginger infusions and flirted with a fruity selection .This being known to the wider family has resulted in the earlier months of the year in a completely full to bursting cupboard of brightly coloured packets of bags, strings attached or not, organic loose blends, some aristocratically named and fancy packaged teas, some mixes that should never have been attempted and a few jokey and rather irreverent versions such as 'Builders Tea'.
My Mother in Law has acted as the supreme guardian of our tea-caddy and has regularly brought in large boxes of Yorkshire Tea, PG Tips and Tesco's own brand and these have been gratefully received but subsequently plundered in a shameful and extravagant manner. We did slip her a cup of Earl Grey in error after the bags got mixed in with the standard tea. Her reaction was grounded on a love of real tea and short of spitting it out she was most disgruntled with the fragranced cuppa put before her. It was not, she insisted, what should be served under the name of a tea.
In response to the domestic emergency of reaching our last tea bag I have had to revert to drastic measures. At the very back of the cupboard, only reachable by standing on a kitchen chair, I discovered a small rectangular box of loose breakfast tea. It was necessary for me to read the instructions for use because I had gone soft and of addled mind by having been used to just throwing a perforated tea bag in the pot and placing all my faith and trust in the manufacturers for a tolerable strength, colour and reviving experience.
One heaped teaspoon per cup did not seem enough but I followed the recommended amount and the ritualistic practices of warming the pot, allowing 3 to 4 minutes for mashing and then pouring carefully in the absence of a strainer. On reflection it was the best cuppa of the day, the week, the month and possibly the whole year to date. As I downed the last dregs from the mug I came across the residue of the loose leafed tea and remembered why tea bags had come to dominate the market. They are just less messy and so much more convenient.
That last tea bag will be cherished for its qualities, however grubby and stained it may appear....well until the next tea break at about 9.45pm. We may, as a family, have to fight over it but in a harsh, selfish world that is to be expected. Now, what can we expect when the oil does run out?
Thursday, 14 July 2016
Independence for Yorkshire
There has been recent talk about Independence and a split from the United Kingdom not by the Scots, Welsh or Northern Irish but by the potential Republic of Yorkshire.
Dubbed the "Socialist Republic" by the Union bashers in the 70's and 80's this proud county, God's Own Country indeed has found new emphasis and confidence.
There has been the mention of Yorkshire on US Prime Time TV recently with its own brand of tea forming part of a sub plot in the terrorist drama Homeland. A mobile tea-bar has also been driving many thousands of miles around the States reuniting ex-pats with a proper brew and educating the natives in what really constitutes the ritual of serving tea.
The county of Yorkshire has everything to suit separation and existence as an autonomous state.
There is a wide choice for capital city from historic York to cosmopolitan Leeds, multi cultural Sheffield and the Gateway to Europe Port of Hull.
Add plenty of natural resources both under and above the ground ,some bloody good exposed and windy hillsides on which to position wind turbines, strong tidal rivers for further power generation and a good arrangement of existing bio fuel power stations and fuel security is virtually assured.
The population is hard working in all sectors, somewhat dour, non materialistic and straight talking.
The geography is amongst the most varied and spectacular in the world from the North Sea Coast to the high Moors, the flatlands of the great glacial vales, rolling rural acres of wolds and upland forests.
In fact everything is in place to go it alone.
Everything apart from a stirring Republican Anthem.
I was a bit alarmed today to hear about the threat of extinction from the memory and physche of Yorkshire folk of perhaps the strongest candidate for the role- "On Ilkley Moor ba'tat".
I am not a Yorkshireman, although my wife has called me "tight"on numerous occasions which coming from a Hull born Lass almost elevates me to honorary status even though I hail from the genteel Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.
I grew up singing the Ilkley Moor song on a regular basis as it was a mainstay of the Scout movement and a rousing tune for around the campfire. My father sang it, My Uncle David who was a scout with my father will have known the words by heart and I would wager he could still sing it now in its entirety. I have also heard renditions of it on the football terraces but apparently it has fallen out of the public songbook in the last generation.
I blame its potential demise on the health and safety culture. Those who have been familiar with the stirring and emotional lyrics and parump, parump tune and who may have been willing to volunteer in the Scouting or Guiding movement have been deterred by the rigours of meeting ridiculously stringent insurance requirements , risk assessments and other criteria but in the absence of which in my youth I was not conscious of being in peril, in harms way or close to being abducted or abused.
The anthemic value of the song has therefore skipped a generation and a danger point has been reached. Fortunately this was recognised by representatives of the fledgling Yorkshire nation and a determined effort has been made to revive the Ilkley Moor legend. Mass choirs have recently sung it, Brian Blessed ( a coal miners son from Yorkshire) and Lesley Garrett amongst others have recorded versions and alternative rap and rhythmic beats have been developed to excite the interest of the younger generations.
What is the charm of the song?.
Well, it is a morality tale, a caution to those young bucks who would go out on the bleak Ilkley Moor without a hat on. The moorland jaunt was for the purposes of recreation and love and the love interest and object of desire, that Mary Jane did have a bit of a reputation for being an outdoorsy type.
Apparently the narrator of the song may himself have had designs on said Mary Jane in trying hard to warn off the hero of the song. No hat- a very significant risk of contracting a cold and in those days, pre-Night Nurse and Lemsips, this could be fatal through chill, fever and pneumonia.
Ilkley Moor was also touted as a place for being buried and this will have induced considerable fear and trepidation in a society where death was still a great taboo.
To add further fear the narrator threatens that 'tworms' will come and eat thee up. I assume that 'tworms' are not genetically mutated subterranean monsters but probably refer to ' the worms'. My fragile comprehension of the Yorkshire language and dialect falls a bit short here.
The Moor is also a place of free roaming ducks who, after feasting on 'tworms'will themselves be ritually slaughtered and eaten by the friends and acquaintances of the witless subject of the song.
You can see where this is leading can't you. Cannibalism by proxy. The song does finish on a happy and comic note in that amongst the to-do, the grieving, organic decomposition and an ultimate food chain we observe that it is place where the ducks play football. Nice image although implausible for that species.
Sentiment aside it is still a very stand to attention worthy tune.
If I have earned a vote from my 35 years of naturalisation in Yorkshire(subject to passing the examination), and having added two of three children to the roll-call, it would definitely be for that song on any Referendum Day.
I just hope that Mary Jane does not come forward to give an alternative and less than glowing account of what really went on up on the Moors- hat or no hat.
Dubbed the "Socialist Republic" by the Union bashers in the 70's and 80's this proud county, God's Own Country indeed has found new emphasis and confidence.
There has been the mention of Yorkshire on US Prime Time TV recently with its own brand of tea forming part of a sub plot in the terrorist drama Homeland. A mobile tea-bar has also been driving many thousands of miles around the States reuniting ex-pats with a proper brew and educating the natives in what really constitutes the ritual of serving tea.
The county of Yorkshire has everything to suit separation and existence as an autonomous state.
There is a wide choice for capital city from historic York to cosmopolitan Leeds, multi cultural Sheffield and the Gateway to Europe Port of Hull.
Add plenty of natural resources both under and above the ground ,some bloody good exposed and windy hillsides on which to position wind turbines, strong tidal rivers for further power generation and a good arrangement of existing bio fuel power stations and fuel security is virtually assured.
The population is hard working in all sectors, somewhat dour, non materialistic and straight talking.
The geography is amongst the most varied and spectacular in the world from the North Sea Coast to the high Moors, the flatlands of the great glacial vales, rolling rural acres of wolds and upland forests.
In fact everything is in place to go it alone.
Everything apart from a stirring Republican Anthem.
I was a bit alarmed today to hear about the threat of extinction from the memory and physche of Yorkshire folk of perhaps the strongest candidate for the role- "On Ilkley Moor ba'tat".
I am not a Yorkshireman, although my wife has called me "tight"on numerous occasions which coming from a Hull born Lass almost elevates me to honorary status even though I hail from the genteel Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.
I grew up singing the Ilkley Moor song on a regular basis as it was a mainstay of the Scout movement and a rousing tune for around the campfire. My father sang it, My Uncle David who was a scout with my father will have known the words by heart and I would wager he could still sing it now in its entirety. I have also heard renditions of it on the football terraces but apparently it has fallen out of the public songbook in the last generation.
I blame its potential demise on the health and safety culture. Those who have been familiar with the stirring and emotional lyrics and parump, parump tune and who may have been willing to volunteer in the Scouting or Guiding movement have been deterred by the rigours of meeting ridiculously stringent insurance requirements , risk assessments and other criteria but in the absence of which in my youth I was not conscious of being in peril, in harms way or close to being abducted or abused.
The anthemic value of the song has therefore skipped a generation and a danger point has been reached. Fortunately this was recognised by representatives of the fledgling Yorkshire nation and a determined effort has been made to revive the Ilkley Moor legend. Mass choirs have recently sung it, Brian Blessed ( a coal miners son from Yorkshire) and Lesley Garrett amongst others have recorded versions and alternative rap and rhythmic beats have been developed to excite the interest of the younger generations.
What is the charm of the song?.
Well, it is a morality tale, a caution to those young bucks who would go out on the bleak Ilkley Moor without a hat on. The moorland jaunt was for the purposes of recreation and love and the love interest and object of desire, that Mary Jane did have a bit of a reputation for being an outdoorsy type.
Apparently the narrator of the song may himself have had designs on said Mary Jane in trying hard to warn off the hero of the song. No hat- a very significant risk of contracting a cold and in those days, pre-Night Nurse and Lemsips, this could be fatal through chill, fever and pneumonia.
Ilkley Moor was also touted as a place for being buried and this will have induced considerable fear and trepidation in a society where death was still a great taboo.
To add further fear the narrator threatens that 'tworms' will come and eat thee up. I assume that 'tworms' are not genetically mutated subterranean monsters but probably refer to ' the worms'. My fragile comprehension of the Yorkshire language and dialect falls a bit short here.
The Moor is also a place of free roaming ducks who, after feasting on 'tworms'will themselves be ritually slaughtered and eaten by the friends and acquaintances of the witless subject of the song.
You can see where this is leading can't you. Cannibalism by proxy. The song does finish on a happy and comic note in that amongst the to-do, the grieving, organic decomposition and an ultimate food chain we observe that it is place where the ducks play football. Nice image although implausible for that species.
Sentiment aside it is still a very stand to attention worthy tune.
If I have earned a vote from my 35 years of naturalisation in Yorkshire(subject to passing the examination), and having added two of three children to the roll-call, it would definitely be for that song on any Referendum Day.
I just hope that Mary Jane does not come forward to give an alternative and less than glowing account of what really went on up on the Moors- hat or no hat.
Wednesday, 13 July 2016
Ultimate Selfies
Earthrise is a photograph of the Earth and parts of the Moon's surface taken by astronaut William Anders in 1968, during the Apollo 8 mission as the first manned orbit of the moon. It has been considered to be the most influential environmental photograph ever taken.
The whole opportunity was almost overlooked as is illustrated by the recorded conversation between Apollo crew members, Frank Borman and William Anders, during the taking of the Earthrise photograph
Anders: Oh my God! Look at that picture over there! There's the Earth coming up. Wow, is that pretty.
Borman: Hey, don't take that, it's not scheduled. (joking)
Anders: (laughs) You got a color film, Jim?
Hand me that roll of color quick, would you...
Lovell: Oh man, that's great!
The colour photograph with the earth just touching the horizon was taken from lunar orbit on December 24, 1968, with a highly modified Hasselblad 500 EL with an electric drive. The camera had a simple sighting ring rather than the standard reflex viewfinder and was loaded with custom Ektachrome film developed by Kodak.
The Blue Marble, so called because of its striking appearance and perceived size to the observing Astronauts is a famous photograph of the Earth, taken on December 7, 1972, at 5.39am Eastern Standard Time by the crew of the Apollo 17 spacecraft, at a distance of about 45,000 kilometers (28,000 miles).
It is one of the most iconic, and among the most widely distributed images in human history.
The image with the official NASA designation AS17-148-22727 reproduces the view of the Earth as seen by the Apollo crew travelling toward the Moon. The translunar coast photograph extends from the Mediterranean Sea to Antarctica.
This was the first time the Apollo trajectory made it possible to photograph the south polar ice cap with the Southern Hemisphere heavily covered in clouds. Almost the entire coastline of Africa is clearly visible and the Arabian Peninsula can be seen at the northeastern edge of Africa. The large island off the coast of Africa is Madagascar. The Asian mainland is on the horizon toward the northeast. An Indian Ocean cyclone can be seen in the top right of the image. This storm had brought flooding and high winds to the Indian state of Tamil Nadu on December 5, two days before the photograph was taken.
The photographer used a 70-millimeter Hasselblad camera with an 80-millimeter Zeiss lens. Such is the iconic status of the photograph that NASA credited it to the entire Apollo 17 crew—Eugene Cernan, Ronald Evans and Jack Schmitt—all of whom took photographs during the mission with the on-board Hasselblad, although evidence examined after the mission suggests that Jack Schmitt was the photographer.
Apollo 17 was the last manned lunar mission. No human since has been far enough from Earth to photograph a whole-Earth image such as The Blue Marble, but whole-Earth images have been taken by many unmanned spacecraft missions.
This was the case with the Pale Blue Dot ,a photograph of planet Earth taken on February 14, 1990, by the Voyager 1 space probe from a record distance of about 6 billion kilometers (3.7 billion miles).
In September 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1, a 722-kilogram (1,592 lb) robotic spacecraft on a mission to study the outer Solar System and eventually interstellar space.
The spacecraft, travelling at 40,000 miles per hour (64,000 km/h), is the farthest man-made object from Earth and the first one to leave the Solar System. Its mission has been extended and continues to this day, with the aim of investigating the boundaries of the Solar system, including the Kuiper belt, the heliosphere and interstellar space. Operating for 38 years, 10 months and 6 days as of today (July 13, 2016), it receives routine commands and transmits data back to the Deep Space Network.
After encountering the Jovian system in 1979 and the Saturnian system in 1980, the primary mission was declared complete in November of the same year. Voyager 1 was the first space probe to provide detailed images of the two largest planets and their major moons.
Voyager 1, which had completed its primary mission and was leaving the Solar System, was commanded by NASA to turn its camera around and take one last photograph of Earth across a great expanse of space, at the request of astronomer and author Carl Sagan.
In the photograph, Earth's apparent size is less than a pixel; the planet appears as a tiny dot against the vastness of space, among bands of sunlight scattered by the camera's optics.
Sagan's words are an epic statement, inspirational and thought provoking;
"We succeeded in taking that picture, and, if you look at it, you see a dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever lived, lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings, thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilizations, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every hopeful child, every mother and father, every inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every superstar, every supreme leader, every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there – on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam"
(sources; wikipedia, BBC Radio Five Drive, Carl Sagan, NASA)
Tuesday, 12 July 2016
The Sting
I told the prospective buyer of a house that he had a wasps nest in the void under the floor of his sitting room.
A few months later after he had purchased the property he rang me up and confirmed that yes, he had found it.
It had been active and had taken all the expertise of an exterminator to get rid of the nuisance.
He then expressed amazement at how I could possibly have known about it given that there had been no loose boards or other means of access. The contractor too had been mystified about a call out on the basis of the unqualified hunch of a third party.
I was reluctant to disclose my secret.
I could have spun a fantastic yarn about being a wasp-whisperer. Perhaps I was actually in tune with nature. A hyper sensitive ear could allow me to detect the faintest of insect noises and interpret them as an indicator of the nesting intentions of a swarm. In my youth, having been stung numerous times by a persistent wasps I may have developed a super-hero trait. My favourite jumper had been a black and yellow striped one giving me the instincts and behavioural characteristics of the species. I was a fan of The Police after all.
I managed to maintain an aloof air out of modest professionalism and my inquistor finally gave up. I wallowed a bit in his parting comment that I was just " a bloody good man for the job".
Between you and me I had stumbled across the whole thing more out of accident than a determined investigation.
If you simply stand still for a few minutes outside a house, as I often do, in order to observe the construction and condition, chances are that you will blend into your surroundings and so assume a degree of relative invisibility to the creatures of nature.
This has been the case where a cat has not seen my static form until the last moment when wandering nonchalantly around the corner. The panic and horror is a sight to behold. I am sure it is the same for the cat as well.
I have had a similar experience with birds in flight who have been genuinely shocked to find a human being just stood motionless in a particular position on a regular flightpath around a property.
On this particular occasion I just happened to be in the right position at the exact moment that a swarm of wasps returned from harassing a family picnic or the queue at an ice cream van.
After a brief period of reconaissance they duly filed, in some semblance of hierarchical order, through the regular holes in a clay airbrick, just one of many similar vents around the lower courses of that particular house.
On the basis that they did not re-emerge led me to speculate that they resided there as a permanent home.
I may have thought about placing my ear at the perforated hole to confirm my hunch but recollections of those very painful stingings in childhood remained very strong.
I just scribbled down a shorthand memo on my notepad and in such a simple act established myself as a living legend, at least in the perception of one impressed client.
(first written three years ago to the very day)
A few months later after he had purchased the property he rang me up and confirmed that yes, he had found it.
It had been active and had taken all the expertise of an exterminator to get rid of the nuisance.
He then expressed amazement at how I could possibly have known about it given that there had been no loose boards or other means of access. The contractor too had been mystified about a call out on the basis of the unqualified hunch of a third party.
I was reluctant to disclose my secret.
I could have spun a fantastic yarn about being a wasp-whisperer. Perhaps I was actually in tune with nature. A hyper sensitive ear could allow me to detect the faintest of insect noises and interpret them as an indicator of the nesting intentions of a swarm. In my youth, having been stung numerous times by a persistent wasps I may have developed a super-hero trait. My favourite jumper had been a black and yellow striped one giving me the instincts and behavioural characteristics of the species. I was a fan of The Police after all.
I managed to maintain an aloof air out of modest professionalism and my inquistor finally gave up. I wallowed a bit in his parting comment that I was just " a bloody good man for the job".
Between you and me I had stumbled across the whole thing more out of accident than a determined investigation.
If you simply stand still for a few minutes outside a house, as I often do, in order to observe the construction and condition, chances are that you will blend into your surroundings and so assume a degree of relative invisibility to the creatures of nature.
This has been the case where a cat has not seen my static form until the last moment when wandering nonchalantly around the corner. The panic and horror is a sight to behold. I am sure it is the same for the cat as well.
I have had a similar experience with birds in flight who have been genuinely shocked to find a human being just stood motionless in a particular position on a regular flightpath around a property.
On this particular occasion I just happened to be in the right position at the exact moment that a swarm of wasps returned from harassing a family picnic or the queue at an ice cream van.
After a brief period of reconaissance they duly filed, in some semblance of hierarchical order, through the regular holes in a clay airbrick, just one of many similar vents around the lower courses of that particular house.
On the basis that they did not re-emerge led me to speculate that they resided there as a permanent home.
I may have thought about placing my ear at the perforated hole to confirm my hunch but recollections of those very painful stingings in childhood remained very strong.
I just scribbled down a shorthand memo on my notepad and in such a simple act established myself as a living legend, at least in the perception of one impressed client.
(first written three years ago to the very day)
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