What does pure happiness sound like?
Well, to me, at the age of 13 years in 1976 it was "Dancing Queen" by the Swedish Euro-poppers, ABBA.
I was an avid listener of the music charts, a typical thing for a brand new teenager, in fact of only a matter of weeks, to do.
I must have been a bit depressed about the onset of what I anticipated to be a traumatic period in my adolescence from all of the media coverage of angst ridden teens and those "know you body" leaflets which had warned me about some interesting but potentially disturbing developments in my physique from sprouting hairs to breaking voice and lots of other changes which were too scary to contemplate.
I was for some reason also very superstitious and more than convinced that my 13th year would be my last.
The pop Music scene was an outlet for my troubles.
I had not yet decided on which genre to belong to and a sampling of the UK singles chart for early August 1976 gave no firm guidance.
The number one spot was occupied by Elton John and Kiki Dee singing "Don't go breaking my heart". In close pursuit in what seemed like a very fluid change in chart positions from week to week were Dr Hook, David Dundas putting his jeans on, Wings, Billy Ocean and Candi Staton.
Their styles varied from middle of the road to rhythm and blues, anthemic, country and western, ponderous transatlantic, Britrock and disco. They were not , to my young mind, actually representative of any meaningful lifestyle trends to follow and it would be a few more years before the emergence of the strong identities of Punk, New Wave , Mods , Heavy Metal and New Romantics, all at one time or another movements I could identify myself with quite easily.
ABBA had been around for the previous couple of years after winning Eurovision in 1974 with "Waterloo". Many may have regarded them as one hit wonders or an early eurotrash manufactured group but their song writing and melodic qualities began to mark them out as something with a bit more of a shelf-life.
Released in the third week of August of 1976 the Dancing Queen single entered the UK charts at number 23.
It was not an instant success and by the following week, as I was listening in to the usual BBC Radio One Sunday chart show, the dance pop/disco music sound, quite different in the crowded Top 20 had only advanced 7 positions.
It was not until the last day of that month, exactly 40 years to this very day, that it reached the coveted Number One spot.
The song was the creation of the two male group members, Benny and Bjorn assisted by someone called Stig, typically Swedish. It has been an attempt to reproduce and build on the sounds of George McCrae in his "Rock Your Baby" track and with a sampling of the drumming on the 1972 album, Gumbo, by Dr John.
In all of the impressive playlist of ABBA the group were totally confident even in the early stages of the writing process that Dancing Queen would be their best selling single. It would stay in top position for 6 weeks only being displaced by "Pussycat", a sultry country ballad by Mississippi but it successfully held off the intense competition from Rod Stewart, The Bay City Rollers, The Wurzels and The Real Thing over that one and a half months.
What made me happy when the song was playing?
Well it was ,and still is ,a tune that made you want to just dance, even in my awkward 13th year when things like feelings and sexuality were as confusing as what to do with that first blackhead spot or emerging body hair.
I was obviously not alone in my sensitivities or emotions engendered by the song. It was a worldwide phenomena with sales of an estimated 1.12 million which gave it platinum status.
Dancing Queen has been able to re-invent itself for successive generations and was re-released in 1992. It featured in the soundtrack of the 1994 Australian film "Muriels Wedding" but of course the box office and stage hit of Mamma Mia in 2008 brought it right back into global popularity, although it has never left it.
It has featured in many, if not all ,of the usual end of year, decade or millennial Super Charts with a listing as #174 in the all time greatest songs, #97 for best ever dance songs, #8 most requested juke box track and #4th in the top 100 number ones. It has also figured in an alternative chart of the most misheard lyrics as in "See that girl, watch her scream, kicking the dancing queen". Cover versions have been released by the Sex Pistols and U2. The song remains as an anthem for the LGBT community.
The highest and most meaningful accolade however is that of best floor filler beating into second and third place the none too shabby Michael Jackson and The Beatles.
Wednesday, 31 August 2016
Tuesday, 30 August 2016
Goldfingers
Not that a tenuous link to a famous person is necessary where the Yorkshire City of Kingston Upon Hull is concerned because in terms of personalities who changed the world there is an abundance anyway but it is nice to add one more.
The list includes those born in the City or who spent their most important years in it. I apologise for the many omissions.
Those in the English schools system will be very familiar with the Venn Diagram. I myself have cursed a few times at where to place the concentric circles for inclusivity or not. The mathematician John Venn came from Hull.
The study of the hefty subject of 17th Century metaphysical poets will have brought about a distinct love or hatred for the works of Andrew Marvell, he of "To his Coy Mistress" fame.
In the 20th Century the works of Philip Larkin really put Hull on the map although he was originally from Coventry. Filmgoers and comedy enthusiasts will have seen Tom Courtenay and Maureen Lipman many times on the big and small screens over the last five decades.
Pioneers on a wider world stage included the aviator Amy Johnson who was the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia. Performers on a more conventional stage range from Fat Boy Slim to Lene Lovich and Bowie's Spiders from Mars to the Housemartins, Fine Young Cannibals to Everything but the Girl.
The City has been a great seed bed for the creative and inventive as well as being the hustings for prominent politicians from William Wilberforce in the abolition of Slavery to more recent public figures of John Prescott and Alan Johnson, MP's.
There may be some looser links in the foregoing as some of the greats are not strictly born and bred Hullensians but they, to a man or woman, cite their residency or appointment to the Hull as an influencing and catalytic factor in their CV's and memoirs.
I would therefore like to add the name of J.B Prendergast to the list.
He was born in York in the early 1930's and had a local education including the Choir School where he showed a talent for music, both in performing and composition. In a pop group bearing his theatrical name, which consisted of his christian and middle name he had some success in the charts and became quite a celebrity in this guise.
His link to Hull is that his father, Jack Prendergast, owned a number of cinemas in the North of England in the days when a typical entertainment emporium had a large raised stage in front of the projection screen and could therefore be used for live music shows.
On all of the main arterial roads of Hull there could be found until well into the post war period many such picture palaces under exotic or iconic sounding names. These were drastically thinned out by obsolescence as television in homes reduced the number of cinema goers. Often falling into disrepair and if not able to be used for alternative purposes such as a Bingo Hall or furniture warehouse then demolition would follow.
Fortunately the imposing Astoria on Holderness Road in East Hull survived, more recently painted bright flamingo pink, and this was one of the Prendergast empire.
The younger J.B and his pop group were well received by the music fans in Hull when they performed on the Astoria stage and a local following will have translated into record sales and the top ten national successes in the singles charts of the day.
Some home grown pop stars may have felt happy with fame, albeit rather fleeting, but J.B Prendergast found further acclaim and his fortune in the United States through his music scores for the multi-billion dollar Hollywood Film Industry.
In a career stretching from 1960 to 2001 his name found its way onto the credits of movies (not in any particular chronological order) such as The Deep, Mercury Rising. Raise the Titanic, The Ipcress Files and Howard the Duck.
Chances are that the melody in your head at this very moment is one of his for J.B or John Barry attained superstar status which saw him win 5 Oscars and multiple Grammy Awards.
For some subconscious reason I have been humming or singing John Barry compositions for the last few weeks. I cannot pinpoint the reason but then again none is really required given the sheer quality of the music, each a rich tone poem which cannot fail to produce an emotional response.
Take the theme from Born Free, the soundtracks of Out of Africa and Dances with Wolves, the lilting rythm of Midnight Cowboy and the catchiness of The Persuaders theme. These are impressive enough but add to the achievements the 11 James Bond Film Scores and he figures amongst the elite of the art in the company of only John Williams and Ennio Morricone.
John Barry died aged 77 in January 2011 after a very full and eventful professional and personal life.
I like to think that the notation in his scores carries a little bit of the time he spent in my home city of Hull and if you listen between the notes there is something there for sure.
The list includes those born in the City or who spent their most important years in it. I apologise for the many omissions.
Those in the English schools system will be very familiar with the Venn Diagram. I myself have cursed a few times at where to place the concentric circles for inclusivity or not. The mathematician John Venn came from Hull.
The study of the hefty subject of 17th Century metaphysical poets will have brought about a distinct love or hatred for the works of Andrew Marvell, he of "To his Coy Mistress" fame.
In the 20th Century the works of Philip Larkin really put Hull on the map although he was originally from Coventry. Filmgoers and comedy enthusiasts will have seen Tom Courtenay and Maureen Lipman many times on the big and small screens over the last five decades.
Pioneers on a wider world stage included the aviator Amy Johnson who was the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia. Performers on a more conventional stage range from Fat Boy Slim to Lene Lovich and Bowie's Spiders from Mars to the Housemartins, Fine Young Cannibals to Everything but the Girl.
The City has been a great seed bed for the creative and inventive as well as being the hustings for prominent politicians from William Wilberforce in the abolition of Slavery to more recent public figures of John Prescott and Alan Johnson, MP's.
There may be some looser links in the foregoing as some of the greats are not strictly born and bred Hullensians but they, to a man or woman, cite their residency or appointment to the Hull as an influencing and catalytic factor in their CV's and memoirs.
I would therefore like to add the name of J.B Prendergast to the list.
He was born in York in the early 1930's and had a local education including the Choir School where he showed a talent for music, both in performing and composition. In a pop group bearing his theatrical name, which consisted of his christian and middle name he had some success in the charts and became quite a celebrity in this guise.
His link to Hull is that his father, Jack Prendergast, owned a number of cinemas in the North of England in the days when a typical entertainment emporium had a large raised stage in front of the projection screen and could therefore be used for live music shows.
On all of the main arterial roads of Hull there could be found until well into the post war period many such picture palaces under exotic or iconic sounding names. These were drastically thinned out by obsolescence as television in homes reduced the number of cinema goers. Often falling into disrepair and if not able to be used for alternative purposes such as a Bingo Hall or furniture warehouse then demolition would follow.
Fortunately the imposing Astoria on Holderness Road in East Hull survived, more recently painted bright flamingo pink, and this was one of the Prendergast empire.
The younger J.B and his pop group were well received by the music fans in Hull when they performed on the Astoria stage and a local following will have translated into record sales and the top ten national successes in the singles charts of the day.
Some home grown pop stars may have felt happy with fame, albeit rather fleeting, but J.B Prendergast found further acclaim and his fortune in the United States through his music scores for the multi-billion dollar Hollywood Film Industry.
In a career stretching from 1960 to 2001 his name found its way onto the credits of movies (not in any particular chronological order) such as The Deep, Mercury Rising. Raise the Titanic, The Ipcress Files and Howard the Duck.
Chances are that the melody in your head at this very moment is one of his for J.B or John Barry attained superstar status which saw him win 5 Oscars and multiple Grammy Awards.
For some subconscious reason I have been humming or singing John Barry compositions for the last few weeks. I cannot pinpoint the reason but then again none is really required given the sheer quality of the music, each a rich tone poem which cannot fail to produce an emotional response.
Take the theme from Born Free, the soundtracks of Out of Africa and Dances with Wolves, the lilting rythm of Midnight Cowboy and the catchiness of The Persuaders theme. These are impressive enough but add to the achievements the 11 James Bond Film Scores and he figures amongst the elite of the art in the company of only John Williams and Ennio Morricone.
John Barry died aged 77 in January 2011 after a very full and eventful professional and personal life.
I like to think that the notation in his scores carries a little bit of the time he spent in my home city of Hull and if you listen between the notes there is something there for sure.
Monday, 29 August 2016
Return to the Cinder Path
It is two years,almost to the day, since we last rode the Cinder Path.
It is a former railway course from Scarborough to Whitby with some of the best coastal and moorland views you could only dream about. The northwards vista over the roof tumbling Robin Hoods Bay is particular atmospheric and picturesque, you know the type, almost warranting a print run on a series of Toffee or Biscuit Tins without any of the contents actually necessary.
The name of the long distance route comes from the surface of the track in crushed coal and on today's ride after some rainfall in the preceding few days we did, within only a few minutes, resemble a bit of an anachronistic and non-politically correct musical troupe from the old saturday night BBC television schedule.
Two years between rides on the same stretch would be an interesting test for me.
I seem to remember that in 2014 I was struggling a bit on the inclines, albeit to the tolerance of railway board gradients, and I wrote on the realisation that my son was now better at cycling than I was.
Two years on and I am now 53.
In the intervening 24 months I may, or may not, have put on some additional bulk dependant on how you look at me. I accept that I do take longer to recover from a strenuous bike ride and just from the hours drive to the start of the Cinder Path I could feel a twinge and stiffness in my joints which did not bode well for the next 40 kilometres of rough terrain.
The first thing I found about the two year absence was a complete loss of any recollection of how to get onto the path from our start point at Ravenscar.
That was a matter of frustration and not a little annoyance for my son especially as we found ourselves on the wrong track, the Cleveland Way Coastal Path and after enjoying a long but bumpy downhill had to backtrack and on some parts, I will admit, get off and push.
It was with some relief that we recognised, up ahead but whilst still on the wrong track a footbridge that will have been built in the halcyon days of the Scarborough to Whitby rail line. After fighting through the undergrowth on the slope of the old embankment at the foot of said structure we at last felt our chunky tyres on the first reliable surface, albeit the grubby and all invasive cinders.
It was nice to get some forward motion and the first few miles give the impression of being downhill although negotiating natural rocks and tree roots and a haphazard infilling of potholes with bits of masonry do not permit any casual freewheeling of the legs out style.
It was a sunny Bank Holiday Monday and family groups were using the track for bonding and chatting either on foot across the full width of the path on in tight packs on two wheels, oh, and did I mention the multitude of dogs who have an even lower perception of the spatial requirements of other path users than their human owners.
I was determined to be nice today as back in 2014 I did get into a bit of a shouting match with a young mother's group whose buggy pushing contravened all rules of reasonable use. I was very courteous and patient ,,,,,on the outside.
Progress was good into and leaving Robin Hoods Bay. The path goes through the old Station Yard which was a heaving mass of vehicles seeking that precious parking space before we started on the section which would take us towards Whitby. It was uphill, again just perceptibly so in best railway engineering tradition but enough to make it hurt.
In places the cinder had washed away with run-off from the fields on the upper side making for uneven ground conditions requiring yet more concentration. Eyes scouring the path surface could not enjoy the sweeping panoramic view out to sea although I did, at my peril, take a couple of appreciative glances.
More walkers, a few dispersed cyclists and a disproportionate number of loose running and excitedly sniffing dogs speckled the way ahead. A large congregation were occupying the lofty heights of the grand red brick former railway viaduct over the River Esk which gave great roofscape views over the town with its boat-filled harbour and high above the Abbey ruins.
It was just after this point that I fell off . The saturated mud prevented any serious injury other than to my pride as I did have an audience of Ramblers at the time.
I now had a full camouflage effect from the cinder spattering and involuntary mud bath insertion and that did cause a few holidaymakers to stare as we stood outside a Whitby Tea Shop with a latte and caramel slice. Everyone else had on their best holiday clothes.
Comfort Break over we immediately hit the very steep road up to the Abbey Car Park. In 2014 I had nearly popped a blood vessel on the ascent although it had been at the very end of that years ride whereas now it was only half way. It was a bit easier for this reason only although muscle and lung straining.
There was a short stretch of cycling on a tarmac road going south from the Abbey which was a pleasure in so much as it was possible to look around at the surroundings for a change. I had not realised there were so many static caravan parks so close to the town.
We were soon back on the instability of the Cinder Path.
The reversal of former ascents into descents gave a welcome sense of speed and power but as soon as we left Robin Hoods Bay for the second time in the day and hit the bottom of the upward ride to Ravenscar I felt a weakness come over me.
The next twenty minutes were painful in both actual pain and from the agonising, crawling pace in a low gear which was all I could push in my fatigued state.
My son was now out of sight but I had told him to go ahead so that I did not hold him up too much. As in 2014 he still outrides me on every terrain.
Although slow I was at least going at my own pace. None of the cyclists that we had seen behind us or preparing to follow from their food or drink stops made it past me which must have meant that I was matching their pace.
Fortunately no walking parties overtook me either which would have been most demoralising.
I finally reached the car, my son already changed out of his cycling gear, and just sat in the rear tailgate gasping for air and taking in as much water as I could.
Back in 2014, as I seem to remember, I was no-where near as knackered but then again age catches up with all of us sooner or later. It is just a matter if we accept it gracefully or not.
It is a former railway course from Scarborough to Whitby with some of the best coastal and moorland views you could only dream about. The northwards vista over the roof tumbling Robin Hoods Bay is particular atmospheric and picturesque, you know the type, almost warranting a print run on a series of Toffee or Biscuit Tins without any of the contents actually necessary.
The name of the long distance route comes from the surface of the track in crushed coal and on today's ride after some rainfall in the preceding few days we did, within only a few minutes, resemble a bit of an anachronistic and non-politically correct musical troupe from the old saturday night BBC television schedule.
Two years between rides on the same stretch would be an interesting test for me.
I seem to remember that in 2014 I was struggling a bit on the inclines, albeit to the tolerance of railway board gradients, and I wrote on the realisation that my son was now better at cycling than I was.
Two years on and I am now 53.
In the intervening 24 months I may, or may not, have put on some additional bulk dependant on how you look at me. I accept that I do take longer to recover from a strenuous bike ride and just from the hours drive to the start of the Cinder Path I could feel a twinge and stiffness in my joints which did not bode well for the next 40 kilometres of rough terrain.
The first thing I found about the two year absence was a complete loss of any recollection of how to get onto the path from our start point at Ravenscar.
That was a matter of frustration and not a little annoyance for my son especially as we found ourselves on the wrong track, the Cleveland Way Coastal Path and after enjoying a long but bumpy downhill had to backtrack and on some parts, I will admit, get off and push.
It was with some relief that we recognised, up ahead but whilst still on the wrong track a footbridge that will have been built in the halcyon days of the Scarborough to Whitby rail line. After fighting through the undergrowth on the slope of the old embankment at the foot of said structure we at last felt our chunky tyres on the first reliable surface, albeit the grubby and all invasive cinders.
It was nice to get some forward motion and the first few miles give the impression of being downhill although negotiating natural rocks and tree roots and a haphazard infilling of potholes with bits of masonry do not permit any casual freewheeling of the legs out style.
It was a sunny Bank Holiday Monday and family groups were using the track for bonding and chatting either on foot across the full width of the path on in tight packs on two wheels, oh, and did I mention the multitude of dogs who have an even lower perception of the spatial requirements of other path users than their human owners.
I was determined to be nice today as back in 2014 I did get into a bit of a shouting match with a young mother's group whose buggy pushing contravened all rules of reasonable use. I was very courteous and patient ,,,,,on the outside.
Progress was good into and leaving Robin Hoods Bay. The path goes through the old Station Yard which was a heaving mass of vehicles seeking that precious parking space before we started on the section which would take us towards Whitby. It was uphill, again just perceptibly so in best railway engineering tradition but enough to make it hurt.
In places the cinder had washed away with run-off from the fields on the upper side making for uneven ground conditions requiring yet more concentration. Eyes scouring the path surface could not enjoy the sweeping panoramic view out to sea although I did, at my peril, take a couple of appreciative glances.
More walkers, a few dispersed cyclists and a disproportionate number of loose running and excitedly sniffing dogs speckled the way ahead. A large congregation were occupying the lofty heights of the grand red brick former railway viaduct over the River Esk which gave great roofscape views over the town with its boat-filled harbour and high above the Abbey ruins.
It was just after this point that I fell off . The saturated mud prevented any serious injury other than to my pride as I did have an audience of Ramblers at the time.
I now had a full camouflage effect from the cinder spattering and involuntary mud bath insertion and that did cause a few holidaymakers to stare as we stood outside a Whitby Tea Shop with a latte and caramel slice. Everyone else had on their best holiday clothes.
Comfort Break over we immediately hit the very steep road up to the Abbey Car Park. In 2014 I had nearly popped a blood vessel on the ascent although it had been at the very end of that years ride whereas now it was only half way. It was a bit easier for this reason only although muscle and lung straining.
There was a short stretch of cycling on a tarmac road going south from the Abbey which was a pleasure in so much as it was possible to look around at the surroundings for a change. I had not realised there were so many static caravan parks so close to the town.
We were soon back on the instability of the Cinder Path.
The reversal of former ascents into descents gave a welcome sense of speed and power but as soon as we left Robin Hoods Bay for the second time in the day and hit the bottom of the upward ride to Ravenscar I felt a weakness come over me.
 |
| Route profile of The Cinder Path |
The next twenty minutes were painful in both actual pain and from the agonising, crawling pace in a low gear which was all I could push in my fatigued state.
My son was now out of sight but I had told him to go ahead so that I did not hold him up too much. As in 2014 he still outrides me on every terrain.
Although slow I was at least going at my own pace. None of the cyclists that we had seen behind us or preparing to follow from their food or drink stops made it past me which must have meant that I was matching their pace.
Fortunately no walking parties overtook me either which would have been most demoralising.
I finally reached the car, my son already changed out of his cycling gear, and just sat in the rear tailgate gasping for air and taking in as much water as I could.
Back in 2014, as I seem to remember, I was no-where near as knackered but then again age catches up with all of us sooner or later. It is just a matter if we accept it gracefully or not.
Sunday, 28 August 2016
Wash Cycle
It is funny how a mutual sporting interest forms amongst some of the strongest bonds to be forged in friendships outside of the closest family groups.
I found, and some three decades on continue to experience, this in cycling.
I come from a cycling background. The family house, when growing up, would always be filled with bikes from my late Father's faithful Hobbs Tourer to a motley collection of mostly second hand acquisitions to keep us 5 children active. These included heavy framed clonkers, small wheeled shoppers, paper-round faithfuls, space saving folding for holidays, step through ladies, leg stretching crossbars and even a wartime black-out prepared sit up and beg that had been inherited from grandparents.
The purchase of my first racing bike (more of a liberty in description in the Raleigh Carlton marketing literature than in the actual pedigree of the machine itself) at the fairly advanced age of 18 years gave me a route into another aspect of cycling- that of actually participating in competitive events.
That entry level bike was pretty well hammered as I pounded the streets and countryside by-ways to use up the excess energy and angst of a typical teenager.
The Carlton Pro-Am was just an ordinary catalogue bought model. It had alloy wheels, 12 speed gears, butted 531 tubing frame and a race bred geometry but I knew that it would not meet the grade as however fast I felt I was going on the open road in what I called "training" I would always be overtaken by riders of similar age on sleek and mean looking machines with iconic continental names such as Colnago, Bianchi , Battaglin and Moser or customised ,bespoke frames built up with component groupsets with Campagnolo being the most highly revered.
Any aspirations of ever owning any of the foregoing would have to be firmly parked as I was still at school with no income other than delivering newspapers on a Sunday and planning my further education.
I left behind the cycle filled hallway (always a bit of an annoyance to my Mother) of the family home to go away to college in Nottingham in 1981.
The identity of that English Midlands City was firmly bound to cycling. It was the home of the Raleigh Factory and many of its time served frame builders and mechanics had subsequently set up their own bike shops in the suburbs to continue the tradition of making high quality and performance cycles.
I would regularly pass a display window on my way to lectures of one such shop, Langdale Lightweights.
It took me some time to summon up enough courage to actually go in because this was a serious roadies place, frequented by club riders and operating in a specific language that I was only just beginning to learn.
I had a reasonable bike for just getting about the city, mudguards and all and on a hesitant visit to the shop to buy some spares I mentioned that I was interested in joining a Cycling Club as an essential step to start in competition.
The shop owner, his wife and son seemed to take pity on me as a student away from home and gave me details of the nearest club to my accommodation.
This was how I found myself, a bit nervous, pushing open the doors of the Mapperley Scout Hut one dark and cold winter evening at the weekly meeting of the Trent Valley Cycle Racing Club. I need not have been worried. The place and the people became, for the next four years of my student years, like a second family to me.
An inheritance from my maternal grandfather went towards a hand built top of the range racing bike which that local shop, Langdale Lightweights built for me in 1982.
My dream of being a serious racer had become a reality.
I trained, socialised, ate and had my laundry done with my new found team mates. After problems in finding a house for my last academic year I spent a number of weeks as a lodger with one family and I will never forget their kindness and acceptance of me.
I managed to win the best rider prize in the Club in 1985 which remains as one of my main achievements on a bike.
Even after leaving Nottingham I kept in touch with my cycling mates although we were all making our own ways in the world and riding a bike would inevitably be relegated from a sport to a pastime.
I have just been in contact with Smiffy, an accomplished rider and now a Lawyer who is planning a Trent Valley Reunion towards the end of the year. It will be my 30th anniversary of joining .
The team no longer exists in its Nottingham guise although a club from Gainsborough in Lincolnshire has taken up the name and is honouring it well.
I found, and some three decades on continue to experience, this in cycling.
I come from a cycling background. The family house, when growing up, would always be filled with bikes from my late Father's faithful Hobbs Tourer to a motley collection of mostly second hand acquisitions to keep us 5 children active. These included heavy framed clonkers, small wheeled shoppers, paper-round faithfuls, space saving folding for holidays, step through ladies, leg stretching crossbars and even a wartime black-out prepared sit up and beg that had been inherited from grandparents.
The purchase of my first racing bike (more of a liberty in description in the Raleigh Carlton marketing literature than in the actual pedigree of the machine itself) at the fairly advanced age of 18 years gave me a route into another aspect of cycling- that of actually participating in competitive events.
That entry level bike was pretty well hammered as I pounded the streets and countryside by-ways to use up the excess energy and angst of a typical teenager.
The Carlton Pro-Am was just an ordinary catalogue bought model. It had alloy wheels, 12 speed gears, butted 531 tubing frame and a race bred geometry but I knew that it would not meet the grade as however fast I felt I was going on the open road in what I called "training" I would always be overtaken by riders of similar age on sleek and mean looking machines with iconic continental names such as Colnago, Bianchi , Battaglin and Moser or customised ,bespoke frames built up with component groupsets with Campagnolo being the most highly revered.
Any aspirations of ever owning any of the foregoing would have to be firmly parked as I was still at school with no income other than delivering newspapers on a Sunday and planning my further education.
I left behind the cycle filled hallway (always a bit of an annoyance to my Mother) of the family home to go away to college in Nottingham in 1981.
The identity of that English Midlands City was firmly bound to cycling. It was the home of the Raleigh Factory and many of its time served frame builders and mechanics had subsequently set up their own bike shops in the suburbs to continue the tradition of making high quality and performance cycles.
I would regularly pass a display window on my way to lectures of one such shop, Langdale Lightweights.
It took me some time to summon up enough courage to actually go in because this was a serious roadies place, frequented by club riders and operating in a specific language that I was only just beginning to learn.
I had a reasonable bike for just getting about the city, mudguards and all and on a hesitant visit to the shop to buy some spares I mentioned that I was interested in joining a Cycling Club as an essential step to start in competition.
The shop owner, his wife and son seemed to take pity on me as a student away from home and gave me details of the nearest club to my accommodation.
This was how I found myself, a bit nervous, pushing open the doors of the Mapperley Scout Hut one dark and cold winter evening at the weekly meeting of the Trent Valley Cycle Racing Club. I need not have been worried. The place and the people became, for the next four years of my student years, like a second family to me.
An inheritance from my maternal grandfather went towards a hand built top of the range racing bike which that local shop, Langdale Lightweights built for me in 1982.
My dream of being a serious racer had become a reality.
I trained, socialised, ate and had my laundry done with my new found team mates. After problems in finding a house for my last academic year I spent a number of weeks as a lodger with one family and I will never forget their kindness and acceptance of me.
I managed to win the best rider prize in the Club in 1985 which remains as one of my main achievements on a bike.
Even after leaving Nottingham I kept in touch with my cycling mates although we were all making our own ways in the world and riding a bike would inevitably be relegated from a sport to a pastime.
I have just been in contact with Smiffy, an accomplished rider and now a Lawyer who is planning a Trent Valley Reunion towards the end of the year. It will be my 30th anniversary of joining .
The team no longer exists in its Nottingham guise although a club from Gainsborough in Lincolnshire has taken up the name and is honouring it well.
Saturday, 27 August 2016
Sweet FC
I am an import to the land of Rugby League, otherwise known as the summer game in the north of England.
In fact the whole of the game, both codes including Union, are a bit of a mystery to me.
That is quite a surprising revelation in that I was born in a strong rugby county, Buckinghamshire but that coincided with my infants and junior education when any contact sports were discouraged.
My upper school or secondary years were in Lincolnshire which to my knowledge does not have a tradition in the game. This was followed by a flit further north, in fact just across the River Humber in the days before the suspension bridge, which brought me into Rugby League territory, namely the City of Kingston Upon Hull, known as just 'ull with its two elite teams. KR and FC.
I was in the heartland but my new school,one of the oldest Grammar establishments in the country only played Union.
Mine was an immediate introduction to the violence and stress that characterises what is euphemistically called the gentleman's game. I was quite a fast runner in my mid to late teens and this athleticism made me a first pick in the position of Full Back .The problem was that not having ever played before or even possessing any knowledge of the rules or tactics I just did what my team mates shouted at me to do.
It was a chaotic and very short lived career because I opted for very early retirement being in fear of serious injury from the inevitable physicality of the the game and the psychological pressures of constantly being yelled at. The football team were happy to take me on.
My first introduction to Rugby League proper was whilst courting the 'ull lass who would become my wife.
She took me to the local derby match between the red and whites of Hull Kingston Rovers and the black and whites of Hull FC.
It was at the old Rover's ground, a bit of a wind tunnel in the east of the city subsequently sold to a national supermarket chain with the team moving farther out to a brand new stadium ( still a wind tunnel) on the periphery of the urban area.
I do not remember much about the game as I was more enthralled by the pitch battle between respective fans involving the exchange of large lumps of concrete and bricks. I had made a terrible error in not clarifying which team my then girlfriend actually supported. I worked on the assumption that as she had waved to her cousin who was in the frontline of the red and white assault on the FC terrace that she sided with Kingston Rovers.
I did not go to another match in Hull for 15 years due to a relocation out of area with work, marriage, children and a generally busy family life.
In 2002 Hull Council developed a new 25,000 seater sports stadium on the site of an old cricket oval within a mile of the city centre.
The tenants, sharing the ground, were Hull City Football Club and Hull FC. The latter, you will remember as the black and whites amongst the rugby league giants had previously occupied their own wind tunnel pitch known as the Boulevard which was earmarked as the site for a new school but a joint move was a natural one for both teams who had aspirations of ever greater greatness.
In supporting the forward thinking of the Council in building a top class facility I persuaded my company to purchase seats in the Stadium and the package covered both football and rugby league matches.
I was re-introduced to the summer game and began to attend on a regular basis taking along family and friends or failing that business contacts.
I found out at that stage that the game was still a mystery to me and perhaps more relevant was that I found it slow and boring.
There, I have said it.
I can hear my wife sobbing in the background at this admission.
An aspect of a competitive match that I found most annoying was the constant intrusion onto the playing area of trainers and water carriers to attend to the injured and stricken whilst the ball was in play. I can understand the rigours and risks of such a full-on contact sport but really, the sight of triage and minor surgery on the pitch amongst the action was a downright irritation.
I was further confused by the frequent team changes and the huge squads which meant a different team list for every match.
Actual games could be against well known teams such as Leeds , Wigan, Featherstone and Castleford but then a fixture would pop up in some obscure cup competition with a team from Sheffield or a place in the depths of West Yorkshire that I have never heard of.
Granted, seeing Hull FC win 90-0 in an early Cup Round was history in the making but still not enough of a positive to make me a firm follower of Rugby League.
I respect the strength and endurance required from an elite player and indeed the equally valuable attributes of grace, poise, controlled power and speed which would be more likely found in an Olympic Gymnast or long distance runner.
My admission of not being a rugby fan still stands but the victory today by Hull FC in the Challenge Cup at Wembley Stadium by 12-10 over Warrington made me extremely proud.
In fact the whole of the game, both codes including Union, are a bit of a mystery to me.
That is quite a surprising revelation in that I was born in a strong rugby county, Buckinghamshire but that coincided with my infants and junior education when any contact sports were discouraged.
My upper school or secondary years were in Lincolnshire which to my knowledge does not have a tradition in the game. This was followed by a flit further north, in fact just across the River Humber in the days before the suspension bridge, which brought me into Rugby League territory, namely the City of Kingston Upon Hull, known as just 'ull with its two elite teams. KR and FC.
I was in the heartland but my new school,one of the oldest Grammar establishments in the country only played Union.
Mine was an immediate introduction to the violence and stress that characterises what is euphemistically called the gentleman's game. I was quite a fast runner in my mid to late teens and this athleticism made me a first pick in the position of Full Back .The problem was that not having ever played before or even possessing any knowledge of the rules or tactics I just did what my team mates shouted at me to do.
It was a chaotic and very short lived career because I opted for very early retirement being in fear of serious injury from the inevitable physicality of the the game and the psychological pressures of constantly being yelled at. The football team were happy to take me on.
My first introduction to Rugby League proper was whilst courting the 'ull lass who would become my wife.
She took me to the local derby match between the red and whites of Hull Kingston Rovers and the black and whites of Hull FC.
It was at the old Rover's ground, a bit of a wind tunnel in the east of the city subsequently sold to a national supermarket chain with the team moving farther out to a brand new stadium ( still a wind tunnel) on the periphery of the urban area.
I do not remember much about the game as I was more enthralled by the pitch battle between respective fans involving the exchange of large lumps of concrete and bricks. I had made a terrible error in not clarifying which team my then girlfriend actually supported. I worked on the assumption that as she had waved to her cousin who was in the frontline of the red and white assault on the FC terrace that she sided with Kingston Rovers.
I did not go to another match in Hull for 15 years due to a relocation out of area with work, marriage, children and a generally busy family life.
In 2002 Hull Council developed a new 25,000 seater sports stadium on the site of an old cricket oval within a mile of the city centre.
The tenants, sharing the ground, were Hull City Football Club and Hull FC. The latter, you will remember as the black and whites amongst the rugby league giants had previously occupied their own wind tunnel pitch known as the Boulevard which was earmarked as the site for a new school but a joint move was a natural one for both teams who had aspirations of ever greater greatness.
In supporting the forward thinking of the Council in building a top class facility I persuaded my company to purchase seats in the Stadium and the package covered both football and rugby league matches.
I was re-introduced to the summer game and began to attend on a regular basis taking along family and friends or failing that business contacts.
I found out at that stage that the game was still a mystery to me and perhaps more relevant was that I found it slow and boring.
There, I have said it.
I can hear my wife sobbing in the background at this admission.
An aspect of a competitive match that I found most annoying was the constant intrusion onto the playing area of trainers and water carriers to attend to the injured and stricken whilst the ball was in play. I can understand the rigours and risks of such a full-on contact sport but really, the sight of triage and minor surgery on the pitch amongst the action was a downright irritation.
I was further confused by the frequent team changes and the huge squads which meant a different team list for every match.
Actual games could be against well known teams such as Leeds , Wigan, Featherstone and Castleford but then a fixture would pop up in some obscure cup competition with a team from Sheffield or a place in the depths of West Yorkshire that I have never heard of.
Granted, seeing Hull FC win 90-0 in an early Cup Round was history in the making but still not enough of a positive to make me a firm follower of Rugby League.
I respect the strength and endurance required from an elite player and indeed the equally valuable attributes of grace, poise, controlled power and speed which would be more likely found in an Olympic Gymnast or long distance runner.
My admission of not being a rugby fan still stands but the victory today by Hull FC in the Challenge Cup at Wembley Stadium by 12-10 over Warrington made me extremely proud.
Friday, 26 August 2016
Too good to eat
I have been thinking about writing a bit about Kangaroos for some time.
On a memorable family holiday to Australia a few years ago now I had the opportunity to see these animals in the wild ( in fact on a verge of a regional motorway), get up close and ugly to them in Steve Irwin's Zoo and then on the way back to our accommodation to stop off at a restaurant and eat a sumptuous kangaroo steak (with chips).
In those three experiences I encapsulated the love-hate relationship of the Australian peoples for this iconic marsupial and national symbol.
It is an interesting dilemna.
On the one hand the are relentlessly hunted and killed for sport or in an occasional cull to control what is thought to be a total number on the continent of up to 40 million, therefore outnumbering the human population. Then, after recent wildfires there was an outpouring of sympathy and endearment towards the kangaroo, many of whom perished or were badly injured.
Seemingly in conflict with these opposing attitudes is the value of the kangaroo meat industry to the national economy supporting around 4000 jobs and earning foreign currency with exports to 50 countries around the globe.
So the creature is simultaneously regarded as vermin, loveable and edible which cannot apply to many, if at all any other members of the animal kingdom.
They are ancient custodians of Australia with fossilised remains having been discovered albeit of a now extinct species towering at 3 metres tall. The largest red kangaroo today only reaches 2 metres under the genetic and environmental constraints that are now influencing development and growth.
I always thought that there was only one species of the animal but in fact there are over 60 although this does include in the family the wallaby, wallaroos, pademelons, tree kangaroos, potoroos, bettongs and rat kangaroo.
Although well known to the indigenous aboriginal peoples and featuring in native art they must have seemed very strange and fascinating to the first European Settlers. There is an urban myth that when the hopping creatures were first seen by the immigrants and the locals were asked what they were called there was a bit if a language barrier and they replied "kangaroo" meaning I don;t understand your question and the name stuck.
In actuality kangaroo is an aboriginal derivation for the grey member of the species"gangurru". The Yorkshireman and great explorer of the Southern Hemisphere, Captain James Cook first brought the word into common record in 1770 upon documenting his discovery of Australia.
So what do we know about kangaroos?
The stereotypical portrayal is comical.
How many times have you seen a cartoon or representation of a kangaroo wearing silky shorts and sporting boxing gloves?
The speed attained by the hopping action has been recorded at up to 40mph and this attribute is also a popular depiction.
When threatened the kangaroos pound the ground with their large flat feet, another endearing and well used image.Take Kanga and Roo in A.A Milne's Winnie the Pooh.
At the Rio Olympics the Brazilian Hosts tried to placate the complaints of the Aussie Athletes over the unfinished state of their Village accommodation by providing extra kangaroo figurines on the building forecourt. It did not go down well.
The appearance of the animal accompanied by the emu on the national coat of arms was because of their joint inability to walk backwards therefore taken to epitomise the steadfast characteristics of a proud independent country.
So in all, a potentially aggressive animal, short tempered, sporty and unpredictable.
This is not strictly true. Being herbivores they are rather placid grazers and tend to take to the shade in the harsh climate, preferring to eat in the late afternoon or early morning.
They are very social animals living in groups of up to 100 or more. Social also refers to their relative ease in the company of humans. They have excellent eyesight but only respond to moving objects. This means that it is possible to sneak up very close without detection. If you, when seen, simply stand still the animal will just resume what they were doing.
A dominant male has to compete for control of the community and if usurped by a younger male then it is a case of being sent into solitary exile.
Kangaroos do not have any natural predators apart from man although have been known to defend themselves if cornered or provoked.
A lack of road sense particularly at night can impose a significant hazard to both the motorist and a fast moving kangaroo and traffic accidents with mutual fatalities are common.
Their habitat is quite varied although this is to be expected in such a sizeable continent where the terrain ranges from savannah grasslands to deserts, from temperate to tropical forests.
The vast open areas and sparse human presence has seen an increase in kangaroo numbers, again bucking the trend for many species across the globe.
The dietary benefits of kangaroo meat were only recently realised with its legalisation for sale in 1993. The high protein and low fat meat is recognised for its healthy qualities although there has been some very recent research identifying a harmful constituent contributing to heart disease. This may just be a spoiler from the more traditional meat industries.
The digestive system, in direct contrast to cattle, produces almost no methane as a bi-product which is a huge positive to combat global warming.
I felt that my experiences with kangaroos were an integral part of the enjoyment of my visit to Australia and their contribution to the identity of that nation cannot be understated. Boiinng
On a memorable family holiday to Australia a few years ago now I had the opportunity to see these animals in the wild ( in fact on a verge of a regional motorway), get up close and ugly to them in Steve Irwin's Zoo and then on the way back to our accommodation to stop off at a restaurant and eat a sumptuous kangaroo steak (with chips).
In those three experiences I encapsulated the love-hate relationship of the Australian peoples for this iconic marsupial and national symbol.
It is an interesting dilemna.
On the one hand the are relentlessly hunted and killed for sport or in an occasional cull to control what is thought to be a total number on the continent of up to 40 million, therefore outnumbering the human population. Then, after recent wildfires there was an outpouring of sympathy and endearment towards the kangaroo, many of whom perished or were badly injured.
Seemingly in conflict with these opposing attitudes is the value of the kangaroo meat industry to the national economy supporting around 4000 jobs and earning foreign currency with exports to 50 countries around the globe.
So the creature is simultaneously regarded as vermin, loveable and edible which cannot apply to many, if at all any other members of the animal kingdom.
They are ancient custodians of Australia with fossilised remains having been discovered albeit of a now extinct species towering at 3 metres tall. The largest red kangaroo today only reaches 2 metres under the genetic and environmental constraints that are now influencing development and growth.
I always thought that there was only one species of the animal but in fact there are over 60 although this does include in the family the wallaby, wallaroos, pademelons, tree kangaroos, potoroos, bettongs and rat kangaroo.
Although well known to the indigenous aboriginal peoples and featuring in native art they must have seemed very strange and fascinating to the first European Settlers. There is an urban myth that when the hopping creatures were first seen by the immigrants and the locals were asked what they were called there was a bit if a language barrier and they replied "kangaroo" meaning I don;t understand your question and the name stuck.
In actuality kangaroo is an aboriginal derivation for the grey member of the species"gangurru". The Yorkshireman and great explorer of the Southern Hemisphere, Captain James Cook first brought the word into common record in 1770 upon documenting his discovery of Australia.
So what do we know about kangaroos?
The stereotypical portrayal is comical.
How many times have you seen a cartoon or representation of a kangaroo wearing silky shorts and sporting boxing gloves?
The speed attained by the hopping action has been recorded at up to 40mph and this attribute is also a popular depiction.
When threatened the kangaroos pound the ground with their large flat feet, another endearing and well used image.Take Kanga and Roo in A.A Milne's Winnie the Pooh.
At the Rio Olympics the Brazilian Hosts tried to placate the complaints of the Aussie Athletes over the unfinished state of their Village accommodation by providing extra kangaroo figurines on the building forecourt. It did not go down well.
The appearance of the animal accompanied by the emu on the national coat of arms was because of their joint inability to walk backwards therefore taken to epitomise the steadfast characteristics of a proud independent country.
So in all, a potentially aggressive animal, short tempered, sporty and unpredictable.
This is not strictly true. Being herbivores they are rather placid grazers and tend to take to the shade in the harsh climate, preferring to eat in the late afternoon or early morning.
They are very social animals living in groups of up to 100 or more. Social also refers to their relative ease in the company of humans. They have excellent eyesight but only respond to moving objects. This means that it is possible to sneak up very close without detection. If you, when seen, simply stand still the animal will just resume what they were doing.
A dominant male has to compete for control of the community and if usurped by a younger male then it is a case of being sent into solitary exile.
Kangaroos do not have any natural predators apart from man although have been known to defend themselves if cornered or provoked.
A lack of road sense particularly at night can impose a significant hazard to both the motorist and a fast moving kangaroo and traffic accidents with mutual fatalities are common.
Their habitat is quite varied although this is to be expected in such a sizeable continent where the terrain ranges from savannah grasslands to deserts, from temperate to tropical forests.
The vast open areas and sparse human presence has seen an increase in kangaroo numbers, again bucking the trend for many species across the globe.
The dietary benefits of kangaroo meat were only recently realised with its legalisation for sale in 1993. The high protein and low fat meat is recognised for its healthy qualities although there has been some very recent research identifying a harmful constituent contributing to heart disease. This may just be a spoiler from the more traditional meat industries.
The digestive system, in direct contrast to cattle, produces almost no methane as a bi-product which is a huge positive to combat global warming.
I felt that my experiences with kangaroos were an integral part of the enjoyment of my visit to Australia and their contribution to the identity of that nation cannot be understated. Boiinng
Thursday, 25 August 2016
Cowboys and Injuries
In 1992 a couple of Stateside Professors undertook a study on the rather morbid subject of suicide rates across 49 Metropolitan Areas.
This was in response to concerns about unprecedented incidences of suicide in and before that decade.
It was a new direction for study as there was otherwise little or no academic data available. Would a more detailed and rational appraisal reveal a pattern to such tragic events or even provide guidance on what could be done in preventative therapy or counselling?
A student involved in the research programme, upon seeing that Nashville, Tennessee occupied the top of the league table of self inflicted deaths raised the question, perhaps initially in a light hearted manner, about whether this dubious accolade had anything to do with the association of the city with the genre of country music.
The 8 page Report on the Research was of the opinion that there was a definite link between country music and the suicide rates amongst white Americans. There was no correlation between suicide in the black population on this criteria.
The usual catalysts for suicide are well documented including marital strife or break-up, alcohol abuse or dependency ,alienation at work and the loss of a family member or much loved pet.
These standard predictors of suicide are, as anyone who has ever listened to country music will have realised , the main themes to be found in the story-boards, sentiments and lyrics of archetypal songs.
Take the following examples of real song lyrics,
"I don't know whether to kill myself or go bowling",
"If I had shot you when I wanted to I would be out by now",
"You're the reason our kids are so ugly",
"My wife ran off with my best friend and I sure do miss him"
"I still miss you baby but my aim is getting better".
"If the phone don't ring you'll know its me"
"I'm so miserable without you it's like having you here" and most poignantly,
"The last word in lonesome is me"
The release of the authoritative study did not go unnoticed in the media and in wider academic circles and the findings were argued from all positions as to their validity and provenance.
Opinions did seem to be split with other independent studies looking again at the variables which had been considered as the link between country music and suicide rates.
A 1994 piece of research concentrated on one of the most famous and successful country anthems by Billie Ray Cyruss borrowing the title of the song in "An Achy Breaky Heart may not kill you".
The original Professorial Team of Stack and Gundlach were awarded a prestigious alternative Ignoble award in 2004 for their contribution to medical research.
There is a bit of black humour in country music culture that if you play a record of a typical song backwards then your wife gives up on her affair with your best friend, you get that well deserved promotion at work, you become tee-total, re-discover the joy of life and best of all... your favourite dog comes back to your home and hearth.
There have been a number of other similar studies on music types and suicide rates which make for interesting reading.
The culture surrounding Heavy Metal appears to show an acceptability of suicide amongst the demographic youth following. What was unusually described as the Opera subculture indicated that its followers were 2.37 more times susceptible to suicide. Surprisingly, fans of the Blues genre recorded a neutral acceptability or indifference to everything.
Most worrying for the music industry is the statistic that recording artists have an increased rate at 112% of committing suicide than the normal population at large.
There has been a noticeable reduction in the morbidity and fatalism of lyrics in the output of country music in more recent years. This could be an indication of a greater optimism or a lighter side to life. There could be the emergence of a better coping strategy for the stresses and pressures of modern living but the cynics attribute this change in direction to just keeping fans of country music alive to enable them to keep buying the records.
This was in response to concerns about unprecedented incidences of suicide in and before that decade.
It was a new direction for study as there was otherwise little or no academic data available. Would a more detailed and rational appraisal reveal a pattern to such tragic events or even provide guidance on what could be done in preventative therapy or counselling?
A student involved in the research programme, upon seeing that Nashville, Tennessee occupied the top of the league table of self inflicted deaths raised the question, perhaps initially in a light hearted manner, about whether this dubious accolade had anything to do with the association of the city with the genre of country music.
The 8 page Report on the Research was of the opinion that there was a definite link between country music and the suicide rates amongst white Americans. There was no correlation between suicide in the black population on this criteria.
The usual catalysts for suicide are well documented including marital strife or break-up, alcohol abuse or dependency ,alienation at work and the loss of a family member or much loved pet.
These standard predictors of suicide are, as anyone who has ever listened to country music will have realised , the main themes to be found in the story-boards, sentiments and lyrics of archetypal songs.
Take the following examples of real song lyrics,
"I don't know whether to kill myself or go bowling",
"If I had shot you when I wanted to I would be out by now",
"You're the reason our kids are so ugly",
"My wife ran off with my best friend and I sure do miss him"
"I still miss you baby but my aim is getting better".
"If the phone don't ring you'll know its me"
"I'm so miserable without you it's like having you here" and most poignantly,
"The last word in lonesome is me"
The release of the authoritative study did not go unnoticed in the media and in wider academic circles and the findings were argued from all positions as to their validity and provenance.
Opinions did seem to be split with other independent studies looking again at the variables which had been considered as the link between country music and suicide rates.
A 1994 piece of research concentrated on one of the most famous and successful country anthems by Billie Ray Cyruss borrowing the title of the song in "An Achy Breaky Heart may not kill you".
The original Professorial Team of Stack and Gundlach were awarded a prestigious alternative Ignoble award in 2004 for their contribution to medical research.
There is a bit of black humour in country music culture that if you play a record of a typical song backwards then your wife gives up on her affair with your best friend, you get that well deserved promotion at work, you become tee-total, re-discover the joy of life and best of all... your favourite dog comes back to your home and hearth.
There have been a number of other similar studies on music types and suicide rates which make for interesting reading.
The culture surrounding Heavy Metal appears to show an acceptability of suicide amongst the demographic youth following. What was unusually described as the Opera subculture indicated that its followers were 2.37 more times susceptible to suicide. Surprisingly, fans of the Blues genre recorded a neutral acceptability or indifference to everything.
Most worrying for the music industry is the statistic that recording artists have an increased rate at 112% of committing suicide than the normal population at large.
There has been a noticeable reduction in the morbidity and fatalism of lyrics in the output of country music in more recent years. This could be an indication of a greater optimism or a lighter side to life. There could be the emergence of a better coping strategy for the stresses and pressures of modern living but the cynics attribute this change in direction to just keeping fans of country music alive to enable them to keep buying the records.
Wednesday, 24 August 2016
South Parade
The smart town houses on South Parade in York, UK are amongst some of the most expensive in that beautiful and historic city. Their path to such a status is most interesting.
The land was earmarked for building in the late 18th century at a time when York was expanding quite rapidly because of its thriving industrial base, strategic importance to the North of England, its central location with good access to all parts of the country and, oh yes, it was (and still is) a very nice, genteel and civilised place to live.
This fact had not been a recent revelation of the inevitable urbanisation that followed the industrial revolution, in fact the Roman invaders had selected York or Eboracum as it was named as a vital stronghold and forward base for their campaigns up towards the Barbarian territories which would be those beyond the physical barrier of Hadrians Wall some 200 miles distant.
South Parade is close to but just outside the imposing Micklegate entrance in the historic city fortifications. Lost in the passage of time but excavated in the 20th Century was the site of a Roman Cemetery within the curtilage of the street as an indication of the size and calibre of York in that volatile era.
The Romano-British period was followed by a number of dominant occupiers of York including the Vikings and the city mirrored the regime changes of the country in the Dark and Middle Ages.
It took until the first quarter of the 19th Century for a consortium of York businessmen to raise the funds to start building on South Parade. Any optimism in making some money out of a proposed development of 20 houses would be surely tested as even in the 1820's it was a case of having to speculate to accumulate. There was a tremendous stigma attached to debt and even a rumour of bankruptcy would be ruinous for those involved. In a gamble, the residential terrace was thrown up.
Those attributes that are valued and revered by today's architectural historians and the discerning house buying public such as Flemish Bond brickwork, stucco rendering, sash cord windows and slate roofs were the basic requirements for Victorian construction and where savings and economies in the build could be made they would be greedily exploited.
Though now regarded as fine examples of Period town houses they were in their day nothing special.
Sales were apparently slow for what will have been the equivalent, then, of a Barratt Homes type estate.
The actual rectangular plot of land on which the twenty properties was built was long and narrow. The original landowners appear to have been a Religious Order of Sisters who still occupy today the St Bedes , Bar Convent to the east. Extensive grounds were still important to the seclusion and privacy of those in Holy Orders and the strip of land for South Parade may have been a reluctant sale to raise funds.
The north western end of the block fronts Blossom Street presenting a three storey elevation for the first house.
As the terrace developed the gently sloping topography allowed successive houses to have an habitable cellar and four upper floors although, again, the restrictions of the the landed area meant a house depth of only two rooms per floor or, in Imperial terms about 10 yards and a width of about 7 yards.
The buyers of the houses, when brand new, were not the wealthy or influential of York but more the middle class, urban professionals and upwardly mobile. There would be no real space for live in servants which a middle income could not anyway justify although a cook and housekeeper might be employed on a daily basis and just commute in from working class areas. The families would live from the first floor upwards with the lower ground floor providing kitchen and basic amenities. Coal fires heated the rooms culminating in an elongated chimney stack with eight pots above the same number of active flues.
The 1852 Ordnance Survey shows South Parade fully built and in fact the twenty houses had swelled to twenty one with a smaller structure tacked on the end (this was much later to be demolished). The mapping has symbols for landscaped forecourts with flower beds and at that time with an open front aspect onto further possibly public pleasure gardens.
The rear elevations were onto very small enclosed yards which will only have received sunlight for only a few hours in the morning. A number of the houses are shown to have outside toilets which to equivalent middle class modern sensitivities may seem very backward
York flourished in the 19th Century pioneering the Railway revolution and the manufacturing of chocolates in particular and the former open space in front of South Parade was rapidly developed with small and tightly packed terraced dwellings for workers.
It would be possible to completely overlook the existence of the block as it only now presented a public face onto the Blossom Street frontage.
Socio and Economic factors and pressures over the first part of the twentieth century, not untypical for the nation generally, saw South Parade deteriorate swiftly.
The houses, which as family homes could provide up to four bedrooms were capable of accommodating considerably more persons as hostels for single males and cheap boarding establishments for travelling salesmen and labourers. Many were sub divided for multiple occupancy and became very run down and dilapidated.
Commercial uses included offices, Gin shops and one or more brothels. The criminal fraternity of York frequented a particularly notorious drinking den on South Parade in Sunday sessions, so much so that the Police could be assured of the whereabouts of the troublemakers on that day and could relax a bit on their duties and even swing by to verify alibis.
The first three houses from Blossom Street were at some time knocked together at ground floor level and operated as a Car Showroom with premises above.
In the post war years there were proposals by the City Council to demolish and clear South Parade to make way for a new link road to relieve congestion arising from the upsurge in motor vehicle ownership that even to this day causes frequent gridlock around the perimeter roads of the City Walls.
It was touch and go whether the terrace would survive against what would be in the public interest for a better infrastructure for a progressive city.
A campaign to save the block led to a Grade 2 Listed Status in 1958 and the twenty houses joined the other 1568 Listed Buildings that characterise York.
It would be a few more decades before consistency returned to the occupier profile of owners and residents. The car showroom was returned to residential use.( In the foreground of the photograph below the contrast in brickwork from the alterations is clearly visible)
There is a well developed sense of Bohemian individuality in the street. Rare for York is that the road to the frontage is of Private Status, owned and maintained in common by the householders, some of whom bought out the shares of the others and built a courtyard garage block on the land cleared through demolition of the parasitical end house at the far end.
A few longstanding owners keep their houses sympathetic to the character of Victoriana but recently sold examples have been given the full contemporary make over to rival the bling-palaces of Premier League Footballers and at a hefty price tag to match. Number 8 sold in January 2016 for £815,000 after being marketed at £850,000.
The survival of South Parade is testament to the enduring nature of inner city housing of its era and should be celebrated. It's story is typical to many older streets and streetscapes in UK cities but many have not been so fortunate having been lost forever to the relentless pace of development.
The land was earmarked for building in the late 18th century at a time when York was expanding quite rapidly because of its thriving industrial base, strategic importance to the North of England, its central location with good access to all parts of the country and, oh yes, it was (and still is) a very nice, genteel and civilised place to live.
This fact had not been a recent revelation of the inevitable urbanisation that followed the industrial revolution, in fact the Roman invaders had selected York or Eboracum as it was named as a vital stronghold and forward base for their campaigns up towards the Barbarian territories which would be those beyond the physical barrier of Hadrians Wall some 200 miles distant.
South Parade is close to but just outside the imposing Micklegate entrance in the historic city fortifications. Lost in the passage of time but excavated in the 20th Century was the site of a Roman Cemetery within the curtilage of the street as an indication of the size and calibre of York in that volatile era.
The Romano-British period was followed by a number of dominant occupiers of York including the Vikings and the city mirrored the regime changes of the country in the Dark and Middle Ages.
It took until the first quarter of the 19th Century for a consortium of York businessmen to raise the funds to start building on South Parade. Any optimism in making some money out of a proposed development of 20 houses would be surely tested as even in the 1820's it was a case of having to speculate to accumulate. There was a tremendous stigma attached to debt and even a rumour of bankruptcy would be ruinous for those involved. In a gamble, the residential terrace was thrown up.
Those attributes that are valued and revered by today's architectural historians and the discerning house buying public such as Flemish Bond brickwork, stucco rendering, sash cord windows and slate roofs were the basic requirements for Victorian construction and where savings and economies in the build could be made they would be greedily exploited.
Though now regarded as fine examples of Period town houses they were in their day nothing special.
Sales were apparently slow for what will have been the equivalent, then, of a Barratt Homes type estate.
The actual rectangular plot of land on which the twenty properties was built was long and narrow. The original landowners appear to have been a Religious Order of Sisters who still occupy today the St Bedes , Bar Convent to the east. Extensive grounds were still important to the seclusion and privacy of those in Holy Orders and the strip of land for South Parade may have been a reluctant sale to raise funds.
The north western end of the block fronts Blossom Street presenting a three storey elevation for the first house.
As the terrace developed the gently sloping topography allowed successive houses to have an habitable cellar and four upper floors although, again, the restrictions of the the landed area meant a house depth of only two rooms per floor or, in Imperial terms about 10 yards and a width of about 7 yards.
The buyers of the houses, when brand new, were not the wealthy or influential of York but more the middle class, urban professionals and upwardly mobile. There would be no real space for live in servants which a middle income could not anyway justify although a cook and housekeeper might be employed on a daily basis and just commute in from working class areas. The families would live from the first floor upwards with the lower ground floor providing kitchen and basic amenities. Coal fires heated the rooms culminating in an elongated chimney stack with eight pots above the same number of active flues.
The 1852 Ordnance Survey shows South Parade fully built and in fact the twenty houses had swelled to twenty one with a smaller structure tacked on the end (this was much later to be demolished). The mapping has symbols for landscaped forecourts with flower beds and at that time with an open front aspect onto further possibly public pleasure gardens.
The rear elevations were onto very small enclosed yards which will only have received sunlight for only a few hours in the morning. A number of the houses are shown to have outside toilets which to equivalent middle class modern sensitivities may seem very backward
York flourished in the 19th Century pioneering the Railway revolution and the manufacturing of chocolates in particular and the former open space in front of South Parade was rapidly developed with small and tightly packed terraced dwellings for workers.
It would be possible to completely overlook the existence of the block as it only now presented a public face onto the Blossom Street frontage.
Socio and Economic factors and pressures over the first part of the twentieth century, not untypical for the nation generally, saw South Parade deteriorate swiftly.
The houses, which as family homes could provide up to four bedrooms were capable of accommodating considerably more persons as hostels for single males and cheap boarding establishments for travelling salesmen and labourers. Many were sub divided for multiple occupancy and became very run down and dilapidated.
Commercial uses included offices, Gin shops and one or more brothels. The criminal fraternity of York frequented a particularly notorious drinking den on South Parade in Sunday sessions, so much so that the Police could be assured of the whereabouts of the troublemakers on that day and could relax a bit on their duties and even swing by to verify alibis.
The first three houses from Blossom Street were at some time knocked together at ground floor level and operated as a Car Showroom with premises above.
In the post war years there were proposals by the City Council to demolish and clear South Parade to make way for a new link road to relieve congestion arising from the upsurge in motor vehicle ownership that even to this day causes frequent gridlock around the perimeter roads of the City Walls.
It was touch and go whether the terrace would survive against what would be in the public interest for a better infrastructure for a progressive city.
A campaign to save the block led to a Grade 2 Listed Status in 1958 and the twenty houses joined the other 1568 Listed Buildings that characterise York.
It would be a few more decades before consistency returned to the occupier profile of owners and residents. The car showroom was returned to residential use.( In the foreground of the photograph below the contrast in brickwork from the alterations is clearly visible)
There is a well developed sense of Bohemian individuality in the street. Rare for York is that the road to the frontage is of Private Status, owned and maintained in common by the householders, some of whom bought out the shares of the others and built a courtyard garage block on the land cleared through demolition of the parasitical end house at the far end.
A few longstanding owners keep their houses sympathetic to the character of Victoriana but recently sold examples have been given the full contemporary make over to rival the bling-palaces of Premier League Footballers and at a hefty price tag to match. Number 8 sold in January 2016 for £815,000 after being marketed at £850,000.
The survival of South Parade is testament to the enduring nature of inner city housing of its era and should be celebrated. It's story is typical to many older streets and streetscapes in UK cities but many have not been so fortunate having been lost forever to the relentless pace of development.
Tuesday, 23 August 2016
Welcome to Scotland
It is always a great thrill to go to Scotland for a visit or a longer vacation.
The country is a great variety of rolling lowlands, jagged Highlands, lochs, forests ,moors, peat bogs, glens and a striking coastline. I have not even mentioned the majestic cities and towns nor the indigenous population who, over the centuries have travelled to just about every part of the globe and made their mark in all walks of life.
The physical forces that carved out the topographical features were epic.
Around 16000 BC an ice age was well under way and buried a good part of Northern Europe under vast ice fields and glaciers.
The drop from previous temperatures, as the catalyst to the ice age, was around 10 degrees centigrade and this persisted for around 3500 years.
What are now the highest mountain peaks in Scotland would only just be poking out of the massive glaciers. The dead weight of such a volume of ice exerted significant pressure on the geological base and over such a prolonged period this squashed and compressed the bedrock and strata as much one kilometre from the established level.
It was not a uniform effect and bulbs of pressure resulted in new mountain ranges where the ice was not as dense.
The ice fields were the birthplace of glaciers which crept along at what will have been a laborious pace had there been any humans capable of surviving in the deep-frozen climate.
Temperatures did fluctuate even through the ice age and this caused the gouging and chiselling glaciers to ebb and flow along a south west or north east axis which accounts for the topography that exists today in the Great Glen and characterises the dramatic appearance of Scotland to which tourists flock in their millions every year.
The bulldozing process of the glaciers forcibly distributed the natural resources of Scotland to other parts of the United Kingdom and much of the great fertile agricultural silt, sand and clay soils of the Vale of York and Eastern England originated from the northern areas. The Holderness Plain of East Yorkshire has extensive boulder clays which were dumped and stranded with the retreat of the glaciers at the end of the last ice age having been dragged along under the ice and in the meltwaters for more than 200 miles.
In or around 11500 BC there was a gentle warming effect in the climatic conditions. Land areas emerged and released from the weight of ice began to rise up to attain their previous contours. A warmer climate brought rains and there was a rapid return of fertility and foliage with woodlands and forests establishing themselves over much of the countryside.
Tree species included hazel. oak. elm and birch whose vegetation mulched and enriched further the soils.Wildlife was able to migrate from warmer parts of the great landmass that is now Europe and Asia as there was a landbridge in what is now the English Channel.
The sight of large herds of caribou and deer would have been common. The forests were an ideal habitat for wild boar, otter, bears and wolves .
The Scottish landscapes that are such a magnet for visitors began to take hold and this included the peat bog.
The first human visitors also arrived although there remains considerable debate over where they came from. The prehistoric populations of Northern Europe were now able to thrive and grow and as hunter gatherers it was a case of having to forage farther and wider to meet hungry family or tribal groups. The individual hunting ground for a single prehistoric inhabitant has been estimated at some four square miles.
Life on the land was not, as may be portrayed, a paradise.
Far from it; there were earthquakes of up to a 7.0 equivalent on the modern Richter Scale and these occurred with frightening irregularity for millenia. Cold snaps which will have been feared as a reversion to an ice age also occurred,
The land continued to rise quickly, faster than sea level although the release of melt waters from the retreating ice shelf would soon make up for this.
Archaeological evidence of human colonies have been excavated in the far western islands of Scotland on Rhum, Colonsay in the Hebrides and with a major dig site on Isla dated to 6500 BC. On South Uist prehistoric mummified remains were found under stone dwellings dating from 1000 BC. Their origins have never been determined, not helped by the fact that the peat bog preserved pair of figures were actually made up of the body parts of 6 individuals.
Other sites have shown that previously nomadic hunter gatherers were beginning to form settlements from the discovery of burnt and cleared woodland to keep livestock and assist in hunting for food. Essential skills to survive included snaring, setting pit traps and using dogs although these will have been close descendants of wolves.
Climate and the forces of nature were always major factors to affect and impeded human existence.
Around 5840 BC a Tsunami rolled in from the North Sea with a wave height of nearly 9 metres which will have been devastating to a race already of some precarious existence in what must have seemed like a most volatile and unstable land.
Sea levels were now rising and what are now Firths of Forth and Tay were almost connected.
The landbridge to the continental mass was engulfed by the rising waters and Scotland forcibly, and not for the last time, became part of the greater land mass of the British Isles.
The country is a great variety of rolling lowlands, jagged Highlands, lochs, forests ,moors, peat bogs, glens and a striking coastline. I have not even mentioned the majestic cities and towns nor the indigenous population who, over the centuries have travelled to just about every part of the globe and made their mark in all walks of life.
The physical forces that carved out the topographical features were epic.
Around 16000 BC an ice age was well under way and buried a good part of Northern Europe under vast ice fields and glaciers.
The drop from previous temperatures, as the catalyst to the ice age, was around 10 degrees centigrade and this persisted for around 3500 years.
What are now the highest mountain peaks in Scotland would only just be poking out of the massive glaciers. The dead weight of such a volume of ice exerted significant pressure on the geological base and over such a prolonged period this squashed and compressed the bedrock and strata as much one kilometre from the established level.
It was not a uniform effect and bulbs of pressure resulted in new mountain ranges where the ice was not as dense.
The ice fields were the birthplace of glaciers which crept along at what will have been a laborious pace had there been any humans capable of surviving in the deep-frozen climate.
Temperatures did fluctuate even through the ice age and this caused the gouging and chiselling glaciers to ebb and flow along a south west or north east axis which accounts for the topography that exists today in the Great Glen and characterises the dramatic appearance of Scotland to which tourists flock in their millions every year.
The bulldozing process of the glaciers forcibly distributed the natural resources of Scotland to other parts of the United Kingdom and much of the great fertile agricultural silt, sand and clay soils of the Vale of York and Eastern England originated from the northern areas. The Holderness Plain of East Yorkshire has extensive boulder clays which were dumped and stranded with the retreat of the glaciers at the end of the last ice age having been dragged along under the ice and in the meltwaters for more than 200 miles.
In or around 11500 BC there was a gentle warming effect in the climatic conditions. Land areas emerged and released from the weight of ice began to rise up to attain their previous contours. A warmer climate brought rains and there was a rapid return of fertility and foliage with woodlands and forests establishing themselves over much of the countryside.
Tree species included hazel. oak. elm and birch whose vegetation mulched and enriched further the soils.Wildlife was able to migrate from warmer parts of the great landmass that is now Europe and Asia as there was a landbridge in what is now the English Channel.
The sight of large herds of caribou and deer would have been common. The forests were an ideal habitat for wild boar, otter, bears and wolves .
The Scottish landscapes that are such a magnet for visitors began to take hold and this included the peat bog.
The first human visitors also arrived although there remains considerable debate over where they came from. The prehistoric populations of Northern Europe were now able to thrive and grow and as hunter gatherers it was a case of having to forage farther and wider to meet hungry family or tribal groups. The individual hunting ground for a single prehistoric inhabitant has been estimated at some four square miles.
Life on the land was not, as may be portrayed, a paradise.
Far from it; there were earthquakes of up to a 7.0 equivalent on the modern Richter Scale and these occurred with frightening irregularity for millenia. Cold snaps which will have been feared as a reversion to an ice age also occurred,
The land continued to rise quickly, faster than sea level although the release of melt waters from the retreating ice shelf would soon make up for this.
Archaeological evidence of human colonies have been excavated in the far western islands of Scotland on Rhum, Colonsay in the Hebrides and with a major dig site on Isla dated to 6500 BC. On South Uist prehistoric mummified remains were found under stone dwellings dating from 1000 BC. Their origins have never been determined, not helped by the fact that the peat bog preserved pair of figures were actually made up of the body parts of 6 individuals.
Other sites have shown that previously nomadic hunter gatherers were beginning to form settlements from the discovery of burnt and cleared woodland to keep livestock and assist in hunting for food. Essential skills to survive included snaring, setting pit traps and using dogs although these will have been close descendants of wolves.
Climate and the forces of nature were always major factors to affect and impeded human existence.
Around 5840 BC a Tsunami rolled in from the North Sea with a wave height of nearly 9 metres which will have been devastating to a race already of some precarious existence in what must have seemed like a most volatile and unstable land.
Sea levels were now rising and what are now Firths of Forth and Tay were almost connected.
The landbridge to the continental mass was engulfed by the rising waters and Scotland forcibly, and not for the last time, became part of the greater land mass of the British Isles.
Monday, 22 August 2016
Ghosts
It can take many years to make sense of things from your childhood.
This process has been made considerably easier by the release of archive material, initially only paper based and requiring a personal visit to a public library or University Reading room which is now widely available through the internet and gives an opportunity to re-visit, review and re-evaluate what may be, over many decades, a blurred or distorted memory or faint recollection.
I have a series of strong images in my long term memory bank about an open air drama that my parents took me to when we lived in the Suffolk town of Bury St Edmunds in 1970.
It was, I seem to recall, during a pleasant summer evening, in the grounds of the newly enlarged St Edmundsbury Cathedral on the banks of the River Linnet.
The performance was, I now realise, to commemorate the 1100th anniversary of the death and martyrdom of King Edmund of East Anglia at the hands of the piratical, raiding Danes with whom the occupants of that part of England had been troubled for decades.
It was a very involved drama with a large cast in authentic period costumes, typically doublet and hose, dodgy wigs, with the menfolk portraying the principal Royal Court characters carrying wooden swords and other miscellaneous weapons and the women in long dresses and I think they were called wiffles or headgear.
I have just come across a film of the event in the on-line back catalogue of the East Anglian Film Archive.
Given that it was in 1970, when I was only 7 years old (I am now 53) the colours are a bit faded and the action stilted and slow but I have, upon seeing the images, been transported back to the exact same time and the sensations are reproduced in my consciousness as much as they were live and real all of those years ago.
There are two acts in the play about King Edmund that are most memorable.
The first was the sight of a replica longship, scaled down a lot, making its way precariously along the river carrying a motley bunch of warriors intent on making battle with the East Anglians. At the time it was a most convincing rendition of marauding Danes and I was suitably enthralled as a very impressionable and excitable youngster. The ensuing battle scene was pretty noisy and realistic for a group of amateur actors whose day jobs will have most likely been office, factory or farm based in the Suffolk market town and surrounding rural areas.
This bit of action was however trumped by the retrieval of a severed head, headhog-like with protruding arrows, by a very well behaved German Shepherd dog from a loose brush thicket formed just to the side of the platform stage and clever backdrop of a castle courtyard. The prop head was carefully gathered up by robed monks and accompanied by a large congregation with heads bowed in reverence to an impromptu shrine.
I have scoured the archived film coverage of the grandstand seated crowd for any glimpses of myself and my family but there are only very brief and fleeting passages by the camera. There may have been a few performances over the commemorative week or so.
The full archive film is only about 30 minutes long which must be a heavily edited version as I remember being a bit bored following the high points of the overcrowded ,wobbling boat and gruesome beheading.
I may even have wandered off, dozed off or got distracted by other things that evening but the film is really quite a classic example of the hard work taken on by a good proportion of the folk of Bury St Edmunds in putting on the spectacle.
The discovery of the film has re-ignited my interest in history and the tale of the martyrdom of Edmund is fascinating, made more so by the very conflicting accounts of what happened to the King.
One written version tells of Edmund being captured by the bloodthirsty Danes, tied to a tree, tortured, beaten and stabbed multiple times by spears before being beheaded. The telling has themes of Christ's own treatment leading up to the crucifixion. It appears that in reality Edmund is likely to have been felled in battle by Danish archers of the army of Ivor the Boneless and that is it.
Nevertheless his show of resistance and sacrifice in the face of heathen invaders saw him revered and his relics, after moving about the country for safekeeping were eventually returned to Bury St Edmunds where a shrine became one of the most visited by pilgrims in the Medieval Period.
It was a good evening out as far as I remember and, best of all, on a school day as well.
This process has been made considerably easier by the release of archive material, initially only paper based and requiring a personal visit to a public library or University Reading room which is now widely available through the internet and gives an opportunity to re-visit, review and re-evaluate what may be, over many decades, a blurred or distorted memory or faint recollection.
I have a series of strong images in my long term memory bank about an open air drama that my parents took me to when we lived in the Suffolk town of Bury St Edmunds in 1970.
It was, I seem to recall, during a pleasant summer evening, in the grounds of the newly enlarged St Edmundsbury Cathedral on the banks of the River Linnet.
The performance was, I now realise, to commemorate the 1100th anniversary of the death and martyrdom of King Edmund of East Anglia at the hands of the piratical, raiding Danes with whom the occupants of that part of England had been troubled for decades.
It was a very involved drama with a large cast in authentic period costumes, typically doublet and hose, dodgy wigs, with the menfolk portraying the principal Royal Court characters carrying wooden swords and other miscellaneous weapons and the women in long dresses and I think they were called wiffles or headgear.
I have just come across a film of the event in the on-line back catalogue of the East Anglian Film Archive.
Given that it was in 1970, when I was only 7 years old (I am now 53) the colours are a bit faded and the action stilted and slow but I have, upon seeing the images, been transported back to the exact same time and the sensations are reproduced in my consciousness as much as they were live and real all of those years ago.
There are two acts in the play about King Edmund that are most memorable.
The first was the sight of a replica longship, scaled down a lot, making its way precariously along the river carrying a motley bunch of warriors intent on making battle with the East Anglians. At the time it was a most convincing rendition of marauding Danes and I was suitably enthralled as a very impressionable and excitable youngster. The ensuing battle scene was pretty noisy and realistic for a group of amateur actors whose day jobs will have most likely been office, factory or farm based in the Suffolk market town and surrounding rural areas.
This bit of action was however trumped by the retrieval of a severed head, headhog-like with protruding arrows, by a very well behaved German Shepherd dog from a loose brush thicket formed just to the side of the platform stage and clever backdrop of a castle courtyard. The prop head was carefully gathered up by robed monks and accompanied by a large congregation with heads bowed in reverence to an impromptu shrine.
I have scoured the archived film coverage of the grandstand seated crowd for any glimpses of myself and my family but there are only very brief and fleeting passages by the camera. There may have been a few performances over the commemorative week or so.
The full archive film is only about 30 minutes long which must be a heavily edited version as I remember being a bit bored following the high points of the overcrowded ,wobbling boat and gruesome beheading.
I may even have wandered off, dozed off or got distracted by other things that evening but the film is really quite a classic example of the hard work taken on by a good proportion of the folk of Bury St Edmunds in putting on the spectacle.
The discovery of the film has re-ignited my interest in history and the tale of the martyrdom of Edmund is fascinating, made more so by the very conflicting accounts of what happened to the King.
One written version tells of Edmund being captured by the bloodthirsty Danes, tied to a tree, tortured, beaten and stabbed multiple times by spears before being beheaded. The telling has themes of Christ's own treatment leading up to the crucifixion. It appears that in reality Edmund is likely to have been felled in battle by Danish archers of the army of Ivor the Boneless and that is it.
Nevertheless his show of resistance and sacrifice in the face of heathen invaders saw him revered and his relics, after moving about the country for safekeeping were eventually returned to Bury St Edmunds where a shrine became one of the most visited by pilgrims in the Medieval Period.
It was a good evening out as far as I remember and, best of all, on a school day as well.
Sunday, 21 August 2016
South East Passage
In the mid 19th Century a Hull businessman, Zachariah Pearson bequested land, then on the fringe of the urban growth for the benefit of its inhabitants. He established one of the city's best known greenspaces, of course taking his name, Pearson Park.
A grand metal archway and gates formed the principal entrance on the eastern side to the main road corridor of Beverley Road.
Philanthropic motives did have a commercial spin-off and generous plots overlooking the tree lined circulatory road and landscape including a shaped lake, tropical conservatory and statues to Queen Victoria and her Consort were sold off and developed as prestigious Villas for the wealthy and prominent in Hull Society.
These bore iconic names such as Albert House, Avon Lodge, Eastbourne Villas, Kingston Villa, Leicester Cottage,Linden House and somewhat more ephemeral ones such as Frogner (possibly named after a district of Oslo, Norway) and Elsinore (the Denmark home of Shakespeares Hamlet).
Pearson Park could be accessed by its very enthusiastic public patrons from two further entrances onto Princes Avenue serving an expanding population in the middle class Avenues area and from Park Road on the south side.
Some clever and long-sighted negotiations in this major development area for the northern suburb of Hull, by unknown parties, was able to preserve a smaller walkway in the south eastern corner through to a cul de sac, Grove Street which was accessible from Beverley Road itself.
This legal right of way may have been based on an ancient footpath or a well worn track for livestock on what would have been grazing land not long before the large scale urbanisation put pressure on land to be given up for housing.
I regularly use this passage as a shortcut from my home in the Park (third bench on the left as I call it) to a local Tesco Express, Islamic Supermarket, Indian Newsagents, Polish Butchers and English Fish and Chip Shop.
It does not, to my knowledge, have a formal name although running from Grove Street and between two Victorian residences one called Grove House it may have originally had a similar title.
I call it Shit Alley, because most of the time it is unpleasantly oppressive, dark, smelly and strewn with discarded beer cans, smashed glass bottles and all of the usual detritus of 21st Century inner city lifestyles.
The Park end is narrow and between high timber fencing. The first few seconds of turning into the passage on the way to the shops can be a bit of a gamble without due care and attention as the footway will invariably be taken up by a fast moving cyclist on the way to or coming back from work, a senior citizen trundling a wheeled shopping barrow, a young couple insistent on holding hands or a group of boisterous youths going to the pubs on Princes Avenue. There is nothing to do but let the users pass through.
There is a distinct awkwardness in meeting someone at the half way point of the passage particularly if mutual body language has not indicated the direction of the half torso turn to allow negotiation without any physical impact.
It is best not to attempt any verbal communication without a detailed knowledge of half a dozen or so world languages. Eye contact should be similarly avoided although I do give my usual nod of acknowledgement that we are making the best of a difficult situation.
The orientation from west to east does make give a wind tunnel effect at some times of the year which when laden down with carrier bags can give a momentary impression of being at the mercy of nature.The tall gable walls of the houses on either side do give a bit of shelter from rain but it is no place to linger at any time to take advantage of respite from a soaking.
Upon moving into the park , now nearly three years ago, I felt that I had discovered the passage for the first time before anyone else because of its dereliction and decay.
In the hierarchy of pioneer routes it does not figure anywhere near the likes of the North West Passage or long sought after trade corridors linking the great continents and oceans of the world but to me it has assumed an equal importance in my daily quest for provisions and services.
I have therefore developed a fondness for the footway which has manifested as an assumed ownership or at least a responsibility for its maintenance and upkeep.
In simple terms I have adopted it.
My stewardship is not anywhere near, for example, that of a Neighbourhood Watch or Conservation Society which frankly in my area comprise pretty menacing and meddling individuals who regularly accost me on my own doorstep with petitions against rented accommodation, hostels and other forms of Multiple Occupation which I refuse to sign on principal.
Mine is more of a guerilla or covert custodian role.
I operate a rapid response policy whereby I can swoop on Shit Alley in the early hours of the day or just at dusk armed with a wide plastic snow shovel, stiff bristle brush and a blue wheelie bin. The latter is, granted, a bit noisy on its small plastic wheels across the Park but against the incessant soundtrack of traffic and sirens from Beverley Road and the nearby City Centre I am just about in stealth mode.
The bin quickly fills up on each sortie.
I am careful about the presence of drug paraphenalia which is present in the rough vegetation, the occasional soiled nappy, prophylactics and glass shards but most of the waste and debris can be scooped up and deposited in the bin for later sorting and recycling. The beer cans, prone to rattling along the footway if not snagged in litter and grime, do each have a small residue of their contents and the passage, in the process of clearing can smell like an after hours lounge bar.
I have excavated a gold engagement ring from a rainwater drainage grate half way down which may have been dropped in an embrace or fight and that is now at the local Police Station in case anyone wants to claim it.
It is a dirty and labour intensive job but worth doing as the place does scrub up quite well and afterwards it is reasonably pleasant to use it .
A grand metal archway and gates formed the principal entrance on the eastern side to the main road corridor of Beverley Road.
Philanthropic motives did have a commercial spin-off and generous plots overlooking the tree lined circulatory road and landscape including a shaped lake, tropical conservatory and statues to Queen Victoria and her Consort were sold off and developed as prestigious Villas for the wealthy and prominent in Hull Society.
These bore iconic names such as Albert House, Avon Lodge, Eastbourne Villas, Kingston Villa, Leicester Cottage,Linden House and somewhat more ephemeral ones such as Frogner (possibly named after a district of Oslo, Norway) and Elsinore (the Denmark home of Shakespeares Hamlet).
Pearson Park could be accessed by its very enthusiastic public patrons from two further entrances onto Princes Avenue serving an expanding population in the middle class Avenues area and from Park Road on the south side.
Some clever and long-sighted negotiations in this major development area for the northern suburb of Hull, by unknown parties, was able to preserve a smaller walkway in the south eastern corner through to a cul de sac, Grove Street which was accessible from Beverley Road itself.
This legal right of way may have been based on an ancient footpath or a well worn track for livestock on what would have been grazing land not long before the large scale urbanisation put pressure on land to be given up for housing.
I regularly use this passage as a shortcut from my home in the Park (third bench on the left as I call it) to a local Tesco Express, Islamic Supermarket, Indian Newsagents, Polish Butchers and English Fish and Chip Shop.
It does not, to my knowledge, have a formal name although running from Grove Street and between two Victorian residences one called Grove House it may have originally had a similar title.
I call it Shit Alley, because most of the time it is unpleasantly oppressive, dark, smelly and strewn with discarded beer cans, smashed glass bottles and all of the usual detritus of 21st Century inner city lifestyles.
The Park end is narrow and between high timber fencing. The first few seconds of turning into the passage on the way to the shops can be a bit of a gamble without due care and attention as the footway will invariably be taken up by a fast moving cyclist on the way to or coming back from work, a senior citizen trundling a wheeled shopping barrow, a young couple insistent on holding hands or a group of boisterous youths going to the pubs on Princes Avenue. There is nothing to do but let the users pass through.
There is a distinct awkwardness in meeting someone at the half way point of the passage particularly if mutual body language has not indicated the direction of the half torso turn to allow negotiation without any physical impact.
It is best not to attempt any verbal communication without a detailed knowledge of half a dozen or so world languages. Eye contact should be similarly avoided although I do give my usual nod of acknowledgement that we are making the best of a difficult situation.
The orientation from west to east does make give a wind tunnel effect at some times of the year which when laden down with carrier bags can give a momentary impression of being at the mercy of nature.The tall gable walls of the houses on either side do give a bit of shelter from rain but it is no place to linger at any time to take advantage of respite from a soaking.
Upon moving into the park , now nearly three years ago, I felt that I had discovered the passage for the first time before anyone else because of its dereliction and decay.
In the hierarchy of pioneer routes it does not figure anywhere near the likes of the North West Passage or long sought after trade corridors linking the great continents and oceans of the world but to me it has assumed an equal importance in my daily quest for provisions and services.
I have therefore developed a fondness for the footway which has manifested as an assumed ownership or at least a responsibility for its maintenance and upkeep.
In simple terms I have adopted it.
My stewardship is not anywhere near, for example, that of a Neighbourhood Watch or Conservation Society which frankly in my area comprise pretty menacing and meddling individuals who regularly accost me on my own doorstep with petitions against rented accommodation, hostels and other forms of Multiple Occupation which I refuse to sign on principal.
Mine is more of a guerilla or covert custodian role.
I operate a rapid response policy whereby I can swoop on Shit Alley in the early hours of the day or just at dusk armed with a wide plastic snow shovel, stiff bristle brush and a blue wheelie bin. The latter is, granted, a bit noisy on its small plastic wheels across the Park but against the incessant soundtrack of traffic and sirens from Beverley Road and the nearby City Centre I am just about in stealth mode.
The bin quickly fills up on each sortie.
I am careful about the presence of drug paraphenalia which is present in the rough vegetation, the occasional soiled nappy, prophylactics and glass shards but most of the waste and debris can be scooped up and deposited in the bin for later sorting and recycling. The beer cans, prone to rattling along the footway if not snagged in litter and grime, do each have a small residue of their contents and the passage, in the process of clearing can smell like an after hours lounge bar.
I have excavated a gold engagement ring from a rainwater drainage grate half way down which may have been dropped in an embrace or fight and that is now at the local Police Station in case anyone wants to claim it.
It is a dirty and labour intensive job but worth doing as the place does scrub up quite well and afterwards it is reasonably pleasant to use it .
I would hope that Zachariah Pearson would approve but then again he may be cursing the fact that he should have been able to build across the footway back in the 1860's and make a tidy profit out of his natural and modest benevolence.
Saturday, 20 August 2016
Good Night, Sleep Tight, etcetera
If you ask anyone under, say, 40 years of age to run an errand for you to the Ironmongers do not be surprised by their blank reaction.
The word and indeed the once commonplace shops and outlets are almost extinct having been driven to that stage by the huge DIY Superstores.
In my childhood, in the 1960's and even into the 1970's an adult accompanied trip to the local Ironmongers was something to look forward to.
Every small town will have had a long established trader in all manner of tools, fixings, domestic consumables, gardening and general goods and a helpful and informed proprietor or staff ( always dressed in light brown shop keepers coats) to direct you to the relevant section in the shop or give sound advice on what items would be required for any project however ambitious or impractical.
It is the very nature of an ironmongers to carry a huge amount of stock to meet a wide range of demands. A characteristic of our backstreet shop was a seemingly chaotic floor to ceiling stacking system.
I was always a bit apprehensive to try to extract anything from the shelves and precarious towers in case that particular item was the only thing tying it all together, a bit like an oversized Jenga game.
Everything would however have its place and could be easily located by the staff.
Pricing on the goods could be a bit haphazard but that was not important where a lot of the hardware items were sold loose such as nails, screws, washers, jubilee clips and picture hooks or even by weight. That was ideal for a household repair or renewal where the exact number of fixings was known whereas the massive warehouse based DIY Stores sell you a blister pack containing multiple and therefore surplus nails or similar and at a price to match.
I had cause to pop into my local Ironmongers today to purchase just four screws to refix the door front to the integrated dishwasher.
It is a small shop at the quieter end of an otherwise busy suburban street. In the window the displayed goods are heavily faded from years of exposure to the sun giving the impression of another, less hurried and urgent era where constancy always won out over fashions and trends.
Entering the cluttered sales area is as if to time travel and the distinctive smell of oils, paints and weedkiller are amongst some of the most relaxing that I know even though they are a precursor to hard work and, with my poor aptitude in any basic skills, a lot of stress and frustration.
Although I had a specific acquisition in mind I intentionally lingered in the narrow footway which formed a strictly one-way system of negotiation. The product lines for sale covered every conceivable requirement for modern living in spite of the dated appearance of the shop window display.
That was with one striking and quite shocking exception.
Amongst the insecticides and treatments to suppress weeds and intrusive vegetation, the curse of patios and brick pavers, I noticed a thin canister announcing its contents as a remedy for Bed Bugs.
I am, as you will gather, a regular visitor to Ironmongers but in all of my years I can honestly say that I have never seen a Bed Bug treatment on offer.
It is an insect of a bygone age and even visualising the thing conjurs up a black and white image to my mind.
I am aware of the affect that climate change has had on the migration and new habitats of certain insect populations. In the UK we have recently had cases of infestation from species that normally shirk at a typical North European coldness and perhaps the Bed Bug has returned to a distant genetic memory of its Victorian and early environment with the perceptible rise in average temperatures, milder winters and less rainfall. It appears that I am wrong.
The Bed Bug or "Cimex Lectularius" has not been driven away or abandoned mankind and that has been the case for millenia. They have always accompanied humans from an early cave based existence to long migrations across the globe following the retreat of the Ice Age.
It remains a very singular ambition of the small, lentil shaped insect to survive and breed by targeting humans and sucking the blood through small, irritating bites. They can be up to 5mm in size and visible to the naked eye. Their perceived absence from modern lifestyles has been a brief hiatus in order to build up their resistance to insecticides. Scientific studies do show that they have developed a thicker skin by way of an exoskeleton to improve survival and breeding.
The generation which includes our parents and grandparents will no doubt be horrified at the thought of a Bed Bug infestation. It will represent to them very much of a throwback to their own childhoods where headlice and cockroaches were something never to be acknowledged because of the social stigma that they engendered.
In my own early years I can clearly recall the embarrassment of my Mother when Nitty-Nora as the head lice nurse was known came a calling to the house.
"Cimex Lectularius" is, it seems, back with a vengeance.
They have made the cracks and crevices in and around our beds their new domain. Our body heat and CO2 output signal feeding time and they can rapidly crawl over the ground to get to the source, that being you and me.
We may attribute those red skin blemishes and itchy bumps to the common scapegoat of the mosquito but we are in denial.
An insect that has preyed on humans since the dawn of time is once again cosying up and looking forward to a resurgence and perhaps a renewal of status as a modern plague.
Best advice ?
Just remember the nursery rhyme from your childhood along the lines of "nighty nighty, sleep tight..."
The word and indeed the once commonplace shops and outlets are almost extinct having been driven to that stage by the huge DIY Superstores.
In my childhood, in the 1960's and even into the 1970's an adult accompanied trip to the local Ironmongers was something to look forward to.
Every small town will have had a long established trader in all manner of tools, fixings, domestic consumables, gardening and general goods and a helpful and informed proprietor or staff ( always dressed in light brown shop keepers coats) to direct you to the relevant section in the shop or give sound advice on what items would be required for any project however ambitious or impractical.
It is the very nature of an ironmongers to carry a huge amount of stock to meet a wide range of demands. A characteristic of our backstreet shop was a seemingly chaotic floor to ceiling stacking system.
I was always a bit apprehensive to try to extract anything from the shelves and precarious towers in case that particular item was the only thing tying it all together, a bit like an oversized Jenga game.
Everything would however have its place and could be easily located by the staff.
Pricing on the goods could be a bit haphazard but that was not important where a lot of the hardware items were sold loose such as nails, screws, washers, jubilee clips and picture hooks or even by weight. That was ideal for a household repair or renewal where the exact number of fixings was known whereas the massive warehouse based DIY Stores sell you a blister pack containing multiple and therefore surplus nails or similar and at a price to match.
I had cause to pop into my local Ironmongers today to purchase just four screws to refix the door front to the integrated dishwasher.
It is a small shop at the quieter end of an otherwise busy suburban street. In the window the displayed goods are heavily faded from years of exposure to the sun giving the impression of another, less hurried and urgent era where constancy always won out over fashions and trends.
Entering the cluttered sales area is as if to time travel and the distinctive smell of oils, paints and weedkiller are amongst some of the most relaxing that I know even though they are a precursor to hard work and, with my poor aptitude in any basic skills, a lot of stress and frustration.
Although I had a specific acquisition in mind I intentionally lingered in the narrow footway which formed a strictly one-way system of negotiation. The product lines for sale covered every conceivable requirement for modern living in spite of the dated appearance of the shop window display.
That was with one striking and quite shocking exception.
Amongst the insecticides and treatments to suppress weeds and intrusive vegetation, the curse of patios and brick pavers, I noticed a thin canister announcing its contents as a remedy for Bed Bugs.
I am, as you will gather, a regular visitor to Ironmongers but in all of my years I can honestly say that I have never seen a Bed Bug treatment on offer.
It is an insect of a bygone age and even visualising the thing conjurs up a black and white image to my mind.
I am aware of the affect that climate change has had on the migration and new habitats of certain insect populations. In the UK we have recently had cases of infestation from species that normally shirk at a typical North European coldness and perhaps the Bed Bug has returned to a distant genetic memory of its Victorian and early environment with the perceptible rise in average temperatures, milder winters and less rainfall. It appears that I am wrong.
The Bed Bug or "Cimex Lectularius" has not been driven away or abandoned mankind and that has been the case for millenia. They have always accompanied humans from an early cave based existence to long migrations across the globe following the retreat of the Ice Age.
It remains a very singular ambition of the small, lentil shaped insect to survive and breed by targeting humans and sucking the blood through small, irritating bites. They can be up to 5mm in size and visible to the naked eye. Their perceived absence from modern lifestyles has been a brief hiatus in order to build up their resistance to insecticides. Scientific studies do show that they have developed a thicker skin by way of an exoskeleton to improve survival and breeding.
The generation which includes our parents and grandparents will no doubt be horrified at the thought of a Bed Bug infestation. It will represent to them very much of a throwback to their own childhoods where headlice and cockroaches were something never to be acknowledged because of the social stigma that they engendered.
In my own early years I can clearly recall the embarrassment of my Mother when Nitty-Nora as the head lice nurse was known came a calling to the house.
"Cimex Lectularius" is, it seems, back with a vengeance.
They have made the cracks and crevices in and around our beds their new domain. Our body heat and CO2 output signal feeding time and they can rapidly crawl over the ground to get to the source, that being you and me.
We may attribute those red skin blemishes and itchy bumps to the common scapegoat of the mosquito but we are in denial.
An insect that has preyed on humans since the dawn of time is once again cosying up and looking forward to a resurgence and perhaps a renewal of status as a modern plague.
Best advice ?
Just remember the nursery rhyme from your childhood along the lines of "nighty nighty, sleep tight..."
Friday, 19 August 2016
Body Beautiful
I was walking back from the local shop, heavily laden with carrier bags of food and goodies when I heard a voice behind me call my name.
I turned, not actually recognising the voice and therefore a bit apprehensive about who knew me.
I had, after all, recently moved house to a new part of the city and was not aware of any acquaintances in the local area.
It was someone I had been at school with some miles away and 25 years ago. Our paths had not crossed in the intervening quarter of a century.
We exchanged greetings and had one of those frenetic over-talking catch-up briefings. Familiarity made it feel as though we had never been separated by further education or the social and economic pressures to make something of our lives and support our dependants.
His life had included some tragedy with the passing of his son whilst only in his early twenties.
On going our separate ways, possibly for another similar period, he said in parting that he had called out because there was no mistaking my distinctive profile.
Later on, I had some thoughts on what that meant.
I was not being vain but merely curious about this physiological aspect.Just think about it. From your own viewpoint you will have a completely different perception of yourself than others. There are certain physical features of your own anatomy that you just cannot see, namely a back view, side aspect, even a full frontal.
In my minds-eye I still have the body shape that I had in my twenties and yet, now in my early 50's my physique has apparently broadened into a bulky upper torso, slightly protuberant belly, expanded waistline and chunky legs.
There is a creeping realisation of this age related expansion in the need to buy the next size up of trouser, suit jacket and collar in one of those rare clothes shopping trips prompted by a business event, family wedding or the funeral of an acquaintance.
I have not found it easy to accept such changes in my body shape and find myself either toying with the latest diet or simply taking a sharp inward breath to give the impression of being trim and fit. I make a point of exercising regularly and do quite a few miles trailing well behind my son on his lightweight road racing bike but yet the excess weight remains stubbornly in place.
A coping strategy is to constantly compare myself with current athletes and sportsmen and I have developed a rather obsessive fascination with the height, weight and body mass index of my longstanding heroes in order to see how I compare.
Such information was previously only disclosed on such things as magazine profiles and Top Trump cards but it now very much in the public domain and particularly so where individuals are keen to counter rumour and conjecture of for example, doping, arising from exceptional and super-human performances.
My insecurity on body shape matters has been crystallised over the last couple of weeks by the sight and achievements of the athletes at the Rio Olympic Games.
I, understandably, feel old and overweight.
This has not been helped by the BBC. Their on-line media coverage includes what they may regard as a fun exercise to allow viewers to input their height, weight and age. An algorithm then computes this information against their database of the 10,000 participants at the 2016 Games and matches it to specific athletes and their sporting disciplines.
I was both curious and nervous about disclosing what I regard as quite intimate details but did it anyway.
I am one metre and seventy five centimetres tall or as I understand it five feet ten. My weight yo-yo's quite alarmingly over a typical year but is, ideally, ninety kilograms or however many equivalent bags of flour.
Adding my date of birth I pressed the enter key.
It appears that I am the same height as 482 ( around 5%) of the Olympic competitors although the actual range is pretty wide with the smallest, a Brazilian Gymnast at 1,33metres and a Chinese Basketball Player at towering 2,18m.
On the more sensitive issue of weight I have been lumped in with a mere 133 athletes (About 1%) .Again the Olympians have a huge weight range from the same diminuitve Brazilian lady at just over 31kg to a hefty 170 kg Rumanian martial arts player.
The matching process on my age is a bit disappointing although not unexpected.
Happily I share a birthday with 25 temporary residents of Rio de Janeiro but there are only six individuals who are my actual age.
The actual age spread is quite amazing from a 13 year old Nepalese swimmer to a senior citizen of bus pass eligibility in the equestrian competition. The average age of participants in this Games is 26.
The whole point of exposing my lack of self confidence through this statistical exercise was to get some affirmation that I am not on the scrapheap in sporting or general terms. My matches?
There were no real surprises having been an avid viewer of just about every Olympic event.
I am the body double for a Kenyan Judo player called Kiplangat Sang, an Iranian wrestler by the name of Habibollah Jomeh Akhlaghi and most satisfyingly, given my lifetime love of riding my bike, a Canadian Track Cyclist, Hugo Barrette.
I have not bothered to find out how these individuals fared in their respective contests as I feel quite content to be very loosely associated with their endeavours, trials and tribulations.
I turned, not actually recognising the voice and therefore a bit apprehensive about who knew me.
I had, after all, recently moved house to a new part of the city and was not aware of any acquaintances in the local area.
It was someone I had been at school with some miles away and 25 years ago. Our paths had not crossed in the intervening quarter of a century.
We exchanged greetings and had one of those frenetic over-talking catch-up briefings. Familiarity made it feel as though we had never been separated by further education or the social and economic pressures to make something of our lives and support our dependants.
His life had included some tragedy with the passing of his son whilst only in his early twenties.
On going our separate ways, possibly for another similar period, he said in parting that he had called out because there was no mistaking my distinctive profile.
Later on, I had some thoughts on what that meant.
I was not being vain but merely curious about this physiological aspect.Just think about it. From your own viewpoint you will have a completely different perception of yourself than others. There are certain physical features of your own anatomy that you just cannot see, namely a back view, side aspect, even a full frontal.
In my minds-eye I still have the body shape that I had in my twenties and yet, now in my early 50's my physique has apparently broadened into a bulky upper torso, slightly protuberant belly, expanded waistline and chunky legs.
There is a creeping realisation of this age related expansion in the need to buy the next size up of trouser, suit jacket and collar in one of those rare clothes shopping trips prompted by a business event, family wedding or the funeral of an acquaintance.
I have not found it easy to accept such changes in my body shape and find myself either toying with the latest diet or simply taking a sharp inward breath to give the impression of being trim and fit. I make a point of exercising regularly and do quite a few miles trailing well behind my son on his lightweight road racing bike but yet the excess weight remains stubbornly in place.
A coping strategy is to constantly compare myself with current athletes and sportsmen and I have developed a rather obsessive fascination with the height, weight and body mass index of my longstanding heroes in order to see how I compare.
Such information was previously only disclosed on such things as magazine profiles and Top Trump cards but it now very much in the public domain and particularly so where individuals are keen to counter rumour and conjecture of for example, doping, arising from exceptional and super-human performances.
My insecurity on body shape matters has been crystallised over the last couple of weeks by the sight and achievements of the athletes at the Rio Olympic Games.
I, understandably, feel old and overweight.
This has not been helped by the BBC. Their on-line media coverage includes what they may regard as a fun exercise to allow viewers to input their height, weight and age. An algorithm then computes this information against their database of the 10,000 participants at the 2016 Games and matches it to specific athletes and their sporting disciplines.
I was both curious and nervous about disclosing what I regard as quite intimate details but did it anyway.
I am one metre and seventy five centimetres tall or as I understand it five feet ten. My weight yo-yo's quite alarmingly over a typical year but is, ideally, ninety kilograms or however many equivalent bags of flour.
Adding my date of birth I pressed the enter key.
It appears that I am the same height as 482 ( around 5%) of the Olympic competitors although the actual range is pretty wide with the smallest, a Brazilian Gymnast at 1,33metres and a Chinese Basketball Player at towering 2,18m.
On the more sensitive issue of weight I have been lumped in with a mere 133 athletes (About 1%) .Again the Olympians have a huge weight range from the same diminuitve Brazilian lady at just over 31kg to a hefty 170 kg Rumanian martial arts player.
The matching process on my age is a bit disappointing although not unexpected.
Happily I share a birthday with 25 temporary residents of Rio de Janeiro but there are only six individuals who are my actual age.
The actual age spread is quite amazing from a 13 year old Nepalese swimmer to a senior citizen of bus pass eligibility in the equestrian competition. The average age of participants in this Games is 26.
The whole point of exposing my lack of self confidence through this statistical exercise was to get some affirmation that I am not on the scrapheap in sporting or general terms. My matches?
There were no real surprises having been an avid viewer of just about every Olympic event.
I am the body double for a Kenyan Judo player called Kiplangat Sang, an Iranian wrestler by the name of Habibollah Jomeh Akhlaghi and most satisfyingly, given my lifetime love of riding my bike, a Canadian Track Cyclist, Hugo Barrette.
I have not bothered to find out how these individuals fared in their respective contests as I feel quite content to be very loosely associated with their endeavours, trials and tribulations.
Thursday, 18 August 2016
On the Job
I have been fascinated by the Lexicographer, Francis Grose who, with others in 1811, published the both acclaimed and shunned work entitled "Lexicon Balatronicum", a meticulously researched dictionary of slang, street-talk and downright bawdy and rude language.
It is an important record of social history but also lists the common names for occupations and professions of the early 19th Century, many of which I have not heard before and others that have simply slipped into oblivion.
This is a small sample taken from the dictionary just to give a taste of the wonderful language that existed in that era long ago.
Adam Tiler- a pickpockets assistant who receives the stolen goods and runs off with them
Ale Draper - Inn or alehouse keeper
Ambassador of Morocco - shoemaker
Amen Curler - Parish Clerk
Amusers - rogues who to carry out a street robbery by throwing snuff into their victims eyes
Ark Ruffians - a criminal practice to pick a fight with boat passenger, then rob and throw overboard
Autem Bawler - Parson
Bandog - Bailiff
Bang Straw - a farm servant, usually a thresher
Barker - dealer in second hand clothes
Barrow Man - a criminal under sentence of transportation to the Penal Colonies
Beau Nasty - a foppish person but slovenly and scruffy
Beggar Maker - Inn Keeper
Bellower - Town Crier
Bingo Boy - Dram drinker
Black Fly- the village parson taking the tithe or tax from the harvest yield
Blue Pigeons - stealers of lead from church roofs
Bone Picker - Footman
Braggadocia - someone who boasts
Bufe Nabber - dog stealer
Bully Ruffians- Highwayman who verbally abuses his victims
Bum Trap - Sheriffs Officer
Burn Crust - Baker
Bus-Nappers Kenchin - a watchman
Caper Merchant - Dancing Master
Captain Queernabs - Shabby fellow
Carrotty Pated - a red haired person
Cinder Garbler - servant maid
Clank Napper - silver tankard thief
Country Harry - Waggoner
It is an important record of social history but also lists the common names for occupations and professions of the early 19th Century, many of which I have not heard before and others that have simply slipped into oblivion.
This is a small sample taken from the dictionary just to give a taste of the wonderful language that existed in that era long ago.
Adam Tiler- a pickpockets assistant who receives the stolen goods and runs off with them
Ale Draper - Inn or alehouse keeper
Ambassador of Morocco - shoemaker
Amen Curler - Parish Clerk
Amusers - rogues who to carry out a street robbery by throwing snuff into their victims eyes
Ark Ruffians - a criminal practice to pick a fight with boat passenger, then rob and throw overboard
Autem Bawler - Parson
Bandog - Bailiff
Bang Straw - a farm servant, usually a thresher
Barker - dealer in second hand clothes
Barrow Man - a criminal under sentence of transportation to the Penal Colonies
Beau Nasty - a foppish person but slovenly and scruffy
Beggar Maker - Inn Keeper
Bellower - Town Crier
Bingo Boy - Dram drinker
Black Fly- the village parson taking the tithe or tax from the harvest yield
Blue Pigeons - stealers of lead from church roofs
Bone Picker - Footman
Braggadocia - someone who boasts
Bufe Nabber - dog stealer
Bully Ruffians- Highwayman who verbally abuses his victims
Bum Trap - Sheriffs Officer
Burn Crust - Baker
Bus-Nappers Kenchin - a watchman
Caper Merchant - Dancing Master
Captain Queernabs - Shabby fellow
Carrotty Pated - a red haired person
Cinder Garbler - servant maid
Clank Napper - silver tankard thief
Country Harry - Waggoner
Wednesday, 17 August 2016
Wordplay
The year 1811 was "business as normal" for Britain.
There was a mad monarch on the throne, George III.
War was being enacted simultaneously against the French, Sweden, Russia and Denmark.
A population surge saw a increase to just over 10 million.
There were rebellions by labourers who feared the onset of mechanisation and urbanisation.
In artistic and literary terms this was a halcyon age with Jane Austen publishing her "Sense and Sensibility".
In the same year the Lexicographer, Francis Grose and others published the both acclaimed and shunned work entitled "Lexicon Balatronicum", a meticulously researched dictionary of slang, street-talk and downright bawdy and rude language.
It had been compiled from interviews in ale houses, brothels, courts, police stations, jails and many other haunts and hideouts of what we today refer to as the underclass, although in early 19th Century England they represented the common, ordinary citizen.
If you get a chance to read the full text then do so as I have only selected 26 entries in a basic alphabetical order.
I apologise to those in the process of learning English as a second Language for the liberties I have taken but if you look closely you will see the beauty of the spoken word before political correctness and blandness crept in.
Admiral of the Narrow Seas- one who from drunkeness vomits into the lap of the person sitting opposite.
Bawbels- a Mans Testacles
Blanket Hornpipe- the amorous congress, ie love making
Carry Witchet- a riddle
Darkmans Budge- someone who enters a house and lets others in for criminal purpose
Earth Bath- a grave
Famgrasp- shake hands
Galimaufrey- a meal made from scraps in the food cupboard
Hobbledygee- a pace between walk and run
India Wipe- a silk handkerchief
Jubber the Kubber- a deception involving attaching lights to a horse to lure ships onto the shore to be looted
Konoblin Rig- to steal coal from a coal shed
Little Clergyman- a young chimney sweep (in the days when child labour was widespread)
Moon Men- Gypsies or travellers
Nappy Ale- Strong Beer
Olivers Scull- chamber pot, as in portable toilet usually stored under the bed
Pickthank- mischief maker
Queer as Dick's hatband- feeling ill but not sure of the ailment causing it
Rantallion- where the scrotum, when relaxed, is longer than the penis
Shabbaroon- an ill dressed person
Taradiddle- a lie or a fib
Urinal of the Planets- the name for the country of Ireland where it rains a lot
Whiddle- to tell or discover
Xantippe- a scolding wife named after the wife of Socrates
Yaffling- eating
Zounds- an exclamation.
There was a mad monarch on the throne, George III.
War was being enacted simultaneously against the French, Sweden, Russia and Denmark.
A population surge saw a increase to just over 10 million.
There were rebellions by labourers who feared the onset of mechanisation and urbanisation.
In artistic and literary terms this was a halcyon age with Jane Austen publishing her "Sense and Sensibility".
In the same year the Lexicographer, Francis Grose and others published the both acclaimed and shunned work entitled "Lexicon Balatronicum", a meticulously researched dictionary of slang, street-talk and downright bawdy and rude language.
It had been compiled from interviews in ale houses, brothels, courts, police stations, jails and many other haunts and hideouts of what we today refer to as the underclass, although in early 19th Century England they represented the common, ordinary citizen.
If you get a chance to read the full text then do so as I have only selected 26 entries in a basic alphabetical order.
I apologise to those in the process of learning English as a second Language for the liberties I have taken but if you look closely you will see the beauty of the spoken word before political correctness and blandness crept in.
Admiral of the Narrow Seas- one who from drunkeness vomits into the lap of the person sitting opposite.
Bawbels- a Mans Testacles
Blanket Hornpipe- the amorous congress, ie love making
Carry Witchet- a riddle
Darkmans Budge- someone who enters a house and lets others in for criminal purpose
Earth Bath- a grave
Famgrasp- shake hands
Galimaufrey- a meal made from scraps in the food cupboard
Hobbledygee- a pace between walk and run
India Wipe- a silk handkerchief
Jubber the Kubber- a deception involving attaching lights to a horse to lure ships onto the shore to be looted
Konoblin Rig- to steal coal from a coal shed
Little Clergyman- a young chimney sweep (in the days when child labour was widespread)
Moon Men- Gypsies or travellers
Nappy Ale- Strong Beer
Olivers Scull- chamber pot, as in portable toilet usually stored under the bed
Pickthank- mischief maker
Queer as Dick's hatband- feeling ill but not sure of the ailment causing it
Rantallion- where the scrotum, when relaxed, is longer than the penis
Shabbaroon- an ill dressed person
Taradiddle- a lie or a fib
Urinal of the Planets- the name for the country of Ireland where it rains a lot
Whiddle- to tell or discover
Xantippe- a scolding wife named after the wife of Socrates
Yaffling- eating
Zounds- an exclamation.
Tuesday, 16 August 2016
Risk Assessment
I am not a betting man and indeed I find the everyday intrusion of blatant gambling or other forms of chance and luck being masqueraded as a fun hobby or harmless pastime very annoying and not a little bit sad. There is nothing as cynical as the health warning that betting companies use as to exonerate themselves from the misery and hardship of gambling as in "when the fun stops....stop".
I can imagine the attraction of the portrayal of a poker game as sexy and sociable to some poor sop sat in his pants, alone in his room and stabbing the keys on his laptop or smart phone desperately trying to get some of that for himself.
The flip side of the coin is however a fascination, bordering on obsession, that I have with the mechanics of probability that a specific event or phenomena may occur.
For example, and in spite of the Lynx Astronaut challenge in recent years to compete for a seat on a souped up outer orbit space bus, the quoted odds of making it into such a selective and elite group is 13,200,000 to 1. If part of the qualifying criteria is for your application to be submitted with vouchers attached to said product deodorant sprays I would probably say that the expenditure may not be worth it in that it would not increase your chances of edging out another potential candidate.
I take some comfort, being a bit of an out-doorsey type person that the chances of being struck by lightning are quoted at 2,320,000 to 1. On this basis of low risk I do not really have to wear my wellington boots every time I venture out although I did panic during a heavy rainstorm when I realised that my best pair, inherited from my late Father in Law has steel toe caps. I expect that these would, in the event of a strike, self eject clear of my illuminated and crackling torso giving me a belated earthing or elated berthing, whatever.
In the course of our everyday lives we unknowingly put ourselves in potentially hazardous situations but it does not warrant too much concern because otherwise we would go nowhere and achieve nothing.
The working day does introduce some immediate risks.
I am led to believe that I run the possibility of a shaving injury once in every 6585 shaves. Pondering this thought just the other morning caused me to loose concentration in that critical area of facial recess just between the lower lip and one of my chins, the highest one. The resultant minor cut but major blood loss was quite dramatic and I drove the first part of the route to work with dampened pieces of toilet tissue affixed giving me a stark image of how stupid I would look with a goatee beard at my age and with my moon-child facial characteristics.
An accident and injury with a chain saw is on shortened odds, apparently, of 4464 to 1 and for that reason I leave mine in the garage and wait for my friends and neighbours to offer to cut back the thick forested boundaries that surround my modest semi detached home. Visitors, penetrating the deep, dark vegetation seem a bit disappointed to find just a house rather than an enchanted castle in the concealed clearing.
I do not play golf but if I did I would probably never have the opportunity to brag about a hole in one as this is at 5000 to 1.
Other sports in which I was once a serious competitor are now undertaken for basic health benefits which means a valid excuse not to break sweat, become out of breathe or purchase the correct clothing and equipment. Case in point, try running around the housing estate in steel toe capped welly boots.
I, like many, was inspired to exercise following the London Games but am totally realistic about not being ready for Rio in 2016. Let's face it, the odds of actually winning a medal at 662,000 to 1 lead me to heartily encourage the other 661,999 people with more motivation and aspirations to get on with whatever they are doing. I am quite happy just to spectate and give typically restrained British style encouragement. "Get in there, etc".
I am not too phased by a 1 in 88,000 probability of dating a Supermodel. My wife, after all, is a 1 in a million so no competition there.
I drive a lot of miles in a week, mostly on familiar local roads, and so am fortunate not to rely on public transportation of any kind. The odds of being killed on a 5-mile bus trip are 500,000,000 to 1 but against this is the sobering prospect of running the risk of a 77 to 1 chance of being injured by transport in general.
I do not fly much apart from heading for overseas holiday destinations and statistically taking a plane remains one of the safest forms of transport. So you would think, but in the process of boarding your next flight try to get a glance at the pilot for any signs of incoherence, clumsiness or fatigue because the odds of getting a drunk one are quite shocking at 117 to 1.
Statistics and odds are interesting in themselves but can be manipulated and exploited to advantage.
It is now a bit of a family joke that when I am asked when a particular movie, album or event took place and this includes my casual participation in the general knowledge round of TV's Mastermind I always say 1979. I have carefully calculated that sticking to this as an informed guess does not betray my ignorance or stupidity in that, working from the Birth of Jesus, I am running only a 1 in 2016 chance of being wholly wrong.
Apparently that is just a bit better odds than fatally slipping in the bath or shower and I would take that any and everyday.
I can imagine the attraction of the portrayal of a poker game as sexy and sociable to some poor sop sat in his pants, alone in his room and stabbing the keys on his laptop or smart phone desperately trying to get some of that for himself.
The flip side of the coin is however a fascination, bordering on obsession, that I have with the mechanics of probability that a specific event or phenomena may occur.
For example, and in spite of the Lynx Astronaut challenge in recent years to compete for a seat on a souped up outer orbit space bus, the quoted odds of making it into such a selective and elite group is 13,200,000 to 1. If part of the qualifying criteria is for your application to be submitted with vouchers attached to said product deodorant sprays I would probably say that the expenditure may not be worth it in that it would not increase your chances of edging out another potential candidate.
I take some comfort, being a bit of an out-doorsey type person that the chances of being struck by lightning are quoted at 2,320,000 to 1. On this basis of low risk I do not really have to wear my wellington boots every time I venture out although I did panic during a heavy rainstorm when I realised that my best pair, inherited from my late Father in Law has steel toe caps. I expect that these would, in the event of a strike, self eject clear of my illuminated and crackling torso giving me a belated earthing or elated berthing, whatever.
In the course of our everyday lives we unknowingly put ourselves in potentially hazardous situations but it does not warrant too much concern because otherwise we would go nowhere and achieve nothing.
The working day does introduce some immediate risks.
I am led to believe that I run the possibility of a shaving injury once in every 6585 shaves. Pondering this thought just the other morning caused me to loose concentration in that critical area of facial recess just between the lower lip and one of my chins, the highest one. The resultant minor cut but major blood loss was quite dramatic and I drove the first part of the route to work with dampened pieces of toilet tissue affixed giving me a stark image of how stupid I would look with a goatee beard at my age and with my moon-child facial characteristics.
An accident and injury with a chain saw is on shortened odds, apparently, of 4464 to 1 and for that reason I leave mine in the garage and wait for my friends and neighbours to offer to cut back the thick forested boundaries that surround my modest semi detached home. Visitors, penetrating the deep, dark vegetation seem a bit disappointed to find just a house rather than an enchanted castle in the concealed clearing.
I do not play golf but if I did I would probably never have the opportunity to brag about a hole in one as this is at 5000 to 1.
Other sports in which I was once a serious competitor are now undertaken for basic health benefits which means a valid excuse not to break sweat, become out of breathe or purchase the correct clothing and equipment. Case in point, try running around the housing estate in steel toe capped welly boots.
I, like many, was inspired to exercise following the London Games but am totally realistic about not being ready for Rio in 2016. Let's face it, the odds of actually winning a medal at 662,000 to 1 lead me to heartily encourage the other 661,999 people with more motivation and aspirations to get on with whatever they are doing. I am quite happy just to spectate and give typically restrained British style encouragement. "Get in there, etc".
I am not too phased by a 1 in 88,000 probability of dating a Supermodel. My wife, after all, is a 1 in a million so no competition there.
I drive a lot of miles in a week, mostly on familiar local roads, and so am fortunate not to rely on public transportation of any kind. The odds of being killed on a 5-mile bus trip are 500,000,000 to 1 but against this is the sobering prospect of running the risk of a 77 to 1 chance of being injured by transport in general.
I do not fly much apart from heading for overseas holiday destinations and statistically taking a plane remains one of the safest forms of transport. So you would think, but in the process of boarding your next flight try to get a glance at the pilot for any signs of incoherence, clumsiness or fatigue because the odds of getting a drunk one are quite shocking at 117 to 1.
Statistics and odds are interesting in themselves but can be manipulated and exploited to advantage.
It is now a bit of a family joke that when I am asked when a particular movie, album or event took place and this includes my casual participation in the general knowledge round of TV's Mastermind I always say 1979. I have carefully calculated that sticking to this as an informed guess does not betray my ignorance or stupidity in that, working from the Birth of Jesus, I am running only a 1 in 2016 chance of being wholly wrong.
Apparently that is just a bit better odds than fatally slipping in the bath or shower and I would take that any and everyday.
Monday, 15 August 2016
A Sporting Life
I am in awe of those currently participating at the Rio Olympics, not just the favourites but all of those who have undoubtedly made sacrifices to attain that level of performance on the world stage.
There have been fantastic physical human exertions in all of the sports and in the case of dressage by some wonderful horses.
I have been blessed in my own life to have partaken in a number of disciplines albeit not to a very competent level although I have represented school, college, club and scout troop in a number of competitions. I was just passing time with my son, himself an athlete, in between Tv coverage of the 31st Olympiad thinking about what sports I have actually had a go at in my 53 years to date;
Here goes;
Archery- once made my own bow and arrow out of a springy branch and my Mother's best wool.
Athletics- owned a pair of second hand (feet) running spikes and did 100m in 11.0 seconds
Badminton - cockled a few shutts at inter-school level and booked an hour on a public court once.
Basketball - I am under 6 foot so does not apply
Beach volleyball - someone kicked sand in my face and I cried a lot which affected performance
Boxing- got into a scrap with the school bully and came off worse, although the geeks liked me for it
Canoe slalom-lost a paddle on the Municipal Boating Lake and just drifted about until rescued
Canoe sprint- was trying to race my sister when the above mishap took place
Cycling BMX- borrowed my little brother's bike to go to the shop for sweets
Cycling mountain bike- went to work and back on one yesterday, scaled the by-pass bridge
Cycling road- got my first best bike aged 18 and went to the shop for sweets
Cycling track- rode down a muddy one once on the way to the sweet shop
Diving- tripped over the kerb and did this into a neighbours hedge
Equestrian-sat on the huge horse of a distant cousin. Did not like it. Rode a donkey on a beach instead
Fencing- long session but none of the posts and panels were level
Field hockey- my big sister had a stick and I stole it to hit stones at kids from the next housing estate
Football- injured myself playing at age 52 whilst imagining I was 22 and Carlos Alberto (Brazil 1970)
Golf- started one 18 hole match but had to give up after losing all of my golf balls in the first nine
Gymnastics- did a forward roly-poly across the living room and broke the coffee table
Handball- I blame this on my poor eyesight to date
Judo- pretended to be a martial arts black belt but the school bully exposed the lie (see boxing)
Marathon swimming- stayed in Council pool after the yellow wristband expired (at least 10 minutes)
Modern pentathlon- sellotaped 20 biro's together to write punishment lines quicker
Rhythmic gymnastics- drank 10 pints of beer believing myself to be Olga Korbut disco dancing
Rowing- third man in an eight on the River Trent but no talent for rowing whatsoever-asked to leave
Rugby sevens- did not play rugby until aged 16 and liked to run away fast from any possible contact
Sailing- capsized on Coniston Water in 1976 and have not been on a small boat since
Shooting- nearly dislocated a shoulder after firing a shotgun
Swimming - got evacuated from the Town Pool after someone floated a pooh in the deep end
Synchronised swimming- does the stampede of bathers in the above count?
Table tennis- that was a very week holiday week on a campsite
Taekwondo- had it once with boiled rice...or was it chips?
Trampoline- the urban myth that someones head came off in the supporting springs put me off this
Triathlon- ran after bloke who had stolen my bike and retrieved it out of the canal where they threw it
Volleyball- see beach volley ball above
Water polo - got discouraged by all of that splashing and having to tread water
Weightlifting- tried to impress at the gym but ended up having to seek physio help
Wrestling- it was actually a bit of an embarrassing scuffle and I had been first in the shop queue
There have been fantastic physical human exertions in all of the sports and in the case of dressage by some wonderful horses.
I have been blessed in my own life to have partaken in a number of disciplines albeit not to a very competent level although I have represented school, college, club and scout troop in a number of competitions. I was just passing time with my son, himself an athlete, in between Tv coverage of the 31st Olympiad thinking about what sports I have actually had a go at in my 53 years to date;
Here goes;
Archery- once made my own bow and arrow out of a springy branch and my Mother's best wool.
Athletics- owned a pair of second hand (feet) running spikes and did 100m in 11.0 seconds
Badminton - cockled a few shutts at inter-school level and booked an hour on a public court once.
Basketball - I am under 6 foot so does not apply
Beach volleyball - someone kicked sand in my face and I cried a lot which affected performance
Boxing- got into a scrap with the school bully and came off worse, although the geeks liked me for it
Canoe slalom-lost a paddle on the Municipal Boating Lake and just drifted about until rescued
Canoe sprint- was trying to race my sister when the above mishap took place
Cycling BMX- borrowed my little brother's bike to go to the shop for sweets
Cycling mountain bike- went to work and back on one yesterday, scaled the by-pass bridge
Cycling road- got my first best bike aged 18 and went to the shop for sweets
Cycling track- rode down a muddy one once on the way to the sweet shop
Diving- tripped over the kerb and did this into a neighbours hedge
Equestrian-sat on the huge horse of a distant cousin. Did not like it. Rode a donkey on a beach instead
Fencing- long session but none of the posts and panels were level
Field hockey- my big sister had a stick and I stole it to hit stones at kids from the next housing estate
Football- injured myself playing at age 52 whilst imagining I was 22 and Carlos Alberto (Brazil 1970)
Golf- started one 18 hole match but had to give up after losing all of my golf balls in the first nine
Gymnastics- did a forward roly-poly across the living room and broke the coffee table
Handball- I blame this on my poor eyesight to date
Judo- pretended to be a martial arts black belt but the school bully exposed the lie (see boxing)
Marathon swimming- stayed in Council pool after the yellow wristband expired (at least 10 minutes)
Modern pentathlon- sellotaped 20 biro's together to write punishment lines quicker
Rhythmic gymnastics- drank 10 pints of beer believing myself to be Olga Korbut disco dancing
Rowing- third man in an eight on the River Trent but no talent for rowing whatsoever-asked to leave
Rugby sevens- did not play rugby until aged 16 and liked to run away fast from any possible contact
Sailing- capsized on Coniston Water in 1976 and have not been on a small boat since
Shooting- nearly dislocated a shoulder after firing a shotgun
Swimming - got evacuated from the Town Pool after someone floated a pooh in the deep end
Synchronised swimming- does the stampede of bathers in the above count?
Table tennis- that was a very week holiday week on a campsite
Taekwondo- had it once with boiled rice...or was it chips?
Trampoline- the urban myth that someones head came off in the supporting springs put me off this
Triathlon- ran after bloke who had stolen my bike and retrieved it out of the canal where they threw it
Volleyball- see beach volley ball above
Water polo - got discouraged by all of that splashing and having to tread water
Weightlifting- tried to impress at the gym but ended up having to seek physio help
Wrestling- it was actually a bit of an embarrassing scuffle and I had been first in the shop queue
Sunday, 14 August 2016
In the pre-Lineker era
There cannot be many foodstuffs which are as eagerly anticipated and satisfying as a bag of potato crisps.
This is a strong opinion that I maintain even now that I am well into my 5th decade. I should perhaps abstain from eating them as much as I do on health and dietary grounds but it is difficult to give up such a tasty and gratifying snack.(Personal Best- 5 packets in succession). I have stopped reading the nutritional information, depressing as it is, and indeed advocate an alternative form of labelling in the form of increasingly smiley faces to indicate the expected levels of pure happiness, well being and contentment.
It is true that a little bit of what you fancy does you good, well unless you are into Russian Roulette or equally and potentially drastic endeavours and activities. My dedication and loyalty as a consumer to the crisp manufacturing sector is in spite of the disappointment and horror that I experienced when younger in a supervised visit and tour around our local potato crisp factory.
As an indication of how long ago this was I can remember that a standard bag of ready salted was two new pence. The packets were, granted, smaller than those currently available. They were also purchased in quite brittle materials and not the high sheen, foil lined for freshness type that we are used to today. There was also quite a limited choice in flavours with the most exotic being confined to salt and vinegar and cheese and onion and not the bewildering range of more recent times.
Most larger towns seemed to have their own crisp manufacturers and with no one concern dominating to the extent of the Mega Corporation that is Walkers and their subsidiaries. The factory I visited was run by Rileys in Scunthorpe. It was a nondescript industrial shed on a large commercial estate.
As soon as you stepped off the bus there was the unmistakable odour of hot cooking oil. This soon became overwhelming and for many weeks after the smell persisted in my hair and clothing even after many baths, showers and laundry cycles.
The production line was short and noisy. A large covered delivery bay was strewn with soil encrusted potatoes which were tipped from vehicles and unrestrained from rolling about and becoming detached from the main large mound. Stray spuds were rounded up by welly boot and skillfully kicked up onto the pile. A further damp, musty and organic smell seemed to be in competition with the dominant odour. From the unceremonious pile of spuds a group of workers shovelled them up jnto what resembled a large washing machine where they were bumped, ground and swilled to remove the caked on debris of field and farm.
The process also abraded the coarse outer skins to leave the bright white flesh exposed to the elements. The process was accelerated at this stage when any delay would lead to the discolouring of the now raw material.
The next stage was fearful to behold . A mass of whirling and razor sharp blades swiftly and efficiently lacerated the pale nuggets of lumpy potato into thin slivers.A few were manually finished by a team of ladies whom you would do your best to avoid on a dark evening, if they were taking their blades home with them after their shift. This was the money making part with a single spud, of negligible individual value, being made into many hundreds of value added slices to eventually be sold by weight at a significant mark-up and profit margin.
Into the bubbling cauldron of antique, dull and cloudy oil went the sliced discs with an automated quick searing cooking process before being lifted out in true fat fryer style to drain and dry.
The flavouring part of the process was, to me, the most disappointing and unremarkable thing to experience.
The cooked crisps were segregated into three smaller production lines and workers in grubby overalls with large shovels simply threw on the dry salt and the brightly coloured powdered chemicals that simulated the experience of the required natural taste very effectively.
The manner in which the crisps were handled throughout the process readily explained the regular discovery of various foreign bodies and debris at the bottom of the packet at that last moment when it would be up-ended in order to extricate the last possible fragments from the tight inside corners.
However, by then it was too late to prevent the bits and pieces of non-potato based entities from entering the digestive system.
They are still my favourite snack after all of the foregoing.
This is a strong opinion that I maintain even now that I am well into my 5th decade. I should perhaps abstain from eating them as much as I do on health and dietary grounds but it is difficult to give up such a tasty and gratifying snack.(Personal Best- 5 packets in succession). I have stopped reading the nutritional information, depressing as it is, and indeed advocate an alternative form of labelling in the form of increasingly smiley faces to indicate the expected levels of pure happiness, well being and contentment.
It is true that a little bit of what you fancy does you good, well unless you are into Russian Roulette or equally and potentially drastic endeavours and activities. My dedication and loyalty as a consumer to the crisp manufacturing sector is in spite of the disappointment and horror that I experienced when younger in a supervised visit and tour around our local potato crisp factory.
As an indication of how long ago this was I can remember that a standard bag of ready salted was two new pence. The packets were, granted, smaller than those currently available. They were also purchased in quite brittle materials and not the high sheen, foil lined for freshness type that we are used to today. There was also quite a limited choice in flavours with the most exotic being confined to salt and vinegar and cheese and onion and not the bewildering range of more recent times.
Most larger towns seemed to have their own crisp manufacturers and with no one concern dominating to the extent of the Mega Corporation that is Walkers and their subsidiaries. The factory I visited was run by Rileys in Scunthorpe. It was a nondescript industrial shed on a large commercial estate.
As soon as you stepped off the bus there was the unmistakable odour of hot cooking oil. This soon became overwhelming and for many weeks after the smell persisted in my hair and clothing even after many baths, showers and laundry cycles.
The production line was short and noisy. A large covered delivery bay was strewn with soil encrusted potatoes which were tipped from vehicles and unrestrained from rolling about and becoming detached from the main large mound. Stray spuds were rounded up by welly boot and skillfully kicked up onto the pile. A further damp, musty and organic smell seemed to be in competition with the dominant odour. From the unceremonious pile of spuds a group of workers shovelled them up jnto what resembled a large washing machine where they were bumped, ground and swilled to remove the caked on debris of field and farm.
The process also abraded the coarse outer skins to leave the bright white flesh exposed to the elements. The process was accelerated at this stage when any delay would lead to the discolouring of the now raw material.
The next stage was fearful to behold . A mass of whirling and razor sharp blades swiftly and efficiently lacerated the pale nuggets of lumpy potato into thin slivers.A few were manually finished by a team of ladies whom you would do your best to avoid on a dark evening, if they were taking their blades home with them after their shift. This was the money making part with a single spud, of negligible individual value, being made into many hundreds of value added slices to eventually be sold by weight at a significant mark-up and profit margin.
Into the bubbling cauldron of antique, dull and cloudy oil went the sliced discs with an automated quick searing cooking process before being lifted out in true fat fryer style to drain and dry.
The flavouring part of the process was, to me, the most disappointing and unremarkable thing to experience.
The cooked crisps were segregated into three smaller production lines and workers in grubby overalls with large shovels simply threw on the dry salt and the brightly coloured powdered chemicals that simulated the experience of the required natural taste very effectively.
The manner in which the crisps were handled throughout the process readily explained the regular discovery of various foreign bodies and debris at the bottom of the packet at that last moment when it would be up-ended in order to extricate the last possible fragments from the tight inside corners.
However, by then it was too late to prevent the bits and pieces of non-potato based entities from entering the digestive system.
They are still my favourite snack after all of the foregoing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)