You must think that I have just either;
1) taken out a membership or Patrons status with Hull Museums,
2) resumed my love/hate affair with the Readers Digest Book of Knowledge,
3) found my old text books on Local Studies from my secondary education , or
4) finally accepted that I am an old, boring fart in reminiscing mood, teary eyed and all that,
given the content of my blogs over the last couple of weeks.
I admit that there is a bit of an antiquated theme going on but I do not make any excuses for finding an interest and relevance in things historic and particularly so where they relate to my home City and local area.
I have come to realise in my amateurish research that this part of Britain, Gods own Country, Yorkshire has been the very cradle of civilisation.
Our Bronze Age ancestors were skilled and adventurous in their crafts and outlook. They could whittle a mean prehistoric figure and simultaneously manufacture an ocean going boat that could expand their known territory beyond the horizon, the Hull wide world.
In the Roman period the conquerors and the resident Parisi Tribe were cultured and educated and left behind the trappings of a wealthy lifestyle including Villa sites and mosaic pavements.
The area was also a front line in the battle against subsequent invaders from Scandinavia who eventually settled and assimilated into the population. Ginger hair and all that.
In the early middle ages a powerful Monastic Order ruled the area and developed the maritime trade from the Port of Wyke, subsequently to become Kingston Upon Hull in the 13th Century under Royal Charter from King Edward 1st.
The commercial value of the region was funnelled through the Humber making fortunes for merchants and landowners.
Hull had a fortified central area at the time of the English Civil War and the confidence to tell King Charles to take a hike when he turned up, mob handed at the town gates demanding ammunition and supplies for his campaign against the Parliamentarians.
Expansion of the urban area was rapid in Georgian times and the industrialised Victorian period. Exports from Hull established the city as a world beater. Major manufacturers were household names. The shipping heritage included large commercial fleets in passenger and freight trade as well as the hazardous pursuit to find and catch, initially, whales then seafish in huge quantities in home fishing grounds and in the Arctic and Scandinavian waters.
The docks were full to capacity for a century or more and it was possible to cross the large lock controlled basins from deck to deck. Old maps show wide expanses of thin black lines crossing the city to the docks or arranged in large holding sidings. The 24 hour passage of rail freight paralysed the city in the constant operation of road crossing gates, reputed to be for the equivalent of around 15 hours in a day before the investment in civil engineering to create the flyovers for the main traffic routes.
The dock basins have largely survived and remain in business although as a pale version in terms of capacity and activity. Some basins are heavily silted up and fortified by discarded shopping trolleys and bicycle frames pending the next hyped speculation for development by the bullshit baffles brains brigade.
The refocus from trade to mainly leisure, recreation and service industries has been painful in human terms with a decimation of the traditional workforce.
At the moment the city is riding the next wave of industrialists with the long-awaited start of a renewable energy centre of excellence on the eastern docklands.
Hull is ready to take up its place at the forefront of enterprise and endeavour in a brave new world.
2017 is to be a momentous year for Hull as it celebrates its prestigious role as UK City of Culture.
Come and see for yourself. All are welcome.
Saturday 31 December 2016
Friday 30 December 2016
James Bond Christmas
Shaken and Stirred
A local hotel is advertising, amongst its seasonal events what they call a 'James Bond Christmas'. Here goes........
Commander Bond lay under the duvet cover. The distant sounding of church bells reminded him that this was indeed Christmas Day.
He had got in at about 9.30pm from yet another of 'M's festive gatherings. It had not been that exciting. He had returned alone. Moneypenny had gone home even earlier, after all she was an old lady and no fun. M's quiche had made him a bit bilious and the dry martini's had not been enough to quell the acidity in his stomach.
He let one go under the heavy winter tog rated bedding and casually wafted it away into the gradually increasing natural light of his flat. What to do for Christmas Day?
He swung a leg out, feeling for the thick pile of the carpet. Pulling his heavy built form upright he found that his Onesie had ridden up during the night with some constriction of his lower abdomen. It was a legitimate reason for a prolonged scratch and re-arrangement of his undercarriage.
The flat was cold and he cursed not mastering the central heating thermostat in the twenty years of his occupation. He had no time for manuals. 'Q' had been kind enough to show him the settings for instantaneous hot water and radiator heating. They had been very similar to the afterburner controls on Little Nelly and a nasty and expensive quarterly gas bill had been the consequence of a degree of confusion accordingly.
A light, healthy breakfast appealed to him. Those long sessions at the Casino in recent years had ruined his physique .He had contracted and only just recovered from a nasty virus from , he suspected, the sampled contents of a small bowl of mint imperials at the coat-check counter near the toilets in Monte Carlo.
He was disappointed by the contents of the fridge. The orange juice was 'with bits' which he had bought from M&S without checking. He infinitely preferred smooth. No yoghurt, no bran or porridge oats so he settled for a lump of cheese and half a packet of cream crackers. The Onesie successfully captured any fragments of the flaky Lancashire and biscuit crumbs in its thick, luxurious velour giving the faux tiger-skin print the appearance of a dandruff outbreak.
Living the life of a bachelor, out of the normal hours of his regimented and disciplined professional assassin duties, the living room was a tip.
He stumbled over a collection of take-away cartons,pizza boxes and discarded clothing-all his. A pint glass full of the discarded shells of pistachio's fell and rolled across the parquet floor gradually decanting its contents. A few well place martial arts kicks cleared the rest of the debris under the DFS corner suite and Ikea wall unit. The DVD's would have to be sorted later from an unruly pile. The movie of 27 Dresses at the top caused him to pause and recall how he had enjoyed the plot and sentiment of such a well structured and acted rom-com.
As Commander Bond dragged the Dyson bagless around the room he made an instinctive check for any signs of intrusion whilst he had been at M's reception. Trip wires and carefully adhered strands of his chest hair were still in situ. It was disappointing not to be the subject of any nefarious intentions during the holiday season. How was he expected to keep his hand in?
The number of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece was well down this year. This was, he mused a combination of how convincing his manufactured death had been earlier in the year resulting in many deletions by Facebook friends and the trend amongst fellow assasins to occasionally have to kill each other.
The unsigned, oversized padded card depicting an alpine scene was definitely from that rascal Blofeld. He had a decent sense of humour under that serious visage of world dominating villainy.
The morning passed quickly. Feeling peckish after his exertions of a man's comprehension of cleaning and hoovering he chipped away at the slab of ice which had consumed his freezer compartment and recovered a couple of ready-meals which would do nicely for his Christmas dinner. The combination of Tikka Masalla and Hot Pot was novel but palatable. Dessert was a bit more of a challenge but the Angel Delight was soon whisked into a firm peak that briefly and erotically reminded him of past conquests.
The controllers at the 'Licenced to Kill' desk deep in the MI5 building received a text from Bond and they duly sent him the TV listings for the rest of the day . He did not expect HM The Queen to expand on their skydiving antics into the Olympic Stadium in her traditional address to the nation. He knew she had enjoyed it on an altogether private level by her whoops and screams and covert and playful cupping of his groin on the descent through the late July sky over London.
Next he knew, it was dark outside the flat. He had dozed off, sprawled across the settee, and with a dribble of spittle running down his chin, a faint tint of butterscotch discernible. Annoyingly he had missed the blockbuster film and no-one had availed him of the operational details of the i-player.
Strictly and Downton thrilled him for the rest of the evening. He would never be asked to participate on the dance floor because of the intricacies of his professional lifestyle.This was a major regret. His enjoyment of the Period Drama had been tempered by his instinctive identification of access and escape roots in the stately home and the best place to set off a diversionary explosion for maximum mayhem amongst the sinister looking below stairs staff, all ex KGB without doubt.
The latter part of the day was now dragging. The invitations to a 'Christmas At Home' from a selection of gangsters, sociopaths and the criminally insane remained on his antique escritoire, opened but not responded to. A threat of menace and a long monologue about blah, blah, ransom, blah, blah, extortion, blah, blah, gold reserves and the prospect of a scorching of nether regions by a high powered laser was now of some attraction when in the past it had just been part and parcel of the job.
It was a pity that he had not forged better links with those he had collaborated with on his missions. That Felix Leiter was a personable chap but obviously had problems of self image based on his frequently radical changes in appearance and skin colour.
He poured himself a Baileys over ice (chipped from the freezer compartment) and gorged himself to the point of being nauseous on the After Eights, a raffle prize at 'M's with the proceeds going to support the families of disavowed agents.
James Bond contemplated starting a diplomatic incident to alleviate his boredom. A convincing non-nuclear conflagration of the Home Counties was well within his capabilities from just the contents of his lock up garage in Twickenham. His life story, auctioned to the tabloids would keep him in the style in which the public perceived him to exist.
In reality and out of abject loneliness he found that crying himself to sleep on Christmas night was a form of light and therapeutic relief.
Commander Bond lay under the duvet cover. The distant sounding of church bells reminded him that this was indeed Christmas Day.
He had got in at about 9.30pm from yet another of 'M's festive gatherings. It had not been that exciting. He had returned alone. Moneypenny had gone home even earlier, after all she was an old lady and no fun. M's quiche had made him a bit bilious and the dry martini's had not been enough to quell the acidity in his stomach.
He let one go under the heavy winter tog rated bedding and casually wafted it away into the gradually increasing natural light of his flat. What to do for Christmas Day?
He swung a leg out, feeling for the thick pile of the carpet. Pulling his heavy built form upright he found that his Onesie had ridden up during the night with some constriction of his lower abdomen. It was a legitimate reason for a prolonged scratch and re-arrangement of his undercarriage.
The flat was cold and he cursed not mastering the central heating thermostat in the twenty years of his occupation. He had no time for manuals. 'Q' had been kind enough to show him the settings for instantaneous hot water and radiator heating. They had been very similar to the afterburner controls on Little Nelly and a nasty and expensive quarterly gas bill had been the consequence of a degree of confusion accordingly.
A light, healthy breakfast appealed to him. Those long sessions at the Casino in recent years had ruined his physique .He had contracted and only just recovered from a nasty virus from , he suspected, the sampled contents of a small bowl of mint imperials at the coat-check counter near the toilets in Monte Carlo.
He was disappointed by the contents of the fridge. The orange juice was 'with bits' which he had bought from M&S without checking. He infinitely preferred smooth. No yoghurt, no bran or porridge oats so he settled for a lump of cheese and half a packet of cream crackers. The Onesie successfully captured any fragments of the flaky Lancashire and biscuit crumbs in its thick, luxurious velour giving the faux tiger-skin print the appearance of a dandruff outbreak.
Living the life of a bachelor, out of the normal hours of his regimented and disciplined professional assassin duties, the living room was a tip.
He stumbled over a collection of take-away cartons,pizza boxes and discarded clothing-all his. A pint glass full of the discarded shells of pistachio's fell and rolled across the parquet floor gradually decanting its contents. A few well place martial arts kicks cleared the rest of the debris under the DFS corner suite and Ikea wall unit. The DVD's would have to be sorted later from an unruly pile. The movie of 27 Dresses at the top caused him to pause and recall how he had enjoyed the plot and sentiment of such a well structured and acted rom-com.
As Commander Bond dragged the Dyson bagless around the room he made an instinctive check for any signs of intrusion whilst he had been at M's reception. Trip wires and carefully adhered strands of his chest hair were still in situ. It was disappointing not to be the subject of any nefarious intentions during the holiday season. How was he expected to keep his hand in?
The number of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece was well down this year. This was, he mused a combination of how convincing his manufactured death had been earlier in the year resulting in many deletions by Facebook friends and the trend amongst fellow assasins to occasionally have to kill each other.
The unsigned, oversized padded card depicting an alpine scene was definitely from that rascal Blofeld. He had a decent sense of humour under that serious visage of world dominating villainy.
The morning passed quickly. Feeling peckish after his exertions of a man's comprehension of cleaning and hoovering he chipped away at the slab of ice which had consumed his freezer compartment and recovered a couple of ready-meals which would do nicely for his Christmas dinner. The combination of Tikka Masalla and Hot Pot was novel but palatable. Dessert was a bit more of a challenge but the Angel Delight was soon whisked into a firm peak that briefly and erotically reminded him of past conquests.
The controllers at the 'Licenced to Kill' desk deep in the MI5 building received a text from Bond and they duly sent him the TV listings for the rest of the day . He did not expect HM The Queen to expand on their skydiving antics into the Olympic Stadium in her traditional address to the nation. He knew she had enjoyed it on an altogether private level by her whoops and screams and covert and playful cupping of his groin on the descent through the late July sky over London.
Next he knew, it was dark outside the flat. He had dozed off, sprawled across the settee, and with a dribble of spittle running down his chin, a faint tint of butterscotch discernible. Annoyingly he had missed the blockbuster film and no-one had availed him of the operational details of the i-player.
Strictly and Downton thrilled him for the rest of the evening. He would never be asked to participate on the dance floor because of the intricacies of his professional lifestyle.This was a major regret. His enjoyment of the Period Drama had been tempered by his instinctive identification of access and escape roots in the stately home and the best place to set off a diversionary explosion for maximum mayhem amongst the sinister looking below stairs staff, all ex KGB without doubt.
The latter part of the day was now dragging. The invitations to a 'Christmas At Home' from a selection of gangsters, sociopaths and the criminally insane remained on his antique escritoire, opened but not responded to. A threat of menace and a long monologue about blah, blah, ransom, blah, blah, extortion, blah, blah, gold reserves and the prospect of a scorching of nether regions by a high powered laser was now of some attraction when in the past it had just been part and parcel of the job.
It was a pity that he had not forged better links with those he had collaborated with on his missions. That Felix Leiter was a personable chap but obviously had problems of self image based on his frequently radical changes in appearance and skin colour.
He poured himself a Baileys over ice (chipped from the freezer compartment) and gorged himself to the point of being nauseous on the After Eights, a raffle prize at 'M's with the proceeds going to support the families of disavowed agents.
James Bond contemplated starting a diplomatic incident to alleviate his boredom. A convincing non-nuclear conflagration of the Home Counties was well within his capabilities from just the contents of his lock up garage in Twickenham. His life story, auctioned to the tabloids would keep him in the style in which the public perceived him to exist.
In reality and out of abject loneliness he found that crying himself to sleep on Christmas night was a form of light and therapeutic relief.
As always, he firmly believed that it would be different next year....for sure.
Thursday 29 December 2016
Around the Block
Change happens.
There is nowhere that this is more noticeable than in our home towns and cities. It can be a slow process, over a few generations of natural transition or rapidly where the catalyst may be war or a major population shift.
In my schooldays the geography, and later at College the urban environment ,syllabus illustrated the development of cities on a planned basis. The concentric model had a core in a Central Business District working outwards to the residential suburbs. The sector model had less uniformity but still with the same social and economic uses. In fact, most of our modern cities have more of a multiple nucleii arrangement representing different rates of growth and development, following the pattern of settlements that had, in their early days their own autonomy before eventually merging with neighbouring districts into a large urban sprawl or conurbation.
This theoretical basis can be seen on a much smaller scale in our own local areas.
I came across a perfect illustration of urban change just today with the discovery of a grainy black and white photograph of a short block of properties. By way of background I feel it important to show the specific terrace on an old Ordnance Survey map from 1910.
The block consists of four properties, all rather irregular in shape to their rear two storey and single storey wings, set back with shallow forecourts to, in 1910, a rough surfaced but still busy roadway leading westwards to the Town Square, around which there are everyday shops and services.
There is nowhere that this is more noticeable than in our home towns and cities. It can be a slow process, over a few generations of natural transition or rapidly where the catalyst may be war or a major population shift.
In my schooldays the geography, and later at College the urban environment ,syllabus illustrated the development of cities on a planned basis. The concentric model had a core in a Central Business District working outwards to the residential suburbs. The sector model had less uniformity but still with the same social and economic uses. In fact, most of our modern cities have more of a multiple nucleii arrangement representing different rates of growth and development, following the pattern of settlements that had, in their early days their own autonomy before eventually merging with neighbouring districts into a large urban sprawl or conurbation.
This theoretical basis can be seen on a much smaller scale in our own local areas.
I came across a perfect illustration of urban change just today with the discovery of a grainy black and white photograph of a short block of properties. By way of background I feel it important to show the specific terrace on an old Ordnance Survey map from 1910.
 |
| The subject block is shown directly above |
To the north there lies open countryside which did not come under development for housing until well into the 1950's. A landmark feature was the cutely named Sniggle Bridge where the road passed over a small stream although shortly after this O.S Map issue this watercourse was greatly widened to form an important land drain.
Just to the south and east is a cul de sac of late Victorian terraced houses providing mainly rented accommodation for the working class or for those commuting to the City which is a bumpy 5 miles distant by horse drawn tram or on the, in contrast, smooth and fast steam rail line.
The old photograph shows the terrace in mixed use. It is likely to have been purposely built as seen representing a speculative development by a builder or businessman to maximise rental income. As well as the two end terraced shops units which will have had proprietors living quarters behind and above there are two quite grand looking houses in the middle. In Britain in that era actual home ownership was rare and private landlords were able to earn a decent income from lettings. In this case there will have been at least four incomes.
 |
| The terrace, circa 1910 |
The block has the appearance of having been recently erected with clean brickwork and tidy slate roofs and stacks. Windows are in the sash cord hung style and although in black and white there is a suggestion of matching paintwork along the terrace, again synonymous with a single landlord/owner.
Shop facades are quite traditional although there is not enough definition to identify the trades carried on from the premises. The small group of people may be a single family with top-hatted father, formally dressed wife and eldest daughter and presentable children. Sunday would be a likely day given the smart attire as though the party were going to, or leaving church or chapel.
To the foreground right is a brick wall which marks the previously mentioned Sniggle Bridge.
Between the era of the old photograph and the one of the same block that I took just today there were significant changes in British Society, including two world wars, a boom and bust cycle for the economy and in terms of demographics and population.
I would say that the current appearance of the terrace is fairly representative of contemporary society and to be found in every city, town and suburb. The original photo will have been taken using a bulky, tripod mounted camera. I took the one below with a smartphone. The black and white image was, I felt important to link the two images.
 |
| 2016
The terrace is barely recognisable from its original appearance, perhaps only by the roof profile and chimneys.
All four of the constituent properties are in commercial use as a Sun Bed Shop, Takeaway, former Pawnbrokers and a Convenience Store and with ancillary rooms or flats above. There is now a sizeable population in surrounding streets and the post war built Council Estate on the opposite side of the road supporting the local businesses. Only one slate roof has survived the years and the frontages have been flushed off above the shop fronts following removal of the earlier and distinctive bays. Gone are the forecourt gardens in favour of an open plan area merged into the public pavement. The appearance is rather cluttered with signage and street furniture but typical for an urban scene.
It is unfortunate that there are no people in the current photo as fashions and depicted relationships will have been of interesting contrast to the 1910 family group. I like to think that relatives of that family may still live in the local area.
It is important for such memories to be recorded not just on celluloid or in digital format but through first hand accounts and by word of mouth through the generations.
|
Wednesday 28 December 2016
Da Doo Ron Ron
Just before Christmas, when I was growing up in the 1960's and 70's I can recall that the television advertisements were either for toys or household gadgets.
Those two decades were highly innovative where toys and gadgets were concerned mainly through the advances in plastics and the emergence of the Far East, in particular Hong Kong for the manufacture of anything that could be made out of the man made material.
In recent years, in the UK, we have been bombarded by quick fire TV Commercials by, mainly, the company JML who specialise in domestic tools and everyday kitchen and living aids which have ranged from beaded car cushions to plastic carrier bag handles, door mounted fly screens to mops and buckets.
However, in my early years this realm of entrepreneurial activity was firmly held by RONCO the American Corporate concern founded by Ron Popeil in 1964. The subsequent stream of marketing commercials for the company's products soon became pervasive and memorable, in part thanks to Popeil's personal sales pitches.
The names "Ronco" and "Popeil" and the suffix "-O-Matic" (used in many early product names) became icons of American popular culture and were often referred to by comedians introducing fictional gadgets.
In the early Corporate years the company chiefly sold inventions developed by Popeil's father, Samuel "S.J." Popeil. Best known and selling products included the Veg-O-Matic and the Popeil Pocket Fisherman, a small reeled angling pole.
During the 1970s, Ron Popeil began developing products on his own to sell through Ronco.
In August, 2005, Popeil announced his sale of the company to Fi-Tek VII, a Denver holding company, for $55 million. He was expected to continue working with the company as spokesman and product developer, but sold the company in order to have more time with his family. Fi-Tek VII changed its name to Ronco, and maintained the right of first look for Popeil's future inventions.
Ronco still holds the trademark on the phrase "set it and forget it" used in the commercials for many of the products. The phrase has gone on to be used in popular culture.
Consumer tastes and expectations do change with time and sadly, on June 14th, 2007, Ronco filed for bankruptcy court with its creditors, the largest of which was Popeil himself, owed US$32.7 million.
The legacy of Ronco was remarkable and although many of the products may not have designed for durability and ease of repair it is likely that kitchens, garages, sheds and lofts spaces in many homes may have a collection of mothballed products, that is of course if they are not still in some form of daily domestic use.
Search your drawers, cupboards and storage boxes for any of the following.
Chop-O-Matic: a hand food processor. In true showman style this was advertised as "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to show you the greatest kitchen appliance ever made ... All your onions chopped to perfection without shedding a single tear."
Dial-O-Matic: successor to the Veg-O-Matic (and very similar to a mandolin slicer). "Slice a tomato so thin it only has one side, When chopping onions with this machine, the only tears you will shed will be tears of joy."
Mr. Microphone: a short-range hand-held radio transmitter that would broadcast over an FM radio. Any nearby radio(s) would therefore amplify the sound coming from the Mr. Microphone. In the ad, a convertible rolls past with the FM radio turned up. A young male occupant of the vehicle ,seeing an attractive girl transmits over a Mr. Microphone, "Hey, good-lookin', we'll be back to pick ya up later!" Mr. Microphone is referenced in Police Academy 2, and is parodied in The Simpsons episode "Radio Bart".
Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler: A simple but ingenious innovation ."Gets rid of those slimy egg whites in your scrambled eggs." Popeil said the inspiration for this product was his lifelong revulsion toward incompletely blended scrambled eggs.
Showtime Rotisserie: a small rotisserie oven designed for cooking smaller sized portions of meat such as chicken and lamb.
Solid Flavour Injector: used to inject solid ingredients into meat or other foods. A similar product, called the Liquid Flavor Injector, allowed for the injecting of liquid ingredients into meat, e.g., lime juice into chicken.
GLH-9: hair in a can (Great Looking Hair Formula #9)
Drain Buster: I think it was a sort of syringe type device to clear toilet blockages.
Smokeless Ashtray: a device which used an integrated fan to draw smoke away from the materials in the ashtray.
Electric Food Dehydrator: The strapline was "Instead of giving kids candy, give them apple snacks or banana chips. And it's great if you're a hunter, fisherman, backpacker, or camper. Makes beef jerky for around $3 a pound, and you know what went in it, because you made it yourself!"
Ronco Popeil Automatic Pasta Maker: Sounds a bit boring but very useful.
Ronco Rhinestone Stud Setter: A bit of an era-specific product but at the time marketed as changing everyday clothing into exciting fashions.........................and you don't have to spend a fortune."
The Cap Snaffler: a multi-functional bottle opener. "Snaffles caps off any size jug, bottle, or jar ... and it really, really works"
We should not forget the Glass Froster, Bagel Cutter, Donut Maker, Buttoneer, Record Vacuum and French Fry press.
Even if you have never owned or used any of the extensive catalogue of products it is clear that Ron and his Co certainly made a great and valid contribution to lessen the monotony and mundanity of our everyday chores and tasks.
Those two decades were highly innovative where toys and gadgets were concerned mainly through the advances in plastics and the emergence of the Far East, in particular Hong Kong for the manufacture of anything that could be made out of the man made material.
In recent years, in the UK, we have been bombarded by quick fire TV Commercials by, mainly, the company JML who specialise in domestic tools and everyday kitchen and living aids which have ranged from beaded car cushions to plastic carrier bag handles, door mounted fly screens to mops and buckets.
However, in my early years this realm of entrepreneurial activity was firmly held by RONCO the American Corporate concern founded by Ron Popeil in 1964. The subsequent stream of marketing commercials for the company's products soon became pervasive and memorable, in part thanks to Popeil's personal sales pitches.
The names "Ronco" and "Popeil" and the suffix "-O-Matic" (used in many early product names) became icons of American popular culture and were often referred to by comedians introducing fictional gadgets.
In the early Corporate years the company chiefly sold inventions developed by Popeil's father, Samuel "S.J." Popeil. Best known and selling products included the Veg-O-Matic and the Popeil Pocket Fisherman, a small reeled angling pole.
During the 1970s, Ron Popeil began developing products on his own to sell through Ronco.
In August, 2005, Popeil announced his sale of the company to Fi-Tek VII, a Denver holding company, for $55 million. He was expected to continue working with the company as spokesman and product developer, but sold the company in order to have more time with his family. Fi-Tek VII changed its name to Ronco, and maintained the right of first look for Popeil's future inventions.
Ronco still holds the trademark on the phrase "set it and forget it" used in the commercials for many of the products. The phrase has gone on to be used in popular culture.
Consumer tastes and expectations do change with time and sadly, on June 14th, 2007, Ronco filed for bankruptcy court with its creditors, the largest of which was Popeil himself, owed US$32.7 million.
The legacy of Ronco was remarkable and although many of the products may not have designed for durability and ease of repair it is likely that kitchens, garages, sheds and lofts spaces in many homes may have a collection of mothballed products, that is of course if they are not still in some form of daily domestic use.
Search your drawers, cupboards and storage boxes for any of the following.
Chop-O-Matic: a hand food processor. In true showman style this was advertised as "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to show you the greatest kitchen appliance ever made ... All your onions chopped to perfection without shedding a single tear."
Dial-O-Matic: successor to the Veg-O-Matic (and very similar to a mandolin slicer). "Slice a tomato so thin it only has one side, When chopping onions with this machine, the only tears you will shed will be tears of joy."
Mr. Microphone: a short-range hand-held radio transmitter that would broadcast over an FM radio. Any nearby radio(s) would therefore amplify the sound coming from the Mr. Microphone. In the ad, a convertible rolls past with the FM radio turned up. A young male occupant of the vehicle ,seeing an attractive girl transmits over a Mr. Microphone, "Hey, good-lookin', we'll be back to pick ya up later!" Mr. Microphone is referenced in Police Academy 2, and is parodied in The Simpsons episode "Radio Bart".
Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler: A simple but ingenious innovation ."Gets rid of those slimy egg whites in your scrambled eggs." Popeil said the inspiration for this product was his lifelong revulsion toward incompletely blended scrambled eggs.
Showtime Rotisserie: a small rotisserie oven designed for cooking smaller sized portions of meat such as chicken and lamb.
Solid Flavour Injector: used to inject solid ingredients into meat or other foods. A similar product, called the Liquid Flavor Injector, allowed for the injecting of liquid ingredients into meat, e.g., lime juice into chicken.
GLH-9: hair in a can (Great Looking Hair Formula #9)
Drain Buster: I think it was a sort of syringe type device to clear toilet blockages.
Smokeless Ashtray: a device which used an integrated fan to draw smoke away from the materials in the ashtray.
Electric Food Dehydrator: The strapline was "Instead of giving kids candy, give them apple snacks or banana chips. And it's great if you're a hunter, fisherman, backpacker, or camper. Makes beef jerky for around $3 a pound, and you know what went in it, because you made it yourself!"
Ronco Popeil Automatic Pasta Maker: Sounds a bit boring but very useful.
Ronco Rhinestone Stud Setter: A bit of an era-specific product but at the time marketed as changing everyday clothing into exciting fashions.........................and you don't have to spend a fortune."
The Cap Snaffler: a multi-functional bottle opener. "Snaffles caps off any size jug, bottle, or jar ... and it really, really works"
We should not forget the Glass Froster, Bagel Cutter, Donut Maker, Buttoneer, Record Vacuum and French Fry press.
Even if you have never owned or used any of the extensive catalogue of products it is clear that Ron and his Co certainly made a great and valid contribution to lessen the monotony and mundanity of our everyday chores and tasks.
Tuesday 27 December 2016
The Santa Clause
Most fancy dress costumes come with no restrictions on behaviour, modesty or historical authenticity but then again that is the purpose of buying or hiring an outfit, it is a form of escapism, exhibitionism and a good excuse for some to act shamefully, recklessly and lewdly.
There is however one exception to the norm.
The decision to wear a Father Christmas suit automatically enrols you into the ethical code of that particular office.
I have briefly experienced the love, affection and respect embodied by the traditional Red Suit over the Festive Season and I have found it humbling and inspirational.
Although I have only worn the traditional robes three times, on each occasion I have sensed that my very amateur and comic-book impersonation has filled a need in those I have crossed paths with, be they family, friends or just strangers in the street.
As for the historical background, well, the bright colours are widely thought to derive from the original Saint Nicholas, who was the Bishop of Myra, now in Turkey, in the 4th Century. Red and white were the hues of traditional bishop robes, although some historians argue that he originally dressed in different colours.
Saint Nick was famous for his kindness to children and generosity to the poor. After he died his legend grew and he is still remembered in some countries on 6th December.
In medieval England and for centuries afterwards, the figure of Father Christmas represented the spirit of benevolence and good cheer. In the 19th Century Dutch emigrants took their story of a legendary gift-bringer called Sinterklaas to America, where he eventually became known as Santa Claus.
Whilst the names and legends may differ, there has been little variation in the red and white outfits worn. However, over time the bishop cloak and mitre were replaced by the fur-trimmed suit. There are records of Santa wearing various coloured costumes, but red was by far the most popular and became known as the quintessential Father Christmas outfit.
Evidently then, Father Christmas is an evolutionary creation, influenced by folklore, legend and religion . He did not spring to life at a certain time, fully formed and wearing a red and white suit. It wasn't really until the late 19th Century that the image now recognised across the world became set.
In recent history the red and white suit has been fixed and standardised by certain publishing events and advertising campaigns. Between 1863 and 1886, Harper's Weekly magazine ran a series of engravings by Thomas Nast. He developed an image of Santa very close to the modern-day one. From these engravings the concept of Santa's workshop and the idea of writing letters to him also developed. There is the strong association with the modern representation of Father Christmas with the Coca-Cola Corporation whose involvement began in in the early 1930's when the Swedish artist Haddon Sundblom started drawing ads for Coke featuring a fat Santa in a red coat trimmed with fur and secured with a large belt.
Whatever the source, it is through the benevolent figure of Father Christmas that children absorb the traditions of the season and then, in their later adult lives, they perpetuate the story for their own children or young relatives and friends.
I have seen first hand, in taking on the responsibility of wearing my shop bought suit, the total acceptance of Father Christmas in situations of modern life where otherwise there would be no human contact, conversation or empathy.
On a stormy weather accompanied short walk from my car (oops, VW Sleigh) to deliver family presents on Christmas Eve I was stopped on the pavement by a lady who took great obvious joy from handing back my fur trimmed hat that hat blown off in the prevailing gale. Passing motorists beeped their horns and revellers at a pub shouted out greetings. In the car park of my local Tesco I was asked to pose for a photograph by a young woman who was both shocked and thrilled to glimpse Santa. The children of a family friend, taking in their first ever Christmas in England shrieked in unison when my pale parody of Santa Claus called on them to hand over presents just hours before the real man was due to call.
On Boxing Day I was enlisted to spring a surprise on family spending the holidays in the dramatic surroundings of Scarborough on the North Sea Coast. On another short walk from car to the hotel I was inundated with requests for a wave, a message or a picture. I received, by default, complete licence to wander around the splendid premises of the hotel, such is the total acceptance of Father Christmas.
The warm feeling inside me, discounting the extremely high temperatures generated by the plush velvety suit over my day clothes, was a privilege to behold.
I have put the outfit back into its original packaging and it will sit up in the loft until December 2017.
By that I mean the 1st December 2017 as I certainly intend to get a lot of use out of it next year....for all of the best reasons, of course.
There is however one exception to the norm.
The decision to wear a Father Christmas suit automatically enrols you into the ethical code of that particular office.
I have briefly experienced the love, affection and respect embodied by the traditional Red Suit over the Festive Season and I have found it humbling and inspirational.
Although I have only worn the traditional robes three times, on each occasion I have sensed that my very amateur and comic-book impersonation has filled a need in those I have crossed paths with, be they family, friends or just strangers in the street.
As for the historical background, well, the bright colours are widely thought to derive from the original Saint Nicholas, who was the Bishop of Myra, now in Turkey, in the 4th Century. Red and white were the hues of traditional bishop robes, although some historians argue that he originally dressed in different colours.
Saint Nick was famous for his kindness to children and generosity to the poor. After he died his legend grew and he is still remembered in some countries on 6th December.
In medieval England and for centuries afterwards, the figure of Father Christmas represented the spirit of benevolence and good cheer. In the 19th Century Dutch emigrants took their story of a legendary gift-bringer called Sinterklaas to America, where he eventually became known as Santa Claus.
Whilst the names and legends may differ, there has been little variation in the red and white outfits worn. However, over time the bishop cloak and mitre were replaced by the fur-trimmed suit. There are records of Santa wearing various coloured costumes, but red was by far the most popular and became known as the quintessential Father Christmas outfit.
Evidently then, Father Christmas is an evolutionary creation, influenced by folklore, legend and religion . He did not spring to life at a certain time, fully formed and wearing a red and white suit. It wasn't really until the late 19th Century that the image now recognised across the world became set.
In recent history the red and white suit has been fixed and standardised by certain publishing events and advertising campaigns. Between 1863 and 1886, Harper's Weekly magazine ran a series of engravings by Thomas Nast. He developed an image of Santa very close to the modern-day one. From these engravings the concept of Santa's workshop and the idea of writing letters to him also developed. There is the strong association with the modern representation of Father Christmas with the Coca-Cola Corporation whose involvement began in in the early 1930's when the Swedish artist Haddon Sundblom started drawing ads for Coke featuring a fat Santa in a red coat trimmed with fur and secured with a large belt.
Whatever the source, it is through the benevolent figure of Father Christmas that children absorb the traditions of the season and then, in their later adult lives, they perpetuate the story for their own children or young relatives and friends.
I have seen first hand, in taking on the responsibility of wearing my shop bought suit, the total acceptance of Father Christmas in situations of modern life where otherwise there would be no human contact, conversation or empathy.
On a stormy weather accompanied short walk from my car (oops, VW Sleigh) to deliver family presents on Christmas Eve I was stopped on the pavement by a lady who took great obvious joy from handing back my fur trimmed hat that hat blown off in the prevailing gale. Passing motorists beeped their horns and revellers at a pub shouted out greetings. In the car park of my local Tesco I was asked to pose for a photograph by a young woman who was both shocked and thrilled to glimpse Santa. The children of a family friend, taking in their first ever Christmas in England shrieked in unison when my pale parody of Santa Claus called on them to hand over presents just hours before the real man was due to call.
On Boxing Day I was enlisted to spring a surprise on family spending the holidays in the dramatic surroundings of Scarborough on the North Sea Coast. On another short walk from car to the hotel I was inundated with requests for a wave, a message or a picture. I received, by default, complete licence to wander around the splendid premises of the hotel, such is the total acceptance of Father Christmas.
The warm feeling inside me, discounting the extremely high temperatures generated by the plush velvety suit over my day clothes, was a privilege to behold.
I have put the outfit back into its original packaging and it will sit up in the loft until December 2017.
By that I mean the 1st December 2017 as I certainly intend to get a lot of use out of it next year....for all of the best reasons, of course.
Monday 26 December 2016
Red it!
Preparing for tomorrows's Blog about "The Great Father Christmas Experiment"
With the suit comes great responsibility
Join me if you can
Sunday 25 December 2016
Jimmy and Donna-Tear jerkers
It has happened. It was snowing hard in Bedford Falls. Mary Bailey had rallied round the good townsfolk and they came up with the required funds to make up the unfortunate deficit at the Savings and Loans. George Bailey looked at his small ginger hair daughter and thanked Clarence, his guardian angel to the sound of a bell tinkling on the tree.
I cried. I always cry.
The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening before Christmas Eve. It takes something special to break through the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas. Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of biscuits, Bombay mix, Twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.
The unseasonably warm mid to late December weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to instill myself with the spirit of Christmas.
There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the garage and to the local tip.
I learnt again, and very fast, the art of wallpapering.
I am of that generation who were only educated in one dimension. A simple task therefore took on the role of a fantastical escapade with accompanying tools of spirit level, laser measurer, secret coded pencil marks, frequent re-calculation of widths and drops, fiddly surgical precision trimming using toy scissors, gallons of border adhesive, alternate bouts of euphoria and self doubt, some seamless and cosmetic patching, a few pints of strong tea, use of the best car boot sale table top, bad language, brow mopping, quality control by squinting.
Having completed the short length of wall in something over 5 hours I then dreamt that night that the wallpaper all fell off. The dream was in fact based on a true event some years earlier. I had basked in the glory of my wife's admiration and amazement for the complete wallpapering of our bedroom. I felt it too was a job well done. The paper was easy to hang following its submersion in a water filled rectangular plastic container to activate the pre-pasted side. The four walls of the bedroom had a thin veneer of polystyrene to reduce heat loss through the old solid brick walls. The paper bonded well. The finished effect was pleasing. Unfortunately, the paper I had purchased was not in fact the pre-pasted type. It was only clinging on to the insulated lining by a wet friction effect. Over the hours of darkness the physics faltered and the morning light revealed not the night before's blue decorative hue but the stark white of the warm layer. The demoralising effect of this sharp fall from grace in the eyes of a loving spouse took many years to overcome.
There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas. I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church. The tree for the living room was carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings were brought down from the loft. Two bags of logs were purchased together with some very nice, pre-washed and sorted smokeless fuel and a bag of kindling. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off.
We are just about prepared.
Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of much austerity and recession on our doorstep. It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.
I cried. I always cry.
The spirit and meaning of Christmas has at last arrived for me late in the evening before Christmas Eve. It takes something special to break through the stupifying and numbing influences on the mind and body that are an inevitable consequence of modern working life and of a commercial hijacking of the true meaning of the celebration of Christmas. Supermarket aisles stocked from October with selection boxes, tins of biscuits, Bombay mix, Twiglets, chocolate reindeer, santa's and snowmen. Canned music from every angle.
The unseasonably warm mid to late December weather caused me to seek out a throw-away-all-in-one barbecue for a balmy weekend afternoon. I could not get one but no problem at all to get 3 for the price of 2 festively packaged cheesy nibbles. I have not been coasting through the build up to the celebratory feast. I have been trying sincerely to instill myself with the spirit of Christmas.
There has been a lot to do around the house to prepare for the return of the full compliment of the family. Painting, decorating, tidying, ruthless de-junking, in and out of the garage and to the local tip.
I learnt again, and very fast, the art of wallpapering.
I am of that generation who were only educated in one dimension. A simple task therefore took on the role of a fantastical escapade with accompanying tools of spirit level, laser measurer, secret coded pencil marks, frequent re-calculation of widths and drops, fiddly surgical precision trimming using toy scissors, gallons of border adhesive, alternate bouts of euphoria and self doubt, some seamless and cosmetic patching, a few pints of strong tea, use of the best car boot sale table top, bad language, brow mopping, quality control by squinting.
Having completed the short length of wall in something over 5 hours I then dreamt that night that the wallpaper all fell off. The dream was in fact based on a true event some years earlier. I had basked in the glory of my wife's admiration and amazement for the complete wallpapering of our bedroom. I felt it too was a job well done. The paper was easy to hang following its submersion in a water filled rectangular plastic container to activate the pre-pasted side. The four walls of the bedroom had a thin veneer of polystyrene to reduce heat loss through the old solid brick walls. The paper bonded well. The finished effect was pleasing. Unfortunately, the paper I had purchased was not in fact the pre-pasted type. It was only clinging on to the insulated lining by a wet friction effect. Over the hours of darkness the physics faltered and the morning light revealed not the night before's blue decorative hue but the stark white of the warm layer. The demoralising effect of this sharp fall from grace in the eyes of a loving spouse took many years to overcome.
There are other triggers to activate the meaning of Christmas. I witnessed the lighting of the first candle on the Advent Crown at church. The tree for the living room was carefully selected on the basis of a good strong Nordic profile. Boxes and bags of decorations and trimmings were brought down from the loft. Two bags of logs were purchased together with some very nice, pre-washed and sorted smokeless fuel and a bag of kindling. The fridge and freezer cleared and cleaned. The children, well young adults, are now all present and renewing their family ties and bonds that have been stretched by distance and life pressures. It is great to hear them talking, laughing and sharing their individual experiences for which we are all better off.
We are just about prepared.
Above all we are thankful for the position we are in at a time of much austerity and recession on our doorstep. It is a time for family, friendship and taking stock of what we have of true value and worth in our lives.
Saturday 24 December 2016
Friday 23 December 2016
Suit You Sir!
Christmas 2016. I felt that it was time to buy myself a new suit.
The old one, my faithful daily work attire, was giving a few clues that it should be retired to the back of the wardrobe.
The turn-up on the right trouser leg had worked loose and was hanging down. Occasionally a bit of shirt tail would find its way through the floppy zipper, displaying the early stages of metal fatigue. The back pocket button had long since pinged, unceremoniously, in someone's house. Countless seat-belted driving miles had abraded the left shoulder of the jacket to give it an unhealthy glossy sheen.
I was also getting some feedback from attending meetings that my hoped-for good first impression( if indeed it is right to judge people on their suit and shoes) was waning a bit.
Most of my working wear purchases have been impulsive or at best reluctant but what with Christmas approaching and with thinking ahead to a New Year the time felt right to go suit shopping.
The City Centre was typically bustling, even for a thursday, as I started my first circuit taking in the usual Menswear and Department Stores.
Subconsciously, although based on previous experiences I was working down in the hierarchy of outfitters. If I said that the final destination, if all other options failed ,would be a Charity Shop then you will get the idea.
As a fresh faced entrant to the world of employment, now many years ago I had suffered humiliation and deflation at the hands of a major fashion chain which I hesitate to mention- but it was Jaeger.
I had really liked their two piece suits and so with £300 cash in pocket (now about £800 in today's monies) I had made a direct line to a local store. The rather snooty male sales assistant looked at me , and the closest analogy I can think of now is, as though he were female, in Beverly Hills ,USA and I were Julia Roberts in the movie Pretty Woman.
I was as near as laughed out of the shop when I blurted out my budget. That put me off the high end tailoring sector apart from a gleeful return to a Jaeger Store just this year when I bought a shirt as part of their closing down sale. He who laughs last and all of that.
That bad experience sent me initially to a Factory Shop outlet for subsequent purchases. A pair of trousers intended for British Airways Cabin Staff, complete with BA label did me well with a blazer for a couple of years but thereafter I went back to the classic 2-piece with purchases from Next (very undersized-possibly styled on skinny Italian males), Paul Smith (a completely impractical pale coloured tropical travel suit), Marks and Spencer (solid, dependable, boring- so a perfect match then), Moss Brothers (Retail Outlet seconds with pockets sewn up) and Greenwoods (a bit fuddy duddy).
Latterly I have frequented Slaters Menswear and have not been disappointed. I in fact have a special relationship with that particular Company in that I won, amazingly, one of their national monthly raffles which allowed me to acquire a brand new, smart suit for my Father's Funeral.
I trailed around the aforementioned retailers but nothing really caught my eye.
Current fashions are for thin lapels, gaudy cloth and there must be a massive miscalculated global over-supply of waistcoats as the hard selling of such items is very evident.
I was just about ready to hit the Charity Shops when a window display caught my eye.
The suit on show was quite striking ,immediately commanding respect which is an important consideration. The colour, not my first choice, was bold but tempered by some contrasting, nicely placed trim. The mannequin wore the suit with work boots and I could see the practicality of this rather than in city shoes. The trousers were generous in cut, a bit retro in fact but the genius innovation of an elasticated waist would give longevity for my expanding waistline. As for the suit jacket it was almost frock coat length and broad in fit but as I am in my 50's that sort of chunky, upper body strength concealing style would be acceptable. The wide black belt was the perfect accessory to keep it all together.
I strode with revitalised confidence into the shop, confirmed the size of the garments, paid up in cash with no sense of mockery or derision from the staff and left as the proud owner of a plush, luxury velvet, bright red and fur trimmed Father Christmas suit.
I should get some good use out of that for certain, for certain, yes.
The old one, my faithful daily work attire, was giving a few clues that it should be retired to the back of the wardrobe.
The turn-up on the right trouser leg had worked loose and was hanging down. Occasionally a bit of shirt tail would find its way through the floppy zipper, displaying the early stages of metal fatigue. The back pocket button had long since pinged, unceremoniously, in someone's house. Countless seat-belted driving miles had abraded the left shoulder of the jacket to give it an unhealthy glossy sheen.
I was also getting some feedback from attending meetings that my hoped-for good first impression( if indeed it is right to judge people on their suit and shoes) was waning a bit.
Most of my working wear purchases have been impulsive or at best reluctant but what with Christmas approaching and with thinking ahead to a New Year the time felt right to go suit shopping.
The City Centre was typically bustling, even for a thursday, as I started my first circuit taking in the usual Menswear and Department Stores.
Subconsciously, although based on previous experiences I was working down in the hierarchy of outfitters. If I said that the final destination, if all other options failed ,would be a Charity Shop then you will get the idea.
As a fresh faced entrant to the world of employment, now many years ago I had suffered humiliation and deflation at the hands of a major fashion chain which I hesitate to mention- but it was Jaeger.
I had really liked their two piece suits and so with £300 cash in pocket (now about £800 in today's monies) I had made a direct line to a local store. The rather snooty male sales assistant looked at me , and the closest analogy I can think of now is, as though he were female, in Beverly Hills ,USA and I were Julia Roberts in the movie Pretty Woman.
I was as near as laughed out of the shop when I blurted out my budget. That put me off the high end tailoring sector apart from a gleeful return to a Jaeger Store just this year when I bought a shirt as part of their closing down sale. He who laughs last and all of that.
That bad experience sent me initially to a Factory Shop outlet for subsequent purchases. A pair of trousers intended for British Airways Cabin Staff, complete with BA label did me well with a blazer for a couple of years but thereafter I went back to the classic 2-piece with purchases from Next (very undersized-possibly styled on skinny Italian males), Paul Smith (a completely impractical pale coloured tropical travel suit), Marks and Spencer (solid, dependable, boring- so a perfect match then), Moss Brothers (Retail Outlet seconds with pockets sewn up) and Greenwoods (a bit fuddy duddy).
Latterly I have frequented Slaters Menswear and have not been disappointed. I in fact have a special relationship with that particular Company in that I won, amazingly, one of their national monthly raffles which allowed me to acquire a brand new, smart suit for my Father's Funeral.
I trailed around the aforementioned retailers but nothing really caught my eye.
Current fashions are for thin lapels, gaudy cloth and there must be a massive miscalculated global over-supply of waistcoats as the hard selling of such items is very evident.
I was just about ready to hit the Charity Shops when a window display caught my eye.
The suit on show was quite striking ,immediately commanding respect which is an important consideration. The colour, not my first choice, was bold but tempered by some contrasting, nicely placed trim. The mannequin wore the suit with work boots and I could see the practicality of this rather than in city shoes. The trousers were generous in cut, a bit retro in fact but the genius innovation of an elasticated waist would give longevity for my expanding waistline. As for the suit jacket it was almost frock coat length and broad in fit but as I am in my 50's that sort of chunky, upper body strength concealing style would be acceptable. The wide black belt was the perfect accessory to keep it all together.
I strode with revitalised confidence into the shop, confirmed the size of the garments, paid up in cash with no sense of mockery or derision from the staff and left as the proud owner of a plush, luxury velvet, bright red and fur trimmed Father Christmas suit.
I should get some good use out of that for certain, for certain, yes.
Thursday 22 December 2016
Kings Speech
A shameless and bordering on treasonous edit and re-write in 21st Century language of the inspiring speech to the nation by King George VI at news of the outbreak of war in 1939. I have taken the subject matter ans changed it to "Shopping at Christmas"
"In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.
For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.
Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.
We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.
It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.
Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.
But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.
This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.
It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.
We should all be calm and carry on at this time.
Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God.
If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.
May he bless and keep us all"
Notes on the actual original, inspiring speech
"In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.
For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.
Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.
We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.
It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.
Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.
But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.
This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.
It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.
We should all be calm and carry on at this time.
Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God.
If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.
May he bless and keep us all"
Notes on the actual original, inspiring speech
Wednesday 21 December 2016
St Mark Street
If there were an award for the most uninspiring street in Hull, then it would surely go to St Mark Street, just to the north east of the city centre.
The streetscene is today dominated by stark and dull palisade fencing around non-descript light industrial premises. There is no residential presence whatsoever.
It is one of those areas where after normal business hours there is nothing to bring or cause people to stay.
It is sad to think that the street was once vibrant and home to many in forecourt frontage and small pedestrian terraces set off the roadway.
As an indication of the vitality of St Mark Street some 41 in number of its young men were sent away to the First World War. A good proportion of these never returned. If you roll back another 60 years or so from this enforced depopulation then you would see the beginnings of that community.
In 1855 the street was dominated by St Mark's Church which could seat 1135 according to the Ordnance Survey mapping. A Vicarage, from the one dimensional footprint, evidently quite a grand place followed shortly after.
By 1891 various trades and factories had moved in at the western end closest to Cleveland Street which ran down towards the riverfront dock basins and wharfage. This included a Blue and Black Lead manufacturer and the distinctive roundels of the holders of The Sutton, Sculcoates and Drypool Gas Company.
A Directory of residents for 1892 recorded such tradespersons as tinners, engineers, a gardener, grocers, waggonette proprietor and landlady's of lodging houses on the main thoroughfare or in the terraces off which were named Susannah's, Janes, Symons and George's.
There were enough children in the early 1890's to justify construction of a school directly behind the church and employment to support the locals including a further Starch Works and Iron Foundry.
The eastern end of the street crossed a watercourse known as Foredyke Stream which bisected the city before discharging into the tidal River Humber and out to the North Sea.
In the years after the First World War the area will have experienced the same socio-economic highs and lows that affected the nation and much of the western world. Residents will have drifted off into better perceived parts of a growing Port City, to healthier and greener suburbs and other forms of employment. This migration will have, in its way, saved many from death and injury during the relentless bombing of Hull by the Luftwaffe which saw, on a citywide basis, 1200 civilians killed and 86715 homes damaged leaving only just under 6000 properties intact.
A map of the blitz on Hull shows a concentration of high explosive bomb impacts on and around St Mark Street indicating that the Gas Company was a primary target as well as the dispersed industrial buildings no doubt because of their contribution to the war effort in their own small but important ways.
The landmark Church was bombed and was eventually demolished in 1958, the school already being denoted as a ruin by this time. The cleared site became a yard to store the timber imports arriving in the Eastern Docks from Scandinavia and Russia.
The densely packed housing, by mid 20th Century standards, was now considered insanitary and was gradually knocked down and left as vacant sites until being covered by large steel portal frame sheds and warehouses. The ugly palisade fencing soon followed.
Uninspiring it may be now but this accolade should not commit the street to anonymity.
I was talking to a longstanding local just a few days ago and a story of his gave me some encouragement that St Mark Street will never be forgotten as a valuable neighbourhood in its time.
As a night shift worker in a fruit and vegetable wholesalers on St Mark Street in the 1990's he and a co-worker witnessed first hand some very strange goings-on.
Wooden boxes full of produce would with regularity and without warning, fly violently off the racking in the warehouse.
Shadowy figures suddenly materialised to stand and peer through upstairs windows. If you stared back or blinked they would move off but without casting a shadow or passing other windows on the same level.
On one particular shift at about 3am a terrible sound was heard out in the delivery yard.
It was a constant and pitiful wailing.
The co-workers at first thought it to be from babes and infants but given the industrial surroundings this was just not a possibility.
Their curiosity overruled any feelings of fear and dread.
The source of the cacophony was a large collection of domestic cats, their appearance indicating well cared for pets rather than feral by nature. This was unusual as the nearest homes were about half a mile away.
Resembling what could easily have been a staged calendar shoot the creatures were all facing the same way towards a narrow foot passage as though awaiting or in fear of something or someone.
The arrival of the workers caused the cats to immediately silence.
There was a strange piercing silence before footsteps could be heard deep in the darkness of the foot way. Amplified by the confines of that space the footfalls were clear and distinct. It was a heavy booted sound, the sort produced by a thick leather sole. The deeper tones were interspersed by a lighter metallic resonance as though from a loose buckled strap. There was no-one to be seen from where the steps originated.
The co-workers were rooted to the spot in the yard, too scared to move let alone make a run for the building. The steady pace continued, progressively nearer from across the empty street. The metronome rhythm had a spellbinding effect.
A collision between entity and humans seemed imminent.
The parties were almost, audibly, toe to toe, face to face and then ......nothing.
The story was told to me in great detail as it had obviously been recounted many, many times before.
The arrival of the dawn must have been most welcome after the events of the early hours on that day. The two workers refused thereafter to take the night shift after what they had witnessed even though they had to endure considerable scepticism and mockery from colleagues and acquaintances.
I like to think that the St Mark Street spirits was just offering up a small reminder of its past and in a very effective way, not too menacing and with a lot of mischief. The leather soles will have been similar to those worn by manual workers in the foundry, starch or blue lead industries. You will have seen the type in grainy old black and white films.
Although such movies will have been either silent, dubbed or heavily over-scored in an Imperious soundtrack there will have been an implied metallic resonance from the small fastening buckles so characteristic of artisan footwear of that era.
The streetscene is today dominated by stark and dull palisade fencing around non-descript light industrial premises. There is no residential presence whatsoever.
It is one of those areas where after normal business hours there is nothing to bring or cause people to stay.
It is sad to think that the street was once vibrant and home to many in forecourt frontage and small pedestrian terraces set off the roadway.
As an indication of the vitality of St Mark Street some 41 in number of its young men were sent away to the First World War. A good proportion of these never returned. If you roll back another 60 years or so from this enforced depopulation then you would see the beginnings of that community.
In 1855 the street was dominated by St Mark's Church which could seat 1135 according to the Ordnance Survey mapping. A Vicarage, from the one dimensional footprint, evidently quite a grand place followed shortly after.
By 1891 various trades and factories had moved in at the western end closest to Cleveland Street which ran down towards the riverfront dock basins and wharfage. This included a Blue and Black Lead manufacturer and the distinctive roundels of the holders of The Sutton, Sculcoates and Drypool Gas Company.
A Directory of residents for 1892 recorded such tradespersons as tinners, engineers, a gardener, grocers, waggonette proprietor and landlady's of lodging houses on the main thoroughfare or in the terraces off which were named Susannah's, Janes, Symons and George's.
There were enough children in the early 1890's to justify construction of a school directly behind the church and employment to support the locals including a further Starch Works and Iron Foundry.
The eastern end of the street crossed a watercourse known as Foredyke Stream which bisected the city before discharging into the tidal River Humber and out to the North Sea.
In the years after the First World War the area will have experienced the same socio-economic highs and lows that affected the nation and much of the western world. Residents will have drifted off into better perceived parts of a growing Port City, to healthier and greener suburbs and other forms of employment. This migration will have, in its way, saved many from death and injury during the relentless bombing of Hull by the Luftwaffe which saw, on a citywide basis, 1200 civilians killed and 86715 homes damaged leaving only just under 6000 properties intact.
A map of the blitz on Hull shows a concentration of high explosive bomb impacts on and around St Mark Street indicating that the Gas Company was a primary target as well as the dispersed industrial buildings no doubt because of their contribution to the war effort in their own small but important ways.
The landmark Church was bombed and was eventually demolished in 1958, the school already being denoted as a ruin by this time. The cleared site became a yard to store the timber imports arriving in the Eastern Docks from Scandinavia and Russia.
The densely packed housing, by mid 20th Century standards, was now considered insanitary and was gradually knocked down and left as vacant sites until being covered by large steel portal frame sheds and warehouses. The ugly palisade fencing soon followed.
Uninspiring it may be now but this accolade should not commit the street to anonymity.
I was talking to a longstanding local just a few days ago and a story of his gave me some encouragement that St Mark Street will never be forgotten as a valuable neighbourhood in its time.
As a night shift worker in a fruit and vegetable wholesalers on St Mark Street in the 1990's he and a co-worker witnessed first hand some very strange goings-on.
Wooden boxes full of produce would with regularity and without warning, fly violently off the racking in the warehouse.
Shadowy figures suddenly materialised to stand and peer through upstairs windows. If you stared back or blinked they would move off but without casting a shadow or passing other windows on the same level.
On one particular shift at about 3am a terrible sound was heard out in the delivery yard.
It was a constant and pitiful wailing.
The co-workers at first thought it to be from babes and infants but given the industrial surroundings this was just not a possibility.
Their curiosity overruled any feelings of fear and dread.
The source of the cacophony was a large collection of domestic cats, their appearance indicating well cared for pets rather than feral by nature. This was unusual as the nearest homes were about half a mile away.
Resembling what could easily have been a staged calendar shoot the creatures were all facing the same way towards a narrow foot passage as though awaiting or in fear of something or someone.
The arrival of the workers caused the cats to immediately silence.
There was a strange piercing silence before footsteps could be heard deep in the darkness of the foot way. Amplified by the confines of that space the footfalls were clear and distinct. It was a heavy booted sound, the sort produced by a thick leather sole. The deeper tones were interspersed by a lighter metallic resonance as though from a loose buckled strap. There was no-one to be seen from where the steps originated.
The co-workers were rooted to the spot in the yard, too scared to move let alone make a run for the building. The steady pace continued, progressively nearer from across the empty street. The metronome rhythm had a spellbinding effect.
A collision between entity and humans seemed imminent.
The parties were almost, audibly, toe to toe, face to face and then ......nothing.
The story was told to me in great detail as it had obviously been recounted many, many times before.
The arrival of the dawn must have been most welcome after the events of the early hours on that day. The two workers refused thereafter to take the night shift after what they had witnessed even though they had to endure considerable scepticism and mockery from colleagues and acquaintances.
I like to think that the St Mark Street spirits was just offering up a small reminder of its past and in a very effective way, not too menacing and with a lot of mischief. The leather soles will have been similar to those worn by manual workers in the foundry, starch or blue lead industries. You will have seen the type in grainy old black and white films.
Although such movies will have been either silent, dubbed or heavily over-scored in an Imperious soundtrack there will have been an implied metallic resonance from the small fastening buckles so characteristic of artisan footwear of that era.
Tuesday 20 December 2016
Bermuda Shorts
This is an interesting story that I heard for the very first time just today when it featured on Quiz Show.
It is apparently quite a well known tale about a very strange and hard to believe coincidental tragedy.
In Bermuda, in the Caribbean in 1975 it was reported that a 17 year old boy was killed while riding his moped.
That is tragic enough as an event but it was further reported that he was killed exactly a year after his 17 year old twin brother was killed while riding the same moped, on the same street, by the same taxi, with the same driver, carrying the same passenger.
I am well aware that this type of tale spreads daily like wildfire through the internet and social media channels as well as gaining credibility from what are supposed to be respected news agencies and broadcasters.
I tend to work on the maxim that if it seems too good to be true then it probably is not.
We are all guilty of unquestioning acceptance, whether through idle gossip, hearsay or taking on board rumour and speculation without corroborating its source or legitimacy.
An essential starting point is to establish where any story came from.
This specific freakish series of events can be traced to "Phenomena: A Book of Wonders" published in 1977 by Michell and Rickard.
I am not familiar with this particular publication although the title does appear to play on sensationalism and mysticism.
Perhaps a more credible reference was from the mass circulation Reader’s Digest which had featured a story about road deaths including the subject of my investigation entitled ‘What Are The Odds?’
Their own source was stated as the July 21, 1975 issue of The Royal Gazette newspaper, a reputable Bermuda publication whose front page of that day's edition carried the headline ‘Incredible coincidence in road crash deaths’.
The following account was provided beneath.
"Erskine Ebbin and his brother Neville of Hamilton, Bermuda were killed almost exactly a year apart after being involved in collision with the same taxi, driven by the same driver and carrying the same passenger.Both victims were 17, and both were riding the same moped on the same road. Erskine was killed on the night of July 18, 1975, near the Packwood Home in Sandys; Neville died on July 30, 1974, on the nearby stretch of Middle Road known as Hog Bay Level. Both were reported to have collided with a taxi driven by Willard Manders. According to their father, John Henry Ebbin of Woodlawn Road, Sandys, even the passenger in the taxi was the same in both instances"
It appears that as soon as this type of fantastic story gets into circulation it is picked up and regurgitated by many other parties and this enables it to reach a larger audience, thereby enhancing and perpetuating public fascination and interest.
The 2004 Ripleys Believe it or not! book which is an ever -popular Christmas stocking filler mentioned this story termed as "The coincidental twin tragedy".
The actual accounts across each of these sources did vary and cause some of the facts to be queried.
For example, and perhaps most obviously how could it be that the two brothers, if twins, could both be of 17 years when they died about one year apart.
There was some doubt over whether the Brothers, Neville and Erskine L. Ebbin were twins.
That type of inquisitiveness and interrogation is encouraging.
Taking a strictly logical and clinical look at the story throws up a few issues that individually or together makes the tragedy inevitable rather than a coincidence.
Bermuda has a limited land mass, around 53 square kilometres.
The capital Hamilton is spread over a small area of just 0.7 square kilometres.
The population in 1974 numbered only in the upper hundreds reflecting its status as one of the smallest capitals in the world.
By definition the number of taxi cabs operating in the area and the people who used them would be even smaller.
It would not too far fetched to suppose that two brothers, if not twins, lived in the same area and that one inherited the moped of his brother.
So the probability that the two brothers would get hit by the same cab, with the same driver, carrying the same passenger, in the same street would not be that small.
It appears that I have convinced myself that it is a fact and not a hoax.....or am I responsible for just perpetuating the whole story?
It is apparently quite a well known tale about a very strange and hard to believe coincidental tragedy.
In Bermuda, in the Caribbean in 1975 it was reported that a 17 year old boy was killed while riding his moped.
That is tragic enough as an event but it was further reported that he was killed exactly a year after his 17 year old twin brother was killed while riding the same moped, on the same street, by the same taxi, with the same driver, carrying the same passenger.
I am well aware that this type of tale spreads daily like wildfire through the internet and social media channels as well as gaining credibility from what are supposed to be respected news agencies and broadcasters.
I tend to work on the maxim that if it seems too good to be true then it probably is not.
We are all guilty of unquestioning acceptance, whether through idle gossip, hearsay or taking on board rumour and speculation without corroborating its source or legitimacy.
An essential starting point is to establish where any story came from.
This specific freakish series of events can be traced to "Phenomena: A Book of Wonders" published in 1977 by Michell and Rickard.
I am not familiar with this particular publication although the title does appear to play on sensationalism and mysticism.
Perhaps a more credible reference was from the mass circulation Reader’s Digest which had featured a story about road deaths including the subject of my investigation entitled ‘What Are The Odds?’
Their own source was stated as the July 21, 1975 issue of The Royal Gazette newspaper, a reputable Bermuda publication whose front page of that day's edition carried the headline ‘Incredible coincidence in road crash deaths’.
The following account was provided beneath.
"Erskine Ebbin and his brother Neville of Hamilton, Bermuda were killed almost exactly a year apart after being involved in collision with the same taxi, driven by the same driver and carrying the same passenger.Both victims were 17, and both were riding the same moped on the same road. Erskine was killed on the night of July 18, 1975, near the Packwood Home in Sandys; Neville died on July 30, 1974, on the nearby stretch of Middle Road known as Hog Bay Level. Both were reported to have collided with a taxi driven by Willard Manders. According to their father, John Henry Ebbin of Woodlawn Road, Sandys, even the passenger in the taxi was the same in both instances"
It appears that as soon as this type of fantastic story gets into circulation it is picked up and regurgitated by many other parties and this enables it to reach a larger audience, thereby enhancing and perpetuating public fascination and interest.
The 2004 Ripleys Believe it or not! book which is an ever -popular Christmas stocking filler mentioned this story termed as "The coincidental twin tragedy".
The actual accounts across each of these sources did vary and cause some of the facts to be queried.
For example, and perhaps most obviously how could it be that the two brothers, if twins, could both be of 17 years when they died about one year apart.
There was some doubt over whether the Brothers, Neville and Erskine L. Ebbin were twins.
That type of inquisitiveness and interrogation is encouraging.
Taking a strictly logical and clinical look at the story throws up a few issues that individually or together makes the tragedy inevitable rather than a coincidence.
Bermuda has a limited land mass, around 53 square kilometres.
The capital Hamilton is spread over a small area of just 0.7 square kilometres.
The population in 1974 numbered only in the upper hundreds reflecting its status as one of the smallest capitals in the world.
By definition the number of taxi cabs operating in the area and the people who used them would be even smaller.
It would not too far fetched to suppose that two brothers, if not twins, lived in the same area and that one inherited the moped of his brother.
So the probability that the two brothers would get hit by the same cab, with the same driver, carrying the same passenger, in the same street would not be that small.
It appears that I have convinced myself that it is a fact and not a hoax.....or am I responsible for just perpetuating the whole story?
Monday 19 December 2016
Post Traumatic
The evolution of the football goalmouth has been a long, contentious and occasionally lethal process.
In many instances of Shrovetide football throughout Middle Ages Europe the ‘goal’ was the rival town’s church although rarely contemplated in those annual events of communal mayhem ,legitimised violence and the settling of personal or group feuds.
Chinese documents from 2500 BC record the kicking of objects through holes in a cloth stretched between sticks. By the first century BC, this had evolved into zu qiu, the Chinese word for football.
Around 200 AD, Roman armies indulged in harpastum, which involved kicking a ball but as a puny excuse to just fight each other rather than the Gauls, Germanics and other enemies of the Empire.
The Aztecs were known to have laced-up leather footballs and practised trying to slot them through holes in a wall, a bit like at the sideshows of modern travelling Fairs and Carnivals.
The first mentions of a physical goalmouth was in the late 16th and early 17th centuries as in a descriptive passage of “Two bushes in the ground, some eight or 10 foote asunder, they terme their goales.”
By the end of the 17th century, the idea was commonplace. An English Midlands play area was described in Francis Willughby’s Book of Games as having “a close that has a gate at either end. The gates are called goals"
There was, critically, no specification and the size of the goal continued to fluctuate until the newly-formed Football Association in 1863 deemed that posts should be eight yards (24 feet) apart, which remains, today, the official width of a goal.
So far there was no mention of a height although some clubs ran a piece of string as a horizontal marker. It was not until the first ever FA Cup final in 1872 that a tape was strung between the posts replacing string and in 1875, experiments with crossbars began.
The crossbar was made compulsory in 1882, marked eight feet above the ground, but construction quality was an issue. In 1888, Kensington Swifts were disqualified from the FA Cup after one of their horizontals was found to be lower than the other. A goalkeeper broke a bar by swinging off it during an 1896 fixture.
In the increasingly competitive leagues it became common for teams to dispute whether a ball had actually gone under or over the bar or inside or out of the posts as it was sometimes difficult to tell.
The idea of goal nets, reputed to have been inspired by trouser pockets, was trialled in Nottingham , quickly accepted into the official laws and used in the 1892 FA Cup Final.
Issues remained over standardisation, however.
Square goalposts, strangely popular in Scotland became controversial when in the 1976 European Cup Final, Saint-Etienne argued that, had the crossbar been rounded, a certain goal bound shot would have gone in. Instead Bayern Munich grabbed a second-half winner.
Square designs were followed by round and then an elliptical shape .Crossbars today are scientifically engineered to counteract gravity and made from aluminium to replace wood.
There have been tragic consequences from the collapses of badly-constructed, heavy steel goal post structures in Public Parks but a change in the law, even under a campaign led by a grieving parent has not led to that all important change.
Although seemingly perfect now there have been some in the world of football who have considered tinkering with goalposts.
Sepp Blatter, in 1996, toyed with the idea to lengthen the goals by the diameter of two balls, around 50cm, and to increase the height by the diameter of one ball. For once he was out-voted although logically, since the first goalposts in the late 19th century the average height of a goalkeeper has increased to 1.9 metres and so the target size has, in real terms, shrunk.
Modern football goals are now constructed from extruded aluminium or steel sections and comply to strict safety laws. FIFA have recently trialed goal-line technology integrated into the goal post to finally put an end to disputed goals.
Goalposts will always play a role in the professional and amateur game.
As for my home team, Hull City. Well, in a crucial English Premier League match at the weekend,just passed , they hit the post four times, including an attempt on their own goal by the opposition but could just not score. They lost to a controversial penalty in the last quarter of the game and assumed the dreaded position at the foot of the table.
Rock-bottom Hull City boss Mike Phelan said: “It's difficult when your team are doing ever so well, you feel for them because you want them to score the goals and get the credit. If we can play like that, we just need a stroke of genius or luck to get us goals. The post is there to stand in the way of a goal and it did that a few times today.You have to have a wry smile on your face or you'd be very, very depressed."
Such was the opposing fans verdict that their own team had been pretty useless that the vote for Man of the Match went, by an overwhelming majority to the goalposts.
So it came to pass that the football match of 17th December 2016 at the London Stadium between West Ham United and my home team, Hull City added a further chapter to what is the weird and wonderful history of goal posts.
In many instances of Shrovetide football throughout Middle Ages Europe the ‘goal’ was the rival town’s church although rarely contemplated in those annual events of communal mayhem ,legitimised violence and the settling of personal or group feuds.
Chinese documents from 2500 BC record the kicking of objects through holes in a cloth stretched between sticks. By the first century BC, this had evolved into zu qiu, the Chinese word for football.
Around 200 AD, Roman armies indulged in harpastum, which involved kicking a ball but as a puny excuse to just fight each other rather than the Gauls, Germanics and other enemies of the Empire.
The Aztecs were known to have laced-up leather footballs and practised trying to slot them through holes in a wall, a bit like at the sideshows of modern travelling Fairs and Carnivals.
The first mentions of a physical goalmouth was in the late 16th and early 17th centuries as in a descriptive passage of “Two bushes in the ground, some eight or 10 foote asunder, they terme their goales.”
By the end of the 17th century, the idea was commonplace. An English Midlands play area was described in Francis Willughby’s Book of Games as having “a close that has a gate at either end. The gates are called goals"
There was, critically, no specification and the size of the goal continued to fluctuate until the newly-formed Football Association in 1863 deemed that posts should be eight yards (24 feet) apart, which remains, today, the official width of a goal.
So far there was no mention of a height although some clubs ran a piece of string as a horizontal marker. It was not until the first ever FA Cup final in 1872 that a tape was strung between the posts replacing string and in 1875, experiments with crossbars began.
The crossbar was made compulsory in 1882, marked eight feet above the ground, but construction quality was an issue. In 1888, Kensington Swifts were disqualified from the FA Cup after one of their horizontals was found to be lower than the other. A goalkeeper broke a bar by swinging off it during an 1896 fixture.
In the increasingly competitive leagues it became common for teams to dispute whether a ball had actually gone under or over the bar or inside or out of the posts as it was sometimes difficult to tell.
The idea of goal nets, reputed to have been inspired by trouser pockets, was trialled in Nottingham , quickly accepted into the official laws and used in the 1892 FA Cup Final.
Issues remained over standardisation, however.
Square goalposts, strangely popular in Scotland became controversial when in the 1976 European Cup Final, Saint-Etienne argued that, had the crossbar been rounded, a certain goal bound shot would have gone in. Instead Bayern Munich grabbed a second-half winner.
Square designs were followed by round and then an elliptical shape .Crossbars today are scientifically engineered to counteract gravity and made from aluminium to replace wood.
There have been tragic consequences from the collapses of badly-constructed, heavy steel goal post structures in Public Parks but a change in the law, even under a campaign led by a grieving parent has not led to that all important change.
Although seemingly perfect now there have been some in the world of football who have considered tinkering with goalposts.
Sepp Blatter, in 1996, toyed with the idea to lengthen the goals by the diameter of two balls, around 50cm, and to increase the height by the diameter of one ball. For once he was out-voted although logically, since the first goalposts in the late 19th century the average height of a goalkeeper has increased to 1.9 metres and so the target size has, in real terms, shrunk.
Modern football goals are now constructed from extruded aluminium or steel sections and comply to strict safety laws. FIFA have recently trialed goal-line technology integrated into the goal post to finally put an end to disputed goals.
Goalposts will always play a role in the professional and amateur game.
As for my home team, Hull City. Well, in a crucial English Premier League match at the weekend,just passed , they hit the post four times, including an attempt on their own goal by the opposition but could just not score. They lost to a controversial penalty in the last quarter of the game and assumed the dreaded position at the foot of the table.
Rock-bottom Hull City boss Mike Phelan said: “It's difficult when your team are doing ever so well, you feel for them because you want them to score the goals and get the credit. If we can play like that, we just need a stroke of genius or luck to get us goals. The post is there to stand in the way of a goal and it did that a few times today.You have to have a wry smile on your face or you'd be very, very depressed."
Such was the opposing fans verdict that their own team had been pretty useless that the vote for Man of the Match went, by an overwhelming majority to the goalposts.
So it came to pass that the football match of 17th December 2016 at the London Stadium between West Ham United and my home team, Hull City added a further chapter to what is the weird and wonderful history of goal posts.
Sunday 18 December 2016
Plane Speaking
There has always been intense competition amongst manufacturers for that top accolade of the number one best selling toy at Christmas .
In recent years the release of a blockbuster movie or the spending of an inordinate sum on an advertising campaign in the run up to the Festive period has seen a mass clamour by parents, guardians, relatives and friends to purchase the "must have" toy.
We have all experienced that feeling of desperation and failure in not being able to get the item for our dependants. This soon turns to anger and frustration at having to pay well over the retail price if, surprise, surprise, a stock of items suddenly appears on the well known internet selling sites.
In this inevitable illustration of the law of demand and supply we have seen the modern phenomena of (in no particular order), Sylvanian Families, Furby's, Tracy Island, a High School Musical Dance Mat, Star Wars Lightsaber and a Buzz Lightyear Action figure cleaning out our toy retailers and the bank accounts of the general public as consumers.
It appears that for Christmas 2017 the top spot is to be taken by Skylanders Imaginators.
As all of my children and over the age of 21 I have no idea whatsoever about what or who is a Skylander Imaginator.
There are, as they say, other toys available, in fact many thousands if not hundreds of thousands.
One specific toy which came to prominence in 2011 has a very interesting and dramatically tragic back-story.
It is a reproduction model of what was called the "Planophore" by a Frenchman, Alphonse Penaud.
Although a faithful scale replica of the original, the 21st Century version by Japanese makers Yoshida has made concessions to modern production methods and practices by using balsa wood and styrofoam.
What is amazing about the "Planophore" is that it was made as far back as 1871 by Penaud, at that time barely in his twenties.
At a time when aviation was nothing more than an aspiration based on a distant dream and that mankind had only made it off the ground by hot air balloon or by accident, Penaud established a reputation as one of the foremost pioneers in aviation design and engineering.
The "Planophore", was in essence a single propellor aircraft with the powertrain provided by a rubber band. In spite of its small model size it was in fact the first ever successful, automatically stable flying machine and became, upon subsequent study and further experimentation by later engineers, a major influence on aircraft design.
Within an overall size of 51 cm long and a wingspan of 46 cm it had slightly upward curved wings, a tail wing arranged at a smaller angle and with a propellor at the back to operate in a pushing action. The rubber band was tensioned by winding.
On its first flight in Paris in 1871 the "Planophore" covered a distance of 40 metres and spent 11 seconds airborne.
It was a revelation.
The aeronautical principles of Penaud were all his own work although unbeknown to either party the same had been understood by a North Yorkshire, England inventor, Sir George Cayley in a piloted glider. In their own ways they had come across the four aerodynamic forces of flight consisting of weight, lift , drag and thrust .
These became the basis for the design of the modern aeroplane.
Penaud did not rest on his success with model planes and went on to design a full sized aircraft which included the prospective Patenting in 1876 of electronic elevators, a pilot's cabin, retractable undercarriage, twin propellors and flight desk instrumentation.
Sadly, his genius was well ahead of its time.
He failed to secure financial backing for his inventions and was so disillusioned that at the young age of 30 he took his own life.
As a footnote, in 1878 the father of two boys who travelled often in his position as Bishop in the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, brought home a toy helicopter as a shared present for his sons.
The device was based on an invention of French aeronautical pioneer Alphonse Pénaud.
Made of paper, bamboo and cork with a rubber band to twirl its rotor, it was about a foot long.
The young boys played with it until it broke, and then made their own.
In later years, Orville and Wilbur Wright pointed to their experience with the Penauds toy as the spark of their interest in flying.
In 1904 they built and flew the world's first aeroplane.
The Yoshida model was difficult to find in the year of its release in 2011. After nearly 150 years the Planophore remains as one of the most sought after toys of the modern age.
In recent years the release of a blockbuster movie or the spending of an inordinate sum on an advertising campaign in the run up to the Festive period has seen a mass clamour by parents, guardians, relatives and friends to purchase the "must have" toy.
We have all experienced that feeling of desperation and failure in not being able to get the item for our dependants. This soon turns to anger and frustration at having to pay well over the retail price if, surprise, surprise, a stock of items suddenly appears on the well known internet selling sites.
In this inevitable illustration of the law of demand and supply we have seen the modern phenomena of (in no particular order), Sylvanian Families, Furby's, Tracy Island, a High School Musical Dance Mat, Star Wars Lightsaber and a Buzz Lightyear Action figure cleaning out our toy retailers and the bank accounts of the general public as consumers.
It appears that for Christmas 2017 the top spot is to be taken by Skylanders Imaginators.
As all of my children and over the age of 21 I have no idea whatsoever about what or who is a Skylander Imaginator.
There are, as they say, other toys available, in fact many thousands if not hundreds of thousands.
One specific toy which came to prominence in 2011 has a very interesting and dramatically tragic back-story.
It is a reproduction model of what was called the "Planophore" by a Frenchman, Alphonse Penaud.
Although a faithful scale replica of the original, the 21st Century version by Japanese makers Yoshida has made concessions to modern production methods and practices by using balsa wood and styrofoam.
What is amazing about the "Planophore" is that it was made as far back as 1871 by Penaud, at that time barely in his twenties.
At a time when aviation was nothing more than an aspiration based on a distant dream and that mankind had only made it off the ground by hot air balloon or by accident, Penaud established a reputation as one of the foremost pioneers in aviation design and engineering.
The "Planophore", was in essence a single propellor aircraft with the powertrain provided by a rubber band. In spite of its small model size it was in fact the first ever successful, automatically stable flying machine and became, upon subsequent study and further experimentation by later engineers, a major influence on aircraft design.
Within an overall size of 51 cm long and a wingspan of 46 cm it had slightly upward curved wings, a tail wing arranged at a smaller angle and with a propellor at the back to operate in a pushing action. The rubber band was tensioned by winding.
On its first flight in Paris in 1871 the "Planophore" covered a distance of 40 metres and spent 11 seconds airborne.
It was a revelation.
The aeronautical principles of Penaud were all his own work although unbeknown to either party the same had been understood by a North Yorkshire, England inventor, Sir George Cayley in a piloted glider. In their own ways they had come across the four aerodynamic forces of flight consisting of weight, lift , drag and thrust .
These became the basis for the design of the modern aeroplane.
Penaud did not rest on his success with model planes and went on to design a full sized aircraft which included the prospective Patenting in 1876 of electronic elevators, a pilot's cabin, retractable undercarriage, twin propellors and flight desk instrumentation.
Sadly, his genius was well ahead of its time.
He failed to secure financial backing for his inventions and was so disillusioned that at the young age of 30 he took his own life.
As a footnote, in 1878 the father of two boys who travelled often in his position as Bishop in the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, brought home a toy helicopter as a shared present for his sons.
The device was based on an invention of French aeronautical pioneer Alphonse Pénaud.
Made of paper, bamboo and cork with a rubber band to twirl its rotor, it was about a foot long.
The young boys played with it until it broke, and then made their own.
In later years, Orville and Wilbur Wright pointed to their experience with the Penauds toy as the spark of their interest in flying.
In 1904 they built and flew the world's first aeroplane.
The Yoshida model was difficult to find in the year of its release in 2011. After nearly 150 years the Planophore remains as one of the most sought after toys of the modern age.
Saturday 17 December 2016
Troll Call
I am starting a campaign to defend a much beleaguered and unappreciated ancient minority from what has been a relatively recent association with individuals of malicious and inflammatory intent.
The term "Internet Troll" seems to pop up with great regularity in matters concerning social media and popular culture.
In its crudest derivation the use of Troll where the internet is concerned is meant to depict someone displaying stupidity, ignorance and with the combination of these attributes spelling a real or perceived danger of encouraging arguments and controversy.
My allegiance is not to these faceless troublemakers but to the original and authentic Trolls of Scandinavian myth.
There is a need to remind ourselves about the folklore and fantasy of Trolls and by doing so retrieve a considerable amount of lost ground for their legendary status.
I grew up with Trolls.
I should qualify that rather startling statement.
Trolls were a part of my formative years through their roles in the fairy stories and tall tales of my childhood.
Many of my generation will have been, in equal proportions, thrilled and terrified by the menacing presence of the Troll who lived under the bridge in the Billy Goats Gruff.
In classic literature there is the horrific image of Grendel in the epic Beowulf poem.
These two particular Troll characters are in the category of forest and mountain dwellers. They are strong and athletic and I have deeply imprinted images from a young and impressionable age of this type of Jotnar Troll careering about in the dramatic Scandinavian scenery in a quest for human flesh and to accumulate treasure and riches. The 2010 horror drama and thriller "Troll Hunter" brought a very realistic representation of the Jotnar using the mockumentary genre.
Other Trolls lived deep underground and this was reflected in a rather reclusive and unsociable temperament as seen in the Tolkienian World.
In contrast the tone poem Peer Gynt Suite tells the story of a human who becomes involved with a Troll enchantress or Huldra, an altogether more pleasant and interesting prospect although no less dangerous if crossed.
My own children were brought up with the loveable creations of Tove Jansson, the Moomins although they were in fact Trolls (the creations I mean, not my children).
It is difficult to differentiate fiction from fact where Trolls are concerned.
One theory is that the legends were based on the distant memories of Cro-Magnon Man some 40,000 years ago of their ancestors the Neanderthals. Regarded as the earliest modern humans in stance and physiology the Cro-Magnons may have adopted a bit of a smear campaign, as dominant races and species often do, against their rather backward and thuggish predecessors.
Archaeological evidence for this idea has been inconclusive although understandably so given the passage of time and dramatic climatic and topographical changes as Northern Europe emerged from the Ice Age.
The faintest of ideas of a legendary creature have been enough for the emergence of Trolls in culture and folklore giving plenty of licence to writers and creators.
True, they do not come off well in any confrontation with humans and that risk of being turned to stone if struck by the first rays of sunlight is a bit of a disadvantage in developmental terms.
I hope that I have put forward a good defence for Trolls to be disassociated in name with the modern connotation of pathetic and cowardly internet users.
Why not refer, instead, to these sad individuals as say, Muppets, Smurfs, Chipmunks, Ninja Turtles or Power Rangers?
The term "Internet Troll" seems to pop up with great regularity in matters concerning social media and popular culture.
In its crudest derivation the use of Troll where the internet is concerned is meant to depict someone displaying stupidity, ignorance and with the combination of these attributes spelling a real or perceived danger of encouraging arguments and controversy.
My allegiance is not to these faceless troublemakers but to the original and authentic Trolls of Scandinavian myth.
There is a need to remind ourselves about the folklore and fantasy of Trolls and by doing so retrieve a considerable amount of lost ground for their legendary status.
I grew up with Trolls.
I should qualify that rather startling statement.
Trolls were a part of my formative years through their roles in the fairy stories and tall tales of my childhood.
Many of my generation will have been, in equal proportions, thrilled and terrified by the menacing presence of the Troll who lived under the bridge in the Billy Goats Gruff.
In classic literature there is the horrific image of Grendel in the epic Beowulf poem.
These two particular Troll characters are in the category of forest and mountain dwellers. They are strong and athletic and I have deeply imprinted images from a young and impressionable age of this type of Jotnar Troll careering about in the dramatic Scandinavian scenery in a quest for human flesh and to accumulate treasure and riches. The 2010 horror drama and thriller "Troll Hunter" brought a very realistic representation of the Jotnar using the mockumentary genre.
Other Trolls lived deep underground and this was reflected in a rather reclusive and unsociable temperament as seen in the Tolkienian World.
In contrast the tone poem Peer Gynt Suite tells the story of a human who becomes involved with a Troll enchantress or Huldra, an altogether more pleasant and interesting prospect although no less dangerous if crossed.
My own children were brought up with the loveable creations of Tove Jansson, the Moomins although they were in fact Trolls (the creations I mean, not my children).
It is difficult to differentiate fiction from fact where Trolls are concerned.
One theory is that the legends were based on the distant memories of Cro-Magnon Man some 40,000 years ago of their ancestors the Neanderthals. Regarded as the earliest modern humans in stance and physiology the Cro-Magnons may have adopted a bit of a smear campaign, as dominant races and species often do, against their rather backward and thuggish predecessors.
Archaeological evidence for this idea has been inconclusive although understandably so given the passage of time and dramatic climatic and topographical changes as Northern Europe emerged from the Ice Age.
The faintest of ideas of a legendary creature have been enough for the emergence of Trolls in culture and folklore giving plenty of licence to writers and creators.
True, they do not come off well in any confrontation with humans and that risk of being turned to stone if struck by the first rays of sunlight is a bit of a disadvantage in developmental terms.
I hope that I have put forward a good defence for Trolls to be disassociated in name with the modern connotation of pathetic and cowardly internet users.
Why not refer, instead, to these sad individuals as say, Muppets, Smurfs, Chipmunks, Ninja Turtles or Power Rangers?
Friday 16 December 2016
Prints Charming
I set up in business back in 1991.
It was an exciting but also quite a sobering experience.
That inner confidence behind making the transition from salaried to self employed status was strong and resolute but that would of course be for nought if any of the other components were lacking in any way.
An additional factor was that I, by now, had two children under the age of 3, a new bigger mortgage and had only recently moved back into my home area from a few years working away. I had a very encouraging and supporting wife who had herself given up a promising career and we all felt at quite a crossroads in our own, relatively young lives.
It was not an impulsive decision for all that.
There were clients to court from my existing position working for a national company, the Bank Manager to approve of the business plan, premises, vehicles and personnel to source.
I was in a privileged position in that my father had just taken early retirement and he kindly offered funds which would be matched by the bank as an overdraft facility. Gradually things began to come together and I tempted fate by setting May 1st as the start date for the new enterprise.
In the search for a commercial printer to produce the letterheads, business cards and all of the customised stationery it was a case of not having to look too far. The new office, a bit of a run down 1833 built terraced former house overlooking a bit of a neglected but beautiful oval public gardens just off the city centre was surrounded by a mixture of small businesses occupying similarly run down premises.
Under a sort of local self help philosophy I went to see the printers who were actually the neighbours, or at least nearest operation of its kind directly behind my office.
They were two brothers but you would not have thought so, such was the difference in their appearance, characters and personalities. One short and nicotine yellowed, the other tall and, well, at first glance could pass for a large female although I later understood this to be down to a slight hormonal imbalance.
The heavy, full arch outer doors to the Print Works were sun-faded. I rapped on the small wicket door but obviously the mechanical noises from behind drowned out by knocking. I persisted but it was still a few minutes before a head popped out, surprised and not a little alarmed.
Explaining my requirements and providing sample logos, layouts and Pantone numbers I was assured that samples would be ready within a couple of days.
Their premises could easily be seen from the rear window of my office but it was strange in that whilst they had no living accommodation in their building I never saw them arrive or leave which could imply that they just camped out amongst the presses.
It was getting very close to the 1st of May launch and I had not seen any proof copies of, in particular the all important letterhead.
The print works door remained shut but noises emanated from within.
In retrospect I should have thought about the relationship between noise and the art of printing. High Street shops and light industrial tech units on out of town estates provided print services but theirs was an image of a clean, precise, swift and virtually soundless process.
I should have been worried, looking back but the whole adrenalin fuelled journey into self employment must have dulled my senses or at least insulated me from the possibility of setbacks and difficulties.
In eventually presenting the new stationery the two brothers were triumphant. Granted, the handover was in their dimly lit premises and I was all too glad to take the items away so that a good proportion of them could be immediately typed on and distributed to herald the new kids on the block.
The quality of the work was abysmal.
The three overlaid colours of the company logo that had been decided upon to instil professionalism and preciseness were blurred into each other. At least my surname was correctly spelled but this amounted to the sole positive. An expected crisp, whiteness of the page was speckled with white, blue and yellow ink. The A4 sheets were thick and quite a bit like rice paper in texture.
This theme of amateurishness was constant across all of the range of stationery.
There was no time to arrange for another printer to be engaged and so, with reluctant dread, the first launch announcements and actual commissions went out on something that my own infant children could have bettered with cut potatoes and poster paint.
Still, looking back. I can laugh about it now, or at least without the accompaniment of sweats and palpitations.
It was an exciting but also quite a sobering experience.
That inner confidence behind making the transition from salaried to self employed status was strong and resolute but that would of course be for nought if any of the other components were lacking in any way.
An additional factor was that I, by now, had two children under the age of 3, a new bigger mortgage and had only recently moved back into my home area from a few years working away. I had a very encouraging and supporting wife who had herself given up a promising career and we all felt at quite a crossroads in our own, relatively young lives.
It was not an impulsive decision for all that.
There were clients to court from my existing position working for a national company, the Bank Manager to approve of the business plan, premises, vehicles and personnel to source.
I was in a privileged position in that my father had just taken early retirement and he kindly offered funds which would be matched by the bank as an overdraft facility. Gradually things began to come together and I tempted fate by setting May 1st as the start date for the new enterprise.
In the search for a commercial printer to produce the letterheads, business cards and all of the customised stationery it was a case of not having to look too far. The new office, a bit of a run down 1833 built terraced former house overlooking a bit of a neglected but beautiful oval public gardens just off the city centre was surrounded by a mixture of small businesses occupying similarly run down premises.
Under a sort of local self help philosophy I went to see the printers who were actually the neighbours, or at least nearest operation of its kind directly behind my office.
They were two brothers but you would not have thought so, such was the difference in their appearance, characters and personalities. One short and nicotine yellowed, the other tall and, well, at first glance could pass for a large female although I later understood this to be down to a slight hormonal imbalance.
The heavy, full arch outer doors to the Print Works were sun-faded. I rapped on the small wicket door but obviously the mechanical noises from behind drowned out by knocking. I persisted but it was still a few minutes before a head popped out, surprised and not a little alarmed.
Explaining my requirements and providing sample logos, layouts and Pantone numbers I was assured that samples would be ready within a couple of days.
Their premises could easily be seen from the rear window of my office but it was strange in that whilst they had no living accommodation in their building I never saw them arrive or leave which could imply that they just camped out amongst the presses.
It was getting very close to the 1st of May launch and I had not seen any proof copies of, in particular the all important letterhead.
The print works door remained shut but noises emanated from within.
In retrospect I should have thought about the relationship between noise and the art of printing. High Street shops and light industrial tech units on out of town estates provided print services but theirs was an image of a clean, precise, swift and virtually soundless process.
I should have been worried, looking back but the whole adrenalin fuelled journey into self employment must have dulled my senses or at least insulated me from the possibility of setbacks and difficulties.
In eventually presenting the new stationery the two brothers were triumphant. Granted, the handover was in their dimly lit premises and I was all too glad to take the items away so that a good proportion of them could be immediately typed on and distributed to herald the new kids on the block.
The quality of the work was abysmal.
The three overlaid colours of the company logo that had been decided upon to instil professionalism and preciseness were blurred into each other. At least my surname was correctly spelled but this amounted to the sole positive. An expected crisp, whiteness of the page was speckled with white, blue and yellow ink. The A4 sheets were thick and quite a bit like rice paper in texture.
This theme of amateurishness was constant across all of the range of stationery.
There was no time to arrange for another printer to be engaged and so, with reluctant dread, the first launch announcements and actual commissions went out on something that my own infant children could have bettered with cut potatoes and poster paint.
Still, looking back. I can laugh about it now, or at least without the accompaniment of sweats and palpitations.
Thursday 15 December 2016
Free Range
Just placed the order for a fresh turkey for Christmas dinner.
It is the only time that I speak to the local butcher and over the last 25 years the aggregated conversation time of about 10 minutes has formed the basis of an acquaintance that I value.
It is a strange relationship based on one transaction a year.
I do pass his shop on the pedestrianised walkway in the town centre quite regularly but apart from collecting the pre-ordered bird on Chritsmas Eve, itself another family tradition, I am ashamed to say that I do not step over the threshold for anything else.
We may wave if he is leaning into the display in the deep bay window to rearrange the chops, steaks or joints or he does a mock salute with two fingers to the brow of his jauntily worn, white trilby. It may be an attempt however just to hide the obvious streaks of blood and guts so as not to scare the passers-by.
You would think that a turkey would be the first and easiest item on the seasonal shopping list but in our house the actual decision to stick with the usual fare is a matter of great indecision and soul searching. Turkey, nice enough but a bit dry, don't you think?
We always have a bit of a discussion on whether to forget normal convention and branch out with another main meat for the celebration dinner. My mother in law is a great cook and hostess and in the past when invited to Christmas at her house we have feasted with duck and goose and all of the trimmings plus more. The different wildlife has been a welcome change and they do have their merits, mainly not being too dry.
This year, in a new house and some 5 miles away from the perennial placing of an order we have an opportunity to set up a new tradition.
What got me thinking about a change in style and practice was overhearing the waiter at a local Indian Restaurant and Takeaway on the phone going through the set menu dinners available on Christmas Day. It had not really crossed my mind that 1) the restaurant would be open on 25th December 2) there was on that day a demand for an Indian meal.
The alternatives to a turkey are actually quite diverse.
I have of course just concentrated on real food so far but for those of a vegetarian and other unfortunate preferences there is a bit of choice. Nut Roast. That's it.
In more recent years and where not exposed as an investment scam there has been significant marketing and education expenditure in world foods.
It will have been a difficult task to persuade British consumers to entertain let alone taste test anything other than home produced meat for the seasonal table.
Our local Farmer's Market has had some success promoting Ostrich as a burger in a bun with onions and a cheese slice but breeders and distributors are pushing bigger bits of the fast moving game bird. A 2kg fan shaped fillet, probably a bit like a good old turkey crown, is enough to feed 8 persons and will cook fast giving more scope to have a snooze before the Queen's Speech at 3pm.
Fish is widely eaten at the religious Feast, particularly in parts of Southern Italy and Poland and forms a centrepiece of the Christmas Eve celebrations with 7 types of fish representing the Holy Sacraments. Eels and squid are popular.
Once strictly reserved for Royalty and Nobility it is possible to acquire a haunch or saddle of deer without having your hands chopped off, eyes poked out or being transported into exile. Most supermarkets stock smaller cuts of venison or if you live in a rural area or even on the edge of a town one of the animals may offer itself up for sacrifice in the glare of your headlights. The trade-off for a juicy venison joint will however be major motor car repairs or personal injury which seems a bit of a disincentive to me.
The Brits like to play it safe at Christmas and the mystery around the production of dinner does appear to strike fear and anxiety into many because of the pivotal expectations on its success.
It is not surprising that roast beef ,Yorkshire puds and lots of veg remain in the top five choices. It is a case of sticking with what you know best for some.
Salt Marsh Lamb is a current trend as an alternative to turkey being reared on coastal grazing lands resulting in a distinctive flavour and healthy nutrients.
My father was regularly presented with lead shot perforated pheasants by his farmer customers at Christmas and there was competition amongst us children to accumulate the highest number of pellets on the edge of the dinner plate.
The freezers and chillers in local Delicatessens can be a great source of different meats for the festive table. I have tried Wild Boar and found it to be moist and tasty and my son has recently upgraded his opinion of Buffalo to "preferable" to Burger King which is a major endorsement from his generation.
I do however draw a line in the gravy granules over the offerings of kangaroo (although I have had it in steak form), camel, goat, crocodile, wildebeest and python.
The alternatives to turkey are therefore quite overwhelming and very persuasive on the basis of the leaner and healthier meats although we would probably still gorge on an equivalent quantity to the usual bird.
All of the angst and indecision is just too much additional stress at this time of year and so I will be making that one annual telephone call to the butcher and renewing our relationship in the matter of a few choice words.
It is the only time that I speak to the local butcher and over the last 25 years the aggregated conversation time of about 10 minutes has formed the basis of an acquaintance that I value.
It is a strange relationship based on one transaction a year.
I do pass his shop on the pedestrianised walkway in the town centre quite regularly but apart from collecting the pre-ordered bird on Chritsmas Eve, itself another family tradition, I am ashamed to say that I do not step over the threshold for anything else.
We may wave if he is leaning into the display in the deep bay window to rearrange the chops, steaks or joints or he does a mock salute with two fingers to the brow of his jauntily worn, white trilby. It may be an attempt however just to hide the obvious streaks of blood and guts so as not to scare the passers-by.
You would think that a turkey would be the first and easiest item on the seasonal shopping list but in our house the actual decision to stick with the usual fare is a matter of great indecision and soul searching. Turkey, nice enough but a bit dry, don't you think?
We always have a bit of a discussion on whether to forget normal convention and branch out with another main meat for the celebration dinner. My mother in law is a great cook and hostess and in the past when invited to Christmas at her house we have feasted with duck and goose and all of the trimmings plus more. The different wildlife has been a welcome change and they do have their merits, mainly not being too dry.
This year, in a new house and some 5 miles away from the perennial placing of an order we have an opportunity to set up a new tradition.
What got me thinking about a change in style and practice was overhearing the waiter at a local Indian Restaurant and Takeaway on the phone going through the set menu dinners available on Christmas Day. It had not really crossed my mind that 1) the restaurant would be open on 25th December 2) there was on that day a demand for an Indian meal.
The alternatives to a turkey are actually quite diverse.
I have of course just concentrated on real food so far but for those of a vegetarian and other unfortunate preferences there is a bit of choice. Nut Roast. That's it.
In more recent years and where not exposed as an investment scam there has been significant marketing and education expenditure in world foods.
It will have been a difficult task to persuade British consumers to entertain let alone taste test anything other than home produced meat for the seasonal table.
Our local Farmer's Market has had some success promoting Ostrich as a burger in a bun with onions and a cheese slice but breeders and distributors are pushing bigger bits of the fast moving game bird. A 2kg fan shaped fillet, probably a bit like a good old turkey crown, is enough to feed 8 persons and will cook fast giving more scope to have a snooze before the Queen's Speech at 3pm.
Fish is widely eaten at the religious Feast, particularly in parts of Southern Italy and Poland and forms a centrepiece of the Christmas Eve celebrations with 7 types of fish representing the Holy Sacraments. Eels and squid are popular.
Once strictly reserved for Royalty and Nobility it is possible to acquire a haunch or saddle of deer without having your hands chopped off, eyes poked out or being transported into exile. Most supermarkets stock smaller cuts of venison or if you live in a rural area or even on the edge of a town one of the animals may offer itself up for sacrifice in the glare of your headlights. The trade-off for a juicy venison joint will however be major motor car repairs or personal injury which seems a bit of a disincentive to me.
The Brits like to play it safe at Christmas and the mystery around the production of dinner does appear to strike fear and anxiety into many because of the pivotal expectations on its success.
It is not surprising that roast beef ,Yorkshire puds and lots of veg remain in the top five choices. It is a case of sticking with what you know best for some.
Salt Marsh Lamb is a current trend as an alternative to turkey being reared on coastal grazing lands resulting in a distinctive flavour and healthy nutrients.
My father was regularly presented with lead shot perforated pheasants by his farmer customers at Christmas and there was competition amongst us children to accumulate the highest number of pellets on the edge of the dinner plate.
The freezers and chillers in local Delicatessens can be a great source of different meats for the festive table. I have tried Wild Boar and found it to be moist and tasty and my son has recently upgraded his opinion of Buffalo to "preferable" to Burger King which is a major endorsement from his generation.
I do however draw a line in the gravy granules over the offerings of kangaroo (although I have had it in steak form), camel, goat, crocodile, wildebeest and python.
The alternatives to turkey are therefore quite overwhelming and very persuasive on the basis of the leaner and healthier meats although we would probably still gorge on an equivalent quantity to the usual bird.
All of the angst and indecision is just too much additional stress at this time of year and so I will be making that one annual telephone call to the butcher and renewing our relationship in the matter of a few choice words.
Wednesday 14 December 2016
Dog House
It was a collaboration between three fairly unlikely parties.
In 2002 the Takara Toy Company the Japan Acoustic Lab and Kogure Veterinary Hospital, invented "Bow-Lingual", a computer-based automatic dog-to-human language translation device.
In that year this innovation was awarded the alternative award for Peace and Harmony by the Ig-Nobel Organisation.
A light and portable device which is a small reader is attached to the pet's dog collar.
The owner then turns on the complimentary equipment in the form of a hand-held speaker.
When the dog barks the software translates the canine language into a series of Japanese messages which show up on the display, along with an easy-to-understand animation in the form of emoticons .
If you did not have any other obvious indications the system lets you know if the dog is sad, hungry, happy, upset or in any number of moods and tempers.
The manufacturers market the device as being able to provide the following functions;
(This is the United States Language Version)
BARK TRANSLATION: Analyzes your dog's barks to determine which of six emotions he or she is feeling: happy, sad, frustrated, on-guard, assertive and needy. The Bow-Lingual then provides a phrase matched to the emotion, to represent what your dog might say if only he or she could speak.
BODY LANGUAGE: a guide to interpret your dog's behavior to help you teach and care for your dog.
HOME ALONE MODE: monitors and records your dogs barks and emotions for up to 8 hrs while you are away.
TEN TRAINING TIPS: useful training tips on subjects such as toilet training and chew-training your dog.
MEDICAL REFERENCE: Medical checklist to help you keep your dog healthy. The content is provided by Dr. Tamara Shearer, DVM, author of 3 books, including "Emergency First Aid for your Dog and "The Essential Book for Dogs Over Five."
SET-UP: calibrates Bow-Lingual to the breed of your dog. Over 80 of the most common breeds (see photo to the left) are pre-programmed, and other breeds including mixed breeds can be registered by size of dog and shape of snoutThat was until I read the following customer review.
Having been part of a household with dogs I found the idea of improved empathy and communication fascinating. That was until I read a heart wrenching customer review from someone who had purchased and used the device;
I recently purchased the Takara Bow Lingual Dog Bark Translator, and, I must say, I was shocked and saddened to learn just how much my dog hates me.
Every time he barks he is saying something that mocks me!
He makes fun of my weight, the way I dress, even the way I cook.
He has such foul language too! I did not know a dog could cuss like that!
Even the bullies that taunted me on the playground at school, and, now, the ones that taunt me by the water-cooler in the office are not as cruel and inhuman as my dog.
This product makes me sad as I discovered things about my dog and his feelings for me that I would rather not have known.
It ruined my life. :(
Perhaps, and even in the face of technological advances some things should just stay as they are. The inter-relationship of man and hound may not be perfect but there is a sort of natural balance and order which seems to suit both participants
In 2002 the Takara Toy Company the Japan Acoustic Lab and Kogure Veterinary Hospital, invented "Bow-Lingual", a computer-based automatic dog-to-human language translation device.
In that year this innovation was awarded the alternative award for Peace and Harmony by the Ig-Nobel Organisation.
A light and portable device which is a small reader is attached to the pet's dog collar.
The owner then turns on the complimentary equipment in the form of a hand-held speaker.
When the dog barks the software translates the canine language into a series of Japanese messages which show up on the display, along with an easy-to-understand animation in the form of emoticons .
If you did not have any other obvious indications the system lets you know if the dog is sad, hungry, happy, upset or in any number of moods and tempers.
The manufacturers market the device as being able to provide the following functions;
(This is the United States Language Version)
Having been part of a household with dogs I found the idea of improved empathy and communication fascinating. That was until I read a heart wrenching customer review from someone who had purchased and used the device;
I recently purchased the Takara Bow Lingual Dog Bark Translator, and, I must say, I was shocked and saddened to learn just how much my dog hates me.
Every time he barks he is saying something that mocks me!
He makes fun of my weight, the way I dress, even the way I cook.
He has such foul language too! I did not know a dog could cuss like that!
Even the bullies that taunted me on the playground at school, and, now, the ones that taunt me by the water-cooler in the office are not as cruel and inhuman as my dog.
This product makes me sad as I discovered things about my dog and his feelings for me that I would rather not have known.
It ruined my life. :(
Perhaps, and even in the face of technological advances some things should just stay as they are. The inter-relationship of man and hound may not be perfect but there is a sort of natural balance and order which seems to suit both participants
Tuesday 13 December 2016
Intense Pane
It is always interesting looking out of an original window in an old house.
I use "old" to refer to a property from the late Georgian or early to mid Victorian era and "original" meaning that the glazing itself has not been replaced at any time.
I find it remarkable that some of this earliest window glass has survived given that it is so very thin and fragile.
It is as if a stiff gust of wind, a gale-propelled bit of vegetation of just a concentrated beam of high season sun could cause it fracture, splinter and evaporate into its constituent elements.
There is actually commercially available equipment by which to measure the thickness of glazing but I would challenge even the most accurate and calibrated tool to give a reading for these early examples of Period window glass.
The evolution of glass has been quite slow.
It is thought that it will have first been found by accident as its ingredients became fused together in some volcanic or seismic event.
The Mesopotamians of 3500 BC were known to produce very small quantities of glass only suitable for ornaments and chattels followed by the Egyptians and then taken to a new level by the Romans who were able to fashion the first glazing panes albeit of very small dimensions and likely to be opaque and cloudy.
It was not until the 13th and 14th Centuries that better techniques, although still on a trial and error basis, began to make it possible for the sizes of window glass to be gradually increased.
Crown glass was one of the two most common processes for making window glass until the 19th century. The other was blown plate. The process was first perfected by French glassmakers in the 1320s, notably around Rouen, and was a trade secret. As a result, crown glass was not made in London until 1678.
The process for Crown Glass making was labour intensive and very physically demanding.
The most familiar, and historically the oldest, types of glass are "silicate glasses" based on the chemical compound silica (silicon dioxide, or quartz), the primary constituent of sand.
To get these elements into a molten state took immense heat but when achieved it was gathered on a blow pipe and under the manual lung power of skilled workers formed into a bulbous shape. The blowpipe was then removed and replaced with a solid or "punty" rod allowing the glass to be spun rapidly until it transformed into a flattish disc.
The thinnest glass in a band at the edge of the disk was the better in quality and in order to fill large window openings many small diamond shapes would be cut from the edge of the disk and these would be mounted in a lead lattice work and fitted into the window frame.
The central part of the spun disk was in a distinctive hard and often dark swirl but under the name of a bullseye it became synonymous with, in particular the Georgian period.
I recall my parents buying a brand new house in the 1970's which was in the neo-Georgian style and featured characteristic multi paned softwood windows with randomly spaced bullseyes. We felt very posh indeed although in their heyday they were found in less expensive properties, almost as though a waste or bi-product of the process.
Crown Glass, because of its finer quality was the glazing of choice for well-to-do homes and the authentic manufacture carried on well into the 19th Century.
However, the demand for high volume production of window glass saw other techniques being brought to the market.
Handmade was still the main method but the emergence of steam powered grinders permitted larger cast sheets to be machine polished.
In 1834 a German method was adapted by a Smethwick, London company whereby an elongated balloon shape from molten glass was allowed to cool before cutting into a cylinder which was then re-heated in an oven, removed and flattened. The result was a much improved quality and this was no better demonstrated by its use on the great structure of The Crystal Palace of the Great Exhibition in 1851.
Industrialisation saw glass being rolled, wired cast, mechanically drawn, flat drawn and culminating by the pioneering Pilkington process in 1959 of float glass making which became the standard modern method of producing window glass.
In the quest for smoother and clearer glass we seem to have forgotten or indeed have been denied the pleasure of looking out through original glass in an older house.
Each pane varies a little from the next.
If you look closely you can make out small imperfections. That tight cheeked exhalation of a glass-blower left small air bubble imperfections.
There can be the trace of a fold mark or wave from the same handblown efforts.
Looking through such glass gives a varied view and if you squat down, move about and squint there is a perceptible distortion of the visual image of whatever lies beyond the four walls.
Everything is a bit in mottled effect.
Add a bit of stained colour and the effect is startling. That distinctive cobalt blue comes from adding cobalt. Copper oxides also make glass blue to bluish green. Sulphur and cadmium make yellow. Iron oxides produce greens and browns. Tin produces white. Chrome produces emerald greens. In early glass production, the rarest of colours was red. This is because red required the most costly of additives – gold.
I have enjoyed more than a few passing moments just standing and looking out of an old window.
It may, from the inherent imperfections in the glass give the appearance of a distorted and strange world but it is truly a thing of beauty to behold.
I use "old" to refer to a property from the late Georgian or early to mid Victorian era and "original" meaning that the glazing itself has not been replaced at any time.
I find it remarkable that some of this earliest window glass has survived given that it is so very thin and fragile.
It is as if a stiff gust of wind, a gale-propelled bit of vegetation of just a concentrated beam of high season sun could cause it fracture, splinter and evaporate into its constituent elements.
There is actually commercially available equipment by which to measure the thickness of glazing but I would challenge even the most accurate and calibrated tool to give a reading for these early examples of Period window glass.
The evolution of glass has been quite slow.
It is thought that it will have first been found by accident as its ingredients became fused together in some volcanic or seismic event.
The Mesopotamians of 3500 BC were known to produce very small quantities of glass only suitable for ornaments and chattels followed by the Egyptians and then taken to a new level by the Romans who were able to fashion the first glazing panes albeit of very small dimensions and likely to be opaque and cloudy.
It was not until the 13th and 14th Centuries that better techniques, although still on a trial and error basis, began to make it possible for the sizes of window glass to be gradually increased.
Crown glass was one of the two most common processes for making window glass until the 19th century. The other was blown plate. The process was first perfected by French glassmakers in the 1320s, notably around Rouen, and was a trade secret. As a result, crown glass was not made in London until 1678.
The process for Crown Glass making was labour intensive and very physically demanding.
The most familiar, and historically the oldest, types of glass are "silicate glasses" based on the chemical compound silica (silicon dioxide, or quartz), the primary constituent of sand.
To get these elements into a molten state took immense heat but when achieved it was gathered on a blow pipe and under the manual lung power of skilled workers formed into a bulbous shape. The blowpipe was then removed and replaced with a solid or "punty" rod allowing the glass to be spun rapidly until it transformed into a flattish disc.
The thinnest glass in a band at the edge of the disk was the better in quality and in order to fill large window openings many small diamond shapes would be cut from the edge of the disk and these would be mounted in a lead lattice work and fitted into the window frame.
The central part of the spun disk was in a distinctive hard and often dark swirl but under the name of a bullseye it became synonymous with, in particular the Georgian period.
I recall my parents buying a brand new house in the 1970's which was in the neo-Georgian style and featured characteristic multi paned softwood windows with randomly spaced bullseyes. We felt very posh indeed although in their heyday they were found in less expensive properties, almost as though a waste or bi-product of the process.
Crown Glass, because of its finer quality was the glazing of choice for well-to-do homes and the authentic manufacture carried on well into the 19th Century.
However, the demand for high volume production of window glass saw other techniques being brought to the market.
Handmade was still the main method but the emergence of steam powered grinders permitted larger cast sheets to be machine polished.
In 1834 a German method was adapted by a Smethwick, London company whereby an elongated balloon shape from molten glass was allowed to cool before cutting into a cylinder which was then re-heated in an oven, removed and flattened. The result was a much improved quality and this was no better demonstrated by its use on the great structure of The Crystal Palace of the Great Exhibition in 1851.
Industrialisation saw glass being rolled, wired cast, mechanically drawn, flat drawn and culminating by the pioneering Pilkington process in 1959 of float glass making which became the standard modern method of producing window glass.
In the quest for smoother and clearer glass we seem to have forgotten or indeed have been denied the pleasure of looking out through original glass in an older house.
Each pane varies a little from the next.
If you look closely you can make out small imperfections. That tight cheeked exhalation of a glass-blower left small air bubble imperfections.
There can be the trace of a fold mark or wave from the same handblown efforts.
Looking through such glass gives a varied view and if you squat down, move about and squint there is a perceptible distortion of the visual image of whatever lies beyond the four walls.
Everything is a bit in mottled effect.
Add a bit of stained colour and the effect is startling. That distinctive cobalt blue comes from adding cobalt. Copper oxides also make glass blue to bluish green. Sulphur and cadmium make yellow. Iron oxides produce greens and browns. Tin produces white. Chrome produces emerald greens. In early glass production, the rarest of colours was red. This is because red required the most costly of additives – gold.
I have enjoyed more than a few passing moments just standing and looking out of an old window.
It may, from the inherent imperfections in the glass give the appearance of a distorted and strange world but it is truly a thing of beauty to behold.
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