Some of the potholes in the road surface are deep. I half expect that a prompt to take evasive action may one day be the sight of a pair of hands and then the top of a head emerging sheepishly from such a chasm.
On my regular routes through the County I have a good working knowledge of the main potholes and can usually steer my way around and through the obstacle course without inconveniencing or knowingly causing a hazard to other road users.
Invariably I will have to take an unfamiliar highway or back road and these pose the biggest threat to tyres, shock absorbers and my coccyx, already suffering from the typically harsh driving seat position and suspension setting of a German made car.
On the narrower lanes it is the half metre or so from the roadside verge on the passenger side which displays the wear, tear and destructive impact of heavy lorries, farm traffic and the sheer volume of use for which they were never intended.
The surface can be fractured and pitted like the exposed bed of a dry stream. Loosely strewn fragments of tarmac and stones can be forced out and up under the pressure of vehicles akin to the shrapnel in a landmine.
In dry weather there is an abrasive effect under rubber tyres reducing pebble sized materials to pea gravel and further to a fine dust which swirls about in the slipstream.
Following rainfall the broken skin of the road fills up with water giving the appearance of a smooth, glassy layer and lulling the motorist into a false sense of security. The crunch of a wheel rim on the concealed edge of a crater is accompanied by a geyser spray of muddy, gritty water which disappears momentarily over the car roof before running down the windscreen and side windows in long, erratic, streaky rivulets.
On the principal transport routes the budget for pothole repairs has been put into action. High profile road works and infilling of the worst examples takes place usually directly proportionate to the number of claims lodged by road users for damage. This can be a patchwork of fresh surface dressings or if reaching a specific percentage of coverage it is more cost effective to strip away and renew a long section.
The recent spell of persistently cold weather caused droplets of water which had found their way into the pores of the road surface to freeze, expand and by the repetition over a number of day and night temperatures to perforate and break up the tarmac. New patches, resembling cow pats in a meadow, seem to be particularly vulnerable to this seeping attack by the expansion and contraction of a simple water molecule and by loosening the hot bitumastic bonding the same problem which prompted the repair in the first place returns.
The Highways Department do rely upon a sense of citizenship or equally the indignation of motorists to report where the road surface is breaking up. The first action of the Local Authority is to send someone out with an aerosol spray can to encircle the offending area. This can be taken as a recognition and grudging acceptance of a pothole but buys some considerable time before any actual repair works are implemented. At least the sight, in good visibility conditions, of what resembles an oversized game of noughts and crosses does give a chance to approaching road users to plot their course with a bit more ease and assurance.
Under recessionary conditions and tightening of budgets the pothole is guaranteed a prolonged infamy. Most vehicle users accept them as a fact of life and to a certain extent relish the challenge to their driving skills in avoiding impact or the wrestling away of control which follows the entry into a rut, crevasse or trench.
It may take, heaven forbid, actual tragedy or fatalities to produce a more determined attitude by the Local Authorities to this problem. In the meantime you may be best advised to add to the standard motorists tool kit a set of ladders, caving equipment and ropes, grappling hooks and a book of useful phrases to get along with the subterranean inhabitants of the planet be they of the persuasion of goblins, trolls or the like.
Saturday 29 April 2017
Friday 28 April 2017
Hull and the High Seas
I wrote this a few years ago but had to air it again with the news that The Bounty replica foundered and sank in the natural phenomena and disaster that was Hurricane Sandy in 2012. Fatalities were recorded.
Today, April 28th is the anniversary of the infamous Mutiny on the Bounty in 1789.
Shipbuilding and Repairing was one of the oldest and most important local industries in Hull with documented yards, Staithes and docks along the course of the tidal River Hull from 1427. Not an unusual industrial process for a port town but able to thrive over many others because of the availability of oak from the hinterland and the trade with Europe for Baltic mast spars (big tree trunks) and good quality sail cloth.
Some of the dry dock basins survive today but only just. The river corridor has been identified for large scale redevelopment along the lines of a casino complex and combined commercial, retail and residential blocks. As with most ambitious and speculative projects in recessionary times there is a prolonged stay of execution for the inevitable infilling and destruction of these architectural features.
Most of the activity was around the west bank of the river running paralell to the historic Old Town and High Street. Early hand drawn maps of this location, even before the construction of the dock basins, clearly show symbolic ships hulls on the mud as a statement of intent for the merchants and entrepreneurs of the time. The subsequent permanent sites included North Bridge Yard, Number One Dry Dock, the South End Graving Dock and the most well known being Blaydes Shipyard.
It was in the yard of Benjamin Blaydes that he commissioned, for his own fleet , a small hardy collier ship in the name of Bethia in 1784. The vessel was just 2 inches short of 91 feet long and with a beam of 24'4". Cost to build was recorded at £1950 , roughly £195,000 in current monies. A short time after launch and sea trials the stocky Bethia, fully expected to ply her trade around the coastal waters of the UK was purchased by The Royal Navy at an enhanced price of £2600 turning Mr Blaydes a tidy profit.
The ship was renamed The Bounty and the rest is history or at least the Hollywood version of events, perhaps a waste of paradise. My often dormant but lingering interest in Hull's maritime heritage and in particular taking the wrapper off The Bounty story was sparked by an advertisement by a US based yacht agency.
The 1961 built replica of The Bounty or should it be just Bounty, is on the market for US$4.6m . The ship was custom made for the 1962 epic Mutiny on The...... film and has been well preserved and almost fully rebuilt on a regular basis. The replica was built on the original Admiralty Archive blueprints but as a concession for the equipment and logistics of movie making the dimensions were scaled up to 180 feet long and with a 32 foot beam. The reason, the cameras needed considerable space for operation and action shots.
In 1790 The Bounty was torched by the mutineers. For authenticity this was the full intention of the Director, Lewis Milestone but it appears that Marlon Brando kicked up such a fuss that the ship was spared this fate. I have yet to see this version of the film to determine if a balsa wood model filled with lighter fluid was substituted in the closing scenes or whether a very early and bright around the edges form of CGI was used.
I have not seen what the co-stars Trevor Howard and Richard Harris had to say on the subject. What is on offer for the amount of US$4.6m? The true Bounty was pretty small and a full crew was only 44 officers and men. The replica, a real party boat can accommodate 150 revellers on deck or 49 berthed sleepovers. The luxury package caters for only 12 passengers. There is 100,000 square feet of sail in full trim but I cannot really see the guests mucking in by climbing the rigging. Fletcher Christian would certainly have welcomed the modern concession of twin diesel engines.
Otherwise, it is all there. 3 masted, spanker boom, topgallant and other nautical equipment I am not sure about. The ship is in regular use and has just completed its 2011 tour of UK waters, Belgium and Scandinavia before returning to its US base but why not a quick visit to Hull?
Ironically, replica Bounty will have crossed the latitude of the Humber a few times in its summer excursions and there would be a tremendous interest in even a short layover given the origins of the legend. I cannot promise any serious expressions of interest to purchase the vessel amongst the proud citizens of Hull but the queues on the quayside ready to mount the gang plank would be guaranteed.
When it comes to remembering the maritime heritage of the city this sort of thing really floats our boat.
Today, April 28th is the anniversary of the infamous Mutiny on the Bounty in 1789.
Shipbuilding and Repairing was one of the oldest and most important local industries in Hull with documented yards, Staithes and docks along the course of the tidal River Hull from 1427. Not an unusual industrial process for a port town but able to thrive over many others because of the availability of oak from the hinterland and the trade with Europe for Baltic mast spars (big tree trunks) and good quality sail cloth.
Some of the dry dock basins survive today but only just. The river corridor has been identified for large scale redevelopment along the lines of a casino complex and combined commercial, retail and residential blocks. As with most ambitious and speculative projects in recessionary times there is a prolonged stay of execution for the inevitable infilling and destruction of these architectural features.
Most of the activity was around the west bank of the river running paralell to the historic Old Town and High Street. Early hand drawn maps of this location, even before the construction of the dock basins, clearly show symbolic ships hulls on the mud as a statement of intent for the merchants and entrepreneurs of the time. The subsequent permanent sites included North Bridge Yard, Number One Dry Dock, the South End Graving Dock and the most well known being Blaydes Shipyard.
It was in the yard of Benjamin Blaydes that he commissioned, for his own fleet , a small hardy collier ship in the name of Bethia in 1784. The vessel was just 2 inches short of 91 feet long and with a beam of 24'4". Cost to build was recorded at £1950 , roughly £195,000 in current monies. A short time after launch and sea trials the stocky Bethia, fully expected to ply her trade around the coastal waters of the UK was purchased by The Royal Navy at an enhanced price of £2600 turning Mr Blaydes a tidy profit.
The ship was renamed The Bounty and the rest is history or at least the Hollywood version of events, perhaps a waste of paradise. My often dormant but lingering interest in Hull's maritime heritage and in particular taking the wrapper off The Bounty story was sparked by an advertisement by a US based yacht agency.
The 1961 built replica of The Bounty or should it be just Bounty, is on the market for US$4.6m . The ship was custom made for the 1962 epic Mutiny on The...... film and has been well preserved and almost fully rebuilt on a regular basis. The replica was built on the original Admiralty Archive blueprints but as a concession for the equipment and logistics of movie making the dimensions were scaled up to 180 feet long and with a 32 foot beam. The reason, the cameras needed considerable space for operation and action shots.
In 1790 The Bounty was torched by the mutineers. For authenticity this was the full intention of the Director, Lewis Milestone but it appears that Marlon Brando kicked up such a fuss that the ship was spared this fate. I have yet to see this version of the film to determine if a balsa wood model filled with lighter fluid was substituted in the closing scenes or whether a very early and bright around the edges form of CGI was used.
I have not seen what the co-stars Trevor Howard and Richard Harris had to say on the subject. What is on offer for the amount of US$4.6m? The true Bounty was pretty small and a full crew was only 44 officers and men. The replica, a real party boat can accommodate 150 revellers on deck or 49 berthed sleepovers. The luxury package caters for only 12 passengers. There is 100,000 square feet of sail in full trim but I cannot really see the guests mucking in by climbing the rigging. Fletcher Christian would certainly have welcomed the modern concession of twin diesel engines.
Otherwise, it is all there. 3 masted, spanker boom, topgallant and other nautical equipment I am not sure about. The ship is in regular use and has just completed its 2011 tour of UK waters, Belgium and Scandinavia before returning to its US base but why not a quick visit to Hull?
Ironically, replica Bounty will have crossed the latitude of the Humber a few times in its summer excursions and there would be a tremendous interest in even a short layover given the origins of the legend. I cannot promise any serious expressions of interest to purchase the vessel amongst the proud citizens of Hull but the queues on the quayside ready to mount the gang plank would be guaranteed.
When it comes to remembering the maritime heritage of the city this sort of thing really floats our boat.
Thursday 27 April 2017
Steps
In a spare and uncluttered moment of thought, a rare thing indeed in my otherwise busy family and working life, I can often be found browsing through the data on my mobile phone, specifically that under the Health and Activity App.
It is a fascinating bit of data in recording the number of steps in normal walking mode assuming of course that my phone is attached to my body.
We are all subject to the propaganda associated with Government led well-being initiatives about what is a recommended daily step rate to get mind and body active. In recent days my own age group, the over 50's , has seen the publishing of a scientific study with strong guidance on regular exercise as a means to try to offset degenerative diseases of limb, muscle and brain cell function.
I have heard that about 10,000 steps is the target.
My initial perception of what 10,000 steps looks like in a linear distance was confused.
Based on an average adult stride length of around two to two and a half feet this means that it would take about 2000 steps to cover a British mile. Therefore, by simple extrapolation any one intent in acheiving 10,000 steps would be covering almost 5 miles.
If you bear in mind the average human walking speed, making allowances for factors such as the height, weight and age of the walker, the topography of the terrain, quality of the surface under the feet, any imposed or carried load, matters of culture and of course fitness this could mean only about 3 miles per hour.
Not many of us in our busy lives could, I warrant be able even if certainly willing to dedicate the equivalent of one hour and forty minutes to reaching that elusive magic number of steps. Some do achieve it, not so much in one single effort but on an accumulative basis during the day. I can see where a brisk walk to a place of work or as part of a normal day for most plus the return journey and with the chance of shorter trips through the course of a day could add up to or at least within striking distance of 10,000 steps.
However, there are many, many obstacles in the way of such a project and indeed it is generally thought that a sedentary person may only average from 1000 to 3000 steps in a day.
So how does my personal step data look?
I do consider myself to be active on a daily basis. My job does involve a lot of walking and stair-climbing although this is very much secondary to the fact that the same job involves up to 6 hours of driving between appointments. A prolonged driving position tends to negate any mobility benefits of the walking and staircase use which intersperses the road mileage.
My data file on steps goes back on the phone memory storage to 31st March 2015.
That was a day of only 1882 steps, an inauspicious start to my intended health revolution. The trend for the April of 2015 suggests an improvement in walking activity peaking at an incredible 20,629 steps or around 10 miles on one particular day although I cannot recall what the reason for this was, whether an intentional rural hike or a data malfunction.
It was not until some four months later that I managed anywhere near this personal best, generally prior to that my daily average being around 4000.
Weekend data is quite a shock as I am certainly as busy as during the week but on more pleasurable pursuits for family and home and yet a saturday and sunday average can be as paltry as a few hundred steps. I can explain that apparent sloth away by saying in defence that I often abandon my phone over the weekend and so actual data escapes the formal record.
That sounds convincing enough to me.
I am ashamed to say that the next occasion of reaching a five digit step number was not until January 2017, this being a long urban walk to and from the centre of my home town to attend a audio-visual and firework display to mark the start of the role as UK City of Culture.
The April 2015 figure remains as a personal best and will be unassailable for the foreseeable future.
I fell down a hole earlier on this month (April 2017) causing major damage to my right leg quad tendon which required an operation. Consequently. post operative, I am on a no weight bearing regime for at least 6 to 8 weeks. That is bad enough but my immobility is wreaking havoc with my Health and Activity data.
My current daily average is, well, it is not a typographical error,but a mere 10 steps.
That sounds about right for the physical extent of my current world which stretches from my sleeping bed to my day bed plus the excitement of a one-off excursion to the bathroom.
I am conscious of some scope for improvement to attain the heady levels of my previous activity but in the meantime and in the interests of my sanity I will simply turn the App off.
It is a fascinating bit of data in recording the number of steps in normal walking mode assuming of course that my phone is attached to my body.
We are all subject to the propaganda associated with Government led well-being initiatives about what is a recommended daily step rate to get mind and body active. In recent days my own age group, the over 50's , has seen the publishing of a scientific study with strong guidance on regular exercise as a means to try to offset degenerative diseases of limb, muscle and brain cell function.
I have heard that about 10,000 steps is the target.
My initial perception of what 10,000 steps looks like in a linear distance was confused.
Based on an average adult stride length of around two to two and a half feet this means that it would take about 2000 steps to cover a British mile. Therefore, by simple extrapolation any one intent in acheiving 10,000 steps would be covering almost 5 miles.
If you bear in mind the average human walking speed, making allowances for factors such as the height, weight and age of the walker, the topography of the terrain, quality of the surface under the feet, any imposed or carried load, matters of culture and of course fitness this could mean only about 3 miles per hour.
Not many of us in our busy lives could, I warrant be able even if certainly willing to dedicate the equivalent of one hour and forty minutes to reaching that elusive magic number of steps. Some do achieve it, not so much in one single effort but on an accumulative basis during the day. I can see where a brisk walk to a place of work or as part of a normal day for most plus the return journey and with the chance of shorter trips through the course of a day could add up to or at least within striking distance of 10,000 steps.
However, there are many, many obstacles in the way of such a project and indeed it is generally thought that a sedentary person may only average from 1000 to 3000 steps in a day.
So how does my personal step data look?
I do consider myself to be active on a daily basis. My job does involve a lot of walking and stair-climbing although this is very much secondary to the fact that the same job involves up to 6 hours of driving between appointments. A prolonged driving position tends to negate any mobility benefits of the walking and staircase use which intersperses the road mileage.
My data file on steps goes back on the phone memory storage to 31st March 2015.
That was a day of only 1882 steps, an inauspicious start to my intended health revolution. The trend for the April of 2015 suggests an improvement in walking activity peaking at an incredible 20,629 steps or around 10 miles on one particular day although I cannot recall what the reason for this was, whether an intentional rural hike or a data malfunction.
It was not until some four months later that I managed anywhere near this personal best, generally prior to that my daily average being around 4000.
Weekend data is quite a shock as I am certainly as busy as during the week but on more pleasurable pursuits for family and home and yet a saturday and sunday average can be as paltry as a few hundred steps. I can explain that apparent sloth away by saying in defence that I often abandon my phone over the weekend and so actual data escapes the formal record.
That sounds convincing enough to me.
I am ashamed to say that the next occasion of reaching a five digit step number was not until January 2017, this being a long urban walk to and from the centre of my home town to attend a audio-visual and firework display to mark the start of the role as UK City of Culture.
The April 2015 figure remains as a personal best and will be unassailable for the foreseeable future.
I fell down a hole earlier on this month (April 2017) causing major damage to my right leg quad tendon which required an operation. Consequently. post operative, I am on a no weight bearing regime for at least 6 to 8 weeks. That is bad enough but my immobility is wreaking havoc with my Health and Activity data.
My current daily average is, well, it is not a typographical error,but a mere 10 steps.
That sounds about right for the physical extent of my current world which stretches from my sleeping bed to my day bed plus the excitement of a one-off excursion to the bathroom.
I am conscious of some scope for improvement to attain the heady levels of my previous activity but in the meantime and in the interests of my sanity I will simply turn the App off.
Wednesday 26 April 2017
.Common are we
There is so much to worry about in the world at the moment.
I know of many people who are angst ridden over the political and economic upheaval on their own doorstep and across Europe, conflict between nations and within states in Africa and the Middle East, sabre rattling and ideological rhetoric between Super and would be Super-Powers, religious intolerance and extremism.
I do count myself amongst those with concerns and lets face it anyone wanting to just live their lives, bring up a family and contribute to their neighbourhood in peace and harmony is the same.
To this end I have to ask serious questions of myself in that I found myself disturbed and fretting in the early hours of one morning this week about the problems likely to be experienced in this crazy modern world by The Wombles.
I do not know where that train of thought came from.
Those fictional, loveable, herbivore environmental minded creatures have not figured in my life since the early 1970's and in particular my purchase as a birthday present at that time for my 13 year old sister of the vinyl single "Remember you're a Womble".
They have been absent from the public consciousness for almost as many years in spite of the great success of the animated series The Wombles and a seemingly inexhaustible range of merchandise and media spin-offs including making it to Top of the Pops.
I found myself thinking about how the Patriarch of the group, Great Uncle Bulgaria was coping with his advancing years and in particular having to live in what may well be a cosy burrow home in an area of Prime UK Real Estate, Wimbledon but likely to be damp and aggravating to any pre-existing respiratory or rheumatic complaints.
How is his pension provision and does he have access to the resources and services that he needs?
He does have a good support structure in place with the young and enthusiastic Wombles of Orinoco, Tobermory, and Tomsk who eke out a living by clearing and recycling the rubbish and ephemera dumped on the public open space of Wimbledon Common by a couldn't care less human population.
I expect that however hard working and entrepreneurial these three are that their livelihoods will have been affected by the fall in price for reclaimed tin and aluminium cans over recent years and with legislation such as Health and Safety covering the overhaul, renovation and resale of discarded white goods and other appliances that are inevitably disposed of by a consumer society.
Public demand has moved on from simple recycling to shabby-chic and other forms of upscaling and I worry that the large furry hands so typical of a Womble are not suited to such work. Their career prospects may be bleak with little scope to expand or diversify beyond the Common. There may be a real danger that they become bitter, disaffected and fall into that destructive category of a social and economic underclass.
As for Madame Cholet, the only female presence in the burrow I hope that she is treated with all due respect and equality by the predominant male population of Wombles.She does have a valuable contribution to the smooth and efficient operation of the group. A better and more suitable form of attire would be important as her characteristic trait as French Maid may have been politically tolerated back in the 1970's but not now, no way.
On subsequent analysis of my Womble worries I have come to the conclusion that they represent many of my own deep rooted fears and concerns. They exist in a sort of self sufficient bubble and yet a degree of influence is beyond their control which is perturbing .
However, this small enclave will not have been able to survive over the last half a century without a strong work ethic and indomitable spirit and we could all learn from this in our own lives.
I did manage to get back to sleep for a short time after this fretful awakening and dreamt no further on the plight of the Wombles which I took to be a good portent for the future.
I know of many people who are angst ridden over the political and economic upheaval on their own doorstep and across Europe, conflict between nations and within states in Africa and the Middle East, sabre rattling and ideological rhetoric between Super and would be Super-Powers, religious intolerance and extremism.
I do count myself amongst those with concerns and lets face it anyone wanting to just live their lives, bring up a family and contribute to their neighbourhood in peace and harmony is the same.
To this end I have to ask serious questions of myself in that I found myself disturbed and fretting in the early hours of one morning this week about the problems likely to be experienced in this crazy modern world by The Wombles.
I do not know where that train of thought came from.
Those fictional, loveable, herbivore environmental minded creatures have not figured in my life since the early 1970's and in particular my purchase as a birthday present at that time for my 13 year old sister of the vinyl single "Remember you're a Womble".
They have been absent from the public consciousness for almost as many years in spite of the great success of the animated series The Wombles and a seemingly inexhaustible range of merchandise and media spin-offs including making it to Top of the Pops.
I found myself thinking about how the Patriarch of the group, Great Uncle Bulgaria was coping with his advancing years and in particular having to live in what may well be a cosy burrow home in an area of Prime UK Real Estate, Wimbledon but likely to be damp and aggravating to any pre-existing respiratory or rheumatic complaints.
How is his pension provision and does he have access to the resources and services that he needs?
He does have a good support structure in place with the young and enthusiastic Wombles of Orinoco, Tobermory, and Tomsk who eke out a living by clearing and recycling the rubbish and ephemera dumped on the public open space of Wimbledon Common by a couldn't care less human population.
I expect that however hard working and entrepreneurial these three are that their livelihoods will have been affected by the fall in price for reclaimed tin and aluminium cans over recent years and with legislation such as Health and Safety covering the overhaul, renovation and resale of discarded white goods and other appliances that are inevitably disposed of by a consumer society.
Public demand has moved on from simple recycling to shabby-chic and other forms of upscaling and I worry that the large furry hands so typical of a Womble are not suited to such work. Their career prospects may be bleak with little scope to expand or diversify beyond the Common. There may be a real danger that they become bitter, disaffected and fall into that destructive category of a social and economic underclass.
As for Madame Cholet, the only female presence in the burrow I hope that she is treated with all due respect and equality by the predominant male population of Wombles.She does have a valuable contribution to the smooth and efficient operation of the group. A better and more suitable form of attire would be important as her characteristic trait as French Maid may have been politically tolerated back in the 1970's but not now, no way.
On subsequent analysis of my Womble worries I have come to the conclusion that they represent many of my own deep rooted fears and concerns. They exist in a sort of self sufficient bubble and yet a degree of influence is beyond their control which is perturbing .
However, this small enclave will not have been able to survive over the last half a century without a strong work ethic and indomitable spirit and we could all learn from this in our own lives.
I did manage to get back to sleep for a short time after this fretful awakening and dreamt no further on the plight of the Wombles which I took to be a good portent for the future.
Tuesday 25 April 2017
Going Dutch
I wrote this to celebrate the life and sporting prowess of Johan Cruyff when he died in 2016. His legacy to football remains as strong as ever. Today marks his birthday and also the announcement by his Dutch club Ajax of Amsterdam to rename their stadium in his honour.
The England football team were probably quite confident about their chances of qualifying for the 1974 World Cup which was to be based in Munich, Germany.
Unusually there were only three teams in Qualifying Group Five on the long road to the Tournament, next door neighbours Wales and near European neighbours, Poland.
England got off to a shaky but ideal start in November 1972 with a 35th minute goal by Colin Bell being the winner against Wales in Cardiff. The return match in the first month of 1973 saw John Toshack score first before a rare equalising goal from the hard man defender, Norman Hunter.
Poland showed some of their typical inconsistency with a surprise defeat by Wales and then first points earned from a 2-0 win over England.
After two games per team the home nations led the table on three points each (under the old points scoring system) with Wales ahead on slightly better goal difference. and Poland on two points. The Eastern Europeans, still part of the Soviet Bloc at that time, were able to soundly beat Wales 3-0 which left the group, with just one game for the Poles away at Wembley and only requiring a single point to knock out England.
That game in October 1973 was most memorable for two reasons, the first being the failure of England to progress to the Summer 1974 Finals and the second, the astounding goalkeeping performance of Jan Tomaszewksi that brought it about. England were continuously thwarted by the keeper, described by Brian Clough in his role as guest TV commentator as a Clown . An Alan Clarke equalising penalty in the 63rd minute was the catalyst for an all out assault on the Polish goalmouth.
I was watching the match, I recall in black and white, as an 11 year old football mad kid.
The huge anti-climax of a draw after ninety minutes which meant that Poland were on their way to Germany had quite an affect on me and in fact could be seen as the absolute low point of the England International Team which says a lot for a nation that since becoming World Champions in 1966 have not achieved anything of merit in any Tournament anywhere.
The lead-up to the 1974 Finals was therefore a bit flat.
To add insult to injury the only British representation would be arch rivals Scotland.
My own Scots ancestry demanded a certain amount of loyalty and support and although I paid heed to a deep rooted sense that they too would fail to progress beyond the first group stage they did actually make a good account of themselves. An opening win against Zaire was followed by a 0-0 draw with holders Brazil and a drab 1-1 with Yugoslavia but saw them finish third and outside of automatic qualification to the next stages.
I now had to attach myself to another country if I was to enjoy the rest of the World Cup that balmy summer.
The decision was easy. There was only one exciting team as far as I was concerned with skillful players, a fast paced tempo, great individuals but yet a strong squad ethic and all of this in bright, almost fluorescent orange shirts.
It just had to be The Netherlands, Holland, The Dutch.
I knew a bit about some of the players from listening avidly to evening radio broadcasts of the European Cup and UEFA Cup matches involving British clubs.
In those times there were not many foreign nationals playing across Europe and so most clubs had home grown players.
A quick look through the 22 player squad list for the 1974 World Cup illustrated this with 19 from the likes of Ajax, Feyenoord, Twente and Eindhoven, 2 with clubs in Belgium and the exotic inclusion of one from Barcelona, Johan Cruyff.
He had been awarded European Player of the Year in 1973 and 1974.
The technical expertise of the Dutch in particular was, to me , a revelation especially when compared with the hit and hope, hoof and run game that typified the English League.
Johan Cruyff was definitely, on the basis of my 11 years football knowledge , the best player by far not just in the Dutch team but in the whole of that year's competition.
That was saying something in a star studded line up in bright orange which included Ruud Krol, Johan Neeskens and Rob Rensenbrink.
The rest of the national teams, of course, had their fair share of stellar acheivers.
Playing at number 14, Cruyff,aged 27, was in his prime with a fluidity of play that seemed to make time stand still. He played at his own pace and yet did not lessen the tempo or physicality of a team effort. In physique he was quite slim and of slight build , obviously of natural athleticism, balance and power.
I looked forward to supporting my new but default team with great anticipation after Scotland were knocked out and Holland they did not disappoint.
In the Second Stage, a league arrangement rather than a knock-out, three wins out of three and eight goals with none conceded was impressive including good wins against Brazil and Argentina.
The style of play by the Dutch did appeal to the neutral fans somewhat in contrast to West Germany who were more methodical and to me, a bit boring.
These two progressed to the Final on 7th July 1974 in the Olympic Stadium in Munich with the outcome of a win for the hosts but with many of the opinion that the Dutch were the better team.
Cruyff continued to excel with success on and off the pitch as a player , retiring in 1984 and manager including at Ajax Amsterdam and Barcelona.
His death this week has brought back many great memories of Johan Cruyff.
He was certainly one of the greats summed up by a contemporary ,"There have been four kings of football—Di Stéfano, Pelé, Cruyff, and Maradona."
The England football team were probably quite confident about their chances of qualifying for the 1974 World Cup which was to be based in Munich, Germany.
Unusually there were only three teams in Qualifying Group Five on the long road to the Tournament, next door neighbours Wales and near European neighbours, Poland.
England got off to a shaky but ideal start in November 1972 with a 35th minute goal by Colin Bell being the winner against Wales in Cardiff. The return match in the first month of 1973 saw John Toshack score first before a rare equalising goal from the hard man defender, Norman Hunter.
Poland showed some of their typical inconsistency with a surprise defeat by Wales and then first points earned from a 2-0 win over England.
After two games per team the home nations led the table on three points each (under the old points scoring system) with Wales ahead on slightly better goal difference. and Poland on two points. The Eastern Europeans, still part of the Soviet Bloc at that time, were able to soundly beat Wales 3-0 which left the group, with just one game for the Poles away at Wembley and only requiring a single point to knock out England.
That game in October 1973 was most memorable for two reasons, the first being the failure of England to progress to the Summer 1974 Finals and the second, the astounding goalkeeping performance of Jan Tomaszewksi that brought it about. England were continuously thwarted by the keeper, described by Brian Clough in his role as guest TV commentator as a Clown . An Alan Clarke equalising penalty in the 63rd minute was the catalyst for an all out assault on the Polish goalmouth.
I was watching the match, I recall in black and white, as an 11 year old football mad kid.
The huge anti-climax of a draw after ninety minutes which meant that Poland were on their way to Germany had quite an affect on me and in fact could be seen as the absolute low point of the England International Team which says a lot for a nation that since becoming World Champions in 1966 have not achieved anything of merit in any Tournament anywhere.
The lead-up to the 1974 Finals was therefore a bit flat.
To add insult to injury the only British representation would be arch rivals Scotland.
My own Scots ancestry demanded a certain amount of loyalty and support and although I paid heed to a deep rooted sense that they too would fail to progress beyond the first group stage they did actually make a good account of themselves. An opening win against Zaire was followed by a 0-0 draw with holders Brazil and a drab 1-1 with Yugoslavia but saw them finish third and outside of automatic qualification to the next stages.
I now had to attach myself to another country if I was to enjoy the rest of the World Cup that balmy summer.
The decision was easy. There was only one exciting team as far as I was concerned with skillful players, a fast paced tempo, great individuals but yet a strong squad ethic and all of this in bright, almost fluorescent orange shirts.
It just had to be The Netherlands, Holland, The Dutch.
I knew a bit about some of the players from listening avidly to evening radio broadcasts of the European Cup and UEFA Cup matches involving British clubs.
In those times there were not many foreign nationals playing across Europe and so most clubs had home grown players.
A quick look through the 22 player squad list for the 1974 World Cup illustrated this with 19 from the likes of Ajax, Feyenoord, Twente and Eindhoven, 2 with clubs in Belgium and the exotic inclusion of one from Barcelona, Johan Cruyff.
The technical expertise of the Dutch in particular was, to me , a revelation especially when compared with the hit and hope, hoof and run game that typified the English League.
Johan Cruyff was definitely, on the basis of my 11 years football knowledge , the best player by far not just in the Dutch team but in the whole of that year's competition.
That was saying something in a star studded line up in bright orange which included Ruud Krol, Johan Neeskens and Rob Rensenbrink.
The rest of the national teams, of course, had their fair share of stellar acheivers.
Playing at number 14, Cruyff,aged 27, was in his prime with a fluidity of play that seemed to make time stand still. He played at his own pace and yet did not lessen the tempo or physicality of a team effort. In physique he was quite slim and of slight build , obviously of natural athleticism, balance and power.
I looked forward to supporting my new but default team with great anticipation after Scotland were knocked out and Holland they did not disappoint.
In the Second Stage, a league arrangement rather than a knock-out, three wins out of three and eight goals with none conceded was impressive including good wins against Brazil and Argentina.
The style of play by the Dutch did appeal to the neutral fans somewhat in contrast to West Germany who were more methodical and to me, a bit boring.
These two progressed to the Final on 7th July 1974 in the Olympic Stadium in Munich with the outcome of a win for the hosts but with many of the opinion that the Dutch were the better team.
Cruyff continued to excel with success on and off the pitch as a player , retiring in 1984 and manager including at Ajax Amsterdam and Barcelona.
His death this week has brought back many great memories of Johan Cruyff.
He was certainly one of the greats summed up by a contemporary ,"There have been four kings of football—Di Stéfano, Pelé, Cruyff, and Maradona."
Monday 24 April 2017
Couch Potato Guide to the Tour de Yorkshire
Three days to go until the start of the 2017 Tour de Yorkshire. I am getting psyched up for this years Pro-Team,stage race but for the first time I am unable to ride out and spectate because of leg surgery in the last week. I just have to re-visit my writing from the last two years starting with..............
I have every respect and admiration for the Pro Riders on this years Tour de Yorkshire (2016)
I rode out to see Stage 1 on Friday, a round trip of only 35 miles from my home for a bit of static spectating with my son from the open south aspect, but front row, race-side of a bus shelter.
We were not far off hypothermic from that "apocalyptic weather" as declared by commentator Ned Boulting and our plans to ride up to Scarborough to see the final stage today were thwarted by a resulting feverish state in head and accompanying feebleness in muscles.
To a cyclist, there is nothing worse than making a plan, getting keyed up and prepared to embark but then being struck down by a performance changing physical state.
The tremendous field of riders at the TdY2016 endured, over the three days, some 13 on the road hours of exposure to the elements, or as we call it, the well known Yorkshire climate of four seasons in one day.
In a state of convalescence I spent a most enjoyable, thrilling and motivating few hours watching the live TV coverage of Stage 3 from the comfort, draught-proof and almost balmy environment of my living room.
I lived every pedal stroke and was breathless at every exertion on the harsh undulations of the tortuous route, such was the all engrossing nature of the action being played out before me. I loathed the steep hills and feared the rapid descents.It was a stage full of ups and downs.
For the armchair cyclist the hours flew by as though mere minutes.
The final couple of kilometres had a therapeutic effect, in particular my shouting and screaming at Nicholas Roche and Thomas Voeckler to just keep going for fear of their being overwhelmed by the chasers.
There was a horrible moment when Voeckler veered off to the right of the roundabout just before the cobbled section which runs between the sea wall and the base of Scarborough Castle cliff face. I feared for two possible outcomes of this manouevre based on my own knowledge of the seaside resort, both nasty, either an involuntary entry into the quayside funfair or a plunge into the cold, murky waters of the harbour.
It was with relief that he came back into view as the TV camera panned to wide angle having lost no ground to Roche who had taken the shorter, official approach and exit to the island.
I had to make a quick choice when it was clear that they were the dual contenders for the overall winner of the three day epic race.
Being a big fan of Roche Senior in his racing days I was inclined to root for his talented son but opted for Voeckler as he is nearer my own age and well, it is accepted that old guys need to support each other's dreams and aspirations.
Our living room rocked with joy at his victory. I could have jumped on my bike and ridden up to share in his obvious elation at this performance, had it not been for the fever, aches, etc, etc, etc, etc..........
The Tour de Yorkshire, after only its second running has become established as a tremendous three day event, to follow on from 2015 and on my very own doorstep. All credit must go to the Organisation and many volunteers who made it a visual and emotional experience not to be forgotten. As for the massive crowds and enthusiastic support, well, roll on next year.
I have every respect and admiration for the Pro Riders on this years Tour de Yorkshire (2016)
I rode out to see Stage 1 on Friday, a round trip of only 35 miles from my home for a bit of static spectating with my son from the open south aspect, but front row, race-side of a bus shelter.
We were not far off hypothermic from that "apocalyptic weather" as declared by commentator Ned Boulting and our plans to ride up to Scarborough to see the final stage today were thwarted by a resulting feverish state in head and accompanying feebleness in muscles.
To a cyclist, there is nothing worse than making a plan, getting keyed up and prepared to embark but then being struck down by a performance changing physical state.
The tremendous field of riders at the TdY2016 endured, over the three days, some 13 on the road hours of exposure to the elements, or as we call it, the well known Yorkshire climate of four seasons in one day.
In a state of convalescence I spent a most enjoyable, thrilling and motivating few hours watching the live TV coverage of Stage 3 from the comfort, draught-proof and almost balmy environment of my living room.
I lived every pedal stroke and was breathless at every exertion on the harsh undulations of the tortuous route, such was the all engrossing nature of the action being played out before me. I loathed the steep hills and feared the rapid descents.It was a stage full of ups and downs.
For the armchair cyclist the hours flew by as though mere minutes.
The final couple of kilometres had a therapeutic effect, in particular my shouting and screaming at Nicholas Roche and Thomas Voeckler to just keep going for fear of their being overwhelmed by the chasers.
There was a horrible moment when Voeckler veered off to the right of the roundabout just before the cobbled section which runs between the sea wall and the base of Scarborough Castle cliff face. I feared for two possible outcomes of this manouevre based on my own knowledge of the seaside resort, both nasty, either an involuntary entry into the quayside funfair or a plunge into the cold, murky waters of the harbour.
It was with relief that he came back into view as the TV camera panned to wide angle having lost no ground to Roche who had taken the shorter, official approach and exit to the island.
I had to make a quick choice when it was clear that they were the dual contenders for the overall winner of the three day epic race.
Being a big fan of Roche Senior in his racing days I was inclined to root for his talented son but opted for Voeckler as he is nearer my own age and well, it is accepted that old guys need to support each other's dreams and aspirations.
Our living room rocked with joy at his victory. I could have jumped on my bike and ridden up to share in his obvious elation at this performance, had it not been for the fever, aches, etc, etc, etc, etc..........
The Tour de Yorkshire, after only its second running has become established as a tremendous three day event, to follow on from 2015 and on my very own doorstep. All credit must go to the Organisation and many volunteers who made it a visual and emotional experience not to be forgotten. As for the massive crowds and enthusiastic support, well, roll on next year.
Sunday 23 April 2017
Pedal to the Metal
Electric Bikes have really developed over the last couple of years although powered cycles have been around for considerably longer than you might think. The key improvements have been in weight saving in the battery source, frames and components.
Just a few years ago a typical electric bike was a hefty, cumbersome and unattractive beast only really suitable for short shopping or commuter uses. The current versions available have advanced significantly in style with models being manufactured to appeal not just to those wanting a bit of mechanical assistance in pedalling whether that be a consequence of reduced natural mobility from health or other issues but to existing and longstanding cycling enthusiasts.
A number of manufacturers now offer bike models for long distance touring, off road and lightweight endurance and speed as well as the traditional sectors of city-users and portability. Of course whilst still a relatively rare sight in the UK their numbers in continental Europe continue to increase on a year on year basis. Sales in the UK of E-Bikes in 2016 were at 35,000 units compared to, in Germany alone, a figure of 535,000 over a similar period. In the US market powered bikes have started to replace car use on the daily commute.
It has been likened to a quiet revolution, no pedalling pun intended, with around 1 in 7 of bikes on a global basis now having battery power.
The first recorded Patent for an electrical bicycle dates from 1895 by Mr Ogden Bolton Junior although the wording of the US Patent Number 552,271 does refer to further developments suggesting that other inventions and creations predated the Bolton Jnr offering but with no trail or documents seemingly available.
The power in this late 19th Century pioneering machine was from a rear wheel hub mounted motor which schematics show although evidently in a very heavyweight combination of frame, wheels and a sling hung battery under the crossbar.
Many others had a go at progressing the electric bike to a commercial and mass-produced entity all through the 20th Century but it was not until Jesse D Tucker filed his Patent US2514460 in 1950 that the combination of a motor and the ability to freewheel or pedal really brought the technology into a truly workable format.
In 1992 the Zike was marketed being of a frame integrated motor running on nickel cadmium batteries and improvements in torque and power first saw the acceptance of the term E-Bike in the perception of the public.
Ogdens invention of the back wheel hub motor had a resurgence in some models before the very recent acceleration of style and ease of use that are characteristics of current popular models.
The main manufacturers have invested heavily in promoting E-Bike sales and this has been very successful. Those wanting cycling assistance have been easily won over but what of the hard core of purist pedalling enthusiasts who regard mechanical power on a bike as, well, cheating?
The expansion of E Bike types has served to allay the fears and suspicions of the sceptics, me included, in that any increase in participants of cycling is a good thing for overall health, to reduce pollution and hopefully demonstrate to Governments and Authorities that the cycling lobby is getting stronger and that more and suitable infrastructure must follow to cater for this.
A small concession to the increase in E Bikes was the recent uplift in the level of funding for Cycle to Work and other such schemes in the UK so that entry level E Bikes, which are not currently cheap, can be considered.
A Hybrid E Bike, meaning a model suitable for road and off road riding can cost around £2250 rising to £2700 for a Tourer. Specialist Racing Bikes and Mountain Bikes are currently over the range £3000 to £5000 although in reality there is an E-Bike bike somewhere to suit all budgets and riding requirements.
In practical terms there remain some restrictions on use. It is likely to take some 3 to 4 hours to recharge a typical battery source although this can be done from a standard domestic socket. The Law currently restricts the electrical assistance to 15.5mph and with a minimum rider age of 14 years old. Battery life can be covered by a warranty of 12 to 24 months although replacement will cost a few hundred pounds. The cost and eco-conscious rider will incur a cost for electricity of around 0.4 pence per mile. Best expectation for distance on a single charge is up to 80 miles although with many determining factors of terrain, weight and fitness of the rider, tyre pressure and the inevitable stop-go nature caused by other road users on a bike ride.
There is every indication of continued investment in E Bikes and as with most technology it may be best to sit tight and just await for the next best thing in terms of models.
Just a few years ago a typical electric bike was a hefty, cumbersome and unattractive beast only really suitable for short shopping or commuter uses. The current versions available have advanced significantly in style with models being manufactured to appeal not just to those wanting a bit of mechanical assistance in pedalling whether that be a consequence of reduced natural mobility from health or other issues but to existing and longstanding cycling enthusiasts.
A number of manufacturers now offer bike models for long distance touring, off road and lightweight endurance and speed as well as the traditional sectors of city-users and portability. Of course whilst still a relatively rare sight in the UK their numbers in continental Europe continue to increase on a year on year basis. Sales in the UK of E-Bikes in 2016 were at 35,000 units compared to, in Germany alone, a figure of 535,000 over a similar period. In the US market powered bikes have started to replace car use on the daily commute.
It has been likened to a quiet revolution, no pedalling pun intended, with around 1 in 7 of bikes on a global basis now having battery power.
The first recorded Patent for an electrical bicycle dates from 1895 by Mr Ogden Bolton Junior although the wording of the US Patent Number 552,271 does refer to further developments suggesting that other inventions and creations predated the Bolton Jnr offering but with no trail or documents seemingly available.
Many others had a go at progressing the electric bike to a commercial and mass-produced entity all through the 20th Century but it was not until Jesse D Tucker filed his Patent US2514460 in 1950 that the combination of a motor and the ability to freewheel or pedal really brought the technology into a truly workable format.
In 1992 the Zike was marketed being of a frame integrated motor running on nickel cadmium batteries and improvements in torque and power first saw the acceptance of the term E-Bike in the perception of the public.
Ogdens invention of the back wheel hub motor had a resurgence in some models before the very recent acceleration of style and ease of use that are characteristics of current popular models.
The main manufacturers have invested heavily in promoting E-Bike sales and this has been very successful. Those wanting cycling assistance have been easily won over but what of the hard core of purist pedalling enthusiasts who regard mechanical power on a bike as, well, cheating?
The expansion of E Bike types has served to allay the fears and suspicions of the sceptics, me included, in that any increase in participants of cycling is a good thing for overall health, to reduce pollution and hopefully demonstrate to Governments and Authorities that the cycling lobby is getting stronger and that more and suitable infrastructure must follow to cater for this.
A small concession to the increase in E Bikes was the recent uplift in the level of funding for Cycle to Work and other such schemes in the UK so that entry level E Bikes, which are not currently cheap, can be considered.
A Hybrid E Bike, meaning a model suitable for road and off road riding can cost around £2250 rising to £2700 for a Tourer. Specialist Racing Bikes and Mountain Bikes are currently over the range £3000 to £5000 although in reality there is an E-Bike bike somewhere to suit all budgets and riding requirements.
In practical terms there remain some restrictions on use. It is likely to take some 3 to 4 hours to recharge a typical battery source although this can be done from a standard domestic socket. The Law currently restricts the electrical assistance to 15.5mph and with a minimum rider age of 14 years old. Battery life can be covered by a warranty of 12 to 24 months although replacement will cost a few hundred pounds. The cost and eco-conscious rider will incur a cost for electricity of around 0.4 pence per mile. Best expectation for distance on a single charge is up to 80 miles although with many determining factors of terrain, weight and fitness of the rider, tyre pressure and the inevitable stop-go nature caused by other road users on a bike ride.
There is every indication of continued investment in E Bikes and as with most technology it may be best to sit tight and just await for the next best thing in terms of models.
Saturday 22 April 2017
Kneez
I cringed and felt sick as the right knee of Zlatan Ibrahimovic sort of doubled back on itself. It was an awkward landing after challenging for an aerial ball in this weeks Europa League match.
The nausea was not induced by a partisan support for Manchester United. I should make that clear from the start. Zlatan, well, I like him as a player and, from what I know of him, for his contribution to football in his home country Sweden and globally as a superstar.
For him is the prospect of a long layoff from his livelihood, the frustration of a painful weight bearing existence for the duration of healing, not being able to drive, the thought of many hours of boredom from a lifetime of unfettered routine and responsibilities.
I expect that he will miss the smallest of things like jumping in the car and going to the shops or an early hours raid on the healthier contents of the fridge.
Perhaps Zlatan could benefit from my current experience for I am some 8 days into a similar enforced convalescence for an injury to the same right leg.
I cannot compete with the circumstances of his misfortune.
His was in front of about 70,000 in the Stadium and millions more on TV. Mine was all of my own work.
The heroic leap as part of the front line of attack of his team does not compare with my ungainly slip and loss of footing whilst carrying out a typical daily workload.
He lay prone on the hallowed turf of that Theatre of Dreams, Old Trafford. I found myself resting against the wall of a bungalow.
The homeowners, alerted to my accident by a phone call even though they were only some 10 feet or so away indoors , were on the scene as quickly, I would say, as the Manchester United trainer and medic.
Zlatan's injury is feared to be to his anterior cruciate ligament, a heavy use component of the knee.
My diagnosis after X-Ray, a bit of Junior Doctor poking about and an MRI scan was of a ruptured quadricep ligament.
That, in my mind, puts me and Zlatan in the same sort of medical category with a long recovery to be anticipated. I have the luxury of being at home after the operation to re-attach the tendon and attended to for my every need and whim by my family. It is a strange time for all of us in our house and immediate environment, a sort of limbo from our normal existence.
I am determined however to be a good patient. Any unnecessary stress or distress to my dressed and braced leg is to be avoided. I feel that I can cope with the physical aspects of my recovery but perhaps more trying is keeping my mind active and alert.
I have developed a bit of a routine in this first phase and this may have some benefits to Zlatan in his own strategy to offset tedium and boredom. I cannot sleep very well in the locked straight leg brace and so after a fitful four or so hours I am awake and thoughtful in the early hours. I breakfast on porridge, fruit smoothie and green tea before a couple of hours of listening to Radio Four Extra whilst still in bed.
First attempts at movement are into the spare bedroom for mid morning reading and a few podcasts covering my favourite topics of history and the spoken word in general.
Lunch is a light soup and some fruit before a lap top session to catch up on my e mails from work (which still goes on in my absence), checking reports and papers dropped off by my work colleagues for later return and researching my daily blog.
Tea time arrives quickly after such concentrated effort and then it is the evening routine. I resist the temptation of a quick snooze at any time so as to sleep a bit better. An hour or so of writing is the most therapeutic period of the day for me.
My treat after this is a movie, either a re-run of an old favourite, a catch-up of a classic that I have forgotten about or just not got around to seeing or a pot luck choice of the thousands on demand.
I expect that Zlatan will have a number of his own specific interests to pursue during his convalescence and will find a routine to suit himself. My mobile phone is just by my day-bed to keep in touch with family, friends and acquaintances although if I go through the day without it ringing I am not disappointed.
Perhaps Zlatan might want to give me a call for a chat and to compare notes on our respective recoveries.
I could reserve a little bit of the early afternoon for such things, possibly if not otherwise busy.
The nausea was not induced by a partisan support for Manchester United. I should make that clear from the start. Zlatan, well, I like him as a player and, from what I know of him, for his contribution to football in his home country Sweden and globally as a superstar.
For him is the prospect of a long layoff from his livelihood, the frustration of a painful weight bearing existence for the duration of healing, not being able to drive, the thought of many hours of boredom from a lifetime of unfettered routine and responsibilities.
I expect that he will miss the smallest of things like jumping in the car and going to the shops or an early hours raid on the healthier contents of the fridge.
Perhaps Zlatan could benefit from my current experience for I am some 8 days into a similar enforced convalescence for an injury to the same right leg.
I cannot compete with the circumstances of his misfortune.
His was in front of about 70,000 in the Stadium and millions more on TV. Mine was all of my own work.
The heroic leap as part of the front line of attack of his team does not compare with my ungainly slip and loss of footing whilst carrying out a typical daily workload.
He lay prone on the hallowed turf of that Theatre of Dreams, Old Trafford. I found myself resting against the wall of a bungalow.
The homeowners, alerted to my accident by a phone call even though they were only some 10 feet or so away indoors , were on the scene as quickly, I would say, as the Manchester United trainer and medic.
Zlatan's injury is feared to be to his anterior cruciate ligament, a heavy use component of the knee.
My diagnosis after X-Ray, a bit of Junior Doctor poking about and an MRI scan was of a ruptured quadricep ligament.
That, in my mind, puts me and Zlatan in the same sort of medical category with a long recovery to be anticipated. I have the luxury of being at home after the operation to re-attach the tendon and attended to for my every need and whim by my family. It is a strange time for all of us in our house and immediate environment, a sort of limbo from our normal existence.
I am determined however to be a good patient. Any unnecessary stress or distress to my dressed and braced leg is to be avoided. I feel that I can cope with the physical aspects of my recovery but perhaps more trying is keeping my mind active and alert.
I have developed a bit of a routine in this first phase and this may have some benefits to Zlatan in his own strategy to offset tedium and boredom. I cannot sleep very well in the locked straight leg brace and so after a fitful four or so hours I am awake and thoughtful in the early hours. I breakfast on porridge, fruit smoothie and green tea before a couple of hours of listening to Radio Four Extra whilst still in bed.
First attempts at movement are into the spare bedroom for mid morning reading and a few podcasts covering my favourite topics of history and the spoken word in general.
Lunch is a light soup and some fruit before a lap top session to catch up on my e mails from work (which still goes on in my absence), checking reports and papers dropped off by my work colleagues for later return and researching my daily blog.
Tea time arrives quickly after such concentrated effort and then it is the evening routine. I resist the temptation of a quick snooze at any time so as to sleep a bit better. An hour or so of writing is the most therapeutic period of the day for me.
My treat after this is a movie, either a re-run of an old favourite, a catch-up of a classic that I have forgotten about or just not got around to seeing or a pot luck choice of the thousands on demand.
I expect that Zlatan will have a number of his own specific interests to pursue during his convalescence and will find a routine to suit himself. My mobile phone is just by my day-bed to keep in touch with family, friends and acquaintances although if I go through the day without it ringing I am not disappointed.
Perhaps Zlatan might want to give me a call for a chat and to compare notes on our respective recoveries.
I could reserve a little bit of the early afternoon for such things, possibly if not otherwise busy.
Friday 21 April 2017
Assault and Battery
However hard I pedalled, huffed, puffed and pedalled some more I just could not catch the old man.
I needed what I call a "chase down" to salvage something of what had been a difficult day.
In the course of a couple of hours of cycling , all resplendent in my flashiest lycra and on my best lightweight road bike I had not been able to chase down, by that I mean having seen another rider up ahead , to catch and then give the impression of effortless overtaking before making the next available right or left turn and hoping that the now overwhelmed and disenchanted rider was not taking the same route.
This may sound a bit mean and mealy but every cyclist with a competitive streak in them partakes in the same activity.
The massive upsurge in the number of two wheeled road users of all abilities that has been so evident since, I would say, the London 2012 Olympic Games has certainly provided an incentive for the chase down to be carried out.
I have myself been caught and left wallowing in this way. The perpetrator is typically in full team issue gear and on an expensive shiny road bike, either self funded with perhaps a bequest, redundancy or divorce settlement or through one of the many Ride to Work incentive schemes. I would at this point say that the rider can be either male or female. I have been overtaken by both.
It is not a nice feeling particularly as my participation in cycling goes back some 30 years and in that time I have competed in many events from mass start road race to individual time trials, ie against the clock over 10 , 25 or more miles.
I fully accept that speed and stamina do tail off with advancing years but nevertheless, eating a face full of gravelled road surface from being overhauled and dropped is humiliating at best.
With my reduced ability to pedal fast or at least on a sustainable basis I have taken to selecting my chase down targets very carefully.
Hence the old man on this occasion.
3 miles from home on a busy city dual carriageway I had spied a slow moving, cumbersome looking bike and the aforementioned senior citizen pull out of a housing estate comprising mostly bungalows. There was a distinctly greenish shade to the clothing of the gent, suggesting to me a tweed jacket and perhaps gardening trousers. A faint whitish cloud emanating from under a flat cloth cap indicated that he was smoking.
On the criteria of suitable chase down material this was to me a certainty as in a Senior Citizen, inappropriately dressed for fast cycling and a hard core smoker as well.
I picked up my pedal revolutions to what I estimated would a good average speed to enable a catch and pass before either of
1) The road reached my house or
2) the man reached wherever he was going.
Under point 2) I was guilty of yet more stereotyping of the gent in assuming that he was heading for one of the three public houses on the main road, any of half a dozen tobacconists or newsagents or to one of multiple Betting Shops in that broad location.
I was encouraged but not a little shocked by my bigoted and judgemental assessment but any self disgust was tempered by a little light headedness from the previous couple of hours exertions and the need for a small but significant victory on the road.
In spite of bit of renewed vigour in my riding I was not making up any of the distance.
Traffic light sequences were synchronised to the pace and traffic was not heavy or obstructive. There was no influence from wind or other factors such as stray gutter resting shopping trolleys or a glass strewn carriageway.
I chased and chased, head lolling about and tongue almost touching the handlebars. This must have been a startling sight indeed for other road users.
In contrast the old man was evidently still enjoying a cigarette. He may even have lit up another whilst on the move.
This was getting ridiculous.
I tried to recall the events diary of the current Cycling Weekly magazine for any reference to famous old cyclists in town of Barry Hoban, Sean Kelly or Charly Wegelius pedigree but that train of thought smacked of desperation on my part.
By now my eyes were in double vision mode plus early signs of a headache.
Then up ahead the "Tweed Speeder" had stopped, parked the bike on its stand and was making his way into, well, a fish and chip shop.
As I rode by with an incredulous expression bordering on admiration for his athleticism I noticed a strange anomaly. Although upright and stationary the back wheel of the old mans bike was still spinning at multiple revolutions. There was the faint hum, even above the ambient city noise, of a battery powered motor.
I was not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I needed what I call a "chase down" to salvage something of what had been a difficult day.
In the course of a couple of hours of cycling , all resplendent in my flashiest lycra and on my best lightweight road bike I had not been able to chase down, by that I mean having seen another rider up ahead , to catch and then give the impression of effortless overtaking before making the next available right or left turn and hoping that the now overwhelmed and disenchanted rider was not taking the same route.
This may sound a bit mean and mealy but every cyclist with a competitive streak in them partakes in the same activity.
The massive upsurge in the number of two wheeled road users of all abilities that has been so evident since, I would say, the London 2012 Olympic Games has certainly provided an incentive for the chase down to be carried out.
I have myself been caught and left wallowing in this way. The perpetrator is typically in full team issue gear and on an expensive shiny road bike, either self funded with perhaps a bequest, redundancy or divorce settlement or through one of the many Ride to Work incentive schemes. I would at this point say that the rider can be either male or female. I have been overtaken by both.
It is not a nice feeling particularly as my participation in cycling goes back some 30 years and in that time I have competed in many events from mass start road race to individual time trials, ie against the clock over 10 , 25 or more miles.
I fully accept that speed and stamina do tail off with advancing years but nevertheless, eating a face full of gravelled road surface from being overhauled and dropped is humiliating at best.
With my reduced ability to pedal fast or at least on a sustainable basis I have taken to selecting my chase down targets very carefully.
Hence the old man on this occasion.
3 miles from home on a busy city dual carriageway I had spied a slow moving, cumbersome looking bike and the aforementioned senior citizen pull out of a housing estate comprising mostly bungalows. There was a distinctly greenish shade to the clothing of the gent, suggesting to me a tweed jacket and perhaps gardening trousers. A faint whitish cloud emanating from under a flat cloth cap indicated that he was smoking.
On the criteria of suitable chase down material this was to me a certainty as in a Senior Citizen, inappropriately dressed for fast cycling and a hard core smoker as well.
I picked up my pedal revolutions to what I estimated would a good average speed to enable a catch and pass before either of
1) The road reached my house or
2) the man reached wherever he was going.
Under point 2) I was guilty of yet more stereotyping of the gent in assuming that he was heading for one of the three public houses on the main road, any of half a dozen tobacconists or newsagents or to one of multiple Betting Shops in that broad location.
I was encouraged but not a little shocked by my bigoted and judgemental assessment but any self disgust was tempered by a little light headedness from the previous couple of hours exertions and the need for a small but significant victory on the road.
In spite of bit of renewed vigour in my riding I was not making up any of the distance.
Traffic light sequences were synchronised to the pace and traffic was not heavy or obstructive. There was no influence from wind or other factors such as stray gutter resting shopping trolleys or a glass strewn carriageway.
I chased and chased, head lolling about and tongue almost touching the handlebars. This must have been a startling sight indeed for other road users.
In contrast the old man was evidently still enjoying a cigarette. He may even have lit up another whilst on the move.
This was getting ridiculous.
I tried to recall the events diary of the current Cycling Weekly magazine for any reference to famous old cyclists in town of Barry Hoban, Sean Kelly or Charly Wegelius pedigree but that train of thought smacked of desperation on my part.
By now my eyes were in double vision mode plus early signs of a headache.
Then up ahead the "Tweed Speeder" had stopped, parked the bike on its stand and was making his way into, well, a fish and chip shop.
As I rode by with an incredulous expression bordering on admiration for his athleticism I noticed a strange anomaly. Although upright and stationary the back wheel of the old mans bike was still spinning at multiple revolutions. There was the faint hum, even above the ambient city noise, of a battery powered motor.
I was not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Thursday 20 April 2017
Menaces and Perils
The lower shelves of a typical local High Street
newsagents today are very different from those in my formative years (1960's
and 70's).
Not only is there a vast range of comics and magazines but these are
pretty sophisticated in their print quality, highly commercial in their content
and of course with a price tag to match. Even allowing for production costs and
inflation what I used to pay pocket money pennies for is now anywhere upwards
to a fiver.
The current titles are firmly focused on a new film release or long
running movie franchise, sports with football dominant but wrestling not far
behind, offerings from cartoon studios and even lifestyle factors although when
I was at that target age we did not have any real perception of such things
beyond what our parents dressed us in and fed us on every day.
The mainstay
print matter of the children's comic had not really changed much from the time
of my own father and his contemporaries in the 1930's and 1940's with the likes
of The Beano and The Dandy for entertainment and more weighty knowledge and
education based publications such as Look and Learn.
The Beano and The Dandy
reached an astounding 2 million circulation in the 1950's largely attributed to
the fact that there was very little else available to attract the interest of
the children of that decade. The key characters of Roger the Dodger, Minnie the
Minx, Billy Whizz, Walter the Softy, Desperate Dan, Korky Kat and the enigmatic
Black Bob really caught the imagination and became household names.
These
comics by D C Thomson were followed in the post war era by other titles to
appeal to a slighter older age group and mostly males including Tiger which
featured Roy of the Rovers, Eagle with Dan Dare, Valiant and Warrior.
At the
age of eleven I can recall the anticipation and excitement of purchasing a band
new comic offering, Warlord (1974).
This had, as the title suggests,a very
militarised storyline re-enacting second world war conflicts and with my
schoolmates being re-introduced to stylised german phrases of
"Achtung", "Hande Hoch", "Donner und Blitzen"
which were put to good use charging about the playground or our housing estate.
Warlord was to my mind the last of such themed comics brought about by the
moral stance of producers and stockists against toy guns and weapon based toys
in the 1980's.
Other comics fell by the wayside being unable to compete
with television, video games, computer and media based technology. The heritage
of the comic does however survive on the newsagents shelves as well as many
print based publications now being available on line.
My generation in
particular retained a nostalgia for the comic and its individual and collective
characters and this was very much behind
the emergence of Viz in 1979 and its position within ten years of being
the biggest selling in its media category.
Viz is loved or loathed, championed
or villified, quoted or ignored but represents to me a natural progression for
my age group from the innocently mischievous antics of the likes of Dennis the Menace
and Beryl the Peril to a new edgy, streetwise, toilet humour, controversial and
downright offensive outlook which is so relevant to current life and all of its
situations.
The almost Mission Statement message on the official web page of
the comic, or magazine as it prefers to call itself pulls no punches.
Viz Comic is a British magazine published ten
times a year. Since 1979, its irreverent mix of foul-mouthed, childish cartoons
and sharp satire has seen its creators hauled over the coals by the United
Nations, questioned by Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist branch and exhibited in
the Tate Gallery. Now well into its fourth decade and suffering from hairy
ears, stress incontinence and piles, Viz is firmly established as a national
institution, just like Broadmoor Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the DVLA and
the Porton Down Chemical Weapons Research Facility.
Here is just a small selection of the fantastic
Viz characters that kept me amused and embarrassed in equal measure. Do not read on if easily offended.
Barry the Cat – a
parody of The Beano's acrobatic crimefighter Billy the Cat. Barry is
incompetent, hopelessly uncoordinated, and is immediately recognised despite
his "cat-suit" disguise.
Baxter Basics – an extremely amoral and sexually
deviant Conservative MP who first appeared at around the same time as John
Major's Back to Basics campaign, and a transparent statement on the hypocrisy
of politicians
Beeny of the Lamp – An Aladdin parody in which
Sarah Beeny comes out of a magic lamp to help a young couple wishing for advice
on buying a property.
Cockney Wanker – a swaggering, bigoted Londoner
who speaks in rhyming slang.
Desperately Unfunny Dan – parody of
barrel-chested Desperate Dan who tries too hard to amuse people with his
superhuman feats of strength.
The Fat Slags – two enormous sluttish women living
in Mansfield, San (Sandra Burke) and Tray (Tracey Tunstall), with huge
appetites for both sex and food.
Grassy Knollington – a schoolboy conspiracy
theorist who would spend every strip putting together and explaining
complicated and outlandish theories behind certain events often to the exasperation of his friends.
Johnny Fartpants – a boy afflicted with extreme
flatulence. Tagline: There's always a commotion in his trousers. He suffers
from extreme, excessive flatulence which is not only offensive to the nose and
ears, but destructive to those around him. His gaseous emissions have been
known to destroy houses and other hard-surfaced articles, as well as injure
people. He is always apologetic, and constantly reminds people that his colonic
expulsions are beyond his control - despite his insistence on "keeping to
a strict pump diet", which often includes beans and "cabbage
water".
Peter the Slow Eater – a man who, as the title
suggests, takes his time eating meals much to the frustration of his family,
especially his kids whom he will not allow to leave the table "until
everyone has finished eating".
Raymond Porter and his Bucket of Water – a boy
who carries around a bucket of water which he uses to solve all sorts of
problems.
Sid the Sexist – a young man with no sexual
experience who boasts of his success with women. His distinct lack of tact or
any social graces do not help him in his quest to "pull" women.
Terry Fuckwitt – an extremely dim-witted boy.
Fuckwitt continuously mistakes situations, objects and people for each other.
1979 was my
16th year and Viz was the
perfect escape publication for me or at
least as much as it could be for a quiet, shy, unconfident and rather geeky lad
with no firm political or other life threatening affiliations in a sleepy Yorkshire
town.
Wednesday 19 April 2017
Treetop Therapy
It is a line from a modern American poem that "only God can make a tree".
Yes, alright, I had not heard of it before coming across it on my most recent viewing of the movie "Groundhog Day" where it features in a brief moment of tranquility in the otherwise, to that point, tormented 24 hour existence of the lead character.
I can well relate to the calming influence of trees as they have for me and for many of us in temperate climates, played a role in our lives be it in an urban park, a rural scene, alongside a regular travelling route or on a mountainside.
For many years our family enjoyed a sizeable Elm tree which dominated the back garden of our house. It was a constant reminder of nature from the sometimes frightening movement of the boughs in the thick of a springtime storm to the quiet and cool shadows cast in the height of summer.
For such a strong natural structure, seemingly to us children like an impregnable tower, its slow decline and eventual demise from the disease that struck at the stock of Elms across the country and northern Europe felt like the bereavement of a faithful and reliable companion.
Now in my adult years I am back amongst mighty trees.
We live in a city park. From the second floor bedroom level my view, on drifting off to sleep and awakening in the morning, is one of the huge canopy of a horse chestnut tree, one of many that ring the central green space and were originally planted out as vulnerable saplings in the 1860's.
I am not currently sleeping well in the recovery stage from an accident that has much reduced my mobility.
The view into the tree is my reference point in the early hours when I cannot get comfortable.
I have a renewed wonder at the arrival of the first summertime hour sunlight which is as early as 4am.
The solid mass of the trunk and main boughs begin slowly to take on their true three dimensional form. Just before this I can just follow with my finger the black outline of the tree . In doing so I can imagine trying to capture the majesty and sheer strength of the dense wood in pencil lines or pastel paint but I fall well short every time.
Gradually the light makes it way through and then over the park buildings on the eastern side bringing a multitude of shades of gold, silver, mercury, bronze and all on the yellow/green spectrum. It strikes the new leaf canopy growth and reflects in shade and tone onto the smooth grey bark.
Occasionally a movement in the boughs takes my attention from the developing scene.
At first I am not sure what it is and then I realise that it is the shadow of an ill defined, distorted yet fast moving shape. Within a second a squirrel makes its way deftly along the boughs, leaping with grace and no tangible impact fully across my line of sight before disappearing beyond the scope of the window opening.
In recent weeks we have been privileged to have a woodpecker in residence with all of the noise that goes with that. Regular visitors in the boughs include chubby pigeons, magpies and robins.
The location of the park in urban surroundings makes for a comparatively sheltered environment and even in the strongest storm conditions elsewhere in the city the Victorian planting ensures little exposure to potentially violent conditions which in more exposed areas could easily lead to falling boughs and instability.
I feel that my private view into the canopy of the tree is contributing in a very positive way to my current period of convalescence.
It is true in my belief and experience that only God can make a tree.
Yes, alright, I had not heard of it before coming across it on my most recent viewing of the movie "Groundhog Day" where it features in a brief moment of tranquility in the otherwise, to that point, tormented 24 hour existence of the lead character.
I can well relate to the calming influence of trees as they have for me and for many of us in temperate climates, played a role in our lives be it in an urban park, a rural scene, alongside a regular travelling route or on a mountainside.
For many years our family enjoyed a sizeable Elm tree which dominated the back garden of our house. It was a constant reminder of nature from the sometimes frightening movement of the boughs in the thick of a springtime storm to the quiet and cool shadows cast in the height of summer.
For such a strong natural structure, seemingly to us children like an impregnable tower, its slow decline and eventual demise from the disease that struck at the stock of Elms across the country and northern Europe felt like the bereavement of a faithful and reliable companion.
Now in my adult years I am back amongst mighty trees.
We live in a city park. From the second floor bedroom level my view, on drifting off to sleep and awakening in the morning, is one of the huge canopy of a horse chestnut tree, one of many that ring the central green space and were originally planted out as vulnerable saplings in the 1860's.
I am not currently sleeping well in the recovery stage from an accident that has much reduced my mobility.
The view into the tree is my reference point in the early hours when I cannot get comfortable.
I have a renewed wonder at the arrival of the first summertime hour sunlight which is as early as 4am.
The solid mass of the trunk and main boughs begin slowly to take on their true three dimensional form. Just before this I can just follow with my finger the black outline of the tree . In doing so I can imagine trying to capture the majesty and sheer strength of the dense wood in pencil lines or pastel paint but I fall well short every time.
Gradually the light makes it way through and then over the park buildings on the eastern side bringing a multitude of shades of gold, silver, mercury, bronze and all on the yellow/green spectrum. It strikes the new leaf canopy growth and reflects in shade and tone onto the smooth grey bark.
Occasionally a movement in the boughs takes my attention from the developing scene.
At first I am not sure what it is and then I realise that it is the shadow of an ill defined, distorted yet fast moving shape. Within a second a squirrel makes its way deftly along the boughs, leaping with grace and no tangible impact fully across my line of sight before disappearing beyond the scope of the window opening.
In recent weeks we have been privileged to have a woodpecker in residence with all of the noise that goes with that. Regular visitors in the boughs include chubby pigeons, magpies and robins.
The location of the park in urban surroundings makes for a comparatively sheltered environment and even in the strongest storm conditions elsewhere in the city the Victorian planting ensures little exposure to potentially violent conditions which in more exposed areas could easily lead to falling boughs and instability.
I feel that my private view into the canopy of the tree is contributing in a very positive way to my current period of convalescence.
It is true in my belief and experience that only God can make a tree.
Tuesday 18 April 2017
Too Good to be True
I am just catching up on a backlog of reading and came across this epic story.................................
There was once a King who possessed a vast fortune in silver.
No previous ruler of the kingdom had amassed as much.
As always with great wealth comes a fear that it will be stolen or otherwise diminished and so the King commissioned construction of a huge square shaped stone walled vault with one side forming part of the external wall of his stronghold palace.
The builder was envious of the wealth of the King and so ingeniously, but deviously, constructed the external face of the wall in such a way that one of the large blocks could be easily removed by a couple of men as and when required.
The new Treasury Building appeared impregnable in its design and materials and the King was happy to deposit his silver hoards in it.
Only after many years had elapsed the builder, when on his death bed, called in his two sons and told them about the means by which the building could be entered. His intention all along had been to provide for his sons that they might live in affluence for the rest of their lives, especially if they went about the theft of the silver carefully.
Armed with the precise location and instructions for the removeable stone the two sons fulfilled the bequest of their father, now passed, and after easily sliding out the stone block they got away with a good haul of the contents of the Treasure House.
The King on his usual inspection was surprised to see that the level of coins in some of the storage vessels was lower than before but as the door seals had showed no signs of entry of tampering he could not explain why that was the case.
The two thieves made repeated forays in the same manner and again the king found his resources lacking but with no obvious explanation.
He nevertheless ordered that traps be laid near the money jars.
On the next occasion of a raid by the brothers through their privileged route one of them became snagged in a trap. Realising the peril of his situation the unfortunate brother begged the other to cut off his head so that identification would not cause certain death for both of them. This he did and left through the hole in the wall, closing it up, and taking the severed head with him.
The subsequent discovery of a headless body by the King gave no closure to the crime as there was still no damage to the building from a forced entry or apparent escape. The body was removed and hung on the wall with instructions for the Palace Guards to arrest anyone displaying any tears or signs of mourning at this gruesome sight.
A mothers grief could not be denied and she gave her surviving son an ultimatum. Either he brought the body back in the name of decency or she would personally inform on him to the King.
After delaying tactics and motherly pressure the young man hatched a plan.
He filled some skins with wine and loading them onto a small convoy of donkeys made for the Palace. Whilst the soldiers looked on the brother contrived a scene of panic by inciting the donkeys to break loose, feigning a head injury induced confusion and in the melee two or three of the wine skins intentionally burst spilling their contents out in a steady stream. The soldiers ran forward from their post under the headless corpse to catch the wine in their pots and helmets.
The young man eventually gained control of the cavorting mules and going along with the jollity of the soldiers from their attempts to help to salvage the load it was not long before all participants were enjoying the contents of more than one or two of the wine skins together.
Such an abundance of wine proved too much for the troops and they were soon drowsy and inattentive.
This gave an opportunity for the body to be removed and returned for a proper burial.
The King was furious at the theft of the body and set about trying to find out who the miscreant had been. Such was his desire to seek the clever trickster that he ordered his own daughter to work in a brothel so that after having plied her trade she could compel the clients to tell her what was the cleverest and wickedest thing that they had ever done. If the story tallied with the previous incident then she was to physically hold onto him to allow formal capture.
Our man, upon learning from local gossip that this was the intended means of entrapment could not resist the temptation to try to outwit the King for a third time.
He attended at the brothel and sure enough had his way and then in answer to the question spilled out the full tale of the robbery and rescue of the body right from under the nose of the King.
Unbeknown to the working princess, between the act and confession the brother had inserted into the sleeve of his tunic the hand and arm of a dead person and so when she made the grab for capture she got a huge surprise.
He simply slipped away leaving the gruesome limb in his place.
As with many tales of cleverness and audacity this final exploit astonished the King and out of admiration for being so skillfully and persistently thwarted he offered a free pardon and rewards should the perpetrator identify himself.
This came to pass and the sole brother trusted the King's offer and was soon wed to the princess and widely acclaimed across the land as the most intelligent thief in all of mankind.
The story appears in the history of Egypt as told by Herodotus in the fifth century B.C.
There was once a King who possessed a vast fortune in silver.
No previous ruler of the kingdom had amassed as much.
As always with great wealth comes a fear that it will be stolen or otherwise diminished and so the King commissioned construction of a huge square shaped stone walled vault with one side forming part of the external wall of his stronghold palace.
The builder was envious of the wealth of the King and so ingeniously, but deviously, constructed the external face of the wall in such a way that one of the large blocks could be easily removed by a couple of men as and when required.
The new Treasury Building appeared impregnable in its design and materials and the King was happy to deposit his silver hoards in it.
Only after many years had elapsed the builder, when on his death bed, called in his two sons and told them about the means by which the building could be entered. His intention all along had been to provide for his sons that they might live in affluence for the rest of their lives, especially if they went about the theft of the silver carefully.
Armed with the precise location and instructions for the removeable stone the two sons fulfilled the bequest of their father, now passed, and after easily sliding out the stone block they got away with a good haul of the contents of the Treasure House.
The King on his usual inspection was surprised to see that the level of coins in some of the storage vessels was lower than before but as the door seals had showed no signs of entry of tampering he could not explain why that was the case.
The two thieves made repeated forays in the same manner and again the king found his resources lacking but with no obvious explanation.
He nevertheless ordered that traps be laid near the money jars.
On the next occasion of a raid by the brothers through their privileged route one of them became snagged in a trap. Realising the peril of his situation the unfortunate brother begged the other to cut off his head so that identification would not cause certain death for both of them. This he did and left through the hole in the wall, closing it up, and taking the severed head with him.
The subsequent discovery of a headless body by the King gave no closure to the crime as there was still no damage to the building from a forced entry or apparent escape. The body was removed and hung on the wall with instructions for the Palace Guards to arrest anyone displaying any tears or signs of mourning at this gruesome sight.
A mothers grief could not be denied and she gave her surviving son an ultimatum. Either he brought the body back in the name of decency or she would personally inform on him to the King.
After delaying tactics and motherly pressure the young man hatched a plan.
He filled some skins with wine and loading them onto a small convoy of donkeys made for the Palace. Whilst the soldiers looked on the brother contrived a scene of panic by inciting the donkeys to break loose, feigning a head injury induced confusion and in the melee two or three of the wine skins intentionally burst spilling their contents out in a steady stream. The soldiers ran forward from their post under the headless corpse to catch the wine in their pots and helmets.
The young man eventually gained control of the cavorting mules and going along with the jollity of the soldiers from their attempts to help to salvage the load it was not long before all participants were enjoying the contents of more than one or two of the wine skins together.
Such an abundance of wine proved too much for the troops and they were soon drowsy and inattentive.
This gave an opportunity for the body to be removed and returned for a proper burial.
The King was furious at the theft of the body and set about trying to find out who the miscreant had been. Such was his desire to seek the clever trickster that he ordered his own daughter to work in a brothel so that after having plied her trade she could compel the clients to tell her what was the cleverest and wickedest thing that they had ever done. If the story tallied with the previous incident then she was to physically hold onto him to allow formal capture.
Our man, upon learning from local gossip that this was the intended means of entrapment could not resist the temptation to try to outwit the King for a third time.
He attended at the brothel and sure enough had his way and then in answer to the question spilled out the full tale of the robbery and rescue of the body right from under the nose of the King.
Unbeknown to the working princess, between the act and confession the brother had inserted into the sleeve of his tunic the hand and arm of a dead person and so when she made the grab for capture she got a huge surprise.
He simply slipped away leaving the gruesome limb in his place.
As with many tales of cleverness and audacity this final exploit astonished the King and out of admiration for being so skillfully and persistently thwarted he offered a free pardon and rewards should the perpetrator identify himself.
This came to pass and the sole brother trusted the King's offer and was soon wed to the princess and widely acclaimed across the land as the most intelligent thief in all of mankind.
The story appears in the history of Egypt as told by Herodotus in the fifth century B.C.
Monday 17 April 2017
Holistic Ruptures
I thought that I would explain the lack of originality in my writing and unusually, for me, the absence of pieces over recent days.
The reason is a chain of events over the last 12 days.
I did say to my family that I would not burden people with my circumstances but I feel that it may serve as a cautionary tale although for what you can make up your own minds.
Here goes.
The 5th April 2017 started off as a normal wednesday in my working week as a Surveyor.
My diary had only three entries covering the hours 10.30am to 3pm although having carried out my usual pre-inspection research I knew that the jobs were challenging enough and would give very little by way of respite in between the efforts of concentration called upon when advising a prospective buyer of a house on its condition.
First up was a property that I sensed could be a problem.
It was of a modern split level design fairly typical of an individual build of the early 1980's but as though the architect was not really sure if his clients wanted a house or a bungalow and so provided both.
The location, just off the centre of a genteel East Coast Town had some great advantages with shops, promenade and seaside attractions just a short walk away. It would equally suit as a home for retirement or a young family.
Scouring old maps in my office in the lead up to the survey had indicated a few unique features about the site on which it was built.
Until the 1960's the land had been a railway marshalling or shunting yard until the Beeching Proposals of that decade saw the passenger route from the town to the regional City of Hull discontinued. The eastern end which provided the access to the road had distinct graduated lines on the Ordnance Survey map denoting steepness of slope. The old rail yard had evidently terminated at the foot of this incline.
As with many bits of land coming out of Railway Board ownership there will have been a few technical difficulties to overcome to permit development for a house.
The Estate Agents brochure, on line, illustrated how these had been tackled with photos suggesting large scale excavation of the heavy clay soils in that the house sat at the bottom of a hole with cliff-like retaining walls on two sides and a rear garden banked up sharply.
There did not appear to be any level external surfaces at all.
Mentally I revised my opinion as to suitability for the retirement sector to specifically the very active and able bodied retirement sector.
It was a glorious morning when I arrived to do my job.
The gated entrance to the house/bungalow could easily be missed as it constituted the only frontage to the road. On first passing in the car the steep drive appeared daunting and I could not see any parking or turning area in front of the house. I left my car just down the road.
Perfectly balanced with ladders and surveying equipment, a skill derived from 30 years of practice, I made my way down the driveway.
It was a mixture of grass track and banana shaped cast concrete strips. On even this brightest of days I felt a gradual darkening as I made my way between the deep side cutting walls.
The owners greeted me , having seen my tentative approach from a first floor or was it upper ground floor window.
We chatted in order to establish a few basic facts although many provided by the owners tallied with my own research. They offered to follow me around but I said that I needed to be outside for about half an hour and would knock on the door when ready to come inside. They clambered up a series of steps and disappeared. I set about my work noting a few features of the building.
Being at the lowest point of the site I may have relaxed slightly in my initial reservations about the aspects of the gradient and mixed surfaces.
As I took a single step towards the concrete apron in front of the integral garage my right leg slid away on a loose aggregate filler just on the edge.
My whole body weight shifted in an attempt to regain balance bearing down on the doubled under limb. Something went snap and a searing pain shot through my physical frame as I fell heavily to the ground.
The ominous sound was not distinguishable as whether from bone, tendon or muscle at first but I felt relieved to be able to wiggle my toes in my shoes. At least it did not appear to be a fracture.
My first thought was one of irony as I had just ordered a new road bike and knew instinctively that it would have to remain in the shipping box in my garage for some time now.
After that bit of dark humour came rationality about my situation.
I was certainly immobilised and sat in a hole. The split level design of the house meant that I was out of any line of sight of the windows and the owners will not have witnessed my accident. At least I was at an occupied place and with a phone signal which is not always the case in my work.
They sounded surprised to receive my phone call for help but were quick to come out and find me sat up against the stone steps.
I remained lucid but whilst his wife arranged for an ambulance the man from the house kept me talking and alert, no doubt based on his experiences in dealing with trauma situations over more than forty years in the armed forces.
The Paramedics found the terrain difficult for reversing in their vehicle and moving me about on a stretcher but I was soon en route to the City Infirmary.
A couple of days ago my right leg quadricep tendon was operated on in an attempt to re-attach it to my knee. I will spare the details although my family did watch a similar operation on You Tube and said it was fascinating.
I have a long recovery period ahead involving no load bearing for the next six to eight weeks followed by, well, we shall have to wait and see.
In the enforced lay off I have great plans for reading, writing and catching up on all of the things that a previously heavy workload so often thwarted.
We are at Day 1.
I will not mention it again.
The reason is a chain of events over the last 12 days.
I did say to my family that I would not burden people with my circumstances but I feel that it may serve as a cautionary tale although for what you can make up your own minds.
Here goes.
The 5th April 2017 started off as a normal wednesday in my working week as a Surveyor.
My diary had only three entries covering the hours 10.30am to 3pm although having carried out my usual pre-inspection research I knew that the jobs were challenging enough and would give very little by way of respite in between the efforts of concentration called upon when advising a prospective buyer of a house on its condition.
First up was a property that I sensed could be a problem.
It was of a modern split level design fairly typical of an individual build of the early 1980's but as though the architect was not really sure if his clients wanted a house or a bungalow and so provided both.
The location, just off the centre of a genteel East Coast Town had some great advantages with shops, promenade and seaside attractions just a short walk away. It would equally suit as a home for retirement or a young family.
Scouring old maps in my office in the lead up to the survey had indicated a few unique features about the site on which it was built.
Until the 1960's the land had been a railway marshalling or shunting yard until the Beeching Proposals of that decade saw the passenger route from the town to the regional City of Hull discontinued. The eastern end which provided the access to the road had distinct graduated lines on the Ordnance Survey map denoting steepness of slope. The old rail yard had evidently terminated at the foot of this incline.
As with many bits of land coming out of Railway Board ownership there will have been a few technical difficulties to overcome to permit development for a house.
The Estate Agents brochure, on line, illustrated how these had been tackled with photos suggesting large scale excavation of the heavy clay soils in that the house sat at the bottom of a hole with cliff-like retaining walls on two sides and a rear garden banked up sharply.
There did not appear to be any level external surfaces at all.
Mentally I revised my opinion as to suitability for the retirement sector to specifically the very active and able bodied retirement sector.
It was a glorious morning when I arrived to do my job.
The gated entrance to the house/bungalow could easily be missed as it constituted the only frontage to the road. On first passing in the car the steep drive appeared daunting and I could not see any parking or turning area in front of the house. I left my car just down the road.
Perfectly balanced with ladders and surveying equipment, a skill derived from 30 years of practice, I made my way down the driveway.
It was a mixture of grass track and banana shaped cast concrete strips. On even this brightest of days I felt a gradual darkening as I made my way between the deep side cutting walls.
The owners greeted me , having seen my tentative approach from a first floor or was it upper ground floor window.
We chatted in order to establish a few basic facts although many provided by the owners tallied with my own research. They offered to follow me around but I said that I needed to be outside for about half an hour and would knock on the door when ready to come inside. They clambered up a series of steps and disappeared. I set about my work noting a few features of the building.
Being at the lowest point of the site I may have relaxed slightly in my initial reservations about the aspects of the gradient and mixed surfaces.
As I took a single step towards the concrete apron in front of the integral garage my right leg slid away on a loose aggregate filler just on the edge.
My whole body weight shifted in an attempt to regain balance bearing down on the doubled under limb. Something went snap and a searing pain shot through my physical frame as I fell heavily to the ground.
The ominous sound was not distinguishable as whether from bone, tendon or muscle at first but I felt relieved to be able to wiggle my toes in my shoes. At least it did not appear to be a fracture.
My first thought was one of irony as I had just ordered a new road bike and knew instinctively that it would have to remain in the shipping box in my garage for some time now.
After that bit of dark humour came rationality about my situation.
I was certainly immobilised and sat in a hole. The split level design of the house meant that I was out of any line of sight of the windows and the owners will not have witnessed my accident. At least I was at an occupied place and with a phone signal which is not always the case in my work.
They sounded surprised to receive my phone call for help but were quick to come out and find me sat up against the stone steps.
I remained lucid but whilst his wife arranged for an ambulance the man from the house kept me talking and alert, no doubt based on his experiences in dealing with trauma situations over more than forty years in the armed forces.
The Paramedics found the terrain difficult for reversing in their vehicle and moving me about on a stretcher but I was soon en route to the City Infirmary.
A couple of days ago my right leg quadricep tendon was operated on in an attempt to re-attach it to my knee. I will spare the details although my family did watch a similar operation on You Tube and said it was fascinating.
I have a long recovery period ahead involving no load bearing for the next six to eight weeks followed by, well, we shall have to wait and see.
In the enforced lay off I have great plans for reading, writing and catching up on all of the things that a previously heavy workload so often thwarted.
We are at Day 1.
I will not mention it again.
Thursday 13 April 2017
Wet Weak End
I often think about the couple on their tandem bicycle and if I ever came across them again I would be sure to apologise profusely for the mighty injustice suffered at my hands.
They were out for a regular ride through the beautiful countryside of East Yorkshire, minding their own business, packed lunch in the saddle bag and enjoying one of those mutual breathless moments that come along on a rare basis in a longstanding married relationship. It constituted for them the most fun they could have clothed in lycra on a weekend.
The day had started off quite well in terms of the weather, dry and for the ultimate enjoyment of a bike ride there was no dominant prevailing wind. From the Vale of York direction in which they approached me later that day it is likely that they will have started out on the flat glacial plain. I later, guiltily, imagined that they may have lived in a dormer bungalow in one of the small villages within commuting distance of the historic city and were perhaps early retirees who had purchased a tandem rather than a sports car to go with that stage in their lives. Their decision in the purchase of an open top, two seater, but two wheeler met their criteria for an environmentally friendly pursuit and one where there could be some benefits in health and well being but not involving a costly gym membership or a long drive to their nearest such facility.
Cycling in an easterly direction they will have soon encountered the rising ground of the East Yorkshire Wolds. The map holder that I happened to glimpse on the handlebars was streaked in red from non-colourfast felt tip pen depicting quite a tortuous route. This was obviously intended to take in the very picturesque hamlets and rural settlements, a few scheduled stops at local beauty spots, feeding stale bread crusts to the occupants of the numerous ponds en route, remarking at how certain scenes had not changed over time or where others had been bastardised (his words not hers) by a wind turbine or the practice of wedging as many solar panels on a roof as possible with no regard for symmetry or the outlook of neighbours. Their route also prudently avoided the steepest inclines and busiest roads although did increase the overall mileage considerably.
Time was not however a factor in this, their favourite type of day out.
I, on the other hand was racing against time. My car was crammed full of people I did not know, although we had a common interest ,and lots of lightweight racing wheels as we endeavoured to attend to a regular request for service from the participants in a 100 mile bike race through the expansive countryside.
The dry weather had soon been replaced by wet squalls and persistent rain which, on the narrow and steeply cambered lanes showed no inclination to drain away into the verge or the gateway to a field. With the tide of water came the inevitable depositing of loose gravels, chalks and other debris on the road. The well intentioned farmer and his tractor mounted cutter had in previous days contributed in an organic way to the mineral wash by slashing and spreading the severed thorns from the hedgerows which soon found their way into the treads and sidewall of some quite expensive race tyres of the competitors.
From our position closely in sight of and following the race we had progressively dropped back to change wheels and attend to mechanical problems such as a dislodged chain or loose saddle. The CB radio would crackle into life with a shout of 'Puncture' from the lead car and all managed panic would result within our vehicle as we prepared for an emergency stop, a scramble to the tailgate and whatever was then required to get the stricken rider on the move again. The frequency on which the radio operated was also popular amongst the rural boy racers in their Corsa's and agric types in brand loyal Massey Fergusons, John Deere's or Fords and much abuse would fly about as a consequence of a major clash in sunday afternoon cultures.
On one such mercy mission to a straggling rider the matching of a wheel to the machine was problematic and we became detached from the rest of the race for longer than usual. It was imperative to get back to our position in the race convoy and so, as driver, I admit that I took some risks. My normal plodding approach to motoring was abandoned. No 30mph speed limit was sacred, wildlife in the path of the car evaded impact at their own peril, potholes were counted by my passengers in terms of physical discomfort, cottages were a blur of whitewash and pantile.
It was during this mad passage that I encountered the couple on the tandem.
The combined approach of my car at 60mph and their bike at a little over 10mph (after eating the packed lunch) freakishly coincided with the largest puddle of standing water in the county.
In polite society I would have slowed and pulled over, indicating their right of way.
They were the polite society and had expected this to be the case. I ignored etiquette and protocol and ploughed on through. In my rear view mirror, between the steaming wet heads of my suffering crew the couple disappeared behind a wall of murky brown and gritty water.
Fortunately for me and my driving licence the event was not witnessed by any non-cycling persons. My forward velocity and a mud streaked rear number plate made identification virtually impossible for all but the greatest of sleuths.
I was on a mission, relied upon by elite racing cyclists, but had been ultimately disrespectful to a nice, harmless couple.
Ever since, on wet days in particular ,I am reminded of my transgression and behave in an exemplary manner to fellow road users, especially those of a two wheeled persuasion.
They were out for a regular ride through the beautiful countryside of East Yorkshire, minding their own business, packed lunch in the saddle bag and enjoying one of those mutual breathless moments that come along on a rare basis in a longstanding married relationship. It constituted for them the most fun they could have clothed in lycra on a weekend.
The day had started off quite well in terms of the weather, dry and for the ultimate enjoyment of a bike ride there was no dominant prevailing wind. From the Vale of York direction in which they approached me later that day it is likely that they will have started out on the flat glacial plain. I later, guiltily, imagined that they may have lived in a dormer bungalow in one of the small villages within commuting distance of the historic city and were perhaps early retirees who had purchased a tandem rather than a sports car to go with that stage in their lives. Their decision in the purchase of an open top, two seater, but two wheeler met their criteria for an environmentally friendly pursuit and one where there could be some benefits in health and well being but not involving a costly gym membership or a long drive to their nearest such facility.
Cycling in an easterly direction they will have soon encountered the rising ground of the East Yorkshire Wolds. The map holder that I happened to glimpse on the handlebars was streaked in red from non-colourfast felt tip pen depicting quite a tortuous route. This was obviously intended to take in the very picturesque hamlets and rural settlements, a few scheduled stops at local beauty spots, feeding stale bread crusts to the occupants of the numerous ponds en route, remarking at how certain scenes had not changed over time or where others had been bastardised (his words not hers) by a wind turbine or the practice of wedging as many solar panels on a roof as possible with no regard for symmetry or the outlook of neighbours. Their route also prudently avoided the steepest inclines and busiest roads although did increase the overall mileage considerably.
Time was not however a factor in this, their favourite type of day out.
I, on the other hand was racing against time. My car was crammed full of people I did not know, although we had a common interest ,and lots of lightweight racing wheels as we endeavoured to attend to a regular request for service from the participants in a 100 mile bike race through the expansive countryside.
The dry weather had soon been replaced by wet squalls and persistent rain which, on the narrow and steeply cambered lanes showed no inclination to drain away into the verge or the gateway to a field. With the tide of water came the inevitable depositing of loose gravels, chalks and other debris on the road. The well intentioned farmer and his tractor mounted cutter had in previous days contributed in an organic way to the mineral wash by slashing and spreading the severed thorns from the hedgerows which soon found their way into the treads and sidewall of some quite expensive race tyres of the competitors.
From our position closely in sight of and following the race we had progressively dropped back to change wheels and attend to mechanical problems such as a dislodged chain or loose saddle. The CB radio would crackle into life with a shout of 'Puncture' from the lead car and all managed panic would result within our vehicle as we prepared for an emergency stop, a scramble to the tailgate and whatever was then required to get the stricken rider on the move again. The frequency on which the radio operated was also popular amongst the rural boy racers in their Corsa's and agric types in brand loyal Massey Fergusons, John Deere's or Fords and much abuse would fly about as a consequence of a major clash in sunday afternoon cultures.
On one such mercy mission to a straggling rider the matching of a wheel to the machine was problematic and we became detached from the rest of the race for longer than usual. It was imperative to get back to our position in the race convoy and so, as driver, I admit that I took some risks. My normal plodding approach to motoring was abandoned. No 30mph speed limit was sacred, wildlife in the path of the car evaded impact at their own peril, potholes were counted by my passengers in terms of physical discomfort, cottages were a blur of whitewash and pantile.
It was during this mad passage that I encountered the couple on the tandem.
The combined approach of my car at 60mph and their bike at a little over 10mph (after eating the packed lunch) freakishly coincided with the largest puddle of standing water in the county.
In polite society I would have slowed and pulled over, indicating their right of way.
They were the polite society and had expected this to be the case. I ignored etiquette and protocol and ploughed on through. In my rear view mirror, between the steaming wet heads of my suffering crew the couple disappeared behind a wall of murky brown and gritty water.
Fortunately for me and my driving licence the event was not witnessed by any non-cycling persons. My forward velocity and a mud streaked rear number plate made identification virtually impossible for all but the greatest of sleuths.
I was on a mission, relied upon by elite racing cyclists, but had been ultimately disrespectful to a nice, harmless couple.
Ever since, on wet days in particular ,I am reminded of my transgression and behave in an exemplary manner to fellow road users, especially those of a two wheeled persuasion.
Wednesday 12 April 2017
Through the Bus Shelter
I often bump into our local celebrity, Lee.
He is something of a legend mainly because he is still alive after struggling with various addictions, general ill-health and his regular practice of pushing his bicycle along the busiest trunk road in Hull, in the depths of winter, in the dark in order to force the hand of the Police to accommodate him overnight in the warm facilities of the nearest Police Station.
Saying that, he is no ordinary down and out, far from it. He has a Facebook page maintained by a broad base of friends and his artwork spasmodically displayed in a local shop is coveted and sought after. The etchings are on the unusual medium of discarded carpet tiles and usually in felt tip pen or Biro. They represent best value at under £50 and Lee is one to watch.
Lee has a very interesting life and outlook on life and any minutes spent in his company are fruitful and meaningful. I would advise, in the most tactful way, to stand upwind though as a hard life on the road, in his favourite bus shelter and wearing his full wardrobe at all times of the year does show in matters of personal grooming.
He is a very optimistic and cheerful character which puts to shame those of us who have everything and want for naught and yet are always repressed and unhappy.
As a concession to his well being Lee has recently taken to wearing a high-viz jacket. He is now infinitely more avoidable as a road hazard and those not wanting to engage in a conversation also have improved reaction time to take another footpath or passage through the town. He pushes around something on two wheels. I believe it to be a bike but it is difficult to say because apart from the tyres and spokes nothing is exposed because of the hanging shroud of used plastic carrier bags. These contain Lee's worldly goods and also indicate his commitment to the local environment as a captured and dangled knotted bag is one less to blow around and litter up the neighbourhood.
On first impression he may seem a bit of an intimidating character. Small, squat, bearded and a bit jaundiced and with a greenish tint to his teeth visible when he cheekily grins.A bit womble-ish if there is such a descriptive term. He is however very quiet, reserved and polite and always the first to strike up a dialogue about his beloved Hull City and how they are playing. His camouflage forage cap is covered with enamel badges for his team and it moves up and down on his scalp as he attends to a persistent itch and irritation as he speaks.
A lot of people look out for him in the colder months of the year. His Facebook status is regularly updated along the lines of 'Lee is in his bus shelter' .This residence is out in the villages somewhere and really sounds like quite an idyllic place.
His lifestyle choice may affront some erstwhile citizens amongst us who scuttle away upon sighting his low, rounded form approaching fearing a demand for monies or some element of menace.
Lee is no burden to anyone and indeed, any shortage of cash for a sandwich or a cup of coffee would be met by him without hesitation or judgement of our own particular circumstances.
He is something of a legend mainly because he is still alive after struggling with various addictions, general ill-health and his regular practice of pushing his bicycle along the busiest trunk road in Hull, in the depths of winter, in the dark in order to force the hand of the Police to accommodate him overnight in the warm facilities of the nearest Police Station.
Saying that, he is no ordinary down and out, far from it. He has a Facebook page maintained by a broad base of friends and his artwork spasmodically displayed in a local shop is coveted and sought after. The etchings are on the unusual medium of discarded carpet tiles and usually in felt tip pen or Biro. They represent best value at under £50 and Lee is one to watch.
Lee has a very interesting life and outlook on life and any minutes spent in his company are fruitful and meaningful. I would advise, in the most tactful way, to stand upwind though as a hard life on the road, in his favourite bus shelter and wearing his full wardrobe at all times of the year does show in matters of personal grooming.
He is a very optimistic and cheerful character which puts to shame those of us who have everything and want for naught and yet are always repressed and unhappy.
As a concession to his well being Lee has recently taken to wearing a high-viz jacket. He is now infinitely more avoidable as a road hazard and those not wanting to engage in a conversation also have improved reaction time to take another footpath or passage through the town. He pushes around something on two wheels. I believe it to be a bike but it is difficult to say because apart from the tyres and spokes nothing is exposed because of the hanging shroud of used plastic carrier bags. These contain Lee's worldly goods and also indicate his commitment to the local environment as a captured and dangled knotted bag is one less to blow around and litter up the neighbourhood.
On first impression he may seem a bit of an intimidating character. Small, squat, bearded and a bit jaundiced and with a greenish tint to his teeth visible when he cheekily grins.A bit womble-ish if there is such a descriptive term. He is however very quiet, reserved and polite and always the first to strike up a dialogue about his beloved Hull City and how they are playing. His camouflage forage cap is covered with enamel badges for his team and it moves up and down on his scalp as he attends to a persistent itch and irritation as he speaks.
A lot of people look out for him in the colder months of the year. His Facebook status is regularly updated along the lines of 'Lee is in his bus shelter' .This residence is out in the villages somewhere and really sounds like quite an idyllic place.
His lifestyle choice may affront some erstwhile citizens amongst us who scuttle away upon sighting his low, rounded form approaching fearing a demand for monies or some element of menace.
Lee is no burden to anyone and indeed, any shortage of cash for a sandwich or a cup of coffee would be met by him without hesitation or judgement of our own particular circumstances.
Tuesday 11 April 2017
The Queen Victoria Mystery
Queen Victoria had disappeared!
It sounds a bit like a case for Holmes and Watson or a deep dark plot line of Edgar Allan Poe and other writers and exponents of mystery in the 19th Century.
There is however a simpler explanation.
We moved into the house on The Park some 43 months ago, early September it was. The run-up to the flit had been in beautiful late summer weather, one of those rare periods of settled weather in the UK that makes everyone leave out their garden chairs and barbecues for day after day rather than the usual process of in-out-in-out-up-down-up down as wave after wave of alternate dry and wet conditions prevail.
The Park, donated by a self made entrepreneur businessman and one time Lord Mayor of the City was until the mid Victorian era just a scraggy plot on the outskirts of the urban area. It will have been a cheap bit of scrap land, probably regularly waterlogged, marshy and infested with vermin and airborne irritants but when gifted to the population it became elevated to the status of an Elysian Field.
This magnanimous but self publicising act was way back in the decade of 1850 to 1860 when the man was affluent and respectable. Profits from cotton mills and other enterprises in the town and indeed nationally and internationally made for a good basis for nurturing the growth of what are now magnificent Horse Chestnuts guarding the central greenspace, an exotic range of other species of trees and shrubs, a rather disturbing looking brackish water filled lake, a pavilion, a crafted drinking fountain in the Indian sub continent style and a hot house conservatory with lizards and tropical fish.
Unfortunately, prudency and efficiency in business did not follow through in the politics or sympathies of our great Benefactor and in siding with the Confederate South in the American Civil War and in attempting to run guns and supplies to them his fleet of ships, all on Hire Purchase, were impounded and confiscated causing a ruinous situation.
He ended his days on the periphery of his gift in fallen grace and poverty.
The entrance to the Park from the main east side is through a triumphal edifice in metal which if you squint in foggy weather and are under strong medication could be mistaken for the profile of the Arc'de Triomphe.
Our house is located on the South side. It is part of a 1970's redevelopment on the site of a former Convent and Manse comprising two and three storey town houses. We may not be able to compete in a Grand Design competition for our plain red brick box but in the scheme of things we are winners, hands down on the basis of a fantastic view into the heart of The Park.
Families are drawn from the now densely populated terraced housing surrounds for a summer picnic, autumn frisbee session and early season blow-out in the open air away from the hot streets and confined forecourts and back yards. Groups of friends or co-tenants from the rented accommodation as commonly found in the inner-city share a beer and a game of football. Bulky and shaven headed Eastern European workers chatter and laugh in their rare leisure time from the production lines, glasshouses and agricultural fields.
Keeping vigil over what appears to be a good cross section of all nationalities is the bright white marble sculpture of Queen Victoria amongst the low cut heather hedging and well stocked borders of the ornamental gardens.
I was at first unsure of whom the statue was of.
Our perception of the great Monarch is mainly grounded in her later years, a perpetually black mourning clothes clad, stooped and hunched old lady, dour and not easily amused.
What is striking about the figure on this pedestal is that it was contemporary for the 1860's . It depicts Victoria aged 41, very much in her petite prime and seemingly unaware and unsuspecting of the impending death of her beloved Albert which would be within some 12 months.
She is slim and charismatic even allowing for the carved folds of her seated pose and at the height of her Empire. Regal and Inherited Power ooze out of the stunning and dazzling representation of her rule, at that time exactly half way through with the luxury of hindsight and an on-line reference site. It was at the time a prestigious commission for the London based sculpture and in marble from the same Italian source as, it appears, Michelangelo's magnificent David.
Granted, the marble has gone a little bit green from natural tarnishing from moss and lichen but restricted to her north facing parts. On occasion I have seen her festooned in police incident tape usually as a student prank. I must say that Vicky can sport a traffic cone on her head as well as any civic statue.
With all of the novelty of the house move in the first couple of months and the hours of just sitting in the first floor living room and taking in the view I must say that I did not otherwise give Her Majesty much thought or attention.
As the thick foliage and heavy laden tree boughs fell back in the Autumn I became aware of a clear line of sight from the house to the statue.
It would loom out of the early dawn mist as a ghostly apparition or seem to take on a strange iridescence as it caught in rota the rising of the sun and its setting.
Through the winter H.M has been a constant presence, a solid figure of reassurance.
She has also caused me some pangs of conscience and serves as a reminder that as a Nation we are now in payback mode to receive willingly and with compassion the peoples of a global community that as the British Empire we ruthlessly pillaged, exploited and extracted great wealth and prestige from.
It is now almost summer. I looked out of the window onto the Park this morning.
It was extremely colourful and lush, verdant and all other similar descriptive words or just various shades of green.
Not entirely unexpected but there was, in my mind, a sensation of it being just too green. Then I realised that the distinctive white character was not in view. I panicked a bit as there have been cases in our fine City where statues and outdoor works of art have gone missing but then again, marble cannot be melted down and has, in my understanding, few other applications apart from kitchen worktops, headstones and sanitary ware.
I got dressed quickly and set off to investigate.
It was still early and the Park Rangers had not unlocked the series of little gates leading into the landscaped gardens so I skirted around using one of the paths that criss-cross the grassed areas. There was the usual trail of beer cans and pizza boxes from the revellers of the night before taking their usual short cut.
Encouragingly, and to allay my earlier fears there were no chewed up sections of turf or deep set vehicle ruts to indicate the passage of a statue compatible sized transit van.
I was a bit anxious as I approached the gentle curve of the wrought iron fence which would bring me into plain sight of the pedestal and figure.
The boughs of a large shrub suddenly parted in a whirling breeze and my gaze fell on a rather bored looking deceased monarch.
I cancelled the Emergency Only dial function on my mobile phone being rather relieved at not having to report to the police that Queen Victoria was missing.
It sounds a bit like a case for Holmes and Watson or a deep dark plot line of Edgar Allan Poe and other writers and exponents of mystery in the 19th Century.
There is however a simpler explanation.
We moved into the house on The Park some 43 months ago, early September it was. The run-up to the flit had been in beautiful late summer weather, one of those rare periods of settled weather in the UK that makes everyone leave out their garden chairs and barbecues for day after day rather than the usual process of in-out-in-out-up-down-up down as wave after wave of alternate dry and wet conditions prevail.
The Park, donated by a self made entrepreneur businessman and one time Lord Mayor of the City was until the mid Victorian era just a scraggy plot on the outskirts of the urban area. It will have been a cheap bit of scrap land, probably regularly waterlogged, marshy and infested with vermin and airborne irritants but when gifted to the population it became elevated to the status of an Elysian Field.
This magnanimous but self publicising act was way back in the decade of 1850 to 1860 when the man was affluent and respectable. Profits from cotton mills and other enterprises in the town and indeed nationally and internationally made for a good basis for nurturing the growth of what are now magnificent Horse Chestnuts guarding the central greenspace, an exotic range of other species of trees and shrubs, a rather disturbing looking brackish water filled lake, a pavilion, a crafted drinking fountain in the Indian sub continent style and a hot house conservatory with lizards and tropical fish.
Unfortunately, prudency and efficiency in business did not follow through in the politics or sympathies of our great Benefactor and in siding with the Confederate South in the American Civil War and in attempting to run guns and supplies to them his fleet of ships, all on Hire Purchase, were impounded and confiscated causing a ruinous situation.
He ended his days on the periphery of his gift in fallen grace and poverty.
The entrance to the Park from the main east side is through a triumphal edifice in metal which if you squint in foggy weather and are under strong medication could be mistaken for the profile of the Arc'de Triomphe.
Our house is located on the South side. It is part of a 1970's redevelopment on the site of a former Convent and Manse comprising two and three storey town houses. We may not be able to compete in a Grand Design competition for our plain red brick box but in the scheme of things we are winners, hands down on the basis of a fantastic view into the heart of The Park.
Families are drawn from the now densely populated terraced housing surrounds for a summer picnic, autumn frisbee session and early season blow-out in the open air away from the hot streets and confined forecourts and back yards. Groups of friends or co-tenants from the rented accommodation as commonly found in the inner-city share a beer and a game of football. Bulky and shaven headed Eastern European workers chatter and laugh in their rare leisure time from the production lines, glasshouses and agricultural fields.
Keeping vigil over what appears to be a good cross section of all nationalities is the bright white marble sculpture of Queen Victoria amongst the low cut heather hedging and well stocked borders of the ornamental gardens.
I was at first unsure of whom the statue was of.
Our perception of the great Monarch is mainly grounded in her later years, a perpetually black mourning clothes clad, stooped and hunched old lady, dour and not easily amused.
What is striking about the figure on this pedestal is that it was contemporary for the 1860's . It depicts Victoria aged 41, very much in her petite prime and seemingly unaware and unsuspecting of the impending death of her beloved Albert which would be within some 12 months.
She is slim and charismatic even allowing for the carved folds of her seated pose and at the height of her Empire. Regal and Inherited Power ooze out of the stunning and dazzling representation of her rule, at that time exactly half way through with the luxury of hindsight and an on-line reference site. It was at the time a prestigious commission for the London based sculpture and in marble from the same Italian source as, it appears, Michelangelo's magnificent David.
Granted, the marble has gone a little bit green from natural tarnishing from moss and lichen but restricted to her north facing parts. On occasion I have seen her festooned in police incident tape usually as a student prank. I must say that Vicky can sport a traffic cone on her head as well as any civic statue.
 |
| Vicky with the hot house behind- you know what I mean |
As the thick foliage and heavy laden tree boughs fell back in the Autumn I became aware of a clear line of sight from the house to the statue.
It would loom out of the early dawn mist as a ghostly apparition or seem to take on a strange iridescence as it caught in rota the rising of the sun and its setting.
Through the winter H.M has been a constant presence, a solid figure of reassurance.
She has also caused me some pangs of conscience and serves as a reminder that as a Nation we are now in payback mode to receive willingly and with compassion the peoples of a global community that as the British Empire we ruthlessly pillaged, exploited and extracted great wealth and prestige from.
It is now almost summer. I looked out of the window onto the Park this morning.
It was extremely colourful and lush, verdant and all other similar descriptive words or just various shades of green.
Not entirely unexpected but there was, in my mind, a sensation of it being just too green. Then I realised that the distinctive white character was not in view. I panicked a bit as there have been cases in our fine City where statues and outdoor works of art have gone missing but then again, marble cannot be melted down and has, in my understanding, few other applications apart from kitchen worktops, headstones and sanitary ware.
I got dressed quickly and set off to investigate.
It was still early and the Park Rangers had not unlocked the series of little gates leading into the landscaped gardens so I skirted around using one of the paths that criss-cross the grassed areas. There was the usual trail of beer cans and pizza boxes from the revellers of the night before taking their usual short cut.
Encouragingly, and to allay my earlier fears there were no chewed up sections of turf or deep set vehicle ruts to indicate the passage of a statue compatible sized transit van.
I was a bit anxious as I approached the gentle curve of the wrought iron fence which would bring me into plain sight of the pedestal and figure.
The boughs of a large shrub suddenly parted in a whirling breeze and my gaze fell on a rather bored looking deceased monarch.
I cancelled the Emergency Only dial function on my mobile phone being rather relieved at not having to report to the police that Queen Victoria was missing.
Monday 10 April 2017
Lift Off
There is something that can be either an exhilarating experience or just a big disappointment.
I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.
Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation.
Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the Art Deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous city scape views on offer.
At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.
A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place.
An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.
In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.
All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner.
The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.
The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.
In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults.
In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit.
Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade.
I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build and it was a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.
I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal actual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.
Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.
The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered.
Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indecipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy.
The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge.
The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.
At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an impending unrestrained plummet to the basement.
I am talking about that moment when the outer doors to a passenger lift first open.
Of course, the calibre of the building in which the lift is situated can go a long way to heightening the anticipation.
Those who have, for example, been privileged to visit the Empire State Building in New York have not expressed any lack of satisfaction in the Art Deco elevators that take you up to the heady altitudes and the tremendous city scape views on offer.
At the other end of the scale you may hesitate to even push the button to call the lift let alone enter it in a run down and neglected premises or where there are quite pungent and concentratedly unpleasant odours emanating from behind the sliding doors as though poised to pounce.
A brightly lit, smoochie muzak filled lift in a hotel or department store is nothing exceptional and may be regarded as a standard expectation of the overall visit to such a place.
An Express elevator on the outside of some of the tallest structures in the world, with fully glazed panoramic vista can be the highlight of someones life.
In the movies ,passenger lifts have provided high drama, mayhem and carnage and perpetuate the myth that being in an enclosed space and moving vertically can be potentially hazardous if coinciding with the intentions of a master criminal or other ne'er do wells.
All of the above flashed across my mind and consciousness just today as I waited to take the lift in the company of the building owner.
The five storey property was an integration of three original and character town houses built in the late 1800's, until ten years ago operating as a hotel but over the last decade providing student accommodation. The lift was an inherited feature of a facility for guests but under student use was turned off after 10pm so as not to be abused or exploited.
The wide outer door was impressive but the actual lift compartment was no larger than a wardrobe say, 4 feet square and with an indicated capacity for only 4 persons.
In the heyday of the hotel in the post war period, the dimensions would easily cater for four or more undernourished adults.
In the 1960's a kaftan and flared jeans wearing patronage would infringe capacity further. In the 1970's those wearing platform shoes would be wedged tightly up against the ceiling. A 1980's Dallas style hairstyle and padded shoulders could limit occupation to about three. A health conscious and leaner 1990's lifestyle may have restored the loading limit.
Fears of that ubiquitous Millenium Bug may have dissuaded any use at the beginning of that decade.
I would say that myself and the owner were of average to large build and it was a bit cramped for just two 21st Century inhabitants.
I found it unnerving when the sprung door slammed shut and the panel at my side moved downwards. I had been spoilt by more modern lifts where there are inner doors to conceal actual physical movement. The sensation of going up in that small space was concentrated and seemed hellishly fast even though in reality the stairs may have been quicker.
Akin to the awkward silence in one of the Pink Panther Films the two of us just avoided eye contact. Neither of us mustered enough courage to break wind to ease the silence as per the comic genious of Peter Sellers.
The panel of buttons indicating the five floors was rough and battered.
Symbols on the buttons were badly worn and indecipherable. The motion was lurching and lumpy.
The interior was fully carpeted in a tight cheap weave with dubious stains and a characteristic of generating a crackling static charge.
The owner, perhaps feeling more awkward than me in his attempt to sell to me the merits of the lift as an attribute to the building finally spoke. 'Did you know' he offered 'that there have been 28 students in this lift. We saw the photograph on Facebook'.
At that very moment I was unsure whether to be reassured by that fact or in mortal fear of an impending unrestrained plummet to the basement.
Sunday 9 April 2017
Grand National Fever
Do not drink to excess, swear, blaspheme, or gamble. Well, I am not proud that this is a list in which I can say that I have been 100% unsuccessful.
I like a glass of wine, or two, on an evening or two per week but by current unit measurements this may be regarded as being towards a problem. What a load of *******. I have been known to swear on occasions of frustration and stress but not to use foul language to supplement my vocabulary. I try not to be blasphemous but it can be difficult particularly when many established and popular outbursts and profanities are grounded in faith and worship terms. I gave up on the National Lottery a decade ago and strongly disapprove of the prominence of a betting culture in just about everything in everyday life.
The commercial breaks of UK TV are dominated by advertisements glamourising bingo, scratchcards, poker, roulette and all manner of on-line gaming. Lets face it, these are all solitary, sad and eventuallly demoralising and self- destructive activities. The sort of thing pursued in the gloom of a room, hunched over a laptop or PC and behind a locked door. Not much progress for humanity there from teenage years then.
My Grandparents were of a generation where drunkeness and gambling were still firmly in the category of sinful behaviour. Gradually the righteous indignation against, and taboos attached to such things have become eroded and blurred and are now almost regarded as social attributes rather than matters of personal weakness.
Take yesterday, April 8th. The day of The Grand National. It is one of the events that define our character and identity as a country following on quickly in the calendar from the early underdog stages of the FA Cup, the Boat Race and as a warm up to the London Marathon. It is also the day when all the country is encouraged to gamble in a spirit of fun and frivolity. Children are carried into the Bookies shop high on the shoulders of fathers and uncles and encouraged to study form by selecting a nicely named horse or being drawn to the quartered or spotty silk racing colours of the jockeys.
My first ever visit to a Bookies was enough to put me off gambling for life. It was in the 1970's in our small town High Street. The windows, unlike today's mesmerising and hypnotic displays to draw in punters, were grubby and fly infested. The opening of the door released a mushroom cloud of high tar infused cigarette smoke mixed with the sweat from fear and exhilaration of the public occupants. Oversized men, fronted by bulbous and overhanging bellies stood around amongst an ankle deep ticker-tape of discarded betting slips. Some nervously fingered bits of paper, others were well engrossed in obsessive and compulsive behaviour misconstrued as a lucky and superstitious ritual. A few were defeated and dejected and not looking forward to explaining to her indoors about a wafer thin wage packet this week.
It was an entirely male domain, apart from perhaps a hard faced cashier lady behind the grille or nicotine/saliva streaked counter screen. Nowadays the premises of the large chains of betting shops are like Starbucks and have taken on the role of a third home for male and female patrons.
My first visit was also an introduction to the mystique and exclusive process of placing a shop-bet. There were no user friendly instructions for first timers. Looking confused, overwhelmed and about to pass out in the thick atmosphere did elicit some guidance from a regular. Pick a slip, study the race times and venues, choose a horse, approach the fierce cashier. Then the big decisions. For a 10p stake, a lot of pocket money in those days, did I want to bet each way or for an outright win. The former term threw me completely- did they turn around and race back from the finish? I went for each way, in my mind, two chances to win. The biggest decision was whether to pay the tax before on the stake or after on the, or any, winnings. I do not recall if I won anything. My 10p disappeared into the back room to end up who knew where. Betting was a futile occupation. As I at sometime overheard there may be four counters to take your money but only two to pay it out. Not best odds.
As a family, if we were organised, we would usually have a sweepstake. There was no logic or system involved in choosing a mount. Three horses each and our names inked in on the full page special colour spread of the saturday morning Express newspaper. This was stuck up with drawing pins on the kitchen notice board.We may have heard of the better known riders and runners but none of us had anything like a long game strategy.
Our wedding day in 1989 was coincidentally on Grand National Day and one of the horses, 'Last of the Brownies' was such an apt betting proposition given that Brown, and not Last, was the maiden name of my gorgeous bride.
The actual running of the race was always late in the afternoon. If it was nice weather we would be out and about and not really interested in watching. We did, when I was a child, only have a black and white TV anyway which in itself was problematic. I do have strong memories of individual races such as the wins of Red Rum and Aldiniti, but very strong impressions of death and mayhem amongst the thoroughbred stock as the pace, heavy ground and horrendously challenging jumps and obstacles claimed many equine victims and continues to do so annually.
The day can come and go now without my interest. It remains however a day of mass public participation and is often an introduction to betting for the first time for many. The TV and media coverage is as extensive and informative as a Royal Wedding and reinforces a cultural trait in this country to forget logic and reason and go for that life changing gamble even if you are well ahead and cruising comfortably in your own grand national.
I like a glass of wine, or two, on an evening or two per week but by current unit measurements this may be regarded as being towards a problem. What a load of *******. I have been known to swear on occasions of frustration and stress but not to use foul language to supplement my vocabulary. I try not to be blasphemous but it can be difficult particularly when many established and popular outbursts and profanities are grounded in faith and worship terms. I gave up on the National Lottery a decade ago and strongly disapprove of the prominence of a betting culture in just about everything in everyday life.
The commercial breaks of UK TV are dominated by advertisements glamourising bingo, scratchcards, poker, roulette and all manner of on-line gaming. Lets face it, these are all solitary, sad and eventuallly demoralising and self- destructive activities. The sort of thing pursued in the gloom of a room, hunched over a laptop or PC and behind a locked door. Not much progress for humanity there from teenage years then.
My Grandparents were of a generation where drunkeness and gambling were still firmly in the category of sinful behaviour. Gradually the righteous indignation against, and taboos attached to such things have become eroded and blurred and are now almost regarded as social attributes rather than matters of personal weakness.
Take yesterday, April 8th. The day of The Grand National. It is one of the events that define our character and identity as a country following on quickly in the calendar from the early underdog stages of the FA Cup, the Boat Race and as a warm up to the London Marathon. It is also the day when all the country is encouraged to gamble in a spirit of fun and frivolity. Children are carried into the Bookies shop high on the shoulders of fathers and uncles and encouraged to study form by selecting a nicely named horse or being drawn to the quartered or spotty silk racing colours of the jockeys.
My first ever visit to a Bookies was enough to put me off gambling for life. It was in the 1970's in our small town High Street. The windows, unlike today's mesmerising and hypnotic displays to draw in punters, were grubby and fly infested. The opening of the door released a mushroom cloud of high tar infused cigarette smoke mixed with the sweat from fear and exhilaration of the public occupants. Oversized men, fronted by bulbous and overhanging bellies stood around amongst an ankle deep ticker-tape of discarded betting slips. Some nervously fingered bits of paper, others were well engrossed in obsessive and compulsive behaviour misconstrued as a lucky and superstitious ritual. A few were defeated and dejected and not looking forward to explaining to her indoors about a wafer thin wage packet this week.
It was an entirely male domain, apart from perhaps a hard faced cashier lady behind the grille or nicotine/saliva streaked counter screen. Nowadays the premises of the large chains of betting shops are like Starbucks and have taken on the role of a third home for male and female patrons.
My first visit was also an introduction to the mystique and exclusive process of placing a shop-bet. There were no user friendly instructions for first timers. Looking confused, overwhelmed and about to pass out in the thick atmosphere did elicit some guidance from a regular. Pick a slip, study the race times and venues, choose a horse, approach the fierce cashier. Then the big decisions. For a 10p stake, a lot of pocket money in those days, did I want to bet each way or for an outright win. The former term threw me completely- did they turn around and race back from the finish? I went for each way, in my mind, two chances to win. The biggest decision was whether to pay the tax before on the stake or after on the, or any, winnings. I do not recall if I won anything. My 10p disappeared into the back room to end up who knew where. Betting was a futile occupation. As I at sometime overheard there may be four counters to take your money but only two to pay it out. Not best odds.
As a family, if we were organised, we would usually have a sweepstake. There was no logic or system involved in choosing a mount. Three horses each and our names inked in on the full page special colour spread of the saturday morning Express newspaper. This was stuck up with drawing pins on the kitchen notice board.We may have heard of the better known riders and runners but none of us had anything like a long game strategy.
Our wedding day in 1989 was coincidentally on Grand National Day and one of the horses, 'Last of the Brownies' was such an apt betting proposition given that Brown, and not Last, was the maiden name of my gorgeous bride.
The actual running of the race was always late in the afternoon. If it was nice weather we would be out and about and not really interested in watching. We did, when I was a child, only have a black and white TV anyway which in itself was problematic. I do have strong memories of individual races such as the wins of Red Rum and Aldiniti, but very strong impressions of death and mayhem amongst the thoroughbred stock as the pace, heavy ground and horrendously challenging jumps and obstacles claimed many equine victims and continues to do so annually.
The day can come and go now without my interest. It remains however a day of mass public participation and is often an introduction to betting for the first time for many. The TV and media coverage is as extensive and informative as a Royal Wedding and reinforces a cultural trait in this country to forget logic and reason and go for that life changing gamble even if you are well ahead and cruising comfortably in your own grand national.
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