The Wind from the North

The wind from the North, from the far Arctic reaches brought some snow to our part of the UK today. 

We do pretty well to escape the worst excesses of typical wintry weather on the mid-eastern side of the country and I think that today’s intermittent flurries were only the second throughout the whole of 2017. 

It has been a welcome change to have normal November temperatures after much of the autumn and winter so far having attained double figures. 

That critical air temperature of 1 degree Celsius was persistent through the daylight hours today and the snow just kept coming, then quickly thawing or turning to slush before the process repeated itself with some regularity. 

The light dusting of snow on pavements and parked vehicles was enough to remind me of some of my favourite jokes and stories from this seasonal weather. 

One is about a conversation between an Eskimo father and his son whilst they are sitting around cosily in an ice block igloo away from the harsh chill of the winds and the relentless white-out of their natural environment. 

It is quality time in which the senior member of an Eskimo family can pass down wisdom and practical advice learned the hard way and indeed carrying on the traditions and practices of a proud and resourceful race. 

Story telling is a major part of the inheritance skills with the dramatic recounting of epic struggles against the elements and of course the wildlife who feature culturally and as an essential ingredient in the requirements of survival. 

The Eskimo is not an aggressive character by nature as there is an essential co-existence with their fellow inhabitants as dictated by some of the most inhospitable and unforgiving terrain in the world. That is apart from having to be a ruthless hunter and to be prepared to make life or death decisions. 

In the flickering light of a whale oil lantern (although in reality likely to be conventional lighting from a petrol generator) the father teaches his son about all manner of things that will prove useful in their chosen lifestyle. 

I like to think that one piece of wisdom would be, of course, never eat yellow snow. 

The igloo resonates from the booming of a deep winter storm. 

Shadows flicker magically across the smooth dome of the ceiling and chase around its perimeter as has been the case for millenia. It is as if generations of ancestors are visiting at that time and partaking in the rituals and customs. 

As the perpetual night above the Arctic Circle continues the teachings of the father come around to how a young Eskimo hunter should behave for his own honour and for that of his family and particular tribal group. 

It is a case of self discipline, care of his own person and those who depend upon him when he himself becomes head of the igloo and main bread or rather blubber-winner. 

The father delivers the lectures with humour and gravity as each subject demands but captures wholeheartedly the attention and concentration of his young protégé. As they bond in that igloo, representing the extent of their wintry world, the father imparts the greatest single piece of advice, that being to always be upstanding and fight your corner. 

At that point and in a bit of a state of confusion the son looks enquires “What is a corner?”

Just one more. 

The remotest habitats amongst Antarctica are now within the itinerary of tour companies who offer an educational cruise with on board tuition about that continent and time on the ice shelf itself. 

There are climatologists, naturalists, ecologists and a whole host of experts on hand to answer any question from the guests. 

On one landing party an elderly participant tried repeatedly to catch the attention of the guide, an expert on the creatures who inhabit Antarctica. 

Eventually she managed to voice her query on the subject of the penguins in a large colony. 

Could she ask what was the difference between the white penguins and the black penguins. 

The expert gave it some careful thought before answering “the white penguins are walking towards you and………………” 

How to.........Escape from Foreign Agents

I have written blogs on survival techniques for the natural occurrence of an avalanche goo.gl/RybGWA and more recently on the subject of what to do if confronted by a polar bear. goo.gl/EEwwGe

Today’s bit of advice relates to a specific situation that you might find yourself in- that being forced to take refuge in an excavated chamber underground whilst being stalked and then imprisoned in said hole by an agent of a foreign and less than friendly power.

I am of course referring to the fictional storyline of the anonymous "Rogue Male", although everyone knows him as Sir Robert, the creation in 1939 of the book of the same name by the thriller writer Geoffrey Household (yes, that is his real name- Geoffrey).

After being captured with his finger on the trigger of a high powered rifle near the residence of a European leader, tortured, left to die but then escaping to relative freedom in England our hero has taken refuge in a burrow intentionally in order to throw off his scent not only the fanatical agents but also the home grown local constabulary.

The cramped place has been meticulously excavated in a sandstone bank with concealed entrance behind bramble bushes and a chimney stack for ventilation and occasional cook-ups of a well stocked subterranean larder.

He is prepared to stay down there for months if necessary before making a run to the south coast sea ports to make a life, reluctantly for one so patriotic, in a safe haven on distant shores.

Unfortunately his adversary and nemesis is a prolific psychologist and tracker and eventually entombs Sir Robert in order to force him to sign a confession that will implicate the British Government in a plot to kill the Dictator.

He has nothing to lose as he knows that as soon as he emerges with the signed document he will be made to disappear.

It is a battle of survival with only one winner.

Our man is inspired to construct a hand drawn Ballista, an ancient artillery piece put to devastating effect in full scale form by the Romans.  He has no other effective weapons at his disposal to extricate himself from his dire situation.

The snag lies in the fact that he has very little by way of materials to work with apart from what is lying around in his fast deteriorating surroundings as ground water and limited air supply affect his very existence.

This is his design but with the exception of one special component anyone stuck in a hole could try to build this weapon. My measurements are in the old imperial units. I apologise for my crude working drawings but there is not much space or natural light for me to work- yes, I am going for authenticity here although I admit I am in the understairs cupboard rather than actually buried.

A) Take a flat plank or board, about 3 feet long.

B) In the centre cut out a semi circular aperture big enough for your projectile, in this case a meat skewer, although a straightened out metal tent peg would be suitable.

C) Take two reasonable sound and regular house bricks of matching size, the old nine inchers are great. Top and bottom of each brick should be abraded into a shallow channel or groove across the narrower width

D) Lay the bricks equidistant on the plank so that the aperture is dead centre

E) Across the top and bottom of the bricks and fitted into the pre-cut grooves are ash branches, so that they protrude beyond the bricks like the ends of a conventional archery bow

F) Strongly tie or lash the bricks, ash branches and plank together using the hide of a freshly skinned cat (it is imperative that the cat has died within a few minutes from natural courses or cold blooded murder by the hired assassin of a foreign power). Actual demise is optional.

G) Using the highly elasticated gut of the same donor cat carefully attach to the protruding ash ends and twist the strands for maximum strength.

H) Bring the two ends of the strengthened cat gut together and fasten with a small leather thong (this could be a small bit cut from a hideskin coat or jacket).

I) Run the sharp end of the skewer through the aperture and nestle the blunter end in the thong

J) Sit down on the saturated soil in the base of the hole, place your feet on either side of the plank and then carefully lie back and by doing so tension the cat gut to its maximum.

K) Somehow persuade or trick the foreign agent into sticking his full face in at the entrance to the burrow. A bit of typical English defiance, fake tears or biting sarcasm usually works a treat to get a response

L) Let fly with the heavy weapon so that the terminal velocity over a distance of about three feet from skewer tip to victims forehead is sufficient to cause instantaneous death.

It really is as simple as that and you are then free to make your way to civilisation for a bath, shave and fresh clothes.

If you are a bit squeamish or over sensitive about the cat contribution to the contraption then extracting elastic from your underwear and using strips of strong cloth would enable you to carry out steps F) through G).

Next time I will cover the subject of escaping from a stricken submarine.

Name Dropping

Nominative Determinism. It is a wordy term which would normally cause me to lose interest within a couple of seconds of reading about it or if someone launched into a bit of a lecture on the subject. 

It is however a fun packed topic as it refers to the scientific or psychological hypothesis that people tend to gravitate towards areas of work that fit their names.One explanation is that this is nothing more than an expression of implicit egotism, which states that humans have an unconscious preference for things they associate with themselves. 

I have come across some wonderful examples of this phenomena in the course of my work and there are thousands if not more where there can only have been a conscious effort to study hard and succeed at great personal and family sacrifice just for the satisfaction of attaining that status of a name that matches or relates to your occupation in life.

Here are some beauties from the wider world. 

The Recruiters at the British Broadcasting Corporation seem to place a lot of emphasis on someones name in filling vacancies in that operation. In recent years there has been a television meteorologist by the name Sara Blizzard and, I joke not, a European Correspondent called Matthew Correspondent.In the United States there was a Storm Elliot Field giving the weather forecasts.

In the sporting world we are familiar with the lightning fast pace of Usain Bolt. A  French National Team goalkeeper and in fact one of the longest serving players in the French League until he retired in 1990 was Dominique Dropsy. There is no doubt about the defensive playing position of a current Belgian footballer, Mark de Man. Robbie Fowler of Liverpool actually had quite a good disciplinary record. Multi- syllable names from Russia and the old Soviet Bloc are tailor made to fit specific sports although these are only from the anglicised phonetic pronunciation. A Bulgarian hurdler in the London Olympic in 2012 has the misfortune to fall and fail to finish- her name Vania Stambilova. In direct contrast are the successful exploits of another high hurdler, although it could just be down to better technique of Marina Stepanova. A similarly athletic Russian diver had the surname Fillipova. 

The medical profession also throws up some good names. There is Dr Doktor, a Dr Atchoo, a chiropractor called McCracken, the writer of a report on Neurology was Lord Brain and my favourite combination, the pair of medics who published a thesis on Urology, Weedon and Splat (US Library of Medicine 1977).

In big business some fat cats should have been identified by their names before they got anywhere near the outrageous salaries, bonus payments and perks. Fred Goodwin is a prime example for his rough riding in the banking crisis. Bob Diamond who used to be at Barclays has a surname engendering trust. The wife of a longstanding CEO of the MacDonalds Corporation was called Patricia Turner- or Patty to her friends.

Politicians and those in public service are not exempt from nominative determinism. At the Centre for Social Justice in the UK a spokesperson was a Christian Guy. Admiral Sir Manley Power could not have had an effeminate bone in his body could he? A high up official in a charity working towards securing food supplies for the poor was called Robin Mahfood. Members of the Republican Party in the US have included John Doolittle ,Tom De Lay and Rich White. If your surname is Makepeace then you are just destined to be in the Diplomatic Service.

Law firms include the unfortunate combination of Wright Hassall and with one practitioner called Sue Yoo.

Other job titles include Brad Slaughter in charge of the meat counter in a supermarket working alongside Laura Hamm but those of the criminal class should really think about changing their names. The Weed brothers were caught in possession of drugs and a Mr Popadick was arrested for indecent exposure.

I have come across Mr Baker in pastries, Mr Whippy selling ice cream from a van, vicars by the name of Vickers but my ultimate favourite was the former Archbishop of Manila in the Phillipines, Cardinal Sin. He must have really bossed that interview.

Household Appliances

The bookstands in 1939 will have been groaning and heaving under the weight of newly released novels and works. 

It seems to have been a particularly prolific year for the great contemporary writers and no doubt a breakthrough year for many yet to be established names. 

Steinbeck brought out his “Grapes of Wrath”, Du Maurier her “Rebecca”. Agatha Christie published a couple including the politically correctly renamed “And then there were none”. 

Chandler issued “The Big Sleep” in his Philip Marlowe series and Anne of Green Gables, the character creation of L.M. Montgomery, continued her girlish adventures. 

Other populist authors were also active with works by Orwell, Dorothy L Sayers, PG Wodehouse, Edgar Rice Burroughs and more of the Hornblower exploits by C S Forester. 

The big hitters were no less represented with “Finnegans Wake” by James Joyce, “Old Possums Book of Practical Cats” by T S Eliot and not forgetting “Enchanted Wood” by Enid Blyton. 

Later big screen adaptations took on the 1939 book releases of “How Green was My Valley” by Richard Llewellyn, “Arsenic and Old Lace”, Kesselring and “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” by James Thurber. 

One book from that year that I have been enjoying as a BBC audio broadcast is “Rogue Male” by the not so glamorously named Geoffrey Household. 

It must be my third or even fourth time of hearing this version narrated by Michael Jayston. His distinctive factual and unemotional delivery serves to heighten the drama and tension of what is a good old rambling thriller. 

I do not wish to put out too many spoilers for those who have not yet read or listened to Rogue Male although, frankly, I doubt if there are many and certainly not in my age group who do not have knowledge of this story. 

It is based on a fugitive trying to elude sinister agents of a foreign power and therefore fits many similar plot lines of the movie world but critically Household got there just about first. 

It is surprising that the film studios have not exploited this classic tale apart from an adaptation under the title of “Manhunt” from 1941 by Director Fritz Lang and starring Walter Pidgeon and Joan Bennett and a very camp portrayal of the lead character by Peter O’Toole in 1976. 

This 70’s film is already a bit grainy on the You Tube posting and the performances and production are, by current expectations, a bit low budget and forced. 

I was introduced to the book during senior school English language lessons and it has remained one of my favourites ever since. 

The tone of the writing is very much of the later inter war era and the main protagonist, although not actually named or identified is of upper class or landed gentry status. In fact he is widely recognised by those he seeks help from or comes across on his extended travels in Europe and around the Dorset and Somerset borders as though , no pun intended, he is a household name, a contemporary celebrity of some sort. 

There is a hint of a romantic involvement sometime in his past with references to a female political activist who may have been killed as an enemy of an emerging State but otherwise there is no contact or dialogue with the opposite sex at all, give or take brief conversations with pub landladies or Sub Post Office Mistresses. It is a bit of a Boys Own adventure if it is not too sexist or discriminatory to say the obvious.

The heaviest of hints revolve around  the attempt by the Rogue Male to assassinate Adolf Hitler although in a clever writing ploy the target is similarly not confirmed as to identity. Household himself did admit in later interviews that the intended recipient of the high velocity rifle round was indeed the Nazi Leader as he was a strong opponent to all that this brutal regime represented and he felt that a symbolic gesture of defiance was needed.

The author was an interesting character with a wartime military involvement and post war employment in a shattered Europe. 

This experience and depth of background was invaluable in Household's writing which included multiple thrillers and action based story lines. 

Rogue Male is very much a study and analysis of human resilience when faced by adversity and a very real peril to life and limb. There is a graphic description of the torture and attempted murder of our hero and the desperate measures that he had to take to survive a very persistent foe. 

Much of my own childhood seems to have been inspired by the Rogue Male as though he was a Role Model. I was always happy to take part in wide ranging adventure games, not so much with Secret State Police as with the kids off the neighbouring council estate. 

Dens and hideouts were made out of anything lying around and my Scout training meant that my campcraft and outdoors skills could help me survive in the wild until, well, at least until my Mother called me in from the garden for tea and bedtime. 

I drew a line at having dealings with any body parts of cats but I will leave that particular story thread for you to find out for yourself.  

X-Ray specs

Superpowers. 

No, not the old Imperialist/Cold War type but those belonging to Superheroes. 

I can see the benefits of possessing one or more in making my everyday life, and in particular my job so much easier. 

I inspect all manner of buildings and structures for a living. After 30 years of fine tuning a survey routine mainly consisting of standing and staring at a particular surface, be it a roof, wall, floor, ceiling or any other element I have a minds-eye view of what should be there by way of materials and methods of construction, in some way a sort of intuitive X-Ray vision but in reality I have to make a reasoned judgement and analysis of what could be hidden from what I can see on the surface. 

Take a roof. Anything original covering to the building under my scrutiny may appear reasonable from the outside as in there being no slipped, displaced or missing tiles or slates but I can expect to find, from further investigation of any void or loft space any number of defects and deficiencies from rotten, infested or damaged supporting timbers and sometimes an unexpected  clear view of the sky when looking upwards. 

In most cases where a roof is concerned I have the luxury of these two points of inspection. 

Walls can be similar although only really where it is of the old solid wall format which was after all the most common form of house wall construction well into the 20^th Century until the cavity wall took precedent. This is where there is an outer wall, air gap with metal ties across at regular intervals and an inner leaf which forms the inside wall surface under any plaster or other finish. 

There is no real correlation therefore between the two skins of masonry and so any findings on the external brickwork such as cracking, damp, sagging or distortion usually have no collateral or tell tale features on the inner wall. 

In this scenario some form of actual X-Ray capability would be highly beneficial. 

A couple of years ago a constant stream of questions and queries from those commissioning me to inspect and report on a cavity wall era property which they were considering for purchase led me to take an important decision. 

No, not to try to develop the X Ray Superpower in pursuit of which I would anyway have no idea where to start, what with the Planet Kryton having been destroyed, but to buy myself a boroscopic camera. 

These have come down in price a lot in recent times from thousands to hundreds and now tens of pounds as well as improving considerably in size, weight and portability. 

Early models tended to be reconditioned medical endoscopes which I would find a bit creepy. I can well imagine jibes about users having a nice day at the orifice and so on. 

My particular target purchase was from a reputable Survey equipment shop and noticing that it had been further reduced in price made up my mind for me. The specification ticked all the boxes as in hand held, lightweight, LED backlight to a one metre long flexible wand, small view screen and a recording and download function. 

In reality the item was bright red, very plasticky, clunky to use, big type print on the screen and a very fuzzy image display. Even the carry case looked like one that a child would get with a secret agent toy set, yet more plastic but this time in a stippled finish. 

You must know that feeling of initial disappointment when first seeing something that in your imagination has been built up as being the greatest gadget ever made but the thing falls well short of expectations. 

I was a bit reluctant to even take it out of the case and use it in front of homeowners in case they giggled or called their children to have a look at the joke object. 

My fears and trepidations were quickly dispelled as the boroscope more than paid back its price just in the reaction of clients who were aghast about how I could comment on otherwise concealed and unforeseen issues in a cavity wall. 

Common questions could be answered decisively as in, does the cavity have any insulation?, how wide is the cavity?, are there any wall tie problems? Or simply- is there a cavity there at all? 

One house seller swore at oath level that he had paid for the wall cavity to be insulated and yet I found nothing but air in that gap. Another homeowner was able to claim financial assistance for other insulation measures when what was thought to be a cavity wall was not. 

I found my X Ray type services in great demand and the boroscope got a good deal of use. 

Unfortunately, the rather flimsy manufacture could not cope with the rigours of being thrust into small holes in walls or dragged around up and down inspection ladders and the inevitable failure occurred. 

It had been a valuable survey tool but the word seemed to be out that my see-through super powers had left me and the drop off in requests did not encourage me to replace it. 

I am now however having second thoughts as technology has moved on at a pace. 

The lastest versions are run from a smartphone with just a plug in flexible camera coil and with all the trappings of connectivity and High Definition. 

Pass me that Survey Shop Catalogue or a blank sheet of paper to send a letter to Santa. 

1980 Mystery - Solved

A mystery only remains a mystery until a factual or reasonably logical explanation is found.

In my teenage years I was enthralled and fascinated by disappearances in the region known as the Bermuda Triangle, UFO phenomena, Big Foot, The Loch Ness Monster and other stranger things. To my knowledge such things retain their status as mysteries although many fortunes and reputations have been made and lost by those researching and reporting on them.

One event that fascinated me in 1980 was the disappearance of the huge ocean going merchant vessel, Derbyshire. The event warranted an entry in my diary in red biro.

At 294 m or nearly 1000 feet long  (twice that of the Titanic) and able to carry a full load of 160,000 tonnes it holds the unenviable status as being the largest British Registered Ship lost at sea.

Built at the Swan Hunter Yard in Liverpool and brought into service in 1976 Derbyshire was a bulk carrier able to be loaded with and carry in its large cargo holds a heavy deadweight of iron ore.

Unladen and in original name prior to Derbyshire 

This required a double hull design on a substantial girder construction. For some reason, probably financial or economic, Derbyshire was laid up for two years of what was to be her short life.

In July 1980 the ship left Canada, fully laden and with 42 crew and two wives , en route for the industrial city of Kawasaki in Japan.

The planned route indicated that there would be a convergence with the predicted path of a tropical typhoon, Orchid and avoidance measures were taken to reduce exposure to such an unpredictable weather system.

There were reports of not so much adverse climatic conditions but violent and powerful successive waves.

On 9th September a catastrophic series of events led to the disappearance of Derbyshire with no Mayday signal sent.

In the initial search no trace was found and it was not until six weeks later that lifeboat wreckage was spotted by another vessel in the busy shipping lanes.

The disappearance led to considerable speculation over the reason for the loss of the ship.

There were claims about the design of the superstructure, its ability to cope with extreme wave trains and also crew negligence. Politics were also in play in that the Swan Hunter Yard had been privatised just before the time of the Derbyshire build and the British Government had given indemnities on each and every vessel as a sweetener to the deal with the private sector. This resulted in a reluctance for the loss to be attributed to anything suggesting deficiences in design or construction.

The Derbyshire Families Association took their own course of action and fourteen years later commissioned an expedition backed by the regional TV company Tyne Tees and others to find the wreckage and try to analyse the findings in a bid to find out what actually happened.

The 1994 investigation located the wreckage over a 1.3km spread and at a depth of 4000 metres.

Over forty days a photographic record was made of the debris.

The scenario appeared clear and unambiguous. The force of waves crashing over the bows during Typhoon Orchid had sheared off the covers from the bosun's store. Over some 30 hours of riding through the storm seawater had entered the forward section causing the bow to settle deeper and deeper into the swell.

In due course the bow became fully exposed to the storm force waves and the forward hatch over the iron ore cargo buckled and gave way shortly followed by the loss of the second and third hatch covers. The ship was overwhelmed and as it sank the hull twisted and imploded creating the wide debris spread.

The lack of a Mayday signal was explained by the fact that the main catastrophic events took place over only two minutes.

The Official Enquiry dragged on with continued doubt being directed upon the actions by and competence of crew.

A second underwater investigation was crucial in producing better quality and more revealing photographic evidence that highlighted poor design features as the cause and not human error. The hatch covers on Derbyshire were ruled as being under designed but still legal. There had been no forecastle (pronounced folks sell) on the bows to protect the area immediately behind from the impact of extreme waves.

There had been precedent of the failure and subsequent loss of similar large ships but very little cross referencing over specifix causes. Between 1969 and 1989 some 44 bulk carriers had sunk with high accumulative loss of life but lessons to enable design modifications to be made had been slow until the Derbyshire tragedy.

I have often thought about adding a note to my 1980 teenage diary entry for what I had called, at that time, the Derbyshire mystery. As I said, a mystery only remains a mystery until a factual or reasonably logical explanation is found.

Milk and Alcohol

It is a word not often heard today but my childhood was one of constant Collywobbles. 

I was a nervy youngster and usually had to be coerced.persuaded or volunteered by others to take part in games, activities, school performances, sports and speaking in public. 

Collywobbles sounds like a gentle and soothing description of a bodily or psychological ailment, almost comic in the images that it conjurs up when mentioned. 

In its normal interpretation it means a tummy ache, butterflies in the stomach, queasiness and a feeling of anxiety in the pit of your belly. 

I was reminded of it a couple of weeks ago when on a radio panel show the name was given to an old traditional drink of milk and brandy which a couple of hundred years ago the poorer of the nation downed to enable them to get through their harsh daily grind in whatever manual labour task they were employed in. 

You can imagine a tipsy workforce turning up en-masse, including children as well if the combination of calcium rich milk and fortifying high alcohol content spirits was seen as a good nutritious breakfast or at least a way of avoiding potentially contaminated foods and water which even in the sanitation savvy Victorian Era were still a major cause of illness and death amongst the working class. 

There is some suggestion that one source of the word is actually the word cholera which was rife in the slums of cities and towns throughout Britain in the 18^th Century and earlier. 

Other etymologists attribute Collywobbles to the medical condition arising from the breathing in of dust from the burning of coal and wood, called colly, again common in both the industrial processes and home life of the Victorians. 

Poor air quality in that fossil fuel powered world could inflict as much damage as the prevailing socio and economic factors. 

It was proven that for those sleeping in a room with many others, as was a typical family unit in the 1830’s working class, the poor atmosphere produced giddiness, drowsiness, mental confusion, headache, vomiting and that was before the influences of dampness in promoting bronchial and other respiratory illnesses. 

Collywobbles could therefore equally be used to describe the stifling atmosphere and the previously mentioned cocktail of milk and alcohol which was regarded as a valid antidote for the consequences of inadequate diet and living environment. 

However, the popular vote for the derivation of this wonderful word is a mashing together of colic as in illness and wobbles, the inevitable outcome of being confused, disorientated and unsteady on your feet. 

My own Collywobbles when young gave me a lot of quality time at home as I could fake them pretty well to be brought home from school in a selection of Teacher’s cars. Those mid mornings and early afternoons developed in me a real passion for black and white films, usually Miss Marple investigates something and chicken noodle soup. 

Looking back now I was a real Collywobbles hypochondriac. 

I still get the same sensations today in my 50’s when I have a difficult bit of work to consider or to speak to a room full of people. Some say that the Collywobbles help you to focus and give you a bit of adrenalin to get you through testing times. On the other hand you could just be reduced to a gibbering wreck.

The same radio show that set me on the path of nostalgia also gave up another interpretation of Collywobbles, that being the reason for a surprisingly poor performance by a sheepdog in a one man and his dog type competition.

Just Eat

I have been off food this week as it appears that there is a stomach bug doing the rounds, or at least in the circles that I frequent.

My normal workload involving visiting other people's houses can expose me to a variety of domestic germs and with an upsurge in appointments over the last couple of weeks I seem to have had more than the usual dosage of maladies, either airborne or from general contact with the general public.

I did harbour some bad thoughts about a takeaway meal in the preceding 24 hours of my feeling a bit peeky but kept them to myself. In fact it was a very nice meal and I had posted a most complimentary review on the ordering website just after cleaning out the foil tray.

Family members have fallen by the wayside and a work colleague has also been struck down and so the source of the outbreak must after all be a virus rather than anything self inflicted through greed or gluttony.

Feeling averse to eating anything is not a problem.

The main issue is when your body decides to return to normal and gives reassuring signals that it is time to take on some sustenance to revitalise energy, metabolism and wellbeing.

It is not that a full plate of food is required but just a gentle easing in with a bit of a snack although providing good nutrients to aid recovery.

Still feeling a bit delicate and wary about venturing too far from the home in case of a relapse of symptoms I decided to make a search through the most infrequently opened food storage cupboard in the kitchen for something to eat.

The cupboard concerned has a content to be found in just about every household.

It is a place for stock tinned foods such as tomatoes and a variety of beans, impulse purchases of an adventurous culinary nature ie foreign origin, dried pastas mostly in alphabet shapes, canned fruits and custards, small ring pull containers of sardines or anchovies, packets of soup, cous-cous and savoury rice and jars of gifted jam and honey. Collectively, these are enough to fashion something of a meal but not, in my post-upset frame of mind sufficient to satisfy the early stages of a craving.

Sticking my head into that dark space I spied, right at the back, the distinctive shape and labelling of a tin of SPAM.

That canned pre-cooked meat product and me have a bit of history.

Growing up in the 1960's it was a regular and favourite tea time menu item but not only was it a utilitarian food but in a sandwich with crisps, sat in the back of a crowded family car looking out to a wet and windy seaside scene there could be nothing better to catch the moment.

SPAM is an interesting thing.

It was first introduced to United States consumers  in 1937 and may not have been able to find a global market had it not been for its widespread distribution and use amongst the Allied Forces in the Second World War.

It met, in those austere times, the brief for an affordable foodstuff with an extended shelf life and even though its nutritional content would be frowned upon today there will not have been many other as efficient methods for fighting troops to get fat and protein in such a concentrated form. In the wartime years some £150 million was spent by Governments on SPAM.

The original producers did insist on using good ingredients of pork shoulder meat blended with ham and bound together with potato starch, natural flavourings and a preservative. This contrasted with competitor products who used lips, tongues and snouts.Ugh nasty.

Numerous legends and misinformations revolve around SPAM, no more so than the derivation of its very name.

Actually meaning "SPiced hAM" it was also reputed to be an abbreviated version of "SPAre Meat", "Shoulders of Pork and hAM" or in the ubiquitous military context as "Specially Processed American Meat" or "SPecial Army Meat".

Even after being used as a staple of rations in wartime , SPAM remained in production achieving the milestone of seven billion cans sold by 2007 and is still going strong today.

Hawaii is currently the largest consumer with baby boomers and subsequent generations absorbing it into their food culture after US Forces stationed there in the 1940's brought it to the attention of the nation.

In other global markets SPAM has retained similar nostalgia with Margaret Thatcher whilst Prime Minister of Great Britain referring to it as a "wartime delicacy".

Retrieving my lone tin from the aforementioned larder cupboard and recalling the heritage of the product I made a point of checking the sell by date. It was sufficiently well into the 21st Century to give me confidence in opening it up.

What to do with it was a challenge.

There is a regional delicacy in my area of a SPAM Yorkshire Breakfast.

How about a positively exotic SPAMish Omelette?

Mashed up with cooked potatoes makes for a good SPAM Hash.

Not for me those delicacies. I just went for my absolute favourite. SPAM fritters.

Just the thing to get me back on my feet and fighting, if not actually, fit.

Space Travel

Thanks to the satellite views provided by Google Earth I have spent many quite productive hours imagining that I was flying over my home area.

Of course I have tried to put a date on when the currently displayed aerial image of my house was taken from space on the basis of what car was parked on the driveway or what had been left out on the rear lawn  and not put away in the shed.

The level of detail and focus from the spy in near earth orbit is not brilliant. I left a packet of sage and onion stuffing on the patio with the intention of logging on and trying to focus in and read the label but that was a bit of a waste of that particular hour.

What does show up very clearly however are the areas of open space through the suburbs and the wider urban and city areas. The main City Parks are easily made out. They are the green fertile oasis areas in the middle of a patchwork of red, slate black and concrete grey roof tiles. The greenbelt zones between the composite towns and villages that make up the larger Hull conurbation are like narrow battlefield front lines with the common drainage ditches as makeshift trenches and as much under attack from development encroachment as this similie clumsily suggests.

Then there are the strange very regularly shaped parcels of open land sat in the middle of built up areas looking like the centre court at Wimbledon before they put the roof on it. Some are very easily explained. Old Graveyards.

At one time located on the outer edge of the town they were developed up to and around as the City grew at a rapid pace. In most cases there are some retained headstones and memorials but otherwise these have been removed before they fall on someone taking a short cut through the graveyard or have been carefully arranged against the outer boundaries to warn people off and satisfy the Heritage people.

The very eroded inscriptions on the poor sandstone tablets imply that there may not be many ancestors around to visit and leave flowers.

The City, viewed from high altitude is bisected by broad land drains. A much larger number of these drain ditches have been culverted and filled but their courses can still be detected. I have seen photographs from as recently as the 1950's of these smelly watercourses which must have contributed to the list of fatalities annually from either falling in or being bitten by something that crawled out of them.

Again, stranded by the spread of suburbia, are the old landfill sites.

In the days before strict controls on what got dumped and where I expect that any allocated hole in the ground was just filled up with anything. The landfills originated from shallow clay or mineral extraction for brick making or road construction. If these landfills are still within living memory then they remain undeveloped but with the inevitable misplacement or acccidental deletion of archives it is very possible that such land areas may be inadvertently built upon.

This is not a problem with commercial development. A strip of land on the Humber bank, formerly a waste tip, is now occupied by some swanky offices and car dealerships. The buildings have been so constructed to be impermeable to the methane produced by the decomposing waste beneath or with an arrangement of shiny stainless steel vents and chimneys to at least release the noxious gas above the roof height for dissipation in the air.

Residential development is another issue.

In some well documented housing estates the night sky is lit up as the gas burning flares ignite in response to a release of gas. The impact on demand and values for the executive housing is a good source of work for local lawyers and surveyors.

Where a potential hazard has been clearly recorded there can be two main consequences.

The first is that the land surface invariably steams and on colder seasonal mornings there can be a low, dense mist whereas the rest of the local area is clear and bright. This does give a nice view on some mornings and many photo opportunities to be submitted to the local interest section of the newspaper. I have seen flourescent jacketed contractors amongst the low mist with test drill rigs so perhaps the emissions could be captured and used as an alternative source of energy. The local tramp is often seen asleep on the field taking advantage of the warmth from the ground or perhaps succumbing to the fumes in equal proportion.

The second consequence is the utter panic amongst prospective house buyers when their Environmental Report, a common value added input in the house buying process, flags up the presence of a landfill site within 500 metres or less of their dream home.

If the landfill is not documented then there can be some justification in calling the information a deal breaker. However, the fact that the area is already fully built up and has been for the last 15 years indicates that the local population know of the fact but are not bothered.

The usual filling for the old pits and workings was industrial waste. I was involved in a professional capacity in assessing the impact on the value of a bungalow which had started to subside into a large hole on a 1960's estate. The site had originally been the dumping ground for the iron filings and shavings of a large boiler and radiator manufacturer.If it is good for bodily health to take in iron then it follows that putting iron into the soil cannot surely have any adverse implications.

The problem was that the accumulated ferrous levels in the soil ate through the main metal water supply pipe and the initial pin hole leak developed into a full burst . Over time the ground and foundations beneath the bungalow and indeed its near neighbours gave way. The repair of the pipe took some months and at tangible cost.

Unfortunately the replacement pipe was also in metal and within a few years the same corrosion and leak happened affecting the newly stabilised but almost insurance write-off properties. Eventually the engineers went for plastic pipes.

In my slacker moments I like to study in detail the old maps of the former Victoria Dock on the Hull waterfront. The main dock basins and slipways have been gentrified into nice features to compliment a very attractive residential estate of houses and flats.

The primary function of the dock was to recieve the imports of timber from the Baltic countries. Somewere amongst the housing will have been the contaminative processes for tanalising the timber. The football field as the only open greenspace on the estate is not developable for reasons of contamination.

One of the nice executive calibre houses has subsequently started to topple over into one of the infilled timber ponds being been built precariously balanced atop of the dock wall.

What I am still determined to locate however is much more interesting.

The old maps clearly show the location of a large group of buildings under the title of Typhoid and Cholera Hospital. That makes interesting reading if little Jacob and Jocasta, occupants of the house built on the site of the institution, after a session of digging in the garden approach their parents with a collection of dry old bones.

A 1930's must have

You might not have one but your parents and grandparents are highly likely to have had one. 

I am talking of course about a timber and asbestos panel built garage. 

These appeared in significant numbers in the UK in the 1930’s as a direct consequence of the increase in private car ownership. Those fortunate enough to be able to afford a motor car later on in the immediate post war years, most likely to have been doctors, accountants, bank managers and businessmen, were understandably  proud of the fact and keen to keep it under cover and protected against the inevitable British threats of corrosion from rain and malicious activities of jealous neighbours. 

Furthermore the structures were relatively cheap being either on a supply and erect basis by contractors or as a kit form DIY project. 

That wonder material asbestos was hardwearing and strong and required little maintenance with even a lick of paint being optional onto the distinctive cement grey surface. Preparation of a bit of a driveway accessible from the public highway or at the back of the house from a ten foot, snicket or ginnel, to give local names to an unmade private track or lane was also straightforward. 

In many cases the dismantling of the World War 2 bomb shelter from the garden gave up the rubble and hardcore on which to cast a base and then the vertical sheet panels could be positioned and topped with a corrugated asbestos sheet roof. Hang on a couple of doors at the front and there you had it- a neat little garage in which to keep the family pride and joy safe, dry and clean. 

The timber and asbestos garage ruled supreme well into the late 1960’s and 1970’s until the emergence of sectional concrete garages by the likes of Marley and Pudsey and then with the expansion of modern housing estates the brick and flat roof or pitched tiled garage became a must have and the high volume spec house builders charged them out accordingly. 

There are still many thousands of these old garages in existence and in my home city of Hull, Yorkshire, UK a high proportion of the housing stock from the 1930’s to the 1950’s still retain examples of these structures. 

Many are however in a sorry state of repair and the implied risks associated with asbestos cement products have caused many owners to simply abandon or ignore their garages. There are cost implications for safe removal and disposal to a Licenced Waste Site and small fortunes have been made by those offering such a service but if left in situ, undisturbed and with no risk of abrasion or damage then there can be an extended usefulness. 

I would not personally use a timber and asbestos garage to store valuable or perishable goods but as a storage space or depository for odds and ends there is nothing better. 

I came across this beautiful example just today and felt compelled to make a record of it for posterity and as a piece of social and housing history. 

It is the original garage for a late 1930’s built semi detached in a quiet suburban street. The asbestos roof was replaced a few years ago in basic mineral felt on timber decking and although unsympathetic as a finish it does lend some colour and texture.

The lower white painted panels are of distinctive asbestos sheet dimpling, these having been very well maintained and with no fracturing or holes. A wayward football or cricket ball can play havoc with this material.

The south side windows are quite distinctive in five six paned frames giving good natural light to the interior which if not taken up with a car also provides good working space for a bench or small lathe.

I would not however enjoy the painting of the frames which would be required on a five yearly rota to protect the woodwork.

The guttering is now in plastic with two angled downpipes to the back but will originally have been in timber or metal.

The interior is similarly well preserved.

There is some cracking and heave to the cast floor slab where the rubble used for hardcore has swelled from sulphate content but not affecting stability or function.

Size wise I would say that the largest car that could have fitted in would have been an Austin Saloon or Morris Minor with a bit of room for a bike or two, Tansad, wooden step ladders, gardening tools and to take advantage of the southern aspect, a few plant pots with early season bulbs and seedlings.

Originally there would not be any electric light or power supply laid on but this is now run from the house to a socket for the electrical garden equipment and a courtesy light.

It is a fine and individual piece of architecture but unfortunately its days are numbered as the house it belongs to is shortly to be sold and chances are that the new owners will not want to keep or preserve it.

I would certainly offer to take it if it could at all be dismantled and relocated but such are the materials that it would not take kindly to being moved. 

All you can eat buffet

Based on a true story and skillfully put into a very rambling lyric by Arlo Guthrie in 1967. I cannot believe that i only came across this today but it is evidently a mainstay for the Thanksgiving Week in the United States. I laughed out loud.................................a lot.

The best way to follow the lyric is with the You Tube original from 1967. It is about 18 minutes long but time flies by from this master of story telling.

This song is called Alice's Restaurant, and it's about Alice, and the
Restaurant, but Alice's Restaurant is not the name of the restaurant,
That's just the name of the song, and that's why I called the song Alice's
Restaurant.

You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant

Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago, was on - two years ago on
Thanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at the
Restaurant, but Alice doesn't live in the restaurant, she lives in the
Church nearby the restaurant, in the bell-tower, with her husband Ray and
Fasha the dog. And livin' in the bell tower like that, they got a lot of
Room downstairs where the pews used to be in. Havin' all that room,
Seein' as how they took out all the pews, they decided that they didn't
Have to take out their garbage for a long time.

We got up there, we found all the garbage in there, and we decided it'd be
A friendly gesture for us to take the garbage down to the city dump. So
We took the half a ton of garbage, put it in the back of a red vw
Microbus, took shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed
On toward the city dump.

Well we got there and there was a big sign and a chain across across the
Dump saying, "Closed on Thanksgiving." And we had never heard of a dump
Closed on Thanksgiving before, and with tears in our eyes we drove off
Into the sunset looking for another place to put the garbage.

We didn't find one. Until we came to a side road, and off the side of the
Side road there was another fifteen foot cliff and at the bottom of the
Cliff there was another pile of garbage. And we decided that one big pile
Is better than two little piles, and rather than bring that one up we
Decided to throw our's down.

That's what we did, and drove back to the church, had a thanksgiving
Dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep and didn't get up until the
Next morning, when we got a phone call from officer Obie. He said, "Kid,
We found your name on an envelope at the bottom of a half a ton of
Garbage, and just wanted to know if you had any information about it. " And
I said, "Yes, sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie, I put that envelope
Under that garbage. "

After speaking to Obie for about fourty-five minutes on the telephone we
Finally arrived at the truth of the matter and said that we had to go down
And pick up the garbage, and also had to go down and speak to him at the
Police officer's station. So we got in the red vw microbus with the
Shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on toward the
Police officer's station.

Now friends, there was only one or two things that Obie coulda done at
The police station, and the first was he could have given us a medal for
Being so brave and honest on the telephone, which wasn't very likely, and
We didn't expect it, and the other thing was he could have bawled us out
And told us never to be seen driving garbage around the vicinity again,
Which is what we expected, but when we got to the police officer's station
There was a third possibility that we hadn't even counted upon, and we was
Both immediately arrested. Handcuffed. And I said "Obie, I don't think I
Can pick up the garbage with these handcuffs on. " He said, "Shut up, kid.
Get in the back of the patrol car. "

And that's what we did, sat in the back of the patrol car and drove to the
Quote Scene of the Crime unquote. I want tell you about the town of
Stockbridge, Massachusets, where this happened here, they got three stop
Signs, two police officers, and one police car, but when we got to the
Scene of the Crime there was five police officers and three police cars,
Being the biggest crime of the last fifty years, and everybody wanted to
Get in the newspaper story about it. And they was using up all kinds of
Cop equipment that they had hanging around the police officer's station.
They was taking plaster tire tracks, foot prints, dog smelling prints, and
They took twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles
And arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each
One was to be used as evidence against us. Took pictures of the approach,
The getaway, the northwest corner the southwest corner and that's not to
Mention the aerial photography.

After the ordeal, we went back to the jail. Obie said he was going to put
Us in the cell. Said, "Kid, I'm going to put you in the cell, I want your
Wallet and your belt. " And I said, "Obie, I can understand you wanting my
Wallet so I don't have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you
Want my belt for? " And he said, "Kid, we don't want any hangings. " I
Said, "Obie, did you think I was going to hang myself for littering?"
Obie said he was making sure, and friends Obie was, cause he took out the
Toilet seat so I couldn't hit myself over the head and drown, and he took
Out the toilet paper so I couldn't bend the bars roll out the - roll the
Toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll and have an escape. Obie
Was making sure, and it was about four or five hours later that Alice
(remember Alice? It's a song about Alice), Alice came by and with a few
Nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back
To the church, had a another thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat,
And didn't get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court.

We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty seven eight-by-ten
Colour glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back
Of each one, sat down. Man came in said, "All rise." We all stood up,
And Obie stood up with the twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy
Pictures, and the judge walked in sat down with a seeing eye dog, and he
Sat down, we sat down. Obie looked at the seeing eye dog, and then at the
Twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy pictures with circles and arrows
And a paragraph on the back of each one, and looked at the seeing eye dog.
And then at twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy pictures with circles
And arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one and began to cry,
'cause Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American
Blind justice, and there wasn't nothing he could do about it, and the
Judge wasn't going to look at the twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy
Pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each
One explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. And
We was fined $50 and had to pick up the garbage in the snow, but that's not
What I came to tell you about.

Came to talk about the draft.

They got a building down New York City, it's called Whitehall Street,
Where you walk in, you get injected, inspected, detected, infected,
Neglected and selected. I went down to get my physical examination one
Day, and I walked in, I sat down, got good and drunk the night before, so
I looked and felt my best when I went in that morning. 'Cause I wanted to
Look like the all-American kid from New York City, man I wanted, I wanted
To feel like the all-, I wanted to be the all American kid from New York,
And I walked in, sat down, I was hung down, brung down, hung up, and all
Kinds o' mean nasty ugly things. And I waked in and sat down and they gave
Me a piece of paper, said, "Kid, see the phsychiatrist, room 604."

And I went up there, I said, "Shrink, I want to kill. I mean, I wanna, I
Wanna kill. Kill. I wanna, I wanna see, I wanna see blood and gore and
Guts and veins in my teeth. Eat dead burnt bodies. I mean kill, Kill,
Kill, kill. " And I started jumpin up and down yelling, "kill, kill, " and
He started jumpin up and down with me and we was both jumping up and down
Yelling, "KILL, KILL." And the sargent came over, pinned a medal on me,
Sent me down the hall, said, "You're our boy."

Didn't feel too good about it.

Proceeded on down the hall gettin more injections, inspections,
Detections, neglections and all kinds of stuff that they was doin' to me
At the thing there, and I was there for two hours, three hours, four
Hours, I was there for a long time going through all kinds of mean nasty
Ugly things and I was just having a tough time there, and they was
Inspecting, injecting every single part of me, and they was leaving no
Part untouched. Proceeded through, and when I finally came to the see the
Last man, I walked in, walked in sat down after a whole big thing there,
And I walked up and said, "What do you want?" He said, "Kid, we only got
One question. Have you ever been arrested? "

And I proceeded to tell him the story of the Alice's Restaurant Massacre,
With full orchestration and five part harmony and stuff like that and all
The phenome... - and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, did you ever
Go to court? "

And I proceeded to tell him the story of the twenty seven eight-by-ten
Colour glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and the paragraph on
The back of each one, and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, I want
You to go and sit down on that bench that says Group W.... Now kid!! "

And I, I walked over to the, to the bench there, and there is, Group W's
Where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after
Committing your special crime, and there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly
Looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father
Rapers! Father rapers sitting right there on the bench next to me! And
They was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible crime-type guys sitting on the
Bench next to me. And the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one, the meanest
Father raper of them all, was coming over to me and he was mean 'n' ugly
'n' nasty 'n' horrible and all kind of things and he sat down next to me
And said, "Kid, whad'ya get?" I said, "I didn't get nothing, I had to pay
$50 and pick up the garbage. " He said, "What were you arrested for, kid? "
And I said, "Littering." And they all moved away from me on the bench
There, and the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean nasty things, till I
Said, "And creating a nuisance." And they all came back, shook my hand,
And we had a great time on the bench, talkin about crime, mother stabbing,
Father raping, all kinds of groovy things that we was talking about on the
Bench. And everything was fine, we was smoking cigarettes and all kinds of
Things, until the Sargeant came over, had some paper in his hand, held it
Up and said.

"Kids, this-piece-of-paper's-got-47-words-37-sentences-58-words-we-wanna-
Know-details-of-the-crime-time-of-the-crime-and-any-other-kind-of-thing-
You-gotta-say-pertaining-to-and-about-the-crime-I-want-to-know-arresting-
Officer's-name-and-any-other-kind-of-thing-you-gotta-say", and talked for
Forty-five minutes and nobody understood a word that he said, but we had
Fun filling out the forms and playing with the pencils on the bench there,
And I filled out the massacre with the four part harmony, and wrote it
Down there, just like it was, and everything was fine and I put down the
Pencil, and I turned over the piece of paper, and there, there on the
Other side, in the middle of the other side, away from everything else on
The other side, in parentheses, capital letters, quotated, read the
Following words:

("KID, HAVE YOU REHABILITATED YOURSELF?")

I went over to the sargent, said, "Sargeant, you got a lot a damn gall to
Ask me if I've rehabilitated myself, I mean, I mean, I mean that just, I'm
Sittin' here on the bench, I mean I'm sittin here on the Group W bench
'cause you want to know if I'm moral enough join the army, burn women,
Kids, houses and villages after bein' a litterbug. " He looked at me and
Said, "Kid, we don't like your kind, and we're gonna send you fingerprints
Off to Washington. "

And friends, somewhere in Washington enshrined in some little folder, is a
Study in black and white of my fingerprints. And the only reason I'm
Singing you this song now is cause you may know somebody in a similar
Situation, or you may be in a similar situation, and if your in a
Situation like that there's only one thing you can do and that's walk into
The shrink wherever you are, just walk in say "Shrink, You can get
Anything you want, at Alice's restaurant. ". And walk out. You know, if
One person, just one person does it they may think he's really sick and
They won't take him. And if two people, two people do it, in harmony,
They may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them.
And three people do it, three, can you imagine, three people walking in
Singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and walking out. They may think it's an
Organization. And can you, can you imagine fifty people a day, I said
Fifty people a day walking in singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and
Walking out. And friends they may thinks it's a movement.

And that's what it is, the Alice's Restaurant Anti-Massacre Movement, and
All you got to do to join is sing it the next time it come's around on the
Guitar.

With feeling. So we'll wait for it to come around on the guitar, here and
Sing it when it does. Here it comes.

You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant

That was horrible. If you want to end war and stuff you got to sing loud.
I've been singing this song now for twenty five minutes. I could sing it
For another twenty five minutes. I'm not proud... Or tired.

So we'll wait till it comes around again, and this time with four part
Harmony and feeling.

We're just waitin' for it to come around is what we're doing.

All right now.

You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Excepting Alice
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant

Da da da da da da da dum
At Alice's Restaurant

Pole Dancing to Harp Music

It might not always be a case of Location, Location, Location when it comes to the most important criteria for buying that house. 

If you are looking to try to future proof in terms of demand, saleability and value then, yes, you should have some consideration of location but such are the uncertainties involved that no sure fire guarantees can be provided. 

House purchase should really have the same warnings as other forms of investment, in that values can go down as well as up. 

Add into the mix such factors as the intended course of a main rail line, the siting of a nuclear power station, extended airport runways, an upsurge in crime and anti-social behaviour or if a street just falls out of favouritism for any one of hundreds of actual or perceived reasons and you can appreciate that the three word mantra so promoted by Spencer and Allsop has inherent flaws. 

Some people buy a house simply because they like the appearance of it or that it, as they say, ticks most of the boxes on their wish list of qualities and attributes. 

We, as a family, bought a small terraced house back in the 1990’s. It had some longer term suitability issues, was old and expensive to maintain and run, streetside parking was a matter of intense competition as well as demanding the highest skill levels of parallel parking but at the time the lean-to type sun-room (I hesitate to call it a conservatory) made for a great place for our two dogs to reside in and so the deal was done. 

It took only 3 years for us to realise our error and make a move to a human-suitable property. 

Drive down any road in any town and city and you may feel offended by the visual impact of certain houses. Yes, they are bloody ugly, either by their original design or from unsympathetic alterations, and yet they are obviously a cherished home for someone. 

I giggle to myself every time I drive past a cottage in a village out towards the coast as it has a face. 

In the absence of a door to the front there are two rectangular first floor windows resembling wide open eyes and on the ground floor a single matching window as in the mouthing of exclamation and surprise. 

I just cannot be the only person to see this but it is lived in and from time to time does come on the market for sale. 

In the course of my professional workload in the property sector I am often asked to provide an opinion on the suitability of a house or other premises for a specific intended use by the prospective buyers. 

One request was to advise on whether a former plumbers workshop (one of those in the rear yard of a old terraced house with a drive through archway from the street) would be alright for the keeping of fish. 

It was a strange request and my mind raced through images of banks of freezers or chillers, the indoor luxury of a carp pond or some manufacturing process that would possibly upset the neighbours in a quiet and reasonably odourless part of town. 

Turns out that the purpose was to temporarily house exotic tropical fish as they arrived in the country to take up occupation in a large riverfront aquarium which was still some months from being finished as a landmark project for the region. 

There can be quite a variation in the floor to ceiling heights in houses, often based on the era of their construction. Victorian and older houses have very high and often fancy embellished ceilings with cornices and rose requiring a full extending step ladder to inspect for any tell tale signs that the thick, horse hair bonded plaster is about to fall down. 

In contrast it is possible to stretch up on tip toes and touch the ceiling in most modern houses. 

I was asked to provide accurate floor to ceiling measurements for one female client being later told that it was for her to check that her dance pole could be relocated from her current home to the new residence. 

My most recent request came in an introductory letter from a firm of solicitors whose valued client was looking to buy a very large, late 1890’s built house in a well to do tree lined district of the city. 

The place had been unoccupied for about 8 years after last being occupied by ten students from the University. It was run down with the usual damp, rot and decay issues that inevitable take over an empty, unheated and poorly maintained property. 

The ground floors were certainly in a weakened condition as evidenced by a pronounced springboard effect when walked upon. I resisted my usual running jump and two footed landing- a surefire method of exposing any defects as I did not want to find myself up to the waist or further immersed in whatever void was under the floor. 

I was able to give an authoritative opinion that in their present condition I would not recommend that the client used the affected rooms to house their grand piano and full sized concert harp. 

It had been a case of overlooking quite obvious issues of dereliction and decay because the dimensions of those rooms would easily accommodate musical instruments of that size and weight. 

Location, Location, Location- well I’m still not so sure that is the full story.

Donecasting

Public Votes; just asking for trouble. 

I mean the process whereby Companies and Organisations have a bright idea to consult the general population in an attempt to create an online frenzy and capture a lot of data that could be put to good use in marketing campaigns. 

This could be something quite simple and innocuous. 

In my home city, Hull in Yorkshire, the Council invited suggestions for the name of a female Iguana lizard that had arrived to be a sort of companion for their resident reptile, the famous head nodding but melancholy, George. 

It was a well calculated campaign as there could of course be only one final outcome. Based on the profile of an old couple, a bit mismatched, one a bit sedentary and the other prone to bossiness then the public at large could only ever go for Mildred- as in the famous TV sitcom couple of the 1970’s. 

No real opportunities for a PR horror show there then. Mildred and George, George and Mildred.

The same could not be said for quite a few other campaigns. 

In 2010 a competition was held to suggest and vote on a new concert destination for the megastar Justin Bieber. The overwhelming winner was of course, North Korea but the Bieber Corporation refused to acknowledge the validity of the vote. 

Taylor Swift, another of the internet generation, looked for nominations of U.S schools in which she could perform. A well managed act of on line sabotage saw The Horace Mann School for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing easily top the poll. In a clever side step, the management of the mega-artiste gave a sizeable donation as a sweetener for blocking any further voting for the school. 

Pop Culture is a big market sector for any product or celebrity campaign and so when the Walmart chain put up a prize of a concert by the rapper Pitbull in any city with one of its stores it was too much of a temptation for those intent on mischief and mayhem. Momentum in the vote saw the remotest store, in Kodiak, Alaska come out on top. 

To his credit, Pitbull honoured the outcome and probably froze his pitbulls off in the process. 

The Kraft food empire PR and Marketing Team must have felt confident in their bid to get ideas from the general public for a new product launch, that being a blend of Vegemite and Cream Cheese. Vegemite has cultural and social history particularly in Australia and any tampering with the classic taste could be seen as an attack on lifestyle and history. The winning suggestion was a rather boring “iSnack2.0” but this was soon pulled by Kraft in favour of Vegemite Cheesybite. 

I cannot recall having seen that product anywhere on my local supermarket shelves. 

Mountain Dew, a soft drinks manufacturer also placed a lot of faith in what it thought was a loyal customer base in asking for names for its apple-green drink. Many responses were offensive and I can not repeat them for fear of causing upset although to give you an idea they included “Diabeetus” and “Hitler did nothing wrong”. 

The power of veto came into play and thank goodness for that decision by Mountain Dew. 

A well orchestrated campaign by fans or spoilers can wreak havoc and there is just no way that the result can be upheld by sensible and respectable organisations.

The recent behaviour by The National Environmental Research Council in not adopting the resoundingly popular Boaty McBoatface for one of its survey ships was a PR disaster. 

Greenpeace in contrast were more than pleased to name a whale in their anti-hunting monitoring programme in the South Pacific after the vote winner- Mr Splashy Pants inspite of the smart money being on the punning Humphrey. 

Public Bodies do run a real risk of being branded hypocrites or being undemocratic in setting off on the voting path. In Austin, Texas the renaming of the refuse dump for the city was put out for a vote. In second place came “Department of Neat and Clean” and top of the pile but not rubbish some 26,000 votes ahead was “The Fred Durst Society of the Humanities and Arts” being an homage to the Limp Bizkit musician although he may not have had anything to do with Texas at all. 

The Authorities did not accept the result and went for Austin Resource Recovery instead. 

Under such a weight of evidence that public votes can be problematic I have every admiration for Doncaster Council in South Yorkshire, UK. 

Obviously a progressive administrative body or at least with employees who have a grasp of the finer side of social media they started an on line competition for names for two new road gritting lorries, you know the sort that you only see after dark on British Roads and who, at the slightest hint of a cold temperature throw out a dusting of salt or grit to try to prevent the formation of black ice. 

The Council already operate liveried gritting vehicles emblazoned across the drivers cab with Brad Grit, Gritney Spears, The Sub zero hero and the Simpsons inspired Mr Plow. 

Best suggestions would be put into a World Cup style knockout, in fact a bit like a Proportional Representation voting system with paired names being voted on and the successful one progressing to the next stage culminating, in the Doncaster experiment, in two winning finalists. 

A key factor in capturing the imagination of the population of not only the townsfolk but the wider internet world was a firm pledge that the winners would be unconditionally adopted. 

At least a lesson had been learnt there from the disastrous snubbing of Boaty McBoatface .

Entries suggested by the public included Salt Disney, Lionel Gritchie, Sir Gritsalot, Gritney Houston, Grittilla the Hun, Freddie Salted, True Grit, Rule Grittania, Fern Gritton, Walter the Salter, The Gravellator, Grit Van Dyke and Spready Mercurie. 

That South Yorkshire lot have a great sense of humour. 

The two successful names were worthy winners. 

David Plowie and ,I am not sure how wide the gritter will have to be to accommodate the other, Gritsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Anti-Slip Machiney.

I feel like putting a warm coat in the car, topping up the anti freeze and screen wash, replenishing my trusted supply of Kendal mint cake, stowing a shovel in the boot and, at the first sign of even a little freeze, making the 40 or so mile drive to Doncaster to see these wonderful gritters in action.