From Russia With Gloves

The wind from the East, from the far Steppes of Russia, brought some sub zero temperatures and 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 driven flurries were only the second in this cycle of the colder seasonal months.

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

That critical air temperature range of 1 degree Celsius and below was persistent through the daylight hours today and the snow just kept coming. It is a very dry, powdery snow flecked with pellets of sleet indicating quite a turbulence in the blanket of clouds not too far above our heads. 

The presence 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………………” 

Shoo-in

In this consumerist society that we live in there is tremendous pressure to continually change and upgrade our gadgets and gizmo’s. We are in constant fear of being embarrassed by ownership of last year’s model of mobile phone, training shoes, motor vehicle, watch, desktop and music player. It is relentless. 

We are bombarded by media advertising and peer pressure until we give in and enter into yet another form of modern servitude that hides in the form of a contract, credit card account, store card or other hire purchase type agreements. 

We are conditioned to believe that every current consumer good available to the market is yet a work in progress and the next best thing is just being loaded from the factory on to the pallet for imminent delivery to the out of town superstore or the immense shelved racking of an even further detached on line retailer.

Of course, that product will soon itself be surpassed by yet more developments in technology. 

However, I have rediscovered one specific invention/product that cannot be improved or upgraded in any way whatsoever. 

Those responsible in industry and commerce for design and innovation will be aghast at this revelation. 

What, they will inevitably say, is the use of a product that cannot be re-engineered, reverse engineered or reinvented and by doing so revitalise its earning potential and profitability? 

It follows on from the old joke that the man who made the very first wheel was a fool. It was the next person who made two, three and four wheels who was the real entrepreneur. 

So what is this amazingly perpetual product?

If I tell you that there must be at least one in every household in the world that might be a bit of a clue. 

They are not always in plain sight but are more likely to be stashed away in a drawer or cupboard. 

My current regular one was hidden amongst, as another clue, some metal magic puzzles, screwed up crepe hats, bright plastic spinning tops, an oversized bulldog clip, a small notepad with attached pencil and lots of strips of festive coloured paper with corny jokes. 

Of course these are all things to be found in a Christmas Cracker and my new favourite object is a mainstay from those party and seasonal celebrations. 

It is a small but perfectly formed ebony black shoe horn (those under say, 30 may have to ask their seniors what one of these is and looks like)

I admit now that I groaned in disbelief and disappointment at finding it in the gunpowder hazed cloud that comes after a tussle with a cracker with a family member or visitor. I had really wanted one of those stainless steel tricks or at least a kazoo. 

That shoe horn has in fact been a huge boost to my mobility as I may or may not have mentioned in previous blogs that some 10 months ago now I fell down a hole and snapped a major tendon in my right leg. 

I am now, after many months of physiotherapy, able to press down on my repaired limb sufficiently to make use of footwear other than the Crocs and faithful functional shoes that I have been confined to. 

Loosely taking the Pirelli strap line from the 1990’s, you know where the athlete Carl Lewis lined up to compete but in red high heels, “Power is nothing without control” I can honestly say that good shoes are nothing without a shoe horn. 

There is something very reassuring about overcoming that physical resistance of trying to wedge a human foot into footwear by inserting the simple but effective shoe horn between the heel and the quarter- the technical term for that part of a shoe. 

It is liberation; the pure design and application of a shaped piece of plastic. 

I would challenge the likes of Dyson, Apple, Samsung, Mitsubishi and all global concerns to just even match the form and function of the standard, classic shoe horn. 

I am not in the market for a new one and cannot perceive a time when I would be. 

Could this mark the beginning of the end for consumerism, capitalism, globalism and fat cat profits?

Close Encounter

This was written a couple of years ago after a shocking incident in my local bikeshop. With sadness I learned recently that the family run business, The Cottingham Cycle Centre, East Yorkshire  is closing down. I dedicate this to Pete, Steve and their staff.

There is a certain mystique about the stars of the sporting world. In some respects it is now just too much information to know that they have a private life but the media world are wholly obsessed with exposing and exploiting the new levels of celebrity which go hand in hand with sporting elitism.

I grew up to respect a sports star for their prowess in their chosen discipline and not for dancing skills, nocturnal or extra marital activities or fisticuffs with the paparazzi. My childhood sporting heroes were mainly footballers and I would avidly collect the small sixpence and then post decimalisation 2.5p packets of collectors cards. The earliest I recall were for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico and I did, through careful conservation of my pocket money manage to fill the complete album from the double spread of the England team, Banks, Astle, Hurst, Ball, Thompson, the Storey Moore brothers, amongst others through to the best of the National teams of Brazil, Italy and West Germany.

I clearly recall the TV series on the BBC of 'Superstars' where the main personalities of the day were pitted against each other in a sort of modern decathlon of events. The mix of stars could not be replicated today on the basis of contractural obligations, health and safety and insurance cover. Footballers were humbled regularly by athletes, boxers, judo players and motor racing drivers. The popularity amongst viewers was immense,with around 10 million at its peak, only topped by the respect earned by the season winners or best underdogs.Kevin Keegan increased his stock and standing considerably by going on to win his heat, bloodied and bruised after a bad fall in the cycle road race event.

In pursuit of my own favourite football stars I had been caught up in the collecting frenzy and progressed from the World Cup to the English First Division in the 1970-71 season. The album, half A3 in size, cost 2 shillings and sixpence or using the metric conversion table on the inside back cover as a subversive educational medium for the transition, 12.5 new pence. Teams in the top Division included Huddersfield Town and the frequently up an downers in the promotion and relegation stakes of Blackpool, Burnley,Crystal Palace, Derby, the mighty Leeds and West Ham. The drawback in successfully filling an album was the large number of swaps that were inevitably accumulated. In the hubbub of the busy school playground there was the atmosphere of a stock exchange trading floor, the hot picks being clamoured for and the less fashionable players being hawked around by increasingly desperate collectors. With the skill of a currency trader the poorer card propositions would be bundled up in an attractive selection or perhaps with the sweetener of a prized marble or the offer of a kiss from a reluctant girl friend. Perhaps the modern concept and idea for the concealment of toxic financial debt in a basket of securitised assets originated in the very same school yard bun fight.

I have never gone as far to idolise or stalk a particular personality but opportunities did arise in my later teens and early 20's to see, at close quarters, some of my heroes. I graduated from footie to cycling in the early 1980's. The English speaking riders were just starting then to muscle in on the dominant french, belgian, spanish and italian led european circuit. I was in the crowd in Nottingham in 1983 or so when the aussie Phil Anderson lapped the whole field during the Kelloggs town centre race series.Mingling in the crowds before the race were the megastars of Jan Raas and Stephen Roche. I was able to resoundly slap Sean Kelly on the back after his second place finish in Newcastle city centre in The Wincanton Classic and vowed never to wash the hand again. Johan Museeuw, the Belgian star chatted easily with an exchange student from his home country whom we were hosting at the time of the Leeds Classic event. The World Champion track rider, Hugh Porter was a regular commentator at local cycle races and when I participated I was regularly mentioned in actual name or number on the frequent occasion of my tactical withdrawals after falling off or getting shelled out of the back of the race.

This mingling, albeit indirectly with my heroes, was only topped by my meeting and short conversation with Barry Hoban.

Prior to the modern day phenomena that is Mark Cavendish he had been the most successful of British riders in the Tour de France between 1965 and 1978. As a contemporary of Tom Simpson he was on the race at the time of that rider's death and out of respect Barry Hoban was allowed to win and dedicate the next stage.

I was calling in at my local bikeshop when I recognised the healthy tanned face of Hoban in conversation about purchasing trade goods with the proprietor. I was introduced as a supporter of the local cycling scene and was duly proud of this acknowledgement in the presence of such a cycling icon. I was understandably pumped up at this stage and asked for a meduim sized cycling jersey as I was planning a trip out on my racing bike at the coming weekend.

Mr Hoban commented that perhaps I would be better off getting a large size .

I was immediately deflated and head down scuttled away red faced, clutching a large jersey, not wanting to make a scene or, frankly, start a fight with a pensioner.

The Offside Rule

I finally made it today.

I was allowed to stand with the football touch line crowd. 

It has taken quite a few weeks for me to be accepted into that social group but my hard work paid off on that cold, windy forsaken plateau of a pitch way out on the outer limits of an East Yorkshire market town. 

The route to taking up a valid position in that straggly line of mums and dads just inside the crowd control string barrier has involved turning up at Wednesday night winter outdoor training sessions, attending the team Christmas Party and, as well as showing my face at the home and away games which has taken me as far distant as you can go to the East of Hull, there have been the all day tournaments, one-off stamina exercises at the martial arts club and a few football themed celebration do’s for those in the squad of the Under 11’s who are in their last year of eligibility for that age group. 

Hang on a minute, those who know me might question my affiliation to that, and indeed any youth based football team. 

Yes, I am in my mid fifties, no I am not on the coaching or mentoring staff, no my own children are all over the age of 22, no me and the wife do not have any grandchildren. 

To explain, I qualify for acceptance in that select band of parents, supporters and sponsors in that I am usually on duty to drive the son of our good friend Mehdi to meet his commitments as the fast and skilful number 11 who has just this last couple of seasons broken into the first selection of players. 

That does give me a toe hold, albeit tentative, on that touchline . 

I acknowledge that in the hierarchy of birth mother and father, step ma or da, uncle, auntie, brother, sister, cousin, grandparents and legal guardians I am well down the list. 

That was all too clear to me in the first few attendances at matches when I was viewed with suspicion, caution and disinterest although I did try a few opening lines on a footballing subject such as the most recent performance of Hull City, the state of the Premier League, bad refereeing decisions, potential improvements to the offside rule and then resorting to shameful name dropping about meeting famous ex Professional players over the last thirty years or so. 

Unfortunately, and no disrespect meant to the parents of the team their average age was a little over 35 and so my dredging up of personalities that I remembered from my childhood football card collection in the 1970’s brought about no inklings of recognition unless of course the respective players were currently in management, on the TV working as pundits or otherwise notorious for off pitch nefarious dealings. 

I had hoped that freezing my nuts off whilst watching the team all chase after, at the same time, a bright yellow ball in near blizzard conditions in a murky floodlit all weather playing area may have fast tracked me to the "in crowd" but these were tough parents and my rite of passage would be much more involved. 

There were, of course,  the usual polite non verbal gestures such as a nod of the head or restrained wave of a thermal gloved hand.

Gradually a few conversations passed between us on those early season training nights although their tone was more like the probings in a job interview about a)what was my link to their number 11, b)who was the blonde woman who sometimes shared the driving duties and c) was I local myself. 

I was making an effort bringing along a sharing sized thermos and pocketful of the best caramel products by Tunnocks but this was an empty offering as I was hesitant in making the first move for fear of rejection. 

I see know that I was being tested as to my commitment and loyalty to the team and it culminated in today's momentous invitation, although nothing was actually said or implied, to join the linear arranged inner circle ( I apologise for the mixture of geometrical shapes).

I was proud as punch to be there and even chanced a few remarks about the quality of passing and shooting by the lads even though they were, just after half time, losing 7-1. 

Trouble is I had not yet put together which parent or person went with which under 11's player and so any comments had to be non-subjective, neutral and with no element of criticism or singling out of any one. 

There is a very good and sporting spirit nowadays on that touchline which is major improvement to that experienced in past years when pitched battles between parents, foul language, insulting and bullying behaviour towards the opponents and the match officials was rife. I found that I fitted into that mind-set easily although I had to exhibit self discipline in not drawing attention to the very fat kid on the other team who just legged up our players with no apparent inclination to play the ball. 

On balance I think I passed today's initiation. 

It was a bitterly cold morning and that common suffering in the name of sport was a very unifying force. 

I did get the best laugh when I noticed, in a quiet spell in the match, that my jiggling about from one leg to the other to keep warm had actually charmed up a worm from that heavy, clogging clay field. 

I fancy that I might propose that as a special test of endurance for those following me on their own quest to be a touchline parent or by other form of proxy at such time as I get asked to make a meaningful contribution.

Tin Can from Stockton

I was just a bit concerned that the round, glazed section within the scorched metal shell was described on the schematic as "Navigation Window".

It did strongly resemble the porthole on a ship or a fancy feature window in the side of a house. It was a thick tempered glass oval, set and sealed in a shiny surround with some very prominent seals or rivets.

There were other similar apertures.

and a few more rivets....

If I had been the British Astronaut Tim Peake returning to earth from the International Space Station I would have insisted, categorically, on a better and more reassuring description than Navigation Window for that part of the Soyuz capsule particularly as it was entrusted with bringing the fictional me and the actual him through the tempestuous atmosphere of Earth in June 2016.

The scarily heat blackened and rust-red object that is currently on display to the public at the National Railway Museum in York, England is one of wonder and amazement.

It stands just a few metres away from a faithful replica of George Stephenson's Rocket Locomotive from 1829 and there is some element of shared DNA between them in terms of engineering ingenuity and the impact that their inventiveness has had on humanity.

Ironically, the Space Age rocket on which the capsule was mounted spent some of its journey to the Baikonur Cosmodrome by conventional rail.

Side by side, the Soyuz TMA-19M could, with a bit of adaptation, have been a spare boiler for Stephenson's iconic 19th Century steam engine given its shape, quality of manufacture and resistance to huge physical and dynamic forces. These, granted on the edge of Space were not the same as those at play between Stockton and Darlington in the North East of England but in their own way did have some similarities.

I was initially shocked by the compact form of the Russian spaceship. I am of that generation weaned on Star Trek, Space 1999, Buck Rogers and Sci-Fi movies where inter-stellar travel was done in civilised comfort aboard a fantastic vessel with all of the usual home comforts and accompanying visual and sound effects.

Tim Peake in contrast, for his return journey, was slung in a chair in the Soyuz surrounded by post Soviet supremacy technology and I would think, not a little bit concerned about quality control and safety standards.

His safe delivery, however, to the vast and remote Kazakh Steppe was testament to the skill and dedication of the team behind his Mission and much praise and admiration must be forthcoming to the hundreds and thousands involved.

And they landed the thing using fabric parachutes..........................................................

Prefurential Treatment

He is gifted with perhaps one of the most distinctive voices in rock and pop but yet mention the name Richard Butler and the response is a blank one from even the most ardent and self-professed of music fans.

To tell the truth I had forgotten about him for quite a few years until my teenage children started to watch the American teen tv show “Charmed” in the late 1990’s through to 2006. 

I was a bit confused as the opening bars were a rendition of The Smiths great hit, “How soon is now?” and yet it was not Morrissey singing but a very familiar gravelly tone that was strangely familiar. 

Rather than wait for a dial up tone on our pre-Millenium home PC I just sat the show out and waited for the credits to roll. 

Sure enough, there appeared the name, Richard Butler.

That caused me to dig out of my CD collection the albums of his former band, the sporadically prominent but un- appreciated Psychedelic Furs. 

They were late into the punk scene in Britain albeit in the first commercial wave in 1977 but soon attracted a cult following amongst the new wave movement. 

Their debut album came out in 1980 self- titled and in almost successive years they released Talk, Talk, Talk (1981), Forever Now (1982) and Mirror Moves (1984) arguably their most enduring work.

That cluster of years coincided with my away from home student education and the Furs were, as they say in cliched speak, an essential part of my personal soundtrack either on the Walkman, ghetto blaster and even on vinyl.

The adoption by the 1980’s main exponent of coming of age movies of one of the Furs 1981 tracks represented a huge step in the promotion and recognition of the band. 

It was "Pretty in Pink" and the producer was John Hughes who in that decade did not disappoint his financial backers in Hollywood with a string of blockbusters.

Unfortunately that record seemed to define the Psychedelic Furs in the United States as a preppy college outfit which did no justice to their evolution from their punk roots to industrial art rock, a bit of new romantic new wave and onto a heavier guitar driven rock sound. 

I had really liked their harder sound as found in President Gas and could accept a softer, more melodic output as in Love My Way and later releases such as Heaven and The Ghost in You but Pretty in Pink marked the end of my patronage.

The Furs disbanded after their 1992 tour but had a bit of a regrouping in 2000 and I understand that they do make appearances on occasion even now. 

I do regret no having seen them live in what was their peak era up until PiP but who knows, they might just turn up in a venue near me some day soon.

Musicology 3

Before my brain becomes addled and confused with age I felt it appropriate to list the live music gigs that I have been to. 

In true listomania fashion I have broken these down into decades and where remembered the venue and name of the promotional tour. Here goes;

Last Century-1970's

The Jam. Setting Sons tour at Brid Spa. Got Paul Wellers autograph on my tee-shirt. I was under the misapprehension that I was a mod in one of my Dad's suits.
The Police. Regatta de Blanc tour at Brid Spa. My sister got backstage with the band but no-one had a pen. She also panicked when her bra strap was undone whilst she was in a prime spot near the front.

1980's

Wham! The tour with the large lettered T shirts. Leicester de Montfort. Mate got his car broken into and everything stolen. Not sure if it was George or that other one who did it.
Thompson Twins. Into the Gap tour. Nottingham. Big hair and big hats.
The Simple Minds. New Gold Dream tour. Sheffield.
U2. War Tour. Derby. Bono climbing all over the speaker stacks but before people were interested enough to go through his bins.
David Bowie. Serious Moonlight Tour. NEC Birmingham. A real arena gig. Bad traffic jams.
The Stranglers. Rock City, Nottingham. Mate slept through the gig after eating some fungus.
Wishbone Ash. Got on a bus from Lincoln but more like a mystery tour.
Barclay James Harvest. Look them up if you've never heard of them before.
Spear of Destiny. Hull City Hall. Turns out he was Boy George's beau for some time.
Elkie Brooks. Nottingham. Just good music
The Chieftains- Nottingham. They started off perfectly sober.....

1990's

Paul Weller. Hull. He did not really need the other two from 1979.
Texas. Hull. The Hush- Lush.
Bernard Butler. Hull Blagged these last two through my brother who had done BB's album graphics.
Ocean Colour Scene. Hull. Best edge of britpop band.
Craig David. Sheffield. Went with daughter for first gig. Me and 15,000 females.
Beautiful South, Brid Spa. Fantastic live band
Lindisfarne. Beamish. Stumbled across them whilst looking for the musuem gift shop.


This Century- 2000's

REM. KC Arena. Poured with rain but great gig.
Tom Jones. Dalby Forest. One to see before he pops his welsh clogs.
Hem. Dalby Forest. Chilled out.
The Zutons. KC Arena. Before they were well known, Valerie.
Florence and the Machine. Will's first gig
James Taylor. Birmingham NEC. What a great musician, performer and showman.
Joe Bonamassa. Brid Spa. Best guitarist in the world and just getting started.
Kiss. Sheffield. Wow
Black Country Communion. Leeds. More Wow
Michael Schenker Group. Leeds. Rock and Roll
James Taylor Birmingham
Martin Turners Wishbone Ash. Local town hall. You never lose it.
The Scorpions at Munich Olympiahalle a week before Christmas.
Walter Trout in a basement in York
John Cooper Clarke at the Opera House, York. F****** Brilliant
Joe Bonamassa in Sheffield. Bigger and better
Thin Lizzy-only one original left
Clutch, deep Southern states rock
Joe Satriani
Shed Seven
James Taylor-Leeds
Neil Young and Crazy Horse- Newcastle. 
Los Lobos
Public Service Broadcasting-Freedom Festival, Hull, Fun with a reel to reel
John Otway and Wild Willy Barratt- the greatest failure in rock and a friend
Don Henley- one of the last of the Eagles
Carole King- Hyde Park, amazing performance
Pink Martini- I know, I know.
James- acoustic and main set

Thank you , goodnight.

Rock Legends

Another favourite from a few years ago.........

Anyone buying a house from our family will be mystified by the geological composition of the back garden.

In the distant future, Mayan predictions, global warming , ice age and the persistence of a civilisation permitting , any analysis of the rock fragments in the location formerly occupied by our back garden will cause confusion and excitement in equal measures. The variety of rocks, stones, pebbles and fossils in situ would appear to suggest a fantastical force of natural power that has traversed the world in both northern and southern hemispheres collecting up only aesthetically pleasing shapes of igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks before simultaneously depositing them in a specific spot where there is the same family name somewhere in the Deeds of ownership.

The process behind this strange phenomena is not glacial, tidal, volcanic or extra-terrestrial but because of the habit of a small boy, now a middle aged man, to find and bring home bits of geology from his travels, whether just down to the corner shop or the far ends of the planet.

The habit started very early, perhaps unwittingly from a pebble scooped up in a saggy nappy from a crawling and rolling adventure in the great outdoors. Then with the introduction of pockets in toddler clothes there were perfect receptacles to be filled indiscriminantly with pea gravel, aggregate and slate chippings. Learning to write was greatly assisted by the availability of natural chalk-stone, smooth and warm to the touch but readily sharpened by use on the pavement, garden and house walls. Some pieces were just too nice to use because of an interesting shape and texture and were the basis of the first collection. With chalk stones there always seemed to be the hard black fragments of flint close to hand. These were quite sharp and dangerous and if clashed together a shower of sparks and the smell of burning could be produced.

School projects on the history of the earth excited an interest in fossils. Just how many appendages were there to produce such a proliferation of devils toe-nails? The fossils displayed in gift shops were always so dramatic and perfect. It became a life's obsession to discover at least one of those plain lumpy rocks that, when smashed open revealed coloured crystals in concentric circles around a hollow core. Excavation of an old railway cutting had led to the discovery of a large fossilised shelled creature embedded in clay which was dragged home to take up pride of place in the growing collection.

Seaside holidays were a great source of collectable stones and pebbles. Flat, smooth examples would be sent skimming across the pools, shallows and over the incoming waves. Avid attention was necessary to count, record and loudly broadcast the number of clear skims before the pebble sank  from view or just dribbled along in rapid short hops. Beating the best by siblings had to be acheived before any thoughts or moves could be made about going home. Some skimming stones were just too good to be thrown and were thrust into sandy pockets, later to be heard tumbling around amongst the family wash on the monday following.

Scout camps in the English Lakes, Wales and Derbyshire swelled the collection. It was found that a cardigan tied around the waist with sleeves knotted at the cuff could act as a receptacle for almost an equivalent body weight of granite,silica and iron-pyrites colloquially known as fools gold. The fatigue of the young Boy Scout over the course of one expedition in the mountains of North Wales caused concern amongst the Group Leaders until the realisation of the sheer weight of rocks that he was transporting about his person. The return from camp posed a dilemna for the boys parents over whether to take the car or hitch up the trailer in anticipation of a new collection of rocks and stones.

In adult life there were no such restraints on the volume and mass of materials to be accumulated apart from airline baggage restrictions, customs regulations and where specific locations were designated World Heritage Sites or areas of protected natural environments. The rocks and pebbles soon overwhelmed shelves, cills, ledges and table-tops. In the course of a house move there were inevitable losses or reluctant abandonment to the garden and flower beds.

The current collection is largely to be found around a small fountain at the rear of the current family home. This includes smooth marble from the Greek Islands, pebbles from the Atlantic coast of Portugal, granite from Skye, Jet from Whitby, amber from Cornwall, opal from Australia and what has widely been supected as petrified sheep droppings from Northumberland sitting nicely amongst those ever present devils toenails.

In bright sunlight and under the rainbow arch of the fountain the arrangement of rocks, pebbles and stones resembles the planet earth as seen from outer space.

Wet T Shirt Competition

Statesmen and Women always stand the risk, from being under constant scrutiny by the media, of saying something rash, unqualified, unwise or just plain stupid. 

There has been controversy in recent years over supposed off microphone mumblings, late night social media comments, the dredging up of matters from an early stage in careers which would it not be for celebrity be long since forgotten as well as the usual indiscretions and misjudgements or morality and public sensitivity. 

I can think of a good half dozen and more politicians worldwide who have attained the status of being relied upon to drop a clanger. 

In most cases this is unfortunate as otherwise good work, ethics, philanthropy and a sense of social justice can be overshadowed by the scenario where the mouth engages but yet the brain is not quite in gear. 

I am concentrating today on the rich vein of quotes that are attributable to one individual, Bertie Ahearn, former Irish Taoiseach (anglicised pronunciation Tee-Shaw). 

Bertie hangs out with a few mates (middle of picture- not in the hat)

I am not picking on him as I could as easily have delved into the wordy outputs of Presidents Bush and Trump or the crazy world of Sarah Palin amongst others. 

In context Bertie Ahearn was in the top office from 1997 to 2008 during which time there was the balancing act of the Peace Process, the boom and bust of the Irish economy as well as testing day to day social, political and global issues. 

I will not get involved in the rumblings of the darker side of that high office which were a bit of a distraction. 

Instead just take in and enjoy the wisdom, wit and confusing logic of the man himself.

Wonderful word pictures;

I don’t think it helps people to start throwing white elephants and red herrings at each other.

It’s all smoke and daggers

At present I have my hand in a whole lot of dykes trying to keep them in and keep people together

There are kebabs out there plotting against us

There have been disputes between fractions

We’re not going to hang anyone on the guillotine

We shouldn’t upset the apple tart

Delusions of invincibility

I could certainly drink a fair few pints of Bass and be capable of driving

I never condemn wrongdoing in any area

For legal and professional reasons, neither myself nor my advisors have been in a position to respond to any of the accuracy and completeness of the reports about those issues so it is not correct, if I said so I wasn’t correct, so I, I can’t recall if I did say, but I did not say, if I did say it I didn’t mean to say it that these issues could not be dealt with,

A Sort of wise words

In actual fact, the reason it’s on the rise is because probably the boom times are getting even more boomer.

Lehmans was a world investment bank, They had testicles everywhere.

The cynics may point to the past but we live in the future

The grass roots, or the rank and file, are now made of fibre optics

With hindsight we all have 50/50 vision

It took Ireland thirty years to become an overnight success.

Bertie’s big regret?

We haven’t been able to do all that we can.

C.S.I Hull

Just across the road from my house lies a long tree lined street, Westbourne Avenue. 

In the hierarchy of the four laid out roads that make up that well to do late Victorian and early Edwardian residential area of Kingston upon Hull it is by far the grandest by virtue of the broadness of the road, verge and paths and the calibre of its former residents as shown by the concentration of Civic Society Plaques. 

One quaint terraced house, number 80, was for a short time occupied by one of the female contributors to the golden age of crime writing in the decades between the two world wars. 

Dorothy L Sayers is revered for her contribution to this genre amongst her contemporaries of Agatha Christie and Marjorie Allingham. 

She resided there from 1916 to 1917 during her position as a teacher of modern languages to the mostly privileged daughters of the merchant class, middle and upper class families of Hull and the wider East Riding of Yorkshire at the Hull High School for Girls at Tranby, about 4 miles west of her quarters. 

Of course, the last two years of the Great War were hard times and Sayers may have had little time to put down serious wordage for what became her illustrious career as a novelist in between her school mistress obligations. 

There was no questioning her intelligence and application to all things academic, creative and literary and even though well known for her crime fiction she was also held in high regard for her contributions to scholarly works such as a translation of Dante and as an advertising copywriter with the trademark Toucan of Guinness Beer being attributed to her. 

Sayers took up her post in Hull at the age of 23 and within just three short years she had published the first of her many novels. 

In 1928 her upper class toff of an amateur sleuth, Lord Peter Wimsey first appeared and he quickly became a firm favourite with the population who craved a bit of light entertainment after the dark and traumatic conflict years. 

Sayers and her female exponents of crime fiction specialised in the “Whodunit” scenarios which came to assume a specific set of unwritten rules. 

These included multiple suspects, a lot of red herring false trails, fiendish murderers and even cleverer detectives. 

Prior to the rise to prominence of Sayers and others there was no real or dedicated application to the genre. 

In the preface to a book entitled The Best Detective Stories of 1928-1929 the crime novelist and all round humourist Ronald Knox, himself a clergyman which was often the primary vocation of literary crime fighting characters, drew up his ten rules by which he felt that classic crime writing themes should follow. 

These were, in no particular order, the criminal must be someone mentioned in the early part of a story but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to follow. 

All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course. 

Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable. 

No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end. 

No accident must ever help the detective nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right. 

The detective must not be the perpetrator of the crime. 

The detective must not light on any clues which are not instantly produced for the inspection of the reader. 

The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson equivalent, must not conceal any thoughts which pass through his mind; his intelligence must be very slightly below that of the average reader. 

Twin brothers and doubles generally must not appear unless the reader has been duly prepared for them. 

The final rule is by today’s ethics and policies of inclusion  a lot dodgy in that no Chinaman must figure in the story. 

Dorothy L Sayers in her due diligence for research into her characters and plot lines will certainly have been aware of Knox’s views and this may have inspired her in the 1930’s to co -found The Detection Club, a prestigious and elitist organisation and the wording, attributed to her of the Oath of its members;

“Do you promise that your detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them, using those wits which it may please you to bestow on them, and not placing reliance on nor making use of Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo-Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence or Act of God ?”

Sayers principal detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, was a well educated, charming and rather likeable toff who was good at just about everything. His back story was one of great fictional detail even to the extent of a family tree which appeared to show a bit of an obsession by Sayers in her own creation. 

His endearing side was one of a whittering on in certain situations and a nervous disorder from shell shock suffered on active service in the First World War. 

He does have some characterisations which are common to his class and background, mainly a fear of responsibility and commitment. 

In spite of these flaws he went down well with fans of crime writing and retains this populist status to the present day. 

As a bit of a coincidence in my home City, Hull, the locally born actor Ian Carmichael became synonymous with Wimsey in his portrayal of the character in TV productions in the 1970’s and 1980’s. 

It’s strange how those blue plaques high up on a house frontage, which can often be overlooked, set you on a trail of investigation and discovery in the best style of a sleuthing detective from that golden age of crime fiction.

Dorothy L Sayers

Kick it hard, Lily!

This is an old bit of writing but it is one of my favourites and well worth another run out

The second highest career goalscoring record behind Pele is from a much lesser known player whose games were played over the years 1920 to 1951.

 Lily Parr's total of over 1000 goals is remarkable enough an acheivement but even more so given the turbulence of the times which covered the implications and complications of two world wars, a major economic depression between and the emotive political and social events for the acceptance of women in the male dominated world of just about everything.

The mass and necessary recruitment of women as a labour force to cover for the conscripted male workers into the first world war drew the attention of the Government to the wider health and welfare issues of women. A healthy and happy workforce were a productive and less troublesome and potentially militant group.

The Preston, Lancashire based manufacturers Dick, Kerr and Company had been established in 1900 specialising in the tram and light railway sector but switched to essential war work in 1915 making ammunition. The factory employed a predominantly female staff on the production lines and within the remit of keeping key workers fit and healthy a football team was formed taking the company name.

Rival industrial and manufacturing companies also former their own teams and around 150 were registered within what became a very competitive league structure. The Munitions Cup, played for in 1917, by the Munitionettes as a wider descriptive term for the participating ladies teams was watched by a crowd of 10,000 at the ground of the great Preston North End. The crowd attending raised £600 for wounded soldiers.

The ladies game was not confined to the war years and by the early 1920's it was well established and experiencing its halcyon days. The Dick, Kerr Ladies were prominent and played 60 competitive matches during the 1921 season in front of an aggregate attendance of 900,000. A crowd of 53,000 was present at Goodison Park in Liverpool to watch the Dick, Kerr Ladies beat close rivals St Helens Ladies.

The success and genuine support for the ladies league caused grave concern amongst the crusty old Football League administrators and in a calculated but spiteful move they issued a ban on the use of any League grounds for the playing of ladies matches. In their expert evidence to support the ban various medical practitioners were produced to express concern over what dangerous impact playing football could have on fertility and femininity. The ban remained in place until 1971.

The Dick, Kerr Ladies continued to flourish and amongst their honours were multiple league titles, International victories including tours to France and the USA and reaching a pinnacle in 1937 becoming World Champions. Against the well entrenched establishment and remnants of the austerity of the Victorians which still dominated society and attitudes the team were the first in the womens game to wear shorts. Archive photographs of the team resemble a line up of dancing girls, nimble,graceful and lithe but wearing heavy leather football boots and with a bit of a sun tan. The team fell out with the bosses over some undefined 'tut-trouble at factory' and reformed as Preston Ladies until 1965.

The significance of the acheivements of the Dick, Kerr Ladies cannot be understated. They were brave pioneers at a time when women had no real voice in politics or society. They rose above the pettyand what would always be temporary concessions required by the circumstances of the first world war and continued to excel and attract a very good following and fan base through the heady days of the 1920's. The names of Lily Parr, Florrie Redford and Alice Kell amongst all of the players have tended to be forgotten apart from dedicated archivists who maintain an excellent web based resource. The stars of the team were inducted into the Football League Hall of Fame but as a gesture it was too late and a bit patronising.

Lily Parr was challenged by a male goalkeeper to try to score a spot-kick past him. He had observed her obvious footballing skill and ability, in particular her reputed very hard shot, but was under the impression that it only looked to be a hard kick in the company of other women team mates. Taking up the challenge Lily, an athletic six footer, was seen to smile when the unfortunate chauvinistic keeper was taken off to hospital with a broken arm from the impact of her penalty kick.

Breakfast. Best Meal of the Day

In the days pre-awareness of choking hazards or current concerns about toxicity and single use plastics it was always very exciting to discover, either by accident or intentionally, what free giveaway gift was lurking in the breakfast cereal box.

The decision over which type and brand to purchase was usually made on the basis of the freebie rather than on any nutritional grounds.

This could result in a near riot down the cereals aisle of the supermarket from competition amongst siblings to get first choice and, importantly, be the first to get their hands into the depths of the inner packet to retrieve the action figure, self assembly toy, booklet or even a vinyl record disc amongst many other items on promotional offer.

I always felt it was a shame when the perfect packaging was ripped apart, squeezed to bursting point and the contents roughly emptied out into a receptacle in the mad search for the non-food item hidden amongst them.

I soon developed a process whereby the open topped box and inner transparent wrapper could be rhythmically and steadily shaken which coaxed the freebie to work its way through the Sugar Puffs, Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Coco-Pops, Golden Nuggets and other small grained foodstuffs up to the top for extraction with minimal disturbance or insanitary handling.

Unfortunately, the percussion and maracas sounds from the exercise made it impossible to do it without attracting the unwanted attentions of the rest of the children in the family and another predictable riot and cries of 'It's not fair'.

There was also no guarantee, without having the luxury of X-Ray vision, that the concealed and yet eagerly awaited incentive to purchase, would not be one of the same already now lying around the house, discarded from boredom, damaged or not swappable amongst schoolfriends or neighbouring kids. If a set of figures or booklets formed the promotion you could always count on the phenomena that there would always be a single, unnattainable one thwarting an enviable full set from being collected.

The best things that I can remember to come out of the cereal packets were the likes of Thunderbirds figures of the main characters (We had more Brains than anyone else), as in Parker below

clip together models of cars from other TV series, Zoo Animals possibly from Animal Magic,

A collectable band of red plastic soldiers,

Posed footballers

                                                          Magic Roundabout Characters

Other giveaway freebies included model aeroplanes and joke shop items such as a squirty bulb ring.

One of the strangest was from Ready Brek and consisted of a long, thin ribbon type plasticised strip which, when pulled through a small aperture in the bottom of a Baked Bean can or other metal container, gave forth the authentic speeches of famous historical figures, Neil Armstrongs' words upon the moon landing being a favourite. I cannot seem to find anyone else, from introducing it casually into a conversation with strangers, who recalls this particular free gift and I am beginning to think that it was a product of my imagination rather than a real, tangible thing. (Letters and messages of support in the comments section below- please....please)

It was necessary to open up the cereal box flaps with some care because they could sometimes be overprinted with tokens or vouchers to be collected towards a larger toy, recreational plaything or money off a day out or another purchase.

In such a way our family were the proud owners of a metal climbing frame, rocket shaped, from Kelloggs, which was a permanent feature in successive gardens even after a series of house moves with our Father's work. I seem to think that the alternate red and blue ladders and bars of the frame first arrived in about 1970 and provided many, many hours of imaginative play and scabby extremities for at least ten to fifteen years before our body weights into teenage years caused the, by now, weakened metalwork to just sag and distort if sat upon or there was an ungainly attempt at a hanging bars swing or somersault.

It was a sad day when the remains of our very own Apollo shaped climbing frame were carted off to the local tip. It did look small and insignificant.



There seems to be very little by way of a similar type of promotion today with the emphasis being on reward schemes, money off leisure activities, free phone minutes, vouchers for treatments, personalised slimming plans or trips to Disneyworld.

These cannot match in any way, shape or form  that feeling of excitement that I remember well upon seeing the offer of a free gift inside the cereal box packaging and the fear and trepidation that my own brothers and sisters would get to it before me.