RAF 100

I wrote this a few years ago but it seems a fitting tribute to the 100th Anniversary of the Royal Air Force.


It was a steep climb up the metal walkway.

The fuselage was squat and wide and for the purposes of public visitors the load bay had been cleared apart from a battledress clad and head bandaged mannequin lying prone on a stretcher across a few of the canvas seats. There were no handholds or hanging straps and so making my way up to the perspex divider giving a view into the cockpit adopted a 30 degree forward lean, I felt a distinct tug on the hamstrings and shuffled forward carefully.

Me and the Boy had timed our visit to the Douglas Dakota on static display perfectly and we had the aircraft to ourselves and the sole attention of an elderly RAF steward with beret and a line of campaign and long service medals on his chest. We nodded respectively as we passed him, sat on a garden chair just inside the sliding door on the starboard side.

In our casual gear and trainers, travelling light, it was still quite an effort to ascend the slope of the parked aircraft. In some small way we could appreciate how a fully clad and equipped paratrooper may have felt in taking up his seat in wartime ahead of a drop into the heat of conflict, well apart from having no perception of the actual paralysing fear and trepidation of the moment. The cockpit was cramped and claustrophobic for the four flight crew. There would be no real forward view for the pilot until the plane was up to take-off velocity and the tail had lifted to a more even gradient before straining engines broke the friction hold of the concrete runway or the makeshift grass landing strip.

Huddled behind the front seats were the darkened holes in which the navigator and radio operator would sit and beyond the bulkhead the main payload, either troops, supplies, the wounded, general freight or a vehicle.

The old airman was pleased to share his experiences of the C-47 Skytrain as he had worked on them as ground crew in service of his country. At an approximate age of 80 years he will have been only a teenager at the end of the second world war and so he will have been spared that traumatic period. There will have been plenty of opportunities, however,  in the fragile post-war years for him to be involved in many other theatres of war within the British Empire and Dominions.

A bit out of breathe, I sat down on one of the canvas stirrup seats just uphill from our guide.

My back was resting on the cold surface of the panelling between the raised and stout ribs which gave the plane its legendary resilience to withstand significant stress and impact from heavy laden flight, flak and the raking spread of shells from enemy fighters.

The sheet panelling seemed wafer thin and hardly able to withstand any intrusion even from a bird strike. A few fleeting scenes from Band of Brothers were fresh in my mind of bullet riddled airframes, shell bursts and the sheer noise of machines, men and warfare.

Just sat there, on a bright June day and with the only soundtrack being birdsong and a group of excitable school children dressed as evacuees, was testament enough to those who had fought their way out of such aircraft and jumped into the unknown in my name.

Not so Saintly - that Darling Dog

I like dogs but more importantly dogs seem to like me.

That is an important factor in my day to day workload of inspecting houses and over thirty years or so of have been bitten just the once.  I do admit to having been a bit scared on a few occasions when coming across a canine unexpectedly. 

The most common scenario is after being allowed access by key to a house if the owner/occupiers are absent but with no warning or even a mention that a pet is in residence. Being granted sole responsibility for the family home really brings out the protective instincts in a hound, whether a pocket rocket breed or a really big cross bred bruiser. 

I was once forced by aggrieved owners to chase after and re-capture their dog whose escape I had unwittingly aided after going through a side gate . This took some time and negotiation of quite a few surrounding gardens to round it up. 

Another small and wiry beast shot out from behind a kitchen door and hid itself under a bed and was only enticed out after I had rifled a few cupboards to find a tempting snack to wave under its damp nose. 

In one very compact bungalow I was confronted by fourteen Pekinese and a lone Highland Terrier that belonged to a retired dog breeder. Who, in any business or hobby holds onto their stock after giving up the job? I will spare you a description of the land at the back of the house which served as the main toilet facility, suffice to say that I discovered that I was really quite nimble on tip toes. 

A few breeds behave to type. 

There are always the mad Cocker Spaniels who just run riot for the first few minutes after my arrival and then shrink away nervously. 

I always feel sorry for the dogs who just wet themselves whenever they meet a stranger. That does however tend to relieve any stress and tension in a homeowner as it gives them something busy to do rather than follow me around. 

A few years ago I met a family timidly besieged in their own kitchen because their two huge Rhodesian Ridgebacks had taken up exclusive occupation of what was once quite a nice sitting room. I expect that they bought a couple of cute, big pawed puppies but could not have anticipated that they would, when fully grown, take over the house in that way. On the plus side, no one ever attempted to make a cold call at the front door after seeing two massive shapes looming up at the adjacent window. 

There can be some hints about the size and power of a dog in any one house. An extra high and strong fence is a bit of a giveaway together with a few illustrated signs threatening the presence of an ill tempered beast. 

My first encounter with a house dog consists of the usual sniff of discovery. That refers of course to the immediate impression in my nostrils of a dog odour. That is followed by the inevitable burying of a cold wet nose, yes, the dog’s, into my lower midriff. 

An owner typically attributes this to a fussy trait in the animal and assurances that they wouldn’t harm a fly, etc, etc. 

I have a bit of a rule in that if the dog lingers too long in that position it means that my work trousers are overdue a dry clean. I do tend to pick up the scent of quite a few pets in any one working day and that must make me quite an interesting and somewhat confusing entity. 

An increasing trend over recent years is for there to be a wire crate in which the dog lives or can be placed if there is likely to be a confrontation with a visitor. I could only imagine the creature that growled menacingly at me as I walked past its blanket covered cage in a back kitchen room. I was not overcome with curiosity to take a peek. 

So to my encounter a couple of weeks ago. 

The dog was of a breed that I very rarely see, a wonderfully droopy eyed Saint Bernard. 

It took up the whole of the entrance hall in the terraced house that I was visiting and had to reverse to let me pass as it was just too long and broad to make a 180 degree turn. 

They are a sociable and friendly sort, famously known for their brandy carrying rescue work in the Alps. This particular one stuck very close to me as I made my way about the downstairs rooms, so much so that I had to adopt a crab like stance to clear the furniture and furnishings. 

We were quite inseparable and I did make encouraging noises that kept the hound interested and attentive. 

I don’t think it could have made it up the characteristically steep stairs in that older house inspite of having a genetic disposition to scale gradients in the wide open mountains and valleys of its natural environment. 

Faithfully it sat across the bottom of the steps awaiting my descent but unfortunately without the customary alcoholic tipple in a barrel. 

I was ready to make an exit and gave that wonderful dog a good pat on the head and a rub on its tummy. 

The owners thanked me for coming and then apologised, somewhat over profusely for the state of my trousers. 

I had, in my enthusiasm for the dog, not even noticed that during its close marshalling  it had transferred a good proportion of its loose fur onto me. My lower half now resembled well, a Bigfoot or a Wookie. 

I was considerate in not making a fuss and just shook myself out on the street in best dog fashion. 

As the front door closed I just caught a last glimpse of those doleful eyes .

I may have been mistaken but there was something of a triumphal look in them.

Basement Instinct

I wrote this a few years ago..........................................................................................................

I would like to have seen, first hand, the central area of Kingston Upon Hull in the years before the devastation wrought to its population and stock of buildings by wartime bombing.

The statistics of destruction are well documented and make sobering reading.

Hull was the most consistently and heavily bombed place only after London but this has never really been acknowledged in history or in any memorial or commemorative form subsequently. There are sporadic exhibitions covering the wartime years but only flirtatious and temporary in nature. Attempts to establish a permanent home in the city have so far failed. Ironically the current location of choice  is one of only 8 remaining second world war ruins in the whole of the UK, a former Picture House on Beverley Road.

A few older and established terraced streets in Hull still retain breaks and gaps where homes were bombed and the buttresses of former chimney breasts can be seen on surviving, now exposed party walls.

I have of course seen black and white photographs of central Hull pre-bombing and it was undoubtedly quite a handsome place with a range of striking, architecturally significant buildings to testify to a flourishing and wealthy maritime and commercial trade over the centuries. Some have survived although will have had to be substantially rebuilt . These are now out of scale and context amongst some hideous post war and 1960s and 70's structures which have made the city centre drab and uninspiring.

My first full time job was from an office on Albion Street. The north side retained a long Georgian Terrace, originally Gentlemen's Town Houses, but in the mid 1980's was entirely in business and non-residential use.

The buildings were grand, if not a little worn and sorry in condition after some years of low budget maintenance by successive owners and occupiers. I was shoved up in one of the attic rooms being last in amongst the new arrivals. The firm was celebrating a Century in business, much of it from the same premises.

The view out of my top floor window was reasonably interesting in quieter moments of my workload. Albion Street was always busy as it provided a rat-run shortcut around the city centre as well as leading to a Brewery, The New Theatre and a complex of highly staffed Council offices.

A large tract of rough ground opposite my building provided surface car parking for workers, shoppers and casual visitors.

I was surprised that such a large bit of open ground existed under the pressures for development which made cities the dynamic places that they are. The explanation was given by a senior Partner of the firm.

The site had previously been occupied by a large, colonnaded fronted public building, Hull's Municipal Museum. In grainy archived photo's the scale of this Institution was certainly substantial. The housed collection was by all accounts a credit to the wealthy benefactors whose donations had secured notable treasures and exhibits perhaps otherwise destined for other regional cities.

In the lead up to the outbreak of the Second World War, the phoney war of inaction in Britain following the Nazi invasion of Poland, some concerns were expressed by the City Elders about the vulnerability of the Museum and its catalogue to damage from inevitable air raids.

The Museum Director gave assurances through the Hull Daily Mail that there was no risk from anything except a direct hit. This was tempting providence in the extreme but it took until 24th June 1943, some time into the 4 years of Hull's exposure to bombing from the Luftwaffe, for the fateful incendiary bomb to hit, explode  and cause the building to catch fire and collapse.

Valiant efforts by fire wardens and staff did salvage some items but thousands were destroyed.

The heritage of more than a hundred years had evaporated overnight.

Levelling of the site took place in the late 1940's and from the 1970's the Council operated it as a car park.

In 1988 the digging of a course for drains across the often waterlogged car park uncovered ancient pottery and a stone Buddha. The works to level the site after the war had simply entombed the Museum Basement level and its stored artefacts.

A full scale archaeological dig was commissioned in 1989. This must have been most interesting for those working on what was predictably named 'The Phoenix Project' as excavation will have found items in age and epoch order as stored before that June night. The phrase of shooting fish in a barrel is apt in this situation.

In a matter of days more than 2500 items were brought to the surface. Many of the much greater actual number of finds during the Project were in excellent condition from ancient world coins to Egyptian obelisks, jewellery to dinosaur bones and the jaw of a killer whale. One of the caretakers from June 1943 made himself known to the 1989 archaeologists and informed them of the likelihood of finding his motorbike which had been left in the Municipal Museum Boiler Room. It's rather crumpled and compressed form when brought out of the debris was one of the most surprising revelations of the project.

Memories of the wartime years were rekindled in the City and the discoveries captured the interest of the public. The site, by now under a large weatherproof cover, was opened to visitors via elevated walkways and viewing areas. Many came as a form of pilgrimage and homage.

Unfortunately, even though  momentum, motivation and emotions peaked with the high profile dig,  an opportunity was sorely missed to establish a more permanent presence in or around the site or elsewhere in Hull as a lasting memorial to a City and its unsung heroism from 1939 to 1945.

Discovery Channel

I was always a bit reluctant to take out and walk my dogs early in the morning.

This may have partly been down to laziness, the prospect of cold air supplanting that nice cozy, warm position under the duvee or the physical effort to propel my body along vertically when it was so much easier to give in to gravity and just lie prone and horizontal in bed. However, a tangible element in the whole reluctant attitude was that it always seemed to be reported in the media that the gruesome discovery of a body or bodies was always made by a man walking a dog or dogs in the early hours just after dawn.

I was happy to leave potential for such discoveries to the likes of taxi-drivers, joggers or the Postman. 

In much the same chain of thought I always got the impression that men digging ditches, in the old way by hand, were always likely to come up with interesting things.

This is borne out by my blog yesterday with the stumbling across, by ditch digging men in 1989 , of the treasure trove of artefacts, thought lost, but actually just stored in the buried basement rooms of the bombed Municipal Museum of Hull since 1943.

Of course, any excavations with shovel, pick and wrecking bar can be hazardous for those wielding the implements. In Hull, even today, any construction projects breaking into the heavy clay topsoils whether on a virgin site or previously built upon ground , stand a chance of unearthing unexploded Ordnance from the second world war. An academic year does not go by without a small child bringing in a live ammunition shell with German markings to 'show and tell' to classmates inevitably dug up from an urban flower bed by their Grandfather or Uncle. The sighting of the small white bomb disposal van with Police escort is still very common on our streets. 

Other risks include hitting an unforeseen pipe or cable or what must be a horrible initial feeling of the blade of a spade cutting into a human skull just under the surface. I have felt some concern for workers on a large housing estate on the site of derelict docklands close to the City Centre as my perusal of Old Maps indicates the prior existence of a Leprosy and Cholera Hospital. Diagnosis of symptoms of such afflictions may not be covered by Health Insurance if disturbed and made airborne by pick and shovel.

On rarer occasions, accepted,  the damp, waterlogged and unpleasant practice of ditch digging may find something fabulously significant;

Take these cheeky chappies. Just ignore the oversized genitalia for the moment and concentrate on the context of the image.

They were dug up by, yes, by a gang of labouring ditch diggers in 1836 way out towards the seaside town of Withernsea on a tract of agricultural land called Roos Carr. Their antiquity and significance were not really appreciated until modern radio carbon dating techniques were available in archaeological investigation and this revealed  them to be  about 2600 years old, well into the Bronze Age or early Iron Age. Experts without such technological assistance considered their origins as Viking from a raiding party or the work of an enthusiastic lone Scripture themed wood carver and depicting Noah and his family.

The location, so far in the past will have been reasonably inland from the coast particularly given that, in the documented period from the Doomsday Book in 1086 , there was at least three miles to the cliff top rather than about two farmers fields now. The location may have been thickly forested or marshy and barren.

The items, embedded in thick heavy blue clay were well preserved. As well as several of the distinctive and intimidating warrior Figures standing between 35cm and 41cm tall ( see picture above) complete with quartzite eyes and those nifty detachable genitalia, there was a serpent headed boat with paddles, and a wooden box. One of the figures appears to have gone missing until 1902 when it was acquired by Hull Museums after decades of having been played with as a doll by the daughter of one of the original labouring gang.

The Victorians fixed four of the figures with glue and nails into the serpent boat as it was speculated that they belonged as crew. Their prudish attitude either out of denial or to spare the blushes of Museum Visitors considered what was actually intended as the male parts to be short arms.

Carved from Yew their purpose has long since been a matter of informed discussion. The fact that they were buried suggests a Votive Offering to the gods with no intention for them ever to be recovered. The use of Yew is thought to have some significance as it was often associated with particular deities in the prehistoric world of ritual and religion.

Only 9 other similar caricature discoveries have been made in the British Isles and Ireland which makes the Roos Carr figures very important not only in the context of the history of this part of northern and western Europe but in world history. For all that, the figures are not that well known but were voted into the top 100 of the Yorkshire World Collection as part of the London Cultural Olympiad Programme. Presumably some way behind Geoffrey Boycott's cricket bat, Harry Ramsden's Fish and Chip Frying Range, Aunt Bessie's batter puddings, Pontefract Cakes, Black Sheep Ale, a night out in Hull and a picture postcard of Whitby.

Collection

Apart from starting and maintaining a prized collection of well, just about anything, the most exciting thing is deciding what that obsession will be in the first place. 

I have experienced that raw emotion when coming across something that could fulfil that deep rooted necessity, and it is a primeval urge more than anything, only to be disappointed by a false trail or unfulfilled promise. 

In my very earliest years I am told that I started a few fledgling collections that included toy cars, plastic figures of soldiers and an assortment of pebbles and stones. 

About the age of 7 I had a fascination with spent ammunition and would come back from a day out at a former shooting range with mangled lead bullets that could be found just beneath the surface of the sandy heathland that doubled up as a playground. I had no sense of the toxicity of lead although my family do sometimes allude to my erratic later years behaviour as being a consequence of exposure to that toxin.

I progressed in 1970 to collecting football cards. It was the year of a World Cup and for an old sixpence or expressed in the new decimal currency as 2.5 pence you could buy a packet of glossy paper pictures of the squad players of all of the competing teams. My pocket money just about stretched to a weekly purchase and I soon started to fill up the single or double pages whilst accumulating the inevitable swaps. These could be traded in the playground with classmates but there were always the exclusive cards and the elusive ones as well. I was determined not to give in to the temptation to just send off for the missing ones. 

I still have that 1970 album and the gaping gaps in some of its pages are a bit annoying whenever I take it out to show anyone although I do give myself some credit for sticking to my convictions. 

My interest in football and in particular the much anticipated attendances with my Father at Second Division home games of the mighty Scunthorpe United saw a modest collection of match programmes. Those from the early 1970’s were little more than pamphlets with a lot of poor graphics advertising the services of local businesses in stark contrast to the mini magazines that are produced today. The Old Show Ground where Scunny played had a small kiosk selling team memorabilia and from here I bought programmes from other teams. 

A school trip to Wembley in 1974 when Malcolm MacDonald scored all 5 goals in a defeat of Cyprus gave me my first exotic programme which was soon added to over the proceeding years. 

I was always looking out for a new collecting hobby. 

Car badges were very sought after with a few local motorists in our town reporting damage to their radiator grilles , bonnet and boot lids from youngsters prizing off chrome or plastic trophies. I did not resort to such criminality on the streets but did greatly embarrass my Father when, during his visit to the scrapyard for spare parts for the family Morris Minor to which I tagged along, I slipped into his coat pockets a few badges that I had stolen from the vehicles lying around. The staff had been watching me do this and were polite although abrupt in giving my Father the opportunity to pay for the contraband. 

I was grounded for a while after that. 

I took the punishment or rather used the time to plan my next collection. 

It started with the first publication of a new boys magazine called Speed and Power and lasted through to the very last edition of around 70. These are still, perhaps, amongst my prized possessions and make for interesting reading even now. 

Other targets for an obsession were less successful. 

These included spent fireworks which smelt awful after a while, the reflective lenses out of highway cats eyes, Marmite jars and also a brief flirtation with, of course stamps and coins. 

The collective body of my youthful collections has followed me around in my adult years in a large green metal trunk which, from a stuck on registration plate, was at one time the back box from an old motor vehicle. 

It is a strange sensation opening that lid as though my past life flashes in front of me but I would not hesitate to do the same thing again…. Well, I might think seriously aboutgetting a much bigger trunk that is.

King of Football

The England National Team are playing in the Dutch Capital tonight, I wrote this to celebrate the life and sporting prowess of Johan Cruyff when he died in 2016. His legacy to football remains as strong as ever. His Dutch club Ajax of Amsterdam renamed their stadium in his honour.

The England football team were probably quite confident about their chances of qualifying for the 1974 World Cup which was to be based in Munich, Germany.

Unusually there were only three teams in Qualifying Group Five on the long road to the Tournament, next door neighbours Wales and near European neighbours, Poland.

England got off to a shaky but ideal start in November 1972 with a 35th minute goal by Colin Bell being the winner against Wales in Cardiff. The return match in the first month of 1973 saw John Toshack score first before a rare equalising goal from the hard man defender, Norman Hunter.

Poland showed some of their typical inconsistency with a surprise defeat by Wales and then first points earned from a 2-0 win over England.

After two games per team the home nations led the table on three points each (under the old points scoring system) with Wales ahead on slightly better goal difference. and Poland on two points. The Eastern Europeans, still part of the Soviet Bloc at that time, were able to soundly beat Wales 3-0 which left the group, with just one game for the Poles away at Wembley and only requiring a single point to knock out England.

That game in October 1973 was most memorable for two reasons, the first being the failure of England to progress to the Summer 1974 Finals and the second, the astounding goalkeeping performance of Jan Tomaszewksi that brought it about. England were continuously thwarted by the keeper, described by Brian Clough in his role as guest TV commentator as a Clown . An Alan Clarke equalising penalty in the 63rd minute was the catalyst for an all out assault on the Polish goalmouth.

I was watching the match, I recall in black and white, as an 11 year old football mad kid.

The huge anti-climax of a draw after ninety minutes which meant that Poland were on their way to Germany had quite an affect on me and in fact could be seen as the absolute low point of the England International Team which says a lot for a nation that since becoming World Champions in 1966 have not achieved anything of merit in any Tournament anywhere.

The lead-up to the 1974 Finals was therefore a bit flat.

To add insult to injury the only British representation would be arch rivals Scotland.

My own Scots ancestry demanded a certain amount of loyalty and support and although I paid heed to a deep rooted sense that they too would fail to progress beyond the first group stage they did actually make a good account of themselves. An opening win against Zaire was followed by a 0-0 draw with holders Brazil and a drab 1-1 with Yugoslavia but saw them finish third and outside of automatic qualification to the next stages.

I now had to attach myself to another country if I was to enjoy the rest of the World Cup that balmy summer.

The decision was easy. There was only one exciting team as far as I was concerned with skillful players, a fast paced tempo, great individuals but yet a strong squad ethic and all of this in bright, almost fluorescent orange shirts.

It just had to be The Netherlands, Holland, The Dutch.

I knew a bit about some of the players from listening avidly to evening radio broadcasts of the European Cup and UEFA Cup matches involving British clubs.

In those times there were not many foreign nationals playing across Europe and so most clubs had home grown players.

A quick look through the 22 player squad list for the 1974 World Cup illustrated this with 19 from the likes of Ajax, Feyenoord, Twente and Eindhoven, 2 with clubs in Belgium and the exotic inclusion of one from Barcelona, Johan Cruyff.

He had been awarded European Player of the Year in 1973 and 1974.

The technical expertise of the Dutch in particular was, to me , a revelation especially when compared with the hit and hope, hoof and run game that typified the English League.

Johan Cruyff was definitely, on the basis of my 11 years football knowledge , the best player by far not just in the Dutch team but in the whole of that year's competition.

That was saying something in a star studded line up in bright orange which included Ruud Krol, Johan Neeskens and Rob Rensenbrink.

The rest of the national teams, of course, had their fair share of stellar acheivers.

Playing at number 14, Cruyff,aged 27, was in his prime with a fluidity of play that seemed to make time stand still. He played at his own pace and yet did not lessen the tempo or physicality of a team effort. In physique he was quite slim and of slight build , obviously of natural athleticism, balance and power.

I looked forward to supporting my new but default team with great anticipation after Scotland were knocked out and Holland they did not disappoint.

In the Second Stage, a league arrangement rather than a knock-out, three wins out of three and eight goals with none conceded was impressive including good wins against Brazil and Argentina.

The style of play by the Dutch did appeal to the neutral fans somewhat in contrast to West Germany who were more methodical and to me, a bit boring.

These two progressed to the Final on 7th July 1974 in the Olympic Stadium in Munich with the outcome of a win for the hosts but with many of the opinion that the Dutch were the better team.

Cruyff continued to excel with success on and off the pitch as a player , retiring in 1984 and manager including at Ajax Amsterdam and Barcelona.

His death this week has brought back many great memories of Johan Cruyff.

He was certainly one of the greats  summed up by a contemporary ,"There have been four kings of football—Di Stéfano, Pelé, Cruyff, and Maradona."

Hare Restorer

There is a first time for everything and I have  been very privileged to have seen an ancient, primeval ritual in progress that puts a true perspective on nature, life, existence and being.

Yesterday, according to my office work appointments diary was the first day of Spring. 

The consensus is that it could even be today. 

Some will not accept the change of season until the clocks change to British Summer Time.

The diary announcement  may have just been a page header required by the editor because it appears that nothing momentous or remarkable happened on the 19^th March in history apart from Winnie and Nelson, Andrew and Fergie getting divorced , Phoenix in Arizona got its own area code and the Japanese cooked the largest omelette made out of 160,000 eggs.  

It is not that sort of diary, to encourage gossipy speculation, tittle-tattle and to give recipe ideas.

The arrival of Spring is represented by many things. 

New green shoots also symbolic of optimism and hope for the economy, yellow headed daffodils, catkins and early blossom amongst the otherwise dormant looking treelines, Council Tax Bills, the next personal commitment to exercise and healthy living, a thorough purge of homes, material possessions and clutter in a frenzy of cleaning.

The first alleged day of Spring as we shall call it started quite normally. 

The early mornings are much better in mid to late March with the emergence of natural light at around 6am. I am now more likely to leave for work and return home still in daylight although dependant on the brightness of the sky, cloud cover and prevailing weather. This extension to our perception of the day gives energy and determination to do more after the dismal and depressing days of the preceding winter months.

Moving about the house in the early hours so as not to wake the rest of the family is so much easier. 

Given a general increase in temperature I look forward soon to starting my day with that first and best cup of coffee sat with the windows open and with a view into the greenery of the City park which is my sort of adopted front garden. 

I can well imagine the same reception being given to the new season by our very distant ancestors although  more from a viewpoint of not being afraid any more of the dark , foreboding times when even a solar eclipse or strange shade of colour or size of  moon would cause much anxiety and thoughts of doom. 

Just substitute the mouth of a cave and primitive landscape for my more comfortable, sheltered and heated living room. 

Everything has more optimism in the Spring- and this is no more apparent than in nature.

As I completed my work appointments in the City Centre and suburbs I looked forward to a nice long drive up through the rolling Wolds countryside to a job in Malton. 

The route is one where it is quite possible and indeed normal to meet or catch up with very little other traffic apart from large leather clad  bikers and a few army driving school lorries. 

With no significant disturbance or perceived threat from humans you do tend to come across unsuspecting wildlife enjoying the freedom of the open fields, verges and country roads. My favourites are the stoats which shoot out of the hedgerows as though attached  to a piece of elastic stretched across the carriageway from the opposite side. In recent days a fox has stared me out from it’s vantage point on a traffic island, a deer has been caught briefly in my headlights, rabbits have grazed on the verges nonchalantly as though they feel they are invisible to man. I will not mention the pheasant and its attempted head but of my car bonnet. 

Just north of Wetwang I came across the wonderfully stirring sight of three large Hares cavorting about  towards the middle of a cultivated field. 

As one of their number separated from the group the other two stood up on their hind legs and started to throw punches at each other. 

They were wholly engrossed in the combat , not knowing why but assured that it was something they just must do. 

I was shocked to learn that the life expectancy of a Hare is only 3 to 4 years. 

In March they are perfectly entitled to be understandably mad.

Norooz/Nowruz 2018

I know, I know....Nooroz is not until tomorrow, 20th March but it has taken a few days to get everyone and everything together to celebrate so we did it today. Since first time of writing in 2015 a lot has happened in ours and the wider world. This year is extra special as it is another Nooroz in the UK for Medhi's children with whom he was recently re-united after two plus years.

The bright spots, burnt into my retinas from my foolish unprotected gawping at the full eclipse of the sun this morning, have only just about faded away.

The black disc of the moon was clearly visible through light cloud and although I was disappointed not to see mass hysteria and panic at the devouring of the sun by the ravenous celestial monster in the heavens it was quite a sight to behold nevertheless.

Next time around for the same phenomena I will be sure to have some heavy duty goggles which gives me 10 years to save up my loyalty points from Industrial Welding Supplies Inc.

It was a good precursor, however, for preparations to celebrate Persian New Year or Norooz (various other spellings are available) this evening under the cultural guidance of our Iranian friend Medhi.

We have enjoyed a total immersion into a different mindset through our friendship which has seen us enjoying the delicacy of sheep's head, cooking with saffron and many fragrant spices and herbs,discovering new tastes from huge parcels sent from Iran by Medhi's mother, eating a lot of crispy pan bottom cooked rice, drinking sophisticated blue flower tea and gallons of premium Persian tea laced with cardomom.

There will be five of us in Hull this evening joining the 300 million others around the world in a celebration of renewal and rebirth on what is the first day of Spring.

This is an ancient ceremony recognised by the United Nations as one of important cultural significance and first entering Persian historical records in the 2nd Century AD but even then already well established from 548 to 330 BC.

The marking of the Spring Equinox is rooted in  the Zoroastrian tradition and even attributed to Zoroaster himself.

The exact moment or Tahvil,  part of a 12 day festival, this year falls on March 20th in Tehran and in our hosts place in East Yorkshire, UK, later on in the evening.

In the run up to Norooz many religious traditions have come together and there are great gatherings and activities. One particular is the lighting of bonfires "Chahar Shan be suri",  to signify the shedding of old troubles and ill fortune and participants leap over the flames to get rid of their woes and troubles. Everyone takes part with a risk of bodily scorching or singeing but it is a joyous thing that is done.

On the night of Nooroz there is the laying out of a ceremonial table display known as the cloth of seven dishes or "Sofreh-ye haft sinn".

Gathered together are possessions of Holy Book, flowers and fresh shoots, bowl of goldfish, mirror, candles, painted eggs and seven foods all beginning with the Persian letter "S". The table stays dressed and laden for thirteen days of the festival.

To celebrate we have attempted to seek out as many authentic Persian items as possible in our home area and have had to venture further afield for the more problematic.

The main foods are;

Sabzeh- lentil, barley or wheat sprouts to signify renewal.

Samanu- a sweet pudding made from wheatgerm for affluence.

Senjed-the dried fruit of the lotus tree to represent love.

Sir-garlic for medecine and health.

Sib or apple for health and beauty.

Somaq-berries to act as sunrise and

Serkeh, vinegar for age and patience.

Much of this is ceremonial so traditionally a meal is served such as Sabzi Polo Mati comprising rice, herbs and fish.

At the end of the thirteen days there is "Sizdeh Bedar" meaning "getting rid of the thirteenth" and greenstuffs are thrown into rivers or lakes as a symbolic return to nature.

We, as hosts, will do our best to honour the sentiments and meanings of Norooz and by doing so learn yet more of the Persian heritage and way of life. Five of us will be attentive and thoughtful......I cannot say the same for the newly acquired Goldfish who seems a bit under-awed  by the whole thing.

(Actually written for 2015, our first participation in Nooroz)

String Theory Revisited

The Creator of Thunderbirds, Gerry Anderson died in December 2012 and I wrote this piece at the time to reflect on his contribution to my childhood through his creativity. 

I reproduce it today to mark the launch of yet another version, this time in superdooper animation, using the Thunderbirds name . 

As at the time of writing I have not seen this latest effort and will report my thoughts when I do. 

In the meantime.......

Who is Hiram K. Hackenbacker?

There may be some interesting answers.

Try, did he invent a game involving a small seamed leather ball that you juggle and attempt to keep up in the air or between multiple players?. No That is Hacky Sack.

Was he the inspiration behind of a type of guitar used, for example, by Paul Weller, amongst others? No, that is Rickenbacker.

Is he, by chance the namesake founder and former Mayor of a town in New Jersey, USA? No. That is Hackensack.

It is a tantalising name but yet if you are a lifelong fan of the 1960's TV Series Thunderbirds you will instantly know that it is the real name of the highly strung and a bit nervy prodigy, Brains.

His name has come to the forefront in the last 24 hours with the death of his creator, the Supermarionation genius, Gerry Anderson. I grew up in the halcyon days of children's TV when there was no real competition or distraction from other media. No computers, Video Games, Apple products, etcetra  and a childhood consisted of only sleeping, eating, playtime and education.

This was the perfect environment for imagination to take hold and run riot and a major catalyst in my own formative years was Thunderbirds.

The distinctive countdown, in my memory missing out the first "F", therefore "..ive,....four.....three.....two....one....Thunderbirds are Go!"was the introduction to a completely enthralling part of my day. It went further than that though and the individual  episodes and subsequent adventures gave many, many hours of play value over the following days, weeks and months.

I was obsessed with Thunderbirds, the characters and of course the amazing equipment. International Rescue, the organisation founded by ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy was dedicated to getting the stupid, reckless, misled and unfortunate out of tight situations and in what style!.

Of course, now approaching my 50th birthday I may question how Mr Tracy managed to fund and sustain his charitable operation which must have involved an annual budget even in the 1960's of millions of whatever currency the off shore paradise of Tracy Island affiliated to. I hate myself for this totally cynical attitude and in some way it is a betrayal of my fascination with and complete trust in International Rescue in my early years. However, Gerry Anderson second guessed this later life inquisition with a convincing back-story of a personal fortune earned through the hard work and speculative ventures of Jeff Tracy in the construction industry on his retirement from the space race. All this and, as a widower, bringing up a large family.

The obituary for Gerry Anderson brought back a long forgotten memory of mine of a TV series he devised called Twizzle. This was originally broadcast from 1957 and unfortunately only the very first episode appears to have survived over time. I recall watching this programme in my pre-school years with my Mother and siblings and although I cannot actually summon up any bits of vision or dialogue I do have a very warm and comforting feeling from knowing that I saw it.

The output of Gerry Anderson and his wife Sylvia continued to be prolific with high tech puppetry (although I hesitate to use this term for the Supermarionation process) and also real life productions.

In no particular order but also representing avid viewing on my part were Stingray, Captain Scarlet, UFO, Joe 90, Fireball XL5 and Space 1999. The latter caused me considerable panic at the age of 36 which fell in that fateful year of the exit of the moon from earth's orbit. I was pretty relieved to get through that time with no incident, a bit like last Friday and the predicted Mayan Apocalypse.

The imaginative currency of the Anderson's productions was reinforced considerably by the clever merchandising which with hindsight would give the much criticised catalogue of the Star Wars franchise a run for its money.

I grew up under a Thunderbirds bedspread (ask your parents what one of those is, clue- it predates continental quilts ), I went to sleep after drawing my Thunderbirds curtains. I slept in Thunderbirds pyjamas. My favourite toys were a heavy metal Thunderbird 2 (The chubby green one) with the amphibious Thunderbird 4 in a removable pod, a larger plastic Thunderbird 5 and a diminuitive rocket model of Thunderbird 1. I also collected, from a brand of cereal, the small gawdy coloured plastic figures of the main characters. The aforementioned Hiram K Hackenbacker was a multiple swop and must have been heavily overproduced in some distant Hong Kong factory compared to the others.

A particular thrill when staying with my Grandparents was the sighting at a visit to Luton Airport of a full sized replica of the pink FAB 1 Rolls Royce of Lady Penelope, the racy and in a strange pre-adolescent mind, sexy family friend of the Tracy Family. I was genuinely disappointed to see it being driven by a mere mortal human and not Parker, the rather dodgy, skeleton-in-the-cupboard chauffeur.

In the playing out of the adventures of International Rescue I was always Virgil. It was not that the other four brothers were any less charismatic. Scott was alright but being the oldest a bit serious, John was just a bit invisible, Gordon too much of an enigma  and as for Alan, there must have been a reason why he more often as not seemed to be banished to the earth orbiting space and communications centre that was Thunderbird 5.After all, he was a typical 19 year old.

The further science fiction creations of Gerry Anderson kept up with my demands to be entertained and though my under 10's and early teenage years I also collected and duly  overpainted with Airfix enamel paints and then demolished the merchandising range of Captain Scarlet, UFO and Space 1999.

My own children were able to enjoy regular re-runs of Thunderbirds although the movie was mighty disappointing. Captain Scarlet was faithfully updated in recent years and no doubt captured a new generation of fans.

Even in schoolboy humour the characters featured. I still remember the story about Lady Penelope saying to the dour and expressionless Parker, "Take off my coat", followed by "Parker, take off my dress", then "Parker, take off my underwear". The punchline was "and Parker? ", to which he replies "Yes, me Lady",  "don't let me find you wearing my clothes again".  Classic.

The passing of Gerry Anderson has really pulled on my heartstrings.

Ten Decades

Here’s an interesting situation that I found myself in just this evening past. 

It had been a busy week at work and so I was looking forward to my usual pre-weekend wind down which starts at about 6pm on a Friday with a rattle of the cooking pans in readiness for a chilli cook-up and a glass or two of wine. 

I am reluctant to call it a routine as it is far from mundane. In fact it is my favourite time. 

What could be better than getting a few ingredients together, listening to the radio and having a chilled drink to hand. 

This Friday was, however, different. 

I had agreed to house- sit for a friend who was going out for a rare theatre trip with my wife and a family group. The reason being that it was usually quite difficult for her to leave her mother without recourse to a helper. 

Clarice celebrated her 100^th birthday last year. 

She is a physiological marvel and was playing tennis well into her nineties but in the last few months her health has wavered a bit with her being particularly susceptible to what most of us would regard as minor afflictions such as colds, sniffles, sneezes and shivers. 

Her condition was a bit worrying in the run up to Christmas and we, my wife and I, were on the highest level of alert for that phone call but wonder upon wonder Clarice rallied and is currently as robust as you could expect for her centenary of years. 

This is the thing that I find hard to fully appreciate. Clarice was already in her 46^th year when I was born. 

Think about that a little. Her birth year was 1917. 

That, to my perception, was a world in black and white and where, as seen on the grainy newsreels of the time, everyone walked about at about one and a half normal pace. That year itself was momentous with the Russian Revolution and marking a further period of tragedy and misery in the First World War. 

If I think about my own key years and apply them to the relevant years in Clarice’s life it makes for startling and sobering comparison. 

For example, I started at school when I was four and if the same education was available to Clarice she would be in the infant and primary school classes during the early to mid 1920’s. That will have been an austere era with the country emerging out of the ravages of conflict, perhaps hopeful of a sustained peace and yet barrelling on towards the financial crash and Depression that marked much of the following decade. 

I went to Polytechnic from the age of 18 and graduated to take up my first employment aged 23. Clarice will have been experiencing the onset of the Second World War at the same stage in her life. 

There is no doubting that her generation was unfortunate to hit just about every momentous national and global event of the 20^th Century. 

It was not just a time of upheaval and changes in the world order but also in the socio-economic and demographic make up of the UK. 

I could not wait to be a thirty something, largely influenced by the characters in a TV series of the same name. I was expecting that decade in my life to be one of family and career and I was not in any way disappointed. To some extent the prospect of reaching the age of 40 was a bit daunting to my younger self. Clarice reached that four decade milestone in 1957. 

Britain in the post war years, as soon as rationing ended, was in a period of huge growth in output and the wealth of its working population who enjoyed almost full employment in a thriving industrial and manufacturing sector. 

So, in the year of my own birth, 1963, Clarice was in her mid forties. 

You would think that we would not have much to talk about but I have a lot of time for Clarice and I really enjoy asking her questions about her life and times. 

Her generation are an invaluable source of facts, information and wisdom and what could be better than their first hand recounting of experiences. No, Wikipedia is nowhere near. 

Yesterday evening was one of privileged access to the vast memory bank of someone who has seen so much change in the world let alone on her own doorstep. I learned a lot. 

If there is just one bit of advice that I could pass on to my own generation is don’t play cards for cash with a clever centenarian.

Backyard Bruiser

In 1977, the VW engineer Joerg Bensinger and others were working on a prototype off-roader to be called the Iltis.The name, Polecat in German, was more of a military or recreational application but Bensinger thought the notion of full-time all-wheel drive might have relevance for conventional passenger cars, especially for those that live in wet and snowy climes. Ferdinand Piëch, who led product development at Audi at the time, and pre-development director Walter Treser, agreed and, ultimately, so did Audi management.

Launched in the spring of 1980, the Audi quattro, so-named for obvious reasons, came to the U.S. market for the 1982 model year.

Until then, AWD had been the provenance of big trucks and serious off-roaders. The genius of the quattro was in compact differentials that would fit the confines of a passenger car, without the quantum increase in ride height found in those trucks and SUVs. A center diff distributed power to the front and rear differentials via a set of dog clutches; the latter were vacuum-operated via controls on the centre stack. An integral part of the design was the use of a hollow shaft in the transmission so power could flow to both the centre differential (and thus to the rear wheels) and to the front diff via an output shaft. Sounds complicated, but it worked beautifully, distributing power 50/50, front to back.

That power came from Audi’s transversely mounted, turbocharged SOHC inline-five with two valves per cylinder, rated in U.S. trim at 160 horsepower (200 in most other world markets). While 160 doesn’t sound like much, considering that 1982’s Mustang GT 5.0 was rated at 157 and the Porsche 911 SC cranked out just 172, the quattro remained a legit performer in its era. Torque output was 170 pound-feet at 3000 revs, and the only transmission offered was a five-speed manual. Steering was via a power rack and pinion, and braking came courtesy of four-wheel discs. In a cool bit of engineering maximisation, the quattro’s fully independent suspension employed Audi 5000 front suspension bits–turned backward–in the rear.

The crisply folded Audi GT Coupe provided the quattro’s platform two-door bodywork. Handsome, if conservative, the look received a personality injection in the form of rectangular fender blisters to cover the increased track. Still, the effect was subtle; performance aficionados nodded knowingly when they saw one, as if not wanting to bust the secret.

Besides the diff lock’s actuator switch and readout, little differentiated a quattro’s cabin from any other Audi–or several VWs, either, as too many components looked as if they came straight out of the econobox parts bin. The hard plastics and shiny materials wouldn’t pass muster in a Korean subcompact now. Cargo room aft was reasonable, and the rear seats at least earned a “+2” designation. Some European model quattros were equipped with a full digital instrument panel, another 1980’s idea perhaps best forgotten.

In its first full year of competition–1982–the factory quattros recorded eight overall wins in a convincing domination of the championship. Mikkola and Arne Hertz brought home the 1983 World Championship, and, in 1984, quattros secured the drivers and manufacturers titles.

The competition cars got more powerful and more outrageous looking, culminating in the 450-horsepower quattro S1.

Mikkola said that “the sudden surge of power is so brutal, you think you’ve been hit from behind by a five-ton truck.”

A series of tragic accidents in 1985-1986 ended the reign of these hyper-powered “Group B” machines, but Audi’s point had been made and punctuated: all-wheel drive was a key to high performance–and the worse the road surface, the more the quattro’s advantage.

1984's rare quattro Sport proved the best--and by far the most valuable--of an impressive pack. Never officially legalized for sale in the U.S., they've become prized among quattronados.

A Sport quattro cost a staggering $75,000 when new. A perfect one today, if you can find one for sale, will set you back about a hundred grand. Many consider it to be the ultimate road-going quattro–I’m among them.

The fact that the original quattro cost around $35,000 in the early 1980s seems staggering now. Today’s STi, WRX, and Evo have much higher performance, technology, and comfort levels for around 30 grand, give or take model and equipment. They’ll run away and hide from the old master and are cheaper by miles, especially taking nearly 25 years of inflation into account. Yet had the quattro not succeeded, there would be no super Subis or Mitsus.

For creating a genre, for providing considerable driving excitement at a time when there wasn’t much, and for launching what is today a cornerstone of the Audi brand, the first quattro must be recognized as an accomplishment of major significance.

So where are they all now?

I came across one not so long ago locked up in a yard behind a terrace of houses.

Loco Parentis

I think that I have shown good parenting skills in working as a team with my wife in the bringing up of our three children, now all in their twenties.

Responsible, careful and diligent but not forgetting that growing up is fun we blended a good sound moral base with a sense of social justice and all tied together with love and a healthy respect for life.

I must have taken my foot off the pedal, my eye off the ball and forgotten all of the basics of parenting in a shameful culmination of events just this Sunday.

It was a football match for the Under 11's team in which the eldest son of our Iranian friend plays at number 11- striker.

The venue was a secondary school playing field some 7 miles away and it was my turn, working on strict rotation with my wife, to provide transport and pitch side support for the young lad.

We are sort of adoptive English Grandparents but with a very hard job to emulate in any regard their actual senior relatives back in Iran.

Arriving about twenty minutes before kick off and therefore with plenty of time for the team warm up I made the decision to make a dash to the other side of the town where there was a supermarket.

It was of course Mothering Sunday and I could purchase a gift to go with the card and hand it over after the game. My Mother, ever energetic and enthusiastic had actually texted me to say that she quite fancied walking across to the school to see some of the football and then cadge a lift back to her house afterwards.

I had a great plan and everything , amazingly, worked out precisely. Purchases were made and I was soon parked up again at the school site. I felt pleased with myself.

Chores done it was time to concentrate on the match.

Local league games are very well organised with dedicated standing areas pitch-side with rope barrier and even the prospect of a bacon sandwich and hot cup of tea from supportive mums and dads, most welcome on a cold winter and spring morning.

I took up a position just level with the half way line. It was very much in the camp of the home team but as I said there is nowadays no threat of aggravation, swearing or intimidation against the away team entourage. It is a far cry from my own experiences as a youth player or even when attending with my own children when they were young.

I could not actually see any of the parents of our team and so was content to stay where I was.

It was after about five minutes of spectating, only some 20 minutes into the first half that I noticed that my responsibility, in loco parentis, was not playing. That was not unusual as the game at that level is only 9 a side and you are allowed a sort of rolling arrangement of replacing players as and when they are tired and need a rest or are injured.

The four seater folding bench on the opposite side of the pitch, the hub of the team with Manager, Coach and resting substitutes was occupied with diminutive figures in the distinctive black and yellow buzzy bee strip of the team. I squinted. None of the occupants resembled our adopted grandson.

A double take was necessary but with the same conclusion. The lad was nowhere to be seen.

A toilet break in the school sports hall could not be ruled out and so I was not yet panicking.

It was then that I was approached by the father of the goalkeeper of the team.

We had spoken probably half a dozen words over the winter training sessions but he was definitely a bit over chatty this time. The tone of the conversation did not really sink in at first but my heart sank upon being informed that the lad had been taken to hospital after complaining of breathing difficulties. He said that the team manager and his wife were at the Minor Injuries Unit but had been unable to contact anyone about it.

Just then a got a text from the boys father asking me how his son was at the hospital.

Can you imagine how I felt at being exposed for a fraud and being so uncaring?

That drive, only about a mile seemed to take an age. I did have time to ring Mother to tell her the situation. She was having trouble clambering over a fence around the school field which even to her 80 years would constitute a very scaleable object indeed. I felt torn between getting to the Hospital and waiting around in case my Mother threw out a hip during her exploits. We agreed to meet up later at her house.

At the newly built Community Hospital it was easy to find where I needed to be as there was a faint trail of mud with football boot stud marks that the lad had left behind on his arrival. I breezed in with genuine concern although with a bit of dramatic licence to cover up my shortcomings.

I joked with the team manager that he had better get back quick to save the team from collapse before sitting down and checking that the boy was okay.

He was a bit coughy and spluttery from a head cold and sore throat. If I had been a diligent adopted Grandparent I should have advised on his staying at home for that match but that was another glaring failing.

The Doctor did the usual tests on oxygen levels and breathing before announcing that the problem had been exercise induced asthma with no lasting implications.

I was quizzed on who I was by the medic, evidently aware of my earlier absence when booking in the distressed patient.

After two hours in the Waiting and Consulting rooms we were discharged.

I must have given the impression of making a run for it across the car park.

On reflection it could have been a lot worse.

At the moment, however, all parties involved are at the laughing stage at the recounting of the events.

The Ninth Legion Returns

Whether I had assumed the long lost spirit of a Centurion from the Ninth Legion about 90 AD or I was gagging for the first strong coffee of the day I am not sure. 

It was early morning in the City of York and I was striding westwards on Lendal Bridge with a clear view ahead of me of the fortifications established by those all conquering Romans. 

Although utterly out of context and on a bridge opened in 1863 I had a sudden urge to shout something in Latin. 

It is at times like that when a few memorised phrases or sayings in that language would be perfect giving authenticity, serving as an homage to history and to anyone within earshot providing either a bit of a shock or a pleasurable experience. 

I have been the product of a Grammar School education, having attended at the oldest State School in England dating from 700 AD and before that at a relative newcomer founded in the 17^th Century. 

The reason for the two establishments was a family move about five sevenths into my senior years and not, as some of you may think as a result of exclusion or expulsion for crimes and misdemeanours.  

Yet for all of that time in the very heart of a traditional academic upbringing I was not compelled nor even had the option to take Latin as a subject. 

That is quite surprising given that an essential component of schooling for young boys over centuries was to instill a command and fluency in that discipline and with the Grammar Schools being the main method of delivering this. 

Although somewhat sidelined in the modern education curriculum and perhaps even in danger of being forgotten altogether it remains as a very important language and the foundation for modern languages across Western Europe. 

Some 30% of words in the English Dictionary are derived directly from Latin. A basic understanding helps in studying foreign languages such as Spanish, French and of course Italian. 

I can see that my forebears intending to enter the respected professions of Law, Medicine and in Academia required a depth and comprehension of Latin to get along in everyday use and other applications but somewhere amongst the great changes in employment, demographics and society, under the all encompassing term of Progress, the emphasis has now shifted more to practical and technical skills. 

As a consequence the beauty and expression in communication between humans is certainly worse off. 

Anyways, back to my bridge crossing in York and that urge express myself as a Roman. 

At the time I was frustrated because nothing at all came to mind and yet with a little bit of contemplative thought later on in my car on the drive away from York there was a sudden deluge, flood and torrent of Latin words and phrases including a few insults and bits and pieces of that classic Monty Python scene from The Life of Brian to which I provide a link at the bottom of this page. 

I obviously know a lot more Latin than I originally thought.

Individual words that came to mind included the likes of ad nauseum, alias , alibi, aqua vitae, bona fide, Carpe Diem, de facto, Invicta, ipso facto, mea culpa, subpoena, circa, audio, fac simile, versus and even et cetera. 

Of course they do not readily flow into a comprehensible sequence on their own and so I subsequently researched a few self contained sentences and have tried to commit them to memory for the next occasion of going to York. 

How about “Non torsii subligarium” which, and I place the source of this on trust, means don’t get your knickers in a twist , “Cibum amo”, I love food or to really impress any Geeks who happen to be around the City Walls, “Sit vis nobiscum” as in May the Force be with You.  

Can't wait....tempus donec non possum expectare* 

*Google Translate

Here is the educational bit....

Roman Grammar Lesson

Ken Dodd

     

     Decades after the demise of his dad's dog 

 Ken Dodd did die

Beauty or The Beast?

It must be true that some ugly cars still sell well if they are regarded as being good vehicles.

There are plenty of examples of these through motoring history such as the frog eyed Sprite (Austin Healy), even the E Type Jag and more modern abominations of the Fiat Multipla (Bug-eye), Ford Scorpio (Fish face) and the worst of the lot the Ssangyong Rodius (What the F**p?).

My son, in his younger years on family drives would visually tick off Supercars and rare marques affording them points according to status and price.

The sighting however of a Rodius immediately nulled and voided any accumulated total- such was the horror of the, dare I say it, styling.


There can be endearing nicknames for other makes and models and with just about all having a die-hard core of enthusiasts who maintain a website, owners forum and can be relied upon to advise on any related queries or issues. Hence, Scoobies for Subaru, Moggies for Minors, Herbies for Beetles and even, as I tailgated a battered old motor last week, an owners club for the Ford Mondeo.

The car on the left is a VW 1600 Squareback, also with a bit of a fan club. This one is my brother's car and has been in the family from brand new in 1971.

So, into this illustrious gallery of owners and fans please welcome those who staunchly support and continue to preserve the Landcrab.

This is the pet name given to an oddly styled mid range family saloon which in 1965 was announced as Europe's Car of the Year. It followed the British winner of the previous year, the Rover 2000 and in successive years until the new decade the honours went to Renault 16, Fiat 124, NSU Ro80 and the Peugeot 504, so pretty illustrious company in that accolade.

Yes, it was a bit elongated, misproportioned and strangely Soviet looking but its pedigree could not be faulted having been designed by the automotive wizard, Alec Issigonis who had already established himself with the Mini and Morris Minor.

His sideways driving implied Landcrab was the Morris 1800 which quite revolutionary for the era was also badged up to appeal to different tastes and wallets as an Austin and a Wolseley. The list price in 1964 was £828 comparing well for a generously sized car with a Hillman Super Minx at £854, the sporty Lotus Cortina at £1100 and the striking Ford Capri coupe at £890.

Big things were expected of it by the British Motor Corporation and in total some 386000 were manufactured of which 95,271 were under the Morris name. Issigonis could conjur up maximum space in a car as he had acheived in the diminutive Mini and the midwives favourite, the Minor and the Morris derivative was no different. It was of huge interior volume, a true four door and with a decent boot space and as such found a niche in the market in that sector.

The front wheel drive and transverse mounted engine were tried and tested BMC components and made for good and unfussy handling although by modern standards an 1800cc engine may have been somewhat under powered for a hefty steel body shell. There were some reliability issues such as a prolific rate of oil consumption and the steering was actually quite heavy.

A rally version did compete quite effectively in home based and continental events although a few strategically placed stickers and a flashy paint job did not hide the crustacean similarity. Versions under the names of Bolanza, Kimberley, Windsor and Monaco were exported to Holland, Belgium, Denmark and through the Empire. Sales Catalogues of the time did not have a great range of colours and the likes of Wild Moss, Teal Blue, Harvest Gold and Green Mallard were not that dynamic or thrilling.

As with many BMC and later BL production the harsh northern european climate and rock salt served to perforate the bodywork and according to the website "How many left?" there were, as at 2017, only around 75 Morris 1800's on the road and a few more stashed off it, typically someones perpetually postponed restoration project.

I have been carefully stalking this 1972 model which suddenly appeared in a nearby street to my home. It has moved a few times and appears to be in regular daily use. It appears wholly original and authentic although those at Landcrab may be able to able to spot fillers and fibre glass panels.

A glimpse through the driver side window suggested a mileage of 82,332 . This could be genuine or as a result of one or more times around the clock as an average of only 1789 miles per year for its 46 years is too good to be true.

Today, I summoned up enough courage to take a few photos which inspired me to write about this important piece of British Motoring Character.

                                It is certainly a bit  ugly but in some respects a thing of beauty.