Bumper to Bumper

I have just done a bit of background research in order to try to make some sense of my own observations and experiences.

The subject matter is important to me as I spend a good proportion of my working day doing it.

I am talking, of course, about motoring.

This is not from the point of view of discussing performance, fuel economy and safety of vehicles in general but trying to understand why one minute I can be bowling along with not another car or truck in sight and the next I am stationary in some forsaken traffic queue with no apparent reason for it.

In carrying out my job I can be in the car for an accumulated daily total of around 6 hours and on average, and even just around the home territory I can easily tot up in excess of 100 and more miles.

From my unique mobile vantage point I can witness and study behavioural traits and trends amongst my fellow travellers . I often wonder where they are going and why.

Here are a few statistics for the UK released in 2017 and therefore covering the 12 months prior which will help to explain many aspects of what is seen out and about on the nation's highways and byways.

It is hard to comprehend but according to passenger mileage statistics the last period in which it was recorded was the highest in history at a mind boggling 497 billion miles. Over 80% of these journeys were by car, van or taxi although it is interesting that the average distance per journey was only about 60 miles. This is not fully explained by just the journey to work as the UK average outside of London is some 25 minutes (London is a huge 46 minutes) therefore equating at normally achievable built up area road speeds to around 10 to 15 miles but more by the fact that of the huge total mileage - over a quarter is attributable to leisure purposes such as visiting friends, sports, holidays and pleasure trips. Only 19% were in fact from commuting.

There are of course other modes of transport other than a car or van and stuck in a traffic jam I have felt jealousy over a fast moving cyclist, a bus with the freedom of its designated lane and even the 10% of commuters who do so on foot. It is quite embarrassing nodding or waving at someone on the footpath from the car only for them to keep good pace and even beat you to the end of the street if you are stuck in traffic.

We may feel that our cars are a cost effective way to travel and I agree if like me your journeys are wide ranging and with no options available to take an alternative mode but there are quite high daily running costs over and above fuel, road tax and insurance. Those insipid fumes that find their way into the car air intake system are some of the 24% of all greenhouse gases coming from car emissions. That is an increase from just 15% in 1990.

There has not, surprisingly, over the same almost three decades been a tangible increase in the 58% of total domestic transport greenhouse gas emissions from road transport which may indicate a slow turning of the tide in controlling and eventually reducing these harmful substances.

On the downside the proportion of emissions from vans has increased in the same period. These figures relate to potentially global effects whereas in the UK most air pollutants which affect all of us have more than halved since 1990. This is down to the ban of leaded petrol and the removal of sulphur from road fuel but critically and of significant concern to our oxygen intake this excludes particulate matter.

I am sorry to say that I drive a diesel car but then again a good proportion of the UK road users, around 12.1 million were incentivised to buy a diesel powered vehicle.

Developments in the fuel efficiency of cars has continued a long term decrease in fuel consumption and there are more options available to the motorist including bio fuels, hybrid and electric. This must be more widespread and within most budgets.  UK households in 2016 allowed for some 13.7% of their weekly expenditure on transport .

As a indication of future trends some 40% more ultra low emission vehicles were registered in 2016 than the previous year.

You cannot help but have noticed what appears to be an upsurge in the numbers of lorries and trucks on our roads. A huge 76% of UK freight is moved by road and the top three commodities are food, waste related products and, unexpectedly, metal ore and other products of mining and quarrying. Those big piles of road chippings to be seen in lay-by's may make up a big proportion of this.

Living in a Port Town with a roll on roll off ferry terminal makes the sighting of a European lorry registration very common indeed. I have often been sat in traffic behind or alongside articulated trucks from Rumania, Bulgaria, the Czech Republic and farther afield. In fact the flow of goods vehicles is as much from the UK to mainland Europe as that we perceive from our own observations.

In 2016 three million vehicles including 0.7 million unaccompanied trailers made that crossing. It is not just a commercial trading thing either as in the same period some 5.8 million cars were handled at UK ports of which 52% of them went to or from France.

My car is also my personal mobile office space and so I would find it difficult to adjust to using public transport for this reason, notwithstanding the pattern of my daily workload which would in no way conform to existing timetables or public transport routes.

However, 4941 million local bus journeys were taken in 2016, 1731 million rail journeys and a new record of 273 million on light rail and tram systems.

The Taxi. You have to love them or hate them. I can respect their revenue driven motivation but when they either drive too fast or annoyingly slow there is potential for a bit of a confrontation on the roads. The number of licenced taxis saw an increase by 16% in 2017 to a total of 281,000. I seem to think most of them work in my home city.

It is a fact of our dispersed urban, suburban and rural lives that we will have to continue to rely on the car as our principal means of getting out and about for just about everything. I do like to leave the car untouched over a weekend at least and make my way about on foot, by bike or other means. That was a reason for a family flit some 5 years ago now into the city from the sleepy suburbs and I can recommend it as a lifestyle change.

Another contentious issue is the condition of the roads in this country. There are some interesting facts on this as well.

A wopping 87% (by mileage) of our roads are classified as minor rural and urban but these carry only 35% of all traffic. The "A" roads in our towns and countryside are the ones that really take a battering as although only 12% of the total road distance they carry 44% of traffic. In stark contrast the motorway network accounts for only 1% by length and carries 21% of traffic. To avoid potholes and congestion it seems that backroads are the best.

I find it amusing when those caught up in a traffic jam, when interviewed, express regret at losing a few hours of their lives when in fact it is a miniscule proportion of their time. The average delay from congestion on the strategic road network in the UK in 2016 was 9 seconds per vehicle per mile and increasing to 45.9 seconds on local main roads.

The cost to families and communities from fatalities and injuries cannot be underestimated. Although the trend has been a decline since the 1950's the most serious incidents have levelled out in the last decade suggesting that more needs to be done to promote safe and responsible driving.

In spite of recessionary and uncertain economic times the number of new vehicles registered in 2016 was 3.3 million which was a record figure. These added to the total of 37.3 million licenced vehicles on GB roads of which 30.9 million are cars. Existing vehicles coming under the MOT, that is those over 3 years old, number some 30.4 million of the total and 73% of cars pass the test and continue to use the road.

Driving Test Passes have been broadly stable for the last 5 years at 47% although 1.7 million tests in 2016/17 represented a 13% increase from the previous 12 months.

The source and inspiration for revolutionary changes in our motoring habits must come from a number of influences. The Government in the UK harvested £28 billion in fuel duty revenue in 2016 as well as for the same period £6 billion in road tax and so may not be the first to make sweeping policy decisions to benefit us all.

Plenty to think about when negotiating that rush hour gridlock there then.

(source; Department of Transport. Transport Statistics 2017)

Genghis Did

DNA or rather the tracing of it through a family line is big business. 

For a novel birthday gift for my wife I sent off for a testing kit through the Ancestry portal and after following the instructions and depositing some spittle into the reagent laced bottle she sent it off to some distant laboratory. 

It took a few weeks for the results to come back and they largely confirmed what my wife already knew about her predecessors. 

She has German and Swedish great grandparents and so this strain of Scandinavian DNA had a strong representation. Subsequent generations had lineage from Ireland and the North of England but most surprising was the revelation that her ancestors hearkened from the Middle East and Hawaii. 

I am intrigued by all things in the past but am hesitant about carrying out the same test exercise mainly for a secret inner fear of what it might reveal. 

What are the facts? Well, both of my grandparents were Scottish from the very north east, Wick in Caithness on the paternal grandmother side and the Outer Hebrides for Grandpa Donald. 

On my Mother’s side of the family, and my cousin Andrew who has traced the family tree back a few centuries will correct me if I am wrong, both Dick and Nelly were from the Southern part of England. 

My late Father had characteristic traits of Caledonia in his hair and eye colouration but it skipped a generation only recently re-emerging through my nephew Syd. 

However, those quick to resort to corny and, frankly, racist comments about this stereotypical nature should be aware that there is a good chance, on a statistical basis,  that the proud race of The Scots or at least some of them are direct descendants of the warrior leader and scourge of some twelve million square miles of territory- Genghis Khan. 

His empire was a complete swath from parts of central Europe through to the shores of the Pacific Ocean. 

Those witnessing male behaviour (although not exclusively displayed by males) on a typical Saturday night out in a Scottish City Centre may have come to this theory by their own deductions but there is quite compelling evidence that the Genghis Khan link is true. 

There is a piece of DNA research from 2003 that deduces that as many as 1 in 200 men alive today have the genetic “Y” chromosome of that fearsome individual therefore, in real numbers, around 16 million. 

These have been found through testing within the main stomping grounds of Khan from Mongolia, India, China, Russia, South East Asia and the Middle East. 

This may seem a difficult concept to comprehend but in a league table of figures in history, the more famous ones that is, and in relation to their prolific breeding habits our Genghis is top with up to an estimated 2000 offspring sired in his 65 years.

If that is extrapolated through the centuries it is not at all surprising that big numbers are produced. Even if the current 16 million is correct just imagine what it may have been had it not been for the premature death rates amongst the early generations in the Dark and Middle Ages, Plaques, Warfare, natural disasters and other nasty influences. 

If a generation occurs every 25 years then that would mean 33.5 of them have elapsed since Genghis’ era. 

In the centuries there have been periodic mass migrations across Europe and this will have contributed to a mixing up of the gene pool in what are now the modern, defined nations of the continent and our British Isles.

I have had suspicions for some time that I have a complex DNA. 

Is it indeed possible that I am a descendant of that far off Dynasty? 

I do have the inherited family physical features but also and worryingly a favouring of the wearing of fur hats and big boots. I can assure you that I do not normally have a tendency towards pillage and worse but believe in such things as a meritocracy, religious tolerance and a good postal service, all of which the historians attribute to Genghis Khan. 

My Scottish roots are a matter of great pride to me. There are of course many stereotypical jibes, jests and jokes on the subject of red haired Scots, no more evident than in the roaring novelty and tourist trade in that traditional national male head wear of the Tam O’Shanter fringed underneath in a bright, copper or rust red synthetic wig. My father would delight us all with his wearing of this attire. 

He too will, I contend, have passed on the Khan DNA through the male line to me. 

The scientific evidence is it appears under some scrutiny from other studies but there is one more piece of overwhelming speculation. There are no surviving contemporary portraits or sculptures of that historic figure but a 14^th Century Persian scholar claimed that Genghis Khan had in true Scots fashion, red hair and green eyes. 

The case rests.

Chess for Aliens

It is a game played on a chequered coloured board of eight squares by eight.

No, there is no significance to the dimensions, just regular and constant.

I am not sure if there is a hidden meaning or whether it represents a secret code to unlock the secrets of the universe or a portal into another dimension.

Each side has an equal number and range of playing pieces.

I accept that in the real world of intergalactic gamesmanship this is never the case and there is, as you allude to, always a dominant and superior master race keen to put down lesser beings.

The front line of pieces is taken up by the pawns, ok, I suppose you can call them puny underlings. They are the foot soldiers, no, unarmed apart from their range of movement which admittedly is a bit limited to two and then one forward step at a time. It is advisable to try to keep them on the board, well if you want to call them cannon fodder and expendables then that is you own view. These pieces are useful to mix it up amongst the higher value pieces and they can often sneak in and take them by surprise. No, they do not have any special powers such as invisibility, stealth, transportation or inter dimensional travel.

They may be a concept you find difficult to grasp.

If you have happened to see Star Wars, which is a must for any alien culture seeking to take over the Earth and its peoples the pawns, yes pawns not an aquatic species from the shallow oceans, are the same as the Imperial Forces.

Alright they do seem pretty dispensable. You have a point there.

Behind the pawns are the main and influential chess playing figures.

At the outer flanks are the castellated pieces. They can range up and down the board in straight lines in both dimensions (yes, just the one overall dimension) and are good at covering longer distances in any game.

Adjacent are the knights represented by a horse head figure. The move in a horsey motion which is two forward and one aside. Yes, it is a bit random and unusual but you would be surprised how many combinations and how much versatility that gives in a game situation.

Sitting next to them are the bishops. They are, on a conventional set of chess pieces quite alien looking in their own right. I will not get into an explanation on the role of the church in world history at this stage as it may be difficult for you to grasp. It is complicated at the best of times. They can move diagonally across the board and are quite a potent force.

In the middle of the back line are the King and Queen.

It is a monarchy which again you may not be able to comprehend if your own culture has evolved to a much higher plain of intelligence and social composition.

The queen is the most mobile of the pieces and can range about the board generally at will. Yes, the king figure is a bit dead and lifeless but the crux of the game is to protect the king from being trapped and eliminated.

There are, as you intimate, simpler ways to kill a king but the game of chess has been around for centuries and the art of acheiving that final winning move has evolved into a very extensive sphere of tactical study, let alone involving philosophical, social and cultural aspects of human existence.

Who plays chess? Well, it is open to all ages and children used to be encouraged to learn from an early age but that has tended to be supplanted by video games which are more stimulating and, I accept, violent and manic. Typical players do tend to be those with a bit of time on their hands and it is a pleasant way to pass an afternoon or an evening. It is a game of strategy, deception, bluff and bluster and so in my mind does somewhat reflect many traits of our species here on earth.

As an invading force you would be best advised to study the game of chess as a microcosm of humanity. Some of the world's greatest leaders and minds were chess players and their mental agility and broad thinking will have been nurtured by the challenge of the game. Indeed if you look through momentous political events in history there will be signs of tactics similar to those at the heart of chess. At various stages in mankind the figures represented by the pieces have come to prominence in the form of military, feudal, religious and monarchical power and the consequences have been fundamental in shaping how society is today.

Fancy a game?

The prize?

How about complete control over Planet Earth........

Crash Course

I had never met the lad before but he was intent on passing on to me some momentous news. 

It is a natural thing to do. 

Many a time I have approached a complete stranger in the street to convey a football score or the latest in global information on just about anything. I appreciate that some people cannot cope with an impromptu announcement in this way and I apologise but if it is good and memorable then why not let everyone and, as they say, his or her dog in on it. 

In this particular instance the lad just wanted to let me and everyone know that he had, that very morning, passed his car driving test. This was accompanied by his waving about of an official looking Certificate and the badgering of his Dad to let him go out straight away in the family car. 

The anticipation and excitement of that young man brought back to me the emotions that I had experienced way back in 1984 when at the age of twenty one,  and at the third attempt, I had reached that same heady achievement. 

I was actually quite a late passer, if indeed that is an actual word, mainly down to a family pact that siblings could only learn to drive when their immediate elder had got through the test and was on the road. 

I did start to learn straight away when the law permitted but any concentrated effort was constantly disrupted by the pressures of studying both at school and in Polytechnic education but mainly because of lack of funds. 

There was also the rather off-putting behaviour of various driving instructors in the first round of formal lessons. 

The name of the first driving school – Genesis- was to my mind a positive and determining factor in my choice in that it suggested a new start and the first day of a life behind the wheel. I had not considered any negative connotations such as the likelihood of a Phil Collins et al soundtrack during any lessons but was very much taken aback when the instructor started to preach the Gospel in between giving instruction on mirror-signal-manoeuvre. 

I expected a sermon on the relevance of the three point turn to the Holy Trinity or emergency braking as being similar to renouncing sin. Suffice to say I took just the one of a taster course of ten lessons (and carols?). 

The next instructor was, as I found out within a few minutes of taking the driving seat ,embroiled in a messy separation from his long term girlfriend. 

I began to wonder why my lessons seemed to be on an increasingly familiar circuit of city roads until I realised that the guy was spying on the house where his estranged partner now lived with someone else and that route gave him a view of it every fifteen minutes or so. 

He became increasingly embittered in those early sessions and would seek my opinion and endorsement on how unreasonable his girlfriend had been in her treatment of him. I was, after finishing that short, unproductive course, just grateful that those laps of town did not actually include a physical siting of the subject of his animosity. 

I did continue lessons whilst away at college in an East Midland city but in unknown territory and neighbourhoods I could not get settled or into a learning routine and so gave up for a couple of years. 

A job placement starting in the autumn in my third college year was on the condition that I had a full driving licence and so the summer prior was one of regular practice with my father and then a crash course (always a strange bit of alliteration relative to driving) with a local instructor. 

I was confident in my road skills but not so my ability to read a distant number plate which, in the 1980’s, was an integral part of the actual test. I began to pace out distances in the street as per the eyesight requirement but even at the minimum I had to really squint in order to read a licence plate and that was also in my prescription spectacles. 

The actual test went pretty well or so I thought until the final series of Highway Code questions whilst parked kerbside back at the Test Centre. 

The examiner showed extreme patience as I struggled with a simple question about how to let other road users know that I was slowing down. I ventured with “step on the brake pedal”, “flash the headlights” and “just wave” before the realisation that he wanted me to answer that the correct signal was an outstretched right arm and a circular movement from the elbow. 

My instructor who had accompanied me to the test but then went for a cup of tea for its duration had to drive me home as the news that I had passed had put me into a mental fuzz and state of disbelieving shock. 

These thoughts flashed past my eyes in an instant as I congratulated the new driver on his success. 

I was excited for him and what the freedom of the road would mean to him and his future.

Daily Bread

There is nothing quite like the process of making bread to get that deep dirt out from your fingernails.

I say that from my own endeavours at home baking rather than discovering something sinister in my sandwich bought from Greggs of similar establishments.

I am really mad about bread. Not the making of it but the eating of it.

This is in spite of all of the speculation in the media about unhealthy diets with, invariably, bread now featured on the "to avoid" list for persons of my age and physical characteristics.

It is a staple of life and has been for millenia and yet the persecution of bread is now well founded, following on from a similar witch-hunt for potatoes, chocolate, coffee and all of the pleasureable foodstuffs in our lives.

I have fond feelings for bread at key stages in my life.

As a small child it was the comfort and bulk of Marmite sandwiches in a nursery tea.

Later it would be the veritable sophistication of toasties in the new fangled Breville before a return to, after a boozy night out as an early twenties something, plain toast and more marmite.

In my student years I could easily survive a whole day on a French baguette. I did once just sit in the doorway of a vacant shop in the city centre where I was studying and settled in to tackle a full sized baguette. It seemed a perfectly normal thing to do but a few passers-by made a point of making sympathetic faces before leaving small piles of low denomination coins on the raised step at my feet.

In my first paid job I could really appreciate having enough cash to pay for a filling for a baguette transforming it into a metre-long sandwich. I usually ate two of them to keep me going in a busy working day.

As a father of three children the value of bread and bread based products really came to the fore. Bread was to the under fives both filling and entertaining. The breakfast toast could be printed using plastic moulds into all manner of cartoon characters. A thinly cut and lightly toasted finger of bread is the ideal format for a soldier for a dippy egg.

There is something magic about a slice of french toast saturated with the best tomato sauce after all of the Heinz beans have been eaten. Packed lunches for school breaktime are nothing without a hastily prepared sandwich with popular fillings of tuna, meat paste, peanut butter and of course, Marmite.

Teatime and more toppings for bread, a particular favourite being grilled cheese or sardines.

There is a natural progression in a family to make their own bread. In the days prior to the availability of budget range automatic bread machines it was a very involved process to assemble the ingredients and manually work them into a dough. Children find it fascinating to see the dough prove in a bowl under the best tea towel and that warm yeasty odour has become to our youngsters a firm recollection of their junior years at home. The final product was always disappointing either failing to rise or cook all of the way through but nevertheless devoured with pride and a great sense of achievement.

Our first electric bread maker produced faultless loaves and rolls but at the cost of an educational and fun exercise for those involved.

I now have to accept, in my sixth decade, that I will have to review my bread intake on health grounds. I find that sad given the importance that it has been through my own life.

I may have to go all clandestine in my consumption. That should be easy enough. It just trying to explain my sudden accumulation of small denomination coins that may be more difficult.

Look Mum, No hands!

I admit that I have managed to eke out quite a few writing pieces on the subject of my falling down a hole. That was just over a year ago, 5th April 2017.

It was a freakish accident at the time but resulted in my taking some four months off work to recover from the snapped quad tendon (it really did make a snap sound when it went) and the operation to reattach it.

For the squeamish amongst you it was, truthfully, not that painful and with the support of loved ones, friends, work colleagues and the relevant services provided by the NHS I was able to treat my enforced rest and recuperation as a break from a 30 year entrenched work routine.

It was difficult at times, more out of the suspension of being free and able to do normal things and the initial 12 weeks or so of non-weight bearing saw me confined to the top floor of our three storey house for the duration.

On the plus side I grew a full beard which is something that a man must do at least once in his life, if only to come to the realisation that beards are overrated.

I took the long absence from work to read some of the books that other people and popular consensus say that you should read to further your own self awareness and of course wrote a lot through the medium of this blog.

The lay-up was over the spring and early to mid summer months and I found a wonderful; work space in my garage with the up and over door in the up and over position. A garage with a south facing aspect is tremendous although I have not actually seen that written down in any property sales particulars as an attribute. You must believe me when I say that it definitely is.

From this vantage point I could keep up with the comings and goings of my neighbours, watch the family of ducks on their regular passing to the nearby Park lake through the backway of the housing terrace and be useful in taking in parcels and deliveries for the neighbourhood.

A few friends and colleagues would pop by with a takeaway coffee and a muffin for a few moments respite from their own day and my office traded in Sainsbury's carrier bags bringing bits of paperwork for me to do and return within a couple of days.

It was a good summer and that very reasonable monthly subscription to the Eurosport channel  provided many, many hours live coverage of, up to the time of the hole incident, my favourite participation sport of cycling.

My rehabilitation has been largely driven by the motivation to get back on my bike.

The ultimate irony is that on the day before my accident I had taken delivery of my first new road bike in 32 years. It still stands pedal-less in a corner of the garage but at least it is now fully paid for on a 12 monthl plan purchase scheme.

I have wheeled it out into the daylight regularly and kept the tyres up to pressure in readiness for its first use.

That time is getting very close now.

After weekly physiotherapy for the last 8 months I can actually cock my leg over and stand astride the crossbar as though on a hobby horse. The static trainer bike that my son uses for winter pedalling sessions has enabled my reintroduction to circular leg motion and in recent weeks I have been able to sustain up to an hour of fast rotation. It could have been so much more but indoor cycling is so boring. I have nearly dozed off in the latter stages of a short burst of activity.

Today was an important milestone in my recovery in that I felt brave and fit enough to try full outdoor riding in the form of a few laps around the local public park.

I can report with joy but also a lot of relief that I managed three circuits which, by my reckoning, brings my mileage total in the last year and a bit to a massive two and a half.

I am really happy with that for starters.

A life cut short

His name is second down on the simple memorial stone that bears, in total, 18 names. David Cain.

It overlooks the first team pitch of a rugby club in a small Suffolk town. The 18 were sportsmen, amateur rugby union players ranging from new young participants to the experienced former players but bonded in a passion for the game, its physicality, camaraderie and heritage. 

David was a cousin of my late father. 

I had met him a few times when as a family we had stayed on or near their farm in the beautiful countryside around Dulverton, Somerset. 

To us Thomson siblings David was a bit of a hero. 

The strongest memory I have is of him in the milking parlour on the farm in charge of the eighty or so dairy herd. We, that is my two sisters and myself, watched in amazement as he attached and removed in succession the milking apparatus from the productively swollen udders of the Freisian cows. 

The combination of the noise of machines and from large beasts of varying temperament but above all the smells were both fascinating and fearful to us, as townies and of sheltered upbringing. 

Common to those working the land he also knew the names of all of the herd by sight, Daisy, Buttercup, Rose and so on although to us they all looked identical in their black and white hides. He would take pleasure in lifting us up onto the back of the more docile amongst the milkers.

We were, at that time, all under the age of 12 but David was older, in his early twenties with a promising future ahead of him. He wanted to be a veterinary, naturally from his agricultural background and his studies had taken him to college in that small town.

His love of rugby brought him to what was an extra curricula activity in the town team. The other abiding memory that I have, and I was only 11 at the time, was my father answering a phone call to our house with the news that David had died in a plane crash. 

He was one of 346 souls who perished in what was, at the time the worst air accident in history. 

Of course he should not have been on that aircraft but events and circumstances transpired that he was. 

David and his rugby team mates had been in Paris on the 2^nd March 1974 to watch a Home Championship match between old enemies, France and England. The game ended 12-12, perhaps a bit of a disappointment but the trip will have been one of exuberant spirits and banter. 

The return flight, originally with British European Airways was disrupted by industrial action by airport staff at the London destination and so David, his teammates and some 200 BEA passengers were transferred to a flight that had just arrived from Ankara heading for the UK. 

Turkish Airlines TK981 was a wide bodied McDonnell Douglas DC-10, only a few years old. 

In the stopover at Orly Airport it was loaded up with the new passengers and their baggage before taking off at 12.32pm, the 3rd of March. 

The climb to around 12000 feet was uneventful but then there was a large explosion as the left side cargo door blew out ,breached the fuselage and the resultant collapse in the cabin floor led to catastrophic failure of the hydraulic controls. 

There are indications that Captain Berkoz and his crew regained some control of the plane in its rapid and violent descent as it seemed to level out at low altitude but it was too late. 

Rescue teams arriving at Ermenonville Forest witnessed a scorched and obliterated scene. There were no survivors. 

The shady and dappled woodland trails in that place about 40 miles north east of Paris lead to a stone memorial to the victims. 

Air accident investigations showed that the cause of the crash was a combination of human error and  avoidable design flaws.

McDonnel Douglas were well aware of the weaknesses of cargo hold doors on the DC-10 from stringent tests which showed failure of the locking mechanism under relatively low air pressures but critically from an incident in the air in 1972 when the same sequence of events had nearly caused an Stateside aircraft to crash. 

Documented fixes to resolve the technical weaknesses were left to a gentleman’s agreement between the manufacturers and the Federal Air Authority. They were not implemented across the fleet and specifically to TK981. 

The measures and safeguards that were subsequently introduced following the revelations and scandal of the crash contributed to much improved air safety for the benefit of millions of passengers but this will have been of little comfort to the families and friends of the 346 victims. 

I often think about David and what he would have gone on to do in his life had not it been tragically cut short at the age of 22.

Memorial at Bury St Edmunds Rugby Club, Suffolk

I blame that Biro guy

Just a bit of an apology today.

To explain:

My day job involves taking detailed notes about the physical form and condition of, mostly, houses.

This means that I carry around a pen all of the time in readiness to record longhand my observations.

The pen actually spends very little time in the writing position as in the logistics in getting my equipment and ladders together from car to front door it can find itself behind my ear, gripped in my teeth, stuffed in a pocket or simply held in place under the strong spring of the clipboard.

I stopped, long ago,  putting a pen into my inside suit jacket pocket because of the inevitable seepage of ink following even minor squashing or compression.

In actually walking around a house I lose track of the position of the pen knib and that is where my need to apologise comes into play.

That inky pen end just ends up leaving a long straggly line across wallpaper, plaster, door fronts,  
Kitchen units, staircase bannisters and many more nicely presented finishes.

If this occurs out of sight of the homeowner or occupier I can try to remove the unsightly blemishes with a bit of spittle and the sleeve of my shirt but not always fully effectively.

I can be under constant scrutiny during an inspection which is understandable from an interested or distrustful host but I can deploy diversionary tactics and try to return to the crime scene a bit later on in the inspection. The offer of a cup of tea or sending my shadow to find some paperwork gives me a window of opportunity to cover my tracks.

Often as not my crude graffiti type tag is left in situ.

There is the rather nervy anticipation of an irate phone call or letter of complaint in the after inspection phase but amazingly this has never materialised.

I can only speculate that blame for the inky mess is directed at a member of the respective household, perhaps a small child, bolshy teenager or careless spouse.

I am not proud of my clumsiness and uncoordinated pen skills and so offer an apology, a sort of blanket one as my customised efforts are likely to grace a good number of the 25,000 and more houses and homes that I have visited in the course of my work in the last three decades.

The Walking Dead Tutorial

                          Post Apocalyptic Practicalities. 
                                 A brief guide in pictures

We, as a family, have been catching up on the latest season of "The Walking Dead". Apart from the entertainment value there are a number of lessons to be learned from the main characters who, frankly, are a bit dim. Let's face it; they always go into a dark, abandoned building with their heads down or dealing with their inter-group tensions with no apparent thought for the presence of "walkers" or post traumatic stress affected survivors, some of whom have some weird and warped agendas. 

I have therefore thought long and hard about how I would provide for my family and friends in a post-apocalyptic scenario. Here it is i a pictorial presentation;

                             

               Establish a mountain retreat. Excavate tunnels, chambers and burrows.

         Get a tight fitting cover to the entrance to exclude zombies, aliens, survivors. 

     Your supplies must be a varied range covering all nutritional needs and treats

        The absolute essentials should be suitably stored in a dry,secure atmosphere

      It is alright to stockpile a favourite tipple. Alcohol units will cease to be an issue

 Sanitary facilities should be as good as you can achieve with zero water pressure

 A luxurious retro-bathroom may distract you from the misery and horror generally

 Keep a suitable vehicle fuelled up at a separate secure location, practical, not flash

 A subtle barricade further in the valley could give precious seconds to repel raiders

            Gather your precious possessions. They could be legal tender one day

  Pass your spare time with, say, a creative art project using available resources

        It may be a good opportunity to write that novel that you always wanted to do.

 Keep treats and bonuses for special occasions-say, first 12 months underground

                     Never underestimate the value of reliable cooking equipment

   Music can be an essential form or relaxation. Avoid unhappy tunes

          Keep an ear out for any indications of salvation or return of atmosphere

                                            It does no harm to dream.

             Share it with the persons that you love the most in your brave new world

                 Above ground may have reverted to a strange hierarchy of beasts

                                       It won't hurt to just pray a bit either

Sunday Service

At the best of times I found cycling, especially competitive cycling, very difficult.

I knew early on that I lacked that all important mental strength to get through the pain barrier which was an absolute necessity for those who progressed to great things and so that left me with just sheer energy and a desire not to be too embarrassed as main motivations in the sport.

Those rather weak and feeble qualities did however give me a memorable time on two wheels with a couple of trophies (my surname spelt wrongly on both), brief mention in the event reports of local newspapers (if they had any interest in the minority sport as it used to be) and all importantly an appearance in bold type in the pre-eminent Cycling Weekly for my sole career victory, albeit yet again misspelt.

I was late to cycling having bought my first decent race-ready bike when aged 23 and it was not until I joined a racing club in Nottingham in my student years in the early 1980's that I applied myself to serious participation and all of the fitness, diet and equipment that it entailed.

I happened one dark winter night to attend at a Scout Hut on a main road in the Mapperley area of the city where the owners of a bike shop had mentioned that a local cycle racing club had meetings on a weekday evening.

It could have turned out badly given that I was a student well away from home, a bit of a geek and with a tendency to speak with a clear, neutral if rather southern accent even though I had lived in the north of England for most of my life.

It was film night for the club members and I arrived just in time to see the grainy opening frames of a 1974 movie called "Stars and Watercarriers".

At face value not the most powerful or engaging title but its subject matter, the previous year's Tour of Italy stage race really captured my interest and I was immediately hooked on cycling and it would become an overriding passion for the rest of my life. My short period at that club ranks amongst my best for friendship and support.

That inspirational film was by the Danish Director, Jorgen Leth who established himself as a leading figure in experimental documentary film making.

In 1977 he released what is widely regarded as the most admired cycling documentary of all time- "A Sunday in Hell" which covered in exceptional and revolutionary detail the 1976 Paris Roubaix one day classic cycle race.

Even to those with no interest in two wheeled pedalling the event will be familiar in name although for all of the wrong reasons. This years race on April 8th saw the tragic death of a young Belgian Professional rider, Michael Goolaerts after a crash on one of the cobbled sections of the epic 160 mile Monument Status event.

Leth was able to capture the spirit and meaning of the race in a style and real time format that had just never been seen on the big screen before.

It was an accurate representation of the pain, anguish and suffering of the riders over the six or so hours of racing but also depicted the mundane preparations of the pro-teams and the excitement of the crowds on the roadside along its route. Anything going before it on celluloid was in comparison a bit staged, stagnant and over-edited and lacking any sense of reality.

Leth had to plan his filming meticulously and on that day in April 1976 he mobilised some 27 cameramen who were mounted as pillion on motorcycles, in team cars accompanying the race, at static positions on the route and using the relatively new method of airborne filming from a helicopter.

There is a very low key opening sequence to the documentary with a lone team mechanic working on one of the racing bikes. The rattle and hum of the chain being run between the rear sprocket and the rings of the crankset is at first strangely and hypnotically calming but as a foretaste of the racing ahead it is strangely ominous.

The key riders are then shown arriving with that year's main protagonists including Merckx, De Vlaeminck and Moser sporting either casual suits or functional trackies.

There is no intrusion into the concentration of their race preparations by a microphone wielding reporter but just the reserved and enigmatic tone in voice over of the commentator, David Saunders.

Leth's race coverage is vibrant and the footage is able to capture moments which would otherwise be too fleeting to be even noticed.

The faces of the riders are gritty and graphic in their exertions over the wide roads and treacherous farm track cobbles. Two road blockages during the race by demonstrating print workers are fully detailed from piles of discarded newspaper on the carriageway to the riders being forced to make their way through the picket line in single file and to have protest stickers slapped on the backs of their jerseys.

Spectators are candidly shown having a picnic as they wait for the race to pass or congregating in bars and cafes along the route. It is as much a community and social event as a classic bike race.

That years event was in dry weather and instead of the slippery quagmire that is usually associated with the early April running the film has sequences shrouded in choking dust clouds so that the dispersed field of riders can be identified over miles of distance in the wide panning helicopter shots.

We may feel that in today's TV cycling  coverage we are seeing the absolute pinnacle of technology and presentation but the combination of Leth's artistic treatment and skilful cinematography are for the era well ahead of their time.

In all some 35 hours of film made it to the editing suite and with the 6 hour real time racing condensed into the one hour and fifty one minutes of a masterpiece.

I find myself drawn every few months or so to "A Sunday in Hell" as it is compelling viewing.

The bikes are old school with narrow metal tubing, prominent handlebar sprouting cables, downtube gear levers and copper studded saddles. The riders are wearing wool mix trade team jerseys and shorts and just simple cotton caps rather than hard shell helmets.

The efforts of the riders are no less mythical and heroic.

Put aside some time and catch this amazing film, perhaps for the first time............

A Sunday in Hell (Jorgen Leth 1977)

Reboot the booter

Frogs are in crisis.

This I find quite upsetting because my childhood did involve quite a lot of activities around frogs, ponds and watercourses in the days when no second thought was really given to the chances of falling in, getting a booter or tragically, suffering a drowning which was quite a regular statistic for that time.

Ranging about quite freely even when very young I would marvel at the bubbling cauldron of a field ditch or a shady pool where water boatmen would skim about the surface and sticklebacks would dart into the weedy shallows if pursued by a brightly coloured nylon net on a long, flimsy bamboo pole. Strange gassy bubbles would burst unannounced and randomly out of the muddy deposits and erupt in a burp of some malodorous content, concentric circles would be seen with no apparent creator, a silver flash caught the late afternoon sunlight as a  fish propelled itself at its own shadow or a languishing dragonfly who dared to rest on the tight ,glassy miniscus.

The current concerns about the frog population are indicative of the trend in more recent years for their natural habitats to be lost, either dried up from changes in the water table as agricultural demand takes any ground water supplies, filled in to counter litigation for injury or death even from trespassing youngsters, built over with housing or commercial development or turned into a neglected toxic swamp from choking weed and algae.

To some extent the natural environments have been replaced by ornamental ponds and water features in domestic gardens but this has been only a short term life raft for frogs. The world of the frog has been condensed into the dimensions of a typical  back garden whereas, since the dawn of time, they have been free to roam about at will from damp ground to beck to stream to pond to lake and so on.

The main implication of a much more restrictive habitat is that frogs are now more likely to in-breed and we all know, on a human scale, that a consequence of such does not bode well in the longer term.

There are other threats and these can be regarded as being more of a spin-off from changes in the climate. There was a certain interdependence between the species residing in natural bodies of water and a time in the seasons for the cycles of reproduction, nurture and growth to maturity for each so that the circle of life was perpetuated but not so as to infringe on each other. It now appears that the newt population is spawning much earlier than it has before and this coincides with, unfortunately, the main period when frogspawn is at its peak. This provides a veritable feast for the newly emerged newts but with a devastating effect on the numbers and welfare of their former co-habitees. Nature or natural conspiracy?

I have not seen frog spawn or in fact any abundance of young hatched frogs for some years.

The stretch of common land in the Greenbelt between western Hull and one of its satellite towns has declined significantly in its role as a breeding ground for the amphibious creatures. A few years ago the local residents undertook a campaign to herd frogs across the busy main road with a supervised crossing point to minimise the quite disturbing sight of one dimensional frogs which had been squashed flat by the constant traffic.The warning road sign on approaching the stretch of road has also just recently disappeared as an indictment of unsustainability of this once thriving environment.

It would be a terrible shame for the frog population to diminish further and inconceivable for their numbers to reach anything like an 'at risk' level. It may be time now to create more ponds and water areas of expansive dimensions as part of this buzz word for bio-diversity before it is too late for the species and they are forced to retreat from all but close contact with humans.

We can all do our little bit. A starting point would be to make all children fully proficient in open water swimming and survival techniques and as parents, a bit more sympathetic and understanding on the phenomena of a booter.

Lofty Ideals

It is quite a well tried and tested comedy classic. The foot through the house ceiling.

It has featured in many sit-coms, soaps, dramas and slap stick entertainment over the decades and never fails to get a laugh. That is of course from those who have not actually done it.

It is more common a mishap than you might think through a pure accident, misfortune, ignorance or downright stupidity.

I can say that from first hand observation of the tell tale signs, typically a large patch of replacement plasterboard and freshly painted skim finish, in quite a few houses that I visit in my working day.

The sudden appearance of a single leg up to the natural stooping point of the groin can arise from a number of scenarios.

In the distant past when the insulating of a loft space had to be done without Government Grants it was down to the householder to clamber up and distribute the pulped newsprint, asbestos fibres, fibreglass rolls, polystyrene beads, rockwool and other thermal materials into the far reaches of that dark and inhospitable space.

The attic, roof void or in Yorkshire terminology the cock-loft was rarely accessed when homeowners had no surplus items for storage. It has been a spin-off of the materialistic times that we live in that for the first time there has been tat and unused goods, appliances and chattels to be put away "just in case".

In the current housing market a roof space is a valuable bit of Real Estate for conversion into value added accommodation be it an extra bedroom, home cinema, gymnasium or, as I came across recently, a whisky room- that is for the tasting rather than storing of it.

The drive towards heat retention and energy saving brought on by the 1970's global oil shortages and other crises saw promotions, incentives and subsidies for insulation.

I recall helping my father lag our loft area and as a consequence suffering from a rash and irritations for days afterwards from the fine, abrasive characteristics of the material used.

Current obsessions over maximising the energy performance of our homes has meant that the unpleasant installations are now done by those with experience, skill and access to inert and non-allergenic substances. They get paid for doing it but in the old days a whole weekend could be dedicated to sourcing, buying and transporting the insulation for insertion into a loft if done privately.

It was best to do it in the spring or cooler autumn months as on a hot day the conditions under a slate or felted tiled roof could become unbearably and unhealthily hot and stifling. In the pre-health and safety era the use of a face mask, skin protection or gloves was rarely the case.

Older loft spaces, in particular were dusty, fusty and musty at best adding to the inhospitable environment. All of these factors contributed, to those working in the dark and confined spaces. towards a bit of befuddlement of the mind, disorientation to the senses and carelessness or recklessness in attitude.

There is a certain male bravado in the act of jauntily stepping across the ceiling joists in a roofspace with or without hanging onto available roof rafters or purlins or ducking under the spanned cross collars.

Any crawl boards or rather stored doors or bits of dismantled furniture will have had to be removed to expose the areas for insulation and so, even to the agile and deft of movement there was no protection in the event of a misplaced footfall onto the weaker plaster between the joists.

I can honestly say that I have not, to date, suffered the disgrace and embarrassment of putting through a ceiling in my own or anyone else's home.

That is quite remarkable in that I have been into say, five loft spaces a day, most working days over the last thirty years. By my ready reckoner that is about 30,000 plus roof spaces.

I did come quite close to ending that enviable record today in finding it necessary to identify the make and model of a central heating boiler which had been fitted on the inside of the gable wall in the loft. It was a daft place indeed given that the bungalow property had some 40 metres of outside wall eminently suited to the purpose.

Against my time served better judgement I set off crawling over the ceiling joists which were clearly discernible above the insulation layer. The pitch of the roof slope was shallow and so there was not even stooping space to progress on foot.

About half way from the hatch to the boiler I started to regret my approach and stopped to make a retreat.

I was conflicted between my own wellbeing and getting the boiler details- not the most challenging of dilemmas I admit but nevertheless quite important to my reporting to the prospective buyer of the place.

Balancing across two of the joists I extricated my phone and took some zoom photos of the appliance casing where I could make out an unfamiliar  makers logo and a stylised signature giving the model name and number.

Unfortunately, in my prone stance half way down the loftspace any light from the open hatch was illuminating only one side of the boiler and although the flash captured the faint script it struggled with the makers badge. I shifted carefully to throw a shadow and this got me, as they say, the million dollar shot.

I could now try to get back to the ladder but negotiating the joists in reverse gear was difficult.

I eventually sidled over to the nearest  trussed rafters and clung on, using them like playground monkey bars. It was exhausting.

It had also been a stupid thing to attempt.

One consolation was that I had not blemished my clean record and could look forward to laughing at the comedy greats or just plain homeowners who had shown a leg in such undignified a fashion.

The Village; Idiot

The directional road sign looked forlorn sticking up out of the verge.

We are well used to huge groupings of metal posts and signage in our towns and cities but coming across a sole example in the middle of rolling countryside can be quite startling.

The brown tourist information livery bore the words "Deserted Medieval Village", in itself enough of a curiosity to act as an incentive to divert traffic from their otherwise pre-planned and determined route towards the North Yorkshire Moors and Heritage Coast Resorts.

What to expect of a village from the middle ages and one that has been deserted for all that?

For those vaguely interested enough to take the narrow side lane there must be imaginings and expectations of what lies around the bend in the road. Most of us will have studied the period in junior or secondary school at least and I can still recall the illustrations in text books of mud and thatch huts, small wicker fenced livestock pens, a lot of folk milling around and a few industrious looking plumes of smoke from kiln, smelter and brewery.

Some confusion may arise in our thoughts from images of settlements depicted on the big screen representing either a Hollywood interpretation of the Middle Ages or that mythical Middle Earth.

The car park appears. Not very medieval looking in loose dressed granite chippings and a few dispersed waste bins. There is still nothing to be seen apart from a rustic wooden arrow pointing down another narrow way, this time only suitable for those on foot, mountain bike or horse. A few may just give up and return to their vehicles at this stage as actually reaching the elusive site involves a bit of physical effort albeit downhill.

After a 100 metres or so down the track there is a kissing gate and stile to negotiate and a shallow but sparklingly clear water stream is crossed by a Pooh-sticks bridge but still  nothing at all ancient to gawp at.

Something is however changing in the natural landscape.

Beyond the watercourse the path rises again to a blind summit. This is the northern end of a high Wold valley in this part of East Yorkshire. It is a typical steep sided, "v" shaped valley common to the county but with three critically unique features, 1)It is not dry due to a continous source of water, 2) following a landslip in geologic time it has a plateau in the bottom and 3)a mainly north/south alignment before curving away and shallowing out to the west.

Unlike the other equally picturesque examples which characterise The Wolds the combination of these factors has permitted habitation by humans for millenia, at least from Neolithic times and followed by Iron Agers, Romans, Anglo Saxons , Saxon Normans and to the Middle Ages .

This is Wharram Percy.

The first part of the name is thought to have been derived from Scandinavian for "at the bends" and the second denoting ownership by the powerful Feudal Dukes of Northumberland who controlled and exacted wealth from huge tracts of North Eastern England.

Over the near horizon appears the tower of a church and in its shadow a low range pair of cottages.

A few modern information boards explain the just above ground footings of former peasant dwellings but most interesting of all is an artists impression of a thriving village with, verified by the Domesday Book, two manor houses, 35 other properties, a dam and fish pond with water mill, glebeland and other utility structures to meet the everyday needs of an estimated 150 strong community requiring self sufficiency and a means of sustenance and livelihood.

There was some value in all of this to a landowner and Lord of the Manor with, after the Percy domination control by, amongst others, an Archbishop of York and a Baron.

The depopulation in the fifteenth century was down to the wholesale eviction of the inhabitants to make way for sheep grazing.

The site remains as one of the most important of its type in the UK but yet only 6% by area has been archaeologically investigated and with the last dig and study being in 1991.

Without human attention the predominantly organic buildings rotted away or the materials were commandered and taken away by occupants of nearby hamlets and farmsteads. Part of the tower of St Martins Church fell down in 1959, some ten years after the last act of worship and the farm cottages were last lived in in the 1970's.

The church has many phases of masonry but with 10th century origins. The graveyard investigation revealed 700 skeletons and yielded much about the villagers, their physical stature, health and welfare. Unusually there was a higher than average rate of left handedness. The hard graft required to work the valley caused considerable erosion of cartilage in joints. A skull showed signs of skilful surgery to remove bone fragments from an impact injury.

Other aspects of daily life were reflected in excavated artefacts including candle holders to illuminate the hours of darkness, implements of spinning, recreational pastimes and pottery from as far away as France and the Mediterranean.

Remains of cattle and horses were plentiful for lugging heavy loads and with skeletal parts to show that dogs and cats were kept not so much for pets as usefulness for keeping vermin at bay.

To the visitor from the 21st Century it is a fascinating glimpse of the lifestyle of our distant ancestors.

It is also a beautiful place to just spend some time. Clambering past the pond and up the steep eastern slope gives an awe inspiring view to the soundtrack of meadow birds and under the shadow cast by the large wing span of a circling Red Kite.

You could easily lose a few hours if it were not for the thought of having to make the long return haul back up to the car park.

Grand Irrational

Do not drink to excess, swear, blaspheme, or gamble. Well, I am not proud to say that this is a list in which I can say that I have been 100% unsuccessful.

I like a glass of wine, or two, on an evening or two per week but by current unit measurements this may be regarded as being towards a problem. What a load of *******. I have been known to swear on occasions of frustration and stress but not to use foul language to supplement my vocabulary. I try not to be blasphemous but it can be difficult particularly when many established and popular outbursts and profanities are grounded in faith and worship terms. I gave up on the National Lottery a decade ago and strongly disapprove of the prominence of a betting culture in just about everything in everyday life.

The commercial breaks of UK TV are dominated by advertisements glamourising bingo, scratchcards, poker, roulette and all manner of on-line gaming. Lets face it, these are all solitary, sad and eventuallly demoralising and self- destructive activities. The sort of thing pursued in the gloom of a room, hunched over a laptop or PC and behind a locked door. Not much progress for humanity there from teenage years then.

My Grandparents were of a generation where drunkeness and gambling were still firmly in the category of sinful behaviour. Gradually the righteous indignation against, and taboos attached to such things have become eroded and blurred and are now almost regarded as social attributes rather than matters of personal weakness.

So take a look at what is next. The day of The Grand National.

It is one of the events that define our character and identity as a country following on quickly in the calendar from the early underdog stages of the FA Cup, the Boat Race and as a warm up to the London Marathon. It is also the day when all the country is encouraged to gamble in a spirit of fun and frivolity. Children are carried into the Bookies high on the shoulders of fathers and uncles and encouraged to study form by selecting a nicely named horse or being drawn to the quartered or spotty silk racing colours of the jockeys.

My first ever visit to a Bookies was enough to put me off gambling for life. It was in the 1970's in our small town High Street. The windows, unlike today's mesmerising and hypnotic displays to draw in punters, were grubby and fly infested. The opening of the door released a mushroom cloud of high tar infused cigarette smoke mixed with the sweat from fear and exhilaration of the public occupants. Oversized men, fronted by bulbous and overhanging bellies stood around amongst an ankle deep ticker-tape of discarded betting slips. Some nervously fingered bits of paper, others were well engrossed in obsessive and compulsive behaviour misconstrued as a lucky and superstitious ritual. A few were defeated and dejected and not looking forward to explaining to her indoors about a wafer thin wage packet that week.

It was an entirely male domain, apart from perhaps a hard faced cashier lady behind the grille or nicotine/saliva streaked counter screen. Nowadays the premises of the large chains of betting shops are like Starbucks and have taken on the role of a third home (after the pub of course) for male and female patrons.

My first visit was also an introduction to the mystique and exclusive process of placing a shop-bet.

There were no user friendly instructions for first timers.  My look of utter uselessness and confusion, being close to being overwhelmed and about to pass out in the thick polluted atmosphere ,did elicit some guidance from a regular.

Pick a slip, study the race times and venues, choose a horse, approach the fierce cashier.

Then the big decisions. For a 10p stake, a lot of pocket money in those days, did I want to bet each way or for an outright win. The former term threw me completely- did they turn around and race back from the finish? I went for each way, in my mind, two chances to win. The biggest decision was whether to pay the tax before on the stake or after on the, or any, winnings. I do not recall if I won anything. My 10p disappeared into the back room to end up who knew where.

I realised then that betting was a futile occupation. As I at sometime overheard there may be four counters to take your money but only two to pay it out. Not best odds.

As a family, if we were organised, we would usually have a Grand National sweepstake. There was no logic or system involved in choosing a mount. It was three horses each and our names inked in on the full page special colour spread of the saturday morning Express newspaper. This was stuck up with drawing pins on the kitchen notice board.We may have heard of the better known riders and runners but none of us had anything like a long game strategy.

Our wedding day in 1989 was coincidentally on Grand National Day and one of the horses, 'Last of the Brownies' was such an apt betting proposition given that Brown, and not Last, was the maiden name of my gorgeous bride.

The actual running of the race was always late in the afternoon. If it was nice weather we would be out and about and not really interested in watching. We did, when I was a child,  only have a black and white TV anyway which in itself was problematic. I do have strong memories of individual races such as the wins of Red Rum and Aldiniti, but very strong impressions of death and mayhem amongst the thoroughbred stock as the pace, heavy ground and horrendously challenging jumps and obstacles claimed many equine victims and continues to do so annually.

The day can come and go now without attracting my interest.

It remains however a day of mass public participation and is often an introduction to betting for the first time for many. The TV and media coverage is as extensive and informative as a Royal Wedding and reinforces a cultural trait in this country to forget logic and reason and go for that life changing gamble even if you are well ahead and cruising comfortably in your own grand national.