It was a different era.
We think today that we are in austerity measures but imagine how we would have coped in the immediate Post War period when rationing of staples and essentials persisted and was only ended in the early part of 1950.
The TV documentary, broadcast in more recent years, where a family volunteered to be subject to a wartime lifestyle in all its authenticity showed that the generation of the time was made of more sturdy stuff or was it just down to low expectations and modest, within means living?
It was then a minority who were fortunate enough or wealthy enough to own their own home outright with the main population residing in private rented or the growing council house sectors. My parents' first matrimonial home was occupied as local authority tenants.This was all that was available to them and within a sustainable and affordable budget.
It was a long term project and investment to save up a deposit for the outright purchase of a house, and very much determined by whether the local Bank Manager or Building Society Chief Executive either liked the look of you or was acquainted with your family, on or off the Golf course.
This contrasts sharply and soberly with the ability in the 2000's, in particular, to secure a mortgage to the extent of 120% of the purchase price with very little verification of ability to meet such a long term commitment. There were Media stories of fantastical income multipliers being used to magically summon up the full monies for a purchase and for loosely associated groups ,associates or casual acquaintances to pool their notional gross incomes if such an amalgamated co-operative was the only way to get a foot on the rapidly extending, beyond reach, property ladder.
An old school friend taking his first permanent job after University got together and formed a financial alliance with two fellow graduates. This allowed them to acquire a rather abused and sorry former council house in a reasonable district of Ashford, Kent. I remember him describing how the back door had the largest dog-flap ever that made a mockery of any other domestic security arrangements- unless of course the largest ever dog flap was a tight fit for the largest ever Doberman or Rottweiler.
My friend and his fellow owner occupier mortgagees were thrilled with their move on the market. The female and other male in his household got on with being grown ups with weekends spent travelling around and returning from the DIY Megastores and garden centres. The house slowly turned from derelict hovel to a comfortable home. One third ownership of any equity after the debt was a scary but altogether good feeling.
The almost 1970's TV sit com reality of the co-habitation went extremely well. That was until my friend and the lady of the house became a romantic item. Technical common law status came into play and the now 60% majority holding of any equity after the debt began to open up fissures in the relationship with the now sole male. There may have been an underlying and festering situation anyway given the mantra that three is always a crowd. The triumvirate fractured and it was agreed, without recourse to lawyers that the couple would buy out the share of the lone party. A Valuer was called in to advise and within a few weeks the deed was done and the transfer deed was signed and sealed.
Within a few short years even the new romantics foundered but by then the property market had accelerated so much that the initial investment was now very, very enhanced. With a reluctant but inevitable outcome both left with, for a broken heart and a boxful of sentimental mix-tapes , a nice pocketful of cash. This was the foundation for my friend to be able to afford that once thought out of reach house, a thatched former roadside coaching house in the evocatively named Nomansland in deepest rural Devon. Ah, such were the realities of ascending the property ladder.
The current situation could be no more different.The credit crisis of 2008 persists and mortgages are very hard to come by if you need to borrow more than 75% of the purchase price and impossible if there is any blemish on your credit score which is becoming as crucial to life as your blood group. It is now a fact that one in six of the UK households are in rented housing and owner occupation may become a trend of the past and not at all aspirational in any way.
Thursday, 31 May 2018
Tuesday, 29 May 2018
The year of the murder
In a small town, circa 4000 population, not much really happens, even on year to year basis.
There is a fairly stable population in terms of numbers apart from minor fluctuations to the positive or negative brought about by natural deaths, marriages and births or in the case of one notable year, a murder.
It was the talk of the town, the murder because no one in the living archive of the residents could remember having one before within the Parish Boundary.
Technically, the location of the untimely death was visible from my bedroom window, if I, as the teenager I was, leaned out of the casement, sat on the external sill, and hung on to the internal window board with the other free hand or by a grip of the knees. In actuality, I could only really see a clump of trees and the contrasting grey appearance of asbestos cement sheeting that formed the group of buildings where the murder had been committed.
Peeked at behind prayer-hands, with trepidation, from the main road when passing in our parents' car, the wider view was of a sorry looking establishment that was whispered to have been a Prisoner of War Camp in the 1940's. My own expectations for a prison camp were of course based on what I had seen on such films as The Great Escape, The Wooden Horse and the TV series Colditz.
Even with the most fertile parts of my imagination, what had survived the decades after the drifting away in repatriation or settlement of the Italian former occupants was a great disappointment. Any guard towers, high barbed wire fences and surrounding minefields were long gone, if at all they had existed in the first place to watch over about 100 enemy soldiers whose own nation had capitulated to the Allies and who were likely to have no appetite whatsoever for conflict, fascism or partnering in any thousand year dictatorship.
A few shop fronts on Main Street had exotic Mediterranean sounding names for the proprietors of the ice cream parlour, bakery, general provisions and the beer-off. It would seem that their particular walk to liberation after the end of the war had just been across the railway lines, a matter of a few hundred yards into the town. The businesses were now in the hands of a second generation of self-imposed exiles who had assimilated into the home grown population easily and profitably.
Post- war the camp had been used to accommodate seasonal agricultural workers although many of the low, long and narrow huts had collapsed from lack of maintenance between storm damage or had suffered from vandalism and arson. The land on which the camp had been built did change hands a few times until finally owned and used by a local farmer as a place to store potatoes, sugar beet and hay bales.
Tramps and other vagrants were regularly seen kicking their way through the undergrowth and the brittle sectional concrete panels in order to gain some shelter from the wind. The shells of the huts would afford some respite from a prevailing northerly but the homeless would be in for a rude shock in wet weather as the corrugated asbestos sheets, angled to form the roof, were largely fractured, holed, missing or perforated.
The atmosphere of the place was, to us kids, foreboding. In any other group of under-used or abandoned structures around the town there would be frequent dares in our gang to commit damage, set something afire, snog a lass or just smash any remaining windows.
In the case of the old camp we kept well clear and nothing was spoken of it.
That was, until the murder.
We heard about it from one of our group who lived just down the road. He rode madly, on his Raleigh Chopper bike into the recreation ground where the rest of us were engaged in one of those epic football matches. I was about to even up the score at 42 goals for each team when his unstable, high speed approach threw me off my perfect shape for that shot.
He gesticulated, being a bit out of breath, that the Police had sealed off the road up at the camp and that something had kicked off and big style. Murder was mentioned. Not caring for our jackets and coats which were left as makeshift goalposts on the playing field, we made our way out of the kissing gate and over the railway crossing towards the edge of town.
No one wanted to take the lead so we made our way forward and with increasing hesitancy along the rough grass verge resembling a mob crowd looking for trouble but at the same time not really wanting any.
At first the camp entrance was obscured by a bend in the road but then we could clearly see a Police presence, now consisting of two of the local panda cars and an unmarked van. At the sight of our approach one of the Constables, known to us under an unflattering nickname, muttered to a colleague and made to cut us off before we got too close.
There was history between us and him.
He always seemed to know when an older bother or sister of our group had purchased and passed on a bottle of cider for our consumption under the railway bridge. If any graffiti appeared on Civic property he always sought us out at our somewhat predictable hang-outs to check our hands and pocket contents for evidence. He had an uncanny sense that our bikes, in the fading twilight of a summers evening, would be lacking operational lights. Many a time we were ambushed and reported to our parents.
Now, however, as he walked over the look on the face of the young Policeman was not the usual one we saw. This time it lacked any glee, mock incredulity and he was devoid of any sarcastic or stereotypical coppers comments. We were concentrating on this impending confrontation when the siren of an ambulance made us jump and panic on the verge as it came up behind us. The Constable waved it through but held up the palm of his right hand in that universally recognisable sign of 'Stop!'.
No one in our group spoke. I had half expected an excited cacophony of questions about the nature of the incident and whether there had been blood or other gore, what had been the weapons used and if any perpetrator had been apprehended. The silence was deafening. There would be plenty of opportunities to unravel the full story in the local newspaper or by eavesdropping the conversations of our parents and our elders in the town for some time to come.
I think that the young police officer was genuinely affected by the whole situation. His fresh complexion implied that he cannot have been in the Force for more than a few months. We respected his demeanour and quietly slunk away.
That moment marked a distinct improvement in our subsequent relationship with the local constabulary and that individual in particular.
We did share a common bond after all. Like our group, it must have been his first experience of murder as well.
There is a fairly stable population in terms of numbers apart from minor fluctuations to the positive or negative brought about by natural deaths, marriages and births or in the case of one notable year, a murder.
It was the talk of the town, the murder because no one in the living archive of the residents could remember having one before within the Parish Boundary.
Technically, the location of the untimely death was visible from my bedroom window, if I, as the teenager I was, leaned out of the casement, sat on the external sill, and hung on to the internal window board with the other free hand or by a grip of the knees. In actuality, I could only really see a clump of trees and the contrasting grey appearance of asbestos cement sheeting that formed the group of buildings where the murder had been committed.
Peeked at behind prayer-hands, with trepidation, from the main road when passing in our parents' car, the wider view was of a sorry looking establishment that was whispered to have been a Prisoner of War Camp in the 1940's. My own expectations for a prison camp were of course based on what I had seen on such films as The Great Escape, The Wooden Horse and the TV series Colditz.
Even with the most fertile parts of my imagination, what had survived the decades after the drifting away in repatriation or settlement of the Italian former occupants was a great disappointment. Any guard towers, high barbed wire fences and surrounding minefields were long gone, if at all they had existed in the first place to watch over about 100 enemy soldiers whose own nation had capitulated to the Allies and who were likely to have no appetite whatsoever for conflict, fascism or partnering in any thousand year dictatorship.
A few shop fronts on Main Street had exotic Mediterranean sounding names for the proprietors of the ice cream parlour, bakery, general provisions and the beer-off. It would seem that their particular walk to liberation after the end of the war had just been across the railway lines, a matter of a few hundred yards into the town. The businesses were now in the hands of a second generation of self-imposed exiles who had assimilated into the home grown population easily and profitably.
Post- war the camp had been used to accommodate seasonal agricultural workers although many of the low, long and narrow huts had collapsed from lack of maintenance between storm damage or had suffered from vandalism and arson. The land on which the camp had been built did change hands a few times until finally owned and used by a local farmer as a place to store potatoes, sugar beet and hay bales.
Tramps and other vagrants were regularly seen kicking their way through the undergrowth and the brittle sectional concrete panels in order to gain some shelter from the wind. The shells of the huts would afford some respite from a prevailing northerly but the homeless would be in for a rude shock in wet weather as the corrugated asbestos sheets, angled to form the roof, were largely fractured, holed, missing or perforated.
The atmosphere of the place was, to us kids, foreboding. In any other group of under-used or abandoned structures around the town there would be frequent dares in our gang to commit damage, set something afire, snog a lass or just smash any remaining windows.
In the case of the old camp we kept well clear and nothing was spoken of it.
That was, until the murder.
We heard about it from one of our group who lived just down the road. He rode madly, on his Raleigh Chopper bike into the recreation ground where the rest of us were engaged in one of those epic football matches. I was about to even up the score at 42 goals for each team when his unstable, high speed approach threw me off my perfect shape for that shot.
He gesticulated, being a bit out of breath, that the Police had sealed off the road up at the camp and that something had kicked off and big style. Murder was mentioned. Not caring for our jackets and coats which were left as makeshift goalposts on the playing field, we made our way out of the kissing gate and over the railway crossing towards the edge of town.
No one wanted to take the lead so we made our way forward and with increasing hesitancy along the rough grass verge resembling a mob crowd looking for trouble but at the same time not really wanting any.
At first the camp entrance was obscured by a bend in the road but then we could clearly see a Police presence, now consisting of two of the local panda cars and an unmarked van. At the sight of our approach one of the Constables, known to us under an unflattering nickname, muttered to a colleague and made to cut us off before we got too close.
There was history between us and him.
He always seemed to know when an older bother or sister of our group had purchased and passed on a bottle of cider for our consumption under the railway bridge. If any graffiti appeared on Civic property he always sought us out at our somewhat predictable hang-outs to check our hands and pocket contents for evidence. He had an uncanny sense that our bikes, in the fading twilight of a summers evening, would be lacking operational lights. Many a time we were ambushed and reported to our parents.
Now, however, as he walked over the look on the face of the young Policeman was not the usual one we saw. This time it lacked any glee, mock incredulity and he was devoid of any sarcastic or stereotypical coppers comments. We were concentrating on this impending confrontation when the siren of an ambulance made us jump and panic on the verge as it came up behind us. The Constable waved it through but held up the palm of his right hand in that universally recognisable sign of 'Stop!'.
No one in our group spoke. I had half expected an excited cacophony of questions about the nature of the incident and whether there had been blood or other gore, what had been the weapons used and if any perpetrator had been apprehended. The silence was deafening. There would be plenty of opportunities to unravel the full story in the local newspaper or by eavesdropping the conversations of our parents and our elders in the town for some time to come.
I think that the young police officer was genuinely affected by the whole situation. His fresh complexion implied that he cannot have been in the Force for more than a few months. We respected his demeanour and quietly slunk away.
That moment marked a distinct improvement in our subsequent relationship with the local constabulary and that individual in particular.
We did share a common bond after all. Like our group, it must have been his first experience of murder as well.
Monday, 28 May 2018
Learning through Play
The concept of "Goodies" and "Baddies" is remarkably difficult to explain to six year olds.
I found this out over the weekend when entrusted by family friends to host their twin boys on the event of their wedding anniversary when quality Mummy and Daddy time was on the cards.
It was a sleep-over at our place and the boys were over excited by the prospect of the visit, not so much on the criteria of quality care, lots of treats, going to bed late or our entertainment value but because of a plastic box of toy cars.
The contents are the property of our own son, now in his early twenties, but represented many shopping trips and transactions involving pocket money.
The vehicles are of the chunky die cast type and have managed to survive the demands of imaginary play which inevitably include being parachuted out of an upstairs window using a handkerchief as the canopy, burial under various geology types, immersion in bath water, being left on public transport and gratefully returned by kind members of the travelling public, compression under parental foot, saturation with juice or foodstuffs, impact with furnishings and wall plaster and not a little disrespect from other users (I blame the parents).
There is a definite theme to the collection of cars, or at least a good proportion of it, and that is the means of getting about by the Secret Agent, James Bond.
Our stay-over visitors do of course have their own toy box and I am in fact quite jealous of , in particular the farm vehicles, Disney spin off creations and heavy machinery including a huge remote control JCB Excavator but, and I put this down to political correctness and gender equality issues, they have nothing of a similar rootin', tootin' and shootin' calibre as the car pool of James Bond.
The boys, whilst on previous visits to our house, have developed a fascination with the concealed gadgets and features of a typical Bond motor and with it comes their inevitable questions about "Goodies" and "Baddies".
It must be a confusing time for their young minds.
Don't get me wrong they have been brought up in a very ethically sound household, attend church weekly and already have a strong moral compass but how, they ask, can a person with good intentions (ie, James Bond's commitment to the Defence of the Realm and Western Democracy) have such an armoury of bad-ass (my words) mobile weaponry?
Surely, in the real world, I can see them thinking, only a baddie, intent on sinister and maleficent (their word) behaviour would have the resources and motivation to put together such an armoury intent on madness and mayhem?
Learning through play is a valuable technique and so I endeavoured to explain as tactfully and sensitively as possible the purpose of the Espionage role in modern society taking each of the die cast Bond vehicles in turn.
There is of course a definite need for a car to transform from a conventional road vehicle to a fantastical underwater submarine in order for a "Goodie" to escape the attempts by "Baddies" to stop him.
Tactical missiles and heavy calibre machine guns are also quite important but, I stressed to the boys, only for purposes of self defence, and if provoked by others in the first place.
Being able to drive on varied road surfaces and also where there are no carriageways or byways at all is a handy attribute and so having tyres that can pop out snow grips at the press of a button or a set of clever ski-type outriggers for added stability is just good common sense design.Such is the far reaching influence globally of the Secret Service that an all terrain capability is essential.
I was careful to play down the speed element of the powerful Bond cars although on the wood floor of our living room the boys showed a good grasp of doing a doughnut, handbrake turn and drifting in their toy car based play.
Speed limits and sensible gear changes for best fuel economy were things that I tried to explain although above their realistic vocal impressions of turbo charged petrol engines I am not sure if the message got through fully.
There are also Bond Villain's cars in our sons collection with an equivalent fire power and means of creating chaos to that of their adversary but I was keen to play down any rights and entitlements of "baddies" to have such things. If there was any hint of a turn-around in roles in the play scenarios being enacted out by the boys, for example, where James Bond looked like he was losing , I was quick to bring up questions of discussion on the moral righteousness of a State sponsored secret service and I think that they took it on board as it was mentioned whilst they had a short break of milk and mini-cheddar biscuits.
In my own childhood I had a deep respect for the Police and authorities and would blush easily if spoken to by an Officer of the Law, not I add out of any implied guilt. So, how do I explain the less than respectful stance of James Bond towards law enforcement bodies particularly those in what is portrayed as the old Soviet Bloc? Having a laser beam in a wheel hub cap is a good deterrent but actually deploying it to sever the chassis from an old Lada Police Car could be seen as being a bit excessive. The boys seemed to agree with me on that.
I found the experience very interesting. The Classic Bond Films in which the cars in my son's collection featured are from a wholly different era in history with a starkly contrasting set of values, behaviour and attitudes that we just do not tolerate today.
It is all well and good being able to have discussions and debates on all manner of subjects and topics with your peer group where some form of reasoning and wider worldly knowledge can be applied but just try to put together a rational sounding sentence to convince sharp minded and inquisitive six year olds about something and you can find yourself in quite challenging territory.
I found this out over the weekend when entrusted by family friends to host their twin boys on the event of their wedding anniversary when quality Mummy and Daddy time was on the cards.
It was a sleep-over at our place and the boys were over excited by the prospect of the visit, not so much on the criteria of quality care, lots of treats, going to bed late or our entertainment value but because of a plastic box of toy cars.
The contents are the property of our own son, now in his early twenties, but represented many shopping trips and transactions involving pocket money.
The vehicles are of the chunky die cast type and have managed to survive the demands of imaginary play which inevitably include being parachuted out of an upstairs window using a handkerchief as the canopy, burial under various geology types, immersion in bath water, being left on public transport and gratefully returned by kind members of the travelling public, compression under parental foot, saturation with juice or foodstuffs, impact with furnishings and wall plaster and not a little disrespect from other users (I blame the parents).
There is a definite theme to the collection of cars, or at least a good proportion of it, and that is the means of getting about by the Secret Agent, James Bond.
Our stay-over visitors do of course have their own toy box and I am in fact quite jealous of , in particular the farm vehicles, Disney spin off creations and heavy machinery including a huge remote control JCB Excavator but, and I put this down to political correctness and gender equality issues, they have nothing of a similar rootin', tootin' and shootin' calibre as the car pool of James Bond.
The boys, whilst on previous visits to our house, have developed a fascination with the concealed gadgets and features of a typical Bond motor and with it comes their inevitable questions about "Goodies" and "Baddies".
It must be a confusing time for their young minds.
Don't get me wrong they have been brought up in a very ethically sound household, attend church weekly and already have a strong moral compass but how, they ask, can a person with good intentions (ie, James Bond's commitment to the Defence of the Realm and Western Democracy) have such an armoury of bad-ass (my words) mobile weaponry?
Surely, in the real world, I can see them thinking, only a baddie, intent on sinister and maleficent (their word) behaviour would have the resources and motivation to put together such an armoury intent on madness and mayhem?
Learning through play is a valuable technique and so I endeavoured to explain as tactfully and sensitively as possible the purpose of the Espionage role in modern society taking each of the die cast Bond vehicles in turn.
There is of course a definite need for a car to transform from a conventional road vehicle to a fantastical underwater submarine in order for a "Goodie" to escape the attempts by "Baddies" to stop him.
Tactical missiles and heavy calibre machine guns are also quite important but, I stressed to the boys, only for purposes of self defence, and if provoked by others in the first place.
Being able to drive on varied road surfaces and also where there are no carriageways or byways at all is a handy attribute and so having tyres that can pop out snow grips at the press of a button or a set of clever ski-type outriggers for added stability is just good common sense design.Such is the far reaching influence globally of the Secret Service that an all terrain capability is essential.
I was careful to play down the speed element of the powerful Bond cars although on the wood floor of our living room the boys showed a good grasp of doing a doughnut, handbrake turn and drifting in their toy car based play.
Speed limits and sensible gear changes for best fuel economy were things that I tried to explain although above their realistic vocal impressions of turbo charged petrol engines I am not sure if the message got through fully.
There are also Bond Villain's cars in our sons collection with an equivalent fire power and means of creating chaos to that of their adversary but I was keen to play down any rights and entitlements of "baddies" to have such things. If there was any hint of a turn-around in roles in the play scenarios being enacted out by the boys, for example, where James Bond looked like he was losing , I was quick to bring up questions of discussion on the moral righteousness of a State sponsored secret service and I think that they took it on board as it was mentioned whilst they had a short break of milk and mini-cheddar biscuits.
In my own childhood I had a deep respect for the Police and authorities and would blush easily if spoken to by an Officer of the Law, not I add out of any implied guilt. So, how do I explain the less than respectful stance of James Bond towards law enforcement bodies particularly those in what is portrayed as the old Soviet Bloc? Having a laser beam in a wheel hub cap is a good deterrent but actually deploying it to sever the chassis from an old Lada Police Car could be seen as being a bit excessive. The boys seemed to agree with me on that.
I found the experience very interesting. The Classic Bond Films in which the cars in my son's collection featured are from a wholly different era in history with a starkly contrasting set of values, behaviour and attitudes that we just do not tolerate today.
Sunday, 27 May 2018
A life of challenges
Here is a sad but inspiring true story of the endurance, courage and optimism of a single human being.
Private Frank Meakin survived against all odds and broke Army rules to keep his record of the catastrophic Battle of the Somme – leaving a powerful account of the horrors of war.
Frank was 34, working as an architect and had recently married when he signed up with the Sheffield Pals in 1914, one of many battalions formed as part of Lord Kitchener’s new civilian army. Other comrades included clerks, students, shop assistants and teachers. Frank, as a blue collar professional was encouraged to join up as the Military specifically did not want the volunteers solely to come from the working classes. They liked the idea of people normally behind desks going off to war although a lot of them may not have been as robust as those people doing manual labour would have been.
All around him, his friends, neighbours and colleagues lay wounded and dying – and Private Frank Meakin was now about to risk the same fate.
“There were some ghastly messes...forms in the bottom of the trench and several times, in feeling if they were alive, my hand would be plunged into a gory mess of flesh. I encountered loose limbs too,” he wrote in his diary.
Such a first-hand account of the Battle of the Somme should never have existed.
It was forbidden for servicemen on active duty at the front to keep any information that could be used by the enemy, so a diary like this could have led to severe punishment and possible court martial.
After being locked away in a box since the end of the First World War , the words of this volunteer soldier have only recently come to light.
Frank Meakin was posted to France with the Sheffield Pals battalion during the first days of the battle – the bloodiest in British history – which began just over 100 years ago.
Counting both sides, more than a million soldiers were killed or injured in the five-month battle across a 15-mile front. On the first day alone 100,000 British troops went over the top, and more than 19,000 of them were killed. Many who survived never wanted to talk about what they saw, some burning their uniform and never spoke of the war again. It is the very the ordinariness of Frank Meakins diary entries that have proven so riveting.
Frank had several months of training at Redmires Camp in the city before going to Egypt and then France in March 1916.
On June 27, just a few days before the battle, he received orders he would be taken from the base to the front line. In his diary he wrote: “We were awakened at 11.15am to pack my valise and private effects and to carry to [the camp] at 2 o’clock. My boots, socks and trousers are all ringing wet. I am now putting this away with my private things. My last thought as I close this – oh, Doll my darling, how dearly I love you and my mother.”
They were sent over the top on that first day on July 1.
From the recent television coverage of the Centenary Commemorations it is testament to the violent significance of the battle that the trenches and landscape scars are still there. The amount of priceless bits of old metal from that day in that field are still being excavated on a daily basis remains extraordinary.
The Sheffield Pals were at a disadvantage immediately upon leaving their trenches with an upwards slope in the field affording the higher ground and tactical superiority to the Germans. Observers of the Somme conflict recorded that "The battalion was so close to one end of the line and the German line curved in an arc meant the Sheffield Pals weren’t just walking towards the enemy, the enemy was at their sides as well, with machine guns so they were hit in a way which very few other battalions were.”
Just 47 of the 650 men in the battalion survived unwounded, including Frank who returned to collect his diary from the camp.
He wrote: “Sergeant Oakes had asked Captain Colley for reinforcements before going over as all his section had been blown up. Colley tried to get some but couldn’t. ‘Never mind’ he said, just before going over, ‘We shall all be dead in a couple of minutes’.”
He had followed the first wave over the top at 7.25am and, after finding the captain in the front bay, asked him the time. Frank wrote: “He pulled out his watch but could scarcely hold it, so shattered were his nerves. The poor fellow followed us all the same and was killed.” He also described the appalling living conditions, which were rife with rats and lice. “We were over our thighs in water going over the trench,” Frank wrote.
He also told how in the days that followed, they were marched 12 miles to Louvencourt. He wrote: “We were promised a rest and tea but we were disappointed... marched 10 or 12 miles with only two short halts of a minute or so.” His mood was raised by a brigadier – but only temporarily.
Frank wrote: “He addressed us with the most fulsome praise, saying that never had troops advanced so steadily in the face of such a fearful fire. It was like a Guards parade.” But Frank added they were told their attack had the “desired effect” by holding “Germans in hand and thus enabling the French on our right to make such progress almost unopposed”.
The private wrote: “Thus our suspicions were confirmed; we had merely been offered up as a sacrifice.”
He added: “No reserves were at hand to follow us up, nor was it ever intended we should be reinforced.”
Frank was a secret diabetic, and after the condition worsened in 1918, he had to declare it – and was discharged. He was sent to Cheltenham to recuperate before returning to his wife, Doll, and his old job at Sheffield Town Hall.
There is little information about how Frank Meakin adapted to civilian life after his traumatic ordeal.
Many former soldiers, even if not directly affected by life changing injuries suffered from what we now know as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shell shock, nightmares, a feeling of guilt at surviving comrades and a difficulty with relationships and normal life continued to afflict thousands for the rest of their lives.
Perhaps an indication of a happy post-war family life Frank was able to go on holiday but tragically, whilst on vacation at Bridlington in East Yorkshire, UK in 1934 he drowned whilst swimming , aged 54 .
It never occurred to Frank Meakin that he would actually die in battle.
(Source document; Tony Robinson in The Mirror)
Private Frank Meakin survived against all odds and broke Army rules to keep his record of the catastrophic Battle of the Somme – leaving a powerful account of the horrors of war.
Frank was 34, working as an architect and had recently married when he signed up with the Sheffield Pals in 1914, one of many battalions formed as part of Lord Kitchener’s new civilian army. Other comrades included clerks, students, shop assistants and teachers. Frank, as a blue collar professional was encouraged to join up as the Military specifically did not want the volunteers solely to come from the working classes. They liked the idea of people normally behind desks going off to war although a lot of them may not have been as robust as those people doing manual labour would have been.
All around him, his friends, neighbours and colleagues lay wounded and dying – and Private Frank Meakin was now about to risk the same fate.
“There were some ghastly messes...forms in the bottom of the trench and several times, in feeling if they were alive, my hand would be plunged into a gory mess of flesh. I encountered loose limbs too,” he wrote in his diary.
Such a first-hand account of the Battle of the Somme should never have existed.
It was forbidden for servicemen on active duty at the front to keep any information that could be used by the enemy, so a diary like this could have led to severe punishment and possible court martial.
After being locked away in a box since the end of the First World War , the words of this volunteer soldier have only recently come to light.
Frank Meakin was posted to France with the Sheffield Pals battalion during the first days of the battle – the bloodiest in British history – which began just over 100 years ago.
Counting both sides, more than a million soldiers were killed or injured in the five-month battle across a 15-mile front. On the first day alone 100,000 British troops went over the top, and more than 19,000 of them were killed. Many who survived never wanted to talk about what they saw, some burning their uniform and never spoke of the war again. It is the very the ordinariness of Frank Meakins diary entries that have proven so riveting.
Frank had several months of training at Redmires Camp in the city before going to Egypt and then France in March 1916.
On June 27, just a few days before the battle, he received orders he would be taken from the base to the front line. In his diary he wrote: “We were awakened at 11.15am to pack my valise and private effects and to carry to [the camp] at 2 o’clock. My boots, socks and trousers are all ringing wet. I am now putting this away with my private things. My last thought as I close this – oh, Doll my darling, how dearly I love you and my mother.”
They were sent over the top on that first day on July 1.
From the recent television coverage of the Centenary Commemorations it is testament to the violent significance of the battle that the trenches and landscape scars are still there. The amount of priceless bits of old metal from that day in that field are still being excavated on a daily basis remains extraordinary.
The Sheffield Pals were at a disadvantage immediately upon leaving their trenches with an upwards slope in the field affording the higher ground and tactical superiority to the Germans. Observers of the Somme conflict recorded that "The battalion was so close to one end of the line and the German line curved in an arc meant the Sheffield Pals weren’t just walking towards the enemy, the enemy was at their sides as well, with machine guns so they were hit in a way which very few other battalions were.”
Just 47 of the 650 men in the battalion survived unwounded, including Frank who returned to collect his diary from the camp.
He wrote: “Sergeant Oakes had asked Captain Colley for reinforcements before going over as all his section had been blown up. Colley tried to get some but couldn’t. ‘Never mind’ he said, just before going over, ‘We shall all be dead in a couple of minutes’.”
He had followed the first wave over the top at 7.25am and, after finding the captain in the front bay, asked him the time. Frank wrote: “He pulled out his watch but could scarcely hold it, so shattered were his nerves. The poor fellow followed us all the same and was killed.” He also described the appalling living conditions, which were rife with rats and lice. “We were over our thighs in water going over the trench,” Frank wrote.
He also told how in the days that followed, they were marched 12 miles to Louvencourt. He wrote: “We were promised a rest and tea but we were disappointed... marched 10 or 12 miles with only two short halts of a minute or so.” His mood was raised by a brigadier – but only temporarily.
Frank wrote: “He addressed us with the most fulsome praise, saying that never had troops advanced so steadily in the face of such a fearful fire. It was like a Guards parade.” But Frank added they were told their attack had the “desired effect” by holding “Germans in hand and thus enabling the French on our right to make such progress almost unopposed”.
The private wrote: “Thus our suspicions were confirmed; we had merely been offered up as a sacrifice.”
He added: “No reserves were at hand to follow us up, nor was it ever intended we should be reinforced.”
Frank was a secret diabetic, and after the condition worsened in 1918, he had to declare it – and was discharged. He was sent to Cheltenham to recuperate before returning to his wife, Doll, and his old job at Sheffield Town Hall.
There is little information about how Frank Meakin adapted to civilian life after his traumatic ordeal.
Many former soldiers, even if not directly affected by life changing injuries suffered from what we now know as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shell shock, nightmares, a feeling of guilt at surviving comrades and a difficulty with relationships and normal life continued to afflict thousands for the rest of their lives.
Perhaps an indication of a happy post-war family life Frank was able to go on holiday but tragically, whilst on vacation at Bridlington in East Yorkshire, UK in 1934 he drowned whilst swimming , aged 54 .
It never occurred to Frank Meakin that he would actually die in battle.
(Source document; Tony Robinson in The Mirror)
Friday, 25 May 2018
Bin there, but not done that !
I am all for recycling as much as possible.
It is not an easy thing to do and takes a lot of thought.
There is a small cluster of 5 Local Council supplied bins in my back-way. These are three blue ones for main recyclable items, a brown bin for garden and food waste and the bin of last resort in a sort of blackish-grey.
The smaller sorting receptacle in our kitchen starts the process by separating the basic groups for later depositing in the outside bins and again, it is quite an effort not just to do it but to do it correctly.
The bin men or as they are now called, Waste and Recycling Operatives, are very picky about what they will take even following my best efforts to comply with the issued instructions. The blue bin contents are regularly spot checked and with the sanction of a warning notice and, in leaving the offending bin un-emptied, a second chance to get it right for the scheduled bi-fortnight collection.
There is also the fall back scenario, if my domestic bins are full to capacity, of taking the surplus waste to the nearest Civic Amenity Site although on a weekend it is usual to have to queue up on the ramp for about an hour for the privilege of dumping stuff in an allocated skip.
There are other options and these are in the form of small clusters of small recycling bins to be found at supermarkets, pubs or car parks and these number, in the UK, around 15000 or so sites.
In addition to the specialised bottle banks in such settings which are collected by commercial operations there are the Clothes Banks which are a valuable source of income for charitable concerns.
In fact the current value of clothing collected in this way is around £250 a metric tonne and this is thought to put, in total, some £75 million annually into the funding starved accounts of such important organisations.
However, a relatively recent phenomena hitting this income stream has been the strange, forcible disappearance of around 20 clothing banks every week.
It cannot be an easy task to remove a full bin and yet this rate of theft, for theft is what it inevitably is, indicates a well trained and efficient army of perpetrators equipped with suitable transport and lifting gear for a quick getaway which has so far been without witness or evidence.
There was a similar crime wave involving clothes banks in 2009 to 2010 followed by a sort of uneasy lull or cease fire but in the last 18 months there has been a significant upsurge.
Notwithstanding the potential value of the contents the actual gun turret shaped bins themselves cost from £600 to £1000 each and with additional expenditure if branded in the name and national livery of a specific Charity.
The culprits do not appear to have a defined criminal profile and could as well be opportunists or plain traders in rags and cloth. The old rag and bone men , or Tatters to give them a more populist name plied in cloth amongst their traditional iron and scrap goods and such business will still have some value even in today's consumerist throw-away society.
A few of the bins reported missing did turn up rebranded for another Charity although the recipients were probably just offered them on the cheap rather than being implied to be involved in some way in the crime spree.
The loss of income to the beneficiary Charities is significant and with the 750 stolen bins alone thought to have been capable of generating about a million pounds.
It is a case of more vigilance and supervision of the recycling sites but the cost will be tangible and another drain on the hard pressed resources of the hard working Charitable sector in this country.
It is not an easy thing to do and takes a lot of thought.
There is a small cluster of 5 Local Council supplied bins in my back-way. These are three blue ones for main recyclable items, a brown bin for garden and food waste and the bin of last resort in a sort of blackish-grey.
The smaller sorting receptacle in our kitchen starts the process by separating the basic groups for later depositing in the outside bins and again, it is quite an effort not just to do it but to do it correctly.
The bin men or as they are now called, Waste and Recycling Operatives, are very picky about what they will take even following my best efforts to comply with the issued instructions. The blue bin contents are regularly spot checked and with the sanction of a warning notice and, in leaving the offending bin un-emptied, a second chance to get it right for the scheduled bi-fortnight collection.
There is also the fall back scenario, if my domestic bins are full to capacity, of taking the surplus waste to the nearest Civic Amenity Site although on a weekend it is usual to have to queue up on the ramp for about an hour for the privilege of dumping stuff in an allocated skip.
There are other options and these are in the form of small clusters of small recycling bins to be found at supermarkets, pubs or car parks and these number, in the UK, around 15000 or so sites.
In addition to the specialised bottle banks in such settings which are collected by commercial operations there are the Clothes Banks which are a valuable source of income for charitable concerns.
In fact the current value of clothing collected in this way is around £250 a metric tonne and this is thought to put, in total, some £75 million annually into the funding starved accounts of such important organisations.
However, a relatively recent phenomena hitting this income stream has been the strange, forcible disappearance of around 20 clothing banks every week.
It cannot be an easy task to remove a full bin and yet this rate of theft, for theft is what it inevitably is, indicates a well trained and efficient army of perpetrators equipped with suitable transport and lifting gear for a quick getaway which has so far been without witness or evidence.
There was a similar crime wave involving clothes banks in 2009 to 2010 followed by a sort of uneasy lull or cease fire but in the last 18 months there has been a significant upsurge.
Notwithstanding the potential value of the contents the actual gun turret shaped bins themselves cost from £600 to £1000 each and with additional expenditure if branded in the name and national livery of a specific Charity.
The culprits do not appear to have a defined criminal profile and could as well be opportunists or plain traders in rags and cloth. The old rag and bone men , or Tatters to give them a more populist name plied in cloth amongst their traditional iron and scrap goods and such business will still have some value even in today's consumerist throw-away society.
A few of the bins reported missing did turn up rebranded for another Charity although the recipients were probably just offered them on the cheap rather than being implied to be involved in some way in the crime spree.
The loss of income to the beneficiary Charities is significant and with the 750 stolen bins alone thought to have been capable of generating about a million pounds.
It is a case of more vigilance and supervision of the recycling sites but the cost will be tangible and another drain on the hard pressed resources of the hard working Charitable sector in this country.
Wednesday, 23 May 2018
18th Century Cowboy Builders
For those unfamiliar with the term "Cowboy Builder"; it refers to a tradesperson or artisan who performs substandard work at an inflated price. It is not such a modern phenomena as I shall explain.
Those surviving to any sort of maturity or senior age in the Georgian Period were still unlikely to exceed, say, five foot four in height.
I have come to this conclusion not through a careful archive study of that era or having been told that fact through Wikipedia or The History Channel but in a practical and quite painful way.
It is my privilege, in the course of my employment to visit and inspect, on a fairly regular basis, the grand and imposing houses from the 18th Century which are in pretty good supply in many of the East Yorkshire towns and villages on my patch.
In all, bar none, my assessment of the average height of its former occupants is based on the frequent clashing of my head as I neglect to stoop my five foot ten form through the low and squat doorways.
There are mitigating circumstances behind what many may regard as inattentiveness, carelessness or just plain stupidity.
I do have my wits about me in a Georgian House mainly because of the requirement of my job to be observant of building defects, problems and shortcomings.
Even if the house was originally built for a historically significant local or national character and at great comparative expense for that period in time with the highest quality of workmanship and materials there is still a possibility of the Master Craftsmen having a bad day on the tools.
I expect that, the same as today ,the approach of a friday afternoon and weekend exerted the same feelings of laziness and complacency on our labouring ancestors, particularly the promise of a Toby Jug quart of strong cider, porter or ale and the luxury of a leisurely clay pipe full of tobacco. The male workforce of time served artisans and their apprentices will also, undoubtedly, have had wife or fiancee troubles, money worries and health problems serving to distract them from applying their skills and diligence to the task in hand.
Take the sheer thickness of a typical 18th Century Manor House. Stone built or in the newly arrived North European building phenomena of clay bricks an external wall could exceed 2 feet from facing to plasterwork finish.
The intention was for such a mass of masonry to resist weathering and inevitable dampness from the British climate and with the added benefit of forming a very sturdy platform on which to build upwards in the absence, otherwise , of a meaningful foundation.
In volume, that is a considerable amount of stone, brick and lime plaster. There will certainly have been a temptation to pack out the supposed solid wall construction with debris, loose stones or even grass and straw and then charge the Client the full amount.
House Builders today heartily discourage prospective buyers from touring their intended acquisition whilst it is being built for the same reason. I have seen a cavity wall full of the wrappers and detritus from packed lunches, bits of wood wedged into shortly to be concealed voids and no amount of brick bits squashed and cajoled into yet more gaps in what appears to be a perfectly finished product upon handover to the buyer.
Armed with historic and contemporary knowledge of builders short cuts and sharp practice you can appreciate that I walk about in a Georgian house in an agitated and probing manner. A good thump on the plasterwork of a thick outer wall, of course out of the earshot of the current owner, can result in an interesting sound of loose and falling materials behind.
Under foot the floors in a Period property also take some careful negotiation. The preference for large dressed Yorkstone slabs is evident in hallways, Garden Passages and the business end of a posh residence, the kitchen, scullery and utility areas. These gravestone dimensioned bits of stone were laid directly onto the soil or with a chalk base and under countless footfalls and fluctuations in ground conditions these can become very uneven and a stumbling hazard.
The best rooms in the house reserved for the 18th Century family had timber floors, warmer being raised off the ground and usually well polished and exposed as a feature. However, if surviving to the present day care must be exercised in a simple walking action due to weakness from rot and decay, wood boring insect and general wear and tear.
The quality of a Georgian House diminishes dramatically on a directly proportional basis both upwards floor by floor and backwards through the accommodation.
Typically orientated to the South are the main habitable rooms. This is logical for natural warmth and light with large multi-paned sash windows. Farther back in the cold damp and dark northerly recesses are the kitchens, pantries and wine cellars. At the top of the house in the draughty and poorly insulated eaves lived any of the domestic staff and servants if not commuting in daily by foot.
The attic accommodation is in contrast most spartan and crude but then again a reminder of your position in the social hierarchy.
I do therefore have to keep my wits about me when inspecting an Old Georgian pile and you may now understand that the matter of a low door casing is very easy, therefore, to miss until too late and that inevitable eye watering clash of head on seasoned timber.
Those surviving to any sort of maturity or senior age in the Georgian Period were still unlikely to exceed, say, five foot four in height.
I have come to this conclusion not through a careful archive study of that era or having been told that fact through Wikipedia or The History Channel but in a practical and quite painful way.
It is my privilege, in the course of my employment to visit and inspect, on a fairly regular basis, the grand and imposing houses from the 18th Century which are in pretty good supply in many of the East Yorkshire towns and villages on my patch.
In all, bar none, my assessment of the average height of its former occupants is based on the frequent clashing of my head as I neglect to stoop my five foot ten form through the low and squat doorways.
There are mitigating circumstances behind what many may regard as inattentiveness, carelessness or just plain stupidity.
I do have my wits about me in a Georgian House mainly because of the requirement of my job to be observant of building defects, problems and shortcomings.
Even if the house was originally built for a historically significant local or national character and at great comparative expense for that period in time with the highest quality of workmanship and materials there is still a possibility of the Master Craftsmen having a bad day on the tools.
I expect that, the same as today ,the approach of a friday afternoon and weekend exerted the same feelings of laziness and complacency on our labouring ancestors, particularly the promise of a Toby Jug quart of strong cider, porter or ale and the luxury of a leisurely clay pipe full of tobacco. The male workforce of time served artisans and their apprentices will also, undoubtedly, have had wife or fiancee troubles, money worries and health problems serving to distract them from applying their skills and diligence to the task in hand.
Take the sheer thickness of a typical 18th Century Manor House. Stone built or in the newly arrived North European building phenomena of clay bricks an external wall could exceed 2 feet from facing to plasterwork finish.
The intention was for such a mass of masonry to resist weathering and inevitable dampness from the British climate and with the added benefit of forming a very sturdy platform on which to build upwards in the absence, otherwise , of a meaningful foundation.
In volume, that is a considerable amount of stone, brick and lime plaster. There will certainly have been a temptation to pack out the supposed solid wall construction with debris, loose stones or even grass and straw and then charge the Client the full amount.
House Builders today heartily discourage prospective buyers from touring their intended acquisition whilst it is being built for the same reason. I have seen a cavity wall full of the wrappers and detritus from packed lunches, bits of wood wedged into shortly to be concealed voids and no amount of brick bits squashed and cajoled into yet more gaps in what appears to be a perfectly finished product upon handover to the buyer.
Armed with historic and contemporary knowledge of builders short cuts and sharp practice you can appreciate that I walk about in a Georgian house in an agitated and probing manner. A good thump on the plasterwork of a thick outer wall, of course out of the earshot of the current owner, can result in an interesting sound of loose and falling materials behind.
Under foot the floors in a Period property also take some careful negotiation. The preference for large dressed Yorkstone slabs is evident in hallways, Garden Passages and the business end of a posh residence, the kitchen, scullery and utility areas. These gravestone dimensioned bits of stone were laid directly onto the soil or with a chalk base and under countless footfalls and fluctuations in ground conditions these can become very uneven and a stumbling hazard.
The best rooms in the house reserved for the 18th Century family had timber floors, warmer being raised off the ground and usually well polished and exposed as a feature. However, if surviving to the present day care must be exercised in a simple walking action due to weakness from rot and decay, wood boring insect and general wear and tear.
The quality of a Georgian House diminishes dramatically on a directly proportional basis both upwards floor by floor and backwards through the accommodation.
Typically orientated to the South are the main habitable rooms. This is logical for natural warmth and light with large multi-paned sash windows. Farther back in the cold damp and dark northerly recesses are the kitchens, pantries and wine cellars. At the top of the house in the draughty and poorly insulated eaves lived any of the domestic staff and servants if not commuting in daily by foot.
The attic accommodation is in contrast most spartan and crude but then again a reminder of your position in the social hierarchy.
I do therefore have to keep my wits about me when inspecting an Old Georgian pile and you may now understand that the matter of a low door casing is very easy, therefore, to miss until too late and that inevitable eye watering clash of head on seasoned timber.
Tuesday, 22 May 2018
3.14159 with gravy
I find it very surprising that, in those mainly end of the century public polls on the greatest inventions and innovations of our times, the Fray Bentos Pies does not even make it to the top 100, or more.
The concept of a crusty topped pie in a tin is radical and I can appreciate why some amongst the population cannot grasp and appreciate this culinary miracle.
I personally adopted the steak and kidney offering of that illustrious brand as my preferred means of sustenance whilst a student and in fact celebrated my 21st birthday alone in a grotty bedsit with a steak and ale pie which was adequate compensation for the lack of company.
I cannot actually think of any similar tinned product apart from perhaps an old fashioned suet pudding but then again can that be classified as a pie?
It was not too long ago that canned foods were seen as a technological marvel and a solution to the problem of keeping food palatable for a prolonged period for the benefit, initially of the armed forces in distant lands, intrepid explorers probing the far reaches of the globe and the general domestic consumer.
The popularity of the Fray Bentos Pie appears, however, to be wavering due to a combination of factors.
In terms of lifestyle there has been a push towards fresh and "super foods" and in no way can the contents of the distinctive shallow bowl like tin hope to compete with such fare.
At one time the famous pie was the epitomy of a convenience meal, ready hot and piping in about 25 minutes but just take a look today in the aisles, chiller and freezers of High Street stores and the range of ready meals is astonishing in its almost restaurant quality, calorific balance and variety.
I would have hoped that successive generations of students, following on from my own championing of the pie, will have adopted it as an essential part of a staple diet but it appears that they are having problems. These are not ethical, health conscious, vegetarian or vegan issues nor on ecological grounds for the industrial processes needed to make the tins but down to the fact that the current generation find it difficult to even open up the tin to allow it to be placed in the oven to cook.
Granted, it is a very well engineered container for food with a raised flange lip and sturdy sheet lid but that is part of the design to give an extended shelf life of around 3 years.
Turns out that the kitchen implements that form part of the equipment of a typical self catering student residence, and specifically the tin opener, are just not strong or durable enough to tackle the opening process.
The newest Fray Bentos Pies do have an infographic on how to open the lid and with the express instruction to use a robust can opener.
Various Millenials, the key composition of the student sector, have resorted to social media to publicise their frustrations with short films on the very subject. One has been seen using a hammer and bolster, another using a sharp ended screwdriver to pierce the lid in an attempt to get at the contents.
To their credit, Fray Bentos, have considered other options to assist in this fundamental stage but most have been dismissed on the grounds that serious injury could occur. A ring pull arrangement as commonly found on standard sized food tins is a potential hazard as fingers could easily be severed. A sardine tin type key would simply not work for the same reason.
In my own experience over the last 40 years I have never had an issue of either a thwarted opening or flesh wound whilst eagerly opening a tin in readiness for a wonderful meal.
In researching for this piece of writing I did actually purchase a Fray Bentos Pie.
It was on special offer at just one Pound Sterling which must be one of the giveaways of all time.
There is a reason for this generosity in a tin in that the company did come in for a lot of criticism earlier on in 2018 after loyal customers perceived a reduction in the meat and gravy content in some of its most popular pies. As in a lot of cases of commercial decision making the opinions of the public, as customers, are often overlooked or ignored completely.
There is a lot of ground for Fray Bentos to make up to restore its fan base.
It may already be too late given the relentless shifts and changes in diet, lifestyle and cooking habits that are upon us.
As for me, well, that pie I bought purely, I add, for investigative purposes will be cooked within about 24 hours.
I may feel that it is a bit wanting on the filling but as long as that crusty top performs as it always has then I will be more than happy.
The concept of a crusty topped pie in a tin is radical and I can appreciate why some amongst the population cannot grasp and appreciate this culinary miracle.
I personally adopted the steak and kidney offering of that illustrious brand as my preferred means of sustenance whilst a student and in fact celebrated my 21st birthday alone in a grotty bedsit with a steak and ale pie which was adequate compensation for the lack of company.
I cannot actually think of any similar tinned product apart from perhaps an old fashioned suet pudding but then again can that be classified as a pie?
It was not too long ago that canned foods were seen as a technological marvel and a solution to the problem of keeping food palatable for a prolonged period for the benefit, initially of the armed forces in distant lands, intrepid explorers probing the far reaches of the globe and the general domestic consumer.
The popularity of the Fray Bentos Pie appears, however, to be wavering due to a combination of factors.
In terms of lifestyle there has been a push towards fresh and "super foods" and in no way can the contents of the distinctive shallow bowl like tin hope to compete with such fare.
At one time the famous pie was the epitomy of a convenience meal, ready hot and piping in about 25 minutes but just take a look today in the aisles, chiller and freezers of High Street stores and the range of ready meals is astonishing in its almost restaurant quality, calorific balance and variety.
I would have hoped that successive generations of students, following on from my own championing of the pie, will have adopted it as an essential part of a staple diet but it appears that they are having problems. These are not ethical, health conscious, vegetarian or vegan issues nor on ecological grounds for the industrial processes needed to make the tins but down to the fact that the current generation find it difficult to even open up the tin to allow it to be placed in the oven to cook.
Granted, it is a very well engineered container for food with a raised flange lip and sturdy sheet lid but that is part of the design to give an extended shelf life of around 3 years.
Turns out that the kitchen implements that form part of the equipment of a typical self catering student residence, and specifically the tin opener, are just not strong or durable enough to tackle the opening process.
The newest Fray Bentos Pies do have an infographic on how to open the lid and with the express instruction to use a robust can opener.
Various Millenials, the key composition of the student sector, have resorted to social media to publicise their frustrations with short films on the very subject. One has been seen using a hammer and bolster, another using a sharp ended screwdriver to pierce the lid in an attempt to get at the contents.
To their credit, Fray Bentos, have considered other options to assist in this fundamental stage but most have been dismissed on the grounds that serious injury could occur. A ring pull arrangement as commonly found on standard sized food tins is a potential hazard as fingers could easily be severed. A sardine tin type key would simply not work for the same reason.
In my own experience over the last 40 years I have never had an issue of either a thwarted opening or flesh wound whilst eagerly opening a tin in readiness for a wonderful meal.
In researching for this piece of writing I did actually purchase a Fray Bentos Pie.
It was on special offer at just one Pound Sterling which must be one of the giveaways of all time.
There is a reason for this generosity in a tin in that the company did come in for a lot of criticism earlier on in 2018 after loyal customers perceived a reduction in the meat and gravy content in some of its most popular pies. As in a lot of cases of commercial decision making the opinions of the public, as customers, are often overlooked or ignored completely.
There is a lot of ground for Fray Bentos to make up to restore its fan base.
It may already be too late given the relentless shifts and changes in diet, lifestyle and cooking habits that are upon us.
As for me, well, that pie I bought purely, I add, for investigative purposes will be cooked within about 24 hours.
I may feel that it is a bit wanting on the filling but as long as that crusty top performs as it always has then I will be more than happy.
Sunday, 20 May 2018
Today in May
I actually wrote this in 2012 but it is a poignant reminder every year on this day of how much we all miss our Dad.
May 20th is Fathers birthday.
A few days before every 20th of May the phone lines, e -mails and skype would be frantically active as the five of us Thomson siblings conferred on the matter of what we could buy, either collectively or individually for the man who has everything and has never, in my memory, actually asked for anything from us.
This represents a great dilemma .
In previous years we have presented him with vouchers for something that we thought he might like. These were well received in his rather shy and embarrassed manner which was one of his endearing qualities. Surrounded by his large family it was easy for us to forget that he had grown up as an only child and very much left to make his own entertainment. Do not get me wrong. He was happy and at ease with us but quiet ,reflective and private moments will have been few and far between in our noisy and demanding home life.
His interests were a good source of ideas and over the years. We would buy him gifts for the car, the garden, walking, home improvements, books, CD's and DVD's.
I was perhaps too reliant on the seasonal in store stock at the local Homebase and tended to over do it on things for the fantastically colourful, fragrant and productive patio which every year erupted with planters, pots and hanging baskets and was a particular and justified source of pride to Father. One year it was a terracotta formed tube for strawberry plants, a bit like the seconds you would find in the skip at the back of the Sankey chimney pot factory.
Another year I became a follower of the fashion for strange garden ornaments and purchased a very scaled down Easter Island statue. It had caught my eye in a display in the outdoor section of another out of town DIY store. It was about 18 inches high in an authentic stone finish over the not so authentic plastic mould.
I was fearful that, unlike the original full size figures, a stiff breeze would tip it over or even cause it to vacate the back garden via the boundary wall and have to be retrieved from the neighbours.
The garden theme, to me, seemed to be a productive seam and this was followed in successive years with yet more hanging baskets, garden seating and the desperate last minute choice of a silver mirror ball that could , in its reflection of sunlight both produce a seemingly infinite vista of the lawn, shrubs and flower beds as well as a hazard to high flying aircraft.
The best birthday celebrations were those when we would all be there- quite a difficult thing logistically to do but a momentous and joyful time. My favourite was an afternoon in the garden, just sat around talking in a group or with a chance of a private consultation to take advantage of his great experience and wise counsel in all worldly matters.
Things that had seemingly become insurmountable obstacles to us in our own lives were shown by Father to be easily manageable after such a session.
For his 70th birthday it was a full encampment of the family to the Lake District with riotous assembly, good food and wine and excellent company....and a lot of undulating rambling over hill and dale amongst them bloody daffodils.
2011 was a different birthday in that all of us from my own family unit attended a celebration over a Chinese takeaway. It was a great night and many a complimentary comment was added to the written record of past meals.
The phone kept ringing with the singing of Happy Birthday to Donald from siblings spread over the UK and the US.
We were not to know that we were at his last birthday party.
Today has been a strange day. There have now been seven annual rotations of the 20th of May.
Memories and recollections of Father are as strong and vibrant as ever.
In fact I am currently in need of advice at a stage in my business life and now not being able to just pop up the road and take advantage of his home grown common sense is something that I sorely miss.
Personally, on this day, I felt compelled to visit a garden centre forgetting for a brief moment that there would be no grateful recipient of another hastily selected and badly wrapped up piece of garden ornamentation.
May 20th is Fathers birthday.
A few days before every 20th of May the phone lines, e -mails and skype would be frantically active as the five of us Thomson siblings conferred on the matter of what we could buy, either collectively or individually for the man who has everything and has never, in my memory, actually asked for anything from us.
This represents a great dilemma .
In previous years we have presented him with vouchers for something that we thought he might like. These were well received in his rather shy and embarrassed manner which was one of his endearing qualities. Surrounded by his large family it was easy for us to forget that he had grown up as an only child and very much left to make his own entertainment. Do not get me wrong. He was happy and at ease with us but quiet ,reflective and private moments will have been few and far between in our noisy and demanding home life.
His interests were a good source of ideas and over the years. We would buy him gifts for the car, the garden, walking, home improvements, books, CD's and DVD's.
I was perhaps too reliant on the seasonal in store stock at the local Homebase and tended to over do it on things for the fantastically colourful, fragrant and productive patio which every year erupted with planters, pots and hanging baskets and was a particular and justified source of pride to Father. One year it was a terracotta formed tube for strawberry plants, a bit like the seconds you would find in the skip at the back of the Sankey chimney pot factory.
Another year I became a follower of the fashion for strange garden ornaments and purchased a very scaled down Easter Island statue. It had caught my eye in a display in the outdoor section of another out of town DIY store. It was about 18 inches high in an authentic stone finish over the not so authentic plastic mould.
I was fearful that, unlike the original full size figures, a stiff breeze would tip it over or even cause it to vacate the back garden via the boundary wall and have to be retrieved from the neighbours.
The garden theme, to me, seemed to be a productive seam and this was followed in successive years with yet more hanging baskets, garden seating and the desperate last minute choice of a silver mirror ball that could , in its reflection of sunlight both produce a seemingly infinite vista of the lawn, shrubs and flower beds as well as a hazard to high flying aircraft.
The best birthday celebrations were those when we would all be there- quite a difficult thing logistically to do but a momentous and joyful time. My favourite was an afternoon in the garden, just sat around talking in a group or with a chance of a private consultation to take advantage of his great experience and wise counsel in all worldly matters.
Things that had seemingly become insurmountable obstacles to us in our own lives were shown by Father to be easily manageable after such a session.
For his 70th birthday it was a full encampment of the family to the Lake District with riotous assembly, good food and wine and excellent company....and a lot of undulating rambling over hill and dale amongst them bloody daffodils.
2011 was a different birthday in that all of us from my own family unit attended a celebration over a Chinese takeaway. It was a great night and many a complimentary comment was added to the written record of past meals.
The phone kept ringing with the singing of Happy Birthday to Donald from siblings spread over the UK and the US.
We were not to know that we were at his last birthday party.
Today has been a strange day. There have now been seven annual rotations of the 20th of May.
Memories and recollections of Father are as strong and vibrant as ever.
In fact I am currently in need of advice at a stage in my business life and now not being able to just pop up the road and take advantage of his home grown common sense is something that I sorely miss.
Personally, on this day, I felt compelled to visit a garden centre forgetting for a brief moment that there would be no grateful recipient of another hastily selected and badly wrapped up piece of garden ornamentation.
Saturday, 19 May 2018
Turbine or not Turbine
There was uproar amongst the villagers when proposals became known for the erection of a wind powered turbine in their very back yard.
The usual emotional sentiments were expressed chiefly on the theme of why it had to be in their otherwise unspoiled area when there were plenty of wide open and unpopulated spaces elsewhere in the county. Rumour and hearsay thrived amongst the residents. There was an unfounded story from another parish where the constant whirring of just such a turbine drove man and beast to a state of demented frenzy and the weaker amongst the respective species threw themselves to an untimely death in a canal or a quarry or under the wheels of some vehicle or other or died of natural causes some years later .
Another tale was of a lady renowned for her special powers in things future and unworldly who claimed that the rotation of the turbine interfered with signals to her from the 'other' side.
In particularly stormy conditions in a southern county someone recalled hearing about turbine blades which had become severed from their tower and had pirouetted and spiralled through the village causing considerable damage to property and possessions.
Sporadic combustion of similar buildings was quite well known and could be substantiated in fact rather than being a subject of fiction.
The representatives of the Consortium, out of town Land Agents, behind the project put their case to a meeting around the village pump amongst barracking and jeering from an almost full contingent of the residents and a few curious by-standers who happened to be out rambling from the city.
The proposed location, it was argued, was ideal on the basis of its elevation and exposure to the prevailing westerly winds.
There was good access to the road network and for the benefit of those for whom the turbine would provide a mechanism for wealth and amenity.
There was to be direct employment for one operator and a house to be built adjacent for occupation by their family.
The spin-off prospects for other jobs in the village and surroundings were expected to be good particularly for those in the transport, haulage, distribution and marketing sectors.
Aesthetically the tower would be quite unobtrusive. Painted black the slender 74 foot high structure with a traditional ogee cap and the four bladed turbine atop would blend in with the hillside and be a mere vertical stripe against the skyline. Such was the design that it was anticipated that the building would attain local landmark status and reflect well on the forward thinking members of the village as being progressive and modern.
When put to a vote the motion to build the structure was passed unanimously. This was not really surprising as the only persons eligible to put their signatures on the paperwork were the Consortium comprising the main land owners and financiers. The rest of the population were largely silent as they were in the employment and tied housing of the aforementioned privileged few as agricultural workers, domestic staff or otherwise beholding for their livelihoods in trade and commerce.
The wind turbine as mentioned , more quaintly called a windmill was erected at Skidby Village, East Yorkshire, in 1821 by Robert Garton, a millwright of nearby Beverley.
It was heightened in 1878-1879 but any protests at that time were not recorded for posterity.
The windmill was restored to operation in 1974 and is regularly open to the public to this day.
The arguments against and for a wind turbine remain ostensibly the same from the early 19th Century to the 21st.
The usual emotional sentiments were expressed chiefly on the theme of why it had to be in their otherwise unspoiled area when there were plenty of wide open and unpopulated spaces elsewhere in the county. Rumour and hearsay thrived amongst the residents. There was an unfounded story from another parish where the constant whirring of just such a turbine drove man and beast to a state of demented frenzy and the weaker amongst the respective species threw themselves to an untimely death in a canal or a quarry or under the wheels of some vehicle or other or died of natural causes some years later .
Another tale was of a lady renowned for her special powers in things future and unworldly who claimed that the rotation of the turbine interfered with signals to her from the 'other' side.
In particularly stormy conditions in a southern county someone recalled hearing about turbine blades which had become severed from their tower and had pirouetted and spiralled through the village causing considerable damage to property and possessions.
Sporadic combustion of similar buildings was quite well known and could be substantiated in fact rather than being a subject of fiction.
The representatives of the Consortium, out of town Land Agents, behind the project put their case to a meeting around the village pump amongst barracking and jeering from an almost full contingent of the residents and a few curious by-standers who happened to be out rambling from the city.
The proposed location, it was argued, was ideal on the basis of its elevation and exposure to the prevailing westerly winds.
There was good access to the road network and for the benefit of those for whom the turbine would provide a mechanism for wealth and amenity.
There was to be direct employment for one operator and a house to be built adjacent for occupation by their family.
The spin-off prospects for other jobs in the village and surroundings were expected to be good particularly for those in the transport, haulage, distribution and marketing sectors.
Aesthetically the tower would be quite unobtrusive. Painted black the slender 74 foot high structure with a traditional ogee cap and the four bladed turbine atop would blend in with the hillside and be a mere vertical stripe against the skyline. Such was the design that it was anticipated that the building would attain local landmark status and reflect well on the forward thinking members of the village as being progressive and modern.
When put to a vote the motion to build the structure was passed unanimously. This was not really surprising as the only persons eligible to put their signatures on the paperwork were the Consortium comprising the main land owners and financiers. The rest of the population were largely silent as they were in the employment and tied housing of the aforementioned privileged few as agricultural workers, domestic staff or otherwise beholding for their livelihoods in trade and commerce.
The wind turbine as mentioned , more quaintly called a windmill was erected at Skidby Village, East Yorkshire, in 1821 by Robert Garton, a millwright of nearby Beverley.
It was heightened in 1878-1879 but any protests at that time were not recorded for posterity.
The windmill was restored to operation in 1974 and is regularly open to the public to this day.
The arguments against and for a wind turbine remain ostensibly the same from the early 19th Century to the 21st.
Friday, 18 May 2018
Drivetime
I was rudely awaken from a lovely dream by the alarm going off on my phone.
I had been taking a twenty minute power nap whilst parked up in the entrance to a field just outside the village where my early afternoon appointment awaited me.
It is hard enough nowadays to find a good place to park up and snooze but this particular location had ticked most of the boxes on my mental list of criteria, that being;
a) not in someone's driveway
b) away from a school or convent,
c) out of sight of CCTV cameras and
d) as much distance as possible from a sensitive military or infrastructure site.
To be honest I had contravened my own strict guidelines in that my short doze had undoubtedly been soothed and assisted by the soft "thwack-thwack" sound from a wind turbine within some 50 metres or so.
I had just eaten my 6am prepared packed lunch of peppery salad leaves, chicken pieces, superfood mix of green things , brie, tomatoes and coleslaw (yes, the "best before" date contents of the home fridge) and was enjoying a peaceful rural scene to such an extent that fatigue set in.
I was actually unconscious for mere minutes but given that the driver side door and all of the windows were wide open I was probably lucky to have any possessions left in the vehicle at all.
I do have faith in the honesty and integrity of country folk inspite of watching the very non-agricultural activities of the storylines of Emmerdale on ITV.
Anyway, the dream from which I was disturbed was all about autonomous vehicles.
I was, in a future scenario, being driven about by some clever artificial intelligence whilst sat in the back seat, reclining and catching up with my work related admin.
I can certainly see some personal time management benefits from a self driving car and would willingly put my name down to get one.
Currently, however, that idealistic notion is tempered by the recent fatality of the occupant of a Tesla car and also the ethical implications of the decision making process of an AI controlled entity if faced with the dilemma of a life or death situation out on the highways and byways involving other road users.
That is the crux of the argument.
Whilst autonomous vehicles are seen as the future of the motor industry and many of the all powerful manufacturers are close to making such models available to the market I have major and very real concerns how it will all work.
How would it be possible for a vehicle in the haphazard control of a human with all of the vagueness, distractions and baggage that is inherent with our species be able to co-exist with the algorithmic and desensitised logic of a computer out on the road?
Surely the only way to guarantee safe road use is for all vehicles to be autonomous and nothing left to emotion or whim.
We are some decades away from such detached yet harmonious driving which seemingly contradicts those who believe that four wheeled AI domination is imminent.
Take for example the streets of our towns and cities.
They are largely inherited from the pre-motoring era and indeed still more suited to Sedan Chairs and slow moving horse drawn carts than for the volume and velocity of modern modes of transport.
You need look no further than average speeds which are, currently, below that of those from pre-combustion engine eras.
The supporters and advocates of autonomous vehicles are keen to introduce this technology which would entail allocating specific lanes and routes for trials and tests. They seem to be oblivious to the fact that our urban and city environments are already struggling to cope with normal traffic levels and so any determined move towards human-less vehicles would require major dismantling and remodelling of the infrastructure.
So, my dream appears pure fantasy if not entirely futile.
It could, in reality, be another 30 to 50 years before all transport is out of human control. That would be no use whatsoever to me as , if still alive and lucid, my working days will have long since ceased. Never mind, the ratio of my snoozing to consciousness would be firmly in favour of the former and where better to enjoy sound slumbers than lounging around in the upholstered seats of a car whilst being chauffeured about Al Gorithm.
I had been taking a twenty minute power nap whilst parked up in the entrance to a field just outside the village where my early afternoon appointment awaited me.
It is hard enough nowadays to find a good place to park up and snooze but this particular location had ticked most of the boxes on my mental list of criteria, that being;
a) not in someone's driveway
b) away from a school or convent,
c) out of sight of CCTV cameras and
d) as much distance as possible from a sensitive military or infrastructure site.
To be honest I had contravened my own strict guidelines in that my short doze had undoubtedly been soothed and assisted by the soft "thwack-thwack" sound from a wind turbine within some 50 metres or so.
I had just eaten my 6am prepared packed lunch of peppery salad leaves, chicken pieces, superfood mix of green things , brie, tomatoes and coleslaw (yes, the "best before" date contents of the home fridge) and was enjoying a peaceful rural scene to such an extent that fatigue set in.
I was actually unconscious for mere minutes but given that the driver side door and all of the windows were wide open I was probably lucky to have any possessions left in the vehicle at all.
I do have faith in the honesty and integrity of country folk inspite of watching the very non-agricultural activities of the storylines of Emmerdale on ITV.
Anyway, the dream from which I was disturbed was all about autonomous vehicles.
I was, in a future scenario, being driven about by some clever artificial intelligence whilst sat in the back seat, reclining and catching up with my work related admin.
I can certainly see some personal time management benefits from a self driving car and would willingly put my name down to get one.
Currently, however, that idealistic notion is tempered by the recent fatality of the occupant of a Tesla car and also the ethical implications of the decision making process of an AI controlled entity if faced with the dilemma of a life or death situation out on the highways and byways involving other road users.
That is the crux of the argument.
Whilst autonomous vehicles are seen as the future of the motor industry and many of the all powerful manufacturers are close to making such models available to the market I have major and very real concerns how it will all work.
How would it be possible for a vehicle in the haphazard control of a human with all of the vagueness, distractions and baggage that is inherent with our species be able to co-exist with the algorithmic and desensitised logic of a computer out on the road?
Surely the only way to guarantee safe road use is for all vehicles to be autonomous and nothing left to emotion or whim.
We are some decades away from such detached yet harmonious driving which seemingly contradicts those who believe that four wheeled AI domination is imminent.
Take for example the streets of our towns and cities.
They are largely inherited from the pre-motoring era and indeed still more suited to Sedan Chairs and slow moving horse drawn carts than for the volume and velocity of modern modes of transport.
You need look no further than average speeds which are, currently, below that of those from pre-combustion engine eras.
The supporters and advocates of autonomous vehicles are keen to introduce this technology which would entail allocating specific lanes and routes for trials and tests. They seem to be oblivious to the fact that our urban and city environments are already struggling to cope with normal traffic levels and so any determined move towards human-less vehicles would require major dismantling and remodelling of the infrastructure.
So, my dream appears pure fantasy if not entirely futile.
It could, in reality, be another 30 to 50 years before all transport is out of human control. That would be no use whatsoever to me as , if still alive and lucid, my working days will have long since ceased. Never mind, the ratio of my snoozing to consciousness would be firmly in favour of the former and where better to enjoy sound slumbers than lounging around in the upholstered seats of a car whilst being chauffeured about Al Gorithm.
Wednesday, 16 May 2018
Rise of the Machines
It was the wording on a sign attached to a farmer's gate that put me behind my work schedule for that day.
Although it was a very busy trunk road on an approach to the historic City of York and I had been crawling along in the car in heavy traffic for some miles I just had to take the first opportunity of making a "U" turn in order to get another look.
I am a fan of misspelt or grammatically incorrect signage be it found on the side of a van, a shop window or just on a piece of wood or cardboard attached to a piece of street furniture.
This particular notice was none of the aforementioned so why had it caught my imagination so much?
Well, it was because of the uniqueness of the idea announced on the sign in that it was advertising the availability of fresh eggs from a specialist vending machine.
In some respects this form of automation is impressive, especially in an agricultural application but there is an underlying sadness that it has been made necessary because those good old honesty boxes for farm gate sales have been shamelessly abused by passers-by who have been taking the produce without leaving payment.
It is a terrible indictment of our modern society that the expectation of a bond of trust between a grower and a consumer is tarnished by the behaviour of a few.
It turns out that the idea of a farm food vending machine is well established in Europe and these are in widespread use across the continent.
It's introduction into the UK is relatively new and indeed that roadside sign was the very first to notify me of their existence.
The large machines can be tailored to suit any size of operation from allotment grower to smallholder and through to the big commercial concerns and can vend anything from bulky vegetables to delicate eggs, cooled or not.
A typical machine comprises a bank of lockers each with a clear viewing window where the produce and goods can be displayed. The lockers can accommodate a workable minimum of a punnet of soft fruits or half a dozen eggs and up to 20KG of potatoes.
There is nothing clunky or primitive about the vending machine and it can be back-lit to present a very attractive marketing proposition to the potential customer. Some users have housed the unit in a small rustic shed or, in the case of eggs, a mock up of a hen-coop to give some rural style and authenticity to the modern equipment.
One UK based manufacturer calls one of their models for egg selling "The Eggspress" embodying the idea that it is possible to buys eggs 24 hours a day and seven days a week.
The locker type units simply pop open once the consumer has made their choice and submitted payment in cash or on a debit/credit card allowing the goods to be removed.
The more sophisticated machines can give change , utilise multiple language options and even cope with different national banknotes.
In the case of the Eggspress this has a series of individual stocked drawers from which a tray of eggs can be retrieved.
The whole idea behind the traditional at the gate sales and honesty box was to free up the farmer to attend to more important tasks around the farm.
The new vending machines keep this tradition to some extent but can be plugged into a PC for data analysis and can provide updates by text on stock levels.
There are also opportunities for machines to be branded specific to the producer giving even the smallest rural operations a prominent public image.
I embrace the concept of such innovation mainly to help farmers stop petty pilfering and show a return for their efforts but at the same time it is a shame that very soon there could be little or no interaction between country folk and townies. I will however be sure to keep a few coins in my car ashtray in order to try out this new technology for myself.
Although it was a very busy trunk road on an approach to the historic City of York and I had been crawling along in the car in heavy traffic for some miles I just had to take the first opportunity of making a "U" turn in order to get another look.
I am a fan of misspelt or grammatically incorrect signage be it found on the side of a van, a shop window or just on a piece of wood or cardboard attached to a piece of street furniture.
This particular notice was none of the aforementioned so why had it caught my imagination so much?
Well, it was because of the uniqueness of the idea announced on the sign in that it was advertising the availability of fresh eggs from a specialist vending machine.
In some respects this form of automation is impressive, especially in an agricultural application but there is an underlying sadness that it has been made necessary because those good old honesty boxes for farm gate sales have been shamelessly abused by passers-by who have been taking the produce without leaving payment.
It is a terrible indictment of our modern society that the expectation of a bond of trust between a grower and a consumer is tarnished by the behaviour of a few.
It turns out that the idea of a farm food vending machine is well established in Europe and these are in widespread use across the continent.
It's introduction into the UK is relatively new and indeed that roadside sign was the very first to notify me of their existence.
The large machines can be tailored to suit any size of operation from allotment grower to smallholder and through to the big commercial concerns and can vend anything from bulky vegetables to delicate eggs, cooled or not.
A typical machine comprises a bank of lockers each with a clear viewing window where the produce and goods can be displayed. The lockers can accommodate a workable minimum of a punnet of soft fruits or half a dozen eggs and up to 20KG of potatoes.
There is nothing clunky or primitive about the vending machine and it can be back-lit to present a very attractive marketing proposition to the potential customer. Some users have housed the unit in a small rustic shed or, in the case of eggs, a mock up of a hen-coop to give some rural style and authenticity to the modern equipment.
One UK based manufacturer calls one of their models for egg selling "The Eggspress" embodying the idea that it is possible to buys eggs 24 hours a day and seven days a week.
The locker type units simply pop open once the consumer has made their choice and submitted payment in cash or on a debit/credit card allowing the goods to be removed.
The more sophisticated machines can give change , utilise multiple language options and even cope with different national banknotes.
In the case of the Eggspress this has a series of individual stocked drawers from which a tray of eggs can be retrieved.
The whole idea behind the traditional at the gate sales and honesty box was to free up the farmer to attend to more important tasks around the farm.
The new vending machines keep this tradition to some extent but can be plugged into a PC for data analysis and can provide updates by text on stock levels.
There are also opportunities for machines to be branded specific to the producer giving even the smallest rural operations a prominent public image.
I embrace the concept of such innovation mainly to help farmers stop petty pilfering and show a return for their efforts but at the same time it is a shame that very soon there could be little or no interaction between country folk and townies. I will however be sure to keep a few coins in my car ashtray in order to try out this new technology for myself.
Sunday, 13 May 2018
The Castle is toppling
We are told that by 2021 about one quarter of UK households
will be in the rented sector. That is not too surprising given that just one generation back it was only a fortunate few who could afford to buy their own house, that is if there were any freeholds to be had.
Perhaps you may find this further statistic a bit more of a shock: that home ownership is reported to be at a 30 year low. Given that us Brits have always aspired to own our own place (the Castle Complex as I like to call it) this decline is not so much a blip or slump but more of a trend, a fundamental lifestyle change.
Bearing in mind what appears to be pretty overwhelming
evidence that the high percentage of housing in the form of rented accommodation is here to stay I find that,
upon quizzing private landlords about their experiences, there is an alarmingly
high level of distress and upset amongst them.
In fact, many feel that they are being demonised as a major
contributing factor to the current housing crisis and perceived as being behind just about every social
malaise going.
Fortunately the days of Rachman, the infamous slum landlord are long gone and prosecutions of maverick and illegally operating landlords are thankfully low in number. A few horror stories of substandard houses and amenities are regarded by the popular media to be in the public interest and fill a lot of column space.
Fortunately the days of Rachman, the infamous slum landlord are long gone and prosecutions of maverick and illegally operating landlords are thankfully low in number. A few horror stories of substandard houses and amenities are regarded by the popular media to be in the public interest and fill a lot of column space.
My rough straw poll survey shows that around 40% of private
landlords have had a bad time with tenants ranging from rent arrears to damage
to property or have been the focus of any anti social situations arising between
tenants and neighbours. A tenant may come with the best of references and manners but as with all of us personal situations and circumstances can arise to cause aberations from normal decent behaviour.
There are also demands on individuals and families in terms of work and relationships which tend to get in the way of, as it used to be called, putting down roots in an area. We have to a certain extent be flexible about where we live and the rented sector is ideally suited to meet such demands.
There are also demands on individuals and families in terms of work and relationships which tend to get in the way of, as it used to be called, putting down roots in an area. We have to a certain extent be flexible about where we live and the rented sector is ideally suited to meet such demands.
Not all of those I have come across became a landlord willingly.
Those inheriting a second home or starting up again in a new
relationship and with a surplus property took this route often out of an initial short term necessity.
A few individuals I spoke with felt that they had been
missing out on not having a residential investment. Their friends and acquaintances had already dipped their toes in the water and so not to lose face it was a case of having to join that
particular club.
We are all familiar with the largely downward projections
for our pension and rainy day funds and so putting hard earned monies into
bricks and mortar has seemed sensible and low risk.
Even so the financial
crisis a decade ago served to seriously disrupt the retirement plans of quite a few who felt
they had made the right decision to go into property. This included seasoned
professional investors with a large portfolio and the single purchase amateurs alike.
So, to the present and the private landlord has assumed an
unwelcome persona in society and is being relentlessly penalised for having the
courage and gumption to invest in property. It is as though it is sharp or crooked business practice to charge a tenant a rent and then use that income to meet obligations and responsibilities to a lender and gradually pay off the original mortgage amount. It is of course the normal course of investing and not black magic or a confidence trick.
There are attacks on private landlords from Central Government and the Opposition
Parties and an increasingly vocal and apparently influential pressure group,
mainly London-centric comprising those who feel it is their undeniable right to
get on the housing ladder as an owner occupier before they reach the age of 30.
Surely, the soon to be quarter of the UK population occupying as tenants are not stigmatised for it.
Being a private landlord therefore appears to be a thankless role.
There is, I fully accept, a far from workable and sustainable housing
strategy in this country but until there is a cohesive and affordable way to
even start to tackle the crisis we should acknowledge and appreciate the private
landlord in what they are doing to keep this nation with a roof over their
heads.
Saturday, 12 May 2018
Raisins to be cheerful
It remains as one of my favourite singles of all time.
In fact, I would go a lot further and make the audacious claim that, in my opinion, it is the greatest cover version of that particular song of all time.
There, I have committed myself to a far reaching statement but I stand by it.
The song in question is a Motown Classic.
It was written in 1966 by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong and saw its first release into the U.S Charts by Gladys Knight and the Pips when it reached number 2.
It is of course "I heard it through the Grapevine".
Just about every credible artist has performed or recorded it since with the list including arguably the most well known, Marvin Gaye in 1968 and the likes of Ike and Tina Turner, Martha Reeves, Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.
It is a timeless song and in successive decades it has been sung by Elton John, The Kaiser Chiefs, dueted by Amy Winehouse and Paul Weller, crooned over by Michael McDonald and soul searched by Craig David.
The mellow rockers, Creedence Clearwater Revival brought out an eleven minute version in 1970 as an album filler track.
The song in its Marvin Gaye version was placed at number 81 in the greatest 500 songs of all time by Rolling Stone magazine.
In the world of advertising and media the song accompanied Nick Kamen whilst taking his clothes off in a launderette in that Levis Jeans commercial in 1985 and a bunch of grizzled dried grapes from California taking gross advantage and liberties with it a year later.
The recording that I have elevated to the best of all time is that by the UK based punk band, The Slits from their album "The Cut" in 1979.
It is an emotional song anyway but in the distinctive raw and raucous style of The Slits it is given a completely new dimension.
The commercially successful Knight and Gaye recordings were in contrast quite pedestrian and methodical.
The distinctive opening riff is in a unique vocal murmuring, followed by a tinny barrage of drums and then the stark, often screeching and lyrical drone of the band members who, at the time comprised Ari Up (Arianne Foster), Viv Albertine, Tessa Pollitt and Palmolive (Paloma McLardy).
The Slits had formed in 1976 with founder members Ari Up, Palmolive, Kate Korus and Suzy Gutsy and became firmly immersed in the punk rock scene of the time.
The album cover of "The Cut" is one that is immediately recalled to mind as it depicts the band tastefully topless, dressed in loincloths and covered in mud.
To my sensitive 16 year old self it was quite a revelation.
Back to the song.
Here it is for you to make up your own mind......................................................
The Slits perform I heard it through the grapevine
In fact, I would go a lot further and make the audacious claim that, in my opinion, it is the greatest cover version of that particular song of all time.
There, I have committed myself to a far reaching statement but I stand by it.
The song in question is a Motown Classic.
It was written in 1966 by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong and saw its first release into the U.S Charts by Gladys Knight and the Pips when it reached number 2.
It is of course "I heard it through the Grapevine".
Just about every credible artist has performed or recorded it since with the list including arguably the most well known, Marvin Gaye in 1968 and the likes of Ike and Tina Turner, Martha Reeves, Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.
It is a timeless song and in successive decades it has been sung by Elton John, The Kaiser Chiefs, dueted by Amy Winehouse and Paul Weller, crooned over by Michael McDonald and soul searched by Craig David.
The mellow rockers, Creedence Clearwater Revival brought out an eleven minute version in 1970 as an album filler track.
The song in its Marvin Gaye version was placed at number 81 in the greatest 500 songs of all time by Rolling Stone magazine.
In the world of advertising and media the song accompanied Nick Kamen whilst taking his clothes off in a launderette in that Levis Jeans commercial in 1985 and a bunch of grizzled dried grapes from California taking gross advantage and liberties with it a year later.
The recording that I have elevated to the best of all time is that by the UK based punk band, The Slits from their album "The Cut" in 1979.
It is an emotional song anyway but in the distinctive raw and raucous style of The Slits it is given a completely new dimension.
The commercially successful Knight and Gaye recordings were in contrast quite pedestrian and methodical.
The distinctive opening riff is in a unique vocal murmuring, followed by a tinny barrage of drums and then the stark, often screeching and lyrical drone of the band members who, at the time comprised Ari Up (Arianne Foster), Viv Albertine, Tessa Pollitt and Palmolive (Paloma McLardy).
The Slits had formed in 1976 with founder members Ari Up, Palmolive, Kate Korus and Suzy Gutsy and became firmly immersed in the punk rock scene of the time.
The album cover of "The Cut" is one that is immediately recalled to mind as it depicts the band tastefully topless, dressed in loincloths and covered in mud.
To my sensitive 16 year old self it was quite a revelation.
Back to the song.
Here it is for you to make up your own mind......................................................
The Slits perform I heard it through the grapevine
Friday, 11 May 2018
Yorkshire on the slide
Timber windows have, of course, been around in the UK for centuries.
I mean of course the use of wood for the window frames themselves as for some periods in history glass was just too expensive an item to be affordable to put into a frame in order to give a view, allow light in and keep the inclement British climate out.
In the era of compact layouts for towns and villages, when it was possible to shake hands with a neighbour on the opposite side of the street from an upper floor window the design of an opening casement was of importance. It will never have been a more vital time to check on the wind direction and speed prior to emptying the chamber pot into the street below.
The sash window became widely used, although it's originator is not documented, in that its mode of opening did not risk it poking out and impacting on the streetscene nor as an impedance to a roof thatcher who would have required regular access to his work to dampen wayward sparks, carry out repairs if a fire had caused damage or just tidy up loose or defective areas.
The earliest type of sash frame is thought to have been one with a sliding horizontal action and although to be found throughout the British Isles it is best known as a Yorkshire Sliding Sash.
I came across some typical if very dilapidated examples just this week on a semi derelict former School House in the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty of the Hambleton Hills which lie just on the western edge of the North Yorkshire Moors.
The old place was built in or around 1841 but was last used as the village school in 1991.
The coursed stone. low slung building has survived reasonably well in its obsolescence and is now to be converted into a house for the benefit of a local resident.
Here are some pictures of the sash frames;
This is in the classic squared format with, in this case, a 12 paned arrangement. The frame is pretty stout and supports itself in the substantial stone wall which is around nineteen imperial inches in thickness. The moveable sash is the right hand one.
The appearance on first impression is not good but most of the damage is superficial and ironically to the modern paint finishes and not the mid Victorian era underlying wood. The advantage of the Yorkshire, which is still used today in sympathetic and sensitive renovations and refurbishments is that it can be left open for ventilation with little or no risk of the weather penetrating into the property.
This is a close up of the ironwork fittings by which the sash can be locked in the closed position. It is a fine piece of worked metal, pleasing to the touch.
The craftsmanship belies the stout and sturdy nature of the bracket and fastener.
Even after a long period of dereliction the window mechanism worked first time, smoothly and efficiently.
Of course there are disadvantages such as the very slim and fragile glass which performs very poorly in terms of the modern criteria of heat and noise insulation.
The inner cill and frame is again badly blistered mainly from the effects of water run off from condensation but with a little care and attention the original woodwork can be readily salvaged, restored and returned to full authentic status.
I mean of course the use of wood for the window frames themselves as for some periods in history glass was just too expensive an item to be affordable to put into a frame in order to give a view, allow light in and keep the inclement British climate out.
In the era of compact layouts for towns and villages, when it was possible to shake hands with a neighbour on the opposite side of the street from an upper floor window the design of an opening casement was of importance. It will never have been a more vital time to check on the wind direction and speed prior to emptying the chamber pot into the street below.
The sash window became widely used, although it's originator is not documented, in that its mode of opening did not risk it poking out and impacting on the streetscene nor as an impedance to a roof thatcher who would have required regular access to his work to dampen wayward sparks, carry out repairs if a fire had caused damage or just tidy up loose or defective areas.
The earliest type of sash frame is thought to have been one with a sliding horizontal action and although to be found throughout the British Isles it is best known as a Yorkshire Sliding Sash.
I came across some typical if very dilapidated examples just this week on a semi derelict former School House in the Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty of the Hambleton Hills which lie just on the western edge of the North Yorkshire Moors.
The old place was built in or around 1841 but was last used as the village school in 1991.
The coursed stone. low slung building has survived reasonably well in its obsolescence and is now to be converted into a house for the benefit of a local resident.
Here are some pictures of the sash frames;
This is in the classic squared format with, in this case, a 12 paned arrangement. The frame is pretty stout and supports itself in the substantial stone wall which is around nineteen imperial inches in thickness. The moveable sash is the right hand one.
The appearance on first impression is not good but most of the damage is superficial and ironically to the modern paint finishes and not the mid Victorian era underlying wood. The advantage of the Yorkshire, which is still used today in sympathetic and sensitive renovations and refurbishments is that it can be left open for ventilation with little or no risk of the weather penetrating into the property.
This is a close up of the ironwork fittings by which the sash can be locked in the closed position. It is a fine piece of worked metal, pleasing to the touch.
The craftsmanship belies the stout and sturdy nature of the bracket and fastener.
Even after a long period of dereliction the window mechanism worked first time, smoothly and efficiently.
Of course there are disadvantages such as the very slim and fragile glass which performs very poorly in terms of the modern criteria of heat and noise insulation.
The inner cill and frame is again badly blistered mainly from the effects of water run off from condensation but with a little care and attention the original woodwork can be readily salvaged, restored and returned to full authentic status.
Thursday, 10 May 2018
Campag the Timeless
When it came to buying my first proper racing bike back in 1982 I wanted the best that I could afford.
This extravagance was only possible through a bequest from my Grandfather as at that time I was an impoverished student.
Money was tight, even under the old Grant system and my diet reflected this. I lived on ox liver, tinned tomatoes and for a real treat I could often be found sitting in a city centre doorway working my way through a baguette, just the baguette with nothing on it.
Momentarily flush for cash in my bike fund the decision on what equipment to put on the custom measured racing frame was made easy. It had to be Campagnolo.
The founder of the Italian components empire, Tullio Campagnolo was a legend in his own lifetime.
He not only invented, engineered and patented an unsurpassed catalogue of equipment but also a larger than life image of himself on which he capitalised for his business interests.
Take the most well known story of how the quick release skewer came to be.
Anyone with a modern racing bike with lightweight wheels will be very familiar with the quick release. In design it is the epitome of form and function. In its pure incarnation it consists of a long, thin rod, threaded on one end and with a lever operated cam assembly on the other. The rod, inserted into the hollow axle of a wheel hub is secured at the threaded end by a nut fixing and then the lever can be closed to secure the wheel to the frame forks and dropouts.
My first experience of a quick release was fraught with difficulty and uncertainty and to some the use of it can constitute a major problem.
There are, in this internet age, many on-line tutorials on how to correctly use the mechanism. How to loosen, how to tighten, in what position to leave the lever when the wheel is secured are the main issues.
This only goes to illustrate the pitfalls as well as the advantages.
At the age of 26, as the Campagnolo legend goes, the enthusiastic Tullio was competing in top level cycle races in his home country. His Palmares or record of achievement shows participation in events such as the classic Astico Brenta (still running today) in Northern Italy, the epic Milan San Remo and the Giro Lombardia albeit very much in the lower placings.
Racing bikes of the time were unwieldy although there were innovations taking place to make frames stronger and lighter. Fixed gears were the normal transmission with the rear wheel being the mounting for different cogs, one on each side.
If a gear change was required it was a case of stopping, dismounting and wrestling with the wingnut fixings to be able to turn the wheel around, refix and then continue.
You can imagine the sheer frustration and inconvenience arising from this performance. Any forward momentum and motivation to go fast would just disappear. It would only be on a downward slope that you could hope to turn a bigger gear to regain lost time.
On an undulating course the stop-go-stop-go rhythm, or lack of it, must have been infuriating.
The Campagnolo story in this instance involved just such a scenario.
Tullio was in the Gran Premio della Vittoria (now the name of a major horse race). On snow covered roads, whether due to altitude of just the early Spring weather he attempted to change gears.
Frozen hands made it difficult to operate the wing nuts on the back wheel and he lost time on his rivals. This setback had quite an affect on the mid twenty something. The phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" must have been at the forefront of his post-race-post-mortem and so, the legend goes, the quick release skewer was invented.
There has been some doubt cast on the authenticity of the story. The photograph looks like an intentional pose but that is not intended to be a criticism.
Research has suggested that Tullio did not even appear on the start list for the Gran Premio della Vittoria and that the race is later in the season and therefore unlikely to be subject to an extreme winter climate.
Whatever the truth Tullio was a prolific inventor during his life and many developments that we now take for granted were amongst his many Patents.
He was also quite analytical of existing equipment and had a determination to reverse engineer and make them much better.
He pioneered an early version of a derailleur gear changing system although already widely used in mass production models.
I cannot help but marvel at the Campagnolo components that still adorn my 1982 wonder bike purchase.
The brake sets, front and rear changers retain that satin lustre as though machine polished only yesterday.
I have kept the downtube gear shift levers even though their operation demands a lot of pre-planning and that momentary downward glance can be hazardous whilst travelling at speed on a public highway. Younger cyclists on expensive carbon or aluminium frame bikes with integral components often flag me down to have a gawp at the Campag group set as even at distance it just shouts out quality and style.
The chainset, unfortunately, sheared its threads a few years ago now but I keep that work of art on public show on the shelf at the back of the garage/bike shed/workshop. As for that tub of 1982 vintage Campagnolo bike grease- well it is still going strong even if there is such a thing as a "Best Before" date in relation to exceptional quality gunk.
Me and Tullio have a bit of history through his beautifully crafted and manufactured components.
I have my Grandfather to thank for the means to purchase the bike and I think that he would certainly have got on well with Mr Campagnolo had they ever had an opportunity to meet.
This extravagance was only possible through a bequest from my Grandfather as at that time I was an impoverished student.
Money was tight, even under the old Grant system and my diet reflected this. I lived on ox liver, tinned tomatoes and for a real treat I could often be found sitting in a city centre doorway working my way through a baguette, just the baguette with nothing on it.
Momentarily flush for cash in my bike fund the decision on what equipment to put on the custom measured racing frame was made easy. It had to be Campagnolo.
The founder of the Italian components empire, Tullio Campagnolo was a legend in his own lifetime.
He not only invented, engineered and patented an unsurpassed catalogue of equipment but also a larger than life image of himself on which he capitalised for his business interests.
Take the most well known story of how the quick release skewer came to be.
Anyone with a modern racing bike with lightweight wheels will be very familiar with the quick release. In design it is the epitome of form and function. In its pure incarnation it consists of a long, thin rod, threaded on one end and with a lever operated cam assembly on the other. The rod, inserted into the hollow axle of a wheel hub is secured at the threaded end by a nut fixing and then the lever can be closed to secure the wheel to the frame forks and dropouts.
My first experience of a quick release was fraught with difficulty and uncertainty and to some the use of it can constitute a major problem.
There are, in this internet age, many on-line tutorials on how to correctly use the mechanism. How to loosen, how to tighten, in what position to leave the lever when the wheel is secured are the main issues.
This only goes to illustrate the pitfalls as well as the advantages.
At the age of 26, as the Campagnolo legend goes, the enthusiastic Tullio was competing in top level cycle races in his home country. His Palmares or record of achievement shows participation in events such as the classic Astico Brenta (still running today) in Northern Italy, the epic Milan San Remo and the Giro Lombardia albeit very much in the lower placings.
Racing bikes of the time were unwieldy although there were innovations taking place to make frames stronger and lighter. Fixed gears were the normal transmission with the rear wheel being the mounting for different cogs, one on each side.
If a gear change was required it was a case of stopping, dismounting and wrestling with the wingnut fixings to be able to turn the wheel around, refix and then continue.
You can imagine the sheer frustration and inconvenience arising from this performance. Any forward momentum and motivation to go fast would just disappear. It would only be on a downward slope that you could hope to turn a bigger gear to regain lost time.
On an undulating course the stop-go-stop-go rhythm, or lack of it, must have been infuriating.
The Campagnolo story in this instance involved just such a scenario.
Tullio was in the Gran Premio della Vittoria (now the name of a major horse race). On snow covered roads, whether due to altitude of just the early Spring weather he attempted to change gears.
Frozen hands made it difficult to operate the wing nuts on the back wheel and he lost time on his rivals. This setback had quite an affect on the mid twenty something. The phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" must have been at the forefront of his post-race-post-mortem and so, the legend goes, the quick release skewer was invented.
There has been some doubt cast on the authenticity of the story. The photograph looks like an intentional pose but that is not intended to be a criticism.
Research has suggested that Tullio did not even appear on the start list for the Gran Premio della Vittoria and that the race is later in the season and therefore unlikely to be subject to an extreme winter climate.
Whatever the truth Tullio was a prolific inventor during his life and many developments that we now take for granted were amongst his many Patents.
He was also quite analytical of existing equipment and had a determination to reverse engineer and make them much better.
He pioneered an early version of a derailleur gear changing system although already widely used in mass production models.
I cannot help but marvel at the Campagnolo components that still adorn my 1982 wonder bike purchase.
The brake sets, front and rear changers retain that satin lustre as though machine polished only yesterday.
I have kept the downtube gear shift levers even though their operation demands a lot of pre-planning and that momentary downward glance can be hazardous whilst travelling at speed on a public highway. Younger cyclists on expensive carbon or aluminium frame bikes with integral components often flag me down to have a gawp at the Campag group set as even at distance it just shouts out quality and style.
The chainset, unfortunately, sheared its threads a few years ago now but I keep that work of art on public show on the shelf at the back of the garage/bike shed/workshop. As for that tub of 1982 vintage Campagnolo bike grease- well it is still going strong even if there is such a thing as a "Best Before" date in relation to exceptional quality gunk.
Me and Tullio have a bit of history through his beautifully crafted and manufactured components.
I have my Grandfather to thank for the means to purchase the bike and I think that he would certainly have got on well with Mr Campagnolo had they ever had an opportunity to meet.
Tuesday, 8 May 2018
Giroscope
The clash between Stephen Roche and Roberto Visentini at the 1987 Giro d’Italia (The Tour of Italy being one of the three major tours including Le Tour de France and The Vuelta Espana) remains one of the most-talked about conflicts at a Grand Tour. What made it more striking however was that they were on the same team.
Roche’s subsequent story is familiar to all cycling fans. It was a momentous year for the Irishman who completed a very rare triple of the Tours of France, Italy and also becoming World Champion. This feat was only achieved by one other, the dominant Eddy Merrckx and arguably in a very different era of the sport.
Behind the history making Roche I have often wondered what became of Roberto Visentini?
It seems that even today, he’s still angry about what happened.
It may be one of the longest held grudges in cycling history.
I was initially under the impression that the handsome and charismatic Visentini was a bit of a poster-boy in his home country. We have all come across similar characters in other sports who just seem to come and go. However, having read about him more widely he was obviously incredibly talented as a junior rider, winning the Italian championships in 1975 and later that year adding the Junior Worlds title to his Palmares.
Three years on, at the age of just twenty, he turned professional for the Italian Vibor team. Many talented juniors have found the transition to the professional level demanding, but it didn’t appear to have been difficult for the man from Brescia.
He was entered into the Giro in his debut season, and finished in an incredible fifteenth place in addition to winning the best young rider title.
The following years would see him go from strength to strength as he continued to improve on his General Classification position in the race, as well as winning a number of stages.
He also claimed victories in the major events of the Giro del Trentino and Tirreno-Adriatico, amongst other events.
In 1985 it looked likely he would win the Giro d’Italia, having worn the pink jersey for nine days. However, he had to pull out of the race before the end due to illness. Finally, in 1986, he would win the race overall, beating the likes of Greg LeMond and Francesco Moser.
So, he returned in 1987 as defending champion. But among his team mates on the Carrera team was Stephen Roche, who was in the form of his life. He had just won the Tour of Romandie and amongst an impressive early season had won or placed well in major races.
Visentini had also been at the same events but Roche in his book "My Road to Victory" claimed that the Italian had given no help to him or the team and had not really performed himself. Team management at the 1987 Giro decided they would start with two team leaders but before and during the early stages of the race there were lots of arguments between the two in the battle for supremacy within the team. An Italian on an Italian team and riding on home territory would always be better supported and Roche sensed that Visentini was the golden boy.
In the first week of The Giro, Roche was in the leader's Pink jersey and carried it for a total of 10 days but with no help from the pro-Italian element of the Carrera Team. After a crash, injury and resultant lack of confidence Roche lost the jersey to his Co-Leader and as far as fans and the media were concerned the race was all over.
Roche seized his opportunity to win the race on the fifteenth stage to Sappada. Going against team orders, he attacked early on a descent and was away with two other riders.
The Team Manager (Directeur sportif) Davide Boifava drove alongside in the team car and told Roche to stop the attack, but he continued on. Behind, there was the farcical sight of Carrera team chasing their own man. They were quickly exhausted and did a deal with another Italian team to chase Roche down.
It was a gamble that just about paid off for Carrera who recaptured the break but on the final ascent yet more aggressive riding from the Irishman saw Visentini losing over 6 minutes. Roche managed to take over pink by five seconds from Switzerland’s Tony Rominger.
Visentini, his chances of a repeat victory gone was livid afterwards, as were the Italian fans.
Despite receiving extreme abuse from the tifosi over the last few days, and a threat to his lead from Erik Breukink, Roche hung on to win the race overall by nearly four minutes from the Scottish climber Robert Millar.
Roche's main allies were team member Eddy Schepers and his faithful mechanic, Patrick Valke. Their respective roles had been to protect Roche from his own squad or any risk from roadside attack from Visentini sympathisers and to ensure that his bike was not sabotaged. The Italian press called Roche a Judas and with his colleagues being referred to as The Rebel and Satan respectively.
Roche left the Carrera team at the end of the 1987 season. Visentini stayed on but he never won another race. He continued to compete for another three years for a number of smaller Italian teams, but his heart was not in it any more. He retired from the sport in 1990.
The Italian was interviewed a number of years later about his career, and despite the many highlights it seems he still cannot shake off the events of the ’87 Giro.
He admitted it was the biggest disappointment of his career.“Being attacked by opponents was normal, but it was my team mate and I could just not stomach it, I sometimes lost to star riders like Moser and Saronni, but I never complained. Roche’s attack was unacceptable.”
He wasn’t just unhappy with Roche though, but with the team manager Boifava too.
“If the captain is in the lead, the team must help him. Roche, however, attacked me. But the real crime was by the team management; clueless, heartless.
Visentini's reaction to the management was extreme. “At the end of the race, I went to Davide Boifava with some plastic bags containing the bike which I had sawn into pieces.”
Asked about Roche’s assertion that Visentini had declared before the Giro that he would not go to the Tour de France to help the Irishman, he said it was “All excuses to deflect blame after what had happened.”
In fact, Roche had known early on in the Giro that Visentini had booked his holidays for July and would not therefore be available to offer to help Roche win in France in return for handing over the Giro without any fuss.
Visentini ended up pulling out of the '87 Giro anyway, having broken his wrist on the penultimate stage.
By this time there was some grudging acceptance in the Carrera ranks that Roche was the best rider in the race.
Roche’s subsequent story is familiar to all cycling fans. It was a momentous year for the Irishman who completed a very rare triple of the Tours of France, Italy and also becoming World Champion. This feat was only achieved by one other, the dominant Eddy Merrckx and arguably in a very different era of the sport.
Behind the history making Roche I have often wondered what became of Roberto Visentini?
It seems that even today, he’s still angry about what happened.
It may be one of the longest held grudges in cycling history.
I was initially under the impression that the handsome and charismatic Visentini was a bit of a poster-boy in his home country. We have all come across similar characters in other sports who just seem to come and go. However, having read about him more widely he was obviously incredibly talented as a junior rider, winning the Italian championships in 1975 and later that year adding the Junior Worlds title to his Palmares.
Three years on, at the age of just twenty, he turned professional for the Italian Vibor team. Many talented juniors have found the transition to the professional level demanding, but it didn’t appear to have been difficult for the man from Brescia.
He was entered into the Giro in his debut season, and finished in an incredible fifteenth place in addition to winning the best young rider title.
The following years would see him go from strength to strength as he continued to improve on his General Classification position in the race, as well as winning a number of stages.
He also claimed victories in the major events of the Giro del Trentino and Tirreno-Adriatico, amongst other events.
In 1985 it looked likely he would win the Giro d’Italia, having worn the pink jersey for nine days. However, he had to pull out of the race before the end due to illness. Finally, in 1986, he would win the race overall, beating the likes of Greg LeMond and Francesco Moser.
So, he returned in 1987 as defending champion. But among his team mates on the Carrera team was Stephen Roche, who was in the form of his life. He had just won the Tour of Romandie and amongst an impressive early season had won or placed well in major races.
Visentini had also been at the same events but Roche in his book "My Road to Victory" claimed that the Italian had given no help to him or the team and had not really performed himself. Team management at the 1987 Giro decided they would start with two team leaders but before and during the early stages of the race there were lots of arguments between the two in the battle for supremacy within the team. An Italian on an Italian team and riding on home territory would always be better supported and Roche sensed that Visentini was the golden boy.
In the first week of The Giro, Roche was in the leader's Pink jersey and carried it for a total of 10 days but with no help from the pro-Italian element of the Carrera Team. After a crash, injury and resultant lack of confidence Roche lost the jersey to his Co-Leader and as far as fans and the media were concerned the race was all over.
Roche seized his opportunity to win the race on the fifteenth stage to Sappada. Going against team orders, he attacked early on a descent and was away with two other riders.
The Team Manager (Directeur sportif) Davide Boifava drove alongside in the team car and told Roche to stop the attack, but he continued on. Behind, there was the farcical sight of Carrera team chasing their own man. They were quickly exhausted and did a deal with another Italian team to chase Roche down.
It was a gamble that just about paid off for Carrera who recaptured the break but on the final ascent yet more aggressive riding from the Irishman saw Visentini losing over 6 minutes. Roche managed to take over pink by five seconds from Switzerland’s Tony Rominger.
Visentini, his chances of a repeat victory gone was livid afterwards, as were the Italian fans.
Despite receiving extreme abuse from the tifosi over the last few days, and a threat to his lead from Erik Breukink, Roche hung on to win the race overall by nearly four minutes from the Scottish climber Robert Millar.
Roche's main allies were team member Eddy Schepers and his faithful mechanic, Patrick Valke. Their respective roles had been to protect Roche from his own squad or any risk from roadside attack from Visentini sympathisers and to ensure that his bike was not sabotaged. The Italian press called Roche a Judas and with his colleagues being referred to as The Rebel and Satan respectively.
Roche left the Carrera team at the end of the 1987 season. Visentini stayed on but he never won another race. He continued to compete for another three years for a number of smaller Italian teams, but his heart was not in it any more. He retired from the sport in 1990.
The Italian was interviewed a number of years later about his career, and despite the many highlights it seems he still cannot shake off the events of the ’87 Giro.
He admitted it was the biggest disappointment of his career.“Being attacked by opponents was normal, but it was my team mate and I could just not stomach it, I sometimes lost to star riders like Moser and Saronni, but I never complained. Roche’s attack was unacceptable.”
He wasn’t just unhappy with Roche though, but with the team manager Boifava too.
“If the captain is in the lead, the team must help him. Roche, however, attacked me. But the real crime was by the team management; clueless, heartless.
Visentini's reaction to the management was extreme. “At the end of the race, I went to Davide Boifava with some plastic bags containing the bike which I had sawn into pieces.”
Asked about Roche’s assertion that Visentini had declared before the Giro that he would not go to the Tour de France to help the Irishman, he said it was “All excuses to deflect blame after what had happened.”
In fact, Roche had known early on in the Giro that Visentini had booked his holidays for July and would not therefore be available to offer to help Roche win in France in return for handing over the Giro without any fuss.
Visentini ended up pulling out of the '87 Giro anyway, having broken his wrist on the penultimate stage.
By this time there was some grudging acceptance in the Carrera ranks that Roche was the best rider in the race.
Monday, 7 May 2018
Riot and Assembly on a Bank Holiday
Ah, a Bank Holiday weekend in the UK.
For once the weather has been fantastic and yes, with a bit of sunshine even us Brits can be tempted out of doors to partake in all manner of activities.
Personally I have been to the Tour de Yorkshire cycle race in the wonderful North Yorkshire resort of Scarborough with the slumped cliffs of North Bay acting as a natural amphitheatre from which to view the frantic final surge to the line of the large field of riders on Stage 3.
I hope that the town gets to host one or more of the events when the Cycling World Championships come to God's Own Country in 2019 and that combination of land, sea and sky can again form the perfect backdrop to the best that the sport can offer.
Of course, my absence from the house and its chores on one of the Bank Holiday days had to be rebalanced and so the follow on activities were very much centred on domestic things.
There was the customary visit to a DIY and Garden Centre with the car boot being filled with buckets of paint, rollers and trays, brushes and dust sheet. The voids in between these mainly round and rectangular receptacles were ideal for the placing of trays of box hedge seedlings, a lavender bush, some multicoloured low shrubs and a lemon tree.
Projects in and outside the house were planned and/or commenced in the next 24 to 36 hour period before thoughts strayed to perhaps another family type activity, this upsurge in energy and motivation being assisted wholly by the bright, dry and warm early May climate.
The deciding vote went for flatpacking.
No, not backpacking as in taking to the Moors and Wolds with picnic lunch, tepid beverages and sun screen nor flipflopping on the baking sands of the North Sea Coast.
Flatpacking is an altogether different activity and in our case the catalyst for it to take place was a road trip to the nearest Ikea store.
The Swedish design and manufacturing ethos has been embraced and championed by the British although our own experience of self assembly furniture has not been that good. Our children's rooms and activity areas, in their early years, could have been mistaken for a corner of an Ikea showroom what with the cabin beds, stepped storage units, small chairs and hanging wardrobes.
In their later and teen years the same sorts of furniture but upscaled were bought including computer desks and day beds, trendy light fittings and metallic semi industrial cupboard units. They are sturdy enough when self assembled but perhaps the Scandinavians just stay put indefinitely in one place as any attempt to move house with the furniture certainly highlights some flaws in portability and dismantling. To date, nothing of our multiple Ikea furniture purchases has survived more than one residential relocation.
The drive in a westerly direction to the Leeds Ikea Store was surprisingly quiet but then again the three motorway lanes heading east in the rough direction of regional seaside attractions was noticeably busier.
We arrived in two cars, wasteful I know but essential in anticipation of some big boxed purchases, to find the place almost deserted. It was a welcome change from the usual queuing to get parked and to get in and around the tortuous lay out of the interior displays.
It is quite a family friendly place with little in the way of grumbling from customers over small children charging about with mini flag topped trolleys, potential slip hazards from loose pencils on the floor and the behavioural antics of first time visitors who seem to just stand and stare in amazement at the room settings whilst causing the aisles and walkways to be blocked.
You can have the best plan and intentions for your Ikea shopping trip as in definite choices of items and even their names and serial numbers gleaned from the internet or a paper based catalogue but you have to make allowances for distractions and those dangerous impulse purchases.
There is very clever and compelling use of sales space in each and every aisle which is just too tempting even for the most strong willed to resist. Everyone knows about the wicked overselling of tea lights in Ikea.
The winding journey of discovery from living room to bedroom, home office to bathroom, kitchen to storage solutions can be disorientating. There is a treasure house appearance to the array of wall hung stainless steel cooking implements and the golden promise of the lighting gallery which can be mesmerising to the uninitiated.
We had to take a bit of a breather from the assault on our senses and budget and so stopped in the restaurant for Swedish meatballs, chips, loganberry jam and optional gravy. The consumption of the tasty and nourishing meal boosted our resolve to get through the children's section, carpets and indoor plants to reach the final warehouse section and find our big boxed items.
These were wrestled off the low racking shelves and onto a flatbed trolley before the clumsy negotiation of the bargain and discounted or shop spoiled goods displays which were a final obstacle before the check-out.
Having loaded up the car I was, for the drive home, its solitary occupant amongst the distinctive odour of chipboard and veneer which pleasantly screened out the smell from a Swedish hot dog that my son had asked me to bring back for him.
I always panic at the sight of the box contents spread out on the room floor in readiness for the instruction booklet to be followed on a numbered step by step basis.
I worry about there being enough dowel pegs, small screws, those twisty bits that tighten up the long stick through fixings, hinge plates and stubby fittings?
Fortunately my wife is of good practical and logical mindset and was appointed the project manager. In some 5 to 6 hours out of the following 15 hour period (with a night-time cease fire) the living room workshop was a hotbed of some dazzling self assembly skills and not a few elementary gaffs on my part, before we could stand back and admire the Micke Computer Desk and from the same designer range the corner work station.
Flatpacking may not be as dramatic or desirable an experience as Backpacking or Flipflopping but you certainly feel that you have undertaken a strenuous and challenging activity and have the furniture rather than the blisters and sunburn to prove it.
For once the weather has been fantastic and yes, with a bit of sunshine even us Brits can be tempted out of doors to partake in all manner of activities.
Personally I have been to the Tour de Yorkshire cycle race in the wonderful North Yorkshire resort of Scarborough with the slumped cliffs of North Bay acting as a natural amphitheatre from which to view the frantic final surge to the line of the large field of riders on Stage 3.
I hope that the town gets to host one or more of the events when the Cycling World Championships come to God's Own Country in 2019 and that combination of land, sea and sky can again form the perfect backdrop to the best that the sport can offer.
Of course, my absence from the house and its chores on one of the Bank Holiday days had to be rebalanced and so the follow on activities were very much centred on domestic things.
There was the customary visit to a DIY and Garden Centre with the car boot being filled with buckets of paint, rollers and trays, brushes and dust sheet. The voids in between these mainly round and rectangular receptacles were ideal for the placing of trays of box hedge seedlings, a lavender bush, some multicoloured low shrubs and a lemon tree.
Projects in and outside the house were planned and/or commenced in the next 24 to 36 hour period before thoughts strayed to perhaps another family type activity, this upsurge in energy and motivation being assisted wholly by the bright, dry and warm early May climate.
The deciding vote went for flatpacking.
No, not backpacking as in taking to the Moors and Wolds with picnic lunch, tepid beverages and sun screen nor flipflopping on the baking sands of the North Sea Coast.
Flatpacking is an altogether different activity and in our case the catalyst for it to take place was a road trip to the nearest Ikea store.
The Swedish design and manufacturing ethos has been embraced and championed by the British although our own experience of self assembly furniture has not been that good. Our children's rooms and activity areas, in their early years, could have been mistaken for a corner of an Ikea showroom what with the cabin beds, stepped storage units, small chairs and hanging wardrobes.
In their later and teen years the same sorts of furniture but upscaled were bought including computer desks and day beds, trendy light fittings and metallic semi industrial cupboard units. They are sturdy enough when self assembled but perhaps the Scandinavians just stay put indefinitely in one place as any attempt to move house with the furniture certainly highlights some flaws in portability and dismantling. To date, nothing of our multiple Ikea furniture purchases has survived more than one residential relocation.
The drive in a westerly direction to the Leeds Ikea Store was surprisingly quiet but then again the three motorway lanes heading east in the rough direction of regional seaside attractions was noticeably busier.
We arrived in two cars, wasteful I know but essential in anticipation of some big boxed purchases, to find the place almost deserted. It was a welcome change from the usual queuing to get parked and to get in and around the tortuous lay out of the interior displays.
It is quite a family friendly place with little in the way of grumbling from customers over small children charging about with mini flag topped trolleys, potential slip hazards from loose pencils on the floor and the behavioural antics of first time visitors who seem to just stand and stare in amazement at the room settings whilst causing the aisles and walkways to be blocked.
You can have the best plan and intentions for your Ikea shopping trip as in definite choices of items and even their names and serial numbers gleaned from the internet or a paper based catalogue but you have to make allowances for distractions and those dangerous impulse purchases.
There is very clever and compelling use of sales space in each and every aisle which is just too tempting even for the most strong willed to resist. Everyone knows about the wicked overselling of tea lights in Ikea.
The winding journey of discovery from living room to bedroom, home office to bathroom, kitchen to storage solutions can be disorientating. There is a treasure house appearance to the array of wall hung stainless steel cooking implements and the golden promise of the lighting gallery which can be mesmerising to the uninitiated.
We had to take a bit of a breather from the assault on our senses and budget and so stopped in the restaurant for Swedish meatballs, chips, loganberry jam and optional gravy. The consumption of the tasty and nourishing meal boosted our resolve to get through the children's section, carpets and indoor plants to reach the final warehouse section and find our big boxed items.
These were wrestled off the low racking shelves and onto a flatbed trolley before the clumsy negotiation of the bargain and discounted or shop spoiled goods displays which were a final obstacle before the check-out.
Having loaded up the car I was, for the drive home, its solitary occupant amongst the distinctive odour of chipboard and veneer which pleasantly screened out the smell from a Swedish hot dog that my son had asked me to bring back for him.
I always panic at the sight of the box contents spread out on the room floor in readiness for the instruction booklet to be followed on a numbered step by step basis.
I worry about there being enough dowel pegs, small screws, those twisty bits that tighten up the long stick through fixings, hinge plates and stubby fittings?
Fortunately my wife is of good practical and logical mindset and was appointed the project manager. In some 5 to 6 hours out of the following 15 hour period (with a night-time cease fire) the living room workshop was a hotbed of some dazzling self assembly skills and not a few elementary gaffs on my part, before we could stand back and admire the Micke Computer Desk and from the same designer range the corner work station.
Flatpacking may not be as dramatic or desirable an experience as Backpacking or Flipflopping but you certainly feel that you have undertaken a strenuous and challenging activity and have the furniture rather than the blisters and sunburn to prove it.
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