Modest Acres

It is not entirely clear how it came to be there.

A few in the street who have stood and mused over its possible origins have claimed it could be from a discarded Weetabix, a thrown out stale crust of bread or a few stray seeds that were concealed in the turn-ups of trousers and just fell to the ground and took root.

It could equally easily have been a grain dropped by an overflying bird or just one of those natural processes where something lies dormant under the soil for generations and then climatic and nurturing conditions coincide to bring it to life and fruition.

This latter theory is perfectly feasible as although now an inner city cul de sac of modern houses and flats this location was, up until the late 1800's cultivatable agricultural land.

Whatever the origins it is still quite an amazing sight to see a clump of wheat growing in the front garden of a property in the middle of a busy city.

Those who tend to the garden, it being a bit of a communal area outside a couple of flats, have carefully preserved the proudly standing growth of the cereal crop with the flower bed turned over, hoe'd and weeded regularly and in fact the celebrity status of the plant has stimulated a bit of creative planting around it with brightly coloured perennials.

There was a bit of a panic a few days ago when some of the strands were seen to be weeping and wilting in the prolonged hot spell of weather prompting their careful strapping and tying up.

In spite of the urban environment and fumes from domestic boilers and vehicle emissions the heads of wheat look plum and healthy which confirm the durability and adaptability of the plant under many threatening circumstances.

You can imagine the excitement and anticipation of pioneering settlers who witnessed the emergence of their very first wheat crops after clearing and working their land plots in previously wild and uninhabitable territories.

There are other specific hazards to the well being of this small, local clump of wheat.

Wild animals in the city surroundings there are not but the attentions of domesticated dogs and cats warrants some deterrent actions such as keeping the gates to the garden closed or having a slipper or shoe to hand to lob at any inquisitive creature.

The proximity of human occupation seems to be enough to keep wild birds and vermin at bay at present.


In terms of actual growing conditions these seem to be very favourable with a broadly south facing aspect and protection from cold northerly's or strong westerly winds by the built up environment.

There have been a few close encounters with stray footballs from the multitude of young children playing out in the street but the flat dwellers who overlook the clump seem to take it in turns to keep a vigil and manage potentially threatening situations.

Recent wild fires on open ground in other parts of the country have been considered and a small bucket of water is kept with the wheelie bins in the small covered enclosure at the entrance to the flats for just such an eventuality.

The continuing hot weather should see a gradual ripening of the ears of wheat and there is already a discussion about the logistics of harvesting and making use of the crop which can be expected in late July or early to mid August.

Some of the guardians of the wheat are pretty ambitious in their expectations of grain yield and are hoping for enough flour, when milled, to make at least one loaf of bread of sufficient size to permit all to share it.

It is a very social and philanthropic chain of thought but given that, on average, it takes from half to one square metre of wheat to make a standard sized loaf the best that could be hoped for might be a couple of small breakfast rolls.

Still, that would still be enough for the local community, who have been galvanised in collective action by the clump, to break bread together.

That of course is dependant upon getting the combine harvester into the heart of the city, negotiating the narrow opening to the cul de sac and over the low wall that marks the boundary of that very tiniest of wheat fields.

Short Arses in History

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.

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 its 18th Century beneficiary 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.

Fatberg Retrospective 2018

You may remember my bit of writing last year about the discovery of a huge, rancid blob of congealed and largely solidified human waste, fat, oil, wet wipes and litter in the sewers under a part of London, England.

If not, then here is the link for you to catch up   ;What lurks beneath

Since February this year a rugby ball sized fragment of the infamous Fatberg has been on display at the Museum of London for visitors to see and appreciate.

It is in fact the last surviving piece of the phenomena that was Fatberg with the other 130 tons having been destroyed in the process of its removal from the subterranean maze of City drainage sewers.

It was indeed fortunate that someone at the Museum had the idea to salvage and exhibit the piece as it has proven to be quite an attraction with talk of an extended period for viewing beyond the planned 6 months.

An inanimate object it is certainly not; far from it as it remains very organic and has been observed as sweating, changing colour and even spawning flies and other insects who have, in egg form, enjoyed the humid and nutritious ingredients.

There is no hiding from the fact that the congealed substance is highly toxic to humans and precautions against the escape of noxious fumes and gases have included a double glass layered display box and a very restricted list of those allowed to go near it and even then in full anti-bacteriological protective clothing.

Its presence amongst cultural, social and economic exhibits representing London has transformed the septic mass into something of an art installation as well as arousing the curiosity of the public who have asked many questions about it of the Curators.

The most popular enquiry is about "what does the thing smell like?"

The privileged few who have involuntarily inhaled even through Hazmat Grade equipment liken it to a cross between a festival chemical toilet and an old fashioned wash-day with a faint soapy odour. The latter is attributed to the reaction of the fat deposits with salts in the sewer environment in the process known as saponification.

So, not as repulsive as you may think although the sight of regular seepage of moisture from the body of waste remains a strong deterrent to the casual sniffer or sampler.

The birthplace of the Fatberg in a population area but also in proximity to a hospital and food based businesses did dictate a very cautious approach by the Museum prior to setting up the display and this involved the taking of an X-Ray to detect any needles, scalpels, human blood or other nasties.

No metals were actually found.

The most talked about feature is a protruding wrapper from what appears to be a Cadbury's Double Decker chocolate bar.

The fatberg has attained something of a Cult Status to the extent that poems and short stories have been inspired by it and there are tentative ideas about a theatrical themed show.

Perhaps the wierdest spin off has been the making of a replica of the fatberg as a cake complete with that extruding sweet wrapper.

Like many things now enshrined in popular culture the blob may just run and run.............

Rolling Stock

From time to time I just have to stop and stare. 

It is because something has caught my attention. 

This can be an unusual feature on a building, the presentation of a sudden unexpected view, a strange road sign and on occasion because of a sighting of a rare type of car. 

In the modern era of motoring there is a blandness in style and design which is uninspiring. 

I can well remember the vehicles on the road in my childhood when spying a European marque such as the now commonplace Renault, Volkswagen and Fiat was a matter of great excitement. 

My father was a big fan of VW's and in the 1960's drove a Camper Van followed by a 1971 purchase of a 1600 Variant Squareback and then a 412LE Estate. 

We would wave at other families in the same make as though members of a secret club. 

I look back at those days with great affection and indeed recall many of the cars that made for an extra interest on those long drives for holidays or just a day out somewhere. There was a rather basic range of body styles very much dictated by the production process which had not yet mastered the techniques for aerodynamic curves and panels in metal and glass. 

Automotive plastics were still some years away from being of the required durability and versatility. 

Cars were largely based on a box shape to wings, bonnet, boot and roof but some designers were trying hard to deliver more radical and revolutionary concepts. I could not help but giggle and blush whenever the Wankel Rotary Engine was mentioned. 

There were also, in the post war years the combination of a shortage of materials and yet increasing demand for cheap and easy to manufacture modes of transport. 

In the 1950's ( actually a decade or more before I was born) a solution to this dilemma was in the distinctive form of the bubble car. 

It was so called because of the egg shape of its body and windows. 

I came across this beauty in a local village just a few days ago and just had to do a bit of research on it.

This is an Isetta of Italian design credentials but actually badged up as a BMW as part of a wider global licencing which saw other versions pop up in countries as far distant as Argentina and the United Kingdom. 

The BMW car was the subject of major re-engineering by the German company and in 1955 it became the first mass produced car in the world to achieve a fuel consumption of 94 miles per gallon. 

Some 161,728 were sold over a period of seven years.  By modern performance standards it was pretty rudimentary with a one cylinder four stroke engine from a motorcycle and a 13 horse power output. 

Key characteristics of the BMW version over the original included bug eye type headlamps and the positioning of the aero-blade badge centrally below the windscreen. The hairdryer type grille just behind the door appears to be  a radial fan and shrouded ducting to cool the overworking engine. 

The car could, in Germany, be driven on a motorbike licence and had a top speed of 53 mph. This street parked example is very well preserved and evidently is regularly used. 

It was well worth a stand and stare.

The bigger they are.........

This is a particular favourite of mine from a few years ago. 

Tall people seem to get on well in life.

In history height was regarded to be a measure and indicator of power and dominance. With the exception of diminuitive Dictators most great world leaders have been of above average stature.

It may have been advantageous in Medieval times to breathe and exist above the mire and stench which will have lingered from open sewers, festering wounds and those not quite able to afford a posy handkerchief. With advanced height there also tends to be a lean physique and, with that ,better prospects of longevity, well at least more towards the age of 30 in those dark, dank ages. I can see, however some disadvantages of standing out in a clump of bandy legged colleagues in a battlefield scenario or up on the castle ramparts. A proper target, head and shoulders above the rest presented for the unwelcome attention of arrows, cross-bow bolts, trebuchet armaments and the rest that siege and warfare of that period could excel in projecting through the air.

Many such contemporary giants, although probably akin to average height in our modern day well nourished society, may have pondered on what their actual purpose in life was to be.

There is pressure equally on tall persons to live up to expectations. I was responsible for the training of a student who at a towering 6 feet 7 inches could just about fit in my first company car. He was quite broad generally and had to purchase his clothes from a specialist outfitter who only seemed to have access to garments fashioned out of antique tweed.

For a 20 year old of gigantic proportions this aged him by at least 50 years.  The lad was very well spoken, actually quite painfully well spoken and this gave him a rather camp persona and it was only his sheer intimidating bulk that prevented him from getting beaten up regularly.

I can see that in his early years of standard height for respective age he may well have been bullied. Those exacting wedgies and other unpleasantries will have fretted increasingly over their own fate as they witnessed his  rapid growth in his adolescent years. That is unless he was born oversized, in which case I have every sympathy for his poor mother who may have felt that she was carrying and giving birth to a horse.

Usually such characters would be first pick in a line up for rugby or football and a definite starter on every team sheet for basketball. However, he was by some freak of genetics absolutely no good at any sports, apart from shooting where he could easily see over the hedges and surprise small animals who felt safe and undetected from prying eyes or those intent on murdering them in the name of sport or a stew.

Being the son of a farmer he knew everything about the countryside and could not resist talking about it every time to the point of being an utter bore, especially to me being a townie through and through.

We did not hit it off too well on the first day of his secondment to me. I briefed him on a meeting with an important first time client whose business would be valuable to my employers , tactfully implying that although he could not avoid being seen he should not be heard.

This was completely negated by the client himself who, given a choice between a colussus in a tweed suit and a small and baggy suited man of average height, chose the former to gush forth in greetings and expressions of doing the best for all parties in any subsequent dealings. A modest, conscientious and considerate individual of any vertical elevation would, you would think and expect, correct the misunderstanding and deflect and diffuse any potential for embarassment immediately with a good humoured comment. Expect and think, yes but in reality Goliaths big brother assumed control of the situation, bullshitted his way through and left me in the role of a sumo wrestlers bucket boy.

I felt like I was about 1 foot tall, which stood next to the behemoth was an equivalent in scale to about an inch. The Client was none the wiser. This made what had taken place even more humiliating for me.

I thought of exacting a suitable revenge. This consisted of, when he was not looking, pushing the front passenger seat as far forward as possible and wedging it in place so as to prevent it from being moved. This, in my bitter thoughts had the desired effect of making him extremely uncomfortable, cramped, knees up around his ears and bulbous grossly proportioned nose pressed up against the inside of the windscreen.

He resembled a giant being taxied around in a pixie car. Result.

(previously called Little Big Man from May 2012)

The Scorpion King

It's nice to see a familiar face and after my writing of yesterday on the embarrassing situation of not being able to remember someones name when asked to make an introduction I was happy and relieved to recognise Rene Higuita sat in the expensive seats at the World Cup match between his national team, Colombia and Poland.

He has not changed at all since my last seeing him way back in 1995 in the televised highlights of a friendly football match with England at the old Wembley Stadium, London.

Then, as now, he presented a startling and uniquely individual figure with an outrageous permed hairstyle, spiv type moustache and stocky physique which was, based on my experience of other goalkeepers in the game at that time, another very individual characteristic.

1994 sticker but no-show for Rene

That night of 6th September was a pretty dour event with a sparse crowd of only 20,000 at the National Stadium to see a strong home team meet the South American visitors.

Amongst the Terry Venables managed team were the usual suspects of Seaman, Neville, Gascoigne, Rednapp, Barmby and Shearer to name a few and the opposition will have been with the European Championships in mind for the following year.

The result was 0-0 but what was remarkable was the performance of Higuita and his scorpion kick clearance from his goal-line.

It was an audacious, daring and very risky antic but one that had school yard, amateur, semi pro and professional players attempting to replicate the same thing in the following days and weeks.

I expect that the athleticism and co-ordination required to pull off such a stunt may have caused considerable distress and no doubt injuries to those less adept in its delivery.

It has not, to my knowledge, featured in the repertoire of any other goalkeeper since and may not ever be seen again in a competitive situation.

The technical expertise of the current crop of goalies at pro-level does not allow for such flair and recklessness and I find that a shame for on that autumnal London night the few who witnessed first hand (or foot) the scorpion kick will not be likely to forget it.

I have just re-watched the somewhat grainy footage of Higuita's exploit and it has not, after all the intervening years, lost any of its WOW factor.

As for the man himself he may count himself fortunate in getting to the VIP Area of the Kazan Arena for his life and playing career would make for a good movie plot line.

He played for his country in Italy at the 1990 World Cup although was culpable for an error that allowed Cameroon to knock them out in the last 16 phase of the tournament.

A return to the 1994 competition in the USA was not possible for Higuita because of a strange combination of events which had seen him involved in a kidnapping by the drug baron Pablo Escobar.

The infamous narcotics king and Higuita were actually close friends from their Medellin background and acting as go-between in the criminal act had earned the goalkeeper a tidy fixer's fee but also came with a 7 month prison sentence which meant a dramatic decline in fitness and general suitability for a call up to the National Squad.

A few years later whilst still playing at a top level in South America he tested positive for cocaine which attracted a ban.

Always seeking the limelight he then followed  the usual non-sporting route into Reality TV with a stint on Celebrity Island.

He retired from the game aged 42 in 2008 but was in ill health for some years afterwards from a toxic infection thought to have come from his keeping of domestic livestock.

The glimpse of Higuita in Russia today was encouraging in that he looked quite healthy and obviously enjoying Colombia's return to winning ways in this years World Cup Group Stage.

Here is the amazing highlight of that otherwise dismal Wembley friendly

Rene does one

Point Blank

I was only yesterday in a conversation where I was struggling to remember the name of a world famous actor and celebrity but my brain could just not retrieve it from the grey matter.

The characters played by this individual from the movies were not a problem and I could easily reel off Legolas Greenleaf and Will Turner but for some inexplicable reason his actual name eluded me.

That was indeed strange and worrying in equal proportions as I am usually pretty good at recollection and trivia based knowledge.

It is not as though the person has an ordinary and therefore unremarkable name, far from it. In fact you would think that his name was one specifically made up for Hollywood unlike those of Maurice Micklewhite, Declan McManus, Archie Leach and Krishna Bhanji amongst others who all had to resort to anglicised stage names of, in the same order, Michael Caine, Elvis Costello, Cary Grant and Ben Kingsley,

The name that escaped me was of course that of Orlando Bloom, his real one at that.

In the context of that original conversation  my brain freeze was  not at all important, in fact it had been intended as the theme of an elaborate "in joke" with my wife.

However the forgetting of a name has greater implications in certain situations. This could be at the time of an introduction in a business environment or of a friend or relative in a family type scenario.

There is a critical element in the act of not only forgetting someones name but actually hesitating in introducing them because you have forgotten their name.

Thankfully this is not just a problem that I seem to have.

In recent years there has been a bit of a campaign to bring a completely new word into the public domain to specifically and succinctly describe this rather embarrassing and shameful trait.

It is the word "Tartle".

The procedure to bring about recognition of a new word into the English Language is quite difficult and drawn out although popular culture and the influence of a social media push has certainly fast tracked quite a few.

The inclusion in the Oxford English, Collins and Merriam Webster Dictionaries of such words as bling, chillax, infomania and muggle bears witness to the power of mass adoption and use in everyday conversational language.

Tartle is however a bit of a slow-burner of a word in its intended context and meaning.

It is actually to be found in old Scottish language although various other claims have been made as to its etymological origins including an accreditation to Douglas Adams in his "Meaning of Liff" although I have not been able to substantiate this claim.

The Scottish National Dictionary which has compiled words since 1700 has the following entries for Tartle;

i) A lock or tuft of hair or wool at an animals tail which has become matted with excrement or mud,

ii) tatters, tassels, torn or trailing edges of clothing and

iii) to reduce clothing to ribbons or tatters

and it does not take too much of a modern interpretation to get to the most recent meaning of feeling panicked, or in pieces about forgetting the name of someone when it comes to the making of an introduction.

I have been guilty of this misdemeanour and social gaffe on a few occasions and so have developed a coping strategy for it.

The most effective is to deflect attention from my ignorance and rudeness by just saying "I am sure that you both know each other" or " and of course this is my best friend and colleague" or to just bamboozle and confuse by saying "Sorry for my Tartle".

That may give a bit of a reprieve in which to gather my thoughts, look around desperately for a clue as to the person's identity or invite a third party to take over whilst I go for a bit of a lie down.

Windows B.C.

Yes, there was a time before curtains.

In fact, only a few centuries ago there were no windows to even prompt that kernel of imagination that would, in time, become the world of soft furnishings.

Take my findings at a country house from this last weekend.

The property has seen better times in its early years as a private residence but after being requisitioned in the second world war as a military headquarters and then a post-D Day Hospital it was passed around various departments of the Local Council before last non-domestic use as a fire brigade call centre.

Remarkably a good proportion of the authentic and character fittings and finishes have survived the ravages of third party and institutional use and amongst them are these great window shutters.

In their halcyon years they will have been ultimately practical in terms of ease of maintenance (very few moving parts), versatility of decoration and for safety and security, particularly if the building was not staffed or manned adequately.

These examples are plain but functional but I have also seen some very fancy, fully retractable versions which are concealed behind ornate panelling or, if in ground level rooms these cleverly disappear under the finished floor level to be deftly moved into position on slickly running pulleys, cords and counterweights.

This is the window frame detail. Note the eggshell fragility of the single glazed pane which also performs poorly in terms of thermal and noise reduction efficiency although only as far as our modern day demands dictate.

The craftsmanship is as to be expected for the Victorian era of Master Artisans as in the deep recessed panelling and mouldings although the handle/knob is likely to be a very much more recent replacement for a long lost or damaged original.

This is a small aperture window and so the shutters tuck away neatly into the recess so as not to impede the natural light. This is not however a very inspiring view onto a plain brick wall.

Fully closed the effect is neat and tidy as well as giving a good secure feeling. The age of, and a degree of natural shrinkage in the wood does not give perfect exclusion of light at the meeting point of the panels.

In side- on view you can see the recess to the window surround and the large metal fixing plate which, see below, is a good piece of industrial architecture.

It looks as though a few bits are missing but the mechanism remains in working order for all that.

Back in its recess the panelling shows its interesting detail. The lustre of multiple paint layers over successive years of decoration is a beautiful sight to behold.

Who needs curtains?

(Photos from Hestercombe House, near Taunton, Somerset, UK)

World Cup Shorts- 1966

30th July (yesterday) marked the 50th anniversary of the 1966 FIFA World Cup Final, the greatest ever moment for the England national football team.

There have been plenty of events to mark the half century and an overwhelming nostalgia that has been a bit of a diversion from the embarrassing fact that in the intervening period the nation has been a flop on the pitch in competitive tournaments.

The iconic words of the TV commentator, Kenneth Wolstenholme, in the final seconds of the Final have been resonating across the airwaves in recent days and most of us can do a pretty good rendition of "They think it's all over.....etc, etc".

The BBC TV coverage was not the only media broadcast on that day and for those, and there were still a good proportion in the mid 1960's, who did not own or have sight of a television the radio gave access to all of the action.

I was not aware of the radio broadcast of the Final until a couple of days ago when it was made available on the internet.

The two man team included Brian Moore, one of the main presenters whom I grew up watching in the 1970's and 1980's on commercial ITV and Maurice Edelston.

I thought it would be a fitting tribute to the World Cup Anniversary to attempt to transcribe the first 13 minutes of the commentary or at least in an abridged way in real time with the emphasis on the actual passages of play and the interaction between the players on each team.

There is one player out of the twenty two who started the game who does not seem to get a mention in the first 13 minutes. See if you can work out who it is.

West Germany kick off with Haller on a damp and skiddy turf following rain, foul play with free kick Bobby Moore gets the ball to Ray Wilson, given away to Haller, then to Peters and Bobby Charlton, Nobby Stiles, unmarked, takes the first shot but blocked by Weber . Emmerich to Beckenbauer deep in his own half, Overath blocked by George Cohen then to Moore, Hurst, Peters towards the penalty area, to Bobby Charlton then Peters again but out for a goal kick.

Taken by keeper Tilkowski to Schnellinger with long ball intercepted by Moore, Alan Ball moving forward, one two between Hunt and Cohen but into touch. Schnellinger takes throw in to Shultz in the sweeper role, pass to Held, but tackled by Moore, bounces to Emmerich, Held then shoots wide with 2 minutes gone. He was offside although weaknesses in the England defence exploited. Free kick follows.

Emmerich loses to Stiles, Cohen misplaced pass to Held. Jack Charlton collects and crosses to Moore, to Hunt then Hurst blocked by Weber, Schnellinger to Held and inside to Emmerich. Cut out by Stiles passing to Alan Ball then Bobby Charlton. Beckenbauer steals and spots Schnellinger through to Emmerich, inside to Halle and Weber who catches Wilson in the defence unawares but out of play.

Throw in by Halle to Schnellinger, Wolfgang Weber loses to Wilson with loose ball finding Moore, Jack Charlton in defence, not much composure and Moore again but beaten by Hottges and Beckenbauer but out of play.

Throw in by Jack Charlton, Stiles who tries to shoot. Halle collects, plays to Weber in the England penalty area then to Emmerich but well wide for another throw-in.

Alan Ball takes throw to Ray Wilson then Moore, Hurst looking for space and finds Peters, Hurst bad return, throw in again. Ball unable to pass Hottges who gives to Schultz and then back to black clad keeper Tilkowski.

Play reseumes and Stiles wins, he is one of England's heroes in the tournament, Moore to Wilson, Haller challenges, Stiles again to Peters, Hurst chases but Tilkowski gathers and throws out to Schnellinger on 6 minutes gone in the match and still no score ,0-0.

Beckenbauer tackled by Stiles and plays in Charlton who returns to Stiles, tries to shoot but cleared by Schulz. Jack Charlton in defence loses to Weber then to Haller who shoots hitting Wilson with Banks in the England goal only able to put it out for the first corner of the game on 7 minutes.

Haller takes, out by Jack Charlton to Alan Ball, to Hurst and Bobby Charlton, Hunt on the left , Hurst, Stiles, Hunt, Hurst collides with Tilkowski who goes down injured. Ball bobbing about in the penalty area. Whistle goes with keeper still down although under a fair challenge.

High tempo game with West German's man for man marking with Schnellinger on Alan Ball, Beckenbauer on Charlton and Weber on Hunt. Overath tries to let in Held but Jack Charlton to Ball to Peters who shoots across the goal with Tilkowski putting out for England's first corner. Magnificent shot by Peters and good save.

Corner met by Hunt on the volley but wide. The West Germans seem to fall over quite easily and are known for play acting and feigning injury. Weber told to get on with the game by the referee.

Tilkowski recovered. Held on to Haller who is fouled and earns a free kick 15 yards out.

Sparse England wall just Bobby Charlton and Geoff Hurst. Beckenbauer takes free kick. Out by Moore to Bobby Charlton, attack by Alan Ball with Charlton on the overlap, Peters shoots across and just past the post.

England have improved greatly during the Tournament with Peters coming into the side for the Uruguay game and finding his form.

Weber for West Germany to Schnellinger up to Held but headed out weakly by Wilson straight to Haller who shoots low through players and a flailing Banks to score for West Germany. A soft goal on 13 minutes after a bad mistake by Wilson. Not much power behind it but Banks seemed unsighted.

So West Germany first blood in this 1966 World Cup Final.

World Cup Shorts- Unofficial

There are football fanatics who can effortlessly recall how many times a South American team other than Brazil has reached the World Cup finals. 

Few, however, could tell you the last time a team of Caucasian separatists defeated the descendants of Chagossian exiles, or how the record stands between Scandinavian indigenous peoples and unrecognised Somali statelets. 

Such were the match-ups in 2016 in Abkhazia, a breakaway region of Georgia, where a collection of aspiring states, micro-nations and other minority communities staged a “World Football Cup”. The participants are unaffiliated to FIFA.

The tournament, organised by the Confederation of Independent Football Associations (CONIFA), brought together a dozen teams ranging from Northern Cyprus to the United Koreans of Japan.

Founded in 2013, CONIFA provides a platform for the forgotten football associations of the world. It claims to skirt the politics that often plague sports and divide peoples. The first world championship was staged in 2014; this year’s was the second. 

Some competitors, such as Iraqi Kurdistan, were well-organised and expertly trained. Others were endearingly incompetent, but crowds were merciful: the hapless Chagossians were cheered off the field after every loss. The teams included amateurs and a few professionals from their respective homelands (as with Székely Land, an ethnic Hungarian area in Romania) or their diasporas abroad (as with Western Armenia, whose Armenian inhabitants were deported by the Ottomans during the first world war).

Shunned by most of the international community, Abkhazia , which broke off from Georgia in the early 1990s and has been openly backed by Russia since 2008, is hungry for recognition of any kind. Some here hope FIFA’s acceptance of Kosovo (which broke off from Serbia) as a member last month will become a precedent for the Abkhaz national team. 

Other stateless peoples and regions, too, are accepted by FIFA: Palestine has been a member since 1998. The Abkhazian team’s nail-biting win in the tournament championship on Sunday, against Panjab (a team representing the global Punjabi diaspora, whose homeland is split between India and Pakistan), may reinforce its claims to sporting legitimacy.

Whether CONIFA intended it or not, choosing Abkhazia as the host was something of a political decision. Georgia remains furious at any attempt to legitimise the breakaway region. Per-Anders Blind, CONIFA’s head, said Georgian officials had contacted European governments to ask them to discourage their citizens from entering Abkhazia through Russia, which it considers illegal entry onto occupied territory. (A government spokesman said only that his country works with its allies to prevent violations of Georgian law.) The teams traveled through Russia anyway, fearing that if they tried to enter Abkhazia from Georgia, they would be stopped by authorities.

12 teams reached the 2016 Finals although there were withdrawals, suspensions and reinstatements in the weeks running up to the opening fixture. 

The Stateless Nations as well as Abkhazia, the hosts included;

Aymara; an indigenous nation straddling modern Bolivia, Peru and Chile with an ancestry pre-dating the Inca's who enslaved and suppressed them.

Ellan Vannin; representing the Isle of Man

Padania; covering eight regions in the north of Italy

County of Nice; located in  Southern France around the resort of Nice

Raetia; a Province in Roman Times now across parts of the Tirol, Bavaria and Lombardy.

Somaliland in southern Africa

Chagos Islands; actually as uninhabited archipelago in the Indian Ocean apart from the US Base at Diego Garcia

Iraqi Kurdistan

Panjab

United Koreans of Japan

Northern Cyprus

The Romani People

Sapmi; northern parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia

Western Armenia

Szekely Land; around Transylvania

There are 35 current members of CONIFA. amongst them Heligoland, Tibet and Darfhur.

The tournament also served the political purposes of the teams. 

The Chagossians used it as a platform to voice their anger at the British government for forcing their relatives from the Diego Garcia atoll in the late 1960s. For Abdillahi Mur, who played for Somaliland, a secessionist region of Somalia, it was a chance to prove his ancestral homeland is not as violence-ridden as the stereotypes would have it. “We don’t want to be seen as people who just have wars.” 

It was, by all accounts, a great tournament but somehow bearing in mind the bigger picture the results were not really that important.

(Reproduced with edited sections from The Economist and BBC News sources)

World Cup Shorts - 1920's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World Cup Shorts- 1974

I wrote this to celebrate the life and sporting prowess of Johan Cruyff when he died in 2016. His legacy to football remains as strong as ever. His Dutch club Ajax of Amsterdam renamed their stadium in his honour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eve of the World Cup

Teenage years can be a blur but I can clearly recall that I was definitely excited on 25th June 1978.

It marked the culmination of 4 weeks of frantic activity around the Football World Cup.

I had followed the tournament to a level exceeding obsession.

In a small, surplus school note book I kept a meticulous record of every detail of every game. Rather than wait for the match report in the newspaper of the following day I scribbled down the starting line-ups as they were paused on the TV screen prior to a match.

I wrote down the names of the match officials and at the end of the 90 minutes plus any extra time (in the latter stages) I had compiled a very amateurish report.

Football was my thing. I lived, slept and dreamt it.

In such a fan fervour ,aged 14 , I was totally oblivious to the significance of the competition to the host country of Argentina

At that time it was a military dictatorship and a very troubled one.

A coup in 1976 had seen, in the following years, the incarceration, torture and disappearance of thousands of opponents and dissenters to the regime. It was an opportunity for beleagured leaders to showcase the country to a huge global audience through an unmissable propaganda machine and yet those on the street would state that the beautiful game was the overriding factor in the unifying of a people, if only for the four weeks of the tournament.

The home team, Argentina started quite well with wins against Hungary and France and even a defeat to Italy could not prevent progress to the next league stage. The national emotions associated with oppression and fear were gradually lifting with the growing success of the national squad. Players found themselves in the public eye with every aspect of their lives on and off the pitch under scrutiny.

Round two saw  a win against Poland followed by a tense draw with Brazil. In order to be masters of their own destiny and to get to the final in their half of the draw the last stage game against Peru would have to be a win by at least four clear goals.

In the first few minutes of play Peru had two great chances to dent the aspirations of the host nation. Amidst many conspiracy theories, including talk of a massive grain shipment to Lima albeit never proven, the visitors quickly gave up and Argentina stormed ahead to win 6-0.

It was a tremendous acheivement for the team and in the changing room before the final with Holland there was a visit by the ruling General to well wish and milk the occasion.

Daniel Passarella, the Argentina captain was not a great supporter of the regime and in a well publicised snub to the leadership he shook hands having just emerged from the shower, later admitting that only a few moments earlier he had been washing his genitalia.

This lack of respect was recorded in a glaring stare by the General and his entourage.

In a country where such a show of dissent had been regularly met with violence or a straightforward disappearance Passarella felt surprisingly aggrieved at only receiving a Presidential gift of a cigar box whereas his team mates deemed loyal were inundated with presents and favours.

The pre-match pep talk by manager Menotti was very brief and to the point to the extent of "There's the pitch, you are the best, so show it!".

The Dutch were tough opponents and had been wound up by the late arrival by 5 minutes of the home team to allow the 70,000 crowd to be whipped up into a frenzy. A ticker tape storm erupted from the stands as they emerged from the tunnel but the match was delayed further with the Argentinian bench objecting to a prominent plaster cast on the arm of Rene van de Kerkhof.

A compromise was reached with additional soft bandages.

Kempes, the star striker scored first but celebrations were premature with Holland equalising with only 8 minutes left of full time. Extra time looked inevitable although Rensenbrink for Holland saw a potentially winning strike bounce off the foot of the post.

In extra time Kempes and Bertoni scored and the nation celebrated. Players fell to the ground, elated but exhausted offering up a prayer or acknowledging the crowd. In a pitch invasion spectators grubbed up the grass on the pitch or were seen eating it as though part of a glorious feast.

The party continued into the night and over the following days with millions out on the streets.

This was a direct contrast to the days before the tournament when congregations of more than 3 persons were prohibited.

Ruud's Finger

The Dutch, the inhabitants of the Netherlands, Holland.

As if I really have to explain beyond that first word.

I have an instant array of images upon the mention of Dutch.

The strongest is the National stereotype of a nation wearing only bright orange attire on the occasion of any event from the World Cup to the Olympic Games and The Tour de France to Eurovision.

That is followed by yet more cliched attachments that are synonymous with the identity of that proud country of windmills, tulips, upright bicycles and, unfortunately, a liberal recreational drug culture.

My first childhood perceptions were based on a bedtime story of the small boy who put his finger in the huge dyke wall and so saved the whole country from a disastrous flood.

It was not however a fairy tale or fictional invention because it is a hard fact of life for the Dutch that theirs has, for centuries, been an existence very much at the whim of the waves and tides of the rivers and seas that surround and bisect it.

Fifty five percent of the land mass of Holland and sixty percent of its population are below sea level and in economic terms that translates to well over half of the Gross Domestic Product.

The constant threat of inundation has however brought out the best in terms of inventiveness and resilience in the Dutch in their attitude towards water.




It has been a harsh reality and in 1953 the tidal surge which also swept along the East Coast of Scotland and England caused catastrophic floods in the Netherlands and with more than 1800 fatalities.

This prompted a State funded range of projects, in effect a huge finger in the dyke equivalent with a series of dams and surge barriers to strengthen the vulnerable coastline.

In 1993 and 1995 the problem was not from the sea but a build up of flood levels in the rivers that flow across the land mass towards their outfalls in the North Sea.

The network of dykes managed, just, to hold back the water but not before a quarter of a million residents had been evacuated. You cannot accuse the Dutch Government of complacency as this sharp intake of breath at a narrow escape prompted a major rethink of strategy not so much to contain and suppress the natural forces but to work with them.

Innovative ideas included creating space for controlled flooding rather than adding a bit more onto the top of the existing defence walls. Channels and spillways were formed to divert surplus water into designated zones. This did mean that compulsory purchase powers were used to acquire homes, businesses and farms in order to ensure that no one resisted and stayed behind to be at risk of danger or a liability for rescue. There has been an ecological price to pay for public protection on this scale. The post 1953 phases of surge barriers and walls caused stagnant water conditions and a decline in the habitat of shellfish and marine mammals. That is another example of the pragmatism of the Dutch.

Other more recent projects to cope and co-exist with the threat of floods have included floating panels to act as a self closing flood barrier, an army of volunteers to slot in metal planks to stop up any gaps in existing defences in the event of potential flood conditions and an impassable bridge at high water to make citizens aware of dangerous conditions and to ensure that they do not attempt a crossing.

In housing the imagination of Architects has led to the building of homes in risk areas on a system of hydraulic piles that rise and fall under flood conditions. Conventionally built houses have a lower ground floor that can be surrendered to any flood levels to later be dried out and returned to full use with as little as disruption possible to its occupants. Other residences simply float.

The Dutch have, over centuries, had to self educate in matters of flood control and alleviation but above all have remained realistic that there is a good chance on a daily basis of defences being overwhelmed.

Huge projects and investment have meant that one small boy and his finger have been able to go on and make something of his life without the pressures that come with being on call as the saviour of a Nation.

Source; Sweet and Salt, Water and the Dutch by Tracy Metz

Victoria under Pressure

There will be a chapter or two in some Psychiatric Manual that describes the condition that I have shown at just about every stage in my life.

I am not unduly concerned by it nor should I constitute a threat to the general public nor a danger to myself by doing it with such persistence.

It is the tendency to overuse something just for the sake of it.

I am sure that I can give a better explanation than that so here goes.

In my earliest developmental years I was encouraged to draw and paint using pencils, felt tip pens, poster paints and progressing through to enamels- you know those small tins that could be bought from the local Woolworths or Model Shop by which to give authenticity to Airfix kits of planes, tanks, ships and 1;32nd scale toy soldiers.

Under the influence of compulsive tendencies I would paint not just the model being assembled at the time but in a systematic process all of my toys and possessions. In this way I had an unrivalled collection of green and brown camouflage patterned everything.

By my early teenage years and after taking the usual route through cubs, cub scouts and ventures I was pretty deft at using a penknife to carve and whittle bits of wood. Unfortunately this craftmanship, albeit crude, was extended to bits of home furnishings, council fences, telegraph poles and bus shelters.

With the arrival of my first grown up tool kit I went through a phase of taking things apart but struggled to re-assemble them to their former fully operational status. This included a valve radio, my bicycle, an old black and white television, door locks and domestic furniture. This reached a bit of a crisis point when, having been entrusted by my Father to change a wheel on the family car I omitted to tighten up the bolts which was only prevented from being calamitous by an early erratic wobbling when out on the open road which alerted us to the fact that something was drastically wrong.

As an adult and homeowner I adopted the twin marvels of WD40 and No More Nails as the solutions to every bit of maintenance and DIY.

They were ideal as they were, in my mind, skill-free ways, in the case of WD40 to fix squeaks, expel rust, exclude moisture and restart mechanical things that had otherwise given the impression that they had expired. As for No More Nails I used it to grip and secure pictures, wood joints, ceramic tiles, shelving, repair all manner or broken items- many in fact being things not at all mentioned on the tube in the manufacturers recommended applications.

Inevitably this reliance on oily liquids and gloopy substances was a recipe for failure- and some of it was quite startling and spectacular.

You would think, wouldn't you, that I would learn from my mistakes ..........but no.

In fact, a new arrival into the household of a Karcher Pressure Washer has encouraged my character flaw to re-emerge and with a bit of a vengeance.

It is a useful piece of kit and I have in no time power blasted the block paving at the back of the house, cleaned the Scottish Pebbles and imitation stone circle on the frontage, removed moss and lichen from the porch roof, lower courses of brick on the front of the house and boundary fence and accidentally stripped a lot of paintwork off the timber outer door.

In addition I have used it to wash the car (being careful to use the low pressure hose option), water the bedding plants, scare off a large Tom Cat, scour all accessible surfaces on the up and over garage door and remove accumulated mud from the last use of the mountain bikes.

I am currently restricted in my pressure washing ambitions by the length of the hosepipe attached to the tap in the garage and the power cable even with a reel-type extension lead.

My obsession with over-use could get me into a lot of bother as I have now become fixated on a perfect project for the bright yellow Karcher.

In the public park which is overlooked by my house there is a wonderful marble statue of Queen Victoria.

It was commissioned by a wealthy citizen to commemorate the visit of Her Majesty in October 1854 and is a very youthful depiction of her at the age she was then of 35.

The marble is reputed to be from the same quarry source as that used by Michelangelo for his remarkable statue, David and so is of exceptional quality and lustre.

However, the ravages of time, a northerly orientation to encourage moss and lichen and the occasional wear and tear from those intent on placing a traffic cone on her head have taken their toll and as you can see by this photo taken just today Viccy is well below a Royal standard of presentation.

I have calculated that , in order to assuage my unfortunate obsessive character trait, if I linked together five extension cable reels and connect them to the electric socket in my hallway as well as cobbling together the equivalent length in domestic hosepipe then these could, under cover of darkness, be run through the cultivated road verge, across the carriageway, amongst the undergrowth, shrubbery and then the ornamental rose garden around the plinth of Queen Victoria's statue I would be able to give her a good concentrated dowsing using branded cleaning fluid in order to loosen the accumulated dirt and grime and then a power rinse to bring out the grain and sheen of that Italian marble from Carrara in the Apuan Alps - see below.

I can only dream, I am not that daft. This is an archived photograph of a bright and shiny Victoria.

I do think, however, that she would be amused by the prospect of a subversive, after dark wash and spruce up.

Loop the Loop

Out of interest does anyone know how fast a thistle plant grows?

I ask that because of my own observations of a large patch of them which sit in the grass verges in and around the tarmac circuit that is the new traffic free cycle track in my home city of Hull, Yorkshire.

On our tuesday evening blast around the 1km loop there was nothing to see above the meadow-like environment and yet by friday the thistles were standing strong and resolute at half a metre above the coarse grass.

My son remarked in jest, although perhaps touching with reality in the Professional cycling ranks that the exceptional growth spurt may be down to users of the track discarding the contents of their drink bottles on that home straight. If riders like myself, a bit tubby and creaky in muscle and limb can put in an enhanced performance with just an energy gel and some isotonic liquid then imagine what such vitamins and minerals might do in the plant world. Miracle ride makes for miracle grow!!

We start off slowly on our evening laps. This serves a dual purpose of easing in our legs to what will be an increasingly strenuous effort over the proceeding 60 minutes of the paid booking and also to scare and flush out the wildlife that has a superb habitat in the grassland. It is a protected environment in that it is highly unlikely that a two wheeled patron will venture off the metalled surface unless overcome by fatigue, a mechanical or an horrific lack of concentration.

Within a couple of laps accompanied by idle chit chat and a discussion on any recent televised World Tour races the impromptu bush-beating results in the madcap exit from the sanctuary afforded by the lush vegetation of a few small rabbits, a couple of voles and other creatures so swift and fleeting that they are unidentifiable apart from being members of the rodent family.

We have on each of our visits had sole use of the track.

That is not down to under-use, indeed the facility is very well frequented by organisations, clubs, charities and council block bookings so much so that I have to ring up to make sure that there is public use coinciding with our intentions.

Every other wednesday is for a local Cycle Racing Team, alternate fridays similarly and on weekends there are training sessions and taster-type races for those smitten by the bug of cycling in general.

Our exclusive time slots are good in that we are gradually learning how to ride the tortuous layout which comprises a main start/finish straight, a sharpish left hander leading to a 180 degree loop, a twist and turn to a paralell straight to the main one and then a sweeping turn to complete a full circuit. Other two wheeled traffic would complicate such reconnaissance trips.

I say that we have has sole use which is true although we are definitely not entirely alone. Large sea gulls sit around on the fenced surround for two flood attenuation basins in the middle of the track and periodically swoop low directly in front of us as we gather speed. The pitch black crows are not at all intimidated by the flash of lycra and the slick click of gears and insist on hopping about in the gutter and perilously close to our path. That is a bit off-putting and I can easily imagine the mutual carnage from a bird attempting to fly through a spoked wheel.

The hour session does pass very rapidly or I should say that mainly depends upon my physical state. Tiredness or lower motivation makes for a dragging clock but in reasonably full flight and fitness it seems as though time flies.

There are likely to be teething issues with this tremendous facility for cyclists in the city.

Historically the site flooded as it sits just below the  banks of the River Hull but hopefully the drainage has been adequately designed to prevent this, even in the most extreme weather. There are a few holes in the fence onto the river bank and we have during our sessions come across dog walkers and idle youths who should simply not be there. I am all for the grassland surround as it is a haven for wildlife although should it be allowed to run riot it could be a problem.

The biggest hiccup was however with the keypad controlled gate and we had, a couple of weeks ago, to telephone the Sports Centre to send staff out to open it as the passcode would not work.

It is a very welcome albeit a long overdue recreational amenity for the enthusiastic and budding cyclists of Hull, present and future.