On the 24th October 1946 rocket scientists in New Mexico, USA launched a V2 missile.
It had been confiscated by the Americans after the defeat of the Nazis in Europe and formed the initial part of further research and development that would, within 23 years, see Apollo Astronauts land on the moon.
An important event during the V2 secondment was, at a height of 65 miles, the taking of a photograph, officially the first of the planet Earth from space.
It was a grainy, black and white image with details barely discernible apart from one- there was a distinct curve to the atmosphere around our planet.
Yes, this was irrefutable visual proof and in the public domain that the Earth was round and not flat or any other shape or form.
Of course, I have to trust the photograph and its authenticity to represent the truth about a spherical Earth.
Personally I have never been into space to verify this for myself . What I have been presented with has had to be taken in good faith. Even a peek out of the small window of a passenger jet at about 34000 feet altitude on the way to a holiday destination has not been enough to determine the actual shape of our planet.
I do not accept everything at face value anyway.
I try to take reasonable steps to find out things for myself, to sift out the incorrect from the factual, to examine the evidence and make up my own mind.
This desire for due diligence has been instilled in me from an early age. My parents were keen to educate me to distinguish between right and wrong, truth and lies, fact and fantasy and for the majority of my life this strong moral compass has worked well, or at least as far as I can tell.
I have still had to rely on the likes of teachers, lecturers, politicians, employers , colleagues and others in positions of authority and importance for information relating to their areas of influence and although I have implicitly relied on their respective status I have had enough of an upbringing and general education to discern what is reliable in terms of reflecting the real situation and what is certainly not.
However, in the modern age of technology, social media, internet, 24 hour news channels and instant ability to pass and post comment I am beginning to doubt even my own capabilities for rational thought.
This can be no better explained by the resurgence in popularity of the Flat Earth Movement, that is those who believe that the planet Earth is flat.
The Flat Earth Society was founded in 1956 and although always in the background of conspiracy theories about collusion between states and aliens, interference by Government into the lives of private citizens and promoting a distrust of scientists and experts it has only really appealed to those who revel in such things rather than the wider population.
That is until the last few years.
In the current climate of the common use of the term "fake news" as a means to dismiss and discredit all and anything the Flat Earthers have found new support amongst those who hide behind the "fake news" impenetrable wall.
A main line of attack by the Leave Campaign in the 2016 UK Brexit Referendum was to encourage a mistrust of experts and this same method of mass misbelief has been put to very effective use by Trump followers in the USA.
In May this year (2018) a Flat Earth Conference in Birmingham, UK was very well attended and in presentations and open forum discussions the delegates and attendees covered all aspects of experiments and modelling to look for and explain multiple verifiable evidence that the Earth was indeed flat.
Their opinions and approaches are not a new phenomena and in legend, ancient history and in religious teachings the physical form of the Earth as being flat is well documented. Early maritime explorers, although confident in their own navigational and seafaring skills must have had a secret fear of simply sailing over the edge of the known world in the absence of any means of determining that anything else was a possibility.
That V2 rocket and photo were, again, the first to be taken looking back at a sufficient arc of our planet to determine that it was of a round shape.
We are in an era of unprecedented access by most of the global population to information. Unfortunately, a good proportion of the population just absorb, digest and then pass on what they have heard or seen in snippet or meme form perhaps adding a vote of confidence or another bit of information that could be nothing more than rumour, hearsay, gossip, mischief making or dangerous lies and misinformation.
At the recent UK Flat Earth meeting there did seem to be some tempering of the olde worlde stance of "It's Flat" thus giving no leeway for reasonable discussion on whether or not that was actually the case in that a proviso was offered that believers in the movement should still do their own research and accept that they might actually be wrong.
That could be a good lesson for all of us to promote a bit of tolerance, understanding, proper engaged dialogue and above all, an open mind to the pros and cons of things that otherwise threaten our everyday lives and interactions.
Sunday 30 September 2018
Friday 28 September 2018
Coo Ca Choo
I came across an unusual and interesting structure just this week, rather by chance.
A builder, in the process of clearing a very overgrown former farmstead in a Yorkshire village to make way for new housing had come across a squat stone outhouse amongst the vegetation.
The exterior was nothing special; Local random stone coursing and the skeletal framework of what had been a pantile roof with trees growing through gaping holes.
The interior was a mass of bird faeces, or using the old name guano, some 4 metres deep indicating a good few decades if not a couple of hundred years of defecation in that place. This was not unusual for a long abandoned building and within an environment returned to nature where the avian occupants lived in isolation and a complete absence of disturbance from humans.
The mass of bird poo did constitute a problem for the development of the site, mainly because of its implications for health and safety. Whilst once highly prized and valued for its fertilising properties such an accumulation of old guano constituted a bit of a nightmare.
It just had to be excavated manually, bagged up and removed to a proper waste depository.
As the consolidated mass was reduced in size it became apparent to the operatives that the inner surface of the stone building had some interesting features.
Just below the roof eaves, the first area to be exposed there was a warm earthy colour showing through. It contrasted with the mellow, rustic stonework and was noticeable in its regularity which meant that it had to be of man made origin.
The gradual scraping and working loose of the guano began to reveal what resembled the appearance of the exterior of the Coliseum in Rome or what some of those working in that uncomfortable environment recognised as the interior of a columbarium or depository for funereal urns.
The smooth surface was a rustic fired clay around regular shaped openings of an upturned spade shape as on a deck of cards.
On reflection the apertures were too small for a typical cremation urn.
Projecting from the flat end of each opening was a shallow ledge.
After a few tons of excrement had been so extracted the full detail was revealed.
The building was a dovecote, likely to date from the 17th century or earlier.
Although long since diminished as a farming method the dovecote had been the most common method of pigeon keeping from the time of the Normans around 1000AD.
Hearken back to the Medieval era in Britain when in the winter months there was a real problem in the food supply chain for fresh meat. Cattle could not be kept when there was no reliable source of fodder and so the humble pigeon was farmed on an almost industrial scale as at least one source of nutrients essential for human health and sustenance.
Who can honestly say that they have eaten pigeon?
I am certain that I have not although my carnivorous repertoire has included kangaroo, zebra, wild boar, frogs legs and yes, I thought it was beef mince, but it was horse.
Our attitude today towards the pigeon, the once staple of the Medieval diet is very mixed.
Some regard that common, feral bird that frequents our town and city centres as little more than winged vermin and others worship and cosset them as almost family members where they are nurtured for their homing skills in what can be quite an obsessive and ruthless pastime.
That Dovecote ,now preserved in its renovated stone enclosure is a graphic reminder of the precarious existence of our not too distant ancestors.
A builder, in the process of clearing a very overgrown former farmstead in a Yorkshire village to make way for new housing had come across a squat stone outhouse amongst the vegetation.
The exterior was nothing special; Local random stone coursing and the skeletal framework of what had been a pantile roof with trees growing through gaping holes.
The interior was a mass of bird faeces, or using the old name guano, some 4 metres deep indicating a good few decades if not a couple of hundred years of defecation in that place. This was not unusual for a long abandoned building and within an environment returned to nature where the avian occupants lived in isolation and a complete absence of disturbance from humans.
The mass of bird poo did constitute a problem for the development of the site, mainly because of its implications for health and safety. Whilst once highly prized and valued for its fertilising properties such an accumulation of old guano constituted a bit of a nightmare.
It just had to be excavated manually, bagged up and removed to a proper waste depository.
As the consolidated mass was reduced in size it became apparent to the operatives that the inner surface of the stone building had some interesting features.
Just below the roof eaves, the first area to be exposed there was a warm earthy colour showing through. It contrasted with the mellow, rustic stonework and was noticeable in its regularity which meant that it had to be of man made origin.
The gradual scraping and working loose of the guano began to reveal what resembled the appearance of the exterior of the Coliseum in Rome or what some of those working in that uncomfortable environment recognised as the interior of a columbarium or depository for funereal urns.
The smooth surface was a rustic fired clay around regular shaped openings of an upturned spade shape as on a deck of cards.
On reflection the apertures were too small for a typical cremation urn.
Projecting from the flat end of each opening was a shallow ledge.
After a few tons of excrement had been so extracted the full detail was revealed.
Although long since diminished as a farming method the dovecote had been the most common method of pigeon keeping from the time of the Normans around 1000AD.
Hearken back to the Medieval era in Britain when in the winter months there was a real problem in the food supply chain for fresh meat. Cattle could not be kept when there was no reliable source of fodder and so the humble pigeon was farmed on an almost industrial scale as at least one source of nutrients essential for human health and sustenance.
Who can honestly say that they have eaten pigeon?
I am certain that I have not although my carnivorous repertoire has included kangaroo, zebra, wild boar, frogs legs and yes, I thought it was beef mince, but it was horse.
Our attitude today towards the pigeon, the once staple of the Medieval diet is very mixed.
Some regard that common, feral bird that frequents our town and city centres as little more than winged vermin and others worship and cosset them as almost family members where they are nurtured for their homing skills in what can be quite an obsessive and ruthless pastime.
That Dovecote ,now preserved in its renovated stone enclosure is a graphic reminder of the precarious existence of our not too distant ancestors.
Thursday 27 September 2018
Edge of Reason
Heights and me just do not get on.
I can sometimes surprise myself by crawling to the precipice, holding onto something firmly rooted or grounded and timidly peering over but that is certainly an exception.
I may have achieved it a couple of times just for the sake of standing next to my children when they were mere fledgling toddlers, strictly for the purposes of parental supervision of course.
This rather irrational fear is a mystery to me.
I think that I can track it back to when I was not at all a good swimmer. Most large drops that I encountered on family holidays on clifftops or looking into deep valleys or just going to the shops in a town with 2 rivers and a number of crossings did feature water as the eventual recipient for a plummeting body. Worst fears would be compounded by a low parapet wall over a bridge, the type where it only comes up to your knees even when a small child.
Even if there was a good sturdy, timber slatted walkway over the mildest of watercourses this instilled great angst if the calm, shallow and millpond demeanour was actually visible through the gaps. They were after all the sort of gaps where something precious could be dropped through and lost forever. For this reason I would keep my hands firmly in my pockets tightly grasping car keys, loose change and the inevitable collection of interesting pebbles and stones. Perhaps I was also not very good at loading up my pockets in a balanced way as well.
This was, I hesitate to admit, at its absolute worst on a suspended bridge, high up over a narrow gorge in Scotland. The thin structure, exposed to the wind could be sensed both vibrating and swaying and only with two persons on board. The cascading torrent of a mountain stream had been audible even when parking the car some distance away but with the heightened sensory experience of seeing it through the planking deck plus the lateral and oscillating movement I was fixed to the spot in rigid terror. My wife found this quite hilarious and I can accept that in a grown man, a former scout for goodness sakes, this was a ridiculous predicament to be in. I did not cross the bridge and would not have done so even if resident Troll had made demands of me.
Steep slopes with narrow, terraced paths are also a problem and torment to me. In most cases the width of the track suggests it was made by procession of sheep rather than a team of dedicated volunteers working for the National Parks and adopting a good wide size 10 walking boot as the model for safety and passability.
One particularly terrifying example is embedded in that part of my brain reserved for bad experiences. The north side of Trevone Bay in Cornwall has an interesting feature in a deep chasm, a blow-hole. I was told it was about 80 feet deep but I did not personally verify this. In its visible depths there is an opening in the adjacent cliff base and under certain stormy high seas or tidal conditions the hole is seen to live up to its geographical description.
The large and to my mind, very unstable feature, was on the route for one of my Wife's all time favourite coastal paths from Trevone to Padstow. This is amongst some of the most magnificent scenery overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and unfortunately for me, includes the steepest sheer face cliffs and sharp rock strewn potential watery graves ever.
I started the walk accompanied by our three very young children and friends but did not find it even remotely fun or inspiring as the rest of the group were intent on making it. Other peoples dogs were cavorting about as if in complete oblivion or denial of the very real dangers that I was perhaps the only person on the cliff to appreciate. I tried to warn the others about what they were getting into but with no success whatsoever.
If I feel in mortal danger on a gradient I just sit down and thereafter find it very difficult to find the momentum or spirit to get up again. The others continued merrily on their way leaving me behind and by all accounts had a marvellous, safe, carefree and scare-free time as they revelled in telling me later that day.
I seem to remember that, as Johnny no-mates I spent the rest of the day at the very reassuring sea-level.
It was great.
I can sometimes surprise myself by crawling to the precipice, holding onto something firmly rooted or grounded and timidly peering over but that is certainly an exception.
I may have achieved it a couple of times just for the sake of standing next to my children when they were mere fledgling toddlers, strictly for the purposes of parental supervision of course.
This rather irrational fear is a mystery to me.
I think that I can track it back to when I was not at all a good swimmer. Most large drops that I encountered on family holidays on clifftops or looking into deep valleys or just going to the shops in a town with 2 rivers and a number of crossings did feature water as the eventual recipient for a plummeting body. Worst fears would be compounded by a low parapet wall over a bridge, the type where it only comes up to your knees even when a small child.
Even if there was a good sturdy, timber slatted walkway over the mildest of watercourses this instilled great angst if the calm, shallow and millpond demeanour was actually visible through the gaps. They were after all the sort of gaps where something precious could be dropped through and lost forever. For this reason I would keep my hands firmly in my pockets tightly grasping car keys, loose change and the inevitable collection of interesting pebbles and stones. Perhaps I was also not very good at loading up my pockets in a balanced way as well.
This was, I hesitate to admit, at its absolute worst on a suspended bridge, high up over a narrow gorge in Scotland. The thin structure, exposed to the wind could be sensed both vibrating and swaying and only with two persons on board. The cascading torrent of a mountain stream had been audible even when parking the car some distance away but with the heightened sensory experience of seeing it through the planking deck plus the lateral and oscillating movement I was fixed to the spot in rigid terror. My wife found this quite hilarious and I can accept that in a grown man, a former scout for goodness sakes, this was a ridiculous predicament to be in. I did not cross the bridge and would not have done so even if resident Troll had made demands of me.
Steep slopes with narrow, terraced paths are also a problem and torment to me. In most cases the width of the track suggests it was made by procession of sheep rather than a team of dedicated volunteers working for the National Parks and adopting a good wide size 10 walking boot as the model for safety and passability.
One particularly terrifying example is embedded in that part of my brain reserved for bad experiences. The north side of Trevone Bay in Cornwall has an interesting feature in a deep chasm, a blow-hole. I was told it was about 80 feet deep but I did not personally verify this. In its visible depths there is an opening in the adjacent cliff base and under certain stormy high seas or tidal conditions the hole is seen to live up to its geographical description.
The large and to my mind, very unstable feature, was on the route for one of my Wife's all time favourite coastal paths from Trevone to Padstow. This is amongst some of the most magnificent scenery overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and unfortunately for me, includes the steepest sheer face cliffs and sharp rock strewn potential watery graves ever.
I started the walk accompanied by our three very young children and friends but did not find it even remotely fun or inspiring as the rest of the group were intent on making it. Other peoples dogs were cavorting about as if in complete oblivion or denial of the very real dangers that I was perhaps the only person on the cliff to appreciate. I tried to warn the others about what they were getting into but with no success whatsoever.
If I feel in mortal danger on a gradient I just sit down and thereafter find it very difficult to find the momentum or spirit to get up again. The others continued merrily on their way leaving me behind and by all accounts had a marvellous, safe, carefree and scare-free time as they revelled in telling me later that day.
I seem to remember that, as Johnny no-mates I spent the rest of the day at the very reassuring sea-level.
It was great.
Wednesday 26 September 2018
Meteoric Fall and Rise
It was quite an event, even to command the attention of the known world , when a meteorite fell out of the night sky in 1795 in a remote field just outside the small village of Wold Newton, East Yorkshire.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day of the 13th December 1795 an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retreived and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong paralells indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the national daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day. The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own super hero status.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day of the 13th December 1795 an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retreived and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong paralells indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the national daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day. The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own super hero status.
Sunday 23 September 2018
Pushing Buttons
You have a bit of a mishap that you could have so easily avoided.
You then have two choices.
The first is to admit to being at fault and by confessing there may be a better outcome than could be hope for.
The other is to try to cover up ,conceal or just ignore the misdemeanour and that, amazingly, it may mend or resolve itself leaving no clues or indications that you meddled or tampered with the thing in the first place.
That was the quandary that I found myself in just yesterday afternoon in someone's bathroom.
I have always been curious, even from being a young child.
If there was a "Strictly No Admittance" sign on a door then I would, of course, open it.
I touched everything that had a no touching notice.
I always had to check that a warning of wet paint was justified and above all, if there was a button just begging to be pushed then that is what I would do.
In this way I always attracted trouble be it on the bus and that bell stop thing, an old style push in cigarette lighter in a car or the operating button on a pedestrian crossing even if I had no intention of using it. If coming across any type of keyboard at all, either on a shop counter, in a public access office or just lying around, my index finger would get busy.
So, in that person's house bathroom I acted true to form.
The bathtub was an ordinary looking white acrylic thing. A mixer tap, grab rails, plug and hole as per usual.
What caught my attention was an array of silver dots in a seemingly random arrangement in the bottom of the tub. They were squat in form and seemed to be stuck down flush with no apparent apertures or perforations.
I thought that they might be some sort of anti-slip system although of course a rubberised and friction producing material was the norm. I reached down over the bath side and touched one and more of the silver spots. They were metallic and as such no use at all in providing any non-slip characteristics.
As I stood up from this line of investigation I disturbed a large towel that had been draped over the edge and my index finger started to twitch.
There, on the bath surround was a chrome button in a matching surround.
Yes, I had learned hard lessons from my formative years from giving in to temptation where switches and buttons were concerned but my overwhelming sensation at that time was as though an inner voice had given me the go ahead and press. I did so.
The downward motion was pleasing in that it was smooth and crisp.
Within a few millimetres of depressing the button there came from within the belly of the bathtub the sound of rushing air. It was coming out from beneath those fancy sliver dots.
Of course, the bath was one of those spa types and the pumped air, activated by my action, was coursing out but with no covering of water to give the distinctive bubbling effect.
I had an immediate thought that if the air, under pressure, was churning out freely with no watery resistance to play against then was there a risk that the motorised pump would burn out?
That was a scenario that did not fill me with joy and so I pressed the button again.
Logically I would have said that one push was "on" and another was "off".
Illogically the sound of air just increased in velocity and not to mention in audible noise.
One more push, I thought, should turn the thing off but in fact the speed and volume just ramped up again.
In a bit of a panic I could think of nothing apart from closing the bathroom door so that the homeowner might not hear the racket coming from his upstairs facility.
I tried to listen out for rapid and anxious footsteps on the stairs but the din from the mechanicals was drowning out any background sounds.
Perhaps there had been no real damage or risk of malfunction from my folly but I could have no way of knowing this in the absence of any obvious electric motor scorching smell or audible grinding of mashed gears and moving parts.
I had to just find the owner of the house and admit that I had meddled.
Making my way downstairs I went through a few different scenarios of how the button could have become pushed. I fell over or the pen fell toppled out of my breast pocket causing the action were initially plausible to my frazzled mind but the more I rehearsed them the more ridiculous they sounded.
Hesitantly I made my way downstairs and found the house owner in his conservatory, seemingly oblivious to the war zone one floor up.
I came clean about what my curiosity had made me do and upon returning to the vibrating atmosphere he just pushed the button one more time and peace was restored.
My obvious embarrassment did elicit kindness and understanding from the owner and we did end up having a bit of a laugh about the whole thing.
As I left the house I realised that much of my self inflicted childhood angst and psychological distress could so easily have been avoided.
You then have two choices.
The first is to admit to being at fault and by confessing there may be a better outcome than could be hope for.
The other is to try to cover up ,conceal or just ignore the misdemeanour and that, amazingly, it may mend or resolve itself leaving no clues or indications that you meddled or tampered with the thing in the first place.
That was the quandary that I found myself in just yesterday afternoon in someone's bathroom.
I have always been curious, even from being a young child.
If there was a "Strictly No Admittance" sign on a door then I would, of course, open it.
I touched everything that had a no touching notice.
I always had to check that a warning of wet paint was justified and above all, if there was a button just begging to be pushed then that is what I would do.
In this way I always attracted trouble be it on the bus and that bell stop thing, an old style push in cigarette lighter in a car or the operating button on a pedestrian crossing even if I had no intention of using it. If coming across any type of keyboard at all, either on a shop counter, in a public access office or just lying around, my index finger would get busy.
So, in that person's house bathroom I acted true to form.
The bathtub was an ordinary looking white acrylic thing. A mixer tap, grab rails, plug and hole as per usual.
What caught my attention was an array of silver dots in a seemingly random arrangement in the bottom of the tub. They were squat in form and seemed to be stuck down flush with no apparent apertures or perforations.
I thought that they might be some sort of anti-slip system although of course a rubberised and friction producing material was the norm. I reached down over the bath side and touched one and more of the silver spots. They were metallic and as such no use at all in providing any non-slip characteristics.
As I stood up from this line of investigation I disturbed a large towel that had been draped over the edge and my index finger started to twitch.
There, on the bath surround was a chrome button in a matching surround.
Yes, I had learned hard lessons from my formative years from giving in to temptation where switches and buttons were concerned but my overwhelming sensation at that time was as though an inner voice had given me the go ahead and press. I did so.
The downward motion was pleasing in that it was smooth and crisp.
Within a few millimetres of depressing the button there came from within the belly of the bathtub the sound of rushing air. It was coming out from beneath those fancy sliver dots.
Of course, the bath was one of those spa types and the pumped air, activated by my action, was coursing out but with no covering of water to give the distinctive bubbling effect.
I had an immediate thought that if the air, under pressure, was churning out freely with no watery resistance to play against then was there a risk that the motorised pump would burn out?
That was a scenario that did not fill me with joy and so I pressed the button again.
Logically I would have said that one push was "on" and another was "off".
Illogically the sound of air just increased in velocity and not to mention in audible noise.
One more push, I thought, should turn the thing off but in fact the speed and volume just ramped up again.
In a bit of a panic I could think of nothing apart from closing the bathroom door so that the homeowner might not hear the racket coming from his upstairs facility.
I tried to listen out for rapid and anxious footsteps on the stairs but the din from the mechanicals was drowning out any background sounds.
Perhaps there had been no real damage or risk of malfunction from my folly but I could have no way of knowing this in the absence of any obvious electric motor scorching smell or audible grinding of mashed gears and moving parts.
I had to just find the owner of the house and admit that I had meddled.
Making my way downstairs I went through a few different scenarios of how the button could have become pushed. I fell over or the pen fell toppled out of my breast pocket causing the action were initially plausible to my frazzled mind but the more I rehearsed them the more ridiculous they sounded.
Hesitantly I made my way downstairs and found the house owner in his conservatory, seemingly oblivious to the war zone one floor up.
I came clean about what my curiosity had made me do and upon returning to the vibrating atmosphere he just pushed the button one more time and peace was restored.
My obvious embarrassment did elicit kindness and understanding from the owner and we did end up having a bit of a laugh about the whole thing.
As I left the house I realised that much of my self inflicted childhood angst and psychological distress could so easily have been avoided.
Saturday 22 September 2018
You are not alone
Depending upon who you speak to this nation of ours is either rotating out of control down the pan or holding it's own and showing those, otherwise so pale as to invisible to the naked eye, green shoots of recovery.
If I come across a business contact or even a competitor I try to slip into the conversation, after the usual pleasantries and reminiscences of the good old days, the innocently phrased question of ' how are you finding things at the moment?'.
If the answer is in the range of 'pretty good' to 'not bad' I can expect to see an announcement of the liquidation of their company within a few short months.
Sounds a bit harsh but invariably it is true.
We have all done the self denial bit and been so convinced by our on desperate thoughts that we find ourselves maintaining this as the official stance to the rest of the family, friends, neighbours, casual acquaintances, the man in the post office queue, the bloke in the next street who walks his dog past your house every day, the disembodied voice on the phone trying to get you to file a PPI claim and everyone in between.
Perhaps the hardest thing to do however is not to outwardly display any signs of a troubling commercial and financial position. This can prove to be the hardest and most stressful aspect of the whole thing. There must be two or more newish cars on the driveway, season passes must be upheld at the football club and with accompanying clients wined and dined like it was the FA Cup Final on a frosty November Tuesday night. Perhaps the children attend an expensive pre-school, preparatory school or private fee paying school. There are longstanding memberships to the health club, golf club and beauty therapist. The timeshare villa and other exclusive benefits which require a monthly payment and so on.
A tea time telephone call from the bank, credit card or store card companies can be screened with an answering machine but only for so long. The table in the hallway begins to fill up with official looking envelopes as a follow up from the lack of success in making personal contact.
Each and every purchase with plastic involves a sharp intake of breathe between tapping in of the pin number and that welcome message on the display to show that the transaction is completed. Even the sound of the cashpoint actually sorting and then ejecting the requested amount of notes is sweet and comforting.
By now I am sure that each and every one of you will have identified with at least one of the key indicators of personal financial problems. Many of us will have the means to deal with the hiccup in cashflow and shortfall between expenditure and income and will, head down just continue to work as hard as possible.
Some do not and can fall prey to poor advice or suffer from those intent on making money through unscrupulous and downright unfair practices.
The prominence of short term loans in prime time media is an indictment of the extent to which a good proportion of the UK public are struggling with even day to day monetary requirements.
Belts can be tightened, economies can be made and the likes of Sainsbury and Waitrose can be dismissed in favour of Lidl, Aldi, The Co-Op and the special offers thrown at us by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. Why not give the local, independent shop a try?. You used to.
The recessionary conditions have been with us now for getting on 5 years and there are clear signs that we have accepted and embraced the need for austerity and frugality. This is not a political doctrine but an enforced necessity to make sure that we can meet our prioritised outgoings and forego the less so.
Small treats and luxuries are still a requirement, and are actually therapeutic if only for the sake of providing a tonic and relief from depression and loss of self confidence. These can be as simple as a cheap DVD from a charity shop, one bottle of budget wine per week and a box of Maltesers on a Saturday night.
We have all had to make lifestyle choices and I think that we do feel, generally, a lot better for it. There can be a purging type feeling, a justification of a more spiritual nature and the throwing off of the shackles of materialism can be wholly liberating. It is an easy step after coming to this state of acceptance to then admit to others that you are having some difficulties.
Try it and you will be surprised how many of your close friends and associates are in the same situation. There is strength and encouragement to be had through such a shared experience and it may even last through the next boom, whenever that may eventually be, and we will be much better citizens for all that.
If I come across a business contact or even a competitor I try to slip into the conversation, after the usual pleasantries and reminiscences of the good old days, the innocently phrased question of ' how are you finding things at the moment?'.
If the answer is in the range of 'pretty good' to 'not bad' I can expect to see an announcement of the liquidation of their company within a few short months.
Sounds a bit harsh but invariably it is true.
We have all done the self denial bit and been so convinced by our on desperate thoughts that we find ourselves maintaining this as the official stance to the rest of the family, friends, neighbours, casual acquaintances, the man in the post office queue, the bloke in the next street who walks his dog past your house every day, the disembodied voice on the phone trying to get you to file a PPI claim and everyone in between.
Perhaps the hardest thing to do however is not to outwardly display any signs of a troubling commercial and financial position. This can prove to be the hardest and most stressful aspect of the whole thing. There must be two or more newish cars on the driveway, season passes must be upheld at the football club and with accompanying clients wined and dined like it was the FA Cup Final on a frosty November Tuesday night. Perhaps the children attend an expensive pre-school, preparatory school or private fee paying school. There are longstanding memberships to the health club, golf club and beauty therapist. The timeshare villa and other exclusive benefits which require a monthly payment and so on.
A tea time telephone call from the bank, credit card or store card companies can be screened with an answering machine but only for so long. The table in the hallway begins to fill up with official looking envelopes as a follow up from the lack of success in making personal contact.
Each and every purchase with plastic involves a sharp intake of breathe between tapping in of the pin number and that welcome message on the display to show that the transaction is completed. Even the sound of the cashpoint actually sorting and then ejecting the requested amount of notes is sweet and comforting.
By now I am sure that each and every one of you will have identified with at least one of the key indicators of personal financial problems. Many of us will have the means to deal with the hiccup in cashflow and shortfall between expenditure and income and will, head down just continue to work as hard as possible.
Some do not and can fall prey to poor advice or suffer from those intent on making money through unscrupulous and downright unfair practices.
The prominence of short term loans in prime time media is an indictment of the extent to which a good proportion of the UK public are struggling with even day to day monetary requirements.
Belts can be tightened, economies can be made and the likes of Sainsbury and Waitrose can be dismissed in favour of Lidl, Aldi, The Co-Op and the special offers thrown at us by Tesco, Asda and Morrisons. Why not give the local, independent shop a try?. You used to.
The recessionary conditions have been with us now for getting on 5 years and there are clear signs that we have accepted and embraced the need for austerity and frugality. This is not a political doctrine but an enforced necessity to make sure that we can meet our prioritised outgoings and forego the less so.
Small treats and luxuries are still a requirement, and are actually therapeutic if only for the sake of providing a tonic and relief from depression and loss of self confidence. These can be as simple as a cheap DVD from a charity shop, one bottle of budget wine per week and a box of Maltesers on a Saturday night.
We have all had to make lifestyle choices and I think that we do feel, generally, a lot better for it. There can be a purging type feeling, a justification of a more spiritual nature and the throwing off of the shackles of materialism can be wholly liberating. It is an easy step after coming to this state of acceptance to then admit to others that you are having some difficulties.
Try it and you will be surprised how many of your close friends and associates are in the same situation. There is strength and encouragement to be had through such a shared experience and it may even last through the next boom, whenever that may eventually be, and we will be much better citizens for all that.
Friday 21 September 2018
Bits of Sputnik
It's Official. Earth's inner orbit is a bit of a junkyard.
It is all man made debris that found its way up there from the very early days of the Space Race when, yes, bits of Sputnik and Apollo's just fell off and started their slow path downwards into the fiery furnace of the atmosphere.
There are currently, according to a monitoring organisation, 2271 satellites in orbit around our planet adding to those that have failed, been decommissioned or have just fulfilled their original roles in communication, experimental and military sectors.
All of these objects, and I include amongst them the ISS, hurtle around at 17500 mph in a carefully controlled flight plan so as to avoid collision and conflict.
What continues as a matter for concern, however, are those random bits of space debris which are out of control.
Some 170 million bits and bobs are smaller than 1cm in size, a further 670,000 up to 10cm and there are 29,000 items of undetermined but larger size all just drifting about.
Even the tiniest fragment of metal or other space-proofed material could do untold damage to a manned or unmanned spacecraft if coming into contact. As far back as the 1970's a NASA scientist predicted that unless around 100 objects were removed, at the rate of 5 per year, from inner earth orbit there could be a devastating effect on satellites and spacecraft, in effect making the zone a no-fly area.
This has been a developing problem and just this month a prototype housekeeping or rather "spacekeeping" system was trialled for the purposes of capturing and removing or, in a controlled manner, destroying the waste in orbit.
It may be a sophisticated piece of equipment in terms of technology and in the science and physics of its deployment but at its core it is perhaps the simplest of concepts. We are not talking about space blasting lasers, ultrasound waves or targeted missiles but a very large woven net.
The initiative is part of a programme by the European RemoveDebris Mission, one of a few ideas with the ultimate aim of giving the atmosphere a bit of a spring clean.
In terms of scale this first attempt was quite modest.
The satellite able to fire the net is about as big as a domestic fridge. It also has a harpoon, a drag sail and a visual tracking device.
In this test, the first of its type, the target was a small cubesat of dimensions 10cm x 10cm x 20cm and in a two to three minute sequence from close range the object was successfully captured.
The reason that a tame target had to be used is interesting in that according to International law the ownership of the actual space junk items lies with the country of origin and so, an attempt to deploy the system on actual orbiting junk would, technically, constitute theft. The lawyers will have to look at that issue in some detail in due course.
The net, a simplistic concept did take some 6 years on terrestrial trials to be at a stage to be confidently released in an actual "live" operation but results have been encouraging. .
The RemoveDebris Mission is awaiting the analysis of the data from the trial but are confident that it could be used in a determined effort to cleanse that part of the atmosphere that is most useful to just about all of our daily needs for tech, communication and security.
Some may argue that a similarly funded and determined clean-up operation in the Earth's Oceans should take priority over near space but there may be important findings and spin-off inventions that could be of ultimate benefit back on planet Earth.
It is all man made debris that found its way up there from the very early days of the Space Race when, yes, bits of Sputnik and Apollo's just fell off and started their slow path downwards into the fiery furnace of the atmosphere.
There are currently, according to a monitoring organisation, 2271 satellites in orbit around our planet adding to those that have failed, been decommissioned or have just fulfilled their original roles in communication, experimental and military sectors.
All of these objects, and I include amongst them the ISS, hurtle around at 17500 mph in a carefully controlled flight plan so as to avoid collision and conflict.
What continues as a matter for concern, however, are those random bits of space debris which are out of control.
Some 170 million bits and bobs are smaller than 1cm in size, a further 670,000 up to 10cm and there are 29,000 items of undetermined but larger size all just drifting about.
Even the tiniest fragment of metal or other space-proofed material could do untold damage to a manned or unmanned spacecraft if coming into contact. As far back as the 1970's a NASA scientist predicted that unless around 100 objects were removed, at the rate of 5 per year, from inner earth orbit there could be a devastating effect on satellites and spacecraft, in effect making the zone a no-fly area.
This has been a developing problem and just this month a prototype housekeeping or rather "spacekeeping" system was trialled for the purposes of capturing and removing or, in a controlled manner, destroying the waste in orbit.
It may be a sophisticated piece of equipment in terms of technology and in the science and physics of its deployment but at its core it is perhaps the simplest of concepts. We are not talking about space blasting lasers, ultrasound waves or targeted missiles but a very large woven net.
The initiative is part of a programme by the European RemoveDebris Mission, one of a few ideas with the ultimate aim of giving the atmosphere a bit of a spring clean.
In terms of scale this first attempt was quite modest.
The satellite able to fire the net is about as big as a domestic fridge. It also has a harpoon, a drag sail and a visual tracking device.
In this test, the first of its type, the target was a small cubesat of dimensions 10cm x 10cm x 20cm and in a two to three minute sequence from close range the object was successfully captured.
The reason that a tame target had to be used is interesting in that according to International law the ownership of the actual space junk items lies with the country of origin and so, an attempt to deploy the system on actual orbiting junk would, technically, constitute theft. The lawyers will have to look at that issue in some detail in due course.
The net, a simplistic concept did take some 6 years on terrestrial trials to be at a stage to be confidently released in an actual "live" operation but results have been encouraging. .
The RemoveDebris Mission is awaiting the analysis of the data from the trial but are confident that it could be used in a determined effort to cleanse that part of the atmosphere that is most useful to just about all of our daily needs for tech, communication and security.
Some may argue that a similarly funded and determined clean-up operation in the Earth's Oceans should take priority over near space but there may be important findings and spin-off inventions that could be of ultimate benefit back on planet Earth.
Thursday 20 September 2018
Big Head Retrospective
The great Brian Clough died this day, 20th September, in 2004. Here is a memory from an old bit of writing I did which shows him at his controversial and outspoken best.
I was only just 10 years old at the time but some memories just persist in your mind throughout your whole life.
I am not talking about any life or death situation. It was so much more important.
It was when England, the football team ,failed to qualify for the 1974 World Cup tournament in Germany by only managing a one all draw with Poland at the old Wembley Stadium.
That result meant that the visitors progressed to the summer competition and the England players, although themselves dejected would no doubt find themselves as 'johnny no mates' on some beach in Spain or Portugal having to watch the games on a grainy, poorly tuned in TV and with commentary in the native language.
There can be no greater disappointment to a professional player than to have to sit out what is often cited as "The greatest show on earth". It is the ultimate showcase of talent and athleticism. If represented by, say Selfridges or Harrods then the England squad would have found themselves sitting in their own deckchairs on the pavement outside Radio Rentals or Woolworths.
In 1973 the match was the decider in the qualifying Group.
Our lads just had to win. Poland just needed a solitary point.
I have been immersed in footie from an early age so forgive my vagueness if I say that I think that I actually did watch the match live on the TV rather than imagining it or picking it up as a You Tube archive in my later adult life.
A live broadcast was very rare in the 1970's with a few important Internationals, the Home International series and the FA Cup Final.
I definitely must have watched it because of the dejected feelings that I so well remember. I did have a bit of a bad loser streak. Some three years earlier in 1971 I had attempted a head down charge on a friend of my big sister after she had expressed support for Arsenal who had just beaten my then team Liverpool in the FA Cup Final. The girl must have been a ballet dancer in the way that she sidestepped my bad tempered assault and left me a little bit stunned following a cranial impact on the kitchen sink unit.
I had a set procedure and ritual for a live evening TV game. Parentally imposed.
Homework, Tea, Wash, Pyjamas and dressing gown. The house occupants had learnt the hard way to be absolutely silent in the background. Younger brother, aged 4 would be in bed and my two sisters then 9 and 12 would be doing some activity out of sight and earshot.
In the TV coverage there were of course the boring bits of introduction, recap of games to date,the all important table standings and the jabbering on of the guest pundits.
Brian Clough was in controversial mood, obviously coveting a go at being England Manager if the night did not go as was widely expected in an England victory party.
I liked him a lot for his individuality but mainly his downright rudeness and outspokeness. We all practiced his voice in the playground but nowhere as good as many performers of variety programmes such as Mike Yarwood.
The atmosphere that evening in my parents' through lounge was tense. I was a bag of nerves. Sweaty nose and fidgety legs as I sat on the pouffe as close as possible to the black and white television I could get without being told off.
I cannot remember who scored first but at one-one the game was finely poised for England to turn on the pace and style.
Brian Clough referred to the Polish goalkeeper as "a clown" for his antics and unpredictability in a tight situation.
He, Jan Tomaszewski, or as I called him Tommy Sheff Ski was expected to leak goals and throw the game to the better team in the second half.
I was already planning where the 1974 World Cup Planner from Shoot Magazine would have pride of place in my bedroom (shared with my brother).
In the following 45 or so minutes of the match Mr Tommo Chef Sky ( I was inventive even at age 10) performed out of his skin in a dazzling display of reflex saves, parry's and just getting his body between the ball and the back of the net.
If that was the act of a Clown then I would be queueing up to see Charlie Caroli at the earliest opportunity at Butlins Camp, Skegness (which I did actually do the following year).
Brian Clough did make a tactical error that night in his premature dismissal of Tomma Zoo She and by doing so I believe that he made sure that he never did acheive his dream of managing the National side.
At the final whistle and the acceptance than Germany would not be calling I could see grown men crying in the Wembley terracing. Sir Alf's 1966 exploit was easily forgotten in the vitriol of the press and his critics.
I was upset and probably went to bed without my drinking chocolate and custard creams as they would taste too bitter.
That memory remains as strong now as it did all of those 45 years ago.
I was only just 10 years old at the time but some memories just persist in your mind throughout your whole life.
I am not talking about any life or death situation. It was so much more important.
It was when England, the football team ,failed to qualify for the 1974 World Cup tournament in Germany by only managing a one all draw with Poland at the old Wembley Stadium.
That result meant that the visitors progressed to the summer competition and the England players, although themselves dejected would no doubt find themselves as 'johnny no mates' on some beach in Spain or Portugal having to watch the games on a grainy, poorly tuned in TV and with commentary in the native language.
There can be no greater disappointment to a professional player than to have to sit out what is often cited as "The greatest show on earth". It is the ultimate showcase of talent and athleticism. If represented by, say Selfridges or Harrods then the England squad would have found themselves sitting in their own deckchairs on the pavement outside Radio Rentals or Woolworths.
In 1973 the match was the decider in the qualifying Group.
Our lads just had to win. Poland just needed a solitary point.
I have been immersed in footie from an early age so forgive my vagueness if I say that I think that I actually did watch the match live on the TV rather than imagining it or picking it up as a You Tube archive in my later adult life.
A live broadcast was very rare in the 1970's with a few important Internationals, the Home International series and the FA Cup Final.
I definitely must have watched it because of the dejected feelings that I so well remember. I did have a bit of a bad loser streak. Some three years earlier in 1971 I had attempted a head down charge on a friend of my big sister after she had expressed support for Arsenal who had just beaten my then team Liverpool in the FA Cup Final. The girl must have been a ballet dancer in the way that she sidestepped my bad tempered assault and left me a little bit stunned following a cranial impact on the kitchen sink unit.
I had a set procedure and ritual for a live evening TV game. Parentally imposed.
Homework, Tea, Wash, Pyjamas and dressing gown. The house occupants had learnt the hard way to be absolutely silent in the background. Younger brother, aged 4 would be in bed and my two sisters then 9 and 12 would be doing some activity out of sight and earshot.
In the TV coverage there were of course the boring bits of introduction, recap of games to date,the all important table standings and the jabbering on of the guest pundits.
Brian Clough was in controversial mood, obviously coveting a go at being England Manager if the night did not go as was widely expected in an England victory party.
The atmosphere that evening in my parents' through lounge was tense. I was a bag of nerves. Sweaty nose and fidgety legs as I sat on the pouffe as close as possible to the black and white television I could get without being told off.
I cannot remember who scored first but at one-one the game was finely poised for England to turn on the pace and style.
Brian Clough referred to the Polish goalkeeper as "a clown" for his antics and unpredictability in a tight situation.
He, Jan Tomaszewski, or as I called him Tommy Sheff Ski was expected to leak goals and throw the game to the better team in the second half.
I was already planning where the 1974 World Cup Planner from Shoot Magazine would have pride of place in my bedroom (shared with my brother).
In the following 45 or so minutes of the match Mr Tommo Chef Sky ( I was inventive even at age 10) performed out of his skin in a dazzling display of reflex saves, parry's and just getting his body between the ball and the back of the net.
If that was the act of a Clown then I would be queueing up to see Charlie Caroli at the earliest opportunity at Butlins Camp, Skegness (which I did actually do the following year).
Brian Clough did make a tactical error that night in his premature dismissal of Tomma Zoo She and by doing so I believe that he made sure that he never did acheive his dream of managing the National side.
At the final whistle and the acceptance than Germany would not be calling I could see grown men crying in the Wembley terracing. Sir Alf's 1966 exploit was easily forgotten in the vitriol of the press and his critics.
I was upset and probably went to bed without my drinking chocolate and custard creams as they would taste too bitter.
That memory remains as strong now as it did all of those 45 years ago.
Monday 17 September 2018
Mary, Mary Quite Contagious
If a professional reference had ever been requested for Mary Mallon in her role as cook to affluent New York families in the first decade of the 20th Century then, undoubtedly, it would be considered to be most impressive.
For those actively seeking someone to take up that position in a domestic household she would have been guaranteed an interview if not immediately given the job there and then.
Mary had arrived in the United States as just one of millions of Irish origin in 1869.
In the old country any sort of life and existence had been made almost impossible by the combination of the potato blight and successive years of famine. She was just 15 years old.
There will have followed a number of menial jobs and appointments for women's work usually of a manual labour type, in service or as a shop worker all for a pittance but contributing to the combined income of a family unit if everyone was called upon to earn a living.
At the age of 31 Mary had found the first of her jobs in the kitchens of the wealthier families in New York and area.
It was just one role in many required by a well-to-do household where the husband would be away on business, the lady of the house engaged in her own leisure and social activities and the children, if there were any, absent for much of the time at private and boarding schools.
Most cooks did not live on the premises but would travel in from the suburbs on a daily basis which made for extremely long hours not withstanding the travelling time which on early public transport would be an epic journey in itself.
In 1900 Mary worked for a Manhattan family. After a few years she had to leave because of ill health in the family members.
Her next role was for a lawyer and his extended family. As though bad luck was following Mary she was soon relieved of that appointment when 8 in the house fell ill.
Seeking employment farther afield Mary headed for Long Island. She arrived in 1906 and began cooking duties but it was not long before 10 out an 11 person family had been hospitalised.
You can see a bit of a pattern emerging here can't you. A new cook arrives and before long there is a very noticeable decline in the health and welfare of the families she works for.
Mary was a hard worker and in spite of these career setbacks she continued to offer her culinary services to another three families before 1907.
There were, through all of these situations, no cries or suspicions of foul play, poisoning or deliberate murder although the plot lines will have made for a great crime conspiracy theory.
One of the families thus affected employed a researcher to try to find out the cause of the illness that had stricken its members.
The investigation slowly pieced together a trail of similar circumstances across the New York catchment.
There soon appeared one strong common denominator. All of the sufferers, and there were around 51 of them, and sadly three fatalities had at one time enjoyed the meals provided by an Irish woman, in her 30's or 40's.
The researcher, a medical investigator, had found, at long last, the source of the illness.
Mary Mallon was in fact the first asymptomatic carrier of the pathogen associated with typhoid fever.
She was totally unaware of the threat that she carried and furthermore did not understand the importance of even basic rules of cleanliness such as hand washing. This was a natural reaction in that Mary had never suffered from any typhoid symptoms.
The New York Health Authority were forced to take drastic action in the wider public interest and the by now unfortunately labelled "Typhoid Mary" was taken and held in isolation on an island out in Manhattan Bay for 3 years.
After giving assurances that she would stay out of any kitchen environments and put into practice all necessary hygienic measures Mary was released back into society.
Her first employment as a laundress was, she felt, below her status and also paid much less than a cook's position.
Mary found her way back into food preparation and sure enough the outbreaks of typhoid fever kept pace.
Within 3 weeks of taking any kitchen job the customers or her colleagues fell ill.
In the fear of being pursued and sent back to austere quarantine Mary went on the run, changed her name and continued to work.
In 1915 a major outbreak at a hospital saw Mary rounded up and she spent the next 23 years, until her death at the age of 69 back on the island isolation hospital.
After her death the Post Mortem confirmed what had always been suspected (although in her lifetime Mary had always refused any in depth medical procedures or biopsies) in that her gallbladder harboured live typhoid bacteria.
It was not until as recently as 2013 that breakthroughs were made in the science and physiology behind asymptomatic carriers but of course too late to have persuaded Mary Mallon to wash her hands and prepare food with due care and attention.
For those actively seeking someone to take up that position in a domestic household she would have been guaranteed an interview if not immediately given the job there and then.
Mary had arrived in the United States as just one of millions of Irish origin in 1869.
In the old country any sort of life and existence had been made almost impossible by the combination of the potato blight and successive years of famine. She was just 15 years old.
There will have followed a number of menial jobs and appointments for women's work usually of a manual labour type, in service or as a shop worker all for a pittance but contributing to the combined income of a family unit if everyone was called upon to earn a living.
At the age of 31 Mary had found the first of her jobs in the kitchens of the wealthier families in New York and area.
It was just one role in many required by a well-to-do household where the husband would be away on business, the lady of the house engaged in her own leisure and social activities and the children, if there were any, absent for much of the time at private and boarding schools.
Most cooks did not live on the premises but would travel in from the suburbs on a daily basis which made for extremely long hours not withstanding the travelling time which on early public transport would be an epic journey in itself.
In 1900 Mary worked for a Manhattan family. After a few years she had to leave because of ill health in the family members.
Her next role was for a lawyer and his extended family. As though bad luck was following Mary she was soon relieved of that appointment when 8 in the house fell ill.
Seeking employment farther afield Mary headed for Long Island. She arrived in 1906 and began cooking duties but it was not long before 10 out an 11 person family had been hospitalised.
You can see a bit of a pattern emerging here can't you. A new cook arrives and before long there is a very noticeable decline in the health and welfare of the families she works for.
Mary was a hard worker and in spite of these career setbacks she continued to offer her culinary services to another three families before 1907.
There were, through all of these situations, no cries or suspicions of foul play, poisoning or deliberate murder although the plot lines will have made for a great crime conspiracy theory.
One of the families thus affected employed a researcher to try to find out the cause of the illness that had stricken its members.
The investigation slowly pieced together a trail of similar circumstances across the New York catchment.
There soon appeared one strong common denominator. All of the sufferers, and there were around 51 of them, and sadly three fatalities had at one time enjoyed the meals provided by an Irish woman, in her 30's or 40's.
The researcher, a medical investigator, had found, at long last, the source of the illness.
Mary Mallon was in fact the first asymptomatic carrier of the pathogen associated with typhoid fever.
She was totally unaware of the threat that she carried and furthermore did not understand the importance of even basic rules of cleanliness such as hand washing. This was a natural reaction in that Mary had never suffered from any typhoid symptoms.
The New York Health Authority were forced to take drastic action in the wider public interest and the by now unfortunately labelled "Typhoid Mary" was taken and held in isolation on an island out in Manhattan Bay for 3 years.
After giving assurances that she would stay out of any kitchen environments and put into practice all necessary hygienic measures Mary was released back into society.
Her first employment as a laundress was, she felt, below her status and also paid much less than a cook's position.
Mary found her way back into food preparation and sure enough the outbreaks of typhoid fever kept pace.
Within 3 weeks of taking any kitchen job the customers or her colleagues fell ill.
In the fear of being pursued and sent back to austere quarantine Mary went on the run, changed her name and continued to work.
In 1915 a major outbreak at a hospital saw Mary rounded up and she spent the next 23 years, until her death at the age of 69 back on the island isolation hospital.
After her death the Post Mortem confirmed what had always been suspected (although in her lifetime Mary had always refused any in depth medical procedures or biopsies) in that her gallbladder harboured live typhoid bacteria.
It was not until as recently as 2013 that breakthroughs were made in the science and physiology behind asymptomatic carriers but of course too late to have persuaded Mary Mallon to wash her hands and prepare food with due care and attention.
Saturday 15 September 2018
Herd it before?
Is there such a thing as a World Celebration Day for Cows?
Their contribution to the human race has been immense since their domestication some 5000 years ago and I thought it would be nice to show some appreciation of this.
We may think we know a bit about these animals as they have always been around in our lives from cutesy soft toys, those milk carton novelties that moo-ed when turned over to featuring in children's story books and nursery rhymes but at the same time most of us in the UK do not have to travel far to see the real thing on a daily basis.
We should all be able to recount a few facts and myths about cows as well as tales of personal experience.
I spent a few days on a dairy farm in Somerset that belonged to my Father's cousins. The herd of 70 or so cows would be brought in from the pastures in the early hours to the milking parlour and under the artificial light in the winter months or the pale washy sunlight in summer relieved of their natural produce. I would keep well away from the herd because they did seem to be quite intimidating as well as, without warning, likely to evacuate their bowels under some tangible pressure and direction. My sisters got badly splashed and traumatised.
My Father's younger cousin would connect up and operate the milking machine from the concrete trench below and between the ranks of stalls which would cater for 20 animals at a time. All of the cows were individually named although to my unfamiliar eye I could not distinguish one of the distinctive black and white Friesians from another. The markings are all different like a fingerprint and each, according to David, had an individual character and temperament. Modern domestic cows are believed to come from only two species, Bos Taurus or Bos Indicus but there are about 920 different breeds worldwide.
Saying that did suggest a mutual respect between man and beast but on a few occasions they did throw about their bulk and weight indiscriminately and this did result in a few crushed ribs and broken limbs.
I was always thrilled by the ladling out and drinking of fresh milk from an open churn at cow-body temperature of 38 degrees Celsius before the chilling process for preservation at 4 degrees Celsius.
I would help after the 3 hours of milking to escort the cows back to the field although I got the impression that they were well capable of doing this unsupervised. The herd had to be destroyed during a subsequent outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease and milk production on the farm ended. The impact on the farming family was devastating on many fronts.
My next close-up experience of cows was in my late teens. The large public common land on the west side of my home town had grazing rights for qualifying citizens and from March to October there would be a surly bunch of young heifers and bulls milling about under the horse chestnut trees or causing mayhem amongst the traffic on the three main roads which crossed and led into town. They would loiter about on the verge before blindly but intentionally making their way into the pathway of vehicles. Motorists had little choice but to skid to an attempted halt before impact with about a ton of muscle and hide. One of my classmates had a collision with a cow on his first motorbike. He had to pay for the body of the unfortunate animal to be removed.
Some cows did manage to work out how to cross the metal cattle grid and visit the town centre. The traditional pit and grate form was replaced for a few years with just painted yellow lines in response to some psychological study that the arrangement inhibited the wanderings of cows. They still came into town and in larger numbers.
My Father was a main instigator and organiser of a campaign to raise sponsorship to buy reflective collars for the grazing cows to reduce road fatalities. These fitted a bit like Sam Browne belt on a cyclist but had to be regularly retrieved from the hawthorn hedges, boundary fences and the lower boughs of the Common trees where discarded during a rubbing and scratching session. The campaign excited considerable media interest including a TV crew from Japan.
I played a lot of football up on a rough grass pitch with goalposts on one of the few flatter sections of the Common. It was a good laugh to try to land a high ball in a pile of cow dung at the same time as the recipient of the pass was crouched down and concentrating on controlling it after it hit the ground. Splat was a very onomatopoeic sound.
It is good advice to keep a respectful distance from a grazing cow as they can be easily startled if approached. They do actually have good all round vision and senses but this can not be fully evident during their 14 hour a day regime of grazing and ruminating in their four compartment bellies. Whilst out dog walking with my wife we were menacingly corralled and eventually chased out of a meadow by a large herd of cows which definitely ranks as one of my scariest moments. There was recently a spate of fatalities at the hoofs of cows which although tragic did not really surprise me on the basis of my own narrow escape. Do not therefore be fooled by the impression given by cows of a gentle nature, docile, placid and unintelligent. They know what they are doing.
Conspiracy theories aside, the cow family have contributed greatly to human development. They have been wealth enabling through ownership and trading, abundant in the production of milk and the many associated foods and goods, providers of hides and by-products and a reason for the survival of much of the character of our agricultural pastures against great pressure for development. On a basic and practical issue I always check that I have an umbrella and coat when I see a field of cows in the lying down position because tradition and folklore dictates that it is likely to rain. Well worth at least one day a year in celebration just for that.
Their contribution to the human race has been immense since their domestication some 5000 years ago and I thought it would be nice to show some appreciation of this.
We may think we know a bit about these animals as they have always been around in our lives from cutesy soft toys, those milk carton novelties that moo-ed when turned over to featuring in children's story books and nursery rhymes but at the same time most of us in the UK do not have to travel far to see the real thing on a daily basis.
We should all be able to recount a few facts and myths about cows as well as tales of personal experience.
I spent a few days on a dairy farm in Somerset that belonged to my Father's cousins. The herd of 70 or so cows would be brought in from the pastures in the early hours to the milking parlour and under the artificial light in the winter months or the pale washy sunlight in summer relieved of their natural produce. I would keep well away from the herd because they did seem to be quite intimidating as well as, without warning, likely to evacuate their bowels under some tangible pressure and direction. My sisters got badly splashed and traumatised.
My Father's younger cousin would connect up and operate the milking machine from the concrete trench below and between the ranks of stalls which would cater for 20 animals at a time. All of the cows were individually named although to my unfamiliar eye I could not distinguish one of the distinctive black and white Friesians from another. The markings are all different like a fingerprint and each, according to David, had an individual character and temperament. Modern domestic cows are believed to come from only two species, Bos Taurus or Bos Indicus but there are about 920 different breeds worldwide.
Saying that did suggest a mutual respect between man and beast but on a few occasions they did throw about their bulk and weight indiscriminately and this did result in a few crushed ribs and broken limbs.
I was always thrilled by the ladling out and drinking of fresh milk from an open churn at cow-body temperature of 38 degrees Celsius before the chilling process for preservation at 4 degrees Celsius.
I would help after the 3 hours of milking to escort the cows back to the field although I got the impression that they were well capable of doing this unsupervised. The herd had to be destroyed during a subsequent outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease and milk production on the farm ended. The impact on the farming family was devastating on many fronts.
My next close-up experience of cows was in my late teens. The large public common land on the west side of my home town had grazing rights for qualifying citizens and from March to October there would be a surly bunch of young heifers and bulls milling about under the horse chestnut trees or causing mayhem amongst the traffic on the three main roads which crossed and led into town. They would loiter about on the verge before blindly but intentionally making their way into the pathway of vehicles. Motorists had little choice but to skid to an attempted halt before impact with about a ton of muscle and hide. One of my classmates had a collision with a cow on his first motorbike. He had to pay for the body of the unfortunate animal to be removed.
Some cows did manage to work out how to cross the metal cattle grid and visit the town centre. The traditional pit and grate form was replaced for a few years with just painted yellow lines in response to some psychological study that the arrangement inhibited the wanderings of cows. They still came into town and in larger numbers.
My Father was a main instigator and organiser of a campaign to raise sponsorship to buy reflective collars for the grazing cows to reduce road fatalities. These fitted a bit like Sam Browne belt on a cyclist but had to be regularly retrieved from the hawthorn hedges, boundary fences and the lower boughs of the Common trees where discarded during a rubbing and scratching session. The campaign excited considerable media interest including a TV crew from Japan.
I played a lot of football up on a rough grass pitch with goalposts on one of the few flatter sections of the Common. It was a good laugh to try to land a high ball in a pile of cow dung at the same time as the recipient of the pass was crouched down and concentrating on controlling it after it hit the ground. Splat was a very onomatopoeic sound.
It is good advice to keep a respectful distance from a grazing cow as they can be easily startled if approached. They do actually have good all round vision and senses but this can not be fully evident during their 14 hour a day regime of grazing and ruminating in their four compartment bellies. Whilst out dog walking with my wife we were menacingly corralled and eventually chased out of a meadow by a large herd of cows which definitely ranks as one of my scariest moments. There was recently a spate of fatalities at the hoofs of cows which although tragic did not really surprise me on the basis of my own narrow escape. Do not therefore be fooled by the impression given by cows of a gentle nature, docile, placid and unintelligent. They know what they are doing.
Conspiracy theories aside, the cow family have contributed greatly to human development. They have been wealth enabling through ownership and trading, abundant in the production of milk and the many associated foods and goods, providers of hides and by-products and a reason for the survival of much of the character of our agricultural pastures against great pressure for development. On a basic and practical issue I always check that I have an umbrella and coat when I see a field of cows in the lying down position because tradition and folklore dictates that it is likely to rain. Well worth at least one day a year in celebration just for that.
Friday 14 September 2018
Knee high Socks and the Third Reich
I have a great deal of admiration and respect for those who can play the bagpipes.
My Scot's ancestry has instilled in me a deep rooted emotional attachment to the pipes and I cannot help but have a welling up sensation whenever I hear even the slightest hum and drone of that evocative sound.
It could be from a marching band at a military tattoo, a backing to a pop song or in my own home town in Yorkshire when an employee at the Council Offices used to practice his craft in the municipal car park on every wednesday lunchtime, come rain or shine.
I was sufficiently motivated to enrol in pipe lessons a few years ago, encouraged by the fee being a gift from my wife, and a sort of mentoring sponsorship, as you would get at an alcoholics anonymous or drug rehab programme from a lovely lady we called Bagpipe Liz who was a near neighbour.
My attempt was a feeble one.
The loan of a practice chanter did not help me grasp even the basic finger positions and I lasted about half a dozen sessions before disappointing my Clansman Heritage, the memory of my Scottish Gran and of course Bagpipe Liz by dropping out.
That failure reinforced the high esteem in which I hold the Piper.
I was reminded just today by a reference in an archived radio broadcast about the popular culture of this musical instrument and specifically the Dagenham Girl Pipers.
They attained cult status in the 1960's and 1970's not so much for their playing achievements which were admirable and plentiful but from frequent mentions in the scripted comedic antics of the likes of Morecambe and Wise, I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again, The Goon Show, Benny Hill and The Two Ronnies.
Of course the humour of that era was very sexist, misogynistic and downright smutty and what better vehicle to convey these attributes than in conjuring up images of a tartan clad troop of female bagpipers.
That seemed to be the emphasis of the comedy reference.
What could be more hilarious than women in traditional Scottish military dress, Royal Stewart weaved skirt, knee length woollen socks, frilly blouse and blazer and depicted as huffing and puffing to create a distinctive lament or a stirring battle rally.
I suppose some saw the uniform as a bit kinky and we are of course talking here of the generation who revelled in the gymslip attire of the girls from Saint Trinians, saucy nuns and french maids.
I do not condone such an attitude nowadays and no one else should either.
However, at the time it was a guaranteed, bolt on ,surefire and cast iron way to elicit a belly laugh from a few millions in the viewing and listening audiences in the BBC and ITV schedules.
Whilst the public perception of the Dagenham Girl Pipers was so perpetuated the organisation had in fact been around since the 1930's.
Originally founded by a Church Minister for his 10 to 12 year old congregational members the band turned professional in 1933 and within a few years they were on a full touring retinue which included the New York World Fair and, whilst in pre-WW2 Germany ,a performance for Adolf Hitler in or around 1937.
They were a great success for their musical prowess, precision marching and drilling and really consolidated their unique appeal as perhaps the worlds first all female pipe band.
They may, in recent years, have slipped from the limelight but the group is still going strong and is in its 88th year of existence.
Perhaps those flippant remarks and sexualised images of tartan and skirls from those far off days of black and white television were a bit disrespectful and in today's politically correct culture way off acceptable but they have proven to perpetuate the appeal and timelessness of the contribution of the Dagenham Girl Pipers to authentic Scottish heritage.
My Scot's ancestry has instilled in me a deep rooted emotional attachment to the pipes and I cannot help but have a welling up sensation whenever I hear even the slightest hum and drone of that evocative sound.
It could be from a marching band at a military tattoo, a backing to a pop song or in my own home town in Yorkshire when an employee at the Council Offices used to practice his craft in the municipal car park on every wednesday lunchtime, come rain or shine.
I was sufficiently motivated to enrol in pipe lessons a few years ago, encouraged by the fee being a gift from my wife, and a sort of mentoring sponsorship, as you would get at an alcoholics anonymous or drug rehab programme from a lovely lady we called Bagpipe Liz who was a near neighbour.
My attempt was a feeble one.
The loan of a practice chanter did not help me grasp even the basic finger positions and I lasted about half a dozen sessions before disappointing my Clansman Heritage, the memory of my Scottish Gran and of course Bagpipe Liz by dropping out.
That failure reinforced the high esteem in which I hold the Piper.
I was reminded just today by a reference in an archived radio broadcast about the popular culture of this musical instrument and specifically the Dagenham Girl Pipers.
They attained cult status in the 1960's and 1970's not so much for their playing achievements which were admirable and plentiful but from frequent mentions in the scripted comedic antics of the likes of Morecambe and Wise, I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again, The Goon Show, Benny Hill and The Two Ronnies.
Of course the humour of that era was very sexist, misogynistic and downright smutty and what better vehicle to convey these attributes than in conjuring up images of a tartan clad troop of female bagpipers.
That seemed to be the emphasis of the comedy reference.
What could be more hilarious than women in traditional Scottish military dress, Royal Stewart weaved skirt, knee length woollen socks, frilly blouse and blazer and depicted as huffing and puffing to create a distinctive lament or a stirring battle rally.
I suppose some saw the uniform as a bit kinky and we are of course talking here of the generation who revelled in the gymslip attire of the girls from Saint Trinians, saucy nuns and french maids.
I do not condone such an attitude nowadays and no one else should either.
However, at the time it was a guaranteed, bolt on ,surefire and cast iron way to elicit a belly laugh from a few millions in the viewing and listening audiences in the BBC and ITV schedules.
Whilst the public perception of the Dagenham Girl Pipers was so perpetuated the organisation had in fact been around since the 1930's.
Originally founded by a Church Minister for his 10 to 12 year old congregational members the band turned professional in 1933 and within a few years they were on a full touring retinue which included the New York World Fair and, whilst in pre-WW2 Germany ,a performance for Adolf Hitler in or around 1937.
They were a great success for their musical prowess, precision marching and drilling and really consolidated their unique appeal as perhaps the worlds first all female pipe band.
They may, in recent years, have slipped from the limelight but the group is still going strong and is in its 88th year of existence.
Perhaps those flippant remarks and sexualised images of tartan and skirls from those far off days of black and white television were a bit disrespectful and in today's politically correct culture way off acceptable but they have proven to perpetuate the appeal and timelessness of the contribution of the Dagenham Girl Pipers to authentic Scottish heritage.
Wednesday 12 September 2018
Contact Sport
Ask someone to touch their own eyeballs and the common response would be nothing short of disgust, outrage or complete disbelief.
Yet to those of the population who are contact lens wearers this is an everyday practice.
I admit that on first being fitted for contacts nearly 27 years ago I found the process very, very unnatural and difficult.
Some dexterity and patience is needed to go through the extraction of a new lens from its foil sealed saline solution packaging and balancing the floppy disc on the tip of a finger before careful negotiation onto the eyeball.
There is a split second when the elasticity of the actual lens switches allegiance from fingertip to eyeball followed by a slight antiseptic type stinging and smarting before sight is returned in full definition and clarity.
I do not mean to discourage those thinking of taking up lens wearing because it is a great and liberating thing and the progress in the technology of lenses has been remarkable.
I remember a conversation with a former colleague who had some of the first commercially available lenses. These were hard and inflexible discs made out of perspex. The manufacture was crude and rough with a thick cross section of plastic and a wide outer edge so much so that they had to be hand finished in the factory by abrasion with emery paper to improve the fit and comfort.
I cannot imagine how uncomfortable these must have felt attached to the eyeball but many wearers will have endured the pain and suffering just to be in the first new wave of fashion.
My first lenses had to be sterilised between periods of use in a small portable plug in unit and with regular check-ups for any irritation, damage or infection which tended to be an inevitable feature in those early days.
Within a few years the concept of daily lenses was introduced and the next generation were light, permeable and also with UV protection. I did exploit the advances in technology by keeping my lenses in for very long periods and also, inadvisably, sleeping with them still in place. Being an emotional person my frequent welling ups and tear production obviously helped to keep my eyes moist and the lenses firmly adhered to allow me to ignore the explicit instructions of the manufacturers and my Optician.
I have very rarely lost a lens either from it simply falling out or from a mysterious disappearance where I suspect it just curls over and shrivels up and retreats to that space between the back of the eyeball and the brain.
The latest lenses are not at all discernible when worn and on a couple of occasions I have actually tried to put in a new lens on top of an existing one not realising that there was one already in position.
In the approaching three decades of wearing lenses my regular check-ups show that my vision has remained fairly constant which is impressive given the potential for age related wear and tear and other medical and physiological influences to impair sight.
My former optician, or whatever specialist term now applies, championed the cause for the study of the health and welfare of the eyes as an indicator of other bodily ailments and although he did not flag up any warning signs in my case he was able to alert other patients to problems of cholesterol and potentially debilitating illness to be brought to the attention of Physicians and other Health Sector practitioners for further diagnosis and treatment.
The gift of sight is very precious and only really appreciated when it starts to become noticeably impaired or compromised.
Sat in the opticians waiting area just today I was entertained and informed by the screening of a short presentation on the miraculous and wondrous composition and operation of the human eye to an extent that I had not really realised or appreciated.
Perhaps I will take out my longstanding current lenses tonight, after all they are about 4 weeks old and a bit crusty although being a great fan of this optical marvel I am reluctant to admit to this readily or in polite company.
Yet to those of the population who are contact lens wearers this is an everyday practice.
I admit that on first being fitted for contacts nearly 27 years ago I found the process very, very unnatural and difficult.
Some dexterity and patience is needed to go through the extraction of a new lens from its foil sealed saline solution packaging and balancing the floppy disc on the tip of a finger before careful negotiation onto the eyeball.
There is a split second when the elasticity of the actual lens switches allegiance from fingertip to eyeball followed by a slight antiseptic type stinging and smarting before sight is returned in full definition and clarity.
I do not mean to discourage those thinking of taking up lens wearing because it is a great and liberating thing and the progress in the technology of lenses has been remarkable.
I remember a conversation with a former colleague who had some of the first commercially available lenses. These were hard and inflexible discs made out of perspex. The manufacture was crude and rough with a thick cross section of plastic and a wide outer edge so much so that they had to be hand finished in the factory by abrasion with emery paper to improve the fit and comfort.
I cannot imagine how uncomfortable these must have felt attached to the eyeball but many wearers will have endured the pain and suffering just to be in the first new wave of fashion.
My first lenses had to be sterilised between periods of use in a small portable plug in unit and with regular check-ups for any irritation, damage or infection which tended to be an inevitable feature in those early days.
Within a few years the concept of daily lenses was introduced and the next generation were light, permeable and also with UV protection. I did exploit the advances in technology by keeping my lenses in for very long periods and also, inadvisably, sleeping with them still in place. Being an emotional person my frequent welling ups and tear production obviously helped to keep my eyes moist and the lenses firmly adhered to allow me to ignore the explicit instructions of the manufacturers and my Optician.
I have very rarely lost a lens either from it simply falling out or from a mysterious disappearance where I suspect it just curls over and shrivels up and retreats to that space between the back of the eyeball and the brain.
The latest lenses are not at all discernible when worn and on a couple of occasions I have actually tried to put in a new lens on top of an existing one not realising that there was one already in position.
In the approaching three decades of wearing lenses my regular check-ups show that my vision has remained fairly constant which is impressive given the potential for age related wear and tear and other medical and physiological influences to impair sight.
My former optician, or whatever specialist term now applies, championed the cause for the study of the health and welfare of the eyes as an indicator of other bodily ailments and although he did not flag up any warning signs in my case he was able to alert other patients to problems of cholesterol and potentially debilitating illness to be brought to the attention of Physicians and other Health Sector practitioners for further diagnosis and treatment.
The gift of sight is very precious and only really appreciated when it starts to become noticeably impaired or compromised.
Sat in the opticians waiting area just today I was entertained and informed by the screening of a short presentation on the miraculous and wondrous composition and operation of the human eye to an extent that I had not really realised or appreciated.
Perhaps I will take out my longstanding current lenses tonight, after all they are about 4 weeks old and a bit crusty although being a great fan of this optical marvel I am reluctant to admit to this readily or in polite company.
Tuesday 11 September 2018
I Laughed out Loud
I was just going about my daily work with the radio in the background when on came the distinctive vocal delivery and unique words of John Hegley, poet, performer, author and story teller supreme.
This piece was actually sung by John accompanying himself on the eukele and although I have, hopefully, taken down the words correctly you just have to hear them with the music and skilled delivery of this great and creative individual to really appreciate the emotion and comedy.
I will provide a link to a live performance at the end of the verses.
Just hearing this really brought a bright ray of humour to the day.
Armadillo, by John Hegley
Me and Armadillo,
I kissed him and I kept him under my pillow,
and I cleaned him with a Brillo Pad.
He was shiny
and tiny
and he came from Peru
His name was Armadeus
But we used to call him Toby
He had a suit of armour
and he burrowed about,
the hills and daffodils he turned them inside out.
And me Mummy used to shout at him
when he came home covered in crappiti.
He was an insectivorous creature,
the teacher used to say
and the dog next door, the carnivore,
would sometimes come and play
We had races
and chases
down by the riverside
and sometimes we'd go swimming
and
sometimes we wouldn't.
He had ants and beetles for dinner every day
them creepy crawlies he could put them away.
And he did his indoor doings
in his indoor doings tray.
But one day in the winter,
when the willow tree was bare
I looked under my pillow
and there was no Armadillo there.
I ran downstairs and I said to me Mummy,
"mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy" (x 19 more of the same)
She was having a game of rummy
And she looked up and said "John
go and put some clothing on
you're nearly twenty four"
I said, "sorry Mummy it's an emergency"
I ran out in the raw
I ran down to the riverside
and in a rowing boat I saw
Toby,
in the distance,
with the dog next door.
Live from Bury, John Hegley performs Armadillo
This piece was actually sung by John accompanying himself on the eukele and although I have, hopefully, taken down the words correctly you just have to hear them with the music and skilled delivery of this great and creative individual to really appreciate the emotion and comedy.
I will provide a link to a live performance at the end of the verses.
Just hearing this really brought a bright ray of humour to the day.
Armadillo, by John Hegley
Me and Armadillo,
I kissed him and I kept him under my pillow,
and I cleaned him with a Brillo Pad.
He was shiny
and tiny
and he came from Peru
His name was Armadeus
But we used to call him Toby
He had a suit of armour
and he burrowed about,
the hills and daffodils he turned them inside out.
And me Mummy used to shout at him
when he came home covered in crappiti.
He was an insectivorous creature,
the teacher used to say
and the dog next door, the carnivore,
would sometimes come and play
We had races
and chases
down by the riverside
and sometimes we'd go swimming
and
sometimes we wouldn't.
He had ants and beetles for dinner every day
them creepy crawlies he could put them away.
And he did his indoor doings
in his indoor doings tray.
But one day in the winter,
when the willow tree was bare
I looked under my pillow
and there was no Armadillo there.
I ran downstairs and I said to me Mummy,
"mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy" (x 19 more of the same)
She was having a game of rummy
And she looked up and said "John
go and put some clothing on
you're nearly twenty four"
I said, "sorry Mummy it's an emergency"
I ran out in the raw
I ran down to the riverside
and in a rowing boat I saw
Toby,
in the distance,
with the dog next door.
Live from Bury, John Hegley performs Armadillo
Monday 10 September 2018
What would JCC do?
I am looking forward to growing old disgracefully. It is, being of senior status, a good excuse to be many things that in a younger person would be regarded as disagreeable, outrageous and downright anti-social.
One argument for such behaviour is that the older generation deserve the right to be so inclined simply because they have survived to assume the role of Elders and purveyors of wise counsel.
Some just act and behave badly for the sheer hellraising thrill. Sometimes you may come across someone who has aged calmly, respectfully and desires naught but a quiet existence. It is a time, after a frenetic working life, to sit and read, listen to music, visit relatives, dote on grandchildren and, oh, yes, of being more likely, statistically, to start a boundary dispute with neighbours, get involved in campaigns against ethnic minorities, planning issues and young unmarried mothers and to champion wide open spaces and endangered wildlife to name but a few areas of focus.
On a Wednesday, in particular, which tends to be the busiest in my working week I am amazed by the sheer numbers of the retired population out and about in large rambling groups, on tandem bicycles or in two seater convertible sports cars. Single handedly this sector of the population is supporting the pub food industry, Milletts outdoor Supplies and the Mazda Car Corporation. It is an effort to be celebrated unless of course the outdoor activities come with a home made packed lunch, already owned hiking boots, cagoules and ski-poles and a compact beige coloured hatchback rather than a speedy roadster. Such things will not pull the nation out of recession but may favour the balance of payments.
I am not sure what group of senior citizens to adopt as my prospective role model.
That was until this last weekend when I became convinced that my future image and persona as a retiree should be based on the Mancunian Punk Poet, John Cooper Clarke, aged 64.
He is, and indeed, has always been a diminutive figure of a man. Lean, almost garden cane dimension spindly legs in drainpipe jeans, a shock of unruly frizzled hair and huge round lens sunglasses.
In fact, he has not changed much at all since I first came across him in the pages of NME and Smash Hits in the mid to late 1970's.
In the interim he has done well to outlive a drug fuelled diet and other excesses and did, on stage in York last Saturday night, remark that his friends were aghast at how much weight he had put on since his recent and successful rehab. On a proportional basis his friends could be right as an increase from about 5 stone to 6 stone is excessive.
He is a complete live wire. He hops around the stage between a small table laden high with his life's work of poems and observations and the microphone which he works with the skill of a frontman.
The audience are a good mix of those knowledgeable of his extensive back catalogue, the curious, those who have him on their list to see before he dies and a few who were only there to see the other acts on show including John Shuttleworth, impresario and keyboard wizard.
The works of John Cooper Clarke will be familiar to many of a certain age group. In my mind, impressionable and formative in the late 1970's I recall his innovative "Splat rhymes with Twat".
To a teenager as I was in that period the works of the rebellious and controversial performer could be savoured by playing his poems complete with their driving rock and roll backing track at full volume to annoy parents and siblings.
It was clever lyrically, mesmerising in rhythm and struck just the right tone of indifference mixed with outrage at the social and economic events of those tempestuous and uncertain times in the UK.
Performance artists were not afraid to show their political affiliations back in the day which contrasts sharply with current, spoon fed, sanitised and politically correct efforts.
It was not by any means superficial or sensationalist in form and content. It was just the truth which was held by a good proportion of the young population but fettered from expressing themselves by poor education, authority, suppression by the police and just being unemployed and hard up.
A few sparks did fly with the inner city riots in the early 1980's, support for the miners and later against the imposition of the Poll Tax. John Cooper Clarke captured that feeling and spirit of the generation aptly and with a rock star charisma.
The years subsequently may have seen him sidelined from his former role as a voice for the downtrodden and he was conspicuous by his absence from public life for a couple of decades but he has always written and archived the important issues.
His delivery of the spoken word remains hypnotic. There may be a slight stumbling over the staccato pronunciation and there is a reliance on reading his work from his holy scrolls but each poem was concluded with a full recollection from memory. He definitely still has it up there in his rats nest of a hairstyle.
The prospect of my sporting a similarly striking and distinctive full head of hair is long gone and looking ahead to retirement there will be even less under current rates of receding action.
I can however work on the body shape, although realistically only after a serious and debilitating illness or self abuse, and the sophisiticated fashion sense as long as shoes, trousers, shirt and blazer can be sourced from my usual outlets of Hush Puppy, Farah slacks, Van Heusen and Marks and Spencer.
Hijacking some of the inimitable words of John Cooper Clarke I am looking forward to being a F****** Pensioner and behaving F****** badly.
I do retain some good manners and the asterisks are only there for impact as I only really mean Flippin'.
One argument for such behaviour is that the older generation deserve the right to be so inclined simply because they have survived to assume the role of Elders and purveyors of wise counsel.
Some just act and behave badly for the sheer hellraising thrill. Sometimes you may come across someone who has aged calmly, respectfully and desires naught but a quiet existence. It is a time, after a frenetic working life, to sit and read, listen to music, visit relatives, dote on grandchildren and, oh, yes, of being more likely, statistically, to start a boundary dispute with neighbours, get involved in campaigns against ethnic minorities, planning issues and young unmarried mothers and to champion wide open spaces and endangered wildlife to name but a few areas of focus.
On a Wednesday, in particular, which tends to be the busiest in my working week I am amazed by the sheer numbers of the retired population out and about in large rambling groups, on tandem bicycles or in two seater convertible sports cars. Single handedly this sector of the population is supporting the pub food industry, Milletts outdoor Supplies and the Mazda Car Corporation. It is an effort to be celebrated unless of course the outdoor activities come with a home made packed lunch, already owned hiking boots, cagoules and ski-poles and a compact beige coloured hatchback rather than a speedy roadster. Such things will not pull the nation out of recession but may favour the balance of payments.
I am not sure what group of senior citizens to adopt as my prospective role model.
That was until this last weekend when I became convinced that my future image and persona as a retiree should be based on the Mancunian Punk Poet, John Cooper Clarke, aged 64.
He is, and indeed, has always been a diminutive figure of a man. Lean, almost garden cane dimension spindly legs in drainpipe jeans, a shock of unruly frizzled hair and huge round lens sunglasses.
In fact, he has not changed much at all since I first came across him in the pages of NME and Smash Hits in the mid to late 1970's.
In the interim he has done well to outlive a drug fuelled diet and other excesses and did, on stage in York last Saturday night, remark that his friends were aghast at how much weight he had put on since his recent and successful rehab. On a proportional basis his friends could be right as an increase from about 5 stone to 6 stone is excessive.
He is a complete live wire. He hops around the stage between a small table laden high with his life's work of poems and observations and the microphone which he works with the skill of a frontman.
The audience are a good mix of those knowledgeable of his extensive back catalogue, the curious, those who have him on their list to see before he dies and a few who were only there to see the other acts on show including John Shuttleworth, impresario and keyboard wizard.
The works of John Cooper Clarke will be familiar to many of a certain age group. In my mind, impressionable and formative in the late 1970's I recall his innovative "Splat rhymes with Twat".
To a teenager as I was in that period the works of the rebellious and controversial performer could be savoured by playing his poems complete with their driving rock and roll backing track at full volume to annoy parents and siblings.
It was clever lyrically, mesmerising in rhythm and struck just the right tone of indifference mixed with outrage at the social and economic events of those tempestuous and uncertain times in the UK.
Performance artists were not afraid to show their political affiliations back in the day which contrasts sharply with current, spoon fed, sanitised and politically correct efforts.
It was not by any means superficial or sensationalist in form and content. It was just the truth which was held by a good proportion of the young population but fettered from expressing themselves by poor education, authority, suppression by the police and just being unemployed and hard up.
A few sparks did fly with the inner city riots in the early 1980's, support for the miners and later against the imposition of the Poll Tax. John Cooper Clarke captured that feeling and spirit of the generation aptly and with a rock star charisma.
The years subsequently may have seen him sidelined from his former role as a voice for the downtrodden and he was conspicuous by his absence from public life for a couple of decades but he has always written and archived the important issues.
His delivery of the spoken word remains hypnotic. There may be a slight stumbling over the staccato pronunciation and there is a reliance on reading his work from his holy scrolls but each poem was concluded with a full recollection from memory. He definitely still has it up there in his rats nest of a hairstyle.
The prospect of my sporting a similarly striking and distinctive full head of hair is long gone and looking ahead to retirement there will be even less under current rates of receding action.
I can however work on the body shape, although realistically only after a serious and debilitating illness or self abuse, and the sophisiticated fashion sense as long as shoes, trousers, shirt and blazer can be sourced from my usual outlets of Hush Puppy, Farah slacks, Van Heusen and Marks and Spencer.
Hijacking some of the inimitable words of John Cooper Clarke I am looking forward to being a F****** Pensioner and behaving F****** badly.
I do retain some good manners and the asterisks are only there for impact as I only really mean Flippin'.
Sunday 9 September 2018
Bond. Ronnie Bond
There was a time in UK commercial television schedules when the short bursts of advertisements were actually more entertaining than the programmes that they were wedged into or between.
It was a creative time back in the 1970's and 80's with the marketing and selling of products and services being led by large trendy international Agencies and usually with an open ended budget provided by their Clients.
We were enthralled in short 30 second bursts by chimpanzees pushing a piano, robots laughing at traditional spuds and a bit of an action man going about the perilous task of leaving a box of rather mediocre chocolates on the bedside table of a lady who just appeared to be ready for her bedtime.
All of these TV commercial campaigns were notable not so much for the product but for snappy music and a memorable original tune, song or as they were called....jingles.
One particular specialist in the writing of jingles from that golden era was Ronnie Bond, a British musician and lyricist.
He was pretty prolific in his time and there were persistent claims that he could pen and produce 5 viable masterpieces every week although Bond himself was quick to dispel this myth.
It was an art form to compose music and words within a tight client brief and always with the constraints of time which was the paid spot in a commercial break on, at the time, just the one channel, ITV and its regional versions.
The secret of a jingle, in order to be an effective reminder of a product, is catchiness in the tune and a snappy slogan or tag line.
Bond was a genius at combining both of these elements and his services were highly sought after in the advertising world.
I spent most of my 1970's era childhood soaking up the ditties and slick marketing phrases from TV ads as though a consumer sponge even though I was too young to go out and buy the things being given the subtle sell let alone have any meaningful pocket money to contemplate it in the first place.
Nowadays the advertisers lack imagination and individuality reverting to the use of a well known power ballad or a hit record that has only just vacated the music charts after a few weeks.
Ronnie Bond can be judged on his most well known jingles as to creativity and uniqueness.
Take, for example, the TV campaign for Bran Flakes. Not a very inspiring foodstuff at all and to children it is a reminder of parental attempts to keep fit and healthy. They are dry and dead bits of cereal and yet, magically transformed into something exciting and desirable when marketed by a poppy tune and the lyrics "They're tasty, tasty, very very tasty".
The same could be said for Coco-Pops, a serial targeted at youngsters and early teens. I always thought they resembled rabbit droppings and they did leave a chocolaty stain on clothing if dribbled or spilled at the breakfast table.
However, they were also elevated to a "must have" product and because of Bond's line of "I'd rather have a bowl of coco-pops".
Both of these could really become deep seated in a young and active. although rather annoying child's mind and many I time I would be told off by parents and school teachers for singing or humming one or more of these particular ditties.
I am not ashamed to say that I felt my first strange feelings of sexual awareness as a result of something that Ronnie Bond wrote.
If I say that the advert and his composition were voted the 3rd most memorable in advertising history then you can probably guess what was being shamelessly sold through the portrayal of sex.
Yes, it was Cadbury's Flake.
The TV commercials for this choccy treat were amongst the most viewed in between the normal scheduled programmes.
They involved a young girl in light and seasonal clothing out in a field or doing some activity or pursuit in soft focus and eating the distinctive ribbed stick of milk chocolate matched by an evocatively luxurious melody and the famous slogan of "Only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate, tastes like chocolate never tasted before".
It was a classic of its time and place. We may never see the likes of it again. Thank you Ronnie Bond.
One of the adverts for Cadbury's Flake
It was a creative time back in the 1970's and 80's with the marketing and selling of products and services being led by large trendy international Agencies and usually with an open ended budget provided by their Clients.
We were enthralled in short 30 second bursts by chimpanzees pushing a piano, robots laughing at traditional spuds and a bit of an action man going about the perilous task of leaving a box of rather mediocre chocolates on the bedside table of a lady who just appeared to be ready for her bedtime.
All of these TV commercial campaigns were notable not so much for the product but for snappy music and a memorable original tune, song or as they were called....jingles.
One particular specialist in the writing of jingles from that golden era was Ronnie Bond, a British musician and lyricist.
He was pretty prolific in his time and there were persistent claims that he could pen and produce 5 viable masterpieces every week although Bond himself was quick to dispel this myth.
It was an art form to compose music and words within a tight client brief and always with the constraints of time which was the paid spot in a commercial break on, at the time, just the one channel, ITV and its regional versions.
The secret of a jingle, in order to be an effective reminder of a product, is catchiness in the tune and a snappy slogan or tag line.
Bond was a genius at combining both of these elements and his services were highly sought after in the advertising world.
I spent most of my 1970's era childhood soaking up the ditties and slick marketing phrases from TV ads as though a consumer sponge even though I was too young to go out and buy the things being given the subtle sell let alone have any meaningful pocket money to contemplate it in the first place.
Nowadays the advertisers lack imagination and individuality reverting to the use of a well known power ballad or a hit record that has only just vacated the music charts after a few weeks.
Ronnie Bond can be judged on his most well known jingles as to creativity and uniqueness.
Take, for example, the TV campaign for Bran Flakes. Not a very inspiring foodstuff at all and to children it is a reminder of parental attempts to keep fit and healthy. They are dry and dead bits of cereal and yet, magically transformed into something exciting and desirable when marketed by a poppy tune and the lyrics "They're tasty, tasty, very very tasty".
The same could be said for Coco-Pops, a serial targeted at youngsters and early teens. I always thought they resembled rabbit droppings and they did leave a chocolaty stain on clothing if dribbled or spilled at the breakfast table.
However, they were also elevated to a "must have" product and because of Bond's line of "I'd rather have a bowl of coco-pops".
Both of these could really become deep seated in a young and active. although rather annoying child's mind and many I time I would be told off by parents and school teachers for singing or humming one or more of these particular ditties.
I am not ashamed to say that I felt my first strange feelings of sexual awareness as a result of something that Ronnie Bond wrote.
If I say that the advert and his composition were voted the 3rd most memorable in advertising history then you can probably guess what was being shamelessly sold through the portrayal of sex.
Yes, it was Cadbury's Flake.
The TV commercials for this choccy treat were amongst the most viewed in between the normal scheduled programmes.
They involved a young girl in light and seasonal clothing out in a field or doing some activity or pursuit in soft focus and eating the distinctive ribbed stick of milk chocolate matched by an evocatively luxurious melody and the famous slogan of "Only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate, tastes like chocolate never tasted before".
It was a classic of its time and place. We may never see the likes of it again. Thank you Ronnie Bond.
One of the adverts for Cadbury's Flake
Saturday 8 September 2018
The Kelly Mystery 1988
I have two trophies from my years of competition in cycling.
Well, in reality they are just a couple of plastic shield shapes with metal plates affixed on which are etched my achievements namely fastest 25 mile time trial and most points from placings in a single season.
I was presented with some proper silverware in each category but of course they had to go back to the Cycling Club for the awards ceremony for the following season.
They are from the same year which means that I had time on my hands to dedicate to a bit if serious training and participation.
I am quite proud of them even though, unfortunately, my surname is incorrectly spelt on both. I could have made a fuss at the time and had them returned to the promotions shop from whence they came for correction but I never got around to doing that.
For a few years they stood on any spare bit of window cill, shelf edge or cabinet space but progressively became relegated in prominence so that they eventually ended up in my tool box in the garage.
1980's plastics have subsequently proven to be prone to fatigue and the by now tarnished plaques fell off as did the hinged mount at the back and before long each of them were in pieces and beyond salvage.
At least, and this is a small mercy, I know at this very minute where they are but the same cannot be said for perhaps the most prized trophy of my cycling favourite, Sean Kelly who in the 1980's ranked as the best all rounder in the elite pro ranks.
His own trophy collection is vast from his endeavours in his peak years from the European Classics to prestigious Stage Races but one is most noticeable in its absence, the top prize for La Vuelta, The Tour of Spain which Kelly won in 1988.
It was, remarkably, his only Grand Tour win even though he had come close in the previous year's event only to be forced to drop out because of a complications over a saddle sore.
Photos of his celebration on the podium in Madrid after the final stage of 20 across the Iberian Peninsular, show a large silver bowl, embossed with feather like motifs, supported on elegant swans neck legs and with handles as though the bows of an Egyptian galley.
Kelly is holding the jet black plinth with the care and attention of a father cradling his newborn child.
It is a large piece of commemorative bling and destined, you would expect, for pride of place in the Kelly home in Carrick on Suir, Ireland. It never made it.
In the post-Vuelta round of dinners and speeches that come with the obligations to team mates, management and sponsors that trophy will have been relentlessly handled and passed around, with or without a champagne filling.
The main squad sponsors, KAS, a soft and fizzy drinks manufacturer and long time supporter of Spanish Pro- Cycling Teams had the distinctive prize on display at their factory in Vitoria Gasteiz in the Basque Region of Spain.
It may have been in the reception area, on the factory floor, in the staff canteen or in the Boardroom but somehow it became misplaced.
The sale of KAS to Pepsi Cola in 1991 is likely to have led to a rationalisation of the business, possible redundancies and closures of the Vitoria premises and in the process and inevitable confusion it may have been put in a box and into storage or even taken away, for protective reasons by an employee.
The sense of Basque pride in the winning of that National Tour in 1988 meant that the trophy would be revered and respected and with every intention for it to be seen in public.
It seems that it emerged in a Cafe Bar in the town.
Kelly meanwhile continued his illustrious career on the road.
I slapped him on the back at the finish line of the Wincanton Classic one day race in Newcastle in 1989 as he wheeled through the crowds to collect his third place prize. I like to think that even in his exhausted state he was thinking of the whereabouts of his Vuelta Trophy.
In successive years the bit of silverware was passed around amongst businesses in Vitoria including Restaurants and Pizzerias.
Every few years the word reached Kelly that it had been sighted and although friends and contacts tried to follow up on the speculation, hearsay and rumour it remained elusive.
Retrieving the trophy is still uppermost in Kelly's mind and he spoke about this is in a Podcast just a few days ago at the 2018 Vuelta where he is a commentator for Eurosport.
He has pursued, as much as possible, more recent leads but to no avail.
I thought I might help out and have posted a question through the on-line enquiries of the websites of a dozen or so Vitoria located pizza places.
The preceding questions on the respective sites are all about what is on the menu's, whether dishes are vegetarian, vegan or gluten free or if an establishment can take a wedding party of 150 persons, or so I have translated from Spanish.
Whilst I await any responses, although I do not hold out too much hope, I may go and try to stick together the bits and pieces of my own trophies and remember how I won them, all of those years ago.
(Inspired by the Lionel Birnie, Cycling Podcast feature and interview with Sean Kelly, Sept 2018)
Footnote; Two of the Vitoria Restaurants were kind enough to respond to my enquiry and although they had no information they were sympathetic to the situation.
Well, in reality they are just a couple of plastic shield shapes with metal plates affixed on which are etched my achievements namely fastest 25 mile time trial and most points from placings in a single season.
I was presented with some proper silverware in each category but of course they had to go back to the Cycling Club for the awards ceremony for the following season.
They are from the same year which means that I had time on my hands to dedicate to a bit if serious training and participation.
I am quite proud of them even though, unfortunately, my surname is incorrectly spelt on both. I could have made a fuss at the time and had them returned to the promotions shop from whence they came for correction but I never got around to doing that.
For a few years they stood on any spare bit of window cill, shelf edge or cabinet space but progressively became relegated in prominence so that they eventually ended up in my tool box in the garage.
1980's plastics have subsequently proven to be prone to fatigue and the by now tarnished plaques fell off as did the hinged mount at the back and before long each of them were in pieces and beyond salvage.
At least, and this is a small mercy, I know at this very minute where they are but the same cannot be said for perhaps the most prized trophy of my cycling favourite, Sean Kelly who in the 1980's ranked as the best all rounder in the elite pro ranks.
His own trophy collection is vast from his endeavours in his peak years from the European Classics to prestigious Stage Races but one is most noticeable in its absence, the top prize for La Vuelta, The Tour of Spain which Kelly won in 1988.
It was, remarkably, his only Grand Tour win even though he had come close in the previous year's event only to be forced to drop out because of a complications over a saddle sore.
Photos of his celebration on the podium in Madrid after the final stage of 20 across the Iberian Peninsular, show a large silver bowl, embossed with feather like motifs, supported on elegant swans neck legs and with handles as though the bows of an Egyptian galley.
Kelly is holding the jet black plinth with the care and attention of a father cradling his newborn child.
It is a large piece of commemorative bling and destined, you would expect, for pride of place in the Kelly home in Carrick on Suir, Ireland. It never made it.
In the post-Vuelta round of dinners and speeches that come with the obligations to team mates, management and sponsors that trophy will have been relentlessly handled and passed around, with or without a champagne filling.
The main squad sponsors, KAS, a soft and fizzy drinks manufacturer and long time supporter of Spanish Pro- Cycling Teams had the distinctive prize on display at their factory in Vitoria Gasteiz in the Basque Region of Spain.
It may have been in the reception area, on the factory floor, in the staff canteen or in the Boardroom but somehow it became misplaced.
The sale of KAS to Pepsi Cola in 1991 is likely to have led to a rationalisation of the business, possible redundancies and closures of the Vitoria premises and in the process and inevitable confusion it may have been put in a box and into storage or even taken away, for protective reasons by an employee.
The sense of Basque pride in the winning of that National Tour in 1988 meant that the trophy would be revered and respected and with every intention for it to be seen in public.
It seems that it emerged in a Cafe Bar in the town.
Kelly meanwhile continued his illustrious career on the road.
I slapped him on the back at the finish line of the Wincanton Classic one day race in Newcastle in 1989 as he wheeled through the crowds to collect his third place prize. I like to think that even in his exhausted state he was thinking of the whereabouts of his Vuelta Trophy.
In successive years the bit of silverware was passed around amongst businesses in Vitoria including Restaurants and Pizzerias.
Every few years the word reached Kelly that it had been sighted and although friends and contacts tried to follow up on the speculation, hearsay and rumour it remained elusive.
Retrieving the trophy is still uppermost in Kelly's mind and he spoke about this is in a Podcast just a few days ago at the 2018 Vuelta where he is a commentator for Eurosport.
He has pursued, as much as possible, more recent leads but to no avail.
I thought I might help out and have posted a question through the on-line enquiries of the websites of a dozen or so Vitoria located pizza places.
The preceding questions on the respective sites are all about what is on the menu's, whether dishes are vegetarian, vegan or gluten free or if an establishment can take a wedding party of 150 persons, or so I have translated from Spanish.
Whilst I await any responses, although I do not hold out too much hope, I may go and try to stick together the bits and pieces of my own trophies and remember how I won them, all of those years ago.
(Inspired by the Lionel Birnie, Cycling Podcast feature and interview with Sean Kelly, Sept 2018)
Footnote; Two of the Vitoria Restaurants were kind enough to respond to my enquiry and although they had no information they were sympathetic to the situation.
Friday 7 September 2018
Kelly's Heroics 1
Forget about the medals, awards, honours and commercial endorsements. It may in some unfortunate circumstances be necessary to sell, pawn or donate all of the gold, silver, bronze and cut-glass if for example the athlete encounters hard times, financially or in terms of a decline in previously robust and durable health.
Yes, they are important but perhaps the greatest accolade that a sportsman or woman aspires to is have a street, a building, a stadium or something with a physical presence named after them. It is usually the case that the naming of the thing is in the birth town, home town or a location with a strong mutual identity. There may be family members or distant relatives still residing there and travelling through a street, avenue, square or driving over a bridge, past a civic centre, sports hall or medical centre bearing the same name must be a matter of pride.
There have been some situations where the name has had to be unceremoniously revoked.
This may follow allegations, proven or not ,of cheating such as in the taking of performance enhancing drugs or post-sporting career scandal and illegalities. Perhaps a bit of a slap in the face is where the naming rights are just sold off to the highest bidder. The general populus and in particular members of a City or Town Authority or Council can be fickle but using the argument of supplementing the public purse or reflecting outrage or opinion by auctioning off the naming rights to the highest bidder is a strong one.
A prominent example of this was the removal of Arnold Schwarzenneger's name from the football stadium in his home town of Graz, Austria. This was a decision by the town's Officials in an ongoing row over the death penalty in the USA, illegal in Austria, where Arnie attained the position of Governor of California.
It was quite a high profile falling out and many believe that because of what has been said that Arnie will definitely not be back some time soon.
One of my all time sporting heroes has a pleasant urban square named after him in Carrick on Suir in the Republic of Ireland or Eire.
Sean Kelly dominated the Professional Cycle Racing scene in Europe in the 1980's with wins in the great Classics as well as performing to a remarkable consistency to win a succession of Green Jerseys in the Tour de France.
From a farming background Sean Kelly was quiet and reserved and he seemed destined to carry on working on the land until he discovered a natural affinity and athletic ability on the bike. He was Irish National Junior Champion at age 16 and took a senior Licence with further prominent wins before moving to live and race in Northern France in 1976.
To sum up Kelly's ethos and spirit a reporter wrote
"It is customary to talk of Kelly as quintessentially an Irish rider. For my part, though, I think it helps to place Kelly better as a cyclist to see him as the last of the Flemish riders.It stands for a certain type of mentality, willing to suffer, narrowly focussed, and hard, hard, hard. Kelly had all this in him from his Irish small-farm background: the outside loo;the dogs that have to be chained before you can step from your car; the one career possible, as a bricklayer on a construction site, stretching away and away into the grey mists. On the positive side, along with the self-reliance, came a physical strength that even by peasant standards is impressive. In a profession of iron wills, there is no one harder".
For all of that implied coldness and selfish determination I did like Kelly.
He had a presence on the bike and could excel on the flat as well as dragging his body up the punishing mountains. In post race interviews as winner or, failing that, a main protagonist in the frantic action over the previous three to six hours his expressed feelings of being intellectually outclassed showed in a slow, hesitant speech, almost stuttering and struggling for words.
This did not prevent him, in retirement and to the present day from commentating on big races for commercial broadcasters. Granted, there are some long awkward silences and some barely audible and recognisable words and sentiments but it is all part of the package for one of the greatest road cyclists of all time.
I did have the privilege of slapping him on his back as he edged his bike through the crowds at the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle in 1989.
I think he came 2nd or 3rd behind the winner Frans Massen. I vowed, silently in my head, to leave that hand unwashed forever as an act of honouring Sean Kelly. That promise did not last beyond the end of the day.
I did think, however of a more befitting tribute to this sporting hero and my first ever house purchase came to bear a rustic carved plaque with the naming rights of "Kelly Cottage".
The sign came along on subsequent house moves ending up on the garden shed at our last house and now it lies on the shelving in the garage amongst a collection of bits of bike, but nevertheless a place of honour and reverence.
Yes, they are important but perhaps the greatest accolade that a sportsman or woman aspires to is have a street, a building, a stadium or something with a physical presence named after them. It is usually the case that the naming of the thing is in the birth town, home town or a location with a strong mutual identity. There may be family members or distant relatives still residing there and travelling through a street, avenue, square or driving over a bridge, past a civic centre, sports hall or medical centre bearing the same name must be a matter of pride.
There have been some situations where the name has had to be unceremoniously revoked.
This may follow allegations, proven or not ,of cheating such as in the taking of performance enhancing drugs or post-sporting career scandal and illegalities. Perhaps a bit of a slap in the face is where the naming rights are just sold off to the highest bidder. The general populus and in particular members of a City or Town Authority or Council can be fickle but using the argument of supplementing the public purse or reflecting outrage or opinion by auctioning off the naming rights to the highest bidder is a strong one.
A prominent example of this was the removal of Arnold Schwarzenneger's name from the football stadium in his home town of Graz, Austria. This was a decision by the town's Officials in an ongoing row over the death penalty in the USA, illegal in Austria, where Arnie attained the position of Governor of California.
It was quite a high profile falling out and many believe that because of what has been said that Arnie will definitely not be back some time soon.
One of my all time sporting heroes has a pleasant urban square named after him in Carrick on Suir in the Republic of Ireland or Eire.
Sean Kelly dominated the Professional Cycle Racing scene in Europe in the 1980's with wins in the great Classics as well as performing to a remarkable consistency to win a succession of Green Jerseys in the Tour de France.
From a farming background Sean Kelly was quiet and reserved and he seemed destined to carry on working on the land until he discovered a natural affinity and athletic ability on the bike. He was Irish National Junior Champion at age 16 and took a senior Licence with further prominent wins before moving to live and race in Northern France in 1976.
To sum up Kelly's ethos and spirit a reporter wrote
"It is customary to talk of Kelly as quintessentially an Irish rider. For my part, though, I think it helps to place Kelly better as a cyclist to see him as the last of the Flemish riders.It stands for a certain type of mentality, willing to suffer, narrowly focussed, and hard, hard, hard. Kelly had all this in him from his Irish small-farm background: the outside loo;the dogs that have to be chained before you can step from your car; the one career possible, as a bricklayer on a construction site, stretching away and away into the grey mists. On the positive side, along with the self-reliance, came a physical strength that even by peasant standards is impressive. In a profession of iron wills, there is no one harder".
For all of that implied coldness and selfish determination I did like Kelly.
He had a presence on the bike and could excel on the flat as well as dragging his body up the punishing mountains. In post race interviews as winner or, failing that, a main protagonist in the frantic action over the previous three to six hours his expressed feelings of being intellectually outclassed showed in a slow, hesitant speech, almost stuttering and struggling for words.
This did not prevent him, in retirement and to the present day from commentating on big races for commercial broadcasters. Granted, there are some long awkward silences and some barely audible and recognisable words and sentiments but it is all part of the package for one of the greatest road cyclists of all time.
I did have the privilege of slapping him on his back as he edged his bike through the crowds at the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle in 1989.
I think he came 2nd or 3rd behind the winner Frans Massen. I vowed, silently in my head, to leave that hand unwashed forever as an act of honouring Sean Kelly. That promise did not last beyond the end of the day.
I did think, however of a more befitting tribute to this sporting hero and my first ever house purchase came to bear a rustic carved plaque with the naming rights of "Kelly Cottage".
The sign came along on subsequent house moves ending up on the garden shed at our last house and now it lies on the shelving in the garage amongst a collection of bits of bike, but nevertheless a place of honour and reverence.
Thursday 6 September 2018
Strange Fruit
I am rediscovering the joy of oversized vegetables and fruit.
Sounds a bit dodgy I admit when taken out of context but with our recent family move back into the inner city and a new determination to shop local and support local business I am only now finding out how much my perception of fruit and veg was dictated by the large corporate supermarkets.
My former regular patronage of Sainsbury's in our cosy suburban setting prior to the move blinded me to the true nature of natural produce. The sanitised, scrubbed, pre-weighed and packaged fare represented what I thought was normality in the food chain. I gave no real thought to where my spuds, carrots, turnips and cabbages came from because there were no indications that they had originated in a farmers muddy field, had been battered by inclement weather, chewed at by insects and wildfowl, defecated on by birds and handled by an army of agricultural labourers or the inner workings and intricacies of a marvellous bit of harvesting equipment gracefully pulled along behind a knackered black smoke belching tractor.
There would be a top shelf in the Sainsbury's fruit and veg aisle where a few organic examples would be displayed in all of their ugliness. Customers would shirk away from a purchase not out of disgust at the natural form but more on the basis of the extortionate cost over and above a nice shrink wrap pack of sparkling and perfect produce. It was too easy and I became complacent.
Beautiful fruit and veg looked nice in the fridge or in a bowl on full view to visitors and friends. Perhaps too nice to actually consume and enjoy, becoming more of a fixture than a source of nutrition. Inevitably the fruit and veg would start to go off and then the guilt kicks in of having to throw out any food. The soul searching and embarassment would however be short lived, at least until that moment of redemption in gripping the supermarket trolley handle with both hands and starting the process all over again.
Now, in using small local independent shops I am being re-acquainted with fruit and veg in all of their glory.
It is not, I stress, the case that sole proprietors have to settle for second rate produce after it has been picked over by the Corporate buyers, far from it. The local traders work hard for their supplies often having to get down to the wholesale market at some unearthly hour to secure the latest arrivals from all points around the globe.
The quality is there to be seen, handled and inhaled. My first visit to the nearest five a day outlet was similar in my mind to the excitement at entering a toy shop as a child.
On the pavement a tempting display to rival the best emporiums in the known world. Large buckets of flowers in bouquets and sprays, boxes of tomatoes straight off the lorry from the glasshouses of Holland, apples big enough to play crown green bowls with, pomegranates the size of a football, honeydew melons that could grace a scrum-down at Twickenham, Spanish Onions of proportions that when thinly sliced, fried and served up in a dish resembled fine angel hair pasta.
I could not wait to see the great treasures inside and grasping my shopping bag made my way into Fruitopia..........
Sounds a bit dodgy I admit when taken out of context but with our recent family move back into the inner city and a new determination to shop local and support local business I am only now finding out how much my perception of fruit and veg was dictated by the large corporate supermarkets.
My former regular patronage of Sainsbury's in our cosy suburban setting prior to the move blinded me to the true nature of natural produce. The sanitised, scrubbed, pre-weighed and packaged fare represented what I thought was normality in the food chain. I gave no real thought to where my spuds, carrots, turnips and cabbages came from because there were no indications that they had originated in a farmers muddy field, had been battered by inclement weather, chewed at by insects and wildfowl, defecated on by birds and handled by an army of agricultural labourers or the inner workings and intricacies of a marvellous bit of harvesting equipment gracefully pulled along behind a knackered black smoke belching tractor.
There would be a top shelf in the Sainsbury's fruit and veg aisle where a few organic examples would be displayed in all of their ugliness. Customers would shirk away from a purchase not out of disgust at the natural form but more on the basis of the extortionate cost over and above a nice shrink wrap pack of sparkling and perfect produce. It was too easy and I became complacent.
Beautiful fruit and veg looked nice in the fridge or in a bowl on full view to visitors and friends. Perhaps too nice to actually consume and enjoy, becoming more of a fixture than a source of nutrition. Inevitably the fruit and veg would start to go off and then the guilt kicks in of having to throw out any food. The soul searching and embarassment would however be short lived, at least until that moment of redemption in gripping the supermarket trolley handle with both hands and starting the process all over again.
Now, in using small local independent shops I am being re-acquainted with fruit and veg in all of their glory.
It is not, I stress, the case that sole proprietors have to settle for second rate produce after it has been picked over by the Corporate buyers, far from it. The local traders work hard for their supplies often having to get down to the wholesale market at some unearthly hour to secure the latest arrivals from all points around the globe.
The quality is there to be seen, handled and inhaled. My first visit to the nearest five a day outlet was similar in my mind to the excitement at entering a toy shop as a child.
On the pavement a tempting display to rival the best emporiums in the known world. Large buckets of flowers in bouquets and sprays, boxes of tomatoes straight off the lorry from the glasshouses of Holland, apples big enough to play crown green bowls with, pomegranates the size of a football, honeydew melons that could grace a scrum-down at Twickenham, Spanish Onions of proportions that when thinly sliced, fried and served up in a dish resembled fine angel hair pasta.
I could not wait to see the great treasures inside and grasping my shopping bag made my way into Fruitopia..........
Wednesday 5 September 2018
Tales from Nature
I am a lover of nature and natural things.
I always have been from a small child.
My earliest memories are of poking a fishing net enthusiastically into the local pond and extracting a whole load of wildlife from frog spawn and water boatmen to sticklebacks and water snails. At other times I have intentionally run open mouthed through a big cloud of swarming gnats, felt a stringy spiders web on my face and carefully rescued upside down wood lice from their panicky disorientation.
Respectful of other living things I have always tried to avoid squashing or swatting flies and bugs adopting a policy to encourage them to move on somewhere else with a gentle waft of something or directing them towards an open window.
One of my first inventions was a humane mousetrap. This worked on the principle of merely concussing the rodent with a lead leger weight which would drop down upon disturbance of a cork wedged into a wood knot hole in the floorboards in my bedroom from which I had observed a mouse movement. More recently I had great success trapping mice in a bin bag and carefully driving them up the road to be released into an affluent housing area where pickings and overall lifestyle would be enhanced.
I am the first to marvel at the grace and efficiency of a hovering sparrow hawk above the verge of the town by-pass. I seem to be the only motorist to appreciate this behaviour although many do sound their horns as I momentarily lose concentration and veer across the central white lines.
Urban foxes are also a regular sight and I am thrilled to catch the steely, confident glare in the eyes of a lazy fox as it meanders through the alleyways and passages of the city before strolling in front of my car at the traffic lights near Tesco's.
From my living room window I am entertained by the scampering antics of grey squirrels from bough to bough or on the ground as they dodge pedestrians and traffic in a hip hoppity type motion.
A few ducks find their way from the lake in the nearby park into surrounding house gardens and take up a vantage point on the roof of stowed caravans and cars to keep a look out for the many domestic cats who may fancy their chances.
My favourite sound in nature remains the collective noise of a flight of geese as they pass over in a low 'V' formation with co-ordinated honking and the distinctive swish of a great sweep of wings.
The Springtime dawns are noisy in my neighbourhood with birdsong mixed in with traffic and a few emergency services sirens. I have always had an intention to learn to identify birds from their calls but that may have to wait until I have much more time on my hands.
There are plenty of TV programmes about the natural world and I do take in a few of these if they capture my attention. A current series on the monkey world has been fascinating but also quite disturbing. To my mind monkeys are comical characters through their antics and mimickry. I am of that generation brought up to associate our nearest cousins with advertisements for PG Tips or co-stars of Clint Eastwood. I was therefore horrified to learn about the ruthless and murderous mindset of chimpanzees in their ethnic cleansing of other forest monkeys. I will view future re-runs of Planet of the Apes with considerably more understanding of the conflict politics of that species.
Really, we as humans have not progressed much further up the evolutionary scale apart from using weapons rather than bludgeoning our foes with our bare hands or throwing them bodily out of a high tree. We should not therefore be surprised about what nature has to contend with in order to survive amongst increasingly diminishing habitats and the pressure exerted by humankind.
Some commendable efforts are made by a few governments and individuals to save creatures from extinction. On a small scale we can leave food out for birds and hedgehogs.There is no shortage in charitable giving to rescue abused donkeys or dogs and cats. Younger generations seem to be more in tune with Conservation and nature and that can only be a good thing for the future.
I conclude with a topical although tenuous bit of humour in a nature theme which I have hijacked from a radio broadcast.
On a visit to a record shop I spied an old vinyl album entitled "The Wonderful World of Wasps".
The price at 50p excited my curiosity and the sleeve promised a startling and informative soundtrack of this enigmatic and much maligned insect. I hate to see people run in blind panic upon the approach of a wasp which, frankly, only makes the black and yellow creatures even more excitable. Anticipating a very atmospheric experience, perhaps narrated by a gravelly voiced celebrity, I lowered the stylus onto the 33rpm vinyl and sat back, eyes closed to enjoy. I must have quickly dozed off because I was startled by the clunk of the off switch . I could not recall any of the previous output about even the average life of a wasp.
Wholly attentive I played the record again. It was a disappointing offering of a few swishing blades of grass, a faint whirring of wings and a brief rubbing of legs.
Altogether I got the impression of a lazy insect and not the aggressive, dynamic soundtrack that I had expected.
A couple of days later I found my way back to that record shop. I accept that a 50p second or third hand purchase waives most of my consumer rights but I appealed to the proprietor to play the disc and give his opinion.
Granted, he was polite and attentive and duly played the record with headphones on so as not to disturb the one other customer for the day on the premises.
I could see that he had resolved the issue and sure enough he was kind enough to explain that I had been, in fact, playing the B side.
I always have been from a small child.
My earliest memories are of poking a fishing net enthusiastically into the local pond and extracting a whole load of wildlife from frog spawn and water boatmen to sticklebacks and water snails. At other times I have intentionally run open mouthed through a big cloud of swarming gnats, felt a stringy spiders web on my face and carefully rescued upside down wood lice from their panicky disorientation.
Respectful of other living things I have always tried to avoid squashing or swatting flies and bugs adopting a policy to encourage them to move on somewhere else with a gentle waft of something or directing them towards an open window.
One of my first inventions was a humane mousetrap. This worked on the principle of merely concussing the rodent with a lead leger weight which would drop down upon disturbance of a cork wedged into a wood knot hole in the floorboards in my bedroom from which I had observed a mouse movement. More recently I had great success trapping mice in a bin bag and carefully driving them up the road to be released into an affluent housing area where pickings and overall lifestyle would be enhanced.
I am the first to marvel at the grace and efficiency of a hovering sparrow hawk above the verge of the town by-pass. I seem to be the only motorist to appreciate this behaviour although many do sound their horns as I momentarily lose concentration and veer across the central white lines.
Urban foxes are also a regular sight and I am thrilled to catch the steely, confident glare in the eyes of a lazy fox as it meanders through the alleyways and passages of the city before strolling in front of my car at the traffic lights near Tesco's.
From my living room window I am entertained by the scampering antics of grey squirrels from bough to bough or on the ground as they dodge pedestrians and traffic in a hip hoppity type motion.
A few ducks find their way from the lake in the nearby park into surrounding house gardens and take up a vantage point on the roof of stowed caravans and cars to keep a look out for the many domestic cats who may fancy their chances.
My favourite sound in nature remains the collective noise of a flight of geese as they pass over in a low 'V' formation with co-ordinated honking and the distinctive swish of a great sweep of wings.
The Springtime dawns are noisy in my neighbourhood with birdsong mixed in with traffic and a few emergency services sirens. I have always had an intention to learn to identify birds from their calls but that may have to wait until I have much more time on my hands.
There are plenty of TV programmes about the natural world and I do take in a few of these if they capture my attention. A current series on the monkey world has been fascinating but also quite disturbing. To my mind monkeys are comical characters through their antics and mimickry. I am of that generation brought up to associate our nearest cousins with advertisements for PG Tips or co-stars of Clint Eastwood. I was therefore horrified to learn about the ruthless and murderous mindset of chimpanzees in their ethnic cleansing of other forest monkeys. I will view future re-runs of Planet of the Apes with considerably more understanding of the conflict politics of that species.
Really, we as humans have not progressed much further up the evolutionary scale apart from using weapons rather than bludgeoning our foes with our bare hands or throwing them bodily out of a high tree. We should not therefore be surprised about what nature has to contend with in order to survive amongst increasingly diminishing habitats and the pressure exerted by humankind.
Some commendable efforts are made by a few governments and individuals to save creatures from extinction. On a small scale we can leave food out for birds and hedgehogs.There is no shortage in charitable giving to rescue abused donkeys or dogs and cats. Younger generations seem to be more in tune with Conservation and nature and that can only be a good thing for the future.
I conclude with a topical although tenuous bit of humour in a nature theme which I have hijacked from a radio broadcast.
On a visit to a record shop I spied an old vinyl album entitled "The Wonderful World of Wasps".
The price at 50p excited my curiosity and the sleeve promised a startling and informative soundtrack of this enigmatic and much maligned insect. I hate to see people run in blind panic upon the approach of a wasp which, frankly, only makes the black and yellow creatures even more excitable. Anticipating a very atmospheric experience, perhaps narrated by a gravelly voiced celebrity, I lowered the stylus onto the 33rpm vinyl and sat back, eyes closed to enjoy. I must have quickly dozed off because I was startled by the clunk of the off switch . I could not recall any of the previous output about even the average life of a wasp.
Wholly attentive I played the record again. It was a disappointing offering of a few swishing blades of grass, a faint whirring of wings and a brief rubbing of legs.
Altogether I got the impression of a lazy insect and not the aggressive, dynamic soundtrack that I had expected.
A couple of days later I found my way back to that record shop. I accept that a 50p second or third hand purchase waives most of my consumer rights but I appealed to the proprietor to play the disc and give his opinion.
Granted, he was polite and attentive and duly played the record with headphones on so as not to disturb the one other customer for the day on the premises.
I could see that he had resolved the issue and sure enough he was kind enough to explain that I had been, in fact, playing the B side.
Tuesday 4 September 2018
105 years of invention
I like to see a public opinion poll.
I enjoy participating sometimes in an on line survey and do my utmost to be truthful, honest and decent in my responses so as not to distort the result in case it is actually of any significance in shaping such things as Government policy or how we are allowed to lead our lives.
A sampling of any proportion of the population can have interesting connotations in terms of outcome.
I remember a survey in a school magazine in which, curiously, the best single of the year also won the category of worst single of the year and with the same phenomena being recorded for best male artist and top group.
The following very extensive list and in chronological order is a very recent offering from a poll taken amongst the subscribers of The Gadget Show.
Having just seen the list myself does appear to imply that this particular group has exceeded itself in not just overall geek points but also in the display of a remarkable breadth and depth of general knowledge, social and economic development and history. Really a very clever and astute bunch of, predominantly I contest, single males.
It is therefore to be applauded as a unique opinion.
Many may not agree with a number of the entries and some are indeed just plain freakish.
My own lifetime of gadget appreciation and use began in the late 1960's and early 1970's but many of the post war inventions were to be found in the house in which I grew up in. There are no cheap and nasty items. All, bar none, are examples of inspirational and durable engineering, product design and marketing, yes even the slinky.
See what you think...........................
1913 The zip
1914 Motorised movie cameras
1915 Pyrex
1916 Electric power drill
1917 Radio tuners
1918 The superheterodyne radio circuit
1919 The pop up toaster
1920 The hairdryer
1921 The modern lie detector
1922 Electric kettle
1923 Self-winding watch
1924 Loudspeaker
1925 Modern day can opener
1926 Tevelox robot
1927 Aerosol can
1928 Baird Television Department Company television
1929 Car radio
1930 Jet engine
1931 Electric razor
1932 Electric can opener
1933 The Teasmade
1934 Zippo lighter
1935 Radar
1936 First voice recognition machine
1937 Dirt Devil
1938 The biro
1939 Helicopter
1940 Modern colour television
1941 Artificial heart
1942 The turboprop engine
1943 The Slinky
1944 Kidney dialysis machine
1945 Clock radio
1946 Disposable nappy
1947 Kenwood food mixer
1948 First pager
1949 Photo-Pac disposable camera
1950 Alkaline batteries
1951 Power steering
1952 SAGE modem
1953 Black box flight recorder
1954 Regency pocket radio
1955 Breathalyser
1956 Behind the air hearing aid
1957 Casio digital watch
1958 Pacemaker
1959 Black and Decker cordless drill
1960 Stereos/hi-fis
1961 Kodak Instamatic
1962 LED
1963 The Telefunken 'mouse'
1964 Plasma television – University of Illinois
1965 Y. Hatano’s pedmoter
1966 El-Gi 1:12 Ferrari radio controlled car
1967 Polaroid
1968 Smoke detector
1969 The Internet
1970 Digital thermometer
1971 Busicom LE-120A Handy pocket calculator
1972 Multi socket power plug
1973 The Ethernet
1974 Breville sandwich maker
1975 Kodak digital camera
1976 Lithium batteries
1977 Mattel Electronic Football
1978 Victor HR-3300REK - first UK VHS video recorder
1979 Texas Instruments Speak and Spell
1980 Sony Walkman
1981 Epson HX-20 - the world's first laptop
1982 Sony Watchman - CD player
1983 Commodore 64
1984 Sony Discman
1985 The Leatherman
1986 Bose noise cancelling headphones
1987 Sony super VHS camcorder
1988 Digital mobile phones
1989 World Wide Web
1990 Nintendo Game Boy
1991 Nintendo SNES
1992 Palm Pilot
1993 Dyson vacuum cleaner
1994 Digital cordless telephone /Mega Drive
1995 PlayStation 1
1996 Audio Highway - world's first MP3 player
1997 Motorola StarTac
1998 Panasonic portable DVD player
1999 DVR by TiVo
2000 The Trek Tech/IBM - flash drive
2001 Apple iPod
2002 PlayStation 2
2003 Blackberry 6210
2004 Samsung OLED TV
2005 Xbox 360
2006 ScanDisk Micro SD
2007 Apple iPhone
2008 Beats by Dre
2009 Twitter
2010 Apple iPad
2011 Kindle Fire
2012 Nexus 7
2013 PlayStation 4
The actual source for this writing was dated 2013 and so I have taken the liberty to add successive years having taken a bit of a straw poll from various lists and reviews.
2014 Apple Watch
2015 Home Coffee machine
2016 Sky Q
2017 Amazon Echo
2018 Nominations being taken for a short list
I enjoy participating sometimes in an on line survey and do my utmost to be truthful, honest and decent in my responses so as not to distort the result in case it is actually of any significance in shaping such things as Government policy or how we are allowed to lead our lives.
A sampling of any proportion of the population can have interesting connotations in terms of outcome.
I remember a survey in a school magazine in which, curiously, the best single of the year also won the category of worst single of the year and with the same phenomena being recorded for best male artist and top group.
The following very extensive list and in chronological order is a very recent offering from a poll taken amongst the subscribers of The Gadget Show.
Having just seen the list myself does appear to imply that this particular group has exceeded itself in not just overall geek points but also in the display of a remarkable breadth and depth of general knowledge, social and economic development and history. Really a very clever and astute bunch of, predominantly I contest, single males.
It is therefore to be applauded as a unique opinion.
Many may not agree with a number of the entries and some are indeed just plain freakish.
My own lifetime of gadget appreciation and use began in the late 1960's and early 1970's but many of the post war inventions were to be found in the house in which I grew up in. There are no cheap and nasty items. All, bar none, are examples of inspirational and durable engineering, product design and marketing, yes even the slinky.
See what you think...........................
1913 The zip
1914 Motorised movie cameras
1915 Pyrex
1916 Electric power drill
1917 Radio tuners
1918 The superheterodyne radio circuit
1919 The pop up toaster
1920 The hairdryer
1921 The modern lie detector
1922 Electric kettle
1923 Self-winding watch
1924 Loudspeaker
1925 Modern day can opener
1926 Tevelox robot
1927 Aerosol can
1928 Baird Television Department Company television
1929 Car radio
1930 Jet engine
1931 Electric razor
1932 Electric can opener
1933 The Teasmade
1934 Zippo lighter
1935 Radar
1936 First voice recognition machine
1937 Dirt Devil
1938 The biro
1939 Helicopter
1940 Modern colour television
1941 Artificial heart
1942 The turboprop engine
1943 The Slinky
1944 Kidney dialysis machine
1945 Clock radio
1946 Disposable nappy
1947 Kenwood food mixer
1948 First pager
1949 Photo-Pac disposable camera
1950 Alkaline batteries
1951 Power steering
1952 SAGE modem
1953 Black box flight recorder
1954 Regency pocket radio
1955 Breathalyser
1956 Behind the air hearing aid
1957 Casio digital watch
1958 Pacemaker
1959 Black and Decker cordless drill
1960 Stereos/hi-fis
1961 Kodak Instamatic
1962 LED
1963 The Telefunken 'mouse'
1964 Plasma television – University of Illinois
1965 Y. Hatano’s pedmoter
1966 El-Gi 1:12 Ferrari radio controlled car
1967 Polaroid
1968 Smoke detector
1969 The Internet
1970 Digital thermometer
1971 Busicom LE-120A Handy pocket calculator
1972 Multi socket power plug
1973 The Ethernet
1974 Breville sandwich maker
1975 Kodak digital camera
1976 Lithium batteries
1977 Mattel Electronic Football
1978 Victor HR-3300REK - first UK VHS video recorder
1979 Texas Instruments Speak and Spell
1980 Sony Walkman
1981 Epson HX-20 - the world's first laptop
1982 Sony Watchman - CD player
1983 Commodore 64
1984 Sony Discman
1985 The Leatherman
1986 Bose noise cancelling headphones
1987 Sony super VHS camcorder
1988 Digital mobile phones
1989 World Wide Web
1990 Nintendo Game Boy
1991 Nintendo SNES
1992 Palm Pilot
1993 Dyson vacuum cleaner
1994 Digital cordless telephone /Mega Drive
1995 PlayStation 1
1996 Audio Highway - world's first MP3 player
1997 Motorola StarTac
1998 Panasonic portable DVD player
1999 DVR by TiVo
2000 The Trek Tech/IBM - flash drive
2001 Apple iPod
2002 PlayStation 2
2003 Blackberry 6210
2004 Samsung OLED TV
2005 Xbox 360
2006 ScanDisk Micro SD
2007 Apple iPhone
2008 Beats by Dre
2009 Twitter
2010 Apple iPad
2011 Kindle Fire
2012 Nexus 7
2013 PlayStation 4
The actual source for this writing was dated 2013 and so I have taken the liberty to add successive years having taken a bit of a straw poll from various lists and reviews.
2014 Apple Watch
2015 Home Coffee machine
2016 Sky Q
2017 Amazon Echo
2018 Nominations being taken for a short list
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)