Antiquated Slop for the 21st Century

Sometimes, in fact most of the time, I get sidetracked when coming across a new word or subject whether it be when reading a book or catching a reference in a radio or television broadcast.

That was the case recently when during an audio dramatisation of "The Mayor of Casterbridge" by Thomas Hardy there was mention in passing, although (spoiler alert) actually contributing to the main storyline of a foodstuff as follows; "Grains of wheat, swollen as large as lemon pips floated on the surface" and ...it was .. "as nourishing and proper a food as could be obtained within the four seas". 

The first description is far from appetising as is anything bobbing about on top of a meal served in a bowl or a cup. That can be quite off-putting at best.

However, the testament to being a great sustaining and miraculous substance was a matter of intrigue to me.

Thomas Hardy, in his Wessex colloquialisms called it "furmity" and it was enjoyed by the principal characters in the opening chapter of the novel first published in two parts in 1886 and set in the earlier part of the Victorian Era.

His ingredients are the classic ones for the dish, more commonly  called "Furmenty", being corn in the grain, flour, milk, raisins and currants.


The "antiquated slop" according to Hardy was a staple of a good proportion of the rural population of the time. Unfortunately for the principal male in the story the provider of the furmity boosts the demand for her porridge type mix by liberally lacing it with strong liquor and the rest, well, is literary gold.


Its use by Hardy as a dramatic catalyst in writing is quite late in the history of furmity.



As early as 1390 it is mentioned in a book on cooking and customs and this qualifies it as perhaps England's oldest national dish.

As well as day to day consumption it was brought out to be eaten on main religious occasions and could be dressed up from its basic gruel form so as to appeal to the better off in contemporary society.

An enhanced combination of eggs, almonds, sugar, saffron and orange water elevated furmity to an exotic level particularly as these ingredients were only accessible to those of status and wealth.

Throughout Medieval Europe it was a popular dish and versions of it can be traced farther afield to Persia and countries bordering the Mediterranean.

In those times of uncertainty over the availability of a steady supply of food as a consequence of war, crop failures and the periodic decimation of the population through plaque you can appreciate that a single dish covering main food groups, being relatively cheap and accessible would prove essential for sustenance and survival in bleak times.

Regional variations even within the relatively small land mass of England are recorded with slightly different methods of preparation and flavouring dependant upon what was available at the time across the nation.

As Thomas Hardy describes it was most common amongst rural folk.

In the setting of Casterbridge it is served from a large tent at a country fair, usually where agricultural workers and their families went to be hired for a season on the land. There are long trestle tables and benches in the enclosure and a large black-iron cooking pot churns out the mix to a paying public.

I am sure that I have tasted something very similar and what springs to mind is a curd tart from a local bakery store or just plain porridge jazzed up a bit and certainly more appetising than Hardy's promotion of something floating on a congealed mass of grains and fruits.

Monkeys and Donkeys

Animals have always been an easy target for blame and regularly the protagonists behind conspiracy theories.

The definition of the word "scapegoat" is testament to this in that it is derived from the exiling by a Priest of a goat into the wilderness to symbolise carrying away the sins of the people.

One of my favourite although unfortunate animal related tales is about the townspeople of Hartlepool on the North East coast of England who, in the early years of the 19th Century found a monkey washed up on the shore.

The sight of this species will have been very rare indeed to the majority of the population not only in that part of the country but also most of Europe excepting of course a seaport or other trading centre where the creatures will have been introduced as pets or for entertainment for commercial gain.

To an ill informed populus the mere mention of the word  monkey was associated with a sort of demonic figure. This was promoted to a large extent by their colouration and humanesque character traits.

This strange visitor to the North Sea shore just happened to be dressed in military clothes and in the French style which was unfortunate given the heightened tension between the two maritime nations at that time what with the rise of Napoleon and his often voiced intentions to invade mainland England. .
Having rounded up the frightened and bewildered creature the townsfolk decided to hold a trial. It is quite clear that the fate of the creature had long since been decided by public opinion and... surprise, surprise ......the verdict carried with it the ultimate sanction of execution by hanging.

It is certainly not a very good claim to fame for that North Eastern town and to this day it has been difficult to shake off that dubious chapter in history borne out of a certain amount of ignorance and fear.

The term "Monkey Hanger" is still a colloquialism for people from Hartlepool.

You would think in our much better informed world that animal inspired conspiracies would have no chance of reaching the masses, let alone be able to cause hysterical and nationalistic reactions that could as easily escalate into conflict.

A very recent news story was over the discovery of a Beluga Whale just off the coast of Norway wearing a harness of Russian origin. This sparked all sorts of speculation over the use of trained sea mammals in espionage and other nefarious activities in what is always a sensitive region.

There have been cases of bomb attacks involving donkeys and mules as carriers.

One part of the world where animal conspiracies are very common in the the Middle East.

These have, in the last couple of decades,  included claims that a series of shark attacks in Egyptian tourist waters were the result of directing devices by an enemy of the state when in fact the devices found were merely Trackers fitted by marine biologists for studying the patterns of shark movements in the Mediterranean.

In pursuit of documenting the migration routes of different species of bird it is common to fit small GPS tags. Unfortunately these were misconstrued amongst the political and military volatility in the region upon discovery as being somehow spying systems. The birds under such scrutiny included Kestrels, diminutive bee eaters and even a Griffon Vulture.

Rats, Wild Boars and Hyenas have, upon seemingly innocent capture in the general course of pest and livestock control, been the centre of controversies over enemy plots to spread plaques, destroy crops and carry off children.

Although highly improbable and illogical such ideas spread by rumour, gossip, hearsay and sometimes an Official Statement where there are vested and special interests in perpetuating myths and political positions have had the outcome of a disturbed and aggressive population at large.

Speaking the Business

I have worked in an office for the last 30 plus years. 

I should mention that it is a small office and I am in fact rarely there in person as my job involves a lot of driving out to appointments. 

Being sat at a desk rather than behind a steering wheel is such a rare occurrence that I really enjoy it and also the interaction and camaraderie of my fellow workers. We are a close, compact team and as we often comment, we spend more time in each others company than we do our own families. 

I can think of nothing worse therefore than a mega. open plan, Corporate office where the employees are in confrontation in their daily workloads and where politics and back-biting are a necessity to get ahead or to just maintain a position in an ancient hierarchical order. 

Such is the environment of the dreaded jargon and management speak where the main protagonists use it relentlessly to make their own jobs and roles more important and impressive than they actually are. 

Informed studies of this phenomena have attributed its widespread use as a means of disguising a poorly implemented job or to give the impression that the individual knows what they are doing but, the superficial hot air aside, do not. 

We have all been in meetings where management speak has made us cringe or confused in equal proportions. 

Here is a bit of a collection of those doing the rounds in a modern office surround. 

I have omitted to give an interpretation or translation of these as they are largely self explanatory, or if not, are just a fascinating insight into how those who have the luxury of many idle hours can funnel it into the production of bullshit. 

Helicopter View

Idea Shower

Touch base offline

Low hanging fruit

Look under the bonnet

Get all your ducks in a row

Don’t let the grass grow too long on this one

Not enough bandwidth

The strategic staircase

Run it up the flagpole

Put a record on and see who dances

Square the circle

Lifting the kimono

Product Evangelist

We need a holistic cradle to grave approach

Sprinkling our magic

From the get-go

We want 110%

Capture your colleagues

We are still optimistic that things will feed through the sales and delivery pipeline

My door is open on this issue

High altitude view

Wouldn’t want to wrongside the demographic

On a go forward basis

Can someone give me some colour on this post ?

I concur

Touch base

Circle up

Can you roll these changes through the model ?

If I could piggy back on what I was just saying

Maybe someone could just unpack that a little more

We must crank it up a bit

The only caveat is……….

At the end of the day

It is what it is

Talk to that point

Get our arms around that

We are in the business of creating synergies

Shift those graphs

Massage the red dots

Why don’t you go ahead and take a stab at that and get back to me ?

We will work through the night to get this to you first thing in the morning

Get a download

What’s the time line ?

Vanilla strategy

Apples to apples, apples to oranges

We have to drill down through the numbers

Deep dive

Do you have capacity to model this out to year 2329 ?

Who’s your Daddy

Lets not hammer a dead horse

Let’s not reinvent the wheel

Shoot me an e mail

So and so pinged me last night

Adding value

Pari passu

Ready. Fire, aim

Out of pocket

Shit flows downhill

Roadmap

Let’s huddle on this one

Ramp up

Net net

They shouldn’t be afraid to call a spade, a spade

We need to get this done PDQ

Lets grab the bull by its horns

Lets make the stars and the moon align

Keep your oar in the water

I think this would be a good exercise for you

Whats the game plan ?

Let’s take a 25,000 foot view

ETA’s

We need to noodle this a little

Something we can all aspire to

Take ownership

Be the bulldog

Circling the wagons

Too leveraged

There’s more grease left in this pig

On the same page

The interns are taking over

Lets gets some seamless

JFDI

We need to organise deliverables

Knowledge transfer

Identifying core competencies for holistic improvement

Transition phase

Restructuring initiative

Great thread

War room

Net worth or nothing

Cack me nimble

My question to you is…….

Don’t spin your wheels

The meat and potatoes of the matter

Senior exposure

Gin up on the model

Step it up now boys and girls

Don’t be afraid to push back if you’re feeling overloaded

Just the tip

Does that make sense

No worries, let’s update and get it out to the group

Pls, asap, thx

Feel free to reach out to me

Epic fail or Epic win

Smilin’ and dialin’

Does this thing have legs ?

Talk the talk

Turn into a pumpkin

Pencils down

In the weeds

Just so you know where I’m coming from

Read the tea leaves

Wrapped around the axle

Can you arrange this data along swim lanes

Let’s put on our training hats for a minute

Drop fenders and come alongside

What’s the long pole in the tent

You’re fired

There are just so many that I didn't even have to mention about Blue Sky thinking or running things up a flagpole. 

Send me anymore that you may have via the comments section...................................

A Revenge Hit on behalf of Cock Robin.

This is quite an old story now but I just heard about it today on a re-run of the BBC Radio Show "The Museum of Curiosity". I have pieced it together from various contemporary sources although there is quite an inconsistency and contradiction in the various accounts on record. 

In 2005 a Dutch television show produced by the Endemol Company set in motion a chain of 4,155,476 dominoes in a Guinness Verified World Record.

Everything should have been fairly straight forward but the organisers conceded that the event was overshadowed by the earlier shooting of an errant sparrow.

The sparrow was killed by an exterminator with an air rifle just four days before the record attempt following its entry into the venue where rehearsals were under way and the accidental  knocking down of some 23,000 dominoes. 

The killing was seen by many as an overreaction purely in the commercial interests of a bit of pointless entertainment and angered animal rights and bird protection groups.

Critically the house sparrow, though commonly seen, is classified as an endangered species in the Netherlands. Its population has halved in the past 20 years to less than 1 million breeding pairs, due to human encroachment on its territory and other climate and environmental influences.

The show’s creator referring to the dead bird, said  “We all feel terrible about what happened,”

More than 5,000 people signed a Condolence Register on an impromptu Web site set up to honour the bird.

“I just wish we could channel all this energy that went into one dead sparrow into saving the species,” said the head of the Dutch Bird Protection agency in an appeal for calm.

The sad event at the domino record was not the end of the affair. There had been an attempt to catch the Sparrow (passer domesticus) in a humane way using sticks and nets before resorting to the violent means to avoid disruption to the television schedules. 

Shortly afterwards an animal rights agency took the bird’s killer to Court and he was fined 200 Euros. 

There continued to be a public outcry with populist support and even to this day the shooter is still receiving threats to his life. 

Above all the poor sparrow,although losing its life in such an unnecessary way, has had the last word.

The avian hero has pride of place in the Natural History Museum in Rotterdam as a stuffed exhibit under the theme of dead animals with a backstory. 

Yes, it is mounted on a box of dominoes.

* from the English Nursery Rhyme "Who killed Cock Robin ?........"I, said the Sparrow"

Blue is the colour, football is the game*

Sunday mornings in the leafy suburb where I used to live for 18 years should have been idyllic but often weren't.

This was because of the horrific airborne assault of verbal abuse that emanated from the amateur football league matches that took place on the multiple pitches on the nearby municipal recreation ground.

Even though out of sight perhaps half a mile distant, therefore sparing myself and family from an actual grandstand seat of the action that accompanied the shameful soundtrack, it was still quite an intimidating experience. My children, quite young at the time did, by mimicking the outbursts of the players, develop quite a colourful vocabulary that could rapidly stun anyone who happened to overhear it.

The local teams, usually consisting of workmates or pub regulars were, on the whole, quite an affable bunch but in the competitive atmosphere of a Sunday League footie match were transformed into bloodthirsty animals in pursuit of their own sporting glory.

When doing my usual Sunday chores of washing the car, trimming the hedge or tidying the herbaceous borders I could only imagine the carnage from the pitch battle being played out on a very vocal basis a couple of streets away.

It appears that similar events take place on a regular basis all over the nation as illustrated the following newspaper report from 2010.

A veteran, amateur footballer who received six red cards in the same match has admitted his playing career is over after receiving a two-year ban. 

Paul Cooper, 39, got a second yellow card in the 80th minute for dissent while playing for Hawick United against Pencaitland in the Border Amateur League in November.

He then received another five red cards for verbal exchanges with the referee which lasted for five minutes after the original sending off. A dubious record for the sport.

The player, nicknamed Santa, said he realised it was his own fault he had got into disciplinary trouble.

"I completely overreacted after I had been sent off and I know I said things to the referee I should not have," he said."But I felt so frustrated as I honestly wasn't to blame for the incident that led to me being sent off" 

 A few mad moments have basically cost Paul his footballing career, a big part of his life for the previous 22 years.

"After the game I went to see the referee in his dressing room and I apologised to him for losing it and he accepted the apology." Mr Cooper said he was unable to attend a disciplinary hearing in Glasgow due to work commitments and then received a letter confirming his lengthy ban.
"Unfortunately I've been in bother before with bans and I expected six months," he said."But I was absolutely stunned when I got two years."

He said: "I will just have to go with the flow, accept things and find something else to do on a weekend"

Hawick United manager George Shepherd said he believed the two-year suspension was "way over the top. A few mad moments have basically cost Paul his footballing career," he said.
"He is a very good player and will be very much missed at Hawick United." Hugh Knapp, secretary of the Scottish Amateur Football Association, said the matter had been properly dealt with under its disciplinary procedures.

"Mr Cooper was given the opportunity to attend a hearing but decided not to," he said."He was also given the opportunity to appeal to the Scottish Football Association and again chose not to do that so the matter is closed."

Mr Cooper's club Hawick United were also fined £150. 

Perhaps the local residents will have benefited from the enforced lay-off of Mr Cooper and their Sunday's are blessedly peaceful, as they should be.

* the opening line of the Chelsea Football Club Song from 1972.

A Matter of When?, Where?,Who? and Watts

I can appreciate the excitement and anticipation that must have been felt by a family in 19th Century England about the impending arrival in the household of a horse.

Some of the old houses in my local area have, in their back gardens, a structure, a former coach house which would have been a matter of social status but more than that a symbol of independence in that for the first time in a rapidly developing economy there would be a practical form of private transport.

Our sense of expectation is the modern day equivalent of those far off days- an electric powered car.

In comparison to our current diesel vehicle based life where a full tank of fossil based fuel gives an emission polluted range in excess of 600 miles the transition to a zero emission electric power train will demand from us a whole new skill set.

Each and every journey will require thought and planning.

Based on a full charge range of 168 or so miles for our selected car and even then dependant on the ambient temperature and driving conditions we will have to schedule in the location and duration of charging stations. In this way there are strong similarities and affinities with the mode of four legged horse power in that the mechanical equivalent of  regular rest and feeding stops are required.

As is invariably the case the phrase "There's an App for that" applies and on a few, in this pre-vehicle delivery stage, fictional trips we have inputted a destination and studied the resulting recommendations for recharging the batteries.

Quite a lot of preparatory work has been necessary as a consequence of our decision to go for an electric car.

It is evident that there has been scant and patchy gearing up by commercial organisations to offer and provide a framework for electric vehicles.

This is in spite of the splurge of publicity by the UK Government over what was heralded as "World Leading" legislation to promote electric and also driver-less transport.

I have spent hour upon hour researching and pursuing links and contacts for the installation of a home charging point as well as the fundamental requirement of insurance.

Ironically the installer that I finally chose is a subsidiary of a major Oil Company, obviously keeping their options open in the automotive sector for when global oil reserves dry up or become uneconomic or too controversial to extract from the planet.

Granted, that Company have been most helpful and have guided me through the paper trail of applying for a Government subsidy towards the cost of a home charging unit. The offer of up to £750 is generous and on the prices quoted for equipment and labour I was not expecting to have to contribute anything towards it. The process involved my submitting of photos of the electrical consumer unit and switch-gear, the facility for off road parking at my house and a couple of trees worth of documents proving that an order for a qualifying vehicle had been placed.

A condition of any installation is the fitting of an isolator switch within the supply and metering system. Just trying to find out who would have to be consulted about this modification was another session of phone calls. The main Utility Company referred me to an organisation of Meter Operators but that trail was a dead end. My trusted local electrician was not sure about the specification and also unsure about whether they were authorised to carry out what was a relatively simple task. The Smart Meter installers were part of our previous Supplier but we have just switched to a more eco-based company. To their credit our new Supplier, one of the many in a very competitive sector, knew exactly what to do and within a few days sentt over a contractor to complete this work.

About the same time the Charger Installers broke the news that the Government were to imminently withdraw the subsidy on the grounds that they wanted all installations after July 1st 2019 to be of a smart connectivity type rather than the simple plug in and play version.

The whole process had to be re-booted but the upgraded system is far superior. I took this to be a promising indicator that at long last the commercial operators are getting their act together.

I was brought back firmly to reality by entering the maze that is the insurance market for electric cars.

The first quote was some three times my current diesel car premium with the only tangible benefit above standard policy clauses being that in the situation of running out of electric power the car would be recovered to the nearest public charging station.

I have yet to wade through the small print to see if there is a "three strikes and out" type exclusion for this potentially regular predicament given the inconsistency of where a public charger in available and in working order.

On entering the car make and model details into an insurance market comparison site the range of premiums was astounding although I got the impression that many of the Insurance Companies just wanted their name to pop up and be noticed rather than presenting a workable policy basis for the Electric Vehicle sector.

I am still researching this aspect and do not hold out much hope of a quick resolution.

So, to recap.

The car will be here in a couple of weeks.

I have a revised provisional date for the charger installation but have to fund the full cost.

Affordable and workable insurance is still an issue.

Frankly, I think that getting an actual  horse and stabling it with a few bales of hay at the back of the garage would be a much easier and practical option.

Suilven

Stuck on a very flat road in my very flat part of the world I can but dream of this road trip that I did a few years ago but it is a fond and lasting memory..................................................................................

Check fuel gauge, pressure and condition of tyres. Stock up with warm clothes even though it is mid July and have a good supply of water, chocolate, oatcakes and crisps. Sensible precautionary preparations for any intended road trip and even more so when the route is through the most sparsely populated area in Europe.

It was a further leg of the journey across the very top of mainland Scotland from Wick on the east coast down to a book-a-bed ahead at the herring port of Ullapool on the shore of Loch Broom. In actual miles not too great a distance but on narrow single track roads with a steady contraflow of local and tourist traffic it was certainly expected to be a long start -stop sort of day.

Thurso is a major regional town and supplies were replenished , not so much lashed to the roof rack in true adventurer style as shoved into the glove-box.

As with the majority of travelling in the northernmost parts of Scotland there are stretches of excellent wide and smooth red-tarmac'd highways boding well for a decent constant speed. The slip roads onto such routes have large timber braced notice boards acknowledging funding for the scheme from Highlands and Islands, and a blue starred flag expressing recognition of a large regional grant from the European Economic Union. Evidently the funding is restricted because as soon as vehicles attain speeds of 56mph the brand spanking new road suddenly tapers sharply down from up to 4 lanes to little more than a loose gravelled farm track. It is though a bit of a show is being put on for dignatories and official delegations who would be flown into town by helicopter anyway.

The landscape beyond Thurso is scattered with crofts and farmsteads and what remains of the now decommissioned Dounreay Nuclear Power Station which by 2033 will have been whittled down to a brownfield site for luminous green rabbits.

As signs of habitation are left behind the course of the road runs inland but closely parallel to the rocky promontories and coves with intermittent but glorious views to the cold bluey green bays and white wave crested breakers.

Bettyhill and Tongue are small quaint settlements of stone kirks and cottages and a few shops and facilities. The history of the area is dominated by invasion, conflicts and rampaging by Gaels, Picts and the Vikings with many ruins of fortified houses and small castles.

The sea views disappear on the road across the A'mhoine peninsula,  a bleak upland moorland area and the group of houses nestled together and called Hope on the far west descent is aptly named and does stand out from the otherwise heavy Norse derived titles of places and landmarks.

By now into the journey there is some form of connection with other vehicles in what is a fixed convoy. The only prospect of moving up in the order of traffic is when someone pulls off the road in a gateway, next to a mound of gritting salt or has first dibs on a one car space viewing area for a particularly striking outlook of hills or sea.

The convoy travelling west is mostly of UK registered cars, a good proportion with small badges of car hire firms likely to be driven by overseas visitors doing the grand tour in a huge loop with the pick up and drop off points being Glasgow or Edinburgh airports.

Main obstacles impeding traffic flow include kamikaze sheep, very photogenic Highland cattle, unrestrained streams and piles of boulders or gravel which have fallen unchallenged from a rocky outcrop above or have washed out of a watercourse. The other main interruption is from what gives the impression of the mass migration of the descendants of the ancient Germanic tribes, what we know as the modern Germans, going east, probably home, in large gawdily coloured motor  homes. These take up a full width plus part of the passing bay and panic ensues when confronted by a column of these bike and boat covered monsters from a blind summit. The atmosphere is jovial with waving and a thumbs up in gratitude. As the vehicles cruise past there is usually the grinning face of a small child sticking up through the sunroof.

Durness is the absolute most northerly point of the journey.

The road executes a tight sweeping bend after a signpost for the tourist attraction of Smoo Cave before reaching the town. This is a popular destination and there is a community of crafts folk and a Youth Hostel.

It is only a further 19 miles to the next change of road but it feels like 190 at snails pace.

The remarkable scenery slowly upstages itself and rolling rocky outcrop moors become lower slopes for some sizeable mountains with the switchback road between. The right turn onto another barely 'A' class road is almost overlooked but leads to Scourie and the appearance of palm trees is quite a shock although these are in fact a hardy New Zealand species very much at home and thriving.

Through the village the route is again in view of the now Gulf Stream warmed west coast. Badcall Bay, between Upper and Lower Badcall prompts thoughts on trying to find out the reason for the strange and rather self defeating place names.

The next right turn is onto a 'B' class road. The shading in khaki and white on the Ordnance Survey map is a bit ominous being the first such designation on the road trip to date. Even the pioneering pedigree of the Deutsche Dormobilen is intimidated by what lies ahead although the tightly packed arrows signifying a steep course do give some indication to a former Boy Scout.

The hamlets gripping the sides of the minor road have very evocative and romantic names or are very harsh. Nedd, Drumbeg, Clashnessie, Rienachait and Clachtoll, the latter two being almost french and german in pronunciation. The town of Lochinver, by comparison, appears huge. A genteel place and the second largest fishing port in Scotland.

The reason for our journey is now close at hand.

Soon in full view is the distinctive north west buttress of Suilven, a striking, bulbous policeman's helmet of a mountain.

It would easily serve as a stunt double for The Devils Tower in Wyoming which featured in Speilberg's Close Encounters movie. Even from a rather tame viewing point from the nearest road, for those not wanting a strenuous 9 hour walk and climb to the 731 metre summit, the appearance of Suilven is dramatic and quite haunting.






It looms above and dominates the surrounding peaks and bogs and yet from a distant view of its flanking slope and most popular ascent route it appears almost sphinx like in profile.

The mountain stays in view for some time but is a major hazard to the road user as the eye and imagination is drawn to and fixated by its image rather than giving due care and attention to navigating the now wider, much busier and well funded main road now frequented by refrigerated fish transporting HGV's and recklessly speeding locals.

The mountain surpassed expectations after a long and draining but fantastically scenic road trip- something to tick off that ever expanding list of 'things to do before the end of the world'.

Seeking Sanctuary in the garage of Jesse Rae

In a quiet moment, you know the type, in between noisy moments, I got sidetracked into attempting to answer the questions in the British Citizenship Test.

I failed.

It was very technical and I would actually challenge the majority of  born and bred Brits to do it and contend that they too would fall down under such telling questions of pomp, circumstance, parliamentary procedure, demographics, religious convictions and who was the least talented and convincing James Bond. Apparently not a)Connery, b) Lazenby, c)Dalton, d) Brosnan or D).Craig.

I was never very good at written examinations so wondered if there might be a practical test by which to qualify for ongoing membership of these isles. Also, could I possibly be a bit picky about which specific constituent part of the British Isles I would like to be a citizen of?

If that were an option I would definitely choose Scotland.

This is not on account of the oil reserves, a natural propensity to be successful when exiled to anywhere else in the world, no qualms about deep frying a Mars Bar, white pudding , a secret supply of single malt whisky to sustain life after the meteorite hits or the beautiful wide open spaces but because I have some ancestry and within a couple of generations.

I have already started to compile a scrapbook towards a formal application to be Scottish if for some reason I do not pass the DNA test to confirm beyond doubt my Viking bloodline.

The first page has a portrait photograph of me. Green eyes are inherently a characteristic of those natives north of the border. If I let my eyebrows and stubble grow out of control there is a distinctive and undeniable reddish tinge. I am, I have surmised on many occasions, but a small amount of chromosomes away from being a full blown ginger person. My Father, through whom the Scottish ancestry was perpetuated was a red-head and I have already warned my own children that their future offspring may well follow the strawberry-blonde route. They are prepared for the inevitable or at least as best they can without going into expensive and prolonged therapy.

Page 2 shows me in my tartan kilt in which I was wed. Those who have seen this photograph have mentioned, that for some reason the Thomson Tartan is somehow familiar. I keep quiet but only because the distinctive material was used by Vauxhall as a fancy upholstery finish for some of their Astra Hatchback models in the late 1980's.

Page 3 is of me holding a Practice Chanter when I enrolled into classes to learn to play the bagpipes. It was a horrible experience. Am I the only person who dares to say that all the notes, and there are very few of them anyway, are flat and quite tuneless? I hate myself for thinking this because I am always the first to experience genetic based emotional palpitations and stirrings when a Pipe Band inflate and tentatively start some march or dirge.

Page 4 is a montage of family photo's to prove a number of consecutive years of holidaying in Scotland. This has not just been the main tourist venues but some pretty remote and barren locations including a Lochside in Perthshire where we, as children, spent a week retrieving the fresh water bleached bones of sheep out of a mountain stream and almost collected enough to form a perfect skeleton back home in the playroom. Hazy images are not a fault of the photographer but a consequence of standing amongst clouds of ravenous blood thirsty midges. We camped a few yards away from the main electrified railway line from London to Inverness but did not realise until the night-sleeper thundered through like an avalanche. Whilst out on an idyllic walk on forest rides we would suddenly find ourselves cowering from fear under the flight path of very low flying RAF fighter bombers. As they say, Welcome to Scotland.

Page 5 contains a CD, a picture CD of Jesse Rae performing "Over the Sea", a track that we always play loudly in the car as we approach and cross the border into Scotland. My wife bought it for me following a telephone conversation with the supplier in Scotland. The voice on the other end of the phone said he had a good supply of them in his garage and did she want one autographed. Turns out it was Jesse Rae himself.

Page 6 consists of memories of my Scottish Gran. Helen was born in Wick, right up towards the north east corner of Scotland. I went up their once with my fiancée and we found the old house and also the grave of one of her brothers who drowned in the sea whilst fishing off the shore. I do not remember much about my Grandfather apart from his broad Scots accent and chain smoking. I learnt a lot about the home country from my Gran and she did say she would put in a good word for me if I ever needed to flee across the border.

I am currently and at this very moment working on the contents for page 7. Waitrose do a properly authentic Haggis, sourced and produced from ingredients from over the border and when put together with neaps and tatties the whole family will be in for a treat.

The outer wrapper in which it was purchased will compress down quite nicely under a pile of Sir Walter Scott books over the coming weeks before being carefully inserted and glued into my Scottish Citizenship Application Folder. As a fallback there are always those Tunnocks products of caramel wafers and snowballs whose packaging also makes for nice paste-ups.

Oh, and they are running regular repeats of Braveheart and Rob Roy on Netflix so that I can get the historical facts absolutely right in my mind just in case a question crops up.

I just need to arrange for Jesse Rae to clear a space amongst the boxes of CD's in his garage so that I can stay there until my claim for political asylum in Scotland is granted.

(Written back in 2012 but foremost in my recent thinking if i need to make a run for the border anytime soon)

Coral Seas of Skye

After following, via the competitor live tracking, the epic Celtman Extreme Triathlon in Wester Ross a couple of days ago I thought I would repeat a related bit of writing about an experience on the Isle of Skye...............................................

Against the backdrop of the Cuillin Mountains with their dark rocky shadows, across the bluey green waters of the tidal seawater loch and during the couple of hours, only, per day in which the horizontal driving rain or the bone chilling mist ceased to conceal everything from view I caught a brief glimpse of a shining jewel in the bay below the house.

After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.

On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.

The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.

If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.

It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if the mythical sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.

The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear. After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices. My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.

I reached the recently exposed pathway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.

I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground.  I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded  the kitchen garden of the house . In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway. In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.

Peak Fitness

North West Scotland is vaguely familiar from a number of family holidays. The scenery is dramatic from shore to moor and peak and in all weathers.

Yesterday, the Celtman Extreme Triathlon took place in this landscape around Shieldaig in Wester Ross.

I was of course no where near the place. I followed the action on a laptop screen whilst sat at the table in my dining room some 492 miles distant using a tracker on the web site promoting what is one of the toughest competitive events in existence.

The mere thought of a 3.4km swim across Shieldaig Bay followed by a 200km bike race and then a 42km run over mountainous terrain made me reach for the cafetiere for a comforting cup of strong black coffee.

The event may have gone unnoticed other than for the 250 souls and their followers who have dedicated their lives and livelihoods to the sport of Extreme Triathlon. The list of participants is truly international and with no differentiation of male or female gender. The competitors tour the world in pursuit of glory and a personal best.

The focus of the tracking operation from the comfort of home was competitor number 135, Alasdair Matheson.

I cannot even imagine the anticipation and fear of entering the ocean for the swim. The aerial photo of the start was in an eery dawn light only to be found in Northern Scotland around 4.45am being a combination of sunrise through drizzle. The pink swim caps of the 250 or so wet-suit clad starters make for an unworldly scene.

Leaving aside the imminent commencement of competitive hostilities which would turn the tranquil inshore waters into a seething cauldron some thoughts must have been on the prospect of encountering jelly fish, unknown depths and the pull of tides and currents. In previous years the organisers of the event had to warn that sea temperatures were below the seasonal average and advised on specialist insulating layers to protect competitors against hypothermia. During an offshore storm in 2013 those in the race were driven farther out to sea and had to be rescued.

The individual entrants were all on a transponder tracking system. The auto update was patchy and intermittent but given the topography and remoteness of that region any form of signal is a modern wonder of communications.

As at 6.15am Alasdair's blue tracking dot showed him near the map symbol of a picnic area on the mainland and ready for the transition to two wheels. He had completed the sea swim and his support team texted to say that he was in the top 50 emerging from the water. The weather, another critical factor to contend with had improved a little in the first 3 hours of the event and the sun was trying to show itself.

The 200km of road cycling was the next part of the extreme challenge. The Highland roads are little more than single tracks with passing bays apart from the EU funded stretches that just appear as wide and well made and then vanish. The surface dressing is a distinctive reddish tint attributed to the need for resistance of the materials to snow, ice, frost, persistent rain saturation whilst providing a bit of traction over the lumpy terrain.

It is important to stress that the event is extreme in all interpretations of the word. It is compulsory for each competitor to have a mobile support team of two persons and on the accessible road sections they establish themselves at strategic points to provide assistance. The energy required in the physical exertions requires a constant supply of food. The swim accounts for over 3000 Kilojoules, the cycle race over 22000 Kilojoules and around 12000 for the mountain run. This represents over four times the average daily level for a fit adult and consumed under severe distress to the system.

The tracking system showed Alasdair churning out the miles over the cycling section with recorded speeds from a slope crawling single digit cadence to rapid descents. His position could be seen in isolation ,with all or a selection of the participants. This made for compelling viewing as the same names ebbed and flowed in the standings as the terrain climbed over some 2000 metres. This was not a closed route and additional concentration was necessary in respect of other road users and obstacles to be found in the wild Highlands. On a pan flat course the race distance would still take over 6 hours for the best club level cyclist. The complications of weather and fatigue took this to epic proportions.

The mountain run introduced yet more extreme factors. The competitors, before entering the off road route mainly comprising tracks, parts of long distance trails and  undefined paths had to satisfy a medical team as to their state of health and the Organiser's strict guidance on all weather clothing and equipment. The emphasis was on survivability should the weather conditions close in during the following 42 kilometres. Whilst Mountain Rescue and a large team of volunteer stewards were on call the risks of injury or exposure are very real. The course climbs steadily through the Beinn Eighe range and there are two Munro peaks to be ascended at over 3000 feet.

At 11 hours into the event there was a cut off amongst the competitors with the fittest and strongest being directed over the high part of the course which would, upon finishing, be awarded with a coveted and prestigious Blue t shirt. Alasdair made the cut. Those beyond the cut off took a lower route but not to be seen as a compromise or concession in that hostile environment.

After the 4.45am start Alasdair reached the finishing line in Torridon at around 8.30pm. A truly athletic feat.

It is hard to imagine what he went through in terms of physical and mental exertion. There must have been times in the sea swim, on the bike and on the mountain summits when self doubt, exhaustion and fear will have dominated.

We, even as long distance and very casual observers felt exhausted but elated as well for Alasdair and his support team.

When is the next event?

Bicycles and warfare

An upsurge in interest in cycling amongst the civilian population in the first decade of the 20th Century for leisure and recreation had created mass demand and production to meet the demand brought about a lowering of cost and greatly improved efficiency and reliability of different models.

In 1910 King George the Fifth was made Patron of the Cyclist Touring Club and this Royal Endorsement was the catalyst to the further rapid growth of clubs and societies who would organise cycling day trips and tours to appeal to the largely urban population. It was an activity that crossed many of the social divides of the time representing independence and excitement for all ages, genders and standings.

I am not sure about the thought process that led to the role that bicycles played in the First World War (1914-18) being seen as an important means of transporting troops to the battle zones and as a support for regular infantry. It may have just been the pure economics, a cheap mode of movement or the realisation amongst recruiters that enthusiasts on two wheels could just continue their  activity but in a war zone and on the front line. The poster below was typical of those appealing for cyclists to fight for King and Country.

                                                                                                                                                

There is a very strange use of words linking a fondness for cycling to a potential killing role in war.,

The first bikes in military use were just ordinary shop-bought types very much of the sit up and beg style of the time.They would be painted in camouflage khaki green and taken back to bare essentials in order to be used by quick response battalions to engage the enemy in skirmishing and in scouting for main operations. The machines were easily dispensed with in a conflict situation being just thrown down to release their riders for immediate action.

In the early period of the First World War with roads and byways not yet churned up by heavy artillery or the deep ruts of gun carriages and supply wagons the bike could be used for patrols, field exercises and to compliment the mounted divisions. Other roles included two wheeled messengers, signallers, runners and the Military Police.

As the workload of cycling soldiers increased it was necessary to develop purpose built bikes and these were by design more robust and adaptable. The standard equipment that had to be loaded up consisted of great coat, mess tin and rations, blanket and kit, waterproof cape, webbing  and of course a gun and ammunition. These were mounted on a series of fitted carriers and racks making a heavy payload that only a more solid and robust bike could cope with. 

A handbook was brought out for the wheeled regiments with such practical advice as push the bike up hill to save on wear and tear and make sure the mechanical parts were well maintained. The theatre of war was dominated by heavy trench fighting and mud and it soon became impractical for bikes to play anything more than a support and logistical part . 

The Second World War saw a return of cycling soldiers, particularly in the Wehrmacht or German Army in its rapid over-running of much of Europe. The Low Countries were of ideal flat terrain for bikes to be used in the occupation and this was down to great effect, often with the element of surprise. However, the increasing use of heavy weapons, tanks and the new found dominance of aircraft in warfare sounded the end of cycling soldiers, somewhat primitive as military equipment in comparison.

Those fortunate enough to return in one piece from the savagery of the First World War resumed their two wheeled leisure and recreational pursuits and cycling went from strength to strength in the inter war period which was the halcyon period for the activity. In the post war years there was the same trend of a resurgence in riding bikes for pleasure and any association with warfare and killing was confined to the history books and a sizeable library of grainy black and white photographs.

Boiling Roobarb

Pretty much a coincidence but my 21st February 2013 blog was about the edible plant Rhubarb and on the very same day the creator and animator Bob Godfrey died. His best known character was Roobarb, a scatty, mischievous, enthusiastic and loveable, bright green coloured dog.

Ask anyone of current age 45 to 55 about this cartoon series and chances are they could give a rendition of the distinctive, mad theme tune with no great difficulty. "Diddle ee-dee , diddle ee-dee, diddle e-diddle e-dee........and repeat"

I found it greatly surprising that only 30 episodes of the original series were ever made and yet for five minutes, just before the 6 O'clock News and my childhood teatimes from 1974 they became a permanent fixture.

I can appreciate my Mother's frustration at preparing a filling and nutritious meal only for it to get cold at an empty table as me and my siblings enjoyed the antics of Roobarb and his sidekick, Custard the pink cat.

The cat was the complete opposite of Roobarb, smarmy, cynical and calculating against the chaos, frenetic actions and lunacy that was the life of the dog.

The series was also narrated by Richard Briers who, only 3 days prior to the news of Bob Godfrey's demise, had himself died. I can see a great upsurge in demand for counselling and psychiatric services for those in my age group at this catastrophic double tragedy, the loss of stability and permanence in our memories.

What was so compelling about the cartoon?

At a time of smooth, sophisticated productions by the large American studios at Disney and Hanna Barbera, often beautifully drawn and sometimes 20 to 30 minutes long, Roobarb was crude and rudimentary. The animated frames were hand drawn in felt tip pen, or so it seemed, and the style was jumpy and erratic and as far detached as possible from the US offerings such as Scooby Doo Where are You?, Hong Kong Phooey and of course Tom and Jerry.

The style of animation was called 'boiling' and apt for the turmoil and energy that it portrayed from the two main characters as well as an amusing collection of ragged and disjointed birds always not too far away from the action.

The theme music and incidental soundtrack for Roobarb were distinctive and also rough and ready. Richard Briers offered a well known reassuring vocal to a young audience with precise delivery of the offbeat humour in the script. The titles for the episodes captured the interest of  potentially distracted, low blood sugar and ultimately hungry viewers immediately in that pre-teatime slot that had also featured, in the 1970's, The Herbs, Hectors House, Captain Pugwash and The Clangers. These animated shows were a difficult act to follow but Roobarb coped well.

Three particularly memorable episode titles and storylines were "When Roobarb didn't see the sun come up", when Roobarb tried "to find the source of the pond" and when, in his pirate outfit he discovered "when there wasn't treasure".

Even in my 56th year I can recall a great line of Roobarb's in script which went along the lines of "sound travels further at night....because it is cheaper".

The series soon attained cult status and the fondness in which it is remembered has been perpetuated in modern culture. The lead characters are mentioned in song lyrics, the theme tune has been sampled in pop songs and comedy broadcasts, a second series was produced in 2005 and there has been a recent resurgence in marketing rights spawning books of the TV series and an interactive web-site.

As with most attempts by cold and heartless commercial merchandising companies to exploit nostalgia and to relieve my age group of their hard earned cash through childhood memories I do not feel obliged to participate.

The 1974 originals were of a specific genre and style and at a time in our own lives that gave them that special quality and timelessness. A bit like the baked beans, tinned macaroni cheese, dippy eggs and soldiers, spaghetti hoops and fish fingers that followed the 5 minute shows around a happy and entertained family group.

This classic status of the animated series can be appreciated even today in overheated arguments in pubs, wine bars and bistros between 50 somethings who stand by differing  views over whether the series was called just "Roobarb" or the popular misconception that it was "Roobarb and Custard". The poor misguided fools.

Pressing Button A

I can remember the era before mobile phones and even further back when our home telephone number had just five digits.

On occasion we could listen in to the conversations of neighbours on a party line for a few seconds before feeling guilty about it and carefully replacing the receiver.

Go back just a few more years and even having a land line in the house was a rarity, reserved for those in important and responsible jobs who just had to be contactable out of normal hours.

It was the case in those far off days that you had to rely on a public telephone, typically in a street kiosk or in a community space such as in a railway station, train station or public house.

I was always provided with a small denomination coin in my pocket by my parents if I was out and about for any length of time specifically for insertion into a pay phone in case of an emergency.

I was reminded of the reliance on public telephones in the dialogue of a radio episode of the classic "Dad's Army" written by David Croft and Jimmy Perry.

The scene is a lecture to his Home Guard group by Captain Mainwaring on the subject of communication in the event of an invasion by the enemy in 1940's England.

Having exhausted all manner of methods of conveying news of an attack including using the rays of the sun to signal from the town gasometer to observers on the Church Bell Tower the enthusiastic Captain reverts to the potential use of the good old telephone from the nearest telephone box.

Private Pike "I'm not allowed to use a public telephone Mr Mainwaring. My Mum says its unhygienic. She says you can catch things from the receiver"

Capt M "You can always hold it away from your face"

Pike "I tried that once but I couldn't hear"

Capt M "So you've never really used a phone box?"

Pike "No Sir"

Capt M " What do you do when you want to make a phone call?"

Pike "Uncle Arthur lets me use the one in the Bank"

Capt M "Does he really?"

Pike "I don't use it very often though"

Capt M " I'm glad to hear it"

Pike "Only when I phone my auntie in Scotland"

Capt M "Wilson, I'll talk to you later"

Corporal Jones " Mr Mainwaring, I just wanted to say that I'm not very experienced in using a phone box. You see, I spent a lot of my time in far flung places, some of them quite a long, long way away. Them Whirling Dervishes, they don't do a lot of telephoning either you see Sir"

Capt M. "Yes, well, there's only one thing for it. I'll have to make sure that you all know how to use a phone box"

Pike "I know Sir but even if you show us my Mum still won't let me use it."

Capt M "Surely Pike, with the enemy pounding at our gates you can run the slight risk of an infection"

Pike "Well, I suppose so. I still don't like it. My Mum says you get mastiffs in your ears"

Capt M "Now we'd better go through this by numbers. On One you pick up the phone. On Two you insert tuppence - ching ching, ching ching"

Sergeant Wilson "Sorry Sir, what's this ching ching thing?"

Capt M "Really Wilson, it's the sound of coppers dropping into the box, ching ching, ching ching. Now I don't want you to be put off by this sound. It's quite normal. The Operator will then say "Number please" and you ask for this number which is Walmington on Sea , err.........."

Wilson "333"

Capt M " I know the number, Walmington on Sea 333. The Operator will then say "I'm connecting you" and when you hear the confirmation you press Button A. Let's just try that men. Wilson you can be the Operator"

Wilson "Oh thank you Sir"

Capt M "Now men, on One pick up the telephone in your right hands, One......good and on Two we all put our pennies in the slot"

Pike " Excuse me Mr Mainwaring. Can you change a sixpence please?"

Capt M "What on earth for?"

Pike "I haven't got two pennies"

Capt M "You stupid boy. We're just pretending. Now here we go then. Two... ching ching, ching ching. Come on Wilson,.......number please"

Wilson " Number please"

Capt M "Walmington on Sea 333 please"................get on with it Wilson"

Wilson "What Sir?"

Capt M "say I'm connecting you"

Jones "Permission to speak sir"

Capt M "Yes Jones"

Jones "I thought you didn't put the pennies in until the Operator said so"

There follows a mass argument amongst the platoon members about the correct procedure for using a public phone box.

Capt M "Alright, there's only one way to settle this. We must try it out under combat conditions. Sergeant Wilson. Fall the men in and we'll march down to the phone box at the corner"

The platoon leaves the Church Hall for further mayhem and chaos.

Game, Settee and Match

It has been a very tiring Sunday.

I have been out of doors to catch a bit of early morning sunshine, spent a while vacuuming the car of debris accumulated from a couple of trips loaded up with domestic waste to the Civic Amenity Site from yesterday and have even taken a dog for a walk around the local park. The hound in question is that of a friends for whom we often dog-sit.

Add to that some 3 hours of office and general administration work from 6am this morning plus a sneaky re-acquaintance with a couple of 1930's Laurel and Hardy films, then a bit of a scoot around the house to do some chores, the successful fashioning of a hanging hook for the power washer using an old bicycle water bottle cage and, well, I feel that I deserve to occupy the couch for the remainder of the day for a visual feast of top level sport.

It has been a treat.

There was some excellent football action from the FIFA Women's World Cup with the live broadcast of Australia v Italy followed by Brazil v Jamaica but then somewhat spoiled by the tedious and somewhat meaningless Third Place match in the Men's Nations League Competition. This I caught on the radio in the blessed absence of a subscription to the Satellite Channel that was showing it. Even the commentary team were of the opinion that the game between England and Switzerland was probably right up there in the list of worst ever witnessed. At least the outcome of a penalty shoot out got the pulse rate up a little bit.

The prolonged nature of that match did however give an almost seamless stream of football with the kick off at 5pm in the Women's World Cup of England v Scotland, always an emotive and passionately played out adversarial contest whether on a football pitch, on a battlefield or in a political debate.

At 7pm there was a welcome switch in sports with an hours highlights of the opening stage of the Criterium de Dauphine cycle race and the frequent advert breaks enabled a meal to be eaten and strength regained for the late shift of occupying the couch.

Currently I am just listening to the commentary of the Nations League Final which is proving to be a very end to end game between Portugal and Holland. I grew up with the atmospherics of radio broadcasts of football and so feel very attached emotionally to the medium. Just as I write there has been the first goal about halfway through the second half but I will not spoil the moment for those who have not yet caught up with the result.

Thankfully, I am not a fan of Formula One, First Class Cricket or Grand Slam Tennis as had I also tried to soak up the action from todays coverage in these events then the day might have been a write-off altogether.

Is it bed time yet?

Kick it hard Lily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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