New Year, New Slate

 The New Year.

I always start out with the best of intentions.

I usually have a few Resolutions which involve a pledge to give up chocolate, take more exercise, read more books and learn something new like a language or a skill with bricklaying being a particular favourite. Within a couple of days, whilst wistfully eating my way through the leftovers of a Cadbury selection box, lounging about on the settee, shunning the activity of turning a page, not even being lucid enough to put together a meaningful sentence to anyone and looking out of the window at that tumbled down wall , I realise that I have failed miserably, well not even miserably because that implies that I had some attempt to uphold my promises in the first place.

The start of a New Year also brings about a frame of mind and opportunity to review your life and hopefully put into practice those lessons learned from hard knocks and bitter experiences that have loomed up in life's broad pageant to date.

This year of 2021 will mark my 58th birthday, yes, that's right, it is the new 35, and what an opportunity to combine this with something magnanimous.

To this end I am thinking about handing out forgiveness, for what I have long since regarded as misdemeanours against me, to the perpetrators whether they have been individuals, groups, companies or the world at large.

Life is far too short to carry around thoughts of retribution for petty issues and my sanity, blood pressure and overall stress levels would benefit significantly from letting these things just evaporate in an all enveloping sense of forgiveness.

In thinking through this intention I have realised how much it is in my nature to hold a grudge on the most silly and stupid things which could, in the most part, not even be seen as a transgression or even a minor personal slight.

On a year to year basis however the magnitude of these issues has grown out of all proportion and that I have just come to appreciate this , only now, is a very sorry state of affairs indeed. I may actually have shortened my life expectancy by carrying around these poisoned and festering thoughts of absolutely no consequence whatsoever in the greater scheme of things.

I have attempted to place this roster of forgiveness in some sort of ascending date order;

Whoever burnt down the Co-Operative Store in Abingdon, Bucks in 1968. It was our local shop and sold the best 'pick and mix' in my world as at 5 years old.

Class 2d at Westgarth County Primary, Bury St Edmunds for protecting the identity of someone who walked off with my collection, my prized collection of Dinky, Matchbox and Hotwheels cars on the occasion of a 'bring yours toys to school day' in or around 1971.

My Gran, for her thinking but not actually saying that I killed her Jack Russell dog in revenge for her seeing off my pet cat. I was not to know that the building site where I took Ruff for a walk on that fateful day in 1975 was covered with rat poison.

The Corporate Banking Department at Lloyds Bank for their terrible attitude to, and treatment of my Father in or around 1978. He was a Good Person and Bank Manager in that order.

Paul Weller, Rick Buckler and Bruce Foxton, collectively The Jam, for their denial in 1980 of being Mods when that was the last thing that faithful fans and followers wanted to hear especially after buying all their records and wearing their Dad's suit and winkle picker shoes to local disco's.

A group of youths in Fallowfield, Manchester who in 1981 gave me my first sensation of a punch in the face when I refused them a handful of chips in the street.

Three girlfriends who over the period of 1981 to 1985 dumped me which can be a devastating feeling to a young lad.

Leeds United. No explanation required for anyone who likes and appreciates football as a beautiful game.

Ford Motor Company. Producers of my first company car, a 1.6 Diesel Fiesta, in which I scared myself when it failed to reach 50mph in third gear in attempting to overtake a slow moving lorry on the by-pass in 1986.

Sardines, fresh ones on which I blame my appendicitus at the age of 46.

The percentage of the UK population who voted to leave the EU**

Forgiven and forgotten. I feel better already

** well, perhaps not. 

A Covid Era Christmas Eve

 'Twas a strange Christmas Eve in Lockdown 2020. 

I consulted my list of jobs for the day. It was the same as it had been for decades, a mix of last minute chores, housekeeping and traditional festive activities. However, circumstances under Covid 19 were far from normal. It would be both challenging and interesting to see how the next few hours would play out. 

First up was the collection of the fresh turkey. This had been ordered in November amidst emerging concerns over an Avian-Flu outbreak on some turkey farms in the UK. When living in a suburban area of the City it had been only natural to support a local business and so for the last 30 years we had been to the same Butcher. We were on first name terms which is as much as you can hope for with your local purveyor of meats and even more remarkable as our loyalty was just for that one annual order. 

I had felt bad about not frequenting the shop on an all year round basis. 

Even though we had moved to an inner city area some 7 years ago now I still made that Christmas Eve appointment a fixed one in the Festive Calendar. 

In previous years the ritual of turkey collection was pretty straightforward. Perhaps a small line of carnivores picked out in the artificial light from the well stocked Butchers shop window but rarely more than a dozen or so. 

In this Covid era it was very different. It seems as though a large proportion of the  population of the suburban area had all had the same idea. Get there early to avoid a crowd. 

Of course that defeated the whole object of the thing. As I parked up in the Town Square I could make out in the murky dawn a lot of dark human shapes. What threw me a bit was the lack of any random movement or milling about of persons. This was a serious queueing situation and not just for my Butchers but for every other sales outlet on the street which had opened up early in anticipation of a long trading day ahead. 

I pitied those who had scheduled in a shop at the butchers, bakers, candle-stic...., I mean gift and Charity shops as they would surely be in multiple lines for many hours to come. 

I took up a place. I was a good distance away from the local landmark of the brightly painted fibre glass formed caricature of a ruddy faced butcher that had, as long as I can remember and much more beyond that, graced the forecourt of the shop. His was a welcoming presence and a popular  talisman for small children and the occasional cocked leg of a dog. 

I tried to raise a conversation with the man in front of me in the queue but words through a face mask and where the other party has on hidden headphones are the most indecipherable of all. As with any queueing scenario it is always best to establish that you are in the right one. That applies to when you have just arrived or have been in it for a few minutes. 

Everyone kept to themselves which we have got used to under Covid. 

The line shuffled along very slowly at its 2 metre spacing although it you faced outwards into the street and rested against a shop front it felt like better progress was being made. 

The morning had started off typically cold and wet for a Christmas Eve. 

I didn't mind the inclement weather as I was already deep in thought about what I needed to do in the approaching hours in final preparation for the day. 

1)A final sweep of the food list for anything missed (There is always that nagging feeling of having forgotten something important), 2) deliveries of gifts to family and friends, 3) a couple of visits dressed as Father Christmas to the youngest members in our acquaintance (all to social distancing protocol of course), 4) attending an early evening service of Holy Communion at the City Minster and then 5) on returning home, at last, having something to eat and to reflect on the imminent arrival of the Feast of Christmas. 

In my deep thoughts out on that cold pavement I began to notice a few white flecks in the air. 

It was trying to snow. 

I could not recall the last time it had snowed on Christmas Eve or for that matter when there had been such conditions at all in the last 12 months and more. 

That snowy scene did make me quite emotional. Fortunately the Butcher saw me as I reached the shop door (restriction of two persons inside) and emerged with the turkey before I could make a fool of myself by crying in public, totally overwhelmed by everything. 

I did manage a thank you for the seasonal bird purchase and of course for the snow which had made that part of the day so special. 

Pyjama Day

 It's nice to get into your pyjamas.

It evokes a feeling of comfort and safety that originates from my childhood.

I was privileged to come from a stable and loving home and that has been a strong influence in my adult life and in my own attempts at being a parent.

I am grateful for this and have come to realise that the freedom to wear my pyjamas whenever I felt like it, although perhaps seeming a bit superficial, was indicative of an overwhelming sense of well being.

An opportunity to do this on a working day can be few and far between nowadays as there is pressure on those in employment to maintain their status if only to stand still in terms of meeting the basic costs of a normal lifestyle.

It can be a real treat when everything falls into place to allow pyjamas to be adopted as the outfit of choice. The sensation is increased if it is still daylight outside.

There is a photograph posted up in the office, taken by a member of staff on her way in to work of two women stood on a the forecourt of a petrol station and convenience store at about half past eight in the morning in their dressing gowns, each clutching a loaf of bread and half a pint of sterilised-milk. It was an observation deep rooted in past age and culture but still relevant today.

This will have been a commonplace sight in the urban areas of the UK some fifty years ago in the good old days of the corner shop and therefore only a short dash for early risers to acquire their ciggies and consumables straight from their beds. There has been a big change in our retailing habits mainly forced upon us by the trend for large out of town Supermarkets. That natural instinct to provide for family can sometimes mean the same early-bird shopping requirement but the megastores have for some time imposed a ban on shoppers turning up in their nightwear to do their shopping.

It is also necessary for full enjoyment of pyjamas that there is a low likelihood of people calling to the house as greeting visitors on the doorstep can be a bit embarrassing. I have paid the window cleaner whilst so attired and he has not let me forget it with a tirade of tiresome jokes about my habit which has persisted for a good few years now.

With the necessary safeguards in place it is possible to relax and enjoy wearing your jammies without fear of ridicule or intrusion.

When in my pyjamas the reminiscences of childhood flood back.

I remember running around in the back garden in my Captain Scarlet jim-jams on those balmy and sultry summer evenings.

Then of course there were the long night time car journeys back home from grandparents when my siblings and I travelled in pyjamas under our clothes so that after falling asleep with the motion of the vehicle we could be just lifted out and tucked up in our bed.

I was a right one for feigning a tummy ache to avoid having to go to school and if successful in convincing my parents I could look forward to a full day in pyjamas on the settee watching television and dining on chicken noodle soup and Lucozade. Happy days indeed.

As a student I also spent a good proportion of my time in pyjamas but did feel a bit of a fraud if invited to a pyjama party.

As a parent I am proud to say that my own family have jealously guarded reserving a precious day between Christmas and New Year as an exclusive Pyjama Day when we just laze around, catch up an DVD's and feast on leftovers and the contents of the fridge.

We are not by any means complacent and indeed just this year two of the family introduced the Onesie to the occasion but to tell the truth I am not entirely convinced of its role in the proceedings.

(reproduced from 2012)

The Kings Speech rewrite for 2020

 A shameless and bordering on treasonous edit and re-write in 21st Century language of the inspiring speech to the nation by King George VI at news of the outbreak of war in 1939. I have taken the subject matter and changed it to "Shopping at Christmas"

"In this unearthly hour, although perhaps the latest I have arisen this very year, I send to every one of my peeps in our house, both upstairs and in the living room, this message spoken in the same loud voice as though I was able to stand closer to you and talk to you on a one to one basis.

For yet another time in our lives, we are at Christmas.

Over and over again, we have tried to find an economical and ethical way out of the differences between internet and in-shop pricing and those who cannot deliver in time and say ' but it is in the van'.

We have been forced into a Poundshop for we are called by our Ally, to meet the challenge of a recession, which, if it were to persist, would allow the tiger economies to clean up quite nicely.

It is a principal fact of Christmas shopping, that, in the selfish pursuit of our wants and desires, we may disregard the special offers and guarantees of quality and stray from the promises and firm commitments of our shopping list to the detriment of others.

Such a principle, in naked truth, says that heavy discounting is right but if that were a worldwide pricing policy then the High Street shops and even the out of town retail centres would be in danger.

But far more than this, the shoppers of the world would be kept indoors awaiting their Fedex deliveries, and all hopes of picking up that mis-delivered parcel from the post offfice collection depot would be ended.

This is the ultimate issue that confuses us. For the sake of all goods we find cheaper on the world wide shopping web it is unthinkable now that we should refuse to redeem our Amazon gift vouchers.

It is to this High Street threat that I call to my peeps at our house as well as our relatives in other parts of East Yorkshire who should sign up to this cause on facebook or twitter.

We should all be calm and carry on at this time.

Times will be hard. There may be power and other shortages ahead and energy will have to be conserved but we can only do the right thing as we see it arise and we can also just pray to God. 

If we all shut doors, switch off lights and wear an extra jumper and are prepared to faithfully cut out tokens and vouchers from the papers then we shall make savings and prevail.

May he bless and keep us all"

Twelve Days later

This was written a while ago and before the pre-pandemic and Tier restrictive era. It therefore now appears to be a shamelessly nostalgic account but at the time it was simply the norm. 

What to do between Christmas and New Year?

It is a strange period of days. Other languages have some very evocative names for it. In the UK there has been a lobbying for "twixtmass" but my favourite is "The Twiglet Zone".

It can be a bit of a lost opportunity when there may be some free time from work and routines for most of us but little motivation, inclination or justification to make anything of it.

It is a time for those with families to be together which may not be possible during the rest of a hectic year. Relatives can be visited or hosted which keeps the communication, reminiscence and inheritance channels well and truly open, particularly where there is no regular connection through Skype and other third party portals.

It can be a sad period of reflection for the loved ones of those who have departed during the year or just with remembrances of Christmas's past. It can be a time of getting away from it all, an escape to a rented cottage or ski chalet. For those left at home long walks are planned but a combination of the invariably damp and dreary, rather than bright and crisp seasonal weather and jam packed semi-interesting TV schedules makes for easy persuasion to stay indoors.

A trip out to the Boxing Day and New Year Sales sounds an option but then you recall the misery of the previous 3 month cynically "Full Price" run-up , being  herded through the shopping centre, jostled in the checkouts and with a feeling of being ill at ease at an involuntary participation in a kettling manouvre in the multi storey car park.

It is quite normal therefore to find yourself in this seasonal doldrum sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by ravaged boxes of assorted chocolates , indecipherable instruction booklets for electronic toys, half opened and sniffed toiletries, a stack of weighty but trivial books, amongst a crime-scene type body outline consisting of puff pastry flakes and feeling that irresistible compulsion to go and have another root around in the fridge. There is still the soft underbelly of the roast bird to have a go at.

I have seen a Poll Result for this year where only 59% of the UK population expressed an intention to participate in any celebratory plans to see in the New Year. It can, truth be told, be a bit of a drag watching the clock from, say, 10pm to Midnight, and relying on a loose arrangement of musical guests on the TV to evoke what should be a more magical moment. Even the prospect of an early night to bed is less of an attraction in anticipation of the outbreak of the end of year barrage  as Big Ben strikes its last of, in 2019, the first decade of the 21st Century.

Religious significance and the relentless passing of time apart you would expect there to be a commercial and political campaign to separate these two key dates in the calendar. Imagine, keeping the Birth of Jesus where it is but moving the celebration of New Year to the middle of the year. They are already two separate events in our perception and understanding and indeed in our ever increasing consumerism at this time of year many may regard it more of a case of  "buy one get one free", which can only cheapen, one or the other depending on your conscience and persuasions.

The motor industry successfully implemented a similar strategy by creating two new car registration periods per year rather than just the longstanding mass release of brand, spanking new vehicles every 1st August.

In moving New Year to the summer months there are many, many advantages that I can see. It may not guarantee good weather, in fact it may be more likely to be bright and crisp than damp and dreary, but an outdoor celebration, wearing shorts and a 'T' shirt,  barbecue smoking and with Chinese Lanterns drifting up into a warm, dusk sky sounds idyllic compared to the archetypal Northern European event we are acclimatised and resigned to.

I can see tremendous benefits to the economy in a July New Years with spiked sales figures for the food industry, a surge in numbers of packs of beer (if indeed at all possible), small chiller fridges, outdoor gazebo's and lighting, deckchairs and patio sets, children's paddling pools and trampolines, gardening implements and plants, conservatories and portable coconut matting covered cocktail bars.

Where before, as a nation we have envied the Southern Europeans and Australians and their natural assimilation with the great outdoors we can now fully participate, perhaps hesitantly and reserved at first but then claiming it as our own lifestyle invention. We did it with Pizza and Tikka Masalla didn't we.

Of course, the powerful lobbying interests for Travel Companies and Airlines will object strongly on the grounds of loss of revenue to the Government as a New Year in July reinforces the attraction of a staycation rather than an overseas vacation. Turkey farmers will have to completely rethink their strategy to ensure the availability of birds in the summer or alternatively produce barbecue friendly turkey meat products. Do sprouts readily switch from a winter crop to a summer harvest? If not, this would not in my opinion constitute a great loss. There may, on the downside, be an increase in civil unrest and anti-social behavoir from over-indulgence in a warmer average temperature and an additional strain placed on neighbourly relations as a consequence of the British character flaw of one-upmanship in all things in plain sight in gardens and on driveways.

Having considered all aspects I can see the beginnings of a populist movement towards a summer New Year. It will take better minds and intellects to weigh up all of the pro's and con's of such a radical proposition and of course, to consider the viewpoints of minority groups such as Scottish revellers, Jules Holland, Gymnasiums, Personal Fitness Trainers and Druids.

This line of thought could be a Resolution to take forward . Let's get busy in the planning of this revolutionary idea, no time like the present to lay down the foundation for a new order new year. Now, where did I leave that gift of a year planner complete with detachable ball point pen?  I'll just see if it is under this pile of magazines . Ooh, wait a minute, The Radio Times promises a great day of continuous justifiable viewing and when it gets dark at 3.30pm I am perfectly entitled to put on my Christmas pyjamas and pull up the drawbridge. Perhaps, next New Year would be better to ponder such things after all.

James Bond at Christmas

 

Shaken and Stirred

A local hotel is advertising, amongst its seasonal events what they call a 'James Bond Christmas'. Here goes........

Commander Bond lay under the duvet cover. The distant sounding of church bells reminded him that this was indeed Christmas Day.

He had got in at about 9.30pm from yet another of  'M's festive gatherings. It had not been that exciting. He had returned alone. Moneypenny had gone home even earlier, after all she was an old lady and no fun. M's quiche had made him a bit bilious and the dry martini's had not been enough to quell the acidity in his stomach.

He let one go under the heavy winter tog rated bedding and casually wafted it away into the gradually increasing natural light of his flat. What to do for Christmas Day?

He swung a leg out, feeling for the thick pile of the carpet. Pulling his heavy built form upright he found that his Onesie had ridden up during the night with some constriction of his lower abdomen. It was a legitimate reason for a prolonged scratch and re-arrangement of his undercarriage.

The flat was cold and he cursed not mastering the central heating thermostat in the twenty years of his occupation. He had no time for manuals. 'Q' had been kind enough to show him the settings for instantaneous hot water and radiator heating. They had been very similar to the afterburner controls on Little Nelly and a nasty and expensive quarterly gas bill had been the consequence of a degree of confusion accordingly.

A light, healthy breakfast appealed to him. Those long sessions at the Casino in recent years had ruined his physique .He had contracted and only just recovered from a nasty virus from , he suspected, the sampled contents of a small bowl of mint imperials at the coat-check counter near the toilets in Monte Carlo.

He was disappointed by the contents of the fridge. The orange juice was 'with bits' which he had bought from M&S without checking. He infinitely preferred smooth. No yoghurt, no bran or porridge oats so he settled for a lump of cheese and half a packet of cream crackers. The Onesie successfully captured any fragments of the flaky Lancashire and biscuit crumbs in its thick, luxurious velour giving the faux tiger-skin print the appearance of a dandruff outbreak.

Living the life of a bachelor, out of the normal hours of his regimented and disciplined professional assassin duties, the living room was a tip.

He stumbled over a collection of take-away cartons,pizza boxes and discarded clothing-all his. A pint glass full of the discarded shells of pistachio's fell and rolled across the parquet floor gradually decanting its contents. A few well place martial arts kicks cleared the rest of the debris under the DFS corner suite and Ikea wall unit. The DVD's would have to be sorted later from an unruly pile. The movie of 27 Dresses at the top caused him to pause and recall how he had enjoyed the plot and sentiment of such a well structured and acted rom-com.

As Commander Bond dragged the Dyson bagless around the room he made an instinctive check for any signs of intrusion whilst he had been at M's reception. Trip wires and carefully adhered strands of his chest hair were still in situ. It was disappointing not to be the subject of any nefarious intentions during the holiday season. How was he expected to keep his hand in?

The number of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece was well down this year. This was, he mused a combination of how convincing his manufactured death had been earlier in the year resulting in many deletions by Facebook friends and the trend amongst fellow assasins to occasionally have to kill each other.

The unsigned, oversized padded card depicting an alpine scene was definitely from that rascal Blofeld. He had a decent sense of humour under that serious visage of world dominating villainy.

The morning passed quickly. Feeling peckish after his exertions of a man's comprehension of cleaning and hoovering he chipped away at the slab of ice which had consumed his freezer compartment and recovered a couple of ready-meals which would do nicely for his Christmas dinner. The combination of Tikka Masalla and Hot Pot was novel but palatable. Dessert was a bit more of a challenge but the Angel Delight was soon whisked into a firm peak that briefly and erotically reminded him of past conquests.

The controllers at the 'Licenced to Kill' desk deep in the MI5 building received a text from Bond and they duly sent him the TV listings for the rest of the day . He did not expect HM The Queen to expand on their skydiving antics into the Olympic Stadium in her traditional address to the nation. He knew she had enjoyed it on an altogether private level by her whoops and screams and covert and playful cupping of his groin on the descent through the late July sky over London.

Next he knew, it was dark outside the flat. He had dozed off, sprawled across the settee, and with a dribble of spittle running down his chin, a faint tint of butterscotch discernible. Annoyingly he had missed the blockbuster film and no-one had availed him of the operational details of the i-player.

Strictly and Downton thrilled him for the rest of the evening. He would never be asked to participate on the dance floor because of the intricacies of his professional lifestyle.This was a major regret.  His enjoyment of the Period Drama had been tempered by his instinctive identification of access and escape roots in the stately home and the best place to set off a diversionary explosion for maximum mayhem amongst the sinister looking below stairs staff, all ex KGB without doubt.

The latter part of the day was now dragging. The invitations to a 'Christmas At Home' from a selection of gangsters, sociopaths and the criminally insane remained on his antique escritoire, opened but not responded to. A threat of menace and a long monologue about blah, blah, ransom, blah, blah, extortion, blah, blah, gold reserves and the prospect of a scorching of nether regions by a high powered laser was now of some attraction when in the past it had just been part and parcel of the job.

It was a pity that he had not forged better links with those he had collaborated with on his missions. That Felix Leiter was a personable chap but obviously had problems of self image based on his frequently radical changes in appearance and skin colour.

He poured himself a Baileys over ice (chipped from the freezer compartment) and gorged himself to the point of being nauseous on the After Eights, a raffle prize at 'M's with the proceeds going to support the families of disavowed agents.

James Bond contemplated starting a diplomatic incident to alleviate his boredom. A convincing non-nuclear conflagration of the Home Counties was well within his capabilities from just the contents of his lock up garage in Twickenham.  His life story, auctioned to the tabloids would keep him in the style in which the public perceived him to exist.

In reality and out of abject loneliness he found that crying himself to sleep on Christmas night was a form of light and therapeutic relief. 

As always, he firmly believed that it would be different next year....for sure.

(First written a couple of years ago)

Can you smell carrots?

Just about all of the great and the good in the Pop and Rock World, and a few second stringers also, have felt it necessary to bring out a Christmas themed record. 

It may be out of a genuine love of the Festive Season and all that it represents. 

There may have been pressure from fans to release a bit of a one-off or a novelty at this time of the year. 

Other motivations may be less honorable such as a blatant attempt at a cash grab or trying to perpetuate an income flow into the future. That anticipation of  Royalties could make for a nice bit of forward planning towards a pension long after a mainstream livelihood in the music industry has ceased to be able to meet outgoings of a Rock Star existence. 

In some cases a Christmas single may be a career defining piece of work but many would honestly hope that it is not the case. 

In the ever prolonged build up to 25th December the airwaves and supermarket aisles in particular become saturated with seasonal offerings. 

One radio station that shall remain un-named only seem to possess a dozen or so records and although on first tuning in this can be quite a happy experience it soon becomes predictable and, frankly, boring. 

Once in a while strict adherence to that rigid playlist is forgotten, perhaps as an attempt by the presenter or back-room staff to try to avoid falling asleep out of the monotony. If this rare moment coincides with a return to the radio station in order to give it a second chance to redeem itself then a track that has not been heard for a long time or has simply slipped out of your memory bank may suddenly emerge and make the day most pleasurable. 

That was the sensation that I enjoyed just today upon catching a broadcast of "Frosty The Snowman". 

The song was written in 1950 by the duo of Walter "Jack" Rollins and Steve Nelson and was first recorded by the multi-talented Gene Autry who was a contemporary singing star of the post war era as well as excelling as an actor and rodeo rider.  

It was originally a winter rather than a specific Christmas song telling the story of a snowman brought back to life by a magical silk hat found by some children. 

Autry's popularity in the Country and Western genre of music saw "Frosty" peak at number 4 in the Country Singles Chart and at 7 in the US Pop Chart. 

Sensing the lucrative commercial value from the subject matter and the timing of its release many Agents representing top celebrity singers clamoured to get their man to release it and in the same year as the Autry version both Jimmy Durante and Nat King Cole could be heard across the nation and beyond. 

The public must have suffered sensory overload from this rapid succession of the same song as neither Durante nor Nat King Cole bettered 7th place for their efforts. 

Within a couple of decades other artists who hoped to make a Seasonal killing with "Frosty" included Perry Como (1957), Johnny Mathis (2003) and the third placed singer in the American Idol series of 2002, Kimberley Locke who also had a US Chart topping version of Jingle Bells in 2006  and so was perfectly qualified to have success with "Frosty" at the following Holiday. 

There have of course been many, many other performers who have recorded and released this classic but for me the best, by a long way, rendition is the 1992 one by my favourite dream pop, ethereal wave and gothic rock band, The Cocteau Twins. 

I was first drawn to their quite unique style in the mid 1980's with their album Victorialand although they had been on the scene since the late 1970's. 

The characteristic trademark sounds from guitar, drum and bass are rich and melodious and go perfectly with the evocative vocal sound and multi-tonal range from lead singer Elizabeth Fraser. 

I should explain these two aspects of her performing repertoire. 

Fraser hits every note without fail and with a crystal clear sharpness but if you are looking to learn and sing along with the lyrics of many of the Twins' songs then you may struggle. She has her own language drawn from many sources and woven into a beautiful blend in many of the defining releases over the 18 years of music making. Just seek out the impressive back catalogue of The Cocteau Twins for yourself, turn down the lights and chill. 

Of course, "Frosty" is given the full works by the band and Fraser in particular brings to the spirited but short-lived life of the snowman her own quirky and distinctive style. Here it is.

Frosty The Snowman by The Cocteau Twins

English Lesson 20

Already up to the letter "T" in this celebration of the madcap humour of the panellists of the BBC Radio Classic "I'm Sorry I haven't a Clue". 

The skeleton schedule of, in particular, BBC Four Extra in the perpetual UK Lockdown may have meant that new work remains on the pre-broadcast planning files but fans of ISIHAC will be revelling in the regular re-runs of the shows from the last few decades. 

This extract is thanks to Superfan Kevin Hale who has painstakingly compiled what must be a complete record of the output of the show and its wacky, irreverent, often rude and politically incorrect definitions of ordinary words. 

Here goes;

Trolley- a bit like a Troll

Tentative- fears about going camping

Telepathy- can't even be bothered to change channel on the TV

Tadpole- tracing some distant ancestors to Krakow

Tripod- a 3 legged device to carry offal

Tycoon- someone who made millions from selling neckties

Thermidor- a Spanish Lobster Fighter

Toadstool- porn version of "Wind in the Willows"

Tally ho- carvings on the bedpost in a brothel

Trash- Yorkshire skin complaint

Tapas- a subtle touching of someone's bottom

Tombola- a man who throws cats

Toronto- what a drunken Lone Ranger calls his sidekick

Transistor- a Nun with strangely large hands

Trampoline- where a hobo hangs his washing

Titilate- delayed puberty

Toilet- a little bit of work

Turpentine- a Geordie highwayman

Tarmac- saying thanks to a Scotsman

Tapioca- a disappointingly average dance routine

Taffeta- Welsh goats cheese

Trigonometry- a device that a cowboy uses to track down his horse

Tomahawk- a fruit of prey

Truncheon- midday meal of a Policeman

Toucan- a couple of tins

Tint- the opposite of tisn't

Tortoise- slow Musketeer

Torpid- a partly made torpedo

Testicular- a Vampire who talks a load of bollocks

Tutonic- to go with two gins

Tiddlywinks- going to the toilet in the middle of the night

Tailback- restorative surgery on a Manx cat

Tissues- things of importance to a Yorkshireman

Twofold- beginners origami class

Tannoy- being a loud nuisance

Tapestry- the art of plumbing in the Renaissance

Thermos- the Greek God of picnics

Testicle- an exam question that makes you laugh out loud

Tickertape- temporary repair of a wrist watch strap

Torrid- something nasty in Yorkshire

Trifle- three barrelled shotgun

Tinker- a philosopher from Ireland

Tyrant- the anger expressed when asked to put on a necktie to enter a restaurant

Typhoon- a brand of tea that gives you wind

Twinge- Sean Connery describing children of the same age

Turbine- windy headgear

Tatter- poor quality milliner

Truculent- hire of a heavy goods vehicle

In close up Donna Reed has lovely skin

One of my seasonal favourites written a few years ago now so  apologise for some old references. 

Thought I would show it again just to get in the Festive mood.....

It's a wonderful film and yet, as with most works of genius it was not recognised in its own time. Perhaps its sentiment in 1946 was too nice for a world emerging from war and austerity. It has at it's root laudable themes of brooding unhappiness , selfless service to the community, heartless business and contemplation of suicide and not that many pitch battles, bombing missions, beach assaults and no notable explosions which were otherwise popular movie features of the period.  It represented a return of humanity and values that had been sacrificed or as the lead character, George Bailey, played by James Stewart remarks 'all is fair in love and war'.

I am of course referring to the Frank Capra movie of "It's a Wonderful Life"

It's a regular event in our family to watch the DVD in the run-up to Christmas. It does rank and climbs the poll every year as the best Christmas film of all time although my son still contends that Die Hard (1) would be hard to be pushed off top spot. Recently , a re-digitised and colour version was released but to really appreciate the heart warming emotions it has to be seen in original black and white. The movie does impact in all its glory on a small domestic TV screen, especially when cocooned in a duvet on the sofa and surrounded by loved ones. In the privacy of my own home I will be a bit misty eyed by about 30 minutes into the running time and completely useless and blubbering for the duration. I issue a spoiler alert at this stage but you must, if not familiar with the film, just watch it, wrapped up, with family or close friends and keep some tissues up your sleeves.

It's a rare privilege therefore, some 66 years after the release of the film, to get an opportunity to see it on the big screen in a cinema. It is something altogether different to contemplate being seen crying in a public auditorium. In my favour the screening was in a town some distance away from my home and so there was a low to acceptable risk of bumping into a friend or acquaintance. I had mentioned to colleagues and just passers by in the street, in the preceding weeks, that this was on the cards but was very careful not to divulge the location, day, date and time. I was astounded by the number of blank expressions from those with no knowledge of the film although the enthusiastic reminiscences from the majority did outweigh those poor unfortunate and unfulfilled souls.

It's a small cinema, one of the very few still surviving in a market place setting in a commuter town. The nearest multiplex would be around 20 miles away in the nearest cities which will have helped it to persist. I would willingly have paid more than the £4 admission charge which did include a glass of sherry and a micro-mince pie. Forget your deep and plush upholstered back massaging, centrally heated and wired for sound luxury seating and just get comfortable if you can in a blue cloth wrapped bucket. Not much chance of being seduced into a sleep for the duration which is all good. I have often paid £12.50 to Odeon ,Vue and Cineworld Cinemas ostensibly for a film but actually for a fitful drift in and out of consciousness in that luxuriant heavy eyed feeling. Most blockbuster films are a mystery to me in terms of the main plot as I am only awake for the very beginning and the final chaotic few frames, usually involving silhouetted figures and a sunset.

It's an exciting moment when the lights dim and the big screen lights up into action. The quality of the film was fantastic although I may have been secretly disappointed that there were no bromide-brown blobs, dancing string-like blemishes or curses from the projection room over scorched and melting celluloid. I was immediately transported back in time as though at a small town Premiere of It's a Wonderful Life. The lack of legroom to a baby boomer like myself would not have constituted a problem to a post war audience in the UK, what with emaciation from many years of rationing, staple food deficiencies and premature curvature of the legs from rickets.

It's a revelation to see the drama unfold on the big screen. Although I have seen the movie at least annually for the last decade or so the super sized images added a completely fresh dimension and it was as though I was seeing it for the first time. In close-up and at 4metres full on,  the facial expressions of James Stewart are even more magnificent and as for the lead actress, Donna Reed, well she's got a very good complexion and skin tone which is not always apparent on my Sony TV at home. There was a warning on the advertising poster of mild violence for the more sensitive in the audience. In the context of the film and it's era it was acceptable, or so it was portrayed, to slap around shop staff, throw stones at houses, verbally abuse primary school teachers, drink drive and make mad and violent love- you know the sort, fully clothed, no actual physical contact and with both feet on the ground to get past the Film Censors.

It's a therapeutic sound to hear a large group of people laugh and weep at alternate moments but generally in unison. I had just about got acclimatised to the seat when the film finished. Where had the time gone? As the audience reluctantly got up to go and in rather harsh lighting it was normal service resumed in human interaction or the lack of it. We all, me included, kept our heads down for fear of showing a weakness in our tear streamed faces. The waste bin at the exit was nearly full of damp Kleenex when I reached it and coaxed out the soggy contents of my left sleeve. A few small family groups lingered and reassured each other in quite a public display of fondness which was both nice and a bit cringy in equal proportions.

It's a funny thing but on the pavement outside, in the minus one degree of a mid December night in a Yorkshire town it felt a bit like the Bedford Falls of the film. It was not so long ago that there had been, like in the film, a run on the bank. There will be many that we know personally who feel trapped in their current lives when in their carefree youth they had magnificent plans to travel and undertake adventures. We all will have felt a degree of despair, anxiety and depression at some time. It is ultimately important , however to remind ourselves that we all contribute in some way to the lives of those around us whether through supporting our families and friends or just through a kind word or deed to a complete stranger.

It's in our power to make it a really wonderful life. Get busy.

Crackers Christmas

It is one of those urban myths.

It is often quoted to instil fear into householders to dispose of their debris and rubbish in a proper manner.

In my personal experience I cannot say either way if it is true.It is the alleged fact that we are, at any one time, within seven feet of a rat.

I would like to propose an alternative. It is not necessarily one with any health implications.

On the basis of a little bit of seasonal research I would put forward the theory that we are never more than seven feet away from a novelty that originated in a Christmas Cracker.

This applies at any time of the year.

Have a look around in pockets, car ashtray or coin recess, the bottom drawer of the kitchen unit, a sideboard cupboard or in one of those old toffee tins that everyone has to keep loose change, spare keys and batteries.

The quality and type of item can vary significantly on a directly proportional basis to the cost of the box of crackers. I have seen adverts for offerings from Cartier and Rolex in cracker form or where romantic partners have secreted away an engagement ring or similar. Harrods sell a lot of £1000 boxes containing luxury leather goods, MP3 player, crystal ear rings and all manner of finery.

You cannot however better the standard crackers from the average supermarket.

In addition to the paper hat (tissue or holographic foil) and the often corny to the point of genius joke or saying is the novelty item.

I count on the Christmas period to replenish my supplies of miniature screwdrivers, tape measure, torches, Allen key collection, key rings, measuring spoons and opaque but functional magnifying glass.

I am not that bothered about hairbrushes, comb sets, grips and ties and they can go into the unceremonious pile of discarded goods which always feature in the middle of the dinner table. These are picked over in the coming days together with sewing kit, balloons, pencil erasers, gonks and smurfs, rigid joke moustache, dice, miscellaneous figurines, Mister Men, water pistols and joke squirty flowers, watches, toy cars, brooches and other jewellery. I especially like the clip on ear-rings even if they are a bit dodgy and not at all ones that a pirate would be seen out in.

Games and puzzles are mainstay features. I like the small brightly coloured plastic mazes with tiny, weeny ball bearing and those stainless steel links and hoops to coax or more likely wrestle into separate parts.

A pack of playing cards can be almost guaranteed.

Noisy items usually include whistles from police to bird and swannee , harmonica, kazoo, football rattle and jews harp.

For the more artistic temperament regular cracker fillers include a set of lead pencils, retractable ball point pen, one of those multi coloured thick barrelled pens, small etch a sketch, slate and pen, wax crayons and felt tip pens, painting sets and a pack of plastecine for modelling.

Hong Kong and latterly China will have been in overdrive for much of the preceding months in churning out plastic novelties and those on the production line may well believe the political teachings on the decadence and materialism of the western world just on the crap that fills up an old toilet roll tube, wrapped in sparkly paper and a bit of ribbon.

They must be completely mystified by the shoe horn.

Fathers for Christmas

 Its that time of year again when I can shamelessly go back over past blogs about the Festive Season and so I apologise to those to whom the writing seems very familiar. If a first time reader then please just enjoy the sentiments and traditions that I, like many, enjoy so much.

Most fancy dress costumes come with no restrictions on behaviour, modesty or historical authenticity but then again that is the purpose of buying or hiring an outfit, it is a form of escapism, exhibitionism and a good excuse for some to act shamefully, recklessly and lewdly.

There is however one exception to the norm.

The decision to wear a Father Christmas suit automatically enrols you into the ethical code of that particular office.

I have briefly experienced the love, affection and respect embodied by the traditional Red Suit over the Festive Season and I have found it humbling and inspirational.

Although I have only worn the traditional robes a few times, on each occasion I have sensed that my very amateur and comic-book impersonation has filled a need in those I have crossed paths with, be they family, friends or just strangers in the street.

As for the historical background, well, the bright colours are widely thought to derive from the original Saint Nicholas, who was the Bishop of Myra, now in Turkey, in the 4th Century. Red and white were the hues of traditional bishop robes, although some historians argue that he originally dressed in different colours.

Saint Nick was famous for his kindness to children and generosity to the poor. After he died his legend grew and he is still remembered in some countries on 6th December.

In medieval England and for centuries afterwards, the figure of Father Christmas represented the spirit of benevolence and good cheer. In the 19th Century Dutch emigrants took their story of a legendary gift-bringer called Sinterklaas to America, where he eventually became known as Santa Claus.

Whilst the names and legends may differ, there has been little variation in the red and white outfits worn. However, over time the bishop cloak and mitre were replaced by the fur-trimmed suit. There are records of Santa wearing various coloured costumes, but red was by far the most popular and became known as the quintessential Father Christmas outfit.

Evidently then, Father Christmas is an evolutionary creation, influenced by folklore, legend and religion . He did not spring to life at a certain time, fully formed and wearing a red and white suit. It wasn't really until the late 19th Century that the image now recognised across the world became set.

In recent history the red and white suit has been fixed and standardised by certain publishing events and advertising campaigns. Between 1863 and 1886, Harper's Weekly magazine ran a series of engravings by Thomas Nast. He developed an image of Santa very close to the modern-day one. From these engravings the concept of Santa's workshop and the idea of writing letters to him also developed. There is the strong association with the modern representation of Father Christmas with the Coca-Cola Corporation whose  involvement began in in the early 1930's when the Swedish artist Haddon Sundblom started drawing ads for Coke featuring a fat Santa in a red coat trimmed with fur and secured with a large belt.

Whatever the source, it is through the benevolent figure of Father Christmas that children absorb the traditions of the season and then, in their later adult lives, they perpetuate the story for their own children or young relatives and friends.

I have seen first hand, in taking on the responsibility of wearing my shop bought suit,  the total acceptance of Father Christmas in situations of modern life where otherwise there would be no human contact, conversation or empathy.

On a stormy weather accompanied  short walk from my car (oops, VW Sleigh) to deliver family presents on Christmas Eve I was stopped on the pavement by a lady who took great obvious joy from handing back my fur trimmed hat that hat blown off in the prevailing gale. Passing motorists beeped their horns and revellers at a pub shouted out greetings. In the car park of my local Tesco I was asked to pose for a photograph by a young woman who was both shocked and thrilled to glimpse Santa. The children of a family friend, taking in their first ever Christmas in England shrieked in unison when my pale parody of Santa Claus called on them to hand over presents just hours before the real man was due to call.

On Boxing Day I was enlisted  to spring a surprise on family spending the holidays in the dramatic surroundings of Scarborough on the North Sea Coast. On another short walk from car to the hotel I was inundated with requests for a wave, a message or a picture. I received, by default, complete licence to wander around the splendid premises of the hotel, such is the total acceptance of Father Christmas.

The warm feeling inside me, discounting the extremely high temperatures generated by the plush velvety suit over my day clothes, was a privilege to behold.

It may sound a bit weird but I have actually added to the suit in the past year. Apparently there is a steady trade in faux fur trimmed Santa Boots, or at least I think that he is the main reason for them being manufactured.

Plush Cheap Seats

Part of our family tradition at Christmas has always been a visit to the cinema. 

The big screen, for all of its competition from home entertainment technology, remains a huge treat.

The immersive experience of sound and vision is always mesmerising. 

The festive season is a big target market for the release of blockbuster movies and over the years we have been to see ongoing prequels of the big franchise films although you cannot outdo a screening of a classic such as "A Wonderful Life". 

We are spoiled for choice where filling up our leisure time is concerned but in different times and in austere and difficult social and economic conditions the cinema has been the only form of escapism for a good proportion of the population. 

In the early months of the First World War in my home city of Kingston Upon Hull, Yorkshire, England the appetite for a good night out in a Picture Palace was not at all lessened. So much so that the company trading as National Electric Theatres Limited opened in December 1914 what the Theatre Press described as an elaborate venue on Beverley Road. 

There was no Grand Opening but every endeavour had been made to accommodate the cinema going public at an important time to boost morale and engender the Christmas spirit. 

Designed by the Hull Architects Runton and Barry for the Deluxe Theatre Company the building was in a Renaissance style in stone and red brick. 

It had a narrow facade onto Beverley Road but its depth and arched roof provided seating for over 1000 and regardless of whether a cheap and cheerful 3 pence or Balcony 9 pence ticket was purchased the seats were all plush upholstered and of the tip-up type. The higher prices gave a wider and more comfortable position. 

The entrance foyer was a large and cavernous space of some 40 feet by 20 feet and although not provided for the opening there was an intention for this to have settees around a fireplace. 

There was another foyer above. Concealed lighting directed the cinema-goers across thick linoleum and rich pile carpets. 

Advertised as the largest screen in Hull against stiff competition in the City the quality was enhanced by a 124 foot throw from Tyler Indominatable Projectors. 

After many major and tragic outbreaks of fire in similar establishments the design featured reinforced concrete floors. 

For those not engrossed in the film on the screen you could daydream and look up at the decorative art mouldings and frieze on the ceiling and upper walls. 

The National Picture Theatre kept the citizens of Hull enthralled until March 1941 when it was severely damaged by the Luftwaffe. The strength of the construction was a primary reason that the 150 or so customers watching Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator survived the parachute mine impact. 

The shell of the building remains as a mere shadow of its elaborate original appearance. It was Listed in 2007 for its status as a rare war ruin and in recent years campaigns have attempted to raise funds to establish a permanent memorial to Hull and its wartime experiences.  

Christmas Puddling- Hull 1921

Imagine doing some Shopping in Kingston Upon Hull in the evening of the last Saturday before Christmas, 1921. 

In the busy commercial Market Place and Lowgate there will likely have been a festive scene from the bright lighting of the shop windows, the pavement array of goods under the canopies and a riot of noise from the traders, barrow-men, the phut-phut of a few motor vehicles and a general hubbub of excited consumers making some almost last minute purchases. 

In order to make the most of a weekends trading the shops will have been open quite late. 

Although one of the coldest seasonal months of the year the weather conditions on that specific evening might have been remarked upon as being quite abnormally windy. Shopping bags and carried packages will have been buffeted about. 

Not too unusual for the depths of winter but what did surprise shoppers and shop-owners was very quickly finding that they were wading through rapidly rising flood waters- the mucky, muddy type. 

At 7.30pm on that night a disaster unfolded that the London Times called "of unexampled magnitude" causing considerable damage on a widespread coverage. 

A combination of freakish conditions of high tide and strong coastal gales caused a bulge or tidal surge to race up the Humber Estuary from its source out in the North Sea. This overwhelmed Victoria Pier on its way West and being funnelled up the narrow River Hull corridor the pressure and height of the wave burst the banks and led to flooding of the surrounding low lying urban areas. 

The unfortunate shoppers will have witnessed the inundation along Market Place, around and into the landmark Holy Trinity and St Mary's Churches and affecting the Town Hall, Central Post Office and Bank of England. 

Of the two places of Worship St Mary's suffered more damage. The ancient oak lectern floated away but miraculously the heritage Bible was thrown clear of the water onto a dry desk top. 

The densely populated housing areas running parallel to and branching outwards from the River corridor became quickly overrun with gates and house doors swept aside by the tidal wave and ground floor parlours and kitchens put under the brackish water. The stricken families in the most part were able to take refuge upstairs and although some narrow escapes were reported there was no loss of life.

Worst hit was the Wincolmlee industrial area just to the north east of the city centre with the large Oil Mills directly affected. A stack of stored barrels, 25 feet high was toppled and swept away, similarly some 200 tons of coal which was waiting for use to fuel the steam powered machinery of a flour mill was taken away by the current down Great Union Street. 

Hundreds of homes were ruined and added to the losses experienced by commercial and retail businesses the estimated damage was upwards of three quarters of a million pounds. 

Areas around Hull did not escape the deluge, particularly on the North Bank of the Humber and the Main railway line at Brough was under water. 

The severity of the tidal surge was thankfully short lived and by 10.30pm the waters had receded. 

Here is a link to a wonderful bit of footage at BFI

https://twitter.com/bfi/status/848127824741359616?lang=en

The clean-up operation was immediately begun as regular river flooding was, and indeed still is now, a major threat particularly with much of Hull's population living on the flood plain. It was a well rehearsed activity of remediation by homeowners, businesses and with the dutiful attendance by the Fire Brigade and their pumps. 

Sits Vac Hull 1912

The depth of mayhem and economic uncertainty, over and above the tragic loss of life, in the global Covid 19 Pandemic, has forced many to seek alternative forms of employment in order to support their families and dependants. 

There has been a media campaign by the UK Government to demonstrate that those finding themselves in a stricken sector such as the Arts and Commerce should think about retraining. 

The example used in the TV information film was a Ballerina who, it was suggested, could readily be a Cyber-specialist. 

The type and range of jobs has changed radically in the last 100 or so years in this country with the decline of traditional heavy industry, dramatic reductions in staffing levels due to mechanisation and a shift in consumer tastes and demands. 

We are within these shores a Service Industry rather than making anything. 

As an interesting exercise I thought about the employment opportunities of the generation of my Grandparents which was in the momentous early years of the then new 20th Century and across the tumultuous times of two World Wars, a Great Depression and a lot of social and economic changes. 

The following is taken from a newspaper in my home city, Kingston Upon Hull from the year 1912 and specifically the Situations Vacant columns.

Wanted at once, strong errand boy. Taylors Grocers, 445 Hessle Road

Smart Lad, age about 15 to drive pony. Apply between 9 and 5, 36 Witham, Hull

Youth over 18 as Improver for Bakehouse with reference. R Smith. 53 Princes Avenue

A well educated youth is required by firm of Chartered Accountants. Knowledge of shorthand essential. Address 224 "Mail", Hull

Smart Boy who has just left school for Steam Trawling Company Offices. Address 913 Mail, Hull

Wanted at once- Lady Tracer. Apply Rosedowns and Thompson Ltd, Cannon Street, Hull

Wanted. Suite Frame Maker and Apprentice also machinist and improver to work fret machine. Spence, 54a North Street, Hull

Wanted. Clean, strong Housemaid. Apply 268 Anlaby Road.

Wanted. Housemaid and Waitress. Four in family. Apply 389 Beverley Road, Hull

Useful Day Girl. Apply Monday after 6pm. 4 Westminster Avenue, Holderness Road

Single handed Housemaid, needlework, country, Church of England, good refs required. Mrs Cooper, Glynhill, Hessle

Wanted; An experienced Bodice Hand. Apply E Holland 467 Anlaby Road

Wanted; Good plain cook, family three, help afternoons. Three Maids kept. Wages £26. Reply by letter. Mrs Pawley, Quarrybank, Hessle

Useful help, 24 to 30 wanted. Sympathetically disposed, domesticated, sewing and taking lady out in bath chair occasionally. Maid kept. Apply 21 Marlborough Avenue between 5.30 and 8.30

General washing and cooking. refs, sleep out. Apply 129 De La Pole Avenue (After 6pm)

I was promised a Jet Pack

Watching a lot of Science Fiction in my formative years helped me to formulate a strategy for survival should the planet earth actually be 

a) invaded by Martians,

 b) hit by an asteroid 

c) overwhelmed by a virus, 

d) succumb to the insidious influence of plants, 

e)engulfed by the melting ice caps, 

f) be infiltrated by reptilian shape shifters 

and g) attacked by weaponised Clangers from the Moon. 

Little did I expect that any of these would cause me concern in my adult life but in recent years I have been disturbed by quite a few of the above. There is frequent coverage of a near miss by a large lump of space rock and the Ebola outbreak has been a tragedy for all of those caught up in it. (This was written before Covid 19) 

Genetically Modified crops could I suppose upset the ecology of the world and be our undoing in the longer term. 

Climate Change is already causing significant damage through unpredictable events which can scorch or inundate dependant on where you reside on the globe. 

It is some relief that Martians, in the words of HG Wells, keeping a watchful eye on the Earth may just feel there is too much going on to make an invasion feasible. 

As for the Clangers.....well, I remain on alert as they are, I understand,intending a bit of a comeback. 

Shape shifters, according to various You Tube videos, are already amongst us but are probably finding our social customs and human traits a bit difficult and may give up and go back to wherever they came from. 

I have omitted so far to mention that all of the above pale into insignificance in the face of the greatest perceived threat to mankind...from Artificial Intelligence and in particular in robot form. 

My immersion in Science Fiction included comic books and the big screen mostly black and white movies with depicted robots. They were quite intimidating and menacing and yet there was a faithful adherence to the notional Laws of Robotics which protected humans from harm. 

The defining differences between Man and Artificial Intelligence were the ability for compassion and imagination which could not be duplicated by algorithms, digitalisation or an ability to mimic reasoning or ordinary human traits. 

In many films where mankind was seemingly doomed to enslavement by the machines and robots the day was always saved by an act of self-sacrifice or an expression of love. 

What better way to distinguish humanity than through poetry of which there is a vast resource over the millenia. My childhood fears, irrational though they were, of a robot takeover have been reawakened by my stumbling across a website called "Bot or Not?". ]

This is a Turing Test type site. In 1950 the computer scientist Alan Turing devised the test bearing his own name as a way of verifying machine intelligence. It produces a situation in which a human judge talks to both a computer and a human through a computer terminal. Based on the answers alone the judge has to determine which is which.

"Bot or Not" features examples of poems and you, assuming the role of judge, have to guess if it computer or human in origin. Examples provided include classic poems from literature and also those formulated from algorithms or by using other automated forms of generating text. 

Submissions are invited from readers through notbotpoems.gmail.com. 

Can you decide who wrote the following- Bot or Not?

a) i feel great, today is a good day, i love you, i like this, nice to meet you

b) MY DESIRE BEAUTIFULLY LUSTS AFTER YOUR SEDUCTIVE ENTHUSIASM

c) The Moon rises like a small shore...Gulls travel like rough gulls.

d) I am the dark on the night. The past of love gone stale.

I have posted the answers on my Twitter Page for those interested. As a clue, the ratio of answers is three to one.

I am no more assured of the future now than when I was seduced by images of it through the Sci-Fi of my younger years. 

I am still a bit disappointed in it all because I am sure that I was promised a jet-pack .

Gin and bare it

I have lost count of the number of Gin Palaces in my home area. 

It is a funny term for, well, a bar or a bit of a posh pub over and above the former not so posh public houses which have had to reinvent themselves into foodie or fun establishments after the realisation that smokers as former patrons just used to hog the bar, nurse a solitary pint and eke out the kick from their fag for as long as possible. 

These are hard economic times for business and none more so than for those in the traditional licenced trade. 

We are told that home drinking, cheap supermarket booze and smuggled stock is continuing to threaten or actually close down what were once valued venues for community, company and relationships. 

So the return of Gin drinking is the next latest thing to hopefully keep places going a bit longer. 

Consumption is not, I stress in the same manner as it once was in the late 17^th and 18^th Centuries when Gin drinking was seen as a pastime, a plentiful and inexpensive tipple for the working classes and even see as a patriotic drive in reducing brandy drinking which was, after all, a source of income for that very regular adversary, the French. 

In the national liquor cupboard, this nation of ours being well known globally for its fondness for drunkenness, Gin is actually a relatively new arrival. 

It was an import from Holland in the late 17^th Century and made popular by the similarly imported King William, he of Orange (the place, not Trumpesque skin tone). 

The Dutch product was a distilled blend of wine and Juniper Berries, the latter coming from their Far East Trading Empire. Gin became a shortened name from the Dutch word for Juniper which was Jeneva or Geneva. 

By the 1730’s there was a Gin Craze. 

It was estimated that Londoners drank, on average, 2 pints of gin per week, this being the product of some 1500 mainly back street or sole proprietor distillers who had taken up the Government initiative to allow such trading in return for licencing fees and taxation payments. 

Gin drinking was becoming a matter of concern for lawmakers and those who observed its worst excesses on the city streets across the nation. There is a very graphic illustration by the artist Hogarth of the sheer chaos of a gin swilling populus under the description of mothers ruin. 

Some attributed medicinal and aphrodisiac benefits to the tipple but evidence suggested it contributed to ill health and sloth as well as being seen as the primary cause of crime in London. 

Stronger than brandy it could also cause the blood and temper to boil easily with resultant violence and other misdemeanours. 

The Government was however enjoying considerable tax revenues from the distillers and had progressively increased the rate in the middle part of the 18^th Century which by 1743 actually led to riots and disorder. 

This culminated in the 1751 Gin Act, to give its colloquial name, which eliminated the small gin shops and restricted trade to larger distillers and retailers. It was probably too late by then anyway as gin drinking was a serious rival to beer consumption. The drink did go out of fashion and decline in volume consumed until the 1840’s when there was a popular upsurge attaining the same levels as the halcyon mid 1700’s. 

To some extent this was explained away as a symbol of new found affluence in the emerging Victorian middle classes who had excess funds to expend on spirits. The Gin Palace emerged with particular emphasis on the attraction and palatability of the drink to the fairer sex. 

Fast forward to 2017 and the resurgence of gin drinking by some 12 percent from previous years. 

We are by all accounts a nation of cocktail drinkers. Government coffers have been swelled by around £3.4 billion in revenues from spirits of which, at 76% in tax per bottle price, gin is the main contributor.

There are now some 80 brands with fancy blends of herbs and spices to make the good old G&T seem positively boring. 

In this weekend’s Times colour supplement whole pages of advertising were dedicated to Gin brands and from the buzz and activity around the plate glass doors of my local Gin Purveyors we seem to be open quite easily to suggestion and persuasion. There may be parallels to the historic Gin Crazes in todays slick and upmarket operations whether it is a feeling of more disposable income in our pockets, a desire for a bit of bling and glam on an evening out, peer pressure from film and tv depictions of sophistication or, going full circle, an expression of British Patriotism in uncertain times.

Valley of the Tolls

On the drive to York from Hull on the A1079 you come across the road sign for Kexby. 

After concentrating on the 40mph speed restriction, a bend to the left and then remarking at how big that Residential Care Home now is you are out and through with very little else to recount about the place. 

There is naturally a lot more by way of history and stories. 

The A1079 through Kexby as existing is a modern concession to cope with the high traffic volumes and includes a wide, flat bridge span over the River Derwent which is both a beautiful watercourse through Yorkshire and a major flood threat. 

It replaced and left stranded on a no-through road the wonderful 1650 built Kexby Bridge. 

Commissioned for Sir Roger Jaques Treseur who was Knighted by Charles the First and also held the office of Lord Mayor of York its narrow carriageway could not cope with motor traffic and there were frequent collisions and bumps.

In 1939 the Council refused to fund a widening scheme which would, anyway have been impractical to retain any of the later Grade II* Listed features of ashlar and red brick masonry, pointed cut waters and four course parapet. 

The road leading to the bridge from the eastern approach operated for many years with a Toll payable. 

On a regular basis the income from the Tolls was auctioned off to the highest bidder, one such sale being held at the Tiger Inn in Beverley in September 1822 when the stated annual collected amount was £221 (just under £20000 at current value).

In 1881 the local press advertised the sale of all of the Toll Buildings along the Hull to York road including Kexby marking the end of that particular method of funding highway maintenance. 

The Kexby Bridge Toll House, at some time occupied as a pair of houses under the addresses 1 and 2 Bridge Cottages is on the same eastern approach. 

I have always made a point of glancing at it whilst passing through even under the aforementioned requirements for safe motoring as it has some charm and character. The tone of brickwork in Georgian hand made thins is pleasing along with the sash windows and pantile roof and as to be remarked about that era of housing everything is in perfect proportion. 

Sidelined however along with the bridge the old road became a bit derelict and sometimes taken up by what looked like a collection of abandoned vehicles. 

You can therefore imagine the shock of seeing the old house as a partly burnt out shell with the roof gone. This was as a consequence of a fire in an upstairs room late one night in July this year. 

Fortunately no one was in residence at the time. 

The property is now being advertised for sale as a bit of a do-er upper. It will have some good stories to tell.

Made to Measure Trunks

Yes, you may have felt the urge to measure a tree but do you really know how to go about it? 

The Woodland Trust have produced a definitive guide on the subject covering all types, shapes and species of woodland and individual trees as part of their quest to increase awareness on their landscape value and ecological importance particularly for trees of Ancient Status.

A few prolific measurers have emerged in history with their life's work being to gather as many examples as possible. Alan Mitchell, the co founder of The Tree Register of the British Isles is said to have measured more than 100,000 trees in just over 40 years. 

There is a standard point on the trunk of a tree for a valid measurement and that is at a height of 1.5 metres from the ground. 

This should be, if on sloping ground, from the highest part of the surroundings. This is subject to a brief look to see if there has been any unusual ground disturbance or erosion which could give a wrong recording. 

If the tree happens to be on a bit of an angle which can occur if poorly planted, wind-damaged or in ill health then the point of measurement is to be taken on the underside. 

In the case of a fork in the tree or where the trunk is abnormally swollen then the smallest measurement below 1.5 metres should be taken and a note made of the actual height from the ground. 

With small or very low branches you may have to negotiate the tape measure above the growths although attempts should always be made to get as close as possible to the magic 1.5 metres. 

Some trees can be twinned or double stemmed they should be treated as a single and individual tree. 

A clump of trees are of value to the recording process as some can be of ancient status and worthy of close study. 

The measuring of a tree gives it an identity and helps to highlight its importance as perhaps the largest of its type in its local area. Without historical references for the vast majority of trees it is important to help estimate age. Those in the Natural Sciences and Ecology can use the data to assess growth rates as well. 

If you cannot physically get to a tree, for example it might be on private property, in a hazardous location or on the opposite side of a ditch or stream you may have to make an estimate. 

A useful way to measure is in "hugs". 

This involves an actual embrace of the trunk with one hug being the equivalent of 1.5 metres. 

It is helpful to have others with you to do the hugging and that makes it so much easier and a lot of fun.

So get out there and get on with it. 

Your records can be uploaded to the site

www.ancient-tree-hunt.org.uk

Russia Report 1873

The good people of Kingston Upon Hull always put on a good show to make visitors welcome. 

This would normally be with plenty of forward planning but what about with as little as 48 hours notice? 

That was certainly the case in the July of 1873 when the Lord Mayor and Corporation of Hull received notification of the imminent arrival of the Heir Apparent to the Russian Empire, the Czarewitch who within 8 years would become Alexander the Third. 

It was an important visit for the City given the strong commercial links of the port with Russia but it was not a State sponsored visit which was disappointing for the local Council and its Officers in terms of making it a great Civic Event. 

The Heir Apparent was on a flying visit to oversee the construction, by Earles Shipbuilders who operated on Hedon Road, of a Yacht for use by the Russian Royal Family. 

The entourage were to arrive by train from London with a brief halt at Hessle where the baggage was off loaded for forwarding to Kirkella Hall which was to host the private party. 

Even with such short notice a very credible programme of events was rapidly formulated to the extent that tickets were issued for those privileged enough to be on the platform at Paragon Station for the arrival. 

As the locomotive approached the citizens of Hull congregated on the newly built Park Street bridge and in the precincts of the station itself men and boys clambered up onto the roofs of carriages to get a better vantage point. 

From somewhere in the vaults was found VIP carpets in green and crimson as well as a multitude of what was described in the local press as "large and handsome flags" on municipal buildings. 

The Officials of Kingston Upon Hull dressed in their formal ceremonial attire and a good contingent of the Fourth East York Artillery Volunteers and their Band formed a guard of honour for the Russian Heir. 

There was by all accounts a large crowd either drawn by news of the event or just milling about on their own normal day to day activities. They were all trying to catch a glimpse of Alexander and his Consort. The Czar to be was a tall man, over six feet in height and wore a light grey suit. 

He paused briefly to receive the welcome speech from the Lord Mayor but without response as he was understandably keen to fulfil the purpose of his private visit across town. 

The route taken by the Royal convoy followed Whitefriargate, Lowgate, High Street and Market Place with yet more displays of flags and bunting and an enthusiastic crowd. 

The shipyard of Earles was a major employer in Hull with around 2000 workers covering all of the skills and tasks of an important company. As well as surveying his own commissioned Yacht the Czarewitch showed great interest in many of the other vessels at varying stages of construction, amongst them warships for the Chilean Navy and a vessel intended for a cross channel route with a revolutionary Bessemer Saloon which pivoted with the motion of the ship to counter sea sickness. 

After a couple of hours the Russian Royal party took the long drive westwards along Anlaby Road, Wold Carr and through the small village of Anlaby to stay and be entertained at Kirkella Hall. 

The best intentions of a Civic Welcome had been largely thwarted by the private purposes and brevity of the visit but graciously the Czarewitch sent a letter of very complimentary thanks to the Hull Corporation which was very well received. 

Off to a flying Start

If you drive to the west of Hull into Brough, now a sprawling housing area, and through towards the old Roman harbour at Brough Haven you cannot avoid sight of the former Blackburn Aircraft Company factory. 

Latterly occupied by BAe Systems and now sub divided into a High Tec Business Park it was in the halcyon days of flying in the inter war years a thriving manufacturing site for many great and iconic planes. 

My late Father in law worked there on, in particular the Blackburn Beverley a quite unusual looking machine used for freight and aerial parachute drops by the RAF. 

From the 1920's the physical location of Brough on the Humber Estuary became synonymous with the development of flying boats intended for the military. 

The first model, the Blackburn Iris which went through a series of subsequent modifications was an all metal construction which marked a major technical change from wood and fabric composition. 

The Blackburn Iris

The Iris was a bi-wing aircraft with three large engines mounted between the lower and upper wings which themselves sat above the boat shaped fuselage. 

It's particular sphere of operation with the RAF was in long range maritime reconnaissance and although in service for around 4 years there were only 5 actually built. The Iris was succeeded in the early 1930's by the Blackburn Perth which was in fact another incarnation of the Iris and the Blackburn Sydney, a more advanced monoplane design although still retaining for power and speed the distinctive upper mounted triple propeller engines. 

Only 4 of the Perth's were ordered by the RAF but there were high hopes at the Blackburn factory in Brough for the then futuristic looking Sydney to be taken in much larger volumes and therefore constituting a commercial success for the company. 

The Blackburn Perth (War Museum Collection)

The Sydney was reputed at the time to be the largest and fastest monoplane flying boat in the world. 

That was quite a claim in an era of strong global competition and in reality it was only initially targeted for military use. The all metal construction had been pioneered by the predecessor types and in late 1930 the sole prototype was being tested in air trials from its Humber mooring stage at Brough. 

Blackburn Sydney

The actual performance was a closely guarded secret but 120mph as a top speed was suggested. 

The specification of the Perth Flying Boat had actually indicated a slightly higher top speed but in the hype and media attention for the revolutionary appearance of the Sydney such a fact had been conveniently forgotten. 

The three engines gave out 525 horse power each. They were positioned in what were called nacelles on top of the wing along with water tanks, radiators and a cooler whilst the fuel tanks sat in the hull structure. 

The crew of 5 were accommodated with some home comforts including sleeping cupboards in the style of a trawler's quarters, a small galley and a lavatory. The military application determined gunnery posts in the bow and amidships. 

The launch of the prototype from Brough for a rendezvous with the RAF Assessors in Felixstowe was not at first successful and the aircraft was forced to return to base by heavy fog down the East Coast. 

When the appointment was finally met there was ultimate disappointment in that although having taken delivery of the Iris and Perth the RAF did not take to the Sydney. 

The prototype was the only one ever made. 

Blackburn as a manufacturer of Flying Boats lost ground rapidly to the likes of Supermarine, Short with its work horse in the Sunderland and the more exotic Martin Mariner and Consolidated Catalina. 

For a few years on the Humber however the Blackburn family of flying boats will have been quite a sight.