On the Olympic Trail. 2012

 

Box Hill

I dug a brown glass beer bottle out of the flinty, chalky soil on the lower slopes of Box Hill, Surrey.

It had caught my attention and momentary interest  because it was just proud of the surface of the raised verge on which I would be perched for the next 5 hours as part of my attendance at the London Olympics 2012.

The decision to occupy that specific point had not been taken lightly. As we, my wife and The Boy, had joined the huge queue at the gates of the venue for the Womens Cycling Road Race we congratulated ourselves on the early start to the day even though some of the number had obviously been in transit and had arrived at quite an unearthly hour in their part winter and optimistic summer attire of shorts and T shirt, typically part shrouded in a very British cagoule and the embellishment of something with the Union Jack colours , either a large flag, a hat, tote bag or folded travel rug.

Amongst the red, white and blue were many other National colours, the very, very  orange Dutch, Maple Leaf Canadians, green and yellow Aussies, a few less obvious Americans and many more. The long, snaking line displayed perfect manners and consideration for personal space as we shuffled along towards the ticket area and security. It was airport style and collectively everyone knew what to do and what to jettisone before the bag search procedure undertaken by the cheery military in their desert fatigues.

Then, the buzz of anticipation upon hearing the tannoy system broadcasting from the start line on The Mall. It was still a couple of hours before the riders would embark on the tough race route through the south western London Boroughs and into leafy and undulating Surrey lanes but we listened attentively to the commentary of the signing on and a few interviews with the main contenders.

Our vantage point on the raised bank of the verge, bottles aside, was rough and stoney. A few of our neighbours for the duration undertook mini civil engineering projects to excavate and level the surface. Others ventured into the woods and returned with short stumps, branches and logs out of which were fashioned rustic stools, refectory benches and picnic tables. We just sat on our coats, wiggling our buttocks to form a perfect mould in the ground.

On the lower approach slope to Box Hill we watched as the constant stream of people passed by heading for the loftier heights of Butterfly Bend, Donkey Green and Dormouse Drive. It was a mass transit situation. The three person sized gap on the bank adjacent to ours was briefly occupied by a father, mother and grumpy daughter but they did not settle and left to rejoin the flow up the hill. The words about the other mans grass was always greener came to mind as they left. A quiet family group moved in next and after deciding on the boundary of our spaces in an amicable way we chatted. They were cycling fans as well so we were spared any technical explantions of what was to take place on the roadway at our feet.

A cheer reverberated around the crowd as the race started from Buckingham Palace. I had made a point of checking the anticipated arrival time for the race at Box Hill. It would be at least another hour and forty five minutes. A few of our neighbours looked excitedly down the narrow tarmac lane for the race to appear instantaneously. It would be a long day for them. There were plenty of things to do. Mostly people watching. Then cloud watching followed by sheltering from the rain under cagoules, hats, flags, tote bags and travel rugs. It poured down with no respite from any overhanging boughs.

Those who had spent time on hands and knees on the road scratching away with quarried chalk saw their works of art depicting the names of the GB riders, overseas flags, words of encouragement and a couple of rude depictions simply diluted and then washed away in the steady downhill stream. Before the race arrived the graffitti had to be refreshed two or three times to restore its sentiment.

The commentator was getting animated conveying reports from around the route and this was transferred to the drip-dry crowd. The race had come through torrential downpours out on the course, localised floods, multiple punctures and frequent tumbles on the greasy town roads but were now on the dual carriageway at the base of Box Hill.

Police motorcycle outriders showboated past offering gauntlet clap high-fives, the official vehicles blasted their horns and the occupants waved whilst their passengers held their cameras up to the windscreen to record the scene and atmosphere. We leaned out from the bank, as did everyone, or some spilled out onto the thick white lines on the road to be physicallly pressed back by the stewards. The noise was deafening from the early warning screeching of a megaphone, to cheering and the overhead TV helicopter. More vehicles at speed. Then the cluster of riders, grubby and grime spattered but determined and at close quarters came through on the first of two circuits. Spectators either saw at first hand or recorded it for posterity. The speed of the riders passage prevented any attempt at multi-tasking. The nearest of the peleton were within touching distance.

We breathed in to give them a bit more space between the loose banked verges. They must have been able to smell the crowd and the rain sodden laundry odours mixed with red wine, sausage rolls, salt and vinegar crisps and bacon baguettes. Then gone, trailed by the team cars with bikes and wheels precariously positioned on roof racks. A few riders, off the pace on the hill, were raucously cheered. Chile, Thailand, Venezuela on the first lap and a few more of the European riders on the second lap as the main contenders kicked in for the return to London.

We joined the damp but happy cyclng fans and casual observers on the descent of the hill. It poured again and the scene took on a misty and surreal appearance of an exodus but in rainbow colours of flags and pack-a-macs. Manners and behaviour were of course, impeccable.

Hull Floods 14 year retrospective

It was 14 years ago to this very week that it rained. I can remember it very well for a number of small, trivial reasons and two massive ones.

The day started off with the sighting by me and my son of a wild deer which was, with no regard to its own welfare, just grazing and gazing within the excavated bowl of the new road junction about 2 miles from our house. How it had got into the inner sanctum was not clear and after our initial wonderment at just having seen such a timid, sprightly creature, we did express concern about how it might get back into its more natural environment farther up the wooded hillside swopping a forest ride for the busy dual carriageway.

We were on the way to the unreasonably early start of a car boot sale at a new venue for us. It had promised well from chatting with other sellers at our usual recreational field pitch. It was in more affluent catchment area, close to a motorway junction for casual passing buyers, well established and popular or so we had been told. It actually turned out to be well away from any population areas, off the main traffic flows, in an old chicken farm and quite a dead loss in terms of actual trade. We had arrived early and were directed by a toothless old boy, the smallholder, to a narrow, claustrophobic pitch even for one outside, right in the middle of an old strawberry field complete with canes and wires.

It was the first sale we had participated at that we had not been pounced upon by dealers and scavengers as soon as we had opened the tailgate of the car. That did not promise much for the rest of our confinement in that place because we were now well and truly trapped by the slow build up of other sellers. There would be no possibility of leaving early even if we felt like giving the whole thing up. The first couple of hours dragged by with only a few pounds sterling to show for our endeavours. My best offering of a Champions League Final programme, £8 from WH Smiths, was looking a bit sorry and curling up at the edges in quite a fierce and persistent heat from the sun and with no respite from any shelter or shade.

My son first remarked on some quite magnificent towering cloud structures that had sailed from the west into the otherwise powder blue sky. They were like nothing I had ever seen before, and I had always made a point of commenting on such phenomena with the children and so knew what constituted a noteworthy cluster. Billowing, dazzling white. The occasional vapour trails of high flying passenger jets seemed to punch through the meringue-like peaks which again was something I had not seen before. We were certainly witnessing quite an unusual formation.

Such was our concentration on the clouds that our entire stock and the pasting table itself could have been whisked away by unscrupulous car-booters and we would not have noticed. Our meteorological observations made the morning fly by.

Then a gap in our closely packed row opened up as a fellow seller expressed frustration and upped and went and we too made our escape.

That very afternoon was to be at the 90th birthday party of a family friend. My son and me were quite radiant facially from a south facing morning and were expecting to attract attention as a consequence from the other guests.

As we arrived at Clarice's house for a garden party the mountainous Cumulus, which had followed us from the farmyard into town were in freefall. The collapse resembled a slow motion avalanche into a dirty grey full sky cover of rain cloud and with a strong driving wind now developing. The party, momentarily basking in the heat , had to retreat indoors in what became a torrential downpour and with no indications of a reprieve or even a brief sunny interval.

The rain continued for the next 36 hours and developed into the misery of the Hull flood with hundreds of houses inundated in flash flooding and from the complete overwhelming of the foul and surface drainage systems over large parts of the urban and suburban areas.

This weekend, the fourteenth anniversary of the floods has fortunately, so far, not followed on from a similar spate of weather.  

There has been some heavy and persistent rainfall but interspersed with close to 25 degree heat to evaporate any surplus moisture,  The clay soils which underlie much of the low lying Hull have not been able to fill up and unlike 2007 we may have much less to worry about on this anniversary. 

I am sure that lessons have been learned from the events of  14 years ago. 

There is no guarantee that a similar chain of events will not occur again and chances are given the unpredictability of Climate Change we will certainly see their like again.

Trumping the Queen

 It was, back in the early 1980’s, just a bit of harmless fun. 

If we attempted the same today we would, for certain,be shot on sight. 

Giggling a bit, as excitable 17 year olds are prone to do, a group of us made our way up a steep grassy bank and there in front of us was the splendour of the Humber Suspension Bridge. 

It was a mass of activity on the eve of the formal opening ceremony by Queen Elizabeth II which was to take place on 17^th July 1981. A grand civic event it was to be. 

After all, the structure was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world , a major feat of technical and civil engineering and deserving of accolade and acclaim. 

Work had begun way back in 1972 with the North Tower completed some two years later on the hard chalk bed rock of the Humber Bank. The need to establish the South Tower in a caisson to counter the shifting mud of the river meant it was a further couple of years before the task of spinning the cables to support the box road sections could begin. 

The sections, prefabricated on shore and then floated into position took from the autumn of 1979 until the following summer to be lifted and fixed to allow the road surface to be laid. 

Although the visit of HM The Queen was to be the highlight of the £90 million project the bridge was actually useable by traffic in June 1981 as a test period. The infrastructure features of the visitor car park and Toll Booths were well established and from the former we had started our stunt. 

Only one of us, all still at school, had a driving licence and use of a car at that time and so Dave, his real name, being that person was the natural choice to take centre stage in what we had planned. 

It should also be said that Dave was the only person with access to a formal dinner suit or tuxedo and although this was his fathers it was a reasonable fit. 

In a bid to tidy up for the ceremony the concourse in front of the north tower booths was littered with building materials and stray vehicles of contractors and the Bridge Board but this provided good cover for us. We were also out of the line of vision from the futuristic Control Room Building which was an advantage against detection. 

Like a well oiled machine we all knew our roles. Two of us attached the stringy ends of multi coloured cotton bunting to respective sides of one of the booth lanes and Dave, with his Mother’s best dress making scissors, made a ceremonial incision accompanied by a short speech along the lines of “God Bless the Bridge and all who cross over her”. I was not sure then as now whether a bridge is of the feminine gender. 

The fourth member of our clique took a few photographs as a permanent record of the event. 

Dave does the deed

We must have looked very dodgy and furtive but at no time were we approached or challenged by anyone of authority. This accentuated our feeling of elation and success although in truth we may just have been one of a succession of students with the same prank idea and that the Bridge Staff,  tired of being distracted ahead of the Royal Visit,  just turned a blind eye to our adolescent behaviour. 

The whole thing took just a few minutes but (sadly) forms one of the most satisfying moments of my otherwise very conventional and boring teenage years. 

As far as I know the official ceremony went off well but then again not surprising as our dress rehearsal will have ironed out any potential difficulties that the Queen may have experienced on her and the Bridge’s big day.

The Lost Neighbourhood

 

St Mark Street

If there were an award for the most uninspiring street in Hull, then it would surely go to St Mark Street, just to the north east of the city centre.

The streetscene is today dominated by stark and dull palisade fencing around non-descript light industrial premises. There is no residential presence whatsoever.

It is one of those areas where after normal business hours there is nothing to bring or cause people to stay.

It is sad to think that the street was once vibrant and home to many in forecourt frontage and small pedestrian terraces set off the roadway.

As an indication of the vitality of St Mark Street some 41 in number of its young men were sent away to the First World War. A good proportion of these never returned. If you roll back another 60 years or so from this enforced depopulation then you would see the beginnings of that community.

In 1855 the street was dominated by St Mark's Church which could seat 1135 according to the Ordnance Survey mapping. A Vicarage, from the one dimensional footprint, evidently quite a grand place followed shortly after.

By 1891 various trades and factories had moved in at the western end closest to Cleveland Street which ran down towards the riverfront dock basins and wharfage. This included a Blue and Black Lead manufacturer and the distinctive roundels of the holders of The Sutton, Sculcoates and Drypool Gas Company.

A Directory of residents for 1892 recorded such tradespersons as tinners, engineers, a gardener, grocers, waggonette proprietor and landlady's of lodging houses on the main thoroughfare or in the terraces off which were named Susannah's, Janes, Symons and George's.

There were enough children in the early 1890's to justify construction of a school directly behind the church and employment to support the locals including a further Starch Works and Iron Foundry.

The eastern end of the street crossed a watercourse known as Foredyke Stream which bisected the city before discharging into the tidal River Humber and out to the North Sea.

In the years after the First World War the area will have experienced the same socio-economic highs and lows that affected the nation and much of the western world. Residents will have drifted off into better perceived parts of a growing Port City, to healthier and greener suburbs and other forms of employment. This migration will have, in its way, saved many from death and injury during the relentless bombing of Hull by the Luftwaffe which saw, on a citywide basis, 1200 civilians killed and 86715 homes damaged leaving only just under 6000 properties intact.

A map of the blitz on Hull shows a concentration of high explosive bomb impacts on and around St Mark Street indicating that the Gas Company was a primary target as well as the dispersed industrial buildings no doubt because of their contribution to the war effort in their own small but important ways.

The landmark Church was bombed and was eventually demolished in 1958, the school already being denoted as a ruin by this time. The cleared site became a yard to store the timber imports arriving in the Eastern Docks from Scandinavia and Russia.

The densely packed housing, by mid 20th Century standards, was now considered insanitary and was gradually knocked down and left as vacant sites until being covered by large steel portal frame sheds and warehouses. The ugly palisade fencing soon followed.

Uninspiring it may be now but this accolade should not commit the street to anonymity.

I was talking to a longstanding local just a few days ago and a story of his gave me some encouragement that St Mark Street will never be forgotten as a valuable neighbourhood in its time.

As a night shift worker in a fruit and vegetable wholesalers on St Mark Street in the 1990's he and a co-worker witnessed first hand some very strange goings-on.

Wooden boxes full of produce would with regularity and  without warning, fly violently off the racking in the warehouse.

Shadowy figures suddenly materialised  to stand and peer through upstairs windows. If you stared back or blinked they would move off but without casting a shadow or passing other windows on the same level.

On one particular shift at about 3am a terrible sound was heard out in the delivery yard.
It was a constant and pitiful wailing.

The co-workers at first thought it to be from  babes and infants but given the industrial surroundings this was just not a possibility.

Their curiosity overruled any feelings of fear and dread.

The source of the cacophony was a large collection of domestic cats, their appearance indicating well cared for pets rather than feral by nature. This was unusual as the nearest homes were about half a mile away.

Resembling what could easily have been a staged calendar shoot the creatures were all facing the same way towards a narrow foot passage as though awaiting or in fear of something or someone.

The arrival of the workers caused the cats to immediately silence.

There was a strange piercing silence before footsteps could be heard deep in the darkness of the foot way. Amplified by the confines of that space the footfalls were clear and distinct. It was a heavy booted sound, the sort produced by a thick leather sole. The deeper tones were interspersed by a lighter metallic resonance as though from a loose buckled strap. There was no-one to be seen from where the steps originated.

The co-workers were rooted to the spot in the yard, too scared to move let alone make a run for the building. The steady pace continued, progressively nearer from across the empty street. The metronome rhythm had a spellbinding effect.

A collision between entity and humans seemed imminent.

The parties were almost, audibly, toe to toe, face to face and then ......nothing.

The story was told to me in great detail as it had obviously been recounted many, many times before.

The arrival of the dawn must have been most welcome after the events of the early hours on that day. The two workers refused thereafter to take the night shift after what they had witnessed even though they had to endure considerable scepticism and mockery from colleagues and acquaintances.

I like to think that the St Mark Street spirits was just offering up a small reminder of its past and in a very effective way, not too menacing and with a lot of mischief. The leather soles will have been similar to those worn by manual workers in the foundry, starch or blue lead industries. You will have seen the type in grainy old black and white films.

Although such movies will have been either silent, dubbed or heavily over-scored in an Imperious soundtrack there will have been an implied metallic resonance from the small fastening buckles so characteristic of artisan footwear of that era.

Eelvolution

It was never a case that I intentionally fished for freshwater Eels. 

Their presence in the depths of the local river was never in doubt but it was not until they broke the surface having greedily taken the bait that you actually found out they were there. 

There was always a few seconds of excitement after striking with a strong pull and tension on the nylon line and that anticipation of a good specimen fish but then ultimate disappointment with the actual catch. 

There was still a lot to do to get the silvery streak to the river bank so as not to lose all of the fishing tackle. The creature would wrap itself in a tight and slimy mass by way of self protection and it was very difficult to extricate it and return it to the murky depths. 

So was perpetuated through me the fascination with and mythical status of the Eel. 

There has always been a close association between humans and the Eel as a primary and plentiful food source either from wild stock or intentionally farmed and yet it is only in very recent years that the lifecycle and breeding habits have become the subject of study. 

That has not been without considerable interest in the species from prominent historic figures. 

Aristotle put forward his theory that Eels were generated by the very action of water on worm casts and emerged out of the earth. The Romans attributed the proliferation of Eels to their rubbing on the rocks and offspring coming from the scrapings of skin. In the Middle Ages some claimed to have seen Eels emerging from the thatch on the roof of their homes or hatching from dew drops. 

All of this mystery arose from the fact that no-one had ever actually witnessed the life cycle process. 

A study in France just before the Second World War involved the placing of 1000 Elven (baby eels) in a tank. The small 5cm infants were fed on worms and yet after 12 months only 71 remained after what the Laboratory Assistants described as scenes of relentless cannibalism. In a true survivalist way after a further 3 months only an oversized and very content female eel resided in the tank. 

The freshwater Eel, just one of many within the species thrives in river deltas and upstream where they act as predators and serve a valuable role in the ecological hierarchy. 

There continued in history studies and personal quests to shed light on the life cycle. 

One Naturalist in the 18th Century disected an Eel and observed within what he thought were offspring. However, he was mustaken and had just come across parasitic worms. The Italians continued in their studies and thought that they had found the reproductive process in an Eel fished from the Po Delta. The ovary and eggs which were triumphantly displayed to an interested scientific community were in fact from a closely related species but of the fish and not Eel genus. 

The breeding of Eels had still never actually been witnessed by humans. 

A reward was offered for presentation of a suitable specimen for further study but a fisherman filled a dead eel with roe eggs to swindle the organisers out of their money. 

The great Sigmund Freud, when a student in Vienna was entrusted with a summer job to track the life cycle but he failed to progress the knowledge of the Eel. 

In the 1850's a scientist found miniscule larvae washed up on the Italian coastline. In a bit of a brainwave he counted the vertebrae as a guide to try to identify the adult of the same species which was the freshwater Eel. This was a major step. 

It was not until well into the first quarter of the 2oth Century that an Oceanographer adopted the revolutionary approach of tracking the life cycle in reverse. In this way the trail led to the discovery of the Sargasso Sea which lies in the Bermuda Triangle as the principal origin of the Eel. 

It was only in 2020 that a single female Eel was able to be tagged and tracked out of some 400 in the experiment. From the St Lawrence in Canada the journey crossed the Atlantic to the East of Scotland, back to Maine and then along the south magnetic longitude to the Sargasso. 

To date the mating of the Eel has still not been witnessed and the mystery, fable and myth persists. 

Festival of Britain in Hull 1951

This week in 1951 saw the opening of the Festival of Britain, an event open to millions with the intention of it to be a catalyst for optimism and recovery after the dour years after the end of the Second World War when Rationing and bomb sites were still a fact of everyday life for a good proportion of the UK population. 

The Festival had been the idea of Herbert Morrison, initially as a commemoration of the Centenary of the Great Exhibition in the reign of Queen Victoria but it gradually became a beacon for national identity and enterprise rather than a showcase of Britain to the wider world. 

The emphasis was to be on industry, arts and science with exhibits and displays of the best that the nation had to date. The focal point of the Festival in London included the Dome of Discovery and the Skylon, a cigar shaped structure of steel giving the impression of a spaceship. 

There were also Regional Events with main Provincial Cities doing associated Festivals and in my home City, Kingston Upon Hull a number of satellite events were held or planned. 

Suggestions before a specially formed Committee included open days at Factories, a display by British Rail, shop window and public area floral displays, the illumination of buildings with floodlights, Festival Events for children in the City Parks and educational literature for Hull Schools.

Ambitious proposals for a £200000 budget on a 26 acre site on Bricknell Avenue on which to hold events never progressed beyond the tentative plan stage although there had been good interest from exhibitors and trades. The reasons for cancellation were rearmament, strain on the local economy and also the impact of climate on the actual site. It had been intended for the site to champion agriculture with the support of the National Farmers Union under the theme of "Country comes to town". 

There was a Festival of Britain Regatta in East Park, Hull and proposals were made to lay foundation stones for new Government Offices and a Technology College in Queens Gardens. 

Further industrial and agricultural shows and displays were planned as well as cultural events such as a Marine Art Exhibition. 

Perhaps the most interesting and unique event was for 6 sheep to be taken every day to City Hall where they would be sheared, the wool treated and made into garments on the spot. 

Kipper Ties and Herring Aids

For decades in the Yorkshire Port City of Hull the resident population saw a brief increase during the months of January to March. 

The demographic of the arrivals to the City was easy to see- most of them, Women and Men hailed from Stornaway in the far North of Scotland comprising fisher folk following the work that revolved around the Norwegian Herring Season. 

In 1949 The Hull Daily Mail reported on that years influx of Scots which numbered some 300 who were called in to assist in the processes of Kipper Production in the many traditional fish curing houses that contributed to the persistence of an oak infused smokey atmosphere between Hessle Road and the Fish Dock. 

Winter and early Spring saw the first Norwegian Herring Ships arrive in the Port with their ice encrusted silver scale bounty which had been caught off the Scandinavian Coast before being collected in the Fjords for shipping to Hull. 

The demand for experienced labour was high to cope with the scheduled 4 ship loads every week in the season. 

The army of Scots were multi-generational in profile with mothers and fathers, sons, daughter, cousins and seniors and made their living from the hard and demanding kipper industry. 

Hull was just the first in a transient existence which through the year saw the workforce move on to Peterhead, Wick and Yarmouth. In between was a brief return to their home territory in the Western Isles. 

There was of course fish curing operations in Hull on an all year round basis but the opening rush of the season always required the Scottish contingent. 

The workers dressed in clogs, blue overalls and oilskin aprons carried out the splitting, cleaning, pickling, smoking and packing as well as separating the milts (livers) and the roe. They will have been exposed to the cold, wet and icy atmosphere with a risk of muscular and respiratory illness, rheumatics and what we now know as repetitive strain injury notwithstanding potential for cuts and abrasions from the knives and tools of the trade. There was little by way of staff amenities and comforts apart from a glowing brazier in the Fish House yards. 

The Norwegian Herring were amongst the largest in size of the species and when packed in ice made for very heavy working. Many of the women strapped up their wrists with string to give extra support.

The Hull Daily Mail visited just one of the many Fish Curing Houses on Subway Street where 21 Scottish girls and 14 men had come down from the North. The youngest were just 14 and 15 years old but were already well experienced in the work as though it was deep rooted in their ancestral genes. 

Just this one establishment would, in the Hull Season, process around two million kippers for the UK Market. 

Wages in 1949 were £4 a week plus allowances of around 25 shillings for lodgings and travelling. Many took rooms in the terraced streets around the Hessle Road corridor for the duration and in true Scottish style immersed themselves in the recreational and cultural pursuits that Hull offered with regular outings to the Picture Palaces and Dance Halls. The Subway Street workers in particular expressed their interest in going to see the Wrestling Matches that were put on in various venues around the City. 

They were a tight knit group, rarely homesick because of their strong sense of community even hundreds of miles away from the Isles. A few of their number stayed and settled down in Hull but the majority would move on to follow the Herring Season as it continued its momentum through the year. 

Smooth Operator

Builders are always disrespectful of the endeavours of other builders.

I have seen many a contractor tut-tutting and oh-no-ing when happening upon a piece of work by a fellow craftsman when they should really be holding up the honour and endorsing the respect of their vocation.

The language of criticism usually involves such phrases as "that should be 50 mill and not 35 mill", "I do not know how that wall is still standing", "what mix did they use, was it 3-4-3 or 4-2-4?" and "have they used self flanging spigots or self flagellating bigots".

Take the skill, or in reality the art form that is plastering.

It is a dying craft and I blame the high volume house builders who in the relentless pursuit of profit insist on an internal finish that is cheap and rapid hence the widespread use of dot and dab. This is where large sheets of plasterboard are pressed and adhered directly onto the inner leaf of a wall and then taped at the joints and skim finished before the wishy-washy pastel shade emulsion is applied.

A few years hence it was the time served plasterer who would prepare the wall for a slurry and render coat prior to applying, with the care and diligence of a champion cake icer, the ultra smooth and glossy sheen plaster.

The same attention is necessary to provide a beautifully smooth finish to a ceiling.

I had a local builder carry out some renovations a few years ago at my home. His best plasterer did a fantastic job in one of the rooms but then disappeared from the workforce to be replaced by the builder himself.

Some builders build and some are best at managing others who build. My builder was firmly in the latter category.

Unfortunately I did not realise this until our family dog tipped us off.

It was not a case of the dog keeping a close eye on proceedings when we were all out at work and then informing on poor practice.

The ultimate criticism was in the frantic scrambling sound of paws on a bare floor in the middle of the night in an attempt to escape the fracturing and falling away of a full, and only hours before ,plaster skimmed ceiling.

It turns out that the builder had forgotten to bond the old ceiling prior to his work.

Recently, my daughter did some volunteer work on a building project and was seconded to a plastering gang in the renovation of a Victorian terraced house for low cost accommodation.

One of the plasterers gave a master class in his art and passed on the wisdom and plain common sense on which he based his working life.

1. “It’s all about the edges.”

2. When the plaster’s on, you’re on the plaster’s time, not yours. So you can’t go for lunch at lunchtime if the plaster’s on.

3. Just slap the PVA glue on and the plaster will stick to the wall if you’re not plastering directly onto plasterboard.

4. It’s bloody messy.

5. Always clean the electric plaster mixer straight after you use it so that the plaster doesn’t dry on it and it becomes a pain in the arse to smash off the blades, which, if you do smash them up, they will then tear up your buckets.

6. Cut out the sparky’s cables afterwards - always leave it tidy for the next man. Even though some sparky’s can be proper c*nts and will leave massive cables dangling out of the wall.

7. Start working from top left to top right, then along the bottom upwards in long smooth strokes. That way you don’t get lines.

8. It wants to be the consistency of Angel Delight.

9. Don’t have your mouth open if you’re plastering ceilings.

10. The trowel is your most important tool. It’s an extension of your hand that makes all the money. So don’t leave it on the floor.

Flue Epidemic

The Chimney Sweep has assumed a nostalgic and also a romantic character with associations to wedding traditions and such depictions as Dick Van Dyke in the Mary Poppins Disneyfication. 

The role still exists today and remains in demand from those looking to maintain or restore an old chimney breast fireplace and flue to a safe and functional condition. 

In the past centuries the Chimney Sweep was an important contractor bearing in mind that the multitude of properties, residential, commercial and industrial relied upon coal fires. 

If you think about even a small terraced house there remained a reliance and dependence on an open hearth for background heating, cooking, hot water supply and laundry. A two-up and two-down dwelling would normally have a chimney breast in each habitable room and so extrapolated through densely populated towns and cities in particular made for a very steady level of business for the Chimney Sweep. 

There were machines and apparatus available for cleaning and repairing a flue but Sweeps felt that they would lose business as it was still the opinion of householders that a more satisfactory the job done by small children. The customer was evidently to be pleased and so physical coercion of youngsters to climb up the often tortuous and poorly built flue chambers was perpetuated. 

The 1862 Kingsley Classic of "The Water Babies" has at its core the experiences and salvation of just such a small child engaged in this hazardous, unhealthy and exploitative practice. 

Up to a UK Parliamentary Act in 1788 it had been permissible for an under 8 child to ascend a flue.

This was repealed and changed to a minimum age of 10 in 1834 and by the Chimney Sweeps Regulation Act in 1840 only those over the age of 21 could work in such an environment. 

That is not to say that illegal child labour was not taking place as only the slightest, skinny and by definition under nourished of juveniles could fit into what was a very unstandardised sizing of flue chambers and thereby keep the Sweepers' Businesses in operation. 

In 1852, in my home town of Kingston Upon Hull there arose a Legal Case in the Police Court against a John Ward who was described as a "Chimney Doctor". 

It was announced in the local media as one of the first transgressions of the Act within Hull. 

Ironically Ward had been a prominent upholder of the Legislation in his crusade to clamp down on unscrupulous contractors who were encroaching on his livelihood and income. 

On one May evening in that year Ward was alleged to have accosted on the street the diminuitive and skinny youth, Thomas Nestor who was then 17 years old with the offer of a Chimney Sweeping job on the following day. 

A Mrs Atkinson of 40 King Street, which was adjacent to Holy Trinity Church, Hull had given Ward the commission to solve the problem of a badly smoking chimney which served her kitchen. 

As a self professed Doctor of Chimneys the entrepreneurial Ward had diagnosed the issue causing the unpleasant back draught as an accumulation of mortar and rubbish in the brick lined flue. 

The young Nestor duly attended as agreed with the homeowner, ascended the chimney and dislodged the offending debris. 

Mrs Atkinson expressed her satisfaction with the job. 

Thomas Nestor claimed later that he never got paid for his labours. 

The transgression of the 1840 Act, specifically sub-section 3 was the reason for Ward being brought before the Court, that being the age restriction of 21 years for undertaking such work. 

The principal witness, Mrs Atkinson was not able to identify the lad who had gone up the chimney. That could have been down to a number of factors such as her not taking any notice whatsoever in who had turned up, the inherent snobbery between householders and tradespersons, that Nestor was in no way capable of being differentiated from other 17 year old youths or simply that having done a good job up the chimney he had been blackened by soot and debris so as to conceal any actual character features.

Ward also put up a strong defence through his Legal representative as he will have been fearful for his reputation and liberty in the Action. It was claimed on his behalf that the job of ascending the chimney had been delegated to Nestor's Master and that it had been that person and not Ward who had sent the lad to the address. 

In the light of the poor evidence at the disposal of the Prosecuting Authority the Court had no other option but to dismiss the Case. 

It was not until 1875 that the inhumane practice of child labour in chimneys was curtailed.

Seven Tenths

 You would think that 19 laps on push bikes around a public park may induce dizziness, fatigue and not a little bit of boredom.

Granted, the first two symptoms did in my case present themselves but that is not unusual for someone of my age taking a good bit of exercise after a few weeks of relative sloth.

It is not a tight circuit. At 0.7 miles a lap it is a reasonable distance and with enough variation in the road surface and a few fixed and random hazards to keep concentration high and with that a bit of adrenalin and determination.

At 10am on a Sunday morning Pearson Park, Kingston Upon Hull,  is pretty busy.

There are a few stragglers making their way home after the night before. Those who did go out for their Saturday social but had a sudden pang of guilt and conscience are jogging and trying to fight back a feeling of nausea.

There is a small collection of outdoor gym equipment in gawdy paintwork on which a few brave souls gyrate, Nordic ski, thrust and pump.

A solitary figure is on one leg and makes various quite artistic poses with flailing arms but I not really sure if he is actually doing any recognised form of meditative exercise. He may just be drunk or high and has an urge to stretch and marvel at the sunlight through the park trees. He seems happy enough.

One parked car has self adhesive signage in the back window advertising a ladies only fitness instructor. Nearby one thin energetic muscly female and three less energetic but determined chubbier ones are moving around a series of cones in an organised routine with hand held weights and medicine balls followed by groaning sessions as they lie down on thin foam mats on the dewy grass legs raised.

On the opposite side of the park it is American Football practice with large and stout males with over the head shoulder pads practicing short play tactics with a fair amount of the posturing and attitude of their sporting heroes.

After a wind blown night a few mums and dads search around for fallen conkers in preference to the labour intensive process of lobbing large sticks into the lower boughs of the horse chestnut trees. The accompanying children are excited in finding a spiky green body but underwhelmed by its contents, however fresh, glossy and smooth.

The trees around the edge of the road on which we cycle are looking in a sorry state from the early autumn battering . Our tyres crunch through the remains of crushed conkers. On occasion we can feel the impact of a conker as it is released in the gusty breeze and hits us directly or bounces up into our spokes.

For the first time since, I cannot really recall, one enterprising and entertaining parent is running along having launched a small traditional kite. A small dog chases at his heels and a child is either laughing or crying at the situation. Laughing because the whole thing looks very comical. Crying because only the dog and the man are really having the fun.

In the strengthening morning sun the café is open and its outdoor tables are already taken up with readers of the papers taking slow sips of their teas and latte's.

The reptile house has just opened by the lake. It is not a very inspiring building but those passing through the exit chatter with delight at what they have just seen in the form of lizards and tropical fish. It is quite a little treasure and its own humid micro-climate is welcoming on a sharp September day.

The statue of Queen Victoria in white marble is perhaps the most flattering representation of that great monarch who always seems to be depicted in a dour and dark pose in other civic settings.

Noises are increasing from the large children's playground now fully accessible after the park attendants have cleared away the usual accumulation of drinks cans and fag ends which materialise as if by magic every morning.

This is the setting for our 60 minutes of fast pedalling around the park circuit. We blend in quite well with all the activity. I think that hardly anyone noticed us at all.

Queen Victoria on the Toliet

I have eaten my saturday shopping sausage and chips in its shadow. 

It has been the hub for many a political and environmental demonstration and a focal point for civic and other celebrations including the triumphal reception for Hull City AFC upon their ascension to the Premier League in 2008 and in the Year of UK City of Culture.  

It is of course the Landmark Statue of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston Upon Hull. 

Therein lies an interesting bit of history. 

If you study the old town maps for Hull in the latter years of the illustrious reign of Victoria that part of the City Centre was very different- in fact a bit of a slum. 

It was a maze of alleys of poor quality housing, dark and threatening alleys and passages, declining businesses, a haze of smoke and some interesting and unpleasant odours. 

The Dock Offices fronted Junction Street and the function of the locality was aptly explained in the road names of Waterworks and Engine Streets. The exact position of the monument was previously occupied by what appears to have been a Post Office and as part of a larger block including a public house. The only name recognisable to me on the old maps is New Cross Street, a short thoroughfare to what was Queens Dock. 

For a major Port and Regional Town this mish-mash of buildings and uses was a big embarrassment to the Councillors and people of Hull. A statement of Civic ambition and aspiration was needed and in 1900 the Junction Scheme was proposed. This was intended to create a Grand Square for the City and at its heart would be a memorial to the recently deceased Monarch. 

In a Public Appeal in 1901 some £15000 was raised for the erection of a monument. The Reckitt family contributed £5000, Joseph Rank £2000 and with several other wealthy folk each giving £1000. 

The commission for the statue went to Henry Charles Fehr who had already provided a similar statue in Liverpool and with the wider project to James Glen Sivewright Gibson, Architect. 

Fehr was a major appointment with his specialism being historical and civic figures and a number of notable War Memorials. J S Gibson was similarly accomplished in his work. 

The larger than life bronze figure of Victoria in bronze mperial robes was mounted on a Portland Stone plinth giving a towering height of 35 feet. At her side sat smaller figures depicting the Mistress of Seas and Dominion of Land. It was unveiled by the Prince and Princess of Wales in 1903. Within 6 years the statue was joined by completion of Hull City Hall, an imposing and classically styled building which to this day retains it importance to the cultural life of its population. 

All seemed well and good for Hull with its status and due respect to the life of Victoria but in 1923 there arose much debate in the City Council Chamber over its relationship with further improvements in the Square. 

This was because of the design for new subterranean public lavatories. 

A few Councillors of a sensitive nature questioned whether the proximity of the toilets to the statue was in the interests of the moral welfare of the City. One member of the opposition claimed to have sounded out the King's Secretary on the subject and although declined to offer up the correspondence as irrefutable proof he stated that the scheme would be regarded with Royal disfavour. 

The City Architect, Mr Joseph Hirst, pointed out that the statue did long pre-date the proposals for the new amenities which would be of a commensurate high standard of design and materials to compliment the existing street scene. There would be no detraction from the aim of achieving Civic Grandeur.

In fact, and to act as a visual aid those debating the contentious issue, Hirst stated that the actual area of the underground chambers would be as big as the Council Chamber itself.

Misleading statements in the media had, it was argued, stirred up a lot of public fervour but in a Council Chamber Vote the motion to relocate Victoria was defeated. 

The scheme was completed with much approval in 1925 and to this day Queen Victoria remains on the toilet. 

Grand Irrational

I think that it is The Grand National today.

There was a supplement in my saturday newspaper with the definitive guide to the runners and riders but I left it unread.

The news media has been primed all week with the human interest stories linked to the owners, backers, punters, the man who makes up the huge hurdles, Liverpool in general, stable lads and lassies, the course and a host of other coincidences, freakish events associated with the race or with any link even if at first there is no apparent connection whatsoever.

A few celebrities were featured who have frittered away their monies on a race horse. Other tales relate to those who sacrificed everything to keep that gangley legged nag in oats and on straw and who were convinced or at least hoping that this year was theirs. After all they had been told so by a fortune teller or the stars and planets were so arranged to resemble, funnily enough, a gangley legged nag.

The background to the names of the runners has been investigated relentlessly on daytime broadcasts.

Those thinking about placing a bet latched onto the slightest sense of affinity or relationship to a name. In offices and workplaces throughout the land there were sweepstakes being organised with the sole beneficiary of the proceeds destined to enjoy a fabulous return to employment on monday morning.

I am not above stating that in the past I did participate in the experience of the Grand National.

Way back it was a bit of a family tradition to put a ring around three horses each on the double spread racing page of the Express on Saturday and to gloat over siblings if lucky enough to pick the winner.

On the occasion of our wedding exactly 25 years ago my wife was drawn to place a wager on, I remember it well, "The Last of the Brownies" given that Brown was her maiden name. I am happy to say that the we did not have a four legged winner but feel blessed that our marriage has gone from strength to strength in the intervening years.

I also recall taking my children to the local Bookies on the morning of the race once but never again. Although a much improved environment it was still a bit of a throwback to the days when children were not at all welcome onto the premises as it retained the mystique and ultimate seediness of a smoke filled refuge for the perpetual loser or ever optimistic gambler.

Nowadays the emphasis and hard sell of The Grand National is as a family friendly activity with one and all encouraged to wager a few pocket money pence or quid in a harmless and fun filled atmosphere.

There are the same range of enticements that frequent our TV screens and multi-media devices to draw us into the insidious world of gambling.

After all it can't do any harm really, can it?

I remained a casual observer of the mass participation in this years race.

One story however caught my attention. A 103 year old man was reported to have placed bets on the last 80 Grand Nationals but had never had a horse over the line in first place. In being featured in the national media as backing a specific runner that particular horse was catapulted into pole position. I hope that the old gent did not wager too much of his weekly pension. His favourite fell within the first few fences.

I was not aware, through my self imposed boycott on the event, of any of the actual field but was a bit annoyed at the final outcome in that I would almost certainly, definitely and without fail have backed a horse with the word Pineau  as it sounds a bit like Pinot as in one of my bestest tipples.

Windyridge at 50

What  better activity for a wet and stormy Bank Holiday Monday than to travel back in time over 40 years.

I reluctantly agreed to the suggestion of my wife that we have a drive to and around the town where I used to live before a family house move in 1979.

It was not a massive expedition, far from it, as the place in question is only twenty five miles or so away from where I live currently. I have drifted back a few times over those four decades.

In those far off times, however, even such a short distance did to me, in my early to mid teens give the impression of the other side of the world. That was to be expected given the vast differences in the two locations , one being a small sleepy market town and the other a regional city of around half a million population. 

I even went on what was called a Cultural Exchange back in the mid 1970's from town to city which involved a rickety coach ride, paddle steamer ferry boat crossing and dodgy mini bus transfer over that relatively short distance. The big metropolis was pretty frightening to a sensitive soul like myself and I was quite homesick over the 36 hours of the stay.

That same journey which involved multiple types of transport and took around 3 hours some 40 years ago is now a 20 minute drive. This is on dual carriageways and over the striking landmark of a suspension bridge, at one time the longest in the world, which saw the end of that characterful and adventurous ship crossing when it opened in 1981.

First call on the trip down memory lane was the former family house. Windyridge, Churchill Avenue. 

It was brand new when my parents bought it in 1971 and at that time at the very end of a cul de sac with open fields on two sides. In neo-Georgian style, albeit restricted to a classical column portico at the front door and some bullseye roundels in the window glazing ,it was very grand and befitting Father's position as a Bank Manager. During our time there the huge Elm Tree which dominated the back garden outlook perished from the Dutch disease and within a few years a new housing estate occupied one of the two pieces of open ground. The rear outlook across cultivated fields remains expansive and a major attraction where such views are often trespassed upon by other development and land use. 

The house looked good in its own middle age, well cared for. It must have changed owners a few times but from the wealth of information on the Internet I could see that the interior layout was the same. It was built in the era when the "Through Lounge" was the must-have attribute and not wanting to show off but ours was 23 feet long. Ideally for a large family there was a very well used Playroom where the upright piano could live alongside a paint and ink speckled work table and an old Formica kitchen cabinet which is still in the family after all of those years. The accommodation was 4 good sized bedrooms, bathroom and to the ground floor in a further dining room and family sized kitchen. 

We drove down the street and around the corner past the bungalow where Gran lived. That always seemed to my teenage self a sprawling almost ranch style place but was now just a very small looking residence.

The same shrinking effect went for the local park which could accommodate a ranging game of no-rules free for all footie where  most of the kids in the town would participate and get bruised but always came back for more.

I almost drove past it as it was only really as wide as a tennis court. That would explain why we lost so many plastic footballs into a house garden on the opposite side of the road and whose owner would take great and obvious joy in spearing them immediately on trespass with his fork or other sharp implement that happened to be within reach.

On the roundabout with the town War Memorial in its centre what had been the sole petrol station was now a window showroom. I can clearly recall the pricing display on the forecourt stating 33 new pence a gallon and this being the target of disgruntled locals for what represented a big price hike at a time of yet another oil crisis in the Middle East.

The main road through the town had always been busy with a constant flow of heavy lorries and through traffic constituting a peril and hazard as we walked to school but following construction of a motorway link and new ring road in the late 70's some semblance of quiet had returned with only local users out and about.

There had always been a very pleasantly potent mix of smells being a merging of the fumes from a marmalade factory and a sugar beet processing plant. These were sweet and sickly but long since dissipated as their respective industrial sources had fallen to market forces and obsolescence.

I had not expected the place to take on the form of a time capsule over the four decades but was disappointed to find that my junior school, an open verandah type to serve  the 1920's expansion of the population had gone and was now a housing estate.

Similarly the wooden Scout Hut where I spent many an hour was no longer there although the plot on which it had stood remained undeveloped.

A smart paved square had been formed as part of a pleasant pedestrianisation scheme where again, the lorries had once thundered along.

Father's Bank Branch was now a bar or eatery.

The Parish Church where Mother and my two sisters had formed half of the choir numbers was still there and seemingly unchanged which is always an indication of constancy in a rapidly changing world.

I had been a keen angler following in the footsteps of my maternal Grandfather .The two rivers that ran through the town had back then the aura of mighty watercourses both in length and breadth. A group of us in our mid teens thought nothing of arriving and setting up at 5am during the school summer vacation and not moving away until dusk.

That magical tree lined river bank was still there but now very much in miniature.

I was keeping a look out for any familiar faces from my childhood years but it is difficult to physically age anyone over such a elapsed period of time. I was perhaps expecting the exact same teenage faces of my old mates but on adult shaped bodies.

I do believe that the move away in 1979 did give me an opportunity of a wholly different  set of  experiences but made all the more worthwhile by some wonderful childhood memories of freedom and a safe environment in that place.

A Marvell at 400

It's an anniversary that has just been and gone with, as far as I have seen, not too much recognition or reminiscence. 

That's a shame for someone who was beloved and respected by the people of Kingston Upon Hull as its Member or Parliament, a man of honesty and integrity in a corrupt world and one of the country's most under-rated metaphysical poets and satirists. 

Here is a bit of a potted history of Andrew Marvell at 400 years since his birth.

Born 31st March 1621 at Winestead near Withernsea, East Yorkshire

Educated at Hull Grammar School after moving to Hull where his father was a Minister and Schoolmaster

Age 13, attended Trinity College, Cambridge as a literary child genius

Age 18, obtained a Bachelor of Arts Degree

His father drowned whilst attempting a boat crossing of the Humber from Hull to the South Bank

1642-47, embarked on Grand Tour of Europe where he met the poet John Milton

Actual travels unknown but acquired multiple languages

Thought to have had post in Constantinople at the English Embassy

1651, appointed personal tutor to daughter of Lord Fairfax, Nun Appleton, York

1653, secured by Oliver Cromwell as a tutor

1657, assistant to a blind John Milton 

1658, walked alongside Milton at Cromwell's funeral

1659, Member of Parliament for Kingston Upon Hull (until death in 1678)

He sat in the Third Protectorate, Convention and Cavalier Parliaments 

As MP for Hull he sent regular personal accounts of Parliamentary business to his electors

Honourable allowance given by people of Hull of 6 shillings and 8 pence a day to ensure attendance

Championed against corruption , the despotism of monarchy and persecution of Protestants

Defended John Milton against calls for Prosecution by Monarchists 

King Charles the Second attempted to bribe Marvell for royal favouritism. 

1660, written criticism of the pro-monarchist Archbishop of Canterbury

Throughout, Marvell was an Agent for Hull Trinity House shipping interests

1676, historical and political treatise against Catholicism and Absolutism

He was continually spied upon, bullied and harassed by Charles and his successor, James II

1678, died aged 58 from fever although suspected to have been poisoned by Jesuits.

Laid to rest in St Giles in the Fields, " The Poets Church", London

1681, "To His Coy Mistress" published although written between 1649 and 1660

Remembered as a true servant to Hull with the following memorial erected by public subscription;

Near this place lyeth the body of Andrew Marvell, Esq., a man so endowed by Nature, so improved by Education, Study, and Travel, so consummated by Experience, that, joining the peculiar graces of Wit and Learning, with a singular penetration and strength of judgment; and exercising all these in the whole course of his life, with an unutterable steadiness in the ways of Virtue, he became the ornament and example of his age, beloved by good men, feared by bad, admired by all, though imitated by few; and scarce paralleled by any. But a Tombstone can neither contain his character, nor is Marble necessary to transmit it to posterity; it is engraved in the minds of this generation, and will be always legible in his inimitable writings, nevertheless. He having served twenty years successfully in Parliament, and that with such Wisdom, Dexterity, and Courage, as becomes a true Patriot, the town of Kingston-upon-Hull, from whence he was deputed to that Assembly, lamenting in his death the public loss, have erected this Monument of their Grief and their Gratitude

Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

The Low Down on Hijack Prevention

 "Take me to Cuba" seems to stick in my mind as a famous phrase.

I have not had cause or motivation to mutter it myself, apart from trying to sound clever as a small child running around the school playground, but it appears to have been quite a regular demand forced upon the crews of commercial airliners from the 1960's.

The period from May 1961 to January 1973 was one of constant terror in the skies above the United States with a documented 160 hijackings.

A good proportion of these were politically or doctrinally driven with the destination of Cuba cited by those seeking residence in a revolutionary utopia.

By 1969 a US task force was set up to consider the measures necessary to counter the threat to passengers and flight crews aided by many, many suggestions either practical, racist or madcap by members of a concerned general public.

From 1972 there was a notable shift in the motivation of hijackers and 40 incidents in that twelve month period were for the extortion of money from Federal Authorities.

The most audacious crime and one that retains some mystery was that perpetrated by one D.B Cooper in 1972 who, after securing a sizeable ransom, parachuted out of the aircraft leaving no clues or trail as to his actual fate. The case file remains open on that one.

As early as 1971 inventors and designers applied their skills and thoughts to preventing airplane hijacking and the US Patent Registry is a fascinating source of applications with this intention.

One of the pioneering ideas of that era, now adopted as standard practice, was for a method and system for isolating the pilot and the cockpit from any intrusion from the passenger side whilst maintaining the communication essential for the mutual safety of all aboard the aircraft. This consisted of a reinforced door also fire and bullet resistant, only openable by the flight crew with one way radio link only from cockpit to cabin. This, rather morbidly, ensured that the flight crew could not be coerced by any violence wreaked by a determined hijacker on the passengers and cabin crew and be dissuaded from any attempt to land at the nearest airport.

The 1972 upsurge also saw proposals to disable , sedate or even kill a perpetrator through a solenoid actuated seat belt buckle working in combination with an inflatable seat back and a hypodermic syringe. In a potential hijack situation, with the hijacker identified by seat number a debilitating injection could be automatically administered through the seat cushion.

In contrast the 1980's was somewhat less innovative in anti hijacking methods although the Boeing Aircraft Company drew up schemes as a selling point for their short and long haul planes.

The events culminating in the seizure of Stateside passenger flights and the 9-11 terrorist outrages served, understandably to focus the minds of those concerned with aircraft security and safety.

Patent Applications post 9-11 included components on board to produce informational signals to reflect circumstances of a hijacking and to disable pilot flight commands. Other inventions centred on the release of stupefying laughing gas through the air conditioning system. Sophisticated computer controls could be used to monitor the aircraft position and predict possible targets if to be used as flying bombs to destroy buildings, military or State institutions and inflict high human losses. Remote control could take over the on-board systems such as deflating the landing gear , shutting off the fuel lines and avoiding high rise structures.

The passenger compartment could also be rigged with smoke generators, gas dispensers, stun devices and even tranquiliser darts as weapons against even the most determined attacker.

Perhaps the most imaginative idea was one from the infamous year of 1972.

A partition or barrier located immediately aft of the flight deck would be raised so as to segregate the aft section longitudinally into port and starboard areas. The floor could then be dropped on command to lower any erstwhile hijacker into a secure capsule in the belly of the plane.

This apparatus would then be released through a bomb door type arrangement and allowed to float down to earth on a traceable trajectory where the authorities would be waiting to scoop up and detain the individual.