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.

Open Season for Open Water Swimmers

 I am not alone in thinking twice about taking a swim in the ocean.

It is a real fear amongst some of the residents of these here British Isles but quite irrational given that no-one is more than about 70 miles from the sea, even in deepest, greenest rural England. We are a seafaring nation whose history and a good proportion of accumulated wealth came from maritime related trade be from manufactured goods and raw materials to the less honourable movement of slaves and other forms of exploitation in the name of Empire.

We can, in this country, be excused from not taking more regular dips in the oceans around the nation because, lets face it, there are no really warm seas. A few brave endurance swimmers will take to the waves and you may be surprised at the level of ownership of wet suits but bearing in mind that water temperatures can at best be around 61F of 16C then such attire is a necessity rather than just for poseurs.

The sheer cold is enough of a reason in itself for not swimming in the ocean. Add to that the fact that you cannot in UK waters see what is beneath you due to the level of sediment in solution, there can be dangerous droppings off to the sea floor even a few yards offshore, a few nasty jelly fish and some extremely perilous currents.

I would now add to the list of excuses to just sit on the beach or quay the distinct possibility of meeting a killer shark.

Changes in ocean currents and temperatures have attracted new visitors amongst the large shark family into our inshore waters. Around 30 species are already commonly found but in the last couple of years the huge Basking Shark has been seen with more regularity off the southern coast of England.

Veggie shark

Granted, this bucket mouthed giant is a plankton eater, therefore a veggie and poses no risk to humans but it may not be too long before species such as the Great White Shark pay a visit.

That brings me back to my opening line. It was actually the Jaws film released in 1975 that had quite an influence on my coastal habits. It was a terrifying movie building on a menacing tension that started off quite innocently with a youthful skinny dip tragically leading to the first victim of that summer season on Amity Island.

I was 12 years old when the film was shown at the town cinema and those graphic images of waterborne death and mayhem were bad enough but compounded further by my very poor aptitude for swimming.

In the months and years following the Jaws film I would not even venture into the shallows for a paddle. A Saturday morning indoor heated Municipal pool session held the same feelings of anxiety and trepidation for me. Even in adult life and with appreciably more confidence in the water I have always had the ominous musical tones of the jaws theme in my head whenever the level of salt water has exceeded my kneecaps.

I did let my guard down once whilst on holiday in Australia.

I was, whilst happily splashing about in the Coral Sea intrigued by a line of yellow static buoys about a quarter of a mile out in the bay. Later discovering that these were anti-shark measures to protect beach users left me pale and cold. In the same vacation my wife's cousin, a keen diver himself, told us about a very recent double shark fatality just within sight of the Promenade.

The odds of being killed by a shark are a bit of a comfort at 1 in 3.7 million although I am concerned that there is no mention about numbers who are chewed, bitten or traumatised which although bad must nevertheless be seen as a most fortunate escape.

To keep these odds in perspective the chance of drowning is 1 in 113,000, being killed by a dog 1 in 116448 and quite similar from a lightning strike.

I can shorten my prospects for being a shark victim by not participating in the main victim activities which are surfing and board sports (65%), swimmers (32%) and the rest snorkellers.

There is currently, in readiness for the holiday season along the east coast of the United States , a public information campaign for visitors about most prudent behaviour whilst in the water. This is in response to a large increase in sightings of the cold bloodied Great White Shark following the warmer waters to locations which have not before witnessed this.

Jaws was based on the Massachusets Coast and as far north as Cape Cod the 2017 education campaign has stressed the key points for water users to stay in groups, keep close to the shore, minimise splashing which can mimic a distressed fish prey, avoid fishing areas and not to venture out for a swim, however romantic, epic or alcohol fuelled it may feel at dawn, dusk or during the night.

The anticipated spike in shark numbers coinciding with the huge numbers of holiday makers will increase the chances of a bit of a one sided confrontation .Some may be reassured by the further statistic that amongst some 15 billion separate human sorties into the coastal waters only around 50 to 100, globally. result in shark inflicted fatalities.

As for me, I have been meaning to catch up on my beach reading matter . I am also a dab hand at keeping the wasps off a sand infused picnic from behind the relative safety ,from sharks ,afforded by a gawdy wind break.

" We're gonna need a bigger shark repellent wind-break"

Jobs for the Boy

 In the 1970's I tried a few things in order to supplement my pocket money

Coming from a large family of 5 money absorbing children and with a Bank Manager father we operated on a strictly within means basis which was a sound grounding for later years.

I have not, however, really applied the theory from my early years lessons in frugality and economy. 

My parents were fair in their distribution of pocket money and for every year of our age we children got 1p decimal a week. At the age of 15 I found that this allowance never went very far especially as my Speed and Power Magazine cost 10p per month and I never had the sense to save over the four weeks between issues. In addition I liked fizz bomb sweets and my absolute and still current favourite of sherbert fountains. 

It is little wonder that my interest in smoking was short lived and I stopped that pastime at the age of 12 fearing bankruptcy or withdrawal of finance from the IMF- Income for my Fags.

I did the usual paper delivery round for the newsagent shop opposite the Grammar School. In summer this was a delight with fresh air and a lot of cycling. My technique of scooting along on my bike between house gates on one pedal laden down with a sack of weighty morning tabloids soon cause chronic metal fatigue to the cranks of the pedals and their replacement devastated any profit from that job.

Potato picking sounded good in theory and with the promise of a kingly sum of £15 for a weeks work I promptly signed up. My mercenary attitude backfired big style as I had a round trip of 6 miles to reach the spud field and I had to buy packed lunch and liquids to offset premature death from such arduous work. 

I had not really thought through the physical demands of harvesting a potato, let alone how many of them could actually be found in a 5 acre field .The tractor had a rear mounted arm attachment that spun out the soon to be despised vegetable and a group of us schoolkids had to follow and quickly hand pick and fill up wire mesh baskets before tipping the contents into a nearby trailer.

The field was wedge shaped and the first two days were totally demoralising and back breaking in that we were working on the longest rows and had no actual sense of real progress. By days three, four and five we were up and down the shorter furrow lengths at rapid speed and soon completed that form of employment. 

On the same agricultural theme I also spent a week picking out the wild oats and weeds as part of a crop yield study. 

Perhaps you could say I was outstanding in that particular field.

I also participated regularly as a bush beater for a large corporate shooting business. This involved wearing thick waterproof clothing all day whilst walking through dripping wet fields of Kale and Sugar Beet a-whooping and a-hollering and smacking the ground and available ground cover with a stout stick in order to startle pheasants, partridge, woodcock and pigeon to almost certain death under a barrage of lead shot from a front line of posh people out for the day in order to claim the highest body count of small animals. 

There was no more an example of the social divide than between a shooting party and us minions, the bush beaters. I often thought ,with head down against stray lead shot fragments in a head on beat towards the guns that  if one of us beaters actually died from inflicted wounds in these circumstances we would still be retrieved by the trained dogs and hung up for a few days to mature before families were informed.

The afternoon sessions were the most nerve wracking as the shooters had just partaken of a generous, mostly liquid lunch and could not be relied upon to fire straight or even differentiate between man and beast at an alcohol induced squinting range. 

The larger animals of the fields and forests were wise to the approach of humans and were rarely ever seen in a perilous position between beaters and guns. I did enjoy the revenge of a huge Hare which, having been shot and then disrespectfully thrown over the proud shoulders of a waxed jacketed businessman for a photo opportunity, promptly evacuated its bowels all over the hapless individual. The stench over the course of the day was warning enough of the position of the guns. 

The shooting season was mostly in the damp and misty early mornings of the spring before any real damage could be done to the crops by waves of beater infantry. 

My income from this hazardous work was £6 for a full day.

I now acknowledge that I participated in some barbarous, cruel and, frankly, pain inducing activities in my attempts to supplement my pocket money but this has made me appreciate to this day the value of a strong work ethic in life. 

If there was a surplus of kill from the shooting party then this was distributed like and in the manner of charity to the scruffy and cold air induced ruddy faced beater brigade. We bowed and grovelled in thanks which the executive ladder climbers lapped up before alighting in their Range Rovers and Jags.

Any pheasant that I presented at home was hung up in the shed for a few days and always ended up being buried in the garden as no-one had the desire to pluck, gut and dress the fabulously flashy male of the species. I did reserve one or two of the fancy tail feathers to adorn my rather faded and sweat stained bush hat to give my beating activities some credibility. 

I made a point of taking off the hat for the post-lunchtime shooting drives mindful that, to the half cut owner of a double barrelled shot-gun , I could appear like a giant freakish game bird and fair game for that.

(Yeah,yeah, another recycled blog. No I have not got writers block, No I am not trying to do too much, yes I have had another busy day ......apologies OK, whatever LOL)

The Roos Flashers

 I was always a bit reluctant to take out and walk my dogs early in the morning.

 

This may have partly been down to laziness, the prospect of cold air supplanting that nice cozy, warm position under the duvee or the physical effort to propel my body along vertically when it was so much easier to give in to gravity and just lie prone and horizontal in bed. However, a tangible element in the whole reluctant attitude was that it always seemed to be reported in the media that the gruesome discovery of a body or bodies was always made by a man walking a dog or dogs in the early hours just after dawn.

 

I was happy to leave potential for such discoveries to the likes of taxi-drivers, joggers or the Postman.

 

In much the same chain of thought I always got the impression that men digging ditches, in the old way by hand, were always likely to come up with interesting things.

 

This is borne out by my blog yesterday with the stumbling across, by ditch digging men in 1989 , of the treasure trove of artefacts, thought lost, but actually just stored in the buried basement rooms of the bombed Municipal Museum of Hull since 1943.

 

Of course, any excavations with shovel, pick and wrecking bar can be hazardous for those wielding the implements. In Hull, even today, any construction projects breaking into the heavy clay topsoils whether on a virgin site or previously built upon ground , stand a chance of unearthing unexploded Ordnance from the second world war. An academic year does not go by without a small child bringing in a live ammunition shell with German markings to 'show and tell' to classmates inevitably dug up from an urban flower bed by their Grandfather or Uncle. The sighting of the small white bomb disposal van with Police escort is still very common on our streets. 

 

Other risks include hitting an unforeseen pipe or cable or what must be a horrible initial feeling of the blade of a spade cutting into a human skull just under the surface. I have felt some concern for workers on a large housing estate on the site of derelict docklands close to the City Centre as my perusal of Old Maps indicates the prior existence of a Leprosy and Cholera Hospital. Diagnosis of symptoms of such afflictions may not be covered by Health Insurance if disturbed and made airborne by pick and shovel.

 

On rarer occasions, accepted,  the damp, waterlogged and unpleasant practice of ditch digging may find something fabulously significant;

 

 

Take these cheeky chappies. Just ignore the oversized genitalia for the moment and concentrate on the context of the image.

They were dug up by, yes, by a gang of labouring ditch diggers in 1836 way out towards the seaside town of Withernsea on a tract of agricultural land called Roos Carr. Their antiquity and significance were not really appreciated until modern radio carbon dating techniques were available in archaeological investigation and this revealed  them to be  about 2600 years old, well into the Bronze Age or early Iron Age. Experts without such technological assistance considered their origins as Viking from a raiding party or the work of an enthusiastic lone Scripture themed wood carver and depicting Noah and his family.

The location, so far in the past will have been reasonably inland from the coast particularly given that, in the documented period from the Doomsday Book in 1086 , there was at least three miles to the cliff top rather than about two farmers fields now. The location may have been thickly forested or marshy and barren.

The items, embedded in thick heavy blue clay were well preserved. As well as several of the distinctive and intimidating warrior Figures standing between 35cm and 41cm tall ( see picture above) complete with quartzite eyes and those nifty detachable genitalia, there was a serpent headed boat with paddles, and a wooden box. One of the figures appears to have gone missing until 1902 when it was acquired by Hull Museums after decades of having been played with as a doll by the daughter of one of the original labouring gang.

The Victorians fixed four of the figures with glue and nails into the serpent boat as it was speculated that they belonged as crew. Their prudish attitude either out of denial or to spare the blushes of Museum Visitors considered what was actually intended as the male parts to be short arms.

Carved from Yew their purpose has long since been a matter of informed discussion. The fact that they were buried suggests a Votive Offering to the gods with no intention for them ever to be recovered. The use of Yew is thought to have some significance as it was often associated with particular deities in the prehistoric world of ritual and religion.

Only 9 other similar caricature discoveries have been made in the British Isles and Ireland which makes the Roos Carr figures very important not only in the context of the history of this part of northern and western Europe but in world history. For all that, the figures are not that well known but were voted into the top 100 of the Yorkshire World Collection as part of the London Cultural Olympiad Programme. Presumably some way behind Geoffrey Boycott's cricket bat, Harry Ramsden's Fish and Chip Frying Range, Aunt Bessie's batter puddings, Pontefract Cakes, Black Sheep Ale, a night out in Hull and a picture postcard of Whitby.

Teenage Kicks

Please note that I wrote a few years ago now and so any opinions expressed should be taken in the context of that time although there are obviously some parallels with this current Covid era.........

A recent Report from The Children's Society in the UK expressed concerns that teenagers are becoming increasingly unhappy with their lives.

Amongst the reasons cited for the disgruntled mindset of the current youth of the country are school, appearance, choice and freedom.

I am the first to accept that we are living in very different times. There are economic undercurrents, Environmental issues, World Unrest, we are up to a NOW!85 album for goodness sake  but when I was a teenager I never had time to even contemplate if I was worried about anything because I, like my peers, was just too busy getting on with things.

From getting up early to going to bed, early, the day was simply packed with activities.

Of course, during school term time there was the effort to get ready which in a household of 5 children was only kept from being chaotic by good adult supervision and a rota for the bathroom and the breakfast table.

We were always well turned out in school uniform, washed and brushed and with clean shoes. This enabled us to follow our Father as he strode off down the street to take on his role of Manager at a bank in the town. We would straggle along before peeling off at the top of the road to the school although on more than one occasion my younger brother just doubled back when out of sight and went home.

We did range about quite freely in our teenage years whereas with the modern phenomena of paranoia around stranger danger and the perception of crime many of todays young adults are driven about everywhere by over indulgent parents.

We stayed for dinner at the canteen. This was not one of these multiple choice affairs which feature in State Schools today and rival a reasonable bistro but with a menu that you could set your calendar by. Monday was fish fingers and chips, Tuesday liver and onions, Wednesday some form of meat in a pie, Thursday cold salad and Friday some other form of meat in some form of gravy. There was dessert  including flapjack, treacle sponge pudding, spotted dick, chocolate sponge and Angel Delight on a strict rotation basis whether or not complimentary to or inducing an adverse reaction when combined with the main course. All washed down with tap water and ,oh yes, pink custard.

As for lessons, well we just stuck to the basics of the three 'R's as they say with a smattering of science, languages, arts, crafts, music and strenuous physical exercise. There was none of the variation found in the current curriculum such as multi faith studies, media studies, citizenship and vague arty-farty subjects for which everyone gets a certificate of merit.

There was a level of mutual respect between the teaching staff and us pupils although it was borne more out of fear and retribution rather than anything enlightened. I do not think that I ever knew the Christian names of any of my teachers in senior school unless bastardised into a nickname or if it was unusually hilarious and capable of being sung or put in an offensive rhyme.

We did have a clear objective in our schooling years whether to go on to a University, Polytechnic or College or go straight into employment. I can appreciate some of the anxiety of the current teenagers about what to do with their lives post-secondary education given the lack of meaningful full time jobs in the UK economy.

As for money in our pockets, well, I only had my pocket money which until I got a paper round was based on one new pence per year of age. This did not go very far other than my monthly comic/magazine, goodies and my flirting with being a smoker, briefly, one rebellious summer.

I was never a saver and shamefully this still applies into my 6th decade on the planet.

In the absence of personal wealth the only option was to make your own entertainment and this we did large.

What was better than having competitive foot running or bike races around the housing estate with your mates or going into battle armed with home made bows and arrows against the kids from the nearby council houses?

The local streams and ponds were teeming with sticklebacks, frogspawn and newts providing endless hours of fun from daybreak to dusk. Just take a net on a stick and a jam jar.

There were trees to climb, gardens and allotments to trespass through, small shops ripe for a five finger discount if in enough of a group to constitute a distraction for the proprietor, things to set alight and wait for the fire brigade, doors to knock on before running off, people to follow at random through the town just to see what they were up to, Bob a Job week once a year with a licence to wash cars and use all of my Father's chrome polish on gleaming bumpers and hub caps, animals to stalk and worry, girls to chase, catch and kiss, small kids to impress with bravado and daring near the railway line, river and on the bridge over the by-pass.

It all now sounds borderline delinquent and illegal but I like to think that all of these things were enacted in the right spirit and with not a malicious thought in our heads. Some friends did get arrested or died though.

Any prowess at sport, in music or in performing arts was hard earned through many hours of practice and sacrifice of time and effort. That was probably why I never did much in any discipline in my teenage years. Todays youth are just waiting around optimistically to be discovered by talent spotters whether singing flatly and nasally under their headphones at the Mall ,on a You Tube video or through posted on Facebook.

I can sense their frustration if by the age of 17 they have not signed to a record label or modelling agency or are not otherwise entrepreneurial millionaires.

Teenagers today are very fashion and image conscious. We were never too concerned about our appearance. Take a look in the family photo album from my mid teens and you will know this to be true. My idea of style was a pair of Lopez jeans, formal shoes, button up shirt and a cardigan. Pretty square you would be entitled to say but I can assure you that I did not stand out as being any different to my contemporaries. My hair style, or lack of it, was a bit of a basin cut, floppy fringe and with the later mature growth of sideburns which, if shaved off after the summer, just left a white stripe down the side of my head.

Perhaps we were innocent and naïve compared with the current crop of teenagers who have multi-media and Wikipedia at their fingertips. Perhaps we were happy to look up in a book or just wait if a question was needed to be answered rather than demanding immediacy. Perhaps we lived in a time of guaranteed employment and a job for life. Perhaps the world did not seem such a scary place because we were not force fed scaremongering news on a 24 hour basis. We did, it should not be forgotten, live under the threat of nuclear world war, civil and social unrest and turmoil but the key factor to maintaining our sanity and off setting those very modern ailments called childhood stress and unhappiness was that we knew how to play and have fun.

Lush

 Temple Lushington Moore is not a great name. It is a fantastic name.

If you are seeking verification of its authenticity where should you be looking?

Try an Ordnance Survey sheet for a National Park because it sounds like it should be written against some wild, open and uninhabited space. It could also be mistaken for the name of an ancient monument. It may be worth an each way bet if found amongst the runners and riders at Kempton or Newmarket racecourses. Utterance of the name in a much shortened form may come from a baseball hat wearing street-wise teenager -"Lush".

The name itself could spark a long debate over the well worn theme of nature versus nurture. Obviously doting parents at the Christening Font will have considered long and hard a suitable name for their child. It may have consist of longstanding family names handed down respectfully or be a hyphenated amalgamation of two great families. Whatever the genetic, socio-economic or just fashionable origins it is plain to see that someone with such a grand name must have been destined to achieve great things and be remembered for such. In that way a name may be incidental to success but in this particular case it will have assisted greatly.

The man and his three barrelled name was born in 1856 of Irish descent and through marriage settled in, and carried out most of work as an Architect in East Yorkshire. His best known commissions can be spotted by a Gothic Revivalist Style in many ecclesiastical buildings including Parish Churches and Rectory's.

I first came across his work during a Survey of a grand and striking old house in one of the rural villages in the Holderness area towards the North Sea Coast. Set back from the main through road it was immediately evident that this was not a standard house by its appearance, scale and construction. Built in 1892 in a Wrenaissance Style and at a cost of £2720 ( by todays money in excess of £166,000) it had served as the Rectory until economics and maintenance costs forced it out of the Diocese property budget.

It had been in private ownership for some years but had not been diluted or compromised by any works recommended by Readers Digest and the long driveway approach will certainly have deterred salespersons from cladding, double glazing and loft conversion companies. The brickwork was perfect, close bonded headers but done in the expensive way by being individually cut so as to create the illusion of a solid wall but upon detailed investigation actually incorporating a narrow cavity onto the inner leaf. For the late Victorian period it was as technologically advanced as the Space Shuttle to a horse and cart.

Such resistance to dampness and seasonal coldness had been paramount to maintaining its condition in what could be an exposed location with not much in the way of a windbreak between the coast and The Ural mountains of western Russia. The owners, reluctantly selling up, proudly informed me of the pedigree of the house and so began my interest  in the works of Temple Lushington Moore. I was not alone. The owners continued to tell me of the phenomena, regularly at weekends and sometimes during the week when there would be someone loitering at the five bar gate on the driveway, notebook and 35mm camera in hand. After some reticence, before realising that the house was inhabited, but then with confident strides the doorbell would be rung followed by a request to ,please, take a few snaps of the outside for their collection. The devotees of Temple Lushington Moore would travel from all over the UK and Europe to pay homage to his portfolio.

Within a few years my work had taken me to other wonderful residences and Churches through the East Riding by the man and I was never disappointed by the experience and indeed often fascinated and captivated by fine detail in design and construction that ensured the properties , in particular the former Rectory's, continued to function and excel in providing for the lifestyle demands of modern living. 

Craftsmen and artists, as they could rightly be addressed thrived on the inspirational and classic visions of Temple Lushington Moore. Their skills were certainly required in the refurbishments and renovations of 45 churches and all due attention required to stained glass, masonry and carved wood features. Wealthy patrons and sponsors financed the building of 3 brand new churches in the late Victorian period. Notable work can be seen amongst the Sledmere Estate and at The Treasurers House, York.

In his later years there were some fallings out with those who had championed his style and panache. Competing firms of  Architects working to commissions more dictated by austerity conditions prevailed. The  age of Victorian Ecclesiastical grandeur and wealth was definitely coming to an end. Temple Lushington Moore died in 1920.

He left, behind the name, a great legacy.

The Wisdom of Homer

He is a moralist, a sage, the thinking man's non thinking hero, extraordinary human, role model to those who should know better and he can also come up with some classic comedic lines. Here is a collection of what are arguably the best of Homer's gifts to the world.... Homer Simpson I mean.

Operator! Give me the number for 911!

Oh, so they have internet on computers now!

Bart, with $10,000, we'd be millionaires! We could buy all kinds of useful things like...love!

Just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand.

I'm normally not a praying man, but if you're up there, please save me Superman.

Son, if you really want something in this life, you have to work for it. Now quiet! They're about to announce the lottery numbers.

Well, it's 1 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids.

Maybe, just once, someone will call me 'Sir' without adding, 'You're making a scene.'

Marge, don't discourage the boy! Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals! Except the weasel.

Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?

You know, boys, a nuclear reactor is a lot like a woman. You just have to read the manual and press the right buttons.

Lisa, if you don't like your job you don't strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American way.

When will I learn? The answer to life's problems aren't at the bottom of a bottle, they're on TV!

Son, when you participate in sporting events, it's not whether you win or lose: it's how drunk you get.

I'm going to the back seat of my car, with the woman I love, and I won't be back for ten minutes!

[Meeting Aliens] Please don't eat me! I have a wife and kids. Eat them!

What do we need a psychiatrist for? We know our kid is nuts.

Marriage is like a coffin and each kid is another nail.

Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.

The only monster here is the gambling monster that has enslaved your mother! I call him Gamblor, and it's time to snatch your mother from his neon claws!

When I look at the smiles on all the children's faces, I just know they're about to jab me with something.

I'm having the best day of my life, and I owe it all to not going to Church!

Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling and foxy boxing and such and such.

I'm not a bad guy! I work hard, and I love my kids. So why should I spend half my Sunday hearing about how I'm going to Hell?

Getting out of jury duty is easy. The trick is to say you're prejudiced against all races.

It's not easy to juggle a pregnant wife and a troubled child, but somehow I managed to fit in eight hours of TV a day.

Lisa, Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos.

I want to share something with you: The three little sentences that will get you through life. Number 1: Cover for me. Number 2: Oh, good idea, Boss! Number 3: It was like that when I got here.

Oh, people can come up with statistics to prove anything, Kent. 14% of people know that.

Remember that postcard Grandpa sent us from Florida of that Alligator biting that woman's bottom? That's right, we all thought it was hilarious. But, it turns out we were wrong. That alligator was sexually harrassing that woman.

Old people don't need companionship. They need to be isolated and studied so it can be determined what nutrients they have that might be extracted for our personal use.

How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?

Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover.

Homer no function beer well without.

I've always wondered if there was a god. And now I know there is -- and it's me.

Kill my boss? Do I dare live out the American dream?

If something goes wrong at the plant, blame the guy who can't speak English.

I'm never going to be disabled. I'm sick of being so healthy.

I like my beer cold, my TV loud and my homosexuals flaming.

Alcohol is a way of life, alcohol is my way of life, and I aim to keep it.

All my life I've had one dream, to achieve my many goals.

Dad, you've done a lot of great things, but you're a very old man, and old people are useless.

But Marge, what if we chose the wrong religion? Each week we just make God madder and madder.

I think Smithers picked me because of my motivational skills. Everyone says they have to work a lot harder when I'm around.

Dear Lord.. The gods have been good to me. For the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect just the way it is. So here's the deal: You freeze everything the way it is, and I won't ask for anything more. If that is OK, please give me absolutely no sign. OK, deal.

That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college!

Beer: The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.

If something's hard to do, then it's not worth doing

I'm in no condition to drive...wait! I shouldn't listen to myself, I'm drunk!

'To Start Press Any Key'. Where's the ANY key?

Cooke Book

 

Letter from Another Place

I speak to you tonight from the home of one of our citizens.

It is a modest place, tucked away in a leafy suburb of a north-eastern City.

A City which secured great wealth for the nation from its status as a stalwart of the deep sea trawling industry and major coastal port but yet was forgotten for its great sacrifices in the second world war when 1185 of its residents were killed in the blitz and all but a few of the houses and other buildings escaped any damage from the relentless aerial attacks.

This heritage is never far below the surface in the sensitivity of the city population. Furthermore it is one of the few places left in the UK with vacant plots left where the bombs fell and were never redeveloped. Breaks in the long early twentieth century terraces of neat two storey houses have the outline of the old chimney breasts where a hospitable hearth and tin bath will have formed the centrepiece of a families life but at sometime in the melee of the Hull Blitz were left rudely exposed as a string of high explosive or incendiary bombs sliced their way through the civilian areas.

The home from where I speak  in is a modern one but the old maps show it to have been built on the site of a Convent and Presbytery. Remarkably these large buildings seemed to have survived the war years but fell to the pressures of developers as recently as the mid 1970's.

The family who reside here comprise parents and three grown up offspring. Mother works as a Personal Assistant and the Father is a Chartered Surveyor. The demographic for this part of the city marks out their occupations as typical in what is colloquially known as "brown bread" or "muesli" territory. This refers to a reasonably comfortable although not affluent lifestyle. Two family cars on the driveway, one main holiday a year, contributions to Further Education and a bit left over for Charitable giving.

The family regard themselves as being in a fortunate position compared to other areas of the city which have struggled over the last 6 recessionary years. It is more than fortunate for that is my interpretation. The family quickly correct me in stating that they have been blessed and that God has provided all that they have needed and more. I find this faith interesting as it is not the chest thumping and bible bashing type prevalent to their American counterparts but a quiet and faithful belief that is quite rare, I would warrant, within the increasingly secular and materialistic UK population.

The family sit down for their friday night meal.

It is an informal and happy event and being friday it is always a home made chilli. They take it in turns to cook but are all somehow hovering around the kitchen offering to prepare the ingredients or in the case of the young adults they regularly ask for an update on when the food will be ready. They have busy lives after all.

A bottle of crisp white Pinot Grigio but under a £5.99 threshold is opened and offered to all of legal age but invariably it is the Father who consumes most although claims that the exceptional texture of the chilli is as a consequence of a couple of glasses of wine which have found their way into the mix.

The consensus is for a painfully hot chilli. It is not held to be a success unless bringing out a sweat and actually proving to be uncomfortable to eat.

I watch as the meal is carefully prepared. The scene resembles many that I have witnessed in my travels around the world from Albuquerque to Albania, Rekyavik to Adelaide and all points around.

This is remarkable given that the average British households have been squeezed and squeezed by the incumbent Coalition Government. Bedroom Tax, cuts in benefit, soaring energy prices, the highest petrol costs in Europe and all of this against a common fear amongst all for job security, the burden of debt, tuition fees, the temptations of wicked gambling in all forms however innocently advertised on a 24/7 basis and all of this before concerns of global warming, world poverty and political upheaval.

So, I briefly enjoy the chatter and laughter in this house seeing it as a brave face on a less than rosy economy in spite of the first faltering green shoots of growth and renewal that some commentators have remarked upon. I am however heartened by the spirit of those here assembled and know that with a strong ethical base and determination for justice and fairness the prognostic appears promising.

Goodnight and God Bless.

(intended to be read in the inimitable style of Alistair Cooke)