James Bond at Christmas

Back by popular request, I wrote this a few years ago now but in the fictional World of Bond nothing goes out of date.It revolves around a local hotel which has been advertising, amongst its seasonal events what they call a 'James Bond Christmas'. 

Here goes...........

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

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

He let one go under the heavy winter tog rated bedding and casually wafted it away into the gradually increasing natural light of his flat.

What to do for Christmas Day?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As always, he firmly believed that it would be so much better next year....,,,,,,,

Return to Bedford Falls

One of my seasonal favourites. Thought I would show it again just to get in the Festive mood.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Invisible Woman of Walmington on Sea

Elizabeth Mainwaring (pronounced Mannering) was the wife of George, the Captain of the fictional Home Guard of Walmington on Sea as depicted in the 1968 to 1977 comedy classic- Dad’s Army. 

For all of the long running and still repeated episodes Elizabeth remained as an unseen character at the end of a phone conversation, heard moving about upstairs at her home, at best as a vague shadow or in the bulging shape of someone on the top bunk in the bomb shelter. 

Her influence over her husband and as a consequence his subsequent moods, attitudes and behaviour in relation to the members of the Platoon was nevertheless tangible and an important undercurrent to the adventures and antics of the principal characters. 

The writers, Perry and Croft did invent a back story for Elizabeth to give her depth and as an explanation for some of her later unconventional or illogical outbursts and acts. 

These regularly ran within the main scripted dialogues.

For example, Captain Mainwaring surprised everyone in his ability to play the bagpipes which he attributed to spending his honeymoon on a remote Scottish Island where there was nothing else to do. 

In conversation with the haughty and foppish Sergeant Wilson, Mainwaring tells him about his wife’s fondness for silent movies but only because she was so shocked to hear a character on a film speak a line that she refused to return to any cinema. 

Her regular criticism of George is attributed to a privileged fictional upbringing as the daughter of a Suffragan Bishop and that she and her family believe that she married below her own social standing.

George is very hard done by as he has attained the heady heights for a provincial town of Bank Manager through working hard at his education and banking exams. He does have her best interests at heart however and strives to provide goods and services even though these sometimes go against his own morals and sense of citizenship, especially in wartime. 

This is particularly evident in his turning a blind eye to contraband from the black marketeer spiv Private Walker or gifts such as an extra portion of sausages or offal from the good natured Corporal Jones, the town butcher. Mainwaring also sourced scarce items through the Black Marketeer, Private Walker. He excitedly phoned his wife at home on Walmington 92 with news of mature cheddar only to be underwhelmed by her response. 

He is also protective of Elizabeth in saying that she had led a sheltered life in not even trying tomato sauce before she met him and a fondness shows through in his referring to her as the little woman and alluding to a blissful married life. 

His selflessness is to be admired as Elizabeth’s reclusive nature will have impeded any upward mobility that George may have hoped for within the hierarchy of the Bank at a time when socialising and hospitality were an essential part of getting ahead in commerce. The actuality of his domestic situation will have been behind his complete lack of hesitation in putting himself forward, uncharacteristically pushily, as leader of the Local Defence Volunteers, or as they became known, the Home Guard. 

Mrs Mainwaring’s persona is achieved, in her very obvious absence, by clever writing by which we assume that she is a larger than life woman ( described as being a bit bigger in physical dimensions that the effervescent Mrs Fox- a friend of Jonesy), a bit handy with her fists with George suffering a black eye in a hushed up domestic incident and always making an excuse on the grounds of health or fear of being bombed so as not to participate in the social functions of the platoon family.

One visualisation, conjured up in my mind, of the mysterious Elizabeth is of her in a siren suit, a sort of one piece flight or boiler suit so much trademark attire of Winston Churchill when out and about visiting his blitz affected countrymen and women. Unfortunately this produces the startling image of a character part Michelin Man and part Gas Engineer and hardly flattering.

Jokes at her expense are regularly inserted into the dialogue such as her not having left the house at 23 Lime Crescent,  “since Munich” or when George, excited at having obtained some scarce cheese rang Elizabeth to say that he might have a surprise for her that evening. This double entendre meant that he ended up eating the delicacy with Sergeant Wilson in the Vicar’s Office. 

Gradually we come to the realisation that she is always to be an elusive figure but then are shocked, as is George,  by revelations such as her playing the role of Lady Godiva on horseback riding through Walmington on Sea to raise funds for a Spitfire fighter plane. 

It is not all one way traffic in terms of who obviously wears the trousers in the Mainwaring household as in one series episode George has a platonic tea room and station platform liaison with one of the new female recruits to the platoon but is mindful of his married status and upholding his position of responsibility in the bank and town. 

There is an underlying melancholy to the relationship between George and Elizabeth but it works so very well in the cleverly woven story lines and characterisations that have made Dad’s Army such a loved bit of British television. 

Telegram Boys in Hull in the wartime years

It is really amazing how a simple passing conversation on the street can bring forth a lot of wonderful personal nostalgia and local history facts. 

Rummaging about in the boot of my car on a residential street in my home city of Hull I saw an elderly gentleman making his way carefully along a wintry wet and icy pavement. I had almost come a cropper that same morning in not appreciating a patch of black ice as I walked across a street and so passed on my experience to the cautious pedestrian. 

At the age of 94 he was still very mobile, excepting the challenging weather conditions, and dismissed my concerns in a kindly but authoritative manner. He qualified this by mentioning that he was no stranger to adversity as in 1943 in Hull, very much on the front line of Luftwaffe Attacks ,he was a Telegram Messenger or Boy Messenger which exposed him to hostile action in conveying, by bike, sometimes urgent but also mundane communications from the Post Office to business and private citizen recipients. 

That will have been quite a role for him as a 14 year old but as part of a cohort of 60 Hull Messengers in smart uniforms and very aware of representing the auspicious and much respected HM Post Office.

Although a junior position it had to be very disciplined and as well as the uniform there was a rigid code of conduct and on arriving for a shift there was an inspection for smart turnout with the sanction of being sent home if not up to the expected high standards. 

In wartime many Messenger Boys had initially to provide their own bicycles and quite a lucrative income could be gained from a 4 penny a mile allowance before being provided with an official mode of transport. 

A typical weekly wage was fifteen shillings and eightpence equating in modern money to 78 pence. 

The Messengers worked three different shifts starting at 8am, 8.30am and 10am on a seven day week and working through to around 8pm in the evening. The Messenger Boy ranks were very important as the majority of the able bodied men were recruited into the fighting ranks leaving an aged demographic of working Postmen supported by women on the rounds and in the sorting offices. 

In the war years few people had telephones and so Telegrams were a quick means of communication. In the heyday of telegrams in the 1930's an average of 65 million were delivered although on a loss making basis for the Post Office estimated at £1million annually. 

The cost of a telegram was sixpence (6d) for 9 words and a penny for each additional word. This included the address and text but very abbreviated so save cost to the sender. A good local knowledge amongst the Telegram Boys was therefore essential. 

Greetings Telegrams were in a pale blue envelope and the message printed or, in smaller Post Offices, actually hand written by an employee. 

The Code of Practice on delivery was for the Messenger Boy to only hand over to the addressee and not simply push the Telegram through the letterbox or leave with anyone else. It was then a case of waiting for the telegram to be read and asking if there was a reply and acting on that. A card could be left for a failed delivery but it was necessary to leave and come back another time with the message. 

The Rule Book, often carried around whilst on Duty, forbade accepting gifts or gratuities but tips were graciously received anyway. 

In Hull a main destination for Telegrams was companies trading and operating on the Docks and Quays onto the Humber Estuary serving the North Sea trade and beyond. The extensive complex of docks were key targets for enemy aerial bombing and so the Boy Messengers ran the risk of injury or death.

There were also risks from dock traffic on the road and the maze of freight railway lines which had to be crossed on a daily basis. 

A Telegram delivered to a residential address was quite an event sparking curiosity and intrigue amongst nosey neighbours. There was also the on going battling with dogs who found great sport in chasing, cornering and biting a Telegram Boy. 

As a fourteen year old my pavement acquaintance will have seen a lot of city life, not all of it wholesome and moral. 

There was also quit an emotional aspect particularly where the contents of a Telegram were bad or sad news. 

In Wartime the Telegram Service was used by the War Office to inform families of those killed in action, lost at sea or taken as a Prisoner of War. 

Many Messenger Boys continued to be employed after the war and progressed to the roles of Junior Postmen and then full time adult employees. At the age of 16 it was necessary to sit a Civil Service Exam which was quite wide ranging but basically was to establish competency in the three R’s of reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmetic for continued employment. 

In parting on the pavement the old gentleman brought out from his wallet a black and white photograph of him in his Messenger Boy uniform. 

As he headed to the bus stop on the main road he appeared to have a new spring in his step after availing me of part of his life story.

(inspired by a brief pavement exchange on Hotham Road North and supplemented by the memoirs of John Vickers sourced from 1993 BBC WW2 Peoples at War)

Hull Trawlers. Fortune and Fates of War

This is the first new piece of writing for some time on the Hull Maritime Theme which I find very fascinating. 

It is a testament to the engineering quality and durability of Hull based Trawlers that many were requisitioned by the Admiralty for service in the Second World War as Auxiliary Support vessels. 

One such Trawler was Lady Shirley with the original trawler number H411. 

She was just one of the prolific output of the Beverley, East Yorkshire shipbuilders of Cook, Welton and Gemmell and was completed in 1937 for Jutland Amalgamated Trawlers Limited of Hull just a short trip along the river from that great Maritime Port City. 

The outbreak of hostilities in 1939 saw Lady Shirley, now with the HMT designation and number T464 equipped with armaments including a 4 inch deck gun, machine guns and depth charges. 

In February 1940 whilst on patrol in the Firth of Tay, Scotland she was strafed by enemy raiding aircraft but not as the man focus of their intentions in what was a busy shipping lane. 

Lady Shirley was typical of the Cook, Welton and Gemmell pedigree at 177 tons, 164 feet in length and with a top speed of 12 knots. Her principal wartime role was patrol and support for Convoys and reconnaissance aircraft and by 1941 she was operating out of Gibraltar in the very militarily active waters of the Atlantic and Western Mediterranean. 

The crew were not re-purposed Hull Trawlermen but Royal Naval Patrol Service Ratings. The total on- board compliment was 33 under an Australian, Lieutenant Commander A H Calloway.

Meanwhile, on a fast converging course was the German U Boat U-111. 

Built in Bremen in 1940 the submarine was quickly into service and on its first active service foray in May 1941 the U-111 ranged widely from the Faroe Islands and Iceland claiming the sinking of two convoy ships and damaging of another contributing around 20000 tons to the fast accelerating Merchant losses on the perilous North Atlantic supply routes. 

Amongst other U-Boats there was the targeting of Convoy 12 HX126 off Greenland although the Captain, William Kleinschmidt, was thwarted in further kills by the activities of competing submarines in what was, for the Kriegsmarine, a successful campaign. 

When other U Boats were recalled to their base in Lorient, France for replenishment of armaments, supplies and crews or given fresh orders to relocate the role of U-111 was as a spotter for the battleships Bismarck and Prinz Eugen as they sought out and sank HMS Hood. 

It must have been a tragic sight, subsequently for U-111 to help look for survivors of the Bismarck after the Royal Navy hunted down and sank the major threat in the following weeks. 

In July 1941 the inaugural mission ended with a return to base and much welcome shore leave and maintenance, To acknowledge the action of U-111 in northern waters the conning tower was decorated with a polar bear and iceberg motif.

By all accounts U-111 had been an effective weapon and this will have been much exploited by Nazi Propaganda in the portrayal of the great morale and efficiency of its naval forces. 

However, there was a degree of disquiet amongst the crew with criticism of Captain Kleinschmidt being, at 34 years, too old for his command. The usual U-Boat deployment was 43 crew but for the second mission, this time in the theatre of war in tropical waters, there were 52 on board of whom only 5 had any previous experience of action. Conditions will, at best have been cramped and claustrophobic with the additional contingent. The excessively high casualty rate amongst U boat crews, to reach 75% by the end of the U Boat campaign,  will have been well known. This did not augur well for the appetite to fight and morale, unlike the propaganda portrayal, was likely to be low.

The Lady Shirley and U-111 came up against each other on Thursday 9^th October 1941 in the Atlantic just to the south west of Tenerife.

Cruising on the surface, Captain Kleinschmidt, mistook the smokestack and superstructure of Lady Shirley for a stricken vessel separated from a convoy formation and not therefore a perceived immediate threat. 

At the same time the masthead lookout aboard the armed Trawler saw the distinctive conning tower of a U-Boat and in an aggressive action Lieutenant Commander Calloway headed for the enemy position.

Kleinschmidt ordered a rapid evasive dive but not enough to avoid the depth charges from Lady Shirley and with a now panicking crew and taking on water he decided to surface and confront the ship directly. 

The deck gun and machine guns on Lady Shirley were quickly causing damage although return fire from the German crew killed Seamen Pizzey, a side gunner. 

U-111 received several hits and the death of Kleinschmidt and 7 others in the gun battle caused the submarine crew to signal they wanted to surrender. The 44 survivors, now in the water as U-111 sank beneath the waves, were rescued. 

When seeing the actual smaller size, crew numbers and lesser firepower of Lady Shirley two senior German officers tried to organise a plan to storm and take the Trawler and head for the neutral Spain. 

The demoralised and defeated crew had no compulsion to continue the battle even though they could not believe they had succumbed to an inferior foe. Although U-111 did sink this was not from the initial depth charge attack and so the emergency surfacing might not have been necessary. 

As always, in a conflict there is a footnote.

Just two months after the action the Lady Shirley was on an operation in the Straits of Gibraltar. 

Whilst on patrol with another Cook, Welton and Gemmell built vessel, St Nectan (incidentally resuming work as a trawler until 1967) there was a prolonged squall. 

After the storm had passed it was found that Lady Shirley had disappeared without a trace with the loss of Calloway and all crew members.

There was a reported claim by an active submarine, the U-374 that they had torpedoed the armed trawler although this could not be substantiated as the U Boat was lost shortly after and no validation of the sinking was possible.. 

It was suspected that Lady Shirley had been sabotaged through a time bomb placed on board, whilst in Gibraltar Dockyard, by a Spanish Agent for the Nazis

The heroism of Calloway and his crew had resulted in the first time that prisoners of war had been captured from a U-Boat in the South Atlantic. The U-111 was the first submarine to be lost in that theatre of war..

 Calloway received a Distinguished Service Order Medal for the action. 

                                The photograph is of Lady Shirley in what could be Gibraltar

Arcticulation on a weather front

The wind from the North, from the far Arctic reaches brought some snow to our part of the UK today. 

We do pretty well to escape the worst excesses of typical wintry weather on the mid-eastern side of England and I think that today’s intermittent flurries were only the second throughout the whole of 2023. 

It has been a welcome change to have normal seasonal temperatures after much of the autumn and winter so far having attained double figures. 

That critical air temperature of 1 degree Celsius was persistent through the daylight hours today and the snow just kept coming, then quickly thawing or turning to slush before the process repeated itself with some regularity. 

The light dusting of snow on pavements and parked vehicles was enough to remind me of some of my favourite jokes and stories from this seasonal weather. 

One is about a conversation between an Eskimo father and his son whilst they are sitting around cosily in an ice block igloo away from the harsh chill of the winds and the relentless white-out of their natural environment. 

It is quality time in which the senior member of an Eskimo family can pass down wisdom and practical advice learned the hard way and indeed carrying on the traditions and practices of a proud and resourceful race. 

Story telling is a major part of the inheritance skills with the dramatic recounting of epic struggles against the elements and of course the wildlife who feature culturally and as an essential ingredient in the requirements of survival. 

The Eskimo is not an aggressive character by nature as there is an essential co-existence with their fellow inhabitants as dictated by some of the most inhospitable and unforgiving terrain in the world. That is apart from having to be a ruthless hunter and to be prepared to make life or death decisions. 

In the flickering light of a whale oil lantern (although in reality likely to be conventional lighting from a petrol generator) the father teaches his son about all manner of things that will prove useful in their chosen lifestyle. 

I like to think that one piece of wisdom would be, of course, never eat yellow snow. 

The igloo resonates from the booming of a deep winter storm. 

Shadows flicker magically across the smooth dome of the ceiling and chase around its perimeter as has been the case for millenia. It is as if generations of ancestors are visiting at that time and partaking in the rituals and customs. 

As the perpetual night above the Arctic Circle continues the teachings of the father come around to how a young Eskimo hunter should behave for his own honour and for that of his family and particular tribal group. 

It is a case of self discipline, care of his own person and those who depend upon him when he himself becomes head of the igloo and main bread or rather blubber-winner. 

The father delivers the lectures with humour and gravity as each subject demands but captures wholeheartedly the attention and concentration of his young protégé. As they bond in that igloo, representing the extent of their wintry world, the father imparts the greatest single piece of advice, that being to always be upstanding and fight your corner. 

At that point and in a bit of a state of confusion the son looks enquires “What is a corner?”

Just one more. 

The remotest habitats amongst Antarctica are now within the itinerary of tour companies who offer an educational cruise with on board tuition about that continent and time on the ice shelf itself. 

There are climatologists, naturalists, ecologists and a whole host of experts on hand to answer any question from the guests. 

On one landing party an elderly participant tried repeatedly to catch the attention of the guide, an expert on the creatures who inhabit Antarctica. 

Eventually she managed to voice her query on the subject of the penguins in a large colony. 

Could she ask what was the difference between the white penguins and the black penguins. 

The expert gave it some careful thought before answering “the white penguins are walking towards you and………………” 

For Fawkes Sake

 Last thursday evening I stood briefly in the hallway of the birthplace of Guy Fawkes in York.

I was not on a pilgrimage or following in the footsteps of the cult hero and stylish beard wearer but stepped inside because it was a cold night and the building has for many years operated as a bar and eatery and was warm and inviting.

A good proportion of those shopping, posing or just wandering about the historic city seemed to have the same destination because there was no available seating, hardly any standing room and certainly no prospect of getting served at the bar, already four deep with persons, each trying to persuade the single indifferently cool barman that their displayed and waved banknotes were any more acceptable as legal tender.

Just resting the back of my legs on a scorchingly hot radiator for a few minutes was as much a reviver as a stiff drink and so much less of an outgoing.

I was in a good position to just gaze casually around. Perhaps the place had not really changed all that much since Mr Fawkes had lived there and the decor, shabby chic, suggested a fairly minimal amount of cash had been spent internally, but why should it be necessary given the pedigree and provenance of such a place. The wood panelling was stained black which accentuated its old age although there was some suggestion of charring and scoring from fire damage whcih I speculated may have been from some early-years arsonist tendencies from the former celebrity resident.

My visit to High Petergate was five days before Guy Fawkes Night or just bonfire night as it is referred to in non-contentious, neutral political and inoffensive speak. Already and every night for some preceeding days there had been regular jarring disturbance from exploding fireworks of every conceivable tone and reverberation as mischievous youths and anarchic adults could not wait for the actual night of commemoration/celebration.

I had noticed that this year there was no problem whatsoever in tracking down a supply of fireworks with seemingly every sales outlet offering discount prices and special offers. The austerity and, until last week officially, recessionary conditions affecting the UK economy seem to have by passed the fireworks industry. There remains and contrary to all trends and frugality a  willingness of the general public to spend their hard earned cash in large amounts  on items that explode and disappear in a puff of smoke and possibly not as satisfyingly loud a bang as you might have hoped for ,given the outlay.

The purchase of fireworks represents a great opportunity for one-upmanship, unfortunately an extension of other but less noisy forms of competition in everyday life. It also represents the highest form of rebellion without usually incurring the attention of the law or other Civil sanctions. As a means of acting in an anti social manner in the setting afire of things, bombarding the neighbours, terrorising local animals and handling explosives it cannot be rivalled. I speak from personal experience as a red blooded male with very few activities left available for misbehaving and acting my shoe size (Imperial not Continental Sizing).

The actual reason for 5th November clouds into insignificance amongst the commercial hype and merchandising.

The date in 1605 represented a difficult period in the history of this Nation and although it is one of those stock dates firmly entrenched in memory from schooldays I would challenge many of the current population to providing a reasonable explanation of why it was significant enough to have lasted beyond such comparable events as (in no particular order) , 'Canutes wet sock day', 'Alfred burn the cakes day', 'King John's Lost Treasure Day', 'Is that something in your eye, Harold day',' Queen Victoria's not very amused day' and other historical milestones.

I am not trying to appear superior in my knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot but wasn't it just an amazing coincidence that Guy Fawkes' fellow conspirators were called Billy Bonfire, Freddie Firework and Robbie Rocket.

My very spurious link to the Gunpowder Plot

I came out of a secondary education with some decent qualifications that allowed me to pursue a career for now just over a third of a century. It actually seems just like a journey of a few minutes duration.

In a quiet moment I may log onto the Old Boys website of the school and see what is going on or if any of my contemporaries have achieved notoriety, anything else or sadly have passed away prematurely. I am that sort of age group where a dodgy prostate or a fast motorbike can finish you off.

Trawling through my own secondary school magazines during a clear-out I was reminded that I had followed in the long faded footsteps of quite a character by the name of Thomas Percy who had attended the same place of learning in the mid to late 16th Century.

By all accounts a tall, striking character with a bit of a reputation as a ladies man in his adult years and a born leader and motivator. I have in comparison about 20% of his traits I am ashamed to say but can still identify with his motivation and his later place in English history. 

His background was certainly not without connections and patronage from the great Percy dynasty which ran from their ancestral home at Alnwick Castle to some considerable distance beyond including some representation in East Yorkshire and the City, that I call my home, of full true name Kingstown Upon Hull.

He was born in 1560 which was a busy time in England contributing to a few chapters of the nations history. Little is actually known about his early years other than he went to what the same school as I had- Beverley Grammar School, the oldest state school in England having been founded in 700 AD.

Born a Protestant he became disenchanted with the faith and at some time in the late 1500's he converted to Catholicism and embraced the doctrine leaving behind the erstwhile antics of his youth. I like to think that the Grammar School, as with myself, gave him a strong knowledge base and he became good at matters of finance and property. This proved quite useful in the company of others including Christopher Wright, John Wright, Robert Catesby and their impressionable compatriot Guido.

He was adept at raising monies for a particular quest and also skilful at negotiating leases on London properties including the Undercroft or cellars to the seat of Government, The House of Lords. 

The group, which may have been successful if left under the more prominent marshalling of Thomas Percy failed when Guido, or under his anglicised name Guy Fawkes was discovered just at the point of lighting the fuse to some powder kegs in protest against Parliament. 

In full flight from the fury of the Authorities Thomas was hunted down and reputedly killed by the same musket ball as Robert Catesby. 

His body was later exhumed and displayed on a pike as a lesson to those intent on the same protest path. 

I got detention at Beverley Grammar once for something quite similar.

His name remains fairly unknown amongst the conspirators in the regular telling of the tale of that 5th November but will always be mentioned with pride in the coming together of us Old Boys who never really did very much at all.

The Money Go Round- Hull Fair

I gave in to a stereotypical middle aged geek urge to try to calculate the hourly income generation of Hull Fair.

This was written a couple of years ago now and so some of the prices for rides and nosh might have shown a small increase with inflationary pressures- especially the novelty balloons.

This is my calculation based on guesstimate, prejudice, inappropriate stock judgements and not a very detailed knowledge of the economics of a very large, slick and efficient commercial enterprise.

I divided up the Fair into broad groups based on form and function.

This covers the multi-million pound Mega Rides right down to the individual hawker with a fistful of helium balloons.

I then estimated the average spend of a visitor to each category, how many visitors could be served at a time and how many times the transaction could be done per hour.

For example, Bob Carvers Chip Emporium has about 15 servers who could turn around a punter every two minutes from order to payment therefore 30 per hour at an average spend of £7.40 assuming 2 portions of pattie, chips and peas.

I applied this across the full range even down to Eva Petulengro Fortune Teller and stalker of Coronation  Street Stars who can, I guess, throw considerable uncertainty into the ongoing lives of 6 people per hour for £5 a go.

The full calculation is as follows;

Fast Food Concessions.
Average take £3, 5 servings at a time, 2 minutes duration, 30 per hour, 50 stalls

Fortune Tellers.
Average take £5, 1 at a time but with 5 caravan based clairvoyants, 10 minutes consultation, so 6 per hour.

Major Rides.
£2.50 average fare, 25 per ride, 12 revolutions, cycles or inversions per hour, 20 such high tech marvels of inertia and motion.

Traditional side stalls.
£1.50 per chuck, launch, shot, hook a duck, 10 people at a time, 2 minutes of adrenaline soaked enjoyment, 30 per hour across 40 very similar stalls with this years top promotion of Meerkats.
Special category for dart throwing stalls.£1.50 , 10 men, 2 minutes including a cigarette, 30 per hour, 20 anachronistic and chauvinistic booth operators.

Bob Carvers, carried over from the illustrative section above.

Children's rides.
£1 fare from grandma's purse. 20 per ride unless the toy cars have not yet been dettol'd so allow for 75% occupancy, 12 sessions per hour, I reckon about 10 old style rides just surviving the high tech expectations of the under-5's.

Amusements/slots/falls.
£2 average spend, a lot of 2p's, 50 punters per arcade, disillusionment kicks in with fresh blood every 5 minutes, 5 arcades all possibly operated by the same company.

One-off specials.
Difficult to see how these actually pay the operators. Cost of £10 per person, teamed up possibly with a perfect stranger to be elastic-launched no-where and be photographed of how you would look faced with the your worst nightmare or entering the Big Brother House. 10 minute set up and ride time so only 5 boings per hour. Possibly 2 of these ridiculous pieces of showboating equipment.

Traditional stalls selling candy floss, toffee apples, liquorice whips.
Average spend £2, well staffed so 10 people served at a time, 2 minutes customer interface time, 30 similar stalls but strong representation from Wrights of Brighouse.

Hawkers
Vendors of balloons, light-up hats, battery operated pets in baskets, whistles reminiscent of childhood Punch and Judy but cringingly annoying after 5 seconds. £3 per spend, 12 sales per hour with 30 high viz vested sellers.

I think that I have covered all income generating areas but if you can think of any more please fill in the dotted lines and carry over to my gross figure....................................................................................
..........................................................................................................................................................

As the Americans always say incorrectly ' Now for the math'.

My hourly gross figure working through my calculations comes to £105,420 per hour for the peak evening sessions from 7pm to closing time.

This produces a global gross figure for the peak hours and over the 8 nights of the Fair of £3,373,440.

Making allowances for bad weather, exceptionally fine weather and those afraid of the dark who only attend in the daylight hours there is considerable scope for fluctuations in figures.

There are of course significant costs to be offset against this figure which I, no doubt, will ponder in the wee small waking hours of the next week or so.

Sycamore Gap remembered

I wrote this back in 2017 in praise of the greatest trees in the world. It is highly disappointing that I now have to reproduce it In Memoriam for the completely senseless felling of the Sycamore on Hadrians Wall in Northumberland, UK.

Voting started yesterday for the 2017 European Tree of the Year with 16 nominated for the shortlist. They are all magnificent examples of their species, of great age and character and with many stories to tell of what they have silently witnessed over the ages. Here are the contenders in no particular order of preference.

The Brimmon oak: pedunculate oak (Quercus robur), over 500 years old, Newtown, Powys, Wales, UK. A new bypass was ‘bent’ to save this ancient pollarded oak known as ‘the Brimmon oak’. It has been cared for by one family for generations – they even have wedding photographs from 1901 that were taken under its canopy. But in 2015 it was threatened by a new bypass. Mervyn Jones, who farms the land, campaigned hard to save the tree with ‘tree hunter’ Rob McBride and following a 5,000-signature petition to the Welsh Assembly, the bypass route was adjusted.

Plane tree from Budatin: plane tree (Platanus hispanica), 270 years old, Žilina, North Slovakia. A London plane is the largest of two plane trees in the Castle park, which was founded during the reign of Count Ján Suňog in 1745 when his head gardener was Ján František Roder from Silesia. Near the large healthy tree grows another plane, that is smaller and sickly. The two plane trees grow together as two different brothers, their roots are inextricably bound.

The ‘ding dong’ tree: copper beech (Fagus sylvatica f. purpurea), about 30 years old, Prestonpans, Scotland, UK. Beloved by generations of pupils at Prestonpans Primary, the tree gets its name from a game invented by pupils who compete to touch its trunk shouting ‘ding dong!’ Its protecting canopy makes it an ideal outdoor classroom, and it brings particular calm to children with complex emotions. It is also the subject of many science and art projects. The headteacher says this copper beech is so woven into the life and identity of the school it’s almost like having an extra member of staff.

Oak Józef: English oak (Quercus robur), 650 years old, Wiśniowa, Podkarpackie province, Poland. The special history of Oak Józef is linked to the place where it grows. The Mycielski family was so charmed by the beauty of the area that they bought a mansion there that became a cultural and intellectual centre of the region. During the second world war the oak provided shelter for a Jewish family hiding from the Nazis. Also the oak’s image was printed on Polish 100 złoty bills. Today, oak Józef is admired by many visitors and is captured in photos and paintings.

Old Homer: holm oak (Quercus ilex), about 200 years old, Rostrevor, County Down, Northern Ireland, UK. ‘I’m the 200-year-old leaning holm oak near the fairy glen in Rostrevor – now I need support! I’ve been loved by generations of local people; for decades, artists, writers and musicians have been inspired under my evergreen leaves. Charles Dickens, CS Lewis and the young Princess Elizabeth have walked the ground I stand on. Hundreds of children have climbed me or swung from my branches. We’ve all become friends. I hear your voices: you touch my spirit as I reach for the light.’

The Stelmužė oak: common oak (Quercus robur L.), more than 1,000 years old, Stelmužė village, Zarasai district, Utena county, Lithuania. One of Europe’s oldest trees, and a symbol of strength, stands near a 17th-century wooden church built by Latvian masters without the use of a single iron nail. Lithuanians say that a man is ‘as strong as Stelmužė oak’. Tourists enjoy its beauty and rich history of pagan sacrifices under its branches or the skeleton and rifle of a Napoleonic soldier found in its cavity. Its acorns propagate many oaks, preserving this veteran tree‘s genes for years to come.

Hugh O’Flaherty’s trees: Mediterranean palm, Italian cypress, holm oak, stone pine, 25 years old, Killarney, Co. Kerry, Ireland. Killarney native, O’Flaherty helped to save 6,500 lives during the Nazi occupation of Rome. This grove of Mediterranean trees was planted in his honour in the Muckross Arboretum in Killarney national park in June 1994 to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the liberation of Rome. A poem, O’Flaherty’s Trees by Brendan Kennelly was read on that occasion by the poet and now forms the centrepiece plaque at the grove.

Jászai Mari square plane tree (Platanus), 80 years old, Budapest, Hungary. In the heart of the capital, and its people, this giant plane is one of the most visited trees in the country. It is eternalised on innumerable family photos with family members resting in its shade. One of the outstanding figures of Hungarian literature, Miklós Radnóti and his wife, Auntie Fifi often walked their dog and had picnics in the shade of the tree. The area surrounding the plane tree became a park in 1903, and it won the title of ‘number one ornamental garden of Budapest’ in the ‘90s.

Climbing beech in Hoppenrade: European beech (Fagus sylvatica), 175 years old, Hoppenrade, Brandenburg, Germany. In the meadow behind our school stands a large, old beech. It is part of our lives and symbolises strength, cohesion, vitality, faith and the transfer of knowledge. Under her canopy we hold open-air classes and it’s a special place all year round – in the spring we can observe sprouting buds, in the summer it gives shade, in the autumn we kick the sea of leaves, in the winter we build a snowman by the trunk. Pupils and staff alike admire and protect our old beech.

The Céron park saman: rain tree (Albizia saman), 300 years old, Le Prêcheur, Martinique, France. This saman, or rain tree, used to shelter coffee and cacao plantations. It comes from the Habitation Céron park (an old sugar plantation from the 17th century), and is registered as one of the largest trees in the Lesser Antilles. A protective tree, which itself is protected from the weather, it has survived all of the island’s cyclones, as well as the eruption of Mount Pelée volcano in 1902.

Russalka oak: common oak (Quercus robur L.), about 100 years old, Tallinn, Harju county, Estonia. A short distance from the statue of Russalka – erected to commemorate the sinking of this ship with its 178 Estonian and Russian seamen – stands an oak tree with an unusual shape. This spot is a favourite meeting place in Tallinn. When this large oak tree became an obstacle to urban development the local community campaigned to save it. Hopefully, this graceful oak will continue to connect different people and cultures for centuries to come.

The sycamore gap tree: sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus), several hundred years old, Hadrian’s Wall, Northumberland, England, UK. This is probably the most photographed spot in the whole of Northumberland national park. Here, a sycamore tree grows in a dramatic dip with Hadrian’s Wall rising up either side. The 1991 film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, starring Kevin Costner, was filmed here. The tree has been known as The Robin Hood Tree ever since.

The lime tree at Lipka: small-leaved Lime (Tilia cordata), 800 years old, Lipka at Horní Bradlo, Pardubice region, The Czech Republic. This lime tree grows by a road connecting the 13th-century Lipka manor and a former cemetery, now tomb of the manor’s first owners, the Kustoš family. For 800 years the tree has welcomed local people to the world and seen them on their last journey. It is said that 15th-century general Jan Žižka camped under its branches and philosopher Jan Amos Komenský stayed here briefly. It is said that a couple that make love under the tree will share an everlasting love.

The sessile oak by Nasalevtsi church: sessile oak (Quercus Petrea), over 600 years old, Nasalevtsi village, Tryn Municipality, Bulgaria. This venerable sessile oak grows by the outer wall of the local church of the Nativity of Mary. The place is considered sacred and there was a church here as early as the period of the Second Bulgarian State (12th-14th century). The current church was built in 1859, when people used to make annual sacrificial offerings to saints here to pray for good health, protection from storms, snakes, attacks by invaders, and also for rain.

The Massemen village lime tree : large-Leaved linden (Tilia platyphyllos), 380 to 440 years old, Massemen, East-Flanders, Belgium. This lime tree has been beloved in Massemen for over 400 years, as befits any veteran tree. Its knobbly trunk, hollow inside and leaves speak for themselves. It groaned ‘in fright’ when the village church burned down in 1645, feasted with the lords of Massemen when the village became a princedom and saw French invaders beaten in 1798. The lime tree spreads a delicious perfume and is featured in many paintings. People still fall in love under its canopy.

Aprisquillo pine: black pine (Pinus nigra), over 350 years old, La Adrada (Ávila), Spain. ‘By the stream, among clouds and mountains I find myself. I’m a black pine, although everyone calls me ‘Aprisquillo’. I grew huge, tall, strong and vigorous. I hear you coming and I know you come to see me. You embrace me and give me your hand, you surround me, you sit on my exposed roots, you talk and talk about my dimensions. Together, we remember past stories about fires and plagues which I have suffered. I enjoy in silence and smile. Here, I will be forever, as a guardian, waiting for you.’

Formerly known as Pete The Cyclist

It is Tour of Britain Day today and a rare stage in East Yorkshire. I thought it apt to return to this piece of shamelessly nostalgic cycling writing.......

I time travelled yesterday for some 51 minutes and 32 seconds.

That will certainly sound like an outrageous and wholly implausible claim to everyone but hear me out.

It was midday in a local town and I was caught in the worst traffic congestion that I had ever experienced in that place. Rather than just enter the queue and take my chance for perhaps an hour or more in the crawling mass I decided to find a parking space, pay the 60 pence for the next sixty minutes and grab a coffee.

I was sure that this would give enough time for the congestion to sort itself out.

It had been a year or more since I had frequented a cycling themed establishment run by a former cycling acquaintance and as it was the nearest coffee servery to where I had left the car the decision of venue was pretty easy.

Gary and his wife had set up Cafe Velo as a new venture a few years ago now.

 Cafe Velo, Beverley, East Yorkshire

In his youth he had been a very accomplished amateur racing cyclist and the Pro Ranks may have beckoned but at a time in the British scene when the prospect of making a living on the bike was very far away from the present day opportunities in sponsorship and commercial endorsement terms.

In order to make ends meet it was imperative to have a daytime job and race as an amateur.


My time travel was facilitated by Gary in that he knew me from my involvement, way back, in the sport of cycling rather than from anything else that I have done in my 60 years on the planet.

I thought that in the mid 1980's I had offended him mortally by outsprinting him to the line in a competitive sprint.

In my mind it was a glorious moment, one of those rare full gas sprints when you feel immensely strong and almost immortal.

I should clarify that
1) it was not in a race and
2) the line was in fact a road sign marking the boundary of a nearby town and
3) there was a group of us out on a wednesday afternoon ride which inevitably involved a few adversarial manouvres fuelled by a coffee and cake stopover at a popular roadside eatery.

The intervening decades had, in my minds eye, elevated this one incident to the equivalent of a Gold Medal contest at the Olympics, the winning of the final Tour de France Stage on the Champs Elysee or any one of the great European Monuments Races such as Paris Roubaix or Lombardia.

Turns out that my pipping him at the post, so to speak, had earned me the respect of Gary and upon entering his Cafe yesterday afternoon I was transported back to the 1980 as he welcomed me back as he knew me.....Pete the Cyclist.

Don't get me wrong. I would not live my life in any other way to that I have been blessed with but that brief and transient phase of my life has some value and influence on all things that followed.

The conversation covered all of the names of former bike racers and events of that bygone era.

I could not recall some of them as Gary was a significantly more accomplished cyclist than I could ever have hoped for. He competed against all of the great and good such as Boardman, Elliott, Herety, Sherwen, Doyle and many others. I was more in the third and fourth tiers with just one win to my name.

In spite of this vast difference in abilities, skills and successes our participation in that great sport was and continues to be a great and rich seam of memories and anecdotes.

We were so engrossed in our collective recollections that the time passed by effortlessly.

In fact, at the arrival of the 32 seconds past that 51st Minute I had to say my farewells and make a dash to the car before the notoriously keen town centre Parking Enforcement Officer had a chance to enter my details into his notebook.

Yep, hard to believe this was me 36 years ago. Still have that machine

Hull Man to solve UK Housing Crisis (1925)

The current housing shortage crisis in the UK is nothing new. 

It is widely stated by activists and charitable housing organisations that there has been a systematic failure by successive governments over the last 40 years to come up with a committed and adequately funded policy to keep the population housed. 

In fact, the lack of a housing strategy goes back much further. 

There were good and laudable intentions after the First World War in the “Homes for Heroes” initiative and yes, some progressive and sustainable developments were taken through to completion and habitation. 

The actual numbers and locations however fell woefully short against actual need. We have, in this country, been on catch-up ever since. 

A prominent name in the mix to address the national housing shortage in the 1920’s was the Hull based, Robert Greenwood Tarran. 

He had seen a shortage in his home city alone of around 10000 homes and in 1925 he built, on Lorraine Street in the Stoneferry Area of East Hull, a pair of his Tarran build concrete houses for inspection and scrutiny by the Hull Corporation Housing Officials as well as inviting other Authorities and National Institutions. 

Other systems built houses were of course available and around the same time the Ministry of Health had been party to a demonstration of a Lord Weir Steel House. 

Robert Tarran had complete faith and confidence in his reinforced interlocking concrete block or panel method of house construction. 

His biggest obstacle was to persuade the Local Authorities but also the General Public that his methods and materials were as sound and durable as bricks and mortar. 

There was a strong resistance to the idea of anything other than traditional build and Tarran would have to work hard to achieve publicity and interest in his non traditional houses. There were also the equally important factors of cost and speed of building as in the years after the First World War there was a significant shortage of materials and skilled labour 

Tarran demonstrated that his houses could be built in just 28 days and with mainly unskilled labour. The key to his method was the casting of the concrete panels in moulds as a cheap and rapid factory based process. With suitable round iron reinforcement the panels came in 6 feet by 2 foot 9 inch units and with a 3 inch thickness. These were inserted into a timber or metal framework erected on a cast concrete base and under a pre-positioned up and over roof. 

Robert Tarran knew that, in order to win over the preconceived ideas of the authorities and the public, the finished product had to look like a standard house and not like a shed or outbuilding. The external finish was rendered, typically in smooth or pebble dash. Issues of inevitable sweating and condensation in the concrete components were countered by a good ventilation system which was an advancement of its type. 

Tarran was able to give an orthodox appearance to the house, a stable, rigid and weatherproof structure and a conventional floor plan. These attributes meant the houses could be regarded as permanent structures and would therefore be suitable to meet Government Funding Criteria for a 60 year loan. 

Two types were available, both of 3 bedrooms (at a time when older traditional brick houses in Hull were predominantly of just 2 bedrooms) and up to date amenities. The one living room version had a £425 cost in a ready to occupy condition and for £500 a parlour or second living room was available.

Tarran claimed that he could build 1000 of his houses over a 3 to 4 year period and would donate four homes for free to The Great War Trust. 

Housing Experts at that time were of the opinion that Tarran's houses exceeded any previous systems in replicating the expectations and public acceptability of a traditional bricks and mortar dwelling.

As a footnote, Tarran was well ahead of his time in the 1920's and although his company Tarran Industries were also Civil Engineers and prominent in major building projects in Hull in the pre war and inter war era it was not until the 1940's and beyond that his Concrete Houses came into their halcyon era. In all and on a National Basis Tarran built around 19000 houses. 

Tarran variant house types are still standing today but only where significant repair schemes to combat the corrosion and weakening of the metal reinforcement in the concrete panels and framing have been carried out. 

                                                Photograph of a post war era Tarran bungalow

The repatriation of Trump (The Goldfish - not the other)

I wrote this a few years ago now on the subject of the two goldfish that comprise the current official menagerie of our family, (Excluding the local wildlife of squirrels, magpies, pigeons and urban foxes) It is particularly relevant and not a little bit poignant because one of them died and the other is shortly to be repatriated to the Aquarium Shop as we are no longer able to keep him. The reasons are complicated. 

Here goes....

Having written the foregoing I am somewhat ashamed to admit that my two goldfish, constant companions to me in my work-room over the last 3 years remain without any names whatsoever.

I can explain this, partly, in that they were acquired as participants in the Iranian New Year Festival in 2015.

Amongst various symbols of renewal and tradition for Nowruz the fish represented life and creation as they swam around the glass bowl on a ceremonial table. I fully expected our Iranian friend to claim ownership of the fish and take them with him but no. It appears that after the New Year in Iranian Families the symbolic goldfish have served their purpose and just disappear. 

So, a few years further on and they are just behind where I sit at my desk, although in a much larger tank. The bubble and murmur of the filter and pump are hardly noticeable to me now although from time to time the fish flick the surface with their tales to disturb my concentration. This is usually as feeding time approaches or if they require a staring match through the thick glass of the tank which they seem to enjoy doing.

As for giving them names, well, I am pretty close to doing that with the catalyst being something that the pair of them have recently done within the few cubic feet of their environment.

It is only in the last week or so that, unbeknown to me and very much behind my back (actually behind where I sit) they have undertaken a large civil engineering project.

Half of the floor area of the tank is now exposed glass, devoid of any gravel or objects. In a painstakingly slow process by mouth or fin the two fish have created a sloping shelf or underwater beach from the small aggregate stones and pebbles that runs from the middle of the tank all of the way up to the outfall of the pump/filter.

Apparently this behaviour is quite normal for goldfish but in this case normal is not a word I would use.

The creation is geologically and topographically perfect over its 30 degree slope. In addition some sizeable stones which were collected during family holidays and excursions for their unusual shape and texture have been manoeuvred into very natural looking positions within and at the foot of the gradient.

This will have been no small feat given their density and ,what I had thought, immovability. 

I have been so engrossed in my own work that this major redevelopment scheme has gone unnoticed for so long. 

I cannot say which of the fish has assumed the roles of architect, designer, project manager and general labourer although they are very different in size and manner being from two distinct breeds

I can imagine that the larger of the two, a chubby, bossy and belligerent classical Carp shaped fish would be the instigator and the much smaller, delicate and flowing tailed one a bit of a fawning acolyte.

Yes, the fat fish is very bright orange, quite flamboyant and self assured and yet not in possession of the sharpest mind. His companion is subservient but I suspect very clever and a little bit devious in appearing to go along with the whims and fancies of the dominant partner and by doing so getting exactly what it wants.

I can therefore have the naming ceremony here and now.

The pair of fish will henceforth be called Trump and Kush.

There is some satisfaction in having reached this point but I am now a little bit concerned about what the outcome of the further fish tank based activities of Trump and Kush might be- a golf course, a wall or as a launch pad for aggression and mayhem in their own little world...............................................or beyond.

St Swithin and Soggy shoes

It has been the wettest July in the UK since records were made on such things. As Brits we complain but at the same time do not wish upon ourselves the other weather extreme being visited upon other parts of the world in heatwaves, wild fires, floods and drought. Here's a bit of a musing on water..... 

The following is an edited transcript of a BBC 4 extra radio play that aired some time ago now. The work, entitled "The State of Water" is a drama around a Welsh Hill farming family and the decisions they have to make to conserve the natural water resources on their land. 

The writer, Sarah Woods blends language and emotions with a factual thread which taps into the whole theme of water supplies and security which are becoming a significant consideration across the globe.

"Each of us is made up of 60% of water.

It is in our blood, heart, arteries, veins and capillaries.

It conducts the electrical signals in our brains to allow us to function. Water lubricates our joints, allows eyes to turn in their sockets, dissolves enzymes and hormones and carries amino acids, carbohydrates and minerals, carbon dioxide and electrolytes.

Of the 150 litres that each of us uses every day we drink only 6 litres. Some 50 litres is used in showers and spills from taps. 20 litres run through the washing machine, 45 litres are flushed down the toilet. The rest just drips away as we wash foodstuffs at the sink or brush our teeth.

We rely on water to produce just about everything in our lives.

A single tomato from seed to sandwich filling uses 13 litres of water. A hamburger from grazing pasture to the inside of a sesame seed bun takes 2400 litres. A pair of leather shoes is a consumer of 8000 litres and the production of a car, 400000 litres.

A sip of tea contains 136 drops of Indian water, the equivalent sip of coffee 1100 Brazilian drops. The perfect accompaniment for a roast dinner, potatoes were irrigated in Egypt. A refreshing orange comes from Spain and other citrus fruits from the sun drenched eastern Mediterranean.

Water surrounds particles and puts them in solution.

There are organic compounds from decaying plants, crypto spiridium from animal faeces, pesticides from the fields seep into the water in the absence of filtering peat and soils, slurry leaks into the watercourses and strangles the oxygen which asphyxiates the fish, over-use of fertilisers encourages a poisonous algae bloom, industrial processes leach iron, aluminium, tin, lead and cadmium into the water and this is joined by other toxic waste from car oil to rubbish tips, pollutants from cooling water as it is returned and heavy metals from panel beaters, dentists and university laboratories.

The solution bio-accumulates in our bodies and bones. The contraceptive pill and HRT put oestrogen into the water. Raindrops, thick and heavy with particulates from the burning of fossil fuels absorb Carbon and Nitrogen dioxides resulting in sulphuric and nitric acid. This increases as more rain releases aluminium and metals which kills insects and the wildlife that feed on them.

As the earth warms up ,water vapour fills the air. Summers around the globe and the natural aquifers become drier and as this happens there are greater demands for water.

Glaciers melt which causes problems for the 1 in 6 of the population who rely on meltwater. Sea level rises from glacial melt meaning that saltwater overwhelms freshwater supplies.

Downpours are more severe and concentrated and yet as half of the world suffers from devastating floods, the other withers from punishing drought.

Water is a finite resource and yet we take it for granted. Seagoing tankers take 36 million litres of freshwater from France to 330000 homes in Spain whose residents are in water crisis. 

There is no more and no less of it. We drink the water that our ancestors bathed in .

There is nothing to replace it with when it is gone."