Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild-explained

Get your motor running

In modern motor vehicles there is no need for the elaborate performances of yester-year such as using a starting handle, charging up the battery in the kitchen overnight, pre-heating, attempted jump starts or intentionally parking on a downward slope. The exercise of getting your motor running is only a one key turn or push button start away. Do not leave the engine idling unnecessarily or the car unattended when the engine is on.   

Head out on the highway

This, of course assumes that you have carried out your pre-journey checks for tyre pressure, level of coolant and wash-wipe reservoirs, function of lights and level of petrol guage. Be aware of your own state of mind and physical welfare, avoiding a trip if still intoxicated from the night before, overtired or grumpy. Be careful if reversing out of the driveway, particularly attentive to the presence of small children and domestic pets.

Looking for Adventure


Within expectations of course. For example, a simple run to the local shops has little scope for excitement. Most modern adventures in motoring involve seeking out lavatories, petrol stations, motorway rest areas and avoiding road works and traffic congestion. Consult the latest edition of 'Readers Digest Map of the Road' or download a relevant App to your smartphone.

In whatever comes our way


A cavalier attitude is all very well but have consideration for your passengers who, if only expecting a trip to Tesco's, may become uncomfortable if you decide to impulsively drive to see the Minkie Whales off Bangor, North Wales, the Lost Gardens of Heligan or to try and find Cilla Blacks' house near Blackpool. If you get excited by finding a lost, still wrapped Everton toffee under the drivers seat then you will not be disappointed in any journey.


Yeah, darling

This is an optional term of endearment very much depending upon your relationship with the occupants of the car. Not recommended if you have volunteered to ferry elderly strangers to a Church Social.

Gonna make it happen


I am a bit wary of promising too much based on past and bitter disappointments. There are so many intangibles that could negate even the best intention to 'make it happen'.

 Take the world in a love embrace

OOo-Err. Potentially three penalty points on your driving licence for an activity that is likely to involve taking one or more hands off the steering wheel.

Fire all of your guns at once and
Explode into space

OOo-Err again. Firearms Licence issues and exposure to being Taser'd spring to mind on this one. If your pre-trip checks were thorough enough you will have largely avoided potential for a mishap leading to such an unfortunate and inconvenient chain of events.


I like smoke and lightning

In the context of 'Top Gear Live' this is acceptable but in any other everyday activity I would disagree with this particular statement.

Heavy metal thunder

Those who drive around, windows down, playing very loud rock music can be annoying. I do like to listen to compilation CD's which have a good beat to while away the hours and miles. The film scores of John Barry, recently deceased, or Danny Elfman's incidental music to many of Fox TV's shows are recommended.

Racing in the wind


Such practices are now regarded as anti social notwithstanding obvious danger. My Volvo estate was susceptible to catching a cross wind and at motorway speeds that could be quite alarming. The elevated M62 bridge at Goole is particularly exposed to prevailing westerlies.

And the feeling that I'm under


Some prescription medicines do warn about drowsiness and to avoid driving or operating heavy machinery. Anyway, I doubt if the UK economy has any heavy machinery left to operate. Depression through normal life, stress from financial strains and sunlight deficiency disorder can affect concentration levels whilst driving.. Please desist from thinking about taking a few pedestrians or the shop front of Morrisons with you if contemplating ending it all. Crumple and Impact features in modern vehicles may just leave you with an insurance excess to pay, a lump on the head and temporary vision impairment from being embedded in an air-bag.

Yeah, darling
Gonna make it happen
Take the world in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once and
Explode into space

You know my firm views on these issues.

Like a true nature child

In the interests of political correctness I must decline from getting into a debate on this subject. I am still under an Injunction for misjudging the zone allocated for Naturists at Bridlington, which to my surprise at the time did not include parts of the town centre shopping area.

We were born, born to be wild


I could debate literally for hours on ' nature versus nurture', creationism and Darwinism. I think that even if we are born a bit uncivilised a lot can be said for developing good manners and a social etiquette. Clean shoes, well pressed trousers and tidy hair still say a lot about a person even if they do not own their own home, for example.

We have climbed so high

Not in a pushy or nouveau riche way but through hard study at school, passing the Eleven plus, attending Grammar School and going to a Polytechnic on a vocational course. I aspired to a Volvo at quite an early age. Unless this just refers to my recent ascent of Scafell Pike in the English Lake District.

Never want to die

The Co-Operative do have a very good savings scheme to make the inevitable that much more comfortable.

Born to be wild
Born to be wild

Hard to believe but this song has an uncanny resemblance to my own lifestyle.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xm5DPlNCmtk

Tent

It came, I remember vividly, in the small, tight blue roll of a string tied bag.

Some forty plus years later the same bag is just about recognisably blue but heavily faded, discoloured and grass-stained from as many summers. It was the tent. A Boy’s own first and starter tent but only in that four letter word did it have any actual resemblance to a real tent. It failed on so many criteria.

 It was made of light and almost transparent cotton and not heavy duty canvas. As a consequence it had no waterproof qualities whatsoever. The two poles were thin and flimsy, about the girth of a babies finger, in two sections and with the connector being possibly part of an elvish friendship ring. The poles emerged through the front and rear apex of the tent from small holes with only fancy stitching to hold them in place against a strong wind, for example, if anyone opened a door. There was no connection between the poles, no stout ridge, so the whole structural integrity, as much as it was, relied on the tension of the two guy-ropes. These simply looped, at the centre, over the protruding pole end and could extricate themselves through any momentary lessening of the tension, usually if someone coughed or sneezed.

Setting up the tent singlehandedly was a challenge. The cloth rectangle was laid out on one of its sides. The far end pole was assembled like sticking together two matchsticks with a tin foil wrap. Then, the first excitement of crawling into the semi transparent enclosure like putting salad into a pitta bread. I usually, and illogically held my breath for that part. If it was done easily that was fine. Any small problems delaying the operation and I would emerge very red faced and gasping for air. The latter was usually the case. Then the front pole. This was very straightforward as I just had to pull back the sub-triangle door panel and insert the pole, just like an upside down cricket stump. The guy rope was attached to the rear pole. Trying to maintain equal tension on two lengths of little more than kite string was difficult. I was trying to walk in one direction to find a spot to push in the metal skewer but with the other arm stretched out along the tangent where the other skewer would go. It was evidently, quite a plausible imitation of Dr Magnus Pike in full flow.

The metal skewers were not the original fittings for the tent. Those supplied when the bag was its bluest colour were purpose made and stout tent pegs. True and straight with a nicely turned and angled top. Most importantly the pegs had a pointed end for easy driving into the ground, even by a small child without his Dad’s mallet, best hammer or any other tool with a handle and a head. The originals were long gone. Lost in the garden. Misplaced in the bottom of the toy cupboard or thrown into the far reaches of the compost heap if they dared to catch, snag and damage the rotating blade of the fierce petrol driven lawn mower as it dragged my Father back and forth across the lawn on a weekend. The usual spikes to secure the guy ropes were meat skewers. Under slight pressure into even light soil they buckled and folded. They were useless.

As a back up plan I could tie the ropes to stationary objects such as a garden bench or abandoned toys, the heavy red metal pedal car being pretty solid. With one of the pegs just about stable I could scuttle across to the other. I was a bit of a stickler for a correct angle for the guy rope. It had to be forty five degrees from the pole, creating a ninety degree arc altogether. If I misjudged the angle or tension the whole far end of the tent would, at best, distort and sag or at worst just collapse. If it held up I would gingerly step back so as not to create any air turbulence. The tent was half up. It looked at that stage like a camel kneeling down on its forelegs with bum in the air. I would giggle at this observation, again. The front pole, again a bit easier and less of a performance. The tent was fully up. I worked round the pegs to make minor adjustments to the ropes using the sliding runners to even up the pitch and roll of the tent. If done correctly and not overstretched there was the advantage that the door flaps would meet in the middle and could be tied together to keep invaders and marauders, usually disguised as my younger siblings, at bay.

The tent then had to be filled with my equipment. Travel rug as a groundsheet, box of plastic soldiers, toy gun, cushion stolen from the living room and food supplies. Of course, the tent was suitable for both outdoor and indoor use. Thinking back I would say that the tent had actually been pitched more often in the dining room than the garden.

I did sleep out sometimes in the tent but in the absence of any protection against rain, swirly winds or even insects and snails this could only be done on the warmest ,driest and pest free night in any one year. The base of the tent sides did have two small tie loops per side to prevent flapping or the appearance of a sibling’s head covered in chocolate or worse. Usually I did not have enough pegs to use the loops.

In a stiff, strong wind the tent took on a life of its own and would be rapidly evacuated and then later retrieved from its eventual resting place up the end of the garden. Given its obvious limitations you would think that the tent would soon lose its appeal to a small lad.

I forgot to mention its most endearing and lasting feature. The tent was a very bright colour. The end panels were lurid orange. The main sides portrayed fantastical scenes of cowboy life. A cattle drive, camp fire, mounted ranch hands, mountains and plains. On a bright day, and lying out surrounded by my equipment it was easy for the whole tent to come alive with the Wild West and it was a very real and brilliant experience.

I spent many hours under the cotton triangle of that tent and even now, the smell and texture of the somewhat faded cloth evokes great and poignant memories. Of course, now that I am fully grown my attempts to lie down in the tent are quite comical. It still emerges on a regular basis every summer and is pitched awaiting occupation. My own children, niece and nephews have moved onto other activities and pursuits. I, however, have not . Stooping down and crawling in can give some worrying muscle twinges. It is a performance to actually roll over and lie down to look through and enjoy the cowboy patterned cotton . With my bald patch resting on the far pole I absolutely fill the tent. If it rained I would be in trouble as my legs from the knees down straddle the front pole and stick out into the garden. If it rained I would be in trouble anyway.

(previously pitched in mid November 2011 but well worth a run out now that it is better Spring weather- It is one of my favourites)

Weed Science

England. 1825. The Scene; A large commercial glasshouse of a well known importer of exotic flora and fauna.

Temple Lushington 'not very capable' Brown, of that well known dynasty of Landscape Gardeners, but much removed from the genetic stream by a few forays by his illustrious ancestors behind the potting shed with female assistants, sat nervously in the lobby of the Horticultural Emporium. His career was in tatters after some disastrous attempts to remodel parts of Berkshire and Hampshire for their Gentry Landowners. His Ha-Ha's were considered laughable, Follys percieved as foolish, Gazebo's not worth a second look. He was desperate to steal a march on his competition by securing the next best thing before it became known as the next best thing. There had been a whisper in the grass that this establishment had taken delivery of an exotic shipment from the Orient. Tatler Magazine , that must for the Victorian Parlour, had run a feature on all things Japanese in the home and garden and the response from the well-to do in the Home Counties had been phenomenal. Large landed estates, smaller country manors and town house gardens had sprouted with the ephemera of Japan in statues, water features and coloured gravels interspersed with coarse but colourful grasses and miniature shrubs. The Importer of Plants looked a bit flustered. He had been called down to the delivery bay of the Glasshouses to witness a disturbing sight. A sole crate of plants from the far East had exploded under the pressure of a gargantuam growth only minutes after being delivered by the horse drawn dray from the Docks. The manifest had listed only one species, fallopia japonica, supposedly an ornamental plant likened to bamboo but not closely related. Given the likely packaging of the crate during the Japanese Spring and the passage aboard the Peninsular and Oriental freighter from east to west ,this pointed to a phenomenal growth rate of, on the basis of a rough calculation, 3 imperial inches a day, even allowing for the inhospitable and inhibiting growth conditons inside a dark crate. Perhaps the arrival of Temple Lushington Brown was fortuitous for the rapid sale and removal from his premises of the crate. It was. A deal was done to the distinct advantage of the Importer emphasising indeed the reputation widely held in the realms of Horticulture that  T.L Brown Esq was rather stupid. The unique selling point as far as Temple was concerned was the range of wonderfully evocative colloquial names for the newly acquired plant. He could see good mileage in his catalogue for the marketing of the Pea Shooters, Elephant Ears, Monkey Weed and the comic sounding Donkey Rhubarb. His self adjudged shrewdness in business would elevate his plant product to a level of frenzied interest which would knock Common Ragwort, Giant Hogweed and Himalayan Balsam into the compost heaps of the well to do, as if, that is they knew what a compost heap was given the levels of domestic servitude in the period. Heady expectations for the species were more than outstripped by subsequent sales and the plant soon graced many a garden in the Home Counties as both an attractive, tall and late autumn flowering clump and a talking point on it's prolific growth and spread through one's grounds from the initial planted border.T L Brown had made his fortune and gratefully retired from the high pressure world of horticultural engineering.Meanwhile, gardeners were instructed to keep an eye on the Donkey Rhubarb and cut it back if it appeared to be out of control. They enthusiastically did this but any machete'd stems or foliage just germinated willy nilly wherever the offcuts were deposited. The next request from worried owners was to pull the whole plant out altogether. This proved difficult as the roots were found to stretch some ten feet below the surface and with a sub-terranean spider-web spread of around twenty five feet. Removal by naked flame in a scorched earth approach, conventional poisoning by herbicide and frantic pulverising by hand did not really solve the growth problem. Rumours that the young spring shoots could be cultivated and eaten and therefore marketed as a potential income stream fell on deaf Elephant Ears. Overnight the plant took on the image of a demon. Groundskeepers and custodians of gardens, once proud professions , resorted to nightime tactics of mass excavations of roots and self germinating stems. Carts and wagons groaned under the sheer weight of vegetation and accompanying soils and debris. Under cover of darkness the transports wound their way to remote areas on the edges of the developing towns and cities to return empty but with a tell tale trail of dry earth marking their sorry journeys. The Fallopia Japonica,when not actually in annoying view left the consciousness of the public. New fashions emerged in the form of pampas grass, eucaplyptus, domestic rhododendron and every miniature of fruits trees. Things Japanese became jaded and a bit nouveau riche. It was as if the eradication of the plant had been wholly successful.

Footnote;  The World Conservation Union has listed Fallopia Japonica as amongst one of the world's most invasive plant species. In the 1981 Wildlife and Countryside Act in the UK it became illegal to intentionally spread the plant beyond a controllable extent. The plant, whilst hardy enough to grow through building foundations, concrete paths, floors and emerge triumphantly in auditoriums and living rooms has been susceptible to herbicides and recent trials have indicated that spraying with seawater can also serve as an inhibitor. The presence of the plant on building sites, most notably the London Olympic complex, has cost millions to tackle. Imagine the diplomatic backlash and sheer embarassment to the UK, as a nation, if Usain Bolt, on sprinting clear to the line in the 100m final became entangled in and legged up by Japanese Knotweed forcing its way up through the tartan running track. In its native country, Knotweed is not a problem mainly because it has natural predators in the insect world. There are proposals for the introduction of the small Aphalara itadori insect into the UK to directly attack the Japanese Knotweed as a non-native bio-control. This is all very well but what uproar there would be when the first crate of the insects arrives on these shores only to burst open from the pressure of a gargantuan growth and with the freakishly large creatures scuttling away carrying anything and anyone away in their oversized sap sucking mandibles.

The Dave Mystery

He was Mr Dependable. You asked for something to be done. He did it with bells on and a flourish of style. Dave worked at the Fire Department. High Flier but his own man. Sometimes at odds with management but respected by his crew. He had seen some bad stuff in the service. Car and occupants blended with trees, half dressed and intoxicated women stuck in the tidal mud, overdone bodies in city centre flats, ungrateful cats rescued from trees. In amongst all this he was able to keep a sense of reality.I had been with him in the car one night when we had come across a RTA. Motorcyclist versus car, no contest, car won.We were the first on the scene not paralysed by fear. Instantly Dave's instincts kicked in. He made the car safe against igniting the pool of fuel in the road. Set up a road flow system to stop rubbernecking. Briefed ambulance crew, police and his colleagues when they arrived. Got some girls phone number. Competitive at sport he was a good all rounder at cricket. Played once as a ringer for the Diocese of York and cleaned up for the Bishop's team. Unlucky in love, mostly. One for the ladeeze as they say. Daughter, great gal and a credit to Dave. In relationships, out again. Happy and then holidaying with us in melancholy mood. Married briefly but all fell apart so quickly. Sad and soul searching times.
That morning, Dave went missing. Strange. Very much out of character. The job had been arranged. Garage doors to top coat. The unseasonally warm and dry weather was perfect for outdoor work. Time not however on our side with dusk approaching by mid afternoon. I had communicated with Dave by text a couple of days earlier. No problem. Called him with heads up for favourable weather the day before. He was working nights, the red-eye shift with a new vehicle and partner. Would be home and ready by 9.40am. I rang him as he left the forecourt of the fire station. Could I pick him up on the way? Would that be easier? No, he said. Something he had to do in town, would explain later. Loose end or affair of the heart I thought. I said I would meet him 'there'. On reflection I should have been more precise on where 'there' was. There were a few possibilities. Westwood Road to collect the keys, Costa Coffee, on the wide road out of town, anywhere in the HU17 postcode district. I would be there from about 11.15am. Caught up in a blue gloss haze and inhalation of paint fumes on a still day it was about noon when I realised that Dave was a no-show. The garage was down a narrow unmade track off the main drag. Quiet, behind houses and with, I counted only three private residences off. Only two passers by, one a postman, the other could have been a daily. No active neighbourhood watch to challenge my scruffy paint covered attire. No offer of refreshment either from the well to do residents.I could have murdered a cup of Joe. Thought about reaching for my phone. My hands were caked with blue gloss. Not a practical thing to do. I developed a painting pattern of three to four strokes and then a look up the lane, three to four, look, reload paintbrush, three to four, look. I felt I was going mad. Three, Four, look. It was getting on for 1.35pm. Time had flown, the blue paint had run. I was now crouched down touching up the lowest planking. It made a change from stretching to paint the lintel. I stretched and grimaced with muscle cramps. I was startled by my phone going off in my inside pocket. Panic set in. I quickly wrapped an old cloth around my sticky paw. Club fisted it was difficult to extricate the phone. It fell to the ground,catching and deflecting off the rim of the open paint tin. A narrow miss. It was notification that lunch was ready at the house. Then I saw the text message. It was from Dave. I feared the worst. He had been kidnapped and the perps were using his phone to notify the ransom demand. He had fallen and was lying prone somewhere. Ungrateful cats had wreaked their revenge. The mud caked drunken woman had recognised Dave in town and they had eloped. The text was tense and to the point. Where was 'there'. It had been sent about 11.15am. I called the number. Dave answered. He was half miffed, half apologetic. His interpretation of 'there' was outside my Ma's house on Westwood Road. He had parked up at 11.10am and waited. Engrossed in a book and watching a cat climb a large tree he too had entered that phase where time flies by like stink. Now that we agreed that 'there' was a matter of personal interpretation we agreed to meet at my Ma's and partake in a ham salad sandwich with side order of crisps. We laughed at our misunderstanding in the warmth of the kitchen. As we left, still the best of friends I slapped him on the back. Our longstanding friendship would surely now be put to it's stiffest test as I noticed that I had left a large, perfect blue hand print on the left shoulder of his best going out jacket.

Buzzer Nights

A failure rate at 67% is, in my opinion,an indication that something is not really viable or sustainable and should be stopped immediately. Unfortunately, such a pitifully poor statistic can only be judged in hindsight.

More unfortunate is the fact that from 1914 to 1918 the specific statistic was being generated by the 115 Zeppelins of the German military. A total of 77 craft were shot down, crashed or otherwise terminally malfunctioned but not before they had terrorised the civilian population of the UK in the first incidences of aerial attack in what became known, much later in the second global conflict, as Total War. Count von Zeppelin had been pioneering large airships and their application to military use in the late 1800's and with the first progression from patented blueprint to actual airborne prototypes as early as 1900.

A bit cumbersome, quite unpredictable to manoeuvre and very volatile in their hydrogen inflation there must have been some scepticism from the authorities about their practical use.

However, in the early stages of the first world war they were very highly regarded for reconnaisance over the front lines and for a few silent forays and bombing missions over Paris and other allied targets. The time was right for an otherwise prominent, ponderous and highly flammable blimp as neither small arms fire from the trenches, anti-aircraft fire or pursuit aircraft were sufficiently advanced or potent to constitute a threat .At an operating height of around 3000 feet and propulsion speeds of 85 mph nothing could touch the imposing Zeppelins. It was therefore a natural strategic decision to use the airships in a much more offensive role.

The Kaiser did not want London to be bombed from the air or at least there was a strict directive not to inflict damage on any of his favourite and historic buildings in th capital. Next choice for the onslaught of the first aerial assault on mainland England was, logically, Hull, an important east coast Port within good range.

The first mass Zeppelin raids were commenced in early to mid 1915 . Adverse weather and winds prevented the primary target being reached. Hull had a reprieve but Great Yarmouth was bombed and recorded the first home fatality of bombardment from the air.

It was not long before Hull resumed its place as the most attacked city, by Zeppelins, outside London. The silent menace of the airships was both sinister and terrifying for the civilian population of Hull. The Zeppelins would leave their mooring masts and hangers at dusk, head across the North Sea and make landfall on the east coast in the early hours of the morning. The combination of darkness, cloud induced invisibilty and the prospect of a torrent of high explosive bombs and incendiaries caused many citizens to stay outdoors in public open space and parks for the peak threat periods.

The prospect of after-dark attacks led to the description of these hours as 'Buzzer Nights'.

One documented account of a typical attack illustrates the rising tension and fear. Zeppelin Raiders had been spotted in the North Sea at 7.25pm. A blackout was ordered in Hull at 9.30pm. The first airships appeared over the town of Hedon, 5 miles to the east of the city at 11.47pm. In the subsequent slow and circling bombing run from 3000 feet altitude a total of 32 devices were dropped with a loss of life and widespread devastation to buildings and infrastructure. The Ordnance was intended for maximum destruction by explosive impact or a firestorm. Canisters containing the explosive Thermite mixed with tar and benzol were most effective to set buildings alight. The target areas of the extensive docks, wharves,warehouses and the centre of the city were also close to or inclusive of dense areas of terraced housing and many women and children were killed. A poster and propaganda campaign showed a searchlight captured Zeppelin under the title of 'The Baby Killer'. The largest Parish Church in England (almost a cathedral) , Holy Trinity, Hull narrowly escaped destruction after the adjacent Edwin Davis Department Store, only 27 feet away collapsed under incendiary attack.

The people of Hull, under the menace of attack expressed anger at the apparent lack of civil defence measures of either land based guns or interceptor aircraft. More socially disruptive was a very unhelpfully devisive campaign by the Hull Daily Mail newspaper speculating that residents of the city with German origins may be signalling to,or assisting in target spotting for the Zeppelins. A number of longstanding family run shops and businesses of settled German migrants, now British citizens,were attacked by small ,angry mobs. This was widely condemned by the vast majority of the population as the work of mindless thugs. The air raid sirens were frequent from June 1915 to the summer of the following year.

Such was the arbitrary nature of the wind and weather in the flight planning of the raiders that Hull was on alert even if not the main target. It was easy for the Zeppelins to follow the course of the Humber immediately south of Hull to reach the Midlands and as far west as Liverpool. The looming mass of an airship in proximity to the city even en-route elsewhere must have instilled great fear and trepidation. The burgeoning statistics of failure for the Zeppelin fleet did prompt developments in technology to try to offset the high losses of men and machines. The L-designated models of the first attacks were replaced by successive M and P Class models, the former with 6 engine propulsion, a ceiling height of 13,000 feet and bomb carrying payload of 4 tons.

Another well documented attack on Hull took place in early March 1916. This involved 3 of the P Class Zeppelins. Captain Scheutze commanding L-11 had originally intended to attack the naval shipyards at Rosyth near Edinburgh but was driven south east. The weather was atrocious with snow storms, dense snow and ice bearing clouds and swirling winds which at 54mph largely checked any chance of progress by the straining engines. The gondola slung under the gas filled balloon was icing up and inhospitable to Captain and crew. Unable to control the craft in such conditions the Captain contemplated abandoning the mission. After discounting Middlesborough, the tertiary target of Hull was considered. Navigation by sight, usually following the course of railway lines was difficult and L-11 could have been anywhere along the eastern side of England. Then a series of explosions were spotted through a break in the cloud cover. The sister P Class airships had found their default targets in Hull. The Captain completed his objective.

A later attack by 9 Zeppelins in the August of 1916 caused a further 9 deaths, again predominantly defenceless citizens. Gradually tactics by ground based gunners and intrepid flyers became a tangible threat to the Zeppelins and operations against mainland England scaled down significantly. The manufacturing, fuelling and mooring stations of the Zeppelins in the axis countries also came within range of allied attacks. The last recorded Zeppelin over Hull was in March 1918 with one fatality on the ground, a lady, dying from the shock of the return of the aerial threat, and not directly from enemy action.

At great loss to life, Hull had nevertheless survived as a frontline city in the new phenomena of Total War. What was not foreseen or anticipated at the time was the even more severe devastation of Hull in the Second World War by the same enemy but with battle hardened and considerably more efficient flying machines.

Des Res

I find it a constant source of amusement and bemusement that owners of new houses re-stlye them to look olde and rustic and conversely owners of old houses go for an ultra-modern look. There can be some quite striking effects of this irrational process but at the same time some right shockers. Examples of the best and worst of this genre do come to mind. On the way to Spurn Point, that fragile spit of land just hanging out and surviving the relentless action of the North Sea, there is an old mid Victorian farmhouse. On passing on the way to Spurn there is nothing remarkable about the squat, rustic brick and pantile building.It is what it was intended to be. However, on the return trip and with a fresh viewpoint the west side of the house glints and dazzles with a two storey full height glass atrium (I will not cheapen the effect by calling it a conservatory). The orientation of this structure gives a full 30 mile vista down the estuary, Humber Bridge like two sticks and a piece of string in the mid distance and the rising steam and acid rain inducing discharge from the West Yorkshire power stations on the curved horizon. The contrast between old and new is fantastic. Any aesthetic qualities of this fine example are more than cancelled out by attempts at rustification of a modern house. I have spent many hours inspecting and identifying beamed ceilings in newly built houses as to whether they perform any actual structural role or are very faithful and authentic reproductions, including woodworm holes and trails, but in expanded polystyrene from B and Q. The rule, through my observations, is that the smaller the house the higher the actual proportion of attempts at imitation and mimickry of old features. In some small way, the homeowners perpetrating these crimes are trying to recall things they have seen and themselves marvelled at in their own memories. There has been an onslaught and eradication of many traditional features in the housing stock which were commonplace even up to 20 years ago. Trends are pushed and pushed by magazines and TV shows. I am evidently in the minority as my home does not have any Travertine tiles anywhere, no fruit bowl shaped glass wash hand basins, no walk through wet room, an absence of a resin saturated pebbled floor or fifty inch wall mounted Plasma screens in each and every room including the loo.

I would like to promote the return to the UK housing stock of the following endangered features found in my travels. (actual locations in italics)
1) Sword Cupboard. A tall, slim alcove built storage facility adjacent to the fireplace to take blade and accoutrements. Also of similar dimensions to take a baseball bat but not a Samurai sword. Potentially useful to dry damp umbrellas. (Cottingham, Hull)
2) Sedan Chair House. A double doored integral compartment straight onto the street and linked to the house for seamless alighting from mobile chair to armchair. Easily suited to take a quad bike or jet-ski but not quite wide enough to allow full 360 degree circulation of a pool table.(Newbegin, Beverley)
3) Worktop Bath. Hidden under the kitchen preparation surfaces, an enamelled or even a tin bath revealed upon hinged operation of the worktop. Hot water taken directly from the sink taps. Allows bathing and potato peeling to be undertaken simultaneously. Also strong social benefits as the family bathtime and mealtimes can be combined. Also suitable for tie and dye.(Garden Village, Hull)
4) Bedroom ledge. A narrow platform of nose height clearance to the ceiling above a sleeping person accessible from the living room from a wooden ladder. Straw bedding optional. Creates additional space where there is a reasonable floor to ceiling height. Has been mimicked in London under the description of 'crash pad'. (Hotham, East Yorkshire)
5) Millrace. A natural stream or man made channel of water is directed through the main living area and is used to rotate turbines for self sufficiency in power. A bit noisy and damp but allowing intermittent capture of fresh fish. A bit of a conversation piece for visitors.(North Cave, East Yorkshire)
6) Dovecote. Every house should have one. White painted and ornate with multiple perching platforms to entice birds to rest. Internal honeycomb of roosting positions. When fully occupied by plump birds, rotate on pivot to close up the openings. Commence slaughter of captured birds, pluck, gut and place in freezer. (Village Farm, Bainton)
7) Meat hooks. Mount sinister looking barbed metal spikes into ceiling. Use for hanging of roadkill, aforementioned plump birds or drying out of training shoes. Also suitable for scaring young children.(Withernwick, East Yorks)
8) Rainwater Reservoir. A very deep, brick lined and sealed underground chamber fed by house downpipes.Sealed under large yorkstone slab in back garden. Pump attached to extract water for gardening, car washing and dolly tub. Also suitable as impromptu shelter against nuclear attack but not, obviously, flash flooding.(Winestead, Holderness)
9) Ballroom. A must for every house. Large room with specially sprung wooden floor, arched stained glass windows and chandelier. Glitter ball optional. Well suited for family dancing sessions or Zumba. May be misappropriated by menfolk for siting of pool table.(Southfield, Hessle)
10) Look-out. Small tower structure at highest point of the house roof. Orientated to give views of main road to spot return home of family members, intercom link to kitchen. Optional ball bearing gun mount to fend off apple scrumpers, double glazing or external coating salespersons and religious callers.(Blaydes House,High Street, Hull)
11) Moat. Works very well as secondary line of defence with item 10) above or as feeder stream for 5). Can also be useful as income source through charging Local Authority for disposal of dangerous waste . Not ideally suited for Koi.(Wressle, East Yorkshire)
12) Ice house. Cone shaped brick superstructure with deep chamber and shute to receive deliveries of large blocks of ice or 1000 bags of Sainsbury's ice cubes. Can double up as guest accommodation for Icelandic or Norwegian relatives or arctic-themed weddings (Cherry Burton, East Yorkshire)
13) Mausoleum/ Family Vault/Pet Cemetery . Useful facility to save on travel. If there are problems with sourcing ice blocks for 12) above then could be a shared use of the Ice house for this purpose. (Halsham, Holderness)
14) Resident Poltergeist. Can be blamed for accidental spillages or strange after-dark noises. (Brandesburton, East Yorkshire)
15) Living room garage. Take the front off your house and fit an up and over garage door and ramp. This will allow a car to be driven directly into your lounge for comfort and convenience. Wind down windows make a good serving hatch onto the kitchen. No need to get out of the car to unload shopping bags which is justification enough for such a drastic alteration to a perfectly good house. (Alliance Avenue, Hull)

I Scream

I attended the United Nations of Students in my first academic year at Trent Polytechnic, Nottingham, England in 1981. It was the first time I had been away from home for more than a couple of weeks, in a strange location and not really knowing what was ahead of me. My parents dropped me off at an imposing detached house in a leafy suburb of the city not far from the Trent Bridge Cricket Ground. The landlady, Mrs Beacham met me at the door. I stared at the scar on her face for more than a polite or socially acceptable period of time. She stared at the mop haired, flush faced idiot on the doorstep for the duration. That silent introduction set the whole tone for the coming 10 months. The private house, later to be referred to as Maggies, was to be the home from home, in theory, for six strangers who, through a mutual hatred for Mrs Beacham, soon forged a bond of frienship that was to last for, well, 10 months before we all went our separate ways. Nick from Malvern and Rick from Bangor, Northern Ireland were already institutionalised after only a few hours. They sat quietly in the dining room and we nodded and mumbled greetings as we were introduced. My room mate soon arrived, Andy from Grimsby. We probably lived within 10 miles of each other as the crow flies but otherwise worlds apart divided by the River Humber and decades of mutual hatred between North and South Bank dwellers. We were understandably a bit wary of each other.The last arrivals were Elvis and Nasser. Both were overseas students.From Hong Kong, thank you very much, full name Elvis Wah Ho Yung.We hit it off immediately in spite of some initial language difficulties. He spoke perfect English. I didn't.  Nasser was from Syria. It took some time to overcome the tremendous amount of misinformation and ignorance that festered between our respective cultures but friendship and a strong mutual dislike of a common enemy, Maggie, soon won through. That first Sunday teatime was quite a formal gathering at the dining table. Cold meat and salad for the main course, Arctic Roll for dessert. For the first full week of our Bed, Breakfast and Evening Meal boarding we were quite impressed by Maggies efforts. Unfortunately the first week set the pattern for the next 10 months and the menu did not vary at all from a very bland seven day cycle commencing with cold meat, sald and arctic roll on a sunday. I have not touched an arctic roll since. Within a week what we had taken as included in our rent, an easy chair, a view of a TV, tea and coffee making facilities had all been withdrawn. We were not encouraged to stay and chat after our meals and had to retreat to our rooms for any rest or relaxation. There was also a virtual curfew of 10.30pm which severely restricted our ability to live up to expectations as students. I was sure that our rooms were searched during our absence at lectures by Maggie or her boyfriend sidekick for contraband such as biscuits, bread, marmite and crisps. The atmosphere in the house between boarders and Maggie became very unpleasant. We had to do something drastic. We didn't. We just got out of the house as much as we could. This was easy during the daytime with our respective academic courses being largely free but a bit more difficult, moneywise in the evenings and at weekends as this usually involved a local pub crawl and finale at a takeaway.Weekends were the worst particularly if our strength in numbers dwindled so that we were in the minority. Maggie did appear to soften a bit on a one to one approach and although I did not admit it to my peer group, I did spend a saturday afternoon and tea within the inner family sanctum being the only boarder, or guest at the time. I took this as Maggie just being hospitable but later realised that she was attempting to divide and conquer our group. Unhappy as we all were we stayed put through the first term to Christmas and then it was Easter and before long we were sitting our end of first year exams.I think that our resolve to revolt was beaten out of us by the meagre and predictable diet and being on constant edge of searches ,close interrogation and disapproving looks. At the end of our first year we were determined to go on our own for the second year. Our well laid plans for getting a shared house, meticulously plotted during our nights out in the local pubs, in the end came to nothing. Turns out Nick and Rick could not fight their Stockholm Syndrome and ended up in a similar B&B in the same suburb. Andy got a house with other students on his course unable to reconcile the Humber divide. Elvis left the building. Nasser disappeared completely. I managed to find an attic room in a shared house with another mixed group of students , amassed a fantastic stash of food contraband , ate and cooked when I wanted and throughly enjoyed my freedom. It was only this last summer, some 30 years on, that I felt mentally strong enough to drive past Maggies whilst picking up my eldest daughter at the end of her own second year at Trent. I pulled up outside the house. It was monday and bin collection day. As I drove away, disappointed at not glimpsing my nemesis , I ran over a small rectangular box bearing a Walls logo and with an unmistakable picture of an Arctic Roll.