There are some times in life when a single opportunity arises that must be taken without a second thought.
I am not talking about a life or death situation, that one in a million chance to leap to escape from certain death or imminent captivity, nothing as life changing as that. I am more in the realms of where you know that you are very good at something but yet there is one individual who is always, always better. You do not like it but have to settle for second place every time. The lyrics of the song "David Watts" by the Kinks and later covered by The Jam include a few sentiments to help set the scene for my own confrontation with one John Morris.
I paraphrase a little bit from the song "He is the head boy at the school, He is the captain of the team," plus "he was an Oxbridge candidate being academically gifted, taller than the rest of us, probably first to get a car in school, had a fit girlfriend and popular with all".
I can already feel that you empathise with me because every school, workplace and experiences in everyday life throws up a John Morris character.
I did not want, unlike the Ray Davies lyrics, to be like or emulate David-Watts-John-Morris but simply win at something. On a warm day in June such an opportunity arose.
It was sports day. The school was relaxed with little attempt by staff and pupils to do anything serious in learning terms during the morning session. The groundsmen had worked wonders with the playing surface transforming it from the Somme to somewhere nearer a useable ploughed field. The white lines of the almost oval running track and a separate, straight sprint course had been freshly painted with reasonable accuracy. I expect that given the luxury of an aerial view the markings will have resembled something rather rude.
Younger boys at the school or those on detention were busy setting out chairs for staff and visitors either civic dignatories or the few parents who usually and reluctantly turned up. I was nervously awaiting the afternoon's 100m sprint event because I felt on good form having secretly trained in the evenings and at weekends on the nearby Westwood Pasture. For once I did not get annoyed if Sheba the dog disappeared into the undergrowth yapping at imaginary rabbits because I was 'in the zone' and a few more laps of the old chalk pit would not hurt my regime. However, all that preparation and suffering would only guarantee me another second place behind John Morris, the Alan Wells sprint monster of the Grammar School.
At morning break I went down to the hovel that was the sixth form common room. Those not in the Oxbridge tutorial group or elevated to Prefect status, which was the majority of the survivors to A level grade had battled for a room in the school for a retreat, recreation and social interaction. We were allowed to use an old abandoned cloakroom earmarked for demolition to make way for a new sports hall, when funds permitted. The knowledge of its impending destruction prompted us to commence the dismantling and gradually conditions in that space became rank and insanitary. Risking life and possible hepatitis or similar ailments I popped into the common room and by rumour and hearsay I got to know that John Morris's mother had called the school office to say that he was ill and would not be attending lessons today.
I could barely hide my excitement at this fortuitous news. The scheduled but chaotic history lesson between break and lunch was a blur to me. I was on home dinners and at the long awaited bell I dodged through the north side gate and set off across the lower part of the Westwood, across the Walkington Road, carefully avoiding the splattered cow pats and any potential ankle spraining divots and holes and arrived at the house. In a display of rare singlemindedness I asked my mother in calm tones if she had seen my running spikes. I had acquired a second hand and rather antique pair to give the impression of being serious about athletics. They had been difficult to get used to at first but now formed an integral part of my athleticism.
I am not sure if I ate any lunch but announced to my mother and home-dining siblings that I had a very good chance to win something in the absence, through illness of ,my nemesis, John Morris. My mother, always considerate and thoughtful for others did not give away any emotion at the news but I can well imagine that after my return to school for the sports afternoon she may have leapt up and down and shouted
" yyyyyeeeeesssssssss". My mother was my sprinting inspiration with her sparkling and all conquering bare foot victories in successive mums races in the days when parental ,and indeed any, competiton was a part of a sports day.
Anyway, I ran well and won the 100m and I seem to remember the 200m as well and proudly received the certificates from the Headmaster. He was not sure who I was not being in his Oxbridge tutorial group and not at all or faintly resembling the tall, imposing, academically gifted and much admired John Morris. I would later in the academic year shock the Head by announcing that I was applying to a Polytechnic to study a vocational course. I had to explain to him that these were places of academia a bit like a University. I did not gloat on my victory, sorry, victories and to his credit John Morris did not comment in any demeaning way about what could be seen as a default result. The final line of the David Watts song really did apply.... "for he is of pure and noble breed". I have no idea whatsoever what he is doing now.
Friday, 14 October 2011
Thursday, 13 October 2011
A Stone by any other name....a short tale based on something I heard.
My summer vacation of 1978 was certainly going to be miserable. I had just left senior high school with a very poor set of results and prepared myself for yet more cramming if only to get to where my Education Counsellor had said I should be for my age and "with obvious aptitude but abysmal attitude" . My friends were looking forward to a long, hot lazy New Jersey summer. A time to let loose before parental pressure and conscience kicked in to acheive something at University or a reputable college. Their raucous and crude intentions did not include me. I had no money or get up and go, so they got up and went without me. I had tried to line up a job for the duration. The usual menial tasks at the diner, pumping gas and packing bags at the Seven-Eleven had long since been promised to others. That left, frankly, only hanging about around the house dodging criticism and cloaked remarks from Mum and Dad , voluntary work in the retirement castle complex or chancing it and offering my services for odd jobs in the neighbourhood. Out of the three horrible options I chose the latter. At a cost of a dollar a month I rented a small section of the window space at the General Store in Germantown. The postcard with details of what I was prepared to do and at what competitive hourly rate sat under advertisements for dog grooming, mobile chiropody and baby-minding. My card was amateurish and childish in style and I did not hold out for a response any time soon. No sooner had I returned home that my mother answered a phone call and, hand over the speaker, yelled for me to come down and have words. She rolled her eyes when I took the receiver, "It's a woman, a mature woman for you".
I tried to raise my enthusiasm for what could be my first and only customer. I pronounced the word "Hello"
in my best neutral but efficient sounding voice. The voice in response was firm but kind. " I would like to take you on to clear out the garage. My husband has continually failed to do so and now that he has left to teach at summer school in Wichita I am going to get on with it and surprise him".I enquired about her name and the address. I signed up Mrs Stolz as my first customer. The next morning I cycled across town past the University Campus and into a quadrangle of smart colonial houses. I had never noticed them before because they were the tied properties for the main Princeton lecturers and luminairies. The attached garage had no actual room for a car with a clutter of accumulated boxes, files, cabinets, various pieces of medical looking equipment and dusty volumes of anatomical books. Mrs Stolz had on stylish dungarees and her hair in a tight scarf but that was the full extent of her participation other than providing lemonade and shop bought cookies. She was obviously not a grafter in the domestic sense. I was instructed to assemble five piles from the garage collection. 1) Obvious rubbish for collection by the refuse department 2) Possible garage sale items although I doubt Mrs Stolz knew how to conduct one 3) Charity for the Projects in the city 4) Medical stuff for her husband to sort out on his return.5) Scrap metal for special disposal. Within this broad remit was the necessity to move everything and I had soon generated a wheezing dust bowl atmosphere. The boxes were easy to put into category 4). They were sealed up with initials Dr T S-H which I thought might mean DeliveR to Some Hospital but later to my embarrasment realised they identified Mr Stolz under his professional practising name. Categories 1) and 2) involved a bit of head scratching and the reluctant involvement of Mrs Stolz who gestured to the effect that I should decide on my own. Her perception of what the Project dwellers could benefit from was hilarious and the pile included a fondue set, boxed crystal wine glasses and some very grand chandeliers. I could imagine these going down well as collateral for a drug deal rather than gracing a squat. The scrap metal covered the largest area but comprised the fewest items being mainly old cabinets, electronic monitors and what I recognised from the school science block as a centrifuge. There was a sub-group amongst the metal stuff for used surgical equipment, scalpels, clamps and saws which I handled reluctantly and with caution. After some 6 hours of work I could make out the back wall of the garage previously well concealed. Shifting of the last cabinet was impeded by a dead weight inside. The metal door was simply pegged through on the catch and I could pop it out with a swift toe-poke kick. Swinging open, the door revealed a large bell shaped glass vessel with a cloudy yellowish liquid. My father had a similar item from a long forgotten home brewing session which had stunk the place out like a skunk. I agitated the container and , startled, stepped back almost falling over the scrap pile. What looked like a cauliflower ebbed and flowed against the glass. Looking closer after recovering my composure I could make out more detail. The actual shape was more like a giant pickled walnut in texture. No sooner had the thing shown itself to me it disappeared back into the murky solution. A strange feeling came over me then. I had had enough of manual labour and sweating for a few bucks. Mrs Stolz was reasonably grateful for my efforts and in polite smalltalk enquired about my plans going forward. I told her in determined voice that I was going back to school to improve my grades and prospects. She nodded in approval but I sensed was not really listening. I accepted a check as she said she had no cash in the house. It was in the name of Stolz-Harvey but I was too tired to even worry if I was being blatantly scammed.
Some years later I read a story of how a disgraced practitioner at some Eastern University had taken, without consent, the brain of Albert Einstein after landing the job of performing the autopsy. Apparently the brain had languished somewhere in his house for about 40 years before being driven in the back of a pick-up to be presented to family and beneficiaries for the furthering of science. My curiosity was raised with my memory of that sole, soul destroying summer chore and I googled the story. Facts were hazy and clearly open to interpretation of reputations and events. The displayed image, however, of Einsteins brain did clearly resemble a yellowish stained pickled walnut.
I tried to raise my enthusiasm for what could be my first and only customer. I pronounced the word "Hello"
in my best neutral but efficient sounding voice. The voice in response was firm but kind. " I would like to take you on to clear out the garage. My husband has continually failed to do so and now that he has left to teach at summer school in Wichita I am going to get on with it and surprise him".I enquired about her name and the address. I signed up Mrs Stolz as my first customer. The next morning I cycled across town past the University Campus and into a quadrangle of smart colonial houses. I had never noticed them before because they were the tied properties for the main Princeton lecturers and luminairies. The attached garage had no actual room for a car with a clutter of accumulated boxes, files, cabinets, various pieces of medical looking equipment and dusty volumes of anatomical books. Mrs Stolz had on stylish dungarees and her hair in a tight scarf but that was the full extent of her participation other than providing lemonade and shop bought cookies. She was obviously not a grafter in the domestic sense. I was instructed to assemble five piles from the garage collection. 1) Obvious rubbish for collection by the refuse department 2) Possible garage sale items although I doubt Mrs Stolz knew how to conduct one 3) Charity for the Projects in the city 4) Medical stuff for her husband to sort out on his return.5) Scrap metal for special disposal. Within this broad remit was the necessity to move everything and I had soon generated a wheezing dust bowl atmosphere. The boxes were easy to put into category 4). They were sealed up with initials Dr T S-H which I thought might mean DeliveR to Some Hospital but later to my embarrasment realised they identified Mr Stolz under his professional practising name. Categories 1) and 2) involved a bit of head scratching and the reluctant involvement of Mrs Stolz who gestured to the effect that I should decide on my own. Her perception of what the Project dwellers could benefit from was hilarious and the pile included a fondue set, boxed crystal wine glasses and some very grand chandeliers. I could imagine these going down well as collateral for a drug deal rather than gracing a squat. The scrap metal covered the largest area but comprised the fewest items being mainly old cabinets, electronic monitors and what I recognised from the school science block as a centrifuge. There was a sub-group amongst the metal stuff for used surgical equipment, scalpels, clamps and saws which I handled reluctantly and with caution. After some 6 hours of work I could make out the back wall of the garage previously well concealed. Shifting of the last cabinet was impeded by a dead weight inside. The metal door was simply pegged through on the catch and I could pop it out with a swift toe-poke kick. Swinging open, the door revealed a large bell shaped glass vessel with a cloudy yellowish liquid. My father had a similar item from a long forgotten home brewing session which had stunk the place out like a skunk. I agitated the container and , startled, stepped back almost falling over the scrap pile. What looked like a cauliflower ebbed and flowed against the glass. Looking closer after recovering my composure I could make out more detail. The actual shape was more like a giant pickled walnut in texture. No sooner had the thing shown itself to me it disappeared back into the murky solution. A strange feeling came over me then. I had had enough of manual labour and sweating for a few bucks. Mrs Stolz was reasonably grateful for my efforts and in polite smalltalk enquired about my plans going forward. I told her in determined voice that I was going back to school to improve my grades and prospects. She nodded in approval but I sensed was not really listening. I accepted a check as she said she had no cash in the house. It was in the name of Stolz-Harvey but I was too tired to even worry if I was being blatantly scammed.
Some years later I read a story of how a disgraced practitioner at some Eastern University had taken, without consent, the brain of Albert Einstein after landing the job of performing the autopsy. Apparently the brain had languished somewhere in his house for about 40 years before being driven in the back of a pick-up to be presented to family and beneficiaries for the furthering of science. My curiosity was raised with my memory of that sole, soul destroying summer chore and I googled the story. Facts were hazy and clearly open to interpretation of reputations and events. The displayed image, however, of Einsteins brain did clearly resemble a yellowish stained pickled walnut.
Radio Ga Ga
The radio was always on in the house when I was growing up. I still today, on entering my own kitchen, first go to switch on the radio before anything else gets done even if the prime motivation for the visit is for a brew up, get food, investigate strange sounds from the washing machine or attend to any other domestic chores. Funnily enough my listening experience has now gone full circle as the shows from my childhood memories are now being aired on Radio 4 extra. Sunday lunch in the early 1970's was always prepared by my parents to the sound of The Navy Lark. I am reminded regularly that at the age of seven I was insistent on writing a letter toWally Whyton the presenter of, I am ashamed to say, a country music show on Radio 2. I cannot recall what I had to tell him. Well it was in the days when there was only country, folk, early rock and roll and classical and I was not old enough to operate the radio or record player let alone express a preference for a style. The sound of a radio in the background is very reassuring and comforting, unless of course there happens to be a drama about screaming, murder and mayhem. I inherited or rather commandeered a huge valve operated radio for my bedtime listening. The crate sized appliance took some considerable time to warm up and never actually reached a steady temperature. The strong smell of scorching and sheer naked heat output from the thing meant that a programme had to be regularly interrupted for a statutory cooling down period. The two main tuning dials were on click and roll basis. The click was for switching between long wave, medium and short waves as the only bands and the rolling dial for selecting a very mysterious and exotic progression of stations from Wroclaw to Beromunster, Hilversum to Helvetia, Luxemb'g and cities behind the Iron Curtain. If I was able to tune in to Radio Moscow out of earshot of parents I could listen to the monotone expressions of propaganda of production levels from tractor factories or glass plants. Patriotic mothers were regularly applauded for perpetual baby production. My absolute favourite broadcasts were the midweek football matches especially when English league teams played in the UEFA or European Cups against the likes of Borussia Monchengladbach, Grasshoppers of Zurich, Panathanaikos and Sporting Lisbon. The buzz of the radio and the atmospheric crowds noises set a wonderful background for the commentary of the all time great, Peter Jones. It was always the case that Liverpool needed to score at least 4 goals in a second leg tie at Anfield and they always did it just in time. By that I mean my bedtime. Football somehow seemed magical and wholesome in those days before the arrival of the mercenary millionaires. My introduction to comedy was from the radio. I only now appreciate the humour and madcap antics of The Goons which was so far ahead of its time in its heyday. Many of the radio shows that I enjoyed progressed to the medium of TV where they appealed to the masses but I feel did lose some of their impact. The imagined images from a radio show could never be emulated in actual real life performances on the small screen. I prefer to listen to a football commentary on 5 Live and can easily recognise the gameplays when they are subsequently shown on the saturday night Match of the Day. In my teens the radio was avidly listened to for the tuesday lunctime chart show. This was the main marker for the week. I was on home dinners during term times so was invariably the first to know if punk, disco or rock were at number 1 that week. My claim to fame was a record request read out from me by Mike Read on Radio 1 during his evening show in 1979. It was only heard by myself and one other classmate. It is so much easier now with the listen again functions to prove that your name has hit the airwaves. My brothers have a regular challenge to get a story read out on Danny Baker's show on one of the London stations. My children have also had good exposure on national radio with requests and dedications read out and also widely heard and appreciated. The current crop of radio shows continues the legacy set down over my four decade love affair with the broadcast and spoken word and whilst it is good to hear the old classics I continue to be amused by the new wave of programmes.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Seasick Steve
"........ I started out with nothing and I've still got most of it left". This is my new life philosophy and mantra for the modern age, thanks to the modestly influential man of our times Seasick Steve. I can honestly say that I want for nothing of a material nature. I can easily browse through the sunday papers and glossy supplements and be immune to the seductive texts and images for cars, gadgets and someone's idea of the next best thing for enrichment and appreciation of my existence. I continually frustrate the sales staff at Carphone Warehouse and similar outlets who are intent on selling me a smart phone on a customised slug or similar animal tariff with so many hours of free calls and texts yet all I want is to make actual telephone calls and on the odd occasion have a durable and bright torch to investigate dark spaces or signal for help. I do acknowledge that smart phones and pads are remarkable developments in personal communications and in working and I have no intention to wade into an Apple Store and act like a 21st Century Luddite but is life really richer in having instant access to the whole world? The latest all media marketing campaign for the iPad2 promotes that piece of technology as the new way to do things. Call me old fashioned but I like to read from a well thumbed book and, yes, annoyingly to some, turn over the corners as an impromptu marker (I draw a line though at writing notes in between the lines or in the margins), watch films on my TV in glorious size and colour and throw things at the screen if necessary , read recipes from a proper flour dusted or tomato pipped cook book which keeps falling over or loses the page, conduct business meetings as they should be face to face , warts and all and have the normal interaction with family and friends in a touchy feely type way as the situation and level of intimacy allows.
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Diesel Do
In one of those moments of boredom I scribbled down the inventory of cars that I have had since passing my driving test in what I think was 1982 or thereabouts. Is bad memory sufficient grounds to have my licence suspended? The list is quite long but I have been in the fortunate position of having had employment where a company car was part of the package and this was the situation until 1992 when I went self employed. Technically I have not personally registered or owned a vehicle as this has been done through employers in the early years of my career and through my self employed status latterly. My first driving lessons were taken in my parents' Morris Minor convertible, a 1957 model in light green with grey hood. I remember my father hanging onto the handbrake during my very erratic early sessions out on the minor roads between Beverley and York. My first schooled lessons were whilst a student in Nottingham but on a tight budget I could not sustain any period of concentrated learning but did get to know the city quite well when I did manage to afford an actual 40 minutes driving tuition. I started with Genesis Driving School which included periodic religious instruction from its born again proprietor. The transition from accompanied learner to single qualified driver is quite a shock at first even though the feeling of freedom and independence is one of the best possible. I shared Percy the 1966 Mini with my sisters mainly during my year out in industry in 1984 when I needed transport to and from Lincoln. The mechanically sound but grossly underpowered roller skate was good fun although the sliding drivers window was not fully watertight as demonstrated by the penetration of spray or higher volumes of surface water from passing lorries. The mini has only just left the family ownership hopefully for a full reincarnation.
I have annotated the schedule of vehicles on the basis of whether they were any good or served me well.
Vauxhall Astra 1.6. Bright red, new sporty shape for 1985. Good looking car. Nearly killed wife to be and best mate Dave during sleepy eyed few seconds on a 5am drive back from Manchester Airport.
Mini Metro Van den Plas. A bit of a granny car, metallic gold and with walnut trim. Work ladders had to be fed through the hatchback and hooked over the passenger headrest. As part of a merger with an upstart company from the sticks the metro went to a wife of one of the new partners.
I got a second hand, rusty orange coloured Ford Fiesta Diesel in the new company set-up. On driving, fortuitously, past the local Ford Dealership it caught fire. Replaced with a brand new deep red Fiesta Diesel. No chance of quick getaway as the fuel had to be pre-heated before starting. Sounded like a taxi and I was frequently hailed by drunks if out on an evening. Crashed it badly and hospitalised my brother overnight with concussion.
Qualification in my profession placed me on a higher reward scale in company cars and I graduated to a metallic grey Fiesta XR2i, fast but very unpredictable in its front wheel drive if putting down full power. Promotion within the company was marked by two consecutive bright red Escort XR3i's. First grown up type car and well styled. The Best Man at our wedding got caught speeding in one of them during official duties the day before my wedding.
New job, different car regime. Crappy Ford Sapphire, a booted Sierra, which had a major engine blow-up three miles from home and had to be abandoned. I stepped up a bit with a Rover 214i , a brand new model but a bit elderly and pedestrian. Soon replaced in my Corporate job with a typical corporate reps car, Vauxhall Cavalier with jacket hanging up in the back. On the day of delivery some idiot reversed into me on the petrol station forecourt. I later piled it into the back of a line of stationary traffic on the A63 when daydreaming about going self employed. I thought it better to actually go self employed and hand in my notice along with the damaged car.
Cash flow and start-up capital in the brave new world of working for myself purchased a brand new Sierra hatchback in silver. This car wore out so quickly it was unbelievable. The business was having some good years and I was able to afford my first Volvo. I had been impressed by the racing estate cars in the British Touring Car Championships in the early 1990's and acquired an 850GLT. Deep blue paintwork, acres of space for growing family and dogs, but only a 2 litre engine so petered out at 90mph.Took me 120,000 miles to decide I needed more power to shift my tribe. Lovely engine tone from the wide exhaust pipe though. The shortfall in that engine department was more than made up for by the 850 turbo estate. It was garnet red and not, as my children argued, pink. Did look a bit like Barbie's station wagon in a certain light. A beast of a car, all wheel drive, 200 bhp but only 20 miles to the gallon. The XC70 estate next caught my attention and I was able to trade in the pink car for a nearly new silver AWD version with no cash changing hands. Still working that one out but certainly in my favour for once. Only snag was the automatic transmission and the sequential shift was a bit tiresome around town. My local Volvo dealer, keen to keep my business which must have been a good income stream for them, alerted me to an ex-Volvo staff vehicle. A black XC70 with TV and as many accessories as you could fit on without causing a hazard to pedestrians. Beautiful car, posh but not pretentious. The TV only worked when the car was stationary so at 6pm when the Simpsons were on Channel 4 I actively sought out a traffic queue,be it legitimate road congestion, tea time at the drive thru' or amongst parking church congregation- Catholic Mass the best. The economic downturn and a surplus company vehicle meant that something had to be surrendered. The decision to sell the luxury motor was assisted by a major engine management system failure (£2800), a pheasant through the bi-xenon headlight (£800) and the cost of fitting another all day bulb at £90 a pop. Thanks to 'we buy any car' they did . My menopausal days were accelerated by the replacement car, an electric blue Skoda Octavia VRS, the proverbial greased lightning. Such a lot of excitement and fear in one package. I liked that car but the lease expired and away it went to, I expect, a large housing estate in Essex and shortly to be seen on Crimewatch. The need for speed was surgically removed by the arrival of the new shape Passat estate but I am now so green and eco that I can be a bit smug and have no problem doing 57mph amongst the lorries on the nations motorway networks. The reward, 60 mpg and a fantastic digital radio. 57mph with Planet Rock feels like at least doing a ton. The small bluemotion logo on the tailgate is licence to dawdle and look a bit eccentric and constipated.
I have condensed some of the main facts into a broad summary of my motoring to date. Cumulative distance driven about 800,000 miles, mars bars 1 per every 374 miles at least, animals run over or collided with 20,568,956 if you count the flies, points on licence 3, hitchhikers picked up 2, number of shallow graves dug in remote locations 2, most bought colour silver, number of British marques fairly nominal, gallons of fuel used- about 2 hours production of a dodgy nepotistic regime.
Amount of CO2 and particulates pumped into the atmosphere - about enough to form a small gaseous and tarry island.
I have annotated the schedule of vehicles on the basis of whether they were any good or served me well.
Vauxhall Astra 1.6. Bright red, new sporty shape for 1985. Good looking car. Nearly killed wife to be and best mate Dave during sleepy eyed few seconds on a 5am drive back from Manchester Airport.
Mini Metro Van den Plas. A bit of a granny car, metallic gold and with walnut trim. Work ladders had to be fed through the hatchback and hooked over the passenger headrest. As part of a merger with an upstart company from the sticks the metro went to a wife of one of the new partners.
I got a second hand, rusty orange coloured Ford Fiesta Diesel in the new company set-up. On driving, fortuitously, past the local Ford Dealership it caught fire. Replaced with a brand new deep red Fiesta Diesel. No chance of quick getaway as the fuel had to be pre-heated before starting. Sounded like a taxi and I was frequently hailed by drunks if out on an evening. Crashed it badly and hospitalised my brother overnight with concussion.
Qualification in my profession placed me on a higher reward scale in company cars and I graduated to a metallic grey Fiesta XR2i, fast but very unpredictable in its front wheel drive if putting down full power. Promotion within the company was marked by two consecutive bright red Escort XR3i's. First grown up type car and well styled. The Best Man at our wedding got caught speeding in one of them during official duties the day before my wedding.
New job, different car regime. Crappy Ford Sapphire, a booted Sierra, which had a major engine blow-up three miles from home and had to be abandoned. I stepped up a bit with a Rover 214i , a brand new model but a bit elderly and pedestrian. Soon replaced in my Corporate job with a typical corporate reps car, Vauxhall Cavalier with jacket hanging up in the back. On the day of delivery some idiot reversed into me on the petrol station forecourt. I later piled it into the back of a line of stationary traffic on the A63 when daydreaming about going self employed. I thought it better to actually go self employed and hand in my notice along with the damaged car.
Cash flow and start-up capital in the brave new world of working for myself purchased a brand new Sierra hatchback in silver. This car wore out so quickly it was unbelievable. The business was having some good years and I was able to afford my first Volvo. I had been impressed by the racing estate cars in the British Touring Car Championships in the early 1990's and acquired an 850GLT. Deep blue paintwork, acres of space for growing family and dogs, but only a 2 litre engine so petered out at 90mph.Took me 120,000 miles to decide I needed more power to shift my tribe. Lovely engine tone from the wide exhaust pipe though. The shortfall in that engine department was more than made up for by the 850 turbo estate. It was garnet red and not, as my children argued, pink. Did look a bit like Barbie's station wagon in a certain light. A beast of a car, all wheel drive, 200 bhp but only 20 miles to the gallon. The XC70 estate next caught my attention and I was able to trade in the pink car for a nearly new silver AWD version with no cash changing hands. Still working that one out but certainly in my favour for once. Only snag was the automatic transmission and the sequential shift was a bit tiresome around town. My local Volvo dealer, keen to keep my business which must have been a good income stream for them, alerted me to an ex-Volvo staff vehicle. A black XC70 with TV and as many accessories as you could fit on without causing a hazard to pedestrians. Beautiful car, posh but not pretentious. The TV only worked when the car was stationary so at 6pm when the Simpsons were on Channel 4 I actively sought out a traffic queue,be it legitimate road congestion, tea time at the drive thru' or amongst parking church congregation- Catholic Mass the best. The economic downturn and a surplus company vehicle meant that something had to be surrendered. The decision to sell the luxury motor was assisted by a major engine management system failure (£2800), a pheasant through the bi-xenon headlight (£800) and the cost of fitting another all day bulb at £90 a pop. Thanks to 'we buy any car' they did . My menopausal days were accelerated by the replacement car, an electric blue Skoda Octavia VRS, the proverbial greased lightning. Such a lot of excitement and fear in one package. I liked that car but the lease expired and away it went to, I expect, a large housing estate in Essex and shortly to be seen on Crimewatch. The need for speed was surgically removed by the arrival of the new shape Passat estate but I am now so green and eco that I can be a bit smug and have no problem doing 57mph amongst the lorries on the nations motorway networks. The reward, 60 mpg and a fantastic digital radio. 57mph with Planet Rock feels like at least doing a ton. The small bluemotion logo on the tailgate is licence to dawdle and look a bit eccentric and constipated.
I have condensed some of the main facts into a broad summary of my motoring to date. Cumulative distance driven about 800,000 miles, mars bars 1 per every 374 miles at least, animals run over or collided with 20,568,956 if you count the flies, points on licence 3, hitchhikers picked up 2, number of shallow graves dug in remote locations 2, most bought colour silver, number of British marques fairly nominal, gallons of fuel used- about 2 hours production of a dodgy nepotistic regime.
Amount of CO2 and particulates pumped into the atmosphere - about enough to form a small gaseous and tarry island.
Monday, 10 October 2011
HSC RIP
I contributed to the death of Horatio Stratton Carter. This was entirely out of my own ignorance as I was new to Hull and had no idea that my appointment with a Mr Carter was actually the Mr Carter, very fondly known to his fans, friends and admirers as Raich. I remember the day of the appointment very well, more out of subsequent guilt and retrospective regret than anything. It was autumn, cold, wet and very much like the weather we fully expect from that season. I was on time as arranged at 11am prompt. In dealing with senior citizens I have a policy to arrive exactly on time even if that invariably means sitting in the car around the corner and waiting until the clock ticks around to the specified hour. Even if my shoes are scuffed, my hair dishevelled and my suit lapels a bit shiny with wear and tear there is nothing to impress those of that certain age more than being on time and polite. Mr Carter answered the front door upon my faint, deferential knocking. I introduced myself and explained what I intended to do as part of my instruction. I was invited in to the warm hallway but declined stating that I would prefer to make a start in case the weather worsened. Mr Carter peeked out into the inclement weather and commented ' It was always cold outside like this in my time....." It was the perfect set up line for me to enquire what he had done 'in his time' but no, I was too dense to pick it up and run with it. Some 15 minutes later after I had inspected the outside of his 1950's built bungalow I knocked again at the front door and conscientiously, after my garden foray, slipped off my shoes so as not to trail any mud and debris onto the carpet. Horror upon horror, I had not undone my laces when removing my shoes. I had however got away with it and had escaped the rebuke of a someone who obviously took great pride in his demeanour and appearance. Looking up in stockinged feet I found that I was staring at a large gilt framed oil painting of a footballer in an old fashioned woollen jersey. It was obviously of a character from the inter war sporting days from the hue and tint of the whole scene. Mr Carter took me on a tour of the principal rooms. In the living room I noticed some strange soft furnishings. These were like small cub scout hats but in blue, with white piping and the odd and incongruous attachment of a braided tassle. I dismissed this as being some sort of freemasonry attire and fearing the prospect of being recruited as fresh blood to that cause I scuttled away into another room. The dining room was a sparkle of silver. Trophies, platters, framed medals and certificates of certainly meritous deeds. I sensed that Mr Carter was eager to fill me in with the history of the memorabilia. Instead I think I asked him how old the central heating boiler was and was the bungalow fully double glazed. I unintentionally but absolutely blanked Mr Carter's attempts to tell me his back story. Wrestling on my shoes, still laced up, and walking to the gate I waved lamely back to Mr Carter who now stood looking frail and forlorn. Behind his left shoulder, now noticeable rounded and defeatist, I made out a faint resemblance between his friendly wrinkled face and the strong mannerisms of the portrait.
My colleagues at the office ridiculed me something rotten at my account of the appointment with Mr Raich Carter. The portrait was of him in the heyday of his football career with Hull City and Sunderland. The great Stanley Matthews regarded Raich Carter very highly as a colleague and professional. The headgear, I had subconsciously counted more than a dozen, were his England Caps. The trophies and awards were in recognition of as exemplary a managerial career as that of his actual playing days. Raich managed his former Tigers and also brought John Charles to Leeds under his post there.
Raich Carter died , aged 80, in 1994 but I believe that I had been the instrument of his eventual passing through my insensitivity and lack of interest in his life and footballing times. It was though, on leaving his presence I had been the first to literally take away his ball and kick it into the bushes of what he perceived as impending obscurity.
He does however regularly have the last laugh at my expense. The dual carriageway on which I regularly travel in the course of my work is named in his honour. The Raich Carter Way wins every time.
My colleagues at the office ridiculed me something rotten at my account of the appointment with Mr Raich Carter. The portrait was of him in the heyday of his football career with Hull City and Sunderland. The great Stanley Matthews regarded Raich Carter very highly as a colleague and professional. The headgear, I had subconsciously counted more than a dozen, were his England Caps. The trophies and awards were in recognition of as exemplary a managerial career as that of his actual playing days. Raich managed his former Tigers and also brought John Charles to Leeds under his post there.
Raich Carter died , aged 80, in 1994 but I believe that I had been the instrument of his eventual passing through my insensitivity and lack of interest in his life and footballing times. It was though, on leaving his presence I had been the first to literally take away his ball and kick it into the bushes of what he perceived as impending obscurity.
He does however regularly have the last laugh at my expense. The dual carriageway on which I regularly travel in the course of my work is named in his honour. The Raich Carter Way wins every time.
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Better and Twisted
My favourite and rather casual driving position involves one hand on the steering wheel and the other available for the many activities currently endorseable under the Road Traffic Acts. I know, I know.......
I was, for once, grateful of unwittingly adopting the recommended 10 to 2 position on the A61 through Chesterfield under the following circumstances. The featureless trunk road passes a very ugly corporate building and then a very high concrete retaining wall fringing the city centre. Nothing much to see or cause distraction from negotiating an unknown road network and maintaining lane discipline looking for the Bakewell turning. Then into full and glorious view appears the grossly but fascinatingly twisted spire of the Parish Church. I had seen it some 30 years ago on a school trip but I had forgotten the glory of its improbability . I hope the cumbersome link gives some impression of the magnificence of this landmark.
http://www.yourlocalweb.co.uk/images/pictures/22/42/chesterfield-the-church-of-st-mary-all-saints-221353.jpg
I had some extreme difficulty keeping my vehicle and myself under control at the sight of it but my grip on the steering wheel prevented the fit of laughter and associated spasms from causing a dramatic traffic news announcement on Planet Rock. I would recommend that anyone feeling a bit depressed or downtrodden should get a look at the Spire. There is a certain humour in it which should lift anyones spirit. I can accept the Spire for what it is, a wonderful freakish thing, but there is quite a controversy and has been for many years over the catalyst for the deformity. The Spire has a 45 degree twist and is nearly 10 feet out of the perpendicluar. Erected in the 14th Century the blame fell on the shortage of skilled craftsmen after the decimation of population from the Black Death plaque. If there was a chance to make a killing in the ecclesiatical construction game and with guaranteed employment and money for fresh vegetables for many subsequent generations of your family I would, in their position, be suitably economical with the truth on my CV. Oh yes, third hod carrier at Chartres Cathedral, principal gargoyle polisher at Cologne, Impish model at Lincoln, food concessionary at the Diet of Worms.( Please do not attempt to actually put dates on these events as the impact will suffer). So, limited skill sets, lack of quality control and a lot of unseasoned wood and oak shingles were the main Heads of Terms for the contract, not much different from Barratt Homes today then. The modern theory for the then Civic embarassment arose in the 17th Century when a lead sheet cover replaced the shingles. The expansion and contraction of the material was seen as the cause of the twisting. There must surely have been a stage in time when the Spire was considered for demolition. I can imagine the wording on the Insurance Claim form " We had a perfectly good vertical spire and then last time we looked it had gone a bit out of shape". I do not want to get involved in technical discussions about how and why it happened, get over it, the damage is done. Chesterfield must be, however, laughing all the way to the bank with the subsequent tourist income from, evidently, its best attraction. I am not sure if Chesterfield is twinned with Pisa but that would be apt. There will have been many prominent architects, technicians and engineers just itching to have a go at straightening the Spire and I can appreciate their frustration on being told to 'get lost and do something else'. It is quite ironic therefore that Chesterfield's most famous son was George Stephenson, father of the railways and one of the greatest engineering minds of his generation. We certainly have to thank the City Brethren for discouraging George Stephenson from wasting his life and talents on untwisting the Spire which could have been a possibility for an image conscious urban centre seeking inward investment for the industrial revolution and to shake off deep rooted prejudice that the town supports shoddy workmanship and practices. If that had been the outcome of history we may still have been travelling around in ox carts, troubled by leafs on the mud tracks of the country, by late running stagecoaches and forever complaining that travelling in First Class should be a guarantee of arriving at your destination not covered in shit.
I was, for once, grateful of unwittingly adopting the recommended 10 to 2 position on the A61 through Chesterfield under the following circumstances. The featureless trunk road passes a very ugly corporate building and then a very high concrete retaining wall fringing the city centre. Nothing much to see or cause distraction from negotiating an unknown road network and maintaining lane discipline looking for the Bakewell turning. Then into full and glorious view appears the grossly but fascinatingly twisted spire of the Parish Church. I had seen it some 30 years ago on a school trip but I had forgotten the glory of its improbability . I hope the cumbersome link gives some impression of the magnificence of this landmark.
http://www.yourlocalweb.co.uk/images/pictures/22/42/chesterfield-the-church-of-st-mary-all-saints-221353.jpg
I had some extreme difficulty keeping my vehicle and myself under control at the sight of it but my grip on the steering wheel prevented the fit of laughter and associated spasms from causing a dramatic traffic news announcement on Planet Rock. I would recommend that anyone feeling a bit depressed or downtrodden should get a look at the Spire. There is a certain humour in it which should lift anyones spirit. I can accept the Spire for what it is, a wonderful freakish thing, but there is quite a controversy and has been for many years over the catalyst for the deformity. The Spire has a 45 degree twist and is nearly 10 feet out of the perpendicluar. Erected in the 14th Century the blame fell on the shortage of skilled craftsmen after the decimation of population from the Black Death plaque. If there was a chance to make a killing in the ecclesiatical construction game and with guaranteed employment and money for fresh vegetables for many subsequent generations of your family I would, in their position, be suitably economical with the truth on my CV. Oh yes, third hod carrier at Chartres Cathedral, principal gargoyle polisher at Cologne, Impish model at Lincoln, food concessionary at the Diet of Worms.( Please do not attempt to actually put dates on these events as the impact will suffer). So, limited skill sets, lack of quality control and a lot of unseasoned wood and oak shingles were the main Heads of Terms for the contract, not much different from Barratt Homes today then. The modern theory for the then Civic embarassment arose in the 17th Century when a lead sheet cover replaced the shingles. The expansion and contraction of the material was seen as the cause of the twisting. There must surely have been a stage in time when the Spire was considered for demolition. I can imagine the wording on the Insurance Claim form " We had a perfectly good vertical spire and then last time we looked it had gone a bit out of shape". I do not want to get involved in technical discussions about how and why it happened, get over it, the damage is done. Chesterfield must be, however, laughing all the way to the bank with the subsequent tourist income from, evidently, its best attraction. I am not sure if Chesterfield is twinned with Pisa but that would be apt. There will have been many prominent architects, technicians and engineers just itching to have a go at straightening the Spire and I can appreciate their frustration on being told to 'get lost and do something else'. It is quite ironic therefore that Chesterfield's most famous son was George Stephenson, father of the railways and one of the greatest engineering minds of his generation. We certainly have to thank the City Brethren for discouraging George Stephenson from wasting his life and talents on untwisting the Spire which could have been a possibility for an image conscious urban centre seeking inward investment for the industrial revolution and to shake off deep rooted prejudice that the town supports shoddy workmanship and practices. If that had been the outcome of history we may still have been travelling around in ox carts, troubled by leafs on the mud tracks of the country, by late running stagecoaches and forever complaining that travelling in First Class should be a guarantee of arriving at your destination not covered in shit.
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