Was it a subconcious and collective decision by the male population of the world to go outside and about their business without a hat?
The whole thought process behind this momentous culture and fashion change must have started somewhere and with one individual because it appeared to have taken place overnight.
When was that momentous day?
Well, certainly towards the end of the decade that was the 1950's. In the preceding period, in fact going back centuries, the wearing of a hat was a defining thing about your social status, affluence, influence and intelligence.
I was fascinated to read about the passing of a Law in England in 1571 which made it compulsory and under the sanction of a fine or other equally draconian penalty for those over the age of 6 to wear a hat on Sundays and on National Holidays.
What hat to wear was also dictated to a large extent by your position in the hierearchy of the society of that period. Those of noble or gentlemanly standing could afford and were expected to wear a real hat, something to set them apart from the masses. At the other end of the social scale would be the impoverished and those still in poverty but fortunate enough to be bound in servitude or an apprenticeship. Their headgear usually comprised a basic wool or wool/silk mix flat cap, a bit like a Tam O'Shanter. The imposition of such a law may have been primarily to boost a fledgling, emerging but still very much a cottage based textile industry . Lobbying by interested parties with vested interests may not have changed much over subsequent centuries on the basis of the success of the Elizabethan wool mix sales drive and forerunner of the 'Buy English' campaign.
Whatever the background of a person in 16th Century England it was very rare to come across anyone bareheaded. It may have been considered in the utmost bad taste and of poor culture to show forehead, crown, a head of lice infested hair , ringworm ravaged patches or just a plain bald pate.
The hat served as a symbol of respect and was also a means to express support for or against a particular idea or movement. In the former use the taking off, or doffing of a hat was expected in the company of your betters and elders. The throwing up of a hat was the simplest method of showing agreement and sympathy for a cause.
Phrases have persisted in the English language from the halcyon days of hat wearing. If a person of lower class was in need of alms, sustenance or just a favour then the practice of approaching a potential benefactor involved holding your hat in reverence as in 'cap in hand'.
Whilst citizens were compelled to wear a hat it was not a reason for rebellion or protest. The type of hat imposed on the wearer soon became established as a form of social identification, a badge to be proudly worn to show where you were from and that you were happy to remain firmly entrenched there with no real prospects or inclination to better yourself.
Fast forward a few centuries and hat wearing was heavily influenced in the 1930's and 1940's by the role models of the Big Screen. What better way to emulate the matinee idols of the time than mimicking them in their choice of hat and also their style of wearing it, tipped back as Bogart, tipped forward as Alan Ladd, askew as Cary Grant, optimistic and hopeful as James Stewart.
The other essential accessory for any hat was of course a cigarette with the glow of the tip made cool and chic under the brow of a homburg or fedora.
Any photograph of a streetscene or social gathering in the 1950's, anywhere in the western world emphasised the popularity of hats amongst the male population.
What appears to have sounded the death knell for hat wearing was the decade of the 1960's, a time of big expansive hair, expressions of individualism in huge gatherings, protests about everything and nothing and the real beginnings of social equality. Being upwardly mobile and not ashamed to admit it meant that the symbol of oppression and social stereotyping, deep set in the psyche of the male population just had to be left at home on the hat stand or relegated to the children's dressing up box.
My Grandfather, Dick was of that generation of not being properly dressed without his hat and was, to my fond recollections the last of a long line of my family and ancestry to maintain the trend and fashion on a daily and not just high day and holy day basis. My own Father went through a hat stage but then again that was part of the uniform of a Scout and followed by National Service.
Hat wearing today has come around full circle from the 16th Century but in a more sinister guise. The popular choice by far is the baseball cap but unfortunately this has become more a symbol of an underclass and as a badge of honour attracting unwanted attention and perpetuating a poor representation of those who wear them by the media. In the making of snap judgements about an individual, which is a trait of the less trusting in our society, the baseball cap immediately differentiates and condemns the wearer even though the motivation to be so attired is more of a fashion than any intentional social statement.
Myself and hats?
I attribute my bald head on the poor conditions imposed on my scalp by many years in my youth of the compulsory wearing of cub scout caps and, later, scout berets. I still live in hope of getting a phone call from a firm of lawyers who can guide me through the process of suing for loss of hair and opportunity on a no win, no fee basis.
Friday, 19 February 2016
Thursday, 18 February 2016
Home Truths
I did not feel anything at all.
Granted, the bungalow was a bit dour looking, typically 1950's style in wire cut corporate style facing bricks and the dark appearance was only compounded by the now established, but at one time, brand new wood-stained finished hardwood windows and doors.
In fact the place on first impression was quite boring, nestling in a large corner plot, within very thickly lush and green boundaries in a now rather unrestrained privet hedging that was so high that in a gusty wind there was good reason to expect it to just blow down flat and break.
The return to nature was to be expected given that the owner had died some months before. After a flourish of concerned interest and a bit of jockeying for position , cap in hand, by the nearest relatives it was revealed that the property had long since been traded for a small Annuity with an Equity Release Company .
Consequently, there was nothing for the surviving family members to inherit apart from few ornaments and knick-knacks. With this realisation the number of potential beneficiaries of the estate evaporated to just one distant, elderly cousin who would sadly miss his weekly visit for a cup of tea and reminiscence of family things.
I got to the bungalow when it had been largely cleared of the collected chattels of someone's life and endeavours. A few bits of furniture remained awaiting the perusal of the man in the white charity van or failing that just a house clearance company whose costs to remove said items were greater than the value of the goods. Room corners were taken up by a few small stacks of books, mostly hardback coffee table publications on the Royal Family, Royal Air Force, Royal Horticultural Society and other things Imperial and Empire. There were also carefully trussed and tied bundles of bed linen and towels which showed no apparent sign of ever having been used.
The former occupant had been there a long time. This was evident from the dark patches where framed pictures, prints and photographs had been hung and preserved the wallpaper from the bleaching and fading effect of the sun as it penetrated deep into the hallway and living room on the south facing side of the bungalow. I even thought that the property may only have had the one owner from new in that the internal doors were the original flush faced and featureless type which otherwise would have been prioritised by a new incoming resident for replacement in those very flimsy, pressed panelled and corrugated cardboard formed ones.
Kitchen and bathroom fittings were similarly dated, the former limited to a chipped enamelled sink and a few wooden units and the latter to a blushing pink suite with an oversized but shallow draught cast iron bath. The bedrooms at the cooler north side of the bungalow were a bit dark and fusty, one being dominated by a wall to wall array of cupboards, doors ajar and loose on their hinges following a rifling through by the previous waves of scavenging relatives. It struck me that there was no space for a bed in the room. The occupier had lived alone. The carpet, in the adjacent main bedroom bore the indented outline of a single bed and with a compressed path of fibres in a well worn route in and out of the room.
Saying it was a bungalow was not strictly accurate. A ladder type access had been formed many years prior into the loft space. It was of a narrow, steep, hamstring tugging gradient requiring some upper arm effort to ascend in the absence of a stout handrail or similar. I popped my head into the opening at the top. There was some daylight from a grouping of four glass tiles, reclaimed from a much older property but fitting snugly amongst the post war pantiles of the roof.
As my eyes became accustomed to the different light the room revealed a large flat boarded arrangement, which on a level plane was just a mish-mash of colours and textures. A bit of blue, grainy green, earth brown and black. Easing myself up to almost full height under the roof ridge the display was now in full view. It was what remained of quite an expansive model train track . I think that I blurted out "ooohhh" aloud in a boys own expression of excitement at the sight of the layout before remembering my training as a Surveyor and quickly assessing if many apparent hours of enjoyment of the train set had been to the structural detriment of the roof framework. It had not, in fact what had formed the main line of the set-up had been run in a very tortuous route so as not to disturb the integrity of the roof. All timbers remained in position even where there may have been a temptation to apply the hand-saw.
I could easily imagine the sights and sounds of a fully operational rail network under those eaves. I had to negotiate the steep access backwards to get back to the main part of the bungalow. The former owner, from my observations had been either an engineer from the precision of the layout or a seafarer well used to clambering between decks on similarly angled ladders.
I finished off my visit in the back garden. The unseasonably warm start to the spring had encouraged a normally well regimented lawn and borders to run riot giving the appearance of dereliction and decay. A few concrete gnomes, their gawdy colours faded sat around looking glum in the company of a couple of stone fawns and a bird bath. The side gate onto the street had been dislodged from its post and I wedged it back and braced it with the wheelie bin as a small gesture of respect.
To say that I did not feel anything at all was as far from the truth as possible.
For a few moments I had seen the bungalow as through the eyes of its former proud owner. What had, at first, resembled an empty shell stripped of its goods had taken on the form of a safe refuge, a comforting environment of cherished belongings and above all a home. I had not been spooked or phased by my experience. Perhaps, in my empathy the bungalow had welcomed my intrusion. I was not a threat like previous visitors intent on scavenging and looting in misguided family loyalties.
I could appreciate the life and times of the former occupant and had some sadness at how things had turned out. It was not therefore surprising that some months later the Asset Managers for the property contacted me for a very unusual request. The bungalow had been actively advertised for sale and had excited a good bit of interest from prospective buyers. However, none of the parties had progressed to an offer in spite of the clear opportunity of acquiring it at very advantageous price. The feedback was unanimous that the viewers had all experienced a strange feeling but could not be more specific as to what it was. It was enough of a strange feeling to be a deal breaker.
I reported that some people were a bit over sensitive in the case of an empty property, illogically superstitious and suddenly possessing supernatural senses and powers. The company agreed with me and we laughed a bit at there being " nowt as queer as folk"
It was wholly apparent to me that the bungalow was undertaking its own vetting process as to who it would welcome as its new owner.
Granted, the bungalow was a bit dour looking, typically 1950's style in wire cut corporate style facing bricks and the dark appearance was only compounded by the now established, but at one time, brand new wood-stained finished hardwood windows and doors.
In fact the place on first impression was quite boring, nestling in a large corner plot, within very thickly lush and green boundaries in a now rather unrestrained privet hedging that was so high that in a gusty wind there was good reason to expect it to just blow down flat and break.
The return to nature was to be expected given that the owner had died some months before. After a flourish of concerned interest and a bit of jockeying for position , cap in hand, by the nearest relatives it was revealed that the property had long since been traded for a small Annuity with an Equity Release Company .
Consequently, there was nothing for the surviving family members to inherit apart from few ornaments and knick-knacks. With this realisation the number of potential beneficiaries of the estate evaporated to just one distant, elderly cousin who would sadly miss his weekly visit for a cup of tea and reminiscence of family things.
I got to the bungalow when it had been largely cleared of the collected chattels of someone's life and endeavours. A few bits of furniture remained awaiting the perusal of the man in the white charity van or failing that just a house clearance company whose costs to remove said items were greater than the value of the goods. Room corners were taken up by a few small stacks of books, mostly hardback coffee table publications on the Royal Family, Royal Air Force, Royal Horticultural Society and other things Imperial and Empire. There were also carefully trussed and tied bundles of bed linen and towels which showed no apparent sign of ever having been used.
The former occupant had been there a long time. This was evident from the dark patches where framed pictures, prints and photographs had been hung and preserved the wallpaper from the bleaching and fading effect of the sun as it penetrated deep into the hallway and living room on the south facing side of the bungalow. I even thought that the property may only have had the one owner from new in that the internal doors were the original flush faced and featureless type which otherwise would have been prioritised by a new incoming resident for replacement in those very flimsy, pressed panelled and corrugated cardboard formed ones.
Kitchen and bathroom fittings were similarly dated, the former limited to a chipped enamelled sink and a few wooden units and the latter to a blushing pink suite with an oversized but shallow draught cast iron bath. The bedrooms at the cooler north side of the bungalow were a bit dark and fusty, one being dominated by a wall to wall array of cupboards, doors ajar and loose on their hinges following a rifling through by the previous waves of scavenging relatives. It struck me that there was no space for a bed in the room. The occupier had lived alone. The carpet, in the adjacent main bedroom bore the indented outline of a single bed and with a compressed path of fibres in a well worn route in and out of the room.
Saying it was a bungalow was not strictly accurate. A ladder type access had been formed many years prior into the loft space. It was of a narrow, steep, hamstring tugging gradient requiring some upper arm effort to ascend in the absence of a stout handrail or similar. I popped my head into the opening at the top. There was some daylight from a grouping of four glass tiles, reclaimed from a much older property but fitting snugly amongst the post war pantiles of the roof.
As my eyes became accustomed to the different light the room revealed a large flat boarded arrangement, which on a level plane was just a mish-mash of colours and textures. A bit of blue, grainy green, earth brown and black. Easing myself up to almost full height under the roof ridge the display was now in full view. It was what remained of quite an expansive model train track . I think that I blurted out "ooohhh" aloud in a boys own expression of excitement at the sight of the layout before remembering my training as a Surveyor and quickly assessing if many apparent hours of enjoyment of the train set had been to the structural detriment of the roof framework. It had not, in fact what had formed the main line of the set-up had been run in a very tortuous route so as not to disturb the integrity of the roof. All timbers remained in position even where there may have been a temptation to apply the hand-saw.
I could easily imagine the sights and sounds of a fully operational rail network under those eaves. I had to negotiate the steep access backwards to get back to the main part of the bungalow. The former owner, from my observations had been either an engineer from the precision of the layout or a seafarer well used to clambering between decks on similarly angled ladders.
I finished off my visit in the back garden. The unseasonably warm start to the spring had encouraged a normally well regimented lawn and borders to run riot giving the appearance of dereliction and decay. A few concrete gnomes, their gawdy colours faded sat around looking glum in the company of a couple of stone fawns and a bird bath. The side gate onto the street had been dislodged from its post and I wedged it back and braced it with the wheelie bin as a small gesture of respect.
To say that I did not feel anything at all was as far from the truth as possible.
For a few moments I had seen the bungalow as through the eyes of its former proud owner. What had, at first, resembled an empty shell stripped of its goods had taken on the form of a safe refuge, a comforting environment of cherished belongings and above all a home. I had not been spooked or phased by my experience. Perhaps, in my empathy the bungalow had welcomed my intrusion. I was not a threat like previous visitors intent on scavenging and looting in misguided family loyalties.
I could appreciate the life and times of the former occupant and had some sadness at how things had turned out. It was not therefore surprising that some months later the Asset Managers for the property contacted me for a very unusual request. The bungalow had been actively advertised for sale and had excited a good bit of interest from prospective buyers. However, none of the parties had progressed to an offer in spite of the clear opportunity of acquiring it at very advantageous price. The feedback was unanimous that the viewers had all experienced a strange feeling but could not be more specific as to what it was. It was enough of a strange feeling to be a deal breaker.
I reported that some people were a bit over sensitive in the case of an empty property, illogically superstitious and suddenly possessing supernatural senses and powers. The company agreed with me and we laughed a bit at there being " nowt as queer as folk"
It was wholly apparent to me that the bungalow was undertaking its own vetting process as to who it would welcome as its new owner.
Wednesday, 17 February 2016
Guerre
It is a popular dramatic ruse.
I am talking about a plot line in a book, play or film when an absentee character makes a return to their family after many years away and attempts to resume his or her life as though no time has elapsed. The returnee is lovingly and unquestionably accepted back into the fold with everyone just pleased to see that they are safe and sound. This is in spite of the original disappearance being the catalyst for considerable sadness, a sense of abandonment, bereavement, public humiliation and hardship .
Gradually, however,there comes a realisation, from small suspicions and inconsistencies in behaviour or fact that the individual may be a stranger and impersonating the loved one. The motivation for the imposter to risk being unmasked could be criminal through the perpetration of theft or fraud or simply to feel wanted and to salvage a life that may not have been available in their own lives to date.
We have all come across this type of scenario in literature or on the big and small screens.
In 1993 the Hollywood movie machine brought out Sommersby on this same impersonation synopisis and set around the events and aftermath of the American Civil War. Season Nine of The Simpsons saw the School Principal, Seymour Skinner exposed as an imposter upon the return of the real Skinner character to Springfield. In more recent productions even Don Draper in Mad Men used impersonation to get himself into the Advertising business which made him his reputation and fortune.
All of these, on first impression, seemingly far fetched plots are based in fact from 16th Century France involving the fascinating story of a peasant ,Martin Guerre.
There are contemporary accounts of what transpired in the village of Artigat which lies to the South of the regional city of Toulouse in the Languedoc. One such was written by one of the original Trial Judges, Jean de Coras and published in 1565, only nine years after the events played out.
At the very young age of 14 Martin Guerre entered into marriage with Bertrande de Rols, the daughter of a well off, by local standards, artisan family. She is thought to have been only 12 at the time but it was a typically arranged affair attracting a dowry of vineyard lands, monies and chattels including a bed and linen.
The couple, very much a focus of attention in the village felt under pressure. Martin may have been impotent or not even at puberty and behaved very much to form for a teenager showing an affinity for swordplay and acrobatics rather than fatherhood and responsibility. This meant that after 8 years of marriage there was still no offspring. Religious fervour and atheist superstitions, of equal influence in the lives of the rural population surfaced with four Catholic Masses being called and even a claim from Bertrande that Martin had been bewitched so as to be infertile. A first child was conceived shortly after the rituals but Martin felt trapped and overwhelmed.
In 1548, aged 24, he fled Artigat, abandoning his young wife and child. This had catastrophic consequences for Bertrande. Nothwithstanding the gossip and stigma she was, under Catholic Canon Law, prohibited from remarrying without certain proof of her husbands death.It would be a perilous existence for her.
In 1556, a man arrived in the village and presented himself as the missing Martin Guerre.
His first contacts upon arrival had been two former acquaintances who immediately recognised their friend and bore him triumphantly to Bertrande. Whether completely fooled or just resigned and happy to have any man to help and support her after her enforced hardship Bertrande took the new Martin in and they co-habited for the next three years having two children although only one surviving infancy.
This caused jealousy and hatred amongst the wider family and disputes began over the witholding of inheritance monies. The suspicions over the authenticity of the new Martin were assisted by the feuding. Investigations were conducted on a clandestine basis by the non-believers.
A soldier, passing through Artigat, claimed to have known Martin Guerre and remembered him well as having suffered a leg amputation from the war with Spain in 1557. Others expressed their suspicions over the physical height of the man, a lack of athletic prowess so ably shown in his youthful years, his odd pronunciation of certain words and an absence of everyday conversational traits.
Bertrande accepted the new Martin wholly even under constant pressure from her side of the family and what was becoming a convincing body of evidence exposing him as a fraud.
Other witnesses came forward to testify that Guerre was in fact an Arnaud du Tilh, a well known opportunist and reveller from a village only, as the crow flies, twenty five kilometres away from Artigat.
A formal enquiry was called to try to reveal the true identity of the man.
Some 150 testimonies were heard but there was an almost equal split between those convinced that Guerre had returned and those who recognised du Tilh.
The presiding judge was confused but declared that a crime had been committed, specifically a fraud and the subsequent abuse of Bertrande.
An Appeal was heard at the Parliament of Toulouse where the main recounter of the story, Jean de Coras, officiated.
Du Tilh was most convincing in his portrayal of Guerre, assisted by abilities that many now attribute to an exceptional memory, recall and acting ability. The position of Bertrande could have been difficult given her acceptance into her life and bed of a potential stranger which had set the local tongues wagging.
The final decision under the supervision of Coras was swinging in favour of the couple and they could have looked forward to a blameless return to Artigat had it not been for the very dramatic appearance in the Court of a man hobbling on a wooden leg.
He claimed to be the real Martin Guerre and recounted a tale of his travels and experiences which rang true.
Du Tilh was sentenced to death by hanging for his heinous deception. Bertrande was spared the same fate because of her gender but there would be no happy ending for her as she had to face a life with the man who had deserted her all of those years ago.
I am talking about a plot line in a book, play or film when an absentee character makes a return to their family after many years away and attempts to resume his or her life as though no time has elapsed. The returnee is lovingly and unquestionably accepted back into the fold with everyone just pleased to see that they are safe and sound. This is in spite of the original disappearance being the catalyst for considerable sadness, a sense of abandonment, bereavement, public humiliation and hardship .
Gradually, however,there comes a realisation, from small suspicions and inconsistencies in behaviour or fact that the individual may be a stranger and impersonating the loved one. The motivation for the imposter to risk being unmasked could be criminal through the perpetration of theft or fraud or simply to feel wanted and to salvage a life that may not have been available in their own lives to date.
We have all come across this type of scenario in literature or on the big and small screens.
In 1993 the Hollywood movie machine brought out Sommersby on this same impersonation synopisis and set around the events and aftermath of the American Civil War. Season Nine of The Simpsons saw the School Principal, Seymour Skinner exposed as an imposter upon the return of the real Skinner character to Springfield. In more recent productions even Don Draper in Mad Men used impersonation to get himself into the Advertising business which made him his reputation and fortune.
All of these, on first impression, seemingly far fetched plots are based in fact from 16th Century France involving the fascinating story of a peasant ,Martin Guerre.
There are contemporary accounts of what transpired in the village of Artigat which lies to the South of the regional city of Toulouse in the Languedoc. One such was written by one of the original Trial Judges, Jean de Coras and published in 1565, only nine years after the events played out.
At the very young age of 14 Martin Guerre entered into marriage with Bertrande de Rols, the daughter of a well off, by local standards, artisan family. She is thought to have been only 12 at the time but it was a typically arranged affair attracting a dowry of vineyard lands, monies and chattels including a bed and linen.
The couple, very much a focus of attention in the village felt under pressure. Martin may have been impotent or not even at puberty and behaved very much to form for a teenager showing an affinity for swordplay and acrobatics rather than fatherhood and responsibility. This meant that after 8 years of marriage there was still no offspring. Religious fervour and atheist superstitions, of equal influence in the lives of the rural population surfaced with four Catholic Masses being called and even a claim from Bertrande that Martin had been bewitched so as to be infertile. A first child was conceived shortly after the rituals but Martin felt trapped and overwhelmed.
In 1548, aged 24, he fled Artigat, abandoning his young wife and child. This had catastrophic consequences for Bertrande. Nothwithstanding the gossip and stigma she was, under Catholic Canon Law, prohibited from remarrying without certain proof of her husbands death.It would be a perilous existence for her.
In 1556, a man arrived in the village and presented himself as the missing Martin Guerre.
His first contacts upon arrival had been two former acquaintances who immediately recognised their friend and bore him triumphantly to Bertrande. Whether completely fooled or just resigned and happy to have any man to help and support her after her enforced hardship Bertrande took the new Martin in and they co-habited for the next three years having two children although only one surviving infancy.
This caused jealousy and hatred amongst the wider family and disputes began over the witholding of inheritance monies. The suspicions over the authenticity of the new Martin were assisted by the feuding. Investigations were conducted on a clandestine basis by the non-believers.
A soldier, passing through Artigat, claimed to have known Martin Guerre and remembered him well as having suffered a leg amputation from the war with Spain in 1557. Others expressed their suspicions over the physical height of the man, a lack of athletic prowess so ably shown in his youthful years, his odd pronunciation of certain words and an absence of everyday conversational traits.
Bertrande accepted the new Martin wholly even under constant pressure from her side of the family and what was becoming a convincing body of evidence exposing him as a fraud.
Other witnesses came forward to testify that Guerre was in fact an Arnaud du Tilh, a well known opportunist and reveller from a village only, as the crow flies, twenty five kilometres away from Artigat.
A formal enquiry was called to try to reveal the true identity of the man.
Some 150 testimonies were heard but there was an almost equal split between those convinced that Guerre had returned and those who recognised du Tilh.
The presiding judge was confused but declared that a crime had been committed, specifically a fraud and the subsequent abuse of Bertrande.
An Appeal was heard at the Parliament of Toulouse where the main recounter of the story, Jean de Coras, officiated.
Du Tilh was most convincing in his portrayal of Guerre, assisted by abilities that many now attribute to an exceptional memory, recall and acting ability. The position of Bertrande could have been difficult given her acceptance into her life and bed of a potential stranger which had set the local tongues wagging.
The final decision under the supervision of Coras was swinging in favour of the couple and they could have looked forward to a blameless return to Artigat had it not been for the very dramatic appearance in the Court of a man hobbling on a wooden leg.
He claimed to be the real Martin Guerre and recounted a tale of his travels and experiences which rang true.
Du Tilh was sentenced to death by hanging for his heinous deception. Bertrande was spared the same fate because of her gender but there would be no happy ending for her as she had to face a life with the man who had deserted her all of those years ago.
Tuesday, 16 February 2016
Sand and The English
Picture a sandy beach anywhere in the world.
It will no doubt be a relaxing scene of softly lapping waves supporting drifting and leisurely bathers, a few less courageous tourists paddling at the edge, rows of neat sun beds shaded under bright and gawdy coloured canopies or authentic coconut palms, beachfront concessions for that chilled soft drink or something a bit more sophisticated and alcoholic. It is a place of Bronzed and beautiful people, stretched out in sun worship or chilled out with a book or magazine.
Then you see the English family, fully clothed, any exposed skin very red raw , undertaking a full scale excavation and civil engineering project to build a replica of Windsor Castle in the sand, complete with small paper Union Jack and Royal Standard Flags that they carefully packed and brought with them.
We have all perpetuated the very English activity of digging in sand wherever we may find it.
Think back to your own childhood days and the presence of a sand-pit or sand box in just about every back garden. Of course, without a plywood or polythene cover this play facility rapidly deteriorated into a very large community litter tray for the local cat population but we were more resilient to infectious and debilitating illness in those days.
Unfortunately the sand pit went through a high tech phase from which it never recovered. This consisted of mainly shell or turtle shaped moulded plastic, with a cat deterrent lid, and clean and sterilised play sand. This combination ruined the engineering capabilities of sand as far as young children were concerned.
The demise of the sandpit is illustrated by a foray onto Google Earth over any UK suburban area. Once the proving ground for sand based architecture, such a satellite study today reveals the very common phenomena of small black circles in back gardens. This contrasts sharply with, say, an equivalent residential area in the warmer parts of the US where there is the bright blue rectangle of an outdoor swimming pool.
These strange circular images are a consequence of the very clever marketing of trampolines as a combined play, leisure and fitness item. I am not sure if they were given away free with a Nintendo Wii or similar given their significant numbers. However, I have never seen one in actual use. Give the youngsters of today some credit in that just jumping up and down or attempting, at great risk of injury or death, a somersault is no way to wile away the hours.
There must however be a very English genetic trait that demands that sand be dug wherever it is found.
I was watching a very interesting TV programme last week about a return to the Stalag Luft prison camp from where the actual Great Escape took place. The Allied internees were of course duty bound to try to break out and much ingenuity and inspired improvisation was applied to that purpose. I hope I am not being disrespectful to either the prisoners or their captors but for some reason the authorities felt it necessary to;
a) locate the camp in a sandy area and
b) spread extra sand over the site to make it easier to spot spoil and waste produced by tunnelling.
Talk about providing subliminal encouragement to the English POW's to dig.
There is a considerable difference across the world in the quality and suitability of beach sand to keep us English happy in the creation of a deep hole, an intricate network of sea-water filled canals and rivulets, or an almost life-size sculpture of the Tower of London complete with a wildly imaginative collection of stout ramparts and fortifications.
The much admired beaches at Anse Lazio in the Seychelles, Ka'anapali in Hawaii, Coronado in California and Cas Aboo in Curacao may have the climate, ambience and sheer beauty elements but frankly, these would all fail the sand elasticity test conducted by filling a small brightly coloured plastic bucket using the matching spade, tamping it down and then upending the whole contents in search of that perfect sand castle.
Our first proper continental holiday involving flying was to the Greek Island of Kefalonia.
We had read the book and seen the Hollywood movie of Captain Corelli and were enthralled by the dramatic landscape of the island on which the story had unfolded. We were not disappointed and indeed most of our exploration of the island in a small Hyundai Atoz was done with clenched hands on the steering wheel because of the many sheer drops and limited barrier provision below the roads carved out of the steep hillsides.
We had saved a visit to Myrtos Beach until the latter part of out ten day holiday. The beach, one of the most photographed on the planet is a crescent shaped strip at the base of impenetrable cliffs, onto deep, clear and treacherous waters and with a tortuously winding roadway down.
The best viewpoint was from a dusty lay-bay, again with no protection against plummeting over the edge.This only strengthened our resolve to put our feelings of self preservation aside and get down there. I cannot remember the descent which is understandable amongst those who are exposed to extreme trauma in certain situations.
We got to the sweeping beach in late afternoon, the inland sweltering heat tempered by a coastal breeze. In the Corelli movie the beach is the setting for a raucous party, some toplessness of the female kind is shown, (available on Total Film, 1 hour 37 minutes and 20 seconds in).
We were not all interested in re-enacting that particular scene. We were there for a higher purpose.
What better way to celebrate our first overseas holiday than to build something on the best beach we had ever been to outside the UK.
A few seconds later we were hurtling back up the cliff road or as much as that is possible in a compact, under powered and overloaded hire car.
We were a very disappointed and devastated English family.
I was , in my outraged mind, already composing a letter of complaint to the Holiday Tour Company. We had found, on close hot footed investigation that Myrtos Beach was a travesty.
The whole bright white and promising strip was in fact made up of small sun bleached pebbles.
It will no doubt be a relaxing scene of softly lapping waves supporting drifting and leisurely bathers, a few less courageous tourists paddling at the edge, rows of neat sun beds shaded under bright and gawdy coloured canopies or authentic coconut palms, beachfront concessions for that chilled soft drink or something a bit more sophisticated and alcoholic. It is a place of Bronzed and beautiful people, stretched out in sun worship or chilled out with a book or magazine.
Then you see the English family, fully clothed, any exposed skin very red raw , undertaking a full scale excavation and civil engineering project to build a replica of Windsor Castle in the sand, complete with small paper Union Jack and Royal Standard Flags that they carefully packed and brought with them.
We have all perpetuated the very English activity of digging in sand wherever we may find it.
Think back to your own childhood days and the presence of a sand-pit or sand box in just about every back garden. Of course, without a plywood or polythene cover this play facility rapidly deteriorated into a very large community litter tray for the local cat population but we were more resilient to infectious and debilitating illness in those days.
Unfortunately the sand pit went through a high tech phase from which it never recovered. This consisted of mainly shell or turtle shaped moulded plastic, with a cat deterrent lid, and clean and sterilised play sand. This combination ruined the engineering capabilities of sand as far as young children were concerned.
The demise of the sandpit is illustrated by a foray onto Google Earth over any UK suburban area. Once the proving ground for sand based architecture, such a satellite study today reveals the very common phenomena of small black circles in back gardens. This contrasts sharply with, say, an equivalent residential area in the warmer parts of the US where there is the bright blue rectangle of an outdoor swimming pool.
These strange circular images are a consequence of the very clever marketing of trampolines as a combined play, leisure and fitness item. I am not sure if they were given away free with a Nintendo Wii or similar given their significant numbers. However, I have never seen one in actual use. Give the youngsters of today some credit in that just jumping up and down or attempting, at great risk of injury or death, a somersault is no way to wile away the hours.
There must however be a very English genetic trait that demands that sand be dug wherever it is found.
I was watching a very interesting TV programme last week about a return to the Stalag Luft prison camp from where the actual Great Escape took place. The Allied internees were of course duty bound to try to break out and much ingenuity and inspired improvisation was applied to that purpose. I hope I am not being disrespectful to either the prisoners or their captors but for some reason the authorities felt it necessary to;
a) locate the camp in a sandy area and
b) spread extra sand over the site to make it easier to spot spoil and waste produced by tunnelling.
Talk about providing subliminal encouragement to the English POW's to dig.
There is a considerable difference across the world in the quality and suitability of beach sand to keep us English happy in the creation of a deep hole, an intricate network of sea-water filled canals and rivulets, or an almost life-size sculpture of the Tower of London complete with a wildly imaginative collection of stout ramparts and fortifications.
The much admired beaches at Anse Lazio in the Seychelles, Ka'anapali in Hawaii, Coronado in California and Cas Aboo in Curacao may have the climate, ambience and sheer beauty elements but frankly, these would all fail the sand elasticity test conducted by filling a small brightly coloured plastic bucket using the matching spade, tamping it down and then upending the whole contents in search of that perfect sand castle.
Our first proper continental holiday involving flying was to the Greek Island of Kefalonia.
We had read the book and seen the Hollywood movie of Captain Corelli and were enthralled by the dramatic landscape of the island on which the story had unfolded. We were not disappointed and indeed most of our exploration of the island in a small Hyundai Atoz was done with clenched hands on the steering wheel because of the many sheer drops and limited barrier provision below the roads carved out of the steep hillsides.
We had saved a visit to Myrtos Beach until the latter part of out ten day holiday. The beach, one of the most photographed on the planet is a crescent shaped strip at the base of impenetrable cliffs, onto deep, clear and treacherous waters and with a tortuously winding roadway down.
The best viewpoint was from a dusty lay-bay, again with no protection against plummeting over the edge.This only strengthened our resolve to put our feelings of self preservation aside and get down there. I cannot remember the descent which is understandable amongst those who are exposed to extreme trauma in certain situations.
We got to the sweeping beach in late afternoon, the inland sweltering heat tempered by a coastal breeze. In the Corelli movie the beach is the setting for a raucous party, some toplessness of the female kind is shown, (available on Total Film, 1 hour 37 minutes and 20 seconds in).
We were not all interested in re-enacting that particular scene. We were there for a higher purpose.
What better way to celebrate our first overseas holiday than to build something on the best beach we had ever been to outside the UK.
A few seconds later we were hurtling back up the cliff road or as much as that is possible in a compact, under powered and overloaded hire car.
We were a very disappointed and devastated English family.
I was , in my outraged mind, already composing a letter of complaint to the Holiday Tour Company. We had found, on close hot footed investigation that Myrtos Beach was a travesty.
The whole bright white and promising strip was in fact made up of small sun bleached pebbles.
Monday, 15 February 2016
Duel Standards
You remember The Three Musketeers, the literary creations of Alexandre Dumas?
It turns out that in the factual surroundings of early to mid 17th Century France they were not all that they were made out to be.
In terms of courage, swashbuckling-ness and gallantry they were hard to beat indulging in jolly japes against Cardinal Richelieu and his troops and upholding the questionable morality of the French Queen.
Coming to think of it they did seem to have a lot of time on their hands to engage in sword fighting, drinking, wenching and dashing about all over the kingdom and at any time of the day and night.
In fact, I have come to realise that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and the wannabee D'Artagnan were all members of the idle and work-shy nobility of that era setting a terrible example and only serving to perpetuate the worst aspects of a lifestyle that could not be sustained in emerging representative and democratic societies.
Their activities, for all their entertainment value, were illegal not to mention irresponsible, reckless and ridiculous.
One of their particular faults was a fascination for the fashionable craze of duelling. This was one to one combat which was still going strong as a main bringer of premature death amongst the noble class and all in the name of upholding honour and reputation.
In France duelling was an epidemic. The monarch, Charles IX, even back in the 16th Century was known to have wept publicly over the updated list of fatalities by the sword which seemingly affected every well-to-do family. The surviving duellist in a deadly bout could expect to be arrested and hanged as a deterrent to this activity. This sanction did not have any influence.
By 1614, the English King, James 1st was similarly aghast at the senseless waste of life and issued a proclamation against duelling, but it was largely ignored.
So why did the nobility and aristocracy feel it necessary to duel?
Swords were everyday attire and so any confrontation or dispute over something or nothing at all could bring these weapons into play. Any affront, perceived or actual could spark a duel from an insult aimed at a wife or sister, a funny look, a lie, being short changed in a tavern or being fobbed off with substandard goods and services by a trades-person or merchant. Other pretences were documented by Social Historians to include one protagonist having more beard hair than the other, another a quarrelsome eye colour and even where an individual was accused of waking up a dog in the street by coughing.
The art of sword fighting was encouraged, primarily for readiness for war but increasingly in self defence.
The Italians were experts in fencing and published Manuals, with elaborate and graphic woodcut illustrations, became popular. They showed technique and style almost in a choreographed form but also the best places to lunge and thrust to kill and maim. Instruction was given on paths of least resistance to vital organs such as through the eye socket, to the throat and under the armpit.
There developed a highly ritualised Code to the duel.
A venue for a dawn encounter was usually centred on a Park or other open space away from the town or city, such as heathland. Appointed lieutenants or Seconds were empowered to try to persuade the duellists to resolve their dispute in a peaceful manner but failing that they ensured fair play in the loading and selection of weapons before counting out the standard 6 paces each from a back to back position, calling "Fire" on the drop of a handkerchief and tidying up the mayhem and bloodshed afterwards.
This was so far detached from the depiction of duelling in the popular literature and theatre of the time where it was used as a dramatic and plot enhancing tool which went down well with readers and audiences alike.
The arrival of firearms to succeed swords as weapon of choice in the late 17th and early 18th centuries was a matter of trepidation for the authorities in fear of a massive escalation in fatalities and mortal woundings.
In actuality there was a decline in deaths from duelling. The mere act of putting your life at risk under fire was regarded to be sufficient to restore honour and a resolution could take place in a shake of hands thereafter.
This was not of course in every case.
Whilst duelling was illegal and carrying a death penalty there were blatant double standards in the Law Courts. Under Trial by peers a surviving Aristocratic duellist would invariably be found not guilty of murder but yet the poor and needy in society including women and children were being hanged or deported to the Colonies for theft of bread and staple foodstuffs.
There was a tangible change of opinion in British Society to be firmly averse to duelling and this was no more evident than in 1829.
The Duke of Wellington, a National Hero through his military exploits and by then the Prime Minister was challenged to a duel by The Earl of Winchelsea who opposed policy to emancipate Catholics in Ireland. At dawn in Battersea, London both men fired into the air but suffered the hostility of the press and public opinion with Wellington in particular being criticised for his ill judgement in potentially committing a deadly crime and throwing away all of his achievements.
There followed a further shift in attitudes and this was endorsed by 1840 Statute enforcing the forfeiture of pension to any military personnel killed in a duel. This sanction gave legitimacy to declining a challenge to a duel with the emphasis now on protecting the financial interests of a wife and children rather than upholding personal honour.
Court based Civil Litigation began to be seen as the only civilised way to resolve a dispute or difference of opinion.
The last duel on English soil was in 1852 involving French Nationals and resulting in a mortal wound.
Such was the press coverage and public interest that even Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited the scene of the confrontation.
This firmly marked the end of a shameful era of pointless but nevertheless tragic pursuits by the ruling classes in the name of honour.
(Source; Pistols at Dawn, BBC World Service May 2010. Justin Champion)
It turns out that in the factual surroundings of early to mid 17th Century France they were not all that they were made out to be.
In terms of courage, swashbuckling-ness and gallantry they were hard to beat indulging in jolly japes against Cardinal Richelieu and his troops and upholding the questionable morality of the French Queen.
Coming to think of it they did seem to have a lot of time on their hands to engage in sword fighting, drinking, wenching and dashing about all over the kingdom and at any time of the day and night.
In fact, I have come to realise that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and the wannabee D'Artagnan were all members of the idle and work-shy nobility of that era setting a terrible example and only serving to perpetuate the worst aspects of a lifestyle that could not be sustained in emerging representative and democratic societies.
Their activities, for all their entertainment value, were illegal not to mention irresponsible, reckless and ridiculous.
One of their particular faults was a fascination for the fashionable craze of duelling. This was one to one combat which was still going strong as a main bringer of premature death amongst the noble class and all in the name of upholding honour and reputation.
In France duelling was an epidemic. The monarch, Charles IX, even back in the 16th Century was known to have wept publicly over the updated list of fatalities by the sword which seemingly affected every well-to-do family. The surviving duellist in a deadly bout could expect to be arrested and hanged as a deterrent to this activity. This sanction did not have any influence.
By 1614, the English King, James 1st was similarly aghast at the senseless waste of life and issued a proclamation against duelling, but it was largely ignored.
So why did the nobility and aristocracy feel it necessary to duel?
Swords were everyday attire and so any confrontation or dispute over something or nothing at all could bring these weapons into play. Any affront, perceived or actual could spark a duel from an insult aimed at a wife or sister, a funny look, a lie, being short changed in a tavern or being fobbed off with substandard goods and services by a trades-person or merchant. Other pretences were documented by Social Historians to include one protagonist having more beard hair than the other, another a quarrelsome eye colour and even where an individual was accused of waking up a dog in the street by coughing.
The art of sword fighting was encouraged, primarily for readiness for war but increasingly in self defence.
The Italians were experts in fencing and published Manuals, with elaborate and graphic woodcut illustrations, became popular. They showed technique and style almost in a choreographed form but also the best places to lunge and thrust to kill and maim. Instruction was given on paths of least resistance to vital organs such as through the eye socket, to the throat and under the armpit.
There developed a highly ritualised Code to the duel.
A venue for a dawn encounter was usually centred on a Park or other open space away from the town or city, such as heathland. Appointed lieutenants or Seconds were empowered to try to persuade the duellists to resolve their dispute in a peaceful manner but failing that they ensured fair play in the loading and selection of weapons before counting out the standard 6 paces each from a back to back position, calling "Fire" on the drop of a handkerchief and tidying up the mayhem and bloodshed afterwards.
This was so far detached from the depiction of duelling in the popular literature and theatre of the time where it was used as a dramatic and plot enhancing tool which went down well with readers and audiences alike.
The arrival of firearms to succeed swords as weapon of choice in the late 17th and early 18th centuries was a matter of trepidation for the authorities in fear of a massive escalation in fatalities and mortal woundings.
In actuality there was a decline in deaths from duelling. The mere act of putting your life at risk under fire was regarded to be sufficient to restore honour and a resolution could take place in a shake of hands thereafter.
This was not of course in every case.
Whilst duelling was illegal and carrying a death penalty there were blatant double standards in the Law Courts. Under Trial by peers a surviving Aristocratic duellist would invariably be found not guilty of murder but yet the poor and needy in society including women and children were being hanged or deported to the Colonies for theft of bread and staple foodstuffs.
There was a tangible change of opinion in British Society to be firmly averse to duelling and this was no more evident than in 1829.
The Duke of Wellington, a National Hero through his military exploits and by then the Prime Minister was challenged to a duel by The Earl of Winchelsea who opposed policy to emancipate Catholics in Ireland. At dawn in Battersea, London both men fired into the air but suffered the hostility of the press and public opinion with Wellington in particular being criticised for his ill judgement in potentially committing a deadly crime and throwing away all of his achievements.
There followed a further shift in attitudes and this was endorsed by 1840 Statute enforcing the forfeiture of pension to any military personnel killed in a duel. This sanction gave legitimacy to declining a challenge to a duel with the emphasis now on protecting the financial interests of a wife and children rather than upholding personal honour.
Court based Civil Litigation began to be seen as the only civilised way to resolve a dispute or difference of opinion.
The last duel on English soil was in 1852 involving French Nationals and resulting in a mortal wound.
Such was the press coverage and public interest that even Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited the scene of the confrontation.
This firmly marked the end of a shameful era of pointless but nevertheless tragic pursuits by the ruling classes in the name of honour.
(Source; Pistols at Dawn, BBC World Service May 2010. Justin Champion)
Sunday, 14 February 2016
Peter Sarstedt.
A poem about the hours of darkness spent with the love of your life. Ten years or more in the thinking so quite easy to put into writing. Just the thing to find for Valentines Day (ok, I forgot the flowers didn't I)
Just thrust out a leg in the first throes of sleep
Drag your foot up my shin
and take its warmth
To wick away the deep set chill of a lonely
bare foot evening.
Move about restlessly
until
embedded in your favourite position
You can begin your nightly dreams.
It doesn't matter if I am displaced
to occupy a narrow ledge on the far side of the bed
It is a small sacrifice
to be able to hear your deepening breath.
I find comfort in
the random placing
of your arm
across my prone body.
It is a welcome physical contact
when you are otherwise detached,
fighting your own demons
or meeting with
long lost dearly beloveds with a sigh of happiness.
Forgetting it is me, you may cuddle up for a moment
And then recoil into your tight foetal crouch
Under the covers, tightly wound and impenetrable
Whenever I dare chance to show a response of love.
I do not mind my nightime in exile next to you
For I am content, more than content to be the one
who sees you last when you leave
and first upon your return to the real world.
Just thrust out a leg in the first throes of sleep
Drag your foot up my shin
and take its warmth
To wick away the deep set chill of a lonely
bare foot evening.
Move about restlessly
until
embedded in your favourite position
You can begin your nightly dreams.
It doesn't matter if I am displaced
to occupy a narrow ledge on the far side of the bed
It is a small sacrifice
to be able to hear your deepening breath.
I find comfort in
the random placing
of your arm
across my prone body.
It is a welcome physical contact
when you are otherwise detached,
fighting your own demons
or meeting with
long lost dearly beloveds with a sigh of happiness.
Forgetting it is me, you may cuddle up for a moment
And then recoil into your tight foetal crouch
Under the covers, tightly wound and impenetrable
Whenever I dare chance to show a response of love.
I do not mind my nightime in exile next to you
For I am content, more than content to be the one
who sees you last when you leave
and first upon your return to the real world.
Saturday, 13 February 2016
Spell it out for me
The world according to NATO is divided between those trained and able to easily use the phonetic alphabet and those who have no clue whatsover. I fall into the second grouping. This is quite embarassing given that I grew up as an avid watcher of war films and police dramas and should really have paid attention to the use of that form of communication. I should know by heart that Guy Gibson's Lancaster as shown in the Dambusters film had a number of AF-G and the last flying aircraft of that make that brings us running to the sound of its four Rolls Royce engines as it passes over the house is HW-R. However, when expressed in the phonetic alphabet as Alpha Foxtrot Golf and Hotel Whiskey Romeo they could equally be mistaken for new car models by large german and italian manufacturers. I have actually just this very second realised that the 1980's police show Juliet Bravo was a reference to the call sign , and not the actual name, of the lady police inspector it was about. How Tango Hotel India Charlie Kilo am I ?
Anyway, the very dated and lets face it rather elitist and sexist terms used are well overdue for a rethink especially if it to be adopted on a wider basis which is essential as spelling and comprehension standards are at their worst ever levels since the wore. The relevance of some form of phonetic alphabet is still very applicable today. This was emphasised to me only recently when I had to spell out my surname and other information to a UK based banking call centre. I panicked faced with my ignorance of the real system and ended up with a rather expansive and somewhat racy equivalent of my own. This did not help my quest to set up a standing order but did seem to amuse the customer sales advisor desperately in need of a laugh in the obvious absence of a window overlooking the better parts of Gateshead.
I have out of concern for the ongoing relevance of this form of communication devised my own. I have drawn on popular culture, slang, consumer goods and foodstuffs. I provide these with some reasoning for those still a bit dubious about the whole thing.
Alpha is a bit male orientated and therefore politically and sexually incorrect. I think ANDROID is suitable.
Bravo sounds like competition and a winner which excludes those less able. BOOB JOB
Charlie is disrespectful to our future monarch implying idiocy. COOL is more acceptable
Delta implies a large river area which can be upsetting for those in drought areas. DUDE is inoffensive
Echo. What is that, What is that, that, that, that. EMO is a nice calm word.
Foxtrot. Too BBC and middle class for my taste. Discriminates against non-dancers. FIREWALL
Golf. Discredited after the Tiger Woods incidents. GO COMPARE
Hotel. There are other forms of accommodation of equal calibre available. HARRY POTTER.
India. Just because they are an emerging nation should not entitle them to a free advert. i-PAD
Juliet. Very tragic young lady. JIFFY BAG
Kilo. Too metric. KYLIE MINOGUE
Lima. A bit Peruvian and actually not in the NATO organisation. LUSH
Mike. No longer a very popular name. The youngest Mike I know is 49 years old. MOTOROLA
November. Extremely monthist and actually one of the least favourite in the calendar. NERD
Oscar. Law suit pending from BAFTA against unfair monopoly. OPRAH
Papa. Does not take into account modern family and lifestyle arrangements. PRIMARK
Quebec. Potentially separatist and a bit frenchified. QUORN
Romeo. At least one of the Beckham children. RICHARD MADELEY
Sierra. Very poorly made Ford motor vehicle. SMART PHONE
Tango. More swanky dance moves or fruity soft carbonated drink. TATTOO
Uniform. Militaristic. UMBRELLA, BRELLA, BRELLA
Victor. Another reference to unfashionable competition. VAMPIRE
Whiskey. Discriminates against Scottish produced malt based alcoholic drink. WHEELIE BIN
X-ray. Always a bit of a cop-out this one. Bring in that rubbish Coldplay. XYLO-MYLO
Yankee. Very inflammatory to the most of the world nations epecially those with oil and a dictator. YAHOO
Zulu. Reparations for Rourkes Drift still outstanding. ZUCKERBERG
I have put in some trade names and those of individuals mindful of sponsorship and commercialisation which is inevitable for the success of any fledgling and pioneering venture.
I sign off in what I call my Frenetic Alphabet, PRIMARK EMO TATTOO EMO RICHARD MADELEY
Anyway, the very dated and lets face it rather elitist and sexist terms used are well overdue for a rethink especially if it to be adopted on a wider basis which is essential as spelling and comprehension standards are at their worst ever levels since the wore. The relevance of some form of phonetic alphabet is still very applicable today. This was emphasised to me only recently when I had to spell out my surname and other information to a UK based banking call centre. I panicked faced with my ignorance of the real system and ended up with a rather expansive and somewhat racy equivalent of my own. This did not help my quest to set up a standing order but did seem to amuse the customer sales advisor desperately in need of a laugh in the obvious absence of a window overlooking the better parts of Gateshead.
I have out of concern for the ongoing relevance of this form of communication devised my own. I have drawn on popular culture, slang, consumer goods and foodstuffs. I provide these with some reasoning for those still a bit dubious about the whole thing.
Alpha is a bit male orientated and therefore politically and sexually incorrect. I think ANDROID is suitable.
Bravo sounds like competition and a winner which excludes those less able. BOOB JOB
Charlie is disrespectful to our future monarch implying idiocy. COOL is more acceptable
Delta implies a large river area which can be upsetting for those in drought areas. DUDE is inoffensive
Echo. What is that, What is that, that, that, that. EMO is a nice calm word.
Foxtrot. Too BBC and middle class for my taste. Discriminates against non-dancers. FIREWALL
Golf. Discredited after the Tiger Woods incidents. GO COMPARE
Hotel. There are other forms of accommodation of equal calibre available. HARRY POTTER.
India. Just because they are an emerging nation should not entitle them to a free advert. i-PAD
Juliet. Very tragic young lady. JIFFY BAG
Kilo. Too metric. KYLIE MINOGUE
Lima. A bit Peruvian and actually not in the NATO organisation. LUSH
Mike. No longer a very popular name. The youngest Mike I know is 49 years old. MOTOROLA
November. Extremely monthist and actually one of the least favourite in the calendar. NERD
Oscar. Law suit pending from BAFTA against unfair monopoly. OPRAH
Papa. Does not take into account modern family and lifestyle arrangements. PRIMARK
Quebec. Potentially separatist and a bit frenchified. QUORN
Romeo. At least one of the Beckham children. RICHARD MADELEY
Sierra. Very poorly made Ford motor vehicle. SMART PHONE
Tango. More swanky dance moves or fruity soft carbonated drink. TATTOO
Uniform. Militaristic. UMBRELLA, BRELLA, BRELLA
Victor. Another reference to unfashionable competition. VAMPIRE
Whiskey. Discriminates against Scottish produced malt based alcoholic drink. WHEELIE BIN
X-ray. Always a bit of a cop-out this one. Bring in that rubbish Coldplay. XYLO-MYLO
Yankee. Very inflammatory to the most of the world nations epecially those with oil and a dictator. YAHOO
Zulu. Reparations for Rourkes Drift still outstanding. ZUCKERBERG
I have put in some trade names and those of individuals mindful of sponsorship and commercialisation which is inevitable for the success of any fledgling and pioneering venture.
I sign off in what I call my Frenetic Alphabet, PRIMARK EMO TATTOO EMO RICHARD MADELEY
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