This is a transcript of a short Monologue by the Manchester Comic Genius, Al Read (1909-1987) in his unique style of observational humour that made him a Superstar in Variety Programmes in the 1950's and 60's.
His natural talent was brought to the attention of the public after being heard at a conference for his employees. His day job was in the family firm who were makers of sausages and meat products.
At his peak some 35 million tuned in weekly for his broadcasts. The Comic Monologue as various characters and delivered in Lancashire dialect was his trademark.
This one, entitled an expose on Gambling is set in the home of a regular and hapless character played by Read who is about to pick up the phone to speak to the local Betting Shop. Alluded to in the background is his wife.
Open that paper at the Racing Page and give it to me in me other hand.
I'll get it straight with this Bookie once and for all.
Hello, yes it's me again. I just wanted to check before the off.
That's two bob on Peddlars Joy in the 3.30 instead of the one you said was scratched and a shilling each way double Lazarus the Second providing Pigott is riding and doesn't wear blinkers.
Yes, yes, yes.just a minute, just a minute.
(conversation directed to wife)
What was that horse your mother had in bed? Yes, when she had that dream and woke up.
No not Flaming Idle- that's what she called your father.
No, did so well on its last time out, came in 12th but had a cough.
Just a minute, no we've another half crown yet.
I hope you've doubled it with that we're having in the 4.15 or the 1.45 and trebled it both ways up and down for a win on Pompad, Pompadoo, Pompadoro in the 4.15,
Yes. Only we've got three bob on that and its carrying overweight.
Only I see from the paper the Jockey's very confident.
A cocky what?
Oh yes, well the Owner's backing him but I'm a bit doubtful about the Trainer.
Pardon, just a minute.
(Directed to wife)
He said would you like to talk to the horse?
Wednesday 31 July 2019
Monday 29 July 2019
Thrifty Shades of Grey
It was a wet weekend across the UK.
A bit disappointing for late July and especially for those on their annual holidays.
I would certainly feel a bit hard done by after enduring, in work mode, some outrageously and frankly climate concerning heatwave temperatures in the previous week only to mark the beginning of a holiday with low cloud, persistent drizzle and little prospect of anything different for the duration.
Well, with the possibility of a bike ride, coastal hike, tending the garden or any other outdoor pursuit and activity in effect on hold because of the weather there came along a great opportunity- it was to paint the concrete floor in a shop unit.
The place in question is shortly to be occupied by our younger daughter and her life partner/co-business owner and has just recently been formed from the renovation and conversion of a former quayside warehouse in an historic part of our home city, Kingston Upon Hull, Yorkshire.... just known as 'ull.
It is their third premises on the same Heritage street having started a Pop-up in a lock up garage compartment a couple of years ago and currently trading from a larger traditional fronted unit.
It is an affirmation of their efforts, niche market , loyal clientele and reputation for quality stock that they have confidence to take on an even bigger floor area.
Respective families and friends have rallied round to support and help and in that spirit myself and son offered our services to paint the floor.
The screeded surface is reasonably smooth but not without a few pockmarked bubbles and a little bit of variation in levels over its course although no doubt longstanding and inherited features of historic industrial scale use, settlement on the spongey riverside soils and even a contribution from the Luftwaffe in the dark days of the Blitz on Hull.
Equipped with some large tins of heavy duty grey floor paint, rollers on long poles, paintbrush for edges and some steely determination we set about the task.
Some valuable lessons were learned for what was a first time experience.
Importantly, make sure that clothes and personal belongings are behind the extent of paint coverage as there is nothing worse than looking across a gleaming wet first coat towards shoes, jackets and footwear on a peg on the far side of the room.
Careful thought has to be given to the order of painting. It is both awkward and embarrassing to be stranded on a small patch of bare concrete in a corner amongst an ocean-grey mass of otherwise painted floor. This could, to any curious members of the public peeking in through the open shop door, be passed off as an intentional art installation, a representation that no man should be an island or something to that effect.
The paint itself is of rapid and easy distribution by roller but that free running characteristic also means that a lot of the sticky residue makes its way down the pole from the roller giving a liberal coating to hands and arms. I did scratch my nose a few times giving me the cosmetic appearance of a follower of William Wallace.
Although a wet day outside it was till quite humid and muggy. I was guilty of leaving a small trail of perspiration beads on the concrete but these seemed to be readily absorbed in the paint so as not to leave any trace of bodily excretia. Perhaps in the the far distant future this could be a good trace of DNA of the former inhabitants of the place called 'ull for study by archaeologists, anthropologists and the like.
I did not want to spoil my best trainers, in fact my only trainers and so padded about the job barefoot. This required quite a bit of concentration so as not to walk on the wet areas nor leave too many size ten prints from picking up some of the inevitable dust engrained in the bare concrete itself.
We were relieved to take in the fresh air outside the shop front upon completing the first coat but were keen for the drying process to take place to do it all again.
There was a slight hiccup in the process. The hand switch for the main lights was, unfortunately, on the far wall.
One of us volunteered to tippee-toe across the grey shallows, turn off the light and then make their way backwards using the roller on the pole as though participating in the curling event at the Olympics.
In 24 hours we would return to complete the work.
Yes, we had come face to face with some fundamental requirements for the painting of a large area of concrete and were determined that the top coat application would be quick, smooth and easy.
Yes, you would hope and think so.
A bit disappointing for late July and especially for those on their annual holidays.
I would certainly feel a bit hard done by after enduring, in work mode, some outrageously and frankly climate concerning heatwave temperatures in the previous week only to mark the beginning of a holiday with low cloud, persistent drizzle and little prospect of anything different for the duration.
Well, with the possibility of a bike ride, coastal hike, tending the garden or any other outdoor pursuit and activity in effect on hold because of the weather there came along a great opportunity- it was to paint the concrete floor in a shop unit.
The place in question is shortly to be occupied by our younger daughter and her life partner/co-business owner and has just recently been formed from the renovation and conversion of a former quayside warehouse in an historic part of our home city, Kingston Upon Hull, Yorkshire.... just known as 'ull.
It is their third premises on the same Heritage street having started a Pop-up in a lock up garage compartment a couple of years ago and currently trading from a larger traditional fronted unit.
It is an affirmation of their efforts, niche market , loyal clientele and reputation for quality stock that they have confidence to take on an even bigger floor area.
Respective families and friends have rallied round to support and help and in that spirit myself and son offered our services to paint the floor.
The screeded surface is reasonably smooth but not without a few pockmarked bubbles and a little bit of variation in levels over its course although no doubt longstanding and inherited features of historic industrial scale use, settlement on the spongey riverside soils and even a contribution from the Luftwaffe in the dark days of the Blitz on Hull.
Equipped with some large tins of heavy duty grey floor paint, rollers on long poles, paintbrush for edges and some steely determination we set about the task.
Some valuable lessons were learned for what was a first time experience.
Importantly, make sure that clothes and personal belongings are behind the extent of paint coverage as there is nothing worse than looking across a gleaming wet first coat towards shoes, jackets and footwear on a peg on the far side of the room.
Careful thought has to be given to the order of painting. It is both awkward and embarrassing to be stranded on a small patch of bare concrete in a corner amongst an ocean-grey mass of otherwise painted floor. This could, to any curious members of the public peeking in through the open shop door, be passed off as an intentional art installation, a representation that no man should be an island or something to that effect.
The paint itself is of rapid and easy distribution by roller but that free running characteristic also means that a lot of the sticky residue makes its way down the pole from the roller giving a liberal coating to hands and arms. I did scratch my nose a few times giving me the cosmetic appearance of a follower of William Wallace.
Although a wet day outside it was till quite humid and muggy. I was guilty of leaving a small trail of perspiration beads on the concrete but these seemed to be readily absorbed in the paint so as not to leave any trace of bodily excretia. Perhaps in the the far distant future this could be a good trace of DNA of the former inhabitants of the place called 'ull for study by archaeologists, anthropologists and the like.
I did not want to spoil my best trainers, in fact my only trainers and so padded about the job barefoot. This required quite a bit of concentration so as not to walk on the wet areas nor leave too many size ten prints from picking up some of the inevitable dust engrained in the bare concrete itself.
We were relieved to take in the fresh air outside the shop front upon completing the first coat but were keen for the drying process to take place to do it all again.
There was a slight hiccup in the process. The hand switch for the main lights was, unfortunately, on the far wall.
One of us volunteered to tippee-toe across the grey shallows, turn off the light and then make their way backwards using the roller on the pole as though participating in the curling event at the Olympics.
In 24 hours we would return to complete the work.
Yes, we had come face to face with some fundamental requirements for the painting of a large area of concrete and were determined that the top coat application would be quick, smooth and easy.
Yes, you would hope and think so.
Saturday 27 July 2019
What's in a Name?
Mention a specific First name to someone and they will have an immediate visualisation of a person or animal that they relate to.
It could be a family member, a friend or acquaintance, an influencer in life, a nemesis, a famous person or it could just conjur up an image on a word association with that name.
One such Name that resonates in my memory is Freda or the alternative spellings, Frieda and Frida amongst many other variations.
It is an old one, for sure, with a distant origin in the mists of Scandinavia and Northern Europe and yet perhaps the most famous Frida, the artist Frida Kahlo was Mexican. It derives from translations of beautiful beloved or noble woman and suggests a strong and independent minded person which are attributes to be valued.
I was reminded of the name just a few days ago.
I was standing in the back garden of a terraced house not far from where I live in the inner-city having a chat with the elderly homeowners and casting my eye over a well tended plot of lawn and flower beds.
There in the shade of the boundary wall was a small plaque inscribed with the name Frieda.
It was nothing formal. Far from it. The thing was just stood there in the grass on its stick-mount. I have seen similar things before, many a time, in borders and rockery areas in private gardens as they usually serve as a memorial to a beloved pet that has passed away. For those of a nervous disposition I do not mean that the animal is physically interned beneath such a memorial but rather it is in a place in which former owners can recollect fondly about the time shared in the company of a dog, cat, hamster, rat, gerbil, budgerigar, goldfish and any other multitude of domesticated or household creatures.
Having been a child that grew up in the 1960's my immediate association with the name Frieda is of a tortoise.
I sense a few of you nodding in agreement on this especially if you were a devotee of the BBC programme, Blue Peter.
That tortoise which featured from 1963 to 1979 was not the most engaging or socially skilled of the entourage of animals on the show was nevertheless very popular. For a few years it had been called Fred before the embarrassing discovery and much awkwardness amongst the Presenters when it turned out that it was female.
The gender correctly named Frieda was best known for one main event in the calendar. That was her placing in a cardboard box, amongst suitable bedding and insulation in preparation for the winter hibernation. It was a "not to miss" TV moment and heralded in our young minds the beginning of the shorter days, those walks to and from school in fading light but more importantly served as the catalyst for that excited feeling that comes with the approach of the Festive Season.
Of course it was at one time, in its different forms, quite a popular name for a girl and featured consistently in the rankings in the Northern Hemisphere.
According to official census figures for the United States and within the Office of National Statistics in the United Kingdom it ranked, at its peak, at around 151st most popular. That was in 1893. There was only a small fluctuation, up and down again during the last decade of the 19th Century but from 1900 the trend was one way only, in decline.
By the Millenium the name Frieda was in obscurity with a ranking of #7360. Remarkably but very much true to of the resurgence of what we would regard as old fashioned names Frieda has managed to attain a place in the top 700 table in more recent years. In Norway it is in the top 20.
On that hot, humid day in that back garden and looking at that memorial plaque I could only visualise Frieda as a tortoise.
What else could I deduce from my personal experience?
The homeowner, seeing my fleeting interest in the small monument remarked "Ah, that's our Frieda".
Perhaps the heat and understandable late afternoon fatigue on my part caused me to enquire about the tortoise.
"That's no tortoise" came the reply from the old lady "That's my sister".
Thursday 25 July 2019
Down to Earth
I have just been reading about the large rock that fell into a muddy field in India, thought to have been a meteorite from outer space. From such a rare event many of those who saw it will have their own story to tell.
Here is just one such tale from my own corner of the world
It was quite an event, even to command the attention of the known world , when a meteorite fell out of the night sky in 1795 in a remote field just outside the small village of Wold Newton, East Yorkshire.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day, the 13th December 1795, an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retrieved and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong parallels indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the National daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day.
The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition
The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment.
The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the Georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own superhero status.
Here is just one such tale from my own corner of the world
It was quite an event, even to command the attention of the known world , when a meteorite fell out of the night sky in 1795 in a remote field just outside the small village of Wold Newton, East Yorkshire.
The planet earth has of course been peppered with the hard, hot fragments of comet debris and obliterated asteroids for millions of years but only in a handful of cases has this been witnessed first hand.
On that day, the 13th December 1795, an agricultural worker was not only present to see the rock hit the ground but was reported as having been quite close to becoming , perhaps, the first known fatality of a very personal extinction level event.
Shooting stars and bright transient celestial bodies have been well documented in human history being seen as an omen for good or a portent for doom and destruction, principally dependant on how large you own army was compared to your enemy on the far side of the battlefield.
The circumstances for the presence of the farm worker are not documented. It is reasonable to assume that if in daylight he was just going about his business, which in winter may have been digging up the sprouts (not sure when they were actually introduced to England), or other seasonal root vegetables. There are, to my knowledge, no graphic accounts of a biblical crescendo of sound, heat and tremor around the reported sighting. This also tends to support a daylight descent and impact- more of a swoosh and a dull thud than what would equate to the arrival of the horsemen of the apocalypse on a quiet Yorkshire day just before the Christmas festivities. They would stand out in such circumstances.
The soils in the Wolds are full of chalk so an object subsequently measured at 28 Imperial Inches by 36 inches and weighed at 56 pounds will have not left too much of a crater in theory but there are accounts of quite a deep embedding into the bedrock beneath the cultivated top soil. The sample was retrieved and its local and then national and world fame was assured through the power of the written word from a village resident who happened to be an author and a journalist. In a sleepy hamlet in the late 18th Century this would represent an out of this world opportunity to an ambitious media man, even more than a report on a surprisingly bumper potato crop, further misdemeanours involving the maidservants and Master at Grange Farm and the inflationary forces at play in the price of hiring a pony and trap to get to the market in Driffield or Malton.
That year, towards the end of the century, had been quite unremarkable. There had been floods with some bridges over the River Severn damaged, a Royal Wedding between the Prince of Wales and Caroline of Brunswick, military involvement in the east, riots over bread shortages in many English towns and the passing of the Seditious Meetings Act which allowed martial action wherever 50 or more people were inclined to have a seditious meeting. There are some very strong parallels indeed between then and now.
Against this background of not much really going on the meteorite reached the front pages of the National daily papers. It did the rounds and in 1799 a brick monument was erected at the point where the farm worker just about evacuated his bowels one winters day.
The rock was hawked around London for some years on a pay to view basis representing a major export for Wold Newton and the East Yorkshire Wolds .
After much scientific prodding and probing the fragment was presented to the Natural History Museum. It maintains its status as one of the largest authenticated bits of a space originated solid known to Man and was the first proof of extra terrestrial objects and their composition
The story has not run out of momentum yet. The current owners of the nearest property to the impact tracked down a piece of the Meteorite and in 2010 it was returned to form a small but significant artefact in what is now a Bed and Breakfast establishment.
The Science Fiction Writer Philip Farmer, who died in 1990 ,developed his factional Wold Newton Family on the assertion that those who had been exposed to the meteorite in 1795 mutated genetically to possess fantastical powers and intelligence. Their family trees later spawned the likes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Allan Quatermain, Tarzan, Fu Manchu and James Bond. The local micro brewery has immortalised the event with a brew called Falling Stone.
I like to imagine that the Georgian farmworker James Shipley at the very least dined out on his experience for the rest of his life , but sadly was never be able to appreciate his own superhero status.
Tuesday 23 July 2019
The End of Lobbying for Bananas
The banana is a wonderful fruit.
I have consumed thousands in my lifetime and most of these have been as a portable foodstuff whilst out cycling or walking.
In that compact skin they contain essential nutrients which are particularly suited to replenishing the body during the physical exertions of exercise.
On a hot, sweaty ride or trek the electrolytes in a banana, primarily potassium, help to replace those expended in the effort. We all know the huge tail-off in performance that is brought about by dehydration.
In terms of re-fuelling on the go a single fruit can provide from 25 to 30 grams of carbohydrate.
The pectin found in the soft, fleshy composition can moderate blood sugar levels and give you a feeling of being full up thereby assisting in resisting the urge to snack or binge eat which can be unhealthy and self-destructive to a health conscious lifestyle.
What is also a positive is that after devouring the edible part of a banana you can lob the skin from the saddle or on foot into the nearest hedgerow, verge, ditch, moorland, heath-land or just abandon it on a mountain side.
I have been a particular devotee to banana skin throwing during an activity session but those days have ceased forthwith.
It now appears that the simple and thoughtless act of repatriating a banana skin to nature is one of the worst things, in ecological terms that you can do in your own lunchtime.
Although not strictly within the definition of Ecocide it is actually not that far off- perhaps to be regarded as a dangerous precedent as a first offence against nature.
I know that a banana skin is something organic and biodegradable but any discarding of it in the open is still a littering action.
The main problem is that in some colder climates, for example those in environments frequented by upland hikers and walkers the act of decomposing can take up to two years. Even in a warmer, humid climate the rotting away process can still take weeks and even months.
Some creature may come across the skin and have a feast on it but that animal may be the wrong one for that locality and by providing, in effect a free meal this could cause a proliferation of that species to the detriment of the indigenous ones.
The actual decomposition of a banana skin can locally enrich the soil and unwittingly serve to increase competition from more dominant species.
So, banana eaters, take your skins home.
I know that they are sticky, messy, pulpy and attract flies and wasps whilst in the back pocket of your cycling jersey, cagoule pocket or in the bottom of a rucksack but they would be better put to use in compost or within your dedicated food waste bin for proper supervised disposal into something good and wholesome.
(source- Cycling Weekly, July 2019)
I have consumed thousands in my lifetime and most of these have been as a portable foodstuff whilst out cycling or walking.
In that compact skin they contain essential nutrients which are particularly suited to replenishing the body during the physical exertions of exercise.
On a hot, sweaty ride or trek the electrolytes in a banana, primarily potassium, help to replace those expended in the effort. We all know the huge tail-off in performance that is brought about by dehydration.
In terms of re-fuelling on the go a single fruit can provide from 25 to 30 grams of carbohydrate.
The pectin found in the soft, fleshy composition can moderate blood sugar levels and give you a feeling of being full up thereby assisting in resisting the urge to snack or binge eat which can be unhealthy and self-destructive to a health conscious lifestyle.
What is also a positive is that after devouring the edible part of a banana you can lob the skin from the saddle or on foot into the nearest hedgerow, verge, ditch, moorland, heath-land or just abandon it on a mountain side.
I have been a particular devotee to banana skin throwing during an activity session but those days have ceased forthwith.
It now appears that the simple and thoughtless act of repatriating a banana skin to nature is one of the worst things, in ecological terms that you can do in your own lunchtime.
Although not strictly within the definition of Ecocide it is actually not that far off- perhaps to be regarded as a dangerous precedent as a first offence against nature.
I know that a banana skin is something organic and biodegradable but any discarding of it in the open is still a littering action.
The main problem is that in some colder climates, for example those in environments frequented by upland hikers and walkers the act of decomposing can take up to two years. Even in a warmer, humid climate the rotting away process can still take weeks and even months.
Some creature may come across the skin and have a feast on it but that animal may be the wrong one for that locality and by providing, in effect a free meal this could cause a proliferation of that species to the detriment of the indigenous ones.
The actual decomposition of a banana skin can locally enrich the soil and unwittingly serve to increase competition from more dominant species.
So, banana eaters, take your skins home.
I know that they are sticky, messy, pulpy and attract flies and wasps whilst in the back pocket of your cycling jersey, cagoule pocket or in the bottom of a rucksack but they would be better put to use in compost or within your dedicated food waste bin for proper supervised disposal into something good and wholesome.
(source- Cycling Weekly, July 2019)
Monday 22 July 2019
Meat Balls and KiloWatts
Saturday provided an opportunity to give the LEAF a bit of a longer road trial.
At just 8 days in our household it had done about 280 miles consisting of Allison's commute, visits to family in the local area and just everyday short trip requirements.
Around town the power level seemed quite economic but we were curious about range on the big wide open carriageways. The home charger has been playing up a bit in not recording the charging session data correctly. What was a 4 hour plug-in was shown as having taking 55 hours. A gliche apparently resolved by turning it off and on again.
To get used to the system we have been topping up on the charge after each journey although this is down to enthusiastic curiosity and newbie insecurity as for a typical week of driving there is really just one full charge required.
What better excuse for a longer jaunt than to stock up on our seriously depleted stock of small natural wood pencils, paper tape measures and nightlight candles.
The nearest IKEA for the re-supply run is Leeds, about 51 miles to the West.
The dashboard range display read, on leaving home, 150 miles on around a 92% charge. According to the Zap-Map App we would not, under reasonable driving conditions, require a charging stop. That would suit us fine but the exercise was intended to educate us to the process of using a Public Charger. It was a bit of a cheat that the Leeds IKEA was one such location but, well, a combined drive, shop and plug-in seemed ideal ,especially in our nervous, rookie status.
The car cruised effortlessly on the A63 and M62.
Although at motorway speeds there is little engine noise from a diesel or petrol car anyway the eeriness under electric propulsion was still something to appreciate. Yes, there is an awareness of the sound of the wind and the road surface but it is not intrusive or distracting.
The range indicator had fallen away quite sharply at a constant 65mph to 70mph for the duration of the drive and pulling into a parking bay at our destination there was 68 miles range remaining.
It had been a good driving experience and for the first time in multiple visits to that particular IKEA store I felt quite relaxed and ready to appreciate the best in Swedish design and meatballs in gravy.
To be on the safe side, which will certainly become the mantra of our EV ownership, I checked out the Charging Points in the sub-level car park, the taste of Lingonberry jam still on my lips. Homework is important and I had, in the run-up to the trip. subscribed to the Ecotricity App, the operators of the IKEA chargers. That was in addition to our joining the Polar Network, the largest of its kind across the UK who, for a monthly subscription of £7.95 provided mostly a free charging service using a swipe card system.
Ecotricity had three charging bays and their App on my phone confirmed that the available bay, alongside a Mini and Renault Zoe, was compatible with the LEAF.
In the couple of minutes that it took to collect the car a KIA driver had grabbed the space. I saw him check out the operating instructions but then he just wandered off without any apparent intention to use the point. I was annoyed at this behaviour. His was an electric vehicle but then again the bay was very conveniently positioned next to the lift and stairwell at the store entrance and so could be seen as a prime parking spot. There was no indication of his whereabouts.
Was that our first experience of "e-spreading", to misappropriate popular jargon?
A little bit of panic set in at that stage, low charge anxiety it could be termed.
However, although in its infancy the wider network of Public Chargers is expanding rapidly and consulting the Zap-App and confirmed by the LEAF on board system we were just 8 miles from another one.
This was at The White Rose Shopping Centre just a little bit closer to Leeds City Centre. The array of chargers was next to Marks and Spencer and a Multiplex Cinema and all six of them were ready to use. Lugging the heavy cable from the boot it was a case of placing the Polar Card on the screen and then following the instructions.
Nothing happened but one of the Cinema Staff taking a cigarette break was obviously well acquainted with similar First Timers and pointed out what I was doing wrong. After a couple of efforts the green lights on the charging point indicated a successful connection.
We weren't sure what then to do. Stay with the car or go walkabout?
The fact that the charger suddenly stopped solved this dilemma. That and the arrival of a very expensive Tesla vehicle and the even more unpreparedness of its driver. I am not sure who sold him the car but any operating knowledge at the charging point was non-existent. He was surprised at the Card system necessary for Polar and I felt that I had to lend him mine to start his session.
The LEAF continued to switch on and off. Allison solved the issue by cancelling what was a default setting on the car itself but by then we had lost confidence and decided to sneak off and find another one.
As for the Tesla owner, he had gone shopping or to the movies. I suspect that the Polar App, in not recording any activity, meant that upon his return to the car nothing will have actually happened. I would put that down to experience, but hoped sincerely that he could still get home.
The suburban ASDA at Beeston, a short drive further along was busy but the Polar Charger available to use out on the edge of the car park. I estimated that around 40 minutes or 5 KW would be the minimum top up required for the return trip to Hull.
It was a pleasant stopover in terms of surroundings and the Charger had a good read-out and was very efficient.
We were happy at the revitalised range and got back to the house with 10 miles to spare. Plenty....really.
Our amateurish efforts had added a couple of hours to the round trip.
It was a case of mission accomplished in driving terms although apart from some mini Daim Bars we had failed miserably on the pencil and nightlight quest.
At just 8 days in our household it had done about 280 miles consisting of Allison's commute, visits to family in the local area and just everyday short trip requirements.
Around town the power level seemed quite economic but we were curious about range on the big wide open carriageways. The home charger has been playing up a bit in not recording the charging session data correctly. What was a 4 hour plug-in was shown as having taking 55 hours. A gliche apparently resolved by turning it off and on again.
To get used to the system we have been topping up on the charge after each journey although this is down to enthusiastic curiosity and newbie insecurity as for a typical week of driving there is really just one full charge required.
What better excuse for a longer jaunt than to stock up on our seriously depleted stock of small natural wood pencils, paper tape measures and nightlight candles.
The nearest IKEA for the re-supply run is Leeds, about 51 miles to the West.
The dashboard range display read, on leaving home, 150 miles on around a 92% charge. According to the Zap-Map App we would not, under reasonable driving conditions, require a charging stop. That would suit us fine but the exercise was intended to educate us to the process of using a Public Charger. It was a bit of a cheat that the Leeds IKEA was one such location but, well, a combined drive, shop and plug-in seemed ideal ,especially in our nervous, rookie status.
The car cruised effortlessly on the A63 and M62.
Although at motorway speeds there is little engine noise from a diesel or petrol car anyway the eeriness under electric propulsion was still something to appreciate. Yes, there is an awareness of the sound of the wind and the road surface but it is not intrusive or distracting.
The range indicator had fallen away quite sharply at a constant 65mph to 70mph for the duration of the drive and pulling into a parking bay at our destination there was 68 miles range remaining.
It had been a good driving experience and for the first time in multiple visits to that particular IKEA store I felt quite relaxed and ready to appreciate the best in Swedish design and meatballs in gravy.
To be on the safe side, which will certainly become the mantra of our EV ownership, I checked out the Charging Points in the sub-level car park, the taste of Lingonberry jam still on my lips. Homework is important and I had, in the run-up to the trip. subscribed to the Ecotricity App, the operators of the IKEA chargers. That was in addition to our joining the Polar Network, the largest of its kind across the UK who, for a monthly subscription of £7.95 provided mostly a free charging service using a swipe card system.
Ecotricity had three charging bays and their App on my phone confirmed that the available bay, alongside a Mini and Renault Zoe, was compatible with the LEAF.
In the couple of minutes that it took to collect the car a KIA driver had grabbed the space. I saw him check out the operating instructions but then he just wandered off without any apparent intention to use the point. I was annoyed at this behaviour. His was an electric vehicle but then again the bay was very conveniently positioned next to the lift and stairwell at the store entrance and so could be seen as a prime parking spot. There was no indication of his whereabouts.
Was that our first experience of "e-spreading", to misappropriate popular jargon?
A little bit of panic set in at that stage, low charge anxiety it could be termed.
However, although in its infancy the wider network of Public Chargers is expanding rapidly and consulting the Zap-App and confirmed by the LEAF on board system we were just 8 miles from another one.
This was at The White Rose Shopping Centre just a little bit closer to Leeds City Centre. The array of chargers was next to Marks and Spencer and a Multiplex Cinema and all six of them were ready to use. Lugging the heavy cable from the boot it was a case of placing the Polar Card on the screen and then following the instructions.
Nothing happened but one of the Cinema Staff taking a cigarette break was obviously well acquainted with similar First Timers and pointed out what I was doing wrong. After a couple of efforts the green lights on the charging point indicated a successful connection.
We weren't sure what then to do. Stay with the car or go walkabout?
The fact that the charger suddenly stopped solved this dilemma. That and the arrival of a very expensive Tesla vehicle and the even more unpreparedness of its driver. I am not sure who sold him the car but any operating knowledge at the charging point was non-existent. He was surprised at the Card system necessary for Polar and I felt that I had to lend him mine to start his session.
The LEAF continued to switch on and off. Allison solved the issue by cancelling what was a default setting on the car itself but by then we had lost confidence and decided to sneak off and find another one.
As for the Tesla owner, he had gone shopping or to the movies. I suspect that the Polar App, in not recording any activity, meant that upon his return to the car nothing will have actually happened. I would put that down to experience, but hoped sincerely that he could still get home.
The suburban ASDA at Beeston, a short drive further along was busy but the Polar Charger available to use out on the edge of the car park. I estimated that around 40 minutes or 5 KW would be the minimum top up required for the return trip to Hull.
It was a pleasant stopover in terms of surroundings and the Charger had a good read-out and was very efficient.
We were happy at the revitalised range and got back to the house with 10 miles to spare. Plenty....really.
Our amateurish efforts had added a couple of hours to the round trip.
It was a case of mission accomplished in driving terms although apart from some mini Daim Bars we had failed miserably on the pencil and nightlight quest.
Sunday 21 July 2019
To the Moon in magic rubber gumshoes
The evolution and development of an idea, any idea however monumental or trivial, is always an interesting process.
Take, for a prime example, the pledge, in 1962, by John F Kennedy as President of the USA to put a man on the moon by the end of that decade.
It was a highly motivated issue to emphasise JFK's own progressive approach to government but foremost to keep the United States ahead of their Cold War nemesis the USSR in everything from military and political power, global trade and influence and in the new frontier of space.
In order to uphold the intentions to reach the moon, the big brains and technical expertise of scientists and engineers began to consider a means of achieving this.
There was little precedent to go on. The Space Programme of the US and USSR had put animals and humans into orbit but a greater level of science and technology would be required for an actual landing on the Moon and the safe return of the Astronauts.
Perhaps some thought was given to influences in literature and popular culture.
As early as 79 AD the Greek writer Lucian advocated a journey to the Moon on a sailing ship lifted by a waterspout. Other 17th and 18th Century Authors used the idea of a shadow bridge (Kepler), various flights in balloons (Edgar Allen Poe), a pair of light speed carrying rubber overshoes (Hans Christian Andersen), a cannon (Jules Verne) and from H.G Wells the premise of Anti-Gravity Paint.
Credit should go to the forward thinking Cyrano de Bergerac, by the French author Rostand who in 1657 envisaged a multi stage rocket for this purpose.
In the 1960's NASA's first considered option was entitled, quite succinctly, "The Direct Method".
This was based on the idea of a launch vehicle that would blast out of Earth's atmosphere and as a single unit land on the Moon, dispense a landing party, plant the flag, take samples and then return intact to the home planet.
The logistics of this were astounding. A suitable rocket, the Nova was proposed.
This would have to be gargantuan in size in order to accommodate the robust mechanics and fuel payload for a return journey.
Such a beast of a spacecraft was far beyond any capabilities in design and rocketry even with the secondment to the Space Programme of many of the principal characters responsible for the V2 missiles of the Nazi regime.
The second considered option was "Earth Orbital Rendezvous".
The concept was for two advanced Saturn rockets to go into orbit carrying parts of a spacecraft that would be assembled prior to making its way to the Moon. This still involved quite a sizeable vehicle and there were misgivings about its ability to land on the Lunar surface as a consequence.
Option 3 was "Lunar Orbit Rendezvous". Perhaps the most ambitious and hazardous idea this was based on the use of a single Saturn rocket which would carry to Moon orbit a two part spacecraft. This would then go into an approach pattern with a small personnel carrier leaving the main propulsion unit and descending to make a landing. On return and docking whilst hurtling around the Moon the small spacecraft would come back to the Earth.
Even though the "Lunar Orbit Rendezvous" became the model for the Apollo Space Programme culminating in the historic 1969 Moon Landing it was initially the least supported of the options.
In its method and technical basis it was seen as the most dangerous although those behind it were able to emphasise that it had benefits of being cheaper and quicker and therefore with a better chance of fulfilling the pledge of President Kennedy.
The rest is history.
Take, for a prime example, the pledge, in 1962, by John F Kennedy as President of the USA to put a man on the moon by the end of that decade.
It was a highly motivated issue to emphasise JFK's own progressive approach to government but foremost to keep the United States ahead of their Cold War nemesis the USSR in everything from military and political power, global trade and influence and in the new frontier of space.
In order to uphold the intentions to reach the moon, the big brains and technical expertise of scientists and engineers began to consider a means of achieving this.
There was little precedent to go on. The Space Programme of the US and USSR had put animals and humans into orbit but a greater level of science and technology would be required for an actual landing on the Moon and the safe return of the Astronauts.
Perhaps some thought was given to influences in literature and popular culture.
As early as 79 AD the Greek writer Lucian advocated a journey to the Moon on a sailing ship lifted by a waterspout. Other 17th and 18th Century Authors used the idea of a shadow bridge (Kepler), various flights in balloons (Edgar Allen Poe), a pair of light speed carrying rubber overshoes (Hans Christian Andersen), a cannon (Jules Verne) and from H.G Wells the premise of Anti-Gravity Paint.
Credit should go to the forward thinking Cyrano de Bergerac, by the French author Rostand who in 1657 envisaged a multi stage rocket for this purpose.
In the 1960's NASA's first considered option was entitled, quite succinctly, "The Direct Method".
This was based on the idea of a launch vehicle that would blast out of Earth's atmosphere and as a single unit land on the Moon, dispense a landing party, plant the flag, take samples and then return intact to the home planet.
The logistics of this were astounding. A suitable rocket, the Nova was proposed.
This would have to be gargantuan in size in order to accommodate the robust mechanics and fuel payload for a return journey.
Such a beast of a spacecraft was far beyond any capabilities in design and rocketry even with the secondment to the Space Programme of many of the principal characters responsible for the V2 missiles of the Nazi regime.
The second considered option was "Earth Orbital Rendezvous".
The concept was for two advanced Saturn rockets to go into orbit carrying parts of a spacecraft that would be assembled prior to making its way to the Moon. This still involved quite a sizeable vehicle and there were misgivings about its ability to land on the Lunar surface as a consequence.
Option 3 was "Lunar Orbit Rendezvous". Perhaps the most ambitious and hazardous idea this was based on the use of a single Saturn rocket which would carry to Moon orbit a two part spacecraft. This would then go into an approach pattern with a small personnel carrier leaving the main propulsion unit and descending to make a landing. On return and docking whilst hurtling around the Moon the small spacecraft would come back to the Earth.
Even though the "Lunar Orbit Rendezvous" became the model for the Apollo Space Programme culminating in the historic 1969 Moon Landing it was initially the least supported of the options.
In its method and technical basis it was seen as the most dangerous although those behind it were able to emphasise that it had benefits of being cheaper and quicker and therefore with a better chance of fulfilling the pledge of President Kennedy.
The rest is history.
Saturday 20 July 2019
York through (White) Rose Tinted Glasses
I really hope that the following paragraphs do not come as too negative or judgemental about the place.
After all, the City of York in the North of England has some history and status.
Established by the Ninth Roman Legion in or around 71 A.D it went on to become the centre of a Viking Kingdom, a major seat of power for Crown and Clergy, the temporary Capital of England in the Middle Ages and a principal trading and population centre.
In the present it is one of the most popular destinations in the UK for overseas visitors and fits nicely into a typical itinerary that covers London, Edinburgh, the Old Trafford Stadium home of Manchester United and a Shopping Outlet near Oxford.
It is easy to see York for all of its positivity and attributes.
It was one of the few Northern areas to vote to Remain in the EU in the 2016 (was it really that long ago?) Referendum which was an endorsement of its cultural, social and historical foundations.
However for one of its proud Citizens that rose tinted view was somewhat shattered within the space of a few tightly knit streets just a couple of days ago.
I often provide work experience for those interested in a career path in Surveying.
These mainly come from local schools who allocate a couple of weeks in the summer term time during which their O'Level students are seconded to approved companies and businesses to get an insight into the workplace. Other attendees are already on a Full Time Course covering the Urban Environment requiring a practical grounding or have just graduated and need to be able to list a placement on their pending job applications.
A more recent trend has been from those seeking a change of job after some years of being otherwise employed.
The proliferation of day time TV property related programmes has certainly create a higher level of awareness of the sector as a lifestyle and as a way to make a living.
A York resident, in Financial Services felt that this had run its course in terms of keeping his interest and motivation and approached me for some advice on how to get into the Surveying Profession.
A half day of shadowing is always the best introduction to a typical workload and a run of three inspections in York fell into place to facilitate such an event.
The first was a nice modern house on quite a pioneering development from the collaboration of a Social Housing Provider and a National Builder. The former, very respected organisation, in providing the land for the housing development had been able to dictate specific conditions. These included a Community Biomass Heating Plant, a restriction to single car ownership for the residents, subsidies for the purchase of bicycles and a new dedicated bus service.
The style and specification of the houses are quite striking and although quite expensive for all of the social credentials the area is a further indictment of York's forward thinking and long term strategy.
After that rather privileged start the other two appointments were on adjoining streets in a terraced housing area wedged in behind the hospital and railway lines and close to the football ground of York City.
Built in the early years of the 20th Century the maze of residential roads will have been more than adequate for any movement of population on foot, by horse, horse drawn carriages and the rarity of early combustion engined vehicles.
Under levels of car ownership now the street widths are very much constricted and take some concentration to negotiate without taking off wing mirrors or catching bodywork.
In between the mass of parked vehicles we came across a small group on bicycles.
They fitted the stereotype of physical appearance, dress code and mannerisms that identify a drug dealer and even at 11 in the morning a transaction was under way. My colleague for the day looked a bit shocked when I pointed this fact out to him. It was a home truth too far.
It took a couple of circuits of the neighbourhood to find a space to leave the car. Paralell parking as a skill is much prized in that area.
I was not sure that we were at the correct address as we stood in front of the boarded up, former corner shop . A shadow crossed into view at an upstairs window but so fleetingly that I was not sure if it had actually been a human form. The door to the street of what will have been the shop-keepers accommodation was partly open. Peering in only reinforced the thought that the place was not lived or indeed capable of habitation as it was in quite a state of dereliction.
The purpose of my visit was to report on a proposed project of renovation and with the arrival of a Housing Officer everything became clearer.
For a combination of reasons the occupant of the old shop had fallen through every safety net of Social Welfare.
The internal condition and lack of amenities were the worst I had seen for some time but thankfully now the machinery of funding and expertise had kicked in and within a few months a major scheme of works would create a fine and comfortable home.
My colleague for the day continued in his shocked demeanour.
Next up was just around the corner.
Keys were collected for access to inspect a house that had just been repossessed by the Bank for a default in payment of a mortgage or a loan. I find these type of jobs quite upsetting as the owners will have been evicted and only able to take the minimum of possessions with them before the locks are changed and its contents impounded.
The place had evidently been in longstanding occupation with all of the furnishings and chattels of a familiar and beloved home. There were some clues as to the fate of its occupants from a pile of unopened official looking envelopes on the dining room table and an atmosphere of resignation of overpowering and debilitating debt.
The legalities of the eviction process take some time and responsible Lenders do try to come to an arrangement by which the homeowners can offset payments or enter into a payment schedule. The stress and anxiety arising from the possibility of losing your house cannot be understated.
This revelation seemed to be too much for my colleague for the day and he had to go outside to get some fresh air.
Later, over a cup of coffee we had a bit of a review of the day.
To me it had been a succession of relatively common jobs in the housing market.
He, however, would probably have to re-think his previously held perceptions of his home City.
After all, the City of York in the North of England has some history and status.
Established by the Ninth Roman Legion in or around 71 A.D it went on to become the centre of a Viking Kingdom, a major seat of power for Crown and Clergy, the temporary Capital of England in the Middle Ages and a principal trading and population centre.
In the present it is one of the most popular destinations in the UK for overseas visitors and fits nicely into a typical itinerary that covers London, Edinburgh, the Old Trafford Stadium home of Manchester United and a Shopping Outlet near Oxford.
It is easy to see York for all of its positivity and attributes.
It was one of the few Northern areas to vote to Remain in the EU in the 2016 (was it really that long ago?) Referendum which was an endorsement of its cultural, social and historical foundations.
However for one of its proud Citizens that rose tinted view was somewhat shattered within the space of a few tightly knit streets just a couple of days ago.
I often provide work experience for those interested in a career path in Surveying.
These mainly come from local schools who allocate a couple of weeks in the summer term time during which their O'Level students are seconded to approved companies and businesses to get an insight into the workplace. Other attendees are already on a Full Time Course covering the Urban Environment requiring a practical grounding or have just graduated and need to be able to list a placement on their pending job applications.
A more recent trend has been from those seeking a change of job after some years of being otherwise employed.
The proliferation of day time TV property related programmes has certainly create a higher level of awareness of the sector as a lifestyle and as a way to make a living.
A York resident, in Financial Services felt that this had run its course in terms of keeping his interest and motivation and approached me for some advice on how to get into the Surveying Profession.
A half day of shadowing is always the best introduction to a typical workload and a run of three inspections in York fell into place to facilitate such an event.
The first was a nice modern house on quite a pioneering development from the collaboration of a Social Housing Provider and a National Builder. The former, very respected organisation, in providing the land for the housing development had been able to dictate specific conditions. These included a Community Biomass Heating Plant, a restriction to single car ownership for the residents, subsidies for the purchase of bicycles and a new dedicated bus service.
The style and specification of the houses are quite striking and although quite expensive for all of the social credentials the area is a further indictment of York's forward thinking and long term strategy.
After that rather privileged start the other two appointments were on adjoining streets in a terraced housing area wedged in behind the hospital and railway lines and close to the football ground of York City.
Built in the early years of the 20th Century the maze of residential roads will have been more than adequate for any movement of population on foot, by horse, horse drawn carriages and the rarity of early combustion engined vehicles.
Under levels of car ownership now the street widths are very much constricted and take some concentration to negotiate without taking off wing mirrors or catching bodywork.
In between the mass of parked vehicles we came across a small group on bicycles.
They fitted the stereotype of physical appearance, dress code and mannerisms that identify a drug dealer and even at 11 in the morning a transaction was under way. My colleague for the day looked a bit shocked when I pointed this fact out to him. It was a home truth too far.
It took a couple of circuits of the neighbourhood to find a space to leave the car. Paralell parking as a skill is much prized in that area.
I was not sure that we were at the correct address as we stood in front of the boarded up, former corner shop . A shadow crossed into view at an upstairs window but so fleetingly that I was not sure if it had actually been a human form. The door to the street of what will have been the shop-keepers accommodation was partly open. Peering in only reinforced the thought that the place was not lived or indeed capable of habitation as it was in quite a state of dereliction.
The purpose of my visit was to report on a proposed project of renovation and with the arrival of a Housing Officer everything became clearer.
For a combination of reasons the occupant of the old shop had fallen through every safety net of Social Welfare.
The internal condition and lack of amenities were the worst I had seen for some time but thankfully now the machinery of funding and expertise had kicked in and within a few months a major scheme of works would create a fine and comfortable home.
My colleague for the day continued in his shocked demeanour.
Next up was just around the corner.
Keys were collected for access to inspect a house that had just been repossessed by the Bank for a default in payment of a mortgage or a loan. I find these type of jobs quite upsetting as the owners will have been evicted and only able to take the minimum of possessions with them before the locks are changed and its contents impounded.
The place had evidently been in longstanding occupation with all of the furnishings and chattels of a familiar and beloved home. There were some clues as to the fate of its occupants from a pile of unopened official looking envelopes on the dining room table and an atmosphere of resignation of overpowering and debilitating debt.
The legalities of the eviction process take some time and responsible Lenders do try to come to an arrangement by which the homeowners can offset payments or enter into a payment schedule. The stress and anxiety arising from the possibility of losing your house cannot be understated.
This revelation seemed to be too much for my colleague for the day and he had to go outside to get some fresh air.
Later, over a cup of coffee we had a bit of a review of the day.
To me it had been a succession of relatively common jobs in the housing market.
He, however, would probably have to re-think his previously held perceptions of his home City.
Friday 19 July 2019
In pursuit of Science
Scientists seem to have a lot of spare time.
I do not belittle their contributions to furthering our collective health, advancing technology and enhancing our lives but really, when they start to apply theoretical physics to fairy tales and legends that just is a bit too far.
The most recent investigation and study has claimed to have proved that the fictional characters of The Borrowers, published in 1952 by Mary Norton and much loved by children and adults alike could never exist in physiological terms. This is based on their small size which creates a large surface area on a proportional basis and the likelihood of them suffering debilitating freezing. They would also have sensory deprivation because of their small ears and eyes so any lifestyle from scavenging would be near impossible.
In fact theirs would be an intolerable and miserable existence, a far cry from the happy, scrappy literary creations that have been so endearing.
What other much loved characters have received the same analytical treatment?
Pinocchio, that wooden marionette striving to be a real boy was not able to tell a lie without his nose extending. Scientists, resting between inventions and innovations, have calculated that it would only take 13 consecutive lies for Pinocchio to experience a fatal snapping of his grainy neck.
The Brothers Grimm fairy tale of Rapunzel, the blond haired princess in the tower also comes under scrutiny. She let down her hair to allow her handsome prince to climb up and as we all know, there was a happy ending. If one or more of the Grimm's had insisted on strict adherence to physical laws the story will have been a bit different. One strand of human hair can support about 100 grams. Rapunzel, as a blond would have an inferior hair count to a brunette (140,000 hairs) and may have had difficulty in wooing her royal suitor. There would anyway be a high risk of the hair ripping out of the scalp unless first wrapped around something close by such as the four poster bed, bible lecturne or other piece of chunky furniture.
In another Grimm tale there was the transformation of a frog into a human. Such a change in mass would require a considerable amount of energy, in theory, but Scientists have considered this to be possible just from the kinetic energy of air alone. Sounds a bit far fetched.
There is a general trend for science to read far too much into fictional characters and intentionally fantastical situations.
Take Winnie the Pooh, the 1958 creation of A.A. Milne and a childhood favourite of mine.
His physical appearance is bumbling, joyous and endearing but yet being of yellowish skin tincture, with an awkward bipedal motion, memory loss and fatigue there could be a diagnosis of vitamin B12 deficiency. That seems a long winded appraisal as everyone knows that a diet of just honey would play havoc with the immune system.
The focus of underemployed or poorly motivated scientists extends even further into popular myths, legends and cultures.
Not one but three scientists published a learned paper on whether the flying carpets in 1001 Arabian Nights were actually a viable form of transport. It was thought that specific conditions would have to be in play for a carpet to fly. A small and thin floor covering, if agitated in a vibrating air stream could become airborne as in the case of tissue paper when released into the air. A heavy Arabian carpet, thickly woven and tassled would require a huge engine to achieve flight, so why not just invent the aeroplane?
As well as mechanical things there has been a methodical approach to fairy tale plants and animals.
In an experiment using toilet roll tubes it was demonstrated that a tower capable of sustaining the weight of a small boy called Jack was possible giving credence to a vegetable beanstalk. Less likely, the scientists conceded, was the ability of a hen to lay a golden egg from the same much loved story. Applying Newton's 3rd Law of Motion that every action has an equal and opposite reaction would cause a hen, in ejecting a golden egg, to be propelled violently away upon laying the said article.
In modern fables and comic book stories it has been calculated that Spiderman would have to have hands of 110cm span just to be able to clamber up a wall with his sticky web.
As for the presence of The Clangers on the moon, well it is widely thought that their landings on earth's satellite were probably faked.
Mrs Rabbit, in the Tales of Beatrix Potter, could not have fastened up the buttons on her son Peter's waistcoat because she had no opposable thumbs.
As for the singer and performer Miley Cyrus, one scientist with time to spare has worked through the logical outcome of one of her hit records. It appears that if she were to "come in like a wrecking ball" it is highly unlikely that she would survive the impact without serious injury.
I do not belittle their contributions to furthering our collective health, advancing technology and enhancing our lives but really, when they start to apply theoretical physics to fairy tales and legends that just is a bit too far.
The most recent investigation and study has claimed to have proved that the fictional characters of The Borrowers, published in 1952 by Mary Norton and much loved by children and adults alike could never exist in physiological terms. This is based on their small size which creates a large surface area on a proportional basis and the likelihood of them suffering debilitating freezing. They would also have sensory deprivation because of their small ears and eyes so any lifestyle from scavenging would be near impossible.
In fact theirs would be an intolerable and miserable existence, a far cry from the happy, scrappy literary creations that have been so endearing.
What other much loved characters have received the same analytical treatment?
Pinocchio, that wooden marionette striving to be a real boy was not able to tell a lie without his nose extending. Scientists, resting between inventions and innovations, have calculated that it would only take 13 consecutive lies for Pinocchio to experience a fatal snapping of his grainy neck.
The Brothers Grimm fairy tale of Rapunzel, the blond haired princess in the tower also comes under scrutiny. She let down her hair to allow her handsome prince to climb up and as we all know, there was a happy ending. If one or more of the Grimm's had insisted on strict adherence to physical laws the story will have been a bit different. One strand of human hair can support about 100 grams. Rapunzel, as a blond would have an inferior hair count to a brunette (140,000 hairs) and may have had difficulty in wooing her royal suitor. There would anyway be a high risk of the hair ripping out of the scalp unless first wrapped around something close by such as the four poster bed, bible lecturne or other piece of chunky furniture.
In another Grimm tale there was the transformation of a frog into a human. Such a change in mass would require a considerable amount of energy, in theory, but Scientists have considered this to be possible just from the kinetic energy of air alone. Sounds a bit far fetched.
There is a general trend for science to read far too much into fictional characters and intentionally fantastical situations.
Take Winnie the Pooh, the 1958 creation of A.A. Milne and a childhood favourite of mine.
His physical appearance is bumbling, joyous and endearing but yet being of yellowish skin tincture, with an awkward bipedal motion, memory loss and fatigue there could be a diagnosis of vitamin B12 deficiency. That seems a long winded appraisal as everyone knows that a diet of just honey would play havoc with the immune system.
The focus of underemployed or poorly motivated scientists extends even further into popular myths, legends and cultures.
Not one but three scientists published a learned paper on whether the flying carpets in 1001 Arabian Nights were actually a viable form of transport. It was thought that specific conditions would have to be in play for a carpet to fly. A small and thin floor covering, if agitated in a vibrating air stream could become airborne as in the case of tissue paper when released into the air. A heavy Arabian carpet, thickly woven and tassled would require a huge engine to achieve flight, so why not just invent the aeroplane?
As well as mechanical things there has been a methodical approach to fairy tale plants and animals.
In an experiment using toilet roll tubes it was demonstrated that a tower capable of sustaining the weight of a small boy called Jack was possible giving credence to a vegetable beanstalk. Less likely, the scientists conceded, was the ability of a hen to lay a golden egg from the same much loved story. Applying Newton's 3rd Law of Motion that every action has an equal and opposite reaction would cause a hen, in ejecting a golden egg, to be propelled violently away upon laying the said article.
In modern fables and comic book stories it has been calculated that Spiderman would have to have hands of 110cm span just to be able to clamber up a wall with his sticky web.
As for the presence of The Clangers on the moon, well it is widely thought that their landings on earth's satellite were probably faked.
Mrs Rabbit, in the Tales of Beatrix Potter, could not have fastened up the buttons on her son Peter's waistcoat because she had no opposable thumbs.
As for the singer and performer Miley Cyrus, one scientist with time to spare has worked through the logical outcome of one of her hit records. It appears that if she were to "come in like a wrecking ball" it is highly unlikely that she would survive the impact without serious injury.
Wednesday 17 July 2019
Man on the Moon 50
The spacesuit worn by Neil Armstrong on the first Moon Landing in 1969 has been painstakingly restored ahead of the 50th Anniversary of that historic event.
I am thrilled to have contributed to this through a Kickstarter Appeal a couple of years ago now.
Here are the newly released pictures of the iconic suit.
I am thrilled to have contributed to this through a Kickstarter Appeal a couple of years ago now.
Here are the newly released pictures of the iconic suit.
and in close up
Perhaps one day I might make that trip to the Smithsonian to see it.
At least I have the T-shirt to prove it
Sunday 14 July 2019
Leaf
The Nissan Leaf arrived on the back of a low loader on thursday, 3 miles on the clock.
It was eerie as the delivery guy reversed it down the ramp and with only the faint loudspeaker generated whirring sound discernible. Under new Government Regulations any movement by an electric vehicle under 20mph must have an audible warning to pedestrians. It is a high tech version of the mandatory requirement in the pioneering years of motoring of a man walking in front with a red flag.
I had taken the morning to work from home in readiness to receive the car but had a full diary of out of town appointments for the rest of the day which required use of my company car.
Any familiarisation with the Leaf would have to be later on that evening.
Being a typical male I of course tempted not to read the Owners Manual rather preferring to use instinct and trial and error where anything mechanical is involved.
No lessons had been learned from running the replacement washing machine without releasing the holding bolt on the drum, firing up the pressure washer with the wrong fittings for the job in hand and connecting up the incorrect wires of a room dimmer switch.
In this case I stuck to the step by step guide to the car.
I was, after all, a bit frightened and anxious about the whole electric vehicle thing.
A few thoughts flashed past my consciousness as I sat for the first time in the driving position.
Do I need to wear rubber soled shoes during a journey?
Can I take the car out in the rain?
If I take a route under overhead pylons will my hair (what is left of it) stand on end from static?
These were evidently huge misconceptions borne out of ignorance and a lot of misinformation absorbed from the internet during the many hours of questing for guidance and shared knowledge of this type of propulsion.
It took a while to work through the sequence to just start the motor.
In the absence of a turning over noise, prancing rev counter and other combustion engine soundtrack features it is at first difficult to judge if the power-train is on and ready.
Being automatic transmission, of which I have not had much practical experience, it is necessary to re-educate the muscle memory of my left leg and refrain from trying to place my left hand where, in my company car, there is the gear shift lever.
After finally getting the car to move it was a slow and nervous drive through late rush-hour traffic to an industrial estate. In the absence of the likes of an abandoned airfield the empty road network around freshly vacated factories and warehouses was an ideal place to go through the stop-start, stop-start operation and other procedures to give confidence in the new vehicle.
The distant memory now of my very first driving lesson with my Father came back to me in that unique combination of the strangeness of hand, leg and eye co-ordination that confronts a new learner.
After an hour or so everything seemed to make sense and the increase in confidence diminished that early sensation of unease.
I have had a few more excursions under Zero Emissions although not without a lot of monitoring of the range reading on the dashboard display. The home charger has been in intermittent use to top up the kilowatts, This is assisted by a mobile phone App to control the rate of charging and
even to the extent of scheduling a session remotely.
First impressions of the Leaf are excellent in terms of quality of the ride, comfort and level of on board equipment.
For a big and heavy car (it just about shades my VW Passat Estate on dimensions) it has ample power and absorbs distance and road conditions without any apparent effort. It is a good looking car as well which is a massive improvement over the rather bug-eyed appearance of the Mark 1 model which has, amazingly, been around since 2011.
For all of its merits and credentials the Leaf is still a very uncommon sight on the roads but this should change given the intentions of many towards reducing reliance on fossil fuels in everyday life.
It was eerie as the delivery guy reversed it down the ramp and with only the faint loudspeaker generated whirring sound discernible. Under new Government Regulations any movement by an electric vehicle under 20mph must have an audible warning to pedestrians. It is a high tech version of the mandatory requirement in the pioneering years of motoring of a man walking in front with a red flag.
I had taken the morning to work from home in readiness to receive the car but had a full diary of out of town appointments for the rest of the day which required use of my company car.
Any familiarisation with the Leaf would have to be later on that evening.
Being a typical male I of course tempted not to read the Owners Manual rather preferring to use instinct and trial and error where anything mechanical is involved.
No lessons had been learned from running the replacement washing machine without releasing the holding bolt on the drum, firing up the pressure washer with the wrong fittings for the job in hand and connecting up the incorrect wires of a room dimmer switch.
In this case I stuck to the step by step guide to the car.
I was, after all, a bit frightened and anxious about the whole electric vehicle thing.
A few thoughts flashed past my consciousness as I sat for the first time in the driving position.
Do I need to wear rubber soled shoes during a journey?
Can I take the car out in the rain?
If I take a route under overhead pylons will my hair (what is left of it) stand on end from static?
These were evidently huge misconceptions borne out of ignorance and a lot of misinformation absorbed from the internet during the many hours of questing for guidance and shared knowledge of this type of propulsion.
It took a while to work through the sequence to just start the motor.
In the absence of a turning over noise, prancing rev counter and other combustion engine soundtrack features it is at first difficult to judge if the power-train is on and ready.
Being automatic transmission, of which I have not had much practical experience, it is necessary to re-educate the muscle memory of my left leg and refrain from trying to place my left hand where, in my company car, there is the gear shift lever.
After finally getting the car to move it was a slow and nervous drive through late rush-hour traffic to an industrial estate. In the absence of the likes of an abandoned airfield the empty road network around freshly vacated factories and warehouses was an ideal place to go through the stop-start, stop-start operation and other procedures to give confidence in the new vehicle.
The distant memory now of my very first driving lesson with my Father came back to me in that unique combination of the strangeness of hand, leg and eye co-ordination that confronts a new learner.
After an hour or so everything seemed to make sense and the increase in confidence diminished that early sensation of unease.
I have had a few more excursions under Zero Emissions although not without a lot of monitoring of the range reading on the dashboard display. The home charger has been in intermittent use to top up the kilowatts, This is assisted by a mobile phone App to control the rate of charging and
even to the extent of scheduling a session remotely.
First impressions of the Leaf are excellent in terms of quality of the ride, comfort and level of on board equipment.
For a big and heavy car (it just about shades my VW Passat Estate on dimensions) it has ample power and absorbs distance and road conditions without any apparent effort. It is a good looking car as well which is a massive improvement over the rather bug-eyed appearance of the Mark 1 model which has, amazingly, been around since 2011.
For all of its merits and credentials the Leaf is still a very uncommon sight on the roads but this should change given the intentions of many towards reducing reliance on fossil fuels in everyday life.
Friday 12 July 2019
Return of the Triffids
It has become a subject of polite but anxious conversation amongst homeowners that has replaced the old mainstays of dry rot, mould, property values and school catchment areas.
Whether conversations are had over the garden fence, in the pub, coffee shop or in the old fashioned way at a dinner party they will, without fail, turn to the subject of Japanese Knotweed.
I have written before on the origins and wildfire spread of this plant species which was introduced by the Victorians as an attractive, Himalayan foothills bit of planting for a conservatory, urban or country setting. It was a popular bit of vegetation in the 19th Century with its willowy, bamboo-ey stems with red speckles and broad veined leaves. Its spring emergence in flower beds and borders resembled rhubarb shoots and indeed upon the realisation that the young growths could be eaten it became known colloquially as Donkey Rhubarb.
Other prettier ornamental trees and shrubs soon pushed Japanese Knotweed into obscurity and many would have expected that it would die off and disappear into remote pockets.
In fact it continued to thrive on industrial wastelands, building clearance sites and on railway embankments and by the sides of canals seeking space and nutrition at the expense of all other competitors.
It did not get much publicity in the UK until the run-up to the London Olympics when vast tracts of land earmarked for the infrastructure and iconic arenas and Games Village were found to be firmly in the grip of this virulent, invasive species. Natural evolution had made it highly resistant to herbicides and other chemicals. A slash and burn approach to clearance only served to highlight the prolific ability of the plant to germinate from any fragment making it virtually impossible to destroy.
If buried under concrete as in foundations or ground slabs the relentless survival instinct allowed knotweed to simply penetrate through to reach sunlight and rain. The Olympic sites required multi-million pound expenditure on a clean up scheme which delayed the schedule to a significant extent.
Publicity in the media and a bit of a paranoia amongst homeowners looking out over their own gardens put the species firmly in the perception of the public as something very nasty and hellishly expensive to get rid of.
There is lot of the particular plant in my local area being characterised by favoured habitats such as active and disused railways on raised courses through the city and a large student population who have no interest whatsoever in that huge green growths in the back yard of their shared house accommodation which seems to be getting closer and closer at an alarming rate.
The well-to-do avenues on the fringes of the inner city, once the prime residential location for an emerging middle and entreprenurial class over 100 years ago, began a hate campaign against Japanese Knotweed after a few very unwelcome outbreaks in back gardens.
Leaflets were distributed to homes and every other lamp post carried a sobering warning of attack with a grainy black and white photograph illustrating a typical offending growth.
One hapless resident panicked upon a discovery amongst his rhododendrons and promptly dealt with it by ploughing up and down with a hired mechanical rotovator. This was the worst action possible given the ability of Knotweed to sprout new growths from the smallest splinters and fragments.
I was passing a few minutes today with a local in the avenues area who happened to be a maintenance gardener for the University.
He had recently been called upon by his Manager to attend at a student house close to the main campus upon reports that the dreaded Knotweed had been spotted.
The forecourt to the street was a bit overgrown and littered but clear of any rampant vegetation. In the rear yard, accessible through a shared covered passage in the terraced block, there was a mass of foliage but all fairly tame and placid.
A quick peep over the fence into the flanking properties did not indicate any outbreaks.
It appeared to have been a wasted journey caused by mis-identification or even a hoax.
Knocking at the back door to try to get more information from a student who was, with bleary eyes, in the kitchen making a cup of tea the gardener noticed a bit of greenery sticking out through the cabinet doors below the sink and drainer.
The student, in filling up the electric kettle carefully negotiated the growth and although the size of a small tree it did not obstruct this process. A few further journeys to the fridge for milk, pantry for bread and a top storage unit for Marmite spread saw a repetition of the strange waltzing movement of man in relation to the plant.
It was definitely of the Knotweed genus and quite at home in this warm, humid environment which must have closely resembled the foothills of Tibet and Nepal especially when all of the windows were shut, cooker and hob in use and extractor fan left switched off.
Why it had not been reported was a mystery but then again it appeared to be able to peacefully co-exist with lazy and messy students quite nicely.
Investigation revealed that the main stem originated from the pipework at the very back of the sink unit. A plumber was called out and in dismantling the services it was clear that the plant had come in by following the underground waste pipe system from some considerable distance beyond the immediate boundary.
It took a good deal of effort and expense to remove the alien intruder.
For a few weeks afterwards the students in residence continued to take a roundabout route to the kitchen taps as though somehow indoctrinated and under the influence of the all-pervasive invasive species.
Whether conversations are had over the garden fence, in the pub, coffee shop or in the old fashioned way at a dinner party they will, without fail, turn to the subject of Japanese Knotweed.
I have written before on the origins and wildfire spread of this plant species which was introduced by the Victorians as an attractive, Himalayan foothills bit of planting for a conservatory, urban or country setting. It was a popular bit of vegetation in the 19th Century with its willowy, bamboo-ey stems with red speckles and broad veined leaves. Its spring emergence in flower beds and borders resembled rhubarb shoots and indeed upon the realisation that the young growths could be eaten it became known colloquially as Donkey Rhubarb.
Other prettier ornamental trees and shrubs soon pushed Japanese Knotweed into obscurity and many would have expected that it would die off and disappear into remote pockets.
In fact it continued to thrive on industrial wastelands, building clearance sites and on railway embankments and by the sides of canals seeking space and nutrition at the expense of all other competitors.
It did not get much publicity in the UK until the run-up to the London Olympics when vast tracts of land earmarked for the infrastructure and iconic arenas and Games Village were found to be firmly in the grip of this virulent, invasive species. Natural evolution had made it highly resistant to herbicides and other chemicals. A slash and burn approach to clearance only served to highlight the prolific ability of the plant to germinate from any fragment making it virtually impossible to destroy.
If buried under concrete as in foundations or ground slabs the relentless survival instinct allowed knotweed to simply penetrate through to reach sunlight and rain. The Olympic sites required multi-million pound expenditure on a clean up scheme which delayed the schedule to a significant extent.
Publicity in the media and a bit of a paranoia amongst homeowners looking out over their own gardens put the species firmly in the perception of the public as something very nasty and hellishly expensive to get rid of.
There is lot of the particular plant in my local area being characterised by favoured habitats such as active and disused railways on raised courses through the city and a large student population who have no interest whatsoever in that huge green growths in the back yard of their shared house accommodation which seems to be getting closer and closer at an alarming rate.
The well-to-do avenues on the fringes of the inner city, once the prime residential location for an emerging middle and entreprenurial class over 100 years ago, began a hate campaign against Japanese Knotweed after a few very unwelcome outbreaks in back gardens.
Leaflets were distributed to homes and every other lamp post carried a sobering warning of attack with a grainy black and white photograph illustrating a typical offending growth.
One hapless resident panicked upon a discovery amongst his rhododendrons and promptly dealt with it by ploughing up and down with a hired mechanical rotovator. This was the worst action possible given the ability of Knotweed to sprout new growths from the smallest splinters and fragments.
I was passing a few minutes today with a local in the avenues area who happened to be a maintenance gardener for the University.
He had recently been called upon by his Manager to attend at a student house close to the main campus upon reports that the dreaded Knotweed had been spotted.
The forecourt to the street was a bit overgrown and littered but clear of any rampant vegetation. In the rear yard, accessible through a shared covered passage in the terraced block, there was a mass of foliage but all fairly tame and placid.
A quick peep over the fence into the flanking properties did not indicate any outbreaks.
It appeared to have been a wasted journey caused by mis-identification or even a hoax.
Knocking at the back door to try to get more information from a student who was, with bleary eyes, in the kitchen making a cup of tea the gardener noticed a bit of greenery sticking out through the cabinet doors below the sink and drainer.
The student, in filling up the electric kettle carefully negotiated the growth and although the size of a small tree it did not obstruct this process. A few further journeys to the fridge for milk, pantry for bread and a top storage unit for Marmite spread saw a repetition of the strange waltzing movement of man in relation to the plant.
It was definitely of the Knotweed genus and quite at home in this warm, humid environment which must have closely resembled the foothills of Tibet and Nepal especially when all of the windows were shut, cooker and hob in use and extractor fan left switched off.
Why it had not been reported was a mystery but then again it appeared to be able to peacefully co-exist with lazy and messy students quite nicely.
Investigation revealed that the main stem originated from the pipework at the very back of the sink unit. A plumber was called out and in dismantling the services it was clear that the plant had come in by following the underground waste pipe system from some considerable distance beyond the immediate boundary.
It took a good deal of effort and expense to remove the alien intruder.
For a few weeks afterwards the students in residence continued to take a roundabout route to the kitchen taps as though somehow indoctrinated and under the influence of the all-pervasive invasive species.
Wednesday 10 July 2019
Book Guide; UpCycling
Too engrossed in the televised coverage of the Tour de France to actually go out on your bike?
Well, the next best thing is to pick up one of the many cycling genre books on the market and become immersed in the facts, fictions, follies and thrills of the Grand Tours, the characters and the tactics.
Here is my list of favourite bits of writing in no particular order;
The story, inspiring and tragic of Dave Rayner, a Sheffield rider who rode on the continent and was destined for great things only to be killed in a city centre incident.
His legacy, The Dave Rayner Fund, has given the chance of European competition to many British cyclists with its
beneficiaries now performing at the Elite Pro level.
A coffee table book with route maps of all of the Tours de France up until the Yorkshire Grand Depart in 2014.
I enjoyed using the maps to try to work our where on earth I saw the 1984 race from the roadside astride my own bike.
I am none the wiser but have some 35mm prints to prove that I was there.
A chance to look up all of those team and national jerseys across the years that you came across in the pages of Cycling Weekly and other bike magazines.
Some classics and some shockers.
One of the first candid and honest factual works by a rough, tough Irish Rider, Paul Kimmage.
He was a domestique or general support rider at a time when non-Europeans were a rarity and a novelty in the peleton.
A text book covering the basics of getting into cycle racing.
Useful for those thinking about competition but of course nothing can really prepare you for the reality of a lung busting, leg aching and terrifying experience in that first event on the road.
This guy must have been good at the text book theory to have been so exceptional in dominating the racing scene for so long.
A one in a million athlete.
A great story of genius, perseverance, success against the odds with a backdrop of personal trauma by and about a very single minded character.
His battles with Chris Boardman on the track are things of legend.
The enigmatic Irishman figured amongst the emerging non-European riders in the Grand Tours with Kelly, Millar, Peiper, Anderson and the Americans of Lemond and Hampsten.
Roche achieved the triple of the Tours of France and Italy and the World Championship in the same year.
A fascinating book about the rivalry between these two greats and with modern day interviews on what really went on in what has been called the greatest ever Tour de France.
The darkest side of pro cycling is depicted in this confession style book by Tyler Hamilton, one of the former team mates of the disgraced Lance Armstrong.
The book blows open the doping epidemic in the peleton which was known but suppressed from the public.
I just find myself coming back to re-read this book about an ordinary man taking on and riding the route of the Tour de France.
There are some real laugh out loud moments between the sympathetic emotions and tears.
For those thinking about starting from scratch this book is inspirational.
Just finished this backstage account of the 2004 Tour de France by the former manager of The Clash.
Wandering freely around the race village and press centre there are some opportunities for mischief and mayhem.
The writer, his son and a lawyer friend get hold of an Official Pass and make the most of the buffet and freebies as well as putting 5000 miles on the odometer of a hire car.
A warts and all account which is eye opening and refreshing.
Well, the next best thing is to pick up one of the many cycling genre books on the market and become immersed in the facts, fictions, follies and thrills of the Grand Tours, the characters and the tactics.
Here is my list of favourite bits of writing in no particular order;
The story, inspiring and tragic of Dave Rayner, a Sheffield rider who rode on the continent and was destined for great things only to be killed in a city centre incident.
His legacy, The Dave Rayner Fund, has given the chance of European competition to many British cyclists with its
beneficiaries now performing at the Elite Pro level.
A coffee table book with route maps of all of the Tours de France up until the Yorkshire Grand Depart in 2014.
I enjoyed using the maps to try to work our where on earth I saw the 1984 race from the roadside astride my own bike.
I am none the wiser but have some 35mm prints to prove that I was there.
A chance to look up all of those team and national jerseys across the years that you came across in the pages of Cycling Weekly and other bike magazines.
Some classics and some shockers.
One of the first candid and honest factual works by a rough, tough Irish Rider, Paul Kimmage.
He was a domestique or general support rider at a time when non-Europeans were a rarity and a novelty in the peleton.
A text book covering the basics of getting into cycle racing.
Useful for those thinking about competition but of course nothing can really prepare you for the reality of a lung busting, leg aching and terrifying experience in that first event on the road.
This guy must have been good at the text book theory to have been so exceptional in dominating the racing scene for so long.
A one in a million athlete.
A great story of genius, perseverance, success against the odds with a backdrop of personal trauma by and about a very single minded character.
His battles with Chris Boardman on the track are things of legend.
The enigmatic Irishman figured amongst the emerging non-European riders in the Grand Tours with Kelly, Millar, Peiper, Anderson and the Americans of Lemond and Hampsten.
Roche achieved the triple of the Tours of France and Italy and the World Championship in the same year.
A fascinating book about the rivalry between these two greats and with modern day interviews on what really went on in what has been called the greatest ever Tour de France.
The darkest side of pro cycling is depicted in this confession style book by Tyler Hamilton, one of the former team mates of the disgraced Lance Armstrong.
The book blows open the doping epidemic in the peleton which was known but suppressed from the public.
I just find myself coming back to re-read this book about an ordinary man taking on and riding the route of the Tour de France.
There are some real laugh out loud moments between the sympathetic emotions and tears.
For those thinking about starting from scratch this book is inspirational.
Just finished this backstage account of the 2004 Tour de France by the former manager of The Clash.
Wandering freely around the race village and press centre there are some opportunities for mischief and mayhem.
The writer, his son and a lawyer friend get hold of an Official Pass and make the most of the buffet and freebies as well as putting 5000 miles on the odometer of a hire car.
A warts and all account which is eye opening and refreshing.
Tuesday 9 July 2019
Tour de France revisited
I was a bit geeky as a child and was always fascinated by the next thing, whatever that was.
In one summer holiday period I displayed an obsessive desire to be, in what I recollect as the correct chronological order,
1) In the US 7th Cavalry
2)Apollo Mission Astronaut
3)Racing Driver
4) Professional footballer
and, strangely,
5) A show jumper.
All of these career ideas were spawned by, following the same numbering, Saturday morning cowboy films, Cape Canaveral rocket launches, Le Mans 24 hours, an FA Cup Final and latterly an invitation to the Burleigh Horse Trials in Lincolnshire.
In my late teens I became interested in cycling.
It was another of those genetic traits inherited from my late Father, himself a very keen and well travelled cyclist following on from an affinity to pick up litter in public open spaces.
In the 1980's TV coverage of cycling was very limited. Only a few enthusiasts knew about the Milk Race in the UK to the Classic European Races and the National Tours.
That was until the big sponsorship by cereal manufacturers Kelloggs who promoted some great city centre criterium races with prime time commercial channel coverage. The viewing figures and sheer numbers of on-course spectators must have taken the programmers by surprise and to capitalise on this there was an up-scaling of coverage with The Nissan Classic in Ireland and then Channel Four began their excellent live and highlights broadcasting of the Tour de France.
I began to compete in local races in the early 1980's and began to live, eat and sleep all things cycling, If not out training, taking part in events or sitting glued to the TV the best thing to do was to catch a live event out in the countryside or in a town centre. A few of us would ride miles, often setting out at first light, to be in a good roadside spot to catch the race as it passed by.
I did get to see a stage of the Tour de France in 1984, setting off on my own from the house near Paris where I was staying for a week with my younger sister, at that time nannying for a French family. It was quite an ambitious thing to do in a strange country, with only schoolboy language skills and a large scale map that covered from the Scottish Lowlands to Morocco.
That flash of the pre-race publicity caravan, motorcycle outriders and then the riders themselves was absolutely thrilling, albeit over in all too short a time. My 35mm holiday camera was in rapid use as the peleton came by and the pictures captured Bernard Hinault's right profile, Fignon's distinctive sweatband and , well, they were the only two exposures in focus. They are amongst my most treasured bits of cycling memorabilia.
My journey in cycling has been and still is quite a surprise to me.
I was a poor and very under-achieving competitor in a very brief foray into racing but have two small trophies for "Best in Club" for one particular year.
In my late twenties Self employment allowed me to sponsor a local cycle racing team in my home town over 15 good years before the banking crisis and recession. My son has started to compete and trains hard, You can find me following some distance behind.
I continue to enjoy the sport and hope to be fit and healthy to continue to ride out when I get an opportunity. In this way I have been able to live out an obsession, now the longest single one in my catalogue of obsessions and fascinations.
I was therefore quite taken with the achievement of one Alex Clarke, whose story has some paralells with my own.
He started off collecting and selling vintage bicycles in the US before acquiring a consignment of classic cycle team jerseys. These sold well through the internet and his natural thought was to capitalise on this demand and actually make replica jerseys using modern Merino Wool.
The baggy and obviously very hot woollen team wear, both shirts and shorts in the 1970's included some gawdy and striking designs such as Brooklyn, Bianchi, Dreher, Sammontana, KAS and Jolly Ceramica. One jersey design that Alex Clarke openly avoided was Molteni, the team of Eddy Merckx and before him Motta, Altig and Basso.
However he had an open mind and meeting a well known Italian Cycling Photographer convinced him that Molteni embodied the core values of cycling.
The Molteni team was financed not by a large pan-European Corporation but a family firm who made award winning sausages.
Clarke's new obsession saw him spend thousands of dollars of his own money on turning a plain and drab 1976 Volvo 244 Saloon Car into an authentic replica of the Molteni Team Car that accompanied Merckx and co on some of their greatest exploits.
The result is striking and I am, I admit, just a little bit jealous.
In one summer holiday period I displayed an obsessive desire to be, in what I recollect as the correct chronological order,
1) In the US 7th Cavalry
2)Apollo Mission Astronaut
3)Racing Driver
4) Professional footballer
and, strangely,
5) A show jumper.
All of these career ideas were spawned by, following the same numbering, Saturday morning cowboy films, Cape Canaveral rocket launches, Le Mans 24 hours, an FA Cup Final and latterly an invitation to the Burleigh Horse Trials in Lincolnshire.
In my late teens I became interested in cycling.
It was another of those genetic traits inherited from my late Father, himself a very keen and well travelled cyclist following on from an affinity to pick up litter in public open spaces.
In the 1980's TV coverage of cycling was very limited. Only a few enthusiasts knew about the Milk Race in the UK to the Classic European Races and the National Tours.
That was until the big sponsorship by cereal manufacturers Kelloggs who promoted some great city centre criterium races with prime time commercial channel coverage. The viewing figures and sheer numbers of on-course spectators must have taken the programmers by surprise and to capitalise on this there was an up-scaling of coverage with The Nissan Classic in Ireland and then Channel Four began their excellent live and highlights broadcasting of the Tour de France.
I began to compete in local races in the early 1980's and began to live, eat and sleep all things cycling, If not out training, taking part in events or sitting glued to the TV the best thing to do was to catch a live event out in the countryside or in a town centre. A few of us would ride miles, often setting out at first light, to be in a good roadside spot to catch the race as it passed by.
I did get to see a stage of the Tour de France in 1984, setting off on my own from the house near Paris where I was staying for a week with my younger sister, at that time nannying for a French family. It was quite an ambitious thing to do in a strange country, with only schoolboy language skills and a large scale map that covered from the Scottish Lowlands to Morocco.
That flash of the pre-race publicity caravan, motorcycle outriders and then the riders themselves was absolutely thrilling, albeit over in all too short a time. My 35mm holiday camera was in rapid use as the peleton came by and the pictures captured Bernard Hinault's right profile, Fignon's distinctive sweatband and , well, they were the only two exposures in focus. They are amongst my most treasured bits of cycling memorabilia.
My journey in cycling has been and still is quite a surprise to me.
I was a poor and very under-achieving competitor in a very brief foray into racing but have two small trophies for "Best in Club" for one particular year.
In my late twenties Self employment allowed me to sponsor a local cycle racing team in my home town over 15 good years before the banking crisis and recession. My son has started to compete and trains hard, You can find me following some distance behind.
I continue to enjoy the sport and hope to be fit and healthy to continue to ride out when I get an opportunity. In this way I have been able to live out an obsession, now the longest single one in my catalogue of obsessions and fascinations.
I was therefore quite taken with the achievement of one Alex Clarke, whose story has some paralells with my own.
He started off collecting and selling vintage bicycles in the US before acquiring a consignment of classic cycle team jerseys. These sold well through the internet and his natural thought was to capitalise on this demand and actually make replica jerseys using modern Merino Wool.
The baggy and obviously very hot woollen team wear, both shirts and shorts in the 1970's included some gawdy and striking designs such as Brooklyn, Bianchi, Dreher, Sammontana, KAS and Jolly Ceramica. One jersey design that Alex Clarke openly avoided was Molteni, the team of Eddy Merckx and before him Motta, Altig and Basso.
However he had an open mind and meeting a well known Italian Cycling Photographer convinced him that Molteni embodied the core values of cycling.
The Molteni team was financed not by a large pan-European Corporation but a family firm who made award winning sausages.
Clarke's new obsession saw him spend thousands of dollars of his own money on turning a plain and drab 1976 Volvo 244 Saloon Car into an authentic replica of the Molteni Team Car that accompanied Merckx and co on some of their greatest exploits.
The result is striking and I am, I admit, just a little bit jealous.
Sunday 7 July 2019
Women's World Cup 2019
I am sad that the TV coverage of the FIFA Women's World Cup has finished.
What a tremendous festival of football it has been over the last few weeks.
It has been hard to schedule in the televised games amongst family, work and social commitments but I can say that I have seen a very high proportion of them.
I am a keen follower of a lot of sports regardless of gender but the Women's World Cup has challenged my preconceived ideas and male prejudices far beyond what I would have expected.
Yes, my sexist and misogynistic hard wiring as a man has on occasion threatened to take over but I feel admonished to a degree in that I have been able to recognise the signs at an early stage.
I have not allowed these inherent traits to diminish in any respect the athleticism, skill, endurance and tactical prowess of the players.
I was a curious onlooker to start off with.
The emergence and increasing profile of Women's Football has awoken many to its level of performance. It has been a hard struggle to gain the recognition and attract the financial backing even in a sport where, in the Men's game we are ever more astounded by the wages and excesses although such things are very much regarded as the norm.
The historical background of women's participation in football is quite shameful in that a previous halcyon era in the inter war years in the UK was vindictively ended by the dark suited old men of the Football Association who imposed a ban on women's matches being played in the grounds of its League members.
This was in spite of mass popular support and huge attendances which propelled the likes of Lily Parr into a glorious, albeit short lived stardom.
Some years ago my eldest daughter trained with a local Under 12's male youth team but her obvious affinity for the game was always stifled when she was relegated to play with the "C" or "D" team when she should have been a regular First Team selection.
It was the case that Dads and Lads ruled the day and girls were kept in their place.
Some 17 years later she did get to play in a Women's League but I just think about all of those wasted years brought about as a direct consequence of male chauvinism, backward thinking and entrenched ideas.
At least young girls and women will benefit from the high profile attained by the current status of the game and get so many more opportunities where before that was obstructed and hindered.
What a tremendous festival of football it has been over the last few weeks.
It has been hard to schedule in the televised games amongst family, work and social commitments but I can say that I have seen a very high proportion of them.
I am a keen follower of a lot of sports regardless of gender but the Women's World Cup has challenged my preconceived ideas and male prejudices far beyond what I would have expected.
Yes, my sexist and misogynistic hard wiring as a man has on occasion threatened to take over but I feel admonished to a degree in that I have been able to recognise the signs at an early stage.
I have not allowed these inherent traits to diminish in any respect the athleticism, skill, endurance and tactical prowess of the players.
I was a curious onlooker to start off with.
The emergence and increasing profile of Women's Football has awoken many to its level of performance. It has been a hard struggle to gain the recognition and attract the financial backing even in a sport where, in the Men's game we are ever more astounded by the wages and excesses although such things are very much regarded as the norm.
The historical background of women's participation in football is quite shameful in that a previous halcyon era in the inter war years in the UK was vindictively ended by the dark suited old men of the Football Association who imposed a ban on women's matches being played in the grounds of its League members.
This was in spite of mass popular support and huge attendances which propelled the likes of Lily Parr into a glorious, albeit short lived stardom.
Some years ago my eldest daughter trained with a local Under 12's male youth team but her obvious affinity for the game was always stifled when she was relegated to play with the "C" or "D" team when she should have been a regular First Team selection.
It was the case that Dads and Lads ruled the day and girls were kept in their place.
Some 17 years later she did get to play in a Women's League but I just think about all of those wasted years brought about as a direct consequence of male chauvinism, backward thinking and entrenched ideas.
At least young girls and women will benefit from the high profile attained by the current status of the game and get so many more opportunities where before that was obstructed and hindered.
Saturday 6 July 2019
8 Years
The 2019 Tour de France starts today.
It promises to be a momentous 21 stages of racing that will result in exhaustion, nervous stress and cause emotions to rise to the surface... and that is just in our family from watching it on television.
It is a poignant time as well as these three July weeks have such strong associations with Father whose passing was 8 years ago . It was just two days after the finish of the 2011 Tour.
Here is a piece of writing from a couple of years ago.
I am ashamed to admit that I do not have many photographs of my father.
I attribute it to the fact that my father was always behind the lens of a camera and not in front of it. In fact, being the reserved and private person that he was it was inevitable that he would shy away from having his picture taken in a family group or where there was any possibility of being photographed where he could be thrust into any sort of limelight.
The few pictures that I do have are,understandably, very precious to me.
There is a common theme in most of them and that is something to do with the sport of cycling.
My favourite is of us both leaning against the safety barriers at a town centre circuit race on a summers's evening.
I am on duty as a Marshall at the event and my father has made his way through to the inner part of the course to seek out the best vantage point for the duration of the 30 laps plus five minutes. Although the circuit is noisy with the tannoy system and the applause laden murmur of an appreciative viewing public we have found time to talk about all things cycling.
It is a common interest, one instilled in me by him from his own adventures as a youth and young adult. His heyday was in the post war years when the bicycle was a combination of the transport of choice for the masses and an enforced necessity for the austere times.
On the rare occasions that he felt sufficiently at ease to speak freely of his exploits there would be a mischievous glint in his eye and a boyish expression would take over his world weary brow. There were, to me, fantastical tales of overseas bike rides to Holland and France when still in his teenage years. This coincided with the exchange rate in favour of the Pound Sterling over the guilder and franc which allowed the week or so excursion abroad to resemble that of a visit by a tycoon.
I was encouraged in my cycling in that there was always a succession of bikes available in the house to meet every age group and ability. They were all maintained in pristine working condition even though the paintwork had certainly seen better times. I bought my first serious bike, an ice white 12 speed racer using wages from a seasonal farm job. He advised me on the best make and model. On this cycle I took part in my first amateur race . My father was driver, trainer and mechanic all in one, never critical and just pleased that I was getting as much out of being on two wheels as he obviously had.
I will never forget the look on his face when I won my first (and only) race, finishing alone ahead of the chasing bunch in a race in our home town.
We would also trail around the country watching top competitive races featuring the best home grown riders and the few, but increasingly common events where the European and global stars would take part. This, in the space of a few months, took us to the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle, The Leeds Classic and a good few regional cities where we could see fast and furious town centre racing.
The family name made it to the start line of a few races nationally through sponsorship of a local racing team.
Inevitably we would drift apart in our respective roles of Father and Son through my work pressures and his early retirement but for those three weeks every year we would be reunited in our love of cycling with the daily broadcasts of live action and the evening highlights on Channel 4 and latterly the ITV network of the epic Tour de France.
The outcome of the daily stages would be analysed and summarised in a telephone call or if I was able to call in at the house we would engage in long conversations over what had taken place. This would build over the 20 plus stages until the finale of the stage into Paris and the frantic bunch sprint for that honour.
He always appreciated the talents of each of the top riders but unfortunately he did not witness the British Victories of Wiggins, Froome and Thomas in the following years.
I found myself watching these great wins on my own with a very heavy heart and sorely missing the great mutual joy and thrill of what should have been a common experiences.
These feelings are very much in the forefront of my emotions today at the start of the 2019 Tour. This years event marks the eighth anniversary of Father's passing.
I will be sure to be watching as much of the Tour de France as possible and with my son, William, himself a keen cyclist and therefore carrying on the family affinity for the sport.
In 2014 I was a volunteer on the Tour de France on Stage 2 from York to Sheffield which was an opportunity that I never expected to have in my lifetime.
I did feel and very much so, the spirit of Father with me as I patrolled up and down the crowd line.
He would have loved the whole experience.
It promises to be a momentous 21 stages of racing that will result in exhaustion, nervous stress and cause emotions to rise to the surface... and that is just in our family from watching it on television.
It is a poignant time as well as these three July weeks have such strong associations with Father whose passing was 8 years ago . It was just two days after the finish of the 2011 Tour.
Here is a piece of writing from a couple of years ago.
I am ashamed to admit that I do not have many photographs of my father.
I attribute it to the fact that my father was always behind the lens of a camera and not in front of it. In fact, being the reserved and private person that he was it was inevitable that he would shy away from having his picture taken in a family group or where there was any possibility of being photographed where he could be thrust into any sort of limelight.
The few pictures that I do have are,understandably, very precious to me.
There is a common theme in most of them and that is something to do with the sport of cycling.
My favourite is of us both leaning against the safety barriers at a town centre circuit race on a summers's evening.
I am on duty as a Marshall at the event and my father has made his way through to the inner part of the course to seek out the best vantage point for the duration of the 30 laps plus five minutes. Although the circuit is noisy with the tannoy system and the applause laden murmur of an appreciative viewing public we have found time to talk about all things cycling.
It is a common interest, one instilled in me by him from his own adventures as a youth and young adult. His heyday was in the post war years when the bicycle was a combination of the transport of choice for the masses and an enforced necessity for the austere times.
On the rare occasions that he felt sufficiently at ease to speak freely of his exploits there would be a mischievous glint in his eye and a boyish expression would take over his world weary brow. There were, to me, fantastical tales of overseas bike rides to Holland and France when still in his teenage years. This coincided with the exchange rate in favour of the Pound Sterling over the guilder and franc which allowed the week or so excursion abroad to resemble that of a visit by a tycoon.
I was encouraged in my cycling in that there was always a succession of bikes available in the house to meet every age group and ability. They were all maintained in pristine working condition even though the paintwork had certainly seen better times. I bought my first serious bike, an ice white 12 speed racer using wages from a seasonal farm job. He advised me on the best make and model. On this cycle I took part in my first amateur race . My father was driver, trainer and mechanic all in one, never critical and just pleased that I was getting as much out of being on two wheels as he obviously had.
I will never forget the look on his face when I won my first (and only) race, finishing alone ahead of the chasing bunch in a race in our home town.
We would also trail around the country watching top competitive races featuring the best home grown riders and the few, but increasingly common events where the European and global stars would take part. This, in the space of a few months, took us to the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle, The Leeds Classic and a good few regional cities where we could see fast and furious town centre racing.
The family name made it to the start line of a few races nationally through sponsorship of a local racing team.
The outcome of the daily stages would be analysed and summarised in a telephone call or if I was able to call in at the house we would engage in long conversations over what had taken place. This would build over the 20 plus stages until the finale of the stage into Paris and the frantic bunch sprint for that honour.
He always appreciated the talents of each of the top riders but unfortunately he did not witness the British Victories of Wiggins, Froome and Thomas in the following years.
I found myself watching these great wins on my own with a very heavy heart and sorely missing the great mutual joy and thrill of what should have been a common experiences.
These feelings are very much in the forefront of my emotions today at the start of the 2019 Tour. This years event marks the eighth anniversary of Father's passing.
I will be sure to be watching as much of the Tour de France as possible and with my son, William, himself a keen cyclist and therefore carrying on the family affinity for the sport.
In 2014 I was a volunteer on the Tour de France on Stage 2 from York to Sheffield which was an opportunity that I never expected to have in my lifetime.
I did feel and very much so, the spirit of Father with me as I patrolled up and down the crowd line.
He would have loved the whole experience.
Friday 5 July 2019
English Lesson 9
Can you believe it but we are up to English Lesson Number 9?
Thanks to the extensive resource that a Superfan has compiled of the Uxbridge Dictionary feature of the long running British Radio Show "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" I am able to take an evening off from writing.
Once again I apologise for any students of the English Language who may come across the following definitions as they make no real sense whatsoever.
Intercontinental- someone who has experienced bladder problems all around the world
Importune- Coldplay track
Indelible- not able to eat a Bagel
Idiomatic- A 1970's Ugandan washing machine
Indict- what the Queen says when she is unsure about something
Implication- ointment for goblins
Impermeable- hair that just cannot be styled
Investment- thermal underwear for bankers
Innuendo- an Italian suppository
Intent- under canvas
Intermittent- an invitation to go under canvas
Interruption- a pause during a funeral
Insolent- what happens when you fall off the Isle of White ferry
Increment- opposite of excrement
Impression- a mental illness affecting goblins
Iconoclastic- a rubber band to hold together religious artworks
Incarnation- falling into condensed milk
Identity- symmetrical breasts
Intercourse- what you do when arriving at Royal Ascot
Impact- an agreement between goblins
Indefatigable- ending up in a restaurant with the over- eaters
Increment- Japanese wet weather
Impale- home brew for goblins
I-pad a high tech bachelor flat
Iconography- risque Byzantine picture
Impeccable- bird proof
Income- entrance
Inhabit- dressed as a monk
Integrate- where coal goes
Ipswich- the operation to insert a replacement hip
Ivy- Roman for 4
Imitate- pretend to be an art gallery
Impending- death of a pixie
Intelligence- high tec male lavatory
Impolite- a goblin on fire
Irish- a hopeful Japanese person
Indonesia- forgetting that you've been to the Sub Continent
Indecent- a plane preparing to land
I didn't actually think that there would be that many for the letter "I".
Thanks to the extensive resource that a Superfan has compiled of the Uxbridge Dictionary feature of the long running British Radio Show "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" I am able to take an evening off from writing.
Once again I apologise for any students of the English Language who may come across the following definitions as they make no real sense whatsoever.
Intercontinental- someone who has experienced bladder problems all around the world
Importune- Coldplay track
Indelible- not able to eat a Bagel
Idiomatic- A 1970's Ugandan washing machine
Indict- what the Queen says when she is unsure about something
Implication- ointment for goblins
Impermeable- hair that just cannot be styled
Investment- thermal underwear for bankers
Innuendo- an Italian suppository
Intent- under canvas
Intermittent- an invitation to go under canvas
Interruption- a pause during a funeral
Insolent- what happens when you fall off the Isle of White ferry
Increment- opposite of excrement
Impression- a mental illness affecting goblins
Iconoclastic- a rubber band to hold together religious artworks
Incarnation- falling into condensed milk
Identity- symmetrical breasts
Intercourse- what you do when arriving at Royal Ascot
Impact- an agreement between goblins
Indefatigable- ending up in a restaurant with the over- eaters
Increment- Japanese wet weather
Impale- home brew for goblins
I-pad a high tech bachelor flat
Iconography- risque Byzantine picture
Impeccable- bird proof
Income- entrance
Inhabit- dressed as a monk
Integrate- where coal goes
Ipswich- the operation to insert a replacement hip
Ivy- Roman for 4
Imitate- pretend to be an art gallery
Impending- death of a pixie
Intelligence- high tec male lavatory
Impolite- a goblin on fire
Irish- a hopeful Japanese person
Indonesia- forgetting that you've been to the Sub Continent
Indecent- a plane preparing to land
I didn't actually think that there would be that many for the letter "I".
Wednesday 3 July 2019
Together in Electric Dreams*
I have written a bit in recent weeks on progress towards replacing
our family car, a non-environmentally friendly VW Golf Diesel with a wholly
electric vehicle.
*Philip Oakey and Georgio Moroder. 1984 Soundtrack
The Golf has given good service over the last 9 years and that
is in spite of the best efforts of other road users to scrape, dent, bend and
write it off. One particular motorist of senior years who pulled out of a kerb parking bay came the closest to this and relegated our battlewagen to Category N under insurance categories as in non structural damage but uneconomic to repair.
Of course it is one of the many millions of VW’s embroiled in the
Emissions Scandal and was recalled for the remedial work. I did have some
reservations over whether this would solve the pollution issues completely but
I have the piece of paper to say that it now meets required standards.
Only two out of the three attributes of fuel economy, performance and lower emissions were indicated as being a possible outcome of the emissions fix. I do use the car sometimes for work and have found no discernible loss of power or mileage per gallon of diesel which makes me even more worried for the environment if the recall has been nothing more than another scam of a scam.
Somehow,
and illogically for an inanimate object, there has been a loss of trust which I
never thought I would experience in such a brand as Volkswagen.
The German
manufacturer has served my family well over successive purchases of a Classic Camper
Van, Squareback, 412LE, Scirocco’s Mark 1 and 2, a pair of Polo’s , 3 Passat
Estates and the current Golf. In all there has been some 50 years of association and I would
estimate some three quarter of a million road miles, give or take a few hundred
thousand margin for error.
However, a change to Zero Emissions fits in with our
current mindset and is a pretty big thing over and above our, to date, well meant but
inconsistent efforts in recycling, minimising waste and trying to live a more sustainable
existence.
The path to electric propulsion has, as I have covered in previous
commentary, not been the smoothest.
I have found this to be largely down to the
low gearing up of Government, Agencies, Corporations and Commercial concerns to
facilitate the increase in the numbers of electric vehicles as well as quite a
bit of misleading, contradictory and vague information on how the general
public can go about getting one.
Very little is actually published by those who
should be trailblazing the initiative. Keeping on the good side of Petrol heads and those who place a lot of emphasis on lifestyle marques are still dominating the market in the UK.
Most of the major car makers have an
electric vehicle in their model range but seem reluctant to promote it beyond a
few column inches in the glossy supplements or an arty-farty TV ad campaign. Of
course there are plenty of Hybrid vehicles on the market but the unique selling
points are cloudy.
Is the point of conventional engine plus electric power to reduce
fuel costs or to benefit the environment?
My latest angsts in connection with the
change to wholly electric have been over appropriate car insurance and in the
fitting of a EV Charging Unit at my house.
After making the mistake of going
through a Comparison Site where the premiums quoted varied from £395 to £1500 a
year and for unclear policy benefits I managed to get an electric car specific
policy through one of the big market names which seems well thought through and with
the inclusion of recovery to the nearest charging point if stranded by a
depleted battery.
Today, the home EV Charger is being installed but that has
also been problematic.
The Government Subsidy for the work was withdrawn two days ago and we
have had to meet the full cost.
The Installer was quite downbeat in that he could not find a suitable reading
for insertion of an Earth Rod. This was after drilling through the concrete of the garage
floor. I attribute this to the fact that our house, occupying the site of a
former Convent School in an inner city district, is built on a raft foundation
with a very thick reinforced slab and well above the original ground level. The
inability to earth an installation would prevent any work from going ahead
which I must admit was not something I had even thought about.
After prising up
a few of the brick pavers on the driveway the insertion of a trial rod gave satisfactory
readings which saved the move towards electric.
The charging unit is now in position
on the external wall of the garage and the Installer has worked hard to get everything
in place.
The car itself makes its appearance in just over 7 days time and our
electric adventure will really begin.
*Philip Oakey and Georgio Moroder. 1984 Soundtrack
Monday 1 July 2019
Yes, we have no bananas,
The austere three storey building on Humber Street in the North of England Port of Hull holds some memories for me.
It had been one of my first jobs, some 30 years ago, as a newly qualified Surveyor to inspect it when it was a warehouse for the storage and ripening of bananas.
Bunker-like behind its thick outer walls and reinforced cast concrete floors it was purpose built and operated by Geest, an established household name from the marketing stickers that adorned each and every yellow fruit on the shelves of supermarkets and corner shop grocers throughout the UK.
I remember being a little bit afraid in the dark cool spaces of the warehouse over the illogical scenario of being pursued by a large spider emerging from a crate after a prolonged stowaway on a slow moving freighter from the tropics.
Of course nothing happened.
That thought did however cause me to shiver as I walked through the building only yesterday.
The place is now studio space in a Commercial and Collective enterprise.
Just a few banana motifs on the wall provide a clue as to the historic use .
Sadly, it may be the case in the not too distant future that bananas, as we have come to know them, will become extinct because of a combination of factors.
There are actually many varieties of the banana, some filled with crunchy seeds, others with a red skin or of diminutive size. These continue to be grown and indeed represent some 50% of global production but someone decided at some time in the recent past that the best banana for human delectation was to be the large, creamy fleshed and sweet yellow type of which we consume 100 billion annually.
It was an obvious commercial decision and to date a very lucrative one.
The classic banana, called the Cavendish , has been bred for its consumer friendly characteristics but its lack of genetic variation has made it particularly susceptible to attack from plant pathogens as well as the detrimental influences from insect infestation, soil infertility and, increasingly, climate change.
Fusarium Wilt is one of the assailants on the banana crops in that it cuts the water drawing ability of the stem which leads to inevitable failure. It is not treatable. The pathogen black sigatoka also threatens the survival of the Cavendish and although there are chemicals available these require multiple applications which have major consequences for the workers on the plantations and for the environment.
The relentless monoculture on a global scale of the Cavendish has provided the perfect conditions for the key enemies of the banana to continue their onslaught.
There are now real concerns that the days of the most common banana variety are indeed numbered.
It is again a case of human folly in the interests of globalisation and commercialism.
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