The greatest photographs of the greatest guitarists are worth studying closely by any fan of rock music.
Give anyone a guitar to hold and they will assume the pose of their heroes in stance, attitude and trademark scowl or grimace followed by an attempt to strum or pick a few chords and notes and wail a few opening lines to a favourite song or anthem. Some may go a bit further in trying to impersonate the speaking voice of the artist, an arm flail or a mock attempt to smash the guitar into a fictitional stage floor.
There is always major disappointment in the faces of those picking up a guitar for the first time in that they cannot immediately strike into the standards of Stairway to Heaven, Smoke on the Water and Brown Sugar amongst others.
Other photographic observations are based on fashion and headgear. Hendrix really started the trend for style with flares, frock coat, flowery and lace fronted shirts and headband. In the 1970's and 1980's this trend was carried forward and developed by the likes of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Keith Richards and the more flamboyant lead and rhythm guitarists of the mainstream bands.
There were real fears for the future of exceptional guitar playing in the 90's and noughties with the coming to prominence of manufactured groups that sang off a backing track and played no instruments whatsoever or relied on the synthesiser and science rather than true talent. The rock world could however breathe a sigh of relief with the arrival of the new generation of guitarists with smart suits, neat or no hair and a technical understanding never seen before in the studio or on the live stage. The three new heroes are well known to followers of Rock but yet to really break into any form of appreciation amongst the wider population. Bring on Satriani, Vai and Bonamassa.
There has been a common denominator across the whole spectrum of performance by the great guitarists over the last 50 years. The close scrutiny of the most iconic and evocative rock photos of our times will always, in the background but simultaneously in the forefront, have the legend of Marshall emblazoned across the grey metallic mesh of a single black fronted or towering mass of Amps.
I always wanted a Marshall Amp. The status of the brand was so strong with me which was unusual because I did not and never have played the electric or any guitar. It was a fashion thing and enough to generate respect amongst your peers . As in later years when a nice car on the street was appreciated with a light kick of the tyres it was the case of running hands over the vinyl clad wooden frame of the Marshall and tweaking the volume and main controls in the back of the music shop or most commonly if someone had brought one in to the local 'Sell-it and soon'.
The Marshall became the guitarists preferred choice against quite strong competition in the market for such a product. There has to be substance behind image for something to be truly appreciated and this was certainly the position with Marshall so much so that with the sad death of its founder just yesterday the greatest testimonials have been from the greatest exponents of rock guitar.
The resonance and sound from a Marshall Amp is distinctive and instanly recognisable but not in a standard or mechanical way. It may be a factory product but each Amp is different and unique to the artist who plugs in their guitar and cranks up the dials to max 10.
Jim Marshall will always be remembered as 'The Father of loud' but also for his contribution to the sound and image of rock guitar enjoyed by many over the last half century.
Friday, 6 April 2012
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Wall to Wall York Walk
It felt like the beginning of a great expedition. It was a thursday, but many great or at least one in every seven of the great adventures of the world must have started on a thursday. Christopher Columbus may have had a lie in on a wednesday and then it was too late to set off, etc, etc so thursday was best to begin the stumbling upon the Americas, ditto James Cook- late delivery of ships biscuits on a wednesday night so best to set sail thursday, Cortez had a late swordsmans lesson mid week therefore making thursday the only possible diarised date to begin the exploitation of the native South American peoples.
As I headed away from the Hull urban area it was bright but quite cold out of the direct sun. There was snow in the fields and hedgerows on the higher ground above Pocklington but not a cloud in the powder blue sky. I felt that it was going to be a good day for exploring and actually acheiving the circumnavigation of York along its magnificent walls.
The walls are the longest and best preserved in England at nearly three miles long. Their origins are clouded by their substantial reconstruction and renovations in the comparatively modern times since the 19th Century but for authenticity there remains intact a whole stretch of Roman walls including two towers. As with a good proportion of the well planned and executed civil works by the Romans these formed the structural basis for many of the later attempts to form fortifications and monuments by the more civilised and lasting rulers of the country such as the later Norman invaders. Most of the renovated walling is early medieval from around 1250 AD.
My quest was to be clockwise starting from Lendal Bridge one of the important crossing points of the River Ouse. On this particular thursday the river was manageable and well contained within its banks rather than marauding through the pubs and houses on the embankment which it often does even with modern flood defences in place. The integrity of the wall beyond Lendal Tower was surely tested in the early to mid 1800's when it was permitted to be punched through in the interests of the progresion of the steam railway. That George Hudson, the self proclaimed Railway King must have had superb powers of persuasion, significant economic clout or some very incriminating facts about the City elders who had strongly resisted any such traversties in the heritage of York. The walls had served the City well over the centuries against pillagers and worse and in 1645 a Civil War siege.
Micklegate Bar is first mentioned in the12th Century. A strikingly functional and intimidating building over four storeys in gritstone and magnesian limestone with some nice carved embellishments. The walkway has escaped health and safety measures and the steep drop to the inner bank makes the meeting of those undertaking their own adventure but in an anti-clockwise direction a bit scary particularly if the whole oncoming family insist on walking 5 or 6 abreast. The Victorian housing in the lee of the wall is in the warm and mellow brick characteristic to York. Certainly some of the most expensive two bedroomed real estate in the City. There is a clump of grassy bank as the wall turns east which is the former motte of a castle and then it is down the slippery stepped courses off the wall where it ends just behind the warehousing and posh apartments built along the western bank of the river.
I crossed the Skeldergate Bridge which was still busy with tourists although obviously lost and confused by the temporary disppearance of the wall. The consultation by the United Nations of visitors of their guide maps allows another photo opportunity to be taken. Along Fishergate the housing just inside the wall is mainly of rather plain and corporate looking flats and low rise housing. The main road in from Hull along which I had driven earlier in the day halts at a busy traffic light controlled junction in front of the Walmgate Bar. This is well preserved with its 14th Century Barbican now part of the extensive cycle routes around York. On the inner side is a residence dating from the 1580's and must be one of the best and coolest places to live albeit possiby a bit cramped, noisy and draughty. Even following a battering in the Civil War the gateway was carefully restored along with its portcullis.
The wall is lower along this section with a short but steep embankment onto the inner ring road. Perhaps this was the most vulnerable flank although give that nourishment and longevity were still very poor in the warring years the fortifications would present a formidable obstacle to the sickly, bandy-legged and quite short of stature armed forces of even the most determined and resolute attackers. As the wall again disappears at the Red Tower, a squat very Romanesque looking citadel but from 1490 there is nothing in sight apart from Waitrose, Morrisons and a Wine Warehouse. There is quite an extensive gap on this eastern edge of the old part of York but to some extent the defences are in the form of a former fishpond now part of a canal waterway. This part of the wall walk is quite demoralising alongside crawling or stationary traffic and with a strange stagnant odour from the grubby canal. It is good to ascend back up onto the all for the best section by far which takes in Layerthorpe Tower and exposed Roman walling. Monk Bar is, at four storeys in limestone, a great landmark and many visitors cannot resist the museum to Richard III the infamous hunchback and villanous monarch who was a local lad.
Now travelling broadly north there are good views of York Minster and the gardens and grounds of grand mansions and town houses including the Treasurers House. The steep outer bank here also shows a deep defensive ditch. Bootham Bar is the next vantage point and occupies the site of the Roman Legionary Fortress but is mainly of 12th century and later construction. The end of my journey is soon in sight as I again approach Lendal Tower.
It has been a tremendous adventure, I accept probably never more than a few hundred metres from a Starbucks and with no significant danger apart from a temporarily loose shoe lace at one stage on a section of wall with no safety rail.. I did dodge a bit across the gaps in the ramparts to avoid imaginary arrows and projectiles and go through, word for word the dialogue of the French Kerniggets from Monty Python and The Holy Grail but only when I was out of sight and earshot of other visitors. The circumnavigation provides a good but brief insight into the broad and varied history of York and does serve to get the vascular and respiratory system into operation after quite a long and lazy winter and early spring.
As I headed away from the Hull urban area it was bright but quite cold out of the direct sun. There was snow in the fields and hedgerows on the higher ground above Pocklington but not a cloud in the powder blue sky. I felt that it was going to be a good day for exploring and actually acheiving the circumnavigation of York along its magnificent walls.
The walls are the longest and best preserved in England at nearly three miles long. Their origins are clouded by their substantial reconstruction and renovations in the comparatively modern times since the 19th Century but for authenticity there remains intact a whole stretch of Roman walls including two towers. As with a good proportion of the well planned and executed civil works by the Romans these formed the structural basis for many of the later attempts to form fortifications and monuments by the more civilised and lasting rulers of the country such as the later Norman invaders. Most of the renovated walling is early medieval from around 1250 AD.
My quest was to be clockwise starting from Lendal Bridge one of the important crossing points of the River Ouse. On this particular thursday the river was manageable and well contained within its banks rather than marauding through the pubs and houses on the embankment which it often does even with modern flood defences in place. The integrity of the wall beyond Lendal Tower was surely tested in the early to mid 1800's when it was permitted to be punched through in the interests of the progresion of the steam railway. That George Hudson, the self proclaimed Railway King must have had superb powers of persuasion, significant economic clout or some very incriminating facts about the City elders who had strongly resisted any such traversties in the heritage of York. The walls had served the City well over the centuries against pillagers and worse and in 1645 a Civil War siege.
Micklegate Bar is first mentioned in the12th Century. A strikingly functional and intimidating building over four storeys in gritstone and magnesian limestone with some nice carved embellishments. The walkway has escaped health and safety measures and the steep drop to the inner bank makes the meeting of those undertaking their own adventure but in an anti-clockwise direction a bit scary particularly if the whole oncoming family insist on walking 5 or 6 abreast. The Victorian housing in the lee of the wall is in the warm and mellow brick characteristic to York. Certainly some of the most expensive two bedroomed real estate in the City. There is a clump of grassy bank as the wall turns east which is the former motte of a castle and then it is down the slippery stepped courses off the wall where it ends just behind the warehousing and posh apartments built along the western bank of the river.
I crossed the Skeldergate Bridge which was still busy with tourists although obviously lost and confused by the temporary disppearance of the wall. The consultation by the United Nations of visitors of their guide maps allows another photo opportunity to be taken. Along Fishergate the housing just inside the wall is mainly of rather plain and corporate looking flats and low rise housing. The main road in from Hull along which I had driven earlier in the day halts at a busy traffic light controlled junction in front of the Walmgate Bar. This is well preserved with its 14th Century Barbican now part of the extensive cycle routes around York. On the inner side is a residence dating from the 1580's and must be one of the best and coolest places to live albeit possiby a bit cramped, noisy and draughty. Even following a battering in the Civil War the gateway was carefully restored along with its portcullis.
The wall is lower along this section with a short but steep embankment onto the inner ring road. Perhaps this was the most vulnerable flank although give that nourishment and longevity were still very poor in the warring years the fortifications would present a formidable obstacle to the sickly, bandy-legged and quite short of stature armed forces of even the most determined and resolute attackers. As the wall again disappears at the Red Tower, a squat very Romanesque looking citadel but from 1490 there is nothing in sight apart from Waitrose, Morrisons and a Wine Warehouse. There is quite an extensive gap on this eastern edge of the old part of York but to some extent the defences are in the form of a former fishpond now part of a canal waterway. This part of the wall walk is quite demoralising alongside crawling or stationary traffic and with a strange stagnant odour from the grubby canal. It is good to ascend back up onto the all for the best section by far which takes in Layerthorpe Tower and exposed Roman walling. Monk Bar is, at four storeys in limestone, a great landmark and many visitors cannot resist the museum to Richard III the infamous hunchback and villanous monarch who was a local lad.
Now travelling broadly north there are good views of York Minster and the gardens and grounds of grand mansions and town houses including the Treasurers House. The steep outer bank here also shows a deep defensive ditch. Bootham Bar is the next vantage point and occupies the site of the Roman Legionary Fortress but is mainly of 12th century and later construction. The end of my journey is soon in sight as I again approach Lendal Tower.
It has been a tremendous adventure, I accept probably never more than a few hundred metres from a Starbucks and with no significant danger apart from a temporarily loose shoe lace at one stage on a section of wall with no safety rail.. I did dodge a bit across the gaps in the ramparts to avoid imaginary arrows and projectiles and go through, word for word the dialogue of the French Kerniggets from Monty Python and The Holy Grail but only when I was out of sight and earshot of other visitors. The circumnavigation provides a good but brief insight into the broad and varied history of York and does serve to get the vascular and respiratory system into operation after quite a long and lazy winter and early spring.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Out, Standing in his own field
At the age of 14 I was convinced that I wanted to be a farmer.
I was totally and absolutely convinced about it and no parental logic could sway me. They did have a point as I had, just a few weeks prior, been more than certain that I wanted to join the army. As only wise parents can they would just gently guide and encourage me to find my true vocation. I hated that at the time. The whole agricultural career thing had really started after a holiday in Somerset staying on the farm of my Fathers' relatives. I suppose, at 14, I was at a delicate stage between being a stupid kid and wanting acceptance as a young adult. I felt that I could not do anything right in the eyes of my parents. It was partly justified as I had blown up the kitchen with volatile home made ginger beer, lost the keys to the house and was convinced that I had killed my Gran's dog. However, my parents did have faith in me. I hated that at the time.
Me and my two sisters were to set off a week ahead of the rest of the family to accept an invitation to stay for a few days with cousins in Taunton. We represented 3/7ths of the family and were put on the train at Scunthorpe with the other 4/7ths to travel later towing the caravan with the master plan that we would all meet up on the farm. In my mind I can visualise the departure on the train as somehow being in black and white and with me carrying a gas mask and string wrapped parcel. I was not however, an evacuee.
The train journey with a change at Birmingham was uneventful. No dodgy characters, no murders or sleuthing, no secret agent baggage drops. I must have been very heavily influenced by all things TV and movies at that age. It was still a big deal for the three of us who had never travelled unaccompanied before.
At Taunton we were welcomed by our Aunt and Uncle and had a busy few days being very well looked after. We went to some stately homes and learnt a lot. It was the summer holidays but there was educational content to be extracted from everything. We hated that at the time. We thoroughly tired out our, only two, cousins and they must have been mightily relieved when we departed for the next stage of our vacation.
The drive into the depths of Somerset was exciting in anticipation of what we could get up to. My fathers relatives had been builders in the immediate post war period in Croydon and North London so plenty of work was on hand to rebuild the bombed out housing. Their hard graft had made their reward a large detached house, white rendered and red rosemary tiled up a long rhododendron lined driveway and overlooking a deep, beautiful pastured valley with a trout filled river running through it. The house, a mansion in our eyes with an unprecedented two staircases, was part of a working farm with adjacent crew yard, pole barns and livestock pens. Some miles distant was the main dairy operation with about 70 friesian cows and the milking parlour.
The sights, smells and bustle of the place really caught my imagination. I had taken on board the dream of being a farmer without grasping that it actually required a lot of hard work. In the following week we were very enthusiastic young farmers and participated in all the day to day requirements of an industrial scale business. The pigs had to be fed and mucked out. They were quite smelly and the sows would easily roll onto and crush their young.Extracting the tiny dead piglets was quite interesting in a gory sort of way. At the dairy we helped to herd the cows and were amazed that all of the beasts were individually named and could be recognised by their markings. I could not see any difference at all. They were all, to me, identical. The highlight of the week was a sheep-drive from the main farm across to the pasture at the dairy farm. We shouted and hollered at the vague animals, guided and cajoled them with our wooden staffs and took great delight in holding up the traffic through the narrow, high banked lanes. The job seemed to be an epic of mile upon mile when in fact I think it was only quite a short distance.
The not so highlight of the week was cleaning out the sheep dip. This was akin to child labour. Between the metal arrival and departure pens was a concrete lined channel, tapered to a narrow trench and wide enough at the top for a fat sheeps girth. The dipping season had just finished and the residue in the gully was a noxious mix of diluted sheep droppings, wool ringlets and pungent chemicals. The latter, fortunately, largely cancelled out the former. Buckets and brooms were the weapons of choice. In the summer heat the task was quite unbearable but we completed it, much to the surprise of our hosts who had obviously set it as a challenge for the townie kids. Even now, some 34 years later I still get a faint taste of the toxic cocktail if I bite my fingernails.
The stay on the farm flew by and when the rest of the family brought the caravan down we were relegated from the big house to an impromptu camp site in a field in the valley. I was very much taken with the farming life and was in a right stropping mood for the duration with my parents. The holiday did continue in the lovely surroundings of deepest rural Somerset, we picked mushrooms, walked the old railway courses, picked wild flowers, threw stones from bridge parapets at the fish below and dared each other to touch both horizontal strands of the electric fence.
When the time to leave came I cried for what I was leaving behind. I sulked and was unbearable through the long drive home. I stomped up to my room when we reached what now seemed like a very tiny, shed like house with a single staircase. From my pockets I emptied out my collected mementos. Amongst the bits of dry straw in the lining was a twist of chemically soaked wool, a pebble which later degraded into an actual piece of animal dung, a tag from the ear of a cow and my herding staff which, with great difficulty, had made the journey back straddled by the occupants of a very crowded car. Within a few weeks my love affair with farmng was over.I was convinced that I wanted to be someone who did surveying or whatever that was. Just be careful what you wish for because in my case it did come true.
(Originally published in October 2011 under Title 'Farming for Boys' just in case you think you have read it before because you may well have. Yes, I have had a busy day at work so apologise for not writing something new. I am taking an extra day as official leave tomorrow and with the long Easter Break I promise to provide some original material- stick with me)
I was totally and absolutely convinced about it and no parental logic could sway me. They did have a point as I had, just a few weeks prior, been more than certain that I wanted to join the army. As only wise parents can they would just gently guide and encourage me to find my true vocation. I hated that at the time. The whole agricultural career thing had really started after a holiday in Somerset staying on the farm of my Fathers' relatives. I suppose, at 14, I was at a delicate stage between being a stupid kid and wanting acceptance as a young adult. I felt that I could not do anything right in the eyes of my parents. It was partly justified as I had blown up the kitchen with volatile home made ginger beer, lost the keys to the house and was convinced that I had killed my Gran's dog. However, my parents did have faith in me. I hated that at the time.
Me and my two sisters were to set off a week ahead of the rest of the family to accept an invitation to stay for a few days with cousins in Taunton. We represented 3/7ths of the family and were put on the train at Scunthorpe with the other 4/7ths to travel later towing the caravan with the master plan that we would all meet up on the farm. In my mind I can visualise the departure on the train as somehow being in black and white and with me carrying a gas mask and string wrapped parcel. I was not however, an evacuee.
The train journey with a change at Birmingham was uneventful. No dodgy characters, no murders or sleuthing, no secret agent baggage drops. I must have been very heavily influenced by all things TV and movies at that age. It was still a big deal for the three of us who had never travelled unaccompanied before.
At Taunton we were welcomed by our Aunt and Uncle and had a busy few days being very well looked after. We went to some stately homes and learnt a lot. It was the summer holidays but there was educational content to be extracted from everything. We hated that at the time. We thoroughly tired out our, only two, cousins and they must have been mightily relieved when we departed for the next stage of our vacation.
The drive into the depths of Somerset was exciting in anticipation of what we could get up to. My fathers relatives had been builders in the immediate post war period in Croydon and North London so plenty of work was on hand to rebuild the bombed out housing. Their hard graft had made their reward a large detached house, white rendered and red rosemary tiled up a long rhododendron lined driveway and overlooking a deep, beautiful pastured valley with a trout filled river running through it. The house, a mansion in our eyes with an unprecedented two staircases, was part of a working farm with adjacent crew yard, pole barns and livestock pens. Some miles distant was the main dairy operation with about 70 friesian cows and the milking parlour.
The sights, smells and bustle of the place really caught my imagination. I had taken on board the dream of being a farmer without grasping that it actually required a lot of hard work. In the following week we were very enthusiastic young farmers and participated in all the day to day requirements of an industrial scale business. The pigs had to be fed and mucked out. They were quite smelly and the sows would easily roll onto and crush their young.Extracting the tiny dead piglets was quite interesting in a gory sort of way. At the dairy we helped to herd the cows and were amazed that all of the beasts were individually named and could be recognised by their markings. I could not see any difference at all. They were all, to me, identical. The highlight of the week was a sheep-drive from the main farm across to the pasture at the dairy farm. We shouted and hollered at the vague animals, guided and cajoled them with our wooden staffs and took great delight in holding up the traffic through the narrow, high banked lanes. The job seemed to be an epic of mile upon mile when in fact I think it was only quite a short distance.
The not so highlight of the week was cleaning out the sheep dip. This was akin to child labour. Between the metal arrival and departure pens was a concrete lined channel, tapered to a narrow trench and wide enough at the top for a fat sheeps girth. The dipping season had just finished and the residue in the gully was a noxious mix of diluted sheep droppings, wool ringlets and pungent chemicals. The latter, fortunately, largely cancelled out the former. Buckets and brooms were the weapons of choice. In the summer heat the task was quite unbearable but we completed it, much to the surprise of our hosts who had obviously set it as a challenge for the townie kids. Even now, some 34 years later I still get a faint taste of the toxic cocktail if I bite my fingernails.
The stay on the farm flew by and when the rest of the family brought the caravan down we were relegated from the big house to an impromptu camp site in a field in the valley. I was very much taken with the farming life and was in a right stropping mood for the duration with my parents. The holiday did continue in the lovely surroundings of deepest rural Somerset, we picked mushrooms, walked the old railway courses, picked wild flowers, threw stones from bridge parapets at the fish below and dared each other to touch both horizontal strands of the electric fence.
When the time to leave came I cried for what I was leaving behind. I sulked and was unbearable through the long drive home. I stomped up to my room when we reached what now seemed like a very tiny, shed like house with a single staircase. From my pockets I emptied out my collected mementos. Amongst the bits of dry straw in the lining was a twist of chemically soaked wool, a pebble which later degraded into an actual piece of animal dung, a tag from the ear of a cow and my herding staff which, with great difficulty, had made the journey back straddled by the occupants of a very crowded car. Within a few weeks my love affair with farmng was over.I was convinced that I wanted to be someone who did surveying or whatever that was. Just be careful what you wish for because in my case it did come true.
(Originally published in October 2011 under Title 'Farming for Boys' just in case you think you have read it before because you may well have. Yes, I have had a busy day at work so apologise for not writing something new. I am taking an extra day as official leave tomorrow and with the long Easter Break I promise to provide some original material- stick with me)
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
A game of Travel Squabble
In the long ago days when restraint belts were not compulsory in the rear of a car we relied upon the sticky black vinyl seats , increasingly hot and tacky with the miles, to keep us firmly adhered and safe in the vehicle.
It was not a very pleasant experience and the back of bare legs between sports socks and shorts were always salmon pink in colour from the combined influence of the tight black vinyl weave effect of efficient German seat design and an accumulation of sweaty bodies which was inevitable in a large and tightly packed family car.
Only the really posh cars had anything like a good ventilation system and even then quite a long way in technology and performance from what we now expect as standard equipment in air conditioning or climate control. The VW Variant Estate was unusually only a two door model and it followed that the only windows for winding down were in the complete supervision of our parents who shared the driving and front seat navigation/passengering role on longer journeys such as the annual summer holidays.
The temperature amongst us kids on the back seat would become quite stifling. Those sat immediately behind the front seats could stand up, hang onto the back of the headrest and just catch a few gusts of cool breeze through the window but only after persuading parents to crack one open. There was no middle ground in airflow requirements to the back seat. Half the occupants were more than happy with the window fully or partially open but opposed by the other half who complained of being sensitive to draughts and could feel an ear-ache coming on.
It is something just peculiar to VW cars that if only one of the side windows is slightly open then there is an almighty and faint-inducing vibrational pressure wave which feels like your brain could explode. The very uncomfortable feeling is only relieved by opening the other window to the same extent to even out the build up of air. I had seen pictures of VW Beetles floating away in flood waters and my Look and Learn Magazine had a feature about the same model being able to do this without any special works to seal the body against leaks. Our parents VW was evidently from the same proud production facility at somewhere called Wolfsburg.
In car entertainment had to be on the basis of our own efforts in the absence of a radio and certainly well before 8 track and audio cassette players. Us kids had the usual spotter books mainly from the 'I-Spy' range but frequent looking up and down usually caused a strong feeling of travel sickness. On the cheap we became expert at spotting and correctly reading road signs with the usual jokes about large breasted women lying down in the road (hump backed bridge), asexual figure struggling with umbrella (Men at Work) and stick man pointing (right or left hand turn) and many in the same comic genre. Otherwise our main activities were singing and squabbling.
Rest stops were regular on longer trips. Various choices such as lay-bys, field gateways and beautiful viewpoints would present themselves but by the time we had all agreed on their suitability we would have driven past and on with a missed opportunity to park up. Again half of us back seat occupants would be in favour, the other not because it smelt funny or something like that. When we did stop we would enjoy the excellent forward planning of Mother's picnic fare with a packet of crisps each, sandwiches, Penguin chocolate biscuits and lashings of orange squash. Then back in the car after a wee wee in the hedgerow or behind a tree dependant on whether a little Boys or Girls requirement .
We were not wanting for anything in our young lives as we were healthy and loved and quite privileged in a struggling world but sometimes asked for more when we should have known better
We did once collectively bully our parents into taking us to a Little Chef Restuarant whilst on holiday in Scotland. Us kids had it in our minds that we must, above all other things, have pancakes and maple syrup. We had not had them before and the idea must have been a subversive mental plant from something like Scooby Doo, The Partridge Family or any one of a dozen TV shows imported from the United States.
The cost to our parents of a large platter of the batter cakes and a huge jug of syrup was exhorbitant and must have seriously whittled away the whole fortnights budget. With the first taste of the rich, sticky maple syrup we decided in complete unison that it was the most disgusting tasting thing in the whole known world.
I had not up to that point really seen my parents angry but there is a first time for everything. We left under a very large cloud of parental disapproval.
It was not a very pleasant experience and the back of bare legs between sports socks and shorts were always salmon pink in colour from the combined influence of the tight black vinyl weave effect of efficient German seat design and an accumulation of sweaty bodies which was inevitable in a large and tightly packed family car.
Only the really posh cars had anything like a good ventilation system and even then quite a long way in technology and performance from what we now expect as standard equipment in air conditioning or climate control. The VW Variant Estate was unusually only a two door model and it followed that the only windows for winding down were in the complete supervision of our parents who shared the driving and front seat navigation/passengering role on longer journeys such as the annual summer holidays.
The temperature amongst us kids on the back seat would become quite stifling. Those sat immediately behind the front seats could stand up, hang onto the back of the headrest and just catch a few gusts of cool breeze through the window but only after persuading parents to crack one open. There was no middle ground in airflow requirements to the back seat. Half the occupants were more than happy with the window fully or partially open but opposed by the other half who complained of being sensitive to draughts and could feel an ear-ache coming on.
It is something just peculiar to VW cars that if only one of the side windows is slightly open then there is an almighty and faint-inducing vibrational pressure wave which feels like your brain could explode. The very uncomfortable feeling is only relieved by opening the other window to the same extent to even out the build up of air. I had seen pictures of VW Beetles floating away in flood waters and my Look and Learn Magazine had a feature about the same model being able to do this without any special works to seal the body against leaks. Our parents VW was evidently from the same proud production facility at somewhere called Wolfsburg.
In car entertainment had to be on the basis of our own efforts in the absence of a radio and certainly well before 8 track and audio cassette players. Us kids had the usual spotter books mainly from the 'I-Spy' range but frequent looking up and down usually caused a strong feeling of travel sickness. On the cheap we became expert at spotting and correctly reading road signs with the usual jokes about large breasted women lying down in the road (hump backed bridge), asexual figure struggling with umbrella (Men at Work) and stick man pointing (right or left hand turn) and many in the same comic genre. Otherwise our main activities were singing and squabbling.
Rest stops were regular on longer trips. Various choices such as lay-bys, field gateways and beautiful viewpoints would present themselves but by the time we had all agreed on their suitability we would have driven past and on with a missed opportunity to park up. Again half of us back seat occupants would be in favour, the other not because it smelt funny or something like that. When we did stop we would enjoy the excellent forward planning of Mother's picnic fare with a packet of crisps each, sandwiches, Penguin chocolate biscuits and lashings of orange squash. Then back in the car after a wee wee in the hedgerow or behind a tree dependant on whether a little Boys or Girls requirement .
We were not wanting for anything in our young lives as we were healthy and loved and quite privileged in a struggling world but sometimes asked for more when we should have known better
We did once collectively bully our parents into taking us to a Little Chef Restuarant whilst on holiday in Scotland. Us kids had it in our minds that we must, above all other things, have pancakes and maple syrup. We had not had them before and the idea must have been a subversive mental plant from something like Scooby Doo, The Partridge Family or any one of a dozen TV shows imported from the United States.
The cost to our parents of a large platter of the batter cakes and a huge jug of syrup was exhorbitant and must have seriously whittled away the whole fortnights budget. With the first taste of the rich, sticky maple syrup we decided in complete unison that it was the most disgusting tasting thing in the whole known world.
I had not up to that point really seen my parents angry but there is a first time for everything. We left under a very large cloud of parental disapproval.
Monday, 2 April 2012
Hull versus The Zeppelins
A failure rate at 67% is, in my opinion,an indication that something is not really viable or sustainable and should be stopped immediately. Unfortunately, such a pitifully poor statistic can only be judged in hindsight.
More unfortunate is the fact that from 1914 to 1918 the specific statistic was being generated by the 115 Zeppelins of the German military. A total of 77 craft were shot down, crashed or otherwise terminally malfunctioned but not before they had terrorised the civilian population of the UK in the first incidences of aerial attack in what became known, much later in the second global conflict, as Total War. Count von Zeppelin had been pioneering large airships and their application to military use in the late 1800's and with the first progression from patented blueprint to actual airborne prototypes as early as 1900.
A bit cumbersome, quite unpredictable to manoeuvre and very volatile in their hydrogen inflation there must have been some scepticism from the authorities about their practical use.
However, in the early stages of the first world war they were very highly regarded for reconnaisance over the front lines and for a few silent forays and bombing missions over Paris and other allied targets. The time was right for an otherwise prominent, ponderous and highly flammable blimp as neither small arms fire from the trenches, anti-aircraft fire or pursuit aircraft were sufficiently advanced or potent to constitute a threat .At an operating height of around 3000 feet and propulsion speeds of 85 mph nothing could touch the imposing Zeppelins. It was therefore a natural strategic decision to use the airships in a much more offensive role.
The Kaiser did not want London to be bombed from the air or at least there was a strict directive not to inflict damage on any of his favourite and historic buildings in th capital. Next choice for the onslaught of the first aerial assault on mainland England was, logically, Hull, an important east coast Port within good range.
The first mass Zeppelin raids were commenced in early to mid 1915 . Adverse weather and winds prevented the primary target being reached. Hull had a reprieve but Great Yarmouth was bombed and recorded the first home fatality of bombardment from the air.
It was not long before Hull resumed its place as the most attacked city, by Zeppelins, outside London. The silent menace of the airships was both sinister and terrifying for the civilian population of Hull. The Zeppelins would leave their mooring masts and hangers at dusk, head across the North Sea and make landfall on the east coast in the early hours of the morning. The combination of darkness, cloud induced invisibilty and the prospect of a torrent of high explosive bombs and incendiaries caused many citizens to stay outdoors in public open space and parks for the peak threat periods.
The prospect of after-dark attacks led to the description of these hours as 'Buzzer Nights'.
One documented account of a typical attack illustrates the rising tension and fear. Zeppelin Raiders had been spotted in the North Sea at 7.25pm. A blackout was ordered in Hull at 9.30pm. The first airships appeared over the town of Hedon, 5 miles to the east of the city at 11.47pm. In the subsequent slow and circling bombing run from 3000 feet altitude a total of 32 devices were dropped with a loss of life and widespread devastation to buildings and infrastructure. The Ordnance was intended for maximum destruction by explosive impact or a firestorm. Canisters containing the explosive Thermite mixed with tar and benzol were most effective to set buildings alight. The target areas of the extensive docks, wharves,warehouses and the centre of the city were also close to or inclusive of dense areas of terraced housing and many women and children were killed. A poster and propaganda campaign showed a searchlight captured Zeppelin under the title of 'The Baby Killer'. The largest Parish Church in England (almost a cathedral) , Holy Trinity, Hull narrowly escaped destruction after the adjacent Edwin Davis Department Store, only 27 feet away collapsed under incendiary attack.
The people of Hull, under the menace of attack expressed anger at the apparent lack of civil defence measures of either land based guns or interceptor aircraft. More socially disruptive was a very unhelpfully devisive campaign by the Hull Daily Mail newspaper speculating that residents of the city with German origins may be signalling to,or assisting in target spotting for the Zeppelins. A number of longstanding family run shops and businesses of settled German migrants, now British citizens,were attacked by small ,angry mobs. This was widely condemned by the vast majority of the population as the work of mindless thugs. The air raid sirens were frequent from June 1915 to the summer of the following year.
Such was the arbitrary nature of the wind and weather in the flight planning of the raiders that Hull was on alert even if not the main target. It was easy for the Zeppelins to follow the course of the Humber immediately south of Hull to reach the Midlands and as far west as Liverpool. The looming mass of an airship in proximity to the city even en-route elsewhere must have instilled great fear and trepidation. The burgeoning statistics of failure for the Zeppelin fleet did prompt developments in technology to try to offset the high losses of men and machines. The L-designated models of the first attacks were replaced by successive M and P Class models, the former with 6 engine propulsion, a ceiling height of 13,000 feet and bomb carrying payload of 4 tons.
Another well documented attack on Hull took place in early March 1916. This involved 3 of the P Class Zeppelins. Captain Scheutze commanding L-11 had originally intended to attack the naval shipyards at Rosyth near Edinburgh but was driven south east. The weather was atrocious with snow storms, dense snow and ice bearing clouds and swirling winds which at 54mph largely checked any chance of progress by the straining engines. The gondola slung under the gas filled balloon was icing up and inhospitable to Captain and crew. Unable to control the craft in such conditions the Captain contemplated abandoning the mission. After discounting Middlesborough, the tertiary target of Hull was considered. Navigation by sight, usually following the course of railway lines was difficult and L-11 could have been anywhere along the eastern side of England. Then a series of explosions were spotted through a break in the cloud cover. The sister P Class airships had found their default targets in Hull. The Captain completed his objective.
A later attack by 9 Zeppelins in the August of 1916 caused a further 9 deaths, again predominantly defenceless citizens. Gradually tactics by ground based gunners and intrepid flyers became a tangible threat to the Zeppelins and operations against mainland England scaled down significantly. The manufacturing, fuelling and mooring stations of the Zeppelins in the axis countries also came within range of allied attacks. The last recorded Zeppelin over Hull was in March 1918 with one fatality on the ground, a lady, dying from the shock of the return of the aerial threat, and not directly from enemy action.
At great loss to life, Hull had nevertheless survived as a frontline city in the new phenomena of Total War. What was not foreseen or anticipated at the time was the even more severe devastation of Hull in the Second World War by the same enemy but with battle hardened and considerably more efficient flying machines.
(previously published as 'Buzzer Nights' on 9th November 2011)
More unfortunate is the fact that from 1914 to 1918 the specific statistic was being generated by the 115 Zeppelins of the German military. A total of 77 craft were shot down, crashed or otherwise terminally malfunctioned but not before they had terrorised the civilian population of the UK in the first incidences of aerial attack in what became known, much later in the second global conflict, as Total War. Count von Zeppelin had been pioneering large airships and their application to military use in the late 1800's and with the first progression from patented blueprint to actual airborne prototypes as early as 1900.
A bit cumbersome, quite unpredictable to manoeuvre and very volatile in their hydrogen inflation there must have been some scepticism from the authorities about their practical use.
However, in the early stages of the first world war they were very highly regarded for reconnaisance over the front lines and for a few silent forays and bombing missions over Paris and other allied targets. The time was right for an otherwise prominent, ponderous and highly flammable blimp as neither small arms fire from the trenches, anti-aircraft fire or pursuit aircraft were sufficiently advanced or potent to constitute a threat .At an operating height of around 3000 feet and propulsion speeds of 85 mph nothing could touch the imposing Zeppelins. It was therefore a natural strategic decision to use the airships in a much more offensive role.
The Kaiser did not want London to be bombed from the air or at least there was a strict directive not to inflict damage on any of his favourite and historic buildings in th capital. Next choice for the onslaught of the first aerial assault on mainland England was, logically, Hull, an important east coast Port within good range.
The first mass Zeppelin raids were commenced in early to mid 1915 . Adverse weather and winds prevented the primary target being reached. Hull had a reprieve but Great Yarmouth was bombed and recorded the first home fatality of bombardment from the air.
It was not long before Hull resumed its place as the most attacked city, by Zeppelins, outside London. The silent menace of the airships was both sinister and terrifying for the civilian population of Hull. The Zeppelins would leave their mooring masts and hangers at dusk, head across the North Sea and make landfall on the east coast in the early hours of the morning. The combination of darkness, cloud induced invisibilty and the prospect of a torrent of high explosive bombs and incendiaries caused many citizens to stay outdoors in public open space and parks for the peak threat periods.
The prospect of after-dark attacks led to the description of these hours as 'Buzzer Nights'.
One documented account of a typical attack illustrates the rising tension and fear. Zeppelin Raiders had been spotted in the North Sea at 7.25pm. A blackout was ordered in Hull at 9.30pm. The first airships appeared over the town of Hedon, 5 miles to the east of the city at 11.47pm. In the subsequent slow and circling bombing run from 3000 feet altitude a total of 32 devices were dropped with a loss of life and widespread devastation to buildings and infrastructure. The Ordnance was intended for maximum destruction by explosive impact or a firestorm. Canisters containing the explosive Thermite mixed with tar and benzol were most effective to set buildings alight. The target areas of the extensive docks, wharves,warehouses and the centre of the city were also close to or inclusive of dense areas of terraced housing and many women and children were killed. A poster and propaganda campaign showed a searchlight captured Zeppelin under the title of 'The Baby Killer'. The largest Parish Church in England (almost a cathedral) , Holy Trinity, Hull narrowly escaped destruction after the adjacent Edwin Davis Department Store, only 27 feet away collapsed under incendiary attack.
The people of Hull, under the menace of attack expressed anger at the apparent lack of civil defence measures of either land based guns or interceptor aircraft. More socially disruptive was a very unhelpfully devisive campaign by the Hull Daily Mail newspaper speculating that residents of the city with German origins may be signalling to,or assisting in target spotting for the Zeppelins. A number of longstanding family run shops and businesses of settled German migrants, now British citizens,were attacked by small ,angry mobs. This was widely condemned by the vast majority of the population as the work of mindless thugs. The air raid sirens were frequent from June 1915 to the summer of the following year.
Such was the arbitrary nature of the wind and weather in the flight planning of the raiders that Hull was on alert even if not the main target. It was easy for the Zeppelins to follow the course of the Humber immediately south of Hull to reach the Midlands and as far west as Liverpool. The looming mass of an airship in proximity to the city even en-route elsewhere must have instilled great fear and trepidation. The burgeoning statistics of failure for the Zeppelin fleet did prompt developments in technology to try to offset the high losses of men and machines. The L-designated models of the first attacks were replaced by successive M and P Class models, the former with 6 engine propulsion, a ceiling height of 13,000 feet and bomb carrying payload of 4 tons.
Another well documented attack on Hull took place in early March 1916. This involved 3 of the P Class Zeppelins. Captain Scheutze commanding L-11 had originally intended to attack the naval shipyards at Rosyth near Edinburgh but was driven south east. The weather was atrocious with snow storms, dense snow and ice bearing clouds and swirling winds which at 54mph largely checked any chance of progress by the straining engines. The gondola slung under the gas filled balloon was icing up and inhospitable to Captain and crew. Unable to control the craft in such conditions the Captain contemplated abandoning the mission. After discounting Middlesborough, the tertiary target of Hull was considered. Navigation by sight, usually following the course of railway lines was difficult and L-11 could have been anywhere along the eastern side of England. Then a series of explosions were spotted through a break in the cloud cover. The sister P Class airships had found their default targets in Hull. The Captain completed his objective.
A later attack by 9 Zeppelins in the August of 1916 caused a further 9 deaths, again predominantly defenceless citizens. Gradually tactics by ground based gunners and intrepid flyers became a tangible threat to the Zeppelins and operations against mainland England scaled down significantly. The manufacturing, fuelling and mooring stations of the Zeppelins in the axis countries also came within range of allied attacks. The last recorded Zeppelin over Hull was in March 1918 with one fatality on the ground, a lady, dying from the shock of the return of the aerial threat, and not directly from enemy action.
At great loss to life, Hull had nevertheless survived as a frontline city in the new phenomena of Total War. What was not foreseen or anticipated at the time was the even more severe devastation of Hull in the Second World War by the same enemy but with battle hardened and considerably more efficient flying machines.
(previously published as 'Buzzer Nights' on 9th November 2011)
Sunday, 1 April 2012
Little Mo and Betty Two
It is going to be a momentous week.
On thursday the Queen comes to meet my Mother in law.
It is hard to believe that they have not got together before as they have a lot of things in common, especially the position of respect, love and admiration that they command amongst their respective peoples. Their work ethic and sense of tradition puts many of their contemporaries to shame.
Because of their busy diaries and activities the meeting will take place on neutral territory in York and promises to be an event that will be remembered for many years to come.
As Mothers and Grandmothers the potential topics for conversation will no doubt be varied but very practical and down to earth.They are both well known for their wise counsel which can only come from long term experience of home and family life and representing something that is so undervalued in todays fast paced and often selfish world.
Coming from this broad base of real life both ladies have provided a firm and resolute but compassionate foundation for their respective offspring which has prepared them well for their own responsibilities in the wider world.
There is always a sense of mischief and humour in Maureens manner and a vitality and energy that cannot help but shine through even though she has to be reminded that she should be starting to think about scaling down her activities and put her feet up. Perhaps her example may be of some considerable help to the Queen who is a little bit older and deserving too of a graceful retirement from public service.
Maureen is a real people person and can readily engage with the public in any environment. With consumate and natural ease she makes friends and acquaintances from all walks of life which will help to put the Queen at ease if she is at all nervous about the day.
On thursday the Queen comes to meet my Mother in law.
It is hard to believe that they have not got together before as they have a lot of things in common, especially the position of respect, love and admiration that they command amongst their respective peoples. Their work ethic and sense of tradition puts many of their contemporaries to shame.
Because of their busy diaries and activities the meeting will take place on neutral territory in York and promises to be an event that will be remembered for many years to come.
As Mothers and Grandmothers the potential topics for conversation will no doubt be varied but very practical and down to earth.They are both well known for their wise counsel which can only come from long term experience of home and family life and representing something that is so undervalued in todays fast paced and often selfish world.
Coming from this broad base of real life both ladies have provided a firm and resolute but compassionate foundation for their respective offspring which has prepared them well for their own responsibilities in the wider world.
There is always a sense of mischief and humour in Maureens manner and a vitality and energy that cannot help but shine through even though she has to be reminded that she should be starting to think about scaling down her activities and put her feet up. Perhaps her example may be of some considerable help to the Queen who is a little bit older and deserving too of a graceful retirement from public service.
Maureen is a real people person and can readily engage with the public in any environment. With consumate and natural ease she makes friends and acquaintances from all walks of life which will help to put the Queen at ease if she is at all nervous about the day.
From the heart
I had an ambition to breed maggots.
I had come across the idea in the pages of some publication such as the Angling Times. It appeared to be quite a straight forward procedure but the sort of thing that, at age 14, you had to get some type of parental approval to do. It did make sense, perfect sense to me. A reasonable proportion of the cost of going fishing on one of the two rivers that ran through our town was for a measure of maggots, expressed in volume at half a pint or if optimistic, a whole pint. These were bought at the tackle shop where the proprietor would, for a pound, disappear into the back of the premises with my small round plastic bait box and return with it full to the brim with squirming life. There was always a musty, damp and organic smell from the grubs which promised well for a day on the riverbank even if, and it was usually the case, I caught nothing at all apart from perhaps my thumb on a barbed hook. If I could become self sufficient I would be quids in.
Maggots were everywhere. I had come across them in a natural setting when finding the rotting carcass of a rabbit deceased from myxomatosis which was epidemic at the time. The combination of death and fresh teeming life although in a fatalistic and morbid way was ultimately fascinating to a young and inquistive mind.
Old and discarded food was also a good place for maggots and more than once a forgotten sandwich from a packed lunch would issue forth a few live wriggling ones or if trapped in a sports bag, the dried almost fossilised remains. A brief headcount of the contents of the bait box, in a brief respite from the intense concentration of watching the fishing float for any actual or imagined interest, always revealed a small number of mahogany coloured maggots which had progressed to the hard shell larvae stage. Of course these were useless in any angling capacity.
The fridge freezer in our garage, packed full of food, somehow became disconnected from the power supply and the door was left slightly ajar. I am not sure how that actually happened but questions were inevitably asked of the younger offspring as there were no ice pops found amongst the otherwise seething and odorous mass of fly blown and maggot infested foodstuffs. It took a long time even after repeat washing and disinfecting to completely eradicate the smell from the appliance.
Anyway, in practice my maggot farm was well into the planning stage. I would require a bucket, enough bran to fill it and the main catalyst of a sheeps heart.
The theory was that, left somewere under cover but outside the house the animal organ would attract the right type of flies and provide an ideal receptacle to nurture their eggs to the maggot stage.The cash crop could then be separated from the bran by using Mothers metal colander. I managed to get a bucket. I told everyone of my intentions and at every opportunity. It was always met with the same sense of horror just at the thought of it.
Thereafter the scheme fell apart as my parents learned of the intended scheme and how it would operate. Bran and a sheeps heart requiring adult co-operation for purchase were essential elements that never made it into the bucket.
That ended my ambitions in maggot farming.
I had come across the idea in the pages of some publication such as the Angling Times. It appeared to be quite a straight forward procedure but the sort of thing that, at age 14, you had to get some type of parental approval to do. It did make sense, perfect sense to me. A reasonable proportion of the cost of going fishing on one of the two rivers that ran through our town was for a measure of maggots, expressed in volume at half a pint or if optimistic, a whole pint. These were bought at the tackle shop where the proprietor would, for a pound, disappear into the back of the premises with my small round plastic bait box and return with it full to the brim with squirming life. There was always a musty, damp and organic smell from the grubs which promised well for a day on the riverbank even if, and it was usually the case, I caught nothing at all apart from perhaps my thumb on a barbed hook. If I could become self sufficient I would be quids in.
Maggots were everywhere. I had come across them in a natural setting when finding the rotting carcass of a rabbit deceased from myxomatosis which was epidemic at the time. The combination of death and fresh teeming life although in a fatalistic and morbid way was ultimately fascinating to a young and inquistive mind.
Old and discarded food was also a good place for maggots and more than once a forgotten sandwich from a packed lunch would issue forth a few live wriggling ones or if trapped in a sports bag, the dried almost fossilised remains. A brief headcount of the contents of the bait box, in a brief respite from the intense concentration of watching the fishing float for any actual or imagined interest, always revealed a small number of mahogany coloured maggots which had progressed to the hard shell larvae stage. Of course these were useless in any angling capacity.
The fridge freezer in our garage, packed full of food, somehow became disconnected from the power supply and the door was left slightly ajar. I am not sure how that actually happened but questions were inevitably asked of the younger offspring as there were no ice pops found amongst the otherwise seething and odorous mass of fly blown and maggot infested foodstuffs. It took a long time even after repeat washing and disinfecting to completely eradicate the smell from the appliance.
Anyway, in practice my maggot farm was well into the planning stage. I would require a bucket, enough bran to fill it and the main catalyst of a sheeps heart.
The theory was that, left somewere under cover but outside the house the animal organ would attract the right type of flies and provide an ideal receptacle to nurture their eggs to the maggot stage.The cash crop could then be separated from the bran by using Mothers metal colander. I managed to get a bucket. I told everyone of my intentions and at every opportunity. It was always met with the same sense of horror just at the thought of it.
Thereafter the scheme fell apart as my parents learned of the intended scheme and how it would operate. Bran and a sheeps heart requiring adult co-operation for purchase were essential elements that never made it into the bucket.
That ended my ambitions in maggot farming.
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