It was, on reflection, a masterful piece of play-acting.
So convincing in fact that I was surprised, very surprised to hear of the death today of Clive Dunn.
In the role of Corporal Jones in Dads Army broadcast from 1968 to 1977 he portrayed a veteran of the Sudanese campaign of 1896 to 1899, making his onstage age, by my reckoning, about 75 years old.
His make up and demeanour were so much in character and sympathetic that I was, as a young and regular viewer, entirely persuaded that he was just an old actor playing an old man.
What I am trying to say is that I thought that he must have passed away many years ago even if attaining a ripe old age beyond the 75 years of his on screen persona.
In fact, Clive Dunn was only 48 when cast as Jones, local butcher, an affable and compassionate resident of Walmington on Sea and only 57 when the last series aired.
He contributed a great deal to a production that caught the nostalgic interest of a Nation and his traits of being the last of the Platoon to stand to attention or at ease showed a fantastic comic timing. His frantic and manically agitated movements and 'Don't Panic' exhortations are firmly amongst some of my personal all-time comedy moments and a catchphrase much used today.
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
A Very Civil War
The barrage really began at about 6.30pm. There had been some sporadic action beforehand, a few distant single sniping shots and trails of coloured traces up into the darkening autumn evening sky but it was nothing compared to the main event. From a hundred different locations within a tight local radius, independently but as though at a pre-arranged signal all hell was unleashed. Such is the wrath that is bonfire night in the UK.
Me and The Boy sat facing the red hot glowing opening of the very tatty and rusty chimnea and took it in turns to feed in, charred inch by heat scorched inch, a large piece of timber extracted from the summer house a few weeks prior, now soft and damp from being rested up against the garage wall in all weathers but still very combustible in the searing heat in that conical apparatus.
Wood was in short supply after an enthusiastic clear out in the summer of 15 years worth of offcuts, old shelving, failed DIY projects, IKEA furniture and other scraps. It was something I now regretted in the scramble to find something to keep the fire going. I had already used up all the kindling from the domestic fire stock , a couple of logs and lengths of planed timber which just fell apart from rot when moved from the bottom of the garden.
The night had started off cold and clear.
Familiar constellations were still low in the sky but rapidly losing their brightness and definition in the swirls of smoke from surrounding back gardens and that distinctive odour of spent gunpowder. A loud explosion and Disneyesque star shower over our house indicated that the people across the road had ignited their largest array of rockets. Our own efforts had, in comparison, been a sorry affair with half a dozen fizzing tubes found in a tin on a garage shelf from I know not when but excitingly unpredictable for that. The traffic light flares from a firework called Red Mist struggled to reach any height and sounded unenthusiastic about being released. Crystal Cascade was well within the scope of the Misdescriptions Act from its actual behaviour. Against all safe practice I returned a few times in an attempt to light up a Thunder Burst before giving up completely with it.
We sat on the bench, with cold backs and kidneys facing the house but comfortably warm faces,chests and abdomens, fireside, to enjoy a free sky full display but at significant expenditure to others. The larger and more impressive concussions and chrysanthemum bursts were cheered and an estimated monetary value attached as they reduced to just whispy clouds, silence and darkness. A banshee like screaming, sustained over a few minutes from the next street made me think of the eerie images of Katushya rockets from my World at War box set covering the Eastern Front.
Not wanting to lose an opportunity to extract some educational value from the outdoors event I remarked to The Boy that I could imagine the sights and sounds to be of some similarity to warfare. He groaned in anticipation of a lecture on military skirmishes, campaigns and sieges. In the distance another large explosion and reverberation of sound between the houses. The Boy chipped in that the outer defences were surely under sustained attack. Smaller concussive waves and flashes were followed by more noise. We could imagine the destruction of the landmark buildings and sites in our home town. Staccato rhythmic shots rang out. We were surely well illuminated by the fire glow and an easy target for a snipers bullet. The assault was intensifying and our predicament worsened as we realised that our position was surrounded by the unseen forces intent on destroying our very existence.
The scenario was rapidly turning from mere speculation to a reality that we both found very disturbing. Having seen media reports of conflicts in urban settings not dissimilar to our own the sights, sounds and smells of the night were becoming just too intense.
The fire in the chimnea was diminishing in a final hot, red glow of embers and we took this as our excuse to pack up and go into the warm, quiet and safe indoors. We were running away but felt happier to call it a strategic retreat.
Me and The Boy sat facing the red hot glowing opening of the very tatty and rusty chimnea and took it in turns to feed in, charred inch by heat scorched inch, a large piece of timber extracted from the summer house a few weeks prior, now soft and damp from being rested up against the garage wall in all weathers but still very combustible in the searing heat in that conical apparatus.
Wood was in short supply after an enthusiastic clear out in the summer of 15 years worth of offcuts, old shelving, failed DIY projects, IKEA furniture and other scraps. It was something I now regretted in the scramble to find something to keep the fire going. I had already used up all the kindling from the domestic fire stock , a couple of logs and lengths of planed timber which just fell apart from rot when moved from the bottom of the garden.
The night had started off cold and clear.
Familiar constellations were still low in the sky but rapidly losing their brightness and definition in the swirls of smoke from surrounding back gardens and that distinctive odour of spent gunpowder. A loud explosion and Disneyesque star shower over our house indicated that the people across the road had ignited their largest array of rockets. Our own efforts had, in comparison, been a sorry affair with half a dozen fizzing tubes found in a tin on a garage shelf from I know not when but excitingly unpredictable for that. The traffic light flares from a firework called Red Mist struggled to reach any height and sounded unenthusiastic about being released. Crystal Cascade was well within the scope of the Misdescriptions Act from its actual behaviour. Against all safe practice I returned a few times in an attempt to light up a Thunder Burst before giving up completely with it.
We sat on the bench, with cold backs and kidneys facing the house but comfortably warm faces,chests and abdomens, fireside, to enjoy a free sky full display but at significant expenditure to others. The larger and more impressive concussions and chrysanthemum bursts were cheered and an estimated monetary value attached as they reduced to just whispy clouds, silence and darkness. A banshee like screaming, sustained over a few minutes from the next street made me think of the eerie images of Katushya rockets from my World at War box set covering the Eastern Front.
Not wanting to lose an opportunity to extract some educational value from the outdoors event I remarked to The Boy that I could imagine the sights and sounds to be of some similarity to warfare. He groaned in anticipation of a lecture on military skirmishes, campaigns and sieges. In the distance another large explosion and reverberation of sound between the houses. The Boy chipped in that the outer defences were surely under sustained attack. Smaller concussive waves and flashes were followed by more noise. We could imagine the destruction of the landmark buildings and sites in our home town. Staccato rhythmic shots rang out. We were surely well illuminated by the fire glow and an easy target for a snipers bullet. The assault was intensifying and our predicament worsened as we realised that our position was surrounded by the unseen forces intent on destroying our very existence.
The scenario was rapidly turning from mere speculation to a reality that we both found very disturbing. Having seen media reports of conflicts in urban settings not dissimilar to our own the sights, sounds and smells of the night were becoming just too intense.
The fire in the chimnea was diminishing in a final hot, red glow of embers and we took this as our excuse to pack up and go into the warm, quiet and safe indoors. We were running away but felt happier to call it a strategic retreat.
Monday, 5 November 2012
No smoke without fireworks
Last thursday evening I stood briefly in the hallway of the birthplace of Guy Fawkes in York.
I was not on a pilgrimage or following in the footsteps of the cult hero and stylish beard wearer but stepped inside because it was a cold night and the building has for many years operated as a bar and eatery and was warm and inviting.
A good proportion of those shopping, posing or just wandering about the historic city seemed to have the same destination because there was no available seating, hardly any standing room and certainly no prospect of getting served at the bar, already four deep with persons, each trying to persuade the single indifferently cool barman that their displayed and waved banknotes were any more acceptable as legal tender.
Just resting the back of my legs on a scorchingly hot radiator for a few minutes was as much a reviver as a stiff drink and so much less of an outgoing.
I was in a good position to just gaze casually around. Perhaps the place had not really changed all that much since Mr Fawkes had lived there and the decor, shabby chic, suggested a fairly minimal amount of cash had been spent internally, but why should it be necessary given the pedigree and provenance of such a place. The wood panelling was stained black which accentuated its old age although there was some suggestion of charring and scoring from fire damage whcih I speculated may have been from some early-years arsonist tendencies from the former celebrity resident.
My visit to High Petergate was five days before Guy Fawkes Night or just bonfire night as it is referred to in non-contentious, neutral political and inoffensive speak. Already and every night for some preceeding days there had been regular jarring disturbance from exploding fireworks of every conceivable tone and reverberation as mischievous youths and anarchic adults could not wait for the actual night of commemoration/celebration.
I had noticed that this year there was no problem whatsoever in tracking down a supply of fireworks with seemingly every sales outlet offering discount prices and special offers. The austerity and, until last week officially, recessionary conditions affecting the UK economy seem to have by passed the fireworks industry. There remains and contrary to all trends and frugality a willingness of the general public to spend their hard earned cash in large amounts on items that explode and disappear in a puff of smoke and possibly not as satisfyingly loud a bang as you might have hoped for ,given the outlay.
The purchase of fireworks represents a great opportunity for one-upmanship, unfortunately an extension of other but less noisy forms of competition in everyday life. It also represents the highest form of rebellion without usually incurring the attention of the law or other Civil sanctions. As a means of acting in an anti social manner in the setting afire of things, bombarding the neighbours, terrorising local animals and handling explosives it cannot be rivalled. I speak from personal experience as a red blooded male with very few activities left available for misbehaving and acting my shoe size (Imperial not Continental Sizing).
The actual reason for 5th November clouds into insignificance amongst the commercial hype and merchandising.
The date in 1605 represented a difficult period in the history of this Nation and although it is one of those stock dates firmly entrenched in memory from schooldays I would challenge many of the current population to providing a reasonable explanation of why it was significant enough to have lasted beyond such comparable events as (in no particular order) , 'Canutes wet sock day', 'Alfred burn the cakes day', 'King John's Lost Treasure Day', 'Is that something in your eye, Harold day',' Queen Victoria's not very amused day' and other historical milestones.
I am not trying to appear superior in my knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot but wasn't it just an amazing coincidence that Guy Fawkes' fellow conspirators were called Billy Bonfire, Freddie Firework and Robbie Rocket.
I was not on a pilgrimage or following in the footsteps of the cult hero and stylish beard wearer but stepped inside because it was a cold night and the building has for many years operated as a bar and eatery and was warm and inviting.
A good proportion of those shopping, posing or just wandering about the historic city seemed to have the same destination because there was no available seating, hardly any standing room and certainly no prospect of getting served at the bar, already four deep with persons, each trying to persuade the single indifferently cool barman that their displayed and waved banknotes were any more acceptable as legal tender.
Just resting the back of my legs on a scorchingly hot radiator for a few minutes was as much a reviver as a stiff drink and so much less of an outgoing.
I was in a good position to just gaze casually around. Perhaps the place had not really changed all that much since Mr Fawkes had lived there and the decor, shabby chic, suggested a fairly minimal amount of cash had been spent internally, but why should it be necessary given the pedigree and provenance of such a place. The wood panelling was stained black which accentuated its old age although there was some suggestion of charring and scoring from fire damage whcih I speculated may have been from some early-years arsonist tendencies from the former celebrity resident.
My visit to High Petergate was five days before Guy Fawkes Night or just bonfire night as it is referred to in non-contentious, neutral political and inoffensive speak. Already and every night for some preceeding days there had been regular jarring disturbance from exploding fireworks of every conceivable tone and reverberation as mischievous youths and anarchic adults could not wait for the actual night of commemoration/celebration.
I had noticed that this year there was no problem whatsoever in tracking down a supply of fireworks with seemingly every sales outlet offering discount prices and special offers. The austerity and, until last week officially, recessionary conditions affecting the UK economy seem to have by passed the fireworks industry. There remains and contrary to all trends and frugality a willingness of the general public to spend their hard earned cash in large amounts on items that explode and disappear in a puff of smoke and possibly not as satisfyingly loud a bang as you might have hoped for ,given the outlay.
The purchase of fireworks represents a great opportunity for one-upmanship, unfortunately an extension of other but less noisy forms of competition in everyday life. It also represents the highest form of rebellion without usually incurring the attention of the law or other Civil sanctions. As a means of acting in an anti social manner in the setting afire of things, bombarding the neighbours, terrorising local animals and handling explosives it cannot be rivalled. I speak from personal experience as a red blooded male with very few activities left available for misbehaving and acting my shoe size (Imperial not Continental Sizing).
The actual reason for 5th November clouds into insignificance amongst the commercial hype and merchandising.
The date in 1605 represented a difficult period in the history of this Nation and although it is one of those stock dates firmly entrenched in memory from schooldays I would challenge many of the current population to providing a reasonable explanation of why it was significant enough to have lasted beyond such comparable events as (in no particular order) , 'Canutes wet sock day', 'Alfred burn the cakes day', 'King John's Lost Treasure Day', 'Is that something in your eye, Harold day',' Queen Victoria's not very amused day' and other historical milestones.
I am not trying to appear superior in my knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot but wasn't it just an amazing coincidence that Guy Fawkes' fellow conspirators were called Billy Bonfire, Freddie Firework and Robbie Rocket.
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Disney and Star Wars
Brief synopsis;
STAR WARS VII
THE RETURN OF THE GENIE
The
scheming franchisees
of the Wonderful World
of Disney are once again active.
scheming franchisees
of the Wonderful World
of Disney are once again active.
In a strange disturbance in The Force,
Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called
Luke Skywalker, now aged 40, is called
to rescue Princess Jasmine from the scheming
Miley Cyrus whose powerful alter ego, H Montana
is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of
Miley Cyrus whose powerful alter ego, H Montana
is exploiting the sentiments of the gullible members of
the followers of Mickey Mouse. In a bold takeover of Lucas
Film there beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters,
thousands of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film
Film there beholds a virtually limitless universe of 17,000 characters,
thousands of planets and a timeline of 20,000 years to drive continued film
releases. Oh, dear. The Empress, Kathleen Kennedy is in peril from spotty faced
executives whose idea of movies is based on a diet of animation and product placement.
executives whose idea of movies is based on a diet of animation and product placement.
Luke, aboard the Cadillac Falcon, accompanied in song by cute furry animals and a regenerated
Mary Poppins moves against forces of arch villain Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood stronghold.
Faced with the strange forces of bedknobs and broomsticks there is a massacre of any integrity and
credibility left in an organisation run by a group of Muppets. Luke is killed off as he is now too old
to appeal to an under 10's age group. His place is taken by a digitalised version of Zachary Efron
Mary Poppins moves against forces of arch villain Winnie the Pooh at his 100 acre wood stronghold.
Faced with the strange forces of bedknobs and broomsticks there is a massacre of any integrity and
credibility left in an organisation run by a group of Muppets. Luke is killed off as he is now too old
to appeal to an under 10's age group. His place is taken by a digitalised version of Zachary Efron
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Beating about the bush
In the 1970's I tried a few things in order to supplement my pocket money
Coming from a large family of 5 money absorbing children and with a Bank Manager father we operated on a strictly within means basis which was a sound grounding for later years.I have not, however, really applied the theory from my early years lessons in frugality and economy. My parents were fair in their distribution of pocket money and for every year of our age we children got 1p decimal a week. At the age of 15 I found that this allowance never went very far especially as my Speed and Power Magazine cost 10p per month and I never had the sense to save over the four weeks between issues. In addition I liked fizz bomb sweets and my absolute and still current favourite of sherbert fountains. It is little wonder that my interest in smoking was short lived and I stopped that pastime at the age of 12 fearing bankruptcy or withdrawal of finance from the IMF- Income for my Fags.
I did the usual paper delivery round for the newsagent shop opposite the Grammar School. In summer this was a delight with fresh air and a lot of cycling. My technique of scooting along on my bike between house gates on one pedal laden down with a sack of weighty morning tabloids soon cause chronic metal fatigue to the cranks of the pedals and their replacement devastated any profit from that job.
Potato picking sounded good in theory and with the promise of a kingly sum of £15 for a weeks work I promptly signed up. My mercenary attitude backfired big style as I had a round trip of 6 miles to reach the spud field and I had to buy packed lunch and liquids to offset premature death from such arduous work. I had not really thought through the physical demands of harvesting a potato, let alone how many of them could actually be found in a 5 acre field .The tractor had a rear mounted arm attachment that spun out the despised vegetable and a group of us schoolkids had to follow and quickly hand pick and fill up wire mesh baskets before tipping the contents into a nearby trailer. The field was wedge shaped and the first two days were totally demoralising and back breaking in that we were working on the longest rows and had no actual sense of real progress. By days three, four and five we were up and down the shorter furrow lengths at rapid speed and soon completed that form of employment. On the same agricultural theme I also spent a week picking out the wild oats and weeds as part of a crop yield study. Perhaps you could say I was outstanding in that particular field.
I also participated regularly as a bush beater for a large corporate shooting business. This involved wearing thick waterproof clothing all day whilst walking through dripping wet fields of Kale and Sugar Beet a-whooping and a-hollering and smacking the ground and available ground cover with a stout stick in order to startle pheasants, partridge, woodcock and pigeon to almost certain death under a barrage of lead shot from a front line of posh people out for the day in order to claim the highest body count of small animals. There was no more an example of the social divide than between a shooting party and the minions of the bush beaters. I often thought ,with head down against stray lead shot fragments in a head on beat towards the guns,that if one of us beaters actually died from inflicted wounds in these circumstances we would still be retrieved by the trained dogs and hung up for a few days to mature before families were informed.
The afternoon sessions were the most nerve wracking as the shooters had just partaken of a generous, mostly liquid lunch and could not be relied upon to fire straight or even differentiate between man and beast at an alcohol induced squinting range. The larger animals of the fields and forests were wise to the approach of humans and were rarely ever seen in a perilous position between beaters and guns. I did enjoy the revenge of a huge Hare which, having been shot and then disrespectfully thrown over the proud shoulders of a waxed jacketed businessman for a photo opportunity, promptly evacuated its bowels all over the hapless individual. The stench over the course of the day was warning enough of the position of the guns. The shooting season was mostly in the damp and misty early mornings of the spring before any real damage could be done to the crops by waves of beater infantry. My income from this hazardous work was £6 for a full day.
I now acknowledge that I participated in some barbarous, cruel and, frankly, painful activities in my attempts to supplement my pocket money but this has made me appreciate to this day the value of a strong work ethic in life. If there was a surplus of kill from the shooting party then this was distributed like and in the manner of charity to the scruffy and cold air induced ruddy faced beater brigade. We bowed and grovelled in thanks which the executive ladder climbers lapped up before alighting in their Range Rovers and Jags.
Any pheasant that I presented at home was hung up in the shed for a few days and always ended up being buried in the garden as no-one had the desire to pluck, gut and dress the fabulously flashy male of the species. I did reserve one or two of the fancy tail feathers to adorn my rather faded and sweat stained bush hat to give my beating activities some credibility. I made a point of taking off the hat for the post-lunchtime shooting drives mindful that, to the half cut owner of a double barrelled shot-gun , I could appear like a giant freakish game bird and fair game for that.
A repeat from last year ......sorry, just had to see Skyfall at the cinema when should have been writing.
Coming from a large family of 5 money absorbing children and with a Bank Manager father we operated on a strictly within means basis which was a sound grounding for later years.I have not, however, really applied the theory from my early years lessons in frugality and economy. My parents were fair in their distribution of pocket money and for every year of our age we children got 1p decimal a week. At the age of 15 I found that this allowance never went very far especially as my Speed and Power Magazine cost 10p per month and I never had the sense to save over the four weeks between issues. In addition I liked fizz bomb sweets and my absolute and still current favourite of sherbert fountains. It is little wonder that my interest in smoking was short lived and I stopped that pastime at the age of 12 fearing bankruptcy or withdrawal of finance from the IMF- Income for my Fags.
I did the usual paper delivery round for the newsagent shop opposite the Grammar School. In summer this was a delight with fresh air and a lot of cycling. My technique of scooting along on my bike between house gates on one pedal laden down with a sack of weighty morning tabloids soon cause chronic metal fatigue to the cranks of the pedals and their replacement devastated any profit from that job.
Potato picking sounded good in theory and with the promise of a kingly sum of £15 for a weeks work I promptly signed up. My mercenary attitude backfired big style as I had a round trip of 6 miles to reach the spud field and I had to buy packed lunch and liquids to offset premature death from such arduous work. I had not really thought through the physical demands of harvesting a potato, let alone how many of them could actually be found in a 5 acre field .The tractor had a rear mounted arm attachment that spun out the despised vegetable and a group of us schoolkids had to follow and quickly hand pick and fill up wire mesh baskets before tipping the contents into a nearby trailer. The field was wedge shaped and the first two days were totally demoralising and back breaking in that we were working on the longest rows and had no actual sense of real progress. By days three, four and five we were up and down the shorter furrow lengths at rapid speed and soon completed that form of employment. On the same agricultural theme I also spent a week picking out the wild oats and weeds as part of a crop yield study. Perhaps you could say I was outstanding in that particular field.
I also participated regularly as a bush beater for a large corporate shooting business. This involved wearing thick waterproof clothing all day whilst walking through dripping wet fields of Kale and Sugar Beet a-whooping and a-hollering and smacking the ground and available ground cover with a stout stick in order to startle pheasants, partridge, woodcock and pigeon to almost certain death under a barrage of lead shot from a front line of posh people out for the day in order to claim the highest body count of small animals. There was no more an example of the social divide than between a shooting party and the minions of the bush beaters. I often thought ,with head down against stray lead shot fragments in a head on beat towards the guns,that if one of us beaters actually died from inflicted wounds in these circumstances we would still be retrieved by the trained dogs and hung up for a few days to mature before families were informed.
The afternoon sessions were the most nerve wracking as the shooters had just partaken of a generous, mostly liquid lunch and could not be relied upon to fire straight or even differentiate between man and beast at an alcohol induced squinting range. The larger animals of the fields and forests were wise to the approach of humans and were rarely ever seen in a perilous position between beaters and guns. I did enjoy the revenge of a huge Hare which, having been shot and then disrespectfully thrown over the proud shoulders of a waxed jacketed businessman for a photo opportunity, promptly evacuated its bowels all over the hapless individual. The stench over the course of the day was warning enough of the position of the guns. The shooting season was mostly in the damp and misty early mornings of the spring before any real damage could be done to the crops by waves of beater infantry. My income from this hazardous work was £6 for a full day.
I now acknowledge that I participated in some barbarous, cruel and, frankly, painful activities in my attempts to supplement my pocket money but this has made me appreciate to this day the value of a strong work ethic in life. If there was a surplus of kill from the shooting party then this was distributed like and in the manner of charity to the scruffy and cold air induced ruddy faced beater brigade. We bowed and grovelled in thanks which the executive ladder climbers lapped up before alighting in their Range Rovers and Jags.
Any pheasant that I presented at home was hung up in the shed for a few days and always ended up being buried in the garden as no-one had the desire to pluck, gut and dress the fabulously flashy male of the species. I did reserve one or two of the fancy tail feathers to adorn my rather faded and sweat stained bush hat to give my beating activities some credibility. I made a point of taking off the hat for the post-lunchtime shooting drives mindful that, to the half cut owner of a double barrelled shot-gun , I could appear like a giant freakish game bird and fair game for that.
A repeat from last year ......sorry, just had to see Skyfall at the cinema when should have been writing.
Friday, 2 November 2012
Season of missed and mellow fruitfull mess
I simply forgot that it was October 31st.
In my defence there has been a very long run up, commercially inspired, for Halloween this year with merchandising and goodies taking up at least one complete aisle at the super-large Tesco in town putting it on an equal footing with Christmas, Easter and summer seasonal goods. Even the forecourt at my local garage has been punctuated with pumpkins which is a new line in sales for them.
I have even seen shop windows heavily adorned with the paraphenalia of things ghoulish and spooky and these are not gift, novelty or fancy dress emporiums but just your ordinary, termed secondary or tertiary retail outlets and services as found on most half-vacant High Street locations.
In previous years we have, as a smaller and adult family unit, strived for acceptance by purchasing, hollowing out and carving a suitably scary face in a pumpkin to be hung up in the darkened porch. This is, we were led to understand, a signal to the perambulating masses that we are going along with the Halloween theme and have stocked up with treats and goodies in readiness for callers. No one came to take advantage of our thoughtful preparations and we were left with faintly spiced pumpkin soup on our faces and a supply of high sugar content, cavity promoting and E-number infused sweets which would last us for months even with a compulsory allocation of two or three items per pocket per walk out.
So, this year we did not get too excited about the prospect of trickers and treaters crossing the threshold of the porch. There I was sat in my favourite armchair with a cup of tea when the doorbell went.
I was soon to regret not parking the car around the corner, closing the curtains, turning off all the lights and giving the overwhelming impression that no-one was at home given the steady stream of skeletons, vampires, zombies, miscellaneous monsters and pirates? over the following hours.
It was a case of a frantic search around for something to hand out to the little ones and to avoid the critical look of accompanying parents as if to say 'where have you been for the last ten weeks?'.
Fortunately my wife had a secret stash of toffees and a small mesh bag of chocolate dollar coins. With some slight of hand and careful rationing it might be possible to eke out these offerings into the buckets and bin bags thrust into our view. I did think about pursuing more of a trick based approach but could foresee problems of liability and causing potential injury and distress from buckets of water poured over unsuspecting children from the window above the front door.
As it turned out, we were still left with a few of the less palatable flavoured toffees and did not have to resort to the last resort and back up supply from the back of the kitchen cupboard which would include loose monkey nuts, bits of dried fruits, cake decorations, cooking chocolate, baking beads and nicely shaped dry pasta.
We were, by the end of the evening quite exhausted with running back and forth to answer the door.
I was almost politically incorrect when confronted by a group of vampish, flourescent dyed hair and heavily made up, teen schoolgirls but just gave the impression of being a cross between a bumbling old idiot and Leslie Phillips. The house did not get pelted with eggs so I must have got away with it.
Next, roll on Bonfire Night. Bucket of sand, fire extinguisher, safety goggles and the phone number of the Casualty Department at the ready
In my defence there has been a very long run up, commercially inspired, for Halloween this year with merchandising and goodies taking up at least one complete aisle at the super-large Tesco in town putting it on an equal footing with Christmas, Easter and summer seasonal goods. Even the forecourt at my local garage has been punctuated with pumpkins which is a new line in sales for them.
I have even seen shop windows heavily adorned with the paraphenalia of things ghoulish and spooky and these are not gift, novelty or fancy dress emporiums but just your ordinary, termed secondary or tertiary retail outlets and services as found on most half-vacant High Street locations.
In previous years we have, as a smaller and adult family unit, strived for acceptance by purchasing, hollowing out and carving a suitably scary face in a pumpkin to be hung up in the darkened porch. This is, we were led to understand, a signal to the perambulating masses that we are going along with the Halloween theme and have stocked up with treats and goodies in readiness for callers. No one came to take advantage of our thoughtful preparations and we were left with faintly spiced pumpkin soup on our faces and a supply of high sugar content, cavity promoting and E-number infused sweets which would last us for months even with a compulsory allocation of two or three items per pocket per walk out.
So, this year we did not get too excited about the prospect of trickers and treaters crossing the threshold of the porch. There I was sat in my favourite armchair with a cup of tea when the doorbell went.
I was soon to regret not parking the car around the corner, closing the curtains, turning off all the lights and giving the overwhelming impression that no-one was at home given the steady stream of skeletons, vampires, zombies, miscellaneous monsters and pirates? over the following hours.
It was a case of a frantic search around for something to hand out to the little ones and to avoid the critical look of accompanying parents as if to say 'where have you been for the last ten weeks?'.
Fortunately my wife had a secret stash of toffees and a small mesh bag of chocolate dollar coins. With some slight of hand and careful rationing it might be possible to eke out these offerings into the buckets and bin bags thrust into our view. I did think about pursuing more of a trick based approach but could foresee problems of liability and causing potential injury and distress from buckets of water poured over unsuspecting children from the window above the front door.
As it turned out, we were still left with a few of the less palatable flavoured toffees and did not have to resort to the last resort and back up supply from the back of the kitchen cupboard which would include loose monkey nuts, bits of dried fruits, cake decorations, cooking chocolate, baking beads and nicely shaped dry pasta.
We were, by the end of the evening quite exhausted with running back and forth to answer the door.
I was almost politically incorrect when confronted by a group of vampish, flourescent dyed hair and heavily made up, teen schoolgirls but just gave the impression of being a cross between a bumbling old idiot and Leslie Phillips. The house did not get pelted with eggs so I must have got away with it.
Next, roll on Bonfire Night. Bucket of sand, fire extinguisher, safety goggles and the phone number of the Casualty Department at the ready
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Bounty Hunter
I wrote this last year but had to air it again with the news that The Bounty foundered and sank in the natural phenomena and disaster that was Hurricane Sandy and associates a couple of days ago. At the time of writing fatalities had been recorded.
Shipbuilding and Repairing was one of the oldest and most important local industries in Hull with documented yards, Staithes and docks along the course of the tidal River Hull from 1427. Not an unusual industrial process for a port town but able to thrive over many others because of the availability of oak from the hinterland and the trade with Europe for Baltic mast spars (big tree trunks) and good quality sail cloth.
Some of the dry dock basins survive today but only just. The river corridor has been identified for large scale redevelopment along the lines of a casino complex and combined commercial, retail and residential blocks. As with most ambitious and speculative projects in recessionary times there is a prolonged stay of execution for the inevitable infilling and destruction of these architectural features.
Most of the activity was around the west bank of the river running paralell to the historic Old Town and High Street. Early hand drawn maps of this location, even before the construction of the dock basins, clearly show symbolic ships hulls on the mud as a statement of intent for the merchants and entrepreneurs of the time. The subsequent permanent sites included North Bridge Yard, Number One Dry Dock, the South End Graving Dock and the most well known being Blaydes Shipyard.
It was in the yard of Benjamin Blaydes that he commissioned, for his own fleet , a small hardy collier ship in the name of Bethia in 1784. The vessel was just 2 inches short of 91 feet long and with a beam of 24'4". Cost to build was recorded at £1950 , roughly £195,000 in current monies. A short time after launch and sea trials the stocky Bethia, fully expected to ply her trade around the coastal waters of the UK was purchased by The Royal Navy at an enhanced price of £2600 turning Mr Blaydes a tidy profit.
The ship was renamed The Bounty and the rest is history or at least the Hollywood version of events, perhaps a waste of paradise. My often dormant but lingering interest in Hull's maritime heritage and in particular taking the wrapper off The Bounty story was sparked by an advertisement by a US based yacht agency.
The 1961 built replica of The Bounty or should it be just Bounty, is on the market for US$4.6m . The ship was custom made for the 1962 epic Mutiny on The...... film and has been well preserved and almost fully rebuilt on a regular basis. The replica was built on the original Admiralty Archive blueprints but as a concession for the equipment and logistics of movie making the dimensions were scaled up to 180 feet long and with a 32 foot beam. The reason, the cameras needed considerable space for operation and action shots.
In 1790 The Bounty was torched by the mutineers. For authenticity this was the full intention of the Director, Lewis Milestone but it appears that Marlon Brando kicked up such a fuss that the ship was spared this fate. I have yet to see this version of the film to determine if a balsa wood model filled with lighter fluid was substituted in the closing scenes or whether a very early and bright around the edges form of CGI was used.
I have not seen what the co-stars Trevor Howard and Richard Harris had to say on the subject. What is on offer for the amount of US$4.6m? The true Bounty was pretty small and a full crew was only 44 officers and men. The replica, a real party boat can accommodate 150 revellers on deck or 49 berthed sleepovers. The luxury package caters for only 12 passengers. There is 100,000 square feet of sail in full trim but I cannot really see the guests mucking in by climbing the rigging. Fletcher Christian would certainly have welcomed the modern concession of twin diesel engines.
Otherwise, it is all there. 3 masted, spanker boom, topgallant and other nautical equipment I am not sure about. The ship is in regular use and has just completed its 2011 tour of UK waters, Belgium and Scandinavia before returning to its US base but why not a quick visit to Hull?
Ironically, replica Bounty will have crossed the latitude of the Humber a few times in its summer excursions and there would be a tremendous interest in even a short layover given the origins of the legend. I cannot promise any serious expressions of interest to purchase the vessel amongst the proud citizens of Hull but the queues on the quayside ready to mount the gang plank would be guaranteed.
When it comes to remembering the maritime heritage of the city this sort of thing really floats our boat.
Shipbuilding and Repairing was one of the oldest and most important local industries in Hull with documented yards, Staithes and docks along the course of the tidal River Hull from 1427. Not an unusual industrial process for a port town but able to thrive over many others because of the availability of oak from the hinterland and the trade with Europe for Baltic mast spars (big tree trunks) and good quality sail cloth.
Some of the dry dock basins survive today but only just. The river corridor has been identified for large scale redevelopment along the lines of a casino complex and combined commercial, retail and residential blocks. As with most ambitious and speculative projects in recessionary times there is a prolonged stay of execution for the inevitable infilling and destruction of these architectural features.
Most of the activity was around the west bank of the river running paralell to the historic Old Town and High Street. Early hand drawn maps of this location, even before the construction of the dock basins, clearly show symbolic ships hulls on the mud as a statement of intent for the merchants and entrepreneurs of the time. The subsequent permanent sites included North Bridge Yard, Number One Dry Dock, the South End Graving Dock and the most well known being Blaydes Shipyard.
It was in the yard of Benjamin Blaydes that he commissioned, for his own fleet , a small hardy collier ship in the name of Bethia in 1784. The vessel was just 2 inches short of 91 feet long and with a beam of 24'4". Cost to build was recorded at £1950 , roughly £195,000 in current monies. A short time after launch and sea trials the stocky Bethia, fully expected to ply her trade around the coastal waters of the UK was purchased by The Royal Navy at an enhanced price of £2600 turning Mr Blaydes a tidy profit.
The ship was renamed The Bounty and the rest is history or at least the Hollywood version of events, perhaps a waste of paradise. My often dormant but lingering interest in Hull's maritime heritage and in particular taking the wrapper off The Bounty story was sparked by an advertisement by a US based yacht agency.
The 1961 built replica of The Bounty or should it be just Bounty, is on the market for US$4.6m . The ship was custom made for the 1962 epic Mutiny on The...... film and has been well preserved and almost fully rebuilt on a regular basis. The replica was built on the original Admiralty Archive blueprints but as a concession for the equipment and logistics of movie making the dimensions were scaled up to 180 feet long and with a 32 foot beam. The reason, the cameras needed considerable space for operation and action shots.
In 1790 The Bounty was torched by the mutineers. For authenticity this was the full intention of the Director, Lewis Milestone but it appears that Marlon Brando kicked up such a fuss that the ship was spared this fate. I have yet to see this version of the film to determine if a balsa wood model filled with lighter fluid was substituted in the closing scenes or whether a very early and bright around the edges form of CGI was used.
I have not seen what the co-stars Trevor Howard and Richard Harris had to say on the subject. What is on offer for the amount of US$4.6m? The true Bounty was pretty small and a full crew was only 44 officers and men. The replica, a real party boat can accommodate 150 revellers on deck or 49 berthed sleepovers. The luxury package caters for only 12 passengers. There is 100,000 square feet of sail in full trim but I cannot really see the guests mucking in by climbing the rigging. Fletcher Christian would certainly have welcomed the modern concession of twin diesel engines.
Otherwise, it is all there. 3 masted, spanker boom, topgallant and other nautical equipment I am not sure about. The ship is in regular use and has just completed its 2011 tour of UK waters, Belgium and Scandinavia before returning to its US base but why not a quick visit to Hull?
Ironically, replica Bounty will have crossed the latitude of the Humber a few times in its summer excursions and there would be a tremendous interest in even a short layover given the origins of the legend. I cannot promise any serious expressions of interest to purchase the vessel amongst the proud citizens of Hull but the queues on the quayside ready to mount the gang plank would be guaranteed.
When it comes to remembering the maritime heritage of the city this sort of thing really floats our boat.
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