Valentines Day Mass Ache

I waited in line at the Tesco Express to hand over my loose coins.

It was one of those combined mini-supermarkets and petrol filling stations.

For the sake of just putting £6.50 of diesel into my car to get me home I found myself well down the queue for the checkouts behind, well, strangely, only a male customer base.

It was most unusual.

There was no female in sight.

It was a thursday.

It was unlikely that there was a football or rugby match at the Stadium just down the road. Perhaps there had been a fire at the local pub and everyone had been evacuated. I tried to get a glimpse onto the forecourt in case a bus was waiting to take a male voice choir to a concert.

There were no obvious reasons for this hiccup in demographics.

I decided to pay more attention to those between me and the checkout.

There were no burgeoning baskets of goods as was the normal case on a work day evening.

Everyone in the queue was however holding the same few items.

Bar none these included a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates and a pink envelope.

Behind me other men were entering the shop but did not make for the display of health magazines, motoring requisites or the chiller cabinet full of beers and wine. They simply loitered around the entrance at a large shelving array of floral displays, confectionery and cards looking a bit furtive and shifty.

I could appreciate the thought process, after all, I shared the male gene. There had to be enough of a gesture to show affection but under a budget of say, £10.

This resulted in a bit of agile mental arithmetic over a combination of gifts. Some of the men picked up one of everything but then had second thoughts and re-arranged the display. Others just selected one thing and then set off around the shop in search of other imaginative items to show that they had given considerable thought to the gift buying process.

They usually returned empty handed and looking even more frustrated and desperate. I shuffled along a little bit like a convict shackled to other offenders as transactions were completed.

The slow movement of the line allowed a bit of free thought amongst my fellow men. Logically, a bottle of wine seemed a good purchase to go with the flowers, chocs and cliched sentiment of a mass produced greetings card.

Yet more defections from the straggling line which took on, increasingly, a more fluid form like an agitated crowd. In a bit of an abstract chain of thought others decided upon a selection of fresh fruit, whipped cream and ready meals of a curried and exotic nature.

It was certainly a disgraceful display of ineptitude in all things romantic from those assembled. I was no better in that I had nothing to show for my participation in that Tesco Express apart from a VAT receipt for fuel. I decided that in future I would try to avoid any small supermarket on the eve of Valentines Day.

Whisked Away to Fantasy Land

They were always rolled out on special occasions. We otherwise rarely saw them anywhere, even on the wells stocked shelves at the local supermarket. We knew about them from glimpsing the delicacies on a wheeled trolley in a posh tea rooms or behind the shiny glass of the chiller cabinet in a restaurant. Of course, we were looking on them from afar through the open door if we passed by on the street or sneaked a quick, envious look through the window before being chided by the waiting staff in a silent, scornful stare. Sometimes when visiting relatives in a far off town we would be treated to a dessert which was partly made out of that elusive stuff but well concealed by cream, strawberry sauce or my favourite of sticky toffee. At Christmas there would appear in the food cupboard a brightly coloured cardboard packaging on which we would be given express instructions not to touch or even go near. I was not able to resist a peek into the box in the weeks preceding the festivities. A clear and brittle plastic moulded tray housed the perfectly round, ice white nest-like confectionery. They would soon be unpacked and the central recess filled with fruit, jelly and whipped topping. Our Gran was skilled at producing her own versions. Perfectly dome shaped with a pointed crest swept up like a Teddy Boy's quiff. The texture was matt surfaced and in a certain light there would be a crystalline type sheen which glistened enticingly. They had been formed and baked on a greaseproofed covered tray so as to have a smooth and glossy base with no fissures or flaws whatsoever. We were never party to their actual creation in the kitchen in Gran's bungalow. It was a mystery to us as young children how any form of ingredients could combine to create something so special. In the few seconds when everyone was distracted by the presentation of the finished product in the dining room of the through lounge I slipped away into the kitchen in search of, well I was not really sure, but some evidence of alchemy, strange forces or even a portal into another world. All I could find in the pedal bin was a lot of broken egg shells and a tightly twisted empty bag of caster sugar. In the sink was a large Pyrex mixing bowl with a whisk and traces of a stiffened conglomeration of indeterminate form. At the sound of "oohs" and "aahhs" in the other room I suspended my inquisitiveness and dashed through so as not to miss out on the giving out of the treat. Carefully arranged on a silver platter there were, I counted, enough for one each and one over. Two halves had been adhered together by a thick application of a luscious cream filling. I grasped mine with both hands and out of sight of the others savoured the touch, smell and taste not wanting to actually eat it and lose that magical experience. I did of course eat it adopting the method of smashing the sugared halves and picking over the sweet shards. They made my teeth ache. The sticky, partly set inside was chewy and such a contrast to the crumbly and powdery shell. It was over much too quickly and I always, never got to eat the spare one on the platter. Such was my lifelong love of meringues. Imagine my delight and astonishment at finding the monster meringue shown below just today. I cannot imagine anything as pleasurable for just £2 on a thursday dinner time.

For the purposes of scale the meringue is on the bonnet of my car........................................

Elmer Twitch is dead

I had never heard of Larry Parnes before today.

His name was mentioned on one of those BBC 4 Extra quiz shows as the answer to a question in the "odd one out" round.

He was one of the great personalities of early British Rock and Pop in the 1950's and 1960's as manager of a very influential group of singer performers. His promotion of rock and rollers was based on catching the imagination of the young generation through slick marketing, hype and publicity and, above all, giving a sexual edge to those in his management.

It will have been quite a shock to the parents of teenagers and young adults, following on from the US invasion of the hip swinging Elvis, to realise that there was actually a home grown market for such crudity and impression of blatant promiscuity.

Parnes's stable of rock and rollers were the new idols of an increasingly affluent and youthful Britain.

Judge for yourself the impact on popular culture of the likes of Reginald Patterson, Roy Taylor, Richard Knellar, Chris Morris, Ray Howard, John Askew, Clive Powell and Malcolm Holland.

I can sense that there is now a rather frantic search of distant memories such as an old record collection of warped vinyl discs, recollections of a crackly radio broadcast or a flickering and oscillating black and white TV show of a live performance.

Today, such names do not immediately conjur up images of the rock and pop idols, more likely old time music hall performers, variety acts or folk singers.

These were the new celebrity class of their time and there was an emerging and affluent base of fans and enthusiasts of the scene keen to follow, idolise and spend money on them.

Larry Parnes knew what was required to manipulate and engineer the market for pop music and under his managerial guidance some of the rather plain and boring sounding people became overnight successes and household names. His was an all inclusive package of image, lifestyle and career advice which was the way to become established and ride the wave of hysteria in a very competitive market which had seen more than its fair share of one hit wonders and novelty acts.

Of principal importance was the re-naming of his charges and in the same order as above please give a warm welcome to;

Marty Wilde, Vince Eager, Dickie Pride, Lance Fortune, Duffy Power, Johnny Gentle, Georgie Fame and Nelson Keene.

There was definitely a bit of a theme going in the new images for the stars with the emphasis on strong and masculine traits and associations.

As for Elmer Twitch?

Well, he didn't make it to the billboards or neon lights over the theatre and studio doors to the venues of Great Britain. The individual intended to be launched and sustained in a life of pop stardom decided to keep his own name and I suppose that most of us with any interest in the history of rock and pop will have heard of Joe Brown.....really?

Woggle 2

Participation in fund raising activities was always a feature of growing up in the 1970's. Sponsored events were in their halcyon days with a sheet of paper emerging on a weekly basis on which to gather actual signatures or, by practice, some very good forgeries of the signatures of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and benevolent neighbours whom you dare not approach yet again with demands for monies. The most popular events were walking based. This could be a few laps around the school field during school hours, always a popular distraction from the usual learning timetable, or a mega walk of between 10 and 14 miles on a weekend. The latter was a major logistical event for not only the organisers, usually a well known charity, but also those taking part as over such distances there was a significant risk of dehydration, hunger or injury. If sponsorship was expressed in the usual manner of, say 1p or 2p per mile then this was readily subscribed to by family and friends. There was a later development whereby monetary promises were made on the basis of actually finishing the event. The amount, usually 10p looked good on the sponsorship form and did not involve complex mathematics to add up, but the total raised was often lower than anticipated. The period leading up to the event was exciting, similarly the actual participation on the day although often accompanied by blisters if a walk.  The downside was that the money promised had to be physically collected, accounted for and handed over to someone in an official capacity. Interest ,post event did subside considerably and if constantly reminded, chased and hounded for the raised funds it was necessary for parents to be pleaded with to dip into their own pockets and clear the balance. Swimathons, bike rides, cake bakes, coconut ice competitions, tombolas and the good old jumble sales all served to bring in some cash although usually a larger target total required one or more combined events from the approved choices. As well as charitable concerns I was a seasoned fund raiser for my Scout Troop through the 'Bob a Job Week'. By the 1970's and following decimalisation the concept of the bob as a tangible monetary value was clouded in myth and vague memory. However, in the minds of those members of the public approached for a task by willing Cub Scouts the bob was the only payment for consideration even after what could be a half day garden or house clearance task or something equally as unpleasant, grubby and exploitative. The fund raising week brought out the most enterprising and competitive streaks in us Cubs. There was significant kudos in being the highest earner and every resource and effort was put into thinking of and putting into action schemes and projects to attain this status. I teamed up with a couple of friends from the Troop in a determined approach to the week. I had raided my Fathers garage and shed to equip our team with best chamois leather cloths, chrome cleaner and washing up liquid. We went door to door seeking out cars to wash, shampoo, dry and polish. Most owners avoided the issue by blatantly hiding behind curtains or just ignoring us altogether. We found that the sight of gleaming chrome met with the approval of customers who allowed us to do the business with their beloved vehicles. The best results were achieved by roughly abrading the chrome bumpers, trims, grilles,radiators and badges with wire wool before applying a thick coat of polish and buffing it up to a dazzling reflective state. On close inspection, if not seduced by the showroom or concourse standard of the metalwork, we had scratched and damaged the chrome possibly beyond repair. We were either very brave or very foolish in some of our ranging about seeking remuneration. One house, well beyond the familiar area of our town, was approached with some trepidation but such was the compulsion to be best earners. It was amongst an overgrown garden, the paintwork was peeling, render blown and falling away, the leaded windows smashed in places but nevertheless showing signs of occupancy. We jostled and joked amongst ourselves as we edged along the driveway, making ghostly noises, whispering werewolf howls and pretending to be zombies or offspring of Frankenstein. The most courageous of the group was pushed to the forefront to ring the bell. We waited. Somewhere within the dark and gloomy house we could hear doors opening, feet dragging and the thump thump of what could only be some form of walking stick or aid. There was a noticeable fallback from the doorstep as the door swung slowly open. The occupant did actually resemble a comic book wolf man, unruly hair, long side burns, yellowy-black teeth and, visible between shirt buttons and neck a veritable ruff of body hair. We screamed in girly unison and did not look back until we felt safe again on the public highway. This was not the wisest action on our part as we were in full cub scout uniform and therefore easily identifiable should there have been any recriminations for our disgraceful behaviour. I often think of this poor householder, perhaps himself a former scout and more than willing to help out in a good cause. We were still successful that year, a grand total of £10.50 raised between the three of us but yet at what cost? My fathers best washing equipment was ruined, similarly many cars which would today be regarded as classic marques had it not been for the shocking deterioration of every piece of chrome trim and fittings on a once pristeen example of bodywork.

(reworked from some time ago)

Radio Blah Blah

The radio was always on in the house when I was growing up.

I still today, on entering my own kitchen, first go to switch on the radio before anything else gets done even if the prime motivation for the visit is for a brew up, get food, investigate strange sounds from the washing machine or attend to any other domestic chores.

Funnily enough my listening experience has now gone full circle as the shows from my childhood memories are now being aired on Radio 4 Extra.

Sunday lunch in the early 1970's was always prepared by my parents to the sound of The Navy Lark.  I am reminded regularly that at the age of seven I was insistent on writing a letter toWally Whyton the presenter of, I am ashamed to say, a country music show on Radio 2. I cannot recall what I had to tell him. Well it was in the days when there was only country, folk, early rock and roll and classical and I was not old enough to operate the radio or record player let alone express a preference for a style.

The sound of a radio in the background is very reassuring and comforting, unless of course there happens to be a drama about screaming, murder and mayhem. I inherited or rather commandeered a huge valve operated radio for my bedtime listening. The crate sized appliance took some considerable time to warm up and never actually reached a steady temperature. The strong smell of scorching and sheer naked heat output from the thing meant that a programme had to be regularly interrupted for a statutory cooling down period.

The two main tuning dials were on a  click and roll basis. The click was for switching between long wave, medium and short waves as the only bands and the rolling dial for selecting a very mysterious and exotic progression of stations from Wroclaw to Beromunster, Hilversum to Helvetia, Luxemb'g and cities behind the Iron Curtain.

If I was able to tune in to Radio Moscow out of earshot of parents I could listen to the monotone expressions of propaganda of production levels from tractor factories or glass plants. Patriotic mothers were regularly applauded for perpetual baby production.

My absolute favourite broadcasts were the midweek football matches especially when English league teams played in the UEFA or European Cups against the likes of Borussia Monchengladbach, Grasshoppers of Zurich, Panathanaikos and Sporting Lisbon. The buzz of the radio and the atmospheric crowds noises set a wonderful background for the commentary of the all time great, Peter Jones. It was always the case that Liverpool needed to score at least 4 goals in a second leg tie at Anfield and they always did it just in time. By that I mean my bedtime. Football somehow seemed magical and wholesome in those days before the arrival of the mercenary millionaires.

My introduction to comedy was from the radio. I only now appreciate the humour and madcap antics of The Goons which was so far ahead of its time in its heyday. Many of the radio shows that I enjoyed  progressed to the medium of TV where they appealed to the masses but I feel did lose some of their impact.

The imagined images from a radio show could never be emulated in actual real life performances on the small screen. I still  prefer to listen to a football commentary on 5 Live and can easily recognise the gameplays when they are subsequently shown on the saturday night Match of the Day.

In my teens the radio was avidly listened to for the tuesday lunctime chart show. This was the main marker for the week. I was on home dinners during term times so was invariably the first to know if punk, disco or rock were at number 1 that week. My claim to fame was a record request read out from me by Mike Read on Radio 1 during his evening show in 1979. It was only heard by myself and one other classmate.

It is so much easier now with the "listen again" functions to prove that your name has hit the airwaves.

My two younger brothers have a regular challenge to get a story read out on Danny Baker's show on one of the London Commercial Stations. My children have also had good exposure on national radio with requests and dedications read out and also widely heard and appreciated. The current crop of radio shows continues the legacy set down over my four decade love affair with the broadcast and spoken word and whilst it is good to hear the old classics I continue to be amused by the new wave of programmes.

(reworked from sometime in 2012)

Post Industrial Rambling Part 2

So far on the walk along the old tracks and streets of Hull there has been no cause to make any decisions on a life determining scale.

Granted, the judgement of where and when to cross a busy road has had to be made.

On reaching the river it is surely that time to make a pivotal choice on whether to take the path along the top of the tidal defences or another route. It is an easy choice. The southerly wind is now storm force sending showers of flume and spray into the air and over the parked cars on the viewing area. Although the prevailing winds would be from left to right on the return walk to the city centre and therefore pushing a body away from the sloping defence wall there are, from frequent use of the route, three distinctly hazardous points where there would be no mercy from the gale.

The first is the 'U' shaped section of the path around the sluice of the land drain at its convergence with the estuary. Within a relatively short distance the storm would hurtle you towards the parapet wall of the drain outlet and then batter you head on in a struggle to get around the corner and back onto the path as it heads westwards.

The second is the narrow walkway along the top of the huge lock gates at the dock entrance. There is but a single strand chain link on either side which would be totally ineffective on such a tempestuous day.

The third, a section of the path fully open to the onslaught of the waves with no tidal barrier or respite from either the wind or the waves.

I was convinced by taking the worst case scenario to just back-track past the tractor and container compounds and head into town on the footpath of Hedon Road. It was still parallel to the river but quarter of a mile inland and therefore almost calm by comparison. Opting for caution or the cowards way was disappointing as the wide open views to the river and out to the North Sea are magnificent but they would still be there on another day.

More traffic noise, this time from the shoppers on the way to their rural homes from a good day in the city centre and retail parks. There is a return to the segregated path for bikes and those on foot and a few keen cyclists and dedicated joggers loom up in the far distance or sneak up unnanounced from behind. The cycle path is a bit of a compromise, mainly to improve the environmental credentials of the city. This is no more evident than the dramatic deviation in an otherwise straight and true route to allow for a King George Reign post box. On closer inspection the red paint is chipped and scuffed from pretty frequent impact by inattentive or just trusting bike riders.

The dominant industrial use on the Hedon Road corridor is the manufacture of static caravans destined for holiday parks around the UK and in Europe. These are rapidly produced on black metal chassis by workers armed with nail guns, glue guns and skilled in affixing composite panels to a wooden framework. Row upon row of statics sit in the yard, in quite unglamorous surroundings compared to their final destinations.

After a mile or so there comes the forecourt of HM Prison Hull. It is visiting time and family groups queue up at what is a very  tiny door for what is a huge establishment. They fidget and brace themselves against the february wind from which they have no protection until they get inside the walled complex.

A hand car wash on a disused petrol sales forecourt is doing good business and a line of vehicles, which to me do not look at all grubby, await their turn to be swarmed over by a half dozen or so sponge wielding operatives.

There is a short stretch of sheltered road in the shadow of a large man made embankment. This was formed by the scrapings from the old Victoria Docks in readiness for what is now a big and affluent housing estate. The area has roads named after notable mariners or parts of ocean going ships and the housing ranges from balconied executive dwellings with river view to small two bed starter homes and flats with none. For such a populated area there is no-one to be seen out and about apart from three dog walkers.

The return to the walkway on the flood wall is not as hazardous as expected. At least there is now a low concrete barrier to deflect the strong wind up and over head height. It is a case of negotiating piles of driftwood and vegetation that the last high tide threw up and deposited on the path. There are also large, stranded pools of water from the same event. In the tidal surge, now some 8 weeks ago in December 2012 a number of the houses in the dock area were inundated as the flood walls were overwhelmed quite easily. I expected to see a few properties still under repair but could see none. Perhaps there had been a big push to get houses returned to normal in time for Christmas.

In front and in plain sight is the angular shape of The Deep, the world's, is it largest or only submarium. It is a truly striking intrusion into the skyline of Hull but there is no time to stand and admire it as the force of the gale blows us across and through the surface car park.

In the Old Town the blocking effect of the Georgian buildings from the wind means a noticeable increase in temperature, well at least peaking out at 7 Celsius. It is time to grab a well deserved coffee and there is quite a choice of outlets from the Multi-nationals to the small independents. Starbucks get the decision. There is a stool and counter seat in the window overlooking McDonalds on the opposite side of the pedestrianised area and after a relatively lonely three hour walk it is nice to get back in the midst of civilisation.

Unfortunately, in the space of only a few minutes indoors my limbs have seized up and I can hardly stand up to leave. My stiff jointed stance obviously amuses the more agile and Sanatagonised coffee drinkers and I hobble lamely out into the darkening late afternoon.

It is another two miles back to the house but in a due north direction I am given great assistance by the still potent force of the southerly gale and my cagoul fills out like a sailing ship hurtling me along Beverley Road and to the starting point of the ten mile round trip.

Post Industrial Rambling

I suppose that it was a bit of an industrial walk.

It was through many of the old areas of the city but also quite hard work.

It started off on the course of one of the long since discontinued railway lines which, at one time, criss crossed the urban environment. It used to go from Hull to the East Coast town of Hornsea but Dr Beeching saw fit to axe it because out of the holiday season it was not frequented that much. Now it is just a smooth tarmac path demarcated in red and black surface dressings to segregate cyclists from walkers.

There are very evident signs of the railway heritage, no more so than the remains of the old platform and former Station House. The way is strewn with wind blown debris, a good potential supply of recyclable metals in beer can form for the developing economies (if anyone could be bothered to pick it up) and a variety of white goods, stolen motorcycles and discarded shopping trolleys.

A few busy main roads are negotiated being congested with saturday shoppers heading into town. The only others heading our way are mums with push chairs and a few fluorescent clad workmen going home from the early shift on creaky bikes.

The old railway course cuts along the back of modern council housing which will have taken the place of the dilapidated  late Victorian back to back and terraced dwellings which fell down, were bombed or demolished and cleared to satisfy to the whims of urban planners.

A bit further along and houses make way for industrial sheds, a school sports hall and a travellers camp. One of my most favourite structures looms up in the form of Wilmington Bridge, rebuilt in 1907 to replace an 1853 structure. The elevated control room is occupied today as the door is open and I can see the newly established early season tomato plants begin to flourish behind the large glazed hot-house style windows. In a few minutes the bell will ring to announce that the red metallic bridge will soon swing open to allow a low fuel bowser barge to pass underneath on its way out to the Humber.

To the north is one of the few surviving grain silos which at one time lined the river corridor. It bears the name of "British Oil Extraction" picked out in brick some 200 feet above the ground. In contrast is the low and glazed atrium of a tile and bathroom showroom which sits on the main road frontage.

There is a smell in the air. Roll back 100 years and this would have been from a myriad of manufacturing processes such as leather tannery, chemical works, fellmongers and paint makers. Today, it is just the Municipal Tip.

The route so far has been level and true to be expected for an otherwise gradient sensitive railway. Just off is a graffitti daubed underpass which is entered with a bit of trepidation as it is dark, dank and waterlogged. The daylight on the other side is welcoming but not the bleak post industrial landscape of vacant plots and wasteland. The public footpath runs between high palisade fencing and I feel hemmed in as though skirting along a no-mans land. It is a lonely place and the wind whistles a mournful tune through the "Keep Out" signs.

The complex of the Reckitt Benckiser Factory is reassurance that there is still employment to be had and even for a saturday there are vehicles in the staff car park so business must be good. Back now to a small cluster of houses, the few survivors of a large thriving area but looking a bit out of place in mixed surroundings. The face of Colonel Sanders looms up on a newly built KFC outlet and behind glows the bright green signage of an Asda superstore. It takes a few minutes to cross the busy retail park entrance before reaching Newbridge Road and the densely populated terraced streets which run off. There are a few dead ends down footways which have been gated and locked to frustrate the activities of  ne'er do wells making it necessary to backtrack as though in a maze.

The houses are left behind as another path opens up along the course of another disused railway, this time Hull to Withernsea. This runs paralell to one of the still active Dock lines and a freight train moves slowly along pulling a long procession of wagons carrying imported steel or coal from the quaysides. The copper roof on the tower of Hull Prison is a landmark on the route, then under a rusty road bridge and up and over a footbridge to follow a wide and deep storm drain.It is one of those bridges where it takes three times as long to negotiate it on the ramped sections than the more direct up and over steel staircasing.

The watercourse runs due south and for the first time on the walk there is an awareness of a bit of a gale blowing. The dirty water, rather than running out to the estuary seems to be flowing in the opposite direction from the force of the wind. Another large piece of wasteground marks the site of the old Hedon Road Maternity Hospital in which a good proportion of the East Hull population were born. There is nothing to show for this important role apart from the vague outline of footings in the undergrowth.

Hedon Road traffic thunders past. It is a very busy corridor into and out of Hull to the rural areas and towards the east coast. At a roundabout junction there is the entrance to the Docks complex and articulated lorries of many northern european haulage companies dash to board the ferries to Zeebrugge and Rotterdam. Norbert Dentressangle, Willy Betts being the best known. In a compound are parked the green liveried John Deere tractors and combines ready to be loaded up and distributed to dealerships. Opposite are row upon row of shipping containers being held for customs or another scheduled sailing. The river is now in sight and a fine spray sends a mist over the footpath and car park as waves pound the flood defence wall.

The next stage of the walk is into the very face of the storm.