It is funny what information, absorbed in childhood, really sticks in your consciousness and then emerges at some time in your future to surprise and amuse you.
This could be a very early memory of a nursery rhyme, a story from a beloved book, a photograph of a memorable time, a bedtime prayer, a distinctive smell, a toy that featured in your life and a name or names.
I can recall at least one example from each of these archived memories.
The nursery rhyme must be 'Ring a Ring a Roses', an innocent sounding tone type poem always best sung in a large group of children but yet explained later in life as being about the Great Plague and how the next line
'a pocket full of poseys' showed how having a fragrant source about your person could mask the frighteningly horrific stench of death.
The story from a beloved book would have to be 'Peter's Happy Day' which I returned with from the Earls Court, London Motor Show in 1969, aged 6. This was a cautionary tale of being safe and protected from harm on the streets, at home and in all aspects of being a vulnerable child in a world hell bent on doing you a mischief. I always thought that it was written by someone called R Ospa. It was not until much later that I found out that the author was quite prolific in advisory publications but then again that is what the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents was formed to do.
The picture which persists in my memory would be of a photograph taken one Christmas morning when I must have been about 7 or 8 years old. It is an idyllic scene of me and my sisters amongst opened up and discarded presents in our living room. We are ecstatically happy to sit in the mess of wrapping paper and torn boxes and I am the proud recipient of a bright red painted metal pedal car. My sisters would dispute, even to this day, that it was a joint present but they were girls and I was not even sure, being wholly un-PC at an early age, if girls could own, let alone drive a vehicle.
The bedtime prayer is 'Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild' which accompanied me and my siblings to sleep every night and the singing of it by my parents represented the most reassuring and secure feeling that you could ever imagine or hope for as a small child, again in a world where there were bad things happening to those less fortunate than yourself.
The distinctive smell is actually a combination of two that always seemed to be present in our house. One was the ammonia steeped and quite oppressive smell of a home perm kit that would be a sign that our mother would soon be under the hairdryer and the other was Dettol, a strong antiseptic cleaning solution that was a must have in an environment where germs had a field day in the hair, on the skin and in the stomachs of children and every now and again would take the initiative in the form of head lice, infections and sickness and diarrhoea. Dettol in copious amounts either neat or diluted was strong enough to kill 99% of all known germs. It did not taste very nice either, I can vouch for that personally.
The toy that was important to me was my Action Man. I can clearly remember that I got him in 1970 because he came with an England World Cup Squad kit from that years tournament in Mexico. He went missing for a few weeks and I feared that he had fallen out of the car on a wee-wee stop in the countryside during what always seemed like a long journey to and from Grandparents who lived in Dunstable to our home in Suffolk. I did eventually find him squashed down behind the loose cushions in my parents VW Camper Van. We celebrated by putting on his best Lifeguards uniform complete with sword but no horse (Supplied Separately).
Two names that have gone down in family legend still cause me to grin and laugh. I do not know who they were or where they came from but suspect that they may have been contemporaries of my big sister, 2 years older than me. They were Helen Steggles and Trudi Bucket. My father always got a laugh by throwing their names into a family conversation when he was not sure of someone's name in the hordes of our friends who would descend on us to play on the Kelloggs token purchase climbing frame in the back garden.
These are strong memories, all of them ,but their quite mundane and harmless nature bears testimony to the fact that I had a very safe and privileged childhood with no worries or fears and just time a plenty to be a child and do all of the things that children are meant to do, mostly in my case in a faint cloud and odour of a branded disinfectant.
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Long Lasting Impression
It's nice to have a soundtrack for your life, a favourite song, a tune or lyric that captures a specific moment or event in your life.
Couples have an 'our tune', single persons a melancholy or bitter 'break-up' song, others a coming of age song, a favourite driving song, a raucous sing-a-long song or a melody that is a faint recollection of something really good but seems a bit hazy and vague usually because of alcohol induced tiredness and fatigue.
Just an opening riff or a few bars of the song and you are transported back, willingly or not to that point in the past when nothing else but the meaning and association of that tune was of any importance.
The music that persists from my teenage years as a strong memory is not what you might expect of a young adult growing up in the decade of the seventies. I was a late developer as far as music and in particular, Pop and Rock music was concerned.
This was a combination of being very square and boring and having no tangible amount of pocket money or more to the point the lack of ability or conviction to save my allowance towards anything more material than a few fizz bomb sweets ,my geeky monthly 'Speed and Power Magazine" and a brief flirtation with smoking.
I remember my first ever record purchase. It was a birthday present for my older sister and I must say it was the best thing that the Wombles ever recorded, all of that remembering they were Wombles. My first album purchase was a second hand copy of "Paralell Lines" by Blondie from about 1979.
Apart from those innocent acquisitions the abiding memory and soundtrack of the younger part of my life revolved around the activities of James Last and his Orchestra.
I was a little bit reassured just a few days ago by a tribute on the radio to the prolific record output of James Last. This made me feel that I had not been alone in being exposed to the high tempo, high quality production ethics and downright tunefulness of what was the template for Euro-Pop and what ,I always feel is a bit harsh-, elevator music.
My parents had at few centimetres of the record cabinet allocated to James Last albums. At parties at home where my parents were very much part of the beautiful people, the movers and shakers of a small town econony, the smulchy but ultimately catchy arrangements of ballads and movie themes made a perfect, non intrusive but comforting backdrop for conversations which sailed over the heads and consciousness of the Von Trapp, I mean Thomson Family Children, as we earwigged and eavesdropped from the staircase and landing at such gatherings.
The ladies at the parties in the 1970's wore long maxi dresses, very colourful, floaty and on reflection quite sensual and exotic. They would drift, mingle and dip to the smooth trumpet tones of James Last. The recordings always had an enthusiastic crowd sound on them like an actual live audience but I suspect now, in my cynical middle age that this was a bit like a laughter track on classic comedy broadcasts. It served its purpose brilliantly however and my parents parties for Junior Chamber of Commerce or just inviting around the neighbours and their good friends crackled and raved , ultimately encouraged to lose their inhibitions by the canned sound from the static infused 33 rpm vinyl record.
So there it is. My big confession. Of course if I am ever invited to draw up my lifetime playlist or a shortlist in case I get stranded on a desert island I will deny any knowledge of ever having tapped a foot or swayed a sway to the smooth and dulcet tones and clinically engineered works of the maestro of bling-pop, that Mr James Last.
Couples have an 'our tune', single persons a melancholy or bitter 'break-up' song, others a coming of age song, a favourite driving song, a raucous sing-a-long song or a melody that is a faint recollection of something really good but seems a bit hazy and vague usually because of alcohol induced tiredness and fatigue.
Just an opening riff or a few bars of the song and you are transported back, willingly or not to that point in the past when nothing else but the meaning and association of that tune was of any importance.
The music that persists from my teenage years as a strong memory is not what you might expect of a young adult growing up in the decade of the seventies. I was a late developer as far as music and in particular, Pop and Rock music was concerned.
This was a combination of being very square and boring and having no tangible amount of pocket money or more to the point the lack of ability or conviction to save my allowance towards anything more material than a few fizz bomb sweets ,my geeky monthly 'Speed and Power Magazine" and a brief flirtation with smoking.
I remember my first ever record purchase. It was a birthday present for my older sister and I must say it was the best thing that the Wombles ever recorded, all of that remembering they were Wombles. My first album purchase was a second hand copy of "Paralell Lines" by Blondie from about 1979.
Apart from those innocent acquisitions the abiding memory and soundtrack of the younger part of my life revolved around the activities of James Last and his Orchestra.
I was a little bit reassured just a few days ago by a tribute on the radio to the prolific record output of James Last. This made me feel that I had not been alone in being exposed to the high tempo, high quality production ethics and downright tunefulness of what was the template for Euro-Pop and what ,I always feel is a bit harsh-, elevator music.
My parents had at few centimetres of the record cabinet allocated to James Last albums. At parties at home where my parents were very much part of the beautiful people, the movers and shakers of a small town econony, the smulchy but ultimately catchy arrangements of ballads and movie themes made a perfect, non intrusive but comforting backdrop for conversations which sailed over the heads and consciousness of the Von Trapp, I mean Thomson Family Children, as we earwigged and eavesdropped from the staircase and landing at such gatherings.
The ladies at the parties in the 1970's wore long maxi dresses, very colourful, floaty and on reflection quite sensual and exotic. They would drift, mingle and dip to the smooth trumpet tones of James Last. The recordings always had an enthusiastic crowd sound on them like an actual live audience but I suspect now, in my cynical middle age that this was a bit like a laughter track on classic comedy broadcasts. It served its purpose brilliantly however and my parents parties for Junior Chamber of Commerce or just inviting around the neighbours and their good friends crackled and raved , ultimately encouraged to lose their inhibitions by the canned sound from the static infused 33 rpm vinyl record.
So there it is. My big confession. Of course if I am ever invited to draw up my lifetime playlist or a shortlist in case I get stranded on a desert island I will deny any knowledge of ever having tapped a foot or swayed a sway to the smooth and dulcet tones and clinically engineered works of the maestro of bling-pop, that Mr James Last.
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
The Art of Line Dancing
Amongst the great railway journeys in the world one of my favourites does not really figure in say, the top ten thousand.
There are no dramatic mountain peaks hovering vertically overhead, no sheer drops into a raging torrent in the bottom of the valley, no risk of rock falls or landslide in a constant battle against the forces of nature, no need to carve a snaking route through a harsh environment with dynamite or to provide an armed on board presence to discourage attack and insurrection.
My journey starts at a typical red brick railway station in the west of Hull commuter town of Hessle.
The old ticket office sits at street level in a leafy suburb and looking onto large late Victorian properties originally built as superior residences for the well to do of the East Riding but now either split into flats or operating in the Health and Social Care sectors.
In terms of progress in the latter part of the 19th Century having a railway station at your front door would be quite an attraction, a modern amenity. The platform for trains to Hull is set at a lower level following the topography of a narrow plateau between Hessle Cliff and a further, shallower slope down to the Humber Foreshore.
For those venturing westwards and served by the far platform it is a case of using a large metal gantry bridge with the accompanying whistle of a prevailing wind as it hugs the contours. The Station, once employing perhaps upwards of a dozen employees is now unmannned and only frequented by the distant voice of the announcer over the tannoy. As the sound system suddenly bursts into life with someone playing a xylophone those waiting can be seen to be startled or grimacing in equal numbers.
The early morning trains are the short local ones, two sections, bench seats, no frills, deserted apart from a few shop workers and early bird shoppers. I am excited as we move off. There is some deep rooted emotion about being conveyed by a train. I have tried to fight it by refusing to stand on a bridge to await the arrival of a specific named or numbered engine with binoculars, camera and anorak.
As part of my self imposed therapy I stare out of the window. On the north side of the line to Hull leaving Hessle stands a large area of post war built housing infilling between the grand Victorian Villas and a small terrace of railway workers cottages. Once isolated and well out of the town the neat engineering brick faced properties are now hemmed in and squeezed by industry. The train rattles over a bridge where it crosses Hessle Haven although in land drain guise before it widens at the estuary mouth. I recall many a ship launch sideways into the tidal outlet of the same watercourse just out of sight.
As business and commerce has followed the trend over the last decade or so to vacate the old central city areas it has relocated to the floodplain between Hessle and West Hull. There are acre upon acre of sheds, multi purpose with the same basic pattern and style being adapted for either office, showroom, factory or recreational use. The out of town retailers have followed with large Sainsbury and Aldi stores. The new Park and Ride has also become established and always, when overlooked from the competing train, seems to be well patronised.
The low rise business district contrasts sharply with the large and tall edifice of a Hotel with coffee shop franchise and Health Club but even this yellow stone monument is dominated by the powder blue stanchions of the Arco Warehouse. The span and tension in the metalwork creates a huge clear working space for the storage and distribution of every manner of safety equipment. At 6pm every evening a fleet of parcel carriers leave the premises, straining on their axles to meet the 24 hour delivery promise for steel capped work boots or padded ear defenders and so much more. The articulated trucks complete a 12 hour cycle of peak activity on the industrial estate which started with the vans and lorries going to and from the wholesale fruit and flower market at its eastern end.
Having run quite close and paralell to the river and business district the railway line turns inland, north easterly at about the position of Cod Farm, a promontory, man made into the river where lines of filleted fish were hung out to air dry in the halcyon days of the trawling industry. Large mounds of gravel and salt can be seen in the marshalling yards where in the 1970's the sections of the Humber Suspension Bridge were assembled and gathered before being floated up river and lifted into position.
There is another estate of factories including a large manufacturer of Yorkshire Puddings but of older and now rather dated buildings. I avert my gaze from an area of open ground where, to the open mouthed amazement of the occupants of a train from London to Hull, a man was seen having sexual relations with a tethered goat.
The older terraced housing on the outer approaches to the city made way in the 1960's for bland modern council houses . Current demolition and clearance has led to some striking town houses in deep glazed brick panels with gable balconies and neat wrought iron fenced in forecourts. Nice but probably only good and sustainable for about 50 years whereas the former housing had survived over 100 including wartime bombing.
A series of level crossings frustrate the busy city traffic but a vast improvement from the 1950's when constant rail freight traffic to and from the thriving docks meant that the crossing gates on the main arterial roads of Hull were closed for a cumulative total of 15 hours a day. My window flashes in and out of light and shade as the train passes under the Anlaby Road Flyover, one of the civil engineering remedies to bypass the physical severance of the road by the rail lines.
Houses close to the course of the railway have metal tie bars in their brickwork to counter the rattling and wobbling effect that a procession of diesel engines, and steam engines before can exact on an already fairly unstable foundation on a shrinkable clay.
The Infirmary is a large sprawl of old and very modern buildings, mostly in the shadow of the now very dated multi storey tower of Hull Royal. The train is slowing now, tic-tac sounding across points where the main lines into Hull Station converge. I laugh aloud at a piece of humourous graffitti on the underside of a road bridge and depair at the rest of the indiscriminate and illiterate offerings on walls, obsolete signal boxes and on every other accessible available surface.
The vast arched profile of Paragon Station is in view, a magnificent example of functional and beautiful architecture, much featured in film and television. It will have been marvelled at by the 2.2 million immigrants awaiting transit from Hull to Liverpool and beyond at a turbulent time in their own lives and world history over 100 years ago. Their onward journey will have been of epic and dramatic proportions. My own, about 6 miles and 7 minutes.
There are no dramatic mountain peaks hovering vertically overhead, no sheer drops into a raging torrent in the bottom of the valley, no risk of rock falls or landslide in a constant battle against the forces of nature, no need to carve a snaking route through a harsh environment with dynamite or to provide an armed on board presence to discourage attack and insurrection.
My journey starts at a typical red brick railway station in the west of Hull commuter town of Hessle.
The old ticket office sits at street level in a leafy suburb and looking onto large late Victorian properties originally built as superior residences for the well to do of the East Riding but now either split into flats or operating in the Health and Social Care sectors.
In terms of progress in the latter part of the 19th Century having a railway station at your front door would be quite an attraction, a modern amenity. The platform for trains to Hull is set at a lower level following the topography of a narrow plateau between Hessle Cliff and a further, shallower slope down to the Humber Foreshore.
For those venturing westwards and served by the far platform it is a case of using a large metal gantry bridge with the accompanying whistle of a prevailing wind as it hugs the contours. The Station, once employing perhaps upwards of a dozen employees is now unmannned and only frequented by the distant voice of the announcer over the tannoy. As the sound system suddenly bursts into life with someone playing a xylophone those waiting can be seen to be startled or grimacing in equal numbers.
The early morning trains are the short local ones, two sections, bench seats, no frills, deserted apart from a few shop workers and early bird shoppers. I am excited as we move off. There is some deep rooted emotion about being conveyed by a train. I have tried to fight it by refusing to stand on a bridge to await the arrival of a specific named or numbered engine with binoculars, camera and anorak.
As part of my self imposed therapy I stare out of the window. On the north side of the line to Hull leaving Hessle stands a large area of post war built housing infilling between the grand Victorian Villas and a small terrace of railway workers cottages. Once isolated and well out of the town the neat engineering brick faced properties are now hemmed in and squeezed by industry. The train rattles over a bridge where it crosses Hessle Haven although in land drain guise before it widens at the estuary mouth. I recall many a ship launch sideways into the tidal outlet of the same watercourse just out of sight.
As business and commerce has followed the trend over the last decade or so to vacate the old central city areas it has relocated to the floodplain between Hessle and West Hull. There are acre upon acre of sheds, multi purpose with the same basic pattern and style being adapted for either office, showroom, factory or recreational use. The out of town retailers have followed with large Sainsbury and Aldi stores. The new Park and Ride has also become established and always, when overlooked from the competing train, seems to be well patronised.
The low rise business district contrasts sharply with the large and tall edifice of a Hotel with coffee shop franchise and Health Club but even this yellow stone monument is dominated by the powder blue stanchions of the Arco Warehouse. The span and tension in the metalwork creates a huge clear working space for the storage and distribution of every manner of safety equipment. At 6pm every evening a fleet of parcel carriers leave the premises, straining on their axles to meet the 24 hour delivery promise for steel capped work boots or padded ear defenders and so much more. The articulated trucks complete a 12 hour cycle of peak activity on the industrial estate which started with the vans and lorries going to and from the wholesale fruit and flower market at its eastern end.
Having run quite close and paralell to the river and business district the railway line turns inland, north easterly at about the position of Cod Farm, a promontory, man made into the river where lines of filleted fish were hung out to air dry in the halcyon days of the trawling industry. Large mounds of gravel and salt can be seen in the marshalling yards where in the 1970's the sections of the Humber Suspension Bridge were assembled and gathered before being floated up river and lifted into position.
There is another estate of factories including a large manufacturer of Yorkshire Puddings but of older and now rather dated buildings. I avert my gaze from an area of open ground where, to the open mouthed amazement of the occupants of a train from London to Hull, a man was seen having sexual relations with a tethered goat.
The older terraced housing on the outer approaches to the city made way in the 1960's for bland modern council houses . Current demolition and clearance has led to some striking town houses in deep glazed brick panels with gable balconies and neat wrought iron fenced in forecourts. Nice but probably only good and sustainable for about 50 years whereas the former housing had survived over 100 including wartime bombing.
A series of level crossings frustrate the busy city traffic but a vast improvement from the 1950's when constant rail freight traffic to and from the thriving docks meant that the crossing gates on the main arterial roads of Hull were closed for a cumulative total of 15 hours a day. My window flashes in and out of light and shade as the train passes under the Anlaby Road Flyover, one of the civil engineering remedies to bypass the physical severance of the road by the rail lines.
Houses close to the course of the railway have metal tie bars in their brickwork to counter the rattling and wobbling effect that a procession of diesel engines, and steam engines before can exact on an already fairly unstable foundation on a shrinkable clay.
The Infirmary is a large sprawl of old and very modern buildings, mostly in the shadow of the now very dated multi storey tower of Hull Royal. The train is slowing now, tic-tac sounding across points where the main lines into Hull Station converge. I laugh aloud at a piece of humourous graffitti on the underside of a road bridge and depair at the rest of the indiscriminate and illiterate offerings on walls, obsolete signal boxes and on every other accessible available surface.
The vast arched profile of Paragon Station is in view, a magnificent example of functional and beautiful architecture, much featured in film and television. It will have been marvelled at by the 2.2 million immigrants awaiting transit from Hull to Liverpool and beyond at a turbulent time in their own lives and world history over 100 years ago. Their onward journey will have been of epic and dramatic proportions. My own, about 6 miles and 7 minutes.
Monday, 8 October 2012
Metres and Greeters
Hull Fair is dominating the skyline of the inner western city this week.
From the higher ground in the outer suburbs can be seen the big wheel, the sweeping and raking arc-light of lasers and, even against the prevailing winds, the thumpy-thump of a bass and drum rhythm by which the big rides draw in and captivate their thrill seeking customers or strike fear and palpitations amongst the fainter hearted lookers-on.
The Hull Daily Mail marvelled at the biggest structure on the site, a high tech, capital investment maypole type tower with chain link and very traditional seats flailing around at the top, a reported sheer 70 feet high. I was myself aghast at this vertigo inducing ride and amazed at the year on year motivation of the Showpersons to excel themselves with ever more altitude, G-forces, neck snapping torque, nausea induction and moves to ease and tease loose change and mobile phones out of pockets.
70 feet is quite high enough but in fact the newspaper had got it completely wrong. The true height stands at a whopping and thin-air light-headedness of 70 metres above the firm earth.
Hull Fair, the largest travelling funfair in Europe has a long heritage going back through a few generations of Hull Folk. It was originally a livestock market but gradually the sideshows and other attractions will have followed the demographic trends of a diminishing rural outlook and focused their appeal on the growing urban population.
My Mother in Law, now 82 years old clearly remembers her first visit to Hull Fair at the age of 5 and the purchase of a doll on a stick and string. This appears to have been the most popular acquisition for the children of 1935 and no doubt very engrossing, satisfying and meeting all expectations of fun and imaginary play.
Maureen also recalls the traditional offerings of Hull Fair, in particular the Human Freak Show. This was a mixture of living persons of remarkable physical characteristics from the tallest man in the British Isles, to a bearded Lady, conjoined twins and all variety of body parts and foetal growths in the murky liquids of large glass demi-johns and specimen jars. The Boxing Tent was a popular destination for the local male population as participants and the fairer sex as casual but very enthusiastic and encouraging spectators. Challengers were invited to take on the hoary, scarred, rough and sinewy Show-Boxers either culminating in a surprise victory or a bloody humiliation, dependant upon how the Professionals read and interpreted the wishes and mood of the crowd.
My first Hull Fair , as a newcomer to the area, was in the late 1970's when a particularly sorry sight was a large grimy tank containing equally grim and sad looking sharks swimming clockwise for the duration. Animal performers were, I admit, very rare but at some time will have made up a reasonable proportion with the odd and strange human counterparts of the offerings of the Fair.
It is odds on that the general public became bored with the traditional and therefore dated shows and those relying on the Fairs travelling around the UK had to reinvent themselves to maintain their still lucrative proceeds from a week of a captive and captivated Hull population.
There will always be a place for the Carousel and its snorting horses, a white-painted weatherboarded Helter Skelter, a version of a Big Wheel and the huddle of stalls for throwing or tossing darts and rings to win those elusive prizes. However, to ease the hard pressed pennies and pounds from our tight-knuckled grip in recessionary times we will demand more and more by way of terror, adrenalin rush and sheer fear in the rides and attractions. On the rate of progress sustained over the last century, at least, I do not think that this will be a problem.
From the higher ground in the outer suburbs can be seen the big wheel, the sweeping and raking arc-light of lasers and, even against the prevailing winds, the thumpy-thump of a bass and drum rhythm by which the big rides draw in and captivate their thrill seeking customers or strike fear and palpitations amongst the fainter hearted lookers-on.
The Hull Daily Mail marvelled at the biggest structure on the site, a high tech, capital investment maypole type tower with chain link and very traditional seats flailing around at the top, a reported sheer 70 feet high. I was myself aghast at this vertigo inducing ride and amazed at the year on year motivation of the Showpersons to excel themselves with ever more altitude, G-forces, neck snapping torque, nausea induction and moves to ease and tease loose change and mobile phones out of pockets.
70 feet is quite high enough but in fact the newspaper had got it completely wrong. The true height stands at a whopping and thin-air light-headedness of 70 metres above the firm earth.
Hull Fair, the largest travelling funfair in Europe has a long heritage going back through a few generations of Hull Folk. It was originally a livestock market but gradually the sideshows and other attractions will have followed the demographic trends of a diminishing rural outlook and focused their appeal on the growing urban population.
My Mother in Law, now 82 years old clearly remembers her first visit to Hull Fair at the age of 5 and the purchase of a doll on a stick and string. This appears to have been the most popular acquisition for the children of 1935 and no doubt very engrossing, satisfying and meeting all expectations of fun and imaginary play.
Maureen also recalls the traditional offerings of Hull Fair, in particular the Human Freak Show. This was a mixture of living persons of remarkable physical characteristics from the tallest man in the British Isles, to a bearded Lady, conjoined twins and all variety of body parts and foetal growths in the murky liquids of large glass demi-johns and specimen jars. The Boxing Tent was a popular destination for the local male population as participants and the fairer sex as casual but very enthusiastic and encouraging spectators. Challengers were invited to take on the hoary, scarred, rough and sinewy Show-Boxers either culminating in a surprise victory or a bloody humiliation, dependant upon how the Professionals read and interpreted the wishes and mood of the crowd.
My first Hull Fair , as a newcomer to the area, was in the late 1970's when a particularly sorry sight was a large grimy tank containing equally grim and sad looking sharks swimming clockwise for the duration. Animal performers were, I admit, very rare but at some time will have made up a reasonable proportion with the odd and strange human counterparts of the offerings of the Fair.
It is odds on that the general public became bored with the traditional and therefore dated shows and those relying on the Fairs travelling around the UK had to reinvent themselves to maintain their still lucrative proceeds from a week of a captive and captivated Hull population.
There will always be a place for the Carousel and its snorting horses, a white-painted weatherboarded Helter Skelter, a version of a Big Wheel and the huddle of stalls for throwing or tossing darts and rings to win those elusive prizes. However, to ease the hard pressed pennies and pounds from our tight-knuckled grip in recessionary times we will demand more and more by way of terror, adrenalin rush and sheer fear in the rides and attractions. On the rate of progress sustained over the last century, at least, I do not think that this will be a problem.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
National Socialisms
Engage in conversation with friends or strangers and it is said that it will, from whatever pleasantrie or subject it started on, eventually come around to Hitler, Immigration or the issue of what Social Class you believe yourself to be in.
The old Downton Abbey type demarcation between the Classes is long gone, Praise Be, but many still struggle to either identify with their ancestral roots or edge themselves up, through materialistic possessions, affectations and what older generations call "Top Show" or crudely, "Fur coat and no knickers, to give the impression that they are in the bracket above which they actually belong.
Social mobility and aspirations can blur any residual barriers. It is only the Elitist Ruling Class who have maintained their status, although in a bit more of an impoverished state since the abolition of slavery, domestic servitude and the money making exploitations within the old Empire. We know this to be a fact because they keep going on about it.
I get the impression that more of the UK population than ever regard themselves as Middle Class. This is not surprising because the heavy industries, manual labour and nasty, smelly jobs which made the country wealthy and the electric lighting and transport efficient do not exist anymore within our shores in any recognisable numbers. The Working Class are as rare now in our Census figures as the Ruling Classes which represents a very dramatic situation and with equally significant implications for the socio-economic composition of our Nation.
The Times on Saturday put together a survey to test its readers on whether they are Middle Class. The fifty observations were arranged across a double page spread with indicative photo's of the objects in question and a tick box. This subject aroused my interest and imagination and I have decided to compile a slightly less ambitious selection of 30 things that tell you if that you are Middle Class. Here goes;
1. You saw The Times on Saturday Survey on determining if you are Middle Class.
2. A nice pen was close to hand by which to complete the Times on Saturday Survey
3. There was a thick coffee table type book available on which to rest the Times on Saturday
4. It was quiet enough in the house to complete the Survey without disturbance
5. Items 1 to 5 above were completed whilst drinking a cup of filter coffee from a cafetiere
6. Instant coffee is relegated to the back of the cupboard on a weekend
7. The digital radio in the kitchen has only ever been tuned to BBC Radio 4 Extra
8. You have a pressure cooker but have forgotten how to use it
9. A bulb of garlic sits in its own dish on the kitchen worktop, untouched.
10.You would rather bake a loaf in the breadmaker at exhorbitant cost than buy one from Tesco's
11. You have a dishwasher and also a good supply of Fairy washing up liquid, unopened
12. Fridge magnets on display are from world wide destinations and not just from Clinton Cards.
13. One living room is called 'The Best Room' and has one wall in a contrasting papered finish
14. There is at least one German Manufactured car on the driveway
15. You once had a thought to install a bidet in the bathroom
16. There is more than a weeks supply of toilet paper available in the house
17. Books in the bedroom are on average about 3 centimetres thick from cover to cover
18. You have never purchased, coveted or admired net curtains
19. You possess more than one best pair of shoes
20. A set of crockery is on permanent display and is never for practical use
21. You have a garage but it has never ever had a car parked in it.
22. You regard recycling as your major contribution to saving the world from global warming
23. It is a matter of choice not necessity that you turn on the lounge gas fire
24. There is always a pile of unopened letters from your Bank in a desk drawer. You have a desk.
25. You are good for credit for an indefinite period at your local newsagents.
26. You have a dining room table and it is used for family meals on special occasions.
27. A meal in front of the TV is very naughty and subversive but strangely exciting to partake in
28. You have a raincoat, top coat and a smart casual jacket but a cagoule is only a cagoule
29. A haircut can only be obtained from a hairdressing salon
30. You never carry around any cash or paper money over £10 denomination.
Thank you for your attention. I am just going upstairs to assess if I can indeed wedge a bidet into the house bathroom. If I move the vast supply of loo paper into the garage this may surely be possible.
The old Downton Abbey type demarcation between the Classes is long gone, Praise Be, but many still struggle to either identify with their ancestral roots or edge themselves up, through materialistic possessions, affectations and what older generations call "Top Show" or crudely, "Fur coat and no knickers, to give the impression that they are in the bracket above which they actually belong.
Social mobility and aspirations can blur any residual barriers. It is only the Elitist Ruling Class who have maintained their status, although in a bit more of an impoverished state since the abolition of slavery, domestic servitude and the money making exploitations within the old Empire. We know this to be a fact because they keep going on about it.
I get the impression that more of the UK population than ever regard themselves as Middle Class. This is not surprising because the heavy industries, manual labour and nasty, smelly jobs which made the country wealthy and the electric lighting and transport efficient do not exist anymore within our shores in any recognisable numbers. The Working Class are as rare now in our Census figures as the Ruling Classes which represents a very dramatic situation and with equally significant implications for the socio-economic composition of our Nation.
The Times on Saturday put together a survey to test its readers on whether they are Middle Class. The fifty observations were arranged across a double page spread with indicative photo's of the objects in question and a tick box. This subject aroused my interest and imagination and I have decided to compile a slightly less ambitious selection of 30 things that tell you if that you are Middle Class. Here goes;
1. You saw The Times on Saturday Survey on determining if you are Middle Class.
2. A nice pen was close to hand by which to complete the Times on Saturday Survey
3. There was a thick coffee table type book available on which to rest the Times on Saturday
4. It was quiet enough in the house to complete the Survey without disturbance
5. Items 1 to 5 above were completed whilst drinking a cup of filter coffee from a cafetiere
6. Instant coffee is relegated to the back of the cupboard on a weekend
7. The digital radio in the kitchen has only ever been tuned to BBC Radio 4 Extra
8. You have a pressure cooker but have forgotten how to use it
9. A bulb of garlic sits in its own dish on the kitchen worktop, untouched.
10.You would rather bake a loaf in the breadmaker at exhorbitant cost than buy one from Tesco's
11. You have a dishwasher and also a good supply of Fairy washing up liquid, unopened
12. Fridge magnets on display are from world wide destinations and not just from Clinton Cards.
13. One living room is called 'The Best Room' and has one wall in a contrasting papered finish
14. There is at least one German Manufactured car on the driveway
15. You once had a thought to install a bidet in the bathroom
16. There is more than a weeks supply of toilet paper available in the house
17. Books in the bedroom are on average about 3 centimetres thick from cover to cover
18. You have never purchased, coveted or admired net curtains
19. You possess more than one best pair of shoes
20. A set of crockery is on permanent display and is never for practical use
21. You have a garage but it has never ever had a car parked in it.
22. You regard recycling as your major contribution to saving the world from global warming
23. It is a matter of choice not necessity that you turn on the lounge gas fire
24. There is always a pile of unopened letters from your Bank in a desk drawer. You have a desk.
25. You are good for credit for an indefinite period at your local newsagents.
26. You have a dining room table and it is used for family meals on special occasions.
27. A meal in front of the TV is very naughty and subversive but strangely exciting to partake in
28. You have a raincoat, top coat and a smart casual jacket but a cagoule is only a cagoule
29. A haircut can only be obtained from a hairdressing salon
30. You never carry around any cash or paper money over £10 denomination.
Thank you for your attention. I am just going upstairs to assess if I can indeed wedge a bidet into the house bathroom. If I move the vast supply of loo paper into the garage this may surely be possible.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
The Flamingos were the first to go.
I have driven between Malton and Pickering in North Yorkshire many, many times.
Heading northwards I always look out for two features. One is a Spitfire on stick. This forms the striking entrance to Eden Camp, a former Second World War POW Camp, but now a fascinating museum dedicated to the history of world conflict. It is a factual and not a jingoistic place where the overiding emotion upon leaving is one of sadness and above all a realisation of the futility of war.
The other landmark has the appearance of the skeletal frame of a dinosaur, head down in the verdant foliage, perfectly arched back and rib cage prominent and strong.
From the main road, a couple of miles away the scale of the thing cannot really be appreciated. It is the complete contrast with its surroundings that make the sight of it so striking. The topography is flat and shelved like a cereal bowl but about 10 miles across. The outer rim is wild and purple with heather or thickly wooded. It has been a struggle over millenia to make the land capable of cultivation and to sustain a population. Dry stone walls have been raised through the back breaking clearance of parcels of ground that could as easily revert to the wild if neglected for more than a moment. The fields are regular and if seen from the higher ground, a patchwork of lush meadow, yellow ripened crop and traditional, very English hardwood woodlands.
Shapes and shades are soft and natural under a wide and open sky. Against this backdrop rises the red oxide structure. It comes and goes into view through the dense hedgerows which flank the roadway. Its appearance is quite mesmerising and may account for the high accident and collision figures for that particular route. What is it?
The clues are in the directional signs at each junction and seemingly on the verge in front of every property. This is tourist country. Every resident appears to be determined to capture the attention and disposable income of those on holiday or just passing through.
There is undoubtedly a good volume of traffic as the corridor between the former Roman outpost of Malton and the market town of Pickering is the common convergence for those seeking the Moors, Coast, Forest Trails, steam railway and broad countryside of this part of God's own country.
The public houses are bright, clean and inviting offering all day breakfasts, leisurely lunches and dinners from 6pm.. Various farm gateways advertise camping and caravanning grounds. Cream Teas are evidently not the exclusive domain of Devon and Cornwall. Small scale market gardens have colourful displays of bedding plants and special one-off promotions although in a hot car travelling back later in the day to the large conurbations of west and south Yorkshire any purchase of flora and fauna would certainly be on the wilting and shrivelled up side of survival. .
Lavender farming is a comparatively new form of attraction being in an expansive landscape to wander about in or packaged up in lace and muslin bags to be gifted to maiden aunts who are the most appreciative to receive such on high days and birthdays. The fit and active are catered for with mountain bike hire, quad bikes and aerial zip wires.
Brown coloured Tourist Board signage is permanantly in view for the 'A' list attractions of Castle Howard and Dalby Forest and places to stay from converted barns to holiday cottages, country house hotels to log cabins. The list of activities and treats may give the impression of driving through a competitor for Las Vegas but the countryside remains largely unspoilt and has changed much to the regular visitors over the last 40 plus years. I know this from personal experience. That is of course with the exception of the present day silhouette of the Diplodocus on the horizon.
I had a school trip to this area in the 1970's. Flamingo Zoo it was called then because it was a zoo with, amongst its inmates, flamingos. It was, to a seven year old (me) very exciting even after a tortuous journey (pre Humber Bridge) involving a coach journey, river ferry crossing and another bus trip with frequent stops for wee-wee's ( me) , travel sickness (me, again) and misbehaviour of rude signs and mouthings to following motorists ( not me). A collection of animals, sad-eyed and a bit mental in their pacings and rituals was more than adequate to entertain us for a few hours before the traumatic return trip ( yes, me).
The same venue has undergone quite a change to capture the interest and imagination of its target audience. I think that the wildlife has long since gone and has been replaced with all the fun to be expected of an amusement park in what is now called Flamingo Land.
The prehistoric monster that dominates the landscape?
It is the Roller Coaster. In a world of intense competition for the tourist pound and to satisfy the seekers of thrills even this may soon fall out of favour and into extinction.
Heading northwards I always look out for two features. One is a Spitfire on stick. This forms the striking entrance to Eden Camp, a former Second World War POW Camp, but now a fascinating museum dedicated to the history of world conflict. It is a factual and not a jingoistic place where the overiding emotion upon leaving is one of sadness and above all a realisation of the futility of war.
The other landmark has the appearance of the skeletal frame of a dinosaur, head down in the verdant foliage, perfectly arched back and rib cage prominent and strong.
From the main road, a couple of miles away the scale of the thing cannot really be appreciated. It is the complete contrast with its surroundings that make the sight of it so striking. The topography is flat and shelved like a cereal bowl but about 10 miles across. The outer rim is wild and purple with heather or thickly wooded. It has been a struggle over millenia to make the land capable of cultivation and to sustain a population. Dry stone walls have been raised through the back breaking clearance of parcels of ground that could as easily revert to the wild if neglected for more than a moment. The fields are regular and if seen from the higher ground, a patchwork of lush meadow, yellow ripened crop and traditional, very English hardwood woodlands.
Shapes and shades are soft and natural under a wide and open sky. Against this backdrop rises the red oxide structure. It comes and goes into view through the dense hedgerows which flank the roadway. Its appearance is quite mesmerising and may account for the high accident and collision figures for that particular route. What is it?
The clues are in the directional signs at each junction and seemingly on the verge in front of every property. This is tourist country. Every resident appears to be determined to capture the attention and disposable income of those on holiday or just passing through.
There is undoubtedly a good volume of traffic as the corridor between the former Roman outpost of Malton and the market town of Pickering is the common convergence for those seeking the Moors, Coast, Forest Trails, steam railway and broad countryside of this part of God's own country.
The public houses are bright, clean and inviting offering all day breakfasts, leisurely lunches and dinners from 6pm.. Various farm gateways advertise camping and caravanning grounds. Cream Teas are evidently not the exclusive domain of Devon and Cornwall. Small scale market gardens have colourful displays of bedding plants and special one-off promotions although in a hot car travelling back later in the day to the large conurbations of west and south Yorkshire any purchase of flora and fauna would certainly be on the wilting and shrivelled up side of survival. .
Lavender farming is a comparatively new form of attraction being in an expansive landscape to wander about in or packaged up in lace and muslin bags to be gifted to maiden aunts who are the most appreciative to receive such on high days and birthdays. The fit and active are catered for with mountain bike hire, quad bikes and aerial zip wires.
Brown coloured Tourist Board signage is permanantly in view for the 'A' list attractions of Castle Howard and Dalby Forest and places to stay from converted barns to holiday cottages, country house hotels to log cabins. The list of activities and treats may give the impression of driving through a competitor for Las Vegas but the countryside remains largely unspoilt and has changed much to the regular visitors over the last 40 plus years. I know this from personal experience. That is of course with the exception of the present day silhouette of the Diplodocus on the horizon.
I had a school trip to this area in the 1970's. Flamingo Zoo it was called then because it was a zoo with, amongst its inmates, flamingos. It was, to a seven year old (me) very exciting even after a tortuous journey (pre Humber Bridge) involving a coach journey, river ferry crossing and another bus trip with frequent stops for wee-wee's ( me) , travel sickness (me, again) and misbehaviour of rude signs and mouthings to following motorists ( not me). A collection of animals, sad-eyed and a bit mental in their pacings and rituals was more than adequate to entertain us for a few hours before the traumatic return trip ( yes, me).
The same venue has undergone quite a change to capture the interest and imagination of its target audience. I think that the wildlife has long since gone and has been replaced with all the fun to be expected of an amusement park in what is now called Flamingo Land.
The prehistoric monster that dominates the landscape?
It is the Roller Coaster. In a world of intense competition for the tourist pound and to satisfy the seekers of thrills even this may soon fall out of favour and into extinction.
Friday, 5 October 2012
Pier Pressure (Never Mind The Baulks)
A bit of block paving, some raised brick planters, a few sculptures with an information board explaining what they represent, benches, clump bushes and sturdy foliage. It is amazing what can be achieved with urban furniture and shaped bricks to soften up a river frontage that for the past half a millenia has provided the wealth through shipping, trawling, trade and commerce for the City and Port Town of Hull.
The long derelict docklands of former timber yards, rail sidings, cattle reception station and leper hopital are now a large housing estate with the frontage properties having conservatory or leggy balcony outlooks onto the mud brown Humber. In the halcyon days of ship borne freight and the fishing industry the same outlook would have been an anxious one for families of the seafarers out in the wind whipped shoreline awaiting first sight of those returning, if at all, from the waters around Iceland or all points of the global shipping routes.
A wide pathway and thick ,squat tidal defence walls have stabilised the land where prone to shifting and overwashing by the waters of an estuary draining one fifth of England although with such a statistic I have the misguided optimism of King Canute.
On a high tide, above average, the pathway is wet and streaked from the every seventh wave surge. I have often wondered if the water is brackish freshwater or salt but have not dared risk tasting it out of curiosity.
As the houses give way to the eastern docks the sea wall stands on your left hand side if heading out of the City. To the right is a stone dressed slope, about forty five degree gradient and 3 metres vertical equivalent. This is a bit more sobering to walk along and many casual pedestrians will probably turn back at the end of the beautified path.
At low tide the slope slips away into a muddy morass which stretches out some 100 metres to the residual deeper channels which run fast with the current. Out of the mud are the broken and shattered rib bones of the former quays and jettys. These are huge timbers, baulks of dense but saturated English hardwoods punctured through with bolts and fixings to give an indication of what role they may have played individually and also as part of a much larger industrial structure.
There is an outer ring of piers which have partially collapsed but will have formed a sheltered inlet to receive timber, bricks and all manner of imports from Europe and beyond. These have corrugated sheet metal buildings built off them just about resisting the pressures of the driving weather but on each walk past there seems to be more of the far shore visible through holes and breaches.
At high tide the same bare bones are less intimidating to look at and give an impression of possible renovation and restoration for some renewed economic use but the deep set decay is beyond remission.
There are a couple of lock gates to cross. Modern metal mesh walkways, functional onto the active dock basins just inland. The rattle of steel on steel is a distraction from the sheer drop on the outer side at low tide and it is necessary to pick a spot someway ahead and upwards to avoid that queasy fear of heights feeling.
A very sharp left turn along the path gives no warning of walkers or cyclists beyond and a few times there have been awkward moments of ' you go first, no. you go first, sorry,' and similar examples of clumsy dances with strangers. This corner leads around the mighty edifice of the Holderness Drain which discharges the run-off from the agricultural hinterlands as well as dead dogs, supermarket trolleys and on occasion, human remains.
The car park and viewpoint for the Rotterdam Ferry Terminal is reached. A few anglers wait optimistically but seem to just enjoy the open air and signs of hustle and bustle from alternate loadings and unloadings of lorries, trailers and visitors. It feels like the end of the line on foot unless in possession of a boarding pass. It is for me and I turn around and retrace my steps.
From the different approach and angle, a variation in light and shade the same features look almost beautiful.
The long derelict docklands of former timber yards, rail sidings, cattle reception station and leper hopital are now a large housing estate with the frontage properties having conservatory or leggy balcony outlooks onto the mud brown Humber. In the halcyon days of ship borne freight and the fishing industry the same outlook would have been an anxious one for families of the seafarers out in the wind whipped shoreline awaiting first sight of those returning, if at all, from the waters around Iceland or all points of the global shipping routes.
A wide pathway and thick ,squat tidal defence walls have stabilised the land where prone to shifting and overwashing by the waters of an estuary draining one fifth of England although with such a statistic I have the misguided optimism of King Canute.
On a high tide, above average, the pathway is wet and streaked from the every seventh wave surge. I have often wondered if the water is brackish freshwater or salt but have not dared risk tasting it out of curiosity.
As the houses give way to the eastern docks the sea wall stands on your left hand side if heading out of the City. To the right is a stone dressed slope, about forty five degree gradient and 3 metres vertical equivalent. This is a bit more sobering to walk along and many casual pedestrians will probably turn back at the end of the beautified path.
At low tide the slope slips away into a muddy morass which stretches out some 100 metres to the residual deeper channels which run fast with the current. Out of the mud are the broken and shattered rib bones of the former quays and jettys. These are huge timbers, baulks of dense but saturated English hardwoods punctured through with bolts and fixings to give an indication of what role they may have played individually and also as part of a much larger industrial structure.
There is an outer ring of piers which have partially collapsed but will have formed a sheltered inlet to receive timber, bricks and all manner of imports from Europe and beyond. These have corrugated sheet metal buildings built off them just about resisting the pressures of the driving weather but on each walk past there seems to be more of the far shore visible through holes and breaches.
At high tide the same bare bones are less intimidating to look at and give an impression of possible renovation and restoration for some renewed economic use but the deep set decay is beyond remission.
There are a couple of lock gates to cross. Modern metal mesh walkways, functional onto the active dock basins just inland. The rattle of steel on steel is a distraction from the sheer drop on the outer side at low tide and it is necessary to pick a spot someway ahead and upwards to avoid that queasy fear of heights feeling.
A very sharp left turn along the path gives no warning of walkers or cyclists beyond and a few times there have been awkward moments of ' you go first, no. you go first, sorry,' and similar examples of clumsy dances with strangers. This corner leads around the mighty edifice of the Holderness Drain which discharges the run-off from the agricultural hinterlands as well as dead dogs, supermarket trolleys and on occasion, human remains.
The car park and viewpoint for the Rotterdam Ferry Terminal is reached. A few anglers wait optimistically but seem to just enjoy the open air and signs of hustle and bustle from alternate loadings and unloadings of lorries, trailers and visitors. It feels like the end of the line on foot unless in possession of a boarding pass. It is for me and I turn around and retrace my steps.
From the different approach and angle, a variation in light and shade the same features look almost beautiful.
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