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.

In a strange disturbance in The Force,

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

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

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.

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



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.

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

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.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Ahh, Sunday.

A bundle of newspapers to be browsed through on a speed reading basis, skipping the financials and fashion sections. The luxury of a pot of coffee from the family heirloom of a Percolator which threatens to explode and shower the kitchen ceiling with strong Italian blend. A cooked breakfast, old style forgetting the latest medical research on cholestrol and other artery cloggers. Not getting dressed until 10am.

On eventually,first stepping out into the great outdoors I become aware that for many their day is already a good few hours further progressed than mine.

Over two streets, through gardens and trees comes the sound from the Recreation Ground that the Hull Mens' Sunday Football League is in action.

In the days when we had dogs to walk we would regularly be on the Recca as the players arrived. The Sunday Morning after the Saturday Night seemed to be a bit too much for a reasonable proportion of those assembled, standing around, scratching, looking a bit peeky and shivering in the early to mid morning chill. A few had difficulty standing up and may not have been home between going out the night before and honouring their commitment to their team.

A cheer would go up when the Park Attendant opened up the security shutters on the pavilion changing rooms and there would be a rush to get out of one cold and into another that closely resembled it but with coat-hooks.

The non-playing contingent, injured, suspended, tagged or just supporters attended to the hanging up of the goal nets and conducting a quick sweep of the playing surface to remove dog faeces, used prophylactics, coke cans and anything else of a deleterious nature. There was not much that could be done for the erupted divots from unauthorised golf stroke play or the deep grooves and ruts where night shift workers had dashed across the field on their mopeds as a short cut to get to their beds.

The brave souls from the County Football Association who would officiate the match were chatty and friendly with the team managers. After all they all knew each other very well, strengths of character, resilience and how far to push, mentally and physically before conflict arose.

The squads rattled out on studs over the concrete paths to the pitch. The goalkeeper looked apprehensive as wild shots hurtled towards him or swore when he had to retrieve the ball from some distance away. In the absence of pockets on football shorts those still sensitive to the cold shoved hands deep into their groin or pulled their arms into their body leaving sleeves loose and flapping like erratic penguins. The warming up process was that easy.

Those who had been awake or concious between 11pm and midnight, just 10 hours prior, to watch Match of the Day re-enacted a technical piece of play, displayed an extravagant goal celebration or a graceful simulated dive. Others were well rehearsed in the latest style of ejecting spittle and mucus with no regard for the prevailing wind.

A raucous whistle signified a countdown to kick off. There was usually a delay as one or more players finally decided that a toilet visit was in fact required and returned to the changing rooms.

From my front garden I could tell that the mornings' game was well under way. The sky and air were blue with a terrible assault of foul language from supporters, hangers on and the players themselves. At those times when I had been dog and child walking when a game was in progress I would feel extreme embarassment at the vile tirade of profanities, insults and crude assertions and a fear of later, being asked by inquisitive offspring the meaning and definition of what sounded like very interesting and useful descriptive words.

In addition to the wave of pure, adulterated protestations sweeping in over the rooftops the relative Sunday peace would be interrupted by the referee constantly blowing for infringements, injuries, hangovers and goals.

Matches were, from the staccato of the whistle either major examples of civil unrest, a bloodbath, resembling an outpatients or the best, most end to end and exciting footie match in the history of Hull Mens' Sunday League.

Freeloading

Do not underestimate the value of something if it is free.

That was my philosophy in the early years of my children and seeing the fully rounded and informed adults that they now are I am happy that the experiment worked. It was an experiment, the whole thing of bringing up kids is so, and do not be persuaded otherwise by the weighty volumes of authoratative works and self help manuals produced to the ultimate bank balance benefit of doctors, psychologists and celebrity parents.

That is not to say that we, setting out on the very responsible path of parenthood did not go with the trend and indeed Dr Miriam Stoppard in particular appeared to have moved in to our house like a friendly apparition to be summoned and consulted at the first sign of fevers, colics or fractious behaviour.

The children, bright and inquisitive, demanded  to be entertained and educated and although tired and worn out from work and daily chores we, as doting parents, feel that we did our best.

Even when themselves worn out and sleepy there was an unquenchable thirst for information and mental stimulation from the offspring but it was a perfect end to the day to see them nod off whilst being read a fairy tale, a fantastical fable or just, from memory, the plot of a Disney production.

The sight of double buggy, two dogs in harness and a full family contingent did cause pedestrians to hurry out of our way as we headed out of our street towards some of our favourite local walks. The river foreshore was a regular destination and we could spend hours exploring the old chalk quarry or the equivalent to beachcombing but on a very muddy and smelly estuary bank. A few interesting artefacts were found by keen eyed children and I still keep in the car boot, even today, a twisted metal rod which must have been used by employees of the London and North East Railway in the late 19th Century to lift up slotted drain covers and it is very useful as such a tool.

Water streaked and smoothed sticks, up to small log size and numerous stones and pebbles were dragged or ferried back attached to or under the buggy for a future playtime. These things, I occasionally dig up in the garden some 16 years later.

We thoroughly exploited the neighbourhood on a seasonal basis from late summer conker hunts to pulling up early Spring daffodils from neglected borders to be repatriated by the children and duly proudly presented to their mother.

Ranging further afield there was, with a bit of forward planning a lot of non-cost element activities to keep the children interested.

We went to a sideways ship launch with George, their late Grandfather, and he kept them enthralled by the story of when he got his head stuck in the riverside railings and had to be cut free by the fire brigade.

Art Gallery visits were free and frequent. The main city centre collection was arranged in a series of interlinking rooms which really gave a sense of covering a great distance. We always made a point of standing and staring at the huge Peter Howson oil painting of the crouched, pockmarked faced fighter which had pride of place near the entrance. The children enyoyed the art and there would be no comments or tantrums if we left out the Gift Shop even after passing it, tantalisingly, many times in our circumnavigation.

Living in a Maritime Port meant a good range of museums and other related attractions and thanks to a social minded Local Authority these were nil-cost.

The Transport Museum was packed with exhibits for climbing on. We could also sit in the seating on a tram and listen to the soundtrack of a bustling load of passengers from the halcyon days of urban commuting by electric overhead power. The greatest interest was from clambering up into a horse drawn Hansom Cab complete with authentic rocking movement and strong odours of manure and a city pre-smoke free legislation.

We would skirt quickly through the Archaeological Museum which was adjacent as the static displays of mannequins in various period settings were really quite scary, even to me as the responsible adult.

The signs of having a good day out were clear. The children would be happily weary but still bright eyed and excited with tales to tell of what they had seen and done. They would be holding tightly the spoils of the outing, a handful of informative leaflets on all manner of subjects, perhaps a sticker worn on their coats indicating they had indeed visited a museum and even a few more pebbles and pieces of debris collected from municipal verges and open space.

It is ironic, but infinitely pleasing to me that even after extending the experience of the children when older to trips abroad, as far as Singapore and Australia and through the Mediterranean they still seem to have the fondest recollections of a day out with their father when he spent nothing.

Taking the High Ground

Me and The Boy emerged from the elevated tree line to see a sweeping, misty scene of fields and in the far distance the silvery course of the river. It was an epic outlook.

We had come across a new pathway along which we propelled our bikes winding through the overhead canopy of autumn coloured leaves. I thought for a moment that I should stop and capture the perfectly framed tunnel but it was already firmly entrenched in my memory and a photograph would never do it justice in terms of the shaded, mottled light and the sensory experiences of sounds and smells that accompanied it.

Under our wheels the ground was light and flinty chalk in between greasy and slippery patches of newly fallen foliage. This made for careful attention and concentration particularly where the thick ground snaking tree roots threatened to wrestle away from us control of the handlebars and throw us onto the chilled hillside.

The lowest boughs of the trees tapped on our bike helmets and in parts we had to keep our heads down for fear of a stray branch jabbing at our foreheads and eyes. The climb up to the viewpoint, being a new route, had been difficult to guage in terms of pace and effort.

The Boy, one third of my own age, give or take a couple of years, was fearless in his assault on the gradient and had to wait for my breatheless and aching body to catch up which was only possible when the rough track levelled out slightly to offer a brief respite. I was glad to see the footpath sign as it led us along a horizontal contour whereas the track disappeared over the continuing and distant summit to be explored on another day.

Into the thicket we plunged. The sounds under our chunky off-road tyres betrayed the presence of the husks of beech nuts and the cups of acorns from the mixed, plantation woodland.There were traces of other two wheeled users in the grass headland and where the edge of the path had given way in a mini-landslide into the field. The sloping land was still in sharp stubble following a very late harvest but no doubt indicating a good harvest on a prime south facing and well drained aspect.

We pulled into a shallow kink to the side of the track to allow a group of ramblers to approach and pass with a cheery hello and a second, hesitant look at our pair of mud spattered faces and clothing. Carrying on we gathered some speed but not having a clear view of the ground conditions within the steep terrain our brakes squealed and scraped to keep us upright and steady. The run downhill had been well worth the lung bursting effort to get to the highest point and we seemed to be freewheeling for a good few minutes before the combination of tyres weighed down with mud and vegetation and the sudden appearance of a gate brought us to a rolling and laboured halt.

Beyond the opening, the traffic on the dual carriageway thundered past and we could barely hear ourselves think over the noise, let alone share verbally the mutual enjoyment and timeless feeling of the ascent and descent that we had just experienced. Turning west we were on tarmac again and soon echoing through the man made underpass, newly built but already festooned in graffitti and litter.

It had been a good ride out. Perhaps one of the last of the season in any warm sunshine as it was already late October . The shortening daylight hours and approaching winter weather would soon be upon us making such an expedition virtually impossible to contemplate until the Spring.