Does the world need instructions?

By this I mean in general, do we need instructions, rather thana manual for the planet, although that wouldn't be such a bad idea.





I accept that complicated electronic gadgets need an instruction book, so that women can use them. Men instinctlively know how to operate the basic features on such things and don't read the manual thus missing out on many of the features the gadget might have and which they paid over the odds for rather than buying the cheaper model whcih does all the things they demand of it. Children of course can do everything without the manual.

I am prepared to accept that some things, like complicated flat pack furniture, need an asembly manual. Written in Swedish usually, but they do need one. But not a table. I have just bought a new dining suite, which came with assembly instructions for the table. It is essentially a flat bit of quite wide wood to which four legs are screwed. How hard can that be? The legs are identical, there are four of them, each held by two screws (well bolts technically) with a flat washer and a spring washer for each. Who could possibly get that wrong? Yet it comes with a four page instruction manual. And this includes the phrase "Please now turn the table 180 degrees and place on all four legs in your desired location." No shit! And I was going to leave it upside down in the wrong place. If this dining set was intended for some third world country that had never seen a chair or table before I could understand it. But it's written in English, of sorts, and looks as though it was intended for the developed world.






If that wasn't bad enough the chairs also came with a four page manual a page of which is reproduced here, for entertainment value. I refer to picture b: which gives a pictoral demonstration of how to sit on a chair, just in case you are from a culture which has not yet had the luxury of something to sit on. I also like the instruction at d: "Highly recommend to re-tighten all the bolts again after using the chair for seven days." Now this is ambiguous. Does that mean seven days continuous use? Do I have to sleep on the chair? I would consider myself a light user of the dining room furniture, I often skip breakfast and have TV lunches, and if I'm on night shift I might not eat a meal at home at all. So, can I leave it 14 days or longer before I have to tighten the bolts? And would a more regular user have to tighten them sooner. It also occurs to me that as a family of four we are at a disadvantage with six chairs to bed in. Two of them will not be used in the first seven days unless we rotate the chairs around the table. So the 7 days could be as long as a month. Can I not just check and tighten them at my own discretion?


The final words of the instruction booklet are perhaps the most amusing. "If you need help or have damaged or missing parts call the customer helpline....."Well after being treat like a simpleton, yes, mny pride and sense of well being are damaged, my dignity is missing and I need help because my brain has tried to escape through my ear canal as a result of my intelligence being insulted.

Student demontrations - I don't get it.

As a kid if I wanted more pocket money off my Dad I sucked up to him, behaved myself and did extra chores around the house. That is how capitalism works. You are rewarded for doing good.
So, why, if the students want something from the Government do they think that behaving like hooligans and smashing up public buildings that I, a taxpayer, will have to pay to be repaired, will get them what they want? They don't pay taxes as students, so it doesn't affect them. Well it will now, because the governments pockets are empty, so they will either spend money on repairing the treasury or buy more grit to treat the roads but not both. It is not possible to get a quart out of a litre pot.
Of course I doubt that the students themselves are responsible for the damage to the Treasury or Prince Charles limo, that would be down to "Rent-a-mob" the anarchist faction that arrive at all demos seeking to have a poke at authority and "the system." These are the same people who have ruined the game of kick the ball, and who caused the violence at Poll Tax protests, fuel protests and the G8 summit, and who are ban the bomb, anti-everything just to further their own ends. In fact had the protest march been arranged for the morning it is unlikely anyone would have turned up at all. The Students would still be in bed and the violent protest professionals would have been there on their own, and would not have acted, because there are only a small minority of them who usually start the trouble then melt into the background and let some schmuck take the fall for them. The same thing can be seen on a smaller scale at every pub fight.
But lets get to the bones of this protest - students are protesting because the Government has voted to increase tuition fees. Okay, I agree this is wrong. The universities should set their own fees and let market forces dictate the price. The better the university, the better the quality of tuition and the better your chances of success. Therefore Oxbridge could charge £10,000 per year and Hull would charge £3.50. Why the students think they have a right to "free" education is beyond me. They are academicals who want to study and will go on to very well paid careers, or in some cases will get a non-degree in some obscure subject and will go on to a successful management career in McDonalds. Good luck to them. But the less gifted in society get no such subsidised education to help in their chosen career. A Heavy Goods driver for example; he will spend perhaps £3000 to £6000 of his own money in fees to pass his driving test. Does the government interfere in the costs of this tuition, or provide grants or loans to assist in his vocational aspirations? No, and rightly so.
Why the big emphasis on a University education anyway? Look at how many do inappropriate degrees and then struggle to gain employment thereafter. All their degree shows is that they have a capacity to learn. In the same way a sponge has the capacity to soak up water. I would not employ a damp sponge.
My father, a driving instructor once had a highly educated engineering student who could explain in great detail how a clutch worked, he would discuss at length the torque forces involved in transmitting the rotational power of the reciprocating cylinder engine via the gearbox to the drive axle, and could detail the metallurgy of the various components in the drive train, what heat and sound losses were involved and how inefficient the whole system was - but he could not change gear. In short he could talk the talk but couldn't walk the walk. This is often typical of those with "higher" education. Those of uneducated blokes like what I is, go straight from school to doing a job, learning on the job and have the hands on ability to progress much further, but are thwarted by the system which appoints those with degrees and no clue of reality into management posts above us, making decisions which affect the running of companies and organisations without ever having done the job themselves. I include Government in that observation. It would be better to close all the universities and let the doers do, and the thinkers think, or at least think they are thinking.
Ah, but it's not fair that the rich can afford education, and the poor can't, bleat the bleeding heart socialists. Yes, you're right it's not. Life isn't fair. Get used to it and move on. The idea that we are all born equal is bullshit. Some are born into privileged and monied backgrounds and get a bald head and a weak chin but a fleet of Mercedes to help them pull women, whilst all I got was a sense of humour and a pot belly. Some will inherit a huge estate in the country, in my case that would be my dads ageing Volvo, abandoned in the snow in rural North Yorkshire.
And so to the rights to protest. The students of course have the right to lawful protest. Prince Charles has the right to freedom of movement and to drive through London in his Limo to visit the Theatre. The two should be compatible. Right to protest does not include the rights to infringe on others rights. Trespass and burglary of the treasury, criminal damage and obstruction of the highway are all unlawful acts. The reports that Charles car was driven through the protesters is ridiculous - the protesters shouldn't have been on the road - they were acting illegally in obstructing the highway.
Perhaps the students should study (although many won't understand that word) the footage of the demonstration held by Police Officers in 2008 against the pay cuts they faced. This was a truly democratic protest, a silent march, no slogans, no shouting, no violence and no arrests made, despite some hostile photographers trying to provoke a reaction by ramming cameras literally inches from officers faces.
So returning to my opening analogy, I wanted more pocket money but I have now behaved badly, broken a window and upset close friends of my dad. Will I get what I wanted - more pocket money? I doubt it. And I doubt the students will achieve their aims.

Disabled Ginger Bread Men.

Each year the local primary school holds a Christmas Fair and parents are asked to donate raffle prizes and bake cakes for a sale to raise funds for the school fund, Save the Children, Pudsey Bears eye operation or some other worthy cause.
The raffle provides an excellent opportunity to get rid of all the soaps and candles and unwanted tat that we have won at the raffle over the last few years, which seems to be every bodies idea - I swear the prizes are the same each year. I don't mean identical, I mean the actual items. It's like you don't win them outright, just the right to take them home and keep them in the attic for 12 months.
Anyway, to the cake stall. This provides Jenny with the opportunity to show off her culinary skills, and she always bakes a smashing cake which I am forbidden from eating. Actually she normally bakes two smashing cakes, because I am forbidden from eating the first one only once she has discovered that I have already helped myself to a slice. "That was for the school fair - now I'll have to make another." Not all parents are as supportive of this, and I seriously believe the same rules apply as above. Either someone is making identical cakes every year, or there is one particularly sturdy looking Christmas Cake which appears every year and always goes unsold. Maybe it's a display only model, made out of Plaster of Paris. It certainly looks like it and it never, ever sells.
Anyway this year Jenny decided to make some Gingerbread men as well. These are always popular with the children. However, whether it was a particularly dry mix, or a problem with the cutter she used, almost 50% of the finished product lost either an arm or a leg, or in some cases one or more of both during the baking process. Ever practical I suggested that instead of the usual three buttons and a candy walking stick she decorated them in Army Camouflage with prosthetic limbs to support "Help for Heroes." This, she said, was inappropriate humour. Someone might take offence. I disagree. Army Servicemen and women have the same black humour we have in the Emergency Services, You have to have. It;s a defence mechanism, and if you don't have it you go mad. End of story. That is why despite training school banning the use of nicknames, because it might cause offence, the first thing that happens when a new face arrives on shift is that he or she is given a nickname. It's all a part of being a team, fitting in and supporting each other. Literally, if they only have one leg. So I doubt that any serviceman would take offence. No it would be the usual bandwagonners taking offence at the idea that someone would take offence. But since those people wouldn't attend the Christmas Fair for fear of offending non Christians it wouldn't have been a problem anyway. And in any case they are far to busy staying away from work because it snowed ten days ago, and they have to drive 30 miles to County Hall to complain about the traffic congestion and why the gritters haven't been out clearing the roads that they have blocked with their other car, the 4x4 that they abandoned in the carriageway because they didn't know how to turn the traction control off or lock the differential and couldn't understand why it had skidded into the snowdrift in the first place, because it's four wheel drive you know, and it must be faulty I'm going to sue Land Rover.
Errrrr. I've gone off topic now, It must be gingerbread poisoning. Only another 32 paraplegics to eat.

Land Rover defender

This should have gone with the last blog. The video doesn't shwo the slope that well, and you can ignore the commentary which suggests I'm stuck - that was a temporary pause to change gear. the Land Rover was eating it in low ratio first gear, so I stopped momentarily to go for second. We pulled that bus all the way back tot gritted road.

Landrover Defender - a modern Dinosaur or a miracle of engineering?

For the last 3 nights I have had the somewhat dubious pleasure of driving a Land Rover Defender, due to the inclement weather conditions, and a bit of snow causing chaos on the highways. Our local authorities in England, renown for being a cold and wet country, did not expect snow in winter, and as usual were caught out but the sudden drop in temperatures and a fall of between 4 and 12 inches of snow, depending on where in the county you live and whether you use a mans tape measure or a ladies one. Hardly surprising, as this is the same Government that is caught out when Christmas comes around on the 25th December every year.

Anyway, back to the main news. The Land Rover Defender is based on the original Land Rover series one, a 1947 design and has changed little since. Land Rover are the second oldest 4x4 manufacturer in the world, Jeep (allegedly) being the first. Jeep wasn't the brand name at the time of course, it was Willys who invented the "Overland" as a military vehicle for use by the US Army as a General Purpose (GP) utility vehicle, and it was the GI's who nickname it the Jeep. Ironically many used in WW2 were made by FORD under licence, as Willys couldn't make them quick enough. Willys would later be bought out by the Chrysler Corporation, and the JEEP brand was officially born.

Meanwhile in the immediate post war years just after peace had broken out in the UK, a certain Maurice Wilkes, who just happened to be the Cheif Designer at Rover, bought a military surplus Jeep for use on his farm in Anglesey. After seeing it's useful potential on the farm he decided he could build something similar, and the LAND ROVER was born. Using a steel chassis but aluminium body panels, not to save weight, but because steel was in short supply he stuffed a Rover engine up front and built a prototype in 1947. A further 48 prototypes followed for appraisal during which he quickly realised that farmers couldn't get enough of them. They loved the idea of a car they could pull a plough with, take hay into the hill pastures then hose down and take the family to church in on Sunday. A legend was born, full production followed and eventually Land Rover begat Range Rover and finally young mums had a vehicle capable of taking toddlers to nursery schools in leafy urban Surrey.

The Range Rover was born in 1968, and developed or rather evolved over the years into the bling encrusted, tinted windowed chrome behemoth now used by Puff Daddy lookalikes to sell drugs on council housing estates. Meanwhile the forces of motoring evolution seemingly gave up on the series Land Rover. Oh for sure, the series one gave way to the almost identical series 2, only really distinguished because the headlights were moved to where they could be seen by other road users, and to a position where they could light the road ahead. And the engines got a little bit bigger over the years, and various variants were produced with long, short, lightweight, 6 wheel drive, amphibious, desert, ambulance and forward control being just a few of the options. In fact so many variations have been made that in truth no-one owns a standard Land Rover. They have probably never built one. In theory they probably make one, but the haphazard approach to assembly (and I'll come back to this later) means they are all unique.

Now to upset real Land Rover aficionados. The Defender is slow, agricultural, handles badly, has awful brakes, poor performance and drinks more than Oliver Reed, George Best and Paul Gasgoine on a bender. Some say it is called the Defender because it is the darling of the British Army, a proud defender of our nation, exemplary in it's military service. This may be so. It is certainly not a footballing reference, but if it were it would be inaccurate even then. It's no centre forward, definitely not a striker, and if my experience is anything to go by not a Defender either. It is in fact the goalkeeper. As a kid, teams were picked by the two Games Masters favorites, and I stood in the line with others to get picked. I was always last alongside the kid with glasses as thick as milk bottle bottoms, who had a note from his mum excusing him from sports but allowed him to play non competitive chess. Consequently, I would be reluctantly picked after him and always, but always ended up in goal. My team would usually lose by around 7 goals to nil. I was not good at sports and neither is the Land Rover Goalkeeper - sorry Defender. In 1947 farmers were wowed by it's rugged looks and performance, and it's clever 4 wheel drive system. But then they would also have been impressed by electricity, running water and those new fangled telephones. Some rural farmers would have been impressed with the idea of a horseless carriage in the first place. For them it was almost witchcraft.

So wind the clock on almost 63 years and what do we have sitting in the space where my Volvo normally sits? Essentially the very same Land Rover. And it looks good, except that it has clearly been rushed out of stores when the snow fell, and isn't kitted out yet. Land Rover have done their bit, with a full length roof rack and manually directional spot lamps on all four corners, and in typical Land Rover shoddy build quality style they have failed to connect the alarm system to the central locking. Or maybe it didn't have any such creature comforts - it certainly didn't have anything else, except a handy winch on the front. Our workshop had nailed a couple of blue lights on the roof and slapped some battenburg chequers on the sides, although the blue lights were on loose wiring with a plug to go in the cigarette lighter socket, and there was no siren. Or Police radio. Or any radio for that matter. At first I was dubious that the "60" registration plate related to 2010, I thought it might be "60" for 1960, but the odometer (LCD backlit) seemed to confirm this was a new model.

Climbing in to the Defender causes it's own problems with a stab vest and utility belt on, but adjusting the seat reduced the task from painfully impossible to just grossly uncomfortable. The seats are of course fully adjustable in a 1950's sort of way. They go forward and backward, although neither position gives any advantage, The cabin is so tight that if you sit forward your knees will prevent the steering wheel being used, whilst if you go backwards the B post obstructs your side view. In theory the seat has a reclining mechanism, but then anyone in the back complains that you have cut off their air supply.

Conventionally the drivers seat is placed behind the steering wheel. Not so in the Land Rover, It is offset to the left, and you sit at an angle to it so that your right elbow is in contact with the window. The pedals meanwhile are off to the right. This leads to a most interesting driving position, which almost had been calling for a no win no fee injury lawyer before I even got started. But then that wasn't likely, as the ignition switch had been cunningly hidden. I eventually located it on the left side of the steering column, where trial and error eventually got the key in place, not easy operating left handed, and with the key operating the wrong way from what one would expect the engine eventually roared into life. Next to test all the lights etc - I have driven Land Rovers before and have knowledge of their LUCAS electrical systems (LUCAS, the Prince of Darkness, being an Acronym for Loose, Usually Corroded, Always Sparking) There was a moment of pure nostalgia as I recognised the switchgear as being part Austin Maestro and mostly Morris Marina. The flashers flashed, the horn horn, the wipers wipe and the headlight switch couldn't be found. Much fumbling in the dark commenced (reminding me of another experience in a Morris Marina, but let's not go there) and eventually a sort of elongated toggle switch was identified hiding in front of the ignition switch on the side of the steering column cover. I was later to discover that with the lights on it is impossible to operate the ignition switch. This presumably is a safety feature, to prevent you switching the engine off and leaving the lights on - preventing a flat battery. Clever thinking in the 1940's I suppose.

Having started the engine I checked through the ergonomic scatter gun approach to the remaining switchgear. It seems that stuff is thrown at the dashboard, and wherever it lands it is screwed down and wired in.

I will confess that the last Land Rover I drove had the red and yellow topped levers to lock the differential and change to low ratio, so this one was an improvement with a small lever the size of a normal gearstick to combine both functions. The gearstick itself looked like it could double as a tyre wrench, and so long that the passenger was nearer to change some of the gears than the driver was.
Having found a gear it was time to move off, but where in the name of all that is holy is the handbrake? The Volvo has an electrically operated handbrake, with a switch on the dash. Had Land Rover fitted something similar? And if so, where was the switch amongst the retro cluttered dash? And what was the awkward lump of metal threatening to bruise my left ankle....... aha a handbrake lever, mounted on the side of the transmission tunnel and right down low almost amongst the pedals. And which operates away from you, such that you have to lean down to release it, bumping your head against the steering wheel in the process.

And on to the driving experience itself. In the days before Lesbian sex, and airplane crashes Emmerdale used to have a Farm, not just in the title, but an actual plot of land, where Jack and Joe Sugden used to drive around in a Lad Rover, always with the window wound down, and Joe, always used to hook his hand round on the outside of the door to open it using the external handle from inside. I used to wonder why. Was it some sort of Yorkshire Young Farmers Youth Cool thing? No. It turns out that it is physically impossible to turn right unless the drivers window is open. So I imagine young Joe was not cool, but bloody cold, driving around in rural North Yorkshire, as the heater is less than effective. And the whole thing with the door opening? Same reason. The cabin is so cramped that your right leg is pressed up against the door and it it impossible to operate either the window winder or the door release. Many a novice Land Rover pilot must have become trapped on lonely moorlands because he failed to wind the window down before closing the door. now just to make it clear I am neither John Cleese nor Jeremey Clarkson, although I am a shade over 6 foot. Nor am I of Bernard Manning proportions, although I am arguably mildly overweight, but certainly not bordering on obese. It would be reasonable to expect that I would be able to get a comfortable driving position. My left ankle is painfully in contact with the handbrake, my left arm needs to be around a foot longer to operate the handbrake comfortable, whilst my right knee is in contact with the door panel and my right arm could do with several more elbows so I can turn the wheel without the window having to be open. I presume that in the immediate post war years the demographic would have been different. Obviously people were shorter and slimmer due to rationing, and I daresay a fair proportion returning from the war had less arms and legs and would have fitted easier. But is it too much to ask that they change the car to the modern driver? I was in fear of crashing because even a minor impact was likely to leave me trapped in the drivers seat, but I needn't have worried. In the event it didn't need a crash, when I later tried to get out I was trapped anyway, by a combination of my stab vest, utility belt cramp and repetitive strain fatigue.

A minor impact seemed inevitable at some point because the steering wheel has little or no effect on what the road wheels do even on a dry road, never mind on ice. To experience the sensation of steering a Land Rover you need a packet of Birds instant custard, a glass jug and a wooden spoon. Mix up the custard, then without holding the jug stir it with the wooden spoon. Eventually the glass jug begins to turn as well, as the friction between the custard and the sides of the jug build up. This is almost, but not quite exactly how the steering on the Land Rover must work. By the time the message has got to the wheels that you have turned the steering wheel you have turned it back the other way.

On the road the Land Rover makes even less sense. This one has a six speed gearbox (arguably 12 with the low ratio set up) but only three were needed because at anything greater than 50 mph it becomes frighteningly unstable. And that was on the cleared and gritted roads. On taking to the side streets the four wheel drive offered a surefootedness that the road tyres denied. Frozen rutted tracks meant that whilst the Landrover could go anywhere it simply did go anywhere. Often sideways. Holding it in first gear on tickover meant it made very safe and steady progress, but with the impression that the frost was overtaking me. Putting any revs on at all causes the Diesel engine to chug and surge, making for a very jerky and rough ride - my passenger was complaining of whiplash. Dropping into second causes the car to begin to run away, the engine suddenly becomes all eager, and you are fighting for control again. Sadly this eagerness disappears when you hit the tarmac again. I don't know how many horsepowers the Landrover has, but it often felt and sounded like whilst they were all there, they weren't necessarily all pulling in the same direction. At speed, changing gear caused the engine to make a different noise, but that was all it did. On a deserted snow packed car park however i was able to unlease the full potential of that asthmatic diesel engine with a 3 second powerslide with all four wheels spinning and shouting "POWER!" in my best Jeremey Clarkson impression. Had I had the advantage of a stop motion video camera it would have looked bloody impressive. As it was it probably looked slightly ridiculous given that I was doing no more than 5 miles per hour. But it did prove that under all the noise the engine was capable of sending power to the axles, even if you did need an arctic continent to make use of it.

And talking of noises - it was like having the BBC radiophonic workshop in the back. On a wet and gritted road it sounded like someone was using a power shower in the back, whilst on snow and ice it produced a sound akin to towing a large roll of bacofoil dragging along behind us. This was intermittently broken by the sound of being peppered with air pellets from a rapid fire repeating air rifle. The diesel engine meant that conversation, and with all this going on there was a lot to talk about, had to be conducted at a mild shout.
My passenger of course did not believe that this driving experience could be as bad as I was making out - right up until he took over later in the shift, when after several stalls i pointed out that he was using the brake pedal as the throttle and that the accelarator pedal was several inches to the right. How I laughed as he banged his elbows and knees. My head hurt I laughed so much. He who laughs last drove first it seems.

But, and this is a big but, for all it's short comings, and there are many, the Landrover refused to be beaten. For towing other cars, vans, 4 x 4's and houses out of snowy holes and rutted tracks it was unbeatable. Over a challenging 10 hour route that would have sent the Top Gear team home with their tailpipes between their tyres, the plucky Brit ploughed on through everything the weather could throw at it. Japanese pretenders, German Upstarts, and Korean wannabees fell by the wayside, victims of modern frivolities like ABS and traction stability control. Even the Landys spiritual father, the Jeep was espied abandoned at one point. Our own BMW X5's faltered on the snowpacked streets, despite the Germans having raped Landrover, stolen the technology and sold the smoking remnants to the Indians they couldn't match that 65 year old classic icon. It just refused to give up.

And as much as I hated the experience I fell in love with the Land Rover too. I know it will cripple me both emotionally, physically and financially, but I want one so much it hurts.




I don't normally write my blogs this long, but I thought it might catch attention as the worlds longest wanted used Land Rover ad.

Life is like a box of ....... soap powder

Life is like a box of chocolates – so said Forest Gump. But Mine is more like a box of soap powder, I feel as though I’m living in a Soap Opera. Not one of these moderns ones with Sex, Lesbians and “issues that may have affected you” you understand, just a “gritty Northern drama.”

My experiences of the last 24 hours for example have elements of drama, tragedy and comedy, the perfect ingredients for say, and episode of Heartbeat, but without the whodunit or an obvious plotline where Claude almost but not quite gets arrested.

The scene starts with a wintry day at work – five or six inches of snow have fallen back home and wife calls to advise me of this and that if I can’t get through she has arranged that I can stay with the in laws on the outskirts of the city rather than battle through 13 miles of snowbound roads with stupid people driving at 20 miles per hour because they are frightened of a little snow. I point out that I don’t have my pyjamas with me. She counterpoints that I don’t wear them at home. I suggest that I ought to have them whilst at the in laws and suggest she takes them to Preston for me. She declines saying that the roads are too bad. Huh- women.

Regardless of her doubting my driving God status I drive home without mishap anyway – the Black Knight Always Triumphs! So far so good, a little comedic light relief.

Now DRAMA! For no apparent reason, Thomas, 7 years, falls off his chair at the dinner table. Part contortionist, part Stan Laurel he somehow manages to get his bare foot under the chair as it falls with the edge of the back section (are you following this?) landing heavily across his foot, and incredibly at the same time manages to out his full bodyweight back onto the falling chair. After a quick check I was pretty certain nothing was broken, and as we get a new dining suite at Christmas I wasn’t too worried. But I wasn’t so sure about his foot, there are a lot of little bones in those little feet. So it was off for an evening of entertainment courtesy of the casualty department. In a new world record we were actually seen by a triage nurse within 5 minutes of arrival, thus the NHS trust was able to claim they had achieved targets. Almost four hours later the doctor examined him and declared the all clear, with just some severe bruising. So a 24 mile round trip through artic weather conditions for nothing. Thanks Thomas. And to cap it all I was almost defeated I getting my car into the garage, a lack of grip looked like forcing it to stay outside overnight, but some old carpet came to the rescue (a little trick granddad would have approved of) and the car was put to bed smug and warm.

And then the ungrateful bastard failed to start the next morning. Failed to start is an exaggeration actually. It failed to attempt to start the battery was as flat as a weak old Shandy, and the engine just gave that ominous dead click. Attaching my boost starter resulted in the engine turning slowly with an assortment of horrendous rattles which caused me some consternation. Please Gods, let the cam belt be okay – I only had it changed 6000 miles ago. I took off the oil filler cap to see if the engine was all turning over, and not just the bottom end – and promptly dropped the oil filler cap down the front of the engine behind the radiator and just out of reach on top of the under tray. “Hucking Fell” I cursed to myself. (this ought to be a moorland walk, but probably isn’t, I suspect it is a Spoonerism) So now I had a flat battery and no oil cap.

A quick search around the junk on my garage and a moment or two later a makeshift cap was fabricated out of an old seatbelt adjustment winder and some Duct tape. (Duct tape – an approved engineering solution and like the force in Star Wars – it has a light side, a dark side and holds the Universe together) Now for some jumps leads and a quick start off Jennys Honda. Done, engine started and oooeeer missus, warning light Bingo – a full line and then some, with error codes pinging off my Kiwi like there is no tomorrow (there may not be, who knows for sure) Then just as thing seemed to settle down the headlights started flashing and the radio was coming on and off all on it’s own. Had a rock n Roll song been on the radio I’d have been quite happy the car would have fixed itself in the style of Christine, but as it was some modern crap I knew there was something seriously wrong. Rather than face a breakdown on the road I decided to let the car idle a while to see what happened, and what happened within about 2 minutes is that it ran out of electricity all together and died.

At this point I realised I would not bee driving to work and sensibly phoned in to arrange time off. (The idea of ringing in sick didn’t even enter my head – I’m just too honest or stupid for that) I could have probably claimed to have been snowed in, there was snow outside after all, and technically speaking I couldn’t get my car through the snow, just that it wasn’t the depth of the snow that was the problem, just the car “failing to proceed.”

At nine I rang my local parts guy to price up a Battery (about £60) but having described what was wrong he suggested I bring the car in as he could check if it was the battery or the alternator at fault. For the first time ever I was praying it was just a battery problem – I had seen where the alternator was and didn’t relish the idea of trying to change it. A quick jump start after a couple of hours to oput some life in the battery and it was off to Hedon in daylight – no lights, no signalling no radio or heater – nothing to use up that precious electricity. I left it running and had the checks done only to get the worse news. The alternator was not alternating. Nothing for it but to head back home and get the local spanner monkey to fit a new one.

3 miles short of the garage disaster and drama struck again as I ran out of electricity. Fortunately, this car has Mayday cover as it is the car used for the caravan towing duties, and Willinghams were dispatched for a free recovery. Despite being told I had run out of electrickery they sent a service van instead of a tow truck, as they thought a jump start would get me going again. No such luck, but a battery pack connected with a “heath Robinson” cable through the cigarette lighter (and held together with duct tape!) The car was dropped off at the garage and I walked the last ¾ mile or so home to find no tyre tracks leaving Jenny’s side of the garage. Odd, she should have gone to work by then. Maybe the school had closed due to the weather. So in I went, made a pot of tea for her and took it up to her office to surprise her. Well surprise to me – she wasn’t home. Surely she hadn’t had a problem with her car? And the roads weren’t that bad – aha – I guessed she had been cancelled from work due to the schools closing, and had gone to our school to collect the kids as that one was closing too. After waiting a few minuites I realised that couldn’t be the case either – she’d be back by now. After several failed efforts I finally got her on her mobile – at work. Why had she walked – the main roads were clear, and she doesn’t normally relish a walk more than a mile or so – it’s about 4 down to Burstwick, and that’s cross country in thick snow. Well it seems she believed I had taken her car, and as I wasn’t back and tiem was creeping on she had walked. She hadn’t even checked the garage!

On the positive side, as my car remains at Boyes Lane my side of the garage is empty tonight so at least I have somewhere to sleep.

Saving water - How exactly?

I recently received a pack fromt he local water supplier which claims will help me save water. This is a good thing. Reduce, reuse, recycle, right?
I already have those toilets with the dual flush system, a short flush for when you've just had a pee and a longer flush when you've doen soemthign more solid. I can also understand how a restricter reducers the flow in the shower thus using less water.
But there were a couple of items that I just can't get to grips with. One is a sort of gel pack that goes in the toilet systern to take up space which would otherwise be filled with water, thus reducing the amount of water that is flushed. Great except that I already have modern low level systerns with almost no water in them anyway. If I stick one of these little baggies in there'll be nothing left to flush with and it'll jam the operating mechanism. I might as well just spit in the pan instead.
Next is a gizmo that goes in the end of the tap. This sort of aerates the water, which is great as it makes ordinary drinks taste fizzy, albeit for a very short while. By introducing air into the water this reduces the volume of water flowing through the tap, thus saving water. Huh? How does that workl? If I have a 2 litre kettle to fill I need 2 litres of water. Adding air to it just means it takes me longer to fill the bloody kettle. This does not save water it just means it takes longer to fill the kettl;e.
Even more frustrating is the energy saving boiler I fitted. I used to have a tank full of hot (or warm at least) water available on demand. Now I have a combi boiler which theoretically gives me hot water on demand - except you have to run the tap for about three minutes before it gets warm - or even longer now that the air has been introduced into the equation. So, by trying to save water I am wasting water - and time. If this is green something has gone wrong somewhere.
What the water company should have provided me, free of charge, is a solar water heater, so that the water going to the boiler is preheated thus eliminating the waste water, AND reducing the fossil fuel required to heat it up - a solar heater raisng it by only a few degrees would make a huge difference to the fuel bill.
So get your act together Yorkshire water.

I don't understand my wife

Yes, the above is true. Rather than my wife doesn't undertstand me, I have coem to accept that the reverse is true. I am well known for my plain speaking. I call a spade a spade. Some call it a manual digging implement. I call it a spade. A black man is a black man. He is not coloured, nor is he a native African - particularly if it turns out he was born in Romford. I strive to make my meaning clear. And simple.

This makes it difficult living with a woman, my wife in particular, because although she speaks English she uses codes all the time. Thsi would not present a problem if I understood the code, as I speak in various coides all day at work, but her code is different, and the meaning changes from one day to another. Allow me to erudicate further;

An example. If a man were to ask "What do you have planned for Friday?" this woudl be a simple social enquiry as to what you have planned for Friday. An answer would be given, such as "I thought we might have a barbeque and maybe watch a DVD afterwards." If this conversation was between two men, the topic would then be closed. Both would understand that a barbeque woudl happen, followed by a DVD. Not so with women. If a woman asks "What do you have planned for Friday?" this means "I have planned something for Friday so whatever you thought you were doing cancel it." The topic is not open for discusssion - the decision has been made. So whatever answer you give is irrelevent, because you will then be told what you will be doing. As in, "Oh, well I thought we could go out for a meal and meet with X and Y afterwards" (X being her best friend and Y being her best friends boyfriend/partner, who according to her logic you will get on with like a house on fire, even though he/she is duller than a week in Putney)

At least in that situation you are told what will be occuring. Much more cryptic is the opening gambit "I need to go shopping tommorow." Setting aside the whole issue of want and need which women are incapable of differentiating, this is simply a statement. She wants to go shopping, and the time she wants to go shopping is tommorow. It is not that simple though. In her world the message is clear. She wants to go shopping, with you, you will drive and carry all the bags, and the credit card which will be used will be yours. But it's not that simple either, because that's what it meant last week. This week it means she wants to go shopping with her friends, and that you are required to stay home and look after the kids. Even if she choses to let slip some further information it will be implied, and disguised as a question. "What time do the shops open on Sundays?" Aha, I can help with that one, with my in depth man-knowledge of Sunday trading hours. 10 until 4. But this in her mind means that I have now agreed to dedicate the whole of that period from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. to shopping (or looking after the kids) My interpretation however is that at some point during that six hour period she will wish to visit one or more shops. I await further information but none comes.
If a man were deleivring this information he would say simply and in a straightforward manner - "I'm going to the shops tommorow, at ten o'clock. You can come if you like, bring the kids with us. I'll drive." Actually no he wouldn't because a) he would take it as read that she would expect him to drive, and b) unless he was a gay man he wouldn't volunteer to go to the shops, but the theory stands.
In short I think what I'm trying to say is that women need to speak more clearly and tell us what they want. My car needs washing is a statement. I understand the car is dirty. I do not know if you intend to clean it, if you want me to do it, if you are just making conversation or if you want to buy a new one. "Will you wash my car?" is five simply words and will achieve the result you are looking for. I know what is required of me. No need for please or thank you, just say what you want and it will happen. Just don't be so bloody English about it.

It's been a funny sort of day.

"It's been a funny sort of day." - Arkwright often used to close his shop thinking that very thought in the voice over as he closed the shop on the much loved classic BBC comedy "Open All Hours." Well it also sums up my day today.

Allow me to explain - if I can.

At work I drive a Volvo V70. These are wonderful cars, very powerful with the T5 engine, or even in D5 diesel form, and I get to drive both. The can carry a huge amount of gear, except of course anything in a cup, as Volvo unlike every other major manufacturer do not fit cup holders. Or an ash tray. Or a cigarette lighter. This is presumably because Volvo drivers are at peace with the world, and do not approve of stimulants like coffee or tobacco to improve their driving performance.

Such is the capriciousness of the Volvo that it can hide an untold quantity of Biro's. Should you inadvertently drop one whilst attempting to, for instance, balance a note pad on the steering wheel whilst temporarily held at a red traffic light, and attempt to write something down, it will almost always without fail fall into the gap between the seat and the centre console. And from there into a black hole, a Volvo designed storage facility which will keep it safe in perpetuity. I would venture so far as to say you will almost certainly never see it again, the likelihood of finding it being inversely proportional to the value of the Biro or pen you dropped. Drop a cheap Biro and you may find it after several minutes searching ion hands and knees and with much movement of the seat fore and aft to shake it from the secret hiding place in which it becomes lodged. Drop a fountain pen which is worth £300 and was passed down to you by your great grandfather and you will never ever see it again.

So when I dropped my Biro under said circumstances I reached down immediately before it had chance to drop into the very bowels of the Volvo. Big Mistake. Remember the monkey with the jar of nuts? Well eventually the monkey dropped the nuts and was able to withdraw his hand from the jar. Or, in the case of one or two more aggressive and/or forward thinking monkeys, they smashed the glass jar. Well ..... even letting go of the Biro did not release the death grip the Volvo suddenly took on my arm. Trapped by my watch strap, unable to take off the handbrake, or change gear i was stuck as the traffic lights changed to green, then amber, then red, and back through a second cycle, with a line of traffic behind growing increasingly impatient with the man in the Volvo failing to drive away. This was Terry and June humour at it's very best. Basil Fawlty would have milked this situation so much he could have started a dairy.

After several panicked minutes of struggle I gave up and managed to select first gear and release the handbrake right handed, then limp into the kerbside. Risking trapping my right hand too, and with fears of having the Volvo cut apart by the fire brigade to release me, I was able to release my watch strap, fortunately on a Velcro quick release, then work the seat back and forth to painfully extract my arm. Reddened both in the arm and the face I was otherwise uninjured. But what a wonderful design fault this is. Perhaps scrap yard owners run a sideline selling secondhand Biro's extracted from Volvo's at end of life, when they eventually and brutally remove the seats to find the stash of pens hidden in the secret storage area beneath.

Later that day, finding myself lacking a packed lunch, which I had accidentally left at home, I headed for ASDA in search of a ready cooked chicken. The man in front in the queue, of Eastern European Extraction, was obviously a very recent migrant, and spoke little if any English. He pointed at the chicken legs, stuck up four fingers, and by the international medium of grunting, was then offered a buy 5 for £2 deal by the equally inarticulate shop assistant. The entire deal was conducted with no spoken word at all. I felt somewhat obliged to try the same approach, but my intended purchase being half a Garlic chicken I floundered somewhat. I mean, half is easy, with a sawing motion, with a sort of parting of hands, chicken is easily accomplished with the flapping motion of elbows, but just what is the international sign language for Garlic? I went with holding my nose then flapping a hand exuberantly in front of my face, but I'm not sure if she thought I'd just farted or what. Charades was never like this. I'm just glad I didn't want a Cumberland sausage.

Like I said, it's been a funny sort of day.

Bloody Indians!

"It looks as though it was put there by an Indian."

A remark made by His Royal Highness Prince Phillip on seeing a fusebox on a tour of the Racal-Mesl Ltd high-tech electronics factory. Arguably the Duke at his very best, managing to insult around one billion people with just one sentence.

At the time he was widely rebuked and lampooned for his insensitivity, and tried to pass off the comment by saying that he actually meant "cowboys" as in poor quality workmanship.

However, given the state of the athletes accommodation in India for the forthcoming commonwealth games we must now concede, surely, that this was not a "foot in mouth" gaffe, but an insightful prophesy of the future quality of Indian building work. Indeed, we should now start a campaign to remove the expression "cowboy builders" from our language, as there is little evidence to suggest that early American settlers did shoddy work, but increasing evidence to support the expression "Indian builders" in reference to a botch job. Well done Prince Phillip!

Man sized Tissues?

I have been sufferign a little with a cold recently. This has caused the usual problems with, and there is no delicate way to put this, snot streaming from my face at regular intervals.
Obvioulsy there is a way to avoid this which is to use tissues. But here the problem starts. Because when I have a cold I am more likely to be a grump than usual. And Man sized tissues are th ecause of my discontent. They are not man sized at all. Admittedly they are considerablty larger than an average tissue, but nowhere near the size of a man. And when your nose is running as much as mine is, that is what you need - a tissue you can just wrap yourself up in.
It is the suggestion that men need a much bigger tissue that I resent. I mean, who is it that considers men have larger noses than women - granted that may be the case in some instances, but I can thing of many big nosed women (Barbara Streisland comes to mind immediately but there are others) and many small nosed men.
It is the whole variety of tissues that bewilders me. Obviously you get what you pay for - some are "Smart price" meaning that you blow a hole in them and end up with a handful of snot. Others you pay (pardon me) through the nose for, just because they have a scent of jojoba or camomile or whatever. Well, if I have a cold I can't smell that, so I begrudge paying extra for it. No, and don't try and sell me triple ply either. I'm happy with single ply if it's the thickness of a bike innertube thanks. To give me three very thin sheets that fail to withstand the hurricane forc of my flu induced sneeze is just silly. And now theres snot all over the TV. And that was over 25 feet away.
Of course I really ought to direct my wrath towards the clever dick Doctors, who can cure everything except the very worse cases of death and the common cold. But at least they admit they can't do it. unlike Kleenex and company who want us to beleive that their tissues make having a cold so much nicer - in fact if they are to be beleived it's worth catching the cold in the first place just to enjoy their product.
Well it's not. And a roll of Andrex makes far more sense.

Stages of sexual conquest for man

16 to 18 years - try weakly - uncertain about sex the young man avoids the actaula sex act, despite being intrigued.

18 to 20 years - try weekly - the nightclub years - He tries every Friday night with varying degrees of sucess.

20 years to 25 years - tri weekly - having perfected the art of seduction, he now engages in the sex act up to three times a week.

25 to 30 years - tri nightly - having located the woman of his dreams he is now awoken three times anoght by his partner purely to engage in the sex act.

30 TO 35 years - try nightly - since he said I do, It turns out she says "oh no you don;t" but he still trys it on regularly.

35 to 4o years - tri weekly - every other night is the best he can hope for now.

40 to 50 years - try weekly - one a week if ytou lucky matey.

50 to 60 years - try weekly - give it your best shot pops! Once a week is about all you can expect.

60 years on - Try weakly - as and when you can manage...........

Musical tastes? Best described as varied.

I've been having a bit of a clear out at home and came across a box of old compact cassettes, as they were offically known, or tapes to the rest of the world.
I bought my first CD player in early 1991 as a late Christmas present to myself, a Marantz, whcih has turned out to be a quality piece of kit which I still use in the home. Not long after that I bought a 12 CD mulitchanger which hopped from car to car over the next 15 years or so, only recently being consigned to a dusty shelf in the garage because my latest Vauxhall has a factory fitted stereo which, whilst only having a single disc is fitted into the dash and not as easily removed as the old DIN type stereos.
As a result of those purchases my earlier musical tastes were shoved into various boxes and hidden away in the loft and garage for almost twenty years, some of them having not turned in nearly thirty years. Rediscovering them after all this time was both nostalgic and cringeworthy. Some I would not listen to now even if it was the last thing I heard before having my ears sealed with concrete, whilst others are still in my crackle and hiss free CD collection. Strangley there are tapes there I have no recollection of buying - certainly some I would never admit too having paid money for. Yet listening to them they seem strangely familiar, I find myself humming along and mumbling the odd lyric. And given that some are from the mid eighties, you can be assured there are some very odd lyrics indeed.
I know that the sensible thing to do is just throw these things away; the technology is a relic of a bygone age, and the music is of questionable taste, even by my standards. yet I found myself dusting down the old Marantz twin tape deck that predated the matching CD by 12 months and couldn't resist spinning those tow little wheels again. Naturally they all work perfectly, no deterioration from their original poor quality at all. Lots of it was of course crap, but there were some gems in there, particularly the demo tapes and small volume productions made in garages and sold at gigs by bands on the club circuit I used to frequent many many summers ago. Some of these went on to make the big time (Beautiful South/House Martins) whilst Mike Greaves of MG Greaves and the Lonesome Too (who wrote for the Beautiful South) is, so far as I am aware still ticking over on the club scene today, and others just disappered into obscurity, like Eddie Twangs powerful Racket, and the Over Riders.
It's been a voyage of rediscovery, and having rekindled my interest in this music I have created a new task to occupy my time. The cassettes wil have to go of course, they are simply cluttering up the place. But first the best, and possibly the worse of them will be copied to MP3, and perhaps burnt to disc to play in the car once more.

Worringly I have just discovered another large box of very big black plastic CD's. Although bigger they don't contain any more music than a modern CD, even though they have used both sides of the huge 12" disc. Now if onyl I could find that old Wharfedale record player I used to have........ maybe in the loft?

Ready for MOT

The Fiat electric project reaches completion......at last.
I had a problem getting dipped headlamps due to the dim dip system fiited to the car, bu that has now been resolved. It is now ready to go, but I am aiming to get the Voltmeter/Ameter ready to roll before I get it to MOT. It all still resembles a High School bodgery rather than a professional conversion, but no matter, if she passes MOT I can make good afterwards.
Next problem is transport across the road for an MOT. Anyone willing to loan a trailer?

Electric approval

I got the confirmation letter this week - the FIAT can now officially be considered an electric vehicle. Just the final hoops to jump through to get a tax disc - an MOT and an insurance certificate. So it will be down to Boyes Lane next to get it's MOT.

Weeding and righting

I have just spent the best part of the day in the garden, clearing weeds from the vegetable plot and the area which currently houses Scintilla, the electric powered Fiat Cinquecento, but which will soon be hardstanding space for my caravan. The garden now looks ever so slightly tidier, viewed from the footpath at the side of the house. The rest of it looks no different of course. That would take about a months constant work to improve.
This time I have restricted my efforts to the removal of known weeds. The last time I worked in the garden I was asked to remove a tree like plant that had self seeded and was growing near the fence in the raised section by the greenhouse. An accurate description you might think. Well, I found five or six tree like plants, tall slender, weedy looking - i.e they looked like weeds - so I removed them all. Turns out they were the sunflowers planted by the children. And I missed the problem "tree"completely. Whoops.
So to put that right I will in future return to dealing purley with what I know and understand - "hard" gardening. That is, concrete and fences, greenhouses, steps, paving, decking and the like, mowing the lawn - you can;t go too wrong with that, and digging big holes under strict supervision from 'er indoors. That way I should stay out of trouble.

Lose pounds on the Shitfast diet!

With due apologies to those who normal read my more highbrow, intellectual humour, I'm afraid this post does deal with some toiletry issues. If easily offended by words like shit, please don't read on.

We all know that the only real way to lose weight is to eat less and exercise more, right?
Well, I ate just one Salmonella infected egg, and in just 3 days I've lost 6Ilbs on the Shitfast plan. Eating less - well nothing actually over the last three days, and running to the toilet up to eight or nine times a day really tone sup those leg muscles, plus the abdominal cramps tighten up those tummy muscles a treat. Particularly when you're barfing as well.

This all started just after I'd finished mowing the lawn on Monday -see my previous posts, with a mild stomach ache. I had bacon and egg for brunch, and can only put it down to the eggs. A rapid deterioration saw the highlight of that evening with me in a virtual compression chamber. No kidding that's what it felt like. If you've never had the experience of a nosebleed, headache, shitting and vomiting simultaneously then you won't know what I mean. My eyes were streaming, and I swear earwax was being forced from my ears. Every available body orifice was trying to evict this evil bacteria from my system. The pressures involved must be enormous. The stench certainly was. Sweating and gasping for air - any air would have been good even the fetid stench of my own rotting interior, the only though going through my mind was "Please God don't let me die like this - vapourise me completely, just don't leave a mess to clear up."

Anyhow the bacteria still survives inside me, although the trips to the bathroom are now less frequent and dramatic, because there's nothing left inside to give. Full recovery will take about a week, even with DANONE on my side. If I can face eating anything.

But on a positive note I am under 15 stone for the first time in about 5 years, almost at the bottom end of overweight (yeah right) and a long long way from obese - I could put on another 25 LBS.

Who decides what is overweight on this BMI index thing anyway? At 6 feet 2 I don't realy think that at much under 15 stone I'd look right. I'd get mistaken for a javelin. And buying clothes would eb impossible - clothes manufacturers assume that big people are big in every direction. Try buying a 34 inch leg at under a 34 inch waist for example.

So, just as soon as my fragile constitution will allow it, I'm off for a good old steak dinner. - but right now I'm off back tot eh toilet.

Petrol rebate.

On the subject of mowing the lawn, it occurs to me that over the last twelve years in residence at my humble abode I have bought perhaps 15 litres of petrol each year for my mower. Bought at the pumps, this is taxed at Road Fuel duty rate. A quick web search suggests that fuel duty was 56.19 pence per litre when petrol was 105.64 pence per litre., so it will higher now, but that#s a reasonable ball park figure to play with.
So at 15 litres x 12 years x 56.19 pence per litre, I reckon the Governent have unlawfully taxed me to the tune of approximately £101.14 pence. How much are you owed?

I may just write to my MP and see what his take is on this subjec, and requesting my money back, with interest.

Cutting the Grass, GM Foods, Scotish Students and inventors

Four subjects you may think don't have a lot in common. Allow me to explain.
It is that time of year when every time I have a day off I have to cut the lawn. I have many inventive excuses for not doing so, but eventually I have to give in our Pygmy tribes start to establish themselves. It was whilst mowing that not unconsiderable expanse of grass this afternoon that my mind began to wander. I shouldn't have let it go, it's too weak to be out on it's own, but there you go.
It seems to me that in these days of modern science we should be able to develop grass which doesn't need cutting. I mean there is that old joke about the Scotsman who watered his lawn with Whisky so it came up ha;f cut. But is the idea so far from reality? I wouldn't want to waste good Whisky of course, but it seems to me that if we can grow dwarf conifers then surely we can fiddle with the DNA of grass to make it grow to the optimum height and then stop? I don;t object to having to mow the grass say once a year as a sort of ritual to welcome in the spring. But that should be it. I want to enjoy my garden, not work in it all day every time I have a day off.
Then the idea occurred to me. The Scottish should have the funding to find an answer. Why the Scots? Well, I don;t want to offend them, I think they are a wonderful nation with lots going for them - they invented Whiskey, Television, Trains, Telephones, bridges ...... the list goes on and on. Whilst we English invent things which on the face of it have great technological advances like Jet engines and the Hovercraft only for them to be ought evolve by turbo skipping saucer planes and a hole in the ground (otherwise known as the Channel Tunnel - which is Half French for Gods sake)
But if we accept that our students are our future engineers inventors and thinkers, then we have to look to Scotland and their people/ Scotland, the region around Glasgow in particular is famed for it's low class attendances, high rate of alcoholism and unhealthy eating habits. If the students in my town are anything to go by, this is what defines a student - failing to turn up for lectures, eating junk food and falling over drunk in the middle of the road. With a traffic cone on their heads. Quite obviously a University education is not needed, simple a pack of Tenants Extra, a Kebab and an empty room other than a classroom. Possibly a pencil or two.
And better still, being Glaswegians, they will evolve a grass which is not dissimilar to themselves, tough, hardy and ideally aggressive. Yes I want GM grass which will give daisies a knuckle sandwich and headbutt dandelions. Then and only then will I get the lawn I deserve, instead of the ragged patch filled with weeds, which always looks unkempt and which my neighbours put to shame with their perfectly manicured striped 1/4 acre of perfection.

Election Result

The British public has spoken - but we're not quite sure what they had to say.
As I have said before, I don;t profess to understand politics, - Jeremey Clarkson was my choice, but he wasn;t even on the ballot paper.
The result of the voting is that the Torys pulled in 306 seats, Labour 258 and the Liberals 57. Oh and a Green person got one too. To any sensible person, regardless of their politicl views, this should mean the Torys have won. But apparently not. Because more people voted against them than for them, this means they lose. How does that work? As I understand it 65% of the electorate turned out to vote. Meaning 35% didn't. So in actually fact the proportional representation system ought to mena that as the overall majority of people did not vote for an elected representative in parliament, then we shouldn't have one at all. The Prime Minister should be a silouette, like when you don;t upload your photo to Facebook. He should just be an icon. An image that does nothing and says nothing. He should in fact be the Stig. Sorry Jeremey, you've been upstaged by your own creation.
Apparently some people are upset as they couldn't get to vote because of the current voting system. 15 hours wasn't long enough to get 65% of the public through the polling stations. Thsi is because of the muppets employed to run the polling booths. Our local village hall was used for ours, and equipped with four booths. I don;t know why it had four, because we had two staff workign as a team to issue the ballot papers. It goes somethign like this. You hand your card to muppet number one, who then asks for your voters number. I am not a number, I am a free man! I don't know my number it is written on the card I have just handed to first muppet. First muppet then tells me my name. I agree with her. I know my name. It to is written on the card I have just handed her, hence she now knows my name too. Actually, as she works for the rest of the year in the local library she already knew my name anyway. She then reads my number to muppet number 2 who checks my number and writes it down, while muppet number 1 crosses my name out on the electoral roll list. She takes quite some time to find me, despite me living in a village with only two dozen streets. She then hands me my card back and a ballot paper is pushed at me by muppet number two. My wife, attempting to speed along the process gives them her number before handing over her card. This confuses them, and they have to ask her for it again, then tell her her name and repeat the performance again. My wifes number is one digit higher than mine, her address is the same, and her surname is also mine, yet for some strange reason the muppet has to go to the start of the electoral register and go through page by page agin until she findas her name and crosses her out. Amazingly she lives at the same address as me and is directly under my name.
No wonder the process takes so damned long. I wonder why they gave us four booths, when the process only allows one person through at a time. I can only suggest that some people arrive at the polling station determined to vote, but still undecided as to who to vote for. Either that or they are so thick they need time to find their candidates name on the list. We hada choice of about 8 I think, and all but one had a symbol next to them depicting the party they represented - so that people who couldn't read the name could recognise the picture. Only the independant candidate didn't have any emblem, probably because he couldn;t think of one on hsi own. Or maybe it was a ploy to capture more votes from the stupid.
At least we do know why 35% of the electorate failed to vote. It was nothing to do with tactical voting, inabilty to get into the polling booths (despite the best efforts of the muppets) or apathy. No, it was because they were too embarrssed to let anyone know that in broken Britain, educatiobnal standards are so bad they can't even spell X.

News that a Japanese Viagra Factory went into production overdrive at the news that Britain was having a General Election are grossly exagerrated.

Cooking on Electric

E Day approaches. My electric conversion of the Cinquecento nears completion.
Tonight I have ripped out the last reminders that it ever had an ICE (Infernal Combustion Engine) with the removal of the petrol gauge and the coolant temperature gauge. Don't need them no more. I toyed with the idea of fitting the digital voltmeter and amp meter in their place, but they wouldn't look right and didn't quite fit in the available slot, so they will remain in the custom centre console along with he emergency stop button. Where the gauges were fitted thee is now black coloured plastic card, leaving a nice neat and tidy finish with just the speedometer and a bank of warning lights for the various lights, signals etc - exactly as it was when it left the factory, but tidier. Removal of those gauges wasn't strictly necessary, but why have a non working and pointless gauge on the dash? And it save an ounce or two in weight.

Next I reconnected the speedo cable and proved it worked - as well as getting some idea of the probable performance. In typical bodgit testing manner I jacked up one front wheel of the car, the differential stopping the other from turning, to do some testing. This is rather rough, as their is no load on the spinning wheel, but it proved the speedo works, and the readings I got were -
2nd gear up to 20 to 25 mph, 3rd gear round 30 mph. The car won't pull from start in fourth, so I tried changing on the fly from 3rd, but couldn't get the sync right - it will be easier once the car is actually moving. This is encouraging as with fourth and fifth gear still to go I reckon my target speed of 40 mph is achievable. Next plan will be charge the batteries again and replace the little one up front with a 110 amp so they all match - that should see a power increase., albeit a small one. Then I'll have to do some proper testing.

I've emailed VOSA to find out what tests and inspections the car will need before they allow it back on the road with a FREE tax disc.

Between now and then there are just one or two jobs to complete, the horn doesn't work and neither do the hazard warning lights. As both these should work with the ignition off I think it's probably a fuse or wiring fault somewhere. Another problem seems to be the headlamps - i get a Bright main beam, sidelamps, and very dim dipped beam, brighter than the sidelamps but not bright enough to be a headlamp - a sort of dim dip you'd expect when parked. Again I suspect a wiring problem, maybe even the same fuse?

A heater of some sort is in order, but as yet I'm stumped as to how to get enough heat. Those small plug in ceramic heaters would be ideal if they actually worked. Or an eberspraucher type heater if they were cheaper. Maybe I'll wait for someone to crash and scrap on of those Gwiz cars then I can get whatever thy use.

Vote Top Gear!

You can't have failed to notice we have an election coming up. The press have been banging on about it for a month or so, fortunatley not with quite so much coverage as they gave the US Presidential campaigns, but for long enough that it can't have escaped your attention.
As i see it we have a choice. We can vote for a bunch of scheming, lying, cheating, money wasting, two faced, depraved, self serving publicist bastards who beleive there is one set of rules for them and another for the rest of us - or we just don't vote.
In the red corner, representing the Labour Party, and promising the moon, on a stick, covered in chocolate sauce, and expecting us to beleive it, even thoguh they've had fifteen years and have made a mess of it, is the biggoted woman hater Gordon Brown. (That is, he hates women bigots, not that he himself is a bigot who hates women - I just thought I'd better clarify that - although perhaps the ambiguity would have done him a favour with a certain group of voters)
In the blue corner, representing the Conservatives we have - well I'm not so sure. I'm not that up pn this politics lark to be honest. Cameron? The one with a bit of a looker for a wife. His policies seem to be that he will support the NHS. And that he has a good looking wife. Well better looking than Mrs Brown anyway. He stands for family values, but won't re-introuduce a married couples tax allowance or anything like that. In fact he'll probably continue to support the "underpriviledged" single parent familes who don;t contribute anything to society, have never worked and claim all the benefits going which hard working married but single income couples can't get a shot at.
Then there is the Liberal Democrats (are they still democrats?) or Social Democratic party or whatever they are branding themselves as this year. Their policies are...... well does anybody know? Does anybody care? Apparently Hull is run by the Liberals. Funny, because so far as I can tell the council services work exactly the same as when Labour ran them, although it probably costs more now. The Liberals are promising to turn the country around. I'll look forward to power cuts, miners strikes and economic instabilty then. I think they were the party that was on the radio today promisng to "mend Broken Britain." Al Murray - get onto a no win no fee solicitor straight away - they've nicked your slogan. Shame on You Liberal Deocratic Alliance.
That leaves the Greens. Who will put a windfarm and solar panel on every roof top and very commendable too. That way we can be self sufficent in power and tell the Arabs to go and **** themselves and withdraw our troops back to the UKL protecting our borders from Illegal Immigrants. The only drawback in their master plan is how do we pay for ths dream? And in the meantime how do the lorries deliver these goods with no petrol until the Ortganic Goats Cheese fuel becomes a reality?
If you want to waste a vote you could vote for the UK Independance Party. This is a sort of polite BNP so far as I can work out. Migrants out! (if you wouldn't mind awfully, thank you very much, please.) Sory but how can the UK be independant overnight when we have spent the last 100 years training Johnny Foreigner how to do all the stuff and build all the stuff we used to sell all over the world, and whcih we know longer have the capacity to make ourselves? UK independance is all very well if you beleive that Yorkshire Tea grows in Yorkshire. It doesn't. It grows in India and China. We import it on favourable terms, along with bananas, oil, coal, timber, electricty, gas, Soap stars....... the list goes on.
That leaves the BNP. Not really an option is it? Racist skinheaded anarchists. If they meloowed down a bit they might stand a chance, but until they realise that almost without exception everyone in the UK is either an immigrant or descended from one they will get nowhere. My own family for example can be traced back 1000 years - but are ultimately probably French or German. My wife is called Jennifer - to quote Al Murray once more "A beautiful British Name." A derivative of Genevere, the wife of King Arthur. How much more English can you get? But her family can only trace themselves back around 1000 years as well, and she was probably a descendant of the Vikings, so what right does she have to vote in England?
The one party not represented in the elections is of course the common sense party. This is of course the TOP GEAR party, their leader being Jeremy Clarkson. His views may seem outlandish at times, but the silent majority (sorry Al Murray again) woudl supoprt him. Richard (beautiful English name) "The Hamster" Hammond would be deputy, performing much the same role as Prescott used to occupy - i.e. performing outragious stunts to distract the pubic from the day to day politics. And James May, the slightly geeky, brainy but cautious one would make the ideal Chancellor. Because whilst Jeremy may want to buy a Bugatti Veyron as the Presidential Limo, James would almost certainly buy him a FIAT Panda or a Dacia Sandero.
Other advantages would be an immediate abolishion of Road Tax and Fuel Duty, a tax on Vegetariansim and the prohibtion of bicyclists and Traffic Wardens. And the Bus Lanes and speed bumps would be ripped up. A minimum speed limit would be set on the roads which would really get the ecomony moving again. And Johnny Foreigner could be shot legally with a twelve bore, as well as foxes.
Of course the Stig would need a role too, and I think I have the perfect job. He could be your local councillor. A faceless and silent prescence who listens but says and does nothing.
So, my advice is, don't waste your vote - vote Clarkson.

Grass cutting

I mowed the lawn today. No big deal. Except that the neighbours dog had left me a mesage on my lawn. The message said quite clearly, that because I'm not allowed to have fence to the front garden, he will come and shit on it whenever he likes.
I pointed out the turd to my neighbour, and complained that his dog had shit on my lawn. His attitude was less than helpful - "You don't have to pick it up, just run it over with the mower if it bothers you."
I took him at his word. Have you ever done that though? The smell is bad, but that's not the worse thing. The noise it makes! It's a sort of crunchy noise at first, but then a sort of splat - with a lot of yelping, howling and whining thereafter. And the fuss the neighbour made. I mean it wasn't even a pedigree dog or anything. But it won't be shitting on my lawn any more.
Not unless dogs have nine lives too.

Travel News

I will point out immediately that I am a Radio Two fan (it's my age) So the following criticisms are not aimed directly at the lovely Sally Traffic, it is not a slight directed solely at Radio Two or indeed Sally, it's just that theirs are the traffic reports I hear. Almost without exception every radio station and many TV stations are guilty of the same.
They all imply that the traffic problems are my fault. How do I conclude this?
Well, they usually say "If you're travelling on the M1 there's an incident at junction 4 closing two lanes ...." that sort of thing. They imply therefore, that if I am not travelling on the M1 the closure will not occur. Which makes me feel guilty if I am, because quite simply, if I had driven a different route the incident would not have happened. I don't see how it can be attributed to me though if I am at junction 38. I am an advanced driver, I drive reasonably carefully and with due consideration for others. If they crash at junction 4 it is nothing to do with me - I'm not even in the same county.
Another annoyment is the way the refer to Police Incidents. I appreciate that sometimes they might not know exactly what is going on, and the police might not want to say it's a crash because they haven't told the next of kin, or it's a bomb because people panic, or that they've had to shoot a terrorist because well, that;s not the way we British do things. So, I'm quite happy for it to be a mysterious "incident" I just don't see why it belongs to the police. The police didn't create it, they are just dealing with it. In the majority of cases it's a motorists incident - they cause it, let them take ownership.
It's the careless throwaway use of words that annoys. Let's encourage more thought before adding unnecessary and misleading words into our conversations.