Epping Bees

I apologise first of all if you are having to read this slower than usual - this is because I am typing one handed, for reasons which will become apparent.

For the past few weeks we have been clearing my wife's maternal grandfathers home and garden, ready for the sale of his house after he decided to go into a retirement home in his declining years. The sale of his house is necessary because having paid taxes all his life and never claiming a bean in benefits, and having bought his own home, and saved up for his retirement, and paid into a pension, he is considered able to pay for his own care, which apparently costs just short of £500 a week. If on the other hand he had been an unemployed welfare dependent drug taking, smoking, drinking, layabout, spendthrift then the state would have paid this for him. But as ever I digress from my main point, which is the sale of the house.

Not knowing how long Grandpa has left, we need to get the best price for his house, to eke out his savings so at least he can stay in the private care home as long as possible, and not end up in a council dog kennel. It would be fair to say that he has let the gardens go somewhat, and that was likely to put off potential buyers. Now Grandpa Jim's has little or no front garden to speak of, just a pathway running round the front of the house and a border with a few shrubs in. To the side is a paved area with rose bushes. These two gardens were quickly brought into order. It was the rear garden that needed much attention.

When Jim moved into the house as a council tenant, being a keen gardener, he negotiated the takeover of a plot of wasteland between his house and the block of flats next door. The council were happy for him to caretake it for a peppercorn rent, and James duly moved the fence, and had a very successful allotment garden for many years. Of course when he came to purchase the house under the right to buy scheme, the council had no boundary plans, and assumed all the land went with the house, and wily James kept his mouth shut until the deal was done, thus adding a size able chunk to his already large garden. The plot would now quite reasonably house a ... well another house to be fair, possibly even two of those modern town houses, which adds nicely to the value of the home. Unfortunately this plot which was fruit trees and vegetables had gone back to nature to a height of a good three foot of brambles and other wild grasses and vegetation which would have made a good Star Trek hostile planet set.

Much cutting and trimming, hacking, slicing, and chopping, and many trips to the council tip with an overladen trailer still left a sizable pile of waste to get rid of. We therefore sensibly decide to raze the plot, figuring a scorched earth policy would clear the area nicely, ready for rotavating and levelling, leaving a blank canvas for the new owners. And so it was whilst raking all the garden debris into a pile to start said bonfire that I accidentally raked over a bees nest.

There are apparently over 2000 species of bees, closely related to wasps and ants, and 260 of these are UK residents. I suspect some are also migrants, and a proportion are asylum seekers. There are tree bees, masonry bees, bumble bees, honey bees, burrowing bees, river bees..... you name an environment, there is a specialist bee to live in it. I know because of what happened next, as I had to read up on bees to sort myself out.

As I raked over the aforementioned nest (not a hive, these were burrowing or tunnelling bees, living underground) my father in law shouted a warning, and at first i thought he had identified these bees as a specialist group from the Essex area immediately outside of London. "Look out, Epping Bees!" I could have sworn he yelled, although in retrospect he may have yelled, "Look out,"F"-ing B's"

The effing bees launched a sharp and swift counter assault as a response to the perceived threat to their burrow. Simultaneously I was stung on my right knee, right inner thigh, right side of my stomach, left upper arm left inner wrist and just above my left eye, right in the lid. These were no the droning bumble bees you might be imagining, like a Halifax Bomber, no these were fighter bees, Spitfires, and bloody quick ones at that. Anyone who doubts that bees communicate with one another or that they don't work in unison should be left in no doubt if they ever suffer a similar attack. this was a well co-ordinated assault in defence of their commune. And I use that word advisably. Bees are Communist by definition, each one serving the greater good of the swarm. By their actions they also prove that they are in fact terrorists - suicide bombers, willing to give up their lives for the cause. This is not actually true - we are brought up to believe that a bee dies after it stings you. Not so. Only two bees die as a result of stinging, the humble bumble, and the honey bee both rupture their abdomens as a result of stinging, as they struggle to get the barbed sting out of the elasticated sting of mammals, the sting having been designed as a defence against other insects with an exo-skeleton. Basically they are badly designed to fight mammals but try anyway, with fatal consequences to themselves. Of all the other bees, not all of which sting, those that are are, are all quite capable of stinging and surviving. They only sting once, as they loose the barb, but it doesn't kill them.

Well it killed these little effers, as I then poured petrol over their nest and set fire to them all along with the remaining garden waste. But by then the damage was done. My left eye swelling nicely is fortunately not to badly affected by the venom, nor is my right leg or even my stomach. My left arm however is a different story - I must have got the full effect of both stings, and boy does it hurt. My arm has swollen badly, I cannot move it without pain, I can't lift or grip anything - the little Effing Bees have immobilised The Stig.

Of course, I have been stung before as a child, but I don't remember it. I simply remember the treatment - vinegar and brown paper, just like Jack and Jill. The problem being we had emptied Grandpas house, and whilst I know that Ketchup contains a fair amount of vinegar that was all that was left in the cupboard that looked even likely to work - and it just didn't. Piriton works on all insect bites and stings, according to the bottle, and we have gallons of the stuff at home for my daughter Emma's allergies. But none in my car.

So here I sit with aching swollen limb and slightly puffy eye, wondering what is the solution to the bee problem. Communist Russia fell partly for economic reasons, but mostly because their countrymen wanted MTV, Cocoa Cola and Levi jeans. I doubt that the same consumer goods are desired by the average worker bee. So how can we get these aggressive little warmongers to come over to the idea of a peaceful co-existence and capitalism? Well reading a little further about the habits of bees it seems we may not have to. Some bees are "solitary." They live alone, or at least independently in a group of other solitary bees. Solitary bees now outnumber swarming bees according to my source, and the weird thing is, whilst solitary bees may live in a swarm like nest, they don't give a bugger about the other bees around them - it's all for one and every bee for himself. in other words, capitalism.

The bees in question, for those interested in that sort of thing, had a black body, with a yellow band at the arse end and a yellow band around the mid body, quite fuzzy looking rather than hairy, and around 20mm long, with a bullet shaped body. I haven't been able to identify them for sure, so for now they will remain the Epping Bees.

Fair's Fair

I've just had an email from the children's school (is there any other sort? Why did I say children's school? What a stupid expression. Adults schools are called colleges or universities)

Anyway the email warns that next Thursday due to strike action by the teachers my son will not be able to go to school. This is somewhat unfair, not least because his sister will be able to go to school because her teacher is in a different union. I don't get to choose which teacher teaches my son, and because of this he is now being denied an education.

Now don't get me wrong I don't deny the teachers the right to take industrial action. I just think we ought to get compensation. After all, under their rules if I take my child out of class for a day to go on holiday, or perhaps for a once in a life time event (which probably has more educational value than a day in school) then they impose a fine of £50. Per child. For each parent. So to take my son out of school for a day would cost me £100., as they consider this an "unauthorised absence." Unfairly, a single parent would only pay £50 for the same privilege, and a parent who simply lies and says their child is sick, and then goes to Florida with them pays nothing. How is that fair?

So, on this occasion, the teachers want to strike and deny my child a days education. Neither me or my wife have authorised this, so I think we are due £100. After all if I have to take a day off work to look after him unexpectedly, or pay for child care so I can work, there is an additional cost burden placed upon me. Fortunately I am day off midweek, so I can manage, but will I be recompensed by the school opening up on my next weekend off to look after my lad so I can enjoy my day off? I doubt it.

This comes on top of the teachers taking an extra day off a few weeks back for the Royal Wedding. This was because on the actual Royal Wedding Day they already had a day off because it was half term, and they felt cheated that everyone else got a Bank Holiday and they didn't. Well sorry teach, but the armed forces, Police, Fire and Rescue, Ambulance, Hospital staff and many others didn't get the day off either, but we didn't claim a day in lieu. But then, we all managed to get to work in the snow last winter too, whilst teachers stayed at home.......oh what short memories they have. Come to think of it most of us work 40 hour weeks with 30 days annual leave a year, whilst the teaching profession gets at least 65 days a year off, works Monday to Friday 9 until 3 with an hour for lunch, so that's a 5 hour day, or a 25 hour week. Yes I suppose they may have to turn up for the occasional parents evening, and there are books to mark after school, but hey, I often bring work home too. So, I've not a lot of sympathy for their cause.

Unless of course they are willing to div up £200 for each day they strike, then they will have my full support.

You want to do what?

Imagine if development of the motor car had been delayed 100 years - it could easily have happened. Most technological developments of the last 200 years or so have only come about because of mans intense desire to kill himself, or more accurately other men. The greatest acceleration in invention comes at times of war. And with 2 world wars and numerous squabbles in between we've had plenty to keep th eboffins busy.

But imagine if we had lived in peaceful coexistence for the last 200 years and were still going around on horses and carts. Imagine the difficulties facing the inventor of the modern automobile in these days of health and safety, trying to get it past the patent office and then all the Government Health and Safety types.

"We've reviewed your application and to be honest it's a bit far fetched isn't it? I mean you want to drill holes in the ground to extract oil for a start - that's going to be dangerous and expensive. But the you want to put it in a magic engine, which doesn't have a nice sensible firebox and generates steam, but somehow harnesses the power from an internal combustion process to drive the wheels around? What's that you say? Not a fire as such, nore a series of controlled explosions. How controlled exactly. I'm not sure I like the sound of that. What? Oh, so people will be licenced to use these things. So they will be qualified engineers...? No. What, oh no, we couldn't accept just anyone driving one of these things. They'll have to pass a test? What like a fire fighting certificate or something? No? What just to say they can operate it safely? You call that safe, with all these explosions going on in the engine? And what about the fuel that concerns me. Do I understand you rightly it will have a tankful of this new fangled petroleum which explodes? No that won't do at all. How fast will these things go? Seriously? My that is fast. Doesn't sound at all safe to me. No. no. I'm afraid we can't have you drilling holes in the earth and putting these oil rigs you mentioned out at sea - what if they leak? No I'm afraid we'll have top reject the whole idea. Why don't you do something more sensible like this other applicant. He wants to build a horseless carriage that uses a nice simple electrical motor to drive the wheels. And he says he can build windmills to harness power from the wind, and magical sun collectors to make more electricity. And nobody has to drill holes in anything."

In other words, had it not been for the uprise of the Nazi movement we would now be looking at a brave new world of electrically propelled mass produced green efficient cars. And that would be a good thing. Except that it means we would never have heard the Cherry Bomb exhausts on a '57 Chevy, or the roar of the Veyron, nor the whine of a Morris Minor, or the chug of a Fairway Taxi. Gone in 60 seconds and Bullit would not have been quite the same had the cars involved moved silently. The filling station exploding in Christine would have been a deleted scene, perhaps replaced by a Plymouth Fury crashing into a recharging bollard instead - not the same though is it?

I'm not at all sure what the point of this blog is now, but I seem to have turned it into a motion of thanks to Adolf Hitler for invading Poland, for without that we would all be driving those awful G-Whiz electric golf buggies.

Ode to my old walking boots

I've been meaning to post this for a while, a tribute to my old leather walking boots, lovingly nicknamed "Shackeltons Boots" by my walking partners. Almost every word is true, the boots were about £20, and did many many miles in the Lakes, Moors, and Dales, even venturing to Scotland and Wales. Boots were made to last in them days - and there was still good eating to be had out of them when I retired them last year. Boot soup anyone?

An ode to Martins Walking Boots – in loving memory of the boots I bought age 17 and which have given me 25 years sterling service covering countless miles.

I bought my boots in ‘86

I think they cost me about £16.96 (+VAT)

A whole weeks wages in those distant years

A worthy investment despite my worse fears

Forget their looks now, they weren’t second hand

They were new off the shelf and they fitted just grand

They were state of the art

With their strong leather upper

And looked ever so smart

With soles made of black rubber

Gaudy yellow laces with go faster striping

And comfortable insoles with anti slip piping

Ben Nevis, Helvelyn, Three Peaks and Sca Fell

They took me to Heaven and often through Hell

In Scotland and Wales they withstood the test

But back home here in Yorkshire they gave me their best

O’er miles on the moors they withstood all weather

And beat off the newcoming light as a feather

Gortex and nylon and new fangled fabrics

No old fashioned laces just Velcro elastics

Never a leak, never a squeak

As they ploughed through each valley

And took on each peak,

Plugging through mud, and splashing through beck,

Resting in t’ pub at the end of the trek

For so many years they served with good grace,

And every adventure they took in their pace

But time marched on, they now look out of place

Whilst their modern equivalents look like they’re from space

Yes fashions do change and they are wearing down

The soles hold no grip and they’re no longer brown

The leather is faded, the stitching is split

starting to decay, walking through so much shit

the soles are so thin after so many miles

and the look of my boots raises so many smiles

Comments about visiting the Antiques Roadshow

“They’ll be worth something, someday, to someone you know!”

Yes, the boots I admit have now seen better days

And If I can see clear through my rose tinted haze

I’ll admit that they’re heavy and clumsy and old

But they really have proved their weights worth in gold

Because trust me on this one, brothers and sisters,

In all of those miles they only once gave me blisters!

The time has come now to lay them to rest

So please get me new ones made of Gortex

Gutters and Drains

It's a dirty job but someone has to do it. I speak of none other than the annual gutter and drain clearance. We'll begin with the gutters. Over the period of a year someone sneaks up on my roof and empties a bucket of compost into my gutters. Why he does this I have no idea, but once a year I go up there, clinging for dear life on ladder that sways in the wind, one handed with a bucket in the other, and I remove the soil and fermenting compost from the gutter and downpipes. I can only assume that someone fills it back up for me because I can;t come up with a reasonable explanation of how it arrives there otherwise. Some will be wind borne debris, I'll grant that, and some is lichen and moss which grows profusely on the concrete roof tiles. Some will be the result of bird droppings. But are birds responsible for carrying bits of grit and gravel up there? No, I sternly believe someone comes along one night, plugs up the downpipes, takes a shit in the gutter and deposits leaves, compost and gravel over the roof.
Clearing the gutters, whilst a messy job, is at least not too unpleasant. The decaying compost might pong a bit, but it washes off relatively easily and the smell doesn't cling. The worse that can happen is a face full of water from the hosepipe as i flush the guttering.
Dealing with the drains is a different matter.
Like all houses we have two systems of drainage, one for the guttering and one for the household waste water, the so called "grey" water. There is the third of course which is sewage but I refuse to even go there and so far luckily the need hasn't arisen.
The guttering drains are unpleasant but no so bad - a bit of grit and gravel off the drive gets into the catch trap, but is easily fished out, and a quick squirt through with the hosepipe ensures things run smoothly.
No it is the household drains from the bath and sinks that causes the biggest headache. And the biggest stink.
We have lived in this house for nearly 14 years now and throughout that time my wife has insisted on only Fairy liquid for washing up. I would be happy with ASDA's own, but she insists on Fairy, so Fairy it is. Compromise in our house means doing what she says. Fairy, as we all know from the adverts, dissolves grease on contact. So much so that Robbie Coltrane was even able to clean his motorcycle engine parts in his Grannies sink using Fairy. So you wold expect that after 14 years our drains would be clean and fresh and free of any grease contamination at all. No.No No.
What Fairy does is mix itself with grease then congeals into a cheese like substance which slowly blocks the drain. The cheese analogy doesn't end there either, as it has the same consistency as a good Wensleydale. All cheese have a unique smell, and so does this stuff. Imagine the worse smell you can think of and you are not close. I drive past the sewage works every day, and I could have bathed in that afterwards and come out fresher smelling. I do not exaggerate when I say this smell came from the very armpits of Beelzebub himself. I am an enlightened 21st century father - I even changed my kids first nappies, the green ones and have to say this was worse.
Now you may laugh at what I did next, I certainly didn't. Well not at the time anyway. Having had to grapple with this highly toxic gunge before, I know that once it is on the skin the smell remains forever. Determined not to have to handle it I used a Jet washer to try and blast the drain clear. May I suggest you do not try this at home?
Grease, foul cheese smelling grease, water from the cesspits of a rock concert and accumulated rotted household waste backfired all over me. It was in my face, in my hair and spread all over my T shirt and Jeans, which I would now burn where it not for the fear of the toxic gases they might emit. To make matters worse all the jet washer had done was blow back a loose layer of shit off the top of the blockage beneath, which remained resolutely compacted in place. I had to resort to removing it by hand, and by hand it was with no rubber gloves to be found about the house. Fighting back the urge to vomit, which to be honest would have sweetened the smell somewhat I lunged in and removed handful after handful of cheesy greasy Fairy Liquid amalgam. Evenutually after filling half a carrier bag with this mulch, and a further jet washing, much boiling water and a bottle of not very environmentally friendly chemical cleaner we now have a kitchen drain which smells much sweeter and which runs freely for the first time in a long while.
Having disposed of the devils excrement I then tried to wash off the stink. I use a brand of shower gel which boasts that it contains 8899 leaves of mint extract in every bottle, and which normally leaves me feeling clean and fresh. Why the didn't put one extra mint leaf in and round it off to 8900 I don't know. Or or heavens sake why not use 9000 and have done? That's by the by though. This normally clears blood sweat and tyres (that's the sort of lifestyle I lead) but it didn't touch this stink, even after 30 minutes soaking in the bath followed by a shower. This Minty shower gel is the cosmetic equivalent of PAVA spray - get it anywhere near your eyes and you know about it. It tingles all over your body, as it you are being shot blasted, but it had no effect on the Devils cheese. Finally I hit on the solution by accident after I accidentally snorted some of the gel.
I can't see, my throat is burning, but the only thing I can smell now is mint. I probably still smell like a drain, a I'm sure my family will affirm later, but I don't smell it, and I no longer care.

Clown Prince In Waiting Accedes to throne!

No not William, I said Clown Prince, not Crown Prince.

I speak of none other than Prince Phillips grandson, Harry. It is no coincidence, surely, that in the same week that Phillip announces his retirement from Royal engagements, that Harry should suddenly emerge from the self imposed wilderness to take on the role of court jester?
I refer of course to his embarrassment at yesterdays trooping of the colour, when he was caught checking out his new sister in laws arse as he stood behind her at the ceremony. But am I being hasty here? Surely he is doing nothing that any other 27 year old red blooded (or indeed blue blooded) male wouldn't be doing? Any man between 16 and 85 for that matter. Okay, I'll concede that, who amongst us has not coveted our neighbours ass from time to time. I know I've had a right good covet when I think no one is looking. But that's the point. Harry's comic timing, waiting until the camera was on him, shows he now has what it takes to step into Granddads shoes in the role of Royal Gaffemiester.

Let's face it, Harry has been training for this specific role for some time. He started out well by being born ginger, and then decided to grow up with little family resemblance to his father or Brother. Being caught smoking cannabis, under age drinking, unsuitable choice of World War 2 uniform for fancy dress parties, and cheating in his A levels set the bar. He went off the rails for a short while when he served in the Gulf, but he's now back to form. How long before he insults a major religion, or snubs an emerging democracy by some act or ill planned word play.

I have to say he needs to work on the after look though. Phillip had it down to a tee with either bullish arrogance or astounded innocence. Harry simply went red enough to match his own hair, then hid his face. Not good enough. What he should have done is goose Kate, and have done with it.

Is this your house, sir?

As a Traffic Officer I frequently have to ask that most stupid of all questions, "Are you the driver of this vehicle?" even though it's bleedin' obvious. This does however have a legal point, before any prosecution can be considered we need to establish who is the owner and who is the driver of said vehicle - often it is the same person.
What knocked me sideways this weekend was when I answered the door to a cold calling double glazing salesman only to be asked "Is this your house sir?" I had to stop and think about it. Was it my house? Was there a possibility I was in someone else's home? Given I was in my slippers and watching TV when he knocked I considered there was a good chance I was at home. I suppose I could have popped round to a neighbours and watched their TV, but I've never done so before, so I had to concede it was my home. What he actually asked was "Is this your beautiful home?"
Perhaps that it what threw me. Beauty is of course in the eye of the beerholder, but even after many pints and squinting through a lead shield you would not call my house beautiful. Aesthetically adequate perhaps, but not beautiful. Large, spacious, commodious even, but not beautiful.
This creeping Americanism has followed the ambulance chasing culture of injury compensation and law suits to the point where it is no longer possible simple to bid someone good morning and then get down to the business of selling whatever product you are selling. No it is now industry practice to engage in a pointless preamble, enquiring about your health wealth and social well being first. Not that they are interested in any of those matters. They don't even have a response ready, they have an automatic script to follow, and telephone sales people are the worse. The Conversation can go something like:
Q: Am I addressing the householder?
R: No I'm burgling the place.
Q: Good, good, and how are you today?
R: Well I just lacerated my jugular climbing through the broken window, but mustn't grumble (at this point you may feel obliged to return the enquiry and ask about their health - don't do it, it will only encourage them further)
Q: Excellent, is it convenient to talk right now?
R: Not really the police are on their way and I'm bleeding to death.
Q: Ha Ha, wonderful, well I won;t take up too much of your time.....

And so it goes on. Even though this DG salesman was on my doorstep, knocking on my perfectly good door and standing next to my perfectly good double glazed window, he still tried to sell me windows. When I pointed these out he didn't miss a beat and moved onto soffits and fascias, despite these being in perfectly good condition. When I refused these he began the conservatory spiel. I could have a conservatory in time for the summer and pay nothing until next year when I could pay on easy credit terms over as long as I liked....... Well, I might at some point before my retirement consider a conservatory, but to quote my Granddad, pay as you go and if you can;t pay don't go. So I will buy now pay now with one easy installment, in cash. And I believe that most reputable double glazing companies will have a showroom, advertise in Yellow Pages, and ideally be recommended by someone with a positive experience to relate about their service and product. So fortunately, I will not have to wait months and months for a man to come cold calling to give him my business.

How to Kill a cold caller dead in the water. - if it's not on their script they can't react properly.

Is this your house? - No it belongs to Abbey National, but it'll be mine in 30 years when I've paid for it. Would you like to call back?

Is this your house? - No I've borrowed it from a friend, I have to take it back later.

How are you today? - Aha, you're a Doctor? No, what makes you think that? Well my state of Health is something I only discuss with my doctor.

So, you came around on the random off chance I might like to buy some windows. Well why don't you give me your address? I'm a used car salesman - maybe I can pop round yours regularly and see how you like it.

Philosophically speaking, if a tree falls down and there's no-one there to hear it does it make a noise? More to the point, if I throw you through your own sample pane, and there's no-on there to see it will it make a noise?

Any other suggestions how to keep these people away?