My part time job just became full time

Like many husbands, as well as holding down a full time career job I am also employed at home as a gardener, builder, electrician, joiner, gas fitter, plumber, painter and decorator, furniture maker, toy mender, bicycle repairman, mechanic and paint and body repairer, etc etc. This I do not mind, as it came with the job description 15 years ago when I married.


What I did not expect was that 15 years forwards the single simple PC that we owned would have been replaced and added to by the explosion in technology that now means I am also an IT technician. I am, as I have previously pointed out, rapidly reaching my technology ceiling, where new gadgets are far more advanced than I can cope with. Yet my knowledge is far in excess of that of my wife – to her, a book is cutting edge, and I am frequently surprised when she is able to operate one without assistance. Apart from operating the on/off switch on any gadget she is stumped, the only exceptions being the clock and timer on the oven which baffle me completely, but she operates with aplomb, and her bedside alarm, which defies all logic anyway, having a special feature which means it goes off an hour or so after she left for work when I am on nights and just dozing off.

My superior knowledge means I get the IT job. This was easy when we had the aforementioned single PC. But my growing family has an ever increasing thirst for technology, and Dad has to look after it all, maintaining, repairing and replacing consumables.

At last count we had four PC’s, a laptop, Two SatNavs, Two PDA’s, Two Nintendo DS’s, six televisions, four printers, three mobile phones, an MP3 player, 2 Ipods, an Airwave radio, Freeview and FreeSat boxes, and three DVD players. Plus there is also the microwave, two cars and countless clocks around the house which bi-annually need my attention due to this stupid idea of moving the clocks about. Some of these things are like old friends, in that I see them frequently and know exactly what they do, and how to deal with them. The sort of old friend you’ve known since school and regularly go for a pint with. And some are like old friends, in that I see them so infrequently that I know longer know what they so, or how to deal with them. The sort of old friend you cross the street to avoid, as it’s going to be embarrassing when you can’t remember their childrens names, and don’t know that their partner died last year.

And now, thanks to Santa, two Ipod touches and a Wii console have joined them. The Wii and the Ipods want to talk to each other, and my PC’s and I can’t help feeling they are ganging up on me now. Whilst they are syncing, I am sinking beneath the workload. My part time job as IT techy is now a full time job. I come home from work and there is a list of stuff to do before I go back to work.

Of course all these things are supposed to make life easier, and more fun. And I suppose they do, for everyone else, except me. I think I’d be better off with a biro, and a notepad.

One Hell of a Christmas

Santa is an anagram of Satan. Santa was Saint Nicholas. Satan is often refered to as Old Nick. We threaten our kids that if they are not good Santa won;t bring them presents. And the devil will take them to hell. Santa and the devil are one and the same. Both are the route of more evil than anything else I can think of. Coincidences? I don't think so.

Was Jesus a criminal?

I don’t want to offend anyone with the following article, but it strikes me that if you are going to offend anyone then Christians are the ones to pick on. They do after all preach tolerance and forgiveness, whereas some of the more insecure religions put a Fatwa on you. You’re generally on a safe bet poking at Christianity.


My topic matter today is “Was Jesus a Criminal?” We know he caused damage in the temple when he got angry and threw out the money lenders, but this was just a public order matter really, and he probably got off with just a fixed penalty – a light crucifixion or something.

My logic goes like this. In my day to day work activities I come across an exceptional number of people born on 25th December. Now logically there is a 1 in 365.25 chance (allowing for leap years) of being born on 25th December. Yet I meet a disproportionate number of people born on that day committing offences or otherwise coming to the attention of the police. They are in fact second only to people born on 1st January, which of course immediately marks you out as an illegal immigrant. Oh I know the figures will be skewed slightly, a peak of births around Christmas because there are sad people out there who will deliberately try and conceive a child with the sole intention of having said child on born Christmas Day – so they are a “Special” baby. As if it somehow brings them closer to God or something. The fact that Jesus, if he ever existed, was almost certainly not born on Christmas Day doesn’t seem to enter the heads of these otherwise quite intelligent people. Others are accidental or random births that just happen to fall on Christmas Day. These children, and the adults they grow into, often further stigmatised with names like Christian and Noel, or Angel or Mary somehow grow up into citizens more needy of the Emergency services, and often Social Services than any other group. This is not surprising when you consider how self centred their parents must be, to deliberately plan, nine months in advance, to spoil someone else’s Christmas Dinner by making them deliver a child.

The cynics amongst you might say that I simply remember these people because the date is memorable, but you are wrong. I meet far more Christmas Day people than I meet people who share my same birthday for example, or other relevant dates, like the day I joined the force, or the day I got married.

And I have a theory as to why these people turn to crime. Normal people get Birthday presents and Christmas presents on two separate occasions. This adds to the feeling of being loved and cared for. Even the little Chavs on council estates can look forward to an extra can of Stella as a treat. But Christmas birthday people only get one occasion a year when they feel loved and cherished, so they emotionally insecure and become attention seekers. They are the offspring of those who choose to have a child at Christmas simply to reduce the cost of presents twice yearly. These people then, commit petty crime to gain attention. Simple as that. So if you are born on 25th December, you are more likely to be emotionally stunted, needy and a criminal.

And of course my theory, reverse engineered, in my mind at least, proves that Jesus probably was a criminal too.

Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.

Starting an article with a quote fro another writer is probably bad form, but I'm going to do it anyway. Douglas Adams, author of, amongst other things, Life the Universe and Everything, was in the midst of writing another book, when his was hit by the most life threatening condition that many of us know as death. Fortunately, Adams was a great fan of technologyy and left behind on his Apple Mac a whole wealth of ideas, letters, partly finished articles, and the various muses of his book, later edited, mashed about and embelished with a foreword by Stephen Fry.
In amongst this is the quote with which I intended to start this drivel, but which now finds itself well into the second paragraph, thus excusing me from any potential breach of writers etiquette. And it goes like this. "Time Travel? I believe there are people regularly travelling back from the future and interfering with our lives on a daily basis. The evidence is all around us. I'm talking about how every time we make an insurance claim we discover that somehow mysteriously the exact thing we're claiming for is now precisely excluded from our policy."
Now, although I have never made an insurance claim I can empathise with what Douglas was thinking. My entire life has been blighted by the same sort of conspiracy.
You want proof? Okay, anyone who was born in 1968 will support me in this, particularly if they we brought up in say, a North East Coastal Town, with a largely Larbour local authority.
My sister who is around 18 months older than me, benefited from free milk in school. She has few fillings and strong healthy bones. I managed to get around 3 pints of free milk before ti was withdrawn. Consequently I have more metal in my mouth than the average Japanese Hatchback, and have broken many bones, although fortunately none mine.
Moving on, my sister further benefited from free swimming lessons at school, whilst they were withdrawn after my first three lessons. Coming from a low earning working class background (that is to say, my Dad worked rather than claimed benefits) I was therefore destined to drown with my peers, and very nearly did.
This concerted effort to thwart my development continued throughout my life. I managed to take some "O" levels, but also had to take GCSE's, being right on the very point where the exam system changed, so that prospective employees don't know whether I am Dick or Richard.
Joining the Police service I was just to late to qualify for the lucrative "Rent Allowance" which was subject of an annual compensatory grant, and instead got the inferior "Housing Allowance" which has not risen in 21 years. Even when buying my house I just missed out on MIRAS, which eased the burden of the mortgage payer. And of course I got married just in time for married mans tax allowance to be abolished.
I therefore fully agree with Douglas Adams that time travel is not only possible, but being used as a weapon against us.
Either that, or I am extremely unlucky. Which explains why despite regularly buying a lottery ticket I have only ever won a tenner, twice, whilst my sister has small wins with such frequeNC as to be frankly suspicious. Of course, if ever I were to win the big one, the Government would doubtless announce an immediate special tax on lottery winners. At 100%.

Who is Chris Moss?

There has been much talk recently about a mystery man, Chris Moss. People keep telling me I should get ready for Chris Moss, Chris Moss is coming soon etc. Apparently I should consider buying Chris Moss presents, but I don;t know the man, so don't know what or should buy him or why.
In conversion I have established that this gentleman is of a jovial disposition, as people keep saying Happy Chris Moss, but he is also a bit of an inebriate, as he is often referred to as Merry Chris Moss.
Some people are baking him cakes apparently, which seems appropriate for a guest, but doesn't help me find out who he is, whilst I have heard others saying they are going to the Chris Moss Service. I've drawn a blank over that, I don't really wish to see old ladies servicing a young man. Chris Moss decorations sounds more innocent, a man being awarded a medal is always going to be a worthy ceremony. But who is the man?
My confusion of course became profound when I heard someone say "You'll Log." Will I? So, apparently I have to keep some sort of Diary of Chris Moss's activities.
It is of course possible that I have been the victim of mispronunciation, and that these uneducated people were actually trying, in their redneck gum chewing fashion, to form the word "Christmas" and not talking about some bloke off the estate.
Only time will tell.

Poor driving is sexy?

Rock ‘n’ Roll artists and film stars have a bad press when it comes to motoring. James Dean and Marc Bolan being just two of those whose lives were cruelly cut short due to traffic collisions.


But it is hardly surprising when you look at their driving attitudes. Roy Orbision showed a very poor regard to driver fatigue when he drove all night. Okay the song doesn’t relate as to whether he had driven during the day as well, but even so to drive all night without a break is just asking for trouble. He wasn’t even concentrating that much on his driving, day-dreaming of the girl he was going home to. We don’t know from the lyrics what he was driving, I hope it wasn’t a goods vehicle, as he would have been in serious breach of tachograph regulations. And what justification did he have for this reckless driving behaviour? Sex. As he later admits in the lyrics to waking the subject of his song in her room to make love.

But what was his alternative? Gene Pitney was only 24 hours from Tulsa, on his way home to his darling, when he made the very sensible decision to stop for the night at a roadside motel. And promptly fell for a stranger, who he shagged and now can’t go home again. Sex again.

Jerry Lee Lewis of course promoted driving at excess speed in his song Maybelline. In this he is racing a Cadillac Coupe de Ville in an undisclosed model of Ford. The V8 Ford has an overheating issue, but this does not deter him from thrashing it. First he drives both bumper to bumper and side by side with the Caddy at 95mph. Frankly this is dangerous and he should have lost his licence for it. But he pushes the Caddy up even faster to 104 before his Ford starts to lose it due to the heat. It then starts to rain, which cools down his motor, presumably he is driving something with no bonnet, but even in the wet he continues to drive at stupid speeds. He refers to the Caddy sitting like a tonne of lead doing 110 half a mile ahead, before then appearing to stand still, suggesting he is doing well over 130 as he catches up with it at the top of the hill. Excuse me? An old Ford with an overheating engine pulling those sort of speeds uphill? And how the hell did the Caddy Landbarge achieve that sort of speed? I think he was exaggerating a bit, but the point is his listeners may well have thought it was socially acceptable to drive in this manner. And why was he chasing Maybelline in such a reckless manner. The song doesn’t say, but I bet it’s sex again.

I’m sure there are other similar examples of pop stars and cult figures glamourising fast cars and dangerous driving. What did Prince have to say about his pretty little red corvette? I don’t know the lyrics, but I bet they don’t include always wear your seat belt, don’t speed and don’t use you mobile whilst driving. I know there’s something in there about parking sideways (a Handbrake turn perhaps) and certainly the general impression is the car is driven way too fast.

It seems to be mainly American musical culture which promotes the negatives though, although there is probably good reason for this. British cars, on the whole, are not glamorous. Nobody ever sang about his pretty little red Capri, the Ford Cortina remained unsung and the Austin 1100 would be very difficult to place in any lyrics.

Perhaps this is why British musical/car culture is more tamed. Freddy Mercury of Queen had a very relaxed driving style in the 70’s, probably because he was in Love with his car and didn’t want to risk damaging it. Although it includes the lines “Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar, Such a thrill when your radials squeal.” I suspect that the roll cage was simply a safety device for show, as British cars of the 70’s just weren’t racers, and the tyres were squealing because they were cheap imported Chinese rubber, or because they lacked tread due to the lack of money at the time. He cruised in overdrive, not only a safer style of driving but more economical too. Is this perhaps because he was also a cyclist, wanting to ride his bicycle, and therefore had a vested interest in road safety? He certainly did his bit to promote the drink drive campaign in the eighties, although his message was somewhat mixed. Don’t drink and drive your car, good advice Freddy. But don’t get breathalysed was a bit controversial – was he suggesting you should refuse to take a roadside test? Don’t lose you head was fine though, a sterling warning against the folly of road rage.

Madness of course enjoyed driving in their car too, even though it wasn’t a Jaguar. It was some sort of Morris built in 1959 for the GPO, so possibly not a car at all but a Morris Minor Van. They do confess to driving at 58 on the A45, but I suspect the speed limit was higher back then. Rather than reckless driving there is an element of neglectful lack of maintenance though, because the tyres are allegedly a little worn, and Suggs even says he enjoys driving it with a flat tyre – not big or clever.

Jasper Carrott perhaps showed a little of the spirit of rebellion with his classic Funky Moped, which still rings true today. He might only have had a 50cc hair dryer on wheels but the attitude found in teenagers back then still rings true today – no ones gonna tell me where to go, no! I’m gonna ride, ride, ride. He did however have the good sense not to ride it until his front mudguard was repaired. And as a result the object of his desires went off with the lad on the pushbike.

The point of this post is wasted on me now, but I seem to have created an argument that poor drivers lead a better sex life.

Something for everyone

A quick glance through this years posts shows the wide variety of irritations I have faced in the past 12 months and the wonderful adventures that befall a 43 year old average man.
We have discussed, in no particular order;
Health, Gardening, the weather, gadgets, cars, underage drinking, the ageing process, death, assassination, obituaries, when to write an autobiography, barbecues and their effect on weather patterns, Commuting, alternative transport, the re-invention of the car, alternative voting, Racism, Grammar, Strike action, education, gutters and drain clearance, the royal family, how to deal with double glazing salesmen, hiking, motorcycling, animal welfare, hotels, airports and travel, Germans on holiday, train delays, window cleaning - why? language, DIY, the credit crunch, politics, the collapse of the euro, the British class system and the Humber Bridge Debt.

Now if there isn't something there to interest you, just wait and see what comes next - anything can happen in the next 12 months.

Peak viewing figures.

I have just checked my data for this blog thing that I write to vent my frustrations about life the universe and everything. I have always assumed that nobody read it, as no-one ever comments on any topic. In fact I thought I just wrote it to amuse myself and a few chaps from work who have admitted they sometimes read it. Oh and Dave's Dad, who is apparently a big Fan. Hello Daves Dad.
It woudl seem however that I am developing a following. Each post is avergaing 9 reads, with a peak viewing figure of 37 for one post. And lots of them are not indexed as I only discovered how to do that recently, so hopefully my figures will go up even more.
One day, I will make a compilation and produce it as a book for Christmas. Clarkson gets away with it, so why shouldn't I?

The future’s Orange – not.

The future’s Orange – not.


As an infrequent user of those pestulent carbuncles called mobile phones I am not over familiar with the topping up procedure. Some people seem to be never off the damn things, so must be topping up every five minutes. Well, I come from a generation where if you walked down the street seemingly mumbling to yourself it would not be too long before you had a nice new jacket, albeit with sleeves rather longer than you were used to, and a bed in a small but comfortable room with nice soft walls. Hence I only use the mobile teleponic device for what it’s creator intended. I make telephone calls on it, in situations where Mr Bells devices are otherwise not freely available tied to a wall or in a convenient box in the street, and I make these calls only if they are necessary. I do not send text messages, as that is what emails were created for, nor do I play games on it. I have a perfectly good PC to play games on, which I keep in a safe place on the desk at home, which is where my free time would be spent if I had any. If I am out of home I am busy doing something, so games on my phone are no use to me. Nor do I use it as a Hi-Fi, as I have a good stereo in the car, or a proper MP3 player which sounds far better than the tinny speaker on a phone.

So, I have a very basic phone, and a Pay as you Go arrangement with Orange. That is to say I did have, but not any more. Orange boast several ways in which you can top up your PAYG phone.

1. You can top up on line via the interweb. No you can’t. You have to enter all your personal details, and a password, and your bank card details each time you log in. This is a pain because the website crashes constantly, and you have top start again each time. Then you have to associate your phone with an account. I have had the phone a long time, so it should already associate with my account. But it doesn’t. Apparently the tariff I am on no longer exists. So how did I use up my credit then? I have to chose a new tarriff, one of the Animal Plans. There is Dolphin, Monkey, Elephant and something else, I forget, possibly Rhino, but none of these suit my needs. They allow me Gigabytes so I can browse the web, which I don’t do on my phone, or I can Stream music on another plan, which I don’t do on my phone, and one does the washng up for me, or something. But there isn’t a plan to suit someoone who uses a mobile phone to make phone calls occasionally. Ignore this and top up anyway. My Credit Card details are incorrect. And so are my other credit card details. Also my debit card details. Having tried all three cards, having logged in several times and gone through the whole palaver I come to the conclusion that the interweb option is entirely disfunctional.

2. You can top up in supermarkets. All you need is the card that came with your SIM. Which I found in my wallet. On a trip to ASDA I tried to top up, but couldn’t, as my card has not been associated with the phone. How do you associate the top up card with the phone. Well you ring from the phone (which has no credit on it) or you do it on the interweb site which isn’t working properly.

3. You can top up at a cashpoint. All you need is the card that came with your SIM. Which I found in my wallet……… oh, that sounds familiar. Do I need to assocaite the card with my account first? Yes. And you do that by ringing from the phone (which has no credit on it) or you do it on the interweb site which isn’t working properly.

Now I appreciate that as a low user I only put about £30 credit on my phone in a year, but surely it should be simpler than this? How do other people cope? It took me the best part of two hours and I still got nowhere.

I concluded it would be easier to buy a new SIM card, but then I had a stroke of genius. In an old PDA which I rarely use I had another SIM card, and what’s more it had credit already on it, a whole £1.38 worth, which ought to last me a couple of months. An even greater stroke of luck is that it was a Virgin SIM, and a qucik visit to their website had me a £10 top up completed in under 30 seconds. I have no idea what the tariff is compared with the tariff that doesn’t exist for Orange anymore, but it certainly doesn’t involve animals permitting you to do incomprehensible things for stupid reasons.

So, the future, in the short term at least, is Virgin, and Orange will not be getting my custom back unless they sort out their issues. I know the loss of £30 income won’t have the shareholders shaking in their boots, but I feel better for making them suffer even a tiny bit.

*Note that I have written this entire article without any smutty inuendo. I could have made all sorts of peurile gaffs about the number of Virgins I’ve had or how I used a Virgin, but I resisted.

Euro crisis

Did I really see what I thought I saw on the news last night? With the future of the EU in crisis, the viability of the Euro currency teetering on the brink, jobs across Europe in jeopardy and the very foundations of our economic survival in ruins, did I really see our political leaders sitting down to a silver service multicourse dinner to resolve the crisis? How much did that cost us? The news clip saw a lackey ironing the huge table cloth in situ, on the table, then another setting the tablel with gods alone knows how many silver knives and forks for the multiple courses they were going to be served.
It really does smack of the "let then eat cake" attitude during the French revolution. Whilst our Government are gorging themselves, I, like many other hard working Britons, am struggling to pay the ASDA bill most months. Wouldn't it have been more fitting for them to have gone to a local pub, two eat for a tenner deal, to discuss the economic strife they have gotten us into?
They really do live in a different world. But them, have you heard any announcements about pay freezes or job loses for politicians? Have they volunteered to increase their (currently free) pension contributions?
No. I though not.

Credit crunch Christmas

Jesus, I am told, was born of lowly birth, in a stable, because despite having a trade and being a reasonably proficient carpenter, his dad didn't realise all the hotels would be booked up at Christmas, and as a result, his son, son of God or not, was born in a stable. he did quite well out of the baby shower, with Gold, frankincense and Mirh, but little by way of practical gifts like nappies or Johnson's baby lotion.

He would however have I am sure, empathised with my financial predicament this year. My children, wife and extended family are doubtless expecting expensive presents, as ever for Christmas. To be fair my children and wife usually fair reasonably well, whilst my siblings and their offspring get a token gift, befitting of the Christmas Spirit. I never received lavish gifts as a kid, and to be honest I can't afford to give them most years - I have a big extended family, so they all get a bottle of wine, a tin of biscuits or some chocolates or some such token gesture

This has been affordable most years, although some expect more I'm sure. The Problem is that the all believe I am wealthy. A Police Officer earns loads. Well, truth be known we don't. On the surface we do, but try getting your partner a job that fits around you shifts and school hours. So effectively you become the sole earner for the family. If both Jennifer and I earned £25000 a year we'd be better off than the £31000 I earn on my own. Take away 11% of that in pension contributions, and it starts to look even less appealing. A basic month with no overtime brings around £1800 into the household finances and with £1000 a month spent on the mortgage, two cars to run, electric, gas, water, council tax etc it is only overtime that keeps the wolf from the door.

Now for the past six or seven years we have been paid a one off annual Special Priority Payment. This is supposed to compensate for working 24/7 shifts, having your life disrupted by shifts swinging around to start at 4 a.m. for industrial disputes for example, or dealing with dead bodies in pieces after an accident. It;s an over and above the call of duty payment, which officers working 9 to 5 and getting every weekend off, and always being off on time don't get. It make sup for the regular 1/2 hour unpaid overtime we do at the end of every shift, plus the 1/2 hour most of us put in at the start of a shift too.

For the last 6 or 7 years this payment has averaged £1600 and provided a welcome bonus at Christmas to settle the credit cards, or pay for next years holiday, or simply to make an extra months payment on the mortgage. And it has always been tax free.

Well guess what? This year the Government has reneged on the deal (no surprise there then) and we have been capped at £500, which they have then taxed. The end result is I am now skint for Christmas and will be having sausages and a SmartPrice Malt Loaf instead of the Turkey and Christmas Pudding i had planned on.

And regrettably, the extended family will get a Christmas Card and no presents. Times are hard, but my immediate family must come first, and my priority remains paying off my mortgage before I retire. Although to be fair to the Government they have helped me out there....... I am unlikely to be able to afford to retire now until I am 67, so I have longer to pay. Thanks.

The British Class System

We live in a democratic system so of course there is inequality. Some folk are better off than others.


At the top you have the people who used to be called the Gentry, who are very rich, very mad or very both. They have had wealth for years, inheriting it, and hiding it offshore to avoid paying taxes.

Beneath them you have the working class, the people who do all the work and earn all the money fopr other people, and a little for themselves. And then you have the privildeged class, the people who don’t work but are supported by the others. These include the unemployable, the sick, lame, lazy, fat, any mentally defective folk who are clearly not Gentry, drug takers, alcoholics and those lacking social skills or morals.

The priveledged class get to live in houses rent free – the state pays for their rent, and provides block paved driveways for them to park their 4x4’s, boats and quad bikes on. They are paid a salary, called “Social Security” to stay at home, and many are given a free car every three years due to being fat, alcoholic or drug dependant. Walking is known to be an excellent treatment for obesity and to prevent diabetes, deseases many of these people claim to have, although some simply have “heavy bone syndrome.” We coul dsave a lot of money and get them fitter if we took away their free cars. They lead such hectic lives watching jeremy Kyle on the widescreen TV’s all day, smoking and drinking Carling Black Label and Stella Wifebeater that they have to go on expensive foreign holidays at the expense of the taxpayers. They are recognisable by their branded clothing, tattooes, vulgar languauge, CRO number and the number of their children which often exceeds their IQ. They drive 4x4’s because someone else pays for the diesel, usually the local haulier or bus depot where they syphon it from, and because they need a big vehicle, not only to transport their oversize family but because they themselves are oversized. Besides a 4x4 is useful for moving stolen items and making a getaway across the fields when the police arrive.

The working class, that’s me, and probably you, have what are called “jobs,” and some of them run “businesses” or in some cases are “self employed.” It doesn’t matter what they do exactly, but they do earn money, which the government then takes away from them to pay for the priviledged classes upkeep. Having earned money and paid tax on what they have earned, the working class then pay more tax on everything they buy in the form of VAT, unless they buy petrol or diesel, in which case they pay fuel taxes and then VAT on the fuel taxes. If they have any money left they are allowed to buy food, and if they still have money and save it in a bank, even though they have already paid tax when they earned it they then pay extra tax on any interest it earns. This is their fault for not spending it. Working Class people can be recognised in a crowd – their clothes are well worn with a secondhand appearance and do not have designer labels, unless GEORGE at ASDA is now a fashion label. They do not have a tan, fake or otherwise, having neither the money to go abroad or the time to waste sitting around in little booths reading magazines. Their cars are usually five or six years old or older, bought secondhand, and are sensible family models, not gas guzzling 4x4’s, as their hardworking bodies have remained supple enough to bend and stoop into a small space rather than having to climb into a big upright box. They are slim and tired looking from hard work, rather than thin and tired looking from drugs use, and not fat roly poly coach potatoes, because they can’t afford takeaways every night. If they have children at all they will have 2.4 of them, instead of a brood all aged exactly nine months apart by several different partners, possibly of different racial origins. They do not have this years mobile phone, and their TV probably requires a two man lift because it’s a CRT built in the ‘80s, the weight, rather than the size of a bus. Working class people do not smoke, even if they would like to, because smoking in the workplace is banned and because they can’t afford it. They also rarely drink because they have to be up for work next day. And because they can’t afford to. This is why they pay so much income tax – because they are not paying their fair share of tax on drink, cigarettes and expensive electrical items. Working class people can often be found on Sunday mornings desperately searching car boot sales for, for example, second hand prams being sold off by the priviledged class, who despite being heavily pregnant will be selling off last years pram in the safe and secure knowledge that “the social” will buy them another brand new one this year. The priviledged class are of course allowed to work as a Market Trader and have a succesful Ebay account without declaring any income or paying taxes, because they are “unemployed,” and a Saturday job doesn’t count.

Now the cynical amongst you may be thinking I’m having a go at the unemployed. Far from it. I have every sympathy for someone who has worked, paid taxes and then, through no fault of their own can’t find work again. My experience is they are few and far between. I remember I was unemplyed once. It was the longest weekend of my life, finishing on the Friday evening and starting again on Monday luchtime. But there are those, “the priviledged class” as I have tagged them, who see unemployment as a lifestyle choice, have never worked, have no wish to work and simply couldn’t fit a job into their life because they are so used to doing nothing of value all day.

I don’t have any answer to the problem, but here’s a novel suggestion. Tax unemployment.

But until they do, maybe if I can’t beat them I should join them? So in a few years time when I retire at 52, but can’t claim state pension until I’m 66 maybe I’ll become a “Job Seeker” eat myslef silly and develop obesity and diabetes, and get a bit of depression, because then I’ll be gauranteed a reasonable income, a free car and a holiday in the sun.

Big spender - I bought a bridge

The Government has announced £30Bn pounds spending to improve the road network and transport infrastructure. This sounds impressive in these austere times, so where is our cash strapped government getting this money from? Well it turns out they are only actually spending £5bn of their own money before 2013, with the promise of another £5bn after that. The rest will come from the private sector. So essential the Government has announced it is spending £5bn plus £20bn of someone else's money, with the promise that they might spend another £5bn if they really really have to.


A rather good analogy covers this. In any group of friends there is always the one who buys the first round in the pub, publicly, loudly and generously. He will always buy the first round because everyone remembers this, because they are still sober. Subsequent rounds, which will invariable include more expensive beer, shorts, crisps and nuts are paid for by everyone else. Ideally the group is just large enough so that everyone gets a round in and goes home before it comes back to the first round again, but if it does, watch our generous friend squirm and wriggle – by then some will have had enough and gone home, others will have just a half for the road and the rest will have moved on to another pub, so his promise to buy the round remains either that –“i’ll get the next one in” but that never materialises, or it’s a very cheap round anyway.

So our government is our cheap posturing friend, who will constantly remind us that he got the first round in, and spent £30bn on a night out.

But more astonishing is where this money will come from. We are already broke, the government is trimming benefits off our pensions, we will all have to work longer for less, and now it turns out that not even our reduced remaining pensions are safe. They are actually “investing” our pensions in this scheme. That is where the cash comes from. So my pension will be spent widening the M25 (again) but because the private sector is involved and will want something back having paid for the road to be widened in the first place I will also have to pay a toll to drive on it. Except I won’t because I won’t go there.

Nearer to home, of course, they are promising to halve the debt of the Humber Bridge, allowing tolls to be reduced to £1.50, a level last achieved in 1988. This is good, but then you find out that the remaining debt gets passed to the local authority. So let me see if I understand this. The Government owes itself money, writes of half the debt, then passes the reminder on to someone else. Now I know that either way the taxpayer foots the bill, but at least it was every tax payer before, no it’s just the taxpayers of Hull, Holderness, and Lincolnshire, which is a lot less. So my personal tax burden has just increased? Because if Hull own the debt, you can be damn sure they will raise taxes to pay for it, particularly as the deal pegs the bridge tolls for several years.

This does of course mean that I now own a larger part of the bridge. I hope it’s the toll booth.

DIY Shopping

DIY Shopping - that is shopping in a DIY store, not doing the shopping yourself, as oppose to online and getting someone else to do it for you. Lets be clear about this as if I'd gone down the online route todays encounter could never have happened and I'd have nothing to write about.
 went DIY shopping today at a well known store which i will refer to as Q&B to avoid any unwarranted advertising. This is my preferred DIY store if I have to use one, as the prices are reasonable and everything is under one roof, except there aren't and it isn't, but that's the principle.
I needed sand and cement to mix up some concrete screed, and some paving blocks to finish off a small area I started last summer and never got round to completing.
Now it may seem daft  to drive what is effectively a 22 mile round trip to get these things from Q&B but I had the trailer on, having done a run to the tip, which is halfway there anyway, and more importantly I had no cash, and whilst smaller retailers will take card payments some make a surcharge, and in these days of austerity I can't afford to throw brass about.
Ironically I live a stones throw (well perhaps three or four stones throws) away from a working gravel pit where sand can be purchased by weight in the trailer for about 1/2 the price Q&B charge, but it is a cash only operation,  and I have no cash. I also live a matter of 2 or 3 miles from a Concrete casting company, who I'm sure would have sold me cement in a half tonne bag cheaper than Q&B, and just a mile or so further up the road is where they make blocks of all shapes and sizes. Allegedly, if you turn up before 9.30 or after say 4 pm when the boss isn't around you can buy "mishaped" rejects from the foreman for a consideration. I have seen the production process there, and the blocks that are produced are 100% out of the high tech moulds and production methods ensure there are never ever any rejects. So I reckon the foreman is earning himself a nice little drink, and good on him I say. In short, with a little time and thought and cash in my hand I could have undercut Q&B's prices and it wouldn't have taken that much longer. And I'd have been supporting smaller local businesses.
But, simply because I am cash starved Q&B it was. Now this superstore is, well, a superstore. I am not able to say how many double Decker buses, or football pitches it might be, these being the standard measure of all things large, but many would be my approximation. There is an entrance door, and an exit door. And then there is a door whcih used to be marked "Bulk Goods Entrance." This was towards one end of the building, where the really heavy stuff, and awkward unweildy lengths of timber and stuff are, so that you can park a van (or car and trailer) away from the elderly people buying energy saving potplants or whatever, and you don't have to push a fully laden trolley the full length of the store, avoiding footballers and reversing buses. It had it's own dedicated till, and a helpful member of staff woudl press the button and send the door shooting skywards as you left with your wares. This was a good idea.
The door is still there, but now has a small sign concealed behind a row of trolleys which says "Trade only" There are some other signs, saying open for traders etc, opening hours, special discounts and stuff like that, but to all intents I beleived it was still the same old bulk exit.
Arriving in the store with my hand pushed trolley I saw that sand (£1.44 a bag) was on offer cheper if you bought 10 or more. Fine I'll take ten then, at £10.70, whcih will save a few quid on the job. Still not as cheap as the quarry, but cheaper. Q&B don't say how much sand is in a bag. It is simply a large bag. Not exactly conducive to weight calculation for the job, but 10 would be ample I figured. They must be about 25 to 35 kg I reckon. So ten on the trolley, I've now got, lets say 300 KG on. Two bags of cement at £4.80 each add another 100 kg at least, and 26 blocks (34pence each) lets round it off to say 1/2 a ton now on the trolley.
Do I wish to push 1/2 a ton any further than necessary? On a trolley with wobbly wheels and a mind of it's own? I'd have destroyed half the store. So, I headed for the bulk exit.
At the till after a wait far longer than if I'd struggled on to the self service I eventually attracted the attention of a staff member. I will hesistatingly refer to her as she, although the gravely tone of her voive suggested she might have once been a man, and possibly will be again. She had a voice like a woman who chewed tobacco, possibly whilst still in the tin. It resonated so deep that humpback whales were diverting up the Humber. She demanded my trade card. I admitted I didn't have one. "This is for trade only" she barked. I politely enquired what difference did it make - if I didn't have a trade card then I gain no advantage other than being able to shortcut to where I had parked my car strategically near the door. Aha, she explains - the prices are different, because it's trade only. Now I may be Mr Thicky at times, but it strikes me that the prices are dictated by the bar codes, the scanner must read them and then the computer the till is linked to makes an adjustment and reduces the price. So simply override the computer so it doesn't bring up the trade price. She couldn;t do that. Okay, says I, Mr Reasonable, scan the goods, cancel the purchase print the receipt, I'll walk to the main tills and pay there then walk back and push the trolley out through the trade entrance. No apparently I can't even do that. Did I mention I am still recovering from recently badly bruised ribs? I was standing my ground here. It would have been easier to go and push my car and trailer to the other doors than to move this damn trolley.
Over the years, doing the job I do, I have had thousands or people say to me "I pay your wages!" Invaiably this is said by people on the dole, therefore not paying taxes, so it's blatantly untrue. But on this occasion I found the expression on the verge of forming itself on my lips. The woman thing was unmoveable, unhelpful and uncaring towards my partially temporal disabilty. I considered being a bit gay to see if that would sway her, but I doubt if even the full race card would have had any effect.
Fortunately a woman behind me in the lengthening queue came to my aid, and suggested that I might be a customer of hers and use her trade card. A common sense solution, particualry as I was now jammed in and couldn't reverse out without the whole queue dispersing and reforming again.
As she reluctantly served me, Mrs Jobsworth told me trade card were only for people registered as a business, tradesmen or people renovating a house, that sort of thing. I pointed out that I was renovating a house. It's the house I live in, called home, and given that it takes up more than 3/4 of my income and almost all my none working hobby time I'd say it was almost a business. The look she gave me had a similar effect to the Doctor approaching with a scalpel when I was vasectomised.
And the upshot of all this? Becasue I bought 10 bags pf sand I paid the same price as trade in any case, and saved a mere £2.30 on the remainder. Hardly worth arguing about, and I will remind you I wasn't trying to swing a discount, just the bloody door.
So, if by any chance Mrs Jobsworth of Q&B should read this, and she isn't too busy making her face up by sucking lemons, maybe it will put a smile on her face to know I'll be donating the cash saved to my favourite charity.

Lack of progress delays trains.

There has been much controversy in the media recently about scrap metal and cable thefts, arising from the increasing costs of various metals. Locally this caused problems for the railway, which couldn't run trains because the electric cables had been cut and stolen.
At first this confused me, and I thought it must be another typical railway excuse - we can't run the trains as we've no electricity - but of course the trains run on diesel, although the drivers run on tea, which can be made from water heated from electricity or gas, or at a pinch, diesel.
But it was obviously signal cabling that had been stolen. Repairs would take hours as engineers struggled to replace the cable. And they have to use Health & Safety, which means it takes about 20 men with cranes, testing equipment, scaffolding etc etc instead of two men with a flat bed transit doing it in fifteen minutes, like when the travellers borrow the cable.
But hold on, lets think this through. Why replace the cable only to risk it being stolen again? If you must replace it use fibre optic, which, so far as I can work out, is worthless second hand. But why replace it at all? Why are we using a system developed by Victorians with big cast iron levers to operate flashing lights, bells and whistles, and men waving flags, when we have digital technology at our disposal? Move with the times fellas. Put a tracker on each engine, with a transponder that tells a central computer how many carriages it has and exactly where it is, use wifi to control signals and barriers, and have digitally encrypted radios so that staff can talk to each other to tell each other about the latest crashes and faults. Not that you would need any staff, as the trains could then drive themselves.

We will remember them.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.

Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.


 
In remembrance of all those who gave their lives in conflicts around the world. We salute you.
With respect to those who served and lived to tell the tale. We salute you.
To those serving in conflicts even today. We salute you.
To our brave men and women who keep us safe from the threats of terrorism, persecution and unrest. We salute you.
 
Remember them today especially, but every day, be thankful.

Solar Power

Of course whilst I had my ladder and window cleaning stuff out it was time for my annual solar panel maintenance too. A wipe over with a moist cloth. Done.
My little solar panel sits on the roof of my office, facing roughly west, where it has provided most of my office lighting needs for the last three or four years. Even at 3pm on the overcast dull November afternoon we suffered yesterday it was happily pushing out 9 Volts into my battery bank. However, the extension roof has a more southerly aspect, sort of South South West or something so I took the time to rearrange the panel onto that roof and rerun the wires. At 3.30 pm with the sun beginning to go down the panel was putting out 10.5 volts in it's new position. I look forward to even more free electric, and the possibility of running my Internet router for free from this supply.

Apologies to my regular reader who will have been expecting some sort of amusing anecdote here. This entry is purely factual and informative, but normal service will resume as soon as possible.

When I'm cleaning windows .....

George Formby has a lot to answer for. Why do the British have this obsession with cleaning windows?
Okay, when I was growing up on a council estate in a "north eastern coastal town" almost every house on the estate had a coal fire, with chimneys belching smoke and little bits of smut all day and all of the night. This resulted in washing getting dirty on the line, lungs filling up with grit and dirty windows. I love a roaring coal fire myself and I sincerely believe we should have stuck with it. Nobody seemed to suffer from Asthma in those good old days. And economically we would be better off too, because instead of paying arabs for oil we could still be digging up the coal that Britain is built on. Despite popular belief the mines are far from spent we are literally sitting on a coal mine. Bizarrely it is currently cheaper to buy in foreign coal for our limited modern usage than to dig it up ourselves. As ever I digress.
The absence of smutty bits on the windows means that barring the odd nose print from nosey neighbours and the occasional splat of pigeon poop there is no good reason to wash our windows as regularly as we do. It seems to be a bit of snobbish one upmanship in most cases, with neighbours paying a man once a week to wash their windows for them for no readily apparent benefit. The prime purpose of the windows in my house is to let light in, with a secondary benefit being that I can see who is coming towards my house so I can decide whether to hide behind the sofa or not. Were it not for the former requirement a CCTV camera would suffice. I accept that some folks get a third benefit, that of a stunning view, or at least a view of some sort, but all I really get is a view of my garden, and that of my neighbour, which serves only to remind me that his garden always looks better than mine except when it snows, which is a great leveller, or when it's very dark, although by then I have usually drawn the curtains. In effect, clean windows only serve to remind me it's time to mow the lawn.
But those who have their windows cleaned weekly, or monthly - what benefit do they derive from this? Surely the increased light transmission acquired from the removal of a microscopic amount of perceived dirt thus removed is immeasurable? If a pigeon plops on the glass it is unsightly and I will aim to wash it off quickly, say three or four days after the event, but that doesn't mean I get the ladders and bucket out and spend half a day scraping, washing and polishing. A simply wipe of the afflicted area is all that is required. I do the full bucket wash and ladder thing maybe twice a year, and that is more than enough. It's not easy balancing up there with a shammy, squeegee and a banjo.

Campaign for Better English

Before anyone has a go at me for bad spelling I will point out that I type mistakes faster than my keyboard can read them, so the odd one slips through. Having got that out of the way I will come to my point, which is th epoor use of English prevalent in our society.

I will start with disabled people. There are very few disabled people in England. The blind are in fact the only exception, as there is nothing we can do to help them actually see again. We can make things a little easier with guide dogs, but we can't restore their sight. Their sight is disabled, and as a result to a great degree so are they. Now moving on to people with one leg. If they remain with only one leg, then I would have to agree they have a disablity. If however they have a prosthetic limb fitted, they are no longer disabled, they have in fact been enabled. They may still be disadvantaged, and that is my point. No offence meant to these people, but perhaps they too ought to be campaigning for proper recognition of what they are - they are not a lesser citizen in any way, they are equal, or arguably superior, becasue they have overcome the disabilty they once had. Douglas Bader being a case in point. He would have kicked your arse if you said he was disabled, and with legs made of metal it would have hurt too.

Moving on, I heard a policeman the other day say he was working on a campaign to promote drink driving. Surely not! Drink driving is highly irresponsible and illegal, and the police should almost certainly be campaigning against it, not to promote it. What he meant, I'm sure is that he was promoting awareness in an effort to reduce drink driving, but his use of English, as in many cases was flawed.

Now I'm not perfect, but this is something that irks me. Three armed men robbiong a post officer would certainly be news, but only in a medical publication, whilst three men, armed, robbing a post office would be an accurate description of the incident. Assumming, of course, that three men, all of whom were armed, took part in the robbery and that it was in a post office. And that the men in question did not, against all probabilty in human evolution, have three arms each.

The theft of a Black mans bicycle, to me suggests a potential racist incident, whilst the theft of a bicycle, coloured balck, or even black in colour suggests a simple random theft.

Any one else any examples of this misuse of English they would wish to share?

Top Tip.

When breaking up an old fence panel to take it to the tip, if you are cracking the old rotten timber across your right thigh near to the knee so it fits in the trailer better, always check for rusty 3" nails embedded in the wood.

It bloody hurts if you don't.

Marrows and Pumpkins

My vegetable garden got properly used for the first time this year. Normally we grow a few greenhouse tomatoes, the odd (very odd in some cases) cucmber, and some beans and carrots. The wife always insists on growing swet peas on the plot too, even though they are only a flower and not a vegetable. Iallow her to have a large pot of them simlpy because the pot is just the right size to stand on the circular drain cover, hence it doen't take up any growing space and it stops me trying to dig up the drain cover.

This year however I expanded the vegetable plot, and planted potatoes, carrots, onions, leeks, radishes, marrow/courgette/zucini plants and pumpkins. The Cukes and Toms were joined by peppers and chillis in the greenhouse. And the apple and rhubarb trees were left to themselves as usual. Despite having used fresh compst it must have been previously used in a greenhouse and recycled, as loads of self seeded tomato plants also came up outdoors.

Now I would like to claim that a lot of hard work, skill and knowledge went into this garden, but that woudl be lying. After bunging the seeds in the ground roughly as directed on the packet, and watering them regularly, the occasion feed and keeping the weeds down, once I could distinguish them from the plants I did nothing special. But I have been rewarded with a bumper harvest of just about everything.

The carrots were the least prolific, but better than ever before - i guess my ground isn't best suited to carrots, but that's not a problem for next year as I have imported several tonnes of Biltons finest soil. So this years stumpy split and twisted carrots may be the last amusingly shaped vegetables for a while. And despite their looks, they are far superior to shop bought. Mine are naturally pale orange, not dyed, and taste of carrots, not a vaguely carrotty mulch.

Moving on to onions, these did well, with nice crispy onions that taste more of onions than onions bought in the shops do. There's a theme developing here. I actually cried peeling my onions, and that hasn't happened in a long while - ever since I developed an sort of immunity to CS spray. My chilli peppers certainly made me cry - I didn't expect them to be very strong, as they were only small, but hell they pack a punch. I only grew one plant, but next year I'll be planting more now that I know how easy they are to grow.

What surprised me most though was the marrow and pumpkin crop. Huge plump specimens of both, and in vast numbers, each plant yielding at least four fruit each. And due to the unseasonably warm weather it looks like I may even have a second late crop to come.

All this means I have had to become all culinary and cook uop new dishes I've never tried before. Marrow and vegeatble soup (with a little chill and curry this is an excellent winter warmer soup)
Pumpkin Soup, Pumpkin muffins, Ginger and Marrow Marmalade, Various jams, Chutney, curried Marrow............. the list goes on.

I am inspired to get growing next year. Gardening for free food. Beat the recession - dig for victory.

The Walking Fool

I have possibly spoken before of my love of walking. I'm not talking walking as a means of transport - I much prefer a fast car for that, or at a pinch a motorcycle, moped or even a cycle. As a means of getting from A to B in a hurry walking sucks. And walking around town, shopping and such, is a chore rather than a pleasure. To quote (badly, as ever) I think it was Nicholas Rhea (author of the Heartbeat books) or possible James Herriot (author of the equally popular Vets books) - I've read both many times and must admit I've probably confused myself, but anyway the quote refers to one of the farmers visiting a city and complaining that he couldn't walk properly as it was "all big steps and little steps" - in the city you just can't get going because someone else is in the way. Usually a little harmless old lady armed with a lethal weapon otherwise known as an umbrella.
No, the walking I enjoy, as a hobby, a harmless and cheap hobby which doesn't cause any one else any problem is walking or possibly hiking if you prefer, in the country. Isolated areas where you can walk for hours without seeing another sole are brilliant, it's just you against the elements, with just a map and compass, a rucksack, and a pack of sandwiches, surviving on your wits.
In my youth, which is now increasingly further away, I would walk simply with a back pack containing a kagoul and some sandwiches. In those days if I got lost I simply walked further and stayed out longer until I found the car again. I was a walking fool. I didn't think of the consequences of an accident, or a sudden change in the weather. I was young, and seemingly immortal.
These days when I walk I take with me a mobile phone, a SatNav/GPS, maps, compass, sleeping bag, groundsheet and cover sheet to make an emergency shelter, enough food for two days minimum, enough water to sink the Belgrano, a stove, pans, kettle, torches, matches, first aid kit, bug spray, sun screen, frost bite preventer....... the list goes on. I also rarely walk alone now, in case of accident. Whereas I would think nothing of solo walks in my foolish youth I now worry about what happens if I break an ankle. So I take along friends, work colleagues and family just in case.
Which brings me to my point. There is already a website entitled "The walking Englishman" and another called "the Yorkshire walker" so I was struggling for a name by which I could be known on my blog as a walker of Yorkshire parts without infringing someone else's nickname. There are of course many kinds of fool too. Mr T has copyrighted the "Crazy Fool" there is the Money Fool, Car Fool and Financial Fool. Tom Hanks made the Running Fool famous in the film "Forest Gump." So I guess that leaves me as "The Walking Fool." - because despite being all grown up and sensible, yesterday I walked nine miles across barren moorland without seeing another sole, on my own, without anyone knowing where I was or when exactly I would be back. And I enjoyed it immensely.

Animal Lovers? Total indifference.

Britain is, by all accounts a Nation of Shopkeepers foremost, but also a Nation of animal lovers. Presumably we all run pet shops.
I on the other hand see animals as essential elements in the food chain. Not all animals, obviously. I draw the line at eating dogs, but our Korean friends don't have that distinction. Besides, dogs are useful animals, loyal, trustworthy, hardworking, and have multiple roles in guarding other animals, herding, search and rescue, drugs and law enforcement etc. So it would be rather unfair to eat them when they retire.
Cats on the other hand I would happily eat. They are smug, arrogant little gits, with no useful purpose in life. What's more, they bury their shit like landmines, so that when you are doing the gardening you suddenly grab a handful. At least dogs leave it where it can be seen - on the pavement, for joggers to tread in. Cats are however smarmy creatures, which come over all playful and cuddly when they want a feed - just before they disappear for the night, probably out getting fed somewhere else. But foolish people love them it would seem.
It came as something of a surprise then to learn that I was not the only one with the same indifference towards cats. Someone, and he shall remain nameless to protect his identity, sent me a U Tube clip of a cat, accidentally coming into contact with an electric fence. He rightly thought I would be amused by this. At the time of writing over 1.1 million people have viewed this clip. 2,049 of them liked it. 2506 disliked it. In other words, just 0.4% had any opinion whatsoever. Either the others are undecided or are totally indifferent. Perhaps those that like it watched it more than once, so that might skew the figures a little. What I find most bizarre though is that the sort of people who are obviously cat lovers and disliked the video clip, took the time out to search for it on U Tube, then watched it. Hmmm, I'm at a lose end, I know, I'll search for a video of a cat walking into an electric fence, I might enjoy that. Oh no, that was awful. I wonder if there are any others that I might enjoy more? No, well, having watched several I'm outraged. I didn't enjoy those at all.
I own neither a cat, nor an electric fence, hence it was a rare treat for me to see an innocent creature struck by miniature lightening. I can only assume that over a million people see this so often that it becomes common place and unworthy of further thought or comment.
Any way, i must go now. I've just had a thought. I wonder if U tube has any clips of dogs pissing up electric fences?

The Big Getaway - Part four - Venice, Verona, & Lake Garda

Not being that well travelled my expectations of Venice were based entirely on what I'd read and the odd Cornetto advert. I expected the streets to have narrow footpaths with lots of flooded roads in between. Well, canals I suppose, but shallow ones. I expected to have to pay an Italian man to punt me around in a flat bottomed gondola. Hence it came a a bit of a surprise to find Venice was no different from any other city really. The architecture was spectacular, and yes there were canals but not so many as you might expect, and you could walk a long way without seeing one. Other than that it wasn't so very different from say Copenhagen, or Brugges.

Venice is reached by water bus. This is basically a boat which operates like a bus. Not an ordinary bus, granted, but an Italian Bus, so naturally there are no stablest, and it has no health and safety regulations.

Some years back I had a very pleasant evening cruise on a boat on the River Ouse at York, with a bar on board and a meal at a riverside restaurant. Immediately we left the dockside there were safety announcements, with advice giving the location of life jackets, fire extinguishers and evacuation procedures. All this on a river you could probably stand up in.

In Venice there were no such safety procedures. In fact on a river bus which held probably 200 passengers, the only staff I saw was the guy who controlled the gangplank. Logically there must have been a captain in charge of the engine and steering, but he remain anonymous. You simply got on and off like a bus, although no one ever checked you ticket.

Italian buses run largely on trust, with the threat that if an inspector gets on board you will get a hefty fine. We never saw an inspector. The system works on a cashless basis, were by you have to walk probably further than your intended journey to a "tobbachi" which is a newsagent cum tobacconist which is closed for Siesta. When they eventually re-open they sell you a bus ticket, which in our case was a day rover ticket allowing us to travel on the water buses as well. You then walk back to the bus stop and wait for a bus on which you stand all the way to your intended destination. No one else, it seems, buys a ticket, which explains why you, as the only fare paying passenger pay 23 Euros. You validate your overpriced ticket by stamping it in the ticket machine on board the bus or boat. The bus or boat is driven by a frustrated wannabe racing driver, and in both cases neither have any mechanical sympathy or indeed any knowledge of what a clutch is, or what it dos. At one point on the river taxi I swear I saw the gearbox floating alongside us, such was the ferocity of the gear change.

Verona was a beautiful city, and a place I would rather like to revisit when they have got rid of all the tourists. It is built up on the ruins and remains of the old town, such that cellars of modern buildings are the old buildings beneath, so there is living archeology going on. We visited Juliet's house (of Romeo and Juliet fame) and were only slightly disappointed to fin d the whole thing was fake. Shakespeare never visited Italy, effectively making up the whole story loosely based on some facts he had heard, presumably in the pub. The Italians, keen to cash in on the tourist pound, found a house owned by a family with a similar name, added a balcony and shoved in a statue of Juliet based on what we thought she ought to have looked like and have been reeling in the Euros ever since. Yes, it's s cynical as that - there was never a balcony for Juliet to hang about on waiting for Romeo, so they bolted one on just to satisfy Shakespeare's whim.

Lake Garda has to be this area of Italy's jewel in the crown. Lido de Jesolo is nice, but artificiality so. Lake Garda is what the English Lake District would be if we had control of the weather. It has a beautiful lake, surrounded by stunning mountain ranges and clear blue cloudless skies with unrelenting sunshine. It peaked at 44 degrees the day we visited, meaning ice creams even at 3 Euros a pop were essential. A small ice cream for 3 Euros seemed extravagant, however the small ice cream seemed to be about a litre, balanced on a cone. I did see one guy trying to eat a large cone, but I presume he was there for a week rather than just a day trip.

We took a boat trip on the lake in which an Italian man spoke English in a Manwell Fawlty Towers unrecognisable manner pointing out the sights, one of which was hot water springs which heated the lake, making it a very popular holiday destination both with the locals and foreigners alike.

Whilst I didn't have the chance I would imagine Lake Garda to be a very nice place to watch the sun go down whilst sampling the local wines and food, although you'd need a thick wallet to stay there any length of time.

The Big Getaway - Part four - The resort

Lido de Jesolo is a big place. It stretches, I am told for 18 km along the coast of Italy, but I only saw perhpas three or four miles of it. For a country that is in a recession I would have to say it is fairing well, at least along this part of the coast. The resort has three parallel streets, running the length, the foremost being the beach front, running parallel to that is the main street with all the shops, hotels, bars and businesses, and behind that the working part of the street with housing and a bus route, and where the bin men come and go. The shopping street is apparently thriving, and in contrast to the stark and boarded up shops here in the UK every single shop seemed to be let and doing good business. The street works like this - it is one way for cars etc, but the other side of the street operates as a two way cycle track, on which you can ride a bike, golf cart, electric scooter, motor scooter skateboard, four wheel bike - anything it would seem that is not a car. At 9 p.m cars are forbidden and the whole street becomes a free for all for pedestrians and anything other than a car. This state of organised anarchy remains allegedly until 0600 when cars are allowed back again. Police tow away cars parked illegally after 8 pm. But ignore noisy delivery trucks which breach the no cars bar from 0200 onwards.
All this however is fine. What is much more of an affront to the British holidaymaker is the dress code. I appreciate it is hot. I appreciate it is foreign, so the usual rules don't apply. But it is somewhat of a shock to the system to see people walking about in the Italian equivalent of Woolworths wearing just a bikini or a pair of speedos. The Germans were most guilty of this. The sheer impracticality of this amazes me. With nothing more than a pair of speedos, exactly where do you keep your money for an Ice cream? Okay the can check in their room key at the hotel, but personally I don't feel that comfortable without a few quid or Euros, a wallet, keys, mobile phone etc on me, and to be honest it's just not the British way to be out in public without a T shirt at the very least, and if you are in company, well it's a proper shirt with a collar really. I'm prepared to relax and fore go a tie, but there are limits of decency, dontcha know. Not that I'm a prude. I was quite happy for the young ladies to parade their lithe young bodies in skimpy bikinis and one pieces, not quite so happy to see the athletic young German men in their speedos and to be honest I was quite upset to see some of the British women following suit. I'd have to say I was downright offended by the middle aged women parading their cellulite and their pudgy white fat legs and the fat German men somehow squeezed into tiny speedos. I felt quite overdressed in my knee length swim shorts. But my distaste turned to horror when I saw "Fat German Woman" and "Oversize Italian Mamma" in their swimsuits. Just how many Lycra had to be killed to make those outfits? I swear the tide would have had to ask permission to come in when they were on the beach. These must be women with no friends - anyone with an ounce of compassion would have told them - "Don't, just don't wear that! Wear the big baggy bin liner dress. it suits you better." Yet these women walked around without a care, whilst I walked around feeling self conscious in my T shirt and baggy shorts, holding my stomach in.
The fashion accessory to be had appeared to be a small dog. you may only be wearing a bikini, but you had to also have a dog and a handbag to carry it in. This applied equally in Verona and Venice. The smaller the dog, the better it seemed; if it fit in a handbag you'd got it right. In 10 days I didn't see a single proper dog, they were all pedigree handbag dogs. And not a single one was capable of unassisted walking - they were all carried, and despite the heat, many were clothed. yet there was no dog shit anywhere.
This would be on account of the highly efficient beach cleansing team. During the night, a team of guys would arrive with machines that sifted the sand, removing any litter, stones, debris, dog shit, used condoms etc and left a smooth and clean layer of white sand bereft of footprints or sign of human contamination, ready to be sullied again the next day. At the same time the street cleaners would be out emptying bins and sweeping the shopping street, leaving that spotless for the new dawn. I didn't observe a single piece of litter whilst I was there, it was amazing to see every one using the bins provided. Had this been Scarborough you couldn't have moved for greasy chip papers after nine o'clock. In Lido de Jesolo you could probably have eaten you're dinner off the street. Well to be fair, in Scarborough you could probably eat your dinner off the streets, but the context is different. I can only assume that the local taxes are so high because they are paying for all this, and that is why you are paying 2 euros for a coke.
Either that or there is a tax on sunshine. The sun shone incessantly for the entire holiday, only the Friday spoiling it with the appearance of a small white cloud. My son, Thomas pointed this out as we got off the coach after a day trip out, and the sighting caused much consternation amongst the locals. I almost expected the National Guard would be called out. In the end it did not rain, it did not get cold and it was not at all like Britain.
I'd have to conclude by saying the resort was rather nice - it was just too full of fat Italians and Germans.

The Big Getaway - Part 3 - The Hotel

Having arrived in Italy at the confusingly named Venice Airport, which is not in Venice, and is not so far as I could tell even on the same Island, we were bused by a coach to the hotel. The coach, despite appearing relatively new, had no seat belts. This, I discovered was typically Italian. They are part of the EU and are therefore subject to EU laws. It's just that they ignore them, and the Police don't enforce them as I found later, where it was commonplace in the resort to sit two ladies on the back deck of your two seater sports car so that you and your friend could sit up front. Health and Safety has yet to arrive in Italy it seems. Or maybe it did, but was having a siesta.
The coach brought us to our hotel, a modern looking and rather nice place called the Hotel D' something or other. I know it had A's D's and a Z in it, but god knows what it said or meant. More important was the sign in English which Identified it as the Friends Bar. Friends - where everybody knows your name. This might not be quite so sinister if it were not immediately described by the holiday rep as a homely family run hotel. In no other country in the world would this cause consternation. Did she mean family run, or "Family" run? If I upset the waitress, would I wake up with a horses head?
Fortunately the situation became clear when the owner, his wife and the waitress who was obviously their daughter had a full on "Fawlty Towers" style row whilst they served dinner on the first night. Sadly there was no waiter from Barcelona to complete the ensemble. Yes, this was definitely family run, and the homely aspect also became clear. Homely, meaning "like home." Hence none of the crockery matched, the cutlery was dirty and you got served vegetables whether you wanted them or not. Just like at home.
The next problem to arise was that of the air conditioned room we had booked. The room itself was exactly as described, with a bathroom (with a shower, not a bath) two toilets, although my more travelled wife explained that one of these was a bidet, and a sink. There were beds for four, a TV and a spacious balcony cum terrace. I mention this because my in laws who travelled with us had a balcony which wasn't so much a balcony as a French window with a wide ledge. Ours was as big as our room, and gave a great view of the street outside, wonderful for people watching. And the room as promised was air conditioned. Sadly there was a previously undisclosed charge of 60 euros to turn this on. This is the problem with booking a package holiday 10 months in advance. We had no idea that the Italian economy would go into free fall, and that in order to recoup some losses they would be a little economical with the truth about certain additional charges. With a wide patio door onto the balcony I decline the extortionate air con levy and figured it would be much cooler at night, and if the worse came to the worse I would sleep with the patio open. We did, and the worse did come tot he worse, the temperature kept on soaring, with a daytime high of 44 and overnight temperatures in the 30's. Even the locals were complaining about the heat. The Hotel did however have one great bonus - an outdoor pool! In the UK this would have been pointless - it would have been too cold even on the sunniest of days. Out there it was a god send. Actually it had another great bonus- ice creams at 1 Euro a pop in a choice of probably 20 flavours - I don't think I got through them all, but I certainly had a damn good try. A small beer (400 cl - too big to be a half and not big enough to be a pint) cost 3 Euros, which ensured not too much was drunk. You could of course opt for the house special of the week, which was Guinness at 5 euros for a "large beer" which I think was a litre. Or you could pop over the road to a mini market where red wine could be bought at 1 and a half Euros a litre, which made it cheaper than petrol - mind you, it tasted like petrol too, so that might explain why. Better wines were of course available at a higher price, this region of Italy being famous for it's wines, grapes, lemons and although it was news to me kiwi fruit. Apparently they grow more Kiwis than the Kiwis.
Anyway, I digress from the main point, probably because I've forgotten what t was and descended into a ramble. Ah, yes the pool. The pool was a welcome oasis from the relentless mid-day sun, which of course only the English and an occasional mad dog were out in, the locals all being in Siesta land by then. Actually, the Germans were out too, but only to place their towels on the best sun beds. The record of the week was for the Germans to have "reserved" their sunbeds two and a half hours before they actually used them. They might have beaten that record if some plucky Brits (identity protected) hadn't gotten fed up and thrown the German towels in the pool towards the end of the week having consumed possibly one too many overpriced beers. Sunbed £100, towel £12, the look on Jerry's face - priceless. One of them actually put his fists up in the "Duke of Queensbury" stance and demanded retribution - we tactfully reminded him that the last couple of times Jerry picked a fight with the Brits we gave him a bloody nose. And then the American had to come in to try and smooth things over ......... and of course claimed a victory when everyone shook hands and forgot the whole thing. The Yank bought a round of drinks, and before long we were all ganging up on the French - which was nice.
The pool was a bit of a surprise in itself, having no shallow end as such, starting at 1.5 metres descending gradually to 1.8, metres before suddenly dropping off to 2.5 metres and levelling out at 2.8. Hardly child friendly, but fortunately both my children can swim well. Other families with none swimming children taught them to swim rather quickly, or bought floatation devices, air beds or snorkels. I didn't see anyone actually drown, but couldn't help but notice there were several empty seats on the flight home. Draw you own conclusion.

The big getaway - Part 2 - Airports.

It strikes me that the airline industry has cashed in on the 9/11 thing to make more money.
For reasons I can't figure you have to check in three hours before you fly. Now I appreciate there are security checks to do and they have to Xray luggage in case you packed your case with Semtex instead of RayBan's, speedos and sun tan lotion, but how long does that take?
It seems they are playing on our own paranoia. We accept the Xrays, body searches and stupid questions because we don't want to be blown up over the channel. But would we accept the same security checks to travel on the number 10 from hull city centre onto Longhill estate? I doubt it, and the only difference is you would be blown up at ground level and killed immediately, instead of being blown up at 12,000 feet and killed immediately. What is the issue? I mean, if every black cab driver insisted that you checked in 3 hours before he drove you anywhere and then screened you for security checks, we would all be going nowhere very slowly indeed.
My personal experience of going through the airport security checks is as follows:
I arrived at the check in desk where the weight of my luggage was of far more importance than the actual contents. As long as my suitcase bomb weighed less than 15kg it was fine. My bag then went off on it's own way to be placed in the cargo hold of the plane, hopefully the same one I was flying on. My hand luggage was then checked at the next security check, which involved X raying it. I assumed hand luggage must be a small bag, but strangely enough it can weigh up to 15 kg, the same as proper luggage, as long as it fits into the little cage they have at the security check point. It cannot however contain any food, drink, or medicines, liquids of any sort in fact. On the way out of the UK we explained that my daughter Emma needs an EpiPen readily available due to various food allergies. No problem, we were allowed to take that. It contained only adrenalin anyway, so what harm could be done with it? Well, ask the Italians, because on the way back they made a real big deal of it, which you can read more of later. The reason hand luggage cannot contain food or drink becomes apparent once you reach the departure area, where you can then buy as much food and drink as your hand luggage will allow, albeit at prices which really make your eyes water. £2 for a small bottle of coke, and £4 for a sandwich. And you can take these on the plane, because you've already passed security. Now call me Mr Silly, but what is the difference between a bottle of coke purchased for less than a quid the other side of the barrier, and the one they have just ripped me off £2 for on this side?
Going through the security checks themselves was a totally haphazard exercise. I placed all metal items in the tray as requested and was about to remove my watch when the security guy said no, that was okay. Walking through the metal detector I set the alarms off and was then treat like Osama Bin Laden, with a full body search - quite why I'm not sure, as If they had let me take my watch off I'm sure I wouldn't have set the alarm off.
I then had to take off my shoes to be X Rayed?????? I'm sure they had no broken bones.
Having passed all security checks I was then allowed to enter the departure lounge where I could sit for two hours to wait to board the plane.
Eventually we boarded and took off.
I would have to say as a first time flier that the flight was quite uneventful and no more exciting than taking a bus trip really. There was a moment of excitement as the plane accelerated and took off at a steep climb, but it wasn't so very thrilling really. Even the turbulence we experienced in flight was no worse than a funfair ride. And the landing was so smooth that I thought we must have missed the runway altogether.
After a short taxi we were put on a very hot, very wide bus that took us to the terminal, which for some unfathomable reason the pilot had landed a couple of miles distant from. And there we were, in Italy, a very hot place made of concrete so far as I could make out.

more of this adventure tomorrow.

The Big Getaway

Well, here I am fresh back from the family holiday and with a whole new saga to relate. Instead of the annual voyage in a cattle truck (or coach, as the operators like to call them) this year was my first time flying in a big metal bird. More of this experience later. But first we will relate the experience of the overnight airport hotel stop.

Manchester Airport is roughly 110 miles from my home across the other side of the Pennines and linked by a motorway from South Cave. the motorway leg of the journey at a comfortable cruising speed of 60mph takes about an hour and a half to two hours at most depending on traffic conditions. The first 30 miles from my home to South Cave involves travelling across the South Holderness district, where the council have put a carpet 30 mph limit, and across Hull, then onto the A63, which is renown for being closed whenever I want to use it. This is because although it is the main route in and out of Hull, and should have been a motorway link, it is in fact a dual carriageway with no hard shoulder, so everytime a piece of grit falls off a lorry the Traffic Wombles (as beloved of Jeremy Clarkson and otherwise known as the Highways Agency Traffic Officers) close the road to recover it, usually at rush hour.

This, coupled with the airline industries insistence that you must check in for a flight three hours before the plane is built meant that with a boarding time of 0930 there was just too much risk in being delayed. Asides from this my father in law, who has more airmiles than Richard Branson, had made the arrangements which meant that we got free car parking for the duration of the holiday if we stayed for one night in a Manchester Hotel. Hence it was a no brainer really, and we duly set off the day before we were due to fly, stopping off at Legoland Discovery Centre to spend the day there before checking in to the hotel.

As an aside, LDC (Legoland Discovery Centre) was a big disappointment as we had already been to proper Legoland at Windsor, which was fantastic, at least to the 4 and 7 year old kids we had then. Unfortunately they have grown up a little and at 8 and 11 are not so easily impressed. Legoland proper had far more rides and attractions, with full sets of Lego to play with. LDC was a bit like when I was a kid and visited my Grans, where my elder cousins had left their "spare" lego, and the Duplo blocks they had grown out of. In theory it was possible to build the movie set from Star Trek, but it didn't look as good as it ought to without the wheels, sloped bits, windows, little men and trees and stuff. LDC left me with the same deflated feeling. It was Lego, Jim, but not as we know it.

Following the disappointment of LDC we followed the well signposted route to Manchester Airport terminal 3 and straight to our Hotel. This was far better than the signposted route to Gatwick I followed a few years back when i was directed via a Taxis only lane then straight into a Car Park I didn't want to stop in, but had to pay £3 to get out of.

Our overnight stop was at Bewleys hotel, which is walking distance from the terminal, but which provides a courtesy bus for fat and lazy people. Although not all that fat, I figured as I was on Holiday I would join the lazy people, so I used the courtesy bus too. I had been warned that my car would be driven by a spotty 17 year old who would trash it across Manchester to park it on some rough industrial estate somewhere for a fortnight, but in the event it was secured in the hotel car park for the night and remained there - I know this because I kept the keys, marked the tyres and set the on board security video. If any dodgy hotel employee tried to use it as a minicab whilst I was away I'd known about it. I'd point out that Bewleys Hotel has a fine reputation and doesn't allegedly do that sort of thing, but I've heard stories and wasn't taking any chances.

With the Hotel being so close to the terminal I thought I'd be kept awake by aircraft coming and going. Not so. I could barely hear them for the trains running past. Bewleys Hotel comes highly recommended for insomniac trainspotters. Particularly those who suffer from the cold. It was hot. Very hot. At one point I swear I saw steam coming from the radiator, and the wallpaper stripping off. The room was allegedly air conditioned, but a mouse farting would have created more of a breeze than the flow of air coming from the air-con.

No matter, at least I didn't oversleep and miss the flight. Awake at 0545 we were too early for a hotel breakfast, so had coffee and a supermarket croissant before being bussed across to the terminal. Read about my thoughts on airports tomorrow.