Quack recommends Duck Tape

I know that Britain is now a third world country and we have no money to spend on Transport, Law and Order, Education, Medicine viaducts or fine wines, or any of the other things the Romans introduced us to, but I didn't realise things were quite so bad as they seem in the NHS.
Daughter child has picked up a verruca at school, so we went to the doctors expecting him to burn it with acid or freeze it, both treatments being equally painful and something she was not looking forward to. Instead the doctor recommended that we cover up the warty appendage with duct tape. I explained that we had elastoplast in the house, and he needn't worry about the cost of a prescription, but no, he insisted we use Duct tape. Duct tape. Often referred to by a well known brand name of Duck Tape, this has many many uses. It is the tool of the Jedi handyman, having a dark side, a light side and being a force which holds the universe together. But I had never thought of it before as a cosmetic coverall. Covering up the verruca and hoping it would go away just didn't seem like a modern approach to medicine. I thought for a moment the doctor was taking the mickey. Then I thought maybe he was maybe a witch doctor practising traditional remedies, but no he was definitely white European and probably English, although he was clearly talking gibberish.
As it turns out the old treatments of burning and/or freezing only had something like a 40% success rate whilst 80% of verrucas and indeed many other viral warts can be cured simply by covering them with duct tape. It seals them off and starves them of oxygen that they need to survive. It sounds uncomfortable, but girl child reports that it is actually quite cosy and she doesn't notice it after a while. Which is just as well, as the tape has to stay on 24/7 for the next couple of weeks at least. Elastoplast or other types of dressing just don't cut it, it has to be Duct Tape.
So there you go, another use for duct tape. And a good excuse for having it in the boot of the car when plod stops you and thinks you are on your way to kidnap someone - Honestly officer, I've got a verruca.

No crocodiles were harmed during this walk.

I have a tradition, which is every year on the last Wednesday before Christmas I walk from my home along a disused railway track about 6 miles each way to the town of Patrington, to see their Christmas lights, which are far superior to the ones that go up in our village. I did it last year and I've done it again this year. I didn't say it was a very old tradition, but they all have to start somewhere. Some might argue that two occasions is simply a co-incidence, but as I plan to did it again next year I maintain it is a tradition.
I know it was a Wednesday last year because Patrington is one of those quaint little towns that still has some shops observing half day closing. This probably made sense back in the year dot, because the market took place on Wednesdays and took all the trade from the shops anyway. Now however it makes no sense at all, particularly if you forget and have walked six miles without any lunch. Finding a shop open eventually I realized I had left my wallet at home.
The walk was pleasant enough though, with some lovely clarty mulch to trod through, and with pheasants, deer, rabbits, a squirrel and countless birds to be seen going about their business.
The purpose of this stroll though, apart from seeing pretty lights, was to test by walking boots for hillworthiness after the Three Peaks tried to kill them in the Autumn. My original boots, which if I recall had their epitaph published on this very blog, were leather, old fashioned and as tough as - well old boots. I bought them when I was 19 and gave them a viking burial after many miles when I was 42. Well used and only disposed of due to the leather splitting in a place that couldn't be easily repaired. The boots that Whernside tried to kill were the replacement modern lightweight gortex and suede jobbies my wife bought me for Christmas two years ago. Basically I think the peaty muddy bog water and the endless rain must have combined to eat the glue holding the soles on. Moorland is acid soil, so there might well be some science to support that theory. Walking boots that are not suitable for use on moors? Well, I suppose when I bought my sons mountain bike it did say in the instruction manual that it was not suitable for off road use - a mountain bike unsuitable for mountains.
Any how as ever I digress. The soles were parting from the boots and they were letting in water as the side seam began to give. I thought I would have to condemn them with barely 200 miles on the clock. But then I had a thought. My workboots had a similar problem from new, and I had, after trial and error found the perfect glue to fix them. Now I don't normally endorse products by name, but I have to say that this stuff is so good I will name it, because you'll never have heard of it and probably won't find it in the shops, as I have only ever seen it for sale in our local builders merchants, and nowhere else. Gator Glue. Why it's called Gator Glue I don't know. I have checked the ingredients, and so far as I can tell it contains no alligators whatsoever. Nor does it attract or repel them so far as I can tell. Well I suppose it might be repelling them as I wouldn't know, I would only know if it failed to repel them. The point being that alligators, and reptiles in general do not usually cause me problems on the walks I do. The bottle has a stylised cartoon of an alligator on it, and says that it "grips like a gator." I expected this to be an American product, but the label proudly boasts it to be made in Great Britain. Great Britain note, not the United Kingdom.
Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be bitten by a gator and I would agree that once in it's jaws you would have little chance of getting out again. But grip? With those poorly developed little legs I doubt it has much grip anywhere other than it's jaws, and that's a bite not a grip. And whilst it has many sharp teeth and a nasty nip, the grip isn't that good, it has to thrash about and wear you down, and beat you into submission against the rocks in the shallows or drag you in to drown you before it finishes you off. I think there's a been a missed opportunity here. The symbol of Britishness always used to be a bulldog. There indeed is a beast with grip. Once a bulldog has you in it's mouth in can actually lock it's jaw and will not let go no matter what. As a name for a strong glue Bulldog is right up there. I can only assume the name was already taken.
Anyway, I can report that not only has the expanding foam like Gator glue restored cohesion twixt sole and shoe but it has also rendered them leak free once more. After a 12 mile road test the are once again fit for purpose and will hopefully last another season.
I can't help wondering though, if it would work on Crocs?

Toilet humour - not funny.

Around seven years ago I fitted a new bathroom at home. Well strictly that's not true, the room is the same one, it's everything in it that's new. And as it's seven ears old now that's not true either, but it was at the time.
The project was not without it's problems, and if I was to do it again I'd fit the bath differently and move the toilet a little further over to avoid bare legs coming too close to the hot radiator pipes but all in all I was happy with it.
Yesterday however the toilet cistern stopped filling, and investigation showed that the inlet valve had failed. For some reason it wasn't letting water through to refill the tank.
Dismantling the tank to remove the valve meant separating it from the bowl, no mean feat given that seven years in a damp atmosphere had rusted the bolts that hold it together solid. Even the plastic thumbscrews had seized but they soon yielded when challenged with a blowtorch.
A new valve was acquired for £13 and whilst at the plumbers merchant I bought a new set of bolts. I should have got a new seal whilst I was at it, but I knew I had one in stock in my box of plumbing bits, so didn't bother.
Now there's no delicate way of putting this, so if you are squeamish don't read any further. On occasional mornings we would enter the bathroom to find a small puddle of yellow brown water at the foot of the toilet. Having a small boy in the house we had put this down to a certain lack of control - he's always in a hurry and  his aim might not be good, particularly at night as he hates the dark, and getting out of bed to use the toilet is a trauma he gets over in short order. It seems however we may have been doing him dis-service. The seal was well past it's best and had been leaking for some time hence the water staining the floor. It picks up it's colour as it drips over the rusty coupling bolts. I might owe a certain young man an apology, and a few weeks pocket money he was fined for his indiscretions.
Anyway, with the valve replaced I put the new old stock seal in place, noting that it was a completely different size and shape to the original, but seemed to fit much better. I put this down to seven years being squashed between pan and cistern, but maybe not. Maybe there is a different size of seal, because after many hours bolting and unbolting the coupling and using plumbers putty I still can't achieve a leak free joint.
The tank is simply not a good fit on the toilet pan. I am beginning to suspect that the two components were made in different factories, possibly in different countries and one in metric whilst the other is in imperial, using the inch as the lowest measure. Having looked at the two parts I would conclude that they were designed by different people, who did not speak to each other during the design process. One of them was possibly blind. The two parts are just not destined to be married together. The pan for example has two stiffening webs in the porcelain which are positioned almost exactly in the right place to prevent a spanner reaching the coupling bolts. The cistern meanwhile is designed so that the coupling bolts are directly under the valve and the siphon. And there are only two bolts to pull the two halves together and achieve a watertight seal - no chance. Four bolts in a square pattern would do it,but not two in line. Basic engineering.
So how to cure it? You can't drill porcelain, so adding a further two bolt holes won't work.
I'll try another size seal tomorrow, but if that doesn't work then a whole new unit might be on the cards.
Because at present I've nothing else to go on.  

Prescription dashboard

A few years ago we all laughed at the Billy Connelly routine where he related the tale of a neighbour with poor eyesight who they wickedly suggested should buy a prescription windscreen. Well, I have now reached the age where this is not as funny as it once was.
I now need reading glasses.My distance vision is perfect, I can see distant objects, no problem. I mean, the sun is 93 million miles away, and clouds permitting I can see that perfectly. Even my night vision is good, I can see stars even further away than the sun. But give me a copy of the Sun and all I can do is look at the pictures. Sorry, not a good analogy that one is it, all that anybody looks at in the Sun is the pictures. Okay, give me a book and it goes all blurry. I was given a choice - either surgery to lengthen my arms, or reading glasses. I chose the glasses.
Now however I have discovered another issue. I don't need glasses for driving. But then again I do. I can read a number plate at the statutory 20.5 metres, no problem. I can read road signs, no problem. But the dashboard is a ll fuzzy. If I squint for long enough I can read it, but by then I have driven into a bus. So, I know that it is a forty limit, but have no idea how fast I am going. This would not be a problem if I only drove one car all the time, as I would know where 40 was on the dial, even if it is fuzzy. But I don't. I can sometimes drive 7 or 8 different vehicles a day, all of which have different dashboard layouts, and some have km instead or as well as mph. Some even have digital dashes, which make no sense even when I can read them. I have worked out that green dashboard lights are simply information, whilst amber are warnings and red are serious warnings, but without my specs a red amorphous blob means nothing. I might have left the handbrake on, or the engine could be on fire. Which is it? No idea.
With my glasses on, the dash board becomes clear and the road ahead and signs are easily readable, but I find myself leaving about a mile and a half between me and the next car and panicking if someone comes between us because, crikey, that was a close call.
The solution is to wear my reading specs on the end of my nose so the dash board is clear but everything else can be seen over the top of the specs.  It's either that, or a prescription dashboard.

Flooding? No, we're sinking.

We are told by guardian readers that global warming is causing sea levels to rise as the polar ice caps melt. This is of course nonsense. Ice, as we all know from basic science, takes up more room than water. This is why car radiators break in winter when the water inside freezes and you forgot to put antifreeze in them. So when the polar ice caps melt, logically sea levels will fall. Or possibly stay exactly as they are, because a little of the ice (the tip, as it where, of the iceberg) is above water level.
The sandal wearers also tell us that as the polar ice caps melt weather patterns will change and we will get more rain. Again, there is a flaw in their logic. There is only a finite amount of water, which must then evaporate to become rain again. So we must also get more sunshine to balance things out. But that is also nonsense.
I of course have my own theory. We are not seeing rising sea levels, or increased rainfall. In fact rainfall so far this month is below average at 43mm, we could normally expect up to 120mm by now. No the problem is Britain is sinking under the weight of the population. That is why southern England is suffering the worse of the floods.
There is a logical argument to this. We hardly ever hear of flooding in New Zealand, for example. New Zealand has a landmass of 103, 483 square miles and a population of 4.4 million people. That's an average of 42.5 people to every square mile. The country is bouyant and is able to bear the weight of it's people.
Yorkshire, as a county is roughly 6,000 square miles with roughly 5 million residents. That's 833 people to every square mile. A lot more people but the equilibrium holds.
Now compare this with the Greater London Area - 8 million people living in just 609 square miles, or a staggering 13,136 people to every square mile. Their combined weight is surely causing the southern end of the county to tilt and sink into the ocean, with a greater propensity to flooding as a result.
The only solution is to encourage people to migrate north in the hopes of balancing things out. The government know this, but don't want to alarm the public, so they are going about it stealthily. This is why north of the border you get free prescriptions and free places at university. The downside is, it rains all the time, but at least it doesn't flood.

Diary of a possible diabetic

I am supposed to have an annual medical at work. Recently I had my first annual medical for 8 years. This is not to say that I have been lapse and missed them, it's more a case of my job hasn't been bothered to do them. This has never really concerned me, as despite rapidly approaching middle age I have always considered myself to be in rude health. In fact I last saw my doctor (now retired) in 2001, and that was only to issue him a speeding ticket on the bypass. Before that I saw him in 1997 when I moved house and changed practice and only because he insisted on a well man check before he would accept me. Presumably if I had been ill, he would have rejected me as a patient. That's how the National Health Service works I suppose.
Anyhow, other than visits for a sick note after breaking some ribs (twice) and to arrange a vasectomy I haven't placed too much of a burden on him. I haven't had the need, as I generally feel fine. I don't get headaches, migraines, stress, back pain, football cup finals or anything else that I might need to see the doctor for.
So I was surprised when the medical at work threw up a problem. I live a sort of healthy lifestyle, to a certain value of health. I drink too much but less than most Doctors, I don't smoke and I exercise a little less than I ought too - cycling occasionally and hiking regularly with occasional hours in the gym.If it's a short trip I walk rather than take the car, I use the stairs rather than the lift because I know it's good for my long term knee injury and I carry shopping if it's less than a basketful instead of using a trolley. I also park in the empty farthest recesses of the supermarket car park and walk instead of parking by the door. So, I'm not sedentary  but not a gym monster either. I also eat reasonably healthily, with some fruit and veg, chicken and fish and rice and pasta but also enjoy a juicy blood filled steak as well. I often skip meals and if I'm busy I forget to eat all day or just don't have time.
I expected to be told I was overweight, with high blood pressure, stress and the life expectancy of a Mayfly, simply because most of the rest of my team had been told the same.
My weight didn't cause any comment, my eyesight was fine even with my reading glasses on the desk instead of on my face, and my hearing was better than expected for my age. My blood pressure, I was told, was disgustingly healthy. And my resting heart rate was almost undetectable, barely ticking over. I was however dangerously dehydrated and showing excess sugar in my urine. I laughed this off as being down to the two mugs of coffee and the large bacon and mushroom bun I had eaten just prior to going into the medical. Yes, I know, not part of a healthy diet, but it was a 10 a.m. appointment, I'd been up since 5.30 and hadn't eaten breakfast. Besides which, it is part of the image I like to promote, poking fun at authority. Turning up for the medical with a bacon banjo in one hand and a steaming mug of sweet Joe in the other does normally provoke a reaction. And the dehydration thing is down to having little opportunity to stop either for a drink or to use a toilet, combined with working 10 hours wearing a flak jacket that weighs as much as a small child. It makes you sweat a little and you dehydrate.

Anyhow I was told, in no uncertain terms, to go see my doctor. Urgently. I might be diabetic.

The NHS, I discovered, don't do urgent. Well, casualty does, in a fashion, although not like "Casualty" on the TV. No on ever shouts "stand clear" or "Doctor Bon Jovi to Resus" when I'm in there. GP's surgeries certainly don't do urgent. You need to know a fortnight in advance if you are going to be ill so you can arrange an appointment. And then you have to take time off to fit in around all the retired and unemployed patients.
So, a fortnight later I got to speak with a Doctor. A nice girl, but I couldn't help but wonder if her mum knew she was using her office. Anyhow, she arranged for me a fasting blood test and a few days after that I rushed straight in and blood was taken. The results I was told, would be available in a week. Yes, another week. This is urgent of course. Now, my non blood related uncle has been a diabetic all his life. I know for a fact he has a little electronic device on which he pricks his finger and in seconds it tells him his blood sugar levels. He'd be knackered if it took a week. Why should it take a week? I could take it to the laboratory myself, and do the test in a couple minutes.

I was informed that if the test result was high, I would find out sooner, and they would make arrangements for a Glucose Tolerance Test. This I was told, involves another blood test, followed by a drink of Lucozade (other brands of glucose based drinks are available) followed by a two hour wait and another blood test. And the results would be available in a week. Or sooner if they were high. The appointment for this test has been made for next week. So it will be roughly seven weeks before I learn my fate. Urgently. Ha!

I do have a slight problem with this though, Firstly they have arranged the appointment without consulting me for 9 a.m. so that I can fast for 12 hours beforehand, i.e overnight. Very considerate of them, except I am on nightshift and would normally eat between 3 and 4 a.m. Secondly I have to hang around the surgery for two hours between tests. Well, I hope they don't mind me snoring, as I will, because I will have been at work all night. Thirdly, I was given Lucozade once as a kid when I was ill. It made me even more ill, because it makes me vomit. I cannot stomach Lucozade - there is too much sugar in it, which is why I have never drunk it since. I genuinely fear I will embarrass them in their own surgery.

In the meantime I have been reading up a bit about diabetes just in case. All I knew previously was that if a diabetic goes into a coma you give him a barley sugar sweet. Because we all carry barley sugar sweets don't we? What are they living in, an Enid Blyton Novel?

It turns out that if I am diabetic it will be type 2 diabetes. I think this means I cannot eat Volkswagen Camper vans. If I do not adapt to it I can look forward to going blind and deaf, my legs falling off, erectile dysfunction, depression (presumably because of the erectile dysfunction) dementia, strokes, heart attack and eventual death. Damn, and I was so trying to avoid eventual death. These could of course come in any order.  Death usually prevents the others taking place though.

I don't mean to make light of diabetes, but what else is there to do? I need to change my diet and loose weight, and exercise more. But we all know that, diabetic or otherwise. It's easy to say on paper, but in reality when the cake hits the fan you can't help yourself. Okay, when my legs do fall off I'll loose weight, but that kind of limits the exercise thereafter.

Hopefully I am "pre-diabetic" and can avert the full blown condition by lifestyle changes. But if I can't I luckily  have someone else to blame. Both my parents are type 2 "late onset" diabetics, and the chances of me being the same are about 70%, so it's their fault, not mine. Maybe I can claim compensation.

The one silver lining appears to be that alcohol consumption actually reduces sugar levels in the body. So, I'll drink to that then.

To be continued "urgently," once my results are known.

It's Grim in Grimsby

Okay, it's dull in Hull, buy by God it's grim in Grimsby.
I had to go there yesterday to collect an item I bought on a well known on line auction site which almost rhymes with me-pay.
My first problem came with my SatNav. Well actually it's my wifes SatNav, but she never really got on with it, so it now resides in my glovebox. There's lots of room for it because i don't keep gloves in there. Finding Grimsby was of course no problem for me. A63, A15 over the Humber Bridge, A180 - fall into Grimsby. Not a problem and a journey I have done many times. The street that was my destination however was unfamiliar to me, so I duly typed in Grimsby and was given the choice of little Grimsby or Great Grimsby. Little Grimsby is a tiny village with no streets so far as I could tell, so it had to be Great Grimsby. That's bigging it up. Alright Grimsby, or Passable Grimsby. But hardly Great.
Next I typed in the street name and the SatNav turned itself off. I tried again, suspecting the battery might be weak or the charger lead not plugged in properly. Same happened. As soon as I entered the street name the SatNav switched itself off. I couldn't even get it to accept a nearby street, or indeed any street in Grimsby. It would direct me elsewhere. Hull, Sheffield, Doncaster - no worries. But Grimsby? No it clearly didn't want to go. I tried Cleethorpes, but it didn't want to go there either, presumably because it would have to go through Grimsby to get there. There is a huge black hole  in the SatNav memory, like Grimsby doesn't exist. Perhaps it had a bad experience there once?
I resorted to the usual man tactic of driving there and attempting to find the place myself. After all I had worked in Grimsby for a while 22 years ago, and it wasn't that big. (Or Great) After 30 minutes of going around in circles I admitted defeat and knew I needed to ask directions. Normally in these circumstances I will look for someone middle aged walking a dog, on the basis that a dog walker will be local and know his or her way around. It's not without it's flaws, I admit, but generally I win. Just be wary, if you find yourself in this predicament that you do not pick an elderly dog walker. Firstly you will get his life story, followed by directions that include expressions like "turn left where the New Roller Disco used to be" and that's if he can remember at all.
On this occasion however there were no dog walkers about, and this was because due to the depression and mass unemployment they had eaten all the dogs. I thought Hull was suffering in the recession, but Grimsby is just endless rows of boarded up shops. The only thriving businesses appeared to be a boarding up company, betting shops, off licences and funeral directors - presumably they have a high suicide rate. There was the usual brightly lit ASDA, B & Q, Maplins, HALFORDS etc on a shopping estate and even a COMET having a closing down sale, but other than that it was depressingly grey. The only people on the streets either lived there and were drunk, with many carrier bags (Why is that?) or were teenage hoodies who would have stolen my SatNav if I had stopped to ask them directions. Not that it would have been any use to them, with it's Grimsbyphobia. I did find a McDonalds but daren't go in there to ask for directions, because they would have undoubtedly given me fries with them. And in all likelihood they wouldn't have known there own way home in any case.
Fortunately I knew where the main police station was, and found it in semi darkness, presumably saving electricity. Either that or they wished to merge in with the rest of the greyness around them. Swallowing my manly pride I asked directions off a policeman. I was almost there as it turned out, and a minute or so later I had my package.
Strangely, as soon as I got back in the car the SatNav sprang to life with a map showing exactly where I was, and how to get out, quickly. This is intelligent SatNav, it refuses boldly, to no go where man has gone before.

Police and Crime Commisioners - what a result

And the winner is.......  The not outstandingly ugly but slightly thick looking Tory MP who is already too busy to do the job, and only wants it so that the man who lives in the castle and drives many Jaguars doesn't get it.

Well I have to say now that I don't get it. At a time of austerity we as a nation have just spent £150 million to hold an election that less than 1/5th of us were remotely interested in. Add to that the salaries of the police commissioners over the next four years and we have, well I don;t know but a big pot of money. Divide the £150 by the 41 forces that had to elect a commissioner and you're looking at £3.6 million each. For this area the commissioners salary alone is £75,000 a year, so over four years there's another £300,000. Then there'll be his expenses, an office, a secretary, no doubt a company car run at public expense..........

The crime and police commissioner, in real terms is costing us at least £1 million a year!

So far as I can work out the Existing Police authority comprised of 9 elected Councillors representing the unitary authorities that comprise the borough, plus 8 independent representatives. Presumably the councillors  were, and will continue to be funded by their council salaries, and if I understand correctly the remaining 8 would only have been paid reasonable expenses. So unless the expenses of the 17 amounted to £58,000 each a year we are severely out of pocket on the deal.

And this at a time when our local police force is facing budgetary cuts of £23 million, with the loss of 440 officers. So, if my numbers add up we could have either had an election nobody wanted for a job that wasn't necessary, or we could have kept 75 of those 440 officers on the streets.

Only time will tell if the man is worth the cost.

Police and Crime Commisioners

Well, here we are at the start of a new error. We are about to replace Police Authorities, which work perfectly well and don't interfere with operational policing matters and have no political bias with Police and Crime Commisioners. Which won't, will and do. Only time will tell if this works or not.
In my local area I have seven possible candidates. So far as I can tell they are, in no particular order of preference or importance;
1. An elderly fat and ugly man who lives in  a castle, has a title and drives a number of Jaguars. He knows nothing about Policing. But believes he does.
2. A slightly younger equally ugly man who appears to hate policemen and is borderline racist and homophobic. He knows nothing about Policing. But believes he does.
3. An ugly woman who appears to be a plant watering tree hugger lefty socialist who will give away a third of her money in order to buy votes. She knows nothing about Policing. But believes she does.
4. A dull but seemingly capable ex-policeman who has too much time on his hands and is a failed author. He thinks you think he knows a bit about Policing. But believe me, he doesn't. He might have done 30 years ago, but that was then, this is now.
5. An ex local counsellor who admits he is already too busy to do the job but doesn't want the elderly fat ugly Jaguar driver to get it either. He knows nothing about Policing. But believes he does.
6. An unemployed ex-soldier who has a failed business behind him and thinks he will gain "the public vote" by wearing a T shirt during his campaign. Apparently though he does not have enough petrol in his car to get across the Humber Bridge, so in that respect he is indeed very representative of the common man. He knows nothing about anything. But believes he does.
7. A retired MP who will just take the money and leave things exactly as they are no because to rush in and make changes would be foolhardy. He cares nothing about anything. But believes you expect he does.

I have to pick two of these to vote for, a first choice and a second choice. So far as I can work out if my second choice gets more votes overall than my first choice he wins, even though my first choice might get more first choice votes. My biggest problem is that I can't even pick a single one of them, none are suitable for the job, but some are far less suitable than others. On that basis, the voting system should have been reversed. Vote for who you don't want, eliminate them, then deal with those that remain. A bit like that popular TV entertainment show X factory, I am lead to understand. In fact, had they gone down that route, we could have had 6 weeks of TV entertainment with a highly lucrative premium rate phone in vote which might have gone some way to paying the £75,000 salary for the new Commissioner. Worth a thought.

Whatever happens we are stuck with one of the above for the next four years. Could be worse. Not sure how though.

Three Peaks 2012

An attempt to tackle the 3 Yorkshire Peaks challenge in July was aborted due to the seasonable weather we were experiencing at the time. Basically about 1 mile into the 26 mile challenge we were soaked to the skin, and with the weather set for the day we decided that the sensible thing was to go to the pool for a dip, the sauna and then the pub to play pool no relation) The challenge remained however, and was rescheduled for late September, for logistical reasons the next chance to get a team together.
And so it came to pass that team regulars Nelson, Greendale and myself were joined by second reserve Peter, the Shelfstacker, replacing the Judge on this outing, the last chance to realistically tackle those pesky hills with a full 12 hour window of daylight.
Not only did we have a change of team but also a change of accommodation location. Despite the lateness of the season our budget digs were fully booked, probably due to the popularity of the pool and sauna available to relax after a hard days hiking. Alternatives were sought and very acceptable, albeit slightly moe expensive overnight lodgings were found nearby. I am deliberately not naming names as I wish to protect the guilty, Selby Greendale having once set fire to one of these locations. Despite this we are a professional and well behaved group, who pardon the inference, don't like to burn bridges so wouldn't want to upset our former site owners but it is only fair to say that their bunkbarn is starting to show it's age and could do with a refurbishment. The alternative setting was far more spacious, better equipped, cleaner and more rurally idyllic  with a brilliant view and spacious gardens to boot. The rules of democracy dictate (if a democracy can dictate) that this will be our lodgings of choice in future.
Nelson PK, Greendale and myself traveled together and arranged to meet Shelfstacker at the Marton Arms, just outside Ingleton. We were still a good half hour away when he phoned to say he'd arrived, but strangely there was no sign of his car at the pub when we pulled in. he was soon located at the Masons Arms, in Ingleton itself. In his defence we had visited both pubs during our July visit and he is obviously easily confused. It was however nice to see a Supermarket manager getting foxed by things being in the wrong place, and I will remember this with a degree of satisfaction next time I visit Tesco's and the beans have been moved again.
After settling into the digs it was, by tradition that we went to the pub for a meal and a few beers. Now, I may have sung the praises of the Masons Arms on previous visits, but the pub has changed hands since and to my knowledge no longer serves it's famous mini mixed grille at a belly busting and value for money £10 a head. So we skipped the Masons. The Marton Arms also had a great selection of beers and good food when we first visited 4 or 5 years ago, but this too has changed hands. It still does food, but a very limited menu and instead of a varied range of both popular brews and local real ales it now has a choice of beer, the choice being take it or leave it. No slur intended on either pub, I can;t say that view is current as we did not visit either on this occasion. They will get a chance to redeem themselves next year perhaps, but we took the majority vote and returned to the Wheatsheaf in Ingleton, which sells Hobgoblin amongst other decent beers, did a two steaks for £20 deal on a Tuesday and had a pool table. We took advantage of all three elements until 8pm when the local pool team arrived to play a match and we walked back to the bunkbarn for a few beers, a DVD and an early night before a dawn o'clock start.
It was around about this time that both the Shelfstacker and PK discovered they were sans sleeping bags, both having left them at home. Fortunately for them the night was mild, the heating adequate and some blankets, or rather the throws off the sofas were foraged to keep them warm.
The accommodation proved surprisingly comfortable, and even the floor allowed a goodly sleep, as I discovered in the predawd hours as arms encased in a nylon sleeping bag I slid gracefully off the bed and into the gap between the bunk and the wall. Unable to escape without making a lot of noise I remained there for the last half hour or so before at some ungodly hour I was woken and forced, possibly at gunpoint, to cook a full English breakfast. With our normal plan of attack changed by the adverse weather conditions both cars were taken initially to Horton in Ribblesdale. This would allow Pen-Y-Ghent to be taken on first, return to H-I-R then drive one car to the Ribblehead Viaduct, leaving the support car in Horton for the return to Ribblehead after completing Whernside and Ingleborough. This was of course cutting out the boggy leg between Pen-Y-Ghent and Ribblehead, which due to flooding was an almost suicidally impassable river crossing and likely to risk life and limb unnecessarily. Had it been a matter of life or death I'm sure we could have done it, but we walk for fun, not necessity. It meant we cut the official route by maybe two or three miles, but that we could still tackle all the peaks in safety, with a chance of returning again another year.
First light was breaking as we left Horton at 0653 hours precisely and started our ascent. It was about this point that the heavens opened and the heavy rain began. Immediately soaked through the mission looked in jeopardy again, but after about 10 or 15 minutes the rain abated, and with the temperature probably about 8 degrees or so the windchill wasn't too bad and the wind helped in drying off the combats and raincoats.
It is at this point possibly wise to mention PK's mode of dress. He had shunned the obvious choice of waterproofs and elected instead for a poncho. With his grizzled stubble and bushmans hat he lacked only a cheroot to make a passable Clint Eastwood lookalike. You had to see it to believe it, which was of course difficult, because it was a camouflage Army style poncho, and over his similar DPM combats he became invisibly at 20 paces. Was he doing the walk in fancy dress for charity, we asked ourselves? Well it made a change from his JR Hartley fishing outfit.

 Pen-Y-Ghent at the start of the steep final ascent was shrouded in mist, or rather low lying cloud, meaning that PK and Pete disappeared into the gloom, leaving Selby and myself trailing in their wake. Mr Selby dislikes heights, and the ascent up the final scramble is always a testing time for him, and with the wind blowing fiercely around the top he took extra caution in clinging on - at one point I swear he was even using his teeth. Regardless we made it to the summit unscathed only to find it had been conquered by the British Army, a two man outpost occupying the shelter by the trig point. It turned out that 200 Army Recruits had been set free for two days as art of their Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme, with co-ordinates to make for and with an overnight camp included in these inhospitable surroundings. They had my pity. It was almost but not quite freezing on the top, but as we began our descent it warmed up again a even a little patch of blue appeared in the sky. The weather was forecast with a foggy start and rain first off, clearing to sunshine and clear skies, 15 degrees and light winds. So far the former was true, and it looked promising for the latter, although it wasn't quite right as it turned out.

With Pen-Y-Ghent dispatched in short order we drive the short hop, cheating our way past the boggy marshland and parked up at Ribblehead where once more a light drizzle had set in, continuing on and off in thankfully short bursts. The temperature rose however causing much taking on, and putting on of waterproofs (and ponchos) Once more PK and the new boy pulled ahead, with the slow but steady following a short but steadily longer distance behind. Then even the shelfstacker began to feel the pace and PK left him a good four or five minutes behind at the peak. It is fair to point out that PK is younger than me, and has a fully functioning knee joint system. he also travels light, whilst Greendale and myself carry sufficient food, water and supplies, plus dry clothing and survival gear to last at least overnight and probably for two or three days, just in case. PK meanwhile carries a sandwich and a can of pop.No wonder then that he can walk at such a cracking pace. 

Lunch was taken and off we went back down the hill and on toward Ingleborough. Of course all three left me for dead on the descent, as my knee cracked under the pressure as it always does here, and dosed up with Ibuprofen and supported by two sticks I hobbled down some fifteen minutes behind the others. The weather remained "changeable" with patches of rain and sunshine, and we mostly dodged any heavy rainfall. A rainbow appeared over Ingleborough, which was nice. Back on the flat I was able to keep pace again and it was only as we started the assault up the steepest parts of Ingleborough that PK once more split the pack and raced off ahead. I am convinced he is half breed mountain goat. Due to all the rain the path was also a waterfall, meaning navigation was particularly trick especially on the scramble toward the top.

The weather however was now shining on the righteous and I even caught a bit of sunburn - or it might be rust, only time will tell. A final drenching was to be had though, and came in so suddenly we didn;t have chance to don waterproofs before getting soaked to the skin again. Of course as soon as we did it stopped raining again. 

Amazingly Selby had not fallen into any water, nor had he sunk waist deep into a bog, despite the many opportunities. Normally he can seek out such hazards in a desert, so maybe he is finally becoming hiking savvy.

The mountains giveth and the mountains taketh away. Last year on an outing to Pen-Y-Ghent I managed to leave my seat pad at the summit as a prize for some other lucky hiker. I was rewarded in kind with the find of a hiking stick halfway down Ingleborough, where some unfortunate had obviously leant it to open the gate and then walked on without it. As I had left mine, stupidly, in the car boot at Ribblehead and had relied on those borrowed from the team it came in hand for the rest of the walk.It seemed a long long way down to Horton again but eventually the village came into view. 

The weather produced more spectacular rainbows this time over Pen-Y-Ghent, brooding in the distance, and the picture just doesn't do it justice.

The last mile or so was severely waterlogged however and heavy going with my knee once more giving major gip on the downslopes. I eventually hobbled into the station doing a passable John Wayne impression but only 3 or four minutes behind the group with an end time of a credible 10 hours dead. Allowing for the difference in mileage from the full route this is comparable with last years 10:39 and quite acceptable given the adverse weather. Shelfstacker had never done any of these hills before and certainly gave a good account of himself as a 3 peaks virgin. He may therefore be formerly invited to join the BBC (Beer and Boots club) as a permanent member.

A quick celebration pint in the "other pub" (not the Golden Lion, but I can't remember it's name) set us back towards our digs for a quick shower before fish and chips and more beer before bedtime. A thoroughly enjoyable outing which we promise to repeat again again next year.

This will probably be my last outing of the season due to equipment failures. Whernside killed my waterproof jacket with a rip from the pocket down the side appearing as I put my water bottle away in the rucksack, and it also claimed my boots. Elsewhere on the blog you will read of "Shackletons boots," my previous pair of leather walking boots which despite being clumsy heavy old things lasted from age 18 to around 41 and did thousands of hiking miles. They were replaced by modern Gortex and suede lightweights a couple of years back. Lightweight by name, lightweight by nature they have lasted just a few years and maybe 3-400 miles before splitting and the soles tearing away. Hopefully they will be replaced in the January sales ready for the next season. but if I feel the urge to walk again between now and then a it o glue might just see them through on a dry day. 

Dave "Greendale" Selby, Cheif complainer, water diviner and Navigator. 

Paul "Nelson/PK" Kitson Entertainments Officer, Pacemaker and  Hygiene Complaints Coordinator

Peter "Shelfstacker" Sewell, 3 Peaks Rookie, Honourary Member of the BBC, role as yet unassigned. 

Not pictured: Martin "Stig" Crossland, Logistics, Catering and Accommodation manager. 

Apologies: Mike "The Judge" Barratt, survival and navigation officer. Unable to attend due to work commitments. And sadly missed on this excursion..

Shopping in your sleep

Living as we do a good 12 miles from the nearest supermarket, it makes good sense for me to do the shopping when I leave work, as there is a supermarket a stones throw from the office. In fact I often spend my lunch hours throwing stones at the supermarket, but that is a different story.
Being a man, I hate shopping almost as much as I hate settling the credit card bill afterwards, so it also makes sense to go when it is quite. The two happy events coincide when I finish night shifts.
There is nothing quite like walking into an empty supermarket at 7 a.m. with plenty of parking spaces, loads of trolleys and generally empty aisles. You have to dodge the odd cleaner (and some of them are VERY odd) and the occasional shelf stacker, but by and large you can make progress. There is little chance of being held up by Edna and Doris having a prolonged natter whilst blocking aisle 4 (tinned fruit) and all the young mums are still out on the school run, so there are no screaming toddlers demanding sweeties.
There is also a good selection of marked down "best before" bargains to be had.
The downside is I am often sleepwalking by then, and just want to get it all over with and go home.
My dearest lady wife, 'er indoors, sweetness and light, who must be obeyed at all costs writes me a list. However her list only contains the things SHE needs reminding to buy. In her head she keeps a standard list of all the ordinary things like bread, eggs, milk etc. The list is things that aren't "ever day items" and are supplementary to her inbuilt default woman shopping settings. I know nothing of these inbuilt default settings, hence will arrive home with no eggs, flour, sugar, potatoes, carrots etc etc. As a man I shop logically, buying what is on the list, and one or two things that might catch my eye - e.g. wine, beer, pies, pizza, car magazines, a new DVD player etc etc.
I have however become adept over the last 15 years of marriage at second guessing what might be needed. Cheese for example always goes down well. you can't buy enough cheese. Or enough variety of cheese. Flowers are a life saver too.
The list however always, but always has it's pitfalls. This is partly because dearest wife has scribbled the list whilst it was pinned to the kitchen wall as and when things came into her head using whatever dodgy Biro, crayon or pencil came to hand - I've even had list written in chalk if she was childminding at the time. Combined with her unique spelling it always throws up a mystery item or two that I either can't read, can't find or didn't know existed. Quark for example, despite sounding like a character from Star Trek turns out to be a type of allergy friendly cheese that the girl child eats. Pommygranite was sort of easy to understand, if sounding like an Aussie interpretation of a hard wearing stone.
Her abbreviation for Frozen is Froz, which because of the afore mentioned handwriting issues once lead me to buy 71 ounces of fresh Raspberries instead of a single packet of "Froz Rasps" That was one hell of a lot of Raspberries.
She also writes up the bleeding obvious - things like "Coloured Cheese" feature in her list. Well, I have searched and searched and all the cheese I have ever seen have colour. There may well be some Tibetan Yak Translucent Cheese somewhere in the supermarket, but I have yet to find it.
Fortunately Wifey does "cluster" items together in her own brain logic way, such that all fruit will be together on the list, making it easier to locate said items all in the one area before moving on. This means that I am now able to anticipate and interpret not only what she wants, but also what she needs, and what she thinks she needs and also what I ought to think she thinks she needs. Our relationship is moving towards the telepathic.
Thus when I found the word Corguettes (sic) scattered amongst the frozen food items I was able to logically deduct that what she actually wanted was potato croquettes. And I was right!

"Speed Kills" - not any more.

Breaking news on the BBC radio this morning is that diesel fumes cause cancer. Who says this is so? WHO that's who. Thee World Health Organisation have done a two week study and decided diesel is evil.
But this is not the bad news it might appear. Diesel and petrol as we know, are made out of dinosaurs which have been lightly killed for several million years during which time chemistry happened, to produce oil. When man invented the automobile he initially decided that petrol was the best fuel, because it was cheap and smelled nice, whilst diesel was dirty and smelly and was reserved for lorries and taxi drivers.After 100 years of practice we have managed to make burning diesel quieter, cleaner and more efficient than ever before, but it is still a very inefficient way to produce power. And obviously there is a way to go, as we need to work out how to burn the bits that cause cancer. A catalytic converter helps trap some of the cancer, but these are expensive to make and easily stolen by "travellers" for the precious metals they contain which are worth a lot of money as scrap, due to their value in the manufacture of catalytic converters. We need a way, today, to reduce the amount of this newly discovered cancer leaking out of our exhausts.
Happily I have the answer. Remove all the speed bumps and speed cameras, reconfigure the traffic lights and improve the road network to get things moving. Cars sitting in queues and driving slowly are inefficient. Cars driving at sensible speeds and allowed to maintain that momentum, instead of stopping and starting needlessly are by comparison very efficient indeed. My Vectra diesel, for example, will happily do around 60 mpg at 70 mph. At those speeds it is producing less diesel fumes per mile than it is sitting idling at traffic lights, where the fumes it produces are causing cancer. If I slow down to 30 mph the Vectra is unhappy and will only do around 40 to 45 mpg, so the old adage that "Speed Kills" is actually reversed. Speed will save your life. Not only am I producing less cancer if I drive faster, but I'm not hanging around spreading it all in one place. I bet there is a close correlation between kids with asthma (and eventually cancer) on council estates to the ratio to speed bumps on that same estate. So by driving slower we deprive them of the swift death by being run over, that Darwin reserved for them (survival of the fittest) but instead we kill them slowly and painfully coughing up their lungs.
I know some people will disagree and say that driving quickly wastes fuel and causes more pollution. I agree, up to a point Most cars are at their most efficient in higher gears at speeds of around 50 to 60, so that is what we should be striving for. I know only too well that if I thrash the job car, a Volvo V70 D5 up to 140mph it will reward me with single figure economy. But driven steadily at 60 this fully laden two tonne behemoth will still return 40 mpg.
So what I am saying is that whilst speed (allegedly) kills, so in the long term does lack of speed. And surely it is better to arrive at the Pearly gates with your arse on fire having enjoyed the ride that to turn up late, mumbling an apology and with half your internal organs missing?
Best of all, my plan is good for the economy - it gets Britain moving, and mobility is what advanced Britain as an Empire in the first place. Worth a thought I think.

Fast Food

Why do we put up with it? I made the silly mistake of dropping into a Burger King earlier today. What a disappointment.
We are sold the American dream, the ideal of a roadside diner, in the form of a Mcdonalds, Burger King or Wimpey fast food outlet. Well it was a major disappointment or me, and it ought to be for everyone else. I visit such an establishment only rarely, and in this case only because I had some discount vouchers. Normally for a much more Authentic American Diner experience I visit one of the OK diners on the A1 - othes may exist but I'm not aware of them. There was of course the Yankee Burger on Hessle Road, Hull, now sadly closed. They sold proper home made burgers, which actually looked like the pictures on the menu. Plus it had staff that had some idea of customer service.
In Burger King (and McDonalds is similar) the staff , average age 14 , had no idea of of customer service. The restaurant was filthy with discarded food on the floor, the service was sloppy, and many customers seemed to have been served the wrong meal. One couple seemed to have been waiting some time for their meal, causing the bloke to comment that it might help if they had adult supervision in the kitchen. I had to agree. It is disconcerting to walk into what is effectively a restaurant, to be asked "Can I help you," when your gut instinct is to respond, "Well not really, but is your mum in?"
I bought an Aberdeen Angus steak burger, simple because it was buy one get one free. I was offered bacon and cheese with this. What I got was a slice of processed possibly ham, certainly not bacon, and some sort of yellow plastic square sheet. Whilst eating this I found some sort of tomato and onion which I wasn't prepared for. This was advertised as a burger, not a vegetarian option. Eating at even the seediest pub restaurant, some member of staff will eventually wander over and ask if your meal is okay. Why doesn't this happen in McDonalds? Because they are afraid of the answer that's why. It's not alright, okay? Crappy burgers that are half the size of the photograph on the menu, which taste of cardboard, fries instead of chips, breadcakes which taste of paper - it's just not on okay? So go and speak with the small independents to see how it's done. Then spread the word around the world. Only then will MaccyDees achieve the world domination they seek.

Back to the future - the future is green

For the last fifteen years i have lived in a house with a garden to the front and three other sides, or more accurately two sides and a back. Originally much of it was grass, and the design was crap, and it took hours to mow. Over the years I have widened and tapered the drive, concreted part of one side to provide hard standing fro a caravan, and made the remainder of that side into a vegetable plot with a greenhouse. The other side has the "Scout Hut" on it, this being the nickname my neighbour gave our rather large shed, which at 20 x 10 feet is big enough to house several Chinese families, or in my case a home gym, a working scale model Landrover, five cycles, plus lawnmowers and garden tools etc. The back of the garden has been landscaped and planted with shrubberies and all that sort of stuff, but still has a sizeable lawn. The back lawn in fact has TARDIS like properties. When playing football with the boy child, or badminton with the young lady child it is not big enough, and even though I have few remaining friends even the smallest of barbecues fills the available space. Yet when it comes to cutting the grass the lawn expands exponentially.
I have over the years owned and used several lawn mowers and all took equally long to complete the task. I have had petrol mowers which would have been more effective if you simply poured the petrol on the lawn and set it alight. One I had was a posh powered petrol mower which would pull itself along, dragging the operator behind into the bushes and trees. Other simpler petrol mowers simply polluted the atmosphere and drank petrol like Oliver Reed and George Best drank beer. With the rising costs of petrol it seemed sensible to switch to an electric mower. These are not without their problems however, in my case not least being my habit of running over the cable. Avoiding doing this meant holding the cable and tripping over it constantly, and to be honest the TARDIS lawn simply got bigger and took longer to mow. It was enough to drive me to drink. It was not uncommon for me to finish my last night shift at 7a.m. and spend all morning mowing the lawn before retiring to bed at lunchtime, pissed and knackered but able to sleep like a baby. (i.e. getting up every three hours, crying and having pissed the bed)
I had noticed as well that every time I mowed the lawn my electricity consumption shot up by 5 or 6 KW/hs per day.
Now however I have the ultimate green solution inspired by the past. A hand pushed cylinder mower. No petrol or diesel, no electricity, no emissions. Why do we need 7 horsepower engines on our mowers simply to cut grass? Grass is a weak flimsy material that you can cut with scissors or pull up by hand. Why do we need electric motors doing 3000 rpm when 100 rpm is more than enough speed for the blade to cut a stalk of grass. We have been fooled by the manufacturers into thinking a flymo is great but it just isn't. It may have an electric motor to turn the blade, but it's still pushed along by human power. The traditional hand pushed cylinder mower requires little if any more effort, but the pushing motion turns the blades by clever little mechanical cogs that just don't go wrong. No spark plug to foul, no cable top sever an no running costs. The effort of pushing it gives a little exercise and saves money going to the gym. A win win situation all round. Why have I not realised this sooner?
This is saving energy in more than one way too, as Thomas, 9 years decided it looked so much fun that he took over, saving me a lot of energy in every sense of the word. And unbelievably between us we whizzed round both the front and back lawns in less than 1/2 an hour, thus saving time and money.
This has promoted me to think about other labour saving devices around the house. Do they really save that much time and money, or could we do without them. Now I'm sure I could lay my hands on a mangle if I really tried...........

Return of the walking fool.

Earlier in the year I rather rashly resolved to climb/walk/hike 40 hills in the Yorkshire Dales before the year was out. This was of course before the monsoon season fell upon us, the price of diesel went through the roof and a new shift system was implimented at work, events that have conspired to thwart me thus far. Other than an outing to Whernside in February I haven’t got out walking since.

This was to change on Wednesday this week when I planned to tackle one or more of those pesky peaks. Originally it was Tuesday, but as none of my usual walking buddies were available I put it off. Then Wednesday dawned, with the first clear blue skies I have seen in a long while and my resistance crumbled.

As I have previously related I have in my youth done distance walks solo, but in my advancing years I realised that for safetys’ sake it was better to go in a group, or at least as a pair. With a dicky knee joint and the ever present risk of accident, plus my unerring lack of sense of direction, and to be honest a simple lack of sense, that makes sense, if that made sense. Well all sense went out of the window and I found myself just outside of Kettlewell and taking the track up Greater Whernside alone.

At one time Yorkshire must have run out of names for big hills, as there is Whernside, of the three peaks fame, Little Whernside and it’s bigger brother Greater Whernside nearby. Whernside the popular is 2415 feet, whilst Greater Whernside, confusingly is smaller at 2310 and Little Whernside is of course the smallest at 1981 feet. I have tackled Whernside many times now and always found it a long and unrelenting slog up with a nice easy descent. Well the Greater namesake is exactly the same only more so. From where I started from the roadside near Middle Piece Pastures it is a relentless climb almost all the way up, and what isn’t climb turned out to be bog. The sun had dried out the worse though, and a winter assault would be much wetter of course, although recent weather hasn’t helped and minor diversions were the order of the day to esape the worse bits. Entertainment was provided courtesy of what another hiker told me were Lapwings, three or four pairs providing an impressive aerial display as the swooped and dived to protect their nests from the intrusion of the occasional straying sheep, grouse or the odd hiker straying off the trail. I bow to his greater knowledge. All I know is that they had a call like a cross between a rusty door hinge and car horn, and a regular warbling cry, and had white undersides with black top markings.

The summit was reached and the obligatory trig point photogrpah captured to mark the event. After a rest and the second litre of water of the day had been sipped I descended back to the car. At this point, to put it bluntly, I was getting a pain in the arse, something had twanged in my rucksack, and closer investogation showed that part of the aluminium frame had broken free and poked through the webbing and was making a good attempt to eat my shorts. A temporary repair was made for the sake of comfort but this is most disappointing. My original rucksack is a small PUMA branded daysack which is now 22 years old, and still in serviceable condition, needing only a stitch repair to the webbing on one strap last year. This new rucksack was a quite expensive full size branded bit of kit, new three years ago and has failed already. Not good.

My original plan had been to take on Little Whernside as well, but it had disappeared off my map (it came back later) and figuring if I couldn’t find it on the map I had little chance of finding it in reality I gave up and drove the short distance to Buckden, a couple of miles or so, but necessary if I was to make the best of the day. If I’d got up earlier I could have walked that bit too.

Parking at the car park in Buckden placed me right at the start of the track up the Pike. Buckden pike is a mere 2303 feet, but what I hadn’t figured on was it being quite so far away, and quite so uphill. It was now a blazing 25 degrees, probably too hot for walking, which might explain why I met only two other people on the whole climb and descent. The track starts deviously wide as a bridleway with stone surfacing and little chance of going astray. Height is quickly gained, and with calf muscles complaining the third gateway leads onto what might appear to be the middle ground of the hill. Ths is deceptive. Buckden Pike has to be the most dishonest and deviously cunning hillclimb I have ever tackled. Each time you think you have reached the summit there is another one beyond it. To make matters worse the track changes to grass, and then gets difficult to follow, disappearing completely at times. Eventually I had to invent my own way up the side of a picturesque waterfall to reach yet another false summit. Hares abounded on the next slope, with evidence of much mole activity too. Completely off track now I simply aimed at the top and followed a wall going in roughly the right direction, keeping the hot western sun streaming on my back. Eventually and after many pauses for breath and to take on water the relentless slog came to a halt at a wall running along the summit. Looking across to my left I could just make out the trig point hiding behind a distant wall. So my haphazard navigational skills had worked. A few more minutes, thankfully along the flat, took me to the obligatory photo opportunity. Although this is one with a difference – thanks to the miracle of modern digital camera technology I managed to get a photo of myself with my favourite person – me! And as I was also holding the camera that makes three mes’ who made it to the top. I wonder if that counts as three peaks?



Me and I, photograph by myself, at the trig point of Buckden Pike

I had of course deciced in my reckless foolishness to leave my rucksack in the car and walk with just map and compass and water supplies as it was so damned hot and the rucksack had failed. Dressed only in T shirt and shorts I soon regretted that once at the top, because the wind must have dropped the temperature considerably. Not quite shivering, but I would have welcomed another layer. I was weird to feel cold, yet see the sunburn reddening my arms and face. Temperature probably 20 degrees, but with windchill - maybe 5?

I knew however that there was a War memorial on the summit not far from the Trig point and it seemed churlish not to visit whilst I was there. The simple cross about ½ mile from the trig point marks the place where an RAF bomber, crewed by Polish airmen, came down on the moor on 31st January 1941. Only one member of the crew survived the crash in a horrendous blizzard, and he walked down the hill with a badly broken leg, apparently lead down to the village by a fox, hence the fox on the memorial. Sadly by the time he had walked down and sought help his fellow crew members had died from their injuries and the cold. I paused a short while and paid respects to those brave men, men who necessarily fled their own country, but signed up to continue the fight alongside our own servicemen and paid the ultimate price.

A few pieces of what I presume to be parts of the airframe of the bomber were placed at the bottom of the memorial which remains reasonably well maintained given it’s remote location. Maybe next time I’ll take a poppy wreath up there. Lest we Forget.

On the way down I found the track much more easily distinguishable, although the going was just as tough due to my usual dicky knee problems. I shaved a few minutes off the time though, short cutting the waterfall route this time for a more manageable route across the moor top which hadn’t obvious on the way up. That cut out a descent and climb, which was nice. It was then I suffered my second equipment failure of the day when the webbing strap on my water bottle failed. Needing both sticks for my lame descent I just had to tie a knot in it and lock it onto my right arm. I think the birthday bunny will be getting a list for new kit this July.

I had as usual forgotten to put my pedometer to use, but I reckon the total for the day would be about 3 ½ miles of Greater Whernside and about 5 to 6 miles of Buckden Pike. And all on 3 litres of water and no beer.

No blisters to speak of either which is nice. My next decent batch of days off won’t be until mid June, and that will possible be the annual pilgrimage to the Three Peaks, so watch his space for more adventures of the walking fool.

Seperated at birth?

Possibly not best illustrated in these photographs, but those who know both will doubtless agree that my brother Jem, (right photograph) bears an uncanny resemblance to Brian Setzer (left photograph) of Stray Cats fame. Set aside that they were born on different continents roughly 3000 miles, and 3 years apart to different parents, otherwise they could have been brothers, or twins or clones or something.

 
Both play a mean bit of guitar and sing well, being accomplished recorded artists both in a band and in their own right. Both are self taught guitarists. Both ride motorbikes and have crashed them. Both own classic American cars. Both are into Rockabilly music. They probably both like fried chicken, although I might have made that up. The coincidences just keep stacking up don't they? Well in my mind they do.

It was even a possibility that they were in fact the same person, but that theory was disproved as they have met each other, (Birmingham, England 1991) and the universe failed to collapse in on itself.

Search on U-Tube and you are likely to find clips of both playing Stray Cat Strut or something similar. Can you tell the difference?

Dog chips. Korean serving suggestion?

So, following on from my last post, the Government has announced that all dogs must be chipped. This may be interpreted as a serving suggestion by our Korean friends who allegedly and famously eat dogs.

By inserting a microchip into the dog this will somehow prevent them attacking people. Apparently. No it won't. Microchipping the owners of such dangerous dogs might prevent them attacking people, the dogs that is not the owner, although often the two go together - violent people and dangerous dogs. If they microchip had some sort of detonator circuit that could be activated in the event of an incident that would be very effective, blowing up the dog, the owner, or both.

Presently if you are bitten by a dangerous dog which then runs away you have no way of identifying the owner. Somehow having the microchip will help. Presumably the government will issue us all with a microchip reader which we must then carry at all times in case of a dog attack. The question then arises of what happens if you are bitten by an "underground" dog, one that has not been chipped so that the owner cannot be identified? We already have criminals using "pool cars" which are not registered to anybody. Will we end up with "pool dogs?"

The legislation will of course only apply to England and Wales, Scotland has no plans to introduce compulsory chipping. So a little advice to our Scottish neighbours. In the event of a dog attack, run for the border!

A Nation of Dog Lovers?

Whilst walking to school this afternoon to collect my son, I spotted a notice which had been nailed to a fence by one of my distant neighbours across the other side of the village. The notice reads (not word for word, but to the effect) "If your dog shits on my garden again I will post it through your letterbox." This raised a few questions in my mind. He is either grammatically incorrect, or filled with great hatred for this dog. The way he has worded it, he will post the dog through the letterbox. Now, I don't know the breed of dog which is troubling him, but if it's leaving turds  of a size that have caused him to leave this threatening sign, I prepared to bet it's not a Yorkshire Terrier. And I would just love to see him try to cram a Great Dane through someones mail slot. It's at times like this I wish I could draw cartoons.
I presume his sign is merely badly worded and that he actually means to post the dog mess. I doubt however that Royal Mail will carry out such an operation. Some of the private postal companies might I suppose, but I doubt it. I once tried to post a Haggis, and it caused all sorts of problems. I got in such trouble once the bomb squad had finished. And anyway, if he knows the identity of the dog concerned why not go and speak civilly with the owner? My guess is he doesn't know, so, he'll have to scoop the poop and follow the unsuspecting owner back to his premises and do the dirty deed himself.
But hang on, that assumes the person with the dog is the owner. Supposing the dog is let out to "do it's business" and then simply follows some innocent member of the public home. Said innocent would then have shit posted through his door even though he's not the owner. Imagine the scene at breakfast time. "Anything in the post this morning dear?" - "No, darling, just the usual shit."
Dogs are of course mostly unnecessary, and if we did away with them it would solve this sort of problem.
I would permit only working dogs if I was King. Guide dogs for the blind and deaf, sheep dogs for shepherds, German Shepherds as Police dogs, sniffer dogs for customs, explosive sniffers for bomb disposals guys, that sort of thing. If we must have dogs as pets then limited breeds should be permitted. Labradors are okay as they are placid and their teeth fall out if they try to bite you, which they never do, and springer's are okay, if somewhat mental. Yorkshire Terriers. Oh dear, I am from Yorkshire and love all things Yorkshire except tea and terriers. Originally developed to chase rats down holes, they are all that a dog should not be - bittey little yappers, used as handbag ornaments by silly old ladies. In fact any dog which will tolerate being dressed up as a human, and is given presents at Christmas - straight into room 101 with them. Any dog developed for fighting - gone. Bulldogs - well Churchill has done his bit to make them look cute and cuddly, but ultimately they look like they need ironing, and they have that thing going on where they can;t let go once they've bitten you, so no, they go too. Greyhounds, apart from being neurotic, are too spindly, although I suppose they perform a useful purpose in diverting racing fans from the horses and are cheaper to run (no pun intended) so they can stay for now, purely as racing animals, not as pets though.
The St Bernard, reknown the world over for bringing alcoholic beverages to people lost in avalanches - creditable behaviour in a dog, so despite it's massive size it can remain. The Dulux dog goes though. How the hell did such a shaggy dog get to advertise paint? Whenever I paint it's bad enough with the bristles coming out of the brushes, without a moulting dog the size of a cow mooching about the room, loosing hair all over the fresh paint. And the Dalmatian, a lazy greyhound in a spotty coat - what's that all about?
Despite what you might think I do not hate dogs. as a kid we had miniature Shetland sheepdogs, an offshoot breed of the Collie, and if I ever consider keeping miniature sheep I'd have another one like a shot. but there has to be a good reason for having a dog. If you simply want a pet, get a goldfish - far simpler, easier to look after, and instead of it's shit being a problem, when it dies it becomes a problem with the shit - you flush it down the bog. Try doing that with a Great Dane.
I would encourage one particular dog over and above all others though - the mutt. The mutt is the prototype for what we will all become once ethnic mixing has been with us a few more generations. And whilst every breed of dog has it's own problems, the mongrel remains healthy, smart and fast enough to get away when it craps on your lawn.

Handbuilt electricity from junk.

It's been a month or so since I installed the Grid Tie inverter for my small scale solar power system and now time for a report and an update on the next part of the project.
According to the meter over the last 16 days I have generated 235 watts of electricity. Hardly enough to change the world, but a start. Peak Power so far has been 10 watts, but as low as 3 watts some days. From memory the two panels up on the roof are a 10 watt and a 5 watt, so I am losing a good proportion of the potential power in the inversion process. More and bigger panels are needed to make this worthwhile. I'm looking at 200 Watts worth on EBay at the moment which should really get things sparking.
I'm not convinced the meter is entirely accurate however, and I think more power is going through than it is recording. (Cheap Chinese crap!) Why so sure? Well last April I used on average 11.9 KW/H per day, this year I'm averaging 9.9 KW/H, an improvement of 2 KW/H per day or roughly a 20% improvement. That doesn't tally with the meter in the loft. Nor does the 2 KW/H improvement tally purely with the little panels I've put in,, as we were away for Easter and had four consecutive days of minimal use that probably screwed the figures. It'll take a longer test period to get an accurate record.

Anyhow, the next big step will be later this week when I hope to have a wind turbine coming on line to supplement the solar panels. I'm kind of proud to say i threw this together myself. Some photographs will follow in due course, but for now a description of this Heath Robinson contraption will have to suffice. The generator is in fact a motor intended for a child's electric scooter. The metalwork of the frame comes from an old running machine frame with the bearings and part of the steering column from a disability scooter, and the rigid plastic used to form the tail fin comes from an old sunbed. This is recycling and green technology at it's very best, built from junk. I need to make the hub to suit the blades when they arrive from EBay Land, these being the only parts I am buying ready made. I was going to buy PVC pipe and even make the blades myself, but then found some so cheap on Ebay it was too good a chance to pass up, and saved a lot of time and effort in designing and perfecting the right shape - someone else has done the hard work for me, and I'll just screw them to a hub and away we go. £11 bought six professionally made blades.

A bench test using the time honoured method of spinning the motor by hand shows about 3 to 7 volts achievable at very low speed. Spinning it with a power drill at max revs showed 37 volts coming up, with 12.7, the ideal battery charging voltage, at a moderate speed. I will then have to decide whether to charge batteries and reconnect my office lighting, which is plan B really, or go for plan A and wire the turbine into the grid tie inverter.

More of a problem is where to put the turbine. Bolting a scaffold tube to the side of the house is my first thought, with the turbine supported in the main by the house wall and sticking up just above ridge height. Experts (and there are hundreds of those aren't there - more even than members of the S.A.S.) don;t recommend this as it can cause vibration damage to the house structure. Hmmm, not so sure I agree. What I might do is dig a hole, sink a scaffold tube down a couple of feet and bed it in concrete then bolt the remainder to the shed (wooden built, next to the house) then extend the scaffold tube up so it goes way up above the shed and house roof. Not sure if I will need planning permission for this though - I might get away with it as it's a temporary structure and only a small turbine. I have no idea what wattage it will kick out, but I'd be happy with 50 watts. Or maybe the scaffold tube just stuck in the jockey wheel of the caravan to start with and see how it goes. Yeah, that might be the way.

As ever watch this space readers.

Summer of ....... can't make it Rhyme with anything

For the last two weeks I have been the proud owner of an electric guitar, a cheap copy of the Fender Stratocaster, with an even cheaper and nastier practice amp, but good enough to learn on. I have taught myself  a few chords - four in fact, which makes me better qualified than Status Quo and can strum a few together to sound almost but not quite unlike Buddy Holly or Edward Cochrane. Well some of their intro's at least. So now that I am a proper musician, and with abject apologies to Brain Adams, here is my first go at songwriting. Some of the lyrics may need a bit of fine tuning I suspect, but it has everything a rock song should have, a car, a girl, a guitar and beer. 2012 is very difficult to rhyme though.

I got my first real six-string

Bought it at Ebay, Online,
Played it till my fingers got slightly sore and the neighbours complained about the noise,

well it was about a half past nine


Me and some guys from work
Had a band and we tried moderately hard

Ian quit and Steve got divorced

I shoulda known we'd never get far

Oh when I look back now

That summer seemed to last forever

And if I had the choice

Ya - I'd always wanna be somewhere else
Those were the worst days of my life



Ain't no use in complaining'

When you got a job to do

Spent my evening's down at the pub
And that's when I met you



Standin' by your mama's Porsche

You told me it would last forever

Oh and when you held my beer

I knew that it was now or never

Those were the worst days of my life



Back in the summer of 2012



Man we were wastin' time

We were middle aged and senseless

We needed to wind up to speed

I guess nothin' can last forever - forever, no



And now the tyres need changin'

Look at everything that's come and gone

Sometimes when I play that old six-string

I think about the chord I just played wrong



Driving your mama's Porsche

You told me it would last forever

But the sills have rusted out
and the motor doesn't sound too clever
Those were the worst days of my life



Back in the summer of 2012

Cycle path psychopaths

It's that time of year again, now that the clocks have changed when I think about cycling to work once more. Lighter nights and mornings, warmer temperatures, the increasing cost of diesel and a spreading waistline all mean it makes sense. A 22 mile round trip means it doesn't.
However my memory is short, so I forgot all the aches and pains caused last year, and on Monday I got out my bike and set off to work at 5 a.m.
I have two choices of route to work - one takes me along a disused railway line which at the nearest end is unmetalled, rough, bumpy and filled with rabbit holes. This necessitates a very powerful headlamp, as hitting one of these mini quarries at 15 mph is enough to send you over the handlebars, and straight to casualty. The latter end of this line is tarmac but strewn with burnt out cars, mopeds broken glass and burglars returning home from the night shift - in fact the nearer to Hull you get the more hazardous it becomes.
The alternative route is along the A1033, the main road running between Hull and Withernsea, which now is mostly a 30mph limit, which means cars are passing within an inch of your handlebars at only around 50 mph most days. On reaching the city boundary there is a cycle track. This should be good news but isn't.
Many years ago representatives of Hull City Council went on what they called a "fact finding tour" of Holland to study their cycle lanes before they built some in Hull. The same trip might be called a free holiday, a junket, or a waste of tax payers money. I am not sure what they did there, but I suspect they smoke some of the locally produced tobacco, as clearly they forgot all they had learnt about cycle lanes. I've been to Holland, and when not visiting prostitutes and smoking dope, and if not busy with their fingers in dykes (the dams that is, not lesbian prostitutes) the Hollandish people ride cycles. A lot. They do good cycle track. Their tracks are flat, level, well maintained and importantly SEPERATED from other traffic. They are not simply a bit of road with a different coloured surface and some white paint. They are purpose built, not a pavement split in half. They have to function well, as everybody in Holland has about 12 bikes each. They have one to ride to the train station, which they leave there, and one at the station at the other end of the line which they ride to work. Then they have a shopping bike, a bike for leisure, a bike for visiting prostitutes on, a holiday bike and bizarrely, in a country renown the world over for being flat, a Mountain bike. This makes for rather a lot of cycles on the road. They have multistorey cycle parks, there are so many.
Hull is of course a flat city. Possibly the flattest city in the UK, so you would think Hull City Council would really promote cycling, and possibly electric cars as well, but they do for both what John Prescott does for Weight Watchers. And the cycle paths they came up with are a joke.
Take the example I use alongside Hedon Road (A1033) from Saltend into the city. This a shared cycle and footpath, with a thick white line separating the two. I ride a cross mountain cycle - not an angry bike as the name might suggest, but a cross between a road bike and a mountain cycle. This gives me a compromise between a heavy duty frame and forks, capable of the abuse metered out by the potholed roads of the city, with road gearing and chunky road tyres capable of off road use but equally capable and grippy on the streets. What they do not grip on is slippery white lines which are raised about 1/2 an inch above the tarmac. White lines on roads are generally invisible or worn out, yet these are surprisingly well maintained and surprisingly slippery. Particularly at 20 to 25 mph which is reasonably achievable on the bike I ride.
At each junction, wherever the cycle track crosses a driveway, road, factory entrance etc they have seen fit to put those little nobbly pavers that let blind people know there is a road crossing. This is all very well on the pavement, but not on the cycle track, because at that point you are braking and steering, and loose grip again just at the critical moment. To make things worse the major junctions have barriers to steer around which necessitate a tight ninety degree turn, which is impossible even at low speed with no grip, turning and braking at the same time. They may as well have spread custard there. Why do we need those nobbly pavers there? I appreciate that there are a few blind cyclists around, but in my experience they ride tandems with a sighted rider at the front doing the navigation, braking and steering. An important safety tip, i feel, is not to put the blind person in charge. And even if he was up front I believe that they "see" the nobbles by feeling them through the soles of their feet - not helpful when your feet are on the pedals and you are sensing through the tyres via the frame and handlebars. And even if you did detect the nobbly pavers you would have to be doing less than walking pace to react and stop in time. So, HCC do away with those please. And whilst your at it remove the fluted pavers which act like tramlines to steer you into the railings as you try to negotiate the turn.
Next trim back the hedges and trees that border the cycle path and shield the view of traffic turning into the side roads so that cyclists can see it and vice versa. Also trim back the trees and hedges that border the track generally so that cyclists don't get soaked through with rain and dew as they cycle down avoiding the occasional pedestrian they might come across.
My next gripe is that whilst the cycle track is clearly marked with red coloured tarmac, lots of signs and white paint nothing is done about the cars that park on it, so cyclists have to swerve around these as well as other unexpected hazards. Amongst these is a bus shelter right in the middle of the cycle lane and believe it or not a post box. Yes instead of moving the pillar box the cycle lane deviates around it in a little chicane - not a sweeping diversion you might expect, but a slalom worthy of Cloisters. And the nearer to the city centre you get the more vague the cycle path becomes, petering out unexpectedly, then reappearing ambiguously at a set of traffic lights before disappearing again and then rejoining the road and mixing it with buses and heavy goods vehicles with the cyclist protected by nothing more than a faded line of white paint.
Some may say that cyclists deserve nothing better, as we pay no road tax, etc etc. however I hasten to point out that I DO pay road tax, I've paid it for the car I've left at home in order to risk my life and sanity for to ride the damn bike in the first place.
Once all that is done maybe, just maybe I will enjoy that 22 mile journey. If only the weather would improve too.

Permission to feel smug

I have just saved 22% off my car insurance premium. According to the perceived wisdom of television adverts I should now be surfing on a tropical island, or singing Karaoke in a Las Vegas Casino, and feeling “EPIC”

Well, I must have done something wrong, because although I feel slightly relieved that I have saved £65, I am not any richer in a real folding pound notes sense of the word. I have less of an overdraft than I might otherwise have had, but I can’t say I feel like celebrating it. I don’t feel at all “Money Supermarket.com” but that’s probably because I didn’t involve them. Nor did I “Go Compare” because the thought of that mustachioed pseudo-opera singing prat being used as the “on hold” music put me right off. I used a rival price comparison website who’s name might sound similar to compare the meerkat, but I won’t qualify for a cuddly Sergei meerkat toy, as I didn’t take up their quote either.

Instead I used the lowest on line quote to browbeat my current insurer and knock down their quote until it was less than that, getting it down to under £200 fully comp with wife and I to drive, business use included, and in my line of business that’s quite an achievement in itself. Of course I did have to chop out the free courtesy car, but as that is generally a pointless Ford Ka or similar that I cannot physically fit in due to my height, and also possibly my weight, then that’s no great shakes. I’ d just hire a car or buy a banger if push came to crunch.

So I should feel epic, but I don’t. I do however feel ever so slightly smug. And at £200 I’ll settle for that.