Motorcyclists get a bad press. Often when they are squished between two other vehicles.
Statistically, we know that most deaths on the road are those of motorcyclists. But why is this?
When you look around you as you drive around, motorcyclists are a minority of road users. And by and large they are focused on the task in hand - that of riding their motorcycle. Ask yourself when did you last see a motorbikist smoking, shaving, putting on make up, eating a sandwich or using a mobile phone on the move? Or reading a map, using a SatNav or trying to read a road map for that matter? Yet all these activities are commonly found amongst four wheeled road users. In fact, other than the odd Harley or Goldwing, which are big enough to count as cars anyway, when did you last see a motorcyclist distracted changing channels on the stereo?
Never, that's when.
Further more I would venture that out of all the people driving under the influence of drink or drugs, it is probably less than 1% who ride motorcycles. After all it's difficult to keep on your feet after ten pints of Stella, let alone drive a car, but balancing a fireblade is totally out of the question.
So we are left with the Governments tag line that speed kills. Well we know that it doesn't in itself. Speed is fine. It is the sudden stop when you run into something hard that kills, and obviously you have a better chance of survival in a big metal box than you do on a motorbike.
But, not all motorbicyclists speed, so, I have come to this controversial conclusion. Motorbikists are killed because they are better drivers and concentrate too much on the driving task.
If they drank a few beers, read a road map, used their mobile and ate a sandwich as they rode along then statistically their chances of survival would be higher - because a lot of drivers seem to do exactly that and get away with it.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Thursday, 7 July 2011
We Own those Peaks
For the past few years, as those who follow this blog will be well aware, a few friends and I have made annual assaults on the Three Yorkshire Peaks (known officially as Whernside, Ingleborough and Pen-Y-Ghent, but affectionately known to us as that devious deceptive slog, Inglebugger, and that Evil Brooding Bastard)
Our first attempt took place if memory serves on 2nd December 2008 and saw us arrive to some of the worse snow the county had experienced in a fair few years. We bravely attacked Ingleborough but conceded defeat due to the worsening weather conditions and lack of daylight, although to be fair with the refracted light from the snow visibility wasn’t so bad. Just as well we did cancel though as temperatures plummeted through the night and it would have been foolhardy to go on.
A second attempt took place around the same time of year in 2009, with the core team of Selby, PK and myself joined by the Judge. This time we started with Whernside from Ribblehead but returned down to the Station pub as light began to fail and a couple of injuries cast doubts on our abilty to continue.
That same year I took on solo challenges of both Pen-Y-Ghent, the slow way up the slope and down the sheer side, and on a consecutive day I had a bash at Ingleborough from the eastern side, returning the same way down.
The Three Yorkshire Peaks Challenge (3YPC) however has to be completed in one day within 12 hours each peak being climbed. Technically we achieved this last year on our third visit, successfully conquering each peak, but not in the favoured route from Horton in Ribblesdale. Instead we positioned a support car at Horton, equipped with spare food and drink and ready for any casivac or bale out, and then used the second car to start from the Ribble Head Viaduct. This allowed us to tackle Whernside and Ingleborough before dropping into Horton to restock on supplies, before taking on Pen-Y-Ghent. Having reached the top we then had the option of returning to Horton to pick up the support car, about a 3 mile hop cutting the route short, or pushing on the 7 miles across to Ribble Head back to our start. Given that none of us were over familiar with the last leg of the route in the absence of the Judge and with the October light failing we opted for the former, and satisfied ourselves that whilst we had cut the 26 miles down to around 21 or 22, we had at least climbed all three peaks this time. And we had done it within the 12 hour period, albeit only just.
However, walking this route can be addictive. So a return visit was arranged for 2011. We would go back, and this time it was personal.
To gain the best window of daylight a date nearer midsummer was required, and what better time than the days after our nightshift weekend, which also coincided with my birthday, allowing a marital pass out on compassionate grounds. Monday July 4th saw the four man team assembling at the Judges House in the Cave. Perhaps I should explain that – the Judge does not live in an actual cave, I refer to the East Yorkshire village of South Cave.
The team as ever consisted of:
David “Greendale” Selby, appointed as Navigation Officer.
Michael “Judge” Barratt, appointed as Chief Medical Officer, doubling as Morale Officer.
Paul “Nelson/PK” Kitson, appointed as Entertainments Officer, a role he fulfilled admirable by bringing along a fine collection of Clint Eastwood DVD’s for the post walk relaxation.
And of course myself, Martin “The Stig” Crossland, self appointed as Logistics Officer, Accomodation and Catering Manager.
Things didn’t bode well when Car One (Yankee 1) crewed by Greendale and the Judge got lost leaving the cave. Tango 1 with better road sense of direction held back and waited for them to rejoion us, before MadSat woman in Yankee 1 lead us across to the outskirts of Leeds on an unfamiliar route before dropping us onto the A65 towards Skipton. It might have actually been a quicker route, it certainly circumnavigated the Harrogate Bottleneck. Sadly Dave had roadside Café blindness and didn’t see the Big Red Bus Café despite it being a Big Red Bus surrounded by an ambulance and two police cars. For the un-initiated, if ever you find yourself in strange territory check out the places where the cops and emergency service guys eat – you can guarantee it’ll be the best food in town.
Instead Dave drove on by and we ended up at a Booths Supermarket cafeteria where a breakfast would have cost about £8. Being a Yorkshireman, and knowing that a decent meal lay ahead at the Marton Arms later I declined to pay such an extravagant fee, and settled for a nourishing black coffee instead, despite having not eaten in a good 12 hours. Naturally Selby got lost trying to escape the Car park.
We checked into our accommodation at 1630, the excellent value Stable bunkbarn at Stackstead Farm, just outside of Ingleton, our second year at this venue, which I’ve also visited with my caravan, and always found homely. £11 per head per night means it is affordable, even if the TV is a little dated with a Video built in – we brought a spare Scart lead and a portable DVD to upgrade things for added comfort.
After settling in we decided to walk down to the Marton Arms rather than driving with a Des as we did last year, in anticipation of a good feed and a number of beers from their fine selection of local brews. Unfortunatley it seems the pub has recently changed hands, and it was obvious that the staff hadn’t quite yet gelled into a working team. In fact, It was as if some had never worked in the pub trade at all.
We could have coped with their incompetence if the food had been on, but with just a small selection from the specials board potentially available we cut and ran after a couple of pints and returned to Ingleton for a few more beers and a decent feed at the Craven Heifer, a very good feed indeed.
After that it was back to the digs for a Few Dollars More, more beer and falling asleep in front of the TV.
We had planned to be at our start point at Ribble Head for 0700 but even with a 6 a.m. start by the time we had eaten the mammoth full English to fuel us for the trip it was getting on. There was a difference of opinion on the right route to Horton, with Yankee One actually getting it right, even though he had got lost on the filling station forecourt as he visited the ATM. Thus we lost a little time getting to Horton, as Tango One went off the wrong way.
Having dropped off the support Vectra Tango One at Horton, we set off to our start point at the Ribble Head Viaduct in Yankee One. We were of course taking our adapted route rather than the official sign in and out at the Horton in Ribblesdale Café route. There would be no official audit trail for this expedition, but the, real heroes don't need medals right?
Whernside was quickly dispatched in short order. It is of course a deceitful devious slog, but we knew that anyway. The highest of the peaks it is actually not so terribly bad, particularly if tackled first as we did. It was slightly demoralizing to meet a couple of teachers at the top who informed us that they had a group of children tackling the 3YP’s that day, although they did concede they weren’t really aiming to finish in under 12 hours. Of course a photo opportunity presented itself, and it was at this point that the stowaway fifth member of our team was introduced – Bobby Sergeant, a soft toy bought for me by my children for Fathers Day, with the promise that I would take him along and photograph him at the top of each peak. So here he is at the Peak of Whernside. Note we had to weigh him down a little with a stone – it was a bit windy up there, but this was better than last years visit, where it was thick fog.
Down Whernside and into Chapel le Dale went easily enough, and then began the ascent of Ingleborough.
Inglebugger, to give it it’s proper name, is my personal most hated of the three peaks. The ascent gets suddenly sharper with a definite need to use hands as well as feet to make progress, and just as you think you have reached the top there is another top, then another one. It was almost midday by the time we reached the summit, and whilst the temperature wasn’t excessively high it must have been around 20 degrees – certainly on the final assault up the climb I was sweating so much that the salt running into my eyes was worse than if I’d been sprayed with CS. I had to stop several times as I just couldn’t see where I was going.
Lunch was had at the summit, where we met a number of young ladies who were doing the 3 peaks in preparation for the Duke of Edinburgh Award. They had been walking for three days, and having to carry all their supplies, water, bedding, tent etc with them – I am full of admiration for the kids who do this, and it was a stark and contrasting reminder that not all kids are like those we deal with on a regular basis, these were decent kids, not shoplifting disrespectful dope smoking dropouts.
The descent of Ingleborough to Horton In Ribblesdale went smoothly, although by now my left knee, subject of a long term injury, was starting to send bolts of pain to the pain receptors in my brain. At this point I resorted to drugs, and took my first Ibuprofen in many years. The Judge then degreed what became our mantra, that “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” Well, much weakness left over the next few miles. Annoyingly, whilst I was in much agony, Selby, who had almost cried off the entire expedition having suffered a minor blister following our warm up on the Beverley 20 the previous week was by now pulling a good half mile lead. I had caught up up once we reached the flat though, and we entered Horton as a team again.
Prior planning meant we had Tango One on standby at Horton and could restock our water supplies and drop off excess gear here as well. So far the weather had been kind – I was even a little sunburnt despite the cloud cover, but it had stayed dry on the whole so far, with just a few spatters of rain to cool us off.
In 2010 PK had set a blistering pace up Pen-Y-Ghent, and this year was to prove no different as he and Greendale set off fast leaving me and the Judge trailing in their wake. Before long we were reeling Selby in, but PK stormed off ahead and reached the summit a good 15 minutes ahead of the rest of the team. The Judge and I caught up with Dave on the final climb of PYG, where his inexplicable fear of heights slowed him somewhat. Quite how someone can be afraid of heights when their feet are firmly on the ground is beyond me, but I can’t really comment, having suffered a strange optical illusion coming across the top of Whernside, when the hillside appears to be moving past you faster than you are moving forwards. Weird!
At the top of PYG it was crunch decision time – to cut short like last year or go for it over Horton Moor to Blea Moor and Ribble Head. Despite the pain in the left knee I took another Ibuprofen and soldiered on, not wanting to let down the team. Apart from that, I knew there was a bog ahead and I was looking forward to Selby falling in. That boy is like a moisture magnet – if there is a wet bit he will be in it. Incredibly he managed to avoid any mishap and we traversed the boggy bits without major mishap – although I would have to concede this was probably due to the dry conditions – I’m sure if we went back and did it again in the autumn, spring or winter there would be swamp monster entertainment to be had.
Reaching the packed limestone track I just had to push on ahead of the team, knowing that if I stopped at all It would be hard to get going again, such was the pain in my knee by this time. The thought of the stream at Ribble Head to cool my feet in, and the promise of a mixed grill at the Masons Arms pushed me on, and it wasn’t too long before glimpses of the top of the viaduct came tantalizingly into view before disappearing again. As I reached the final stretch of tarmacced road I was joined by Greendale and we walked the last mile or so together, I pushed ahead maybe 20 yards and got that most welcoming view of the Viaduct, then the Station Pub and immediately after, Greendales car hove into view. A credible 10 hours and 35 minutes from our start I stripped off my boots and immersed my feet into the freezing cold stream. Dave was seconds behind with PK and the Judge crossing the arbitrary finish line less than a minute later.
It is however a team effort, and I couldn’t have done it without the support and encouragement of the whole team, and my heartfelt thanks go out to you guys.
With time pressing on it was back to the digs for the requisite shit shower and shave before walking another 1/4 mile up to the Masons, where a very welcome mixed grille and a couple of pints went down very very well. I can highly recommend the Masons Arms at Ingleton for any 3 Peakers in need of post walk sustenance at a reasonable price, a mixed grille capable of defeating four very hungry walkers coming in at the most reasonable price of £10.95 a head.
More beer was consumed back at Stacksteads with another DVD winding down the weary ready for a restful night disturbed only by beery farts and the occasional yell of anguish as movement caused strained muscles to direct weakness to leave the body forthwith.
Wednesday saw the usual anticlimactical return home, the mood only being lightened as Selby once more got lost on the home straight, heading for Stamford Bridge instead of down the A1079 towards Hull. This was of course most satisfying for me, Selby having taken the piss out of my navigational skills throughout the walk – he may be good at directions whilst walking, but behind the wheel I am king- wel I am the Stig after all.
Of course 10 hour and 35 minutes, whilst a good time is not unbeatable, and I am sure we will want to go back and do it all again next year, not least because we have to give the Marton Arms a chance to redeem itself, and because Stacksteads are building a leisure complex on the site including a swimming pool and sauna which will provide more welcome options next time.
Until then, lets keep walking.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Epping Bees
I apologise first of all if you are having to read this slower than usual - this is because I am typing one handed, for reasons which will become apparent.
For the past few weeks we have been clearing my wife's maternal grandfathers home and garden, ready for the sale of his house after he decided to go into a retirement home in his declining years. The sale of his house is necessary because having paid taxes all his life and never claiming a bean in benefits, and having bought his own home, and saved up for his retirement, and paid into a pension, he is considered able to pay for his own care, which apparently costs just short of £500 a week. If on the other hand he had been an unemployed welfare dependent drug taking, smoking, drinking, layabout, spendthrift then the state would have paid this for him. But as ever I digress from my main point, which is the sale of the house.
Not knowing how long Grandpa has left, we need to get the best price for his house, to eke out his savings so at least he can stay in the private care home as long as possible, and not end up in a council dog kennel. It would be fair to say that he has let the gardens go somewhat, and that was likely to put off potential buyers. Now Grandpa Jim's has little or no front garden to speak of, just a pathway running round the front of the house and a border with a few shrubs in. To the side is a paved area with rose bushes. These two gardens were quickly brought into order. It was the rear garden that needed much attention.
When Jim moved into the house as a council tenant, being a keen gardener, he negotiated the takeover of a plot of wasteland between his house and the block of flats next door. The council were happy for him to caretake it for a peppercorn rent, and James duly moved the fence, and had a very successful allotment garden for many years. Of course when he came to purchase the house under the right to buy scheme, the council had no boundary plans, and assumed all the land went with the house, and wily James kept his mouth shut until the deal was done, thus adding a size able chunk to his already large garden. The plot would now quite reasonably house a ... well another house to be fair, possibly even two of those modern town houses, which adds nicely to the value of the home. Unfortunately this plot which was fruit trees and vegetables had gone back to nature to a height of a good three foot of brambles and other wild grasses and vegetation which would have made a good Star Trek hostile planet set.
Much cutting and trimming, hacking, slicing, and chopping, and many trips to the council tip with an overladen trailer still left a sizable pile of waste to get rid of. We therefore sensibly decide to raze the plot, figuring a scorched earth policy would clear the area nicely, ready for rotavating and levelling, leaving a blank canvas for the new owners. And so it was whilst raking all the garden debris into a pile to start said bonfire that I accidentally raked over a bees nest.
There are apparently over 2000 species of bees, closely related to wasps and ants, and 260 of these are UK residents. I suspect some are also migrants, and a proportion are asylum seekers. There are tree bees, masonry bees, bumble bees, honey bees, burrowing bees, river bees..... you name an environment, there is a specialist bee to live in it. I know because of what happened next, as I had to read up on bees to sort myself out.
As I raked over the aforementioned nest (not a hive, these were burrowing or tunnelling bees, living underground) my father in law shouted a warning, and at first i thought he had identified these bees as a specialist group from the Essex area immediately outside of London. "Look out, Epping Bees!" I could have sworn he yelled, although in retrospect he may have yelled, "Look out,"F"-ing B's"
The effing bees launched a sharp and swift counter assault as a response to the perceived threat to their burrow. Simultaneously I was stung on my right knee, right inner thigh, right side of my stomach, left upper arm left inner wrist and just above my left eye, right in the lid. These were no the droning bumble bees you might be imagining, like a Halifax Bomber, no these were fighter bees, Spitfires, and bloody quick ones at that. Anyone who doubts that bees communicate with one another or that they don't work in unison should be left in no doubt if they ever suffer a similar attack. this was a well co-ordinated assault in defence of their commune. And I use that word advisably. Bees are Communist by definition, each one serving the greater good of the swarm. By their actions they also prove that they are in fact terrorists - suicide bombers, willing to give up their lives for the cause. This is not actually true - we are brought up to believe that a bee dies after it stings you. Not so. Only two bees die as a result of stinging, the humble bumble, and the honey bee both rupture their abdomens as a result of stinging, as they struggle to get the barbed sting out of the elasticated sting of mammals, the sting having been designed as a defence against other insects with an exo-skeleton. Basically they are badly designed to fight mammals but try anyway, with fatal consequences to themselves. Of all the other bees, not all of which sting, those that are are, are all quite capable of stinging and surviving. They only sting once, as they loose the barb, but it doesn't kill them.
Well it killed these little effers, as I then poured petrol over their nest and set fire to them all along with the remaining garden waste. But by then the damage was done. My left eye swelling nicely is fortunately not to badly affected by the venom, nor is my right leg or even my stomach. My left arm however is a different story - I must have got the full effect of both stings, and boy does it hurt. My arm has swollen badly, I cannot move it without pain, I can't lift or grip anything - the little Effing Bees have immobilised The Stig.
Of course, I have been stung before as a child, but I don't remember it. I simply remember the treatment - vinegar and brown paper, just like Jack and Jill. The problem being we had emptied Grandpas house, and whilst I know that Ketchup contains a fair amount of vinegar that was all that was left in the cupboard that looked even likely to work - and it just didn't. Piriton works on all insect bites and stings, according to the bottle, and we have gallons of the stuff at home for my daughter Emma's allergies. But none in my car.
So here I sit with aching swollen limb and slightly puffy eye, wondering what is the solution to the bee problem. Communist Russia fell partly for economic reasons, but mostly because their countrymen wanted MTV, Cocoa Cola and Levi jeans. I doubt that the same consumer goods are desired by the average worker bee. So how can we get these aggressive little warmongers to come over to the idea of a peaceful co-existence and capitalism? Well reading a little further about the habits of bees it seems we may not have to. Some bees are "solitary." They live alone, or at least independently in a group of other solitary bees. Solitary bees now outnumber swarming bees according to my source, and the weird thing is, whilst solitary bees may live in a swarm like nest, they don't give a bugger about the other bees around them - it's all for one and every bee for himself. in other words, capitalism.
The bees in question, for those interested in that sort of thing, had a black body, with a yellow band at the arse end and a yellow band around the mid body, quite fuzzy looking rather than hairy, and around 20mm long, with a bullet shaped body. I haven't been able to identify them for sure, so for now they will remain the Epping Bees.
For the past few weeks we have been clearing my wife's maternal grandfathers home and garden, ready for the sale of his house after he decided to go into a retirement home in his declining years. The sale of his house is necessary because having paid taxes all his life and never claiming a bean in benefits, and having bought his own home, and saved up for his retirement, and paid into a pension, he is considered able to pay for his own care, which apparently costs just short of £500 a week. If on the other hand he had been an unemployed welfare dependent drug taking, smoking, drinking, layabout, spendthrift then the state would have paid this for him. But as ever I digress from my main point, which is the sale of the house.
Not knowing how long Grandpa has left, we need to get the best price for his house, to eke out his savings so at least he can stay in the private care home as long as possible, and not end up in a council dog kennel. It would be fair to say that he has let the gardens go somewhat, and that was likely to put off potential buyers. Now Grandpa Jim's has little or no front garden to speak of, just a pathway running round the front of the house and a border with a few shrubs in. To the side is a paved area with rose bushes. These two gardens were quickly brought into order. It was the rear garden that needed much attention.
When Jim moved into the house as a council tenant, being a keen gardener, he negotiated the takeover of a plot of wasteland between his house and the block of flats next door. The council were happy for him to caretake it for a peppercorn rent, and James duly moved the fence, and had a very successful allotment garden for many years. Of course when he came to purchase the house under the right to buy scheme, the council had no boundary plans, and assumed all the land went with the house, and wily James kept his mouth shut until the deal was done, thus adding a size able chunk to his already large garden. The plot would now quite reasonably house a ... well another house to be fair, possibly even two of those modern town houses, which adds nicely to the value of the home. Unfortunately this plot which was fruit trees and vegetables had gone back to nature to a height of a good three foot of brambles and other wild grasses and vegetation which would have made a good Star Trek hostile planet set.
Much cutting and trimming, hacking, slicing, and chopping, and many trips to the council tip with an overladen trailer still left a sizable pile of waste to get rid of. We therefore sensibly decide to raze the plot, figuring a scorched earth policy would clear the area nicely, ready for rotavating and levelling, leaving a blank canvas for the new owners. And so it was whilst raking all the garden debris into a pile to start said bonfire that I accidentally raked over a bees nest.
There are apparently over 2000 species of bees, closely related to wasps and ants, and 260 of these are UK residents. I suspect some are also migrants, and a proportion are asylum seekers. There are tree bees, masonry bees, bumble bees, honey bees, burrowing bees, river bees..... you name an environment, there is a specialist bee to live in it. I know because of what happened next, as I had to read up on bees to sort myself out.
As I raked over the aforementioned nest (not a hive, these were burrowing or tunnelling bees, living underground) my father in law shouted a warning, and at first i thought he had identified these bees as a specialist group from the Essex area immediately outside of London. "Look out, Epping Bees!" I could have sworn he yelled, although in retrospect he may have yelled, "Look out,"F"-ing B's"
The effing bees launched a sharp and swift counter assault as a response to the perceived threat to their burrow. Simultaneously I was stung on my right knee, right inner thigh, right side of my stomach, left upper arm left inner wrist and just above my left eye, right in the lid. These were no the droning bumble bees you might be imagining, like a Halifax Bomber, no these were fighter bees, Spitfires, and bloody quick ones at that. Anyone who doubts that bees communicate with one another or that they don't work in unison should be left in no doubt if they ever suffer a similar attack. this was a well co-ordinated assault in defence of their commune. And I use that word advisably. Bees are Communist by definition, each one serving the greater good of the swarm. By their actions they also prove that they are in fact terrorists - suicide bombers, willing to give up their lives for the cause. This is not actually true - we are brought up to believe that a bee dies after it stings you. Not so. Only two bees die as a result of stinging, the humble bumble, and the honey bee both rupture their abdomens as a result of stinging, as they struggle to get the barbed sting out of the elasticated sting of mammals, the sting having been designed as a defence against other insects with an exo-skeleton. Basically they are badly designed to fight mammals but try anyway, with fatal consequences to themselves. Of all the other bees, not all of which sting, those that are are, are all quite capable of stinging and surviving. They only sting once, as they loose the barb, but it doesn't kill them.
Well it killed these little effers, as I then poured petrol over their nest and set fire to them all along with the remaining garden waste. But by then the damage was done. My left eye swelling nicely is fortunately not to badly affected by the venom, nor is my right leg or even my stomach. My left arm however is a different story - I must have got the full effect of both stings, and boy does it hurt. My arm has swollen badly, I cannot move it without pain, I can't lift or grip anything - the little Effing Bees have immobilised The Stig.
Of course, I have been stung before as a child, but I don't remember it. I simply remember the treatment - vinegar and brown paper, just like Jack and Jill. The problem being we had emptied Grandpas house, and whilst I know that Ketchup contains a fair amount of vinegar that was all that was left in the cupboard that looked even likely to work - and it just didn't. Piriton works on all insect bites and stings, according to the bottle, and we have gallons of the stuff at home for my daughter Emma's allergies. But none in my car.
So here I sit with aching swollen limb and slightly puffy eye, wondering what is the solution to the bee problem. Communist Russia fell partly for economic reasons, but mostly because their countrymen wanted MTV, Cocoa Cola and Levi jeans. I doubt that the same consumer goods are desired by the average worker bee. So how can we get these aggressive little warmongers to come over to the idea of a peaceful co-existence and capitalism? Well reading a little further about the habits of bees it seems we may not have to. Some bees are "solitary." They live alone, or at least independently in a group of other solitary bees. Solitary bees now outnumber swarming bees according to my source, and the weird thing is, whilst solitary bees may live in a swarm like nest, they don't give a bugger about the other bees around them - it's all for one and every bee for himself. in other words, capitalism.
The bees in question, for those interested in that sort of thing, had a black body, with a yellow band at the arse end and a yellow band around the mid body, quite fuzzy looking rather than hairy, and around 20mm long, with a bullet shaped body. I haven't been able to identify them for sure, so for now they will remain the Epping Bees.
Friday, 24 June 2011
Fair's Fair
I've just had an email from the children's school (is there any other sort? Why did I say children's school? What a stupid expression. Adults schools are called colleges or universities)
Anyway the email warns that next Thursday due to strike action by the teachers my son will not be able to go to school. This is somewhat unfair, not least because his sister will be able to go to school because her teacher is in a different union. I don't get to choose which teacher teaches my son, and because of this he is now being denied an education.
Now don't get me wrong I don't deny the teachers the right to take industrial action. I just think we ought to get compensation. After all, under their rules if I take my child out of class for a day to go on holiday, or perhaps for a once in a life time event (which probably has more educational value than a day in school) then they impose a fine of £50. Per child. For each parent. So to take my son out of school for a day would cost me £100., as they consider this an "unauthorised absence." Unfairly, a single parent would only pay £50 for the same privilege, and a parent who simply lies and says their child is sick, and then goes to Florida with them pays nothing. How is that fair?
So, on this occasion, the teachers want to strike and deny my child a days education. Neither me or my wife have authorised this, so I think we are due £100. After all if I have to take a day off work to look after him unexpectedly, or pay for child care so I can work, there is an additional cost burden placed upon me. Fortunately I am day off midweek, so I can manage, but will I be recompensed by the school opening up on my next weekend off to look after my lad so I can enjoy my day off? I doubt it.
This comes on top of the teachers taking an extra day off a few weeks back for the Royal Wedding. This was because on the actual Royal Wedding Day they already had a day off because it was half term, and they felt cheated that everyone else got a Bank Holiday and they didn't. Well sorry teach, but the armed forces, Police, Fire and Rescue, Ambulance, Hospital staff and many others didn't get the day off either, but we didn't claim a day in lieu. But then, we all managed to get to work in the snow last winter too, whilst teachers stayed at home.......oh what short memories they have. Come to think of it most of us work 40 hour weeks with 30 days annual leave a year, whilst the teaching profession gets at least 65 days a year off, works Monday to Friday 9 until 3 with an hour for lunch, so that's a 5 hour day, or a 25 hour week. Yes I suppose they may have to turn up for the occasional parents evening, and there are books to mark after school, but hey, I often bring work home too. So, I've not a lot of sympathy for their cause.
Unless of course they are willing to div up £200 for each day they strike, then they will have my full support.
Anyway the email warns that next Thursday due to strike action by the teachers my son will not be able to go to school. This is somewhat unfair, not least because his sister will be able to go to school because her teacher is in a different union. I don't get to choose which teacher teaches my son, and because of this he is now being denied an education.
Now don't get me wrong I don't deny the teachers the right to take industrial action. I just think we ought to get compensation. After all, under their rules if I take my child out of class for a day to go on holiday, or perhaps for a once in a life time event (which probably has more educational value than a day in school) then they impose a fine of £50. Per child. For each parent. So to take my son out of school for a day would cost me £100., as they consider this an "unauthorised absence." Unfairly, a single parent would only pay £50 for the same privilege, and a parent who simply lies and says their child is sick, and then goes to Florida with them pays nothing. How is that fair?
So, on this occasion, the teachers want to strike and deny my child a days education. Neither me or my wife have authorised this, so I think we are due £100. After all if I have to take a day off work to look after him unexpectedly, or pay for child care so I can work, there is an additional cost burden placed upon me. Fortunately I am day off midweek, so I can manage, but will I be recompensed by the school opening up on my next weekend off to look after my lad so I can enjoy my day off? I doubt it.
This comes on top of the teachers taking an extra day off a few weeks back for the Royal Wedding. This was because on the actual Royal Wedding Day they already had a day off because it was half term, and they felt cheated that everyone else got a Bank Holiday and they didn't. Well sorry teach, but the armed forces, Police, Fire and Rescue, Ambulance, Hospital staff and many others didn't get the day off either, but we didn't claim a day in lieu. But then, we all managed to get to work in the snow last winter too, whilst teachers stayed at home.......oh what short memories they have. Come to think of it most of us work 40 hour weeks with 30 days annual leave a year, whilst the teaching profession gets at least 65 days a year off, works Monday to Friday 9 until 3 with an hour for lunch, so that's a 5 hour day, or a 25 hour week. Yes I suppose they may have to turn up for the occasional parents evening, and there are books to mark after school, but hey, I often bring work home too. So, I've not a lot of sympathy for their cause.
Unless of course they are willing to div up £200 for each day they strike, then they will have my full support.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
You want to do what?
Imagine if development of the motor car had been delayed 100 years - it could easily have happened. Most technological developments of the last 200 years or so have only come about because of mans intense desire to kill himself, or more accurately other men. The greatest acceleration in invention comes at times of war. And with 2 world wars and numerous squabbles in between we've had plenty to keep th eboffins busy.
But imagine if we had lived in peaceful coexistence for the last 200 years and were still going around on horses and carts. Imagine the difficulties facing the inventor of the modern automobile in these days of health and safety, trying to get it past the patent office and then all the Government Health and Safety types.
"We've reviewed your application and to be honest it's a bit far fetched isn't it? I mean you want to drill holes in the ground to extract oil for a start - that's going to be dangerous and expensive. But the you want to put it in a magic engine, which doesn't have a nice sensible firebox and generates steam, but somehow harnesses the power from an internal combustion process to drive the wheels around? What's that you say? Not a fire as such, nore a series of controlled explosions. How controlled exactly. I'm not sure I like the sound of that. What? Oh, so people will be licenced to use these things. So they will be qualified engineers...? No. What, oh no, we couldn't accept just anyone driving one of these things. They'll have to pass a test? What like a fire fighting certificate or something? No? What just to say they can operate it safely? You call that safe, with all these explosions going on in the engine? And what about the fuel that concerns me. Do I understand you rightly it will have a tankful of this new fangled petroleum which explodes? No that won't do at all. How fast will these things go? Seriously? My that is fast. Doesn't sound at all safe to me. No. no. I'm afraid we can't have you drilling holes in the earth and putting these oil rigs you mentioned out at sea - what if they leak? No I'm afraid we'll have top reject the whole idea. Why don't you do something more sensible like this other applicant. He wants to build a horseless carriage that uses a nice simple electrical motor to drive the wheels. And he says he can build windmills to harness power from the wind, and magical sun collectors to make more electricity. And nobody has to drill holes in anything."
In other words, had it not been for the uprise of the Nazi movement we would now be looking at a brave new world of electrically propelled mass produced green efficient cars. And that would be a good thing. Except that it means we would never have heard the Cherry Bomb exhausts on a '57 Chevy, or the roar of the Veyron, nor the whine of a Morris Minor, or the chug of a Fairway Taxi. Gone in 60 seconds and Bullit would not have been quite the same had the cars involved moved silently. The filling station exploding in Christine would have been a deleted scene, perhaps replaced by a Plymouth Fury crashing into a recharging bollard instead - not the same though is it?
I'm not at all sure what the point of this blog is now, but I seem to have turned it into a motion of thanks to Adolf Hitler for invading Poland, for without that we would all be driving those awful G-Whiz electric golf buggies.
But imagine if we had lived in peaceful coexistence for the last 200 years and were still going around on horses and carts. Imagine the difficulties facing the inventor of the modern automobile in these days of health and safety, trying to get it past the patent office and then all the Government Health and Safety types.
"We've reviewed your application and to be honest it's a bit far fetched isn't it? I mean you want to drill holes in the ground to extract oil for a start - that's going to be dangerous and expensive. But the you want to put it in a magic engine, which doesn't have a nice sensible firebox and generates steam, but somehow harnesses the power from an internal combustion process to drive the wheels around? What's that you say? Not a fire as such, nore a series of controlled explosions. How controlled exactly. I'm not sure I like the sound of that. What? Oh, so people will be licenced to use these things. So they will be qualified engineers...? No. What, oh no, we couldn't accept just anyone driving one of these things. They'll have to pass a test? What like a fire fighting certificate or something? No? What just to say they can operate it safely? You call that safe, with all these explosions going on in the engine? And what about the fuel that concerns me. Do I understand you rightly it will have a tankful of this new fangled petroleum which explodes? No that won't do at all. How fast will these things go? Seriously? My that is fast. Doesn't sound at all safe to me. No. no. I'm afraid we can't have you drilling holes in the earth and putting these oil rigs you mentioned out at sea - what if they leak? No I'm afraid we'll have top reject the whole idea. Why don't you do something more sensible like this other applicant. He wants to build a horseless carriage that uses a nice simple electrical motor to drive the wheels. And he says he can build windmills to harness power from the wind, and magical sun collectors to make more electricity. And nobody has to drill holes in anything."
In other words, had it not been for the uprise of the Nazi movement we would now be looking at a brave new world of electrically propelled mass produced green efficient cars. And that would be a good thing. Except that it means we would never have heard the Cherry Bomb exhausts on a '57 Chevy, or the roar of the Veyron, nor the whine of a Morris Minor, or the chug of a Fairway Taxi. Gone in 60 seconds and Bullit would not have been quite the same had the cars involved moved silently. The filling station exploding in Christine would have been a deleted scene, perhaps replaced by a Plymouth Fury crashing into a recharging bollard instead - not the same though is it?
I'm not at all sure what the point of this blog is now, but I seem to have turned it into a motion of thanks to Adolf Hitler for invading Poland, for without that we would all be driving those awful G-Whiz electric golf buggies.
Friday, 17 June 2011
Ode to my old walking boots
I've been meaning to post this for a while, a tribute to my old leather walking boots, lovingly nicknamed "Shackeltons Boots" by my walking partners. Almost every word is true, the boots were about £20, and did many many miles in the Lakes, Moors, and Dales, even venturing to Scotland and Wales. Boots were made to last in them days - and there was still good eating to be had out of them when I retired them last year. Boot soup anyone?
An ode to Martins Walking Boots – in loving memory of the boots I bought age 17 and which have given me 25 years sterling service covering countless miles.
I bought my boots in ‘86
I think they cost me about £16.96 (+VAT)
A whole weeks wages in those distant years
A worthy investment despite my worse fears
Forget their looks now, they weren’t second hand
They were new off the shelf and they fitted just grand
They were state of the art
With their strong leather upper
And looked ever so smart
With soles made of black rubber
Gaudy yellow laces with go faster striping
And comfortable insoles with anti slip piping
Ben Nevis, Helvelyn, Three Peaks and Sca Fell
They took me to Heaven and often through Hell
In Scotland and Wales they withstood the test
But back home here in Yorkshire they gave me their best
O’er miles on the moors they withstood all weather
And beat off the newcoming light as a feather
Gortex and nylon and new fangled fabrics
No old fashioned laces just Velcro elastics
Never a leak, never a squeak
As they ploughed through each valley
And took on each peak,
Plugging through mud, and splashing through beck,
Resting in t’ pub at the end of the trek
For so many years they served with good grace,
And every adventure they took in their pace
But time marched on, they now look out of place
Whilst their modern equivalents look like they’re from space
Yes fashions do change and they are wearing down
The soles hold no grip and they’re no longer brown
The leather is faded, the stitching is split
starting to decay, walking through so much shit
the soles are so thin after so many miles
and the look of my boots raises so many smiles
Comments about visiting the Antiques Roadshow
“They’ll be worth something, someday, to someone you know!”
Yes, the boots I admit have now seen better days
And If I can see clear through my rose tinted haze
I’ll admit that they’re heavy and clumsy and old
But they really have proved their weights worth in gold
Because trust me on this one, brothers and sisters,
In all of those miles they only once gave me blisters!
The time has come now to lay them to rest
So please get me new ones made of Gortex
Monday, 13 June 2011
Gutters and Drains
It's a dirty job but someone has to do it. I speak of none other than the annual gutter and drain clearance. We'll begin with the gutters. Over the period of a year someone sneaks up on my roof and empties a bucket of compost into my gutters. Why he does this I have no idea, but once a year I go up there, clinging for dear life on ladder that sways in the wind, one handed with a bucket in the other, and I remove the soil and fermenting compost from the gutter and downpipes. I can only assume that someone fills it back up for me because I can;t come up with a reasonable explanation of how it arrives there otherwise. Some will be wind borne debris, I'll grant that, and some is lichen and moss which grows profusely on the concrete roof tiles. Some will be the result of bird droppings. But are birds responsible for carrying bits of grit and gravel up there? No, I sternly believe someone comes along one night, plugs up the downpipes, takes a shit in the gutter and deposits leaves, compost and gravel over the roof.
Clearing the gutters, whilst a messy job, is at least not too unpleasant. The decaying compost might pong a bit, but it washes off relatively easily and the smell doesn't cling. The worse that can happen is a face full of water from the hosepipe as i flush the guttering.
Dealing with the drains is a different matter.
Like all houses we have two systems of drainage, one for the guttering and one for the household waste water, the so called "grey" water. There is the third of course which is sewage but I refuse to even go there and so far luckily the need hasn't arisen.
The guttering drains are unpleasant but no so bad - a bit of grit and gravel off the drive gets into the catch trap, but is easily fished out, and a quick squirt through with the hosepipe ensures things run smoothly.
No it is the household drains from the bath and sinks that causes the biggest headache. And the biggest stink.
We have lived in this house for nearly 14 years now and throughout that time my wife has insisted on only Fairy liquid for washing up. I would be happy with ASDA's own, but she insists on Fairy, so Fairy it is. Compromise in our house means doing what she says. Fairy, as we all know from the adverts, dissolves grease on contact. So much so that Robbie Coltrane was even able to clean his motorcycle engine parts in his Grannies sink using Fairy. So you wold expect that after 14 years our drains would be clean and fresh and free of any grease contamination at all. No.No No.
What Fairy does is mix itself with grease then congeals into a cheese like substance which slowly blocks the drain. The cheese analogy doesn't end there either, as it has the same consistency as a good Wensleydale. All cheese have a unique smell, and so does this stuff. Imagine the worse smell you can think of and you are not close. I drive past the sewage works every day, and I could have bathed in that afterwards and come out fresher smelling. I do not exaggerate when I say this smell came from the very armpits of Beelzebub himself. I am an enlightened 21st century father - I even changed my kids first nappies, the green ones and have to say this was worse.
Now you may laugh at what I did next, I certainly didn't. Well not at the time anyway. Having had to grapple with this highly toxic gunge before, I know that once it is on the skin the smell remains forever. Determined not to have to handle it I used a Jet washer to try and blast the drain clear. May I suggest you do not try this at home?
Grease, foul cheese smelling grease, water from the cesspits of a rock concert and accumulated rotted household waste backfired all over me. It was in my face, in my hair and spread all over my T shirt and Jeans, which I would now burn where it not for the fear of the toxic gases they might emit. To make matters worse all the jet washer had done was blow back a loose layer of shit off the top of the blockage beneath, which remained resolutely compacted in place. I had to resort to removing it by hand, and by hand it was with no rubber gloves to be found about the house. Fighting back the urge to vomit, which to be honest would have sweetened the smell somewhat I lunged in and removed handful after handful of cheesy greasy Fairy Liquid amalgam. Evenutually after filling half a carrier bag with this mulch, and a further jet washing, much boiling water and a bottle of not very environmentally friendly chemical cleaner we now have a kitchen drain which smells much sweeter and which runs freely for the first time in a long while.
Having disposed of the devils excrement I then tried to wash off the stink. I use a brand of shower gel which boasts that it contains 8899 leaves of mint extract in every bottle, and which normally leaves me feeling clean and fresh. Why the didn't put one extra mint leaf in and round it off to 8900 I don't know. Or or heavens sake why not use 9000 and have done? That's by the by though. This normally clears blood sweat and tyres (that's the sort of lifestyle I lead) but it didn't touch this stink, even after 30 minutes soaking in the bath followed by a shower. This Minty shower gel is the cosmetic equivalent of PAVA spray - get it anywhere near your eyes and you know about it. It tingles all over your body, as it you are being shot blasted, but it had no effect on the Devils cheese. Finally I hit on the solution by accident after I accidentally snorted some of the gel.
I can't see, my throat is burning, but the only thing I can smell now is mint. I probably still smell like a drain, a I'm sure my family will affirm later, but I don't smell it, and I no longer care.
Clearing the gutters, whilst a messy job, is at least not too unpleasant. The decaying compost might pong a bit, but it washes off relatively easily and the smell doesn't cling. The worse that can happen is a face full of water from the hosepipe as i flush the guttering.
Dealing with the drains is a different matter.
Like all houses we have two systems of drainage, one for the guttering and one for the household waste water, the so called "grey" water. There is the third of course which is sewage but I refuse to even go there and so far luckily the need hasn't arisen.
The guttering drains are unpleasant but no so bad - a bit of grit and gravel off the drive gets into the catch trap, but is easily fished out, and a quick squirt through with the hosepipe ensures things run smoothly.
No it is the household drains from the bath and sinks that causes the biggest headache. And the biggest stink.
We have lived in this house for nearly 14 years now and throughout that time my wife has insisted on only Fairy liquid for washing up. I would be happy with ASDA's own, but she insists on Fairy, so Fairy it is. Compromise in our house means doing what she says. Fairy, as we all know from the adverts, dissolves grease on contact. So much so that Robbie Coltrane was even able to clean his motorcycle engine parts in his Grannies sink using Fairy. So you wold expect that after 14 years our drains would be clean and fresh and free of any grease contamination at all. No.No No.
What Fairy does is mix itself with grease then congeals into a cheese like substance which slowly blocks the drain. The cheese analogy doesn't end there either, as it has the same consistency as a good Wensleydale. All cheese have a unique smell, and so does this stuff. Imagine the worse smell you can think of and you are not close. I drive past the sewage works every day, and I could have bathed in that afterwards and come out fresher smelling. I do not exaggerate when I say this smell came from the very armpits of Beelzebub himself. I am an enlightened 21st century father - I even changed my kids first nappies, the green ones and have to say this was worse.
Now you may laugh at what I did next, I certainly didn't. Well not at the time anyway. Having had to grapple with this highly toxic gunge before, I know that once it is on the skin the smell remains forever. Determined not to have to handle it I used a Jet washer to try and blast the drain clear. May I suggest you do not try this at home?
Grease, foul cheese smelling grease, water from the cesspits of a rock concert and accumulated rotted household waste backfired all over me. It was in my face, in my hair and spread all over my T shirt and Jeans, which I would now burn where it not for the fear of the toxic gases they might emit. To make matters worse all the jet washer had done was blow back a loose layer of shit off the top of the blockage beneath, which remained resolutely compacted in place. I had to resort to removing it by hand, and by hand it was with no rubber gloves to be found about the house. Fighting back the urge to vomit, which to be honest would have sweetened the smell somewhat I lunged in and removed handful after handful of cheesy greasy Fairy Liquid amalgam. Evenutually after filling half a carrier bag with this mulch, and a further jet washing, much boiling water and a bottle of not very environmentally friendly chemical cleaner we now have a kitchen drain which smells much sweeter and which runs freely for the first time in a long while.
Having disposed of the devils excrement I then tried to wash off the stink. I use a brand of shower gel which boasts that it contains 8899 leaves of mint extract in every bottle, and which normally leaves me feeling clean and fresh. Why the didn't put one extra mint leaf in and round it off to 8900 I don't know. Or or heavens sake why not use 9000 and have done? That's by the by though. This normally clears blood sweat and tyres (that's the sort of lifestyle I lead) but it didn't touch this stink, even after 30 minutes soaking in the bath followed by a shower. This Minty shower gel is the cosmetic equivalent of PAVA spray - get it anywhere near your eyes and you know about it. It tingles all over your body, as it you are being shot blasted, but it had no effect on the Devils cheese. Finally I hit on the solution by accident after I accidentally snorted some of the gel.
I can't see, my throat is burning, but the only thing I can smell now is mint. I probably still smell like a drain, a I'm sure my family will affirm later, but I don't smell it, and I no longer care.
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