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.
Thursday, 15 November 2012
Thursday, 27 September 2012
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.
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.
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| Dave "Greendale" Selby, Cheif complainer, water diviner and Navigator. |
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Paul "Nelson/PK" Kitson Entertainments Officer, Pacemaker and Hygiene Complaints Coordinator
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| 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..
Monday, 10 September 2012
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!
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
"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.
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.
Saturday, 9 June 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
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...........
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...........
Thursday, 24 May 2012
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?
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| Me and I, photograph by myself, at the trig point of Buckden Pike |
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.
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