I have just saved 22% off my car insurance premium. According to the perceived wisdom of television adverts I should now be surfing on a tropical island, or singing Karaoke in a Las Vegas Casino, and feeling “EPIC”
Well, I must have done something wrong, because although I feel slightly relieved that I have saved £65, I am not any richer in a real folding pound notes sense of the word. I have less of an overdraft than I might otherwise have had, but I can’t say I feel like celebrating it. I don’t feel at all “Money Supermarket.com” but that’s probably because I didn’t involve them. Nor did I “Go Compare” because the thought of that mustachioed pseudo-opera singing prat being used as the “on hold” music put me right off. I used a rival price comparison website who’s name might sound similar to compare the meerkat, but I won’t qualify for a cuddly Sergei meerkat toy, as I didn’t take up their quote either.
Instead I used the lowest on line quote to browbeat my current insurer and knock down their quote until it was less than that, getting it down to under £200 fully comp with wife and I to drive, business use included, and in my line of business that’s quite an achievement in itself. Of course I did have to chop out the free courtesy car, but as that is generally a pointless Ford Ka or similar that I cannot physically fit in due to my height, and also possibly my weight, then that’s no great shakes. I’ d just hire a car or buy a banger if push came to crunch.
So I should feel epic, but I don’t. I do however feel ever so slightly smug. And at £200 I’ll settle for that.
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Monday, 26 March 2012
Apology
From time to time I post articles here which some might find offensive, opinionated, arrogant, rude, stupid, inflammatory, ill informed, racist, sexist, homophobic, dwarfist, fattiest, and so forth etc etc. Setting aside the issue that you are an adult and can make your own decisions, and you don't have to read them, there is still the possibility that someone somewhere might get upset about this.
So I would like to take this opportunity to apologise.
I'm sorry that you find me offensive, opinionated, arrogant, rude, stupid, inflammatory, ill informed, racist, sexist, homophobic, dwarfist, fattiest, and so forth etc etc.
No one else believes a word I say.
So I would like to take this opportunity to apologise.
I'm sorry that you find me offensive, opinionated, arrogant, rude, stupid, inflammatory, ill informed, racist, sexist, homophobic, dwarfist, fattiest, and so forth etc etc.
No one else believes a word I say.
Monday, 19 March 2012
Roads work - Road Works
So Mr Cameron thinks it will be a good idea if we privatise more roads to encourage them being maintained up to standard and to prevent the infrastructure from deteriorating and falling behind the rest of Europe.
On the face of it this is not a bad suggestion, as the Government both locally and nationally has failed to maintain the standards for many years. In Hull we have some immaculately maintained speed bumps with potholed roads either side. It is actually possible to drive over the speed humps faster than on the main carriageway without loss of comfort or risk of damage to your car. I fear we have already fallen well behind the standard of European roads, partly because we are crap at everything we do, but mostly because we pay much more into the EU than we get out of it, and not the other way round, like Spain for example, who have many fine new roads built at our expense over recent decades.
On Holiday in Germany a couple of years back I was warned on the day I arrived at the hotel that there would be roadworks going on through the night. And there was. For one night only. An army of workmen large enough to invade Austria arrived with many large and noisy machines and in the space of six hours they stripped the old road surface off, repaired the substructure relayed the surface, painted new lines, and installed a whole host of new signs. Then they buggered off to do the same somewhere else the next night. The road was closed for no more than six hours from start to finish. Had that been English workers it would have taken six months. Why? Health and Safety I suspect has something to do with it, and unions possibly.
The main A1033 has had evening closures for about three weeks now, and so far as I can tell all they have done is patch a few bits of tarmac before a pedestrian crossing and lay a few block pavers around the roundabout at Marfleet. And that didn't need doing. There's a bit further along that looks as though it has been used for a ploughing competition, then patched with Wrigleys Spearmint and rolled flat with a corrugated dustbin - i.e. it's not flat. The road is returning to the state it was in before a very expensive redevelopment from a dangerous 4 lane single carriageway a few years back into the dangerous dual carriageway it is today. My Dad, a driving instructor, swore that if he closed his eyes, he could tell his pupils exactly where they were by using the bumps and potholes in the road as a system of braille. It used to frighten the life out of them if he was driving, but strangely he never ever crashed.
So, Mr Cameron's idea has some merits, using private investment to repair our roads. Although he seems to want to use my pension to do it - the pensions he has just increased my contributions for, remember. This being the case, if I literally do own the road, then I expect an express lane with no speed limit, no traffic lights, no caravans or pedestrians, or cyclists, or - well no one else basically.
The problem is, if they spend my pension, and private investment money on the roads they will want some sort of return - they will become toll roads.
Well, let's just think about this shall we. I already paid tax in the form of income tax when I earned the money to buy a car, then I paid VAT on the car I bought. (If I had been able to afford a brand new one I would have doubtless paid extra purchase tax too) Then before I can drive the car on the road I pay Vehicle Excise Duty - otherwise known as road tax. Road tax is of course supposed to fund road maintenance, bu the treasury seem to have forgotten that and spent the money on something else, wars, the unemployed, overseas aid, Spanish motorways.....
Having paid several taxes already it is then time to drive the car. This involves buying petrol, or diesel, both of which you pay lots of tax on, and a tax on the tax in the form of some more VAT. This could be spent on road maintenance, but the Government wisely spend sit on more Spanish motorways, lesbian outreach centres, Health and Safety, another War, some overseas aid for the Indians (second fastest growing economy in the world) etc etc. In short, very little of the many tax pounds you have so far paid to drive a car on the road have gone towards roads.
Mr Cameron believes that those who use the roads most should pay more. A laudable argument. But they do already. Because, unless it has escaped his notice, you can't use the car without fuel, and you pay for more fuel the more you use the roads, thereby paying more tax. So don't make a lame excuse to introduce more road charging by pretending it's doing some sort of favour to any of us and taxing only the rich. Because it isn't, and it won't.
Freedom of movement is essential in a free country. The ability to get to work is essential in a free economy. And with 50% of my pay already being deducted in on tax or another, and 20% of the remainder taken in VAT I have precious little left to spend. Mr Cameron, don't price me off the road, and don;t price me out of work.
On the face of it this is not a bad suggestion, as the Government both locally and nationally has failed to maintain the standards for many years. In Hull we have some immaculately maintained speed bumps with potholed roads either side. It is actually possible to drive over the speed humps faster than on the main carriageway without loss of comfort or risk of damage to your car. I fear we have already fallen well behind the standard of European roads, partly because we are crap at everything we do, but mostly because we pay much more into the EU than we get out of it, and not the other way round, like Spain for example, who have many fine new roads built at our expense over recent decades.
On Holiday in Germany a couple of years back I was warned on the day I arrived at the hotel that there would be roadworks going on through the night. And there was. For one night only. An army of workmen large enough to invade Austria arrived with many large and noisy machines and in the space of six hours they stripped the old road surface off, repaired the substructure relayed the surface, painted new lines, and installed a whole host of new signs. Then they buggered off to do the same somewhere else the next night. The road was closed for no more than six hours from start to finish. Had that been English workers it would have taken six months. Why? Health and Safety I suspect has something to do with it, and unions possibly.
The main A1033 has had evening closures for about three weeks now, and so far as I can tell all they have done is patch a few bits of tarmac before a pedestrian crossing and lay a few block pavers around the roundabout at Marfleet. And that didn't need doing. There's a bit further along that looks as though it has been used for a ploughing competition, then patched with Wrigleys Spearmint and rolled flat with a corrugated dustbin - i.e. it's not flat. The road is returning to the state it was in before a very expensive redevelopment from a dangerous 4 lane single carriageway a few years back into the dangerous dual carriageway it is today. My Dad, a driving instructor, swore that if he closed his eyes, he could tell his pupils exactly where they were by using the bumps and potholes in the road as a system of braille. It used to frighten the life out of them if he was driving, but strangely he never ever crashed.
So, Mr Cameron's idea has some merits, using private investment to repair our roads. Although he seems to want to use my pension to do it - the pensions he has just increased my contributions for, remember. This being the case, if I literally do own the road, then I expect an express lane with no speed limit, no traffic lights, no caravans or pedestrians, or cyclists, or - well no one else basically.
The problem is, if they spend my pension, and private investment money on the roads they will want some sort of return - they will become toll roads.
Well, let's just think about this shall we. I already paid tax in the form of income tax when I earned the money to buy a car, then I paid VAT on the car I bought. (If I had been able to afford a brand new one I would have doubtless paid extra purchase tax too) Then before I can drive the car on the road I pay Vehicle Excise Duty - otherwise known as road tax. Road tax is of course supposed to fund road maintenance, bu the treasury seem to have forgotten that and spent the money on something else, wars, the unemployed, overseas aid, Spanish motorways.....
Having paid several taxes already it is then time to drive the car. This involves buying petrol, or diesel, both of which you pay lots of tax on, and a tax on the tax in the form of some more VAT. This could be spent on road maintenance, but the Government wisely spend sit on more Spanish motorways, lesbian outreach centres, Health and Safety, another War, some overseas aid for the Indians (second fastest growing economy in the world) etc etc. In short, very little of the many tax pounds you have so far paid to drive a car on the road have gone towards roads.
Mr Cameron believes that those who use the roads most should pay more. A laudable argument. But they do already. Because, unless it has escaped his notice, you can't use the car without fuel, and you pay for more fuel the more you use the roads, thereby paying more tax. So don't make a lame excuse to introduce more road charging by pretending it's doing some sort of favour to any of us and taxing only the rich. Because it isn't, and it won't.
Freedom of movement is essential in a free country. The ability to get to work is essential in a free economy. And with 50% of my pay already being deducted in on tax or another, and 20% of the remainder taken in VAT I have precious little left to spend. Mr Cameron, don't price me off the road, and don;t price me out of work.
Friday, 16 March 2012
That's it my memory has gone.
I am starting to feel my age. Little knocks, bumps and bruises incurred in the course of my job and daily life that I used to shrug off in no time are now affecting me long term. Example, a cut on my arm incurred when I fell on a ladder (yes, on, not off - that's the way my life goes) has scarred and left permanent marks, which when I was younger would have just disappeared. Example - Shingles has left me with aching arm and shoulder and neck pain two weeks after I returned to work. This wouldn't have happened in my younger days. Smacking my funny bone on the car door earlier today wouldn't have left a big bruise, swelling and what feels like a loose bit of bone floating about in there a few years back. Driving home from work in the dark I found myself struggling to read the name of a road I was passing, which was a double problem - not only was I struggling to read it without my reading glasses, but I was also struggling to remember the name of it, even thoguh I drive past the same road every day.
So now I have to admit it - my memory is going. This is proven by this post tonight, because as I sat down to eat my Fish and Chips at work, a rare treat in these days of watching the weight, I had a "Eureka" moment during the conversation with work colleagues, something was mentioned which I though would make a great topic for tonights blog. It was a brillaint subject, witty, humourous, dazzling funny and would be well written and topical. Sadly, I now have no idea what the hell it was. So you have to read this drivel instead.
My memory it seems is slowly but surely going south, which means I may have to drive to Lincoln before I remember I live just outside of Hull. I find myself going downstairs from my office three or four times wondering what I went down for when I get there, remembering things that I should have done whilst there, but knowing with that nagging certaintly, that whislt I have remembered those things , they were not THE thing I went down for. On a positive side that keeps me physically fit, running up and down the stairs, but it is a relief mentally when I eventually remember that what I went down for in the first place was my reading glasses, but by the time I get back up stairs I forget what I needed them to read.
There are of course worse things in life than loosing your memory. Loosing your eyesight, lack of memory, lack of mobilty and loosing you memory being just three of them.
But when you go home to the wrong house that you haven't lived in for fourteen years, and find your mobile phone in the fridge you know things are going downhill. Forty may well be the new thirty, but thirty isn't what it used to be. At least , not how I remember it.
So now I have to admit it - my memory is going. This is proven by this post tonight, because as I sat down to eat my Fish and Chips at work, a rare treat in these days of watching the weight, I had a "Eureka" moment during the conversation with work colleagues, something was mentioned which I though would make a great topic for tonights blog. It was a brillaint subject, witty, humourous, dazzling funny and would be well written and topical. Sadly, I now have no idea what the hell it was. So you have to read this drivel instead.
My memory it seems is slowly but surely going south, which means I may have to drive to Lincoln before I remember I live just outside of Hull. I find myself going downstairs from my office three or four times wondering what I went down for when I get there, remembering things that I should have done whilst there, but knowing with that nagging certaintly, that whislt I have remembered those things , they were not THE thing I went down for. On a positive side that keeps me physically fit, running up and down the stairs, but it is a relief mentally when I eventually remember that what I went down for in the first place was my reading glasses, but by the time I get back up stairs I forget what I needed them to read.
There are of course worse things in life than loosing your memory. Loosing your eyesight, lack of memory, lack of mobilty and loosing you memory being just three of them.
But when you go home to the wrong house that you haven't lived in for fourteen years, and find your mobile phone in the fridge you know things are going downhill. Forty may well be the new thirty, but thirty isn't what it used to be. At least , not how I remember it.
Friday, 9 March 2012
Feeling unwell? - see an internet.
I have recent been unwell. Not "out of sorts" or "a little bit under the weather" or even suffering from "a low mood." No I was proper poorly, with pain and everything.
This started with what I at first suspected to be a mere pulled muscle with a nagging dull pain in my left shoulder, but after a couple of days it was spreading up into my neck and down my arm. At the same time I noticed the spreading pain I also noticed what looked like an infected spot on my shoulder, with a raised swollen area around it which developed into a rash. Being a man I had two options, ignore it, or admit I had cancer. I chose to ignore it. Some people pop pills like kids eat smarties, but I rarely resort to painkillers, and the pain was tolerable but inconvenient. Maybe I have a high pain threshold, I don't know but I was coping, and not really concerned until I lost the feeling in my fingers and couldn't really lift my arm, plus my head was starting to feel to heavy for my neck to support. Lying in bed that night it occurred to me that the swollen area, which had now developed into a rash spreading round to my chest, and the pain, might be related and in a moment of epiphany I realised I had shingles. How I knew this I am uncertain, it just came to me as I lay in bed in pain and unable to sleep.
First thing when I woke up I got on the internet and looked up Shingles, and after a few misguided moments looking at slate roof tiles I found what I was looking for. My symptoms fit perfectly. Now I am wary about using the internet as a diagnostic tool and wouldn't recommend it to anyone of a nervous disposition, because if you are easily lead your symptoms can fit any condition and you will convince yourself you will die before lunchtime. But as a sort of guideline to see if it is worth seeing the doctor or not, or whether you should skip the middle man and get straight onto the funeral directors, it is useful.
More useful than it might seem in fact, because it is much more accessible than a doctor.
I live in a reasonable size village which operates a satellite surgery to the main practice in the nearest market town. The satellite surgery serves our village and several smaller villages nearby, perhaps 2000 to 3000 patients at a guess. There is a surgery held there each weekday morning except for when I am ill, which is very rarely, so the doctor must have some sort of precognitive power to know when I may need him so he knows to take the day off. Not a problem, I drive, and the main surgery is only 7 miles away, with many doctors, who can't possibly all take the same day off.
Appointments are arranged by telephone, or possibly by telepathy, as they are all fully booked when you ring for an appointment. The earliest they can fit you in is in three days time. How are you supposed to know you will be ill three days in advance? If I had gone when my symptoms first presented themselves I'd have been sent home with a pulled muscle. And felt to feel small, like a whingeing time waster.
Having read my online interweb doctors advice i knew I ought to seek treatment within 72 hours, so I needed an appointment sooner, and asked if I could come in and wait for a cancellation, or on the off chance a doctor might see me if he saw my condition. no problem, I could come to the emergency surgery. Excuse me? So what you are saying then is that all the people who have taken up the appointments don't really need to see the doctor - they are just popping in for a chat? The surgery should only be for people who are ill surely? And you should score an appointment on a merit basis. If you saw the doctor only last week, that should be it, you should have to wait a month until you qualify for another appointment. I last saw my Doctor in 2003, and that was only to give him a speeding ticket, so I should qualify for an immediate appointment......... although thinking about it maybe that's why I have such difficulties - he's blacklisted me.
Anyway, I booked an "emergency" appointment and went and sat amongst all the fat elderly ladies who smelled of wee, cats or cat wee and who all looked remarkably like fortune tellers, which explains how they knew three days ago they needed an appointment. "Hello doctor, I seem to be suffering from a touch of Clairvoyancy......"
Eventually, after all the young mums had jumped the queue by making their infants cry to gain sympathy I got to see a doctor. He was a nice chap, possibly Asian or Indian but a third or fourth generation migrant I suspect and he spoke English without a trace of an accent, which was refreshing. The last thing you need when you are ill is to have to speak to your doctor through an interpreter. He even had the traditional doctors manner "What seems to be the problem?" Well, you're the doctor, you tell me. I gave him a brief synopsis of my symptoms and told him I had shingles. He agreed. Then he told me I was too late to get any treatment and sent me home. Although first he asked what I had been taking for the pain. He seemed impressed when I told him I hadn't taken anything. And he suggested paracetamol or Ibuprofen. This was a step forward for medical science so far as I was concerned because my childhood doctor always prescribed me Penicillin, no matter what the complaint. Ironically it turns out I am allergic to Penicillin, so he was killing me with kindness. Or perhaps not - I seem to remember he drove a fast SAAB, so maybe he was just trying to safeguard his licence.
So in summary, having paid many many pounds in tax to fund the NHS it seems I am outranked in my needs for service by a geriatric palm reader, and that access to an internet is more valuable to me than a man who spent at least seven years at university studying medicine.
I can recommend http://www.patient.co.uk/ because that's the website used by the doctor. And to think it took seven years for him to learn how to use it, and I found it within three minutes. I reckon that makes me a surgeon.
This started with what I at first suspected to be a mere pulled muscle with a nagging dull pain in my left shoulder, but after a couple of days it was spreading up into my neck and down my arm. At the same time I noticed the spreading pain I also noticed what looked like an infected spot on my shoulder, with a raised swollen area around it which developed into a rash. Being a man I had two options, ignore it, or admit I had cancer. I chose to ignore it. Some people pop pills like kids eat smarties, but I rarely resort to painkillers, and the pain was tolerable but inconvenient. Maybe I have a high pain threshold, I don't know but I was coping, and not really concerned until I lost the feeling in my fingers and couldn't really lift my arm, plus my head was starting to feel to heavy for my neck to support. Lying in bed that night it occurred to me that the swollen area, which had now developed into a rash spreading round to my chest, and the pain, might be related and in a moment of epiphany I realised I had shingles. How I knew this I am uncertain, it just came to me as I lay in bed in pain and unable to sleep.
First thing when I woke up I got on the internet and looked up Shingles, and after a few misguided moments looking at slate roof tiles I found what I was looking for. My symptoms fit perfectly. Now I am wary about using the internet as a diagnostic tool and wouldn't recommend it to anyone of a nervous disposition, because if you are easily lead your symptoms can fit any condition and you will convince yourself you will die before lunchtime. But as a sort of guideline to see if it is worth seeing the doctor or not, or whether you should skip the middle man and get straight onto the funeral directors, it is useful.
More useful than it might seem in fact, because it is much more accessible than a doctor.
I live in a reasonable size village which operates a satellite surgery to the main practice in the nearest market town. The satellite surgery serves our village and several smaller villages nearby, perhaps 2000 to 3000 patients at a guess. There is a surgery held there each weekday morning except for when I am ill, which is very rarely, so the doctor must have some sort of precognitive power to know when I may need him so he knows to take the day off. Not a problem, I drive, and the main surgery is only 7 miles away, with many doctors, who can't possibly all take the same day off.
Appointments are arranged by telephone, or possibly by telepathy, as they are all fully booked when you ring for an appointment. The earliest they can fit you in is in three days time. How are you supposed to know you will be ill three days in advance? If I had gone when my symptoms first presented themselves I'd have been sent home with a pulled muscle. And felt to feel small, like a whingeing time waster.
Having read my online interweb doctors advice i knew I ought to seek treatment within 72 hours, so I needed an appointment sooner, and asked if I could come in and wait for a cancellation, or on the off chance a doctor might see me if he saw my condition. no problem, I could come to the emergency surgery. Excuse me? So what you are saying then is that all the people who have taken up the appointments don't really need to see the doctor - they are just popping in for a chat? The surgery should only be for people who are ill surely? And you should score an appointment on a merit basis. If you saw the doctor only last week, that should be it, you should have to wait a month until you qualify for another appointment. I last saw my Doctor in 2003, and that was only to give him a speeding ticket, so I should qualify for an immediate appointment......... although thinking about it maybe that's why I have such difficulties - he's blacklisted me.
Anyway, I booked an "emergency" appointment and went and sat amongst all the fat elderly ladies who smelled of wee, cats or cat wee and who all looked remarkably like fortune tellers, which explains how they knew three days ago they needed an appointment. "Hello doctor, I seem to be suffering from a touch of Clairvoyancy......"
Eventually, after all the young mums had jumped the queue by making their infants cry to gain sympathy I got to see a doctor. He was a nice chap, possibly Asian or Indian but a third or fourth generation migrant I suspect and he spoke English without a trace of an accent, which was refreshing. The last thing you need when you are ill is to have to speak to your doctor through an interpreter. He even had the traditional doctors manner "What seems to be the problem?" Well, you're the doctor, you tell me. I gave him a brief synopsis of my symptoms and told him I had shingles. He agreed. Then he told me I was too late to get any treatment and sent me home. Although first he asked what I had been taking for the pain. He seemed impressed when I told him I hadn't taken anything. And he suggested paracetamol or Ibuprofen. This was a step forward for medical science so far as I was concerned because my childhood doctor always prescribed me Penicillin, no matter what the complaint. Ironically it turns out I am allergic to Penicillin, so he was killing me with kindness. Or perhaps not - I seem to remember he drove a fast SAAB, so maybe he was just trying to safeguard his licence.
So in summary, having paid many many pounds in tax to fund the NHS it seems I am outranked in my needs for service by a geriatric palm reader, and that access to an internet is more valuable to me than a man who spent at least seven years at university studying medicine.
I can recommend http://www.patient.co.uk/ because that's the website used by the doctor. And to think it took seven years for him to learn how to use it, and I found it within three minutes. I reckon that makes me a surgeon.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Risk averse?
Are we becoming a nation of Dorothys? There was a time when men were real men, and women were real women. And real men were real frightened of real women.
Now it seems that real men are on the decline.
I consider myself to be a real man. I am not afraid, for example, to go downstairs in the dead of night, to investigate a strange noise, wearing nothing but my underpants, and armed with an ineffective makeshift weapon picked up on the way, usually a soft toy or a bedside lamp or something, knowing that armed burglars may await me. But I fear I am in the minority.
I blame women for this. Because whilst they all want real men to keep them safe and secure, they don't want us to eat red meat, drink beer or fart, which are basic real man ingredients. They also don't want us to take risks, which is what real men do. Eating meat is what distinguishes us from the animals. Well the vegetarian animals at least. Cows and sheep are never going to be feared in the same way as their meat eating cousins Lions and Tigers etc. Eating red meat is basically a man thing - it is risky, particularly if not cooked properly, as in when we barbeque it, rather than letting a woman cook it properly. It could lead to heart attacks and stuff, but real men don't fear such minor trivialities - better to burn out than to fade away.
Women's attitude is best demonstrated in their attitude to child safety. I have two children, a boy child and a girl child. The girl child likes fluffy things, pink, warmness, dressing up, playing with dolls and all the traditional sort of girly things that girls do. This is normal and was not forced upon her - it's her choice. If in later life she chooses to ride a motorcycle, that will be her choice too. She'll ride it over my dead body, and having seen her on a cycle, this is highly likely, but it will be her choice, that's the point.
The boy child, conversely, like doing traditionally boy child type things. He likes mud, cycling, climbing trees, being sick, farting, sausages, etc etc. This is also good. It is normal.
However, woman does not like this. She realises that climbing trees is risky. Therefore she instructs man to make the trees safe so that boy child cannot harm himself. Put a fence around it, cut off the lower branches or better still cut it down altogether. There are apples on the top of the tree, which will tempt small boy child to climb it - remove all the apples. (this is on the verge of getting biblical now so I will stop)
Man however has a different attitude. Climb the tree he says. Why? Because it's there. You will do one of three things. You will learn how to climb trees, you will learn how to fall out of trees or you will learn not to climb trees. You cannot avoid risk and be a man. Man thrives on risk. This is important. Because without that simple knowledge, you will turn into a Dorothy. And you will surely be stabbed in your bed by a burglar.
Now it seems that real men are on the decline.
I consider myself to be a real man. I am not afraid, for example, to go downstairs in the dead of night, to investigate a strange noise, wearing nothing but my underpants, and armed with an ineffective makeshift weapon picked up on the way, usually a soft toy or a bedside lamp or something, knowing that armed burglars may await me. But I fear I am in the minority.
I blame women for this. Because whilst they all want real men to keep them safe and secure, they don't want us to eat red meat, drink beer or fart, which are basic real man ingredients. They also don't want us to take risks, which is what real men do. Eating meat is what distinguishes us from the animals. Well the vegetarian animals at least. Cows and sheep are never going to be feared in the same way as their meat eating cousins Lions and Tigers etc. Eating red meat is basically a man thing - it is risky, particularly if not cooked properly, as in when we barbeque it, rather than letting a woman cook it properly. It could lead to heart attacks and stuff, but real men don't fear such minor trivialities - better to burn out than to fade away.
Women's attitude is best demonstrated in their attitude to child safety. I have two children, a boy child and a girl child. The girl child likes fluffy things, pink, warmness, dressing up, playing with dolls and all the traditional sort of girly things that girls do. This is normal and was not forced upon her - it's her choice. If in later life she chooses to ride a motorcycle, that will be her choice too. She'll ride it over my dead body, and having seen her on a cycle, this is highly likely, but it will be her choice, that's the point.
The boy child, conversely, like doing traditionally boy child type things. He likes mud, cycling, climbing trees, being sick, farting, sausages, etc etc. This is also good. It is normal.
However, woman does not like this. She realises that climbing trees is risky. Therefore she instructs man to make the trees safe so that boy child cannot harm himself. Put a fence around it, cut off the lower branches or better still cut it down altogether. There are apples on the top of the tree, which will tempt small boy child to climb it - remove all the apples. (this is on the verge of getting biblical now so I will stop)
Man however has a different attitude. Climb the tree he says. Why? Because it's there. You will do one of three things. You will learn how to climb trees, you will learn how to fall out of trees or you will learn not to climb trees. You cannot avoid risk and be a man. Man thrives on risk. This is important. Because without that simple knowledge, you will turn into a Dorothy. And you will surely be stabbed in your bed by a burglar.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
One down, thirty nine to go
One down and thirty nine to go. Saturday 18th February was the day to take on Whernside.
Whernside held no terror for me, having walked it several times now, it is the most honest of the Three Yorkshire Peaks, with a steady climb all the way up and only a couple of deceitful false summits to catch out the unknowing. Two thing made it interesting this time though, the weather and some small children on the team to add to the fun.
We shall start the tale from the beginning however; as always there is comedic value to the trip.
The team comprised of myself, with son Thomas (9) already a Whernside veteran and daughter Emma (12) joining us for the first time, with regular walking partner Dave Selby, his better and worse half Louise, and Dave's daughter Charlotte (7) making her first challenge at Whernside – in fact her first real distance walk, which I am happy to say she took in her stride (pun intended)
Accommodation was our regular bunk barn in Ingleton, which I will not name for reasons which will become clear shortly. The accommodation was excellent as always, homely, reasonably warm (for reasons which will become clear shortly) and near to local amenities. Taking the smaller of the two available bunk barns meant our group was necessarily limited to the six above, and as it was a half term break for the kids it meant other regular walkers who normally join us were not invited – no slight intended on you guys, but this time there was no room.
The trip started with children picked up from their respective schools with the two halves of the team driving up to Ingleton to meet at the bunk barn, plan “A” being Fish and Chips on arrival. Dave favoured the M62 and A1M route through Skipton on the A65, whilst I went M62 to Bradford, then up to Skipton via Keighley, thereby missing out York and Harrogate on the alternative routes, both being horribly bottle necked at rush hour, which would be when we would hit them. In the event there was little in it, Bradford was bottle necked and junction 30 on the M62 had tailbacks due to roadworks, but I arrived at around five past seven, 25 minutes ahead of the Selby car.
Quickly booking in and getting hold of the key we headed for the chippy only to discover it had closed at 7p.m. (winter opening hours) Never mind, adapt and overcome – the local Coop came up trumps with oven chips and frozen fish portions – not quite the same, but palatable and certainly well received as the children hadn’t eaten since lunch and I hadn’t eaten since 5 a.m. the morning before due to being on night shift. After a video the children were settled and a couple of videos and several beers later it was somehow magically 2 a.m. and I retired to bed. Thus is the life of a shift worker – time is irrelevant. We eat when we are hungry, sleep when we are tired and complain when we are awake.
Dawn broke at around 7 a.m. but I suspect that was because the kids had been fiddling with it for an hour or so. Or perhaps it shattered because of the noise of the farm cockerel which chooses to crow loudly wherever Louise sleeps – it disturbed her at stupid o’clock when she was tenting at the same site last year, and the tents are separated some distance from the caravans and barn, so it obviously sought her out on some vindictive vendetta. Bleary eyed we set about preparing the full English that traditionally fuels us through the days walking.
Now a word about the accommodation at this point. It is basic, probably converted from the barn in the eighties, just but not long after double sockets first became available. I know this because it has two of them, on in the back corner of the lounge/diner/kitchen, where it is of no use to man nor beast and one by the cooker. Consequently the double socket by the cooker has two four gang extension cords plugged into it, one serving the TV, Freeview box and the DVD player we brought with us, and the other serving the toaster, microwave, kettle and fridge. I shudder to think what load is placed on the fuse box if everything is in use at once, but Dave swore blind the TV dimmed when the kettle was plugged in. This however was the least of the problem. The flex from the extension socket ran across the worktop dangerously close to the gas cooker, and with limited space to prepare food things got pushed and shoved about. Things moved, and the various electrical leads formed little loops like they do which got dangerously close to the hob. So added to the pleasant aroma of frying bacon, sausages and mushrooms, and the bitter tang of real coffee, melded with the sharp slightly burnt toast that Emma likes came the plasticky reek of melting electric cable. Initially suspecting the sockets were overloaded we first failed to realise that Dave was now cooking the Microwave cable. The smoke alarm had already sounded to warn that bacon was being fried, so we were able to cover up the fact that the incompetent orangutan had destroyed the secondary cooking device.
Actually, we were able to salvage the situation, the damage was nearer the plug than the machine itself so a couple of deft minutes with a screwdriver and a pair of scissors had a professional repair carried out in no time. Hopefully the owners will not notice that the microwave lead is now around 10 inches shorter, but if they do they should consider that it is now a much safer piece of equipment as it will no longer reach the cooker, so no one can set fire to it…….. We had not, as I feared damaged it, we had in fact improved it. You can see why I have not identified the bunk barn. All owners of bunk barns in the Ingleton area reading this will now be conducting safety inspections on their microwaves, just in case, and to the benefit of all. So, in a small way we have contributed to greater fire safety awareness throughout the Yorkshire region. It’s vital service we provide, so if you want us to set fire to your holiday lets, in exchange for providing us with a free weeks accommodation please contact me.
Conflagrations completed it was off to the start point at the Ribblehead Viaduct where the weather was decidedly murky, with the top of Whernside shrouded in fog and the bottom with that fine rain that quickly soaks you through. The rain stopped just as we set off, but we got a couple of showers as we walked up towards Blea Moor and the signal box. I always thin it should be called Bleak Moor and that a letter has dropped off the sign. That’s not to say it isn’t as beautiful as anywhere else in the Dales, it just looks so desolate at times. My camera battery was playing up due to the low temperatures, it was hovering around the freezing point, so I was unable to take a photograph of the Giants footprint, a scar on the slope which presented itself at just the right angle to appear as a giant foot mark, complete with toes. A pity, because I’m sure that when we revisit growth of the bracken and heather will have changed it completely.
Another surprise was the amount of water flowing down to Ribblehead, it had rained during the night, but surely not that much? The stream that has always been a mere trickle on the other occasions I’ve walked the route was in full flow with little waterfalls gurgling away, and water running down any sloped parts of the pathway, which at this point is almost all of it.
Just after the aqueduct as we crossed the railway the weather changed again, with a burst of sleet stinging our faces, the wind blowing straight at us as we walked. This developed into hail, before softening into a flurry of snow , eventually petering out, only to return as several more showers of sleet as we continued up towards Grain Head. The forecast had only promised rain, with a trailing band of cloud before sunshine around mid day continuing into the afternoon, but this mixed bag of weather served as a reminder of how localised the climate can be on the Dales, also proving the old adage – if you don’t like the Yorkshire weather, wait a minute. All that water gave Dave the chance to fall either into a stream or a bog, and as ever he didn’t disappoint, slipping off the stepping stones and filling his boots with water at Force Gil.
A big blue hole appeared in the clouds, with shafts of sunlight highlighting the craggy features of Whernside and the Howgills as we got nearer the top. The wind also picked up, and despite the sun shining through the widening gaps in the clouds it became bitterly cold as the windchill caused temperatures to plummet, probably a feel like -6 Celsius at the summit where we planned to take lunch at the trig point.
Charlotte and Dave lead the way, with Thomas, suffering from the cold dragging his heels at the rear and needing a lot of encouragement to go on. Maybe next time he’ll listen and wear more layers of decent warm clothing – it turned out that whilst he did have a thermal T shirt on he only had a summer weight hoody and a thin waterproof on top, having taken the fleece lining out in the summer and not replaced it.
Whilst Dave got busy with his expensive Jetboiler arrangement I attempted to cook up some “pasta in a mug” with my old gas bottle stove – a fruitless task, as the wind alternatively blew out the gas or blew over the whole ensemble of gas bottle burner and kettle. Cold water and Mars Bar each all round for the Crossland Clan. I would have made sandwiches, but Mrs C had insisted I get something hot down the kids, hence the pasta plan. Next time I’ll stick with my Hamencheese butties, at least then we won’t go hungry!
With the temperature so low we didn’t hang around at the summit, the compulsory trig point picture was snapped and then we headed on down the slope towards Scales Moor. The wind continued bitterly blasting us as we descended, and although I could feel the suns warmth on my legs it wasn’t until we reached Winterscales Farm that we started top warm up properly. Progress down to their was rapid for Charlotte and Thomas, rather slower for me. Any descent can cause me problems due to an old “war wound,” my left knee aching painfully when stressed, and it occasionally gives way and refuses to bear any weight. This can cause amusing hobbling, but these days I tend to use a stick to tackle the downhill stretches. On this occasion I had no real recourse to the stick, I just took it slow and steady and was fine, with Emma taking things at the same pace, the two of us alternately taking the tail end, but passing Dave and Louise on several occasions.
The final leg back towards the viaduct was uneventful, despite several boggy bits Dave failed to fall flat on his face or provide any further mud related entertainment. Three O’clock saw us seated in the Station Pub with a frothy pint of Black Sheep for me, cokes for the kids ad a Cider for Louise. Dave opted for some other weird bitter, but we had to restrict ourselves to just the one, in view of the drive back to the bunk barn. Impromptu entertainment broke out in the pub, with four doubtlessly talented guitar players having an impromptu practice session, fuelled by beer. The songs were vaguely recognisable, but a little to folky for my liking. We all agreed however, that we could have stayed there a lot longer – if only we could have afforded to. A round of drinks stung the wallet for almost £15 – and three of them were cokes.
I will return to Whernside in the summer I’m sure, as I still plan to do the annual assault on the Three Peaks, but for now it’s crossed off my list with 39 others to go.
I would have tackled some of the lesser hills on this trip, but the youngsters were tired out, so Sunday we simply wandered around Ingleton with a brief leg stretch on the moors above Settle on the way home. Despite the weather and the problems encountered I think they are slowly being smitten by the bug – it’s just that they much prefer summer hiking!
Whernside held no terror for me, having walked it several times now, it is the most honest of the Three Yorkshire Peaks, with a steady climb all the way up and only a couple of deceitful false summits to catch out the unknowing. Two thing made it interesting this time though, the weather and some small children on the team to add to the fun.
We shall start the tale from the beginning however; as always there is comedic value to the trip.
The team comprised of myself, with son Thomas (9) already a Whernside veteran and daughter Emma (12) joining us for the first time, with regular walking partner Dave Selby, his better and worse half Louise, and Dave's daughter Charlotte (7) making her first challenge at Whernside – in fact her first real distance walk, which I am happy to say she took in her stride (pun intended)
Accommodation was our regular bunk barn in Ingleton, which I will not name for reasons which will become clear shortly. The accommodation was excellent as always, homely, reasonably warm (for reasons which will become clear shortly) and near to local amenities. Taking the smaller of the two available bunk barns meant our group was necessarily limited to the six above, and as it was a half term break for the kids it meant other regular walkers who normally join us were not invited – no slight intended on you guys, but this time there was no room.
The trip started with children picked up from their respective schools with the two halves of the team driving up to Ingleton to meet at the bunk barn, plan “A” being Fish and Chips on arrival. Dave favoured the M62 and A1M route through Skipton on the A65, whilst I went M62 to Bradford, then up to Skipton via Keighley, thereby missing out York and Harrogate on the alternative routes, both being horribly bottle necked at rush hour, which would be when we would hit them. In the event there was little in it, Bradford was bottle necked and junction 30 on the M62 had tailbacks due to roadworks, but I arrived at around five past seven, 25 minutes ahead of the Selby car.
Quickly booking in and getting hold of the key we headed for the chippy only to discover it had closed at 7p.m. (winter opening hours) Never mind, adapt and overcome – the local Coop came up trumps with oven chips and frozen fish portions – not quite the same, but palatable and certainly well received as the children hadn’t eaten since lunch and I hadn’t eaten since 5 a.m. the morning before due to being on night shift. After a video the children were settled and a couple of videos and several beers later it was somehow magically 2 a.m. and I retired to bed. Thus is the life of a shift worker – time is irrelevant. We eat when we are hungry, sleep when we are tired and complain when we are awake.
Dawn broke at around 7 a.m. but I suspect that was because the kids had been fiddling with it for an hour or so. Or perhaps it shattered because of the noise of the farm cockerel which chooses to crow loudly wherever Louise sleeps – it disturbed her at stupid o’clock when she was tenting at the same site last year, and the tents are separated some distance from the caravans and barn, so it obviously sought her out on some vindictive vendetta. Bleary eyed we set about preparing the full English that traditionally fuels us through the days walking.
Now a word about the accommodation at this point. It is basic, probably converted from the barn in the eighties, just but not long after double sockets first became available. I know this because it has two of them, on in the back corner of the lounge/diner/kitchen, where it is of no use to man nor beast and one by the cooker. Consequently the double socket by the cooker has two four gang extension cords plugged into it, one serving the TV, Freeview box and the DVD player we brought with us, and the other serving the toaster, microwave, kettle and fridge. I shudder to think what load is placed on the fuse box if everything is in use at once, but Dave swore blind the TV dimmed when the kettle was plugged in. This however was the least of the problem. The flex from the extension socket ran across the worktop dangerously close to the gas cooker, and with limited space to prepare food things got pushed and shoved about. Things moved, and the various electrical leads formed little loops like they do which got dangerously close to the hob. So added to the pleasant aroma of frying bacon, sausages and mushrooms, and the bitter tang of real coffee, melded with the sharp slightly burnt toast that Emma likes came the plasticky reek of melting electric cable. Initially suspecting the sockets were overloaded we first failed to realise that Dave was now cooking the Microwave cable. The smoke alarm had already sounded to warn that bacon was being fried, so we were able to cover up the fact that the incompetent orangutan had destroyed the secondary cooking device.
Actually, we were able to salvage the situation, the damage was nearer the plug than the machine itself so a couple of deft minutes with a screwdriver and a pair of scissors had a professional repair carried out in no time. Hopefully the owners will not notice that the microwave lead is now around 10 inches shorter, but if they do they should consider that it is now a much safer piece of equipment as it will no longer reach the cooker, so no one can set fire to it…….. We had not, as I feared damaged it, we had in fact improved it. You can see why I have not identified the bunk barn. All owners of bunk barns in the Ingleton area reading this will now be conducting safety inspections on their microwaves, just in case, and to the benefit of all. So, in a small way we have contributed to greater fire safety awareness throughout the Yorkshire region. It’s vital service we provide, so if you want us to set fire to your holiday lets, in exchange for providing us with a free weeks accommodation please contact me.
Conflagrations completed it was off to the start point at the Ribblehead Viaduct where the weather was decidedly murky, with the top of Whernside shrouded in fog and the bottom with that fine rain that quickly soaks you through. The rain stopped just as we set off, but we got a couple of showers as we walked up towards Blea Moor and the signal box. I always thin it should be called Bleak Moor and that a letter has dropped off the sign. That’s not to say it isn’t as beautiful as anywhere else in the Dales, it just looks so desolate at times. My camera battery was playing up due to the low temperatures, it was hovering around the freezing point, so I was unable to take a photograph of the Giants footprint, a scar on the slope which presented itself at just the right angle to appear as a giant foot mark, complete with toes. A pity, because I’m sure that when we revisit growth of the bracken and heather will have changed it completely.
Another surprise was the amount of water flowing down to Ribblehead, it had rained during the night, but surely not that much? The stream that has always been a mere trickle on the other occasions I’ve walked the route was in full flow with little waterfalls gurgling away, and water running down any sloped parts of the pathway, which at this point is almost all of it.
Just after the aqueduct as we crossed the railway the weather changed again, with a burst of sleet stinging our faces, the wind blowing straight at us as we walked. This developed into hail, before softening into a flurry of snow , eventually petering out, only to return as several more showers of sleet as we continued up towards Grain Head. The forecast had only promised rain, with a trailing band of cloud before sunshine around mid day continuing into the afternoon, but this mixed bag of weather served as a reminder of how localised the climate can be on the Dales, also proving the old adage – if you don’t like the Yorkshire weather, wait a minute. All that water gave Dave the chance to fall either into a stream or a bog, and as ever he didn’t disappoint, slipping off the stepping stones and filling his boots with water at Force Gil.
A big blue hole appeared in the clouds, with shafts of sunlight highlighting the craggy features of Whernside and the Howgills as we got nearer the top. The wind also picked up, and despite the sun shining through the widening gaps in the clouds it became bitterly cold as the windchill caused temperatures to plummet, probably a feel like -6 Celsius at the summit where we planned to take lunch at the trig point.
Charlotte and Dave lead the way, with Thomas, suffering from the cold dragging his heels at the rear and needing a lot of encouragement to go on. Maybe next time he’ll listen and wear more layers of decent warm clothing – it turned out that whilst he did have a thermal T shirt on he only had a summer weight hoody and a thin waterproof on top, having taken the fleece lining out in the summer and not replaced it.
Whilst Dave got busy with his expensive Jetboiler arrangement I attempted to cook up some “pasta in a mug” with my old gas bottle stove – a fruitless task, as the wind alternatively blew out the gas or blew over the whole ensemble of gas bottle burner and kettle. Cold water and Mars Bar each all round for the Crossland Clan. I would have made sandwiches, but Mrs C had insisted I get something hot down the kids, hence the pasta plan. Next time I’ll stick with my Hamencheese butties, at least then we won’t go hungry!
With the temperature so low we didn’t hang around at the summit, the compulsory trig point picture was snapped and then we headed on down the slope towards Scales Moor. The wind continued bitterly blasting us as we descended, and although I could feel the suns warmth on my legs it wasn’t until we reached Winterscales Farm that we started top warm up properly. Progress down to their was rapid for Charlotte and Thomas, rather slower for me. Any descent can cause me problems due to an old “war wound,” my left knee aching painfully when stressed, and it occasionally gives way and refuses to bear any weight. This can cause amusing hobbling, but these days I tend to use a stick to tackle the downhill stretches. On this occasion I had no real recourse to the stick, I just took it slow and steady and was fine, with Emma taking things at the same pace, the two of us alternately taking the tail end, but passing Dave and Louise on several occasions.
The final leg back towards the viaduct was uneventful, despite several boggy bits Dave failed to fall flat on his face or provide any further mud related entertainment. Three O’clock saw us seated in the Station Pub with a frothy pint of Black Sheep for me, cokes for the kids ad a Cider for Louise. Dave opted for some other weird bitter, but we had to restrict ourselves to just the one, in view of the drive back to the bunk barn. Impromptu entertainment broke out in the pub, with four doubtlessly talented guitar players having an impromptu practice session, fuelled by beer. The songs were vaguely recognisable, but a little to folky for my liking. We all agreed however, that we could have stayed there a lot longer – if only we could have afforded to. A round of drinks stung the wallet for almost £15 – and three of them were cokes.
I will return to Whernside in the summer I’m sure, as I still plan to do the annual assault on the Three Peaks, but for now it’s crossed off my list with 39 others to go.
I would have tackled some of the lesser hills on this trip, but the youngsters were tired out, so Sunday we simply wandered around Ingleton with a brief leg stretch on the moors above Settle on the way home. Despite the weather and the problems encountered I think they are slowly being smitten by the bug – it’s just that they much prefer summer hiking!
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