I read something the other day that said that more and more of us don't know our neighbours. Some people might have thousands of "virtual" friends on FaceSpace or MyTwit with whom they will spend hours chatting with, but have never said anything much to their next door neighbour beyond "hello".
I don't know what the reason for this is, but I personally suspect that fences have something to do with it - that and this modern craving for "privacy".
When I was a kid growing up at the family home we lived in an ordinary 3 bedroom semi. When I was young I would play out in the back garden as did the neighbours kids. Between us were the herbaceous borders and a three foot high cross link fence over which we would talk and play - it made a very good net for tennis or badminton.
Consequently, my mum would often spend time chatting with the mum next door while hanging out the washing or just enjoying the garden. They became firm friends and remained so even after the neighbours moved on. This scenario applied to just about every other home I knew or visited - the low fences meant that neighbours knew one another and looked out for one another as well.
When we moved to our current home this also had the standard three foot high cross link wire fence between us and the neighbours. As a result we got to know them and they got to know us, but when they moved out a few years back and the new lot moved in, the first thing they did was install a six foot high wooden fence between us and them (and the other side too). When I asked why they told us it was for "privacy" - what they hell were they planning to do in their garden I wondered, but didn't ask.
As a result we barely talk to one another beyond the odd exchange out front as we pass. As far as I can tell they don't do anything in their garden that requires such "privacy", but their bloody great fence does a great job of blocking out the afternoon sun from my garden. The thing is, just about every home I go to these days has the same six foot high wooden fence between them and the neighbours - so it's hardly surprising that nobody knows their neighbour anymore.
Let's get rid of these bloody great fences between our gardens, install short cross link fences and start chatting with real people who live next door instead of some fat, balding 50 year old pretending to be a 25 year old Brad Pitt look-a-like online.
Showing posts with label Nostalgia Trips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nostalgia Trips. Show all posts
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A bad smell
I don't smoke.
Well, I do smoke the very occasional cigar - nothing complements the smoky subtlety of a good malt whisky like a quality cigar - but I don't smoke cigarettes. It's not because I have any particular objection to cigarette smoking - I don't - it's just a habit that never caught on with me.
One of the reasons for that is possibly that I grew up in a household that was permanently shrouded in a fug of cigarette smoke. My dad smoked cigarettes, my mother smoked cigarettes and both my older brothers smoked cigarettes. I remember how we would all be sitting around chuckling along to Morecambe & Wise with a blue grey haze hanging from the ceiling like an inverted morning mist.
I know that all of my many cousins grew up in similar households as did my school chums. I remember wedding receptions where the adult guests smoked freely in the local village halls while us kids sipped our bottles of cola through straws and how a dozen or more of us would crowd around a table at the local British Legion where the ashtray would be overflowing with stubbed out cigarette butts while we peered through a shroud of cigarette smoke at the band playing "Tie A Yellow Ribbon" for the third time that evening.
Despite all this, neither myself or any of the other kids I knew at the time suffered from the effects of "passive smoking". There was one kid at school who was always ill with ear infections, asthma and the like, but his parents were amongst the few that didn't smoke, refused to allow smoking in their home and were obsessive vegetarians. I remember going around there once for tea (not the drink, but the evening meal as it used to be when we had dinner at midday) and being confronted with a plate of leaves. I never went there again and that kid never seemed to have any friends.
Anyway, people of my generation grew up in homes filled with cigarette smoke. We played in streets choked with leaded petrol fumes, smoke from coal fires and pollution from the Slough Trading Estate.
So why is it all different now?
Between 500 to 1,000 children a year end up in hospital because they are exposed to their parents' smoking.
Right. So we now live in a world where kids rarely come into contact with cigarette smoke, don't play in streets clogged with pollution from coal fires and leaded petrol and they're less healthy than we were?
Something stinks about this story and it isn't cigarette smoke.
Well, I do smoke the very occasional cigar - nothing complements the smoky subtlety of a good malt whisky like a quality cigar - but I don't smoke cigarettes. It's not because I have any particular objection to cigarette smoking - I don't - it's just a habit that never caught on with me.
One of the reasons for that is possibly that I grew up in a household that was permanently shrouded in a fug of cigarette smoke. My dad smoked cigarettes, my mother smoked cigarettes and both my older brothers smoked cigarettes. I remember how we would all be sitting around chuckling along to Morecambe & Wise with a blue grey haze hanging from the ceiling like an inverted morning mist.
I know that all of my many cousins grew up in similar households as did my school chums. I remember wedding receptions where the adult guests smoked freely in the local village halls while us kids sipped our bottles of cola through straws and how a dozen or more of us would crowd around a table at the local British Legion where the ashtray would be overflowing with stubbed out cigarette butts while we peered through a shroud of cigarette smoke at the band playing "Tie A Yellow Ribbon" for the third time that evening.
Despite all this, neither myself or any of the other kids I knew at the time suffered from the effects of "passive smoking". There was one kid at school who was always ill with ear infections, asthma and the like, but his parents were amongst the few that didn't smoke, refused to allow smoking in their home and were obsessive vegetarians. I remember going around there once for tea (not the drink, but the evening meal as it used to be when we had dinner at midday) and being confronted with a plate of leaves. I never went there again and that kid never seemed to have any friends.
Anyway, people of my generation grew up in homes filled with cigarette smoke. We played in streets choked with leaded petrol fumes, smoke from coal fires and pollution from the Slough Trading Estate.
So why is it all different now?
Between 500 to 1,000 children a year end up in hospital because they are exposed to their parents' smoking.
Right. So we now live in a world where kids rarely come into contact with cigarette smoke, don't play in streets clogged with pollution from coal fires and leaded petrol and they're less healthy than we were?
Something stinks about this story and it isn't cigarette smoke.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Under pressure
I hear today that there are suggestions that school children are suffering from more stress than ever before with the pressure of examinations. Although I make no secret of my belief that school exams have become easier and grades inflated (simply as a political tool to demonstrate how "successful" an education programme has been) I can quite easily believe that children are under more pressure with examinations than they have ever been.
When I was coming to the end of my time in junior school (as we used to call it back then) we were vaguely aware of the impending 11+ test - but there was no attempt to teach towards it and there was no major importance placed on the examination. We didn't go through practice tests or mock examinations - one day we were ushered into a classroom, took the test and that was it. A few months later we got a letter asking us to choose the school we wanted to go to and, for those of us who passed, this included grammar schools.
It was different at grammar school with O levels - we were obviously taught specifically for those tests from quite a few years back - however there was not the emphasis on the importance of getting results other than from the point of view of getting into sixth form and on to university. For those of us uninterested in sixth form or university it was no big deal.
One of the reasons why this wasn't so important and why there was less stress placed on children was that there were plenty of job options available. Of course, it helped that I lived next door to the biggest trading estate in Europe, but that wasn't the sole reason. Back then, Britain was still predominantly a manufacturing nation.
There was a big demand for workers at all levels - from manual labourers, through semi-skilled and skilled right up to graduate class. Whatever your level of education there was always a decent well paid job available (by the standards of the time) for anyone prepared to put a bit of effort into finding one.
There were thousands of apprenticeships for school leavers providing young people with an oppotunity to learn a valuable life long trade. However, most apprenticeships were "indentured" requiring a long term commitment from the employee of four to five years.
On top of those formal apprenticeships there were also lots of firms - large, medium and small - offering a kind of informal apprenticeship and sponsoring "day release" enabling school leavers to work four days a week and attend a college course, paid for by your employer, on the other day. Virtually everyone I knew, regardless of which school they went to, went through this system - either finding an apprenticeship or a job with day release if they left school at sixteen.
I'll be honest, I've never been so well off as I was in those first few years as a wage earner - even though I only started off on £16 a week. I should also point out that the dole paid £9 a week at the time I started work and there was no tax or NI on top of that!
By the time I'd had my deductions and handed mum a fiver for "upkeep" I was worse off than most people claiming unemployment benefit - but I still seemed to have enough cash to go out six nights a week and spend most lunchtimes in the boozer nursing a pint of Trophy bitter and a cheese roll.
I even had enough money to run a motorcycle - well, a second hand FS1E*, but it was unrestricted and good for 60 when flat on the tank with a following wind. After a couple of pay rises and a year or so saving I'd managed to upgrade the Fizzy to a Kawasaki KH250** and started paying for driving lessons!
However, by then - unfortunately - our membership of the EEC and the Labour government had done their damage and Britain was in the middle of the winter of discontent and dire economic circumstances (see - nothing really changes). Our manufacturing base was already in decline and with it were the jobs and training which us youngsters had taken for granted when leaving school.
And this is why there is so much pressure on kids today. Even university graduates are finding it hard to find jobs and often end up working at KFC or Poundland. All those technical colleges converted to universities and firms no longer bother to offer day release schemes.
The over emphasis on university and "degrees" means that too many kids are vying for too few spots in those universities and competing for ever declining slices of the government cash that pays for those universities (not including the massive debt they incur through student loans).
This is the reality that faces school leavers today and this is why there is so much pressure and, consequently, so much stress for school children. It's not that the exams are so tough - they aren't compared to O levels and A levels of the sixties and seventies (and everyone really knows they aren't).
This is also why it is so daft to talk about a "high tech" economy. Even assuming we could do "high tech" better than the emerging nations (which is doubtful) it is ridiculous to assume that everybody is capable of working in "high tech". A target of 50% in university would be fine if 50% of jobs were high really skilled graduate jobs - but they aren't - and 50% of school leavers are not really university potential either.
Indeed, I suspect that 90% of "graduate" positions today would have been filled more than adequately by 16 year old school leavers on day release back in 1973 - and I suspect that considerably more than 50% of jobs available today do not require particularly high levels of education.
What we need is a properly balanced mixed economy with an emphasis on manufacturing - not service - providing a range of job options for school leavers. On top of that we need a proper education system that does select the best to go on university, but that also provides the majority with a decent level of education as well.
And we need proper apprenticeships and business sponsored day release at technical colleges for school leavers who don't want to go into sixth form or university, but just want to work and earn enough money to buy a few beers a week and a motorcycle.
* The Yamaha FS1E was a 50cc sports moped and learner legal for sixteen year olds. Affectionately known as the Fizzy (or Fizzie) it was every 16 year old school boys ambition to get his leg over one - far more than it was to get his leg over in the other way, if you know what I mean! How times change.
**The Kawasaki KH250 was a learner legal (17 years +), three cylinder, two stroke, rev happy, 250cc motorcycle with fiendish acceleration and a propensity to buck around like an angry bull under braking. It handled like a brick and the factory fitted tyres were lethal in the wet - but I loved it to bits and went everywhere on that bike.
When I was coming to the end of my time in junior school (as we used to call it back then) we were vaguely aware of the impending 11+ test - but there was no attempt to teach towards it and there was no major importance placed on the examination. We didn't go through practice tests or mock examinations - one day we were ushered into a classroom, took the test and that was it. A few months later we got a letter asking us to choose the school we wanted to go to and, for those of us who passed, this included grammar schools.
It was different at grammar school with O levels - we were obviously taught specifically for those tests from quite a few years back - however there was not the emphasis on the importance of getting results other than from the point of view of getting into sixth form and on to university. For those of us uninterested in sixth form or university it was no big deal.
One of the reasons why this wasn't so important and why there was less stress placed on children was that there were plenty of job options available. Of course, it helped that I lived next door to the biggest trading estate in Europe, but that wasn't the sole reason. Back then, Britain was still predominantly a manufacturing nation.
There was a big demand for workers at all levels - from manual labourers, through semi-skilled and skilled right up to graduate class. Whatever your level of education there was always a decent well paid job available (by the standards of the time) for anyone prepared to put a bit of effort into finding one.
There were thousands of apprenticeships for school leavers providing young people with an oppotunity to learn a valuable life long trade. However, most apprenticeships were "indentured" requiring a long term commitment from the employee of four to five years.
On top of those formal apprenticeships there were also lots of firms - large, medium and small - offering a kind of informal apprenticeship and sponsoring "day release" enabling school leavers to work four days a week and attend a college course, paid for by your employer, on the other day. Virtually everyone I knew, regardless of which school they went to, went through this system - either finding an apprenticeship or a job with day release if they left school at sixteen.
I'll be honest, I've never been so well off as I was in those first few years as a wage earner - even though I only started off on £16 a week. I should also point out that the dole paid £9 a week at the time I started work and there was no tax or NI on top of that!
By the time I'd had my deductions and handed mum a fiver for "upkeep" I was worse off than most people claiming unemployment benefit - but I still seemed to have enough cash to go out six nights a week and spend most lunchtimes in the boozer nursing a pint of Trophy bitter and a cheese roll.
I even had enough money to run a motorcycle - well, a second hand FS1E*, but it was unrestricted and good for 60 when flat on the tank with a following wind. After a couple of pay rises and a year or so saving I'd managed to upgrade the Fizzy to a Kawasaki KH250** and started paying for driving lessons!
However, by then - unfortunately - our membership of the EEC and the Labour government had done their damage and Britain was in the middle of the winter of discontent and dire economic circumstances (see - nothing really changes). Our manufacturing base was already in decline and with it were the jobs and training which us youngsters had taken for granted when leaving school.
And this is why there is so much pressure on kids today. Even university graduates are finding it hard to find jobs and often end up working at KFC or Poundland. All those technical colleges converted to universities and firms no longer bother to offer day release schemes.
The over emphasis on university and "degrees" means that too many kids are vying for too few spots in those universities and competing for ever declining slices of the government cash that pays for those universities (not including the massive debt they incur through student loans).
This is the reality that faces school leavers today and this is why there is so much pressure and, consequently, so much stress for school children. It's not that the exams are so tough - they aren't compared to O levels and A levels of the sixties and seventies (and everyone really knows they aren't).
This is also why it is so daft to talk about a "high tech" economy. Even assuming we could do "high tech" better than the emerging nations (which is doubtful) it is ridiculous to assume that everybody is capable of working in "high tech". A target of 50% in university would be fine if 50% of jobs were high really skilled graduate jobs - but they aren't - and 50% of school leavers are not really university potential either.
Indeed, I suspect that 90% of "graduate" positions today would have been filled more than adequately by 16 year old school leavers on day release back in 1973 - and I suspect that considerably more than 50% of jobs available today do not require particularly high levels of education.
What we need is a properly balanced mixed economy with an emphasis on manufacturing - not service - providing a range of job options for school leavers. On top of that we need a proper education system that does select the best to go on university, but that also provides the majority with a decent level of education as well.
And we need proper apprenticeships and business sponsored day release at technical colleges for school leavers who don't want to go into sixth form or university, but just want to work and earn enough money to buy a few beers a week and a motorcycle.
* The Yamaha FS1E was a 50cc sports moped and learner legal for sixteen year olds. Affectionately known as the Fizzy (or Fizzie) it was every 16 year old school boys ambition to get his leg over one - far more than it was to get his leg over in the other way, if you know what I mean! How times change.
**The Kawasaki KH250 was a learner legal (17 years +), three cylinder, two stroke, rev happy, 250cc motorcycle with fiendish acceleration and a propensity to buck around like an angry bull under braking. It handled like a brick and the factory fitted tyres were lethal in the wet - but I loved it to bits and went everywhere on that bike.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Over indulgence
I'm not known for my indulgences. I am, if anything, rather cautious with my money (miserly, Mrs Stan would say) and if I can do without something then I do without it. I don't smoke, I don't drink very much and I don't have any expensive hobbies.
But there is one indulgence which I do have - Cadbury's Bournville dark chocolate.
I first got a taste for Bournville chocolate when I was a very small boy in junior school. It was considered a bit of an oddity for a child my age to like dark chocolate, but the first time I felt that marvellous smooth dark chocolate melt in my mouth I was hooked.
Of course, as a child growing up in the sixties, a bar of Bournville was a rare treat (particularly as my dad was an employee of Mars!) and generally restricted to Christmas and birthdays. Every time I got a bar I'd make it last. I'd have just one square a day and I'd sit down and let it melt in my mouth for a minute or so - savouring the sensation - before biting into the shrinking lump and releasing a burst of flavour that was, for me, heavenly.
And I still do the same today. Although buying a bar of Bournville is a far more regular occurrence than twice a year these days, the habit is the same - one square a day and the same routine to eat it. And part of the enjoyment I get from eating my little bit of Bournville was the knowledge that it was so British - because Bourville is unlike any other dark chocolate.
Over the years, various people have given me the occasional gift of a bar of dark chocolate which wasn't Bournville. "I know you like dark chocolate" they say and I usually smile politely and thank them kindly - but I don't "like dark chocolate" - I like Bournville. I'm sure the chocolate snobs will sniff at it and say that the quality isn't anything like as good as Lindt or what have you - but for me no other dark chocolate comes even close.
Bournville is British and it is unique - and I am devastated that Cadbury's is now going to be owned by a foreign firm. They will ruin it. They will move production to somewhere in eastern Europe and Bournville will become just another dark chocolate. I don't blame the board of Cadbury's - they got a very good offer and they did what they thought was best for them - but I do blame the government who still fail to understand that a country that makes nothing is worth nothing.
For now, I'll keep enjoying my indulgence. I might as well make the most of it while I can.
But there is one indulgence which I do have - Cadbury's Bournville dark chocolate.
I first got a taste for Bournville chocolate when I was a very small boy in junior school. It was considered a bit of an oddity for a child my age to like dark chocolate, but the first time I felt that marvellous smooth dark chocolate melt in my mouth I was hooked.
Of course, as a child growing up in the sixties, a bar of Bournville was a rare treat (particularly as my dad was an employee of Mars!) and generally restricted to Christmas and birthdays. Every time I got a bar I'd make it last. I'd have just one square a day and I'd sit down and let it melt in my mouth for a minute or so - savouring the sensation - before biting into the shrinking lump and releasing a burst of flavour that was, for me, heavenly.
And I still do the same today. Although buying a bar of Bournville is a far more regular occurrence than twice a year these days, the habit is the same - one square a day and the same routine to eat it. And part of the enjoyment I get from eating my little bit of Bournville was the knowledge that it was so British - because Bourville is unlike any other dark chocolate.
Over the years, various people have given me the occasional gift of a bar of dark chocolate which wasn't Bournville. "I know you like dark chocolate" they say and I usually smile politely and thank them kindly - but I don't "like dark chocolate" - I like Bournville. I'm sure the chocolate snobs will sniff at it and say that the quality isn't anything like as good as Lindt or what have you - but for me no other dark chocolate comes even close.
Bournville is British and it is unique - and I am devastated that Cadbury's is now going to be owned by a foreign firm. They will ruin it. They will move production to somewhere in eastern Europe and Bournville will become just another dark chocolate. I don't blame the board of Cadbury's - they got a very good offer and they did what they thought was best for them - but I do blame the government who still fail to understand that a country that makes nothing is worth nothing.
For now, I'll keep enjoying my indulgence. I might as well make the most of it while I can.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Decking, rubbish and rats
Back in the nineteen seventies as I went through the transition from boyhood to adulthood I spent pretty much most of my spare time doing something or other outdoors. This was, of course, in the days before personal computers and the Internet, multi channel 24 hour television, games consoles and all the other distractions the modern society has for a 10 - 16 year old.
We lived in a part of Slough which was then still semi-rural but was slowly being transformed by new housing estates and building projects. Close to where I lived was a large meadow where I had spent many happy hours as a child picking blackberries and damsons or making "camps" and hideouts, but by the time I was 12 this meadow had been bulldozed to make way for an enormous housing estate and my playground was now the building site.
As I got older I wandered farther afield, often scavenging through skips to find parts for my bike. I never ever had a new bike as a kid - it was built entirely from bits and pieces I'd salvaged and gradually put together. The only thing new on it was the paint - and even that was the leftovers from something my dad had been using to paint a metal gate!
Despite spending so much time outdoors I only ever saw one rat - one early morning during the blazing summer of '76. I still recall the way it sat staring at me with those beady black eyes as it sat beside the coal bunker just three yards away from our front door where I crouched dead still. It appeared dispassionate - unconcerned by my presence as it nibbled at some tidbit it had found by the hydrangea.
Unfortunately for the rat, I was looking at it down the barrel of my trusty .22 BSA Meteor and a split second those beady eyes were bisected by a well aimed lead pellet and the rat was no more. It was the only time I used my air rifle on a living creature - not because I didn't want to, just because I never came across another rat! My BSA spent the rest of its time sinking enemy battleships or shooting down Junkers 88's that I'd assembled from a plastic model kit the day before. For someone well skilled in taking out the swastika on the tail of a 1/72 scale Bf109E from 10 yards, popping a slug between the eyes of a big fat rat from less than half the distance was simple.
Why am I going on about this? Well, primarily because in the last couple of years I must have seen a couple of dozen rats in and around my garden. They don't live in my garden - they come in under the fence looking for treats left out for the birds on the bird table. How the hell they get up there is a mystery to me, but somehow they do and they are big fat ugly things.
I'm no gardening fanatic, but I like to keep it looking fairly decent and I like to relax in my garden when the weather suits - but not everyone is like that. Indeed, there are fair number of gardens close by which the owners seem to think is a convenient place to chuck their rubbish. Most of the rats come from the garden directly behind me which is less like a garden and more like the municipal dump with old fridges, cookers and washing machines nestling against my back fence along with piles of old carpet and rubble.
As I said, there are a fair few gardens like that around me - I know them by sight, but not by name although I would lay money on none of them being called "Smith". The other problem is the proliferation of decking. Rats love decking.
Being fairly liberal and not keen on banning things for the sake of banning them I wouldn't go as far as to order a ban on decking - yet. Instead I'd insist that any body with decking would be required to have them inspected quarterly for rat infestation and have to pay for that - along with a certificate proving that they've been given the all clear.
On second thoughts, I'd ban decking. Anything that stops my neighbour clomping around on his in hobnail boots at half past six on a Sunday morning!
We lived in a part of Slough which was then still semi-rural but was slowly being transformed by new housing estates and building projects. Close to where I lived was a large meadow where I had spent many happy hours as a child picking blackberries and damsons or making "camps" and hideouts, but by the time I was 12 this meadow had been bulldozed to make way for an enormous housing estate and my playground was now the building site.
As I got older I wandered farther afield, often scavenging through skips to find parts for my bike. I never ever had a new bike as a kid - it was built entirely from bits and pieces I'd salvaged and gradually put together. The only thing new on it was the paint - and even that was the leftovers from something my dad had been using to paint a metal gate!
Despite spending so much time outdoors I only ever saw one rat - one early morning during the blazing summer of '76. I still recall the way it sat staring at me with those beady black eyes as it sat beside the coal bunker just three yards away from our front door where I crouched dead still. It appeared dispassionate - unconcerned by my presence as it nibbled at some tidbit it had found by the hydrangea.
Unfortunately for the rat, I was looking at it down the barrel of my trusty .22 BSA Meteor and a split second those beady eyes were bisected by a well aimed lead pellet and the rat was no more. It was the only time I used my air rifle on a living creature - not because I didn't want to, just because I never came across another rat! My BSA spent the rest of its time sinking enemy battleships or shooting down Junkers 88's that I'd assembled from a plastic model kit the day before. For someone well skilled in taking out the swastika on the tail of a 1/72 scale Bf109E from 10 yards, popping a slug between the eyes of a big fat rat from less than half the distance was simple.
Why am I going on about this? Well, primarily because in the last couple of years I must have seen a couple of dozen rats in and around my garden. They don't live in my garden - they come in under the fence looking for treats left out for the birds on the bird table. How the hell they get up there is a mystery to me, but somehow they do and they are big fat ugly things.
I'm no gardening fanatic, but I like to keep it looking fairly decent and I like to relax in my garden when the weather suits - but not everyone is like that. Indeed, there are fair number of gardens close by which the owners seem to think is a convenient place to chuck their rubbish. Most of the rats come from the garden directly behind me which is less like a garden and more like the municipal dump with old fridges, cookers and washing machines nestling against my back fence along with piles of old carpet and rubble.
As I said, there are a fair few gardens like that around me - I know them by sight, but not by name although I would lay money on none of them being called "Smith". The other problem is the proliferation of decking. Rats love decking.
Being fairly liberal and not keen on banning things for the sake of banning them I wouldn't go as far as to order a ban on decking - yet. Instead I'd insist that any body with decking would be required to have them inspected quarterly for rat infestation and have to pay for that - along with a certificate proving that they've been given the all clear.
On second thoughts, I'd ban decking. Anything that stops my neighbour clomping around on his in hobnail boots at half past six on a Sunday morning!
Friday, July 24, 2009
A dear old friend and travelling companion
It is with much sadness that I announce the "moving on" of a dear friend and travelling companion - Bertie.
It was as a young man in the halcyon days of the early 1980's when I first made Bertie's acquaintance in a pub car park just off the A4 near Maidenhead. We instantly hit it off and Bertie and I were to share our love of travel and make a number of trips together including a grand tour of Europe.
From Tromso in the Arctic Circle to the bustling tourist resorts of southern Spain and from the peaks of Snowdonia in the west and the islands of Kos and Rhodes in the east - Bertie was with me. A faithful friend who never let me down, never complained and often watched over me while I slept on beaches or by the side of a road. At times I would be cranky and hurl abuse at this old friend - particularly after a lengthy journey - but he never answered back and never gave up on me.
Bertie was my faithful old Yamaha XT500. A single pot 500cc Japanese motorbike of an "enduro" style, but one which resembled in many ways the old British thumpers of the 50's and 60's - except he didn't tend to leak oil all over the place.
Bertie had retired some years ago to the coast where he lived with my cousin - and it was only this morning that I learned that my cousin had decided to sell Bertie and had received the grand sum of £1500 for him (more than three times what I had paid when I bought him in the first place!). It's true to say that there was little left of Bertie that was still original - the frame, tank, front forks, switchgear and maybe a few other ancillary items, but that's not the point.
The point is that my cousin might at least have offered me first refusal!
It was as a young man in the halcyon days of the early 1980's when I first made Bertie's acquaintance in a pub car park just off the A4 near Maidenhead. We instantly hit it off and Bertie and I were to share our love of travel and make a number of trips together including a grand tour of Europe.
From Tromso in the Arctic Circle to the bustling tourist resorts of southern Spain and from the peaks of Snowdonia in the west and the islands of Kos and Rhodes in the east - Bertie was with me. A faithful friend who never let me down, never complained and often watched over me while I slept on beaches or by the side of a road. At times I would be cranky and hurl abuse at this old friend - particularly after a lengthy journey - but he never answered back and never gave up on me.
Bertie was my faithful old Yamaha XT500. A single pot 500cc Japanese motorbike of an "enduro" style, but one which resembled in many ways the old British thumpers of the 50's and 60's - except he didn't tend to leak oil all over the place.
Bertie had retired some years ago to the coast where he lived with my cousin - and it was only this morning that I learned that my cousin had decided to sell Bertie and had received the grand sum of £1500 for him (more than three times what I had paid when I bought him in the first place!). It's true to say that there was little left of Bertie that was still original - the frame, tank, front forks, switchgear and maybe a few other ancillary items, but that's not the point.
The point is that my cousin might at least have offered me first refusal!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Whitehall 1212
My parents acquired our first telephone in 1970 - and that was only after much arm-twisting by my mum on my dad who was reluctant to get one for a number of reasons. One was the cost, but his main complaint was that it would be intrusive. My dad's social life revolved around his work at the factory and any event would be carefully arranged in the staff canteen. Consequently he had no need for a telephone and didn't want people ringing up at all hours of the night (which, for dad, would mean between 7 and 10 pm) and keeping mum chatting for hours.
Mum had a much wider social circle, though and argued successfully that she needed a phone to keep in touch with her friends and relatives and so it was that in July 1970 the Post Office installed a glorious cream telephone in our Slough semi. It was located in the hallway at the foot of the stairs between the kitchen and living room on a special shelf that dad had knocked up in his shed one afternoon.
It caused much excitement in our household at the time and we all became familiar with the phone number so that, when someone called, we could answer with the name of the exchange and the four figure number which I can still remember vividly to this day.
The reason the phone was in the hall was so that it could be heard wherever you were in the house, but also so that any of us could chat on the phone without having to compete with the sound of the television, radio or whatever else was going on in the house. Of course, as soon as it was installed my mum was ringing around all her friends to tell them the new number- and to natter.
So for the first hour or so the phone was constantly engaged, but we weren't expecting any calls anyway - so it came as a bit of a shock when five minutes after mum had hung up for the last time the phone rang. I wanted to be the first to answer the phone, but as it was "mum's phone" we let her be the first to answer it. Besides, it could only be a wrong number or one of mum's friends ringing back.
So off mum went and in her best telephone voice she said "Hello, Slough 6125" (that wasn't actually the exchange or number, but I don't want to give that away). Remarkably it wasn't a wrong number or one of my mum's friends she had called around to, but her sister who lived in St. Albans. My mum had written to her telling her that we were having the phone installed that day and her sister had got the number from directory enquiries that morning even before the phone had been installed!
Why am I telling you all this? Well, partly out of nostalgia, but also because I have just spent the morning ringing several people to pass on some family news. Invariably, every person I called answered with a blunt "hullo?" and nothing else. I then had to ask if I was through to the right person before I could go on - but more than that, one of the people I rang wasn't there so their flatmate said they'd ask him to call back. Great! He then asked me for my number - and do you know what?
I couldn't remember my bloody phone number! I never ring it and, like everyone else these days, I never say it. I know what the numbers are, but I couldn't remember the order of the last two digits. There was then an embarrassing silence until the guy at the other end said not to worry as the number shows up on his phone.
Maybe it's my age or maybe it's the fact that we don't answer phones like we used to and it's certainly true that we have a lot more numbers to remember these days - but that doesn't explain why a telephone number from almost 40 years ago remains fresh in my memory, but my current home phone number doesn't!
Mum had a much wider social circle, though and argued successfully that she needed a phone to keep in touch with her friends and relatives and so it was that in July 1970 the Post Office installed a glorious cream telephone in our Slough semi. It was located in the hallway at the foot of the stairs between the kitchen and living room on a special shelf that dad had knocked up in his shed one afternoon.
It caused much excitement in our household at the time and we all became familiar with the phone number so that, when someone called, we could answer with the name of the exchange and the four figure number which I can still remember vividly to this day.
The reason the phone was in the hall was so that it could be heard wherever you were in the house, but also so that any of us could chat on the phone without having to compete with the sound of the television, radio or whatever else was going on in the house. Of course, as soon as it was installed my mum was ringing around all her friends to tell them the new number- and to natter.
So for the first hour or so the phone was constantly engaged, but we weren't expecting any calls anyway - so it came as a bit of a shock when five minutes after mum had hung up for the last time the phone rang. I wanted to be the first to answer the phone, but as it was "mum's phone" we let her be the first to answer it. Besides, it could only be a wrong number or one of mum's friends ringing back.
So off mum went and in her best telephone voice she said "Hello, Slough 6125" (that wasn't actually the exchange or number, but I don't want to give that away). Remarkably it wasn't a wrong number or one of my mum's friends she had called around to, but her sister who lived in St. Albans. My mum had written to her telling her that we were having the phone installed that day and her sister had got the number from directory enquiries that morning even before the phone had been installed!
Why am I telling you all this? Well, partly out of nostalgia, but also because I have just spent the morning ringing several people to pass on some family news. Invariably, every person I called answered with a blunt "hullo?" and nothing else. I then had to ask if I was through to the right person before I could go on - but more than that, one of the people I rang wasn't there so their flatmate said they'd ask him to call back. Great! He then asked me for my number - and do you know what?
I couldn't remember my bloody phone number! I never ring it and, like everyone else these days, I never say it. I know what the numbers are, but I couldn't remember the order of the last two digits. There was then an embarrassing silence until the guy at the other end said not to worry as the number shows up on his phone.
Maybe it's my age or maybe it's the fact that we don't answer phones like we used to and it's certainly true that we have a lot more numbers to remember these days - but that doesn't explain why a telephone number from almost 40 years ago remains fresh in my memory, but my current home phone number doesn't!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Ranting Stan's Sunday Drive: Jaguar XK140
I've got to admit that I've ummed and ahhed about this choice. The reason for that is that, when it comes to the post-war Jaguar XK range most people prefer the XK140's predecessor - the XK120.However, I've always thought the XK140 was not only the prettier car it was also the car that seemed to best reflect that golden age of Hollywood glamour from the fifties. I suspect that is partly due to this ad from the nineties featuring the XK140, a pretty blonde, a broken fan belt, a pair of stockings and a Doris Day soundtrack.
Nevertheless, the XK140 perfectly demonstrates the glamour of that era but underneath that pretty exterior it shouldn't be forgotten that the XK140 was a cat with bite. A 120 mph top speed and sub 9 seconds 0-60 time ensured the Jaguar had a performance to match it's gorgeous looks even if drum brakes all round meant it had a little trouble bringing that grace and power to a stop.
Unfortunately, I've never had the chance to either drive or be driven in the XK140 - and I suspect I never will - but if do I hope it's along some dramatic coastline with a Hollywood starlet by my side and Doris Day singing "Move Over Darling" on the radio. I don't think I'd mind even if the car did break down.
By the way - sorry I couldn't find a better pic. I wanted an XK140 that was right hand drive, a DHC with the top down, had the wire wheels, white and in a nice setting. I got most of those apart from the colour and the setting. The BRG is nice, but sorry about the drab brick wall back drop.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Ranting Stan's Sunday Drive: Wolseley 6/90
If you've ever watched an old British film from the fifties that featured a police car in some way, chances are that the elegant lines of the Wolseley 6/90 are familiar to you. Although not quick by today's standards, the six cylinder, 2.6 litre engine wafted the big Wolseley along briskly enough to make it a popular choice for thief takers up and down the country - and also provided a comfortable and typically English interior of wood and leather to make the experience just that little bit more dignified. With the clanging bell on the front and the absence (at this time) of the flashing blue light mounted on top of the roof, the big Wolseley marks a discreet contrast to the lurid flashiness of the modern police car and seems to epitomise a time when the police were more concerned about doing a job effectively rather than being seen to do the job.
Of course, the 6/90 wasn't just popular with police forces. The graceful styling, spacious interior and effortless performance made the car a popular choice for the aspirational middle classes who wanted something a little more distinctive from the average Austin/Morris fare, but couldn't quite stretch to the likes of Jaguar.
By the way, I know it's not Sunday but I rarely find the time to post at the weekend now and I really want to keep this series going (even though I can't get the bloody posts to format properly with photographs!)
Friday, January 23, 2009
Great telly, but rather them than me
I don't know if you've been watching the excellent "Victorian Farm" on BBC2 over the last few weeks, but it's become one of the few highlights on TV for me since it started. The programme follows a group of people living and working a farm as they would have done in Victorian times - using traditional methods combined with the "new technology" that was transforming farming in the late 19th century.
The programme makes frequent references to how the new technology of the time was replacing the intensive labour that had been needed before - although makes little judgement on why this was happening. I believe that the general opinion is that the advent of new machinery forced many people out of the country and into the cities, towns and factories - but I would argue that it was possibly the other way around.
People started flocking to the industrial centres from the country because the factories offered higher wages - and businessmen don't pay higher wages unless they have to! If it really had been a case that the new farming technology was putting farm workers out of work then the wages offered by the industrialist would have been lower - not higher. Add on the fact that working in factories offered predictable hours (though long) and less backbreaking (though still very hard) work and you can see why people moved to the cities and why farming had to change.
Despite all the advances in technology, farming actually remained quite labour intensive long after the Victorian era. One of my favourite books about the local area is called "The Spacious Days" by Michael Twist recounting his early life living and working on a farm not far from Slough in the 1930's. It's a charming and witty read, but it also reveals that farming was still a very labour intensive occupation even up to just before the start of WW2.
Watching Victorian Farm reveals just how hard life was back then - even if the participants in the programme seem to be enjoying themselves. I actually think they are enjoying the simplicity and honesty of that way of life more than anything - the work itself, particularly during the harsh winter months, was arduous although ultimately rewarding - and they know that they'll be back in the modern world soon enough. You also have to admire the sheer creativity and skill of the craftsmen back then.
Contrary to what many might think - although I believe we could do far worse than reacquaint ourselves with some of the Victorian morality, can do attitude and work ethic - I don't dream of us going back to those sort of times. What we forget, though, is that without the power provided by fuel such as coal and the freedom provided by the internal combustion engine we wouldn't be that much different today. For me, there is a certain irony that so-called "progressive" policy towards "man-made" global warming is likely to force a return to a Victorian style existence far more than any conservative policy would.
The programme makes frequent references to how the new technology of the time was replacing the intensive labour that had been needed before - although makes little judgement on why this was happening. I believe that the general opinion is that the advent of new machinery forced many people out of the country and into the cities, towns and factories - but I would argue that it was possibly the other way around.
People started flocking to the industrial centres from the country because the factories offered higher wages - and businessmen don't pay higher wages unless they have to! If it really had been a case that the new farming technology was putting farm workers out of work then the wages offered by the industrialist would have been lower - not higher. Add on the fact that working in factories offered predictable hours (though long) and less backbreaking (though still very hard) work and you can see why people moved to the cities and why farming had to change.
Despite all the advances in technology, farming actually remained quite labour intensive long after the Victorian era. One of my favourite books about the local area is called "The Spacious Days" by Michael Twist recounting his early life living and working on a farm not far from Slough in the 1930's. It's a charming and witty read, but it also reveals that farming was still a very labour intensive occupation even up to just before the start of WW2.
Watching Victorian Farm reveals just how hard life was back then - even if the participants in the programme seem to be enjoying themselves. I actually think they are enjoying the simplicity and honesty of that way of life more than anything - the work itself, particularly during the harsh winter months, was arduous although ultimately rewarding - and they know that they'll be back in the modern world soon enough. You also have to admire the sheer creativity and skill of the craftsmen back then.
Contrary to what many might think - although I believe we could do far worse than reacquaint ourselves with some of the Victorian morality, can do attitude and work ethic - I don't dream of us going back to those sort of times. What we forget, though, is that without the power provided by fuel such as coal and the freedom provided by the internal combustion engine we wouldn't be that much different today. For me, there is a certain irony that so-called "progressive" policy towards "man-made" global warming is likely to force a return to a Victorian style existence far more than any conservative policy would.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Can you feel it?
It's not political, but I found this story in The Times fascinating.
But a study of digital music sales has posed the first big challenge to this “long tail” theory: more than 10 million of the 13 million tracks available on the internet failed to find a single buyer last year.
I've never seen the point of music downloads. You buy the product and all you get is a crappy computer file. You can't touch it, you can't stick it on a rack with the rest of your music collection and once you've played it a few times it'll get lost forever. No one will return to it 10 years later and rediscover that long lost album sitting on their shelf.
When I was a kid buying music meant buying records. Music came on shiny black vinyl in bright coloured sleeves with interesting labels and you got a "B side" which contained a bonus track - something which you wouldn't hear on the radio - as well as the single you were actually buying on the A side.
One of the earliest singles I ever bought was T Rex's "Ride A White Swan" which actually came with two tracks on the B side including a cover of Eddie Cochran's "Summertime Blues" - something which you'd never buy as a download, but which represents a very good example of the sound of the early T Rex.
The point is that you got something tangible - something you could handle and gaze upon. As I got older and started buying albums you got even more - unique labels, sleeve notes with lyrics and a whole bunch of tracks you wouldn't normally get to hear. They weren't just things to listen to, they were a source of pride.
Vinyl was slowly replaced by audio-cassettes and then CDs - neither of which I could really get into as neither had the physical presence of vinyl. Even today, I'm still more likely to buy an album or single on vinyl from Ebay than I am to buy a CD. I started doing that after buying a couple of music downloads and finding the whole thing very unsatisfying.
Nothing can replace the buzz you get from having that actual record in the original sleeve as far as I'm concerned. I actually feel sorry for those kids today who've never had that.
But a study of digital music sales has posed the first big challenge to this “long tail” theory: more than 10 million of the 13 million tracks available on the internet failed to find a single buyer last year.
I've never seen the point of music downloads. You buy the product and all you get is a crappy computer file. You can't touch it, you can't stick it on a rack with the rest of your music collection and once you've played it a few times it'll get lost forever. No one will return to it 10 years later and rediscover that long lost album sitting on their shelf.
When I was a kid buying music meant buying records. Music came on shiny black vinyl in bright coloured sleeves with interesting labels and you got a "B side" which contained a bonus track - something which you wouldn't hear on the radio - as well as the single you were actually buying on the A side.
One of the earliest singles I ever bought was T Rex's "Ride A White Swan" which actually came with two tracks on the B side including a cover of Eddie Cochran's "Summertime Blues" - something which you'd never buy as a download, but which represents a very good example of the sound of the early T Rex.
The point is that you got something tangible - something you could handle and gaze upon. As I got older and started buying albums you got even more - unique labels, sleeve notes with lyrics and a whole bunch of tracks you wouldn't normally get to hear. They weren't just things to listen to, they were a source of pride.
Vinyl was slowly replaced by audio-cassettes and then CDs - neither of which I could really get into as neither had the physical presence of vinyl. Even today, I'm still more likely to buy an album or single on vinyl from Ebay than I am to buy a CD. I started doing that after buying a couple of music downloads and finding the whole thing very unsatisfying.
Nothing can replace the buzz you get from having that actual record in the original sleeve as far as I'm concerned. I actually feel sorry for those kids today who've never had that.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Ranting Stan's Sunday Drive: Ford Escort RS2000
Back in the seventies, hairy chested macho policemen needed hairy chested macho transport - at least they did on the telly.
The Professionals was a series that featured a couple of coppers called Bodie and Doyle working for an organisation called CI5. My memory is a little shaky about who was who but I think Doyle was the curly haired one who drove the classic Mk2 Ford Escort RS2000 Custom while Bodie cruised around in a Capri 3 litre.
The RS2000, by modern standards isn't anything special performance wise. It's about as quick as your average repmobile today, but with rear-wheel drive and an aggressive look it did it in far more style. And for those hairy chested coppers it fulfilled the need for lots of smoking tyres and screeching brakes.
It was, of course, based on the standard, modest and rather boxy Ford Escort Mk 2 which, although essentially a dull family car, was actually quite fun to drive. I never got to drive an RS2000, but I did have a spin in the Escort Harrier which, although only a 1600, was a lively little motor with smart Recaro seats, a slick gear change (like all Escorts) and RS2000 style alloys. It was a whole heap of fun and I can only assume that the RS2000 was the same but more so.
The RS2000 was probably the last of the great Escorts which were not only practical family cars, but remarkably successful in racing too. In the early eighties Ford introduced a front drive hatchback Escort and Ford's family favourite was never the same again.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Ranting Stan's Sunday Drive: Yamaha FS1E
Once upon a time, when twist'n'go scooters were still recognised as being for girls who rode bikes in skirts and every red blooded teenage male yearned for a proper motorcycle, the Yamaha FS1E was pretty much the must have moped for any 16 year old boy worth his salt.
The FS1E was one of a new breed of sports mopeds that came out in the early to mid seventies - legal for 16 year olds to ride on a provisional licence and capable of 50mph or more these sports mopeds were like real motorcycles to a teenager full of testosterone.
With only a 49cc two stroke engine that buzzed like an angry wasp or (as some would say rather cruelly) like a sewing machine, the top speed of the FS1E was something of a contentious issue to be honest. I owned a second hand 1975 FS1E DX (DX indicating a front disc brake) in the summer of '77 which no matter how hard I thrashed it or how low I pressed my self onto the tank could not manage more than 50mph, but I had friends with newer models who swore blind that their bike could top 60 - even though none of them ever left me behind.
In fact my little Fizzy, as the FS1E was affectionately known, was a match for just about any other sports moped of the time with the exception of the frantic Fantic - a little Italian pocket rocket which was fast but exceedingly fragile with handling to match. As there was a terrific camaraderie amongst young bikers back then we would all get to try one anothers bikes while we congregated outside the chip shop. By the time I was 17 I'd ridden just about every sports moped there was to try and a good number of larger bikes.
In those days it was legal for a 17 year old to ride any motorcycle up to 250cc on a provisional licence so, for most of us, the FS1E was a short term first bike as we would usually move onto a proper motorcycle as soon as we hit 17, but I doubt that anybody who owned one of these little Jap delights will ever forget it.
I certainly won't. It was far from being the best motorcycle I ever owned, but as the machine with which I first tasted the freedom that owning your own transport can bring it was the bike that gave me my fondest memories.
The era of the sports moped was short lived though. Within a few years the government had introduced a restriction on them to limit them to 30mph and there was little point buying a sports moped with a restricted top speed of 30mph and five gears. Believe it or not, I agreed with that restriction as even in my short time as a biker I'd seen things change rapidly. While myself and my peers took our biking seriously, learned to ride properly and safely it was obvious that younger kids were more reckless - and were being killed as a result.
It was clear to me that the sensible thing to do - with even small bikes becoming ever faster and more powerful - was to restrict what people could ride until they learned to handle them. It's an approach which I think the government should use today on cars to stem the increasing number of young drivers killed or injured. Modern cars are incredibly powerful compared to those of 30 years ago and it is easy to buy a car capable of 100mph which can hit 60 faster than a seventies sports car cheaply.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Make Sundays special
You may be surprised to learn this, but I'm a very traditional sort of person. I prefer baths to showers, wet shaves to electric and after shave to skin moisturisers. I like my bread to be buttered (not smeared with a chemical concoction of dubious origin) my tea brewed properly in a teapot and my milk whole.
I also like my Sundays special.
Now I know a lot of people my age will remember the days when Sundays were typically very quiet and shudder at the prospect of a return to such ideas. I know a lot of people thought that Sundays then were very boring, but I loved them - perhaps because I never got bored as a child. Even with no television for half the day, no computer games or consoles and very little money there was always something to do.
Sunday mornings were usually spent doing "essential" maintenance on my bike (a collection of old bits of bike I had recovered from scrap). This usually amounted to adjusting the one brake it had, pumping up the tyres and respraying the frame in the latest lurid colour. Alternatively I'd help my dad in the garden or my mum in the kitchen preparing Sunday lunch and baking.
We'd sit down to eat our Sunday lunch together while listening to Two Way Family Favourites on Radio 2 and then, after a suitable period of rest (usually spent watching The Big Match) I'd be off out for the afternoon. Hopping on my freshly painted (and hopefully dry) bike I'd be out onto the mercifully quiet streets and do a tour of all the local haunts where my friends would be hanging out.
As I've mentioned before, the part of Slough I lived in was semi-rural, so there were meadows, streams, ponds and such like to check out as well as the usual collection of waste ground and building sites. Even in the unlikely event that I didn't bump into any friends there were always places where you know you could find something to do - an informal kick-a-bout at the local recreation ground for instance (these games often consisted of around 20 a side!). Even if they weren't friends of mine they were usually always happy to let you join in - very different from today.
I'd then head home when it started to get dark or when I got hungry - whichever came first - and would sit down with the family once more for tea, a bit more telly, then a bath (school the next day, you see). There really wasn't any time to get bored.
I still try to keep my Sundays pretty much like they were. We have a rule in the Stan household that we do not go shopping on Sundays unless it is a quick walk down to the local corner shop for essentials such as milk, coffee or toilet rolls - I don't count the walk to the newsagents to get the Sunday papers as "shopping". Most of all I try to ensure that my kids grow up understanding that Sundays are for family and friends - and that is what makes them special.
I have no religious objections to Sunday shopping, although I do believe that there should be more restrictions on it - particularly the idea of restricting those shops that can open to only those which have a floor space less than 1000 sq ft. Other than that I believe we should all do what we can to make our own Sundays special however we can.
I also like my Sundays special.
Now I know a lot of people my age will remember the days when Sundays were typically very quiet and shudder at the prospect of a return to such ideas. I know a lot of people thought that Sundays then were very boring, but I loved them - perhaps because I never got bored as a child. Even with no television for half the day, no computer games or consoles and very little money there was always something to do.
Sunday mornings were usually spent doing "essential" maintenance on my bike (a collection of old bits of bike I had recovered from scrap). This usually amounted to adjusting the one brake it had, pumping up the tyres and respraying the frame in the latest lurid colour. Alternatively I'd help my dad in the garden or my mum in the kitchen preparing Sunday lunch and baking.
We'd sit down to eat our Sunday lunch together while listening to Two Way Family Favourites on Radio 2 and then, after a suitable period of rest (usually spent watching The Big Match) I'd be off out for the afternoon. Hopping on my freshly painted (and hopefully dry) bike I'd be out onto the mercifully quiet streets and do a tour of all the local haunts where my friends would be hanging out.
As I've mentioned before, the part of Slough I lived in was semi-rural, so there were meadows, streams, ponds and such like to check out as well as the usual collection of waste ground and building sites. Even in the unlikely event that I didn't bump into any friends there were always places where you know you could find something to do - an informal kick-a-bout at the local recreation ground for instance (these games often consisted of around 20 a side!). Even if they weren't friends of mine they were usually always happy to let you join in - very different from today.
I'd then head home when it started to get dark or when I got hungry - whichever came first - and would sit down with the family once more for tea, a bit more telly, then a bath (school the next day, you see). There really wasn't any time to get bored.
I still try to keep my Sundays pretty much like they were. We have a rule in the Stan household that we do not go shopping on Sundays unless it is a quick walk down to the local corner shop for essentials such as milk, coffee or toilet rolls - I don't count the walk to the newsagents to get the Sunday papers as "shopping". Most of all I try to ensure that my kids grow up understanding that Sundays are for family and friends - and that is what makes them special.
I have no religious objections to Sunday shopping, although I do believe that there should be more restrictions on it - particularly the idea of restricting those shops that can open to only those which have a floor space less than 1000 sq ft. Other than that I believe we should all do what we can to make our own Sundays special however we can.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
The mounting mountain of waste
Thousands of tons of waste collected for recycling is piling up in storage because nobody wants it.
Collection companies and councils are running out of space to store paper, plastic bottles and steel cans because prices are so low that the materials cannot be shifted.
Things are so bad they are considering changing the storage rules so that they can store the rubbish in warehouses and disused military bases. At least they'll have plenty to choose from. It's also kind of ironic that these bases are considered unfit for housing criminals, but are OK to store rubbish in and were OK for our soldiers, sailors and airmen to live in. What does that tell you about the regard our politicians have for our military personnel?
I'm not keen on this whole recycling thing to be honest. I have nothing against it on principle, but I do object to being forced to do it on pain of punishment. If there was a genuine demand for it then the market would find a way.
Indeed, it used to back in my day. I'm sure my street wasn't the only one that had a rag and bone man tour weekly. I actually remember being told to sit outside the front of our house as a young kid to "keep an eye out" for the rag and bone man. He would come round each Wednesday leading his horse and cart and I don't think he ever refused to take anything away - even tatty old water damaged carpet.
Mind you, we didn't waste much in those days. Clothes would be passed down from sibling to sibling until, when they finally couldn't stand one more wash, they were cut up into rags for dusting, polishing, cleaning or even patching.
There was little food waste either. Most families didn't have freezers and most mums didn't work. So food was bought each day to be used that day. The question of "use by" dates didn't arise because most food was bought fresh and eaten on the day it was purchased - and as most communities had a local high street where one could buy the daily essentials, this was never an onerous task.
Far from it as far as my mum was concerned - it was part of her social life. I frequently hear young women today complain that they couldn't bear to be a stay at home mum cooped up all day with the kids, but it wasn't really like that back then. As a young mum, my mother would get my brothers off to school then walk up the high street with me in a pushchair where she'd bump into lots of other young mums who would become lifelong friends. It was part of what made the community we lived in so strong.
When it came to major goods - TVs, washing machines, fridges - we bought new things only when the old ones broke down and were no longer repairable. My mother only just recently replaced the colour TV my dad bought in the seventies - and only then because of the digital switchover. The TV still worked perfectly. I know people younger than that TV who change their set virtually every year!
The other thing today is packaging. As I mentioned, most food was bought fresh so wasn't packaged at all. These days virtually everything comes in a carton, wrapped in plastic or in a box. Perhaps the worst of all is the plastic packs designed, so I'm told, to discourage pilfering. Mrs Stan bought a memory stick for a digital camera the other day - a tiny thing little bigger than a postage stamp, but it came in a plastic pack about the same size as a paperback novel!
I don't suppose anyone cares really anymore. You can't tell anyone that things really were better in the old days because it doesn't fit the post-modern narrative - but they really were.
Personally, I see the mounting mountain of rubbish as a metaphor for the post-modern society. Full of liberal progressive good intentions but ultimately it just creates more garbage for society to have to deal with.
Collection companies and councils are running out of space to store paper, plastic bottles and steel cans because prices are so low that the materials cannot be shifted.
Things are so bad they are considering changing the storage rules so that they can store the rubbish in warehouses and disused military bases. At least they'll have plenty to choose from. It's also kind of ironic that these bases are considered unfit for housing criminals, but are OK to store rubbish in and were OK for our soldiers, sailors and airmen to live in. What does that tell you about the regard our politicians have for our military personnel?
I'm not keen on this whole recycling thing to be honest. I have nothing against it on principle, but I do object to being forced to do it on pain of punishment. If there was a genuine demand for it then the market would find a way.
Indeed, it used to back in my day. I'm sure my street wasn't the only one that had a rag and bone man tour weekly. I actually remember being told to sit outside the front of our house as a young kid to "keep an eye out" for the rag and bone man. He would come round each Wednesday leading his horse and cart and I don't think he ever refused to take anything away - even tatty old water damaged carpet.
Mind you, we didn't waste much in those days. Clothes would be passed down from sibling to sibling until, when they finally couldn't stand one more wash, they were cut up into rags for dusting, polishing, cleaning or even patching.
There was little food waste either. Most families didn't have freezers and most mums didn't work. So food was bought each day to be used that day. The question of "use by" dates didn't arise because most food was bought fresh and eaten on the day it was purchased - and as most communities had a local high street where one could buy the daily essentials, this was never an onerous task.
Far from it as far as my mum was concerned - it was part of her social life. I frequently hear young women today complain that they couldn't bear to be a stay at home mum cooped up all day with the kids, but it wasn't really like that back then. As a young mum, my mother would get my brothers off to school then walk up the high street with me in a pushchair where she'd bump into lots of other young mums who would become lifelong friends. It was part of what made the community we lived in so strong.
When it came to major goods - TVs, washing machines, fridges - we bought new things only when the old ones broke down and were no longer repairable. My mother only just recently replaced the colour TV my dad bought in the seventies - and only then because of the digital switchover. The TV still worked perfectly. I know people younger than that TV who change their set virtually every year!
The other thing today is packaging. As I mentioned, most food was bought fresh so wasn't packaged at all. These days virtually everything comes in a carton, wrapped in plastic or in a box. Perhaps the worst of all is the plastic packs designed, so I'm told, to discourage pilfering. Mrs Stan bought a memory stick for a digital camera the other day - a tiny thing little bigger than a postage stamp, but it came in a plastic pack about the same size as a paperback novel!
I don't suppose anyone cares really anymore. You can't tell anyone that things really were better in the old days because it doesn't fit the post-modern narrative - but they really were.
Personally, I see the mounting mountain of rubbish as a metaphor for the post-modern society. Full of liberal progressive good intentions but ultimately it just creates more garbage for society to have to deal with.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The future is all in the past
As a conservative I am often accused of being stuck in the past. In some ways that is true - I liked the way Britain used to be back in the days when you could get your milk, newspaper and morning post all delivered before breakfast. It was a more relaxed Britain where people were polite to one another, kids could play in the park without worrying about falling on broken glass, empty beer cans or used syringes left behind by the previous nights feral gatherings.
I'm also a huge fan of steam locomotives. I personally don't think we've gained much from switching to electric or diesel - they are just as prone to being late, crowded and smelly as any steam driven train - but we lost an awful lot.
I'm just about old enough to remember when steam trains were a reasonably common enough sight and sound. When I was a kid I was able to lie in bed being gently lulled to sleep by the sound of steam engines shunting in the distance and my grandmother lived close to a goods yard where steam powered locomotives pulling freight wagons regularly passed by at the bottom of her garden.
Steam powered trains were enormously aesthetic. The sight of a gleaming steam locomotive powering through the English countryside was - and still is occasionally - an awe inspiring sight and sound. They are visually and aurally inspiring and I'd be quite happy to see them make a comeback.
Similarly awe inspiring were the fabulous tall ships from the golden age of sail. Not being from the coast (or that old!) I can't honestly say that I was regularly exposed to the visual delights of tall sailing ships, but I've seen a few and they are wonderful to behold in full sail but, unlike the conversion from steam to diesel locomotives, there is no doubt that the emergence of powered ships have been a great benefit to trade. Where it once took months to transport a cargo from the East Indies it can now happen in weeks.
So isn't it a little odd that a newspaper which supposedly embraces modernism - and, I'm sure, would sneer at people like me who harken back to the golden age of steam engines - publish an editorial that celebrates the return of commercial sailing?
More cheerful is the prospect of a new era of commercial sailing: this week the Kathleen & May, a 108-year-old triple-masted wooden ship arrives in Dublin carrying a cargo of 30,000 bottles of French wine. There are other schemes to attach giant kites to container ships, to cut their fuel consumption. The old rule of the sea, "steam gives way to sail", may soon be needed again.
Why is it a cheerful prospect that we may be going back to an era where it takes a week to get a few bottles of wine from France to Ireland? Add on the fact that sailing ships are considerably more vulnerable to the whims of the ocean - which is notoriously fickle - and I see little to be cheerful about.
The Guardian is, of course, one of those leftie rags which often bangs on about "environmental" issues while trying to convince us that they are modern and forward thinking. Personally, I think this editorial exposes the truth that if anyone is stuck in the past it is the progressives who look forward to the day when we have destroyed our economic prosperity sufficiently to be dependent once more on subsistence farming.
I'm also a huge fan of steam locomotives. I personally don't think we've gained much from switching to electric or diesel - they are just as prone to being late, crowded and smelly as any steam driven train - but we lost an awful lot.
I'm just about old enough to remember when steam trains were a reasonably common enough sight and sound. When I was a kid I was able to lie in bed being gently lulled to sleep by the sound of steam engines shunting in the distance and my grandmother lived close to a goods yard where steam powered locomotives pulling freight wagons regularly passed by at the bottom of her garden.
Steam powered trains were enormously aesthetic. The sight of a gleaming steam locomotive powering through the English countryside was - and still is occasionally - an awe inspiring sight and sound. They are visually and aurally inspiring and I'd be quite happy to see them make a comeback.
Similarly awe inspiring were the fabulous tall ships from the golden age of sail. Not being from the coast (or that old!) I can't honestly say that I was regularly exposed to the visual delights of tall sailing ships, but I've seen a few and they are wonderful to behold in full sail but, unlike the conversion from steam to diesel locomotives, there is no doubt that the emergence of powered ships have been a great benefit to trade. Where it once took months to transport a cargo from the East Indies it can now happen in weeks.
So isn't it a little odd that a newspaper which supposedly embraces modernism - and, I'm sure, would sneer at people like me who harken back to the golden age of steam engines - publish an editorial that celebrates the return of commercial sailing?
More cheerful is the prospect of a new era of commercial sailing: this week the Kathleen & May, a 108-year-old triple-masted wooden ship arrives in Dublin carrying a cargo of 30,000 bottles of French wine. There are other schemes to attach giant kites to container ships, to cut their fuel consumption. The old rule of the sea, "steam gives way to sail", may soon be needed again.
Why is it a cheerful prospect that we may be going back to an era where it takes a week to get a few bottles of wine from France to Ireland? Add on the fact that sailing ships are considerably more vulnerable to the whims of the ocean - which is notoriously fickle - and I see little to be cheerful about.
The Guardian is, of course, one of those leftie rags which often bangs on about "environmental" issues while trying to convince us that they are modern and forward thinking. Personally, I think this editorial exposes the truth that if anyone is stuck in the past it is the progressives who look forward to the day when we have destroyed our economic prosperity sufficiently to be dependent once more on subsistence farming.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Some praise for the BBC
After all the slagging I give the BBC it's about time I gave them some praise. BBC2's summer of British films is throwing up some real classics and last night's "Hell Drivers" was a real treat for me.
It was on a touch late, but as I had just returned from my quiz night the timing worked out OK. Made in 1957, Hell Drivers was a British B movie of little importance at the time, but somehow managed to pack in a host of British stars.
The lead was played by Stanley Baker (the living spit of my dad) supported by Patrick Mcgoohan, Sean Connery, Sid James, Gordon Jackson and William Hartnell - with Herbert Lom playing the Italian, Gino. It takes a hum drum job, a ballast truck driver, and turns it into an exciting romp as well as providing a great insight into working life as it was - more or less. I'm not sure there were that many truck drivers who, like Patrick McGoohan's character "Red" would chain smoke AND swig from a bottle of beer while he hacked along country lanes at breakneck speed, but it still conjured up an interesting slice of life from late fifties Britain.
I doubt there are many people under the age of forty who remember the joys of "clocking on" as we used to and even fewer who remember the real joy of getting a weekly wage packet - a little brown envelope stuffed with cash. Although I don't miss clocking on and off, I still miss being paid weekly in cash. I don't know if it was the same for married couples with a mortgage and a tight budget (though my parents managed pretty well), but as a young man being paid weekly in cash meant that no matter how quickly you spent your wages you always knew you'd be getting more come Friday.
My own weekly wage was the princely sum of £16 although, after tax, NI and a fiver a week "keep" paid to mum I ended up with less in my pocket than I would have got on the dole (about £9 a week back then, I think). Even so, I still managed to save enough cash to put a deposit on a brand new motorcycle to replace my ageing (and knackered) Fizzy and have enough left over to spend most nights each week in the pub with my mates.
Incidentally, my attendance at the pub for the quiz last night was the first since the smoking ban. Normally there are around 13 to 15 teams taking part - last night there were 5 and the week before, which I missed, just 4! The pub was utterly dead. Talking to the landlord before the quiz started he told me that he has lost a lot of regulars - builders who would pop in for a couple of pints and a bite to eat on their way home - and there has been no upturn in trade from non-smokers rushing to enjoy the smoke-free atmosphere. He was pretty depressed. Takings are down by more than third and the first casualty will be the Sky TV package.
Every cloud has a silver lining!
It was on a touch late, but as I had just returned from my quiz night the timing worked out OK. Made in 1957, Hell Drivers was a British B movie of little importance at the time, but somehow managed to pack in a host of British stars.
The lead was played by Stanley Baker (the living spit of my dad) supported by Patrick Mcgoohan, Sean Connery, Sid James, Gordon Jackson and William Hartnell - with Herbert Lom playing the Italian, Gino. It takes a hum drum job, a ballast truck driver, and turns it into an exciting romp as well as providing a great insight into working life as it was - more or less. I'm not sure there were that many truck drivers who, like Patrick McGoohan's character "Red" would chain smoke AND swig from a bottle of beer while he hacked along country lanes at breakneck speed, but it still conjured up an interesting slice of life from late fifties Britain.
I doubt there are many people under the age of forty who remember the joys of "clocking on" as we used to and even fewer who remember the real joy of getting a weekly wage packet - a little brown envelope stuffed with cash. Although I don't miss clocking on and off, I still miss being paid weekly in cash. I don't know if it was the same for married couples with a mortgage and a tight budget (though my parents managed pretty well), but as a young man being paid weekly in cash meant that no matter how quickly you spent your wages you always knew you'd be getting more come Friday.
My own weekly wage was the princely sum of £16 although, after tax, NI and a fiver a week "keep" paid to mum I ended up with less in my pocket than I would have got on the dole (about £9 a week back then, I think). Even so, I still managed to save enough cash to put a deposit on a brand new motorcycle to replace my ageing (and knackered) Fizzy and have enough left over to spend most nights each week in the pub with my mates.
Incidentally, my attendance at the pub for the quiz last night was the first since the smoking ban. Normally there are around 13 to 15 teams taking part - last night there were 5 and the week before, which I missed, just 4! The pub was utterly dead. Talking to the landlord before the quiz started he told me that he has lost a lot of regulars - builders who would pop in for a couple of pints and a bite to eat on their way home - and there has been no upturn in trade from non-smokers rushing to enjoy the smoke-free atmosphere. He was pretty depressed. Takings are down by more than third and the first casualty will be the Sky TV package.
Every cloud has a silver lining!
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Ranting Stan's Sunday Drive: Sunbeam Rapier Fastback
The Sunbeam Rapier name had been around for a few years before the release of the sexy looking fastback version in 1967. Based on the Hillman Hunter the Rapier featured the same 1725cc engine with twin Stromberg carbs and contemporary styling that reportedly drew heavily from the "muscle car" look from the States.
Despite it's looks and name, the Rapier Fastback's performance was unsurprisingly modest given it's family saloon underpinnings - even the Holbay tuned H120 version struggling to reach around 105 mph and 0-60 in around 11 seconds.
Even with it's good looks, interior space and comfort, the Rapier was unable to compete with the conceptually similar Ford Capri and production ended in 1976.
Although the design was supposedly influenced by the US, I always thought the Rapier was more Italian in looks - not dissimilar to the Lancia 2000 coupe designed by Pininfarina. It was a car I often hankered over when I was younger, but never got around to owning or driving. The Rapier was just one example of a number of cars of that type that were to appear at that time - saloon derived coupes that had the looks, but not necessarily the performance, designed to broaden the appeal of a range to younger families or single men who wanted something a bit different from the average family saloon.
Back then a range would have a cheaper 2 door version, a slightly more expensive 4 door version and a comparably priced coupe. Nowadays they just call the 2 door a "coupe" and add a few grand onto the price.
Heroes and villains
I sat down to watch "Dambusters" yesterday afternoon with my youngest son.
This inspiring tale of inventive genius and selfless heroism would not get made today - instead we would have to have "balance" provided through images of the German dead and the devastation wreaked upon the innocent civilian population. This would be followed by long passages of introspection by the surviving pilots for the comrades they lost and questions of "was it worth it?".
This is why, 25 years after the Falklands War, we still haven't had a decent film made about the many heroic events of that war.
But the most insightful comment came from my son as the pilots returned to their mess after their harrowing mission to drink their tea and eat their eggs and bacon wreathed in cigarette smoke.
"They wouldn't be allowed to do that now" he said - meaning smoke cigarettes in a canteen.
This immediately conjured up the image in my mind of some supercilious, self-important "health and safety" jobsworth telling the weary and mightily relieved men to "put those cigarettes out".
It's the curse of our times that our nation is in the hands of people not fit to lick the boots of the British heroes who forged and defended our nation.
This inspiring tale of inventive genius and selfless heroism would not get made today - instead we would have to have "balance" provided through images of the German dead and the devastation wreaked upon the innocent civilian population. This would be followed by long passages of introspection by the surviving pilots for the comrades they lost and questions of "was it worth it?".
This is why, 25 years after the Falklands War, we still haven't had a decent film made about the many heroic events of that war.
But the most insightful comment came from my son as the pilots returned to their mess after their harrowing mission to drink their tea and eat their eggs and bacon wreathed in cigarette smoke.
"They wouldn't be allowed to do that now" he said - meaning smoke cigarettes in a canteen.
This immediately conjured up the image in my mind of some supercilious, self-important "health and safety" jobsworth telling the weary and mightily relieved men to "put those cigarettes out".
It's the curse of our times that our nation is in the hands of people not fit to lick the boots of the British heroes who forged and defended our nation.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Ranting Stan's Sunday Drive: Hillman Imp
Launched in 1963 as competition to the highly successful BMC Mini, the Hillman Imp was the Rootes Group foray into the small family car market and, in some ways, actually superior to the Mini.
Had it not been for the numerous problems the car suffered as a result of it's hurried development, it may have given the Mini much more of a run in that market.
Despite it's early problems, the Imp was a decent car. Agile and with a much slicker gearchange than the Mini the Imp was a good drive and production lasted for 13 years with more than 400,000 units produced. Along with the Hillman Imp were various badge engineered versions under the Singer or Sunbeam name - along with a neat little coupe/fastback version.
Around the time when I was passing my test the Imp was a favourite choice of newly qualified young male drivers who often considered the standard Mini 850 a bit "girly" and was often tweaked and tuned to improve performance, though I have to say I never came across one that matched my Cooper engined Elf - and they didn't have leather seats or wooden dashboards either!
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