Beaker

I blame myself for allowing Mrs Gruff to visit the library unaccompanied. She hadn't been gone for very long (the library is about a hundred yards away) when she called to ask me if I wanted a goldfish. Apparently the librarian's staff had found it dumped, in its tank, on the litter bin outside. They were so delighted that we'd taken it that they let Mrs Gruff have the two withdrawn books she was going to buy gratis. It has a mouth like Beaker, from 'The Muppet Show', and is almost the same colour, so we had no difficulty deciding what to call it.

Blue Moon

Three versions of a lovely song:

First Al Bowlly. Each generation thinks that it has discovered dance music, and that it alone is the hip generation, and it comes as something of a shock to realise that one's parents' sneers that one's favourite song was a hit in their day, and in their parents' day, are not without foundation. I've been looking for years for a copy of Al Bowlly singing 'You Couldn't Be Cuter', without success, but Lew Stone's recording of 'Blue Moon' offers an acceptable palliative:




Second, I've always loved Doo Wop and this is one of the best Doo Wop versions of 'Blue Moon' that I've heard:




Finally, I've never been an Elvis fan but he did record some nice songs and most of his early stuff was worth listening to again. This is one of his best, in my layman's opinion:

Woolly Vegetarians

Some of the products of human creativity are works of art and others are just hobbies. I hold my own ideas on what constitutes 'art' (four years at art college do, at least, endow one with some credibility in the eyes of the gullible), and, had I the money, I would enjoy a few hobbies, but I have no real idea of what distinguishes the artist from the hobbyist, though I have no doubt that should the output of a hobbyist be discovered by a pseudo-scientist three thousand years hence it will undoubtedly be attributed to a 'primitive artist' (five years inter-disciplinary study - two at postgraduate level - of the past - at two universities - do, at least, endow one with some credibility in the eyes of the gullible).

Artist or hobbyist? Whether or not, the knitted garden tickled my fancy and I fancy that it won't be too long before someone knits one into a narrow gauge model railway.

Gruff thanks to Crafty McGee for the photograph.

A Thing of Beauty is A Joy Forever

1957 Aston Martin DBR2

1936 Lagonda LG45 Drophead Coupe

Both photographs were copied from this web site.

The Heston Type 5 Racer.

I've always liked the lines of the Napier-Heston Racer. I think it was far more appealing than its contemporary, the Spitfire MkI, though it was intended for a very different purpose, of course. It could easily have been ungainly, especially with its tail wheel faired into the fin and the short rear fuselage, but it uses elements that foreshadow at least two highly successful aircraft of the later war period: The ventral radiator ducts and symmetrical section laminar-flow aerofoils that distinguished the North American Mustang and the raked undercarriage legs of the Hawker Typhoon and Tempest. Despite its rather voluptuous mid-section and consequent chunky 'ankle' it is quite simply stunningly beautiful.

What next?

A telephone call, this morning,from the letting agent who manages Mrs Gruff's flat. The business occupying the ground floor had called complaining of a leak from above (the Gruff 'home') and asking if I could go down to have a look, which I explained it was not at all convenient to do and which would be pointless as I could do nothing about it, there being no taps running etc. etc. I suggested sending a plummer.

He arrived sometime later and eventually attributed the drip downstairs to a leaking radiator valve in the kitchen., caused by Mrs Gruff leaving the filler valve to the central heating system open and the system therefore operating at three times its recommended pressure. I have experience of leaks that result in water finding its way through ceilings and they tend to be rather more obvious than the barely detectable weeping in the kitchen so I doubt the accuracy of his diagnosis.

This flat is in need of almost constant repair and maintenance, attributable to its age and the poor quality of both it's systems and components and the workmanship of those who installed them. Economy is everywhere apparent and my fear is that the excessive pressure in the system may have caused the failure of a joint in an inaccessible location, possibly causing us not just inconvenience but also unwanted expense.

This could not have happened at a worse time.

Ghosts From The Past

I once owned one of these, albeit as a box of bits, which, owing to the circumstances then prevailing, I had eventually to sell, a theme that has recurred more than once since then (other motorcycles may make an appearance here).

The machine is a 1953 Panther 100; a 600cc single cylinder 'sloper' that was reputedly able to climb the wall of a house, with sidecar attached, and pull it down afterwards. Having ridden a pre-war Panther 500 with a three speed box, I believe that it was possible.

Well, After All, It's Only Rubbish, Isn't It?

For some odd reason the microbes who constitute what is, so far, the un-notifiable disease that is the 'blogosphere' (a ridiculous word that is, perhaps, intended to restrict the free expression of self in much the same way that the wholly spurious concept of 'netiquette' was intended to fifteen years ago), have taken to comparing themselves to characters from science fiction. As viruses go, this one seems to be particularly contagious and I offer that as my excuse for indulging myself. My reason for publishing the result is that it wasn't quite what I'd expected and to have denied it would have been cowardly.

So here it is:

Naturally Mrs Gruff, a devoted Tolkien fan (comment deleted) laughed and said, not entirely patronisingly, 'how lovely'. I await angela's comment with interest.

Oliver Postgate

The death of Oliver Postgate has been recorded on a number of blogs but all remember series that were produced 'long after my time'. I remember the first (black and white) series of Ivor The Engine and how magical it was; I was completely transported as an infant and still enjoy watching anything made by Smallfilms, the production company that Mr Postgate founded with Peter Firmin, so much so that I actually own a small stuffed Major Clanger, bought for me as a humorous novelty by Mrs Gruff (a devout Bagpuss aficionado) and now voiceless, his battery long since dead. He sits as a mascot in her Fiat Punto. I have his autobiography somewhere (probably in store in Berwick with all my things), together with a CD-ROM that came with it, and which I cannot play for some reason.

Smallfilms produced civilised entertainment for children that is also a source of delight for adults and many will readily admit to gratitude for the talents of Messrs Firmin and Postgate but one aspect of Mr Postgate's life that I find a little reprehensible is that although he was a conscientious objector during the Second World War, refusing, when he did eventually respond to his call-up, to put on his uniform (thus ensuring that he would be dealt with under civil rather than military law) he was happy to accept the honorary rank, together with the uniform and privileges, of major in the (civilian) corps in which he 'served' in Germany after the surrender. He was the grandson of George Lansbury (and cousin to the actress Angela Lansbury) so it's no surprise that he was able, like so many well-bred or well connected 'socialists' of the time, to acquire for himself the glamour of a uniform with very little, or none, of the risk.

I've always liked those sporty looking Studebakers from the mid fifties and this drawing, by Harry Bradley, looks like a consciously 'retro' late sixties coupé. I'd like one, were it more than a sketch. It isn't an Austin Healey BN2 100M, an MGA or a Jaguar XK120 but it wouldn't look completely out of place outside a thatched, half-timbered pub.

How She Did It (ii)

The Holden EFIJY

I've never been car mad but I do enjoy driving, have strong aesthetic preferences and a lifelong interest in all aspects of design (as well as almost twenty years studying and working in the graphic arts), and this is certainly a car that I would enjoy owning and driving: big, shapely and utterly pointless (one cannot take the dogs out in it and would not do the shopping) other than as a beautiful thing to be driven for the pleasure of driving it.

An Australian Three Wheeler

This is nice:

How She Did It

This is how Prudence managed to escape from her luxury gaff:




My apologies for the appalling photograph but I hadn't much time to catch her in the act of walking upside down on the roof of the cage. It was obviously no problem for her to push her way through the unfastened trap. I've also seen her climbing up the chewy thing that hangs from the same bars to reach them.

She's a clever little rodent.

Suck It And See

More bloody irritation. Those comfortably placed 'owner occupiers' who think living in private rented accommodation is such a bloody good idea for others should try it themselves.

Mood: Fed up, browned off and generally bloody angry.

It's A Girl

Spike showing no sign, at about three months old, of being Spike, he must be presumed to be Prudence.

Home Again

Spike (or Prudence) was located and assisted back to older, smaller quarters yesterday. Some rearrangement of the larger apartment is necessary before his return there but, for his own sake, he cannot be allowed to escape again: winter's coming on, for one thing and, despite a rodent's innate ability to thrive in the most unpropitious surroundings, a rat he ain't.

There Was A Time ...

... when the BBC was not synonymous with shit. This unforgivable mangling of a previously enjoyable song should prove to the most obtuse barbarian that the licence fee is now long since insupportable.

A Mallet Garratt

This is an artist's impression (taken from this web site) of a proposal for a 3' 6" gauge locomotive for South African railways, produced in 1927 by Beyer Peacock of Manchester, though nothing came of it. What sets it apart from other Beyer Peacock locomotives of the Garratt type is that it's actually four, rather than two, engines fed from a single boiler; two high pressure and two low pressure engines of two cylinders each, the low pressure engines articulated to the high pressure in the Mallet fashion.

The few comments about it that I've seen around the web condemn the proposal as impractical, largely because the only other attempts to feed more than two sets of cylinders from one boiler were abject failures. The difference between the Beyer Peacock Mallet-Garratt and the triplex articulated locomotives of the Eerie Railroad and the Virginian Railroad (see both types here) is that the latter fed two sets of low pressure engines from one high pressure set of cylinders yet exhausted only one set of low pressure cylinders through the smoke box, thus halving the available draught. It's also significant that the Eerie Mallets were modified very shortly after building to accommodate larger fireboxes, which still seem to have been too small.

I think the locomotive could have been very successful, because both of its constituents were very successful. I'm aware that the conclusion does not necessarily follow but the reasoning seems simple enough: The Garratt fed two high pressure engines, just as the later US simple expansion articulated locomotives (eg Big Boy) did, without any trouble and the Mallets simply used the exhaust steam from one engine to drive another.

If a (high pressure steam)+b (low pressure steam) works:


and 2a works:


then 2(a+b) must work:


Mustn't it?

A standard gauge version was also proposed for SAR but that too came to nothing, sadly. I can't help wondering what might have been had Alco produced something of the type under the North American licence held by them. It isn't such a wild flight of fancy.

You can see the picture above, with general arrangement drawings of both the narrow and standard gauge proposals, here.

Missing, Presumed Lost

The new, still unsexed, Spike has escaped from his luxury apartment. He was definitely at home when Mrs Gruff fed him a raw green bean, on Friday night, but was out when checked this afternoon.

Oh woe!

Stop Press: As this blog post was 'going to press' a nibbled pack of Hall's Sugar Free Mentho-lyptus throat lozenges was discovered behind the chest of drawers in the bedroom. There is hope.

Just a Point of View

I'm watching, as I type and through the medium of BBC iPlayer, a programme on the exploration of Australia and the subsequent exploitation of the interior by cattle and sheep farmers. An elderly aboriginal gentleman has just been retailing stories of the cultural, environmental and human destruction wrought by disease ridden foreigners with wholly alien customs and practices. Far from sympathising I found it difficult to understand why he was not celebrating the 'benefits' to his people and land of the uncontrolled mass immigration of aliens, for such is how the indigenous population of England is expected to feel about what it has been subjected to over the past three or four hundred years.

As with the USA and its 'native' peoples, Australians seem to feel that they can never consider themselves to be indigenous to the land they live in and come from, yet the very same mentality that has fostered that attitude vehemently asserts the reverse here. Foreigners, no matter how antipathetic to our way of life they may be, must never be thought of as having fewer claims in our homeland than we. It's odd that small populations of peoples so technologically backward that they live in the stone-age can advance claims to ownership of entire continents that they can do nothing with but wander over, while Europeans from innovative and dynamic cultures must content themselves with sharing their increasingly overcrowded spaces with anyone who wishes to sup with them.

Hamsters Again

A new Spike was acquired on Tuesday of last week and seems to have settled in. He's too young to sex without unnecessary handling so I shall have to wait for the descent of his testicles, should he have them. Should he turn out to be a she he will be called Prudence.

Pride and Prejudice

Disdaining television as I do, I occasionally resort to the recently discovered BBC iPlayer. Much of the little that is available there appears to be unwatchable trash but there are a very few worthwhile offerings (how the mighty have fallen). Who Do You Think You Are? just sits in that class. The fifth programme in the series, available to watch or download until 9:59pm Wednesday, 17th inst, traces the family history of Ainsley Harriott, the television chef.

Naturally, given that the object of research is rooted in the West Indies, slavery loomed large in his past, and his anger on seeing the monument to the owner of his maternal ancestors was not unexpected though Mr Harriott was philosophical, describing slavery, incorrectly, as 'the story of the black man' (The overwhelming majority of 'blacks' are not descended from slaves and many are descended from slave owners or those who happily traded in slaves, of whatever hue, and slavery is actually the story of the 'white' man: 'Slave' is derived from Slav and the inhumane treatment of 'white' slaves, many of them English, in both the Roman and Mohammedan Mediterranean puts the suffering of 'black' slaves in Europe and the Americas very much in the shade). What was telling was his discomfort on learning that not all of his maternal ancestors, and ancestresses, were slaves (one was a policeman with an impressive property portfolio apparently bought with the earnings of his prostitute mother) and his shock on learning that his great great grandsire was himself a 'white' slave owner. His distress on finding his ancestral home derelict and overgrown was signal.

There is a lesson in his experiences: We may be proud, as he is, of what we are but we can never really know just what we are and sometimes, if we are to continue to be proud of what we are, we must give up some of our prejudices. It wasn't 'compelling' viewing but the programme was instructive and I hope it is shown as part of the slavery syllabus that is to be taught to our children, ostensibly that they might thereby form a more accurate and thus 'fairer' understanding of the past and their ancestors', and ancestresses', rôle in shaping it.
.

Baidarkas

For some time I have wanted to build a baidarka, an Aleut hunting 'kayak', but I lack the money and space to do so. I also wish to take up kyudo, but that's another story. Baidarkas (the word is Russian) are, for me, the most refined expression of the small boat form that we know as kayaks, and George Dyson's baidarkas are the most refined of all. Remember that all kayaks were sea going craft, the crews of which could not swim. Hunting seals and small whales in a vessel twenty feet long by eighteen inches beam by six inches draft, with no buoyancy aid, no EPIRB beacon and no chance of rescue, requires balls in any language.

Looking at the frames of an unskinned baidarka should enable one to understand just why our North Sea traversing ancestors worshiped ships so much that they built unseaworthy examples as funerary vehicles for the interment or cremation of their noble dead. A ship, or boat, is, or was until the age of arc welding, a thing of beauty in its own right, whether useful or not, and should be appreciated as such.

Spike (d. 31/7/08) RIP

After logging off in the later 'early hours' of this morning I discovered Spike, my hamster, lying cold and stiff on the sawdust in his palatial quarters (a guinea pig cage). He was alive at lunchtime, yesterday, so must have passed away while I was at work. He was ageing when I acquired him and I was told that I should be lucky were he to live longer than six months. He hadn't been terribly active lately but his teeth were in good order, his bones well fleshed and there were no signs of an agonising struggle; it looks as though his life had simply run its course. He was pleasant and amusing company and won't be consigned to the dustbin. On Sunday I will take him out of the freezer and bury him somewhere comfortable; probably in The Lakes.

RIP Spike.

Postscript: Spike was laid to rest in a meadow above Shap Abbey at approximately 21:20, BST, on Sunday, 3rd inst. He was well provided for and should not go cold nor hungry on his journey to meet his ancestors.

Bad Language and Thanks to Northumbria Police

angela tells me that she was robbed today by two con men who emptied her till. I am not a swear blogger but I hope the fucking bastards die in a pool of their own shit. She is the mother of two decent and intelligent boys and is struggling to develop a thriving business in difficult circumstances. The theft has deprived her of a week's considerably less than national minimum wage, for which she works hard.

Naturally she dialled 999 as soon as she discovered the loss. 'The Police' were prompt, efficient, very supportive and generally 'fantastic' (in stark contrast to my own annoying encounter with an overly officious Alnwick policeman) and I don't doubt that eventually they'll catch the scum, who robbed a number of other shops in the area, but I wonder whether the courts will honour their part of the bargain between The Law and The Public.

Compare and Contrast

Thanks to Gallimaufry & Chips, an excellent, always interesting blog which is very much a Gruff 'more than daily' read, I've had a little fun testing the reading levels of this and another of my blogs, Pox Anglorum. Pox was assessed, like Gallimaufry & Chips, at 'genius' whilst this blog is merely of 'college (postgrad, recte: post-graduate)' standard. Whilst it's just a bit of fun, and utterly meaningless (and a rating of 'genius' means nothing more than that the authors of the test find a certain level of writing incomprehensible), the difference neatly demonstrates my own attitudes to each blog: Pox Anglorum was always intended as a very correct organ in which posts are carefully constructed, with long convoluted sentences and, as nearly as I am able, impeccable spelling and punctuation. Contributions there are intended as lectures, though the muse seems to have deserted me for the present and the foreseeable future, whilst contributions here are not meant as anything more than the disjointed conversational ramblings of an untidy mind. Spelling and punctuation are of less importance here and polysyllabic words less in evidence. Grrrr ... uff is meant for relaxation, in other words, whilst Pox is bloody hard work, which is why it isn't done.

Life Goes On And Time Waits For No Man

One of the disadvantages suffered by those of us living life in a rut is that one tends to be overtaken by others not so hampered. It's of little consequence when viewed in the context of the grand scheme of things (even lemmings flourish in despite of their collective stupidity - and yes, I'm aware that's a 'myth') but for the individual it can be bloody irritating and, my being also, in the words Of A A Milne, 'a bear of very little brain', it can also be a little dispiriting personally.

I'm stuck in a rut and it's bloody annoying to see those who are not so hampered racing ahead.
I lived for a while in Northumberland, more specifically in Berwick-upon-Tweed, England's bastion against the Jock (which has never been part of Scotland - a lemming like myth - though occasionally seized by the 'keng of Scorts', and always retaken) and for eight and a half years, but had to move from there when my money (much of which, a disturbingly large amount, in the last few months, was lent to me without surety by angela) eventually ran out (I put forty of my last fifty quid into the tank of my van and drove myself, with one eye on the temperature gauge and the other half on the road and half on the very dodgy fuel gauge, to Mrs Gruff's doorstep, there to gather my resouces for my return), and wish to live in Northumberland again but hope of that is now more distant than ever, thanks to 'Wife In The North' whose acute commercial acumen has served to render my dreams even less realisable than they were when I left seventeen months ago.

I retain a 'presence' in the county, at a price, but my thoughts turn to disposal in the interests of economy, as has so often been necessary before, as a way of reducing my monthly outgoings. This is becoming tedious, principally because, at fifty two, I'm now all too aware that tempus does indeed fugit and one does eventually run out of time in which to realise one's dreams, though the effort, sweat and these days, the aches and 'pains', not to mention the expense, almost balance the scales. As I age I find it harder to retain the optimism that sustained me through similar periods in earlier years and the certainty that the success of WITN must inevitably inspire a lemming like rush of emulatresses (word copyright of W G Gruff, 2008), with entirely predictable effects on property prices and rents, merely adds to my gloom.

Reading this twenty four hours after writing it I find that I have no idea what I was talking about when I referred to balancing scales. In vino veritas, undoubtedly, but what is the point of truth if it is subsequently unfathomable?

A Jolly Good Chortle

It's always nice to find something to laugh at on a sunny summer Monday morning. This was in my spam filter this morning:

From Mrs Rebecca Williams

N�[38 Rue Des Martyrs Cocody

Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire

ATTN:
DEAREST ONE OF GOD

I am the above named person from Kuwait . I am married to Mr Benson Williams, who worked with Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years before he died in the year 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days.

Before his death we were both born again Christian. Since his death I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of $2. 5 Million (Two Million Five Hundred U.S. Dollars) in the bank here in Abidjan in suspense account.

Presently, the fund is still with the bank. Recently, my Doctor told me that i have serious sickness which is cancer problem. The one that disturbs me most is my stroke sickness. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to a church or individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want a church that will use this fund for orphanages, widows, propagating the word of God and to endeavour that the house of God is maintained.

The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision because I don抰 have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not Christians and I don抰 want my husband抯 efforts to be used by unbelievers. I don抰 want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly way. This is why I am taking this decision. I am not afraid of death hence i know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord. Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the Lord will fight my case and I shall hold my peace.

I don抰 need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health hence the presence of my husband抯 relatives is around me always I don't want them to know about this development. With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank here in Abidjan . I want you and the church to always pray for me because the Lord is my shepherd. My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy Christian. Whoever that wants to serve the Lord must serve him in spirit and Truth. Please always be prayerful all through your life.

Contact me on the above e-mail address for more information抯, any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another church or individual for this same purpose. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. Hoping to receive your
reply.

Remain blessed in the Lord.
Yours in Christ,
Mrs Rebecca Williams.

'Any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another church or individual for this same purpose.' I'm still laughing.

Lurchers

I don't keep dogs. I don't live in surroundings that are fitted to dogs and think it cruel to keep them out of a suitable environment but were I 'pleasantly situated' I would be delighted to share my home with a pair of lurchers. Lurchers, real lurchers, are, for me, without doubt the most appealing of all canines: Intelligent, fiercely loyal, stable and 'take-it-for-granted' dependable, they embody the characteristics of a good wife or, for a woman, a good husband (the two are the same if viewed from different sides of the same coin), or the comrades one relies upon to watch one's back when one's back is against the wall.

Lurchers, real lurchers, are English dogs: scruffy mongrels bred out of necessity in the face of adversity with the sole purpose of surviving one's foes through disciplined teamwork. They are possessed of a beauty and purpose that is theirs alone. That lurchers are now fashionable means nothing other than that those obsessed with fashion have run out of fashionable types to show and, in their relentless quest for novelty, have latched on to that which they have always recognised but never understood: The 'unspoiled'. Much in the way that Lady Chatterley recognised, yet failed to understand, the 'bit of rough' in a bit of Parkin (Lawrence's little joke?). Anyone who has ever smoked a rough shag will readily understand (that little 'hit' at the back of the throat).

Lurchers are hunters' dogs; real hunters, not those chinless idiots who would have you believe that their right to ride roughshod over your rights is essesntial to your freedoms.

Harold and Maude

How Much Lower Can One Possibly Go (II) ?

I've found work at last. In desperation, being very reluctant to claim benefits, not least because I am still trying to sort out the mess left by last year's claim for six days' Job Seekers' Allowance, I signed on last Thursday with a temporary employment agency and today they've given me some temporary work: A few days cleaning at a local holiday camp.

I'm fifty two, with almost twenty years experience in graphics and allied trades, including four years at art college, and a good degree in Mediaeval English and History, gained in difficult circumstances as a mature student following the loss of business, wife, daughter, car, home etc, yet I seem to be incapable of finding any economic role for myself other than that of temporary menial worker. Unfortunately I need the money. so I have no choice; needs must.

It's undoubtedly 'character building' but I thought that was finished fifteen years ago, after the last round.

How Much Lower Can One Possibly Go?

I think it's reasonable to say that I'm almost 'on my uppers' and feeling very 'down'. I have no job and am very nearly out (as in absolutely out) of money. I blame no one but myself but I'm in a slough from which it is proving difficult to extricate myself. I put up with such privations at various times in my twenties, thirties and forties because I believed that eventually (i.e. by this time) I would reap the rewards but now I'm fifty two and I've realised that this is probably how it will be for the rest of my life, with the added irritation of increasing official and commercial demands on my limited earnings and increasing restrictiuons on my rights and liberties. As unappealing as it is, I fear that my life will become even more difficult.

I am typing this on Angela's PC as I prepare to spend a night sleeping on her office floor, in Alnwick. I have just had to sit in the dark of her outside WC (personal convenience being, apparently, an irrelevance in a commercial property), the cistern of which must be filled manually using the stop cock on the supply pipe. It may seem an odd thing to choose to do but I'm almost a beggar so my options are rather limited and, lacking capital, I know of no other way to be available for work in Northumberland, which is where I am determined to live again, despite rapidly escalating property rents and apparently declining employment opportunities.

I 'phoned an agency about a vacancy advertised on the Jobcentre Plus web site within an hour of arriving here and spoke, as is usual these days, to an ill-mannered, barely intelligible lout who may or may not have promised to pass on the message to the person I wished to speak to, who was not, as is also usual these days, at his desk. No one has returned my call, as is usual these days.

Tomorrow I shall 'phone round the Newcastle based agencies and try to arrange some interviews. I doubt that it will be easy.

Lightning Striking Twice?

I'm off to Northumberland tomorrow, hoping that I can find work there. Unbelievably I've just done something to my ankle and foot, on the stairs, as I carried some boxes of surplus kit down to load into the car. In late January of last year I managed to slip in the bath and break some ribs during the process of moving my things out of Berwick. My ankle is swollen but isn't broken and doesn't appear to be sprained but my foot is very sore in that now familiar broken bone way and if I catch my it on something, like the leg of the table on which the PC sits, or twist it inadvertently, it complains in much the same way as my wrist did when I broke it.

If things have not improved in the morning I shall seek medical advice but the last time I presented myself at a hospital (Berwick Infirmary) with a suspected fracture I was peremptorily told, by an officious and sour-faced Jockette, to see my GP, which consultation took a fortnight to arrange and a further fortnight to occur.

Still Idle

This is my eighth week without an income and things are becoming a little tight. had I not given up alcohol for lent, amongst a number of other things, I should have run out of money by now.

The Riverdance

The Ro-Ro ferry Riverdance, which went aground at Anchorsholme, between Little Bispham and Cleveleys, four weeks ago, is still on the beach and now that she has actually capsized and is no longer merely listing is highly unlikely to be salvable. I thought when I first saw her that she'll probably be cut up where she lies. She's protected from looters at low water by a ring of hi-vis jackets and flashing orange lights, and a four hundred metre 'exclusion zone'. Though ostensibly for public safety, the precautions are readily understable: the claims will amount to millions and everything on the beach will become the property of the insurers. It's all quite a spectacle for photographers, ship spotters and simple brainless gawpers alike but the loss must have caused some serious problems for the smaller hauliers. The insurance payout will take some time and some may go out of business, with perhaps catastrophic losses.

Kid Of Speed

Kid of Speed

I Am Currently Reading ...

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell.

All books should be read with care, no matter how the sentiments expressed by the author may chime with one's own political views and it is necessary, when reading this book, to remember that Tressell may well have had 'more than one axe to grind'. According to the adumbrated biography contained in the introduction, written by Tristram Hunt, to the Penguin Modern Classics edition (2004) he was born in Dublin in 1870 and went, as a young man, to South Africa, where he became involved with pro Boer elements of the Irish nationalist contingent there. It can safely be presumed that he was not a loyal subject of the empire yet, like so many of his ilk, he was happy enough to make use of the opportunities that it afforded and made his way back to England in 1901. He died in Liverpool, in 1911, en-route to Canada, where he intended to settle. During those ten years he wrote a finely observed and biting critique of the social and cultural destruction wrought by the industrial revolution. Although the protagonist is clearly the author's alter ego some of the caricatures seem at times so exaggerated, even allowing for the grotesque distortions required by the libel laws of the day, it is difficult to avoid the suspicion that Tressell (or Noonan as he was actually known) hated them not just as members of a class such as could be found in any country but as English subjects of The King Emperor, for Tressell was himself middle class.

That notwithstanding, it's a good read and demonstrates that the essential 'Master and servant' relationship of paid employment, what is not unreasonably described as wage slavery, has not changed in a hundred years. On the contrary, the last thirty years have seen a deliberate return to the relationship between employer and employee, with emasculated and compliant trade unions and consequent low wages, long hours and tenurial insecurity, that obtained in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It's a situation I know well: Like Tressell I can make a justified claim to be considered well educated by the standards of the day, yet I seem incapable of obtaining a living by any means more satisfying than a succession of temporary jobs, as an agency worker, interspersed with periods of unemployment, for which I do not claim benefits. My sympathy for the work, however, is tempered by the suspicion that as much as I have in common with Tressell he would have held against me that I am, however poor, an Englishman, and those, it seems, he despised as much as the bourgeoisie.

A Little Addition To The Gruff Household

Spike arrived at about 15:20, GMT, and is now sleeping peacefully. He's a Syrian hamster who was taken in with a tumour on his chin and a scabby lesion on his shoulder. His owner declared that she did not like him, did not want him and wanted him destroyed. Since removal of the tumour was not expected to be difficult, the vet, as vets do, had jusified qualms about destroying an otherwise healthy animal and Mrs Gruff, knowing that I am something of a fan of hamsters, realised that a loving home was available to a fellow down on his luck.

So far he's cost me fifteen quid but I have the satisfaction of knowing that he's sleeping soundly, having just scoffed one and a half watercress leaves and their stalks and half a a spinach leaf, nibbled a broccoli floret and attacked with alacrity a hard fruit and seed stick. A filled drip-feed water bottle is coming up to room temperature on the radiator. His teeth are too long but with a decent diet he'll soon be back in top form.

My apologies for the poor quality of the photograph: Spike was obviously so excited by his new adventure that he was disinclined to pose and I had literally to grab what I could.

Better Late Than Never

I have just logged into the web site of Julian Beever again and found that he hasn't been idle since my last visit, some months ago. His work always brings a smile to my face.

The car failed its MOT but a new nearside front tyre, which I was expecting, and twenty five quids' worth of welding on the nearside rear sill got it through, so I'm mobile for twelve months, unless something catastrophic happens.

Annoyingly, the very badly run agency I visited yesterday in connection with a possible Monday start in a factory in Lytham St Annes did not ring, so I'm unlikely to earn any money this month.

Is it Me?

Or is it YouTube? I've been having an intermittent problem playing videos from some sites, especially YouTube. The problem is not universal but is not confined to YouTube. Is it, I wonder a problem with my firewall or other security software, is it a problem with my ISP's network or is it a problem with the sites themselves?

Ping tests and trace route I suppose. How tedious.

The car's MOT is booked for tomorrow. I'm not optimistic, but then I never am, having learned long ago that life has a habit of biting one on the arse just when one least needs the trouble.

Hold On

'They hung a sign up in our town: "If you live it up you won't live it down."' is one of the best lines of any song, and 'Hold On' my favourite Tom Waits' song.

Another Year Older

Today is my birthday (I'm fifty two years old) and Tuesday was the anniversary of my moving in with Mrs Gruff , originally for just a few months, while I acquired sufficient funds to move back to Northumberland, where my possessions remain. Sadly, I'm still in Lancashire and still penniless. The only improvement in my circumstances, after a year of short-term, low paid, temporary agency jobs, punctuated by periods of unemployment (for which, saving one desperate week, I have not claimed any benefits) is that I am not suffering the broken ribs that made my almost entirely single-handed removals such fun. I had to load and unload my van fourteen times with boxes of my belongings, which was awkward and uncomfortable, but decided that 'discretion [was] the better part of valour' and conceded defeat when faced with the the sofa, bed, refrigerator and cooker, and spent one hundred and fifty pounds paying two men to transport them just five miles to the secure repository, leaving me with just sufficient money to buy diesel for the two hundred mile drive south. The job took them less than half an hour.

I've been without an income for four weeks and see no prospect of an early return.

Twice In One Day

Yet another cruel blow. Angela has sent me the co-ordinates (Google Earth) and a URL (Geograph - '[a] photograph [for] every grid square') for a beautifully situated former groom's cottage on a private estate. The rent is a mere £390.00 pcm (what Mrs Gruff pays for her cramped and problematic flat) and the description of the 'suitable' tenant matches me to a T but I haven't a bloody bean.

The silver lining to today's dark cloud is that I haven't buggered the printer after all.

Another Cruel Blow

'Life is unfair, son, get used to it', was not infrequently told to me, by my father, in my boyhood and as if to remind me of that undeniable fact whatever force governs the affairs of the human race has contrived to place this idyllically situated, highly desirable property (Thrum Mill, on the banks of the River Coquet, Northumberland) on the market for a mere £225,000.00. I long to return to Northumberland and would sell my soul, were there a Devil, to live in such a place but having at the moment not much more than twenty five pounds to my name, and no income, I can only console myself, as I used often to do forty and more years ago, with the thought that one cannot miss what one has never had.

It's ironic that the idyllic is invariably the preserve of those with few if any ideals and little, if any, aesthetic sense, such is the overarching power of money in a spiv economy dominated by the ruthlessly self-obsessed.

Ghosts of Sundays Past

Ten years ago I was a post-grad at the University of York's Centre for Mediaeval Studies. Mrs Gruff worked away for long periods and I worked as a pot washer, for £2.50 or £3.00/hour (quite a 'come down' from the £20.00+/hour I had charged as a freelance graphic artist six years before), in a grotty little local restaurant until 02:00. When bus fares, photocopying and other study related expenses had been met I had just ten pounds per week for essentials and food. What was then 'home', a cold and pokey first floor flat in a converted Victorian town house, lay without Micklegate Bar and reaching it involved a ramble along the infamous, drunken lout infested 'Micklegate Run'.

I disliked the CMS and the university, though not the city nor York Labour Party, but one very pleasant memory is of being woken on a bright spring Sunday by Mrs Gruff's clock radio. I cannot now recall the title of the programme (it was not Desert Island Discs) but Mark Tully was the guest and I think he was introducing some of his favourite songs. One of them was Suzanne Vega's Luka. The clock radio sat on a bedside table, less than a foot from my ear and I was woken not by the opening chords but by the line 'my name is Luka, I live on the second floor', which, since I had not previously heard any of Miss Vega's songs, I had not heard before. Fortunately I'm not the panicky type and the song has been a favourite ever since.

Heigh-Ho Says Rowley

Dame Vera Lynn has, with apologies for the admittedly hackneyed phrase, a haunting and evocative voice and The Frog's Wooing is my favourite, not least because of the impeccably clear diction. She was the first Br*tish artiste to reach number one in the USA, in 1952, two years before, surprisingly, her only UK number one in 1954. Is there anyone who can listen to any of her recordings without coming out in goose pimples?

From 1949, for about ten years, Vera Lynn was accompanied by Barry Gray, who wrote most of the music used by Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, including my favourite The Man From MI5.

Both tracks can be found, along with several Century 21 TV themes, here.

I clearly remember Twizzle, which I always thought dated from the early sixties, but for years I could only recall a few images and hum a few bars of Torchy The Battery Boy, until I discovered the vintage television sites on the web. I saw again images that I had not seen since 1960, when I was four years old. Thank Englishman Tim Berners-Lee for the World Wide Web.

Once introduced to space travel I was more than ready for Fireball XL5, a year or two later.

The Ace Caff

You can find it here, though few of the pics capture the spirit of the place in its heyday. Sadly by the time I was cruising (what an innocent word that was then) the North Circular the Ace was a thing of the past. One day I intend to pass my motorcycle test and then I shall blat down the A1 for a coffee at the Ace.

I have never taken a motorcycle test and I have never ridden a motorcycle legally. I have not ridden a motorcycle (not a 'motorbike', which is a vile word) for thirty years but when I used to I did not display L plates, had no insurance, sometimes no licence, no MOT on a bike that was not 'MOTable', no road fund licence, or whatever it was called then, and, often, in the dark, no lights. My brakes were worn and didn't work terribly well in the wet (I remember, on a wet day, driving my bike between a camper van and a line of cones that separated, by less than a foot, my wheels from a deep trench as the labourers jumped for their lives and the cones toppled into the abyss, while pulling hard on the right hand lever, the throttle closed, and not daring to step on the left hand peddle for fear of jamming the rivets on the drum.) I was occasionally drunk, but never stoned, and, I realise now, always very, very lucky. Until late in 1975 I did not wear a helmet.

As irresponsible as I was, I did no evil to anyone. How did I get away with it? Who knows? Perhaps the devil looks after his own, which I earnestly hope he does.

Being There, Or Not.

By some strange and entirely unintended coincidence the videos below are linked. At art college (Ravensbourne, venue of what has subsequently been described as the Sex Pistols' first gig - presented while I was a student there, and no I didn't go because I thought the name childish and supposed that the band was crap.) I was vaguely acquainted with a fellow who described my Royal Enfield as an oil slick and with whom I later worked, (for more than two years; my longest tenure of any employed position) in the art studio of a small leisure and trade magazine publisher. He was a drummer and a member of a band that was offered a contract by Chas Chandler, who had managed The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Chris, my fellow student and later colleague, was highly regarded and 'tipped for the top', with articles about him appearing in the NME and Melody Maker, if I recall correctly, comparing him with Keith Moon, John Bonham and Carl Palmer, amongst others. For a while he was favoured by a 'rock journalist' (?) named Chris Welch, by whom he was introduced to various contemporary notables, amongst them, Tony McPhee.

An unrelated Jimi Hendrix story concerns the eldest son of some family friends wh0, like his brother, was a pupil of the local grammar school, at which I was also a pupil, though a couple of years later. In what must have been 1967 he, then an upper sixth former, was responsible for booking the bands for that year's end of year 'concert'. The budget was, I recall, £50.00 and he had the option of two bands for slightly less than that or one band for slightly more. Naturally he plumped for the most noise for the money and opted for the two band package. A week or two later The Jimi Hendrix experience had their first number one hit and could not be had for ten times that sum.

No Reason To Get Excited

I don't think I've ever heard a bad version of this. Both Dylan and Neil Young did it well but Jimi Hendrix's version is unsurpassed, I think. It's from the same period as Split Part 2, though a couple of years earlier, if I recall, and carries me back to my bedroom every time I hear it. It also reminds me of my time as a mature undergraduate at Sheffield, much to the chagrin of Mrs Gruff.

Split Part 2

The Groundhogs have always been one of my favourite bands and 'Split Part 2' one of my favourite songs, and I've never forgiven myself for selling my mint condition copy of the album Split sometime in the mid seventies for about £0.50 (I don't think I was ever paid for it).

There's a reasonable video of an excellent cover version of 'Split Part 2', by a band called Electric Experience, available at YouTube but it's a pleasure to show it here.

Trains

At first sight this has a distinctly French look to it but it was actually designed and built in England, one of three built by Robert Stephenson & Hawthorns, in 1940 for Iraq. I find it appealing: quirky but none the less stylish.

Colour shots of the locomotive in a derelict condition are presented here.

Thanks to Andrew Grantham and Google Images.

Out of Work Again.

I've been without an income for a week.