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.
Thursday 28 February 2008
Wednesday 27 February 2008
Sunday 24 February 2008
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.
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.
Friday 15 February 2008
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.
Tuesday 12 February 2008
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.
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.
Friday 8 February 2008
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.
I've been without an income for four weeks and see no prospect of an early return.
Wednesday 6 February 2008
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.
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.
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.
Friday 1 February 2008
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.
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.
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