Headline: "Young Britons 'shy from science'"
Synopsis: A new survey conducted across Europe suggests that young Britons are amongst the least interested in pursuing careers in science.
href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/7729472.stm"
"Half of Irish respondents and 43% from the UK said they lacked the skills to pursue a career in science."
I was dismayed when my eldest, Tom, gave up on an academic career at seventeen. I had expected more from him since he is bright, energetic, personable and passionate about the things that interest him. Unfortunately the school he attended was unable to ignite his interest in very much at all. It seems that the teachers he encountered, like those I encountered thirty-odd years before him, were preoccupied with maintaining their own egos and self-esteem and less concerned with the aspirations and ambitions of the students in their charge. I do not paint all educators with this opinion, I merely draw upon my experience of those I have encountered.
If you're interested, I will relate that Tom is now 21 and working in a temporary post in a record store [1]. He is surrounded by the latest CDs, DVDs, computer games and games consoles. He is very happy about this and, joy of joys, has discovered a knack for selling stuff. I guess his enthusiasm is just so infectious that shoppers are inspired to make the most of their visit to the store and leave not only with what they came in for, but also with a whole load of stuff they didn't realise they wanted. I hope Tom works on this and makes a success of his new-found talent.
I also note that the article relates, of the survey's correpondents, that "Many expect improvements in areas such as food and water quality, and communications technologies." It seems that the survey's correspondents or maybe the survey itself fails to recognise the distinction between scientists and engineers. It is the engineers that provide the technical solutions. A scientist may be able to predict where water may be found but it requires an engineer to build the well.
[1] HMV in the Swansgate centre, Wellingborough, Northamptonshire. If you're visiting be sure to take lots of cash and look for the tall curly-haired chap with the big, big smile.
[2] By way of un update: Tom's temporary job with HMV came to an end last month so he's now looking for more work. Today he applied for a MacJob and that's his best prospect at the moment.
[3] Summer 2011 Update: Tom's just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday. He is as handsome and bubbly and outgoing as ever. Tom is employed a close friend's business. He's servicing air conditioning installations and has plenty of work to be going on with.
Sunday 16 November 2008
Saturday 15 November 2008
Discovery of a new planet
When attempting to explain, or rather to avoid having to explain Grandpa's behaviour to my young children I came up with the following explanation:
"The planet Grandpa moves through many strange dimensions of time and space. Only rarely does its orbit intersect with that of Earth."
My kids liked it, and so did Grandpa.
"The planet Grandpa moves through many strange dimensions of time and space. Only rarely does its orbit intersect with that of Earth."
My kids liked it, and so did Grandpa.
Wednesday 5 November 2008
BMF Tail End Event, 2001
My sister-in-law is Lisa. Lisa plays lead with an all-girl band called 'The Playgirls'. In 2001 I was invited backstage at one of their shows and later produced this review:
http://www.theplaygirls.co.uk/htmlrevtailend.html
http://www.theplaygirls.co.uk/htmlrevtailend.html
Monday 3 November 2008
Gilfach Goch to Ealing Broadway
An acquaintance was confused by the abbreviation of Ealing Broadway to "Ebdwy" and thought it was a Welsh placename. The following explanation ensued:
It is in Wales. It's a yuppy suburb near and partly surrounding the teeming metropolis of Gilfach Goch. Ebdwy station was born when part of the hillside fell away to reveal one of the lost adits of the Brittanic Merthyr colliery. After excavating and shoring the railbed was linked to the line linking Cardiff to Ton-y-Pandy. To begin with, the line featured funicular-style assisted chain lift mechanism which drew its power from a reservoir at the top of the mountain. Since global warming has kicked in and provided South Wales with its present balmy and subtropical climate the amount of rainfall is now insufficient to keep the reservoir topped up so the line was electrified by the addition of a third rail. Although the service is often hampered by the residents running jump cables from the third rail to power their Sky digital receivers, it forms a welcome addition to the South Wales commuter network and has been further extended to Acton and West Ealing by making use of the original Severn Tunnel and the space left by Isambard Kingdom Brunel on each side of the GWR trackbed.
The rolling stock which is used requires the passengers to sit back to back with their feet dangling above the wheels. For the tunnel sections, wearing the hard hats with lamps on is mandatory but has caused a surprisingly small number of complaints. Refreshments ar not served, for obvious reasons but the tourists love it.
Many of my acquaintances become confused after speaking to me. Is it me, or the company I keep?
It is in Wales. It's a yuppy suburb near and partly surrounding the teeming metropolis of Gilfach Goch. Ebdwy station was born when part of the hillside fell away to reveal one of the lost adits of the Brittanic Merthyr colliery. After excavating and shoring the railbed was linked to the line linking Cardiff to Ton-y-Pandy. To begin with, the line featured funicular-style assisted chain lift mechanism which drew its power from a reservoir at the top of the mountain. Since global warming has kicked in and provided South Wales with its present balmy and subtropical climate the amount of rainfall is now insufficient to keep the reservoir topped up so the line was electrified by the addition of a third rail. Although the service is often hampered by the residents running jump cables from the third rail to power their Sky digital receivers, it forms a welcome addition to the South Wales commuter network and has been further extended to Acton and West Ealing by making use of the original Severn Tunnel and the space left by Isambard Kingdom Brunel on each side of the GWR trackbed.
The rolling stock which is used requires the passengers to sit back to back with their feet dangling above the wheels. For the tunnel sections, wearing the hard hats with lamps on is mandatory but has caused a surprisingly small number of complaints. Refreshments ar not served, for obvious reasons but the tourists love it.
Many of my acquaintances become confused after speaking to me. Is it me, or the company I keep?
Did anything other than a Shackleton have JATO ?
Those who operated the aircraft (and include the various fitters and mechanics as well as the flight crew) affectionately referred to the Shackleton as a 'collection of parts flying in formation'. The RATO fitting to which you refer was one of a series of experiments carried out during an unsually slow week at the Shackleton's main operating base at RAF St Mawgam in Cornwall which covered the south west approaches and the Bay of Biscay.
The following account came to me by means I'd rather not have to explain.
The RATO units were part of an assignment of spares destined for USAF use in Germany. Due to a navigational error, the pilot of a USAF Starlifter cargo aircraft mistook the Redruth bypass (which was still under construction at the time) for the main runway at RAF Mildenhall. Mildenhall was (and still is) the American forces' main distribution and logistics base in Europe and this navigational error can only be excused by the huge volume of liquor which accompanied the RATO shipment. The inebriated (and barely lucid) USAF pilot attempted to land on the unmade section of the A38 Redruth bypass. In this effort he was aided by yet another mix-up.
The Camborne and Redruth Express Taxi service was making use of some recently-acquired second hand radio telephony equipment to communicate with their fleet of taxis. The proprietors of the firm were well aware that this equipment had been sourced from an Army surplus sale but were not aware that it was still tuned to the set of channels used by military air traffic control agencies. The resulting confusion was inevitable as the despatcher of the Camborne and Redruth Taxi service engaged with the laconically drawling pilot of the Starlifter. In her attempt to guide what she thought was a seven seater minibus to the brass band club in St Keverne she persuaded the Starlifter's pilot to overshoot the unsurfaced A38, take a right over Goonhilly Down Earth Station (and the array of microwave satellite receivers operated by British Telecom) and line up on the runway at the Royal Naval Air Station at Culdrose. Confused by the RT message 'Park up by the front of the club and ask for Kevin the doorman' the USAF pilot realised that something was amiss, overshot the RNAS Culdrose runway and landed at St Mawgam. When the Starlifter drew to a halt, the pilot made his egress from the aircraft and ran off into the darkness, apparently to prepare his excuses for such a grossly negligent pieces of flying and to sober up.
The cargo of the aircraft was promptly appropriated by the staff of the RAF station who, as mentioned above, set about investigating what possibilites this windfall might afford. After starting on the liquor, it wasn't long before the possibilities offered by the RATO units began to appeal to their sense of playfulness. These units are solid fuel rocket motors, each about the size of two domestic dustbins. They are not equipped with any form of guidance system and have no aerodynamic qualities worth mentioning. It was in the brief of their designers to produce only thrust and to rely on the vehicle to which they are attached (firmly) to look after the details of the flight. The first trial, to see if they could get one to work, was a success. A single RATO was attached to the shell of a Blenheim night fighter which adorned the space at the front of the station. Two forklift trucks were employed to move the shell of the Blenheim to the far side of St Mawgam airfield where the RATO was attached and fired. Lacking a pilot to operate the flight controls (That the aircraft lacked a pilot demonstrates perhaps the only shred of wisdom or common sense to accompany this prank) the Blenheim first lifted into the air then was seen to execute a series of rolls leaving a growing spiral smoke trail over Falmouth bay, apparently heading for Brittany at an ever-increasing speed and height. After six or seven seconds of flight, the unlikely combination of rocket and worn-out WWII airframe approached Mach I and the over-stressed airframe failed. The wings and tail section were seen to fall into the sea while the remainder of the airframe, still attached to the still-burning rocket straightened out from its wildy-corkscrewing path and went straight up. Where it came down is not recorded. If it did in fact come down, which is debatable since it may very well have exceeded the Earth's escape velocity. See Appendix A for a computation which supports this argument.
Exhilirated and encouraged by the success of this trial and the discovery of a pallet of Jim Beam sour mash bourbon, the RAF station maintenance crew looked for a more promising airframe with which they could experiment. The next obvious choice turned out to be one of the Shackletons with which the base was equipped. The one chosen was close to exceeding its rated airframe hours and had already been stripped of all equipment prior to its final flight to RAF St Athan in South Wales where it was to be broken up. The prevailing opinion was that it woudn't be missed and was taking up parking space (which was at a premium on the tiny St Mawgam field.) In the best traditions of the RAF a bold solution was adopted, to fix six RATO units to the Shackleton's wing pylons. By a strange coincidence the mounting points for the RATO packs are a perfect fit so the work of lifting and attaching the packs to the airframe was soon completed. It was only after the packs had ben ignited and the shower of sparks and smoke began to emerge that an elementry mistake had been made. The three starboard-mounted RATO packs had been mounted facing forward but the three on the port wing were blasting smoke and sparks forward, in the wrong direction. As a result of this formidable but asymmetric thrust, the Shackleton started to rotate about a vertical axis at an ever-increasing rate. The effect on the RAF crew can be described as 'sobering'. They watched in horror as the aircraft completed its first revolution, it second and third, wondering where it would end.
At this point something altogether strange happened, on what was becoming an exceptional afternoon. The starboard wing, which was being driven into the air, began to lift as might have been expected. The port wing, which was being driven backwards into the air, began to lift as well. It seemed the leading-edge slat had been deployed perhaps by the vibration or by aerodynamic effects and the trailing edge flap had been forced down by the draft. Accurate observation of these effects was not reported due to the volume of smoke and because every participant in this folly was attempting to put as much space between themselves and the unfolding disaster. What is known is obtained by local eyewitnesses who, alerted by the noise, report seeing a twisting column of smoke rising like a tornado in reverse which climbed into the sky getting quieter and quieter.
No wreckage from the Shackleton was ever reported falling to the earth.
The following account came to me by means I'd rather not have to explain.
The RATO units were part of an assignment of spares destined for USAF use in Germany. Due to a navigational error, the pilot of a USAF Starlifter cargo aircraft mistook the Redruth bypass (which was still under construction at the time) for the main runway at RAF Mildenhall. Mildenhall was (and still is) the American forces' main distribution and logistics base in Europe and this navigational error can only be excused by the huge volume of liquor which accompanied the RATO shipment. The inebriated (and barely lucid) USAF pilot attempted to land on the unmade section of the A38 Redruth bypass. In this effort he was aided by yet another mix-up.
The Camborne and Redruth Express Taxi service was making use of some recently-acquired second hand radio telephony equipment to communicate with their fleet of taxis. The proprietors of the firm were well aware that this equipment had been sourced from an Army surplus sale but were not aware that it was still tuned to the set of channels used by military air traffic control agencies. The resulting confusion was inevitable as the despatcher of the Camborne and Redruth Taxi service engaged with the laconically drawling pilot of the Starlifter. In her attempt to guide what she thought was a seven seater minibus to the brass band club in St Keverne she persuaded the Starlifter's pilot to overshoot the unsurfaced A38, take a right over Goonhilly Down Earth Station (and the array of microwave satellite receivers operated by British Telecom) and line up on the runway at the Royal Naval Air Station at Culdrose. Confused by the RT message 'Park up by the front of the club and ask for Kevin the doorman' the USAF pilot realised that something was amiss, overshot the RNAS Culdrose runway and landed at St Mawgam. When the Starlifter drew to a halt, the pilot made his egress from the aircraft and ran off into the darkness, apparently to prepare his excuses for such a grossly negligent pieces of flying and to sober up.
The cargo of the aircraft was promptly appropriated by the staff of the RAF station who, as mentioned above, set about investigating what possibilites this windfall might afford. After starting on the liquor, it wasn't long before the possibilities offered by the RATO units began to appeal to their sense of playfulness. These units are solid fuel rocket motors, each about the size of two domestic dustbins. They are not equipped with any form of guidance system and have no aerodynamic qualities worth mentioning. It was in the brief of their designers to produce only thrust and to rely on the vehicle to which they are attached (firmly) to look after the details of the flight. The first trial, to see if they could get one to work, was a success. A single RATO was attached to the shell of a Blenheim night fighter which adorned the space at the front of the station. Two forklift trucks were employed to move the shell of the Blenheim to the far side of St Mawgam airfield where the RATO was attached and fired. Lacking a pilot to operate the flight controls (That the aircraft lacked a pilot demonstrates perhaps the only shred of wisdom or common sense to accompany this prank) the Blenheim first lifted into the air then was seen to execute a series of rolls leaving a growing spiral smoke trail over Falmouth bay, apparently heading for Brittany at an ever-increasing speed and height. After six or seven seconds of flight, the unlikely combination of rocket and worn-out WWII airframe approached Mach I and the over-stressed airframe failed. The wings and tail section were seen to fall into the sea while the remainder of the airframe, still attached to the still-burning rocket straightened out from its wildy-corkscrewing path and went straight up. Where it came down is not recorded. If it did in fact come down, which is debatable since it may very well have exceeded the Earth's escape velocity. See Appendix A for a computation which supports this argument.
Exhilirated and encouraged by the success of this trial and the discovery of a pallet of Jim Beam sour mash bourbon, the RAF station maintenance crew looked for a more promising airframe with which they could experiment. The next obvious choice turned out to be one of the Shackletons with which the base was equipped. The one chosen was close to exceeding its rated airframe hours and had already been stripped of all equipment prior to its final flight to RAF St Athan in South Wales where it was to be broken up. The prevailing opinion was that it woudn't be missed and was taking up parking space (which was at a premium on the tiny St Mawgam field.) In the best traditions of the RAF a bold solution was adopted, to fix six RATO units to the Shackleton's wing pylons. By a strange coincidence the mounting points for the RATO packs are a perfect fit so the work of lifting and attaching the packs to the airframe was soon completed. It was only after the packs had ben ignited and the shower of sparks and smoke began to emerge that an elementry mistake had been made. The three starboard-mounted RATO packs had been mounted facing forward but the three on the port wing were blasting smoke and sparks forward, in the wrong direction. As a result of this formidable but asymmetric thrust, the Shackleton started to rotate about a vertical axis at an ever-increasing rate. The effect on the RAF crew can be described as 'sobering'. They watched in horror as the aircraft completed its first revolution, it second and third, wondering where it would end.
At this point something altogether strange happened, on what was becoming an exceptional afternoon. The starboard wing, which was being driven into the air, began to lift as might have been expected. The port wing, which was being driven backwards into the air, began to lift as well. It seemed the leading-edge slat had been deployed perhaps by the vibration or by aerodynamic effects and the trailing edge flap had been forced down by the draft. Accurate observation of these effects was not reported due to the volume of smoke and because every participant in this folly was attempting to put as much space between themselves and the unfolding disaster. What is known is obtained by local eyewitnesses who, alerted by the noise, report seeing a twisting column of smoke rising like a tornado in reverse which climbed into the sky getting quieter and quieter.
No wreckage from the Shackleton was ever reported falling to the earth.
I say, old man, did you know Pongo?
>
>> I say, old man, did you know Pongo? Fine chap. I was
>> with him in the Northern Desert in '44. He knew how
>> to lay a gun. And a woman, what? Ha!
>
> Pongo was a bounder and a cad. He made a packet selling
> rations to the Egyptians and trading hashish to the Boche.
> Of course, what the Boche got was dried camel dung because
> that was what the gyppos were giving Pongo in exchange for
> the compo. When it all came to a head the Boche were furious
> and came looking for Pongo with blood in their eye. Times
> being what they were they turned up in their mechanised
> armour and kicked off the battle of Alamein a week early.
> Pongo beat a hasty retreat, fleeing in a borrowed Anson
> driven by a South African deserter. They got as far as
> Abbyssinia where the Eytie governor mistook him for the
> spearhead of an invasion force and promptly surrendered.
> Pongo got a Palace in Addis Abbaba and gong from HRH for
> his infernal luck. The swine still owes me money too.
>
>> I say, old man, did you know Pongo? Fine chap. I was
>> with him in the Northern Desert in '44. He knew how
>> to lay a gun. And a woman, what? Ha!
>
> Pongo was a bounder and a cad. He made a packet selling
> rations to the Egyptians and trading hashish to the Boche.
> Of course, what the Boche got was dried camel dung because
> that was what the gyppos were giving Pongo in exchange for
> the compo. When it all came to a head the Boche were furious
> and came looking for Pongo with blood in their eye. Times
> being what they were they turned up in their mechanised
> armour and kicked off the battle of Alamein a week early.
> Pongo beat a hasty retreat, fleeing in a borrowed Anson
> driven by a South African deserter. They got as far as
> Abbyssinia where the Eytie governor mistook him for the
> spearhead of an invasion force and promptly surrendered.
> Pongo got a Palace in Addis Abbaba and gong from HRH for
> his infernal luck. The swine still owes me money too.
>
Sunday 2 November 2008
Myst III Exile
I finished working though "Myst III Exile" - the third piece of the story that began with "Myst" and continued with "Riven". My impressions ...
J'nanin. Although the coloured prism puzzle is the hardest, it was the first I worked out being so very Myst-like. The expanding vegetables to access the Edanna linking book and finally the 'Roll out the barrel' eluded me longer. Credit to 12-year old William for pointing out how I might reach the Amateria linking book, the last of all.
Voltaic. Once I'd worked out that the broken window allowed one to fiddle with the rotor blades, switching on the hydro-electric plant was straightforward, but I have an engineering degree so I have an excuse. The geothermal power plant with its fan was fiddly, trying to get the platform up to its second level was tough and fiddly. I got a bit tired of the steam valve conundrum, and sought a prompt for that. I had expected a more complex problem and the answer was simpler than I thought it was going to be. I frustrated myself there and no fault of the game. Problem design aside, I found the scenery and sounds magnificent. I experienced a real sense of wonder when launching the airship, and getting to ride in it. The scene where the second vault is released caused me to gasp with astonishment.
Edanna. No need for clues here as the hints are everywhere. From the small pitcher plant in the study in J'nanin, from the pool of water 'feeding' that fabulous helter-skelter ride and the charred marks in the view of the 'sunflower' it's all there - in retrospect. BTW, has anyone read descriptions of Larry Niven's sunflowers? Nevertheless, there's some signs of the Riven ingenuity there. You don't capture the Cree in the trap, you just scare it away and your path to the internal realm is open. I found the spiralling paths and walkways a challenge and the textures and nose-close scenery very difficult to navigate through. This is not a complaint or criticism, it added to the claustrophbic feel. I could almost smell the damp moss and lichen. Again, the spectacular ride at the end was a suitable climax to the struggle which preceded it.
Amateria. More Myst than Myst. This felt more like a training room than either of the other three Ages. I confused myself totally with the Balance puzzle. I had to go away and come back to it with a clear mind, and solved it in minutes. I tried to solve the Sounds puzzle by studying that intricate repeater mechanism on the console. But again, the simpler and more obvious way was trial and error, eliminating the possibilities in series. A complaint here, was it really so necessary to have that point and click marathon between the puzzle and the console. That was bit dreary. Finally the dual carousels puzzle. I was well into gear at this point and once I'd worked out how the settings on the console affected the machine I'd got it done in just a couple of iterations. The final challenge in that magic gravity-defying cupola was a delight. Setting up the connections from start to finish was subtle, but obvious once you realised it HAD a start and finish (Duh! It was getting late, I was tired). Credit to William again for suggesting that pressing the coloured lights might suffice to start it.
Having collected all three symbols, it's back to J'nanin to see what happens next, and to experience yet more whining drivel from our insane tormentor. The baroque and clanky machinery presents us with the final linking book to Narayan.
Narayan. It was a revelation to find the symbols we'd collected weren't random squiggles, but quotes from Atrus' writings in the ecological writing form. (Was this writing form suggested by the references to the work of Liet Kynes and his father on Arrakis? I think we should be told.) A quick scan of the Book revealed the fourth quote and the final words of power were invoked. William and I got quite intense over which element of the word to select but our second or third attempts were successful. It's nice, by the way, to see the effect of one's fiddling to be instantly successful without repeating the same CGI assault course with every iteration as per the ball-race in Amateria.
The final face-off (as I named the saved game at this point). Got clobbered twice and lost the linking book twice. On the fifth attempt I was quite happy to leave the snivelling loonie trapped in sight of his own world, but forever doomed. After all he'd done, the taunts, the destruction, not to mention the treacherous and homicidal behaviour we'd already witnessed. But compassion got the upper hand and on the fifth iteration we released him to his own kind.
Back home with the dishevelled and smoke-stained family I thought the welcome was, well, less than welcoming. Not so muck as a peek at the Age we'd saved so gallantly. Atrus was more grateful when we'd exiled his megalomaniac offspring the first time around, and when we imprisoned his father and rescued his spouse the second time around. Perhaps merely rescuing a missing linking book was a bit to mundane to make a big fuss about. I suppose the next time it will be 'Thank God you're here! I appear to have run out of ink, would you mind nipping to the shops to get me some. Check with Catherine, I think we might need some milk as well!'.
Kidding aside, There is plenty of gorgeous scenery and wonderful experience to be had, but in some ways, there is slightly less there than I had expected, or perhaps wanted. Others have also said that Exile falls short of the high water marks set by Myst and Riven and I'm afraid I have to agree. The visual appeal is brilliant, the late evening, thundery Amateria is a delight. The lushness of Edanna is stifling, the clear and windswept Jnanin is uplifting and bracing. The desert island Voltaic age is ascetic and almost mystical. In all these settings the soundtrack and effects immerse you in the landscape. But in these respects, Riven was slightly more absorbing, more mysterious and felt more exotic and I do not think it is familiarity or fond memory speaking. Riven had the whark, the carnivourous whale-like creatures, the scarabs, the vast golden-domed powerplant, the oppressed villagers, the hints at a belief system and a guerrilla movement. Exile had none of these things. From a (very picky) technical point of view, some parts of the scenery in Voltaic were comic-book standard in their detailing, and I am thinking of that long view across the aerial pipeline here. There are other places where a lack of finishing detail shows but I will not dwell too much because it is an over-harsh judgement.
The story line is less dramatic than Riven's as well. Think of Riven's final scenes where the entire Age is destroyed. In Myst the characters of the two brothers grew as the game progressed, as we found out more about them they grew more repellent until the final choice which to release was made. In Riven we had a malevolent and brilliant opponent, a beautiful girl to rescue and a small cast of supporting characters. We got anaesthetised twice too, as I recall.
In Exile, the puzzles are complex, but not cunning. They require a methodical approach with none of the devious wit that was shown in both Riven and Myst. Do you remember in Riven you had to open a door and close it behind you to reveal the second exit from the room? The complexity of the underground railway in Myst was such that I felt a real sense of achievement in working it all out. Now these are two high points in puzzle-setting, and I would not like to have stretch my ingenuity in setting such a puzzle myself.
To summarise, and I want to say this in the nicest possible way, the designers have not excelled themselves.
Finally, If you are making up your mind whether or not to buy it, I'd say yes, do. If you've played either Myst or Riven before and enjoyed them, you'll enjoy this. If you haven't played either you'll find this fascinating and challenging in it's own right, but do play Riven and Myst as well.
J'nanin. Although the coloured prism puzzle is the hardest, it was the first I worked out being so very Myst-like. The expanding vegetables to access the Edanna linking book and finally the 'Roll out the barrel' eluded me longer. Credit to 12-year old William for pointing out how I might reach the Amateria linking book, the last of all.
Voltaic. Once I'd worked out that the broken window allowed one to fiddle with the rotor blades, switching on the hydro-electric plant was straightforward, but I have an engineering degree so I have an excuse. The geothermal power plant with its fan was fiddly, trying to get the platform up to its second level was tough and fiddly. I got a bit tired of the steam valve conundrum, and sought a prompt for that. I had expected a more complex problem and the answer was simpler than I thought it was going to be. I frustrated myself there and no fault of the game. Problem design aside, I found the scenery and sounds magnificent. I experienced a real sense of wonder when launching the airship, and getting to ride in it. The scene where the second vault is released caused me to gasp with astonishment.
Edanna. No need for clues here as the hints are everywhere. From the small pitcher plant in the study in J'nanin, from the pool of water 'feeding' that fabulous helter-skelter ride and the charred marks in the view of the 'sunflower' it's all there - in retrospect. BTW, has anyone read descriptions of Larry Niven's sunflowers? Nevertheless, there's some signs of the Riven ingenuity there. You don't capture the Cree in the trap, you just scare it away and your path to the internal realm is open. I found the spiralling paths and walkways a challenge and the textures and nose-close scenery very difficult to navigate through. This is not a complaint or criticism, it added to the claustrophbic feel. I could almost smell the damp moss and lichen. Again, the spectacular ride at the end was a suitable climax to the struggle which preceded it.
Amateria. More Myst than Myst. This felt more like a training room than either of the other three Ages. I confused myself totally with the Balance puzzle. I had to go away and come back to it with a clear mind, and solved it in minutes. I tried to solve the Sounds puzzle by studying that intricate repeater mechanism on the console. But again, the simpler and more obvious way was trial and error, eliminating the possibilities in series. A complaint here, was it really so necessary to have that point and click marathon between the puzzle and the console. That was bit dreary. Finally the dual carousels puzzle. I was well into gear at this point and once I'd worked out how the settings on the console affected the machine I'd got it done in just a couple of iterations. The final challenge in that magic gravity-defying cupola was a delight. Setting up the connections from start to finish was subtle, but obvious once you realised it HAD a start and finish (Duh! It was getting late, I was tired). Credit to William again for suggesting that pressing the coloured lights might suffice to start it.
Having collected all three symbols, it's back to J'nanin to see what happens next, and to experience yet more whining drivel from our insane tormentor. The baroque and clanky machinery presents us with the final linking book to Narayan.
Narayan. It was a revelation to find the symbols we'd collected weren't random squiggles, but quotes from Atrus' writings in the ecological writing form. (Was this writing form suggested by the references to the work of Liet Kynes and his father on Arrakis? I think we should be told.) A quick scan of the Book revealed the fourth quote and the final words of power were invoked. William and I got quite intense over which element of the word to select but our second or third attempts were successful. It's nice, by the way, to see the effect of one's fiddling to be instantly successful without repeating the same CGI assault course with every iteration as per the ball-race in Amateria.
The final face-off (as I named the saved game at this point). Got clobbered twice and lost the linking book twice. On the fifth attempt I was quite happy to leave the snivelling loonie trapped in sight of his own world, but forever doomed. After all he'd done, the taunts, the destruction, not to mention the treacherous and homicidal behaviour we'd already witnessed. But compassion got the upper hand and on the fifth iteration we released him to his own kind.
Back home with the dishevelled and smoke-stained family I thought the welcome was, well, less than welcoming. Not so muck as a peek at the Age we'd saved so gallantly. Atrus was more grateful when we'd exiled his megalomaniac offspring the first time around, and when we imprisoned his father and rescued his spouse the second time around. Perhaps merely rescuing a missing linking book was a bit to mundane to make a big fuss about. I suppose the next time it will be 'Thank God you're here! I appear to have run out of ink, would you mind nipping to the shops to get me some. Check with Catherine, I think we might need some milk as well!'.
Kidding aside, There is plenty of gorgeous scenery and wonderful experience to be had, but in some ways, there is slightly less there than I had expected, or perhaps wanted. Others have also said that Exile falls short of the high water marks set by Myst and Riven and I'm afraid I have to agree. The visual appeal is brilliant, the late evening, thundery Amateria is a delight. The lushness of Edanna is stifling, the clear and windswept Jnanin is uplifting and bracing. The desert island Voltaic age is ascetic and almost mystical. In all these settings the soundtrack and effects immerse you in the landscape. But in these respects, Riven was slightly more absorbing, more mysterious and felt more exotic and I do not think it is familiarity or fond memory speaking. Riven had the whark, the carnivourous whale-like creatures, the scarabs, the vast golden-domed powerplant, the oppressed villagers, the hints at a belief system and a guerrilla movement. Exile had none of these things. From a (very picky) technical point of view, some parts of the scenery in Voltaic were comic-book standard in their detailing, and I am thinking of that long view across the aerial pipeline here. There are other places where a lack of finishing detail shows but I will not dwell too much because it is an over-harsh judgement.
The story line is less dramatic than Riven's as well. Think of Riven's final scenes where the entire Age is destroyed. In Myst the characters of the two brothers grew as the game progressed, as we found out more about them they grew more repellent until the final choice which to release was made. In Riven we had a malevolent and brilliant opponent, a beautiful girl to rescue and a small cast of supporting characters. We got anaesthetised twice too, as I recall.
In Exile, the puzzles are complex, but not cunning. They require a methodical approach with none of the devious wit that was shown in both Riven and Myst. Do you remember in Riven you had to open a door and close it behind you to reveal the second exit from the room? The complexity of the underground railway in Myst was such that I felt a real sense of achievement in working it all out. Now these are two high points in puzzle-setting, and I would not like to have stretch my ingenuity in setting such a puzzle myself.
To summarise, and I want to say this in the nicest possible way, the designers have not excelled themselves.
Finally, If you are making up your mind whether or not to buy it, I'd say yes, do. If you've played either Myst or Riven before and enjoyed them, you'll enjoy this. If you haven't played either you'll find this fascinating and challenging in it's own right, but do play Riven and Myst as well.
The Grand Old Duke of York.
The Grand Old Duke of York
He had ten thousand men
He marched them up to the top of the hill
And he marched them down again.
And when they were up they were up
And when they were down they were down
And when they were only halfway up
They were neither up nor down.
And this is how it really happened
The Grand Old Duke of York had an army of ten thousand men. In his army were one General, ten Colonels, one hundred captains, three hundred lieutenants, nine hundred sergeants, eight thousand six hundred and eighty-six soldiers and three scouts.
One day he decided to give his army a break from wars and battles, and have a bit of a rest. The Duke sent for the General."We are going to have a bit of a rest" the Duke said to the General.The General told the colonels. The colonels told the captains and the captains told the lieutenants. The lieutenants told the sergeants and the sergeants told the men, "We are going to have bit of a rest!"
The Duke sent out his scouts to look for a campsite and after a couple of days they returned.”We have found a lovely campsite" they said. "It is in a valley at the foot of a tall mountain. There is a pleasant meadow by a quiet river. It is surrounded by pretty woods and will be an excellent place for a bit of a rest.
"Right" said the Duke. "Let's go". The Duke sent for the General and told him about the campsite. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men "Let's go", so they went.
The new campsite was everything that the scouts had described. There was a wide flat meadow, carpeted with thick green grass and pretty meadow flowers. To the left, there was a deep, slow-running, quiet river. To the right there was a lofty mountain and all around there were deep woods. The soldiers pitched their tents in neat rows in the meadow. There were tents for the men who slept eight to a tent. There were tents for the sergeants who slept four to a tent. There were tents for the lieutenants and captains who slept two to a tent. The colonels and the General each had a tent to themselves, while the Grand Old Duke of York had two tents, one to sleep in and another where he worked on all his papers.
Everyone in the army liked the campsite. The river gave them water to drink, water to swim and bathe in, and water for their washing. They could hunt in the forest for food, and collect wood there for the campfires. The wide meadow gave them plenty of room for playing games, exercising the horses, and practising their marching, which they were pretty good at.
After a week or two, some of the soldiers started to complain to the sergeants. "I don't like this campsite" said one soldier. "There are too many flies. The ground is too wet and muddy. It makes our clothes and boots so dirty that we have to wash them every day". "I don't like this campsite either" said another soldier. "It is too hot, and there are too many flies.". A third soldier joined in. "There is not enough wind here to blow away the smoke from our campfires and all you can see is trees. There are too many flies. I do not like this campsite either.”.
The sergeant listened to the soldiers' complaints and told the lieutenant. The lieutenant told the captain and the captain told the colonel. The colonel told the General and the General told the Grand Old Duke of York."The army does not like this campsite. The ground is too wet and muddy. It is too hot and there is not enough wind to blow away the smoke from the campfires. All you can see is trees and there are too many flies."
The Grand Old Duke of York sighed. "Oh dear!" he said. "I thought this would be a nice place for a bit of a rest. Never mind. We'll find another campsite. Send for my scouts.". When the scouts arrived the Duke told them to find another campsite.
"Find me another campsite." he said. "One that is not as muddy as this one. One where it is cool and there is enough wind to blow away the smoke from the campfires. One where you can see more than just trees all around. One where there are not so many flies.
The scouts went off to search for a new campsite. After three days, they returned to the Duke."Sir" they said. "We have found you another campsite, which we think you will like very much. It is nice and dry, not muddy. It is cooled by a steady breeze which will blow away the smoke from the campfires. It has a wonderful view all around because you can see over the tops of all the trees, and there are no flies. "Excellent" said the Duke. "Where is the new campsite?". The scouts turned round and pointed to the top of the mountain. "Up there" they all said together.
The Duke sent for the General. "We are moving to a new campsite. We must pack up our tents and all our equipment and be ready to move by tomorrow morning" the Duke told the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men. "We are moving to a new campsite. Pack up all the tents and equipment and be ready to move tomorrow morning." So they did. On the morning of the next day the army was all packed up and ready to march. "Let's march!" said the Grand old Duke of York to the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men and off they set.
The army marched up through the woods all morning. The path got more and more steep and stony until, at about lunchtime, they arrived at the top of the mountain. The Duke sent for the General. "Here is our new campsite" said the Duke. "It is nice and dry, not muddy. There is a steady breeze which will keep us cool and blow away the smoke from the campfires. There is an excellent view, over the tops of all the trees, and there are no flies. Order the army to make camp here".
The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men "Make camp here!" they said, so they did.
The new campsite was better than the old one and soldiers were happy. They were happy because the ground underfoot was dry and not muddy. They were happy because there was a steady breeze, which cooled them and blew away the smoke from the campfires, and they were happy with the splendid view over the tops of all the trees. They were happy because there were no flies.
After the army had been at the new campsite for a week or two, one of soldiers complained. "I am worn out from walking all the way down the mountain to get the water from the river. I think this campsite is too far from the river."
Another soldier joined in. "Last night our tent blew down in the wind. I think this campsite is too windy.". A third soldier joined in. "There is not enough shelter from the sun here. Yesterday the sun burned my back. I think this campsite does not have enough shade". The sergeant listened to the soldiers' complaints and told the lieutenant. The lieutenant told the captain and the captain told the colonel. The colonel told the General and the General told the Grand Old Duke of York.
“The army does not like this campsite. It is too far from the river, It is too windy and there is not enough shelter from the sun"."Oh dear!" sighed the Grand Old Duke of York "I was sure that this campsite would be a nice place for a bit of a rest. Never mind.". "Shall I send for your scouts?" asked the General."Yes please" said the Grand old Duke of York.
When the scouts arrived the Duke told them to find another campsite. The scouts looked at each other. "Not too wet, but not far from the river?" asked one of the scouts. "If you please" said the Duke. "Not too windy?" asked another. "That's it" said the Duke.
"Sheltered, but with a nice view?" asked the third scout. "Precisely!" exclaimed the Duke.
The scouts looked at each other, shrugged and turned to leave. "No flies!" shouted the Duke after them as they left. The scouts were gone for three days. When they came back to the camp they were all wearing broad smiles. We have found the perfect spot sir" said the lead scout to the Duke. "It is in a nice dry spot .."".. with a stream nearby." finished the second scout. "It is sheltered from the wind by some trees .." ".. and it has a nice view along the valley." interrupted the third scout."And there are no flies!" they all said together, laughing.
The Duke sent for the General. "We are moving to a new campsite. We must pack up our tents and all our equipment and be ready to move by tomorrow morning" the Duke told the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men. "We are moving to a new campsite. Pack up all the tents and equipment and be ready to move tomorrow morning." So they did. On the morning of the next day the army was all packed up and ready to march. "Let's march!" said the Grand old Duke of York to the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men and off they set.
The army marched down the steep stony track into the woods. After a little way, the scouts led them off to one side to where there was a pleasant meadow, with a stream flowing through the middle. To the front there was a splendid view through the trees along the valley. The mountain rose on either side, sheltering the meadow from the wind. There were no flies.The Duke sent for the General.
"Here is our new campsite" said the Duke. "It is nice and dry, not muddy and the stream will provide us with all the water we need. The mountain behind us and to either side will protect us from the strong winds, but there is enough breeze to carry away the smoke from the campfires. The trees at the front of the campsite will shelter us from the sun, but you can see a nice view down into the valley between them. There are no flies. Order the army to make camp here". The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men. "Make camp here!" they said, so they did.
The soldiers pitched their tents in neat rows, as before. Those soldiers who had complained about fetching the water were happy, because all the water they wanted was nearby in the stream. Those soldiers who had complained about the wind which had blown down their tent were happy because the mountainside sheltered them from the wind. Those soldiers who had complained about being burnt by the sun were happy because the trees provided shade. Those soldiers who had complained about the view were happy because there was a nice view down into the valley between the trees. Those soldiers who had complained about the ground being wet and muddy were happy, because the ground was sandy and dry. Nobody complained about the flies, because there weren't any.
The Duke and his army rested there for several more weeks until one day a message arrived from the King. "Pack up your tents and equipment, it's time to go to war". The Duke sent for the General …But that's another story!
He had ten thousand men
He marched them up to the top of the hill
And he marched them down again.
And when they were up they were up
And when they were down they were down
And when they were only halfway up
They were neither up nor down.
And this is how it really happened
The Grand Old Duke of York had an army of ten thousand men. In his army were one General, ten Colonels, one hundred captains, three hundred lieutenants, nine hundred sergeants, eight thousand six hundred and eighty-six soldiers and three scouts.
One day he decided to give his army a break from wars and battles, and have a bit of a rest. The Duke sent for the General."We are going to have a bit of a rest" the Duke said to the General.The General told the colonels. The colonels told the captains and the captains told the lieutenants. The lieutenants told the sergeants and the sergeants told the men, "We are going to have bit of a rest!"
The Duke sent out his scouts to look for a campsite and after a couple of days they returned.”We have found a lovely campsite" they said. "It is in a valley at the foot of a tall mountain. There is a pleasant meadow by a quiet river. It is surrounded by pretty woods and will be an excellent place for a bit of a rest.
"Right" said the Duke. "Let's go". The Duke sent for the General and told him about the campsite. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men "Let's go", so they went.
The new campsite was everything that the scouts had described. There was a wide flat meadow, carpeted with thick green grass and pretty meadow flowers. To the left, there was a deep, slow-running, quiet river. To the right there was a lofty mountain and all around there were deep woods. The soldiers pitched their tents in neat rows in the meadow. There were tents for the men who slept eight to a tent. There were tents for the sergeants who slept four to a tent. There were tents for the lieutenants and captains who slept two to a tent. The colonels and the General each had a tent to themselves, while the Grand Old Duke of York had two tents, one to sleep in and another where he worked on all his papers.
Everyone in the army liked the campsite. The river gave them water to drink, water to swim and bathe in, and water for their washing. They could hunt in the forest for food, and collect wood there for the campfires. The wide meadow gave them plenty of room for playing games, exercising the horses, and practising their marching, which they were pretty good at.
After a week or two, some of the soldiers started to complain to the sergeants. "I don't like this campsite" said one soldier. "There are too many flies. The ground is too wet and muddy. It makes our clothes and boots so dirty that we have to wash them every day". "I don't like this campsite either" said another soldier. "It is too hot, and there are too many flies.". A third soldier joined in. "There is not enough wind here to blow away the smoke from our campfires and all you can see is trees. There are too many flies. I do not like this campsite either.”.
The sergeant listened to the soldiers' complaints and told the lieutenant. The lieutenant told the captain and the captain told the colonel. The colonel told the General and the General told the Grand Old Duke of York."The army does not like this campsite. The ground is too wet and muddy. It is too hot and there is not enough wind to blow away the smoke from the campfires. All you can see is trees and there are too many flies."
The Grand Old Duke of York sighed. "Oh dear!" he said. "I thought this would be a nice place for a bit of a rest. Never mind. We'll find another campsite. Send for my scouts.". When the scouts arrived the Duke told them to find another campsite.
"Find me another campsite." he said. "One that is not as muddy as this one. One where it is cool and there is enough wind to blow away the smoke from the campfires. One where you can see more than just trees all around. One where there are not so many flies.
The scouts went off to search for a new campsite. After three days, they returned to the Duke."Sir" they said. "We have found you another campsite, which we think you will like very much. It is nice and dry, not muddy. It is cooled by a steady breeze which will blow away the smoke from the campfires. It has a wonderful view all around because you can see over the tops of all the trees, and there are no flies. "Excellent" said the Duke. "Where is the new campsite?". The scouts turned round and pointed to the top of the mountain. "Up there" they all said together.
The Duke sent for the General. "We are moving to a new campsite. We must pack up our tents and all our equipment and be ready to move by tomorrow morning" the Duke told the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men. "We are moving to a new campsite. Pack up all the tents and equipment and be ready to move tomorrow morning." So they did. On the morning of the next day the army was all packed up and ready to march. "Let's march!" said the Grand old Duke of York to the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men and off they set.
The army marched up through the woods all morning. The path got more and more steep and stony until, at about lunchtime, they arrived at the top of the mountain. The Duke sent for the General. "Here is our new campsite" said the Duke. "It is nice and dry, not muddy. There is a steady breeze which will keep us cool and blow away the smoke from the campfires. There is an excellent view, over the tops of all the trees, and there are no flies. Order the army to make camp here".
The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men "Make camp here!" they said, so they did.
The new campsite was better than the old one and soldiers were happy. They were happy because the ground underfoot was dry and not muddy. They were happy because there was a steady breeze, which cooled them and blew away the smoke from the campfires, and they were happy with the splendid view over the tops of all the trees. They were happy because there were no flies.
After the army had been at the new campsite for a week or two, one of soldiers complained. "I am worn out from walking all the way down the mountain to get the water from the river. I think this campsite is too far from the river."
Another soldier joined in. "Last night our tent blew down in the wind. I think this campsite is too windy.". A third soldier joined in. "There is not enough shelter from the sun here. Yesterday the sun burned my back. I think this campsite does not have enough shade". The sergeant listened to the soldiers' complaints and told the lieutenant. The lieutenant told the captain and the captain told the colonel. The colonel told the General and the General told the Grand Old Duke of York.
“The army does not like this campsite. It is too far from the river, It is too windy and there is not enough shelter from the sun"."Oh dear!" sighed the Grand Old Duke of York "I was sure that this campsite would be a nice place for a bit of a rest. Never mind.". "Shall I send for your scouts?" asked the General."Yes please" said the Grand old Duke of York.
When the scouts arrived the Duke told them to find another campsite. The scouts looked at each other. "Not too wet, but not far from the river?" asked one of the scouts. "If you please" said the Duke. "Not too windy?" asked another. "That's it" said the Duke.
"Sheltered, but with a nice view?" asked the third scout. "Precisely!" exclaimed the Duke.
The scouts looked at each other, shrugged and turned to leave. "No flies!" shouted the Duke after them as they left. The scouts were gone for three days. When they came back to the camp they were all wearing broad smiles. We have found the perfect spot sir" said the lead scout to the Duke. "It is in a nice dry spot .."".. with a stream nearby." finished the second scout. "It is sheltered from the wind by some trees .." ".. and it has a nice view along the valley." interrupted the third scout."And there are no flies!" they all said together, laughing.
The Duke sent for the General. "We are moving to a new campsite. We must pack up our tents and all our equipment and be ready to move by tomorrow morning" the Duke told the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men. "We are moving to a new campsite. Pack up all the tents and equipment and be ready to move tomorrow morning." So they did. On the morning of the next day the army was all packed up and ready to march. "Let's march!" said the Grand old Duke of York to the General. The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men and off they set.
The army marched down the steep stony track into the woods. After a little way, the scouts led them off to one side to where there was a pleasant meadow, with a stream flowing through the middle. To the front there was a splendid view through the trees along the valley. The mountain rose on either side, sheltering the meadow from the wind. There were no flies.The Duke sent for the General.
"Here is our new campsite" said the Duke. "It is nice and dry, not muddy and the stream will provide us with all the water we need. The mountain behind us and to either side will protect us from the strong winds, but there is enough breeze to carry away the smoke from the campfires. The trees at the front of the campsite will shelter us from the sun, but you can see a nice view down into the valley between them. There are no flies. Order the army to make camp here". The General told the colonels and the colonels told the captains. The captains told the lieutenants and the lieutenants told the sergeants. The sergeants told the men. "Make camp here!" they said, so they did.
The soldiers pitched their tents in neat rows, as before. Those soldiers who had complained about fetching the water were happy, because all the water they wanted was nearby in the stream. Those soldiers who had complained about the wind which had blown down their tent were happy because the mountainside sheltered them from the wind. Those soldiers who had complained about being burnt by the sun were happy because the trees provided shade. Those soldiers who had complained about the view were happy because there was a nice view down into the valley between the trees. Those soldiers who had complained about the ground being wet and muddy were happy, because the ground was sandy and dry. Nobody complained about the flies, because there weren't any.
The Duke and his army rested there for several more weeks until one day a message arrived from the King. "Pack up your tents and equipment, it's time to go to war". The Duke sent for the General …But that's another story!
Motorcycling in World War II (Part One)
Adolf Hitler was a tee-total, non-smoking vegetarian, and was quite passionate about the virtues of healthy living. Don't know if he ever rode a scooter, though...
Hitler owned a moped but never rode it. Goebbels owned several imported Harley Davidsons, including the one with variomatic transmission. This got traded with a russian political officer for some vodka and a go at driving a train. It was last known to be used for pulling up stumps and driving a drainage pump on a collective farm somewhere on the edge of the Pripet marshes. Goering favoured British bikes and owned a Rudge Imperial which he stole from the Danish embassy in Paris in 1929. Doenitz won the Rudge off Goering in a bet - something to do with which one of them could fit in the pilots seat of a Me 109 however Goering welched on the bet and Doenitz never forgave him. The later conduct of the war had a lot to do with the rivalry that grew
between the two after this incident. Of the Nazi top brass, only Himmler did not have a motorcycle. He regarded them as trivial playthings which represented decadence and depravity. Nobody else liked him and were probably a bit afraid of him, including Hitler. This would not have prevented Hitler from riding his moped though. The real reason was because he only had one testicle which was permanently and painfully swollen. Thats why he never rode the moped, and why he was always so cross and short tempered.
Hitler owned a moped but never rode it. Goebbels owned several imported Harley Davidsons, including the one with variomatic transmission. This got traded with a russian political officer for some vodka and a go at driving a train. It was last known to be used for pulling up stumps and driving a drainage pump on a collective farm somewhere on the edge of the Pripet marshes. Goering favoured British bikes and owned a Rudge Imperial which he stole from the Danish embassy in Paris in 1929. Doenitz won the Rudge off Goering in a bet - something to do with which one of them could fit in the pilots seat of a Me 109 however Goering welched on the bet and Doenitz never forgave him. The later conduct of the war had a lot to do with the rivalry that grew
between the two after this incident. Of the Nazi top brass, only Himmler did not have a motorcycle. He regarded them as trivial playthings which represented decadence and depravity. Nobody else liked him and were probably a bit afraid of him, including Hitler. This would not have prevented Hitler from riding his moped though. The real reason was because he only had one testicle which was permanently and painfully swollen. Thats why he never rode the moped, and why he was always so cross and short tempered.
Road Signs: Just how stupid do you have to be?
A little while ago I came across a road sign which read 'Road liable to flooding'. How bloody useless is that? I need to know if the road is flooded/impassable or not. It's no use telling me that it might be flooded on certain occasions because that doesn't help me at all. Let's suppose I continue on my journey, still unaware of the prevailing condition until I find myself immobilised and hip-deep in dirty water. Might I expect to see another road sign at this point saying "See, we told you" because that would be just as bloody useful. You might just as well say 'Cows liable to explode'.
The second one I saw which inspired a totally mystified reaction was on the outskirts of Buckingham. It reads "Street lights not in use" and it's attached to a streetlight. This message dropped me into a philosophical maze and left me there. Firstly, to whom is the warning addressed? If a motorist is going along in broad daylight and sees the sign then it conveys no useful information at all. The motorist does not need the streetlights because it's broad daylight. Switch to night time scene then. The same motorist, perhaps on a return journey notices the sign a second time, looks around and can confirm that the streetlights are not working. The sign has not helped him since it is obvious without consulting the sign that, from the lack of street lighting, the streetlights are not working. Therefore the sign forms no useful function. Alternatively the motorist might not see the sign at all because it is dark, and the streetlights are not working hence the sign cannot be seen. Its function is negated by the same phenomenon the sign itself warns of. Let's suppose a man is walking his dog along this road. The first thing he notices is that the streetlight are not working. He is perturbed. Perhaps there has been a power cut. He is concerned about his own safety since in the absence of any street lighting he may be struck by a passing car who has not observed his presence in the gloom. AS his concern gathers he notices the sign, perhaps in the lights of a passing car and hurries to read it. Doing so, either by the lights of passing cars or using a pocket torch he sees the street lighting is not in use. He is thus assured that his dim perceptions of his surroundings are not due to any sudden dimming of his own faculties but because the street lighting is not in use. This may comfort an older dog walker and thus be the purpose of the sign but it's a far-fetched proposition you'll agree.
So somewhere in Buckingham there is an official who has ordered that sign to be manufactured and placed there at a cost to the public but with no benefit. The sign achieves absolutely nothing. Who is this official? Has he no supervision? Is his supervisor frightened of him or something? But wait, there's a bigger question. The street in question has street lighting but it has been turned off. By whom? Who is risking the life and limb of night-time dog walkers by this neglect. Who ordered the street lighting erected in the first place and shouldn't he have checked if it was required? The paradox merely becomes deeper and more baffling each time it is explored.
The second one I saw which inspired a totally mystified reaction was on the outskirts of Buckingham. It reads "Street lights not in use" and it's attached to a streetlight. This message dropped me into a philosophical maze and left me there. Firstly, to whom is the warning addressed? If a motorist is going along in broad daylight and sees the sign then it conveys no useful information at all. The motorist does not need the streetlights because it's broad daylight. Switch to night time scene then. The same motorist, perhaps on a return journey notices the sign a second time, looks around and can confirm that the streetlights are not working. The sign has not helped him since it is obvious without consulting the sign that, from the lack of street lighting, the streetlights are not working. Therefore the sign forms no useful function. Alternatively the motorist might not see the sign at all because it is dark, and the streetlights are not working hence the sign cannot be seen. Its function is negated by the same phenomenon the sign itself warns of. Let's suppose a man is walking his dog along this road. The first thing he notices is that the streetlight are not working. He is perturbed. Perhaps there has been a power cut. He is concerned about his own safety since in the absence of any street lighting he may be struck by a passing car who has not observed his presence in the gloom. AS his concern gathers he notices the sign, perhaps in the lights of a passing car and hurries to read it. Doing so, either by the lights of passing cars or using a pocket torch he sees the street lighting is not in use. He is thus assured that his dim perceptions of his surroundings are not due to any sudden dimming of his own faculties but because the street lighting is not in use. This may comfort an older dog walker and thus be the purpose of the sign but it's a far-fetched proposition you'll agree.
So somewhere in Buckingham there is an official who has ordered that sign to be manufactured and placed there at a cost to the public but with no benefit. The sign achieves absolutely nothing. Who is this official? Has he no supervision? Is his supervisor frightened of him or something? But wait, there's a bigger question. The street in question has street lighting but it has been turned off. By whom? Who is risking the life and limb of night-time dog walkers by this neglect. Who ordered the street lighting erected in the first place and shouldn't he have checked if it was required? The paradox merely becomes deeper and more baffling each time it is explored.
Christmas Dinner at the Rothwell Charter, December 1996
CHRISTMAS FAYRE
Christmas Dinner at the Rothwell Charter, December 1996
I hate the office Christmas dinner party. This event is the lowest point in my social calendar. How you dress, when you arrive, when you leave and who you arrive and leave with will usually create more gossip than anything else done in the rest of the year.
If living with the odd gaffe and faux pas after the event weren't enough to deal with, I look forward to the event itself as eagerly as to an interview with the Inland Revenue. People I might have spent the last fifty-one weeks and six days avoiding (and in some cases, believe me, I have been counting) will walk up to me and treat me like a long-lost relative. There have been occasions where I have spent the preceding few months planning to impress one particular individual with my sartorial elegance or suave small talk. Inevitably they won't turn up.
Conversation at the office Christmas dinner party limps along and dies quickly since work is the only thing we have in common and is a taboo subject. Instead, that topic we started on and never finished last Christmas gets resurrected.
"How's that barn conversion coming along?" asks one diner of another, after dredging the memory for the one fact that can be recalled about this stranger. This innocent enquiry can be a dangerous opening since a year has elapsed since the matter was last aired and a great deal of turmoil may have taken place. What if they ran out of money and are now living in their parents' back bedroom? Perhaps the roof fell in, perhaps a partner is now confined to a wheelchair as a result. God forbid they might think you are really interested, in which case you are about to spend the rest of the evening hearing about the price of recycled slates/pantiles or building regulations as applied to downstairs bathrooms.
Which is why it is such a pleasure to look back on the Corby & District IAM Group's Christmas dinner at the Rothwell Charter Inn in Rothwell.
This was my first Christmas Dinner with the IAM. I was assured that the dress code was informal, so I put away the sharkskin lapels and patent leather dancing pumps in favour of my usual weekend wear, jeans and shapeless jacket.
I was the last to arrive and found, at an L-shaped table arrangement twelve other members and spouses (At least I assume they were spouses and it's none of my business if they weren't. Or if they were spouses, they may have been espoused to someone else. Again none of my business, so I didn't ask). We managed to move up a chair or two to make room so I was able to sit with Dick to my right, and Bob opposite.
We had the dining room to ourselves, and thus the full attention of the dining room staff was focused on helping us with our choice from the menu and wine list.
Starters were served, some had soup, some had other things. When they arrived, some of us had trouble remembering what had been ordered and, for that matter, identifying what it was when it arrived. Nevertheless everyone who wanted a starter had one and ate it.
The main courses were awaited. I had chosen a steak in a rich wine sauce, others had other things. I am afraid that time has eroded my memory of who ordered what. The same affliction affected some of the diners that evening since by the time the main course arrived some of us were uncertain as to our earlier choices. My steak was cooked very nicely, still just pink in the middle. It's correct to stew shin or even braising steak to rags - it extracts the flavour - but if a nice, tender fine-textured cut of steak is to hand, then I like it rare. Oozing juices if it has been grilled or fried, just cooked if its being served with a sauce. Abundant quantities of veggies arrived in large servers, so one didn't have to be polite about helping oneself and there was plenty to go round. I recall we even had some chips left at the end, at least until Dick noticed them.
Some carafes of wine were ordered, for the benefit of those who did not have to worry about getting home next morning via the cells and magistrates court. I stuck to two very slow glasses of ale (cask conditioned, unpasteurised served through a swan-neck dispenser with the sparkler loosened right off. Don't get me started).
The dessert choice included something called "Whim-Wham". It was Dick who asked "What's Whim-Wham?". "Trifle" came the reply. "Why don't you call it Trifle?" asked Dick. "'Cos its Whim-Wham" said the latest dropout from the Rothwell College course on Customer Relations.
If there were a classification system to help us in identifying standards in cutlery or table centrepieces or crockery or table linen, it might start with "Imperial" as the most sumptuous and expensive and then work down via "Ambassadorial", "Management", "Hourly-paid" and "School" to "Prison" and finally "Catering". We had the catering- quality Christmas Crackers. These yielded an hilarious selection of gags. "Q: What do you call two rows of cabbages? A: A dual Cabbage-Way!". Oh we laughed and laughed at that one. My cracker yielded a plastic white elephant about one inch (25.4 mm) long. I put it with one or two others I had collected at the office party, the kids school party and the wedding reception in Wales the week before.
As coffee was being served, our waitress enquired about who we were and what we did. For some reason my assertion that we belonged to a rock'n'roll motorcycle gang left her unconvinced. It was Bob who revealed that we were all advanced motorists, apart from some spouses who were just along to drive the advanced motorists home afterwards. The waitress was well along the induction process before she let on that she hadn't got a car.
Stretching back in my chair, all the better to aid the digestive process, I found myself head-to-head with Duncan who was doing the same thing from the opposite end of the L-shaped table arrangement. I was soon engaged in an intense debate over the combat tactics employed by the Royal Navy's Sea Harriers over the Falklands in the war of 1982. I look forward to picking up the debate at the next Christmas dinner since, according to Dick's watch, it was time to go home.
Christmas Dinner at the Rothwell Charter, December 1996
I hate the office Christmas dinner party. This event is the lowest point in my social calendar. How you dress, when you arrive, when you leave and who you arrive and leave with will usually create more gossip than anything else done in the rest of the year.
If living with the odd gaffe and faux pas after the event weren't enough to deal with, I look forward to the event itself as eagerly as to an interview with the Inland Revenue. People I might have spent the last fifty-one weeks and six days avoiding (and in some cases, believe me, I have been counting) will walk up to me and treat me like a long-lost relative. There have been occasions where I have spent the preceding few months planning to impress one particular individual with my sartorial elegance or suave small talk. Inevitably they won't turn up.
Conversation at the office Christmas dinner party limps along and dies quickly since work is the only thing we have in common and is a taboo subject. Instead, that topic we started on and never finished last Christmas gets resurrected.
"How's that barn conversion coming along?" asks one diner of another, after dredging the memory for the one fact that can be recalled about this stranger. This innocent enquiry can be a dangerous opening since a year has elapsed since the matter was last aired and a great deal of turmoil may have taken place. What if they ran out of money and are now living in their parents' back bedroom? Perhaps the roof fell in, perhaps a partner is now confined to a wheelchair as a result. God forbid they might think you are really interested, in which case you are about to spend the rest of the evening hearing about the price of recycled slates/pantiles or building regulations as applied to downstairs bathrooms.
Which is why it is such a pleasure to look back on the Corby & District IAM Group's Christmas dinner at the Rothwell Charter Inn in Rothwell.
This was my first Christmas Dinner with the IAM. I was assured that the dress code was informal, so I put away the sharkskin lapels and patent leather dancing pumps in favour of my usual weekend wear, jeans and shapeless jacket.
I was the last to arrive and found, at an L-shaped table arrangement twelve other members and spouses (At least I assume they were spouses and it's none of my business if they weren't. Or if they were spouses, they may have been espoused to someone else. Again none of my business, so I didn't ask). We managed to move up a chair or two to make room so I was able to sit with Dick to my right, and Bob opposite.
We had the dining room to ourselves, and thus the full attention of the dining room staff was focused on helping us with our choice from the menu and wine list.
Starters were served, some had soup, some had other things. When they arrived, some of us had trouble remembering what had been ordered and, for that matter, identifying what it was when it arrived. Nevertheless everyone who wanted a starter had one and ate it.
The main courses were awaited. I had chosen a steak in a rich wine sauce, others had other things. I am afraid that time has eroded my memory of who ordered what. The same affliction affected some of the diners that evening since by the time the main course arrived some of us were uncertain as to our earlier choices. My steak was cooked very nicely, still just pink in the middle. It's correct to stew shin or even braising steak to rags - it extracts the flavour - but if a nice, tender fine-textured cut of steak is to hand, then I like it rare. Oozing juices if it has been grilled or fried, just cooked if its being served with a sauce. Abundant quantities of veggies arrived in large servers, so one didn't have to be polite about helping oneself and there was plenty to go round. I recall we even had some chips left at the end, at least until Dick noticed them.
Some carafes of wine were ordered, for the benefit of those who did not have to worry about getting home next morning via the cells and magistrates court. I stuck to two very slow glasses of ale (cask conditioned, unpasteurised served through a swan-neck dispenser with the sparkler loosened right off. Don't get me started).
The dessert choice included something called "Whim-Wham". It was Dick who asked "What's Whim-Wham?". "Trifle" came the reply. "Why don't you call it Trifle?" asked Dick. "'Cos its Whim-Wham" said the latest dropout from the Rothwell College course on Customer Relations.
If there were a classification system to help us in identifying standards in cutlery or table centrepieces or crockery or table linen, it might start with "Imperial" as the most sumptuous and expensive and then work down via "Ambassadorial", "Management", "Hourly-paid" and "School" to "Prison" and finally "Catering". We had the catering- quality Christmas Crackers. These yielded an hilarious selection of gags. "Q: What do you call two rows of cabbages? A: A dual Cabbage-Way!". Oh we laughed and laughed at that one. My cracker yielded a plastic white elephant about one inch (25.4 mm) long. I put it with one or two others I had collected at the office party, the kids school party and the wedding reception in Wales the week before.
As coffee was being served, our waitress enquired about who we were and what we did. For some reason my assertion that we belonged to a rock'n'roll motorcycle gang left her unconvinced. It was Bob who revealed that we were all advanced motorists, apart from some spouses who were just along to drive the advanced motorists home afterwards. The waitress was well along the induction process before she let on that she hadn't got a car.
Stretching back in my chair, all the better to aid the digestive process, I found myself head-to-head with Duncan who was doing the same thing from the opposite end of the L-shaped table arrangement. I was soon engaged in an intense debate over the combat tactics employed by the Royal Navy's Sea Harriers over the Falklands in the war of 1982. I look forward to picking up the debate at the next Christmas dinner since, according to Dick's watch, it was time to go home.
Newsletter: Rockingham Forest IAM Motorcycle Maintenance Evening
Rockingham Forest Group of Advanced Motorcyclists
Report on "Motorcycle Maintenance Evening"
February's second associate training evening was given over to a motorcycle maintenance class, presented by special guest speaker, Nick Davies of "Nick's Hot Wheels and Tuning Laboratory" of Corby.
The session began with an introduction covering the basic construction of the motorcycle including frame construction, suspension, steering geometry and engines.
Routine maintenance was next, including checking tyre pressures, chain tension and lubrication, brake adjustments, oil level, battery electrolyte and lighting checks. The points were illustrated using Nick's own excellently-preserved vintage Honda.
Following a brief refreshment break in the bar, the attendees were divided into teams of three for the practical tasks.
Removing a wheel.
Team A started with the front wheel of the Honda. Removing the split pin and lock nut were straightforward. After several heavy blows had failed to shift the spindle Nick had to step in to point out that the clamp at the fork-bottom also had to be released. This was done using an allen key of nearly the right size. The spindle had then to be carefully filed back to shape prior to removal, due to the mushroom effect at one end resulting from the hammer blows.
As the wheel was removed, the necessity for propping up the rest of the bike became apparent. The need to do this without trapping one's fingers was also underlined when some over-enthusiastic pumping of trolley-jack handle trapped Nick's finger against the frame. The damage turned out to not as bad as was feared at the time. Nick tells me the nail will soon grow back.
Putting the wheel back on is, of course, the reverse of the above. The allen-headed bolts securing the fork-end clamp were damaged either during removal or replacement and could not be tightened properly. The locknut was tightened properly but the split pin could not be found. Nick showed how a length of wire could be employed as a "get-you-home" measure. (I am sure he will enjoy a wry smile reading this use of his own words!)
Chain Tension
With the front wheel back on and the bike on the centrestand chain tension may be checked and adjusted. Team B needed no help to locate the locknut assembly and commence the tension check. It was while Nick was pointing out likely signs of rear sprocket wear that the rear wheel was accidentally set in motion, trapping another finger of his already-injured right hand. Fortunately it appears that no bones were broken and no skin-graft will be required. As with Nick's misfortune concerning the trolleyjack, it appears that this nail too will soon grow back. (Just out of interest, can anyone remember re-tightening the lock nut? I fear that in the excitement this may have been overlooked, and might account for the events which followed.)
Checking Fuses
The fuses on this model of the Honda are located under a panel close to the headstock and secured by two allen bolts. Team C located the fuses and removed the panel. The various sized fuses are colour-coded, so there was really no excuse for getting three of them back into their wrong sockets and blowing them when the ignition was turned on. When Nick returned from having first-aid applied to his injured hand, he was able to demonstrate how a makeshift fuse can be fashioned using the metal foil from a cigarette packet.
Without naming names, it was while removing the foil from the cigarette packet that one of our associates dropped some cigarettes on the floor. And it was while bending to retrieve the cigarettes that this individual grasped the handlebars of Nick machine causing them to swing to one side, trapping one of Nick's un-injured fingers in the headstock assembly. This really was a freak accident for which nobody should held responsible but which sadly caused the loss of yet another fingernail for Nick.
Changing Headlamp Bulb
It was Team A's turn once again. With Nick standing well out of the way on the other side of the room, the headlamp bezel was removed, the lens detached and the bulb removed from its socket. We were all reminded of the dangers of the workshop when the still-hot bulb scorched the fingers of the associate handling it causing it to fall to the floor and shatter. During this minor confusion someone accidentally stood on the headlamp lens assembly, causing it to break The retaining bezel was also bent out of shape. This was regrettable, as it turned out that Nick was not equipped with a spare bulb, lens or bezel but as he had not far to go, he would ride home using the sidelights.
Changing Engine Oil
As time was running out, Team B were excused the actual task of changing the oil and had to be content with a verbal run through of warming up the engine, draining the oil, refitting the drain plug and refilling via the filler cap.
Minor bodywork repairs
Nick explained that due to the impracticality of applying filler and paint outside of a workshop environment, this would not be attempted during this session. Anyone interested in techniques would be welcome to book a visit to the Hot Wheels workshop for a conducted tour. Samples of Wet and Dry abrasive, fibreglass filler, paint and thinners were on hand and passed around. The flammability of the latter was inadvertently demonstrated when a cigarette was brought too close to the opened container. Happily the damage to the bike's upholstery and paintwork was only cosmetic and Nick escaped this incident completely uninjured.
Footnote
As I am sure most of the group are aware, Nick was involved in accident on the way home from the group meeting. It appears that a combination of mechanical failure and Nicks injuries combined to cause him to lose control of his machine. In the resulting spill he sustained further injuries involving his remaining good hand and both knees. His motorcycle was damaged beyond economic repair and has been written off by his insurance company. This is a salutary warning to all of us that motorcycling is a hazardous past-time demanding total concentration. Even Nick's extensive experience of track and road riding failed to protect him on this occasion.
I have been in touch with Nick who assures me he will be up and about soon. I was able to express my thanks and those of the group for the success of the motorcycle maintenance evening and extend our invitation for a repeat session later in the year. Sadly, it seems that Nick's existing commitments to family and business affairs mean that he will be unable to make any extra pledges of time for the foreseeable future.
Courteny Fish
Associate Training Officer
Report on "Motorcycle Maintenance Evening"
February's second associate training evening was given over to a motorcycle maintenance class, presented by special guest speaker, Nick Davies of "Nick's Hot Wheels and Tuning Laboratory" of Corby.
The session began with an introduction covering the basic construction of the motorcycle including frame construction, suspension, steering geometry and engines.
Routine maintenance was next, including checking tyre pressures, chain tension and lubrication, brake adjustments, oil level, battery electrolyte and lighting checks. The points were illustrated using Nick's own excellently-preserved vintage Honda.
Following a brief refreshment break in the bar, the attendees were divided into teams of three for the practical tasks.
Removing a wheel.
Team A started with the front wheel of the Honda. Removing the split pin and lock nut were straightforward. After several heavy blows had failed to shift the spindle Nick had to step in to point out that the clamp at the fork-bottom also had to be released. This was done using an allen key of nearly the right size. The spindle had then to be carefully filed back to shape prior to removal, due to the mushroom effect at one end resulting from the hammer blows.
As the wheel was removed, the necessity for propping up the rest of the bike became apparent. The need to do this without trapping one's fingers was also underlined when some over-enthusiastic pumping of trolley-jack handle trapped Nick's finger against the frame. The damage turned out to not as bad as was feared at the time. Nick tells me the nail will soon grow back.
Putting the wheel back on is, of course, the reverse of the above. The allen-headed bolts securing the fork-end clamp were damaged either during removal or replacement and could not be tightened properly. The locknut was tightened properly but the split pin could not be found. Nick showed how a length of wire could be employed as a "get-you-home" measure. (I am sure he will enjoy a wry smile reading this use of his own words!)
Chain Tension
With the front wheel back on and the bike on the centrestand chain tension may be checked and adjusted. Team B needed no help to locate the locknut assembly and commence the tension check. It was while Nick was pointing out likely signs of rear sprocket wear that the rear wheel was accidentally set in motion, trapping another finger of his already-injured right hand. Fortunately it appears that no bones were broken and no skin-graft will be required. As with Nick's misfortune concerning the trolleyjack, it appears that this nail too will soon grow back. (Just out of interest, can anyone remember re-tightening the lock nut? I fear that in the excitement this may have been overlooked, and might account for the events which followed.)
Checking Fuses
The fuses on this model of the Honda are located under a panel close to the headstock and secured by two allen bolts. Team C located the fuses and removed the panel. The various sized fuses are colour-coded, so there was really no excuse for getting three of them back into their wrong sockets and blowing them when the ignition was turned on. When Nick returned from having first-aid applied to his injured hand, he was able to demonstrate how a makeshift fuse can be fashioned using the metal foil from a cigarette packet.
Without naming names, it was while removing the foil from the cigarette packet that one of our associates dropped some cigarettes on the floor. And it was while bending to retrieve the cigarettes that this individual grasped the handlebars of Nick machine causing them to swing to one side, trapping one of Nick's un-injured fingers in the headstock assembly. This really was a freak accident for which nobody should held responsible but which sadly caused the loss of yet another fingernail for Nick.
Changing Headlamp Bulb
It was Team A's turn once again. With Nick standing well out of the way on the other side of the room, the headlamp bezel was removed, the lens detached and the bulb removed from its socket. We were all reminded of the dangers of the workshop when the still-hot bulb scorched the fingers of the associate handling it causing it to fall to the floor and shatter. During this minor confusion someone accidentally stood on the headlamp lens assembly, causing it to break The retaining bezel was also bent out of shape. This was regrettable, as it turned out that Nick was not equipped with a spare bulb, lens or bezel but as he had not far to go, he would ride home using the sidelights.
Changing Engine Oil
As time was running out, Team B were excused the actual task of changing the oil and had to be content with a verbal run through of warming up the engine, draining the oil, refitting the drain plug and refilling via the filler cap.
Minor bodywork repairs
Nick explained that due to the impracticality of applying filler and paint outside of a workshop environment, this would not be attempted during this session. Anyone interested in techniques would be welcome to book a visit to the Hot Wheels workshop for a conducted tour. Samples of Wet and Dry abrasive, fibreglass filler, paint and thinners were on hand and passed around. The flammability of the latter was inadvertently demonstrated when a cigarette was brought too close to the opened container. Happily the damage to the bike's upholstery and paintwork was only cosmetic and Nick escaped this incident completely uninjured.
Footnote
As I am sure most of the group are aware, Nick was involved in accident on the way home from the group meeting. It appears that a combination of mechanical failure and Nicks injuries combined to cause him to lose control of his machine. In the resulting spill he sustained further injuries involving his remaining good hand and both knees. His motorcycle was damaged beyond economic repair and has been written off by his insurance company. This is a salutary warning to all of us that motorcycling is a hazardous past-time demanding total concentration. Even Nick's extensive experience of track and road riding failed to protect him on this occasion.
I have been in touch with Nick who assures me he will be up and about soon. I was able to express my thanks and those of the group for the success of the motorcycle maintenance evening and extend our invitation for a repeat session later in the year. Sadly, it seems that Nick's existing commitments to family and business affairs mean that he will be unable to make any extra pledges of time for the foreseeable future.
Courteny Fish
Associate Training Officer
Newsletter: Rockingham Forest IAM Group February Ride-Out
The group met for the second ride-out of the winter months. The venue had been arranged for Tesco's car park, Corby, 8:30 a.m. After a couple of phone calls it became apparent that some of the group had convened at the Asda car park and had reported passing another group in the B & Q car park. The Tesco group travelled in Convoy to Asda and then on to B & Q. Unfortunately, the B & Q car park was empty except for one elderly gentleman who wanted to know if we were the Triumph owners club, who had arranged to meet there for their nine o'clock ride out. He joined us as we went back to Tesco's to see who else had turned up. After a short break for coffee and roll-ups, the group eventually departed Tesco's carpark at 9:15 heading north towards Rockingham. The old gentleman with the even older Triumph, Stan as we came to know him, accepted our invitation to ride part of the way with us hoping to meet up with the other Triumph riders.
The group was led by Mike, our chair, and comprised two senior observers, four group observers and eight associates, plus Stan. Normal group ride rules were observed by all riders, except Stan who had not been briefed. The route had been planned to take in some "technical" features, including a couple of five-way roundabouts, some NSL dual carriageway and a particularly "interesting" blind T-junction on a one-in-three gradient. In retrospect, this was perhaps too ambitious for the group, some of whom had not attended the training session the preceding Wednesday evening.
The trouble started on the five-way roundabout when, according to group ride rules Terry, the convoy leader, attempted to park at the second exit to direct the rest of the group along the indicated road. His manoeuvre proved to be a little too abrupt for Mike (group chair) behind him. A nose-to-tail collision ensued causing both riders to drop their bikes. Fortunately no lasting damage was done by the collision, although the resulting scuffle left Mike with a nasty gash on his chin. Thankfully our guest rider, Stan, was able to step in and prevent an ugly incident from developing. Mike has since had the fairing plastic re-welded and tells me he will have the stitches out of his chin in time for the next committee meeting. (It should be noted that Terry has given notice of his intention to leave the group to devote more time to his police career, we wish him well).
Leaving Mike and Terry to wait for the ambulance, the rest of the group pressed on. Leaving the 30 m.p.h speed limit and embarking on the ring road, the group spread out a little. Group A (let us call them) attempted to keep up with Stan with the intention of explaining our policy on speed limits. Group B were content to make safe progress to the next way-point. Group C apparently became confused over the directions and headed back into Corby.
Groups A and B met up at the East Carlton Country Park where it had been agreed with the park-keepers that a slow-ride of the Park lanes would be followed by a machine control session. Unfortunately, this had to be abandoned after three of the first five riders fell off on the wet leaves that were coating the paths. First aid was administered to machines and riders. Our new friend the Guest rider Stan, proved to be very resourceful in this respect with a plentiful supply of gaffer tape, steel wire and sterile dressings to hand. Once the patching up was completed, it was found that the wayward group C had arrived from one direction and PC Terry had caught us up from the other. The coincidental arrival was fortuitous as Terry was able to explain to Group C's police escort that despite the appearance, they were not attempting to block the road, nor was any un-licensed demonstration under way.
By now it was nearly noon and only twenty of the planned 150 miles were behind us. A breakfast break had been scheduled at the Little Chef so the group set off along the main westerly route towards the by-pass. Arriving without incident at the Little Chef, we were able to meet up with the Northampton group who had arrived a little earlier. The main conversation was around the injuries and damage suffered by each group in getting this far. The rumour that the county had implemented their major disaster plan was rife, although later found to be false.
After the traditional bacon bap and roll-up, both groups went their separate ways, and then re-rendezvoused back at the cafe so that the associates from Corby could re-join their group and the newbies from Northampton rejoin theirs.
It was at this point I became worried about old Stan. He appeared to have been drinking, his face was several shades redder than when he joined us that morning and he was giggling uncontrollably, sometimes bending double and clutching his stomach, as if about to vomit. In between these fits, I asked him if he was o.k.. He replied that everything was alright, and that he had just remembered an old joke. I let it lie at that point as I was called away to help untangle two bikes whose panniers had become interlocked while leaving the car park.
The trip back towards Corby passed without incident, that is until the first bend. Several plastic road cones had been dislodged from their position occupying the line around a right hand bend. In swerving and braking to avoid these cones the first senior observer high-sided his BMW and was catapulted into the air. Fortunately a thick hedge broke his fall and he was unscathed from this incident. His injuries were actually caused when the second senior observer, in attempting to avoid the prone BMW, mounted the pavement and ran him down. Our commiserations to them both and we wish them a speedy recovery from their injuries. Our thanks also to the Northampton air ambulance service for their speedy response. Our thanks also to the Royal Air Force who had to scramble a rescue helicopter to deal with two similar unfortunate incidents suffered that morning by our colleagues in the Northampton group.
It was only another hour or so before we were on our way once again, this time with a police escort of four handsome Pan-Europeans which drew much envy from most members of the group. Behind these was a BBC Northampton news team. "Top cover" was provided by the Northants Constabulary surveillance helicopter. (Incidentally, I have received news that copies of the police video can be made available at a nominal cost, apparently there is much demand for them). The trip back into Corby was made at a steady rate of progress, providing plenty of opportunity to admire the scenery and views. It was perhaps this degree of inattention that caused our two group observers leading the ride to collide with the machines of the police escort who had stopped at a major road junction. To be fair though, it had not been explained to us that even with two-tone sirens and flashing blue lights, police riders and drivers are still expected to comply with traffic signals.
It was getting dark and foggy when the convoy reached the Tesco car park. Some ice was apparent too so there was little resistance to the Deputy Chief Constable's suggestion that we secure our machines in the car park and accept his offer of a lift home in a bus which he was able to commandeer for this purpose.
Has anybody seen or heard of Stan, by the way? The last thing I remember him saying was that he hadn't had such a good laugh in ages and he'd love to come out with us again. He told me he never passed his test on a bike and I think he might benefit from one of our fixed-length courses.
The group was led by Mike, our chair, and comprised two senior observers, four group observers and eight associates, plus Stan. Normal group ride rules were observed by all riders, except Stan who had not been briefed. The route had been planned to take in some "technical" features, including a couple of five-way roundabouts, some NSL dual carriageway and a particularly "interesting" blind T-junction on a one-in-three gradient. In retrospect, this was perhaps too ambitious for the group, some of whom had not attended the training session the preceding Wednesday evening.
The trouble started on the five-way roundabout when, according to group ride rules Terry, the convoy leader, attempted to park at the second exit to direct the rest of the group along the indicated road. His manoeuvre proved to be a little too abrupt for Mike (group chair) behind him. A nose-to-tail collision ensued causing both riders to drop their bikes. Fortunately no lasting damage was done by the collision, although the resulting scuffle left Mike with a nasty gash on his chin. Thankfully our guest rider, Stan, was able to step in and prevent an ugly incident from developing. Mike has since had the fairing plastic re-welded and tells me he will have the stitches out of his chin in time for the next committee meeting. (It should be noted that Terry has given notice of his intention to leave the group to devote more time to his police career, we wish him well).
Leaving Mike and Terry to wait for the ambulance, the rest of the group pressed on. Leaving the 30 m.p.h speed limit and embarking on the ring road, the group spread out a little. Group A (let us call them) attempted to keep up with Stan with the intention of explaining our policy on speed limits. Group B were content to make safe progress to the next way-point. Group C apparently became confused over the directions and headed back into Corby.
Groups A and B met up at the East Carlton Country Park where it had been agreed with the park-keepers that a slow-ride of the Park lanes would be followed by a machine control session. Unfortunately, this had to be abandoned after three of the first five riders fell off on the wet leaves that were coating the paths. First aid was administered to machines and riders. Our new friend the Guest rider Stan, proved to be very resourceful in this respect with a plentiful supply of gaffer tape, steel wire and sterile dressings to hand. Once the patching up was completed, it was found that the wayward group C had arrived from one direction and PC Terry had caught us up from the other. The coincidental arrival was fortuitous as Terry was able to explain to Group C's police escort that despite the appearance, they were not attempting to block the road, nor was any un-licensed demonstration under way.
By now it was nearly noon and only twenty of the planned 150 miles were behind us. A breakfast break had been scheduled at the Little Chef so the group set off along the main westerly route towards the by-pass. Arriving without incident at the Little Chef, we were able to meet up with the Northampton group who had arrived a little earlier. The main conversation was around the injuries and damage suffered by each group in getting this far. The rumour that the county had implemented their major disaster plan was rife, although later found to be false.
After the traditional bacon bap and roll-up, both groups went their separate ways, and then re-rendezvoused back at the cafe so that the associates from Corby could re-join their group and the newbies from Northampton rejoin theirs.
It was at this point I became worried about old Stan. He appeared to have been drinking, his face was several shades redder than when he joined us that morning and he was giggling uncontrollably, sometimes bending double and clutching his stomach, as if about to vomit. In between these fits, I asked him if he was o.k.. He replied that everything was alright, and that he had just remembered an old joke. I let it lie at that point as I was called away to help untangle two bikes whose panniers had become interlocked while leaving the car park.
The trip back towards Corby passed without incident, that is until the first bend. Several plastic road cones had been dislodged from their position occupying the line around a right hand bend. In swerving and braking to avoid these cones the first senior observer high-sided his BMW and was catapulted into the air. Fortunately a thick hedge broke his fall and he was unscathed from this incident. His injuries were actually caused when the second senior observer, in attempting to avoid the prone BMW, mounted the pavement and ran him down. Our commiserations to them both and we wish them a speedy recovery from their injuries. Our thanks also to the Northampton air ambulance service for their speedy response. Our thanks also to the Royal Air Force who had to scramble a rescue helicopter to deal with two similar unfortunate incidents suffered that morning by our colleagues in the Northampton group.
It was only another hour or so before we were on our way once again, this time with a police escort of four handsome Pan-Europeans which drew much envy from most members of the group. Behind these was a BBC Northampton news team. "Top cover" was provided by the Northants Constabulary surveillance helicopter. (Incidentally, I have received news that copies of the police video can be made available at a nominal cost, apparently there is much demand for them). The trip back into Corby was made at a steady rate of progress, providing plenty of opportunity to admire the scenery and views. It was perhaps this degree of inattention that caused our two group observers leading the ride to collide with the machines of the police escort who had stopped at a major road junction. To be fair though, it had not been explained to us that even with two-tone sirens and flashing blue lights, police riders and drivers are still expected to comply with traffic signals.
It was getting dark and foggy when the convoy reached the Tesco car park. Some ice was apparent too so there was little resistance to the Deputy Chief Constable's suggestion that we secure our machines in the car park and accept his offer of a lift home in a bus which he was able to commandeer for this purpose.
Has anybody seen or heard of Stan, by the way? The last thing I remember him saying was that he hadn't had such a good laugh in ages and he'd love to come out with us again. He told me he never passed his test on a bike and I think he might benefit from one of our fixed-length courses.
One Man and His Bike (Part Two)
History is all around us. The remains of bronze age fortified farms litter the countryside like cowpats. Ancient rights of way persist as bridle paths and by-ways. As far as can be known, the peoples of our history were very like us. They were farmers, artisans and civic officials. As now, there were also brigands, thieves, pirates and con-men. They and their descendants sold carts with woodworm, ponies with croup, agoraphobic carthorses and the Austin Allegro. A sub-breed specialsed, latterly, in selling motorcycles.
Buying a motorcycle in the nineteen nineties is an enterprise with which my bronze age antecedent would have sympathised, if he participated in the Mesolithic equivalent of the free-market economy. He would share my anxieties over questions like "Can I afford it?", "Is it what I really want?" and "What is my wife going to say when I come home with it?". However, my excitement and anticipation conquered these doubts and it was with a steely resolve that I set about looking for a motorcycle.
Bikes (as I soon learned to call them) can be divided into lots of categories, but for my purpose there were three; too slow, too fast and about right. If I were to buy a bike that was too slow, I would become bored and frustrated with it. I would not enjoy riding it and seek to replace it quickly - a manoeuvre guaranteed to leave me financially worse off. The second alternative, a bike that was too fast, would scare the bejasus out of me. I would not enjoy riding it, be put off biking and sell it quickly (if I hadn't killed myself first). In my mind a 250cc bike would be too slow, and 750cc too fast. 500cc felt about right.
I researched by buying Used Bike Guide and Motorcycle News for a few weeks. I studied the small ads to get a feel for the prices. I read the dire warnings on buying and selling a used bike. I learned a little more about models and manufacturers and the strange world of of the British motorcyclist. (Summed up as "Speed limits mean nothing, getting your knee down is the ultimate thrill and all Volvo drivers are in league with Satan").
My research revealed that there are some very fast 400cc and 600cc bikes about, and it's all to do with the letter "R", as in "Racing". The Honda VFR 400R and CBR 600 are fast bikes. It turns out that "VF" stands for "Vee-Four" and not "Very Fast" but the "R" does imply a fair turn of speed. The Honda CBR900RR (with three "R"s) will do over 160 mph, so there you have it, the more "R"s the faster it goes.
The other thing I was looking for was an inexpensive machine. This was to be my first bike, after all. If I was going to break it, I was most likely to do it in the first year, and I'd rather write off the sort of money that wouldn't break my heart or saddle me with years of debt. Not too cheap mind, after all I wanted a bike I would be able to enjoy riding on, and not taking apart and putting it back together again. £800 to £1200 seemed the right bracket. Having sorted out my criteria, I set about looking for a 500cc bike without an "R" in it, for about a grand.
Bike number one failed on the first two criteria, it was a BMW R65 with a 650cc flat twin engine so it was bigger than I wanted, and had an "R" in it. It hadn't been looked after but had been subjected to a very clumsy fix-up before going on sale. Paint was splattered here and there, not all of it where it belonged. The wheels had been painted white, but with only one coat so the painted-over dirt could still be seen through it. Nevertheless I took it for a run. "Beemers are all about torque" they say. The engine sounded like a narrowboat's diesel as it thudded away. The bike leapt forward, apparently doing seventy in all four gears. If it had been in nicer nick, I might have bought it despite the "R" in the name.
The second was a "Nighthawk". This is a four-cylinder (in-line) Honda with shaft drive (like the Beemer) imported via America. The owner had just rebuilt the engine only to trash the gearbox. It was offered for sale with a replacement engine and gearbox fitted, plus the recon engine as a spare. I walked away.
The third was a Honda CX 500. Low mileage, maybe even genuine. Either it had been well looked after, or well fixed up. After the learner bike, I found it quick but not frighteningly so. I got drenched during the twenty-minute test drive, but I went home with a happy grin on my face. The next day I bought it.
Driving home, I went past the meat rendering plant between Rushden and Irthlingborough. The road was greasy and wet, and the lights over the hump-back bridge were red. I applied the front brakes fairly hard, but the bike didn't want to seem to stop. I started planning an escape route, then remembered the back brake under my right foot. As the bike, my bike now, rolled the last couple of feet to a stop the back wheel locked and started to slide sideways. I caught it and got my foot to the ground with room and time to spare. "This is o.k., I can handle this." I thought.
a
Buying a motorcycle in the nineteen nineties is an enterprise with which my bronze age antecedent would have sympathised, if he participated in the Mesolithic equivalent of the free-market economy. He would share my anxieties over questions like "Can I afford it?", "Is it what I really want?" and "What is my wife going to say when I come home with it?". However, my excitement and anticipation conquered these doubts and it was with a steely resolve that I set about looking for a motorcycle.
Bikes (as I soon learned to call them) can be divided into lots of categories, but for my purpose there were three; too slow, too fast and about right. If I were to buy a bike that was too slow, I would become bored and frustrated with it. I would not enjoy riding it and seek to replace it quickly - a manoeuvre guaranteed to leave me financially worse off. The second alternative, a bike that was too fast, would scare the bejasus out of me. I would not enjoy riding it, be put off biking and sell it quickly (if I hadn't killed myself first). In my mind a 250cc bike would be too slow, and 750cc too fast. 500cc felt about right.
I researched by buying Used Bike Guide and Motorcycle News for a few weeks. I studied the small ads to get a feel for the prices. I read the dire warnings on buying and selling a used bike. I learned a little more about models and manufacturers and the strange world of of the British motorcyclist. (Summed up as "Speed limits mean nothing, getting your knee down is the ultimate thrill and all Volvo drivers are in league with Satan").
My research revealed that there are some very fast 400cc and 600cc bikes about, and it's all to do with the letter "R", as in "Racing". The Honda VFR 400R and CBR 600 are fast bikes. It turns out that "VF" stands for "Vee-Four" and not "Very Fast" but the "R" does imply a fair turn of speed. The Honda CBR900RR (with three "R"s) will do over 160 mph, so there you have it, the more "R"s the faster it goes.
The other thing I was looking for was an inexpensive machine. This was to be my first bike, after all. If I was going to break it, I was most likely to do it in the first year, and I'd rather write off the sort of money that wouldn't break my heart or saddle me with years of debt. Not too cheap mind, after all I wanted a bike I would be able to enjoy riding on, and not taking apart and putting it back together again. £800 to £1200 seemed the right bracket. Having sorted out my criteria, I set about looking for a 500cc bike without an "R" in it, for about a grand.
Bike number one failed on the first two criteria, it was a BMW R65 with a 650cc flat twin engine so it was bigger than I wanted, and had an "R" in it. It hadn't been looked after but had been subjected to a very clumsy fix-up before going on sale. Paint was splattered here and there, not all of it where it belonged. The wheels had been painted white, but with only one coat so the painted-over dirt could still be seen through it. Nevertheless I took it for a run. "Beemers are all about torque" they say. The engine sounded like a narrowboat's diesel as it thudded away. The bike leapt forward, apparently doing seventy in all four gears. If it had been in nicer nick, I might have bought it despite the "R" in the name.
The second was a "Nighthawk". This is a four-cylinder (in-line) Honda with shaft drive (like the Beemer) imported via America. The owner had just rebuilt the engine only to trash the gearbox. It was offered for sale with a replacement engine and gearbox fitted, plus the recon engine as a spare. I walked away.
The third was a Honda CX 500. Low mileage, maybe even genuine. Either it had been well looked after, or well fixed up. After the learner bike, I found it quick but not frighteningly so. I got drenched during the twenty-minute test drive, but I went home with a happy grin on my face. The next day I bought it.
Driving home, I went past the meat rendering plant between Rushden and Irthlingborough. The road was greasy and wet, and the lights over the hump-back bridge were red. I applied the front brakes fairly hard, but the bike didn't want to seem to stop. I started planning an escape route, then remembered the back brake under my right foot. As the bike, my bike now, rolled the last couple of feet to a stop the back wheel locked and started to slide sideways. I caught it and got my foot to the ground with room and time to spare. "This is o.k., I can handle this." I thought.
a
One Man & His Bike
The showroom seemed illuminated by the glow from the chrome. The glistening black bodywork held all the exotic promise of a desert sky. She called to me. I wanted her, and her name was Virago....
When I was sixteen, I had wanted a motorcycle. My friends had them. Why couldn't I? My mother said no, they're too dangerous. My father said I couldn't afford it. So I promised myself one day I would have one. One day.
When I was twenty I was in college and running a car. Motor cycles seemed frivolous and pointless, especially in Yorkshire, where the sun doesn't shine very often and the roads are permanently coated in that brown slippery compound, the one that inconveniences car drivers by coating their headlights with a thin crust of grime. The stuff which offers no traction to motorcyclists, and leaves them lying in the road watching their pride and joy cartwheeling off into the gloom.
When I was thirty I was commuting in and out of London. On Fridays I travelled north with a suitcase of dirty washing. On Monday I headed south again with clean clothes. Although life was busy there seemed plenty of time in the future for the things I wanted to do one day.
When I was forty it dawned on me that I was older than my Dad, when he said I couldn't have a motor bike. It would not seem long until I would have to have the same conversation with my own kids. I was having my mid-life crisis. I decided there and then that if was going to have a mid-life crisis I might as well do it in style.
The first step was to get a license. To do this one must pass a test (several now, actually). To pass a test one must have tuition. I got in touch with the Brear driving school, prop. Dave Brear, of Kettering. I booked a place on one of Dave's one-day Compulsory Basic Training courses, on one of Dave's bikes. (I forgot to mention that - you need a motor bike ...). Without doing the CBT you are not allowed out on the road, even on a moped with "L" plates. My group of three trainees learned to get on the bike, get off it again. Start it up and stop it. Accelerating, changing gear and braking came next, followed by turning right, left and the emergency stop. All this in the peace and quiet of a school playground. Now we were ready for the open road.
I admit to some apprehension as we set off. I was still unhappy with my clutch control, I wasn't convinced I would remember it all. Our guide Howard was following the three of us as we wobbled off together. Howard had a walkie talkie. We all had receive-only units and couldn't answer back. On the other hand we all wore crash helmets so I'm fairly sure that no-one could see my ears burning red as I forgot to cancel my indicator for about the five hundredth time. After a while it all started to come together. I was bowling along, banking into corners and braking evenly and straight as if had done it all my life. I did not stall. I did not fall off. The sky was blue, the trees were green and the girls we passed seemed pretty. I was hooked.
Ten weeks later. The test date. I have survived Dave Brear's walkie talkie tyranny. I have discovered that not being able to answer back is a positive advantage, because I CAN answer back and he can't hear me. We have covered the test route in both directions, with all its permutations of turn in this road, turn in that road, hill start here and emergency stop there.
I have had a long quiet talk with myself, and believe that I can do it if I believe I can. I can and I believe. This is pre-test nerves like I haven't had in years.
The test was a dream. The day was clear and dry. The examiner turned out to be human with arms and legs and spoke in English. The bike went where I pointed it, stopped where I wanted it to stop and did not fall over. I passed.
I was now at a cross-roads. Do I retire from motor cycling, having conquered the self-doubt of pre-test nerves? Now I have a license, can I smugly convince myself I can have a bike any time I want one? (and invent excuses why I can't have one now). There's always an excuse for not doing something and having a mid-life crisis is about realising how many times one has been mean or cowardly or spiteful to one's self - and how little time is left. Buy a motor bike? Hell yes!
When I was sixteen, I had wanted a motorcycle. My friends had them. Why couldn't I? My mother said no, they're too dangerous. My father said I couldn't afford it. So I promised myself one day I would have one. One day.
When I was twenty I was in college and running a car. Motor cycles seemed frivolous and pointless, especially in Yorkshire, where the sun doesn't shine very often and the roads are permanently coated in that brown slippery compound, the one that inconveniences car drivers by coating their headlights with a thin crust of grime. The stuff which offers no traction to motorcyclists, and leaves them lying in the road watching their pride and joy cartwheeling off into the gloom.
When I was thirty I was commuting in and out of London. On Fridays I travelled north with a suitcase of dirty washing. On Monday I headed south again with clean clothes. Although life was busy there seemed plenty of time in the future for the things I wanted to do one day.
When I was forty it dawned on me that I was older than my Dad, when he said I couldn't have a motor bike. It would not seem long until I would have to have the same conversation with my own kids. I was having my mid-life crisis. I decided there and then that if was going to have a mid-life crisis I might as well do it in style.
The first step was to get a license. To do this one must pass a test (several now, actually). To pass a test one must have tuition. I got in touch with the Brear driving school, prop. Dave Brear, of Kettering. I booked a place on one of Dave's one-day Compulsory Basic Training courses, on one of Dave's bikes. (I forgot to mention that - you need a motor bike ...). Without doing the CBT you are not allowed out on the road, even on a moped with "L" plates. My group of three trainees learned to get on the bike, get off it again. Start it up and stop it. Accelerating, changing gear and braking came next, followed by turning right, left and the emergency stop. All this in the peace and quiet of a school playground. Now we were ready for the open road.
I admit to some apprehension as we set off. I was still unhappy with my clutch control, I wasn't convinced I would remember it all. Our guide Howard was following the three of us as we wobbled off together. Howard had a walkie talkie. We all had receive-only units and couldn't answer back. On the other hand we all wore crash helmets so I'm fairly sure that no-one could see my ears burning red as I forgot to cancel my indicator for about the five hundredth time. After a while it all started to come together. I was bowling along, banking into corners and braking evenly and straight as if had done it all my life. I did not stall. I did not fall off. The sky was blue, the trees were green and the girls we passed seemed pretty. I was hooked.
Ten weeks later. The test date. I have survived Dave Brear's walkie talkie tyranny. I have discovered that not being able to answer back is a positive advantage, because I CAN answer back and he can't hear me. We have covered the test route in both directions, with all its permutations of turn in this road, turn in that road, hill start here and emergency stop there.
I have had a long quiet talk with myself, and believe that I can do it if I believe I can. I can and I believe. This is pre-test nerves like I haven't had in years.
The test was a dream. The day was clear and dry. The examiner turned out to be human with arms and legs and spoke in English. The bike went where I pointed it, stopped where I wanted it to stop and did not fall over. I passed.
I was now at a cross-roads. Do I retire from motor cycling, having conquered the self-doubt of pre-test nerves? Now I have a license, can I smugly convince myself I can have a bike any time I want one? (and invent excuses why I can't have one now). There's always an excuse for not doing something and having a mid-life crisis is about realising how many times one has been mean or cowardly or spiteful to one's self - and how little time is left. Buy a motor bike? Hell yes!
My New Jacket. On the perversity of life's little accidents with a digression into theology and the origin of superstitious belief
In December of last year it became plain that my contract to supply services to the Derbyshire Building Society was not going to be renewed. The Derbyshire had got themselves into a terrible mess over the acquisition of a new computer system and their project was not going anywhere, cancellation was in the air and cancellation of the project meant cancellation of employment for those involved with it. As it turned out it was not just the hired help like me who were about to feel the pain, but some permanent members of staff, those with long records of loyal employment, felt it too. The Derbyshire have since appealed to the Nationwide to take them over citing (as was reported in the financial press) 'a failed IT project' as a contributor to their downfall.
So, I started looking for another opportunity to deliver my skills to the market around the end of last year. To my growing dismay, I found the market wanted nothing to do with me. I tried revamping my CV, I tried hawking myself to other industry sectors apart from the banking and finance sector which had supported me (as I had supported it in turn) over the last ten years. Nothing. Nada, no response. What interviews I managed to secure generated feedback like 'too technically oriented', 'too solution oriented', 'lives too far away from the client'. These spurious and meaningless words left me feeling something was in the air and it wasn't connected to a personal hygiene problem. What was in the air was the impending doom of the credit crunch fallout. Banks had stopped lending money, first to each other, then to businesses and while the dregs of spare cash were being drained from the economy by domestic lending they were all waiting for the end of the world to arrive. My conversations with recruiters all conveyed the same message: "It's getting really bad out there" and I was out in the cold.
About five years before I had taken some summer work through a local employment agency in a warehouse and discovered that a long night shift in ill-fitting footwear was too much for my flesh and blood to bear, well for my feet to bear anyway. So I had taken a week off to gain proficiency in the skills required to operate an electric counterbalance fork lift truck and its cousin the reach truck. Thus equipped I was able to return to my night shift job and get the weight off my feet. As it happened, my new skills were worth an extra pound an hour so that was a welcome benefit and helped towards recouping the cost of the training and the lost earnings.
So there was my second string. I would refresh my skills on mechanical handling equipment and seek local employment. My locality is central for the UK and close to many fast road connections. It attracts many warehouse and distribution or "logistics" enterprises and the map is peppered with tall grey and anonymous buildings which are surrounded night and day by articulated lorries. Inside these building swarms of safety-booted and hi-vis-suited individuals are buzzing and whining about on their counterbalance and reach trucks to make sure that the lorries are unloaded and their contents put away. When they are not doing that they are fetching pallets down from the racking and lining them up on trailers ready to go out to the next warehouse. Somewhere, someone was waiting with cash to pay for me and my second-string skills, I would be ready.
I found the fork lift truck training agency who could refresh my driving skills for a ninety pound per day fee and booked my two-day course with them. As the start date approached I located the steel-toecapped footwear I had put away nearly five years before and tried them on. Not quite instant agony, but before an hour had passed I convinced myself a new pair of safety shoes was called for so, with a quick mental apology to my bruised credit, I acquired a fresh pair. The training came and went. I passed the theory test and the two practicals. I made mistakes but not enough to accumulate a failing score. I was confident in my ability to manoeuvre the vehicle in narrow spaces and to fetch down a pallet and put it away again without breaking anything or endangering life or limb of myself or passers-by.
Next I sign up with another local employment agency. The people with whom I had dealt with five years before had gone. Their premises were boarded up and had been offered to let for some considerable time. Like my own professional prospects they too had suffered from the chilly and uncaring winds of commerce that sweep away individuals, businesses and whole industries. The new local employment agency was happy to record my vital information and without bending, folding spiking or mutilating me in any way arranged for my "induction" session at the most local of low grey anonymous warehouses which is where I shall be next Monday. I am unclear about the agenda for the induction. I am told that employees are expected to manhandle refrigerators on and off lorries two at a time using a sack truck i.e. manually so it seems my expensive retraining may have been wasted.
But I do need a hi-vis jacket. And I want a warm one. It's the end of October and the night air is chilly. This morning I visited the workwear shop and acquired a brightly-coloured jacket. It's fluorescent yellow front and back with fluorescent orange sleeves. There's yards of reflective tape, pockets, zips, an elasticated waist, a sturdy zip-up front, elastic and velcro at the cuffs and a fleecy lining and collar. It's just the job. I was so pleased to find it comfortable that I wore it as I left the store and drove home. I as still wearing it when the phone call came advising me that I had been short-listed for the business analyst job I had applied for three weeks previously. Apologies for the delay and all, but the person dealing with it had been off ill for a weeks and could I do an interview the following Monday?. "No" I replied, keenly aware that this would conflict with my previously-arranged induction session and the techniques of picking up two refrigerators at a time using a sack truck. "But I can do Tuesday".
Which brings me to superstition. There is part of me that wants to believe some cosmic intelligence was waiting for me to accept the humiliating decision to abandon my comfortable professional white collar career for a future of minimum-waged manual labour. Further that cosmic intelligence waited still longer for me to squander what is probably the last of my liquid assets on safety footwear, forklift training and a new high-vis jacket. This morning that cosmic intelligence was trailing this opportunity across my path to see how I would react, tempted like Job and Jacob and Lot and Noah. I believe myself to be a rational sort of man with a belief in tangible cause and measurable effects. I really cannot bring myself to believe that this cosmic intelligence is testing my mettle with these challenges or that my response to these challenges will cause this cosmic intelligence to be either delighted or appalled, but some days it does fell like it might be the case. Sometimes we dismiss at as 'Sod's Law' but this indicates some system of cause and effect might be at work. I know, because I have seen the working out, that there is no rationale and that these events are random and unconnected because there is no God.
In another age I would call it 'God's will' that I should find myself without my preferred choice of employment prospects at one end of the year and have that choice offered to me once again at the other end of the year. Here I am in twenty-first century England, a country of mixed faiths and atheism where appealing to God's will or karma are regarded as eccentricisms, at least by people like me. So how and why do I feel that the renewal of my job prospect is a direct consequence of my preceding loss of privileges and unenjoyable financial peril. As ever, Richard Dawkins has an answer. In the wide, grassy and predator-rich environment in which we evolved a sensitivity to threat or peril was a survival instinct and this survives as a talent to see patterns where no patterns exist, to explain random series of events as causes and effects. Richard Dawkins goes on to say that's where superstition comes from and ultimately a belief in karma or a cosmic consciousness which is keeping track that everybody gets out what they're willing to put in. It doesn't require much of an orator to turn that into a divinely-enforced ethical and moral code and lead to the protestant work ethic we've all heard of.
So, I started looking for another opportunity to deliver my skills to the market around the end of last year. To my growing dismay, I found the market wanted nothing to do with me. I tried revamping my CV, I tried hawking myself to other industry sectors apart from the banking and finance sector which had supported me (as I had supported it in turn) over the last ten years. Nothing. Nada, no response. What interviews I managed to secure generated feedback like 'too technically oriented', 'too solution oriented', 'lives too far away from the client'. These spurious and meaningless words left me feeling something was in the air and it wasn't connected to a personal hygiene problem. What was in the air was the impending doom of the credit crunch fallout. Banks had stopped lending money, first to each other, then to businesses and while the dregs of spare cash were being drained from the economy by domestic lending they were all waiting for the end of the world to arrive. My conversations with recruiters all conveyed the same message: "It's getting really bad out there" and I was out in the cold.
About five years before I had taken some summer work through a local employment agency in a warehouse and discovered that a long night shift in ill-fitting footwear was too much for my flesh and blood to bear, well for my feet to bear anyway. So I had taken a week off to gain proficiency in the skills required to operate an electric counterbalance fork lift truck and its cousin the reach truck. Thus equipped I was able to return to my night shift job and get the weight off my feet. As it happened, my new skills were worth an extra pound an hour so that was a welcome benefit and helped towards recouping the cost of the training and the lost earnings.
So there was my second string. I would refresh my skills on mechanical handling equipment and seek local employment. My locality is central for the UK and close to many fast road connections. It attracts many warehouse and distribution or "logistics" enterprises and the map is peppered with tall grey and anonymous buildings which are surrounded night and day by articulated lorries. Inside these building swarms of safety-booted and hi-vis-suited individuals are buzzing and whining about on their counterbalance and reach trucks to make sure that the lorries are unloaded and their contents put away. When they are not doing that they are fetching pallets down from the racking and lining them up on trailers ready to go out to the next warehouse. Somewhere, someone was waiting with cash to pay for me and my second-string skills, I would be ready.
I found the fork lift truck training agency who could refresh my driving skills for a ninety pound per day fee and booked my two-day course with them. As the start date approached I located the steel-toecapped footwear I had put away nearly five years before and tried them on. Not quite instant agony, but before an hour had passed I convinced myself a new pair of safety shoes was called for so, with a quick mental apology to my bruised credit, I acquired a fresh pair. The training came and went. I passed the theory test and the two practicals. I made mistakes but not enough to accumulate a failing score. I was confident in my ability to manoeuvre the vehicle in narrow spaces and to fetch down a pallet and put it away again without breaking anything or endangering life or limb of myself or passers-by.
Next I sign up with another local employment agency. The people with whom I had dealt with five years before had gone. Their premises were boarded up and had been offered to let for some considerable time. Like my own professional prospects they too had suffered from the chilly and uncaring winds of commerce that sweep away individuals, businesses and whole industries. The new local employment agency was happy to record my vital information and without bending, folding spiking or mutilating me in any way arranged for my "induction" session at the most local of low grey anonymous warehouses which is where I shall be next Monday. I am unclear about the agenda for the induction. I am told that employees are expected to manhandle refrigerators on and off lorries two at a time using a sack truck i.e. manually so it seems my expensive retraining may have been wasted.
But I do need a hi-vis jacket. And I want a warm one. It's the end of October and the night air is chilly. This morning I visited the workwear shop and acquired a brightly-coloured jacket. It's fluorescent yellow front and back with fluorescent orange sleeves. There's yards of reflective tape, pockets, zips, an elasticated waist, a sturdy zip-up front, elastic and velcro at the cuffs and a fleecy lining and collar. It's just the job. I was so pleased to find it comfortable that I wore it as I left the store and drove home. I as still wearing it when the phone call came advising me that I had been short-listed for the business analyst job I had applied for three weeks previously. Apologies for the delay and all, but the person dealing with it had been off ill for a weeks and could I do an interview the following Monday?. "No" I replied, keenly aware that this would conflict with my previously-arranged induction session and the techniques of picking up two refrigerators at a time using a sack truck. "But I can do Tuesday".
Which brings me to superstition. There is part of me that wants to believe some cosmic intelligence was waiting for me to accept the humiliating decision to abandon my comfortable professional white collar career for a future of minimum-waged manual labour. Further that cosmic intelligence waited still longer for me to squander what is probably the last of my liquid assets on safety footwear, forklift training and a new high-vis jacket. This morning that cosmic intelligence was trailing this opportunity across my path to see how I would react, tempted like Job and Jacob and Lot and Noah. I believe myself to be a rational sort of man with a belief in tangible cause and measurable effects. I really cannot bring myself to believe that this cosmic intelligence is testing my mettle with these challenges or that my response to these challenges will cause this cosmic intelligence to be either delighted or appalled, but some days it does fell like it might be the case. Sometimes we dismiss at as 'Sod's Law' but this indicates some system of cause and effect might be at work. I know, because I have seen the working out, that there is no rationale and that these events are random and unconnected because there is no God.
In another age I would call it 'God's will' that I should find myself without my preferred choice of employment prospects at one end of the year and have that choice offered to me once again at the other end of the year. Here I am in twenty-first century England, a country of mixed faiths and atheism where appealing to God's will or karma are regarded as eccentricisms, at least by people like me. So how and why do I feel that the renewal of my job prospect is a direct consequence of my preceding loss of privileges and unenjoyable financial peril. As ever, Richard Dawkins has an answer. In the wide, grassy and predator-rich environment in which we evolved a sensitivity to threat or peril was a survival instinct and this survives as a talent to see patterns where no patterns exist, to explain random series of events as causes and effects. Richard Dawkins goes on to say that's where superstition comes from and ultimately a belief in karma or a cosmic consciousness which is keeping track that everybody gets out what they're willing to put in. It doesn't require much of an orator to turn that into a divinely-enforced ethical and moral code and lead to the protestant work ethic we've all heard of.
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