Fat Nick's Blog

Iranian Gravy Volcano

2011-12-27T17:10:00.001Z

Tonekabon is a city in Iran, on the southern shore of the Caspian sea. Like many cities in that part of the world it has seen its share of history as armies and empires ebb and flow. It's about to become world famous for a very peculiar reason.

The Caspian sea is bordered by some globally significant geology. Into the sea debauch several major Asian rivers which have built up layers of mud and organic debris and created plentiful deposits of oil and natural gas. The underlying plate tectonics generate geothermal hot spots which give rise to geysers and mud volcanoes. When a crack in the ground appeared in Tonekabon appeared and vented steam no-one was particularly surprised and the only people who were much concerned were those whose property was directly threatened by the fumes.

However, the mystery deepened when it was noted that the liquid which bubbled to the surface did not smell of oil or mud... but of gravy.

Geologists were called to investigate. Some local chefs and restaurant owners also arrived to investigate. Sure enough, the substance which arrived boiling hot from this geologic anomaly was a rich beefy stock and proved to be edible, nourishing and rather tasty. The theorists have concluded that at some time in the last hundred thousand years or so a number of giant mammals, possibly mammoths, met their end nearby and their carcasses became quickly entombed in the layers of ice which once covered the region. Their remains might have remained, undisturbed and unnoticed until the end of time except for some recent geological disturbance which created cracks and fissures through their mesolithic boneyard permitting steam and hot water to percolate through the deposit and distilled a tasty stock from the bones and tissues of these long-dead beasts.

Several restaurants and bistros in Tonekabon have sprung up around the natural soup geyser to market the output as a guaranteed natural and additive free. The basic beefy broth flavour carries an earthy note which, while novel, is not unattractive.

Biographical Note

2011-09-01T20:00:00.001+01:00

November 1987. I joined Jointine Products in Lincoln, an operating unit of Wiggins Teape Carbonless Papers Division. This was an enterprise with a long history of innovation and development and investment and take-overs and forced redundancies, a typical midlands manufacturing concern. I had been appointed as Commercial Systems Manager with the brief to implement a DEC-Based manufacturing system to replace the ad-hoc applications developed on stand-alone PCs scattered through the organisation. I started off by gathering and documenting the requirements so we could embark on a supplier/system selection exercise.

Jointine's MRP requirements were almost unfathomable. A mix of exotic chemicals were prepared in a mix plant, then applied to plain paper in coating/impregnating machines. Sometimes the coating was a two-stage process. The coated/impregnated paper was then trimmed to size and sold as gasket paper, battery lining paper and thermally-sensitive paper for fax machines.

Unfathomable? Yes. I never found out what drove the production planning process. Did we produce materials for stock or to order? The answer was "Yes and No, it depends". Quite often it depended on what the night shift had decided to do which was often at odds with what the production planners had set down for them. The quantities going
into a mix were highly variable since some of the ingredients were organic, natural products and had to be titrated to get the right balance for the product. The production plan for the coating machines had to be structured for wider papers to be coated first, then narrower. Doing it the other way around would contaminate the back of the paper with the residue from the previous run. Finally the quality control was hit and miss since a product which failed one set of criteria could be relabelled and sold as a different product.

My own management refused to acknowledge these complexities which was a symptom of the contempt they had for the people who worked for them. After two years maniacal effort we had a product selected, a computer installed and software loaded. Then my immediate boss was sacked, then I was asked to leave. I had been contaminated by my association with him.

I learned some new terms at this time, workplace harassment, stress-related disorders and constructive dismissal. I still have nightmares about that place. After this experience I moved into the support and maintenance of financial applications, including retail banking and branch systems. I'd had enough on manufacturing industry.

Jointine Products was closed down and production switched to the Carbonless Papers hub in Cardiff. Subsequently it too shut down. Some of the former Jointine employees bid for the obsolete equipment and now are back in business making gasket papers. As far as I know, they never implemented a computer-based MRP/ERP system.

Cat's Eyes

2011-06-02T19:59:00.004+01:00

It was late and it was dark and I had the road to myself. As I was driving along the lights bored a tunnel through the darkness illuminating the stripes of white paint and cat's-eyes in the road. I could see four or five of these little reflectors buried along the centre line of the road. As each flashed past another lit up in the distance.

Five, I could see five at once except that sometimes the fifth was a little late in flashing into visibilty. Sometimes it was early, and I could see six at once. I started paying a little more attention now, looking forward to the occasions when I could see the sixth.

It helped relieve the tedium of that late night drive a little. I'd had a long and not very interesting day, starting early and finishing late. It would be midnight before I got home and I'd done the drive many, many times before. Apart from the random refrigerator rolling into the road [1] I was expecting no surprises that evening but the spacing of the cat's eyes was something I had never considered before.

I started keeping an eye out for the sixth cat's eye flashing into sight. And noticed there was a sort of rhythm to their appearance. Questions started to occur to me. What is the spacing between cat's eye reflectors? Does this spacing vary if the cat's eyes are installed on motorways, dual carriageways, other A roads or urban areas? How is the spacing measured when these are installed? Does the maintenance crew pace out the distance or use a chain or a tape measure? Once they are installed is the spacing checked and what is the tolerance on the spacing? For instance, if the cat's eye is two inches out would this be acceptable? Two feet? Missing altogether? Like any other motorist I had got used to seeing cat's eyes on roads and like any other motorist I had never spent much time thinking about them but these questions lodged in my mind.

The rest of the drive passed in the same way as any other tedious and tiring late night drive does. I arrived at my home, parked the car, entered my house, undressed and went to bed. If I dreamt of cat's eyes while I slept I do not remember.

The next day I awoke with the questions of the night before on my mind. I had a day off work so after my usual daily morning routine I sat down at my computer and drafted a polite enquiry to the highways department of my local council. Even if they didn't reply then just framing the questions in words and sending them to someone else to deal with might stop them from going round in my head for days. It was a tactic I'd used before when random questions raised themselves, if you cant find an answer then find someone else to find an answer for you. Although it reveals a slightly obsessive side to my personality, it also makes me a wizard to have on pub quiz teams.

...oooOooo...

Days came and went until the day I got my reply from the highways department. Apparently it's a bit complicated but essentially the cat's eyes I was staring at on that night were placed 20.116 metres apart. I thought that was curious number until I checked, and it is 22 yards. A measurement of ancient derivation, one tenth of a furlong of which there are eight to a mile. Obviously the measurement goes back to pre-metric days. This means the beam of my headlights was picking up five cat's eyes with the fifth being one hundred and ten yards away. The exceptions, where I could see a sixth must have been where the beam picked up the cats eye one hundred and thirty two yards away unless that sixth cat's eye was less than one hundred and thirty two yards away. Once again my mind started spinning with the new question, was that sixth cat's eye less than one hundred and thirty two yards away or not? If not, why not. I could feel a prickle of obsessive compulsion creeping up on me. A plan started to form in my mind, a plan involving a fluorescent high-visibility jacket I happened to own, a tape measure and a clipboard.

On the Highways Agency website I had scoured to find a contact for my enquiries was a list of roadworks in the area. I made some phone calls and secured permission to visit one where a couple of miles of roadway was being scraped up and resurfaced. Officially I was being allowed onto the site in the company of one of the local authority surveyors as an exercise in dealing with the local residents. Apparently they had some sort of mandate to reach out into the local community on local affairs and were delighted with my interest.

Came the day I was there, jacketed and equipped with a blank clipboard to meet the surveyor. I explained my interest in cat's eye spacing and learned from him that the roads were indeed planned with a twenty two yard spacing between cat's eyes and that this was measured out with a measuring wheel. In the case of the works we were visiting that day the old cat's eyes were being dug out with pneumatic drills before the road surface was being scraped clean with a planing machine. Following the planing the cat's eyes were re-planted and bedded in with a bucket of hot asphalt before the fresh asphalt was laid down around them. Since the cat's eyes were being re-planted in the holes from which they had been dug out there was a chance that they could move a little from their original locations.

I was introduced to the site foreman who was happy for me to survey the cat's eye positioning on the road ahead of the works and behind the works, as long as I kept out of the way of his team. The local authority had a disclaimer for me to read and sign which absolved the local authority of all liability should I come to harm. Once this was done the local authority surveyor shook my hand and left me to it.

Having no measuring wheel I was using my own steel tape measure. This had a spikey metal tab on the end which was just the job for pegging into turf while measuring out a tennis court or cricket pitch or football pitch, I found it was useful for sliding into the fixing for the cat's eye and would come loose with a firm tug on the tape. This would save me walking backwards and forwards too often through the roadworks. I started at one end of the works and methodically worked forwards counting off cat's eyes and measuring the gaps between them. Most were at the official distance of 20.116 metres apart but occasionally one would be short by as much as two metres. I was pleased to find this met my expectations but I refrained myself from getting too excited about my results until all the numbers were in. It took several hours to complete the survey and I spent some of the time watching the road maintenance crew at work. Of course my presence set them on edge since the tape measure and clipboard spelt authority even though my lack of interest in the their work had been explained by the site foreman.

The day came to an end and I took my results home with me and sat in front of my computer to commence my analysis. The length of road which I had examined was slightly under two miles, I had expected to find a cat's eye every twenty-two yards or ten to a furlong or eighty to a mile or one hundred and sixty one in the survey. I had collected one hundred and fifty five measurements from which I estimated the the length of the roadworks was less then the two miles mentioned by the local authority surveyor. As the numbers entered the spreadsheet though, a different picture emerged. As I said. I had measured the spacing between the cat's eyes either side of the area being worked and paced out the gap where the road-laying team had been at work. As I added up the measurements this revealed that the length of the roadworks was slightly over two miles meaning the the cat's eyes were more spread out that they should be.
I decided to split my list in two, one for the stretch of road which had been renovated and another for the stretch of road waiting to be torn up and repaired. This would remove the uncertainty about the paced-out measurement of the road works themselves and also provide me with a 'before' and 'after' set of data so I could establish any change in cat's eye spacing which resulted from the road works themselves.

Once I had finished tabulating my data I attached it to a email and sent it off to the local authority surveyor as a sort of thank you for his cooperation.

My analysis of the variance in the gaps between the cat's eyes had started to show a pattern from that night of the tiring and tedious drive. From that I had built the premise that all roads are roughly similar since they employ the same techniques for their building an construction and if any pattern were discernible in one stretch of road then it might be discernible in an other. (Hence my random selection of a stretch of road nearby for my first analysis with hard data)

The hard data revealed a pattern. Sure enough some cat's eyes were closer together than intended and this number was larger than the number of cat's eyes that were further apart than intended. The second fact to emerge was that the renovation of the road, the uprooting and replanting of the cat's eyes did nothing to change this irregularity since the road maintenance crew tended to put the cat's eyes back where they had found them.

It was my intention to stop at this point. So far all it had cost me to arrive at these seemingly trivial truths was a couple of emails and a day spent wandering up and down road works. However my local authority surveyor friend had other ideas. A week later I received a letter inviting me to county hall and a meeting about my 'project'.

...oooOooo...

“It's not a project” I repeated. “It's just idle curiosity and my curiosity has been satisfied.”

The meeting was not happy with this and did not want to hear it. In the introductions I had learned that my local authority surveyor friend was intending to get his Fellowship to the Institute of Road Menders sorted out so he could get his promotion sorted out. (I'm sure this august institution has a much more formal name, but I can't be bothered to recall it and the acronym "FIRM" stuck in my mind). At the meeting was his line manager, his academic supervisor and two representatives from the human resources department. It seems my casual analysis had kicked over a can of worms and they wanted to engage me as some sort of research assistant to survey all the roads in the county. The local authority was in line for some European Community money for road improvements and my analysis had shown that the local authority's claims for compliance with international road building standards had been put in doubt by my research. Since I had shown that one of their claims to be unfounded in fact, relating to the spacing of cat's eyes, the the rest of their business case was tainted by association. That's politics for you.

“We're offering you a two-year fixed term contract to measure and report on cat's eye spacing for the whole county. That's ring fenced money and you'll be your own boss.”

I considered my flagging career in IT consultancy. The long tedious drives home in the dark and my fondness for wearing a high visibility jacket and hard hat.

“Done”. I said. “I'll start Monday”[2].

[1] This refers to the 'Schrodinger's Fridge' theory of hazard management. The theory blends aspects of quantum theory and the hazard management techniques taught to advanced motorists and motorcyclists. The genesis of this theory can be traced back to a group of motorcyclists chatting down the pub (See also http://www.ixion.org.uk)

[2] The above is a work of fiction. Thank you to all you lovely people who congratulated me on finding gainful employment but I'm afraid your congratulations are misplaced.

[3] Damn you, Frame.

New story: Untitled, Chapter 1. Draft 1

2011-05-17T17:56:00.001+01:00

I heard the dead again today.

Like the last times, it started off just with them muttering to each other, then they seemed to be speaking more clearly to me. I hear the voices quite clearly but I couldn't tell you if it is the voice of an old man or a young woman or a child, it's just a voice. It speaks clearly, enunciating very deliberately but I can't tell what words its using. I've heard people speak in foreign languages before but it doesn't sound foreign. I cant remember or repeat the words or make sense of them when I hear them. After a while I stop trying to listen and it goes away. It doesn't fade out or get distant or any special effects. I stop thinking about it and after a while I notice it's gone.

I told the nurse and she must have told the doctor because that night they started giving me the little white pills again. The smaller the pill, the more powerful they are. The big pink capsules don't seem to do anything, no matter how many I take but after just one of the little white ones I fall fast asleep and don't wake up until the nurse wakes me up and I feel all sort of cotton woolly all morning.

I don't like the little white pills so when the voices start again I don't tell the nurse, I just pretend to read a magazine. There's a story in the magazine about a woman who killed her two children. I don't like the story so I don't read the words. I pretend to though, so they nurse will leave me alone. I'm really counting the 'a' letters in the article, then I count all the 'b' letters and so on. There are no 'z' letters in it. I remember a name I used to know “Etaoin Shrdlu”. I don't remember who he was or if he's alive or dead or a hero or a villain or fictional or real. This upsets me and I start to cry a little. I hide this from the nurse in case I have to take more of the little white pills again.

The nurse has yellow hair today, pulled back into a bun behind her head and fastened with those little brown wire clips. I think she has a name but I think of her as “Kirby”. I'm not sure where the name comes from but it keeps going around in my mind.

It's Kirby Grip! I remember the name for those brown hair clip things, that's why I used that name for the yellow-haired nurse. I look for her later, I want to tell her about my name and remembering about the Kirby Grip but I don't see her for the rest of the day.

Sometimes we have to do therapy. Someone in a white coat sits us all in a circle and asks questions. There are no right answers, it's not a quiz. We can all say what we want because the questions are supposed to make us think about stuff. Some of the shadow people just talk at random and don't seem to know when to stop. They just say the same stuff over and over again. Sometimes I try to speak. Today I tried to tell the story about the Kirby Grip and the nurse with the yellow hair but the shadows kept interrupting me

I call them shadows, but they're not like shadows, they're more like paper cutouts of people being blown about by the wind. They flap and bang and rattle in the wind and sometimes they get in the way when I want to see past them. I think they used to be people but in here there's only me and my thoughts and the nurse and the paper shadows.

I think I've always heard the dead speaking, even before I came here. When I lived in the white flat with the cars parked outside I used to turn the television right down and watch the pictures moving while listening to the voices. Sometimes the voices were quite stern and commanding and seemed to want to tell me to do stuff. But I never used to know what they wanted and that made me feel bad because I couldn't do what they wanted. Sometimes the voice was kind and soft and gentle and made me feel good. I like feeling good and I like doing things that make me feel good.

I liked the white flat. I could shut the door and nobody would bother me for days and days. I used to go out to the supermarket and buy stuff like breakfast cereal and milk and bananas and take it home and eat it. When they came to take me away from the white flat I was in bed and I was very thin because I hadn't been to the supermarket. I think I must have been more clever then because I can't remember how to go to the supermarket now. I don't need to go to the supermarket any more because the nurse brings me breakfast cereal and milk and bananas every day.

Today was different. I was looking for the nurse called Kirby, with the yellow hair but today the nurse has white hair with curls peeping out from under her cap. She didn't have clips in her hair. I realised straight away that the nurse is two different people, there are different nurses! This makes me think about the nurse a bit longer. The nurse is not like the paper shadows that rattle and bang and get in the way. The nurse is like a real person like me, but there must be many of them. I think of all the nurses going away to different white flats and going to the supermarket to buy their breakfast cereal and milk and bananas and taking them home.

The world is turning out to be a bit more complicated than I thought. As well as many nurses, there are many days and each one is a little different to the last. Today the nurse is different. I try to think about yesterday and the yellow haired nurse called Kirby. Thinking about yesterday is hard and makes me cry a little bit because I feel sad and sorry and I don't know why.

We did therapy again and I started talking about the yellow haired nurse and why I called her Kirby, because I couldn't remember her name. I don't think anyone heard me because the paper shadows were all shouting and hooting and laughing at each other. It made me think of monkeys in the zoo, except I don't know if I've ever been to a zoo or seen monkeys behaving like that. Perhaps I'm being unfair to monkeys but I'm pretty sure that the monkeys don't care. I start thinking that this is funny and try tell the nurse about it but the words all try to come out at once and I cannot speak about it. This makes me unhappy and I cry a little bit.

The dead are talking again. The voice is quiet and soft and reassuring and makes me feel happier. It doesn't seem to matter that I did not tell the nurse my story about the monkeys. It doesn't seem to matter that nobody wants to listen to me in therapy. It doesn't seem to matter that I cannot remember the way to the supermarket or what the supermarket looks like inside or what I have to do in the supermarket. Nothing really matters as long as I can listen to the soft and reassuring voice which makes me feel happy. I close my eyes and pretend to be dozing so I can listen to it.

Nice Roads

2010-11-24T19:11:00.004Z

There are roads we call 'nice' because they are well-made with nice cambers and gradients and wide enough to negotiate safely in or on whatever vehicle we are riding or driving at the time.

Another sort of 'nice' road is one that takes us through striking or dramatic scenery or views, where the quality of the road building is less important than the setting.

Just now I thought of another sort of 'nice' road, one with happy associations or memories associated with it. One of these is a stretch of the A465 from Abergavenny to Hereford. I used to negotiate this stretch of road on the trip from my home in Bridgend to visit family in Hereford. When I got to this bit I knew that Hereford was almost in sight and I'd soon be meeting up with my grandmother, my uncle and aunt and my cousins. That warm feeling of anticipation comes back to me when I think of that stretch of road, and the dimly-remembered views of hills fields and the river running alongside the road for a distance. I imagine it in bright sunlight, and in colour.

Another similar warm feeling of anticipation is for the old main road between Huddersfield and Leeds. In my student years this route would take me to visit my girlfriend and I would be looking forward to the kissing and cuddling and trips to the pub. High points in my week as they are for most young men I'm sure.

These memories are not blighted by time. Hereford has changed. It is now a terrible trap for traffic. My grandmother, aunt and uncle are no longer with us. My cousins have all grown up and become parents and grandparents and to some degree have become strangers. I don't even know where some of them live now but the memories I laid down those decades ago are still recalled by bring up that view from the Abergavenny road.The road between Huddersfield and Leeds is still there, but harder to find since it is overlaid and surrounded by motorway and bypasses and the scenery has changed as the urban sprawl has engulfed the fields that used to separate the towns.

It is said you cannot ever go back and that is true. We experience not just a place in space, but an event in space and time. And those events are unique and have gone forever. Only our memory, that most unreliable of faculties, remains to comfort us. But as well as remembering the scenery, sounds and colours and images, we remember our feelings and emotions of the time and they are precious.

The End of Days

2010-09-10T15:31:00.000+01:00

I have to inform you that we are at the end of days. There is a world-wide collapse in all standards, not just those of written speech. The institutions which built our civilization and upon which our culture and lifestyle are found have collapsed. Systems of education, government and commerce are failing and will collapse before our eyes. The world will enter a dark age decline in which the torch of civilisation will gutter fitfully and die. Our descendants and our kind will descend into primitive barbarity and eventually fade from this world, cursed and beaten by hunger, disease and hostility.

"I do not know what weapons will be used in the third world war but the fourth world war will be fought with sticks and stones"

A Cloud of Volcanic Ash

2010-05-05T15:22:00.003+01:00

A cloud of volcanic ash? Please let me know the composition of the ash particles, their size and density of distribution at different altitudes. Then I can draw upon my knowledge of how the density and composition of these particles will affect the engines of my jet aircraft, ie how long they can sustain their flight without incurring damage. Then I can plan my route around or through the dust cloud to minimise risk of damage to the aircraft and its passengers.

What's that? You don't know the composition, particle size, density or distribution of the dust particles? Nor do you know how that will affect my aeroplanes flight characteristics? Well then, how do you know how dangerous it is or is not?

Oh, you've just closed the airspace, well in that case we'll all have to stay at home, thank you.

Welsh Dragons

2010-04-09T23:19:00.005+01:00

I am considering my visit to Wales next weekend, and what I know of dragons.

There are very few dragons to be found in Wales any more. But they are there and waiting to be awakened. They're hidden in the hills or, in some cases, they are the hills. A few minutes perusing a contour map will show you where they are as it's quite easy to see once you know what you are looking for. The greatest of all wizards, Myrddin as we call him, rid the land of dragons with a song which sent them to deep sleep and hid them in the hills. This song, like so many of his songs, is not recorded or remembered.

Dragons can be woken from their slumber with another song.

The song is in a language older than Welsh and pre-dates the written word. It cannot be written down anyway, since it is different each time it is sung and varies according to who is singing it.

Sadly I never learned the song or how to sing it. But I know of it. It would be wonderful to see a dragon awake, shaking off the trees and soil and rocks that hide it and to marvel at its might and majesty.

If I knew the song I might be tempted to try it one day except for the frightful and dreadful warnings that come with the knowledge. You should not rouse a dragon unless you know how to control it and that requires a different song. A dragon cannot be controlled in the sense that a horse or dog can be trained to accept commands.

When summoning a dragon one makes certain requests and promises certain payment or reward in return. These promises had better be completely genuine and honest and the legends contain several examples of the fate of those who attempted to short change a dragon. They are tales full of fire and destruction and loss of life on a large scale. Dragons are vast and fierce and vengeful creatures that love destruction and fire and hate man and all his works.

Why? Well that's another longer story and it's too late to start it now so shut your eyes and try to sleep. Goodnight.

Caprica

2010-02-09T22:35:00.005Z

Thw Wikipedia entry relates "Caprica is a television series set in the fictional Battlestar Galactica universe" which is the idea in a nutshell.

Having watched the first three episodes I will add that its the result of a head-on collision between "Terminator" and "Skins". By the end of episode three we have the a Frankensteinian plot of how the emotionally distraught scientist has captured the the cyber-persona of his dead daughter and transferred it into a nine-foot mechanical monstroid. The Battlestar Galactica story (for which this is a prequel) starts off with second Cylon War and the nuclear annihilation of millions on the planets of the Twelve Colonies across which the human race has spread. I suspect that things start turning out badly in episodes four to twenty-one.

So why did I mention Skins? I liked Skins for its use of unknown actors and plots which tackled "issues" unflinchingly. By "issues" I refer to matters which adults tend to skirt around or euphemise and teenagers and "Young adults" (I blanch at employing the term but, hey ok?) have to deal with on a daily basis and on their terms. Do I need to be more explicit? Ok. drunkenness, distribution and consumption of proscribed drugs, inadvisable sexual relationships (there's a lot of that) and in one of my favourite episodes, stealing a dead body.

(It's these things which children tend not to talk to their parents about so if you find a stiff tucked away at the back of the garage, ignore it for a couple of days before tackling your kids with questions about how it got there.)

Back to Caprica. The milieu in which the action is set suggests sixties America from the clothes, thirties America from the politics and America in the very near future for the technology. I noticed in tonight's episode a lot of the cars being driven were old Citroens. Presumably that was done to jar any feelings of familiarity building up in the target audience, to emphasis that this was not middle America but another planet and another time and another culture.

On Caprica there are the politics of discrimination as one political/criminal body represents immigrants from another human planet who remind me of the Sicilian and Italian immigrants as portrayed in the Godfather.

There are the politics of religion as the monotheists who are at odds with the majority polytheists and resort to suicide bombing to spread their beliefs. This allows us to view the work as an allegory for the conflict between islamic fundamentalism and the Judeo-Christian west. But that is only one element of a piece which at episode three is still setting up its story arcs and plots and introducing us to the characters.

Which is where I come back to Skins. In that I remarked to myself how beautiful and attractive the new and unknown actors were. These impressions have been repeated on me with actors enlisted for similar roles in Caprica. First among these is sweet-faced Alessandra Torresani who reminds me of sweet-faced Megan Prescott from Skins. Alessandr Torresani's character is blown up in a suicide bombing and her cyber-persona occupies the first of the Cylons, robot soldiers who are nine feet tall and made of metal. The director alternates between a view of the actress and a view of the robot, often during the same shot. This helps us identify the mood and feeling and responses of the character which the faceless and clumsy mechanoid cannot convey. This is, as far as I am aware, a new technique and avoids the heroic effort most monster-depicting actors have to employ to convey anything through layers of latex and paint. On reflection, this underlines what a good job was done by Boris Karloff in the first Frankenstein movie and the many who have had the temerity to fill his shoes in the movies that came after.

Alessandro Torresani is far from being new or unknown, her career in the media started at aged 9 and she turns up in an episode of Terminator, The Sarah Connor Chronicles. I was going to watch that because it contains performances by Summer Glau who was a hero in the Firefly series and its movie spin-off Serenity. I was hooked on Firefly from the trailer and enjoyed the curtailed TV series. Oh, and according to Wikipedia Megan Prescott turned up in an episode of Doctors, but I'm sure I never watched that. My claim that these actors for Skins and Caprica are new and unknown stands, because they are new and unknown to me.

And now a last word on Caprica. I shall endeavour to follow the series through to the final episode. Of course I know how it ends but I expect to be ebtertained by some twists and surprises along the way.

Whay a motorcycle is better than a girlfriend

2010-02-08T02:11:00.000Z

I wrote this years ago, but it reminds me now, in the dark days of February, that I have a friend in the garage waiting patiently and cheerfully for me to take it out and use it cruelly.

Ten reasons why a motorcycle is better than a girlfriend

1. Nobody cares what colour your motorcycle is - not even your parents.
2. You're allowed to have more than one motorcycle.
3. Your motorcycle will not mind if you ride someone else's motorcycle.
4. You can leave your motorcycle at home when you go out with your friends.
5. It doesn't matter how dirty or smelly your motorcycle gets, it's still fun to ride.
6. I doesn't matter how dirty or smelly you get, your motorcycle will still let you ride it.
7. Your motorcycle will not get upset if you want to ride a newer, faster, lighter motorcycle.
8. When you get fed up with it, you can sell your motorcycle and buy another.
9. You can ride your motorcycle every day of the month.
10. Your motorcycle will never, ever take you shopping for lingerie.
11. You can swap motorcycles with your friends now and then.
12. When bits of your motorcycle wear out you can buy new bits to replace them.
13. You can chain up your motorcycle to stop anyone else riding it.
14. Motorcycles whine only when something is really wrong.
15. Motorcycles need tax, insurance and MOT once a year. If you forget, you merely get fined.
16. If you wash and polish your motorcycle it will look a lot better.
17. Your motorcycle will not get upset if you fart while you are riding it.
18. You can leave your motorcycle in the pub car park while you are in the pub, and you can leave it there all evening if you want.

I had a dream in which I died

2010-01-30T17:46:00.001Z

I had a dream in which I died. Well, I jumped off something high up and the end result was certain, I was going to be smashed like a bag of bones and offal. But in my dream I dropped more and more slowly and touched the ground very lightly and standing upright on my feet.

I couldn’t see much as I looked around. No scenery, just a thick brown mist or murk, like you might find at the bottom of a deep river. After a while, a patch of the murk grew brighter, then grew white and out of the murk appeared a glowing white figure.

“Are you an angel, come to take me to heaven?” I asked.
“I might be” he said “But you don’t believe in heaven and angels do you?”
“No.” I said. “But I seem to believe in you”.
“Have you come to take me to Hell” I asked. “After all, I was taught that suicide is a mortal sin and I have to suffer for all my sins. I do feel some guilt.”
“Don’t bother with all that nonsense” said the figure. “You are made the way you are and nothing can change that. You had no control over the times you were born into or the way you were brought up. Your parents brought you up the best they could and your teachers did what they could in the time they had. Whatever nature you had to begin with and whatever nurture provided you with and whatever circumstances you experienced led you to your decision to end your life when you did. Whether you like it or not your free will had very little to do with your decision. Besides there is no final judgement of good or evil or reward or punishment for your life. You’re dead, it’s over, that’s it. You’re a well read atheist and a rational man so you should know what to expect.”

“But what’s going on here?” I asked. “Is this an illusion generated by the last few flickerings of my dying mind. Do I travel to a bright white space where all my family are waiting to greet me? I’ve heard that people who’ve had a near-death experience tell that story”.
“This isn’t a near-death experience.” said the figure. I got no sense of irony or expectation but I knew he was waiting for me to work it out. I did.
“Oh.” Was all I said.
“I have heard” I resumed “that doctors and scientists say that when the brain shuts down, the last thing one perceives is that feeling of bright light and comfort.”
“That may be” said the figure looking at me. “What do you want it to be?”
“I’d like to see may family again” I said. “I miss those who died before me, like my Nan, and I’d like to say sorry to my wife and kids. I imagine my death must have upset them quite a bit.”
“You can do all that” said the figure, “if you want to”.
“But there are some people I wouldn’t want to meet again” I said. “People whom I have let down and those who bullied me and took advantage of me and hurt me, and those who I hurt. I wouldn’t want to meet them again”.
“You don’t have to” said the figure. “This is your death and you can have what you want”.
“This is all me” I said. “I’m getting it now. It’s all in my mind and in my imagination and I can have what I want and do what I want, but who are you? I know you’re not God and you’re not an angel. Who am I speaking to and how have you got all these answers?”

“I’m you of course” replied the figure. “Who else could be living in your head? I am the very best of you. You chose to end your life because you felt you were worthless and unlovable. I am you at your very best. You loved others and they loved you. You may have thought you’d alienated people with your indifference but what they remembered of you were the times you gave your time and energy to help them out. You were a kind and generous and industrious man. On your good days you were brilliant and the people who will remember you will remember that with love and affection. They won’t bother about the times you forgot to get them a cup of tea or forgot to get a birthday card. If they acted upset at the time it was only to get their share of your attention. Those people who tried to bully you and put you down did it because they knew you were kind and generous and industrious and they were jealous of that and you frightened them. You were a good man.”

I was shamed by this. It was true I was I had been bullied by those who were stronger and more powerful than me. I had felt rejected and unloved when I had attracted the anger of those close to me. That part of me that the psychotherapists call “the internal bully” had taunted me and abused me in the long dark hours. In these attacks I had lost my self confidence and my self esteem and ultimately my will to live. The despair I felt had led me to my death plunge, that one long step into oblivion.

“So what happens now?” I asked.
“You know what happens now.” Said the figure. “Recall your most satisfying moments. Whether they were holding your loved ones, or finishing a piece of work or waking up in a warm bed.”.
“Warm bed” I said.
“Hold on to that thought” said the figure.
I recalled the warmth and comfort of my bed, and the pleasure of waking from a night’s refreshing sleep, and that is all that there was.

I like beer

2009-11-16T00:58:00.001Z

I like beer, so much so that I have devoted many happy hours to researching the subject. I make my own beer in my garage with the help of a stainless-steel Baby Burco wash boiler and a selection of polythene containers from various sources.

Yesterday evening, for the first time, I inflicted one of my beers on a group of friends and it met with a good reception. This is unlike soliciting the opinion of the occasional visitor to the house who is compelled to be complimentary out of politeness. That beer was a well-hopped pale ale in the style of and India Pale Ale. I wasn't trying to emulate a particular brand but intended producing my best emulation of the style. I have produced other beer styles and the barrel currently tapped in my garage contains a mixture of a well-aged stout and a fresher and younger traditional bitter. It is delicious since the aging process imbued the stout with a slight sourness which by itself would not be palatable but is complemented by the other flavours.

So a reflection on the phenomenon of sour beers, aging and blending follows.

Lambics are beers which are reputedy fermented by airbone yeast which blows into the brewery from nearby fields in Belgium. (But according so some sources this is not so and the yeast is selected and added to the hopped wort as is usual in every other brewery).

Lambic beers are left open to the air for many weeks so that they intentionally go flat and sour. Then they are sweetened for potability by the addition of fruit syrups such as cherry and strawberry. This is remembered in England when a pub-goer orders a lager and lime.

A flat and sour beer can also be sweetened by the addition of a fresh and young beer Sometimes the result is called a "gueuze". The technique is used to make Newcastle Brown Ale and Guinness which are called "vatted" ales, a name which refers to their being stored and blended in vats.

Years ago a pubgoer might order the barman to blend a half-pint of "Old Ale" with the contents of another barrel further down the bar containg a fresher and cheaper beer. This is remembered in English pubs when a half pint of draught bitter is topped up with a bottle of pale ale. From my observations this is very much a London and Essex phenomenon today.

Elsewhere a "Black and Tan" is sometimes ordered, a half pint of Guinness blended with another half pint of draught bitter. For those drinkers who are unused to the unique attributes of raw and unlaced Guinness, this is a good way to acquire the taste.

The expression "Black and Tan" also refers to the militia set up in Ireland in 1920 to augment the Royal Irish Constabulary and suppress revolution. Because of the shortage of black police uniforms they were issued with khaki uniform. Use tact when discussing this in the company of Irish nationals. The behaviour of the Black and Tans under their leader Henry Hugh Tudor made them generally unpopular in Ireland and they are not remembered fondly.

In 1922 Henry Hugh Tudor continued his career in Palestine. He seemed to have a knack for finding hot spots.

Why men can read maps and women remember birthdays

2009-11-16T00:20:00.000Z

I'm back on the subject of evolution. The modern society in which I live traces its roots to the societies similar to those we see depicted on natural history programs about New Guinea and Borneo and the Amazon. In these societes we see the men living in the long hut at the end of the village while the women and children occupy a scattering of huts nearby.

When a young man is born into this society, he lives in one of the scattering of huts where he is nursed and tended for by his mother and grandmother and aunties and older sisters. As he grows and matures he seeks the company of older boys and men and gravitates towards the long hut at the end of the village and the company of the older boys and men.

In their company he learns to tell tall stories, to smoke and drink and most crucially for my point, he learns how to find his way through the jungle to where the fat monkeys are. As soon as he can be trusted to join the hunt he and the older boys and the men set off through the jungle find the fat monkeys and return to village in triumph with the trophies of the hunt. The boy has become a man.

As young men do, the boy inevitably begins to notice the presence of females in his village and becomes fascinated by them. At this time he defers to the guidance of his mother, grandmother, aunties and sisters for advice on how to assuage his curiosity. Here he is advised which of the young women of the village are suitable objects for his affection and which young women should be left alone, such as his sisters, aunties and cousins. Again, my point being that this role requires the women of the village to acquire and retain this knowledge for the good of the tribe.

Following the advice of his mother, grandmothers, aunties and sisters the young man acquires his spouse and under the diretion of the tribe moves right to the edge of the village and builds a home or himself and his wife. Well out of earshot from the rest of the village the new family gets busy with raising the next generation. As the children inevitably arrive the mother is joined by the grandmother and an aunty or two. The young man find his appetite for female company starts to wane and he recalls fondly the sociable atmosphere of the long hut at the and of the village. So he spends more and more time at the long hut swapping tall tales with his peers, smoking and teaching the younger men the way to where the fat monkeys live. The circle is complete.

Which is why women remember birthdays and relationships and who is going out with (or married to or broken up with) whom, and why men have no trouble with directions. It's an evolutionary imperative.

Side order of social phobia and anxiety, thanks

2009-09-30T04:09:00.000+01:00

I find that whatever this thing that ails me comes with side orders. That is to say, along with the crushingly low self esteem and self-destructive urges this affliction overflows into social phobia and anxiety. This is worrying me this weekend because a bunch of my friends are meeting up in a hotel to renew acquaintances and have a few drinks. I could have gone but chose not to. A month ago it was the same story with a housewarming party and a week ago with another house party. I passed on all these despite them being attended by lovely people. I'm sure that If I had gone I would have enjoyed myself and had a good time but my fear of going anywhere or meeting anyone holds me back.

So, am I turning into some sort of recluse? Will I be one of those basket cases you see wandering down the street shouting to myself? Will the local kids avoid walking past my house because of the strange old man who lives there (me). This seems like a bad way to end my days.

But please don't worry about me. Time is passing and with each day, well nearly each day, I can feel myself healing over and getting stronger. Maybe its the medication, but it feels like a natural recovery from the piss-poor state I had got myself into. I'm even starting to consider for the emotional battering of applying for jobs again. I'm sure the feeling of winning a job would buoy me up but I'm still not sure if I'm strong enough to shrug off the hundreds of offhand rejections I will have to endure.

North Wales Traffic Police

2009-09-18T22:42:00.000+01:00

It was on the A55, somewhere around Abergele and I was tanking along. It was getting on for seven in the morning and I'd been riding since about four am. I was on the way to catch the ferry from Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire. The weather had finally cleared and the bright dry day promised a lot more than the foggy frosty dawn that had greeted me. The traffic was light, the bike felt good so I was letting the bike do the work while enjoyed the pace, and the weather and the view.

I was in the habit of looking over my left shoulder as I passed the end of a filter lane. This was IAM training, checking all potential hazards and blind spots. On this occasion I saw one of those Volvo estates with the blue and yellow paint jobs. "Oh dear" I thought. "I'll bet he wants to have a word with me".

So I wound down the revs and started looking for a pulling-in place. I came across one fairly quickly so I signalled, shoulder checked, lane changed and pulled in. The copper pulled up behind me with his lights flashing.

"I expect you have some idea why I pulled you over" he said. This is the standard opening apparently. You're supposed to admit to some offense with your reply at which point you are banged to rights. I tried for a puzzled shrug. I should also explain that by this point I had removed my crash helmet and revealed myself to be a fat, balding grey-haired bloke and perhaps not the spotty long-haired tearway the copper might have been expecting.

"I can't fault you on your riding" he said. "You saw me straight away and pulled over sensibly". Having congratulated me on my riding skills, he went on to apologise. "We had a fatality over the weekend so we've got to be seen to be doing something".

Then he tried to engage me on the subject of driving behaviour more generally. "Are you in a hurry to get to the ferry?" he asked. "Nope" I replied. "I'm just enjoying the ride". He knew the distance to the ferryport to the nearest hundred yards, and when it was due to leave. If I'd tried to make a point of the importance of my trip he was ready to explain how I'd have time to spare if I confined myself to 30 mph for the rest of my journey. I didn't want to give him to opportunity for the roadside safety leture nor the impromptu roadside vehicle inspection. Both of these would certainly detain me past the ferry's departure time.

The copper explained to me that by using his "Vascar" device he had timed my progress between two points and measured my speed at ninety four point eight miles per hour.
"Of course, if you'd been going at ninety-five miles an hour or more, I'd have to send you to court for four penalty points and a big fine. Will you accept a fixed penalty notice with a three-point penalty and a sixty pound fine? Good. Sign here".

As I rode on to catch the ferry the copper's compliments regarding my riding and apology for having to be seen booking someone went round and round in my head. I wasn't particularly peeved about the event since I'd been caught breaking the speed limit and would pay the penalty. Today was just my turn that's all.

But I pitied that copper for having been told to go out and to be seen nicking some motorcylists. It ws apparent to me he didn't want to be doing what he was doing and the image of his finger hovering over the Vascar unit while my speed reduced to below the incriminating ninety five miles per hour is still with me today.

2009-08-18T02:55:00.000+01:00

I've spent the last few weeks in an acute depression. I've sought treatment and the wheels are in motion to make me happy and well again. But I've found myself in the same frame of mind as the man who has tooth ache or sea sickness. The sufferer imagines himself to be the most miserable person in the world and can see no end to the misery. Nobody else has ever been this miserable or can comprehend the depths to which the sufferer is suffering. But it's not the experience of depression that I want to discuss. Others have done that with much greater effect than I ever could.

Sally Brampton in her excellent memoir "Shoot the Damn Dog" records the observation that drugs help with the disease but only therapy can effect a cure. Well I reckon I've struggled manfully with my condition for at least twenty years and I don't intend to suffer with it for another twenty. I need to find a cure.

I've spent many weeks mulling over this defective frame of mind I call depression. I think I regarded it as a weakness in my character and would beat myself up about not being a better person, not being able to strengthen that part of me. As a result I got more depressed. This sets up a nasty little positive feedback loop in my mind and I am worse off. (I studied a topic called "Engineering Systems" for my degree and I know a bit about feedback loops, or at least enough to speak with some authority on the subject). My weeks of mulling have not been in vain because I have developed an insight into the affliction which I'm going to share.

Contrary to my thoughts on the subject, modern opinion tells us to regard depression as an illness. Generally an illnesss has symptoms which the professionals love to list and group and present their findings. Many of these end up in the World Wide Web along with helpful questionaires and case studies. Drawing on these resources I find I suffer from "atypical depression" which distinguishes itself from "melancholic depression" by the "heaviness of limbs" and "lack of energy". Overeating is also a dead give away and certainly in my case accounts for the heaviness of my limbs and my lack of energy. But one of the good things about a formally-defined illness is the availabilty of formally-defined cures. For the above administer SSRI or MAOI for six to twelve months and that's that.

So I'm thinking about this illness and part of me still wants to insist it's all down to me (which it is). This illness isn't a bacterium or a virus, it comes about because something goes wrong in the head and the inside of my head is definitely my department. I'm the only one in there and I should be able to look after it.

The trouble is I'm back to beating myself up over this self-inflicted injury I keep moaning about. Unlike sunburn, a self inflicted injury that is easy to avoid, my self inflicted injury came about because I don't know how to handle stress properly. It's like a repetitive strain injury or a hernia, both of which are "respectable" injuries brought about by hard work and not enough workplace support or training in how to deal with everyday stress.

I call them "respectable" injuries or illnesses using a tone of irony. Depression, like many other mental illnesses seems not to be regarded as a real disease or illness or injury. As in my case, outlined above.

Now I think I'm onto a good analogy here. Depression is like an RSI or hernia. Both can be treated with drugs to alleviate the painful effects but also require some training and support in place to prevent their recurrence. The same is true for depression. SSRI and MAOI can take away the pain but we require some expert help in developing strategies for keeping it away forever, which is where the therapy comes in.

Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, about which I know very little, offers the means to provide the skills to deal with the causes of depression so that like a correctly-seated keyboard user or a properly-postured lifter of boxes the recurrence of the injury will be averted for ever. At least I hope so.

My Bill Bryson Moment, a Grumpy Old Pedant speaks

2009-05-27T13:27:00.000+01:00

A recent BBC News article contained the phrase: "Lahore is now the epicentre of a struggle ..."

A superficial scan of online dictionary definitions confirms and supports my opinion that "epicentre" means "The point of the earth's surface directly above the focus of an earthquake".

This demonstrates the regrettable tendency for a longer and inaccurate word to be used where a shorter word does the job perfectly well. I overheard someone say "Please interpolate these results for me" when he should have said "Please interpret these results". "Interpolate" has an extra syllable and the pompous twit who used it was trying to make himself sound more important by using a longer word. Unfortunately the word "Interpolate", while it has to do with the interpretation of data, does not mean the interpretation of data. It means the prediction or estimation of a value by using known values of the data which lie to either side of the predicted or estimated value. For example if the weather report told me that the temperature in Birmingham yesterday was eighteen degrees and in Nottingham was twenty degrees I could interpolate that the temperature in Ashby-de-la-Zouche was nineteen degrees. Since Ashby-de-la-Zouche lies halfway between Birmingham and Nottingham it is reasonable to expect that the temperature there lies halfway between the temperatures for those two cities.

Misusing "epicentre" where "centre" does the job is a crime of similar magnitude. I guess the correspondent might be trying to say that a widespread undercurrent of dissent has flared up in an outbreak of violent attacks in Lahore, but why not say that instead of trying to create a geological metaphor? Confusingly the correspondent goes on to quote a source as saying "Lahore is the only city in Pakistan which has remained relatively peaceful" so far from being the centre or focus of violence, it seems the city is an island of stability so a comparison with a seismic disturbance confuses me.

If we're going to enlist expressions from fields such as geology I will allow an "avalanche of support" or a "landslide victory" since these suggest a massive, fast moving and overwhelming weight of whatever we are talking about. Unlike some pedants, I will allow that our language is evolving [1] and enriching our lives but if words like "interpolate" and "epicentre" are allowed to lose their precision and accuracy through the misuse I have quoted above, then we will all be poorer for it.

[1] And in the sense of evolutionary biology, words and phrases are being eliminated from our speech by a process of natural selection. Those which are weak or useless are not being passed on to the next generation. Those which are strong and useful are being preserved through constant use. We are constantly experimenting with new forms and making them work for us, or discarding them

Rockingham Forest Chapter of the Battle of Brighton Re-Enactment Society

2009-04-20T22:39:00.000+01:00

The following is a sample from some documents that have come into my possession after the break-up of the Rockingham Forest Chapter of the Battle of Brighton Re-Enactment Society. If anyone wishes to find out more about the past activities of this group I will be happy to make more of the documentation available through the weblog.

Official Journal of the Battle of Brighton Re-Enactment Society (Rockingham Forest Chapter)

May 1997
========
Committee Business: After the AGM in April, May saw the appointment of four more scooter-riders to the managing committee. This corrected the long-term imbalance between the numbers of motorcycle riders and scooter-riders in the group the numbers represented on the committee. The matter had been hotly debated in the preceding months with detailed statistical research into the ratio of UK scooter riders and motorcyclists now and in 1967. The numbers in the UK, in the London and Home Counties area and in Sussex, for 1967 and the present day were also examined. Age profiles were brought into play to adjust for scooterists and riders over 25. The classification of powered two wheeled transport into mopeds, scooters and motorcycles was contended with legislation from 1967 and the present day presented for debate. Finally, the decision unanimously and grudgingly accepted was for a straight 50-50 split between the two parties.

The group's first outing to Skegness on the Bank Holiday Monday was deemed a limited success. 75% of the scooterists survived the trip compared with 92% of motorcycle riders. Happily, no long-term disabling injuries were reported. No custodial sentences were imposed by the Lincolnshire magistrates this year, a refreshing break from tradition (although there was a mischievous suggestion that the authorities did not want any of us in their county for a moment longer than possible!)

The second outing at the end of month was the annual trip to Brighton itself. This being the thirtieth anniversary, a special effort was made by all groups. Considerable mayhem was re-enacted for the delight of the holiday makers and participants although one sobering moment occurred when the real Sussex constabulary officers were mistaken for members of the Society taking part in the pageant. In fairness, we were unaware of the recent changes in uniform detail that made serving officers resemble their predecessors of thirty years before. In return for offering to pay for the replacement of the two vehicles, the police offered nominal charges in court leading to surprisingly lenient suspended sentences for those involved.

June 1997:
==========
Committee Business: The escalating conflict in the Balkan states led to an increase in world demand for green parkas. As a result the discount deal with Corby Military Surplus Stores was cancelled. A motion to sell back the group's accumulated stock of these garments at a profit was narrowly defeated. A counter-motion to ban the wearing of leather jackets on conscientious grounds was also defeated, as was the vote of confidence in the group treasurer.

The first mass outing to Great Yarmouth was less than successful. In part this was due to the Norfolk and Suffolk County Councils removing all their road signs for the weekend, on the advice of Lincolnshire County Council. The same measure had been adopted in 1939 to frustrate the efforts of German parachutists to find their way around and it worked for us too. The effect of the police roadblocks was to break up the columns of riders as they converged on Norwich and redirect us in different directions. Although some riders found their way to Great Yarmouth, this was more by luck than judgement. One group of Rockingham riders reported finding themselves back in Skegness, another got as far as the Dartford Crossing on the M25 before realising they were hopelessly lost and heading for home in the Bank Holiday traffic.

July 1997
=========
Committee Business: Support for the oppressed peoples of Bosnia was expressed by the Group Treasurer when he unilaterally donated the entire funds of the group to Bosnian Defense Fund. The treasurer resigned from the group on the same day as the transaction was completed and is believed to be making his way to Sarajevo to take part in the defense of the town. The group's stock of green anoraks is believed to have gone with him. Although the committee sympathises with the plight of the Bosnians, the unauthorised use of the group's resources in the manner is to be deprecated. A motion of censure was carried.

On a lighter note, the weekend camp at Shanklin, Isle of Wight went well. The heavy police presence at the ferry terminal was resented since the prolonged wait for the ferry meant that plenty of impromptu vehicle inspections could be carried out. Attempts by the police to measure the noise levels from bikes and scooters were abandoned at the request of the ferry authority, and many motorists also waiting in the car park. Warnings in connection with the construction and use of vehicles, both verbal and in writing, were issued. The police were frustrated in some of their efforts by riders swapping number plates between machines while the officers were involved elsewhere. It remains to be seen how many of the warnings will be followed up by prosecutions especially since the ferry car park is not an official highway and any prosecution will be void (or so we are advised).

August 1997
===========
Committee Business: The committee's historical consultant, Stan, has agreed to act as treasurer pro tem. Measures have been put into place to rebuild the groups tattered finances starting with a survival sweepstake. In return for a monthly subscription, any group members who survive twelve months riding without a spill or prosecution will split one half of the pot. The other half goes to the group. Despite it being a 'dead cert' for the group (in Stan's words) the proposal was accepted in a spirit of sportsmanship.

The all-groups conference took place at Butlins Holiday Camp, Weston Super Mare. The Rockingham Forest Chapter presented two courageous motions for debate. Motion 369 read 'The Heavens Acolytes Pensioners levy should be dropped due to the lack of reciprocal support'. Motion 370 read 'Physical intimidation during meetings, including plenary sessions, is to be deplored'. Unfortunately the conference ran out of time before either of these motions could be debated.

The Course of Communism

2009-04-04T00:00:00.000+01:00

My Great-uncle Billy went to Spain in 1936 to fight Franco. Many did. Franco led a military coup which overthrew the democratically-elected governmemt of Spain. In the civil war which followed Billy Davies was killed at Brunete in the siege of Madrid. Franco's side won and Spain remained a military dictatorship until Franco's death in 1975.

Billy joined the communist party while he was a coal miner in South Wales. Many did, as the communist party was busy aligning itself with the socalist tendencies of the workers of the time. These workers had concerns about the impermanent nature of their work, which was available for only a few days at a time and at few days notice. They were also concerned with the landlord of the time who had no trouble exploiting their tenants.

Which led me to contemplate the history of the communist party and the nature of Marxism. I'm no expert and make make no claims of rigour in my researches but casual reading of the subject leads me to frame some observations.

It's the nature of the communist party to hijack any theme of protest. Thus the pro-democracy and anti-fascist volunteers who went to Spain to fight Franco found themselves to be aligned with the communist party.

Classical Marxist-Leninist philosophy states that Communism will have been achieved when the State "withers away". We find in the modern Marxist-Leninist state that the central administration does not wither away but instead makes every effort to promote, preserve and strengthen itself starting with the establishment of a singe-party state and a supreme central soviet. Associated with the apparatus of state is a single state-run bank and the total control of the media. Probably the most important one that, control the sources of information and you can control what people think. The USSR fell because its citizens got news that life outside was better than life inside. They wanted Levis and MacDonalds and the chance to earn enough to buy a Porsche. They voted for the first leader that promised them they could have all that.

I understood Karl Marx to be writing only about the transition of the Russian society from feudal agrarian society to an industrial society. The extension of his theory to other countries and other economies may have been in error. He observed in Britain the rise in power of a skilled and literate workforce which did not rely on the ownership of land for its political power.

From this he predicted that the workers would eventually control if not own the means of production. The two problems I have with this is that the ownership of the means of production meant the ownership of capital. In the economics of the time this meant that property would be converted to capital and the workers would somehow come to own and administer it.

In Russia, China and Cuba (Three Marxist-Leninist states of which we are all aware) this came about through bloody revolution. In Britain it came about through property taxes and inheritance taxes which transferred some or even most of the property into the hands of the state. These were socialist policies brought about by the Labour party which claimed to represent the power of the workers and promote a socialist agaenda. The Labour party of today no longer represents the working man nor socialism. They have dropped clause 4 and dropped the political levy. They no longer regard the unions as their owners and instead fawn and grovel to the markets and makers of public opinion.

The mixed economy of Britain, part state-owned and part privately-owned, may be viewed as an economy in transition towards a Marxist state but only if one is determined to justify or substantiate Marxism. In my opinion the British economy is on its way to something else and may well end up as a commercial oligopoly where the ultimate economic control rests with world-spanning multinational corporations who are answerable to their boards and shareholders. This will spell the end of nationalism since the notion of statehood will become increasingly irrelevant. The demise of different political parties with different political agendas is already imminent and obvious. All that seperates the agendas of the three parties is some inconsequential disagreements over the last few percent raised by taxation and similar disagreements about how it should be spent.

Links: A close friend of Billy's was Alun Menai Williams who is mentioned here:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/5179738.stm
and here:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,395365,00.html

In the first of these links there's a picture of Billy standing next to Alun who is sitting with a kitten on his lap. What strkes me first is Alun's filmstar good looks. Then Billy's oversize and crumpled battledress and the rifle he carries. The rifle butt is resting on the ground and the tip of the rifle barrel reaches nearly to Billy's shoulder. Billy is a child of the depression years and the South Wales coalfield. He is small, wears glasses and fired with a determination to fight the forces who are oppresssing the democratic rights of his Spanish brothers.

When we found the Guardian article my father and I looked up Alun Menai Williams phone number in Barry. We spoke. Alun was delighted to hear from relatives of his beloved friend and comrade in arms. He recalled the boyhood friendship and was able to put Dad right on some of the details of his antecedents. One uncle or great uncle had died in a swimming accident. His wife later died of a fever and their daughter had been brought up by another uncle and aunt. Alun's own story is a remarkable tale of everyday heroism, and romance and startling survival. I recommend you to research it yourself.

Light At The End of the Tunnel

2009-03-24T11:44:00.000Z

As you may know I have been unemployed and seeking work for a little over a year. Ideally I'd like a full-time permanent job within easy travelling distance of home and in the industry sector where I've made my living these past thirty years. The local employers aren't interested in me. Travis Perkins in Northampton, along with Barclaycard, the Nationwide and RS Components have all decided they'd be better off without my contribution.

I've widened my scope to look at jobs further afield and at areas of employment outside my aspirations. There is little to be found. What I have found has involved manhandling dishwashers and washing machines in and out of lorries and up and down conveyor belts (Two days). I've counted cars queuing at traffic lights (One day, with the promise of two more to come). I've delivered second hand cars, driving them from an abandoned USAF base to motor dealers (One day) but in fourteen months I've been unable to secure a 'proper' job.

When I signed on to receive Job Seekers allowance I was told I had to produce evidence of my job-seeking efforts. I started saving an the emails which said "Thank for applying..." and produced the list each fortnight when I went to sign on. Not everybody replies to job applications so the number of jobs I have applied for since I started keeping the list is larger than the one thousand entries the list now contains. One thing I have found is that there is definitely an "Age Bar" in effect in the IT industry. I'm over fifty years old and, as far as recruiters are concerned, over the hill. My best years are behind me. My best work has been done and I've nowhere to go except downhill from here. It's a dispiriting prospect and I'm pretty sure it's wrong.

But now the bright side. Yesterday I received an email from a Dutchman called Llewellyn. This is unusual enough to remark upon. Llewellyn is looking for User Acceptance testing resource to work on a system integration and delivery project at ABN Amro Bank in Amsterdam. Happily for both of us I have some relevant expertise to offer since from April to September 2006 I worked at ABN Amro Bank in Amsterdam on some test activities relating to their Basel II Compliance project. Llewellyn called back this morning and we agreed that I would be a good fit for their requirements and maybe I should start making plans to go back to Amsterdam for a three month contract with likely extensions.

So there it is, some light at the end of the tunnel. It's not what I was planning to do, but it's better than sitting at home worrying about my overdraft. I shall try and ignore how I hate EasyJet and the hours wasted hanging about in airports and dining out alone and having to pack up my dirty laundry and haul it home every Friday. But I've done it before, loads of times an I didn't die from it. Well, I was quite ill[1] for a while but I got better.

[1] Look on Wikipedia for "Lacunar Infarct"

How to do Management

2009-03-19T01:14:00.000Z

Have you ever come across a "Mission Statement" lately? Loads of organisations have them. Some because they need to focus on what they have to do but a lot more have them because the last management consultant told them they needed one. It's a bit like the latin motto which used to adorn the cap badge heraldry, "Per Ardua Ad Astra" sot of thing. That particular motto belongs to the Royal Air Force and means "Through Struggles to the Stars" which is more in tune with the sentiments of NASA than the blue-clad mud movers.

I may be marketing a mission statement parsing tool shortly. It asks the question "What? Where? Why? How? Who? and When?" of mission statements. The responses must be framed several different ways because the question may be asked in several different contexts: Conceptual, Contextual, Logical, Physical, Mechanical and Instantial. I.e. the Zachman diagram is used to decompose the mission statement. (I'm a big fan of the Zachman diagram)

The responses occupy thirty-six cells of a matrix with these column and row headings. The number of answers that can be given is a metric of the effectiveness of the mission statement in providing strategic, tactical and operational guidance to the enterprise. The number of blank cells, the number of unanswered questions, prompts the enterprise to ask the questions that need to be asked before the mission can begin, the How, Why and When sort of questions that are essential to planning.

I tried this once with a corporate mission statement that appeared to be well thought-out, expressive and inspirational. The questions raised by my analysis were a little disturbing since implicit in the mission statement is that you have some sort of monitoring process to let you know when the mission is (a) on track and (b) completed. (As the RAF might say, how many stars have we reached? How many more have we left to do?). It turns out that most mission statements have no sort of end-condition that can be defined or reached and are purely aspirational.

"Empowering stakeholders" is a common theme in mission statements these days. I just googled for the expression and scored over a million hits. If you have this in your mission statement how indeed do you know when you have been successful or even if you are on the right track? What metrics can you employ to measure empowerment. The common get-out is to launch a survey asking your stakeholder "Do you strongly agree, agree, disgree or strongly disagree with the statement 'I feel empowered." I am not sure that this sort of metric really measures anything compared to something more solid like the number of complaints received.

I was brought up in the disciplines of engineering. I was taught that you cannot manage or control anything that you cannot first measure. I regard this as an axiom, a self-explanatory and indisputably true statement. The appliance of science to the measurement of management still has a long, long way to go. Sadly when I raise these points, I am accused of 'getting too technical' which tells me my peers and colleagues lack the stomach for a rigorous debate.

The Great Global Warming Debate

2009-03-05T14:29:00.000Z

I am a global warming sceptic. Not because I disagree with whichever climatologist spoke last on the subject, but becuse of the way they spoke. The arguments in this issue seem to come from a non-scientific space, from a space which is occupied by spin doctors, publicity managers and self-promoting snake oils salesmen. Worst of all, it has become a political issue. Not politics in the sense of a reasonable opinion reached by consensus and the debate of well-informed authorities, but politics in the sense of populising, self-promoting, resource hi-jacking cock fighting.

The politicising of the debate has done no end of damage to any chance of progress with the issue. Now it's a dirty, sticky paintbrush which soils whoever picks it up, well-intentioned or not. Politics, as practised around here, is based on certain principles. I describe them below, and invite you to recollect what you have heard of the Grat Global Warming debate bearing this in mind:

(1) Keep it simple, stupid. The message must be reduced to the simplest possible terms. In the minds of the politicians and spin doctors we are too stupid to receive and understand a message containing complexities and ambiguities. The important thing is that we should receive their message. For a complex issue the complications must be removed and ignored. For an ambiguous or uncertain issue, the ambiguities and uncertainties must be removed. In the case of the global warming/anthropogenic/CO2 emissions debate removing the ambiguities, uncertainties and complexities to leave a single politicised message is a bad thing to do. "Reduce your carbon footprint!" remains which is patronising, unhelpful and probably has no effect on the outcome at all.

(2) Demonise someone, anyone. Politics is a blame game and to find someone to blame we have to find someone, some grouping and blame them for our troubles and then make them pay. In the sooty footprint debate we have seen drivers of four-by-fours demonised. At my wife's place of work it was seriously suggested she should pay double for her car parking because she drives a Honda CRV which employs four wheel drive (sometimes). This has nothing to do with the carbon footprint of the vehicle, or its CO2 emissions but everything to do with being in a identifiable group. Also identified for demonisation are drivers of luxury cars as in London's CO2 emissions-based addendum to the congestion charge. This is thinly-diguised politics of envy tactic whose end result is merely to raise revenue for governmental bodies.

(3) You cannot exaggerate enough. Tony Blair was briefed on the "imminent global climate catastrophe" and told the rest of us it should be our single most important issue for the future. That was just before the global financial catastrophe happened which stil might cause an end to all trade, a global cost of living crisis and leave us all without the goods and services we rely on (see how it's done?). In politics the important thing is to keep the message (and the man) in the spotlight all the time. (A secondary purpose is to keep the spotlight away from the places you dont want it to go.) To keep the global warming issue alive, a ludicrous spiral of reportage calls us to look at how many nuclear power stations like Three Mile Island or Chernobyl will have to be built before next Christmas, how many villages will be washed into the sea like Boscastle or New Orleans this Bank Holiday Monday and how many of us will suffocate or drown in our cars if we dare go out tomorrow. If you took all this literally, you'd be forced into believing that the devastation wrought on New Orleans by Katrina resulted from me filling my kettle before boiling it for one cup of tea. The causes of the floods in New Orleans may have more to do with inadequacies in the operation of the flood defences. If this surpirses you, read this paragraph through again.

All of which leaves me more than a little disgusted with the whole business. I think we should be concerned, I think that if there is anything I should be doing then I should be doing it. But my good intentions and good will on the issue are being hijacked by media manipulators, green activists, agitprop merchants, anti-industrialists and self-promoting campaigners for self promotion all with their own agendas and axes to grind. They have over-simplified and demonised and exaggerated and obscured the truth and misled us all.

Bureaucratic Officialdom - Data Protection, HASAW

2009-02-26T19:23:00.001Z

The last agency [1] I worked for refused to supply me with a payslip. They claimed that they were complying with the data protection act in doing so. Apparently I might live at a shared address and someone else might interfere with my mail hence their reluctance to send me information on my pay and deductions. As I know a little about compliance with the Data Protection act I was almost tempted to make a discussion out of this but I was keenly aware that I was talking to the oily rag and not the engineer. Also, I have had some people attempt to give me all kinds of outrageous bollocks under the guise of the data protection act before, including government agencies[2] who really should know better.

I got appointed a Data Protection Liaison Officer once, so I had to study the subject in some depth. The Data Protection Act dosn't mean what most people seem to assume it means. It compels organisations which keep 'personal' data to declare themselves to the registrar. It compels these organisations to reveal details of what information they keep on individuals to those individuals, and that's about it. Of course, by the nature of our bureaucratic officialdom which worms its way into everything we do these simple strictures have been complicated and expanded and elaborated beyond all sense.

The same thing has happened with the Health and Safety at Work act so that risk assessments have to be done for the simplest of day to day activities. These risk assessments then result in roles and responsibilities being defined for these activities, and associated training and certification and statements of compliance so that even sharpening a pencil becomes an activity subject to audit and compliance.

To the normal individual, who does not get involved in the risk assessments, the documentation of procedures, roles and responsibilities, who is not subject to audit and compliance, these strictures form an impenetrable thicket of regulation and red tape. The temptation is to avoid entanglement by skirting around them altogether. Do you want to install an extra electrical socket in your garage? Sure you can do it yourself, it's fairly straightforward. If you lack the knowledge, skills or expertise you can employ a friendly handyman to do the job for you. If you want to get the job done 'properly' you enlist the services of a local electrician who will charge you £250 for the mandatory post-installation survey, test and certification. And why not, because you can add the certificate to your Householder's Information Pack [3] which you will have to provide to the next occupier of the premises anyway. If I am any judge, you'll avoid the expense by doing it on the cheap and pretending it never happened.

[1] Pertemps, Northampton.
[2] Criminal Record Bureau, who wouldn't even tell me if they'd received some paperwork from me because of "Data Protection".
[3] As the passage of time washes away all that we were and all that we remember so will the memory of the "Home Information Pack" be lost. This was a scheme requiring householders to supply an information pack to potential buyers of the property. To be compliant with the standard for detail and presentation this provision would have placed a cost upon the householder. Already beleaguered by legal costs, advertising expenses, agency fees amongst others, this proposal did not sit well with the householder. Happily, for some (for it is an ill wind that blows no good) this proposal went the way of the government that had proposed it and was dropped like a hot potato by the succeeding administration.

Headline: "Young Britons 'shy from science'"

2008-11-16T14:05:00.001Z

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.

Discovery of a new planet

2008-11-15T12:40:00.000Z

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.

BMF Tail End Event, 2001

2008-11-05T11:19:00.000Z

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

Gilfach Goch to Ealing Broadway

2008-11-03T16:04:00.000Z

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?

Did anything other than a Shackleton have JATO ?

2008-11-03T15:58:00.001Z

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.

I say, old man, did you know Pongo?

2008-11-03T15:44:00.000Z

>
>> 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! >> moustache and looks whistful>
>
> 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.
>

Myst III Exile

2008-11-02T22:15:00.000Z

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.

The Grand Old Duke of York.

2008-11-02T17:13:00.000Z

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!

Motorcycling in World War II (Part One)

2008-11-02T13:57:00.000Z

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.

Road Signs: Just how stupid do you have to be?

2008-11-02T13:49:00.000Z

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.

Christmas Dinner at the Rothwell Charter, December 1996

2008-11-02T13:25:00.001Z

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.

Newsletter: Rockingham Forest IAM Motorcycle Maintenance Evening

2008-11-02T13:22:00.000Z

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

Newsletter: Rockingham Forest IAM Group February Ride-Out

2008-11-02T13:20:00.000Z

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.

One Man and His Bike (Part Two)

2008-11-02T13:12:00.000Z

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

One Man & His Bike

2008-11-02T13:06:00.000Z

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!

My New Jacket. On the perversity of life's little accidents with a digression into theology and the origin of superstitious belief

2008-11-02T13:04:00.000Z

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.