At LAST!!! Normal service is resumed

Today, the massed bands of BT Telecoms engineers connected a telephone line to my small chateau, supplied me a very trendy wireless router, and eh voila! I am back on-line; I feel in communicado with a wider world again! The last eight weeks have been...err.....strange. All this unwarranted stress in my life is because of a decision to give up Lecturing in a West Yorks city and to sell my small cottage in Skipton which required some work. As a complete change of lifestyle, I have acquired a small cottage in Norfolk that requires some work and taken up Lecturing in London. As my good friend StupidBoy said, "Err.....what's the difference?" Yes, well, plus ca change, plus c'est la meme-chose.

Changing jobs is not a big deal for me - done it loads! - but moving is a horrible experience, mainly because of the vast amount of paperwork it generates and the resultant cost. God, don't the solicitors rub their hands.....and the biggest con-trick in the whole wide world is the HIP thingy: viz the Home Disinformation Crap. Why do we voters and homeowners accept this garbage? It neither saves money nor speeds up the transaction - but does make a load of dosh for spurious consultants and agents. Let me elucidate:

Firstly, 38 pages of stuff arrives from the Vendor's agent - the HIP. Some of it is quite useful but 5 pages are committed to an Energy Performance Certificate which is, quite frankly, utter tosh. Amongst the error-strewn list of features are the statements that my 'new' house has a suspended floor (it's solid), cavity walls (they are solid too) and partial double glazing (it's wholly double glazed). It tells me that there is an energy cost saving of £21 per annum if I cavity insulate. Oh really? And given that there are no cavities, how will I do that? And if I cover 25% of my roof area with solar photovoltaic panels, I'll save £31 per annum. Of course, that will cost a capital sum of c. £6000, so is a REALLY good deal. Not. And does anybody REALLY get influenced by the stunning fact that their 135 yr-old cottage is 'only' energy band E?

After receiving all this stuff from the Agent, I get another copy from the Solicitor. And then two weeks later, he sends me a copy of the TA11 and TA6 documents he has sent to the vendor....and which pose, in the main, the same questions as are already answered in the HIP. "Ah, Mr F-A. One can't trust the HIP as it was written some four months ago." On balance, I really don't care what the vendor's heating bill was - it won't be the same as mine!

If this was only being visited on the vendor, it would be OK....but I too am a vendor, as I complete the sale of my other home. It drives me mad.

So, about £1200 poorer and now being the proud owner of a new Norfolk cottage, I also have approximately two reams of carefully printed bumff; which will heat the place nicely for a month and make up for it only being Band E.

Nearly back.....

Thank you so much, ALL of you, for your kind messages.

So: I have started work in London, met the students, delivered the lectures, moved house, been to The Boy's wedding in the USA, fended off sundry creditors and one ex-wife attached to the man who lived in the cottage previously, changed the locks, settled the bills, opened up the new services, had the water meter fitted, met the locals down the pub.....and now only BT are holding me back. Just another two and a half weeks to go and they promise me a telephone service and some broadband.

Well, perhaps telephone services are new-fangled things in Norfolk.

Return of Blogging Services shortly!!!

To my Faithful Reader............

I am in Limbo-land.

More accurately, after six months spent living in someone else's home - grace and favour, so to say - I am at last about to land up in my own. This will represent my second attempt to become domiciled, as my original purchase went unlived in before I sold it!

Simultaneously with moving - to deepest Norfolk since you ask - I have started work again; a Return to Academe which, given my previous Blog's title ('Fleeing from Academe'), is downright hypocritical of me. And I have all the worry of The Boy's impending nuptials to deal with. Well, less his nuptial's per se, more 'how will I cope with being a proud Father without blubbing everywhere.' His in-laws are Sicilians; doubtless they will understand.

So there you have it: I'm a Homeless Hypocrite! Normal Blogging will return in about a month when all this upheaval has been coped with.

Or not!

Symbols of Bravery

The principal feature of The Fens, wherein I presently reside, is flatness. No hills, no inclines, and the highest point is the banking on the side of the Great Ouse Relief Channel (or whatever it’s called) standing nearly two metres above ground level, and three metres below sea level. Big skies therefore, long horizons......all a boon to airplane lovers!

A Country Fair at Wimblington offered an opportunity to see the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight as I have never before seen it: very close, very low. And sure enough, at 10.30 ack-emma on the nose, they swept across the field where I stood, straight at me, at what seemed to be tree-top height.

Everybody stopped what they were doing and stared at the skies, taking in the superb control and close stationing of these three magnificent airplanes, and the fabulous sound of six Merlins running in fine pitch. Then, joy of joys, the Flight began a long slow turn to Port and repeated the run. Suddenly, the lines of car-boot traders, the tents with their ghastly skull-and-crossbones, all seemed somewhat tawdry; above us was genuine history and heritage.

Although the Hurricane and the Spitfire are the ‘Glory Boys’ of the Battle of Britain (remember: it’s Battle of Britain Day on 15 September), the Lancaster is, for me, the Star. And what a fantastic workhorse it was, borne of a line that started with the Manchester in the late 30’s, and continued through the York freighter and the Shackleton maritime surveillance airplane, the latter still in service in 1990.

I have seen the Flight on several occasions - it never fails to engage me, and rarely do I not pause to think of the bravery of the Bomber Command crews - flight and ground. How appalling that their courage and determination was never recognised with a Campaign or Service medal, nor is there yet a National Memorial to them. All this because Political Correctness damns their Commanding Officer - ‘Bomber’ Harris - a ‘murderer.’

On that basis, so was Kitchener, so was Haigh, so was Churchill, so was Roosevelt - and a whole host of others. That doesn’t detract from the behaviour and courage of the crews, and never will. And everybody will continue to know it for as long as that magnificent aeroplane can still rumble across clear skies. Hopefully for decades to come.

And They Say We've Progressed?

For various reasons, I’ve been along the A17 quite a few times recently, regularly passing by RAF Cranwell - a place steeped in history. More or less opposite is another little bit of history, a Bubble Car Museum, and I made time last weekend to call in. For £2.50 (no discount for an old geezer like me.....tch, tch, that's not why I fought in The War) it was an amiable way to spend an hour.

It’s less a ‘Bubble Car’ museum’ and more ‘A Slice of the 60s’ museum really, with a well laid out selection of artefacts and ephemera from that era, but it does centre on that strange time when Europe in particular was obsessed with cheap, light cars. So there was a selection of Bond minicars, a Reliant or two, a couple of Berkeleys, as well as Isetta-BMW, Trojan, and Messerchmidt - perhaps twenty cars in all and even several scooters. In approved museum style, various tableaux were set out: a garage scene (with a notably shifty-looking mechanic), a salesroom scene, even a camping scene in which Babs Windsor and Kenneth Williams seemed likely to appear any moment! All this was a reminder that a lot people packed these tiny cars with vast amounts of baggage and set off - bravely - on long journies.

And those ‘primitive’ little machines were very versatile and rather well designed really, with little wasted space and a concentration on function, and a lot were sold throughout Europe. Berkeley three-wheelers, with their Excelsior Talisman twin engine, had a fair turn of speed, albeit it took some time to get there! And the 'bubble car' proper, like Heinkels and BMWs, would do an easy 75mpg - as well as taking up precious little space in town. I suppose their successors are things like the Ligier and Axiam but today, as the eco-barbarians meld with a ghastly set of pseudo politico-health-and-safety-legislators to insist that we save the planet by adopting smaller, more ‘efficient’ cars, we have nothing, NOTHING, that approaches the Bubble for economy of scale and use of materials.

A modern 'SmartforTwo' weighs over a tonne for chrissakes! Given a choice, I'd have a Heinkel or a BMW any day - and punters seem to think so too: look at e-Bay and compare Bubble prices with Smart cars. No contest!!

Who Needs the Ashes?

There are a few things I miss about Skipton, one of them being the company of my long-time fellow Pie Eater and Grumpy Old Man, Neil. A couple of weeks ago he kindly invited me back up North, and it was like old times: having a beer or two and setting the world to rights. And where better to do it than sat watching one of the few things that Gordon Brown hasn’t taxed, nationalised or brought under the jackboot heel of Health and Safety: a cricket match.

We went to the lovely little ground at Ingrow, high above Keighley; a proper village ground with a splendid view as far as the Yorkshire mountain of Ingleborough to the North, and Halifax to the South. Not that we bothered looking South. I mean, why would you?

Neil has emotional and playing links with Ingrow, and on this day they were engaged in a titanic struggle against Chatburn. The match was finely balanced as we arrived, with Chatburn batting and digging in to amass a massive total....well, scoring at two an over.

Soon, with Chatburn being 5 down, a major Batting Conference took place and a BIG decision taken: time to score some runs.

Some serious stroke play commenced, and soon the score was rocketing up to more than 65, with elegant and lusty hitting of the ball to all four corners of the ground...if, that is, an oval pitch has corners. Anyway, several balls went into the nettles at the edges and one ball disappeared into something brown and worse, and was replaced.

This brought the Ingrow lads into their own huddle, and a change of bowling took place - a fresh arm to bowl medium pace from the famous Cullingworth Road end. (That's journalese - it wasn't just an arm: it had a body and legs attached)

Now with extra support, Ingrow’s lead bowler - Neil’s nephew Graham - gained several mph and a bit more fizz. Obviously the barman should have used the sparkler sooner, because….

...soon, the ball was regularly beating bat.........

....and the strokes became less elegant.....

...the misses more frequent as the ball 'did a bit'.........

....the desperation of trying to put runs on the board more obvious......

...and the last batsmen were quickly skittled out, leaving Graham with figures of 6 for 42 and Ingrow needing 84 to win.

Alas, Ingrow’s response was positively pedestrian, and the huge crowd of 12, being mainly Neil’s brother and his family, became somewhat restive and commenced their own game of cricket on the boundary. I put away my camera and snoozed gently in the sun, my dreams only being interrupted when the Ingrow batsmen complained to the Umpire about the noise of a giant V1 flying nearby, requiring Neil to deliver several blows to my ribs to wake me and bring an end my snoring.

At 70 for 6, and with three overs left, Neil’s nephew came on to bat. His first stroke, made as I started the process of rubbing my eyes and reaching for my camera bag, was a sighter. As I opened the bag, he made his second: a four. As I screwed on the monopod, he executed his third: another four. As I switched on the camera, he smashed a six into the long grass, swivelled round, muttered something to the umpire about not wanting his beer to get warm, and strode off - the match won before I could record the winning stroke.

Thanks for a marvellous day out lads, but jeez, it’s hard being a sports reporter in Keighley!

Bank Holiday Bikes

On Bank Holiday Monday, all roads in the Fens lead to Wimbotsham - well, they do if you are a motorcyclist - and the Fenman Classic Bike Show. And what a great show it is! Wimbotsham itself is a small village outside Downham Market and, on a normal day, it might have 250 or so inhabitants.

On Bike Show day, that swells to some thousands, many families arriving by car to fill out a sizeable field, and many more appearing on all variety of ‘bike to line every road, driveway and spare corner of the village. Aside from the fun of gawping at these, there were two main display areas to prowl: the School playgrounds, where a couple of hundred immaculate display machines were neatly laid out by age and origin - ie pre-war or post-war, imported or British - and the Wimbotsham community playing fields where various trade and club stands were sited. One could purchase anything here from an Amal carb choke lever for a 1961 BSA Starfire to a rusty oil tank from a pre-war Ariel. In fact, there was a glut of those, but it was all delightfully commercial in the most enthusiastic way.

It was quite difficult to know what to photograph - or, more accurately, what NOT to photograph - but my eye was almost immediately caught by this superb road-going Domiracer which any self-respecting rocker would give his right leg for. And, probably quite a few did. It was on the Norfolk Norton Club stand, along with some other tasty iron that included a rare Electra.

But really, wherever one looked there were great bikes: BSA Goldies and Rocket Goldies, a whole army of Bonnevilles and Tiger 110s, Ariels, Ajays, a row of Douglas Dragonflies....and that was before the specials: Tribsas, Norbsas, Tritons, even a Norley Davidson! But when you see two straight pipes down one side of a Featherbed frame, then it has to be a Norvin, and this was a beauty.

It wasn’t all Cafe Racers and road burners: the Greeves Riders Club had a terrific display of immaculate Thundersley machines, including the unique Brian Stonebridge Greeves NSU.

And still on off-roaders, this lovely little Cotton scrambler caught my eye, looking as it did, as if it had just come off the production line.

It was also great to see a Silk - a pretty rare beast, with its Spondon frame and Scott 600cc two-stroke twin engine. I went to see Silk in my Champion days, finding them in a less-than salubrious mill estate in deepest Derbyshire. Despite the surroundings, it was a nicely put-together bike, with the classic, proper yowl of a Scott.

But my personal Star of the Show was this amazing bobber based on a Cleckheaton Clumper - the Panther sloper. I loved it! The workmanship was superb and the design of its minimalistic frame/tank/seat really set off that big 600cc one-lunger motor. How I would loved to have ridden it.....now, who would like to swap an over-rated Elefant for an under-rated big Panther? Anyone?