Who said in a Country Existence Nothing Ever Happens?

    On the wall of my 'bar' (granddad's restroom, an old man's folly, the old man's retreat) call it what you will, there is a brass plate. It reads 'In 1765, on this spot, nothing happened'. Meant as a joke, at times it makes me wonder. As most of my readers know, I live, not for the first time in Derby, England, population around 250,000. I was born in the area, went to school roughly in the  area and likewise worked at various set ups over a number of years. An unimportant, anonymous sort of existence surrounded by many of similar 'working class ilk'. Surrounded by people, knee deep in people; except for one spell of four years.

    We, my wife and I lived for four years in Lincolnshire, in one of only four houses next to a farm and house. The house stood empty, we spotted it driving around prior to attending college. (The farm employed sixteen men before the war, now three only.)  No street lights and one bus a week.(Saturdays.) No gas main and no mains water (We did in fact have water from a tap but it failed miserably whenever a nearby golf course was watered.) Heat was from brick interior storage heaters (needed at least twelve hour notification of change in weather) plus paraffin delivered for paraffin heaters and coal fires if you could afford the coal. ( A Swedish girl stayed one weekend. I noticed she never took her coat off!)

  Television a godsend, no ariel needed, TV wired into metal window frame. Rats in the outhouse, mice heard chomping sweets indoors. Resulting in acquisition of cat, resulting in kittens. Dogs appeared spasmodically belonging to Irish itinerants. Collected when they moved on. True Romany gypsies plus horse drawn home stayed a distant apart from their travelling Irish compatriots. A generally unusual existence, but surely uneventful and thus boring? Nope!

    We had usually six neighbours, never more than eight. You fell out with anyone at your peril. One weekend Paulette arranged to go shopping in a nearby town with Bob and Alice. (Not their real names for reasons that will become clear.) Only at the last minute Paulette wasn't able to go; so the     foray went ahead, minus Paulette but plus Eric, recently returned from a spell incarcerated at Her Majesties Pleasure in a not too distant borstal. Quite influential was son Eric, so much so than a shopping trip became a distinctly organised shoplifting trip. A not very successful shoplifting trip, and all were 'nabbed' so to speak. Friend Alice was bailed fairly quickly, the menfolk were not so lucky. I seem to remember collecting Bob from prison at the end of a not too long prison sentence at a

non too distant prison. Ex- Sunday school teacher Paulette finding the whole episode distinctly mesmerising!

    Hare coursers on a Sunday Morning were another spectacle not available in our previous 'life', the participants (invariably travellers) intensely feared and hated in equal measure by most country folk.

    The blood thirsty antics of the shotgun brigade shooting pheasant, again on a Sunday morn. Birds so stupid, locally reared, that cleared the guns and landed not too far away, to await another salvo another day. The whole affair  reminiscent of the Alamo.

    One Christmas we were burgled whist we were away. As was our neighbour, 'Pop' an elderly farm labourer and Bob and Alice. Pop's mattress was destroyed in an apparent search for cash. Bob and
Alice's gas meter was raided but the 'burglar' was apparently a kind soul. He  fed coins through the meter so that Bob and Alice would have a fuel supply in what was after all the festive season! We seemed to have lost nothing in the raid; I was after all a very poor student at the time!

    On Boxing Day a visitor with two suitcases knocked at the farm requesting the use of a telephone to phone for a taxi. The kind farmhand, realising the difficulty the visitor was in, ran him to the station in the town. The burglaries had not been discovered at this stage! It turns out the 'burglar' had in fact been staying with Bob and Alice, having nowhere else to go. Country folk may not always be the brightest, but kindness is seldom lacking.

     One final bizarre memory stays in the mind from our stay in the country. One quiet, unexceptional  

weekend, (weren't they all) friend Alice knocked on our door to show us a perplexing letter she had received that Saturday morning. From a friend of some years standing, it stated that, by the time Alice would receive this letter, the writer would be deceased. Alice showed us the letter; it shared the dilemma without suggesting a response. In a way 'what to do' was there in front of us; we did nothing. The body of the young man, who incidentally was addicted to a type of cough mixture available at the time was found in the week ahead. Did Alice, Paulette and I do wrong by doing nothing; I've often wondered.

    We carry fond memories of our stay in the countryside. Both our children were born in this period of our lives. A special time in many ways; forever remembered.

Is it me or is the Whole World Going Mad?

    Do you ever see the news on television, or read the papers and conclude that the whole world's going mad; or is it just me. And you're not supposed to say 'mad' any more, it's not politically correct. Can we say barmy instead, you tell me. It all reminds me of my old favourite,  Arthur English. 'Stop the world' he used to say, 'Open the cage.' Well something like that! I know exactly what he meant.

    Here in dear old Derby they had a Punch and Judy show in a big shopping complex. Great, Punch and Judy has been going for three hundred and fifty years. And a good time was had by all. Except that a lady representing  some society or other complained bitterly about the violence; particularly the domestic violence. Granted Punch was evil personified. He threw the baby around and abused his wife. But surely Punch and Judy shows don't glorify domestic violence; and he was after all arrested by the policeman.

    An audience, including children KNOW Punch is Evil. I would doubt children would be influenced negatively by this type of theatre. I'm not going to labour the point, but there were many letters in the local paper, The Derby Telegraph; very few supported the opinion that Punch and Judy shows should be banned. What do you think?

    Derby has been hit by the recession, times have been hard for many and financial cuts seem never ending. The local council is aware of how bad things are, so they tell us. They have decided to find out what the good people of Derby REALLY need. (Are there elections coming up I wonder.) So in their wisdom they have brought in consultants to find out what we REALLY need or want. And the cost, good people of Derby? £400,000! £400,000 that could have been spent on OAP clubs or homes;  on the young, on our decrepit roads or cutting the long grass at the side of our roads. We don't need highly paid consultants to search out what we REALLY need. Less spending on banal surveys for starters would help.

    Yet our problems are tiny when compared globally. The whole world seems to be at war. Syria, Iran, the Ukraine see violence daily; war brings horrors that are almost beyond belief. Starvation, the loss of home, mass killing, all are present, often in the name of religion. Yet I doubt that we think of the world beyond our little existences for long. Most of us are selfish by nature, mores the pity. So we live almost in a bubble, not necessarily all of our making. And its the little things in OUR lives that mainly catch the eye. Little things that reinforce the idea that the world's going mad. For instance I watch QVC on occasion. What a sad person I have become! On QVC they have make things out of cards. Mindbendingly dull but whatever turns you on and all that. And do you know they were making this week? Christmas cards, for goodness sake! and they've been doing them since June!

    All these 'happenings' in the world were starting to get me down and I didn't know what to do about them. Then I went with Paulette to shop at Lidyl, parked up and realised the answer was staring me in the face. The Lidl where we shop is situated in Normanton, reputedly the roughest part of Derby but we love it. I sit in the car whist Paulette shops, not through idleness, honest, but my mobility is not good. 

    I  tend to 'people watch', always entertaining, often educational. Ten paces from my car stood a young man, around thirty years of age; unexceptional, someone who you would not normally give a second glance. He appeared deep in thought; certainly in a world of his own, oblivious of others. He proceeded to extract a 'spliff' from his pocket, studied it, put it in his mouth and lit it. For the next five minutes he smoked contentedly if somewhat vacantly; he was oblivious to passers by, of my gaze, of the world beyond the pavement on which he stood. He produced a second 'spliff' from his pocket, lighting it with the tiny but still lit end of his first, very thin 'spliff'. Finally finishing his second 'smoke' he smiled to himself and he was gone, perhaps never to be seen again.

    Whist finishing off this post my juke box played loudly in the background. The unforgettable Harry Lauder i think accompanied my efforts. And the words of his immortal song rang out loud and clear; 'Keep Right On to the end of the Road'. Now there's a thought!

            .

That's Life plus a Modern Miracle.

    Since my last post the world news has been dominated by conflict.With it has come inevitable destruction, horror, fear, terror Mankind has a great capacity to inflict pain and suffering. I am not clever enough to understand the reasons why. But I weep for those involved. All too often it is the innocent who suffer most.

A plane is shot down on the Russian border with Ukraine. Many die, none connected with the those responsible for the carnage caused. It is probable that the plane downed was not an intended target. No matter, missiles kill; boundaries, territory, possessions, how unimportant compared to the lives of innocents.

War continues to rage between Israel and Hamas in Gaza. Who is in the right, in a way, again no matter. Those suffering most are so often women and children. No amount of protestations by either side can justify the sheer terror and desolation brought about by bullets and bombs; often in the name of religion.    

    Meanwhile life for others goes on. None of us chose to be born. Our little lives are lived out and then we die. So, as Mr Pepys did all those years ago, I put 'pen to paper', though not literally and record what has happened in Grumpys little life since my last blog post. ( have never been sure why I blog. They are a source of reflection as time passes. Plus at the back of my mind I like the idea that someone will keep these blogs; what did someone say, 'Chance is a fine thing'!)

   We are wandering through life at the moment minus a kitchen. Of mind bending importance to no-one but ourselves, Paulette and I. When it annoys us as it frequently does I think of the many people in  the world who have no roof over their heads, never mind the luxury of a kitchen.

    Our children and the well being of their families are important to us both. Daughter Sarah's dog ate the sofa very recently. Well not the complete sofa, but large enough chunks of it. A night in the vets, again, worry for all and hands in pocket time. This dog is literally mad, sadly and is incapable of learning from experience. Two days later it ate a soft toy on a key ring. Stolen from a work top, I might add; dogs, like many humans, never learn.   

    The love of daughter Alison's life is PCV 830Y, a battered but much loved Volkswagen  motorhome, circa 1982. Not the most reliable vehicle on the road but it tries. At least it tries our patience! Recently, very recently it occupied space, once again in a local garage. A probable cause of at least part of the problem was located. A nest of field mice had been living in the air filter; I kid you not! The nest was intact, the occupants had eaten some of the paper air filter but no sign of the mice themselves. They could in theory have been sucked through the carburettor but unlikely. How long had they been there no one knows. (Alison has had trouble with mice inside the motorhome for some time.) This may or may not have been the problem prior to this garage visit; the van is old and not new to garage visits. Only this time they couldn't fix it. Three days and much trying later it was low loaded back to its home here in Sunnyhill, Derby; at the moment a very sunny Sunnyhill.

    Now daughter Alison is a very popular young lady not least on account of her 'sunny' nature. ( goes with the territory methinks). Plus she knows an extraordinary number of people. (That is not to say daughter Sarah was ever without admirers. I can remember one such admirer fixing her car at the crack of dawn on the road in front of my house but that's another story. I was still in bed by the way!)

    Alison received several offers of help. James spent time at Alison's but the problem was beyond his comprehension and he is an expert. PCV 830Y was low loaded, again, to the garage premises of an 'old gentleman' the other side of town. (I wonder how old the gentleman is. I am seventy five next birthday, is he older than me I wonder. ) After many hours of examination with the aid of other 'experts' defeat was acknowledged. (Alison was due to go on a pre-booked short holiday this weekend but she was told 'no chance', somewhat inevitable I thought. Devastated by it all, not unconnected with the price of a reconditioned engine, she went out and bought a tent.

       Paulette's mother Francoise, referred to as Nana by Alison, Sarah and great grandchildren died in 2011 (see blog dated    ). Much loved by all her family, her presence is still felt at times by many, particularly so where Alison and her family are concerned. They 'talk' to her on occasion, very relevant, for Alison admits that the dilemma concerning PCV 830Y was the subject of 'discussion' with Francoise.  Now Francoise was everything to us in life, but never a mechanic!

    The old gentleman with the garage phoned to request the removal of PCV 830Y. Only to ring very soon afterwards. He was in a state of great excitement, ecstatic even. He had been disconsolate in the extreme that the problem had defeated him. Having had one last go prior to the vehicles removal he had turned over the engine and been amazed to hear the engine fire. A new battery was procured (this it was suggested was part, but only part of the problem), Alison was united with her pride and joy.         Gingerly driven home, loaded with the paraphernalia associated with the joys of camping with three children, new tent and a dog Alison left Saturday morning for a weeks 'camping' at or near Market Bosworth. (A place very important to the history of this country.)

    As I speak PCV 830Y is still running, albeit a somewhat stuttering, unconvincing 'running'. The grandchildren are enjoying it, plus Ted has had one near miss in the lake. I await their return with interest and not a little bated breath.

(We have had problems with Blogger for some time. I would expect to lose readers over time but hopefully not nearly all! We (my wife and I) have had to change email address etc. We are not sure we've done everything right. Would one or two kind souls 'visit' and to see that we have no further problems. One or two comments would also reassure us that we've done everything right as Blogger has requested/demanded.  Thanks!)

The Question of Image, Still on my Mind.

IMAGE
The opinion or concept of something that is held by the public.
To be an example or epitome of.
Typify.

     It's only gradually dawned on me that we cultivate an IMAGE, deliberately or otherwise. We 'see' ourselves in a certain way whether we like it or not. Whether this is the same 'image' others see is interesting in itself. What was it Robert Burns said.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us.

'Two 'instances' have recently brought these thoughts to the fore.

    As recorded in my post July 19th my wife and I (sounds very regal) recently bought a new car. Now what are old couples supposed to drive. Years ago proof of arrival would have been owning a Rover. Nowadays geriatrics who have arrived probably own a Volvo or a Lexus; staid, safe, uninspiring, you get the picture. (Expect howls of protest from owners of either, Grumpy!) Part of this train of thought has come about by the young Seat salesman asking us to put in order our rating of six considerations: Performance, Safety, Reliability, Image, Comfort, Economy; we chose IMAGE!

Plus geriatrics are not supposed to be into: bucket seats, tinted windows, spoiler, stripes, sports gearing and suspension; turbo chargers and superchargers. So what did we specify our purchase must have? You've got it: bucket seats, tinted windows, spoiler, stripes, sports gearing and suspension; turbo charger and supercharger.

    Now what does this tell you?  Grumpy is not very keen to accept the limitations of growing old He certainly has no desire to grow old gracefully. He's not too keen on conformity (He never was) and he'll go out of his way to 'buck the system' so to speak. In general, he loves to be different, he has a 'tongue in cheek' somewhat irreverent  view of life and it shows! All very harmless, bordering on daft for daft's sake. In a way it's playing at or up to an IMAGE. Except that this image thing, however subtle, however unconscious is more important than you think.

    I went to a wedding recently. The groom is a military man, a serving soldier; also present were several of his military colleagues. It would be unprofessional to identify them further. They were uniformed, superbly turned out, immaculate men, young yet hardened, seasoned campaigners, men who would be proud to defend you in times of strife. They were lively, noisy at times but no matter, they epitomised the joy of living particularly associated with youth.  And then it all went a little 'haywire' to say the least. The soldiers and friends became involved in a 'drinking contest' that went too far, too long. The competitive drinking of 'shots' (Someone please explain to one old man, what exactly do 'shots' consist of) resulted in one ill, and I mean very ill groom; dangerous in the extreme. Yet no-one in the group itself saw the dangers and attempted to curtail the contest. As a geriatric observer I reckon I know why.

   Its an IMAGE thing. All involved saw themselves as 'macho', individuals, male of course, answerable to no-one. Part and parcel of an elite group within society, invincible and so on.  (the regiment's motto suggesting invincibility was uttered whenever a participant struggled to complete the 'downing' of yet another 'shot'.) All totally insane yet understandable to this old bystander.  In other words, the participants of such a sad pastime were merely conforming to the IMAGE they believed was expected of them.

    I am lucky enough to have followers from all over the world. And I bet you they all are have image 'problems' to a greater or lesser degree. A member of the WI or Mothers Union? Do you see yourself as an upstanding member of your community; useful, hardworking, caring and compassionate? Or maybe you are a councillor, or even a county councillor. Someone everyone looks up to, someone who is important and has definitely 'arrived'. You might be a member of the professions,  in which case you probably don't even have to try, you already are sure of your personal superiority. Pity the poor devil who digs holes in the road for a living. He's probably one of the best blokes in the world and nobody notices.

    People are strange in the extreme and not always funny ha ha with it. I have a cousin who I seldom see. For years whenever I met him, usually at family functions, his first question to me was 'How much do you earn.' How strange is that! I  knew of a young man from a poor part of Derby who moved to a nicer area a few miles out of town. One of his first actions on moving was to step outside his new house and offer to fight anyone in his new neighbourhood. I have a friend from the 'south' who, of an evening,  changes clothes before sitting down for an evening meal. (I realise that commenting on such things makes 'us up north' seem working class in the extreme but I suspect remnants of the class system and all that means are still firmly with us.) 

    We all adhere to an IMAGE whether we like it or not. So how do you see yourself? And do you like what you see? But more important, how do others see you? 

Life.

    One, I always sign my e-mails as 'life', its easy and after all, 'That's what it's all about, Alfie'.' Two, I usually post roughly once a week and seldom know in advance what to write about. I have seen many fall by the wayside; to blog continuously over say, five years takes a lot of time and effort. So today's effort, for better or worse.

    My life is sometimes dull in the extreme. Up to yesterday nothing. The only thing that caught my eye were the ten most used words top of the English Speaking Media Internet, whatever that means. And the fact that five out of the ten I did not recognise.

            Kummerspect         Haboob        3Q       Trustafarians      The Other (99)

How very strange, what's that all about?

    Then I noticed perhaps my life is not as bad as I thought. I went to see 'A Murder is Announced (Agatha Christie) at the local theatre (I do reviews in exchange for free tickets for a local free paper) Very, long winded it was and dated (3 hours) but shouldn't moan, as they say, beggers can't be choosers. (The leading man, Dean Gaffney crashed his car on his way home, not wearing his seatbelt, naughty boy.)

    Saw a preview of Cloud Atlas another night, courtesy of The Times newspaper vouchers. ( Us old uns aren't totally daft you know.) Very clever, very long, another three hour session. At both sessions I had lost the plot, literally after no more than fifteen minutes. Quite worrying, is it me; on second thoughts, don't tell me! Also went to see Derby County perform, they won 3-0 so not a bad week, all in all. 

    Two more events caught the eye. Better they had not happened. Shocking, tragic, horrific but for once I choose not to ignore. A middle aged man was to stand trial accused of sexual offences against a horse (pony). He was this week found dead at home. By chance I know much detail concerning this particular case; I wish I didn't. In a way this man's life was all over the moment he was caught and sent for trial. I am not going to dwell on the case. Suffice to say this man had to be very, very disturbed. I expressed compassion for this man and his plight; note, compassion not sympathy. I found no-one who agreed with me. And I do not even claim to be a Christian. Is there no-one out there who felt for this man. Oh, and please spare me the Biblical quotations.

    You will here much concerning Derby in the next weeks. Mick Philpott and his wife are in court accused of the manslaughter of their six children. He lived in a semi detached house; with his wife; with his children; plus his mistress, her childen by him and one other. All six children perished in a fire allegedly started by Michael Philpott his wife and one other. Again the bare bones of the case. On occasions like this Derby is indeed a small town and everyone allegedly knows everything; sometimes it is very close to home in more ways than one.

Sometimes nothing seems to happen in our little lives and we almost crave excitement. Beware, life can deliver in ways we did not visualise. 21st century Derby, I wonder what my grandchildren will think when they too are old and grey.

Thoughts of a Nobody from Nowhere Important.

    I'm never sure whether the next post will come easily. Do you have the same problem? My life smacks of a somewhat repetitive humdrum existence (my choice in the main) so finding something of interest is often difficult. Today's 'action' on which to 'pontificate' thus was gratefully received.

    I happened to see the BBC's Star Gazing Live 'starring' Professor Brian Cox. (It coincided with Derby University unveiling a copy of Sir William Herschel's (1738-1822, the discoverer of Uranus and its moons.) telescope that has been proudly built on the university campus.) Wonderful except that fog prevented any view of a single star! We might be clever, but control of the weather has a long way to go.The models of the universe were brilliantly done, I learnt things (you must never stop learning) that made me view things in a different light.

    I looked up some facts and figures. Mostly beyond this geriatric's comprehension; the following has stayed with me.

    Out there is our universe. There are billions, not millions of stars in the Milky Way of which we are apparently a part. There are close to a trillion galaxies and that's just in the Observable Universe. The universe is around 13.75 billion years old; I'm 73 years old by the way, years that is! The edge of the Observable Universe is about 46-47 billion light years away. (Some parts of the universe are probably, since the Big Bang, too far away for the light emitted to have arrived yet.) From earth to the edge of our known Observable Universe is 46 billion light years in any direction. (Religious people, did God create all of the aforementioned, or just earth, the place on which we reside?) One other statistic stays in my mind. Evidently an Apophis Asteroid is going to collide with earth in 2036. Not 2022, 2032, 2042 but 2036.I find such knowledge mind bendingly difficult to take in. As I say so many times, 'What's it all about, Alfie!'

    My family and I (how very Royal) travelled to St Anne's for the weekend. A distance of around 115 miles each way. We visited Fleetwood, Blackpool and Lytham; all very enjoyable, quite an adventure. It made me aware what a confined, cocooned existence we live nowadays, my wife and I.

I live in a bungalow on the outskirts of the town of Derby. In a normal month I will shop, visit doctors and dentists, the theatre, the library, the pub and friends etc within a five mile radious. Some days I will write, eat and sleep solely within the confines of my home and garden; all within around thirty paces.  I have one daughter and family who lives in the same street; their house is around one hundred yards away, (Note, no metres allowed in my life!) Within the year I will visit places of interest but it is unlikely any place will be over two hundred miles from home. No criticism of any of you leading exciting lives or visiting exotic places. My life might, to some, be somewhat pointless, but is, after all, my life. I hope you are as happy and at peace with the world as myself.

      Life is for enjoying, not to be taken too seriously;  if we can raise a smile and help each other, how ever parochial as we pass through, that is indeed a bonus. My/our purchases from our recent excursions might give food for thought.  The photograph was taken in Blackpool's Madame Tussauds. I know, I know Christmas has come and gone but we couldn't resist the reindeer. One final thought. As I moved 'Santa' from the shop, the two of us seemed to cause both consternation and hilarity as I carried him to my vehicle. Come to think of it, my appearance seemed to attract comment as I wandered around the north west! But never mind, if insignificant me can bring a little cheer, why not indeed!

s   

Nowt so strange as Folk.

    Readers of long standing know of my fascination with the human condition. So around a dozen instances from the press in recent times that caught my jaundiced eye.

Money, power, always in the news. A couple, referred to only as Mr and Mrs Y, 'of an illustrious Oxfordshire family' were in the High Court contesting a divorce settlement. The husband suggested he could only afford £7 million, she maintained  she needed £11.2 million to keep up her lifestyle; she was awarded a lump sum of £8.7 million. We are not allowed to know their names! (The judge said her aspirations were not outlandish or avaricious' but 'borne of her lifestyle' and 'expectations from birth'.)

    A highly successful auctioneer from Dorset found a tree in his neighbour's garden spoilt his view over Poole Harbour. The answer, get a friend to cut it down whilst the neighbour is away. Result £125, 000 in fines.

     Its a strange thing, power. I suspect arrogance and power go together. Eric Joyce, MP has to wear a 'curfew tag' for being involved in a brawl in Parliament earlier in the year. No problem, he cuts it off in order to attend a function. Some in the world seem to think they are above laws and rules. A leader of the People of Freedom Party in Italy (Berlusconi's Party) regularly parks in a disabled parking bay. (He is not disabled). He is reported so he slashes the tyres of the man who reports him; who is incidentally disabled.) His defence 'It was a technical error due to a fit of rage.' That's all right then! 

    An accountant from Bristol way is obsessed with cars. He embezzles £562,000 from his employers and bought, over a period of time, over 100 cars; including Renaults, Vauxaulls, Morris Minors, a hearse and two caravans, not exactly your vintage motors. He had them stored all over Bristol, garage rents over £4,200 a month. All bought on eBay. His defence said he was 'a shopping addict'; He wasn't kidding!

    We all need a certain amount of money. Rosemary Smith from Derby, my home town auctioned a piece of toast allegedly left behind at breakfast by Prince Charles on the day of his wedding to Princess Diane; it fetched £230. Far more than the Henry Moore sculpture sundial, value between £250,00-500,00 stolen by two men in Hertfordshire and sold as scrap for £46. It was fortunately recovered intact.

    Its not just people searching for money, or people seeking power I find so entertaining. Some people are so naturally entertaining without meaning to be so. Southend Pier is the longest in Britain. John Smith from Raleigh just up the road is a trawlerman. So what does he do, he rams his boat into the pier. He is fined £3,000 for failing to keep a proper lookout; cost of pier repairs £130,000.

Perhaps its the sea air that makes people a bit light headed. A man from Weymouth washes his pants and socks then puts them in the microwave. He has to be lead to safety when his flat catches fire. There's no law that says you can't dry your underwear in the microwave. You can't lock people up for being daft. And if you did its not a bad life inside. Not for much longer, mind you. Around 3,000 prisoners in private run prisons have access to Skye TV and Chris Grayling the Justice Minister is not happy!

    If you break the law you must pay for it. Providing it IS a law you break. A Ms Moira Johnson has paraded round Manhattan trying to gain awareness that it is NOT against the law to appear topless in public in New York; for neither men nor women. Good for her I reckon, but, dear readers, why shouldn't females walk about so in the 21st century if they so wish. To deny them that right is surely sexual discrimination. It truly is a funny old world.

Olympic Gymnastics, Housing Estate Version.

    I seldom plan posts. One of the joys of blogging is that you write about what YOU like. I seldom write about the current news so, writing roughly weekly I'm never sure what to write about next.

    I was, with my wife in my favourite pub the other day. Called The Oaklands, in a way its a typical estate pub. Badly in need of a refit (Pub chains are more interested in profits than the comfort of the customers I fear). The clientele is mixed to say the least. But the beer is good, the staff are welcoming and the place works hard to survive in these austere times. Plus the Oaklands serves excellent meals and the staff have an excellent understanding of my wife's problems. (No I don't mean being married to me, my wife is a coeliac and MUST have a diet that is absolutely without question gluten free.)

    We sat in the pub, the door was open with a clear view across the road. In view was scaffolding surrounding some shops; it has been there some considerable time thus attracting various youngsters, from the very young to late teenage. (seemingly mainly if not exclusively male.) And the gyrations, the swinging from the scaffolding gave much food for thought. Foolhardy, certainly, but containing some moves that were both unusual and skilful. Where were such gymnastics learnt, I wonder.

    'Health and Safety' would certainly not approve! Neither did anyone in the pub. At one stage the police did appear, but the 'action' ceased only for the time the police were present. Now I'm not condoning the youngsters actions but think for a minute. Why are these youngsters using the scaffolding for their own purpose. It reminds me of the Everest conquest in 1953. 'Why did you climb it' they were asked. 'Because it was there.' I had no scaffolding available in my formative years; therefore I never climbed scaffolding. Instead I placed pennies on railway lines; I 'swam' in the River Derwent and the Borrowash Canal, although 'swam' is a misnomer because I was a non-swimmer at the time. In the farmyard I climbed high on the straw bales, drove farm machinery and once climbed into a pen, accidentally that housed a bull.(I climbed out a lot faster than I climbed in!)

    It's all part of growing up, 'horses for courses' so to speak and not everyone survives. Several of my peers died young. I've no answers as to why some did, some didn't (survive).

    One final point. Its the Olympics very shortly in case you haven't noticed. How many of the sportsmen or women at the top get there without help or influence. Tiger Woods, one of the best golfers in the world' playing golf at the age of three due to influencial, parenting. Andy Murray, not a bad tennis player, certainly by British standards. The son of a professional tennis player. Victoria Pendleton, British world champion cyclist on several occasions is the daughter of a somewhat fanatical racing cyclist in his heyday. You get the picture plus I wonder how many of the parents of the 'gymnasts' knew where their offspring were. (and perhaps even cared.) Most who reach the top in sport have advantages other kids don't have. I wonder too what Derby has to offer teenagers who strive for sporting success. One final thought. The youngsters on the scaffolding looked fit enough to me, unlike their audience including myself; plus it's cheap entertainment. Perhaps a case of 'pub clientele, eat your heart out!'

Nowt Teaches Better Than Experience.

    I was reading an article in the Times by a writer, Liam Marks concerning the ignominy of signing on at the so called Labour Exchange. I remember it well, a depressing, demeaning occupation. In my case its a long time ago plus I reckon as a 'youth' I was oblivious to the real world. Life is an 'experience', you only get one chance at it and its makes us 'what we are'. But this article brought back memories galore.

    I worked as a 'barbers boy' at nights and weekend prior to leaving school. Too quiet for a sixteen year old but happy days. I soaked the odd customer during shampoos and embarrassed customers when my sales of durex lacked discretion. My attempts at window dressing were abysmal and I destroyed the radio by knocking a cup of tea into it. (I'm left handed, do you think that's the problem.) It is not true I found bits of ear in the sweeping up!

    I worked for Betterware selling brushes etc from a suitcase of samples. Sales were delivered Fridays, commission six and eightpence in the pound. Only I never sold anything, first day on a wet Monday morning in Ilkeston. Not impressed, so I called in a pub, had a pint of shandy and went home minus the case.

    I was 'sent' by concerned relatives to seek work in various places. (I was orphaned at a young age.) I visited Rolls Royce offices (I am not cut out for manual work). A world renowned establishment full of proud workers who had spent their entire lives there; but I reckoned a boring place full of boring people. A safe, well paid job for life; whatever turns you on, but not for me!

    In turn I visited the Derby locomotive works and was introduced to another large office. Rows and rows of men seated at desks, ledgers to the fore, a silent array of conditioned unsmiling individuals, though individuals in name only.  I had even at that age literary leanings and thus recognised the Dickensian connections. Did they each have a quill or a pen, I can't remember. Forty years of gloom beckoned and I fled once again.

     Not keen on other peoples ideas (One uncle tried to get me enrolled as an apprentice jockey, me, a lad who has never ridden and no love of horses) I got myself an appointment with a firm, so I thought connected with the art world. They were something to do with posters and I had a GCE in art. Only it turned out that their arty connection with the art world was that that they put up posters on billboards around the town!

    Being less than brilliant at job finding myself I allowed the local 'job centre for juniors' to send me for an interview with F W Woolworths. I suppose I was desperate to work and being out of work was unfashionable in those days. So I 'signed on' and in fact worked for them for just over two years. This is not the place to go into detail, (see post dated 10th March 2009 ) until an altercation on my motorbike with a lorry, March 10th, 8 25am, 1959 curtailed my Woolworth career; I remember it well!

    Six months later, unable to return to Woolworths I obtained a job with a Jewish tailors as a trainee window dresser. We, me and 'the main man' travelled around in an Atlas van, dressing one window a day . They were 'teddy boy' shops in far from salubrious places; Clay Cross, Arkwright Street and Radford Road Nottingham amongst others. I remember fetching leaves from the Forest area of Nottingham for an autumn display and little else. It was never going to be a job for life but I was still surprised to be 'sacked' the week before Christmas. You weren't 'made redundant' in those days, merely got rid of, no redundancy money, nothing. Miserable lot, it put me off Jews for ages. I remember thinking, 'Don't Jews celebrate Christmas!'

    Mind you, I had the last laugh. I bought a Crombie type coat, a silk scarf, a striped shirt, corduroy  trousers and posh brogue shoes, all at staff discount prices! They all cost me every penny I had but it was worth it!

    Which all brings me back to Labour Exchanges. Because for the first time in my life I 'signed on'. And I was definitely the best dressed man, nay boy in the 'dole queue. Mind you, being unemployed is no fun and two weeks later I started work as a most insignificant office clerk in a British Celanese factory. But that's another story!
Most of the above covered in more detail in the ebook, 'A Childhood Revisited' hopefully out soon. By the way, I was fully dressed at all the interviews I attended!

An Unexceptional Place

•     I decided when I started blogging I would usually avoid the news. Others do it better and on average its instantly forgettable. But once in a while something happens that stays in the memory.
•     I live in Derby, an unexceptional town of approximately 230,000 people. When I travel the country many people have little idea of the place; often they don't even know where in Britain it is. I have written about it two previous occasions that I can remember. In    A man was convicted of plotting to kill the prime minister. Coincidentally the same thing had happened in Derby  (this time by a woman) many years previously, the Prime Minister being Lloyd George. (see post dated 27th August 2008, Deja Vu, Coincidence, Take Your Pick.)
•     On the 4th October 2008 I posted concerning the horrific case of Shaun Dyke (A City Shamed) .    Mentally disturbed, Shaun climbed onto the roof of a building in the centre of Derby. Inevitably a curious crowd gathered. And some pathetic individuals, for reasons I cannot comprehend, urged Shaun to jump.Confused and frightened he did so, ending his young troubled life, to the eternal shame of some of those present.
•     We do not appear in the news too often. When we do, it is all too often for the wrong reasons.
• Mick Philpott is a well known, nay notorious Derby figure. Fifty four years of age he is the father of seventeen children, six by his wife with whom he lives and six by a mistress who was originally a bridesmaid at his wedding. He seemingly alternates nightly between wife and mistress. Mick has a criminal record and is unemployed, though he has refused job offers in the past. He is also on record saying that he thinks Britain is 'going to the dogs' because Derby Council refuses to provide him with a bigger house for his family. There are many other aspects of the Philpott saga, including Micks appearance on the Jeremy Kyle Show and frequent appearances in the national press.
•     The whole thing is depressing in the extreme. But moved from merely depressing to horrific this week. The Philpott house was badly damaged by fire. Five children died, a sixth is fighting for his life in hospital. No children deserve this, indeed, neither do any parents, whatever their weaknesses. There is the suspicion of murder, you will no doubt hear much more in the following weeks.
•     Derby will be to the forefront of national news for some considerable time. (It is not long since it made national news when child grooming by men was found to be taking place on a large scale.) Which all begs the question. Is Derby any better, any worse, any different to any other medium sized place in 21st century Britain. I get very annoyed with people, particularly the elderly who harp on about the past, 'the good old days'. But the seeds of doubt are beginning to be sown.  
•     

Again and Again and Again.

I seldom plan ahead concerning the writing of posts. Not surprising in view of the fact that I'm not even sure as to why I blog. On a good day, a fairly easy task, on a bad day a blank canvas awaiting my limited efforts. Are you the same, dear friends. I've never particularly been one for topicality or the 'world scene', others do it better. Then, occasionally, something in the news catches my eye and off we go.

The Tibetan people are having it rough, rougher than normal at the hands of their Chinese oppressors, particularly in the Sichuan districts. (16 Tibetans have set fire to themselves since March of last year.) The Chinese Government of course deny any brutality in Tibet, or anywhere else for that matter. Truth is just as easy to suppress as people. Which suggests a 'deja vu' post yet again.

In the 1950's I was a wide-eyed schoolboy growing up in a village in Derbyshire. I was brought up in a Moravian household purely and simply because there happened to be a Moravian congregation where I lived. (A very old Protestant religion, similar to Methodists, established in Ockbrook in 1750.)

The Moravian Church happens to be a missionary church, so treats for us children would be visiting missionaries from far away places on 'furlow', speaking in the chapel concerning their important work delivering the word of God' to 'ignorant savages overseas'. (I did have a cousin who became a missionary but it had no appeal for me. Though I was fascinated by pictures of Eskimo children sucking seals eyes in the same way as we village boys sucked our gobstoppers.)

One day there appeared in church a small robed man, playing a musical instrument and singing/chanting; way beyond a village boys comprehension or experience. Evidently he was Tibetan, a Buddist converted to the Christian faith by Moravian missionaries. (Shortly to be expelled from Tibet by, you've guessed it,  the Chinese rulers in Tibet. All this in the 1950's, not 2012.)

The Moravians in Ockbrook arranged for a Derby engineering firm to make a typewriter that typed in the Tibetan language. Brilliant, They couldn't have been too many of them around! Then the little man returned to Tibet to a life full of danger and uncertainty, for his life had already been threatened because of his conversion to Christianity; he was a brave little man indeed and I salute him.

Over fifty years on the Chinese militia are still brutally suppressing the indigenous people of Tibet, presumably on the orders of their masters in Bejing.

At times I despair. Nothing changes. I have no answers and that at times worries me. Some religious adherents can be exceedingly self satisfied as to their beliefs. I make no point as to the rights or otherwise of religions converting others to their viewpoint. (I remember vividly feeling rather smug as a ten year old that I was lucky enough to be going eventually to an 'afterlife', others, apparantly were not to be so lucky. This of course I had been 'taught' as a child.) But as an adult I am non too impressed by many pious individuals of many different religions who seem convinced they and their ilk alone are assured of eternal salvation. (Though not all, many are sympathetic and understanding of other religions/beliefs.) Fanatics cum zealots are both frightening and dangerous. But this is not the main point of this post. The point that struck me most was how short is life. How repetative are mankinds mistakes. And so it will presumably be, for ever and ever. Deja-vu indeed. What say ye? .

Derby, a Quiet Little Backwater.

The local paper, The Derby Evening Telegraph included an article this week concerning Mrs Alice Wheeldon. There is no doubt she was 'set up' by government agents. (MI5). (See article from Wed 27th August 2008). There are moves afoot to clear her name. Governments are 'all powerful' and I view the attempts to clear her name with interest.  

Deja Vu, Coincidence, Take your Pick. Article dated 27th August 2008.

On January 29th, 1917, the police arrested Mrs Alice Wheeldon, her daughters Hettie and Winifred and Winifred's husband Alfred Mason. The charge, plotting the assassination of the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, using a poisoned dart whilst he was out walking on a Surrey golf course. It was a far fetched almost unbelievable scheme but Mrs Wheeldon, was a known anarchist involved with women's suffrage and her son Willie was a conscientious objector. Though much of the evidence was gained by the use of government agent provocateurs, William Rickards and Herbert Booth, Mrs Wheeldon and her fellow conspirators were sent for trial. Mrs Wheeldon was sentenced to ten years in jail, Mason to seven and Winifred to five; Hettie was acquitted. (Mrs Wheeldon was released after only a few months in prison, Rickards was committed to a mental asylum.)

Mrs Wheeldon ran a second hand clothes shop and lived over the premises in Pear Tree Road, Normanton, a poor area in the town of Derby.

Today's local newspaper headline concerns the arrest of a man in Derby on Tuesday. The fourth arrest in connection with a plot to kill the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown. Mrs Margaret Beckett local MP was quoted as saying, "I would be sorry that anyone from the city is being considered as having been involved in something so serious." But she would, wouldn't she and of any case she's not originally from Derby so as we say in Derby, "She knows nowt!" Oh, I forgot to mention, the arrest took place in Moore Street, Derby just another street in Normanton, over ninety years on still a poor suburb of Derby. Some things never change.

(I was particularly interested in the case concerning Gordon Brown. The man arrested was an Albanian. He received a sentence of seven years imprisonment at Preston Crown Court in November 2009. Evidently he is to serve half his sentence and then be deported. The charges related to items found in his Moore Street house. Items including: 71.8 litres of petrol, The Bomb Book, a video titled Mobile Detonators. The Hezbollah Military Intruders Manuals and a document titled Ragnars Detonators. Life in Derby in the 21st century?)

I hope justice is achieved for Mrs Wheeldon. But so much concerning these cases astound me. Two Prime Ministers, separated by many, many years. But apparently hated to such an extent that people wished them dead. Life goes on, for better or worse. Just another story in a newspaper, todays news, tomorrow's history. Derby, my home town seldom attracts more than a passing glance. I think I prefer it that way. What do you think?

A Ramble Round the Body; Fingers, Toes, Even a Nose.

    For no particular reason fingers made the news recently; medical research brought into the spotlight some interesting suggestions. Most men have ring fingers that are longer than their index fingers. Most women have longer index fingers or fingers of approximately the same size.

    Now the fun starts. Some research findings, I suspect to be taken with a pinch of salt!

Lesbian women tend to have longer ring fingers than straight women; longer ring fingers are also linked to success amongst female athletes. In men evidently longer ring fingers are associated with more aggressive behaviour and also with greater susceptibility to prostate cancer and autism. It's all to do with prenatal exposure to testosterone. Clever stuff, in a way, and how many of you have just looked at their fingers! But do reseachers use some facts and figures and discard others to back up their studies? Research, for instance, suggests homosexual men have an 82% greater chance of being left handed or ambidextrous. (I'm left handed, by the way, as far as I know I'm not homosexual!)

    Scientists might be clever, but nature and all that implies is in a different league. Don't they say nature's magic number is 1:1.618 and much in our natural world revolves round this ratio. Leonado DaVinci was no mug and he had no computer or internet to help him out. Didn't his Vitruvian Man with outstretched arms fit exactly into a square. Measure from fingertip to fingertip, your arms outstretched and it will be very, very close to your height, if you're relatively normal. Plus three times round your head will be, surprising, also your height. (The art world of course, is allowed poetic licence, depicting people differently to 'normal' beings for effect.)

    I'm not clever enough to be a scientist. I'm just someone fascinated by life and the idiosyncracies of people. Millions watched Strictly Come Dancing on television last week. The intricate dances, the skill, the glamour, the razmataz. And do you know which bit fascinated me most. The fact that Audley Harrison has size 17 feet! I remember a pair of boots in a shop window in Derby made for a man in Melbourne; they were size 22! Now why would I remember that from probably fifty plus years ago!   

But lose that curiousity and you might as well give up on living.

    I have some small toes that are longer than my big toes, if you know what I mean. Somewhere back in history an ancestor must have had that trait and it is being repeated, presumably for ever and a day; isn't nature clever. (Or perhaps someone picked me up out of the pram by my toes.) My eldest daughter has a party trick. She can touch the end of her nose with her tongue. Try it, is there anyone out there who can do this? Or anyone out there with a party trick they wish to share! Come to think of it, looking at my faltering visitors of late, is there anyone out there full stop!

    Talking of noses, a clip that might well amuse. A blast from the past, Chick Murray and his 'long nose' story. Some of you may well be amused; who nose!! 

Moan, Moan, Moan, Moan, Moan.

It's been a bit rough for the past month so my wife and I (Very royal if you like), my wife and I went Skegness way for the weekend. I like Skegness, no pretensions. All sticks of rock, car boot sales, warm beer and fish and chips. (One street is actually known as Chip Alley by visitors.)

Talking of visitors, our favourite past time is sitting eating chips outside a 'caff' whilst 'people watching'. I was going to say 'all shapes and sizes' but one shape, one size predominates. 'The big people' rule in Skegness. If you're big, nay massive Skegness is seemingly the place to be. Every obese, large, rotund, overweight individual from Leicester, Derby. Nottingham and Sheffield seem to make for dear old 'Skeggy'. And I've not seen so many smokers for many a day. Add tattoos by the dozen, on heads, necks, backs, arms, legs (I daren't guess what's fortunately hidden from view) and you get the picture. And the men are just as bad! Nevertheless It's a cheerful place, at least I thought it was. Now I'm not so sure.

I bought the local paper, the Skegness Standard. Its front page banner headline read. 'United in Wind Battle'. Now Skegness and district is dominated at the moment by news of a proposed 'wind farm' to be situated on land near Anderby Creek. Feelings apparently run high, but are know where near the 'united front' suggested in the headlines. (I actually stayed at Anderby Creek. I met many, including locals who held a different viewpoint. I also noticed 'anti' signs a long distance from the proposed site.) There is even an anti-windfarm organiser, a certain Melvyn Grosvenor who will help organise your protests if you so wish. I could go on, but minds are made up, the word NIMBY springs to mind.

Moving on, I noticed something interesting; happiness in Skegness and district is not in abundance. Letters to the paper are a case in point. Apparently motor vehicle parking on the pavement is rife. Tradesmen, taxis, the general public, all park on the pavement. Not that it's any better when they take to the roads. Buses clog the roads outside the Embassy; parked on zigzags, double parked, and what's more, evidently the police don't care! And if you don't drive but merely walk about, what happens. The seafront shelters you pass are full of foul mouthed drunken men at all hours of the day. Are people born moaners or does the place do this to you?

No, not a happy place, Skegness. The newspaper's Facebook is full of irate moans concerning overflowing litterbins, dirty waterways and overgrown roadside verges. A visit to Skegness really is 'slit your wrist' time. Never mind, a walk up to jolly old Ingoldmells will surely do you good. Nope, not really. People on sites near to the Bolton Lane Sewer Works have been moving out because of the smell. ('Anglian Water is working hard to identify the source of the odour.') Try the Sewer Works, fellas.

If all these problems aren't enough, I'm sure we can find other reasons for a good old moan. Croft residents in particular have got moaning off to a fine art. A delegation from Sycamore Close complained about children skateboarding. (' They didn't skateboard in my day.' Of course they didn't, skateboards weren't invented!) And more radar gun useage requested in Church Lane please, motorists are speeding through the village. (Are you sure it's not machine guns you require? That would cure the problem.) As if all this were not enough, it was reported than the swings on the playing fields were being used by 'certain children' (are they aliens?) and drunk adults. Plus they are leaving litter; serious stuff indeed! Mind you, you will be pleased to know vehicles over seven and a half ton are to be banned from around Croft. (No vehicles, no deliveries, surely; or is that different?)

I wonder if there is something in the water around Skegness that affects people; or maybe it's a misery 'gene'. Is it an age thing? Perhaps its parochialism gone mad. Perhaps the Standard just likes to be miserable. Some Skegness and district citizens make Grumpy Old Ken look positively,

ecstatically happy.

Do you remember Mona Lott, Mrs Mop of ITMA fame. Her favourite saying was' It's being so cheerful as keeps me going.' I wonder if she came from Skegness!

A Real Football Hero.

Having said I don't normally 'do' topical here we go again. The Ryan Giggs affair really set me going and here's why. I personally quite admired the guy, so I view his antics with both surprise and disappointment. (Ryan Giggs, professional footballer, married, father of four has a 'liason/affair' with a young lady and tries to use the full force of the law to stop anyone from being aware of his antics. Says he's thinking of his children. Bit late, Ryan, what a hypocrite!)
To those who say his private life is his own business, I say rubbish, we're entitled to know. This man earns millions from football and even more millions as a 'whiter than white' ambassador for football. He is, like it or not, a role model for millions of children.
My background is ordinary, working class village boy born in the first months of the war. Plus I was orphaned at the age of thirteen. Role models have always been important, particularly where young males are concerned; in my case, because of my circumstances doubly so. The like of Reg Harrison, footballer was particularly important in my formative years. Contrast Reg's career with the spoilt, prima donna's of the modern footballing world.
Reg Harrison was a young man, a keen, honest Derby born and bred professional footballer aged nineteen in 1946, playing for Derby County in the immediate post war years. In an era of shortages there were special problems for professional sportsmen and women. Sport is reliant on fitness; diet is a critical factor if success is to be achieved. Footballers were allocated no extra rations yet a level of fitness was maintained creditable in the extreme. True, there was the occasional perk of extra meat from a butcher in return for match day tickets. There was also a Derby County team manager who was in the catering trade, providing the players with a meal once a week, tripe and onions being a particular favourite. But there were no massive wages to supplement the player's diet, even had extra rations been available.
Reg signed a contract in 1946 for the princely sum of ten pounds a week. The manager somewhat apologetically explained that only long term first team regulars were paid more, he, Reg was what was termed ‘a slider', any increase, and small at that depending on regular first team football. In fact a member of Reg’s family earned more after stoppages working as a foreman in the local Rolls Royce factory. Which would suggest that admired they might well have been, but immediate post war footballers were seldom financially secure. Reg never forgot the club director, an accountant by profession who solicitously inquired, shortly after Reg married as to whether he was saving his money. As Reg inevitably retorted, ‘Chance would have been a fine thing on footballer’s wages’.
Reg lived with his parents until he married and then moved to a small house in the town, from where he walked to work. Not that he considered training twice a day preseason and playing twice a week in season as work. A hard life physically, but one he enjoyed just the same. A life that brought the reward coveted by all British footballers. A FA Cup appearance with the ultimate reward, a cup winner’s medal. For in 1946 Derby County reached the FA Cup Final, meeting Charlton Athletic at Wembley on Saturday the 27th April.
Tickets for the match were eagerly sought by a Derby population starved of real football excitement for almost six long war years. Prices ranged from 3/6 (17p) to £2 2 0s (£2 10s). Derby County were allocated 12,000 tickets, applications by post only, though season ticket holders were assured of a seat. Some travelled on the thirteen special trains travelling from Derby minus a ticket. In fact some 10 6d (52 p) tickets were changing hands before the match for £10 10s (£10 50s). The idea that these were times devoid of football disorder was somewhat questioned when hundreds attempted to gain free entrance just before the match and had to be dispelled by mounted police.
Prior to the match the team stayed at a hotel in Harpenden, four to a room; Reg shared with Angus Morrison, Chick Musson and Jim Bullion. Normally the team had tea and toast for breakfast plus a meal before a match of boiled fish or chicken. On this illustrious occasion they had the luxury of breakfast in bed; egg and sherry mixed with milk and sugar before a coach took them to Wembley Stadium. Each player was allocated two tickets, not over generous when one considers the crowd numbered one hundred thousand.
Derby won a memorable match 4-1 after extra time. An extraordinary game made even more so when the ball burst, a rare occurrence indeed. The team stayed overnight again at Harpenden and played Arsenal in London the following Monday.
On Tuesday 30th April 1946 the conquering heroes were paraded round Derby to rapturous acclaim on the back of an Offilers Brewery wagon; from the Blue Peter Public House in Alvaston to the Police Building in Full Street. The following day Derby played another league match and yet again the following Saturday. Counting from the Saturday before the Cup Final Derby County played six games in fifteen days. The players received their normal wages plus an inscribed Royal Crown Derby plate; the pampered existence of modern footballers a far-cry away.
I still see Reg at the Derby County games. He is over eighty years of age. (There are two Derby County survivors from the cup final game, Reg and Jim Bullions.) A lovely, unassuming, modest man, married for many, many years; thanks for the memories, Reg. You may not be rich but you are still greatly admired. You put the likes of Ryan Giggs to shame.

THE CUP FINAL

July, You Didn't Let Us Down. Grumpy's Alternative News.

What a month, where do we begin! Money, what to do with it. One of Elvis's pianos is up for sale, they think it might fetch £1,000,000. Plus Roy Roger's horse, Trigger (stuffed of course) is to be auctioned, they think it might fetch up to £133, 000 ($200,000). You're too late for the ashes of the cat featured in the Coronation Street titles, they fetched £800 at a Gloucestershire auctioneers. Talking of ashes, did you notice they're creating a reef in the English Channel made from concrete and reef balls filled with cremated remains. (Ringstead Bay, Dorset.) But I digress, they've not had the Chatsworth House contents auction yet (this autumn. 20,000 items, 1,400 lots.) There's something for everyone: marble chimneypiece £300,000, down to teacups and saucers, £20-£600 plus the Duchess's 'record changer and wireless', circa 1935, £30-50. (All prices are estimates.)

Alternatively you might fancy the new flying car, the Terrafugia Transition, priced £128,000. Money can't buy Paul the octopus who correctly predicted World Cup results but if you're really loaded you could go for that most exclusive of internet domain names, Sex.com. (It fetched $12million when last sold in 2006.) The only person I can think of who could afford that sort of money is Wayne Rooney. He won a court case recently that will make him richer than ever. But it didn't stop him being named as the ugliest footballer on earth by Beautifulpeople.com. Money can't buy everything, Wayne!

Enough of money. What made me laugh, or cry for that matter. The ice-cream van for dogs in Regent's Park is brilliant. 'Canine cookie crunch' indeed. I hope the van, which is called K99 and plays the Scooby Doo theme does well. The burglar from Blackburn who left behind his false teeth when he had a sandwich at the scene of crime was not the sharpest. Nominally brighter than the seventy six year old retired Army major who hurt his back 'tombstoning' at Durdle Door. Couldn't he find something safer with which to occupy himself. Any suggestions? He'd have been better off 'tweeting' like Ivy Bean who died recently, aged 104 and acknowledged as the oldest person on Twitter. Mind you, her 'tweets' weren't exactly ground-breaking. 'Had a visit from our sandra yesterday she bought some parkin which we had with our cuppa.' Rest in peace, Ivy.

There were things in the month that made me wonder. The property tycoon who attacked a helicopter, hitting it and trying to open the pilot's door because it blew dust over his Land Rover lacked self control. Even more serious was the maniac who knifed two people because they hit his car with a discarded lollipop. He was deservedly locked up. Frightening that such people exist. Likewise the idiots in Russia who hoisted a donkey into the air by parachute as a publicity stunt ought to have had a dose of their own medicine. Fortunately such individuals are in the minority.

Just a couple or so items in poor taste. I know some of you love them! Can you remember Keith Chegwin presenting a game show whilst naked. I thought of him when I read someone has been putting up photographs of his private parts (with a pink bow tied round!) around Lewes. No, I am NOT suggesting it is Keith Chegwin! The pictures are being examined for fingerprints. Honestly! There is so, so much more I could say but I mustn't! And evidently 'a big budget' p0rn movie was shot in a London hospital. They won't say which one but evidently the hospital made a 'substantial income'. Having recently spent a week in hospital I'm totally jealous. I bet it made the time go a lot quicker!

I will leave you with a snippet from Derby, my home town. We have a university, just like Oxford and Cambridge. But no studies of comparable depth or importance. Derby University is offering a one year diploma course in artisan food, showing amongst other things how to bake bread and make cheese and pickle. One module even shows how to brew ale. Shakespearean studies, who needs 'em!

Farewell Ffffreezing February. Grumpy's Alternative News.

So what did February bring?
I see the parliamentary idiots have learnt nothing from their recent disgraceful behaviour. Now there's a move to force two hundred of them them to pay a profits levy on the second houses they bought with taxpayers money. A move that the MP's are fighting with self righteous fervour. Plus they don't wish us to know about the £138,046 owed in unpaid food and drink bills in the House of Commons. What a sick shower.
Animals, now they're far more interesting. A woman was arrested at a Russian checkpoint with fifty lovebirds under her coat. Evidently they all woke up and were a bit noisy to say the least.
Ten hedgehogs in a Fife rescue centre have to go on a diet before they are released. They're been looked after so well they can no longer roll up into a ball when under threat.
A grey squirrel at Alton Towers is literally living 'the high life'. Nicknamed Sonic, he (or she) has been riding on the Sonic Spinball rollercoaster ride as it's been tested after a revamp. Definitely braver than me!

Plus dogs and cats in China can breathe a little easier. It is going to be illegal to eat either, those caught doing so face a 5,000 yuan (£450) fine and fifteen days in jail. Evidently dog meat is supposed to warm you up and is served with a sauce of ground coriander, spring onion, peanuts and sesame, price 38 yuan. (Who said they don't wish to know that!)
By the way, a team at Bristol University have decided that cat owners are more likely to have a degree than dog owners. (Perhaps because cats, being brighter than dogs choose more intelligent owners.) I often wondered what education spent my taxes on, now I know.

Any drinkers out there? Do you agree with the Bishop of Aberdeen and Orkney who says that the monks of Buckfast Abbey should not be brewing a drink that is 15% proof. Evidently it is particularly popular in Scotland, known sometimes as 'bottle of beat the wife'. 'liquid speed' and 'wreck the hoose juice'.

I wonder what the Polish man who has just been jailed for drink driving was drinking. His level was the highest ever recorded in Britain. He was almost six times over the limit (191 micrograms per 100ml. Legal limit is 35.)

I see Marston's Brewery is on the ball. They suggested at a meeting lighter beer bottles would help their carbon footprint. (The chairman suggested the easiest way to make bottles lighter is to drink the contents!)

Congratulations to Amy Fearn, football referee who took over the Coca-Cola match, Coventry City versus Nottingham Forest, the first ever female to do so. I wonder if the Reverend Mark Oden of Kent noticed. He made the news by suggesting in his Valentine sermon that women should be more 'submissive' to their husbands. His views have had a mixed reception but interestingly enough he requested that the newspaper did not interview his wife.

Money, now there's a thing. And talking of money, the world's first postal order, serial number 000001, bought for one shilling in London in 1881 fetched £4,484 in an auction in Warwick. And Sir Stanley Matthews football boots used in the 1953 Cup Final fetched £38,400 in an auction in Chester. But the winner has to be a 22 inch meat dish taken to the Antiques Roadshow in Aberglasney, Carmarthenshire that turned out to be worth at least £100,000.

We do seem to collect as a nation. A recent survey gave us, in the main some fascinating if useless figures. The average Britain has some 3,370 cubic feet of clutter. On average 44% of the room in their homes is taken up by possessions. Comprising mainly of 'junk and clutter', followed by clothes, shoes, books, toys, exercise equipment, electrical equipment, magazines and papers. None of this information stopped the bidders at the Dr Who sale at Bonhams. A Cyberman fetched £9,600 whilst a Mk1 Imperial Dalek fetched a mere £20,000.

Dopiest of the month, two contenders. One, the artificial limbs specialist who fitted a new left foot to a gentleman in Astley Ainslie Hospital in Edinburgh. Unfortunately it was the right foot the patient was missing. To add insult to injury, the specialist never noticed his mistake on two later check ups. Beaten I reckon by the Arab ambassador to Dubai whose bride was not what he thought. On the few occasions they met before marriage she had worn a niquab. It turns out the bride was in fact cross eyed with facial hair. A bit of a shock when he lifted the veil to kiss her! (Mother had tricked him by substituting photographs of her more acceptable sister.) The marriage was annulled but he lost the £83,000 he spent on gifts for the bride.

And there you have it, good old February. What, no rude bits, did I hear someone ask. Oh go on then, the more refined of you stop reading now.

A university registrar offered bogus degrees in return for spanking sessions in a hotel. Very, very complicated, it was suggested it was a 'pain management study'. Prices, £500 for a 2.2 degree, £1,000 for a Masters with Distinction. I kid you not! The judge suggested he had been very naughty and he had now lost his job, his career, his professional reputation and his marriage. (And would he please stop smiling in court, it was not funny. Not true this bit.) I'm tempted to do a piece on the court proceedings but I'd better not. My wife says I'm getting too interested in this case so I'd better move swiftly on! Evidently someone in St Edmunds Hall (Oxford University) is vandalising the community condoms kept in the JCB welfare room. Some were found to have holes in them, a fact reported by a student from 'Teddy Hall' when using the condoms to make jelly ice cubes. How low can some people go!

Finally, are you fed up with reading about Ashley Cole and John Terry. What a pair! And what a pity they don't live in Wisconsin. A cheating man there got more than he bargained for. Four women (one was his wife) lured him to a motel and then glued his penis to his stomach! They each received a year's probation. I bet they thought it was well worth it!

There you have it, Good old February. Plus a little of my own town, Derby. A poll was organised to name a new road in the town, 89% were unanimous in their choice. We now have a road called Laura Croft Way! What do you reckon to that. (The Laura Croft computer game originates from Derby.) You couldn't make it up. Have a nice day.