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!

Grumpy's Alternative August News

Every month I wonder if there will be enough alternative news on which to blog; each time I am pleasantly surprised.

Firstly, follow up from last month. Over a thousand coffee-house owners in Turkey protested about the ban on smoking in public places. One reader suggested Turkey would win the Smoking Olympics hands down. Evidently 48% of Turkish men smoke. Remember Geoffrey Spicer, marooned on a Scottish island in order to give up smoking. He gave up, living on the island that is, citing inhospitable weather, though he claims it has cured his smoking habit.

And in case tobacco smokers are thinking of switching to the herbal mixture Spice, too late, it is to become a Class B drug in the very near future.

The animals kingdom always figures in the news. a farmer in Hertfordshire was served with a noise abatement order because his cockerels would not shut up at night; the equipment in Sturminster, Dorset set up to measure a cockerel crowing on an allotment cost £5,500.

Whilst in Australia amorous tree frogs have had to raise the level of their croaking to combat increased traffic noise. (Another costly scientific study, no doubt.) To cap it all, insects called thrips are setting off smoke alarms in Cambridgeshire costing thousands of pounds. Thripping hell! One last little snippit of animal news. An elephant has had an artificial foot fitted in Lampang. (The result of a landmine.) Guess how much anesthetic is needed, in human terms, to knock out an elephant. (answer at the end of the blog.)

Whilst we are in a guessing mood, how many potholes have the Leicester City Council promised to mend in Netherall Road, and at what cost? And I bet you can't guess which county used the Taser-gun most in Britain last year. (And it wasn't London.) How much do you think the US owes in London congestion charges. (It regards the charge as British taxes, therefore claiming its Embassy staff are exempt.) Finally how long do you think Frederick Chiluba of Zambia's trial has taken on a charge of corruption.

Talking of London, I notice a deputy mayor for policing (whatever that means) has suggested blocking the mobile numbers on prostitutes cards left in telephone boxes. Contrast the German attitude. Brothels in Berlin are advertising discounts for customers who arrive by bicycle! How very green of them!

One final incident in the news that I personally found ironic. I once wrote a short story (see blog dated 21st July 2009) concerning identical twins with one tiny, subtle difference. In August's news was a young US lady in bed with her lover, an identical twin when she noticed her bedmate was missing a buttock tattoo. Whoops!

Concerning the guessing games.

The anaesthetic needed to knock out the elephant would have knocked out seventy humans.

Northumbria used the Taser-gun most. I wonder why.

Leicester City Council have promised to repair more than one hundred potholes in the one street cost £50,000.

The US owes £3,478,200. As Queen Victoria would say, I am not amused.

And Mr Chiluba's trial has taken six years. The verdict is expected any day now. But don't hold your breath!

Not Always the Sweet Smell of Success

There's a funny smell in our motorhome; worse than usual. We don't have a car, my wife and I. So the not so old Fiat Ducati, 0008 PAU doubles as both car and carrier; and I mean carrier. Shopping, plants, bags for the tip; building materials, allotment produce; old friends and young relations, incontinency, probable and possible. They all go in. Which in itself is the problem. The smell could be anything. Not counting of course stale washing up water in the underfloor tank; or maybe the toilet tank or the fridge needs emptying.

The smell is strangely fish like; a mysterious, disgusting, decaying, putrid smell yet frustratingly unidentifiable. And its not going away. Immediately I am reminded of digs in Leicester all of forty three years ago. One young man I will ever remember. You always knew when he entered the house, an all pervading foot odour wafted through the building the like of which I have never smelt before or since. I assume there is a name for the problem. Developed in wartime I am sure it could be developed with devastating effect. Harry(not his real name) where are you now!

Strangely enough on of the large shoe manufacturers is having problems with trainers whose stink is a commercial disaster. Worry not, Nike, Harry's odour was world class, you are not in the same league!

Funny things, smells we take them for granted and only miss them when they're gone. And how magical is the ability to smell, both to smell and be smelled. So many questions, so many memories.

Why for instance do men and women smell different. Why do we love some smells and detest others. Who decides which is a 'good' smell and which is 'bad'? God or no God its all clever stuff. Ever been to Burton on Trent? The whole place stinks of hops, at least it used to. I remember visiting Bournville as a child and still remember the occasion. The sweet smell of cocoa powder hit you way before you set eyes on the place.

We had night riders visiting our row of cottages when I was a child. Men who emptied the outside toilets down the garden. Carrying huge pans of sewerage on their shoulders, the slops often cascading down their backs from overfilled containers. You didn't need to remember the days they came, dark or not dark you could tell when they arrived in the next street. They carried out their duties with cheerful abandon, enjoying their sandwiches in between jobs, sat on the lorry steps, oblivious of our nauseous retching.

We, as village children, rushed out to claim the steaming piles of horse dung frequently deposited in the road. And for what? To sell for pennies to gardeners who lovingly placed the stinking piles around their beloved rosebushes. The result, roses that offered the most heavenly scents known to man; how incredible is nature. (Could we be conditioned, I wonder, to love the smell of dung and hate the smell of roses?)

As I write this the faint smell of rubber is present. Emanating from gas masks on the wall of my 'museum'. No problem yet there are people who have a fetish for rubber. I wonder when mere liking something becomes a fetish or addiction. Glue sniffing was prevalent in my early days of teaching, a sticky, revolting past time not to be recommended. Plus a young chap of my acquaintance died after inhaling from a fire extinguisher. Similarly I was indirectly involved with someone who was addicted to cough mixture and died as a result. We are all different, presumably the sense of smell (and taste) is not equally distributed. I personally don't dislike the smell of garlic but it is not recommended where' l'Amour' is concerned. Please tell me why.

I could go on for ever. For instance, whatever happened to the idea of 'smelly films', the cinema reeking in harmony with the films subject matter. The possibilities were enormous, were any ever made? But enough is enough, I have work to do. Hand me a gas mask before I continue my search for the source of the elusive stench. By the way, any memorable smells in your life, or have you no sense of smell.

A Peaceful Weekend at the Seaside

The strain of the our forthcoming move is beginning to show. A couple of days away usually does the trick so we load up the van and, hey presto we're away. Three hours later and we're walking down Skegness High Street.

Dear old Skeggy, full of obese, cigarette smoking, often tattooed individuals of both sexes, many day trippers from the Midlands: Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Sheffield, Rotherham and Barnsley. A pilgrimage their parents and grandparents made in the non too distant past.

Although it is barely afternoon the effects of alcohol and the warm sun combine to make the expletives flow and I wince at the lack of self control shown by some with small children in tow.

We buy a bag of chips, obligatory in Skegness and eat them outside the shop. Skegness never did stand on ceremony; the place has a certain charm, though many would not be seen dead there, an unfortunate phrase considering what was to happen only a few hours later.

We elected to stay overnight on a caravan site in nearby Anderby Creek. A pleasant enough choice amongst the static caravans much loved on the East Coast. Plus the bonus of a pub nearby. A toilet block on the site plus a pub nearby, life is good at times as long as your expectations are not too high! We cooked a meal by the beach, returned to the caravan site in good humour and retired to the pub.

The place was full and it was immediately apparent the average age was high. (The average age of motorhomers evidently is sixty three. The average age of people in static caravans is probably higher.) It did occur to me an OAP bus trip had called in except that it was fairly obvious that most were ensconced in the best seats, suggesting they were all 'regulars'. No matter, my wife and I took a back seat, literally a back seat and surveyed the scene.

The bingo was approached by the regulars with enthusiasm, the caller screeching the numbers with deafening gusto. My original enthusiasm was tested and the production of a karaoke machine set the alarm bells ringing. Thus commenced the worst karaoke singing I have ever heard. Whether it was the sheer age of the participants, (whom I doubt had ever seen never mind used such modern apparatus) or the choice of song, inevitably Country and Western, the end product was excruciatingly bad. Plus they did encores, perhaps a case of senility rules. (One old gentleman definitely 'away with the fairies' insisted on regaling us with his rendering of an entirely different song (we were in a side room and viewing through an open door).

By now my original euphoria had all but gone, and I was beginning to wonder whether our visit was a good idea. I glanced out of the window and did a double take so as to be sure as to what I was actually seeing. A van was only yards away, its rear doors open. An unusual vehicle in a way, it took only a moment to realise it was in fact an undertaker's vehicle. Fascinated, singers ignored I watched in morbid fascination. Lo and behold, a stretchered body appeared from a nearby caravan and was carefully placed in the waiting vehicle; and the karaokers continued to karaoke. Quite a shock of a Saturday evening, not exactly designed to lift the spirits if you'll pardon the pun. The karaoke was bad but I hadn't realised it was that bad! (Evidently an elderly gentleman had died in the caravan overnight and had been discovered only minutes before we arrived for a 'fun' night out.)

The rest of a most unusual weekend passed without incident, but a weekend we would not forget in a hurry. Who said you can't beat a weekend on the East Coast for getting rid of stress!
Coincidentally I write up this post as the television announces new government plans to allow people to die in the place of their choice. Great news, except that you need to know in advance the time of your demise. No doubt the old man loved his caravan at the seaside. I wonder if he knew something we didn't.

Home Sweet Home Three

I spent a year at college in Leicester in 1964/65. The government had decided it needed more full time leaders, to 'lead' the countries youth and I, amongst others fitted the bill. So in their wisdom they set up The National College for the Training of Youth Leaders, a grand title for a one year course housed in a disused Civil Defence centre. The course was varied, an education in itself to a somewhat naive village boy.

I lived in 'digs' so to speak, a 'semi' on the ring road with three other male trainee leaders. The living experience I remember for two things only. We were all untrained in domesticity in the extreme. We we constantly rushed for time, long individual ablusions in the morning were a disadvantageous to everyone. Thus the rule was that the toilet come bathroom was never to be locked to others, probably a typically male arrangement. Privacy was therefore non existent, a shock to the system of even the most thick skinned amongst us.

One other memory lingers on. If Henry, not his real name was in the building, anywhere in the place wherever, his presence was indicated by the strangest unfortunate obnoxious foot odour I have ever encountered, before or since. I have only to close my eyes, over forty years hence and I am reminded of Henry. Where are you now I wonder, not nearby or I would know, my son. My first real experience of living with others. The place therefore a house but not really a home.

Definitely for the Last Time

We are moving house, hopefully and even more hopefully for the last time. We are moving from a house we love for several reasons, one being concerned with heath issues, more at a later date.

I have never lived more than sixty miles from the place where I was born yet I seem to have lived in eighteen different establishments to date. From the village of Ockbrook in Derbyshire, taking in Leicester, Chesterfield, Grantham and Derby along the way. They have all been interesting in their own way. The best probably our present home, half of a nineteenth century farmhouse, the worst the changing rooms of a Church Youth Centre of which I was warden. The latter occupation somewhat secret and probably illegal but certainly cheap. No rent or rates to pay; saving on running costs, maximum; comfort minimal.

The Crewe Harpers are eccentric Derbyshire aristocracy who bequeathed their house, Calke Abbey to the nation in lieu of death duties in the 1980's. On taking up the reins so to speak The National Trust were astounded at the contents of the place,uncatalogued and uncared for.
The various occupants had collected nay hoarded much over centuries. As the place filled they seemed to have merely moved rooms and the place was large enough to do so. A bed in a large box, a present from royalty arrived in 1734. It was only opened on the Trusts acquisition of Calke in 1984. Much of the place had become a 19th century museum of fossils,taxidermy and Egyptian curiosities. The kitchens were abandoned in 1928. The School Rooms were never used after the Second World War yet books and toys were still everywhere

Truly the kings of all hoarders and collectors I salute you. And where is this leading you may well ask. My parentage is, to say the least, obscure. I've always suspected my father was at least aristocracy. The Crewe and Harper's eccentric behaviour plus talk of the family having an eccentric 'gene' leads me to one inescapable conclusion. I too have never knowingly thrown anything away in my entire life. I always check the dustbins before removal lest my wife has deposited in them something of value, more importantly, something of mine, deliberately or otherwise. 'Daddy' was definitely aristocracy, I knew it!

Our house is moderately large, the bungalow we are moving to is relatively small. The house is a three storey building, we have lived here for ten years and every room is full of treasures and furniture lovingly collected. The loft, exceedingly large is also full to capacity and, like the Crewe Harpers I also have a 'museum'. I walk round my house and garden, blank paper in hand and begin the stock take, so to speak. Watch this space.