Mad as a March Hare weeks 3 and 4

In case the recession is getting you down here is Grumpy's alternative news you may have missed.

The Crime Scene

A two year old was sent an ASBO warning in Lincoln for kicking footballs at windows and abusing neighbours. What on earth will he be like when he learns to walk! Police apologised for sending the warning to the wrong address.

Staff at Rymans smashed a forgery ring after finding Boy George's image was on the watermark of the £20 notes. Again a case of mistaken identity, this time, wrong queen!

Two robbers leaving a Milwaukee jewellers with cash and jewellery were mugged. Even more unlucky was footballer Ashley Cole, fined a mere £80 for being drunk and disorderly but another £160,000 by his club, Chelsea. (two weeks wages!)

A single mother in South Wales was so fed up with her daughter's bickering (aged fourteen and eleven) that she filled the fridge, left £30 on the mantelpiece and cleared off to Spain. She shouldn't have done it but I know the feeling.

To deal with antisocial behaviour on an estate in Mansfield pink lights have been installed to deter teenagers gathering in groups. Evidently pink light highlights teenagers acne. I await the results with baited breath.

Finally, is it my imagination, or are crooks and not the police the sophisticated ones? Police officers on the beat in Falmouth have been issued with whistles for the first time in forty years, Evidently they make it easier to attract the attention of cyclists. Whilst a thief in Sutton, Surrey admitted using Google Earth to identify lead roofs. He admitted £100,000 of thefts. I assume he didn't go round on his bike to commit these crimes. (Incidentally the new Google service Street View is already causing concern. In the USA where it was launched two years ago it has shown people nude sunbathing, being arrested and urinating in the street.)

It's a strange old world

I try not to join the wingers who constantly carp on as to how bad life is today but occasionally they are fed information that is just up their street. The Chelsea Pensioners have at long last accepted the ladies into their ranks. Brilliant, but please don't 'ape' the females of Teignbridge Ladies Netball League in Devon. They have all been sent letters concerning the use of 'foul and abusive language'. Oh dear, definitely unladylike behaviour. Neither can the parents who booed the winners at the inter-school sports day at Worthing be proud of themselves. Not exactly behaviour designed to impress. Plus you do wonder when McDonald's new jobs drive includes training on skills such as 'how to report for work on time.'

There again maybe it isn't obvious to some as to exactly what a brain is for. A man from Doncaster evidently drove his car down a FOOTPATH, via sat-nav until a fence prevented him from going over a 100 foot cliff. Then he blamed the sat-nav!

But enough of being serious! Who noticed the discovery of a 2500 year old sauna at a site of a new park and ride close to the M5 near Taunton in Somerset. Plus twenty three skeletons. Now that must have been one hell of a hot sauna. They don't make them like that today!

Finally, very finally, many may find my slant on the month totally daft. But fancy being daft by name as well as nature. Evidently names that many find hilarious are in decline. Cock, Daft, Death, Smellie, Gotobed, Shufflebottom, Jelly, all reduced numerically. Cocks for instance has declined by 75% since the first census in 1881, Daft and Balls by more than 50%. And the fastest growing you may ask. Zhang, up from 123 in 1996 to 5804 in 2008. (Closely followed by Wang, Yang, Huang and Lin.) As Michael Caine was heard to retort, 'Not a lot of people know that!'

So there you have it, another month consigned to history. Hopefully there are many more to come.

Good old Bob and Dean

I wrote some of this post for Motorhome Monthly a while ago. On cold and miserable autuminal days such as today I reread it and, hey presto, I am transported back in time.

Memories are made of This

Those of us who can only be described of as ‘of mature years’ will undoubtedly remember a song recorded, by amongst others, Dean Martin in 1956. Called ‘Memories are Made of This’ it began with the lines
Sweet, sweet memories you gave-a me
You can’t beat the memories you gave-a me
Admittedly now considered rather twee, a remnant of a perhaps more gentle, innocent era, it nevertheless prompted me, mere months after purchase, to recall some of the delights our present motorhome has provided to date. Ordinary, unexceptional occurrences, yet experiences that bring a smile to lighten dark nights.
I suppose literally the first memory was the sight of a gleaming motorhome on a bright summer’s day, and the realisation that we were, at last the proud owners. Incidentally, it is the first new mode of transport I have ever purchased in nearly fifty years of driving, but well worth the wait. Plus the smell of a new vehicle is unique, an indescribable almost sensual heady mix that, bottled, would I’m sure rival Chanel, Dior or Nina Ricci for sales. (Raleigh bikes smelling of chain oil had the same effect when I was fifteen.) And finally my wife’s Cheshire Cat smile as she re-examined the washroom for the umpteenth time, surely the actions of a deprived child. Definitely a Royal Flush, if you like! All this and we hadn’t even left the dealers!
That first night, trying to comprehend the direction of the toilet in the early hours. (I’ve never used silver screens overnight before and found the blackness created by their presence disorienting in the extreme.) And the joy of lying in bed that first time, like children Christmas morning, excited beyond belief, the dawn, at least for us, of a new era.
Single nights, week-ends, weeks and longer, each and every occasion experiences, if not always to savour, at least to remember.
Excitement in Lancashire, tempered with not a little trepidation when, arriving back home, so to speak near Blackpool front we found our motorhome surrounded by numerous policeman. Evidently the result of an earlier ‘incident’ that we were relieved to discover, had nothing to do with us. Plus going to sleep only minutes later, the sound of clanking trams surprisingly soporific. Norfolk, unhurried and in the main unchanged. Walsingham, a meaningful haven for all, irrespective of creed or belief. A place of pilgrimage for centuries in an often disorderly world. To tread where pilgrims have trod for almost a thousand years, an awesome thought that surely cannot fail to impress. Gressenhall Farm and Workhouse, one of the best days out for under ten pounds I have ever experienced. Workhouse incarceration an austere, uncompromising existence, a sombre reminder of the cruelty of the not too distant past. Plus time spent in the company of a delightful individual who had exchanged the turmoil of modern day South Africa for the simple pleasures associated with hardware shop keeping in sleepy Mundersley.
The looks of astonished amazement from the gathered fishermen as we arrived in the tiniest of coves in Clovelly, Devon having misread the signs on approach. (The wife’s fault, of cause, as of always!) Extraditing ourselves with great difficulty and I maintain not a little skill. The fact that we should not have been there in the first place surely of no consequence!
An enchanting evening spent at the public house in The Lake District where we honeymooned all those years ago. (thirty seven years ago to be precise.) Overnight spent in the van on the road outside the pub. (The Mason’s Arms, Strawberry Bank near Windemere.) Who says romance is dead!
Hadrian’s Wall, County Durham where history and mystery combine. Well worth the visit, though much of the wall has since been spirited away by the enterprising hordes the Romans were so keen to repel. The sheer scale of the enterprise is mind bending. Originally over seventy miles long, mainly completed in ten years, I found the statistics too complex to take in, finding a fact from fiction more intriguing. A replica wall one kilometre in length was built in County Clare, Ireland for the film King Arthur. It took three hundred construction workers four months to build. (The largest movie set ever built in Ireland.) Remember, this replica was only one kilometre long!
Glorious sunsets at Blackpool, Fleetwood and Crackington Cove plus equally
splendid rainbows in the Yorkshire Dales. Surely the cheapest beer in the country in a pub near York, courtesy of Sam Smith, and some of the dearest campsites nationwide in the Lakes. The memories are endless.
High winds near Castleton, enough to rock the van, an eerie overnight stay both haunting and daunting. Non-stop rain at Eden Camp, near Maltby, the visit a fascinating reminder of the trials and tribulations of Britain at war.
Regular sojourns at Derby County Football Club home games. After the match we sit munching bacon butties or beef burgers, mug of steaming tea to hand and watch gridlocked supporters impatiently fume, blood pressures rising, their frustration perversely making our meal all the more enjoyable. Local radio echoing to the howls and growls of those stuck fast.
Fed and watered, nerves intact, we leave when the last car has disappeared over the railway bridge, forty-five minutes after the final whistle. (We arrive home fifteen minutes later than had we left immediately after the match ended.) A ritual repeated at fortnightly intervals.
The Christmas Market weekend at Lincoln early in December. The lights, the street entertainment, the market itself and the crowds. An enchanting countdown to Christmas attracting 160,000 visitors over four days: tiring but well worth the effort.
Plus the magic of Christmas itself. Parked outside the grandchildren’s house Christmas Eve so as to be ‘in situ’, so to speak when presents are opened Christmas morning.
Dressing up as Father Christmas, right down to full-length beard. Elaborate preparations including a scattering of ‘Reindeer Dust’ and walking up the street complete with sack. “Who’s this coming up the road?” Angelina aged five is asked by mother.
“Father Christmas” she replies on cue, eyes wide with amazement. “Who is it?” is enquired of brother Tommy, not yet three. “Santa Granddad” is the instant dismissive reply. Out of the mouth of babes and all that! ( I have been asked to be Father Christmas at the junior school where my daughter teaches. Only Tommy and Angelina now attend that school so I've no chance. I wonder if I'll get away as being 'Santa's brother.)
The illustrious Bob Hope adopted as his theme tune ‘Thanks for the Memory’ (Written in 1937 by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin.) Included are the lines

Many’s the time that we feasted
And many’s the time that we fasted.
Oh well, it was swell while it lasted.
I don’t remember the fasting, Mr Hope, but it was certainly swell. If 2009 compares I for one won’t be disappointed. Memorable experiences to take into extreme old age, though not yet! Expensive cruises, who needs them!

Afterthoughts. 2008 became, out of the blue, the year of the 'great move'. Thus our travels were in the main 'on hold.' Roll on 2009!