Further passengering tales ...

Still in my first season, 1962, with Jim Spencely as my driver.  Having ‘signed’ an entry form as my ‘Parent/Guardian’ for the Easter Monday meeting at Crystal Palace we duly presented ourselves for signing on and the bike for scrutineering.  There was some debate between the scroots and ourselves as to whether the nuts and bolts securing the sidecar to the bike should be lockwired or not, neither Jim nor myself had ever heard of this before and naturally we objected, in the nicest possible way of course because upsetting scroots is not necessarily a good thing.

After much discussion and no resolution apparently in the offing the chief scrutineer eventually to see what was holding up the queue.  Our pet scroot ‘picturized’ as the Yanks say before we could get a word in on our behalf.  Further deliberation before the boss suggested that the ACU Handbook be consulted for a definitive answer.  Much page turning and hypothesising later it was decided that there was no mention of such anywhere in the rules and therefore our bike should be passed OK.  Further weight was added to our argument in that several other similar outfits had been passed by other scrutineers without comment, we were unlucky to have picked who had either got out of the wrong side of the bed that morning or who was naturally bolshy!

Off we went for practice, neither of us had been on the circuit before although I had marshalled there on a number of occasions.  At that time the paddock was between North and South Tower corners on the inside of the circuit, the start/finish line also between those two bends. First a slight left into the first right hander then swoop downhill through The Glade which was tree lined throughout its whole length and invariably a little slippery because of overhanging trees.  I was uncertain as to whether the straw bales in various places there were to protect the trees from the bikes or vice versa!

Near the end was a gentle right leading onto the straight opposite the athletics track and swimming pool before a fast well cambered right named Ramp Bend which invariably became flooded on the apex in heavy rain, onto the Annerley Ramp, an uphill fast run with a quick but slight left/right before the final corner.  It was only after practice when I walked to the bridge over the Ramp that I was horrified, the whole thing was like a roofless tunnel with steep banks either side and no run-off at all, the banks were faced with old railway sleepers all the way up, definitely not a place to have even a moment let alone an off!

Two races in the afternoon in reasonable weather for Easter, seem to recall that we ended up mid-field in both without any scares or mishaps.  From that day I just loved the Palace despite the obvious safety hazards, there was such a warm atmosphere in the paddock that I always enjoyed racing there so much so that it is still one of my favourite circuits.

Later in the year we did what I thought were some slightly odd races as Jim had this unaccountable wanderlust preferring to travel far afield rather than race at the usual southern circuits.  Bearing in mind that there were no motorways apart from the initial bit of the M6 travel was relatively slow as main trunk roads then passed through many towns with their associated congestion.  This lack of fast travel was not helped by our race transporter as it would be known today, a Bedford CA Dormobile van with the luxury of a three speed gearbox and accompanying trailer.

At that time it was naturally uncommon for many crews to travel far from their own areas to race with the exception of the well known National teams for National/International races.  We were an exception and travelled to places that I had never previously heard of such as Silloth (right up on the Cumberland coast), Llandow in deepest South Wales (before the first Severn Bridge was built), Perton or Purton somewhere in the Worcesteshire/Staffordshire region, Castle Combe and Cadwell Park.

Purton (sic) was a revelation to me, it was an old wartime RAF airfield which did not seem to have any maintenance or repairs done since the cessation of hostilities in 1945.  After just one meeting there my chest was black and blue from lying on the chair along the start/finish straight.  Well, I say straight in the loosest sense of the word as the post-war neglect had particularly left that part of the circuit liberally peppered with an assortment of potholes, ruts and bumps almost worthy of a motocross venue.  Drivers had two options on the ‘straight’, either hold a straight line risking possible structural damage to the bike as well as bodily harm to their passengers or attempt to weave between the obstacles  risking potential collisions with those pursuing similar tactics!

Towards the end of that season I was to marshal at a Silverstone Bemsee meet on the club circuit, as always I had slung leathers etc into my sidecar just in case someone needed a last minute passenger.  For those not familiar with the old Silverstone club circuit it was very simple in layout, startline, into Copse then the flat out left of Maggots into the acute Becketts then along the Club Straight, round Woodcote and start another lap. 

The only two corners of any merit for me were the two rights of Copse and Woodcote, especially the former as it was as demanding and sometimes scary as it ever is today.  One extra part was almost an essential on the bike, well actually in the sidecar nose for the Club circuit, that of an alarm clock to awaken the passenger at the end of the Club Straight which just seemed to go on for ever, a bit like the old Norwich Straight at Snetterton. 

I was about sign on in the marshal’s hut when I heard that a driver was unexpectedly short of a passenger so instead I took myself off to Race Control who tannoyed a message for that driver.  Only a few moments later an expectant looking face appeared in leathers and I was introduced to Steve from Dagenham.  Having bade my fellow marshals farewell I followed Steve to the paddock where I was introduced to his parents and sister, even more importantly to the outfit.  It was his first season of racing,  his bike was an ex Bill Boddice Manx framed machine of unknown vintage now fitted with a Triumph engine and BSA RR2T gearbox.

A good look around showed me one or two odd things about the bike particularly that there were obvious frame repairs in odd places but that did not overly bother me.  Another odd thing was a petrol tap of the lever variety at the bottom leading edge of the sidecar wheel arch but more of that shortly ...

Practice passed smoothly enough and showed me that Steve was one of the last of the late brakers but I remained undaunted.  Back in the paddock His mum provided breakfast, a truly magnificent assemblage for which she was justifiably renowned in the form of a huge chunk of French bread filled with eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, fried bread and mushrooms, truly a magical feast!  

First race, full grid of thirty, flag dropped and away we went from about the third row.  We had dropped a couple of places into Copse, it seemed as though the entire grid had bunched up into an almost solid melée with much paint swapping and hasty avoiding action, all great stuff!  Safely through there I eased out for the flat out Maggots curve, back in again and over the back ready for Becketts.  As Steve changed down a couple of gears the bike spluttered and died, we pulled up safely off line.  Above the noise of passing outfits Steve was shouting something at me and gesticulating towards the sidecar wheel arch, suddenly the penny dropped.  Without realising it I had managed to catch the petrol tap with leathers somewhere around Maggots and turned the wretched thing off, hence our unexpected stop.

Tap on again, pull back onto compression, a few steps and back on board to rejoin the fray, miraculously we were still not stone cold last as we headed off own the Club Straight.  The trip down there this time was even longer because we had a standing start from Becketts so much so that the alarm clock was needed more than ever before.  

Next lap on the same straight I was down on the floor pondering the meaning of life when for no reason I glanced up to my right.  To my immense surprise and shock I actually saw the left top tube of the frame part somewhere near the middle, immediately I tapped my driver and pointed at the break.   He sort of shrugged, smiled and we continued on our merry way.  Having noticed several odd frame repairs earlier in the day it would be safe to say that my mind was not at any particular state of ease.

We continued on our way, chequered flag time and back to the paddock.  Steve seemed pleased with efforts, fuel tap issue notwithstanding and asked if I would step in for next season as his current ballast was retiring at the end of the season.  Having just witnessed a bike literally breaking up as we were racing the idea did not appeal to me remotely and I was just about decline his generous offer with the thought that it was little wonder that his regular passenger, Geoff, was retiring.  Before I could reply he added that he was having a new chassis built for next season, a JSR by the legendary character, welder and driver Jack Rooke.  That changed the whole offer so I agreed there and then.

This offer was very welcome as Jim had told me a few days before that he would be retiring at the end of the season due to a serious ear problem.  That he had any hearing or other aural problems was news to me, my enquiry as to the exact nature of this affliction was met with the response that his wife was insisting, even demanding, that he quit racing for good as she was not happy that her sitting and dining rooms had been stripped of wallpaper some five years previously and were still awaiting new wallpaper.  It is only fair to point out that Jim worked as a builder and decorator!

So that ended my first season of racing as a passenger still without my father’s knowledge.  Enjoyed?  No, absolutely loved it, the biggest buzz ever and the best thing that I had ever done.  Roll on next season ...

So What Happened Next?

My last sidecar racing blog ended with the comment ‘The rest, as they say, is history ...’ so I thought that you, dear reader, might like to know a little more.

The year is 1962, I’m still at school albeit my last year and increasingly barmy about sidecar racing.  Father still had his faithful Norton 16H/Streamline sidecar combination albeit about to be traded in for a blue BSA Golden Flash and matching Garrard Grand Prix chair, we had moved from Crouch End to Enfield where my parents have purchased a maisonette.  There are two garages in the garden one of which is rented out a neighbour a few doors away with a Triumph Thunderbird/Watsonian sidecar combination who just happens to be the secretary of the Epping Forest branch of the Triumph Owners Motorcycle Club.

Naturally it was not long before Dad, Ron and I became friends due to the bike interest.  Those of you from the southern part of England will not need reminding that the Epping Forest branch of TOMCC of which Ron was the secretary, was involved in racing both providing marshals for BMCRC and the Brands Hatch Combine as well as latterly running their own club race meetings at the newly opened Lydden Hill circuit.  

Just before the beginning of the season he asked if I would like to join their marshals, naturally I accepted eagerly because it meant that I could not only get much closer to the racing but that paddock access would no longer be a problem.  The very first meeting of their calendar was a big one, the BMCRC Hutchinson 100 at Silverstone which at that time was a two day international with all of the usual works teams there with many riders from the World Championships and Continental Circus.  What an introduction that was to top flight racing for me!

Shortly after this I saw an advert in the Motorcycle News racing small ads, someone fairly local to me was looking for a passenger.  As was often the case I too could not afford to race on my own account but as a passenger I might be able to do so.  After a few days thought I replied which brought a letter almost by return of post asking to meet me.  It was not long before I met the advertiser, Jim Spencely, at his home one evening, the outcome was that he agreed to give me a try.

Jim took me down to his workshop, well, I say workshop but in reality it was brick built garden shed of very small proportions – so small that the only way that the outfit could be got in there was by having a detachable sidecar which stood on end against a wall.  The bike was alongside and with the two there was barely room for even one person in there which meant that any work on the bike had to be done outside.  It was just as well that the chair was detachable because access to the back garden was via a covered archway between the two adjoining houses. 

The outfit had been built by Jim a year ago with the help of Mike Purdy and Ken Langley, the latter had also passengered for Jim that year but now wished to pursue a solo racing path.  The basis was the well known route of a Norton Featherbed wideline frame suitably modified, the front forks were used as the basis of a set of leading links.  The sidecar chassis was of Reynolds 531 tubing brazed up, the 12” sidecar wheel was from a Zundapp Bella scooter, the whole was bolted to the bike frame for ease of detachment.

Power was by Triumph either 500 or 650cc with a Bonneville head, E3134 cams, lightened rockers, polished and balanced crankshaft, sparks provided by a Lucas competition magneto.  Transmission was through a BSA RR2T Gold Star gearbox and a Norton clutch assembly.  Some meetings at that time had both a 500cc class for sidecars as well as another of 501cc to 1300cc.  Sometimes it was possible to get extra rides by entering both classes achieved by quick engine changes and hot fingers between races hence the two different engines.

One fine Wednesday spring morning saw us on our way to Brands Hatch for a practice day which would be my passengering baptism.  We arrived and having parked up the first thing after unloading the bike was to sign on.  Having changed into my second hand set of Lewis Leathers and spent several minutes lacing up my brand new wrestling boots we set to starting the bike.  Fortunately we had parked near the top of the paddock which was on a slope which made starting much easier.

The motor fired up fairly quickly, I almost fell onto the chair and off we went for a gentle chunter around the paddock.  Returning to our van, an ancient Bedford CA Dormobile, I was delegated as chief engine warmer-upper taking the revs to no more than 5,000rpm.  After some minutes Jim killed the engine so that the spark plugs could be changed to colder ones.  Almost immediately it was time for the first sidecar session of twenty minutes, having donned helmet, gloves and goggles we push started again and went to the paddock top gate where we sat for a few minutes whilst the solos from the previous session dribbled back in to the paddock.

Off we went via the ambulance gate at the top of Paddock Hill Bend, positioning myself over the back of the bike the first impression was one of total noise (we were running on straight pipes then) swiftly followed by a feeling of fear and exhilaration accompanied by a dry throat.  Stayed over the back ready for Druids then eased out for the left of Bottom Bend which was much sharper and deeper than today.  Along the Bottom Straight which was a true straight then, out again for the left of Kidney Bend and Immediately over the back for the second part remaining over the back for Clearways before lying on the floor trying not to scrape my toes on the tarmac.

Up over the back again for Paddock, this time fast into it, felt the bump on the apex then the hand pressing in my back at the bottom of Paddock Hill as I lay on the floor before moving for Druids again. My ears were ringing, with the engine vibration it sounded as though every nut and bolt was loose and frantically jangling, I just hoped that was not so!

Several laps later the chequered flag was shown signalling the end of our session so we completed another a little more slowly before returning to the paddock.  When I had taken of my helmet and gloves I spoke to Jim but nothing happened apart from a dry little croak because my mouth and throat was so dry, Jim’s wife Jill handed me some water which was very welcome.

Jim asked me what I thought, I said that it was just so fast and exhilarating yet sort of frightening.  To my total astonishment he said that we had been cruising with the engine not going over 5,500 rpm and the next session it would the full 7,600 rpm!  This dispelled my idea that we had been shifting at race speed and I wondered what the next session would be like, would I be able to hang on and not chicken out.

There were a few jobs to be done on the bike, the main one was to seal an oil leak from the timing cover, well it was a Triumph after all!  Lunch time, tea and sandwiches then check everything again before our next outing.

First lap out we went fairly gently before stretching the throttle cables coming out of Clearways.  Looking through the chair nose I was trying to judge when to get up for Paddock, obviously earlier than before as we were now seriously shifting.  Feeling a tap on my right shoulder I only just made it for the entrance to Paddock but we got round OK.  My driver was right about this time being much faster than our previous session, initially I was having a little difficulty in timing my moves through Kidney Bend but after several laps it was getting easier.

Soon, too soon for me, the session ended.  Back in the paddock I felt completely exhilarated, on an absolute high with a big silly grin on my face that I had actually done it.  Jim seemed reasonably happy with my efforts and gave me a little advice saying that he was happy to have me aboard for the season.

That was the icing on the cake to the perfect day but there was a potential problem looming up.  At that time the legal age of consent was twenty one which I would not be for another two years, entry forms for those who were technically still minors had to be countersigned by a parent or guardian giving their permission.  Father was unaware of my day out today as a virgin passenger, despite his enjoyment of racing I was certain that he would never sign an entry form allowing me to race.  Could I, or did I want to wait until my majority?  Hell no, the obvious decision was that I must forge his signature which is what I did for a forthcoming race at Brands Hatch.

Several weeks later I was in a high state of excitement and nerves as we arrived at Brands Hatch for a Saturday race meeting.  Practice passed without any problems except that I felt quite sick before we went out due to nerves, something that I hoped would soon pass with experience but unfortunately it never did.  Right until my final race a good few years later I was in the same state about fifteen minutes or so before going on track generally spending much of that time in the toilets, friends use to remark that I had shares in a toilet paper company.

Race time, we made our way out through the ambulance gate with the rest of a full grid, drove around the circuit before forming up on the start line.  Engines cut, pull bike back on compression, pull goggles down, try to control breathing and nerves, the eerie thing was that there was total silence then, watch the starter, flag dropped and push, count five steps and Jim would drop the clutch, take two more steps then leap aboard and fling myself onto the sidecar floor.

The first noise of which I was aware after the flag dropped was the pattering sound of about  some fifty pairs of feet followed a few seconds by the spluttering of the first engine to fire, then there was an absolute crescendo of noise as we all got away.  To the side and in front of me there were bikes jostling for position into the first bend, it seemed so close that I was sure that at least some would touch going into Paddock Bend.  We were safely round then the battle for position at the hairpin began with bikes taking all manner of lines on the approach.

Safely round again after we actually passed someone then onwards, ever onwards in a mad rush of noise, wind and exhaust fumes.  Eventually we saw the chequered flag, as we went back through the ambulance gate a friend held up ten fingers and thumbs indicating that we had finished tenth, I could not believe that we had done so well!

Came our second race of the day, we started middle of the grid, away we went but something was not right as we were being left behind by most of the others.  There was a nasty graunching noise coming from the gearbox, it seemed as though there was some sort of selection or clutch problem.  Eventually Jim found a gear and we accelerated away in pursuit of everyone.  Again there were  problems, this time changing down for the hairpin, we scratched round there in a heap and headed downhill towards Bottom Bend still losing ground.

Into second gear, no problems, ease out for the left as the change to third was made.  More graunching noises and revving of the engine due to false neutrals.  We were now approaching the corner too quickly for a bike that would not drive.  Suddenly I was shocked to see the track disappearing away to my left before I looked ahead to see that we were not going to make that bend.  At that time Bottom Bend was much sharper than today, thankfully no Armco on the outside but instead there was quite a steep drop of some twenty feet or so – suddenly we were airborne flying through the air with greatest of ease!

It is often said that at times like these everything goes into slow motion and it did.  I was totally aware of everything around me in crystal sharp detail as I wondered whether to get back in, stay where I was or abandon ship.  The decision was made for me as the bike landed upright with a tremendous thump, Jim eventually bringing it to a stop without further misadventure.  The engine died, we got off, I had twisted my back on landing and it was a little uncomfortable, my driver had banged both knees on the front edge of the kneeler trays but apart from that we were both alright.

It was then that I realised that we had been lucky especially as Dad did not know what I was up to, the parental wrath should I have been hospitalised was best left to my imagination!  We were towed ignominiously back to the paddock where investigation eventually revealed that the clutch centre nut had come loose hence the grinding of gears and false neutrals.

End of a truly fabulous day for me and it would take several more for me to come down from the high of my first race.  From initially having been filled with trepidation I was eagerly looking forward to our next race in a few weeks time.  But more of that later ...

The holiday season is here – again

The holiday season has begun here in France beginning today the fourteenth of July, know in the UK as Bastille Day it is a national French holiday.  The annual French holiday season is unlike Great Britain is very short, just six weeks from mid-July until the end of August.  During this period there is a mass migration from cities and towns all across the country on the fourteenth to coastal and mountain resorts in a lemming-like madness.  Many towns become almost ghost towns as people escape for their annual vacation.

This first weekend of the season sees the biggest traffic jams of the year with queues anything up to twenty kilometres at autoroute toll booths, sadly this weekend sees also the greatest number of road deaths each year.

The area where we live in deepest southwest France is very picturesque with many ancient villages and towns, beautiful scenery and steeped in history.  Naturally many visitors come here to enjoy a holiday, when I say many I mean in their thousands – one nearby village has a normal population of some fifteen hundred which swells at the summer peak to seven to eight thousand!  

Naturally all local businesses welcome this annual influx because generally  it is the one and only chance to make any money throughout the whole year so, of course, prices go up in cafés and bars, restaurants, many shops and tourist attractions as well as hotels, camp sites and other tourist centred features.  This is the time of year when the local people do not eat out nor have coffee or drinks out, it’s no great hardship because it is only for six weeks of the year, we have the other forty six all to ourselves!

Of course shops etc become very crowded, it is difficult if not almost impossible to eat out should we have to without a reservation but without our annual visitors the economy would suffer badly.  The département in which we live, Lot-et-Garonne, is officially the third poorest in the whole of France, the main economic activity being farming (cattle, plums for prunes, hazelnuts) and tourism so any additional income is most welcome.

Am I complaining?  No, not really.  Yes there are the extra long queues in the shops and possibly a little traffic congestion but not much to speak of.  Probably the most dangerous result is from drivers who do not know the local area or are complete strangers to the country because the French system of road markings, roundabouts and the give way to other traffic rules are so varied and in some places very complex.

For example a local roundabout has just three roads leading onto it so in British eyes that should be very straightforward.  Not the case – one road at the roundabout there is a stop line which means exactly that.  Taking the first exit presents no problem, if, however, you wish to take the second exit there is another stop line halfway across the roundabout where traffic entering has precedence.  

Traffic from the right at that point may take the next exit without any problem but if wishing to take the second exit then there is another stop line again halfway across the roundabout where traffic from the right entering the hazard must be accorded right of way.  The next problem arises because that traffic that has right of way to take the first or second exit.  

There is a certain amount of entertainment then to be had observing the antics of ones fellow road users at this roundabout which most locals during the holiday season treat with great circumspection.  Probably the best and safest policy is should there be any uncertainty as to another drivers possible antics then stop and let them have right of passage!  As may be imagined there are a considerable number of minor collisions at this site during the summer, perhaps the local body repair shop would attract much business of they had a representative present handing out business cards!

All of the foregoing may sound like reasons not live here but the benefits far outweigh the disadvantages, believe me.  Would we choose to live anywhere else?  Emphatically not!

How it all began ....

How it all began - my passion for sidecar racing that is.

My parents and I were living in Crouch End, North London, in 1956.  As was common at that time few families had their own personal transport relying on public transport to get about.  Father was working as a bakery roundsman for the London Co-operative Society from their depot in Palmers Green a journey of about an hour each way with a change of buses at Muswell Hill Broadway six days each week.

He finally decided that it was time to invest in his own transport rather than rely on buses.  On returning home from school one afternoon I noticed a motorcycle and sidecar combination outside our home.  This puzzled me as none of my father’s friends as that I knew owned such a machine.  Once indoors my father greeted me and asked me had I noticed anything different so I said that there was a sidecar outside our house.  

Dad could contain himself no longer telling me that it was ours and that we could now go wherever we wanted whenever we wished to do so.  I was quite thrilled by this as until several years ago we always had a car, a 1932 Austin Ten, in which every summer Sunday we would go for days out to the Essex, Kent or Sussex coast.  Those trips were very special to me and the envy of many of friends whose parents could not afford such luxuries.

Father had kept in touch over the years with one his particular school friends, Percy Lester, well more than a friend as they had grown up together living in adjacent houses in Edmonton.  The first memories I have of Percy was at about seven years old when he was a roundsman for a local family run bakery driving a small electric powered Brush three wheeled delivery van with calls in our road.  Occasionally he would let me drive this between calls, naturally I was thrilled to be allowed such an illegal privilege!  

One particular day I had been to work with Dad on his sidecar, instead of heading home we went in the totally opposite direction to a parade of shops in Upper Edmonton where Father’s friend Percy had recently opened a motorcycle shop.  Well, I say a motorcycle shop but in reality it was a workshop selling motorcycle related bits and pieces as well.  Pride of place was given to a sidecar outfit, not just any ordinary beast of the time but a sleek silver machine on which the name Norton was proudly emblazoned on the petrol tank with a fairing and a strange platform for a sidecar.  My gaze was rivetted on this machine as my mind was trying to guess exactly what it was – then the penny dropped.  What gave the game away were the black numbers on oval backgrounds on the front and side of the bike and on the sidecar wheel cover, it just had to be a racing sidecar, the first time I had encountered such a thing.  Little did I know at that moment exactly how this almost chance encounter would influence much of my adult life.

Never before had I seen such a machine nor, as I recall, even heard of such a thing, but in front of my eyes there stood an item of great interest and wonderment to me.  Percy asked would I like to sit on it, now that was a really silly question to ask almost any twelve year old lad so I climbed aboard!  Reaching for the handlebars I could only just manage to reach the footrests so I naturally fell into a good impression of a racing crouch, being only just able to lift my head sufficiently to see where I was going, assuming of course that I was going anywhere such was the febrile imagination of a twelve year old mind.  All of this was of course accompanied by lots of Brrrrmmm Brrrrmmm type noises.

Soon Dad said it was time to go but first I had to prised away from this dream machine, reluctantly climbing off we said our farewells to return home. What I did not know that during my exciting yet imaginary ride to race fame and glory was that Percy had told Father something that was to be kept secret from me until the end of the following week.

Good Friday 1956 – unusually Dad did not go to work that day as he had arranged a couple of days holiday over the Easter weekend, I say unusually because bread deliveries were always at that time made six days a week.  In fact that is the first occasion that I can ever recall him having any time off over the Easter period.  Breakfast over and done with, sandwiches and flasks prepared for a day out so off we went on the ex RAC Norton 16H and Streamline child/adult sidecar. Where we were going was still unknown to me as we headed via Finsbury Park, Islington, London Bridge then into almost for me unknown territory south of Southwark.

The London suburbs gradually gave way to more open aspects then to green countryside as we continued on our way. Suddenly I saw a sign that read ‘Brands Hatch’, I knew that car racing happened there but did not think for a moment that would be our destination but that we were en route somewhere to the Kent coast.  The outfit began to slow, from my seat in the sidecar I could see more signs proclaiming this time that this was indeed Brands Hatch.  We turned into circuit, paid for our entry and programme then parked near the main grandstand.

There were solos out on the track, it was apparently practice preparatory for the afternoon’s racing. The speed and daring of the riders astonished me as I wondered how they could manage to stay on around the corners whilst leaning over so far.  Where we were watching from, near the top of Paddock Hill Bend was a good vantage point because virtually all of the circuit was visible from there.  An added bonus was that the riders left and returned to the paddock via the ambulance gate which was only a few feet from where we stood giving me a good look at everyone and the bikes as passed slowly by.

More solos came and went then the public address system announced that next to practice would be the sidecars, or barrow boys as they were then often known.  My interest and excitement grew rapidly as the outfits began trickling out onto the circuit.  Father particularly pointed out one machine to me saying that it was his friend Percy so I paid particular attention as he and his passenger were circulating.  The whole thing was just so fantastic, the sight of machines rushing round, the noise, the smell, the death defying antics of the passengers, so much so that I think that it was then that I had my first ever sidecar racing adrenalin rush! 

Competitors that I remember taking part were Bill Boddice, Cyril Smith, Dave Read, Fred Wells, Ted Young, the others regrettably remain a complete blur!

End of the session, all returned past us back to the paddock.  Now, I imagined that the paddock would be a inner sanctum where only competitors and the ultra privileged were permitted, I was fervently wishing that we could go there and see Percy and his Norton.  Dad started to walk away asking if was I coming.  Naturally I asked where as I did not wish to relinquish my excellent viewpoint, the reply was that we were going to the paddock.  Had I not had sufficient excitement already for one day? Apparently not, so we wended our way eventually finding my new found hero.

In the paddock there was just so much noise and activity, bikes being started, ridden around, machinery being warmed  up, motorcycles being fettled all in a atmosphere that was vibrant and exciting.  Something I had never smelt before however was the aroma of a hot bike fresh from the track, a wonderful smell of hot Castrol R and engines mixed with petrol fumes, it was a very heady cocktail to me. Around us were a number of other sidecars their crews still in leathers  many of whom were chatting and relating their own individual races.  Percy came over to speak with me and Dad, I listened in utter fascination yet almost lost in a dream world.  For me it was too soon when we went back to our erstwhile vantage point to watch more racing, I would have given anything to stay where the real heart of racing was.

 

Later, much later in the afternoon, it was the turn of the chairs again.  As they slowly drove through the ambulance gate onto the track both Percy and his passenger waved to me, now that really made my day to actually be acknowledged by a motorcycle racer!  Little of the race remains with me because I was so absorbed in the sheer spectacle of men wrestling with machines around Paddock Bend with much opposite lock and drifting as well as the sheer cacophony of finely tuned racing engines on open exhausts.

Race over, I saw the bikes for the last time that day as they returned to the paddock.  What a fantastic and memorable day that had been for me, something to day dream about for the future.  Little did I know but there was more to come soon, very soon ...

Easter Monday morning – had breakfast, sandwiches and flasks were prepared again, soon we were on the road again heading initially on the same route as Good Friday.  My parents had not told me where we were going again but that was not unusual for the time as children were brought up to do as they were told.  When we had passed through Southwark instead of turning onto the Old Kent Road which led eventually to Brands Hatch we headed for Herne Hill according to traffic signs.  Having passed through Herne Hill we were then following signs for Crystal Palace, I was still none the wiser.

Shortly we arrived at the Palace, it was only then that I saw signs advertising motorcycle racing there for Easter Monday – suddenly I was very excited again at the prospect of hopefully seeing more sidecar racing!  Soon I found myself on the terraces alongside the old start finish straight between North and South Tower Corners watching some solo races and becoming impatient to see the sidecars again.  All in good time they appeared much to my delight.  Regrettably I do not recall much of that meeting at all except that I enjoyed it immensely and could not wait to go racing again.

That evening over dinner I told my father that when old enough I was going to take up sidecar racing, his reply was that I would never be able to afford to do so.  For those of you that know me fairly well that was a challenge, albeit possibly a long term one.  The rest, as it is said, is history ...

Croix-en-Ternois 2012 - an Odyssey

Time again for my annual trip to la Circuit d'Automobile at Croix-en-Ternois in far northern France. As always for me this is an eagerly awaited weekend because it gives me the opportunity to meet with UK friends and to see much pre’78 machinery, solo and sidecars especially a good number of BMWs!  

Left home Thursday morning to stay overnight at Rouen in Normandy then the next day carry on to Croix.  You may call me a wuss if you wish but these days a trip of just over one thousand kilometres in one day is just too much, besides there is no rush anyway. The journey as far as Tours and the River Loire was pleasant, little traffic, sunshine, satnav behaving herself.  It is said that France has a distinct division of weather that north and south of the Loire.  Yet again it was true, as I crossed the river the sun disappeared, huge black clouds appeared in virtually an instant, suddenly unannounced the skies opened – not rain but hailstones the size of marrowfat peas.  The noise on my car roof was deafening, I was hoping that the hailstones would not damage the roof - this is not unknown in France, car insurance carries specific cover for hail damage.  There was little option but to slow down as the road was very slippery within a few seconds and only possible to continue at about 50 kph.  Thankfully the hail stopped in about five minutes turning to seriously heavy rain of almost biblical proportions for a further few minutes. The storm was accompanied by gale force winds which continued after the deluge ceased all the way to Rouen.  Last year at Croix the weekend was blighted by heavy storm conditions until the Sunday afternoon, I was praying that 2012 would not be a repetition.

Saturday morning – blue skies, breezy and warmish, obviously prayers had been heeded.  A stop was made en route to Croix for breakfast for Team Triplebrew of the obligatory baguettes, croissants and pain au chocolat which were very welcome on my arrival.  The team had a good journey from UK and were comfortably setup anticipating an enjoyable weekend with all problems sorted beforehand.

The paddock(s) were very full despite there being a meeting at Dijon the same weekend for classic machinery – this year somehow or another a couple of F2s had sneaked into the entry, oh well suppose that it gives the quicker classics something to aim at!  There were some interesting outfits to be seen, a pair of T500 Suzuki engined bikes (one of which was reputed to be leading its class in the French championships), the usual spread of Kawasaki fours, a two Konigs and a very large handful of BMWs.  One of the Konigs was a copy of Rudi Kurth’s chassis where the passenger lies prone without moving for the entire session, the driver was working hard on lefts but without any apparent problems because it was quick, very quick.  To seemingly much relief the Honda twin outfit with the passenger of the most extreme and outrageous style was not present this year, they caused quite a few problems for others last time due to their infinitely variable width and unpredictability.

First session went well for 118 after the usual reluctance of the Triumph to initially fire up.  Grant and Ian soon settled into a comfortable rhythm, Croix is all about rhythm, circulating fairly rapidly indulging in a battle with the quick T500 for a good number of laps.  End of session, 118 pronounced the session good and better than last year (apart from the weather) as gearing had been raised seemingly spot on. Another sidecar session promptly began, in this there was Derek Plummer and his passenger Roger on a tidy but functional BMW – they went well and seemed to be enjoying themselves.  At one time there was a bunch of five BMWs all on megas together, oh what sweet music to my ears!

Lunchtime – a slightly different affair to the usual British thirty minutes or so, one and a half hours duration, that is normal in France even at the National Championship rounds.  If you have never seen lunch in a French paddock it would be a revelation, table with tablecloths, chairs a huge variety of cold meats, fish, salads, fruit, tarts accompanied by the inevitable bread and a little wine!  As for myself I was treated to sandwiches (fresh made) and some superb frites all naturally accompanied by tea – for his efforts in the latter department the entire weekend Ian must at least be mentioned in dispatches!

First sidecar session of the afternoon and Team Triplebrew were out again, thankfully the triple was more inclined to start this time.  Soon a rhythm was established, surprisingly they were staying in contact with both F2s on circuit.  Without warning they disappeared, for a couple of laps before reappearing in the paddock.  Puzzled looks all round because the throttle has suddenly developed a mind of its own and jammed wide open into a corner, suffice to say there was minor panic before normal order resumed with withdrawal from the fray deemed the wisest option.

Fairing removed allowed a close examination of throttle cable, for some reason when on lock the cable had managed to get itself snagged behind the rev counter.  Said cable freed then much lock to lock waggling of the steering in an attempt to replicate the problem.  After a few turns the cable became entangled again, the obvious question was why now when it had never occurred before?  Much conjecture followed leading to the obvious question of what is different this time.  A number of different routes were tried all without apparent resolution, cable tying it too various bits as well as the clutch cable did not work satisfactorily either.  Anyone remember the Simon and Garfunkel hit ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover’?  There is now a revised version if that classic song: ‘Fifty Ways to Route a Cable’!  Grant is an inveterate taker of photos, this time his pics of various bits of the bike really paid off – amongst his collection was one of the rev counter head and the offending cable.  Cable rerouted correctly this time with the aid of the odd cable tie and it was pronounced good.

That was the end of track time for day one, now there was an even greater problem, what to do for dinner this evening?  Basically there were two very obvious choices, stay in or go out – the former meant the fast food bar in the paddock which is quite good as such places go, especially their French bread hamburger with all the trimmings.  When I say French bread I mean a standard French loaf with obvious contents covered on top and both sides by frites, never have I seen a burger so big and all for €7.  Of course there were other options including the usual local style hot dog ...

The alternative was to eat out so we headed for the nearest village of St Pol de Ternois which has a number of eateries to choose from, our selection was the old post office offering an inexpensive and varied menu.  Inner beings satisfied it was back to respective bases and goodnight Vienna.

Sunday morning broke very grey and breezy, en route to the circuit from my hotel the rain started becoming somewhat heavy.  Oh dear thought I, a rerun of last year, please no!  Made the daily victuals stop on the way arriving at Croix still in the rain.  First session was sidecars, the boys were out in this one, I saw the last few minutes and they were going very well indeed with the little 500 Suzi following but unable to pass.  The track was very wet, the odd large puddle forms here and there so caution is the watchword.  118 came out of a left hairpin just in front of where I was watching lining up for the next corner, a right hairpin, some one hundred and fifty metres on.  The Suzi hit the puddle between the two corners and aquaplaned in a very spectacular fashion with literally a lock to lock old fashioned tank slapper, looked a bit scary.  Somehow the driver caught it whether it was skill or reaction I know not but it was a tremendous save indeed.  

End of session, two more later to go.  The penultimate one was wet again but Grant and Ian love the wet so off they went.  Only about a dozen or so went this time, some had already given the weather best and were packing up.  A few short minutes later 118 came back to the paddock with a persistent misfire, obviously a case of water where it didn’t oughta.  There was a fair while before they were due out again including the lunch break so they started to hopefully find the cause of the misfire.  Just a few years ago electrics were simple, very simple, a battery to run the SU fuel pump and a magneto for the sparks – that was it, nought else, so simple that even I understood them.  For the first time I had a look at the electrickery on the Trident, hmmm, a grey box about the size of a junction box with a rainbow coloured assortment of electric string to and from it, a cluster of more electric spaghetti shooting off all over the place.  Confused?  You bet I was!  The grey box was explained to me as the Trispark ignition system, I liked that because all the gubbins and thingummies are inside unseen so there is for me no need to know anything else.

Connectors were disconnected, plugs unplugged, adaptors unadapted, wires pulled and poked, everything being dried meticulously.  Much kitchen towel was used and some left over lunch in the hope attracting any remaining moisture.  Inner men (and lady) fed it was time to put it all back together and see what happened.  Any guesses are probably not worth the effort, the misfire was still alive and well.  Further cleaning and demoisturising continued apace still to no good effect.  In the meantime the rain became more intense, just what is needed when trying to eliminate damp problems, the sky darkened even more as another attempt was made to get Neptune running on all three.  Oh dear, still the bike was only one of a very few 620cc Tridents around ...

Grant, still astride the back sat up with a sort of smile gesticulating to the ignition coils.  He had seen a spark between the HT outlet and a low tension wire on a coil.  Further investigation showed that was the case, substitute coil fitted in less than a minute and bingo! - one very healthy sounding Trident.  What an absolute flook of a fault, if the light had not been poor then it could have taken ages to find the problem.

By now, mid afternoon, the paddock was almost empty due to the appalling weather, control was calling for any solo riders to brave it, not just in classes as earlier but anyone brave or foolhardy enough to give it a go.  No takers so there was an empty twenty minute slot with nothing happening apart from the incessant rain still falling.  Then a sidecar session was called with about half a dozen bikes turning out.  Why not, said les frères Tapsell, it’s only rain.  The first lap was behind the safety car to line up a grid.  Start and everyone was away in what turned out to be probably the fastest session of the day despite the conditions.  Clinging fairly closely to Team Triplebrew was an immaculate, metallic green, naked 1000cc BMW which sounded absolutely gorgeous.  Try as Ian and Grant might they did not manage to dislodge that BMW for the entire session, that is certainly one of the quickest Be-ems that I have ever seen.  Apart from what is presumably a well tuned motor the passenger, a young lady of only about nine and a half stones certainly contributed to their performance with an economy of movement and wonderfully neat positioning, she was a sheer joy to watch.

So that was Croix 2012.  Well, not quite.  Left hotel Monday morning to travel for an overnight stop at Rouen, pleasant hotel, good night’s sleep.  Tuesday morning my car would not start, not battery problems, plenty of diesel in the tank.  Thankfully recovery is included in French car insurance – simples!  No, all necessary details are at home, phoned Jane to liaise with our bank (our car insurers).  Recovery truck arrived thirty minutes later taking me to a Rouen garage.

By lunchtime, it’s France so that garage closed for a two hour lunch break, the problem had not been identified.  Sat around another three hours when the news was gently broken that the injector pump had failed, an ex-injector pump so to speak.  Would be repaired but not ready until two days later so an enforced hotel stay in Rouen.

Thursday morning found me back at the garage having been told that all was fixed and ready to go, great!  Fate had one more little surprise waiting for me – my bank debit card was rejected, apparently there is a maximum one payment ceiling on it.  Panic!  Not having a cheque book with me (cheques in France are as good as cash) how do I get out of this one?  Phoned Jane again who went see our bank manager who was as ever very helpful.  Thirty minutes later a fax arrived at the garage proving that payment had been made, smiles and handshakes all round and left homeward bound and €2,200 euros poorer.

Eight hours later and I had never been so pleased to see home, Jane and our two cats!

Doesn't it make you mad when ...

... the phone rings.  I don't mean when I'm near the phone but other times such as in the middle of enjoying dinner, have to get up, finish chewing a delicious morsel, answer the phone with a little annoyance. Despite an explanation to the caller, often friend or family, that I was enjoying my meal that person insists on trying to drag out a conversation which could easily have waited until a little later.  Result?  Cold dinner that now looks distinctively unappealing.  Reheat in the microwave and all crisp things have turned soft and soggy, reheat in the oven and any sauce or gravy will look like my granny's skin after sunbathing for eight hours.  In all probability it will taste remarkably similar too.

The phone rings again at a different time.  Rush down from our top bedroom via one ladder and a flight of stairs, trip over a wandering cat in the the kitchen, thereby kicking the mat on which the cat's dishes are placed, spilling crunchy cat  biscuits, milk and water all across the kitchen floor.  Rush into sitting room, panic because the TV remote has disappeared so that the sound cannot be muted quickly, pick up the handset just to hear the dialing tone because the caller has decided that I am not home.

On another occasion I was happily cooking what would hopefully be a delicious ham and cheese omelette for lunch when the phone demanded my attention.  In my haste to answer the thing I did not take the omelette pan from the heat on the stove.  The call was from a friend whom I had not spoken to for a while, naturally we became somewhat engrossed in catching up with things.  Slowly I became aware of of a smell of something becoming hotter than it it should be accompanied by delicate little clouds of bleu smoke coming from the kitchen next door.  A hasty goodbye along with a promise to call back later that was made.  The kitchen was full of acrid smoke and the smell of burnt egg and pan as wellas something looking a little like a piece of immolated rubber.  Suddenly I was not entertaining very charitable thoughts about my friend with whom I had just been chatting.

This morning my wife had gone out shopping so I was home alone.  Now, dear reader, I shall phrase this as delicately as I can - there was I safely ensconced upon the bathroom throne when, guess what?  The blasted phone rang.  As I was expecting a call that I did not want to miss I leapt to my feet, hoisted trousers to knee level thus facilitating some sort of movement, painfully stubbing a big toe on the bathroom door in my hurry to reach the phone.  Negotiating the kitchen successfully as there were no meandering cats about, did not fall down the steps into the sitting room and grabbed the phone.  No, it was not the anticipated call but some French call centre denizen asking would I like to purchase - well, I don't really know what was being proffered because the prepared speech was interrupted with a peremptory impolite invitation to go away. 

Yes we do have call preference here in rural France which theoretically bars most telesales pests.  Great idea except that I have registered at six times in recent years so far with the preference system to absolutely no avail whatsoever.  Does my blood pressure rise sharply on such occasions as it certainly would have done when living in England?  No, not at all because after nearly eight years living with the French system and attitudes I am slowly morphing into a French replica and just mutter 'Merde!' accompanied by a Gallic shrug.

Please Sir!

Please Sir! for those of tender years that may not have seen this TV comedy series in the 1970s was a tale of a somewhat beleaguered and harrassed teacher played by John Alderton endeavouring to inculcate some learning into a group pupils in their final school year and achieving varying degrees of failure.

Having already given a little insight in previous posts as to my various careers here is yet another direction that was taken.  Having graduated late in life with a business degree there was then the difficulty of finding employment at an age when many folk were being made redundant, not an easy prospect.  Sometimes in life you know exactly where you wish to go but the fates decide that is not to be your destination.  Thus it was, having applied for more than three hundred posts in about nine months and receiving at least twenty or so acknowledgements and several interviews none of which were my desired path nor successful in getting a job. 

Around this time the anti-ageism movement was just finding its feet, until then it was seen as a cranky thing and had no or little foundation in general apart from those who were feeling its grinding oppression and depression.  The reasons, or rather excuses, for not offering me a post were legion, ranging from the laughable to politely insulting.  Overall these rejections in whatever terms they were couched read like something from the brothers Grimm book of fairy tales combined with horrors from the pen of Edgar Allan Poe himself.

So it was not to be.  From the blue I had a phone call from a friend asking if I had considered lecturing in my degree subject of Business Administration, certainly an avenue that had not even been considered.  So, to cut a long, tedious story short a pert-time temporary contract was offered to me in the Business department of a further education college on the very outskirts of East London starting immediately.

My very first session at the chalkface was not with post GCSE students (for want of a better term) but twenty or so final year secondary school pupils whose school had agreed a contract to introduce them to a pre-college business studies and IT related program.  My innocence sugggested to me that they might be of reasonable intelligence, ability and fairly well socialised as well as having having mastered the basic skills of communication.  Wrong!  That was the first of many incorrect assumptions that I naively made ...

Day one,  just after lunch I ventured into the appointed classroom, just what I expected, twenty PCs and workstations.  The chosen topic for that session was to about CVs.  At the appointed hour the door opened and in traipsed the group all with assorted looks of disinterest accompanied by appropriate body language.  My heart began to sink ...

Having got them seated and instructed in the obligatory house rules the actual lesson began with the aid of projector slides explaining exactly what a CV is and its very purpose.  Forewarned that they had already at their school learned about curriculum vitae I asked what the purpose of such a document might be.  Twenty bodies seated around a large central table suddenly stopped fidgeting, chewing pens, scratching various bodily parts and began looking intently at the table, the ceiling, the floor or anywhere rather than challenge my questing gaze, all wishing that they were elsewhere, anywhere rather than in this now sepulchrally quiet room.  Obviously my gaze was of insufficient intensity to elicit any response so the question was repeated, twice, before a timid, tremulous little hand arose whose owners voice squeaked 'Please sir'.  Delighted at a response I asked the tremulous yet bold one for his his reply - 'Please sir, is it a French car'.   Aaaarrrghh!  Hmm, mark this one's card as a smartarse.  Not one other member of the group stirred.

Finally having explained the subtleties of compiling a CV, the groups were thankfully dismissed.  Jeez, if this teaching/lecturing then what the hell have I let myself in for?

Same group, following week.  All seated at PCs with the task of compiling a personal CV, me having managed to fire up a number recalcitrant and ancient PCs they began the task.  Silence for a few minutes as thought processes began to awaken followed by tenuous poking of keyboards.  After some minutes a young lass named Jenny raised her hand and said 'Sir?'  I went over to her to ascertain the nature of her question.  'Please sir, I don't like football.'  As asked she repeated her question, during which I was trying frantically to think what on earth how her statement was relevant to the matter in hand.  Reply; 'I don't like football so I don't know any referees'!  Patiently repeated explanation and definition of referees in context.

Wandering around monitoring the group's progress I alight upon the hapless Jenny seeing that under the heading of Interest and Hobbies she had typed 'Watching telly'.  When asked if that was considered to be an adequate response, in words of one syllable, she informed that was her sole out of school activity being totally uninterested in anything else.  Several minutes later spent trying to elicit other information as to her extra-curricular activities proved fruitless so it was suggested that she retain her response so that her teacher might have more luck than I ...

The next few days were spent wondering exactly what the hell  had I become enmeshed and hoping fervently that genuine further education may prove a little less fruitless and frustrating. 

Further tales from the chalkface to follow ...

Lies, myths, 'experts' and politicians

Global warming, climate change, call it what you will, according to so called experts, international bodies spurious or otherwise, politicians from a vast assortment of countries and political beliefs, lobbyists and companies with self-serving vested interests (overwhelmingly financial) and other hangers-on would have the world believe that change or warming is a real and present threat.  The whole shebang of threat and doom is founded upon a false premise and desire to enrich themselves, governments or companies by raising taxes under that subterfuge.  In so doing they all choose to ignore that there have been several well documented, researched and evidenced Ice Ages followed by a number of very warm/hot millenia before the cycle repeats over again.

What is more worrying is that these assumptions/conspiracies or beliefs largely go unchallenged; rather those that challenge their assertions are branded heretics or deluded as well as being generally ignored by the global media machines.

I am not going to bang on about this but Below is an article by Adam Baker of Blotter.com that I wholeheartedly support.  Whether you, dear loyal readers, concur is not the issue, but that people should consider the argument below sensibly and seriously rather than just slavishly and loyally follow the 'official' line.

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Nothing quite like waking up on an early February morning to a covering of crisp, white snow reminding us that once again, winter is upon us. Europe is experiencing heavy snowfalls, temperatures have plummeted and ski resorts are packed to the rafters with tourists enjoying the weather.

But wait. What happened? Snow? In winter? This isn't supposed to happen anymore, remember? It was quite clearly foretold in March 2000 by eminent climate change scientist Dr David Viner that our children "would never experience snowfall". Billions are being poured into the "climate change" campaign (renamed from Global Warming for obvious reasons) and you and I are the ones paying for this nonsense. From the rich being able to sell us solar energy for 43p a unit, when you and I can buy it for 7p a unit to endless wind farms, to "global taxation" via Kyoto or carbon trading, we are being had on a royal scale.

Not one single politician has the balls to call an end to this outright en masse theft. To do so would see him vilified, ridiculed and unemployed, just as suggesting that the Sun was at the centre of the solar system or the planet might not be flat caused endless problems back in the Middle Ages.

We KNOW climate changes. It's why we can dig up fossils of giraffes in East Anglia and burn coal from once great tropical forests now residing under Nottingham. Yet someone, somewhere got the idea that truly massive amounts of money, OUR money could be extracted from us if only a way could be found to "save the planet". To reject the notion is to be a heretic to the all encompassing church of Global Warming. To question the wisdom of the great priests of climate change is to invite public scorn and ridicule. Yet in the background, our Lords and Masters are quietly planning new "non political" global taxes to redistribute your earnings to makers of wind turbines in Denmark and Germany and support Marxist redistribution of your wealth to idiots who live on flood plains in Bangladesh.

Schemes designed to punish us for using energy generated to create our standard of living are being implemented. Long gone is "aid" or donations. Oh no, a brilliant scam to tax you of your income and send it to people who sit under palm trees all day is well and truly underway.

Call me old fashioned, but when choosing somewhere to build my mud hut, I might consider a 25 mile walk to the local water hole to be a minus on the tick box of "des res" must haves. But not anymore. That nice man from DFID rolls up clutching a case full of money, apologising for making the desert so hot and would I like to accept a large cheque from people in the snowy north?

If you need any proof it's a global scam, just look at the glee with which Politicians are courted by those with a vested interest in getting hold of your taxes. Pseudo charities lobbying from dawn till dusk so that Joe the Plumber will feel the guilt of his hideous actions in turning on the central heating in frozen Europe during winter - the wealth creating bastard.

Mankind adapts. From naked pygmies in tropical sub Saharan Africa to whale blubber munching Inuits in Greenland, there is pretty much nowhere on the planet that is too hostile for man to thrive. If you think removing our wealth and handing it to morons to live on flood plains or up poles in monsoon river deltas is the answer, I'd certainly like to know what the question is.

Dr David Viner is now head of a £10M British Council initiative to "educate" foreign youth about the dangers of "global warming". I'm just hoping to point out to few hard pressed readers that once again, they're being had because they CAN be had - we are rapidly approaching a situation similar to the banking sector whereby the cult of Global Warming is simply to big to fail - and look where that has got us.

Incompetence and thieving bastards

Forgive the indelicate subject heading but I am seething, incandescent and disgusted.  Here's why:

Late last September a good friend was involved in a road traffic accident, not held ultimately blameworthy but there just to coincidence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and a victim of another's stupidity/carelessness/lack of consideration.  Attending police decided to impound all the vehicles involved for subsequent forensic examination leaving my friend to make his own way home some fifty miles away, obviously he could only take immediate personal possessions from the vehicle.

As we all know and some have had the misfortune of experience, it is generally understood that the wheels of anything remotely connected with due process, the police and the justice system move exceeding slow.  Some four months after the accident date permission was given to remove property from the vehicle, not so the vehicle as the insurers had declared it to be an uneconomic repair or what is commonly referred to as a 'write off'.

The written off vehicle was a late Ford Transit van, slightly unusual that their was additional seating for a further three passengers behind the driver with an enclosed van body section behind that.  This particular model of the Transit is not a common model and had taken a lot of searching to find one in a very good condition.  The prime purpose of this vehicle was to act as a transporter for a racing sidecar along with much necessary equipment associated with racing.  There was little concern about the vehicle's contents as assurances were given by the police that it would be stored in a secure facility.

Fast forward to a day or so ago when the owner travelled to where the van was stored to remove the contents, naturally he was delighted at being able to retrieve everything at long last.  Having arrived at the secure storage facility he was shocked and dumbfounded to discover that the van was empty, everything had been removed.  After recovering from his shock he was naturally angry, very angry because the only thing that was not in the van at the time of the accident was the actual sidecar and tools.  Amongst the missing items presumed stolen by some feral lowlife was both driver and passengers racing leathers, helmets, boots, gloves, a large heavy duty awning, chairs, portable gas stoves and kitchen equipment etc, bedding and lots more besides.  All of the clothing and racewear is very easily recognisable as it is personalised for the team and very distinctive, it probably has been dumped somewhere.  Those items altogether cost close to two thousand pounds. . The value of other items stolen could amount to twice that sum.

The team have worked very hard to be able to afford the missing items and sponsor notwithstanding they will find replacing them very difficult especially seeing that the 2012 racing season begins in eight weeks time.  It would seem at present that the police have admitted liability and will compensate the team for their loss.  It cannot be imagined that there losses will be made good before the season begins, things regrettably do not work like that.

The low level that once Great Britain has sunk to beggars personal belief, nothing is no longer safe from thieving scum no matter where.  The morals, principles and values which were once a matter of national pride have vanished probably for ever.  Frankly I am disgusted by the present situation, so much so that I left England a few years ago because I am ashamed of the place.

There is just one more insult to add to the injury of their loss - the vehicle's insurers will pay out what they consider to be a fair price for its loss.  That sum will in no way imaginable purchase a replacement in similar condition leaving the late owners even more money to find for another.  The insurance companies with this sharp practice are in my mind no better than the light fingered thieves who looted the vehicle.

The time is overdue for great changes in the UK to address the current society, politicians and their collective morals and principles because the present day ills lie firmly at their feet.

Here we go again!

Spring, that is.  Less than one hundred metres from our sitting room are two huge, old chestnut trees, well over twenty five metres high.  The very tops have been used by nesting magpies since before we moved here, the original single nest has now grown to six separate nests, the one of choice refurbished each year by taking twigs etc from the others.  This year they have decided that the highest one is the current des res. All has been progressing well until a couple of days ago.  That's when the trouble started again ...

Some four hundred metres or so to the east of the magpies nests there is long established rookery in a large copse.  Now, crows and magpies are not exactly the best of neighbours with sporadic attempts throughout the year by the rooks to take over the magpies homes, usually involving much loud cawing and chattering accompanied by aerial attacks, usually fended off by the nest residents.  Should the inhabitants be away searching for nesting material then desirable nest bits will be taken by the invaders for their own use.  This will continue until eggs are laid and one parent or the other will be busy doing nothing except sitting on those eggs waiting for them to eventually hatch.  For some reason, possibly that the rooks are also similarly occupied, there will be peace and calm for a few weeks or so, at least until the youngsters are able to fly.  Then it all kicks off again, no stealing of nest components but just periodic skirmishes.

Spring, is forever associated with lambs in my mind anyway.  On a nearby farm we were delighted to see the first lambs of the year just a few days ago in a meadow.  Tiny little creatures all snuggling up to their mums then, now already venturing away from maternal security beginning to discover a wider and more interesting world.

Unusually early there are already primulas in bloom in our garden, daffodils and narcissus are poking above the soil along with hyacinths and very early adventurous tulips.  There is a red squirrel who is a frequent visitor to a nearby almond tree that keeps both us and our two cats fascinated for ages as to how busy it is looking for food.

One of the highlights of the avian spring are the huge  flocks of cranes heading south, they are a magnificent sight in flocks of several hundreds, invariably heard before being seen as they all honk continually as they fly.  There are also quite a number of flocks of birds aloft heading in various directions for their summer vacations, sometimes it looks like an air traffic controllers worst nightmare as there are just so many!

The great thing about the spring happenings is that we can view them all from the comfort of our own home without setting foot outside.  Great eh?

Standard & Poors Rating Agency

Open letter to Standard and Poors:

Following recent downgrades of some countries credit status there are questions that need to be answered.

I'm concerned that your company should have so much apparent influence over the  economy of a sovereign country and that country's financial standing in the world.

Who elects you to this position of power?

Who regulates you and the other credit rating agencies?

Do you believe that it is right that you should be able to wield this degree of seeming absolute power?

How does a country regain its AAA rating from your company?

 If cuts in spending are necessary, where should those be made in your view?

What does your company actually produce, in goods and/or services or other tangible products that is beneficial to the world economy?

Look forward to hearing from you.


Thanks


Bewildered of Bergearc

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Following on from these downgrades of some of the biggest economies in the world what would be the outcome if all economies were downgraded to AA Status?  The immediate net effect of any downgrade is to render government borrowing more expensive, therefore if all were downgraded then world borrowing costs would obviously increase.  Who would benefit?  Surely the only ones would be large lending institutions which some may well say are the root cause of the current financial mess.

Should the absolute AA status pertain then it logically follows that states that fall by the wayside will be further downgraded, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.  Having reached the end of the alphabet then presumably the next symbol of financial probity would be to award an appropriate number of banana symbols.

The green thing

No apologies for blatantly nicking this tale from Facebook.

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In the queue at the supermarket, the cashier told an older woman that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.

The woman apologized to him and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."

The clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment."

He was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the shop or off license. They sent them back to the plant to be washed, sterilized and refilled and re-used. So it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled.

But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have lifts and escalators in every shop and office building. We walked to the local shops and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go to a supermarket.

We bought fruit and veg loose - and washed them at home. We didn't have to throw away bins full of plastic, foam and paper packaging that need huge recycling plants fed by monster trucks all day, everyday.

But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's nappies because we didn't have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up KW's -- wind and solar power really did dry the clothes.

Kids got hand-me-down (mostly hand made or hand knitted) clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing shipped from the other side of the planet.

But that old lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then shops repaired things with funny things called spare parts - we didn't need to throw whole items away because a small part failed.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of Wales .

In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us.

When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used a wadded up old newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn petrol just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power and hand clippers for the hedges.

We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a brightly lit, air conditioned health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity and then drink millions of bottles of that special water from those plastic bottles.
But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a plastic cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water.

We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new plastic pen, and we replaced blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole plastic razor just because the blade got dull.
But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their parents into a 24-hour taxi service.

We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest fish & chip shop.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?