Sideways Glance

When September Ends...

2008-11-06T22:43:00.003Z

At 11pm on 10 September 2008 I was handed a baby boy - I was a father. It wasn't until 3am on 11 September that I could say that we were a family. In the five hours from my wife being advised to have an emergency caesarean section, and her starting to come round from general anaesthetic, I was given lots to think about.

"You need to think about how you will look after the baby." I was told. At the time it was the baby as I hadn't wanted to give my son a name wihout my wife being there. I wasn't sure whether it would be my choice. I wasn't sure whether "looking after the baby" meant for a few days, or whether it meant by myself.

Parking Spots

2008-05-21T20:35:00.004Z

There's a fantastic little website called Parking Spots whose simple premise is to hold a small toy car up so close that it appears to be the same size as real cars that are far away. Although the aim is to get the cars looking the same size, there is a pleasant insistance on keeping your hand in the shot. This was mine.

Neil - sees a spaceman, and parks in it, man.

Call out the Invigilator

2008-05-21T15:49:00.004Z

This morning I sat in a classroom, invigilating Alan. Alan is not a pupil, it is a test for adult literacy and numeracy based on 40 tick-box questions answered on-line. Normally, in an exam, you get to wander round a hall, in-between the desks, looking over the shoulders of pupils at their work. You also get to read through the exam papers and worry that you've covered all the necessary topics from your scheme of work.

Alan has none of this. All the pupils were sat at PCs, looking at monitors, and were reading and comprehending (hopefully), or doing maths. There was no paper copy to leaf through and while away the time. Unlike the fun of doing maths for the sake of maths, or reading and writing to expand your imagination and creativity, the Alan tasks were based on real-world functional maths (such as working out how much paint you'd need for a wall by working out its area; or reading advice about second-hand car-buying, being resolute in your negotiations (select the word or phrase which would replace 'resolute' from 'hairy', 'mixed with water', 'unchanging', or 'finely detailed'). The questions seemed as difficult as the ones you text in on premium rate numbers for ITV competitions. Clearly preparing pupils for real life-skills. Some things never change.

Immediately after the exams I was on break duty. For the past few months there has been a butt of smokers heading back from the tennis courts just as I arrive. As the sun was shining most pupils were out on the fields so I walked about and then went back to the courts to dismiss the pupils playing football with a) a bouncy ball, b) a tennis ball, c) anything round, or d) anything you can kick. I also met the smokers mid-drag. The same pupils who had taken the Alan exam which had no questions asking "You get someone older to buy you some cigarettes and give one to each of your three friends. Do you a) stink of smoke in school, b) develop a habit that will cause on-going health problems, c) get an hour and a half detention and your mum and dad called in, or d) contribute to the Treasury years and years before you have to?

Neil - says the resolution's here, and he knows that he's right.

I want to ride my bicycle...

2008-05-11T16:23:00.000Z

Sunday 11th May was another fantastic May day in Southsea. There are a couple of attractions to Southsea: being near The Common and The Solent; and being a hop, skip and a jump away from Albert Road, the antidote to modern high-streets.

This Sunday the Albert Road Traders' Association put on a day of cycling, closing the road off to traffic, and opening up the shops. I caught the end of the day, walking down to The Kings Theatre, the road was littered with people chilling out on the tarmac whilst children and bikes were in fancy dress, brightening up an already brilliant sun-filled day.

Later this year, in September, there will be another "Love Albert Road Day". Again, closed roads, live music, barbecues, and hopefully the weather.

Neil - doesn't blame it on the sunshine.

Happy Star Wars Day

2008-05-04T12:00:00.000Z

A Fistful of Fivers

2008-01-02T14:40:00.000Z

Today I needed to have £15 ready for the window cleaner. I checked my wallet: a selection of receipts from the 1035 miles of driving over Christmas (like Joseph I had to travel to the place I was born, but return by a different route); some overused cards; and a ten-pound note. I also had some things to take back to the shops so went into town to return a shirt, and get some cash.

After sorting out the returns I bought a takeaway coffee to break into the tenner, and then went into the bank to draw out £30. A twenty-pound note and two fives. Five-pound notes! I can't remember the last time I went to a cash machine and was given crisp five-pounts notes. University? Probably, but as I've been at universities in some capacity from 1991 to 2001, and again from September 2006 to June 2007, that's not saying too much. It was probably some time in 1996 when I was shocked to buy three pints and it cost more than the fiver I had in my hand (about the same as three takeaway coffees from Costa).

Neil - doesn't want to break into the twenty.

Re-creation

2007-10-24T12:00:00.000Z

Over the past year I've been given the job of taking my nephew and friends' children on afternoons or days out. I've gone to the Fort Nelson artillery museum at the top of Portsdown Hill, and visited HMS Dolphin, Gosport's Submarine Museum, which includes some cool stuff to play with and the Navy's very first submarine.
Walking towards the Historic Dockyard, opposite the bus and train terminus, there is a little museum with dinosaurs and fossils - the sort of thing I would think was great if you're eight. I went inside.

Inside you wind between display cabinets of fossilised plant leaves and sea-creatures, juxtaposed with photos of their contemporary equivalents. It all looks beautifully quaint with its bakelite ear-pieces, drawing you in to look and listen. However, when you do look at the accompanying text, and listen through the ear-pieces, you catch occasional sentences finishing with: "…and therefore evolution is wrong". Rather than stumble upon an old-fashioned curiosity-shop of dinosaurs, I'd walked into child-friendly arguments for Creationist propaganda. This wasn't a museum for fun and discovery; it was a museum for "fun" and "damentalism".

I had assumed that this sort of thing was limited to America, but here, nestled between the pubs, chip-shops, and naval history, was a genuine piece of pseudo-scientific selective re-interpretation of half-facts which scriptural theology says are poetic metaphors, but biblical fanatics are peddling to unwary parents and their children. It was difficult to know whether to laugh at the absurdity, or fume at the underhanded arrogance of this exhibition, sugaring its bizarre beliefs to prey upon unsuspecting kids: a Gingerbread House of fossilised ideas.

Neil - believes in dissention, and descention.

Juke Box Jury

2007-08-20T12:00:00.000Z

There were two official-looking envelopes on the mat when I returned from holiday in July 2006: one, a confirmation of the PGCE Mathematics details, scheduled to start in September 2006; the other, a Summons for Jury Service, scheduled to start in September 2006.

Reading through the Courts Service leaflet there is no escape from Jury Service. All people on the Electoral Role between the ages of 18 and 69 are eligible and, more, obliged to perform this Civic Duty when summoned. The only people ineligible for Service are criminals and the mentally ill. As I've neither been Sentenced nor Sectioned there was no escape.

I spent a frantic afternoon on the phone trying to establish the effect of me missing the beginning of my PGCE. Still unsure of what to do, I phoned the Courts Service: "You could defer for up to a year." With only seven days to respond to the Summons I posted off copies of my timetable for the year and a letter explaining that I had was unable to respond withing seven days as I had been on holiday when the Summons arrived. A week later I received a deferred date of August 13 2007.

I have looked forward to August 13th all year. I hoped to be involved in the case of rubbish burglars, or the obvious surveillance (I've got a post to add). But now, almost 12 months since receiving that date, interrupting what should be six weeks holiday before the start of my first full school year, after a week of phoning the Courts and being told to phone back tomorrow afternoon because I'm not needed, I've been discharged from the remainder of my Service, with only the briefest glimpse of a Courtroom.

Neil - has only been fitted up for a suit

Grotto e Grotti

2007-07-12T12:00:00.000Z

One of the excursions described as a highlight of the coach drive to Amalfi was a boat trip along the coast to visit Il Grotto Emeraldo. The boat around Capri a day or two earlier was fantastic, filled with vistas of sheer cliffs, speeding through natural arches, cool clear waters lapping in quiet coves: so this trip sounded great. Instead it was so bad it transcended itself. What could've been an educational trip describing the formation of this cave, its stalactites (the ones that hang down, like tights) and stalagmites (the other ones) was instead an excursion that took less time than it did to queue for - a bit like Alton Towers, but rubbish.

The grotto is lit through sunlight conducted through an underwater tunnel, illuminating the interior with an emerald green glow. The guide pointed out significant features of the cave: water and limestone trickling down from the roof and calcifying? No. "Looky-looky: this over here looks a bit like Garibaldi, or the Americans think it is Ronald Regan, or you say he is Tony Blair."

The piece de resistance of this jaded journey was shortly before the end (which was itself shortly after the beginning) when the guide shouted, "Looky-looky: I move the water and I make a miracle for you, looky. In the water it is the baby Jesus. And Mary. And Joseph. Looky-looky!" And yes, there beneath the waves of this grotto, amongst the submerged stalagmites was Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and a couple of shepherds and wise men, the kind of figurines found in any church's nativity scene. Only underwater. Perhaps here, in his infancy, the tiny Christ hadn't yet mastered walking on water, but I'm sure he could've crawled.

Neil - lookies before he leapies.

Cuanto Costo

2007-07-10T12:00:00.000Z

How much is a can of coke? If it's from Sainsbury's, about 28p; if it's from a shop, about a pound; and if it's from the first café you come to after stepping off the ferry from Sorrento to Capri, it's five euro (about three quid).

The bill for buying soft-drinks for nearly 50 school-children came to nearly €250 (about £150), about ten-times more than it would've cost from the local supermercado.

Capri is expensive. Walk off the ferry from France to Portsmouth's Commercial Road and one of the first shops you come to is Argos: take the funicular from the ferry to Capri's commercial district and the first shop you see is Prada.

Neil - wears Poundland, not Prada.

Can teach, will teach

2007-06-18T15:00:00.000Z

Last week I had my final interview to gain a PGCE in Mathematics. This has been my first incident-free qualification since, well, ever. I've not scraped through at the last minute; I've not revised for the wrong papers; I've not asked for coursework or assignment extensions; I've not had to make up experimental results; I've not left for dogmatic differences; I've not come back from a crash simulation conference in France to find my desk cleared on the day that we had tickets to see the Manic Street Preachers supported by Catatonia; I've had a normal, professional, start-to-finish successful nine months of maths and teaching. And I'm relieved.

In the last year I've been given Christmas Cards, Sorry You're Leaving Cards, and High Fives. I've also been told that I smell, and that I am a, and I quote, "Pathetic Jew" and a "Nob". Anyone who knows my family (and me) will know that I have been called (for good reason) far worse.

So, in a week or so I start my new job, newly qualified, teaching, whatever I'm called.

Neil - who carries his own sticks and stones

Testing, testing

2007-06-01T13:27:00.000Z

In addition to having your GCSE Maths and English grade 'C's or above, trainee (and perhaps all?) teachers are further required to pass Numeracy, Literacy, and ICT tests organised by the Teacher Development Agency. The frightening thing is that, just as with almost every other test we have to take in life (from GCSEs to driving), you need to practice.

Each test is taken one-at-a-time, wearing headphones, in front of a computer, in a room, at a University, during a pre-booked time-slot. The TDA website advises you to practice the tests. Not to hone your skills with numbers, words, or computers, but to familiarise yourself with the pointlessly banal nature of the tests themselves.

Why is it necessary to add punctuation into an article that has had its punctuation removed when, as part of the course, you are expected to write three 4000 word assignments using correct grammar, spelling, and punctuation? Why is it necessary to show that you can reply to an email and download files and information from the web when the only way you can apply for teacher training is through an online application process that requires you to reply to emails and download files and information from the web? Finally, given the complexity of financing a PGCE through student loans, teaching bursaries, grants and golden hellos, if you weren't numerate before your PGCE you will be by the end.

With the numeracy test there is no sense of "It's about ten pounds or so". Go to a pub and order a round of four drinks: two real ales at £2.70, a pint of lager for £2.60, and a pint of Strongbow (for the Lady) at £2.80. How much does it cost: £10.80p; or a bit more than a tenner? How much change do you get from £11: 20p; or not much? There's no real-world numeracy in there.

One part of the literacy test asks you to read a passage and then choose headings and sub-headings (from a selection) to reflect the content of specific paragraphs. However, choose a heading to get a reader's pulse racing and you are penalised. According to the TDA's guidelines this entry would probably be titled, "Trainee teachers take additional tests in Numeracy, Literacy, and ICT". There's no effort at all to add a bit of punch (or punch-line). Reading back the sanctioned version and it still seems too alliterative.

Neil - would probably be penalised for the comma.

Watching the Watchers

2007-05-22T22:39:00.000Z

There have been a few defining moments in my life. One of them was, shortly after leaving Seminary, not turning away the Jehova's Witnesses who knocked at the door. They turned up with their bright white shirts, sober ties, and their leatheresque zip-up folder, asking questions about the world and whether I thought the Holy Spirit was in it. "Please, come in..." After about two hours they left. That was in 1992.

Since then, of course, my usual response to the words, "Hello, we're from Jehova's Witnesses," has been to say, "No thanks, I'm not interested." So I watched, wondering, whether the two guys in bright white shirts, sober ties, with leatheresque zip-up folders would be knocking on the door after they'd walked up and down the road a few times.

They did. The conversation started like this, "Hello, we're from Hampshire Police." But didn't finish with, "No thanks, I'm not interested." They were interested in observing the to-ing and fro-ing at a nearby house and wanted to see if they could use the front bedroom for observation. Observation from the bedroom, not inside.

(I'll finish this off later)

Neil - does not own a sober tie.

CSI Southsea

2007-04-09T18:52:00.000Z

Campbell Road in Southsea is no stranger to crime. The road has, as recently as last week, been blocked off whilst Police investigate stabbings and murders; one of the houses opposite (not its occupants) had an ASBO slapped on it; and this weekend our house was broken into whilst we were away.

With some fantastic weather it was great to arrive back in the afternoon, collect a few days worth of post, go out into the garden with some sandwiches and a drink, and sort out the mail into: "Ooh, that's interesting."; "Oh no, I'd forgotten about that."; and "recycling". Whilst the clothes were being sorted into not worn, it'll keep, and there are things crawling on it, it seemed as though a few drawers were skewed, and neither of us could remember leaving any jewellery boxes out. There was a sense of uncertainty: was the house really left in this mess? It hadn't been, but it had taken almost two hours, a ham and watercress baguette, salt-n-vinegar crisps, and a Danish and diet coke to notice that someone had broken into our house by jemmy-ing open the sliding doors. Some advice: if you have sliding doors, fit some door bolts as the doors are easy to break open.

Whether the house was broken into was not in question. The question was: what did they take? The empty jewellery boxes on the floor upstairs were empty when they were in their drawers; and the cd's, dvd's, tv, computer, cameras, bicycles, clothes, they were all still there. Worryingly, it seems as though the people who broke into the house didn't find anything worth having. How, in 21st Century consumerist Britain, am I supposed to cope? Not with the knowledge that someone has gone through all the effort and risk of breaking into my house, but the knowledge that all the stuff I've aspired to collect over the years isn't worth having.

Unfortunately, back in 2000, I didn't make it to the Millenium Experience. However, after the Police took a detailed statement of what was missing (Er, nothing), they gave a pack providing information about "Coping with your Burglary Experience". Perhaps someone thought they'd give book me a Hot Air Ballooning Experience, Track Day Experience, or Mountain Biking Experience and they just ticked the wrong one. Rather than say, "We're sorry to hear that your property was burgled," it sounds as though, with, "We're sorry to hear about your Burglary Experience," that it was something I was interested in doing, that I made an active choice to experience being broken into. How long before it becomes, "We're sorry to hear that you recently hosted a Burglary Event," in the same way that you might host a Tupperware Party...

Neil - will bring some dips.

Giz a Job

2007-02-22T09:12:00.000Z

There's little point in starting a PGCE in teaching if I'm not going to look for a job in teaching. Applying for a teaching job, though, is totally alien to the normal job application process involving an informal chat with a couple of people who've read your cv, and then a couple of weeks deliberating over the salary expectations.

Forms are expected with dynamic personal statements, previous qualifications and their exam boards, and references are obtained before the interview (not some time later, if anyone can be bothered). As the advert said: "You never get a second chance to make a first impression." My impression, after hanging in incident clear-up traffic for 50 minutes (45 minutes longer than usual) was "late".

I don't think I've been so nervous about an interview before: interview with the Head, Head of Department, and a Governor; interview with some pupils; and then take an hour lesson. Apparently I looked nervous, sounded nervous, and was nervous. I don't believe I've ever felt so awkward. How can I talk about my experience when all I've experienced has been on-the-job training? How can I explain why I would choose to leave a career I enjoyed, for one I know little about? Answer: nervously.

The nerves were compounded by an hour and a half of debate and deliberation by the interview panel. Whilst their conversation was in deciding which candidate they would accept, the candidates were sat in a room, waiting together, waiting for an invitation and dreading a decline.

Despite the nervousness, I got the job, starting in July, meaning a paid six week holiday during Summer.

Neil - only has his credit cards declined.

Stop the Traffic

2006-07-17T14:21:00.000Z

The coach transfer along the Amalfi coast from Napoli to Sorrento was a seemingly endless traffic jam from airport to hotel. Trucks and coaches lumbered up and around the winding cliff-roads, cars fought for position and the rare chance to overtake, whilst all around mopeds buzzed through gaps which didn't exist. Although Italian driving has been discussed here before, our recent holiday in Sorrento, overlooking the main route in and out of the town, gave the opportunity to observe the rules of the road.

The rules of the road appear to be these:

1. Always keep both hands on the steering wheel.
a) Unless you have a mobile phone.
b) Unless you have cigarettes.

1.1 Always have a mobile phone and cigarettes.

2. Use appropriate eyewear for the light conditions.
a) During the daytime wear sunglasses.
b) During the night-time wear sunglasses.

3.1 If there is a gap in the traffic, fill it.

3.2 If there isn't a gap in the traffic, fill it.

4. If your vehicle is not scraped, scratched, or pranged:
a) You are not filling gaps that aren't there.
b) Your vehicle is too expensive.
c) You are not Italian.

Special Rules for Mopeds

1. Wear appropriate protective clothing.
- Flip-flops offer unparalleled abrasion resistance in the event of a crash.
- So do shorts and t-shirts.

2.1 Wear a helmet.
- Grudgingly.

2.2 Helmet straps are only decorative and should not be fastened.

3. Moped seats only appear to be designed for two people.
- They are designed to accommodate a family of at least four.

4. Try overtaking on both sides.
- Simultaneously.

Although every car and moped appeared battered in some way, and there appeared to be no real regulations in the roads, there was none of the road-rage common with commuting in Britain. There was a fluidity in a traffic regime where everyone is constantly alert to suddenly change direction or (as a last resort) stop in order to (mostly) avoid each other.

The easiest way to document Sorrento would not be through words or photographs, but sound. There is the constant thrum of tyres on the roads, paragraphed by the juddering buses and coaches of tourists along the Corsa Italia, punctuated by tranging two-stroke mopeds, with assertively beeping horns adding dialogue. There are no traffic lights so the traffic doesn't stop - it's constantly merging, adapting, moving forwards.

When learning to drive in Britain it is drummed into you that if there's a possibility of somebody doing something stupid - pulling out, ignoring road-markings, driving straight at you, then assume they will. In Sorrento it seems there is no need to assume - it is the norm. Motorists are taught to pull-out, ignore road-markings, drive straight at each other. Life as a pedestrian in Sorrento is even more precarious - pedestrian crossings are ignored. You could wait and stand, and stand and wait at a crossing for the traffic to stop to let you cross safely. You would wait forever. A crossing pedestrian is not ignored - look directly into the sunglasses of the driver of the car that would run you over if you were to unexpectedly step into the road, and unexpectedly step into the road. Not only will they stop but they're unlikely to shout at you whilst they're still on the phone.

Neil - was almost knocked over by a moped, overtaking on the pavement.

I know what you did last summer

2006-07-11T13:09:00.000Z

The caravan of Le Tour is a rolling commercial carnival of tour sponsors. Banks, supermarkets, TV channels, and cheese are all advertised in a parade of brightly-coloured vehicles. The crowds lining the routes of each stage have only one concern: free stuff. Some of the free stuff is quite useful if you've spent three-to-four hours waiting for this cavalcade of tat: bottles of Nestle Aquarel water to quench the thirst, bread-sticks and cheese-dips from La Vache qui Rit to satiate a plastic palette, and hats. More hats than you can imagine. The sponsors of Le Tour want to see TV coverage that includes a back-drop of crowds all advertising their product, so thousands of hats bearing the sponsors names are made in China and are thrown out to the waiting crowd. The Nesquick bunny waves cheerfully at you, and packets of Haribo, Stabilo pens, Disney journals, and fridge-magnets galore are all given away - every day.

First thing in the morning, at the stage starts, La Caravane accommodates the early risers by dishing out fresh Grand Mere coffee - perfect if you're still half-asleep and the day is still cold and damp. At the stage finish the hat and tat parade passes at a leisurely pace so that no-one goes without un beau chapeau along the finishing straight. Even along the route, as the caravan races past, the hats and sweets and cheese-dips and water are still thrown to the road-side supporters - at 64 kph, the same speed as EuroNCAP car crash tests. Whilst hats and packets of sweets are lightweight and not at all aerodynamic, they flop to the floor where they're snatched up by grabbing hands. However, a 500ml missile-shaped bottle of water travelling at 40 miles/hour travels through the air with tremendous efficiency and is not to be grabbed lightly.

But it all must be grabbed because, no matter how tatty, tacky, and tasteless the stuff is, and no matter how much you don't want a Skoda sun-hat, you must have one. Because other people have them. You look around the assorted people about you and, despite their different shapes and sizes, their different nationalities and ages, they all have one thing in common: they have Skoda hats. And you don't. You shout "Ici!" at the young people enthusiastically throwing Skoda hats to the people over the road, but you're ignored. You make a grab for a hat, thrown from La Caravane as it speeds by, but it is intercepted by a feisty octogenarian Breton widow with more hairs on her chin than you, and you've been in an identity parade for men with beards.

The vehicles staffed by the enthusiastic young people cheerfully throwing handfuls of freebies at the waiting crowds travel for the whole 3600km of Le Tour. Most summer jobs involve fruit-picking, or factories, or shelf-stacking, but in France, each and every day for almost the whole of July, attractively-tanned, white-toothed students (I'm guessing) volunteer to be harnessed to a Deux Cheveux speeding from sea-level to ski-resorts in blistering heat and driving rain. There is a hierarchy amongst the sponsors' models giving away merchandise: the most beautiful people are chosen for the podium; the very attractive will be working sales; the average will be on the roads; and the ne pas jolie, the least attractive of all, must be hidden from sight, wearing the giant rabbit costume.

Neil - smashes and grabs.

Multiple By-pass

2006-07-10T14:27:00.000Z

This year the Tour of Britain finishes in London, on the same course as where next year's Tour de France starts before moving on to Le Tunnel. The Tour of Britain is unlikely to capture the imagination of Le Tour de France. Yes, there will be the start and finish lines crowded with people baying for the sprinters as they race for the Capital stage. However, along its routes there is unlikely to be the same village support for The Tour as there is for Le Tour because The Tour of Britain is unlikely to go through our towns and villages. Instead it will by-pass them, causing minimal disruption to the road transport infrastructure of a country which seemingly consists of little else but by-passes. For many, The Tour of Britain will be an inconvenience.

If you have the opportunity to watch Le Tour, then make the effort. Although it's not a spectator sport (you won't get to see 90 minutes of cycle-competition having camped yourself at the roadside for five hours) you participate in the spectacle, and are rewarded for your commitment and faith: Le Tour will go past. It may only be fleetingly, but it is in those moments as you cheer the breakaway (and then the chasing peleton) that you feel the same thrill as when your team scores. Only it's guaranteed, every time.

With football or rugby or tennis or cricket you invariably go to watch someone win. You invest time, money, and emotion with every pass, serve, and shot with no guarantee of success. Everything is wrapped up in the win. If your team fails, you feel the failure. With Le Tour it is about catching the slightest glimpse of something much bigger than you, the town, the cyclists, or even (mostly) France. The small towns of provincial France have great roads not because they have an efficient council system - bureaucracy is after all a French-stemmed word - but because Le Tour expects nothing less than perfect roads, and the towns don't want to disappoint for fear of being over-looked next time. Le Tour takes over July, and France.

The French national TV, the equivalent of BBC1, is dedicated to Le Tour, live, every day for three weeks. Given that a stage can involve over five hours and 250km (155 miles) of cycling, it is bizarre to think that an event lasting three weeks with international heroes at the peak of their sport can attract, at most, an hour on Freeview (second-class digital telly). The prime French channel will show five hours of cycling, and that is just for starters. Afterwards there is the same post-race analysis as you'd find with Match of the Day, there are phone-in radio shows, and the whole race is organised by the national sporting newspaper, L'Equipe. To the BBC Le Tour was a by-line: "American Floyd Landis won the Tour de France."

Neil - has been by-passed by so many things.

Prima-Donna

2006-06-19T16:35:00.000Z

The Circuit of the Cotswolds is a memorial ride for Dave Ryan, an Oxford University cyclist killed on his bike whilst working in America. Now in its second year, the ride on Sunday 18 June took in 72 or 105 miles of magnificent Oxfordshire scenery whilst raising money for Yorkshire Cancer Research, the charity chosen by Dave’s parents.

I was cycling with Lou Henderson, wife of Jim Henderson (5 times National Hill Climb champion who, along with Tom James, is one of the organisers of the event). Lou was familiar with sections of the route from the times she had been cycling with James and the Oxford University Cycling Club when the club had gone looking for hills. And they found them – a total of 1400m climbing for the shorter route, much more for the longer one. As we rode, Louise talked about the different villages and climbs that would be coming up.

At the first village out of Witney, she turned to me and said, “I got that.” What? “That sprint,” she said, “I got that.” For the rest of the ride I was introduced to road-sign primes. In major cycle races there will be sprints on the route where the first person over the line wins (typically) points and prizes, these sprints are called primes. Road-sign primes apply the same idea to village road signs. Except there is no prize – apart from smugness. I lost them all – except the last one, smugly, into Witney.

My normal cycling is a half-hour each way commute from Portsmouth. Entry to The Circuit of the Cotswolds has, over recent months, encouraged me to spend more time in the saddle, exploring the hills of Hampshire, gradually increasing my time on the bike and actively looking for gradients. The route was very similar in road quality to the Round the Island route on the Isle of Wight – largely traffic free, but perhaps not the most well-kempt. The downside is that you have to watch for pot-holes, gravel, and other road users not expecting to see other traffic. The upside is enjoying views over rolling countryside, riding through small towns and villages, and a great variety of climbs, descents, and flats.

The route chosen this year underlined the difference between putting the time in on a roller, and putting the miles in under your wheels. The first induces boredom within five minutes, the second rewards you with attacking climbs, fast descents, and picture-postcard surroundings at every turn.

The feed-station check-points at those picture-postcard locations were run with great friendliness. It helped that my cycling buddy was part of that circle of friends, but the same warmth, concern, and encouragement was shown to all the riders wheeling in for food, drink, and a card stamp. Flap-jack, energy-drinks, energy-bars, or plain-old water were all available for the riders whether they were looking for a time, or looking for a bit of a break and a nice sit down.

Leaving the final check point meant the home stretch for both short- and long-route riders, again with a few short-but-sharp inclines but also with amazing views. That nice sit down was available back in Witney, 25 miles later. As with the start, at the finish the times were logged onto the computer. Unlike the start, tea, coffee, and home-made cake was available in the true cycling tradition.

If you can judge a person by the quality of their friends, then the efforts made by Dave Ryan’s friends to make The Circuit of the Cotswolds such a perfect ride and fitting memorial can be no better measure.

Neil - went along for the ride.

Happy Star Wars Day

2006-05-04T13:02:00.000Z

Off the Rails

2006-05-03T11:12:00.000Z

From 1963, with the publication of "The Reshaping of British Railways", Beeching brought into effect the demise of train travel in Britain. Look through most Ordnance Survey maps and there are a variety of cuttings and embankments spread across the gridlines with the legend "Disused Railway Line". Today these lines are employed in the National Cycle Network, creating commuting and recreational routes for two wheels. However, on the evidence of cycling the fifteen miles from Fareham Junction to West Meon, then back again, it is no surprise that so many of these rail-lines were closed. There was little evidence of any community inbetween our start and end-points that could've created a regular fare of passengers, but plenty of evidence of families out for walks and bike rides under a sunlit canopy of trees, away from the traffic and Tescos of modern life.

One of the joys of cycling in the countryside is the Country Pub. The problem with Country Pubs is the people they attract. Morris Dancers, for instance. We wheeled into Soberton (how I wish we weren't) to be confronted with a car park of Morris Dancers and another group, dressed in black, and carrying the Bretton flag. Steve, whose dad is French, who lived in France, whose parents still live in France, and who reads and speaks French, asked one of the Bretton women, in French, where they were from. She replied, in French, that they had come from France.

Clearly, the people dressed elegantly in black velvet were wearing their traditional Bretton costume, and the Morris Dancers were dressed in brightly coloured strips of material and looked embarrassing. Unfortunately and worryingly, as England has no traditional costume (I'm hoping burberry baseball caps and shiney-white trainers are a fad), the clothes of Morris Dancers are described in encyclopedias as the closest thing England has to National Dress. With bells on. How can a country that has inspired so many costume dramas not have National Dress? How can the nearest alternative be the uniform of Morris Dancers? Our National Dress shouldn't mean what we wear now, it should pander to a stereotype borne of Jane Austen and Brontë tv-adaptations, it should raid the Merchant-Ivory wardrobes for something appropriately English, stiff-collared, restrictive, and a bit stuffy. Whilst Scotland enjoys Burns-night and kilts, or Germany celebrates leder-hosen and bier-kellars, we can wear frock-coats and feel socially awkward.

Perhaps one of the reasons why the railways abandoned the little villages is that, when you arrive in them on a Saturday afternoon, thinking about food, all the shops are closed. Why go to West Meon when you can go to ASDA Walmart? In West Meon there was a butcher's (closed), a village shop (closing), and a pub (closed for refurbishment). West Meon couldn't be more different to the seemingly 24 hour Southsea. Whilst no-one would wish to see a pleasant Hampshire Village invaded by Albert Road with its kebab vans, takeaways, curry-houses, and pubs and bars, I'm ashamed to admit that it would have been great to find an open all hours Tesco local with a selection of sandwiches, Switch, and cashback.

Neil - doesn't have a bell on his bike, let alone his clothes.

Let's go shopping

2006-04-19T08:16:00.000Z

"Honey we're killing the kids" is the sort of programme that has replaced the Garden/Home make-over TV shows that desensitised a nation to the unsupported Charlie Dimmock, and the frock-coated foppery of Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen. However, instead of taking someone's neglected room/house/garden and transforming it into something that you'd never choose for yourself (with a water feature) these programmes highlight how the lifestyles of 21st Century children will result in obesity, premature aging, and an early death. Typically the solutions require exercise, improved diet, and parental interest in the child, as opposed to sitting them in front of a DVD with a bag of crisps every time they play up. There is also "Celebrity Fit Club" a programme which takes famous(ly) fat people and shows that they can find self-esteem through their diet and exercise, instead of at the bottom of a 5lb bowl of trifle.

I've been cycling and web-aware long enough to know where to go for my cycle-clothing. For the record: Met helmets, Rudy-Project glasses, Ground-Effect tops, Endura merino jerseys, Specialized gloves and mitts, Endura 3/4 baggy shorts and bib-shorts, De Feet socks, and Shimano shoes. For most people, those words are nonsense, they make no sense: for cyclists, those words mean that my gear is all a bit value-for-money, functional, and certainly not bike porn. My wife has run in end-of-line last season's Asics Kayano shoes since about 1999, mostly from Start-Fitness in Newcastle. And her horsey-kit comes from the Rideaway catalogue. People who are into their sport enough to want specific gear buy from shops specialising in that sport. But what if you've not gone for a jog or bike ride or the gym in ages, where do you get your clothes? We recently went to the High Street to look at what's on offer in the sports shops.

What has happened to sports shops in recent years? If you want to look like a chav/charver/scally then sports shops are great places to choose the clothes you need to go out, get tanked up on Stella, and start a fight. If you feel as though you need to contribute to the overpaid salaries of professional footballers every time there's a kit/sponsor/colour/player change then sports shops are great, if you're more concerned with being seen to have the latest bling mobile phone instead of having a conversation with someone then sports shops are great. If, however, you're looking for an active lifestyle, then the sports shops on the High Streets of Britain are useless. There are rows of white trainers, burberry-checked trim, and nothing that boasts cushioning, support, anti-pronation, or high-wicking ability. Is it any wonder the Nation's health is such cause for concern when the only shopping choices are available are for clothes designed to do little more than carry a pack of Marlboro Lights.

Neil - fears being kicked to death by a thousand white trainers

Private Investigations

2006-04-13T10:00:00.000Z

I'm not sure what caused the driver who knocked me off my bike in August 2005 to contest liability for the incident. At the road-side, as I was dragging my bike out from under the front of his car, he was in no doubt that he was wholly responsible, offering the cover-all excuse, "I didn't see you." Normally I'm outraged at the near misses caused by inattentive drivers, but when I was asked by the Police whether I wanted to press charges I said no, the driver was apologetic and accepted responsibility. The consequences of the crash were Wednesday visits to the QA Hospital A&E, and then the Fracture Clinic for confirmation that the fracture at the radial head of my left arm was healing nicely.

Fractures heal in about 8-12 weeks, and in that time I became a public transport commuter. The journey to work and back using either the bus or train added half an hour each way, and £2.75 to my day - enough time to repair all the punctures I've had since Christmas, and enough money for a spare innertube. In the about 8-12 weeks it took to receive confirmation that I could use my arm again, Autoliv (the company I work for) relocated our Occupant Restraint Systems and Simulation team from Havant to Waterlooville and closed down its manufacturing facility with the loss of 525 jobs. The manufacturing facility was shipped to Turkey and low-cost labour countries. The loss of 525 jobs earned the company a ruthlessly callous "efficiency" award from Toyota, for which Autoliv proudly issued a press release saying how great it was to be awarded for its efficiency in upsetting the lives of 525 people and their families. Whilst Autoliv was efficiently making half of Havant redundant the weather began to reflect the outlook, turning from great for cycling in September to permanently grey and wet November. I got back on my bike in November after being given the all-clear from the consultant at the QA Hospital's Fracture Clinic.

The consequences of the driver changing his mind and saying he didn't run me over have been canon-fire legal letters, photographing the scene and cycle-usage on the road, and six months of consuming anger and spite. Somewhere the insurance company has turned round and said, "Mr Bickerton, you deny all responsibility and we'll chuck a bunch of money at this to make sure we don't have to even repair the bike that you drove over (whilst Mr Cater was riding it)." What should have been a simple mea culpa required the support of the Cyclist's Tourist Club.

The consultant who assessed my arm for the Cyclist's Tourist Club's legal arm after those spiteful six months was based in Bupa in Bournemouth. I've had quite a bit of experience recently with A&E and the contrast between the A&E and Bupa receptions is marked. At A&E they give you a ticket, at Bupa they give you a selection of daily papers. At A&E you sit on half-chewed plastic chairs that would be too uncomfortable for airport lounges, at Bupa the chairs are sumptuously upholstered in leather. At A&E you have to buy your drinks from vending machines (no change given), at Bupa there is fresh coffee and range of teas (help yourself). At A&E there is the smell of violence, things gone wrong, blood, pain and crying, at Bupa there is the smell of fresh-cut flowers.

Neil - has a smell.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

2006-04-07T14:27:00.000Z

Once upon a time, if you were a thief, a murderer, or a sheep rustler, you would be shipped off to the penal colonies in Australia. It comes as little surprise, then, that so many Liverpudlian families have family trees with branches overhanging Cook's Bay. Every New Year's Eve our extended family of grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, second-cousins, and so on would wait, whiskeys and brandies in hand, after the noise of the ship horns at Seaforth Docks for Uncle Billy's phone call from Australia. As a Port, many folk songs sung at Liverpool parties have been imported from Ireland, and there are songs of life in America and Australia. Today it isn't possible to jump on a Cunard or White Star packet steamer for the New World. Ellis Island was the detention centre in sight of the Statue of Liberty, and for some years Australia has only allowed immigrants who are emigrating with the right skills and education.

Of course, since 1989 when Plain Jane Super-Brain left Ramsey Street (and Guy Pearce) to go off to Uni, the youth of Britain and Australia have been following the same Neighbours utopia of either getting an education, or developing the skills to be a be-mulletted pop star. The problem with that utopia is that degrees in media-studies and aspirations of Stock Aitkin and Waterman don't equip a nation for repairing the split pipes of Colonial water and gas services, nor for repairing the split ends of diminutive frizzy-permed peroxide blondes. So the skills shortages in Australia, and the skills that will get you in on their points scheme, are plumbing, gas-fitting, and hairdressing.

Hairdressing runs in my family. My mum, my auntie, and their auntie made an occupation of perms and sets, blue-rinses, feather cuts, bobs, and bouffants - depending on the decade. And it is my auntie's hairdressing that has allowed her, my uncle, and two cousins to move from Liverpool, the home of Lambrini, to the Chardonnay rivers of Jacob's Creek. Nowadays, send-off parties have none of the nostalgia of the Liverpool-Irish tradition - there are DJs, foam, and queues for the bar. Faliraki in miniature, complete with barely-dressed teenage girls, badly-dressed teenage lads, and thirty-somethings thinking that it wasn't like this in our day. Thinking back to the number of places I've lived in, I was in many ways envious of the number of friends and family gathered to say their farewells, to give their last hugs and kisses and tears, and maybe to book their next hair appointment when my auntie comes back to visit.

Neil - who learned never to cut his own hair.

Pump up the Jam

2006-03-30T15:51:00.000Z

My cycle commute now includes some of the busiest roads out of Portsmouth, through Cosham, over Portsdown Hill, and down to Waterlooville. It's quite uplifting to spot the same car at regular intervals along the journey, knowing that you've made some time filtering through the morning traffic jams and car queues. I used a speed/distance GPS sensor recently and found that my route measures about 8.2 miles there, 8.2 back. Since Christmas my commuting has covered about 600 miles, and in that time I have had five punctures. That is one puncture every 120 miles, or every one-and-a-half weeks. One near ASDA(s), one at work, one half-way up Portsdown Hill, one half-way down Portsdown Hill, and one in North End.

The tyres I use are Continental Ultra Gator Skins, and regarded as quite puncture resistant - an ideal fast commuting tyre. However the shear quantity of glass and debris on the roads from bottles, bumpers, and bus-shelters has worked itself through the sidewalls and kevlar protection so that, at random intervals, I'm forced to stop mid-journey replace (another) inner-tube and force myself not to beat to death (with an aluminium-barrelled dual-volume pump) everyone who walks past thinking they are the first person to laughingly suggest, "What's up, got a puncture?" No, I'm doing brain surgery, I'm scaling the Eiger, I'm conducting the Longinnes Symphonette.

Replacing an innertube is much less hassle than repairing one - especially when you're keen not to be late for work, tea, or the OC. It can be a pain (literally) to run your fingers on the inside of the tyre, feeling for the thorn or shard that deflated your journey. Unfortunately, as we're all likely to have to work well into our 70s in order to maintain pensions and mortgages there are many more years of commuting miles ahead of me, and 1280 pricked fingers.

Neil - will be re-tyring long before he's retired.

Can't teach, will teach

2006-03-10T09:58:00.000Z

There've been a set of jobs that I've always wanted to do: fix bicycles, do something worthwhile with cars, and teach. I've ticked the first box, I'm doing the second, and I'm planning to move on to the third. I think I'd make an ideal teacher: I already have a beard and a smell, and last year I bought a brown suit. As an Engineer I have an affinity for mathematics and the sciences. My research and work in the automotive safety industry over the last 10 years have (re)introduced me to some relatively esoteric maths (Engin's model of the human shoulder based on phi and theta to who knows how many powers), physics (mass, force, acceleration), strength of materials, chemistry of airbag gases, and the anatomy and mechanics of road casualties. It seemed obvious that if I were to change career towards teaching, then it would be in the direction of maths or science. There are three barriers to this: I don't have a degree in maths; I don't have a degree in science; I don't actually have a degree.

I have a convoluted academic background: a year of Roman Catholic Seminary in Durham, two years for a Mechanical Engineering HND in Manchester, the start of an Engineering Degree at Brunel, a year working in a crash test facility in the Midlands, and five years working as a researcher in side impact and human body modelling in the North East (where I also picked up a Masters in Computing). The most recent five years have been spent doing essentially the same as the research but for a better salary, with better computers, better access to the most up-to-date safety technology, and being genuinely on the cutting edge of automotive safety.

As my career and education have taken the scenic route, when I phoned the Teacher Training Agency for advice, there wasn't a box for me to be put in: there isn't a selection in the menu options that says, "Failed Priest who knows about database structures, and who has spent the past ten years working on ways to protect people from poor driving, but doesn't have a degree." Because no-one has been able to either advise me or put me in an appropriate pigeonhole, I recently took some time off from work to spend a couple of days working out whether I had an affinity for teaching, and to discern whether I'd prefer maths or science.

My first day was with the maths department of a school in Portsmouth. One of the classes involved equations of a straight line, which we all remember as "y=mx+c". The pupils had a number of different equations to create a table of values for, draw a graph, and sketch out the curve of each equation. Since about 1995 when I first became involved in crash simulation, with data sampled every 10th of a millisecond, I don't think I've drawn a graph. Although there are specific crash data analysis programmes, everyone surely has Excel (or an OpenOffice equivalent). Wandering amongst the desks were children without pencils or rulers, struggling with the art of drawing X and Y axes. Some just weren't bothered and were using an animal stencil set to draw not a graph, but the phonetically similar giraffe.

The second day, in the science department, started off in a classroom which had, hanging from the ceiling tiles, reproductive system mobiles reproduced and coloured in by the class. There aren't many occasions in life where you need to illustrate the properties of Light Dependent Resistors beneath a sea of fallopian tubes and urethras. There was also a biology practical, looking at the role of enzymes on starch solutions, illustrating the semi-permeable membranes of the digestive system by testing for starch and glucose. The day finished with a look at matt-black and shiny-silver tins and lagging, the aim being to teach about heat transfer through radiation and conduction. For each class I could remember the same experiment from almost 20 years ago - whilst school re-unions and Friends Reunited seem popular, if you really want to reminisce, spend some time in a classroom.

As in modern work environments, the modern staff-room briefing has the same brusque professionalism of corporate team meetings with agendas, reviews, and targets. The morning register is recorded with a wireless-networked laptop. The chalk-face has been replaced with white-boards; OHP acetates with Power Point; and classroom handouts are available to download from a central server.

Whilst my time with the different classes affirmed my interest to teach, it did little to confirm whether I'd prefer to teach maths or science. However, as the Course Leader at the University pointed out, "You wouldn’t be a teacher of maths or science: you’d be a teacher of young people."

Neil – finds his answers in the back of the book

This Present Darkness

2006-03-01T10:12:00.000Z

Sunday saw us heading up to Birmingham and the NEC for Lowestoft's only export that isn't flash-frozen by Birdseye: The Darkness. Lowestoft is where my wife comes from, where we were married, and not at all the geriatric utopia suggested by Channel 4's recent Rock School. Lowestoft has nightclubs (The Zone and Hanks, albeit in the same building), some great restaurants (Sgt Peppers doing the best burgers you'll find anywhere other than The US or The Bell Inn, near Sutton Hoo), and the High Street looks pretty much the same as every other High Street. Except Lowestoft has a Wimpy and the most Easterly Church in Britain.

The Darkness were especially popular in 2003/2004 with their Permission to Land album. They were also a welcome antidote to the banal and anodyne phone-vote one-hit wonders of Pop Idol. Since then, however, there has been some great new music rising in popularity: The Strokes, White Stripes, Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, and just about everything else that is on the playlists of 6 Music and Xfm. The Darkness' ironic-but-reveretial tribute to rock has stood still whilst the iPod playlists have moved on.

We were to have watched the concert in Brighton, but it was moved forward, slap-bang in the middle of the holiday in Austria. Birmingham was the next available date and the three-hours up the M3, A34, M40, and M42 through Bourneville gave plenty of opportunity to catch up with the Darkness' back-catalogue, singing along to English Country Garden, and Girl with the Hazel Eyes as we drove up to the Midlands.

Traffic Display Systems are sprouting up on various sections of Motorway around the country. They offer helpful advice: Don't Drive Tired - Have a Break at our Overpriced Burger Kings; Don't Test the Limits of your Car's Abilities - Unless you're the Shrewsbury Police; and Queue Caution - Accident Ahead, Slow Down to Have a Really Good Look at someone's Broken Life. The Displays on the M42 warned of possible Queues due to: NEC Major Event. And the major event was... Caravan Show. After years of frustration bumbling around the Barnby Bends and sitting behind dawdling drivers on the Acle Straight, only a rock band from East Anglia could be upstaged by a Caravan Show.

The gig itself was great. The set was hilariously absurd - Justin arriving astride a pair of comedy breasts (complete with flashing nipples), a gothic-style pipe-organ back-drop that belched smoke. There was fire, fire-works, and trident-styled light-stands. We sang along with every anthem, and swayed in time with every balad. Once upon a time the slow rock balad would be illuminated by a sea of cigarette lighters, raised to the music. As more and more public places become increasingly "No Smoking", the thousands of arms around us proudly held up instead the bright screens of their mobile phones, our faces bathed in an unearthly backlit LCD glow.

Neil - whose nipples never flash, only bleed.

Black Beauty

2006-02-08T16:11:00.000Z

I don't know why, but the opening bars to the 70s TV programme "Black Beauty" make me feel quite emotional. It wasn't an especially favourite childhood programme - Thundercats, Ulysses 31, Battle of the Planets, and (a la Gerry Anderson) Starfleet take those honours, and I'm not especially animal friendly. Cycling along a Road Used as a Public Path towards the South Downs Way I looked down to see a couple of horse-riders thunderously galloping along a wide bridlepath. The sound of the hooves drumming against the ground along the paths was inspirational. But if Black Beauty were transposed to the twenty-hundreds (twenty-ohs - what are we calling this decade?) it would be a burned out twocked hatchback, charred and gutted.

Bridlepaths are Public Rights of Way for equestrians, walkers, and cyclists and are often found in the middle of the country-side in hard-to-get-at places. However, Saturday's route near HMS Mercury was littered with fly-tipping. Sofas, fridge-freezers, baths, lawn-mowers and the cars used to dump them appeared at regular intervals during the ride. There are "Recycling Centres" (tips) at Port Solent, Havant, and Waterlooville. Port Solent's Recycling Centre is so popular and convenient that it has developed from Land-Fill to Geological Anomoly - the Ordnance Survey currently have it listed at 10 ft above sea level, they're about 200 ft out of date.Tips are conveniently located with reasonable road access. The fly-tipping around the South Downs was in places that are hard to get to - the people responsible had to go considerably out of their way in order to dump their broken white-goods in the Hampshire countryside. It isn't laziness, just vandalism.

Neil - mostly recycles bad puns

Hangin' on the Telephone

2006-02-08T09:26:00.000Z

Computers, software, and telephones have integrated to the point where you can see who is calling you on your screen or handset and respond accordingly: answer the call if it's someone you love, ignore the call if it's a Customer wondering what's with the unpredictive DOE results you emailed last week, answer professionally [Good morning, Autoliv, Neil Cater speaking] if it's a number you don't recognise or is withheld. This morning was confusing - the dialling code suggested Bedford, the voice at the other end of the line was German. It isn't rare for me to speak to someone German. In 2004 I spent a lot of time in Germany where I spoke to lots of people who were German - it was in Germany that, in a roundabout way, I began this weblog. However, I don't know anyone German in Bedford. I don't know anyone in Bedford. Automotively, there is a Nissan Technical Centre in Cranfield, Bedfordshire, but I don't know anyone there either.

However, it was the number itself that interested me. There is a symmetry and purity about number sequences. The golden-mean, or Fibonacci's Sequence, is widely used throughout art and design, and is summarised as the two-thirds rule in photography where the subject is positioned two-thirds along and two-thirds up from the edge of the frame. If you're looking to compose a photo then it's worth keeping two-thirds rule in mind. The sequence is derived from adding numbers together. 0+1=1, 1+1=2, 1+2=3, 2+3=5, 3+5=8, and so on. It is my favourite number sequence and I used it to create a small series of cartoons based on the etymology of "hocus pocus" and "jack-in-the-box" whilst at Seminary, and more recently for a couple of triptychs linking all the places I've lived to hang on the walls at home.

Since moving to Waterlooville we've had a number of calls for the Havant branch of WHSmith. After working part-time in a book shop between 1992 and 1994 it has been tempting to reserve a number of books, check stock availability, and apologise that no, our top shelf magazines aren't "special interest". For the record, WHSmith in Havant can be contacted on 023 9245 3743. And the number that flashed up on my screen? Oh-one, two-three-four, five-six, seven-eight-nine, oh. I couldn't help but stare at the sequence, wondering where the number came from. I wondered for so long that they had rang off and rang back again before I answered, "Good morning, Autoliv, Neil Cater speaking".

Neil - does not have a telephone number salary

It's Good to Talk

2006-02-01T14:46:00.000Z

A tiny press release yesterday introduced celebrity voice texting to your home phone. For anyone who has thought that Little Britain's series three had become stale and predictable BT is now delivering text messages with the voice of Tom Baker. Speach-therapists will be pleased to know that the phonetics have been recorded and, when you send your text, the words are broken up phonetically, the appropriate sounds applied, and then stitched together again. You can send anything. Anything at all.

Rather than send a message saying, "I'm on my way, back at seven." or, "Do I need to get some salad?" It has become much more fun to expand the text from the short and sharp, to the long and rambling:

Hello. Welcome to Britain. We invented the chipolatta and never squeeze our pets too hard. I'll be home at 7. Ish. Good bike!

Britain has the best dentists in the world. We have teeth in every shade of yellow and black. Do you want me to pick up some salad on the way back? Where's me meat?

It's important to punctuate the messages properly. Write in lower case with no full-stops or commas and the message becomes a jumple of barely intelligible words. However, the service supports smileys, kisses, and txt spk. I'm sure the novelty will wear off eventually, but how much fun can you have for 10p. I must have already spent at least 50p. That's half a bag of chips.

Neil - thinks it's gr8 2 txt.

Bicycle Repair Man

2006-01-30T19:50:00.000Z

For the past few weeks my Saturdays have involved a couple of hours on the Merlin mountain bike, riding along and around the South Downs Way, North of Portsmouth (isn't everything). My weekdays involve cycle-commuting up the (old) A3 to work and back on the Ribble road bike. Both bikes come from small shops in Lancashire with large mail-order businesses and their own lines in frames and bike-building. The rock-salt and grime of Winter has taken it's toll on the Ribble, and the claggy mud and greasy chalk of Hampshire have threatened to stall the Merlin on some rides. It was time to do a bit of maintenance. This weekend saw me: lubricating and re-adjusting the gears on Steve's bike; adding a new chain to Susannah's bike, adjusting the gears and brakes, and cleaning off the detritus of Portsmouth's roads; and then finally adjusting, cleaning, and lubricating the Ribble. The Merlin, caked and clogged with enough mud to run a health spa, still requires attention.

At work I'm struggling with a project to optimise restraint system variables according to the occupant position. The technique is Design of Experiments and uses statistics to create a mathematically predictive model that is valid for unknown states. There are six continuous independent variables, and twelve measured responses which can be associated with the probability of receiving Head, Chest, Leg, Neck, or Pelvic injuries. Some of the initial variable states lead to unstable runs, and these instabilities lead to a poor model for the purpose of optimising the seat-belt and airbag restraint system.

So it has been a joy to be able instead to take a set of allen-keys, screw-drivers, a rag, some teflon spray, and then take things apart, clean them, put them back together, and get them working smoothly and efficiently without having to think about predicted residuals, standard deviations, Head Impact Criterion, Chest Acceleration, or US-NCAP Star-Ratings and that. It was just me, a couple of hours, and a set of derailleur gears. It took me back to my part-time work in Halfords in the Cycles section - not the best-paid job in the world, but certainly rewarding. Help someone choose a bike, build it up, adjust it, invite them back after a few weeks to have their bike re-tightened and checked over. No timing plans, Gantt Charts, test-failures, or spending 9 hours travelling to Italy and back for a couple of hours of crash preparation. Life was briefly simple and, unlike the MADYMO results in my DOE, predictable.

Neil - putting the D'oh in DOE

The Long Good Friday

2006-01-25T12:38:00.000Z

Last Friday took me and a colleague to Milan, Italy, for a Crash Test. Ooh, that's nice: Milan. We saw nothing of Milan - taxis, airport lounges, hotels, and forgotten industrial estates filled our journey.

The taxi picked us up at 4am from Southsea. We arrived at Heathrow Terminal 2 for the 7:00am Alitalia flight to Milan. We landed and took a taxi for the 35-40km to Bollate and the CSI test facility where, instead of glamorous ballistic investigators and coroners, we were greeted by a receptionist whose charm, personality, physical mass, and (probably) smell, owed more to Jabba the Hutt than any sense of politeness. If body language could be spoken, his was saying, "Screw you."

Neil: Scusi per favori.
Man's Body: Screw you.
Neil: Neil Cater e Mark Owen, Autoliv, Daniele Gervasini, Crash. (handing in the details with who we are and who we want to see)
Man's Body: Screw you.

The same attitude is transposed to driving in Italy. Within 2 minutes of the taxi journey I was relieved that we'd decided not to hire a car. The two lanes on dual carriageways are, I believe, advisory, assume there are three. Traffic lights, stop signs, give-way signs, and roundabouts all appear to be optional. If there's a corner, cut it. Before the expansion of Europe into the former Eastern Bloc countries, Italy led the way for road death tolls. The Italian Highway Code was first introduced in 1912, the year The Titanic sank. Four times as many people lose their lives each year on Italy's roads than were lost with Titanic. The fog on the way back to the hotel for 9:00pm meant that whatever danger was out there couldn't be seen - there were no icebergs to sink our journey.

The flight back to the UK was at 7-ish again. The shuttle bus picked us up at a time in the morning that preceeded breakfast. Coffee, croissants, and the Alessi gift range kick-started my day. And then my day stalled. There were so few people on the flight that, by the time the "Boarding" notice was announced, there was a call for Mr Owen and Mr Cater to proceed immediately to gate B27. We were last on and why can't airline caterers make a tasty sandwich. I fell asleep in the taxi on the way back at 9:30am. Apologising for my lack of conversation, I slumped against the head-restraint wondering when was the last time I dozed off in a car.

Neil - has bilingual body-language

There is nothing like a Dame

2006-01-14T11:56:00.000Z

The Pantomime is a Great British Tradition. It said so in the reasonably priced Programme for Aladdin, at the Old Vic in London. As Oxfam had ran out of Goats, I thought it would be a good next-best Christmas present. Tickets were bought for the train from Southsea and theatre at Waterloo. Megabus have low-cost bus fares from major cities to the capital city and are now somehow selling train tickets along similar lines. Book far enough in advance and be prepared to travel at unpopular times and you can get to London for the cost of bag of chips. I wasn't sure when the show would finish and so booked two "cheap" day-returns instead for the cost of a half-case of champagne (half-price Andre Carpentier from Tesco being a favourite at £10 a bottle).

On the South Bank, by the National Theatre, there was a display from Professional Photographers set up by Oxfam to mark the First Anniversary of the Asian Earthquake and to illustrate the progress made in rebuilding lives, families, economies, and friendships. The contrast between the devastation then and the freedom now was intoxicating, and the photography fantastic.

The audience at the Old Vic ranged in age from about 5 to 85 and everyone joined in. "Hello Boys and Girls," says Aladdin. "Hello Aladdin!" we shout back. We "Booed" and "Hissed" at Abbanazar, the mellifluously evil "Uncle". Of course, Panto isn't Panto unless there is a star from one of the Soaps treading the boards. In between playing Magneto (X-Men 1, 2, and soon 3) and Gandalf (the Grey and White), Sir Ian McKellen had a little spell on Corrie last year, and he topped the billing here, camped up in increasingly outrageous frocks and a (native) Wigan accent. There were lots of thespian in-jokes, referring to Ian McKellen as Derek Jacoby, and about having words with Kevin Spacey later.

Whilst the best recent output from Disney and Dreamworks computer animations (Toy Stories, Monsters Inc, Shreks, Incredibles) work at two levels, Panto is an old hand at this. It was common to hear the youngest members of audience laughing at moments that I was completely unaware of, and a lot of dialogue thankfully missed them completely. My favourite line was, referring to the tricycle-rickshaw the Police (Hanky and Panky) were examining, "Don't touch that, I've just had it fellated."

It was another train journey back, tiredly realising that for the 22:30 departure we could've taken the Mega-train £1 each-way option and bagged a bottle of something fizzy with the savings.

Neil - has never had his car valeted.

Christmas Wrapping

2005-12-28T09:58:00.000Z

With reasonably well-paid jobs people are in the very fortunate and secure positions where, if they need to do something or buy something they can. It may be taking a taxi every Orange Wednesday to the hospital, replacing the buckled wheels on their mountain bike after being knocked off, or (once the loan is in your account) buying a car on Switch. That security makes life difficult when it comes to Christmas.

Exchanging presents is great - but how do you buy for people who, if they need something, can go out an get it? My heart goes out to the people who, this year, have wanted to give me a Christmas gift. We don't really need anything, and the only things that we do want don't fit within a happy £5 to £10 bracket - except books, inner-tubes, and cans of WD-40 (I'm being selfish here). I am notoriously ungrateful and very specific. If I'm interested in a cycling top, don't assume I'm interested in the Lance Armstrong 10/2 top, or a replica Eddie Mercx or Tom Simpson top, assume I want the beautiful designed-in-Scotland made-in-Italy merino wool cycling top that I've emailed you the web-link for. For Christmas this year I received a beautiful designed-in-Scotland made-in-Italy merino wool cycling top from my wife, a cycling magazine subscription and very smart tie-and-cufflinks from my parents, and some camera accessories from Susannah's dad. Best of all, though, have been the Oxfam Unwrapped gifts doing the rounds this year. I was given a donkey by Susannah - even though I already have a big fat ass, and we received a goat from Susannah's brother and his wife. Oxfam Unwrapped polarises opinion.

One opinion is: it's worthwhile to give what you would have spent on someone else to others on behalf of that someone else and, instead of them feeling awkward, wondering what to do with that Best of Charlie Dimmock DVD or Tower of Pizza coffee set, they will be filled with a warm glow of generosity knowing that they've inadvertantly contributed to making poverty history and giving independence to the opressed.

The other opion is: what do you think you're doing giving my present to someone in Africa, I want a present, and if you are going to give a cow to some flies-on-the-eyes family then I want to know who they are and where's my present.

Oxfam Unwrapped polarised my Christmas Evening in exactly this way. For the record, I was very glad to see so many animals, school desks and dinners, and medical packs going to so many who needed them, whoever they were. I don't care - especially because it saved me from feeling awkward, wondering what to do with that Charlie Dimmock DVD and Tower of Pizza coffee set.

Neil - checks his list twice

Achy Breaky Heart

2005-10-14T20:39:00.000Z

Craig David met a girl on Monday and took her for a drink on Tuesday. Orange, the mobile phone company have a great offer on Wednesdays where you can buy two cinema tickets for the price of one. If there's a film that you'd maybe go to see but aren't too sure about then it's ideal. If it's a film that your partner wants to see and you don't then the deal is perfect.

Most of our recent Wednesday evenings have instead been spent at Queen Alexandra hospital: one axial fracture of the radial head (mine); two recent episodes of supraventricular tachycardia (Susannah's). Supraventricular tachycardia (SVT) occurs when one of the electrical pulses controlling the heart goes a bit wrong and the heart starts doing double-time. Instead of doing 70-80 bpm you're doing 210. It was possible to see 180-210 bpm during the Great North and South Runs last year. It's the sort of heart rate that requires effort and, once you've stopped exerting yourself, takes a couple of minutes to settle down again. SVT is just full on fast - it's the "only for the hard-core UK raver" of heart beats. Even when you're as still and quiet as a mouse you'd still be hitting 210.

A broken arm gets you into Minor Trauma and X-Ray. SVT gets you rushed into Major Trauma and Resuscitation, wired up, and attached to machines that measure blood pressure, heart-rate, electrical activity, and respiratory performance. Attached to the walls of the Resus ward were plastic-packaged surgical steel implements for opening airways. Elsewhere, castored cabinets had drawers marked "Chest Drains", "Cardiac Recovery", and more generically "DRUGS". Not any particular drugs, just "DRUGS". The ceiling, built with tracts for holding drips, also showed signs of previous visitors who'd left their mark. One of the white tiles above displayed a Pollock-esque splattering from someone else's major trauma. The last time Susannah wore white was when we married: eight years ago, in a fitted flowing dress, Susannah was the centre of attention; now, in a standard-issue paper smock, she was still holding court, monitored to ensure that everything was back to normal after the treatment.

The treatment is an intravenous drug called Adenosine that should only be administered by a doctor, whilst the patient is also hooked up to a heart monitor. It's almost like pulling out the leads that attach to the spark plugs of an engine and trying to quickly re-attach them before the engine stops, the equivalent of the IT support first line, "Have you tried turning it off and on?" Except it's your heart and, ideally, doesn't have an off button and doesn't need rebooting. If you are inclined to try and turn your heart off and on using Adenosine be warned: side effects may include shortness of breath, chest pressure, and loss of consciousness. Susannah confirms the first two.

Neil - would've preferred a night at the pictures.

What did you call me?

2005-10-12T17:56:00.000Z

The more time I spend working the more difficult it is to keep up with the kids these days - especially if they've just run off down the high-street with the CD you've just bought. I got the last laugh though as Supergrass's "Road to Rouen" is only about 30 minutes long and not as edgy as their earlier work in the mid-90s...

Whatever the word on the street is, here's a handy guide to work out what it means:

www.urbandictionary.com/

Neil - who hopes that scallies and not chavs still live in Liverpool

Going Underground

2005-10-12T03:22:00.000Z

I was in Cambridge recently for a conference workshop titled "Optimisation, Stochastics, and DOE in Crash Simulation". Essentially a workshop on statistics. Do I know how to have fun or what? I didn't even get to go to the four course Conference Dinner at the King's College Great Hall in the evening. No wine. No food. The only mouthful on my course was the term, "Random Latin Hypercube". So I got all the statistics and none of the socialising. The workshop started early Monday morning, which meant travelling on Sunday.

The Sunday evening roads of Britain seem to have become more congested over the past four years. I used to drive up to Sunderland and back to Portsmouth every weekend in the first six months of my job here in Hampshire. It was (and still is) 370 miles each way. If I watched my speed carefully (and made sure that the air-conditioning wasn't also trying to re-freeze the polar ice caps) then the Ka's 40 litres of petrol could just about make it - 40 litres there, 40 litres back. Recent trips back from weekends at Liverpool and Lowestoft have seen mile upon mile of stationary Sunday traffic where, regardless of how many cars have air-con as standard, temperatures run high and tempers fray. However, as the Conference was being held close to the station and Sunday should be a day of rest, I took the train. Not the last one, not the first one, the one at about four-o-clock.

At Junior School, during Lent, we were obliged to go to Church on weekdays (before school). The Priest would get through Mass in about 15 to 20 minutes: there'd be no sermon, no creed, and half-rations for Communion. However, on Sunday there was no rushing through the Liturgy: it was there in all its forms. If you take the train on a Sunday be warned: like with the Church there are no express services. The train stopped at every single station along the Sussex coastline to Brighton before finally turning North to Gatwick and London Victoria. If I'd thought ahead I would have jumped the train at Emsworth where I could have bought a bottle of or two of St Emilion to get me through the rest of the journey. And how I needed it! Ten minutes after Emsworth, and with no entertainment, I would have quite happily hit a bottle or two of Malagan Communion Wine instead - consecrated or not.

In the 200 metres it took to walk from the platform at London Victoria towards the escalators for The Tube I'd gone from an amble that took in the scenery and atmosphere of a busy mainline station to a power walk that took no prisoners. There was none of my leisurely pace, enjoying the surroundings, or wondering where the other travellers were going to at 7 pm on a Sunday evening. I had focus, drive, determination, and goals: get to the Tube station, get on the Tube, get to Finsbury Park, and get everybody else out of my fucking way. I found myself leaning into people with my shoulder - wherever they were going, they weren't going to break my stride. And then down the escalators, tunnels, and steps to the platform with the warm smell and punctual breezes of the Tube where it all suddenly stopped still.

It seems like ages since I was last on The Tube - it was great to see the advertising on the tunnel walls, the different characters of some of the stations, the different characters at some of the stations, and just to be travelling without any awareness of what's going on in the City above. As I sat back, my bag under my feet, I noticed how all the bustle and purpose of the station, the walk-on-the-left escalators, and the clamour to find a seat or stand clear of the closing doors had disappeared. I watched people as they stepped through the doors. A couple of women, expressive and chatty at first, slowly lost interest in whatever it was that had animated them earlier. The fizz had gone. They stared blankly ahead for the rest of their journey. As I looked down the carriage I could see seat upon seat occupied by people whose faces had turned flat and stale like last night's Lambrini dregs. Maybe this is where people get the chance to relax and switch off: that to get a little down-time, people need the Underground.

Neil - can still taste the dregs of last night's Lambrini

The White Whale

2005-09-06T07:46:00.000Z

I read the story Moby Dick when I was in Junior School. That was in the days before I sniggered at the word "dick", and in the days when no-one owned a or had heard of moby (the phone or the eccentric musician who is classed as Electronic in iTunes). In fact, iTunes hadn't been invented. Live Aid had only just happened, organised with faxes and telephone calls from desks. My mum was still cutting my hair and buying my clothes. I could be weighed in stones (because we hadn't fully bought into the Metric System). Buses were regular and full of people travelling to work or school or town. Not long after reading Moby Dick I was allowed to go into Liverpool by myself. On the bus. I used to love using the bus: the ticket 13p (before deregulation) and the standing up to let old people sit down. Now the elderly menace the pavements on electric dodgem cars and the ticket costs £4.40. According to their registrations, only the buses have stayed the same.

I discovered the ticket price of a return from Southsea to Havant because I sustained a fractured radial head when I was knocked off my bike. My arm (left) is in a sling for a few weeks, causing discomfort. And it can take about five minutes to put on my socks. The route I had been cycling appeared much safer than the traffic-dodging journey I used to take along the bus-lanes out of Portsmouth and across the foot of Portsdown Hill. The old route required a daily battle with the succession of Number 23 buses which were my nemesis for the 35 minutes cycle to work. If a bus was going to pull out, it was the 23. If it was going to pull in, it was the 23. It was the bus I fought with for all but the last two miles where it slipped away towards Havant, and I carried on to work. The red, orange and blue livery of the Stagecoach bus was impervious to the abuse I hurled at its drivers, but there was never a choice, there was not (until recently) an alternative route, no opportunity to give up the chase. And it was in choosing the safer alternative that delivered me to my fractured state.

My appointment card required me to be at the Fracture Clinic. Work required me to be optimising automotive safety systems. And I wanted to get my bike into a shop for a repair estimate. I was delivered to the hospital and the bike delivered to the shop by Sooz-la-Taxie. After my appointment (come back in 4 weeks) I went to the bus-stop and checked the buses. I waited for the only bus available, the 23. The early morning and the commute home involved being bounced around the near-empty ancient single-decker bus that had so often nearly wiped me out on the roads. The jerking traffic, the regular stops for an occasional passenger, the length of time the journey took. It all weighed down. Instead of the challenge of cycling to work and back as powerfully as possible, I was trapped by a broken arm to being slowly dragged around by the 23 as Ahab was with the White Whale. I'd been swallowed in the belly of the beast. My nemesis had become my deliverer.

Neil - doesn't normally go down on whales

One hand clapping

2005-08-25T11:59:00.000Z

In my Wedding Speech I made the observation that, on the Suffolk Coast, with a Fish Processing Factory and a Nuclear Powerstation down the road, it was not surprising that Fish Fingers came in boxes of six. Despite not getting as many laughs as the comments about Eddie Stobart trucks, it was my favourite line: it was the one that you could see some people getting straight away; others had it slowly dawn on them; others needed it explaining. I mention it now because this weekend I visited Thorpe Ness in Suffolk. On the way there were plenty of tourist road-signs for Sizewell Beach. Not one for Sizewell B. Whilst we were at Thorpe Ness, in the shadow of Sizewell B and a stone's throw away from Sizewell Beach, we went rowing. Rowing is sedate and, on a Saturday afternoon, free from the frenetic fates of the cycling-commuter. As I discovered last Wednesday.

From the National Statistics Office there is the following data:

There were 280,840 reported casualties on roads in Great Britain in 2004, 3 per cent less than in 2003. 3,221 people were killed, 8 per cent less than in 2003. 31,130 were seriously injured (down 8 per cent on 2003) and 246,489 were slightly injured (down 3 per cent on 2003).

Pedal cyclist casualties were 2 per cent lower than in 2003 at 16,648. There were 2,174 seriously injured casualties, 5 per cent less than in 2003. The number of pedal cyclists killed went up by 18 per cent from 114 to 134.

Next year, if the stats continue hovering, I will be counted as one in a quarter million after being knocked [up?] off my bike whilst cycling home. Looking at the data, I was more unlucky to be knocked off my bike this year. However, given that I was knocked over, I was luckier not to be killed. This means that, even though fewer cyclists are being run down, motorists are being more effective in wiping out cyclist to derive a driving utopia free of everyone else. It's reassuring to think that my job is essentially to develop airbags that will protect people who drive as badly as the guy who drove his car into me and then offered the statement, "I didn't see you" as some sort of explanation for his actions. We established last year that I am heavy enough to be weighed in tonnes, the same units as used for ships. How can anyone not see me? Last year in the Austrian Tirol, at the top of a ski-run, two-and-half kilometers above sea-level someone came up to me and asked, "Hi you're Neil, the Harmonica Guy from Sunderland, aren't you?" In Sunderland (at sea level) I was normally standing in front of a microphone whilst wearing a variety of particularly lurid shirts. In Austria I was wearing several layers of insulation and wrapped in bug-eyed sunglasses. People notice me even when I'm out of context. That's how badly I blend in. That's how invisible I'm not.

The frustrating thing is that, inspired by the spectacle of Le Tour, I'd finally succumbed to ordering a Road Bike. I ordered it a couple of weeks ago and have been as excited as Christmas about its delivery. There is something intoxicating about the shininess of a new bike, the thin patina of wax on the chain (which will be ground away by road-grime and teflon-spray), the untouched-ness of something pure and purposeful, the potential. I get the same sense of joy and anticipation when I look at motorbikes, a bottle of Bourbon, or brushed-stainless-steel IKEA cutlery.

So I now have half-a-grand's worth of mangled mountain bike, half-a-grand's worth of racey road bike, and 6-8 weeks before I'll be able to ride the latter - or use the knives from my IKEA cutlery...

Neil - finds it different with his other hand.

Cadno i mewn Socks

2005-06-27T19:38:00.000Z

This weekend was spent in West Wales at a Tipi site. It was a stag weekend and perfectly relaxed and sociable, helped by the friendliness of Tipi design. You walk inside to be confronted with a central fire for cooking and heating, and then propped up against the circumference of the canvass wall are seat backs and cushions. You sit, you chat, you eat and drink. The Tipis themselves are simply long poles lashed together and some conical tarpaulin thrown over the top. However, because of their height and the angle of the side walls, you can stand and move around. There are none of the yogic levels of contortion required with the latest light-weight tents. The Tipis themselves looked wonderful with brightly-coloured fabric trailing from the frame poles. But where do they come from: are they supplied by some Native American reservation maintaining their traditional skills and culture? No, they come from all the W's tipi.co.uk.

Most of the people took 4-5 hours to cover the 200 or 250 miles from London or Portsmouth. Except one group, "The Gays", who took about 10 hours. Cardigan (Ceredigion, or Aberteifi) is one of the most Westerly towns in Wales, any further and you¹re swimming to Ireland. Even if you¹d arrived at Cardigan and driven up every road between there and Aberyswyth you would have arrived quicker. At almost every point in the weekend where a decision was required to go one way or another The Gays made completely the wrong one: the walk to the beach took half an hour, The Gays took three. Perhaps they'd've come out earlier if they had a better sense of direction.

When we arrived at the beach there was a man in a wetsuit who was walking through the gently lapping waves where he would stop and stoop to pick up branches, cans, and pretty much every piece of sea-borne litter. He would then carry these things further up the beach and dump them. I am not sure but perhaps every beach in Britain employs someone like him to create tide marks. Tidal waste is fantastic. Sometimes you can see all sorts of discarded items from far-away places.

Look at me I¹m a fox in the Sea!
My fox-fur coat was shining and red
But look at me now I¹m drowned and dead.

These are the missing lines from the sadly unpublished ending to Dr Zeus's Fox in Socks. They¹re mentioned here because this weekend, on the beach I saw washed up the dank corpse of a fox, foam oozing from its eye-sockets. Out of all the things you expect to see washed up on a beach a fox is not high on the agenda. If you took a survey of 100 members of a studio audience no-one would suggest fox. There are a couple of possibilities for how the fox in the sea came to be, and the primary cause for these hypotheses is the ban on hunting with dogs.

My first thoughts were that since January, the start of the ban, the fox population has exploded and, as a means of controlling their own population growth or as a desperate search for food, foxes have taken to jumping, lemming-like, into the seas of Britain. It could be the start of an evolutionary journey which will see foxes playing off the coastline or rifling through bins. Or perhaps because foxes have a lower metabolism than most mammals they work as some form of oceanic temperature control. The rise in sea temperature being due to too few foxes to cool the sea down. Until recently perhaps they were being hunted down in the affluent Shires
and not allowed to reach the seas where they naturally cool down the salty brine. Now, free from countryside oppression they¹re free to mature and head to the seas where they metamorphosise, shedding their fur to become little tiny dolphins.

An alternative tract was that foxes are the extreme sports junkies of the woodland world and actually enjoyed being chased by a slavering pack of Beagles, getting high on the endorphins and adrenalin produced by their foxy reaction to fight or flight. Now, however, without the hunt, they are suffering from withdrawal and getting their kicks anyway they can. This fox was obviously a base jumper who forgot to wear a 'chute, or had free-dived just a bit too far.

Neil - wears matching tie, cufflinks, and socks (no fox)

The Geek Shall Inherit the Earth

2005-05-20T07:44:00.000Z

My first memory of cinema is being taken to see Star Wars: A New Hope in
1977 after a (well-behaved) trip to the dentist. They took a tooth out:
they used the forceps [sorry]. Fast forward 28 years and I left my dentist
wife fast-asleep (as if she were frozen in carbonite) to sneak out to the
near-midnight showing of Revenge of the Sith at my local multiplex. I am a
big fan of late night showings: during the summer months in the North of
England it was the only guarantee of avoiding the disorientation suffered
when you walk out of the Pictures into blinding daylight, but mostly you
participate in the shared experience of people who aren't there because
it's something to do on a Saturday night, but because they all want to see
that particular film as soon as is feasibly possible, they want the film to
be good, they want and hope that their expectations will be met. I saw
Spiderman alone, totally alone, in an otherwise empty cinema because I
really wanted to see the film (and, yes, have no friends): last night there
were three screens full of fans anxious to see a successful resolution to
the Star Wars prequels. And what a fantastic parade of freaks some of them
were. There was a 5'4" Darth Vader walking around with the imposing menace
of a soft-furnishings adviser and, immediately before the film, the staff
felt obliged to advise the audience to have some consideration for others
and remember to "Please turn off your mobile phones - and your
lightsabres."

Neil - bewares of geeks bearing gifts

Cheap as Chips

2005-05-11T00:16:00.000Z

After years living with the relative reliability of Merseyrail and the
North East's Metro I found myself continuously disappointed with Southern
Trains' service. We've had to sneak out early from gigs at Southampton's
Guildhall in order to catch the last train home, and the return from
Portsmouth is nearly four times the £3.70 Sunderland to Newcastle
equivalent. Recently, however, I've been re-introduced to The Train,
particularly the Fratton to Havant service. There's now a familiarity with
the 07:50 to 08:15 commuters and I can take a coffee to ease me into the
day - much more civilised than the 180 heart rate of the cycle ride, and if
someone bumps into me I don't break anything.

Another reason for not using the train until recently is that Southsea's
Albert Road and Palmerston Road offer a welcome invitation of pubs, bars,
and restaurants. For a change of scene whilst avoiding the "who's going to
drive back" dilemma, we took the train to Emsworth to catch up with some
(of Susannah's) friends. Emsworth, in between Havant and Chichester, is
setting itself up as the place to be seen to be eating - although it was
recently slagged off in one of the Saturday broadsheets-cum-tabloids
recently. Instead we took liquid sustainance. Four bottles of (house) white
later and it was all we could do to sustain conversation. My favourite form
of public transport is "the last train home". In Germany, though, I was
introduced to "the first train home" - ideal for life in a city where the
bars seemingly don't close. In Emsworth and (until November) elsewhere in
the UK the pubs close at 11:00. The Newcastle to Sunderland last train home
was typically full of people who'd had "a good night out" or, if they
hadn't, were desperately trying to salvage their self-esteem by
propositioning every member of the opposite sex on the train. Twice.
Although Emsworth doesn't encourage this culture we caught the last train
back and watched a couple mentally grappling with the basics of life
(standing, sitting, not falling over furniture) each cradling their dregs
of his'n'hers bottles of Lambrini Blush. And I thought Emsworth had more of
a Sancerre set.

Life isn't all Goat's Cheese and Sauvignon Blanc: sometimes it's all about
going down the chippy. Here I bumped into a couple of early
twenty-somethings who were rebelling against chav couture by immersing
themselves in the Cherry-Red DM'd, drainpipe jeaned, and scooter riding
image of the 80's yob. They were a breath of fresh hair : cheerfully
enthusiastic about how out of touch their image was with their generation
(and quite a few others).

As Emsworth was too expensive, and we were feeling too posh for chips, we
hit the Wine Vaults on Albert Road for a bite to eat. The Vaults has been a
great independent pub selling its own and guest beers along with great
value chilli nachos. It has since been taken over by Fuller's, heralding an
army of barstaff who appear more professional than personable, and ,
slowly, the random chaos of the fixtures and fittings is being overtaken by
a corporate gloss, stifling and smothering the homeliness you get with
remnants of mis-matching crockery. After the great value nachos we went
back to our own mis-matching glasses at about eight. On the way, outside
the Campbell Road Surgery, there was a shadowy figure lying across the
width of the pavement. There are plenty of places to have a nice lie down
after a good night out in Southsea, but outside the Campbell Road Surgery
isn't one of them. The figure wasn't moving. And the closer we got the less
he appeared to move. On the one hand, he wasn't moving and could be
seriously unwell; on the other hand he wasn't moving and could be so
mentally unwell that any approach would be met with violence. A year or two
ago (before Lance's Wear Yellow campaign) you could get bands with "WWJD"
written on them. So, what would Jesus do? Maybe I didn't make it as a
Priest but I can still remember the beginning of "The Good Samaritan" so we
crossed to the other side of the road and went home to read the rest of the
story... Okay, he wasn't doing any harm, but Portsmouth hasn't been
especially kind to sleeping drunks and the guy on the floor was as
vulnerable as a sleeping child, so I went to check that he was okay.

"Are you alright?" Nothing. Shaking him gently: "Are you alright, mate?"
Still nothing. Getting a more pushy and a bit shouty: "Come on mate, you
shouldn't be asleep on the pavement. Are you alright?" No murmurings but
some movement as his arm emerged from the shadows of his jacket like
Arnie's out of the furnace at the end of Terminator 2, and, with cinematic
slow-motion, he raised his thumb as if to say, "I'm okay," only to slip
back into his molten sleep. He clearly wasn't okay: being asleep across the
pavement in the early evening is not okay. He was open to all kinds of
abuse...

I have a history of stumbling across injured and vulnerable woodland
animals who, I have to confess, by my hands, come to a premature end.
Granted, that end is usually cut short to prevent their further suffering,
but I'm not sure that the baby rabbit whose head I (repeatedly) stamped on
because it had been hit by a car saw it like that. I'm glad that the staff
at the QA hospital who patched me up after I'd been hit by a car didn't
show me the same sympathy, so I resisted the temptation to do the same
here. Instead I called the Police. When speaking to the Police be sure not
to suggest that the only reason you're phoning them and not robbing blind
the blindingly drunk man on the floor is that his shoes don't fit or that
you're not really into shiney white Reeboks. They appreciate facts not
flippancy and, after I spent so long that evening telling people that no, I
had nothing to do with the man on the floor - perish the thought of me
knowing people who'd get that drunk, and that yes, someone would be coming
for him, and then making sure that I rolled him back when he faced the
night sky so that he wouldn't choke on his own sick, it was a shame to see
the guy shouted at and bullied into the Police car that took him away. I
don't know what happened to him after that: he could've been taken home, he
could've been taken to a cell, he could've been charged for getting angry
at the way the Police hauled him away. All I know is that in the weeks
since, unlike Arnie's sequels, he hasn't been back.

Neil - has no future except that which he makes himself

The Hills are Alive

2005-02-24T13:00:00.000Z

Last week I went skiing in Austria. Austria was quite cool (-17 at 2500
metres). Susannah got concerned when my ears went white (rather than pink)
after a very exposed chair-lift. A combination of the cold and a viscious
cross-wind caused what I assume to be mild frost-bite. I've had clumps of
skin flaking off my ear-lobes for most of this week. A pretentious goatee
beard and comical side-burns protected the rest of my face.

Whilst I've developed a penchant for casually killing woodland animals, The
Tirolleans have taken this beyond hobbey and sport so that trapping,
shooting, and baiting are no stranger to them as nipping off to Tescos is
for us. Pork, Duck, Beef, Lamb, Veal, and Venison were on the menu and,
quite often, stuffed or mounted on the walls. There was barely a square
centimetre of pannelling that didn't have at least one goat-skull,
dear-head, or aggressively-posed badger staring back at us. It is a fact
that, in Austria in 1942, the end titles of Bambi started rolling after the
sound of the hunter's shot because that was when the audience cheered.

We found out that one of the women on the trip - a mid 50s smile-less GP
with two boys of around 12 years - picked the two lads up from a sperm
bank. She never let them out of her sight or go off skiing with anyone
except on one day - everything they did had to be of educational value,
there was never any sense of doing anything for fun. We gave them Gluwein
(mulled wine) at the end of the one day when they were free of their evil
turkey-baster mum and they weren't allowed out again. As it's coming up to
Easter and Austria is a very churchy place you could buy decorations for
your Easter tree. The test-tube lady told us that she went into Innsbruck
to buy some eggs. . .

Neil - keeps his goatee beard hidden for fear of being shot on the
mountains.

Ferry across the Merci

2004-12-13T13:01:00.000Z

I really should start by apologising for the appalling pun of the Subject title but I couldn't think of anything else. From the Pier Head, near the Liver Buildings, you can take a ferry (probably the Royal Iris) along the Mersey to see the fantastic Liverpool skyline after which land right back to where you started from. This weekend was our Team's Christmas Do and this year we took a Cabaret Cruise on P & O Ferries. The Cabaret Cruise used to be called "Booze Cruise" - someone in their copy writing had moved from rhyme to alliteration in a failed attempt to create a more exclusive atmosphere on the overnight crossing. It should have been an evening of drinking and dancing into the small hours with the bonus of a few hours around the shops and cafes of Cherbourg. Unfortunately due to French industrial action (quelle surprise) the ship wasn't going to stop in Cherbourg but they were going to keep the bars open until 6 and land us right back where we started from. The evening was therefore full of drinking, dancing, broken glass, avoiding fights, and wondering why the Sancerre on the boat was more expensive than not only Auchan but Sainsbury's too. The ship, it's lack of destination, and most of the guests on board gave it the air of a floating prison. Thankfully we didn't have to slop out. After 21 hours of travelling from Portsmouth to Portsmouth we were finally herded off down the gangways by the security teams that kept most of the night in check.

The ferry landed at Portsmouth at about 5. By 5:30 I was in Gunwharf Quays where I was able to pick up some cheese from the monthly French Farmers' Market.

Neil - is used to spending a long time getting nowhere.

Hey Mickey, you're so fine. . .

2004-12-06T13:02:00.000Z

This weekend saw the first of my younger brothers, Graham, turn thirty. It's always good to mark your thirtieth with something big - and they don't come much bigger than Graham. To get a clear picture of what Graham looks like you should first of all search for images of the cult leader who orchestrated the sarin gas attack in Tokyo. Then, with that image in mind, pierce his head and face with bits of steel and a ring through his nose. Next, give him a 54" chest. Finally, with this massive vision of dark menace straining to wreak havoc and destruction, consider that he has a soft spot for Disney and all its merchandise. Whereas I am comfortable with stamping on the heads of woodland animals with the mildest of ailments, Graham likes to see them rendered in CGI beauty and voiced by the Holywood A-list. So, Disneyland Paris is where I spent my weekend.

At the moment I'm struggling to get over the fact that I drove there. I recently drove to Newcastle and back for the Great North Run - this weekend I drove to Paris and back, peering through the December fog at the Eiffel Tower as we were skirting with the Periphique at 9:00 on Saturday morning. A mile from home and we're on a Ferry to France. Three and a half hours after landing in Cherbourg and we're queueing for Space Mountain. My previous experiences with France have been largely limited to Lourdes. However, the same level of devotion, idolatary, and merchandising is as alive for Mickey in Paris as it was for Mary in the Pyranees. The Festival of Lights along the main street of the Disney resort sees the same level of crowds and fanaticism as the candle-light procession for the Blessed Virgin. The only real difference being that Bernadette's visions weren't available on limited release special edition DVDs for repeated viewings.

Whatever it is that Disney have done in Paris, they've done it very well. There really is the sense of a magical other world of enchanted palaces, haunted mansions, and old west prospecting. Ok, it's all an artificial and manufactured atmosphere, but look at how well it's all packaged. As with New York, London, Lourdes, skiing, and Le Tour de France, it's all in some way wrapped up and orchestrated to make the queues and the over-priced fast food seem almost acceptable. I don't know if it was the sugar-coated environment, the fun of surprising my brother and spending some time
together in the way we used to when we were both into Lego (Graham has moved on...), or something else entirely, but I had a fantastic weekend.

Neil - does not deserve repeated viewings.

Paso Doble

2004-10-11T12:03:00.000Z

After the bloody miles of the Great North Run I decided to use some form of nipple protection for Sunday's Great South. A number of suggestions were proposed by various people: don't bother running (my personal favourite); plasters (past techniques); vaseline (why?); and a woman's crop-top (what?). This last one was a genuine suggestion from a guy in the Navy who had tried and strongly recommended this method on runs he'd done - well, he said it was for running. I'm sorry, but my other half weighs about five grammes and I weigh near a tenth of a tonne: Susannah can buy clothes from the GAP kid's section (and wear them) whilst, in women's clothing terms, I'm more Man at Evans... where would I find something to fit? So, elastoplasts it was for the 10 miles from Southsea Common, past Gunwharf, through the Historic Dockyard and HMS Victory, up to the Guildhall (no fighting), along almost to ASDA, back down to Southsea, Canoe Lake, towards the Hayling Ferry, and, with a tail wind, the final two miles along the sea-front.

The plasters were (thankfully) successful - the only pain coming when I tore them off (along with some skin and hair - I'll get the photo uploaded shortly, you know I will). The run was successful, too. At the GNR's 10 mile mark I'd hit 1:50, last year's GSR was about 1:45, this year's was 1:32 - again with two runs the week before not quite totalling the race distance. However, as with the previous GNR's when living up in the North East, and last year's GSR, I was again beaten by Susannah's dad who, after celebrating his 60th earlier this year, can be rightly classed as a Pensioner. Susannah beat me too, naturally.

So there we have it: both Great Runs within a couple of weeks, both within spitting distance of where I have lived or currently live. Perhaps, if I take up swimming (without a digi-cam), I can add Liverpool's triathlon some time...

Neil - is not a perfect 10

The loneliness of the long distance runner

2004-09-27T12:04:00.000Z

On Sunday, whilst participating with 49000 other people, I completed my third Great North Run. In previous years I have spent a few months training, building up distance and stamina. This year I spent £50 on some new trainers the Sunday before and less than two hours during this last week on the road. Consequently, my times (in Excel hh:mm format) have therefore been - 02:15, 02:05, 02:25. Whilst the new shoes (slightly broken in) prevented blisters compared with my previous pair, I thought that I could get through the run without joggers nipple as I'd not suffered from this in my runs this week. Oh how wrong could I have been: the run was a living lesson in dynamic chromotography only this time with blood, sweat, and t-shirt rather than ink, water, and blotting paper. Last week I spent a couple of days in Sweden which meant I couldn't make my regular blood-doning session - a good thing too as yesterday I must have bled a pint from my chafed chest leaving my t-shirt looking like a fettishistic Turin shroud. . . (as soon as I've replaced my camera I'll get a picture posted!)

The whole event was fantastic. It took 12 minutes to get to the start line - not because I'm (that) slow but because of the sheer volume of people. On most corners and roundabouts bands had set up to entertain the crowds and runners. And, as I jolted down the bank to turn left onto the Coast Road towards Shields, the Red Arrows started their display. It really finished off the run on a high. One of Susannah's friends, Karen, was the designated bag-carrier and we were to meet at point "W" for Wilson. As I was wandering through to collect my medal and clean t-shirt the tannoy announced that Karen Wilson would meet Neil at point R. After 10 minutes of hanging around point R feeling the eyes of everyone staring at my butcher-like Rorschached top I realised that maybe I was not the only Neil who had finished, and perhaps there was more than one Karen Wilson too.

Go on the Royal Iris from Liverpool and you will be delighted with the piped "Ferry Across the Mersey" tune ad infinitum. We took the ferry from South to North Shields and were relieved that neither Gazza's nor Lindisfarne's "Fog on the Tyne" were part of the estuary's entertainment.

Neil - gives blood whether he wants to or not

Lounge Lizards

2004-09-16T12:39:00.000Z

On Sunday night as I tried to get to Sweden I discovered that it's very difficult to leave a Departure Lounge by any means other than a plane. After our admin people failed to book a taxi (for which I waited and waited) I raced up to Heathrow to suffer one of those agonising glass-door "I'm sorry, we've just closed the flight, the plane door is closed, there's nothing we can do" moments. All that was missing was the soothing voice of John Nettles explaining how important it is that the plane door should not be re-opened to let me on because goattee beards are considered offensive in Scandanavia. What could have made it worse would have been if the nearest hotels were charging £100 a night. The nearest hotels were charging £100 a night. So I've drove back to my desk to check that yes I did put all the relevant information on my travel request before going home to (a reasonably-priced) bed.

The problem, I found, with leaving my Ka in the long-term car-park was trying to find it again after 3 days of meetings and statistical analysis. Although I could remember that I had parked in zone D57 it was finding zone D57 that I had difficulty with (even though that is my favourite Excel spreadsheet cell)... In fact, I found Brad (the car) before I realised that I was in the correct zone. In the end it was about 8:15 when I got home after landing at twenty-to-six. I can't believe how busy Heathrow is compared to other airports - queue after queue after queue. In those queues are all manner of people - families, business-men, returning holidayers,
and guys wearing traditional Middle-Eastern clothing. "Are those ladies?" shouted a 5-year old boy who'd just stopped screaming. After being told that they were men he continued shouting, "But why are they wearing dresses?" I don't know which the parents found more embarassing - the bawling crying child, or the loud lucid bout of questioning...

In Gothenburg I visited one of the simulation people from here who has been there since March. He had been living (briefly) near the work site, but even a quiet Tuesday night in Gothenburg is busier than the busiest night in Vårgårda so he decided to seek out some life and some civilisation. I then took the last train back from Gothenburg for the 80km to the hotel. Unlike the last trains back in the UK there was no-one walking up and down the carriages desperately trying to pull (not even me).

One of the highlights in the Financial District was seeing a building with a sign labelled "Pant Bank". I didn't make a deposit.

Neil - is not leaving on a jet plane.

Pooh Sticks

2004-08-11T12:41:00.000Z

The weekend was spent catching up on some sight-seeing and missing photos -
Super Size Me and Hamburger Bank being particularly important. My Saturday
in the incredibly hot city centre was cooled by a beer (from McDonald's,
naturally), and (to quench the fires of hell) an iced coffee - no fruit tea
for me, I'm living a rock-n-roll lifestyle. There are no Starbucks, Costa
Coffee, or any other familiar highstreet coffee houses in Hamburg except
for a Brazilian branded place which was remarkably empty - but seemed to be
a Starbucks copy anyway. All of this aimless wandering was a precursor to
the evening's entertainment which was to be "Vivaldi im Dschungel" - a
combination of string-quartets in the zoo. Although I caught some music by
the entrance to the zoo, we were just a little too late to catch the twelve
musical monkeys or the pianissimo pandas. Instead we went to see The Dom.

The Dom is not the head of German organised crime - I can't see Joe Pesci wearing Lederhosen and asking, "Is there something about me which amuses you?" Well, yes. Instead The Dom, which also means Cathedral, is the site of an occasional fun fair near a Blockhaus. Amongst the usual dubious fairground attractions of Waltzers and Ghost Trains there were pub-sized bars where you could sit down and have a quiet drink (Heiße Schokolade mit Rum), a beer (vom Fass, as opposed to a warm tin), or order food which would be cooked and brought out on a plate to your table instead of being thrust out to you from the greasy hatch of a burger van whilst you're being pestered to buy some lucky heather. There were of course the usual dodgy cuddly toy shooting stalls - both Shrek and (Finding) Nemo being very prominant and familiar. Less familiar but equally prominant was Donner, the plush-toy Kebab. Here, kebabs are eaten before you go out to the bars and are held with some affection, unlike the UK where kebabs are eaten at the end of the night and not held down for long.

At the Dom the answer to the titular question of the Blues song "What's that smells like fish?" would have been "Nemo, the fish". The following morning, however, it was the Fisch Markt, on the harbour and just down the road from the St Pauli / Rieperbahn red-light area. Despite its name, the Fisch Markt did not just sell fish: live stock was available too - so, you could buy a strutting feathery cock if the pink plastic ones up the road weren't up to scratch. Over the years the Fisch Markt has put on entertainment. This Sunday allowed me my musical fix to make up for missing the Zoo: I found half-a-dozen organ grinders (sans monkeys); and, in the Fisch Markt, a (deep breath) Joe Cocker impersonating winner of Stars in Their Eyes who although from Birmingham has been working in Germany for 20 odd years for a supplier of the company I work for. . . He was very popular with the mullet rock crowds.

Not only can you have a beer in McDonald's, you can have one in the Art Gallery. The Hamburger Kunsthalle was where I had mine. La Dolce Vita pictures a sun-drenched Mediteranean party of food and wine - the German equivalent, according the paintings on display, is stale bread and flat beer. The modern section of the gallery included highlights such as a plush-toy death-trophy wall (complete with rabbit head) and cowpats mounted so that they appeared to be face-masks - if ever the phrase "shit-on-a-stick" was required then this was it. Either that or the artist just didn't get A A Milne. . .

Neil - would get by with a little help from his friends (if he had any).

Blanckety

2004-08-10T12:44:00.000Z

I don't think anything notable happened at all on Friday - a bit of cycling (TV off) and then for the necessary wochen-Guinness at Broderick's (The Irish Pub). Actually, that's not strictly true: Friday was notable for the fact that it was just a bit normal - well, normal if you're from Liverpool and your great-grandfather had a calligraphied certificate on the wall for "Services to the Irish Cause". There was music supplied by Quilty which, whilst also being descriptive of my hotel bed, is the name of an acoustic Irish Band who sang a beautiful rendition of (the Scottish) "Will ye go, Lassie, go". I spent the first few verses wondering where I'd heard this before - and then I thought it had been covered by The Pogues as they have
a song with the similar line "All along the purple heather". The Pogues' was a similar tune but it was difficult to work out the words as I'd never heard it sung by someone with teeth before. Despite that, the night flowed into a melodic soulful session capturing the importance of those people and places that are closest to us. . .

Scrap all that - Friday was freaky. Up the road and in Hamburg (sponsored by Becks) have has been some rock concerts and, amongst the socks-and-sandals, too short shorts, and frightening colour combinations of the Breakfast Buffet crowd in the hotel have been a horde of roadies wearing black combats and black T-shirts sporting band names like "Deathmaster", "Helloil", and (sorry) "W Devil 40". Despite the fact that my insistance on wearing colour coordinating ties, socks, and cufflinks has
been described by some as obsessional (and, by my wife, just a little bit gay), strong coffee is my satanic brew of choice. So what does a 280lb, pierced and tattooed "Beelze-lub" (was that too far?) roadie have for breakfast? Stronger coffee with Jack Daniels? Just Jack Daniels? A Super-Size Me Gallon of Full Fat Coke? No, he asks the waitress for some herbal tea. That's not even "herbal" (note the inverted commas) tea. I'm sorry, but popping down (early) for breakfast at the local hotel to have muesli and fruit tea is not on the curriculum at the School of Rock.

Neil - is pleased that School's out for Summer.

Photo Update

2004-08-10T12:42:00.000Z

There is now a full set of photos to illustrate the emails which have been irritating most [all?] of you for almost 4 weeks now.

Any German speakers amongst you, please go to the Kunsthalle section and check out the file named "Colour". This was the key for one of the galleries where each colour related to a particular skill and any member of staff with that particular skill would wear a uniform with some of that colour. It was not to be taken too seriously: one of them was "Ich kann karate".

photos

Neil - knows kung-fu

What's brown and sticky?

2004-08-09T12:45:00.000Z

On Thursday it was the 30th Birthday of one the Engineers here. He's unmarried and this is, apparently, not a good thing. I am reluctant to comment. The tradition is that any Herren who pass 30 before they're married are doing something wrong and need to clean themselves up. This is re-enacted in work by colleagues making a mess on their desk which the Birthday Boy has to clear up. With a toothbrush. To clear up any confusion I should add that by "making a mess" I don't mean "having a poo". Some keyboards are sticky enough. Back at their flats/appartments/bedrooms the same thing goes on courtesy of friends and family who see their Sons as being obviously too slobbish for any sensible girl to bother with.

The Dammen are instead seen as having unwelcoming doors which no sensible man would want to approach: they have to sweep the entrances and polish the knobs of all the doors in their apartment block. I'm assuming door-knobs - but Hamburg is a city with a legalised sex industry, after all.

Neil - is a Marigold Man.

Little pig, little pig, let me in

2004-08-06T12:47:00.000Z

On Wednesday I went to Schweinske. Shweinske, which means "Little Pigs" or "Piggies", is the name of a chain of bars in Germany and, externally, this one has all the appeal of an East Anglian night-club. They're flat-roofed, slab-sided, painted white, and in backlit perspex from 1987 have a monacled cartoon pig enjoying ein grosses bier as their logo. People who look at those pale grey bears amongst the other tat at Clinton cards and think, "Ahh!" will probably enjoy the friendly pissed pink piggy - I have, thankfully as yet, not met those people. Inside, however, is a different matter - it's a normal everyday bar with wood panneling, stuff on the walls, and it's Wetherspoons cheap, serving beer from "Hefeweizen" - which is beautiful, to "Fosters's" - which is, like most of these notes, badly punctuated. I don't know how "Piggies" came to be, it's not as though it has a built-in Charlie-Chalks Fun-Factory and they've come up with the German equivalent of the Brewster's Bear to annoy everyone. Perhaps it is more that after the first two pigs struggled with the hay and straw, the third pig instead stroked his goattee beard and popped out for a swift half. Which is exactly what I did.

Neil - has huffed and puffed but never blown anyone's house up who wasn't on some sort of register.

I think I'm turning Japanese / Yes I'm turning Japanese / Yes I think so

2004-08-05T12:48:00.000Z

It was back to The Irish Pub on Tuesday night to meet up with a couple of people from work: one guy from here in Elmshorn, the other working over here from Japan for a few years. The Japanese guy (Nakagima, let's not call him Kato) was drinking Guinness. His first taste of Guinness was, of course, in Germany. Perhaps this is why The Irish Pub exists: to allow anyone from anywhere, whilst they're somewhere else, to enjoy a decent pint.

Whilst I struggled to ask if anyone had seen my sunglasses, as an illustration of how badly things can go wrong when you are without your phrase-book, Nakagima had a great story from the Japanese papers reporting that a business-man, reading an English paper, was confused by an unfamiliar phrase, wrote down the phrase on a piece of paper, and handed it to one of the Cabin Crew. Unfortunately, that phrase was "Suicide Bomber". In addition to the elasticated "I have lost my phrase book" laminate (with rounded edges, to get past security), I will be further petitioning Berlitz to add an International Terrorism section to go with Eating Out, Travel, and Sightseeing. It should include expressions such as: "Where can a buy a fake moustache?"; "No, the red one!"; and "Look, I'm not Sidney Poitier!"

Whereas Neil means, according to the tat in Clinton Cards, "Champion" and phonetically it is "kneeling", in Japanese my name would mean either: "cooked" or "boiled", "two-flows", or "kept luggage". Then Nakagima corrected himself and said that really, "two-flows" is more of a euphemism for "second-class". After washing some clothes in the bathroom sink with Seaweed shower-gel a week or so ago, boiled second-class luggage can hardly be more appropriate.

Neil - lives out of a class-less suitcase.

Raisin d'être (spelled slightly better)

2004-08-04T12:49:00.000Z

The wedding on Saturday, just north of Hexam, was very nice. Lots to drink. And one girl who, when the floor cleared at the start of the dance version of "I am the Music Man", performed the whole thing solo from pia-pia-piano, to bagpipes, and dambusters. For most of the night the DJ played a mix of post-95 Brit Pop sprinkled with The Weather Girls and the B-52s. Sadly, he hadn't realised that most of the people there had come from somewhere other than Newcastle and were largely unfamiliar with the Quayside classic "We're Having a Gang Bang (We're Having a Ball)". This is, I think, an almost static version of the Conga where, rather than forming a chain across the floor, you pretend to take each other from behind. Even the girl who had come from down your way wasn't going to be taken up it again.

Except for Sunday, which included Breakfast, packing, visiting a couple of friends in Durham, driving 370 miles, washing the now quite worn linen shirt and cords, and was largely incident free, I haven't seen too much of home and won't do for the next three weeks. I left for Germany again on early Monday morning. . .

As the main carriers have taken to providing a level of service marginally above Easy Jet, on Monday evening I went out for a bite to eat. The very first time I came here I went to "Kantina" where I had what can be best described as a spiced minced pork and cabbage roulade. Kantina used to be the staff cantine for Jacobs. In Liverpool this would be a source of mis-shapen Club biscuits and broken cream crackers: in Elmshorn it is a coffee processing plant and the surrounding area smells percolated even to me, who has a taste for coffee bordering on addiction. This time it was fried pesto-coated lamb. I never fail to be impressed by the combinations created in German cuisine. The last time I came here I went for lunch at
work and one of the cooks serving asked me a question which I didn't quite understand. So I said, "Ja - bitte." Because, I thought, why not? And then he said, "Nein - raisin?" Now I'm confused. "Do you want raisins in your gravy?" he then barks at me. What? There's a choice: gravy, or gravy with raisins. Well, hell yes! Give me raisins in my gravy - it would be rude not to have them. Whilst I still need to go out and find a genuine Hamburger hamburger, after last week's Super Size Me revelations, I'll be looking forward to all the challenges to Master Chef that there are on the Deustch menu.

Neil - has just cogitated.

Coals to Newcastle

2004-08-03T12:50:00.000Z

Over the weekend I returned not only to the UK, but to the North East of England. This involved a fairly hair-raising journey which involved sudden braking by the pilot as we landed on Thursday evening, then a drive up to Newcastle, submerged in an incredible rain-storm, but stopping off near Leeds about midnight for a kip. There was a wedding to go to on the Saturday so I spent Friday morning at the Metro Centre. Three years ago I could navigate the Metro Centre blind-folded, find a five-pound note, and pick up a decent pair of in-stock jeans in the sale from GAP. This time I was a complete and total novice and too scared to leave the Red Zone - but
this could be equally due to conditioning from the principal boundaries at the Baltic sea-side. One of the things that stood out was the way the shop assistants sounded like Gina McGee and Jayne Middlemiss, as opposed to Portsmouth where the accent is more Jade and Kat Slater.

After the delights of catching the Next Sale and picking up a couple of books, I headed off to Sunderland. For a haircut. I couldn't get my hair cut in Hamburg - please see the website "Rate My Mullet" for every reason why not - so I went to the Barber's I used to go to in the town. "You've not been in for a while," says Craig [the Barber] showing a talent for understatement. "No," I said, showing a talent for facts,"about 3 years." So I was ushered into a seat at which point Craig offers, "The usual?" I've not been there for 3 years - that's 156 weeks, that's about 39 times I've not been there to say long 2 at the sides and back, cut on top, longer and flicked up at the front, and no thanks, I don't need any wax. That's also
about 30000 haircuts inbetween, assuming that it takes 15 minutes for someone to walk in and say, "I want to look like a Charver, let's just remove me foolishly angled Burberry knock-off baseball cap. . ."

Looking distinctly un-Charver-like in a linen shirt, cords, and chunky brown shoes I had a wander round Sunderland to find that the University building I was based in has since been condemned and that the people who own our old house have a satellite dish. Then I raced up to Newcastle to catch up with Lee, the Travelling Blues Man, who stood out amongst the Friday-afternoon-in-the-school-holidays crowd by wearing a linen shirt, cords, and chunky brown shoes. I never realised I had a clothes-twin before and it was a very emotional experience about which both Lee and I will be
appearing on Trisha in February - it will bring a tear to your eye, and a snag to your cardie.

Neil - has never asked, "Wait a minute, where's me jumper?"

Das Gut Buch

2004-07-28T12:51:00.000Z

I have Spanish, French, Italian, and German Berlitz phrasebooks. I would also have had Swedish if a colleague who was moving to Sweden for 6 months hadn't bought out every Swedish item in Portsmouth's Ottacker's - including some of their shelves, just in case they were from IKEA. On page 11 of the German edition of the phrase book (and I assume every other) there is the expression: "Bitte zeigen Sie mir das im Buch" - Please point to that in the book. It's a very useful expression and has helped time and time again. What isn't in the Berlitz guide is: "Ich habe Deutsch-Englisch Buch verloren" - I have lost my German-English book. I would strongly recommend that Berlitz put this expression on a laminated card which can be attached
to a piece of elastic so that if, like me, you lose your phrase book you can at least explain why you are so useless and barely able to communicate. I spent Monday being useless, barely able to communicate, and uncool (well, more uncool than normal) after losing both my dictionary and sunglasses. I have a vague recollection that "gafas de(l) sol" is Spanish so I could have asked Where are my sunglasses? - except, of course, I'm not in Spain and "Sprechen Sie Espanisch?" is even more unlikely to get a positive reaction in Germany than asking if there's a no smoking zone in the fashion shop. There is little concept of not smoking or fashion here. With the tiny snippets of German, French, Spanish, and (through the Church) Latin that I've picked up, I was starting to talk in my own free-style Esperanto. Totally Rad! That was too extreme, so the other tack of strange hand signals was called into play: it required some impromptu charades, an attempt at drawing things on scraps of paper, and a game of Scrabble to describe what I'd lost whilst also winning 2 games to 1 with a tripple-word decider.

Neil - finds the future so bright, he's gotta wear shades.

Super Size Me

2004-07-28T12:50:00.000Z

Yesterday I went back to the hotel - looking cool whilst celebrating the return of my phrase book and sunglasses with a dictionary dance - to find that Superman II was on in German and that the only English programme was non-stop CNN coverage of the Democrat Party Conference saying how John Kerry is even less Irish than the lager-serving line-dancing Irish Pub here. As CNN is repeated ad infinitum I dodged down to the local cinema to watch the fast food film, Super Size Me, drawing out 20 Euro and a cheeseburger from the Hamburger Bank before going in. The film was supposed
to be in Englisch mit Deutsche Untertitel. This was true for the to-camera filming, but the narration and introduction were in German with, of course, no subtitles going on at all. Throughout the film the chap in the documentary (whose name I can't remember) became, well, almost as heavy as me which is a lot less than the Queen Mary 2 but (as I work for a Scandinavian company) about one tenth of a Fjord Fiesta - sorry. There were daily records of his exercise (not much), consumption (lots), and mass (increasing). Of course, all the measurements were spoken in pounds, quarts, ounces, and (for some fizzy drinks) gallons but subtitled in kilos, grammes, and litres. Whilst a Big Mac is a Big Mac wherever you are, every time a Quarter Pounder with Cheese was mentioned, there at the bottom of the screen was Royal with Cheese because, of course, they got the metric system over here and don't know what the fuck a quarter pounder is (113 grammes). Despite the narration - which was well illustrated - the film certainly gave some Food for Thought which, through strange coincidence, is the name of the restaurant chain found at the Test Your IQ Holiday
Villages.

Neil - didn't go into a Burger King (and probably won't do again).

Moine's a Point

2004-07-27T12:52:00.000Z

There is no escape from The Irish Pub. And I don't know if this is good or bad. I had gone out for a run on Friday night, arrived back at the hotel, freshened up and thought "I could murder a Guiness". Actually, Guiness was just one of a number of things I not only could murder, but have murdered - furry animals being a particular speciality which my prominance on the RSCPA's Most Wanted list can testify to. I had a great night though: just the one pint as I am trying to lose enough weight to avoid being measured using the same units as they do for shipping. The Queen Mary 2 which I saw last week weighs, I don't know, 23000 tonnes (I'm making that up as I am,
oh the pain, without internet): I weigh about one tenth of a tonne. It would take almost a quarter of a million me's to make the Queen Mary 2. Imagine that. And who wouldn't want to see it sink?

In the end, after a hectic week, I was quite glad to dissolve into the background of live music, conversation, and excessive passive smoking whilst nursing my solitary pint in The Irish Pub. Alright, so there were only a handful of people drinking Guiness, the live music contained covers of Billy-Ray Sirus, and there were mullets-galore. One woman was showing her boyfriend's driving licence around to show how bad his mullet was before his recent haircut - the message is slowly getting through, although not to everyone.

I went across the rusting Iron Curtain to the seaside in former East Germany. One of the attractions in Tregemünde was Sandworld. I'm not sure which way to go with this: so please forgive me if I cross any boundaries - not that there should be too many after 1991. Surely, Sandworld is just a poncy name for a beach. What shall we do today: Sandworld or the beach? Ooh, I don't know, what's the difference? Well, Sandworld has lots of, er, sand - hey, more sand than you can imagine! And at the beach there's, oh, there's sand there too. Why have a plain ordinary free beach when you can have Sandworld? That's not all: October. No, too dull. The nights are drawing in, the weather has turned from the Indian summers of September to the cold rains of Autumn, let's celebrate what a dreary month October can be and make it a festival: Oktoberfest! Have a drink! For the whole month! And it doesn't stop there: this is the country that coined Concentration Camp as a euphemism for genocide, as opposed to a test your IQ holiday village. Needless to say, I did not see Sandworld. What I did see whilst walking along the beach were lots of open-fronted beach huts, in very definite rows, with raised demarcation borders. It was like a little microcosm of the principalities that used to make up Germany. The Berlin Wall may have fallen, but the next Reich will be built on castles made of sand.

Neil - has an achey breaky heart.

Lost in Translation

2004-07-23T12:53:00.000Z

Last night I was asked by some of the people here in Elmshorn if I wanted to go and see an open air screening of Lost in Translation. In German. That is, the film was in German - if they'd asked me in German I wouldn't have had a clue what they were on about, which should have given them some inclination as to how well I'd cope with a film dubbed into a language in which I can say hello, order a beer, and count (a bit). So I had to apologise and say that, as I thought the film relied heavily on dialogue to draw attention to the difficulties of living a hotel life in an unfamiliar culture, I would have to leave it as I was already overly familiar with the subject matter and feared that the comedy would be, well, lost in translation.

It's a shame, really, that I didn't go. An open air cinema would have been excellent: the weather has been great for the past couple of days and it would have been good as well to get out on a proper bike as opposed to being inside the gym where the spinning TV selection was a little more tame at 5:30. The end of Le Tour, some Anime series, Big Brother, and a German version of Tamsin Outhwaite's Swimming with Dolphins - which makes a change to yesterday's Cycling with Beavers. Sorry, that will be the last on that subject.

Instead I watched Die Frauen von Stepford (English Version). On the way into Hamburg I went past a mobile phone shop. Germany has settled on "handy" as its slang for our ever-upgraded companions, whereas we in Britain have truncated "mobile phone" into "moby", I haven't a clue what "Cap" means but the phone shop was called "Handy Cap". I'm sorry to say that I found this especially funny as I am on the Orange Network through which you can have "Orange Assistant", "Orange Care", and now I'm guessing "Orange Care Assistant".

Neil - is supported by Orange Care in the Community

Sit and Spin

2004-07-22T12:53:00.000Z

Is exactly what I've been told to do so many times before and, inspired by my recent trip to see Le Tour (de France), I went down to the hotel gym last night for some cycling. Now, whilst cycling back from work during the darker months I've been startled by oncoming cars using main-beam, I didn't really expect to go blind whilst turning the pedals on an exercise bike. But there I am, on the bike, watching the read-out of km and resistance when I look up and see. . . Oh, on the overhead TV, German soft-porn. At 7-o-clock. I assume it was German because the, er, actresses clealy hadn't shaved under their arms. Earlier this year whilst out on a ride I had to stop and destroy a rabbit that had been caught by a car and was flopping aimlessly at the side of the road. Anyway, fearing that I could lose my sight at any moment I quickly changed the channel before I ran over a hairy beaver. After that the only disconcerting thing was the people on the running machines behind me who still kept up despite me keeping a 100 rpm 300(kW?) pace. It started to get really annoying when, after I stopped, they started trying to stick 50p pieces in me - but that may have been for switching over the TV earlier.

Neil - keeps his eyes on the road.

Mr Kato will be in Hamburg until 29 July...

2004-07-19T12:54:00.000Z

On Sunday a flight attendant walked up to near where I was sat on flight BA966 to Hamburg, looked around and asked, "Mr Kato?" Isn't that great? I was so close to offering, "Are you sure it's not Cater?" when the attendant was distracted by a direct response to the "Mr Kato" request. I could hardly stop laughing. It made my journey - and Mr Kato's when I told him that I, in work, sometimes answer to the name Kato because it's so similar (phonetically) to Cater. "But you don't even look like Burt Kwouk!" he exclaimed before leaping across the row of seats and trying to throttle me in a series of haphazard but comical ways. It stopped when he realised that not only was I not pretending to be French, I wasn't French at all.

OK, some of that may not be true. What was true though was that a Mr Kato was sitting on the opposite aisle to me (and one row in front) on flight BA966. And I found it the singularly most entertaining thing on the flight.

Vielen Dank,

Neil - Thinks he's turning Japanese / Yes he's turning Japanese / Yes he thinks so.

Wanted: Men with Beards

2003-10-01T14:43:00.000Z

Police in Southsea were looking for men aged 25-32, between 5’8" and 6’0, brown-haired, and with goatee beards. Susannah naturally thought that I, being a man aged 25-32, between 5’8 and 6’0, brown-haired, and with a goatee beard, would fit the bill (yes, intended) perfectly. So I phoned the Police and said I was interested in the parade and they asked for my description. I explained that, well, I fitted their description except that I don’t have a full goatee - was that a problem. The officer went to check the suspect's details, told me that the suspect had a proper goatee, and then asked if I could grow one for next Monday (the date of the parade). I did. When I turned up at the parade there were half-a-dozen lads there who were on first name terms with the ID officers and spent the waiting time talking about how wrecked they got down the Guildhall last Saturday afternoon, who they smacked afterwards, and how fit the girls were in the (ooh - ahh) Daily Star.

Neil - is back to only half a goatee.