Showing posts with label Car. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Car. Show all posts

20 Aug 2024

And Then It Seems It’s On The Way…

   And that would be the scrapping of that road tax thingy. Good news for motorists eh? Oh, hang on a pocket picking second, it seems they’re working on a pay per mile wallet wrench. Will that work out cheaper you think? Yeah, right. Gotta keep the till ticking high, right?
   As the old adage goes regards us old folk having to choose between heating and eating whilst huddled in our hovels, shortly, it’ll be just heating as not being able to afford to start the car to get food from the nearest supermarket.
   Wot will happen to bus fares?
Wot will be the add-on for home delivery? Who will pick-up the bigger delivery costs to those supermarkets and shops?  Why us down here of course.
   The obvious outcome is that more and more folk will hang up their car keys - is that the cunning plan? - thus those hanging on to their keys will have to pay more and more until they quit leaving just the chosen phew up there road worthy.
   I do hope they rebrand those fifteen minute cities to places of fifteen paces. Or, considering all the new easily broken hurty word an’ similar laws coming down the road of total control, just be done with it and call ‘em camps...

Quote; Vanya Cohen.

“When there’s a single thief, it’s robbery. When there are a thousand thieves, it’s taxation."

23 Feb 2024

And Then A Trip…

   I had a task to do today wot required a trip into the city centre. Bright and early I was on my way in the car. The roads were quite busy but fortuitously free flowing. In town and parked-up in a multi story car park wot’s part of a shopping mall.
   This is when a phew things started to become apparent.
Firstly, the car park was very quiet, secondly, the shopping mall was very, very quiet with very many stores shuttered.
   Out into the city and a short walk to my destination. Job done so I took a little wander round. Man, it was quiet shopper wise which I could relate to with very many shuttered shops. Close to as many shuttered as those still open.
   Okay, back to the car park and the fun began. Since my last visit the pay machine has become just a screen asking me to scan the QR code on screen with my phone as other options were not available. Scan the QR code? Wot’s that all about then?
   I started off back into the shopping mall in the hope of finding an office to get help.
   As I got to the door, a young lady was coming out. I asked her how you paid to get out of the car park and she offered to show me. This involved a four floor search of a machine wot took a card. No money machines left. She talked me through the complexities of paying and showed me the almost hidden means by which I could get a receipt. Guess wot? Do you want your receipt via SMS or E-mail? Guess wot? Cancel button.
I thanked the lady for her time and patience concluding with the belief old folk should possibly be confined to home.
   As a further sign of the rapidly passing years, I’d completely forgotten wot floor I parked the car resulting in further adventures up and down in the lift.
   Found it and finally got home reasoning that part of the demise of the high street must surely be the parking zoo and if the high street ever takes off again, the queues at car park pay machines with folk using phones and filling in on screen forms for a receipt will become the new traffic jams.
   Yet another not so subtle message that you WILL go cashless...

Quote; Princess Diana.

“I don't even know how to use a parking meter, let alone a phone box.”

30 Oct 2022

And Then Lights Out...

   In the car yesterday, stopped at a red light, as you do and a chap from the car behind came a tap-tap-tapping at my window to inform me that our offside break light wasn’t working. Oh joy.
   Went and got a lamp – a bulb to you but over the years I’ve been remonstrated by many an amp-tramp stating that bulbs are for planting, lamps are for lighting.
   I’ve done this job before but age kicked in as it seems to be doing more and more frequently and I just couldn’t be assed. Why do they make such a simple task as changing a lamp so damn complex to get at?
   Take it to a dealership or any garage and I could only imagine the cost but it’s Sunday anyway so I tried
Halfords. Shocked I was. Joyous day – yes, a Sunday - fitted right there, right then, on the spot, no waiting, eight quid. To this old fellow, an absolute bargain in this day and age.
   Let’s bring this fun number out of the left toggle menu one more time by way of celebration.
Addendumadodad; clicking on a choon in that toggle menu over on the left should play the numbers in full browser screen. Hope it works for you.

Quote;  Steven Wright.

“I couldn’t repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder.”

18 Nov 2021

And Then, Little Used...

   Further to the car and bus adventure, along the way I made a monumental discovery.
   Realising early on that without the car and prior to exploring bus travel we’d be limited in our abilities to get about I had a quick Google then went downstairs and searched the Wibbly Wobblily Web for alternative forms of travel and one of the choices involved the use of some kit I felt sure we had close by. I checked and sure enough we had the required kit.
   It seems this kit can be used for short to medium journeys and even longer trips dependant on age and health. And this kit would be? It would be kit wot I did indeed use all the time up to a few years ago. Man! Will he ever get to the point you ask. Why legs of course.
   Sadly, with the passing of the years I’d forgotten how useful legs can be and, again with age, just assumed they were extremities given to us, and adapted by evolution  to ease the use of the cars clutch, accelerator and break pedals.
         
   With this in mind, the little mind I have left, I’m now wondering how long it’ll be before I forget how useful hands can be for things other than operating a steering wheel and tapping on a tap-top. Not at the same time I hasten to add...

Quote;  Franklin P. Jones.

“The trouble with jogging is that, by the time you realize you’re not in shape for it, it’s too far to walk back.”

28 Sept 2021

And Then, No Panic...

   A slightly spooky thingy occurred a few days ago, about two days before the media convinced the population that garages were about to run out of petrol and diesel because of reasons. My little nest of vipers and I were doing a tad of shopping at an out of town retail park.
   On completion, and as a point of absolutely no interest whatsoever, no purchases were made for me or myself, we headed to the exit where a gas station – to use an Americanism – was located.
”You go to fill car?” my co-driver enquired.
”Not this time. We have plenty.” I responded.
”We here now so may as well fill tank. Who know wot coming?” So do the filly thingy I did.
   Since that moment two days ago, every time she sees the ‘news’, the queues and the closed signs, I’m grinningly reminded of how smart she be. And I have no answer other than to wonder wot’s really going on in her head. Scary it be.
   As a by-the-by, this isn’t the first time she’s shown an uncanny ability  to seemingly foresee the future but, sadly, it  doesn’t seem to function at all when it comes to picking her lottery numbers...
         

Quote;  Joanne Harris.

“A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons. Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood.”

16 Nov 2020

And Then, More Excitement...

With our tussle haired leader having to hide in his box again – and long may it continue  to contain him – other top dogs are cluttering up the air waves today. One of interest, young Rishi Sad-sack, stated that there will be exciting announcements later this week regarding the governments green agenda. That would be the green agenda it’ll soon be **illegal to speak against.

Please don’t think for one moment these announcements will be along the lines of full ahead fracking and the re-opening of coal and gas fired electrickery generating plant thus providing us all with affordable juice.

Have you spotted one possible trick that could be announced? Well, guess wot, it’s the motorist again; let’s charge them by the mile they drive and some speak of a charge of one pound fifty per mile... If that comes to pass, it’ll be interesting listening to the ‘experts’ explaining the ‘dramatic’ effect that’ll have on cooling down{?} the planet.

Oh, come on now, you must remember all these loony plans being mentioned by them back when they wanted your vote, right? No? Oh...

This grand global re-set folks talk of looks to me like replacing us with the polar bears and cockroaches. And I give the cockroaches the edge on that one. Hell, cockroaches are at the top already, they’re just dressed proper right now...

**Wot the hell; an old one:
Wot’s the difference between unlawful and illegal?
Unlawful is to break the law.  Illegal is a sick bird.

Quote;  Steven Wright.

“If your car could travel at the speed of light, would your headlights work?”

16 May 2020

And Then, A Weekend...

Fine weather and house arrest eased to allow a little car travel. Oh joy! How about a drive to the seaside? Say wot now? We’re not wanted at the seaside and won’t be welcome? Stay away they say?  I’ll sit here and sulk than; is that what they want? Sitting an’ sulking ain't for me and her I’m afraid. Neither is it for her and I by the way, so off we went with the governments words ringing in our heads: Stay alert! Here’s another oldy that never gets old.
Within the strangest people
Truth can find the strangest home
So meet me in the village
Where all we idiots go

           

It was a very pleasant drive and super alert, as instructed, walk with only one moment of concern when we spotted something ahead but as we cautiously approached  it became obvious it was just common flue so  a quick step to the left and we were past it. Thus, against all the MSM odds, we made it home in one piece. Now that was a tad strange as we started the day as two pieces; those being her and me – or I.

Don’t know about you but we’re just going to hold our course and keep haulin’...
When your guidin' star's in cloudy skies
Keep haulin', keep haulin'
You'll find your way to the bright sunrise
Keep haulin' boys

          

Quote;  Erol Ozan.

“Some beautiful paths can't be discovered without getting lost.”

6 Feb 2020

And Then A Correction...

On paying better attention to Bojangles announcement regarding electrickery powered cars, I see that in fifteen years the sale of non electrickery cars will be banned but not banned from being used. Is that right? Seems so.

May I humbly suggest that all parents of young kids start encouraging them to work towards a career as automotive mechanics as an awful lot of owners of non-lecky cars are going to do all they can to keep ‘em on the road. That is, of course, unless Bojangles has a cunning plan to tax all non-lecky transport into total unaffordability.

An interesting piece can be found here a bit of wot’s below;

At a local level, we require massive amounts of new infrastructure to be built to support electric cars.
We will need at least 25 million new roadside charging points — the equivalent of installing 4,000 new ones a day, starting yesterday — with roads and pavements having to be ripped up in the process which will, of course, create plumes of emissions.
And where on earth will the electricity needed come from?More than a third of Britons commute by car. Imagine, in 2035 and beyond, each of those motorists arriving home at night and hurriedly plugging in their vehicles at around the same time.
Malcolm McCulloch, head of Oxford University's Energy and Power group, has warned that the National Grid will need another 20 gigawatts of generating capacity — double the amount currently generated by all the UK's nuclear power stations — to cope.
The Engineer magazine says that charging an electric car at home with a medium-speed charger is like 'leaving the electric shower on all night. If just a few people in a street decided to do that, it'd blow the local distribution fuse.'”

And imagine the chaos on they ‘Smart Motorways’ when a whole slew of ‘em simultaneously get, ‘WARNING; Battery about to go below low. Charge NOW.’

Quote;  Vinod Khosla.

“Electric cars are coal-powered cars. Their carbon emissions can be worse than gasoline-powered cars.”

4 Feb 2020

And Then, The Charge Of The Nutters...

By that title, I’m typing about the latest loony-toon outpourings from Bojangles regarding there only being electrickery powered cars on our roads in fifteen years with no mention of how 33 million or so passenger cars presently on our roads will all be traded in for electrickery powered ones and how all those beasts will be charged every evening after the commute.  Is it hidden in the small print that every home with a garden or yard will be required, by law, to have a windmill installed? And the car producers reaction to this announcement?

Fifteen years? No time at all but one thing that should be pointed out to all these nutters is that in that time this little rock should be well into the next solar minimum so electrickery may well be needed to keep warm with little left for charging cars; unless folk just move into their cars...

Okay, it won’t concern me as I either won’t be here or if I am I won’t be driving – not even one of they old folks scooter buggy thingies as the place is going to be a nightmare of trailing cables, but the present time entertainment these supposedly smart folk are giving me is truly comedy gold.

Finally – not for me I hope, just for this post – I loved this bit from a few days ago that I’m sure you’ve all seen but if not, the whole thing is well worth a read;
   Two students at St John’s College wrote to Andrew Parker, the principal bursar, this week requesting a meeting to discuss the protesters’ demands, which are that the college “declares a climate emergency and immediately divests from fossil fuels”. They say that the college, the richest in Oxford, has £8 million of its £551 million endowment fund invested in BP and Shell.
   Professor Parker responded with a provocative offer. “I am not able to arrange any divestment at short notice,” he wrote. “But I can arrange for the gas central heating in college to be switched off with immediate effect. Please let me know if you support this proposal.”

More of this type of response please!!

Quote;  Christophe de Margerie.

“People say they are inventing electric cars. Well, where is the electricity coming from? Flowers? Maybe someday. But what is available now is oil and gas.”

14 Feb 2019

And Then, That’s It...

Okay, that’s it for the detailed instructions from the good Ripper relating to deleting unwanted applications that come bundled with Windows 10, and many thanks to him once again and I’m sure many of you folks will find it useful. Over the next couple of days I’ll glue it into a PDF  thingy and then, when I remember how to do, it I’ll throw it up onto a cloud and make a link to it over on the left.

Spookily, after posting the last post, Windows did one of they updates thus suggesting that Microsoft still haven’t got it quite right yet. Imagine, if you dare, that they built a car and six months after releasing it on the public they sent you a message excitedly asking you to drop the car off at the dealership for bug fixes and the installation of some exciting new features.

One of these new features, they breathlessly inform you, will be the upgrading of the steering so that turning the steering wheel to the right will make the car go right; turn it left and the car will go left. This is in answer to user requests relating to some confusion when, upon turning the wheel, the car went in the opposite direction to that of the wheel turn.

Another feature added after many requests is to move the gear shift to  a position between the front seats as many users found it difficult to enter and leave the car with the gear shift located next to the driver side door. Also added is an exciting new capability to the gear shift with the introduction of a reverse option. Finally for this upgrade, and to show we are listening to our users, the hand-break has been relocated to a position between the drivers and front passenger seats, close to the gear shift, thus alleviating the need to get in the back of the car whenever the hand-break needed setting or releasing. We feel sure these upgrades will enhance the user experience and thank you for your continuing support...

And so to end with something that, once upon a time, would’ve been completely different. Despite that, the big worry is  to worry about insects becoming extinct? They do indeed walk amongst us...

With regards insect extinction, it seems like only weeks ago that supermarkets had started selling insect meals as a way to save the planet. Confused? Wot to do. We need to be told.

Quote;  David Leinweber.

“Give someone a program, you frustrate them for a day; teach them how to program, you frustrate them for a lifetime.”

             Edsger Dijkstra.

“Simplicity and elegance are unpopular because they require hard work and discipline to achieve and education to be appreciated.”

16 Jul 2018

And Then The Car...

As stated earlier, the car, a stinking polluting diesel, surprisingly passed the MOT and was serviced satisfactorily.

I did get a call from the service centre and was braced for the worst as I was expecting a sad voice informing me the car had failed its MOT owing to very bad and naughty emissions which would cost an arm an’ a leg to rectify. However, for the remaining arm an’ leg I could take delivery of a shiny new ‘environmentally friendly’ electrickery number with an impressive twenty mile range between charges.

It was not to be and imagine my surprise to learn that it appeared the windscreen wipers were smearing and would I like them changing for ‘just’ thirty dabs? Imagine their disappointment when I responded, “No thanks.” 
Also, the air con was running a tad warm so would I like them to reset{?} it for ‘just’ sixty dabs. I could’ve engaged ‘em with the fact that three hours ago I’d driven for twenty minutes to deliver the car to the shop, with the air con on, and my feet were still numb but settled for a polite, “No thanks.”

Good to see they didn’t sulk as, when I collected the car, it’d been cleaned thoroughly inside and out. Thank you very big.

Quote;  P. J. O’Rourke.

“Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys.”

10 Jul 2018

And Then, Tomorrow...

...is car service and MOT day so I’ll away from a keyboard. I’ll also be expecting a hefty bill as the car’s a diesel. Once upon a time we were all urged to go diesel and now of course, it’s been likened to driving a killing machine thus war has been declared on them.

Anyhoo, as there’s some  footy-fandango or other going on at the moment, here’s something I stole from the Inter-Web and posted way back in 2010. Looking at this site, wherein hide some true gems, it seems the author was Christopher Brookmyre. If indeed it was, thank you and sorry. I’ll send it back shortly.  Where am I? Ah yes; this piece will resonate with older readers as it’s just about exactly as you’ll remember it. Yes, way back in the days before kids were forbidden from doing stuff and/or had smartphones. See the quote way down below at the bottom; again, repeated without apology. 
Ready? Here you go then. These are the rules for playground football. Guaranteed to make you smile a while.

Out-line: Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and a Lunchtime. Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or "bottle" of the participants with regard to corporal punishment met out to late-comers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as "poof's", through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their gins and journey from the staff room, known as "chancer’s", and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as "bam pots". This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the score line as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poof’s, chancer’s and bam pots in order that the score line achieved over a sustained period of play - a lunchtime, for instance - is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five bam pots against one. The score line to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last bam pots to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see Adjudication).

Team Selection: To ensure a fair and balanced contest, teams are selected democratically in a turns-about picking process, with either side beginning as a one-man selection committee and growing from there. The initial selectors are usually the recognized two Best Players of the assembled group. Their first selections will be the two recognized Best Fighters, to ensure a fair balance in the adjudication process, and to ensure that they don't have their own performances impaired throughout the match by profusely bleeding noses. They will then proceed to pick team-mates in a roughly meritocratic order, selecting on grounds of skill and tactical awareness, but not forgetting that while there is a sliding scale of players' ability, there is also a sliding scale of players' brutality and propensities towards motiveless violence. A selecting captain might baffle a talented striker by picking the less nimble Big Jazza ahead of him, and is, perhaps, best explained in the words of Linden B. Johnson upon his retention of J. Edgar Hoover as the head of the FBI, that he'd "rather have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in".

Special consideration is also given during the selection process to the owner of the ball. It is tacitly acknowledged to be "his game", and he must be shown a degree of politeness for fear that he takes the huff at being picked late and withdraws his favours.

Another aspect of team selection that may confuse those only familiar with the game at senior level will be the choice of goalkeepers, who will inevitably be the last players to be picked. Unlike in the senior game, where the goalkeeper is often the tallest member of his team, in the playground, the goalkeeper is usually the smallest. Senior aficionados must appreciate that playground selectors have a different agenda and are looking for altogether different properties in a goalkeeper. These can be listed briefly as: compliance, poor fighting ability, meekness, fear and anything else that makes it easier for their team-mates to banish the wee bugger between the sticks while they go off in search of personal glory up the other end.

Parameters: The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. As the number of players increases, so shall the piles. Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goal mouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went "over the post" and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post. The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination. In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgment shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the "best fighter"; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.

There are no pitch markings. Instead, physical objects denote the boundaries, ranging from the most common - walls and buildings – to roads or burns. Corners and throw-in's are redundant where by-lines or touchline's are denoted by a two-storey building or a six-foot granite wall. Instead, a scrum should be instigated to decide possession. This should begin with the ball trapped between the brick work and two opposing players, and should escalate to include as many team members as can get there before the now egg-shaped ball finally emerges, drunkenly and often with a dismembered foot and shin attached. At this point, goalkeepers should look out for the player who takes possession of the escaped ball and begins bearing down on goal, as most of those involved in the scrum will be unaware that the ball is no longer amidst their feet. The goalkeeper should also try not to be distracted by the inevitable fighting that has by this point broken out.

In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards or "a big dog", the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is "no' a full-size pitch". This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to "yards", which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.

The Ball: There is a variety of types of ball approved for Primary School Football. I’ll describe three notable examples.

1. The plastic balloon. An extremely lightweight model, used primarily in the early part of the season and seldom after that due to having burst. Identifiable by blue pentagonal panelling and the names of that year's Premier League sides printed all over it.
Advantages: low sting factor, low burst-nose probability, cheap, discourages a long-ball game.
Disadvantages: over-susceptible to influence of the wind, difficult to control, almost magnetically drawn to flat school roofs whence never to return.

2. The rough-finish Mitre. Half football, half Portuguese Man o' War. On the verge of a ban in the European Court of Human Rights, this model is not for sale to children. Used exclusively by teachers during gym classes as a kind of aversion therapy. Made from highly durable fibre-glass, stuffed with a neutron star and coated with dead jellyfish.
Advantages: looks quite grown up, makes for high-scoring matches (keepers won't even attempt to catch it)
Disadvantages: scars or maims anything it touches.

3. The "Tube". Genuine leather ball, identifiable by brown all-over colouring. Was once black and white, before ravages of games on concrete, but owners can never remember when. Adored by everybody, especially keepers.
Advantages: feels good, easily controlled, makes a satisfying "whump" noise when you kick it.
Disadvantages: turns into a medicine ball when wet, smells like a dead dog.

Offside: There is no offside, for two reasons: one, "it's no' a full-size pitch", and two, none of the players actually know what offside is. The lack of an offside rule gives rise to a unique sub-division of strikers. These players hang around the opposing goal mouth while play carries on at the other end, awaiting a long pass forward out of defence which they can help past the keeper before running the entire length of the pitch with their arms in the air to greet utterly imaginary adulation. They are known variously as ‘moochers’, “glory hunters” and “fly wee bastarts”. These players display a remarkable degree of self-security, seemingly happy in their own appraisals of their achievements, and caring little for their team-mates' failure to appreciate the contribution they have made. They know that it can be for nothing other than their enviable goal tallies that they are so bitterly despised.

Adjudication: The absence of a referee means that disputes must be resolved between the opposing teams rather than decided by an arbiter. There are two accepted ways of doing this;

1. Compromise. An arrangement is devised that is found acceptable by both sides. Sway is usually given to an action that is in accordance with the spirit of competition, ensuring that the game does not turn into "a pure skoosh". For example, in the event of a dispute as to whether the ball in fact crossed the line, or whether the ball has gone inside or "over" the post, the attacking side may offer the ultimatum; "Penalty or goal." It is not recorded whether any side has ever opted for the latter. It is on occasions that such arrangements or ultimata do not prove acceptable to both sides that the second adjudicatory method comes into play.

2. Fighting. Those up on their ancient Hellenic politics will understand that the concept we know as "justice" rests in these circumstances with the hand of the strong. What the winner says, goes, and what the winner says is just, for who shall dispute him? It is by such noble philosophical principles that the supreme adjudicator, or Best Fighter, is effectively elected.

Tactics: Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle. Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as "Cattenaccio", the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as "Nomadic". All but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.

Stoppages: Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of "no Post-Mortem, no free-kick", and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.

Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play. Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that A: "Ye canny make me"; or B: "It's no' ma baw anyway".

Stray dog on pitch. An interruption of unpredictable duration. The dog does not have to make off with the ball, it merely has to run around barking loudly, snarling and occasionally drooling or foaming at the mouth. This will ensure a dramatic reduction in the number of playing staff as 27 of them simultaneously volunteer to go indoors and inform the teacher of the threat. The length of the interruption can sometimes be gauged by the breed of dog. A deranged Irish Setter could take ten minutes to tire itself of running in circles, for instance, while a Jack Russell may take up to fifteen minutes to corner and force out through the gates. An Alsatian means instant abandonment.

Bigger boy steal ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players' experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kick about amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players' older brother is "Mad Chic Murphy" or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.
Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kick about than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last "until you learn how to play with it properly", but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of the woman may result in the more serious stoppage: Menopausal old bag calls police.

Celebration: Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces.

Congratulation by team-mates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current score line (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer's contribution. A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard* rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents. However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet "moochin' wee bastart" from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from team-mates. Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker. Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.

*Actually eight yards, but calculated as a relative distance because, "it's no' a full-size pitch".

Penalties: At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a team-mate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat-trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter. The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times. If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty. Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognize the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if Wee Titch is going to steal any of it.

Closed Season: This is also known as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports. Tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.

Quote;  Douglas Adams.

“In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri.”


7 May 2018

And Then A Jam...

Upon awakening this morning and noting what a beautiful day it was, we decided to venture forth to the first seaside town to the north of us to partake of lunch. I forgot the fact that today is a holiday and that several other folk would possibly have the same idea.  We set off early as her indoors wanted to visit one of they garden centres on the way and all went well until we were about ten miles short of our planned destination. At that point everything slowed to a two mile per hour stutter. Damn!

Luckily, knowing the area, after a short time we stuttered to a left turn that looks like nothing but a farm track but actually meets-up with another road after about a mile. A road that was similarly plugged northwards so we decided to turn left and found ourselves running solo  back south.

After taking a few turns so as to stick to the scenic rout back towards home, we ran into a small pub. Pardon? No, after parking, we walked into a small pub after we elected to take sustenance.

The car park seemed ridiculously over populated in comparison to the look of the size of the hostelry but nothing ventured nothing eaten. Upon entering it immediately became apparent that this place was one of those Tardis type hostelries as inside it was huge and full. I’m only guessing, but I bet most of the customers were also seaside traffic jam escapees.

The food was good and once replete we continued our meander back home marvelling at the unbelievable level of traffic crawling northwards towards the coast on all roads. Sadly, they’ll all be together again for the homeward journey.

In other news, I see the MSM, in the main, have taken the decision that we don’t need to know about that Free Speech rally held down the smoke yesterday. Stands back in amazement... There’s a bit about it here. And a bit here.

Anyhoo, here’s a toon that works on so many levels right now right from the name of the band. Enjoy and Bu-by.

            

Quote;  Susan Elizabeth Phillips.

“Stuck in traffic is not an excuse. It’s a sign of bad planning.”

4 Mar 2018

And Then, Food For Thought...

  Here’s a post by the good Ripper – actually copied from the comments – relating to an iffy trip to toil he had and thoughts on that common problem of screen washer jets freezing up. My idea was to heat the washer reservoir but it was politely pointed out to me that you can  add anti freeze to the reservoir. Dumb of me eh? Anyhoo, food for fun for all you garden shed and garage folk who enjoy a challenge. Me? I’m thinking of trying a dab of olive oil on the jets of an evening and I’m quietly confident this’ll work now the thaw has set in...

 Like the majority of people I know, I disregarded all those reports as scaremongering rubbish. Okay, so its a bit cold, and there has been a small dusting of dry powdery snow where I live, but nothing to worry about. Until last night, that is.
   I work night shifts and its about a 42 mile round trip to work and back, along an unlit dual carriageway. During the summer all the trees and hedgerows lining the carriageway had been cut down because their overgrowth had been causing problems for a while. My car is currently having problems with one headlamp, no dipped beam on the near side so I'm driving on offside low beam and front driving lights, which does the job. As I get onto the carriageway the   windscreen has collected a fine coating of the dusty stuff being blown by the wind, which triggers the automatic wipers. This produces a wide smear of road salt across the screen, so instantly I hit the washer button. Crap! the washer jets are frozen! So I end up traveling to work at less than 30mph on a 70mph road, can't see a thing. Added to this, the powdery snow has been blown across the road, courtesy of the missing trees and I have no idea, because I can't even see the kerb let alone the road markings, of my position on the road. Its only by vehicles occasionally overtaking me that tells me that I'm in the near side lane. That was the most scary journey I've had in decades and worse than the times I've had to drive in thick fog.
   Then I got to work, and proceeded to freeze to death for the rest of the 12 hour shift. Due to a stuck loading bay door (going up/down all night) which is very near to where I work, I spent the entire night in what was, in effect, a -3 degrees C wind tunnel, which was the temperature on the shop floor. Half the shift hasn't turned in because their route to work is by untreated country lanes which made it too dangerous to try, but those like myself who had made it, were wearing hi viz padded jackets wherever possible. Unfortunately for me it wasn't.
   I will still regard the news reporting as scaremongering, but I intend to be a bit more prepared in the future.

   You have my sympathy. I know exactly what you mean regarding the windscreen problem as, even round here, although we got off relatively lightly snow wise, just moments into a drive and that auto wiper kicks in and visibility is gone and frozen washer.
Here’s something for an engineering fellow such as yourself to spend your shift figuring out. Ready? You may like this.
You know that windscreen de-icing boost button? Works really well and fast and alleviates the need for any scraping.
   Why not, also activated by that de-ice button, have a heating coil round the windscreen wash tank, pump and short run of small bore piping? A coil round the water reservoir? An electric kettle type element in the reservoir?  Would it work? Is it already out there? Yes? Okay, move along. No? How about coming up with a DIY retro fit kit? Patent that thought.

   I drive a Ford so I do have the heated screen, I know what you mean about it being very fast, a god send when I come off work on a frosty morning, while the others are busy scraping I'm off halfway down the road.
   Regarding the washing system, I've thought about this already. The tank, pump and piping are okay, since they get filled with screen wash which I made sure won't freeze above -10. The problem is those little jets on the bonnet. They are exposed to the elements so the water content in the screen wash freezes and forms a plug in the end of the jet nozzle. Sometimes a squirt of de-icer will sort it out but on Thursday the temperature was too low for the de-icer to get into that tiny hole and do its job. Now it would be possible to fit a heater into the jet. I don't know if this has already been done, but if not it needs to be. It would be a nice little winter earner for any manufacturer of aftermarket car parts. I mean, for the bike I can get all manner of replacement parts which not only bling the bike up but function in better ways than the original.
  
This subject has intrigued me to look online to see if there are any solutions, and from a couple of forums dating back to 2007 I find that some cars have been fitted with heated screen-wash jets for some time. However, there are still problems with those. But I also found that there is a kit which consists of a heater/pump arrangement called Heat Shot. I went to their site to read about it, and treated it with some scepticism, since this uses a LOT of battery power to heat the fluid to 60 deg. before it even reaches the jets. They make a lot of claims as to its efficacy, some clutching at straws regarding security of the vehicle while its defrosting.
   But then
I dropped on a site that had done some rigorous testing of this product, and according to them it does what it says on the tin. Still too pricey for my liking though, but I would pay that if it meant being a bit safer than Thursday night's ordeal.
   But that has also made me think - a length of copper brake line could be coiled and fed into the top radiator hose, The brake pipe would carry hot coolant and be coiled around the feed tubes to the screen jets, close enough to heat the body of the jet enough to defrost it. You would have to wait until the engine began to warm up, but that's better than making a whole 1 hour journey with a filthy screen. I will give more thought to this idea.

Quote;  Whitney Wolfe.

“Have a dream, chase it down, jump over every single hurdle, and run through fire and ice to get there.”

5 Jan 2018

And Then, Confusion...

There I was, on my third coffee of the AM still deciding wot to be today; A cat? A squirrel? I know! A decorator! A man one! and listening to the radio when my ears pricked up bat like... damn, now wot am I? – upon hearing two items on the news. Top spot was, of course, the NHS and some government spokes-chap stated the old chestnut that one of the greatest problems was the aging population and how much longer folk are having the cheek to live thus making me feel a tad guilty.

The second item was the decline in UK new car sales. This, of course is the fault of that Brexit thingy but the fellow went on to state the the other factor was the huge drop in diesel car sales. He continued to say that, contrary to what the government told us all about diesel being able to change the climate, the ‘reality’ is that the exhaust is killing astronomical numbers of old people.

Thus my confusion. Are us old folk living longer or dropping like flies on the streets as a diesel goes by? 

A few points spring to mind. Shouldn’t the government be demanding the scrapping of all petrol and electric cars thus easing the supposed old folk strain on the NHS? Shouldn’t the two fellows have been locked in a room and left to fight  it out as to who’s live or let die statistics to argue for? NHS good or Brexit bad? Shouldn’t news programs limit themselves to just reporting the news?

Another point taken from wot was said is that diesel exhaust is so utterly lethal that it would seem our newest and bestest ever friends have no need to actually drive into folk at all; they just need to drive round and occasionally stop and idle the engine near a bus stop with a predominantly elderly queue. Job done and with the unintended consequence of also helping the NHS.

Anyhoo, here I am, driving around in a diesel, getting old by the day, more confused by the second and still cluttering the place up.

Quote;  C. S. Lewis.

“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.”

26 Jul 2017

And Then, Yet More...

And todays lunacy is the announcement that petrol and diesel road transport will be banned by 2040. By ‘banned’ I believe they mean the end of the sale of new petrol and diesel vehicles but I’m sure they’ll also slowly make using an ‘old’ one prohibitively expensive.

Tell you wot, in 2040 they’ll have to prise the wheel of my trusty little diesel out of my cold dead hands. Oh, hang on a minute...

This latest head shaker is summed up very simply and put in a shell that recently contained a nut – possibly the nut that made the announcement - over at A Tangled Web. A bit’s below:
Lots of people park at the kerb in suburbs. Can you imagine the mess of spaghetti across the pavement as everyone in the street plugs in at night?
Or, at black o’ dark of a night, pulls your plug and pops it into their car? The fun to be had ripping this ‘plan’ to pieces could run to many volumes could it not?

Remember, his decree has been made by those same nutters who are shutting down electrical power generating plant in favour of windmills.

After a quick Google I did an equally quick Inter-web search which resulted in this bit: At the end of 2012 there were 34.5 million vehicles licensed for use on the roads in Great Britain, of which 28.7 million (83 per cent) were cars. Let’s do something that seems beyond the whit of our betters and pick any percentage you like of those numbers and at the end of the working/commuting day, let’s plug ‘em in to recharge. Man, would you look at that! That’s gone and sucked all the electrickery out o’ the system! We’re dead in the water.

Of course that won’t happen as we already have ‘emergency’ generating pack parks hiding behind high walls in all our cities and towns that’ll fire-up as soon as millions of cars get plugged in and start sucking all the juice out of the system. How cool is that then. And those thousands of reserve generators would be powered by what now? Diesel you say! Whoa, bummer! I guess someone needs to revisit that ol’ drawing board.

Back in the day, with the advent of petrol cars an’ such, did they ban the use of those terrible old polluters, horses? Did they have a horse scrappage scheme? Did they round ‘em all up and shoot ‘em? No? In that case I can see a full circle thingy looming here with folk reverting to the old tried, tested and trusted horse-drawn buggy. A buggy with a fringe on top if you opt for the top of the range model.

On the adding-up side, all those front gardens that have been stoned over for parking will once again be green grazing soak-away spaces for the horse power. There is, of course, a take-away side as well but that would also be a gardeners delight. Even I, as young as I am, can well remember being dispatched to the road by father, with a shovel and a bucket, luckily, to collect the recent traffic ‘exhaust’ for spreading on the garden.

Remind me; when was it that the schools lower third special needs class was allowed out to run the country?

Quote;  J. G. Ballard.

“After being bombarded endlessly by road-safety propaganda it was almost a relief to find myself in an actual accident.”

13 Sept 2016

And Then, Deflation...

Did I mention the car had one of they services and MOT do-dads a couple or three months ago? Part of that fun , to get a pass in the MOT exam, was the ‘need’ for four new tyres.

Now this car has a computer fitted, if  ‘fitted’ is the right word, wot alerts you to various bad stuff that has started happening and I’d had tyre deflation warnings and the required reflation fun for a few weeks prior so I wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised, and more than happy, to get new tyres.

So far, so boring. Then, a few days ago, with all new tyres fitted, up popped the deflation warning again. This required another trip to the garage. Faulty tyre? That would be a new, free puppy, right?

Over the past few days I traced the problem to the front right simply by checking pressures all round daily  and wondered why my on-board Mr cleaver computer couldn’t give me this simple breakdown of the facts rather than the blanket Deflation Warning.

Never mind. End result was the fitting of a new tyre that cost me money as they found a nail through the ‘old’ guy. Puncture repair? Nah; new tyre. Of course there’s absolutely no chance what-so-ever that the garage whacked the nail in so’s to circumvent the need to go through all that pesky warranty claiming thingy from a huge tyre manufacturer, right? Never crossed my mind - other than to wonder, too late, why I didn’t look at the tyre in more detail.

Anyhoo, all done so I set off for home. I hadn’t driven but fifty yards when that damn computer started beeping at me again! Looking down at the screen it wasn’t tyres this time; it was warning me that I still had the hand-break on. A quick glance in that little mirror that hangs down over the front windscreen confirmed this to be true and I was so glad of the timely warning as I look absolutely ridiculous in a hand-break.

See? Mr cleaver clogs computer can’t tell me which tyre’s in trouble but knows what I’m wearing. There must be an App to sort that.

Quote;  J. G. Ballard.

“After being bombarded endlessly by road-safety propaganda it was almost a relief to find myself in an actual accident.”

11 Sept 2016

And Then, On The Understanding...

We awoke to a beautiful day so headed on out for a drive here and there which resulted in finding a few new, to us, villages tucked away in some lovely locations.

We hit the coast just in time for lunch and took sustenance in a little eatery perched atop the cliffs. She had the fresh crab salad and gave it four stars. Not bad considering her star rating peaks at twenty. That’s a joke – the food was more than plentiful and pretty good.

We then swung towards home along the coast road with a couple of stops to run on a couple of deserted beaches. Okay, walk.

The reason for the above is this; prior to departing this AM, I gave Mr Cross the pen a jolly good talking to and told him that he was more than welcome to ride along with us on the proviso that he stayed in his little tray, or whatever it’s called, behaved himself, kept quiet and didn’t start playing any silly games like hide and seek.

I’m delighted to report that Mr Cross behaved impeccably and whenever we left the car, he was always where I’d left him when we got back to move on. In fact, so well did he deport himself that, as a special reward, I let him sit on the dashboard for the drive home.

He had the gammon for lunch by the way.

Quote;  E. B. White

“Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.”

10 Sept 2016

And Then, A Pen Theory...

I gave the pen in the car some thought and came up with this theory. That’s ‘theory’ not ‘theorem’ which is, I believe, some sort of measure of gas. On reflection, it could have a loose connection to wot follows.

Anyhoo, here goes. When I made my note at stop one, I may have flipped the pen onto the seat upon exiting the car.

When I re-entered the car I failed to notice the pen and sat on it.

During the drive to stop two, I may have, probably did as I usually do, encountered a traffic situation that triggered one of they bottom clenching nervous reactions which resulted in my cheeky bits grabbing the pen. And there it remained, firmly lodged and secreted by said cheeky bits, for the rest of the day. How embarrassing is that then?

I’m guessing that much later, after sitting back in the seat on completion of all my fruitless searching, and relaxing somewhat as the car wasn’t actually moving and also in the sad realisation that the pen sure did seem to be gone, it popped free from the confines of it’s previously vice-like grip and deposited itself back upon the seat unnoticed by me as I sulkily withdrew.

My only problem with that idea is the fact the pen was aligned port to starboard when I found him and I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed a pen jammed crosswise between my tender
bottom bits.  All I can think/hope is that it rolled and assumed that position after the drop.

Farfetched? Absolutely, but if so, where does that leave ghostly ideas then? It’s the best real world explanation I can come up with at this time.

Oh, wait, there’s one more possible explanation; my eyesight is failing dramatically with old age. You know what? That just might be the answer.

Quote;  Benjamin Franklin.

“Lost time is never found again.”

8 Sept 2016

And Then, A Pen...

So, - no? Well, I’ve kept a pen and small notepad in the car for as long as I can remember but, in reality, it’s probably much longer than a week. Okay, I’ve tried those phone Apps but pen and paper can’t really be beat. I keep the pen in that little hole in the centre armrest that, I guess, is for keeping small change. You remember the days when you had small change to keep?

Well, - no? So, I was out and about, solo, the day before whatever day it was yesterday, had a thought, held it, - and how cleaver is that? - parked the car where I needed to be and made my brief note. Note duly noted, I got out of the car, made the required visit, returned to the car and proceeded to my next port of call.

During the drive I had yet another thought and again managed to hold onto him ‘till I arrived and parked at point two.

Guess wot? No pen. Foraging on the floor resulted in nothing but a gritty hand. Between the seats? Nothing. Did I, at port o’ call one, complete note one, stick the pen between my legs, forget it then exit car flipping pen out into traffic? What a bummer as it was a Cross pen an’ those fellows aren’t cheap. Cross pen gone, ex owner left jolly cross.

When I got home I did a full search of the car; under, between and back of the seats, under matts, in those door store thingies, and even the glove box - and why do we still call it that? Yup, the back as well and out of desperation, in the boot or trunk or whatever it’s called. All to no avail so just assumed my lap-flip to be the answer to poor ol’ Mr hot Cross gone.

And there the car sat, locked, ‘till this morning when I gave him a bath.

I soaped up the roof then moved down to the drivers door and this was when something shiny caught my eye inside and please treat what follows any way you like but wot I’m about to record here is absolutely true.

Wot caught my eye, lying dead centre, aligned pointing perfectly port to starboard, making not the slightest attempt to hide, was my Cross pen.

My first reaction was, ‘Hah, so there you are old friend.’ My second thought instantly following that was, ‘Whoa! Where’ve you been and how’d you get back?’ and my head instantly filled with the theme music from The Twilight Zone.

I have no idea what to say other than I did step back and check my immediate surroundings for the presence of blackbirds. None to be seen. There was, however, a raven in a tree close by and he, to me, sounded like he was laughing. I may sleep with the lights on tonight just in case he, or something else, comes tap tapping on my chamber door.

On second thoughts, my little nest of vipers won’t be best suited with that bright idea and, on balance, I do believe I’d rather face a pointy beaked bird or a cross ghost...

Quote;  Bess Truman.

“Now about those ghosts. I'm sure they're here and I'm not half so alarmed at meeting up with any of them as I am at having to meet the live nuts I have to see every day.”