And Then, Lights Out…

   Still here to ‘report’ on a couple of ‘news’ items. First up I see the government are out to make big savings in welfare payments. These savings seem to mainly to be aimed at those with mental health issues thus I’m guessing all those wot would rule over us are facing having their salaries seriously slashed, right?
   The other bit? Well, so, a fire a mile and a bit from Heathrow has, according to the MSM, pretty well shut down global air travel.
   No emergency backup lekky generation at Heathrow? Seems it do have but after a quick Google... it appears that Heathrow had changed its back-up systems in order for it to be net zero compliant. And therefore they had got rid of their diesel generators and have moved towards a biomass generator that was designed not to completely replace the grid but work alongside the grid. And that worked okay didn’t it Ed Minibrain? Look and learn little lad. Let’s hope a whole hell of a lot of green, net zero fanatics got caught-up in this mess.
   And they don’t have battery backup on their communication kit? Hell, in these wondrously tech rich daze, couldn’t they communicate with aircraft via smartphone? Don’t aircraft have radar? Sat-Nav? Google maps? Don’t ground crews include landing chaps with two bats any more?
   Back in the day we wouldn’t let a little lack of lekky interrupt the comings and goings from the rigs...

Quote; Spike Milligan.

“And God said, 'Let there be light' and there was light, but the Electricity Board said He would have to wait until Thursday to be connected.”

And Then, Lazy...

   Caught a bit on the ‘news’ this morning regards the ongoing problems with some train operators and cancellations. Seems they’re short of drivers and new and old ones need training on new routs. And here’s me thinking trains ran on tracks...
   Anyhoo, lazy ol’ me saw an excuse for a repost of a repost one of which dates all the way back to January last year. It’s a good un. Love it.
   "Say friend, did you know that the US Standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet 8 1/2 inches?”
”That's an exceedingly odd number. Why was that gauge used?”
”Because that's the way they built them in England, and the US railroads were built by English expatriates.”
“I see, but why did the English build them like that?”
”Because the first railway lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used over there.”
“Well, why did they use that gauge?”
”Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which used that wheel spacing.”
“Okay! Why did their wagons use that odd wheel spacing?”
”Because, if they tried to use any other spacing the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads because that's the spacing of the old wheel ruts.”
“So who caused these old rutted roads?”
”The first long distance roads in Europe were built by Imperial Rome for the benefit of their legions. The Roman roads have been used ever since.”
“And the ruts?”
”The original ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagons, were first made by the wheels of Roman war chariots. Since the chariots were made for, or by Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.  Thus, we have the answer to the original question. The United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet 8 1/2 inches derives from the original specification for an Imperial Roman army war chariot.
“And the motto of the story is specifications and bureaucracies live forever. So, the next time you are handed a specification and wonder what horse's ass came up with it, you may be exactly right. Because the Imperial Roman chariots were made to be just wide enough to accommodate the back-ends of two war-horses.”
“So, just what does this have to do with the exploration of space?”
”Well, there's an interesting extension of the story about railroad gauge and horses' behinds. When we see a Space Shuttle sitting on the launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are the solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at a factory in Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs might have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site.  The railroad from the factory runs through a tunnel in the mountains and the SRBs had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than a railroad track, and the railroad track is about as wide as two horses' behinds.
”So a major design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was originally determined by the width of a horse's ass.”
   And it would seem the trains running on those tracks are also being managed by horses asses...

Quote;  Ed Catmull.

“Driving the train doesn’t set its course. The real job is Laying the track.”

And Then, Not Sure...

   Well, so, I stumbled out of bed this morning at about eight thirty and when I finally fully woke at eleven, got to thinking about the hands free eating post and now I’m not a hundred percent sure it took place in Vũng Tàu. Was it while offshore in the Gulf of Thailand and crew changing through Songkhla? This is a tad scary as I remember the episode so well but now find I’m  unable to positively pin down the  location.
   Sadly, I may soon be experiencing hands free feeding once again in slightly different surroundings...
   Anyhoo, stumbling slowly on, during a comment conversation with the good Ripper, his words well worth a read, I left a link to the video below with the comment that unlike here, everything was flowing  and during my time there I never witnessed an accident. His reply was, ‘...I'm referring to the trust element - just as all those commuters in Saigon rely on each other to do the right thing.’
   It’s quite hypnotic to watch.

   And that sent me back to an oft used phrase used here, ‘but that’s only common sense’ which, in turn has prompted me to repeat this classic wot gets more meaningful with every passing hour. Well worth printing and pinning on the notice board at your place of work. Go on, do it.
   Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.
   He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it was my fault. Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting (adults, not children, are in charge). His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned, but overbearing, regulations were set in place.
   Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teenagers suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they had themselves failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer paracetamol, sun lotion or a plaster to a pupil, but could not inform the parents when a pupil became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
   Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home, but the burglar could sue you for assault because you protected yourself and your own.
   Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.
   Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, his wife, Discretion, his daughter, Responsibility and his son, Reason.
   He is survived by three stepbrothers; I Know My Rights, Someone Else Is To Blame, and I'm A Victim.
  Not many attended his funeral because so few realised that he was gone.

Quote;  G. K. Chesterton.

“People that insist upon drinking and driving are putting the quart before the hearse.”

And Then, An Old One...

   And that would be an old song just to celebrate holiday cancellations that is. Seems some foreign judge in a foreign country declared that flight just wouldn’t do. Never mind, four hundred and forty plus in, seven onto a no-go plane for the day. Wot the hay, it’s only money burning. Sadly, our money.
   So the plan wot some dudes sitting over there in the shadows have for us lot toiling in the sunlight trucks on apace. And I’m guessing we won’t be overly thrilled when the plan comes to fruition. Wot’s left of us that is.
   Although the flight didn’t make it to the end of the tarmac, I, obviously stupidly, thought our military had troop transport aircraft thus alleviating the need for high priced chartering. As I typed above, stupid of me.
   It gets ever harder to understand wot’s going on with every passing day don’t it?
   Just a further thought on the post regarding grammar an’ such and me wondering if letter writing is taught in school these days. If it is, are kids taught to start business letters to unknown recipients thusly? Dear Person Of Unknown Pronoun Preference.
   That’s probably right as it seems calling a pox wot it is, monkeypox, is now discriminatory and stigmatising. However, chickenpox is still cool at time of typing. 
   Life gets tejus don’t it.

Quote; Eric Berne.

“The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.”

And Then A Free Offer...

   My little nest of vipers and I are not great ones for holidays, we see all we want to via days out and anyway, when you’ve spent your life visiting, working in and living in a couple of a huge number of the planets countries, a week in Skegness isn’t one of the more exciting prospects to add to the must do list. However, my little nest of vipers pointed out the fact there’s a free offer presently available.
   I did a search on the Wibbly Wobbly Web and the destination in question seems quite pleasant and it’s a long time since I’ve visited that continent and our government are offering free flights and accommodation.
   This is, of course, Rwanda. Whoa!! I here you gasp; that’s a one-way trip! So we’re told. However, it seems that, unmentioned by the media, after a little more digging, upon approaching the end of your chosen stay period, all you need to do is report to the local authorities and declare you have a severe, incurable mental problem and you’ll get a free flight back to Blighty.
   On the other hand, stay there or come back here? The way things are ‘progressing’ here, very soon it’ll be hard to spot the difference. And if ever more Brits take-up the offer of free flights and choose to stay over there, well...

Quote;  Michael LeRoux.

“I’ve had entire relationships that didn’t get as far as these airport security checkpoints.”

And Then, Confusion...

   I’ve been getting mixed messages from our beloved TV ‘news’ channels over the past few days. It seems they may be a bit troubled with their own reporting as well. Unless it’s a cunning plan of course.
   There’s always excessive heart wrenching reports regards the spiralling cost of living; pasta up fifty percent, parents deciding how many meals they’ll miss so’s to feed their kids an’ such heart string tuggers.
   Next-up, cut to reports of many, many thousands of folk having to queue for hours and hours for their school break holiday flights and possibly facing last minute cancellations and even totally lost holidays.
   Is this a cunning way of sowing discontent by highlighting the gap{?} between those wot can go on holiday without cost concerns versus those wot are terrified, so we’re told, by news of spiralling pasta costs at home?

Quote;  George Winters.

"If God had really intended men to fly, he'd have made it easier to get to the airport."

And Then, Airport Chaos…

   Well, so, Despite the worst cost of living crisis in a decade, the airports are all clogged up with passengers wanting to get away on holiday, so we’re told, owing to huge numbers of airport and airline folk throwing a co-co sicky at a busy time. A sicky to avoid a busy time? Funny that. Passengers are reportedly experiencing six hour waits to board their flights. And the advice from all the travel ‘experts’? Get to the airport early. So wot they’re saying is an eight hour wait is better than a six hour wait, right?
   Anyhoo, following on from a comment yesterday from Doonhamer regards offshore wind thingies, I made it a challenge to find some melodic music regards those waste of space monstrosities. Although only featuring an acceptable bit o’ wind kit, below is the best I could find come up with:

   Then there was the bit on the BBC about the imminent release of some report regards climate. This alarmist piece was, of course, liberally punctuated with footage of huge chimneys and cooling tours belching ‘black’ smoke. This, in no way, was reporting; wot it was, was deliberate brainwashing aimed at the young and gullible out here. How low can they go.

Quote;  Lexa Doig.

“Being stuck in airports, you always end up buying perfume and sunglasses.”

And Then, A Taste Of New Normal...

   You may have noticed I’ve been MIA for the past few days so I’ll explain a little here which was, for us, an ‘interesting’ example of coping with our glorious new normal.
   Yesterday was a ‘fun day’ spent in our capital city for my little nest of vipers to renew her passport. Her being foreign an’ all, it can only be done in her countries embassy located in London.
   I’ll attempt to explain this simply, but it may become complex.
   Her passport expired way back early 2021 but the country was gripped in bug terror and the embassy was shut. At the end of August they started taking appointments again and in September we managed to get an appointment for, owing to backlog, 26 January 2022 at 10:30.
   Okay, November came and, after attempting to weigh-up all the pros and cons of the new normal, I purchased train tickets for stupid early o’clock of the 26th, arriving in the smoke at 09:15 so time is tight to get to the embassy but worked fine in the old normal - and returning early evening of the same day to cover for any delays in appointment time and in paperwork processing that may arise.
   From that day through to yesterday, our heads were full of “what if...”.  Super new bug needing a total lockdown? Get past that, train cancelled on the day owing to the driver throwing a sicky? Get passed that, London tube strike or another driver throwing a sicky? No tube so taxi queue stretching out o’ site? Remember, time is tight.
   I did suggest going the day before and having a night stopover but my little nest of vipers over-ruled  that idea so wings and prayers it was.
   Anyhoo, the 24th and 2th were spent ensuring we had all her ducks in a row, forms completed and required documents ready and then it was number 26 and way before dawn, having had little sleep, we were standing on the station platform. Whoa! There’s the train bang on time. Tick-off step one. On the train, many PA announcements regards muzzles but for sure less than twenty percent of the three quarters full carriage were complying with the ‘instruction’ – nor were the train crew.
   We hauled into Kings Cross, again bang on time thus ticking-off step two.
   Now wot to do with tight time? Remembering how complex it was six years ago to get a ticket, we made a dash to the taxi rank. Whoa! Many taxies and no queue at all so ticking off step three. After a sedate muzzle free meander through London traffic, we were there with thirty minutes to spare thus ticking-off step four.
   Then we encountered the one and only hiccough in our forward planning. They needed a prepaid return envelope to return her passport once it was back in the UK so while she did the photo and fingerprint bit for passport and I.D. card, and awaited her new I.D. card, I was dispatched on a two click freezing walkabout of South Kensington to find a post office and get one. Got one I did, handed it in and she was given her new I.D. card, told it’d be a four week wait for her passport by post so it was job done.
   All straightforward you may say but it’s the head job the new normal gave us. Make a plan then make three more plans to try to cover for anything our ‘leaders’ may throw at us at the last minute. Covering all your bases  has taken on a whole new meaning,
   With time now on our side, we had a stroll, a bite to eat and thought we’d tube it back to Kings Cross. All auto ticket issuing machines and it didn’t matter how many times I hit the touch screens, nothing. With nary a soul to seek assistance from, fast black it was. It must be said you see much more from the back of a cab than you do from a train in a tube.
   After my and our walk and drives about our capital, from wot we saw,  if Vlad the Lad does invade us and his troops storm straight to our capital, there’ll be many frantic phone calls asking their bosses at HQ to confirm which country they’ve actually invaded. Sure looks like London is lost. On the plus side, the little of central London we saw showed remarkably well painted and maintained buildings and completely litter free highways and walkways. Well done them we say.

Quote;  Ambrose Bierce.

“Day, n. A period of twenty-four hours, mostly misspent.”

And Then, Back I Go...

   For reasons not yet fully understood, something went click in my head today. This click was activated after checking Nourishing Obscurity and  clicking to the fairly frequent posts regards transport, primarily bicycles – yeah, right – cars and occasionally trains. Trains was the head click and sent me on a Foggy search. Oh wot an excitement filled Sunday...
   This search ended in 2014. I was going to pass this along to N.O. as a comment but it seemed a tad long so it’s here, again, and should N.O. wish to nick it, as indeed did I, for use in any future train piece, and assuming I’m not way too late with this, please feel free so to do.
   It’s an historically interesting piece with an absolute beauty of a final sentence. Enjoy.

"Say friend, did you know that the US Standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet 8 1/2 inches?”
”That's an exceedingly odd number. Why was that gauge used?”
”Because that's the way they built them in England, and the US railroads were built by English expatriates.”
“I see, but why did the English build them like that?”
”Because the first railway lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways, and that's the gauge they used over there.”
“Well, why did they use that gauge?”
”Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for building wagons, which used that wheel spacing.”
“Okay! Why did their wagons use that odd wheel spacing?”
”Because, if they tried to use any other spacing the wagon wheels would break on some of the old, long distance roads because that's the spacing of the old wheel ruts.”
“So who caused these old rutted roads?”
”The first long distance roads in Europe were built by Imperial Rome for the benefit of their legions. The Roman roads have been used ever since.”
“And the ruts?”
”The original ruts, which everyone else had to match for fear of destroying their wagons, were first made by the wheels of Roman war chariots. Since the chariots were made for, or by Imperial Rome, they were all alike in the matter of wheel spacing.  Thus, we have the answer to the original question. The United States standard railroad gauge of 4 feet 8 1/2 inches derives from the original specification for an Imperial Roman army war chariot.
“And the motto of the story is specifications and bureaucracies live forever. So, the next time you are handed a specification and wonder what horse's ass came up with it, you may be exactly right. Because the Imperial Roman chariots were made to be just wide enough to accommodate the back-ends of two war-horses.”
“So, just what does this have to do with the exploration of space?”
”Well, there's an interesting extension of the story about railroad gauge and horses' behinds. When we see a Space Shuttle sitting on the launch pad, there are two big booster rockets attached to the sides of the main fuel tank. These are the solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The SRBs are made by Thiokol at a factory in Utah. The engineers who designed the SRBs might have preferred to make them a bit fatter, but the SRBs had to be shipped by train from the factory to the launch site.  The railroad from the factory runs through a tunnel in the mountains and the SRBs had to fit through that tunnel. The tunnel is slightly wider than a railroad track, and the railroad track is about as wide as two horses' behinds.
”So a major design feature of what is arguably the world's most advanced transportation system was originally determined by the width of a horse's ass.”

Quote;  Ed Catmull.

“Driving the train doesn’t set its course. The real job is Laying the track.”

And Then, It’s Back...

   That would be the car. Collected this morning at AM o’clock after I passed over a hefty heap of hay. Injector head, exhaust fault, two new tyres and front break work. Have to say it’s a smooth ride now compared to before. So I guess the indications of trouble to come just round the next bend were there for anyone paying attention...
   Being without the car did result in a bit of an adventure of sorts yesterday all the same as my little nest of vipers decided there was something in the city centre she’d like to get. Wot to do? Hay, busses pass down the street on wot we live so let’s catch one.
   A hundred metre walk got us to the bus stop and after a short shivery wait along came a bus. The driver assured us he was going where we wanted to be so I paid and we boarded.
   Upon paying, two dabs and a bit each, I did mention to the driver/conductor that the last time I rode a bus it cost me one shilling and sixpence. Seemed to brighten up his day a tad. Memories eh? See? Still hanging on to some of ‘em.
   All in all, we were impressed. Warm, clean, relatively quiet and seemed to just flow along. Same on the return. Well done bus folk where wot we be I say.

Quote;  Steven Wright.

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

And Then, Another Old One...

With all wot’s been going on over the past few days, I thought I’d revisit a post from back in 2015 – with a couple of addendiddydodads. Seems more like a plan with every passing hour...

With the rising tide of people running away from Africa and seeking a home in Europe, and by definition, the UK,  and many folk expressing concern that this is basically leading to population displacement/replacement, I have a cunning plan.

Let's stop all the whining and whinging and get a grip people. Why don't we just select an African country and let 'em all in; even send help with transport so's they can skip the risky sinky boaty bitty in the middle of their trip. However, and this is the cleaver bit, as they come, we go.

Twenty thousand sleepy lagoons imported from there to here to equal twenty thousand of ol' whitey  exported from here to there. Over a relatively short period of time ol' whitey will be re-located down south the way with our survival and empire building instincts kicking-in big time.

First boat out should be loaded-out with entrepreneurs,  engineers, builders, farmers fishermen, drillers and miners just to kick-start the grand adventure and to draw up plans for the countries infrastructure. Roads would be a low priority as they will most likely be in better shape than the roads we'll be leaving behind. Also a contingency of the Royal Corps of Engineers to assist the RN guys get the docks up to snuff and the RAF guys upgrading the airports, the faster to export and import the two populations. Or import and export if you're still over here waiting your turn to go.

Is the entire indigenous population of this island welcome to our new home? You're kidding, right? This is a one-off; a new start building a country from the ground-up so we need to be a tad selective with who we can best live without.

Those  NOT required on voyage would be, but not be limited to, the following:
Bedwetting Timidadians and puritanians, no SJWs, nobody called Karen, Ant, Dec or Piers, no green goblins, no politicians or councillors of any political persuasion. No bureaucrats, civil serpents, any and all charity and quango employers/employees, telesales people, all teachers from primary right through to university level. No lawyers and members of the judiciary, anyone involved with or has any connection to the MSM, especially the BBC, with the possible exception of Sponge Bob.  The Royal family? We'll choose and then give them the choice but if they come, they'll have to build their own homes using their own money and their own hands. And content themselves with just appearing on stamps and nothing more.

Seems to me it could be a win-win situation. Blank canvas, new start, full employment as we build our new country and harvest its abundance of natural reserves to be used and exported and a new industrial base based on the future. And the weather? It's guaranteed to be better than that wot we get up here.

Say what now? You'd like to go but you'd miss your fox hunting? Trust me, there'll be stuff down there for you to hunt but,  unlike fox hunting, if you get it wrong you'll quickly discover you've become the hunted. Sorry? You're not up for that sort of challenge? You're not up for that sort of trip then.

Of course, any of the original population who can make music like this will be welcome to stay. But that's only common sense. Hay!! Before you go, try this one.  I could happily chill-out in those guys company after an eighteen hour day country building. With a twelve pack or three of course; but that's just yet more common sense. 

Quote;  Darnell Lamont Walker.

“White supremacy is a black person telling the people of Baltimore to chill out and try peace, thinking they came up with that thought all on their own.”

And Then, A Journey...

...a governmental advisor, of the right, loads his family into their car and drives two hundred and fifty miles in the hope he can better protect those he loves and cares for. Result? Entire MSM and Look-At-Me’dia go apoplectic  with righteous indignation and wet their panties with excitement and declare the end of the world as we know it if said governmental advisor don’t go. That is all.

Quote;  Patrick Ness.

“If the world wants you, it's gonna keep on coming till it gets you. And who am I that can fix it? Who am I that can change this if the world wants it so badly? Who am I to stop the end of the world if it keeps on coming?”

And Then, Plumbing...

This post is for Ripper as a follow-up to his latest comment. But first, my thanks to Rat Catcher for a comment at Going Postal this morning that kickstarted my day with a wide smile:

“Chinese neighbour had Waffles for breakfast the bastard.
I loved that cat.”

A bit of basic plumbing but first the closing line from Ripper’s comment;
I think your nest of vipers is either very hardy indeed or secretly using all the toilet roll! :-)
Ripper, I’m of the belief she’s pretty much bullet proof.

And now to a few words loosely tied to plumbing. This goes back twenty years plus when my little nest of vipers took me ‘in country’ in a land far, far, far away, to visit some of her friends. The village comprised about thirty dwellings and we stayed with her elderly friends in their abode.

The washing and toilet facilities were in a shack attached to the main dwelling but at the same time separate. And I did use this facility although the first go was rather daunting. The toilet was just a hole in the ground with a raised area above with boards to squat on and a bucket of water for ‘cleaning up’. You use the bucket and fill it for the next user.

I have no idea how the bottom of the hole got cleaned up but the area was totally odour-free so I assumed it was in a continual state of being ‘flushed’ by the trench below that was tied into the swiftly running river that ran behind the village. Or by the big rains. Then wot? Wash your hands and just over there was a sink. Now I say sink but it’d be best described as one of they stone horse troughs you used to see in every town over here way back.

Okay, over to the ‘horse trough’  and rinsed my hands. I then cupped my hands, dunked ‘em and put my head down for a splash and this was when I saw the fish swimming about in the trough... Damn!! Was I washing in the fish-on-the-fin pantry? Back in the main dwelling I enquired as to the fish tank and was slowly and politely answered as if I was a tad ‘gone out’. If the fish were alive and well, the water was sure good and safe enough to wash yourself with. I left it at that as I figured it’d be impolite to bring up the subject of the ‘bodily’ functions of fish; a subject I’m spookily unfamiliar with anyway.

Drinking water? I gave that a pass and stuck to beer morning, noon and night purchased from the guy with a van who drove through the village, with stuff from the big town, every morning and evening. From our brief stay there, it seemed the entire population of the village did likewise. It was a very happy village... and I’m guessing their immune systems were probably off the chart. However, it was damn good to get back to the ‘polluted’ city.

Quote;  Bernard Sumner.

“In Salford, we had fish in our tap water. I remember, one hot summer day, running to the toilet at playtime and dunking our heads in a sink full of water. I remember putting my head in and seeing all these little fish in it.”

And Then, A Little Light...

...may have come on in the corridors of ‘power’ as I saw a comment this morning – can’t remember where as I was only one coffee ‘in’ – stating someone had said the government were considering the possibility of scrapping that high speed train thingy from London to Birmingham. Or from Birmingham to London dependant upon where you’re starting from. That would be a pretty cool idea but I’m guessing many pockets have already been adequately lined even at this ‘early stage’ of the fiasco.

It reminded me of the quote from the beginning of the idea suggesting it would be cheaper in the long run to demolish Birmingham and rebuild it twenty minutes closer to London.

Thinking along those lines, it would be substantially cheaper  still if they only knocked down and rebuilt the bit of Birmingham ol’ whitey still uses and just left the rest to the rest. Then they’d only really need a train station and a small market town.  Hay, that’s not a very PC thing to type is it? However, unless my Webcam’s been hacked, you won’t be able to see the total lack of concern on my face relating to that typing.
Whoa!! Who’s that hammering the hell out of the door now?

Quote;  Dwight D. Eisenhower.

“Neither a wise man nor a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him.”

And Then, Go Home...

After a pretty disastrous day at the office yesterday, things didn’t get any better for Mother Theresa after boarding the bus for home last night...

           

Quote;  Douglas Adams.

“I've had the sort of day that would make St. Francis of Assisi kick babies.”

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.”

And Then A Taxi Ride...

I remember a while ago Mr Ward, over at his Slog Spot, while documenting his holiday in India, made mention of the wondrous tuk-tuk. I seem to remember, possibly wrongly, that he wasn’t too enamoured with that form of transport. Although not in India, I enjoyed the experience and used them with the idea, thankfully never tested, that in the event I saw the chance of an imminent accident, I would be able to dive out without being impeded by such trivialities as doors an’ such. Now, on reflection, owing to the requirement for all road transport to be no further behind the vehicle in front than two millimetres, if I’d been in an accident I’d probably have dived out and straight into the following tuk-tuk and thus into the same accident.

That sent my head back to one of my more memorable ‘taxi’ rides which came about along the lines of this:

The rig had moved to a ‘new’ country with new local crews way down in SE Asia. There was one young fellow who was totally new to the offshore world and for a goodly while I took him under my wing. As crew change day approached, he discovered I was also heading off the same day as himself and to show his appreciation of my help he invited me to his home to meet his family and take food. It’s hard to refuse an invitation to share food with folk with just about nothing when you have just about something yourself so I asked town to get me a later flight out and accept I did.

Long journey short, after I’d dropped my sack off at the day room hotel, we got to his home which was a shack in a shanty town way out on the fringe of the city. Built by the family and, as the others, cleverly built over a drainage trench to facilitate toilet and other waste requirements. Cometh the rain, cometh the flush...

So I spent a convivial afternoon eating I know not wot and  I sure didn’t trouble to ask for the sake of my stomach. I did, however, recognise the grasshoppers which were lovely and crispy. No, really. All thankfully helped down with copious amounts of warm beer.

Then it was time to get to the airport. I was informed that taxies would venture in to drop-off but never to pick-up and busses just didn’t happen but there was transport available.

I was escorted about fifty metres and found myself by the rail tracks – four of ‘em; this would be the main rail lines in and out of the city. I’m catching a commuter train? No, a loud whistle later and a fellow appeared with a flat board on a buggy which he deftly flipped onto the tracks, indicated I sit on, cross-legged, and with one foot aboard, pushed off with the other foot. As we gained speed he just stepped right on and continued accelerated using a pole punt style.

Man, it got good speed on and thought I to me, if this thing jumps the tracks I’ll be surfing, face down, through the gravel track ballast and sleepers. This resulted in me gripping the front edge of the board which in turn had me quickly thinking that in the event of an accident I’d lose all the  fingers of both hands before surfing, face down, through the gravel track ballast and sleepers.

At that point nature took over. I was already sitting cross-legged and rather than just enjoying the experience I was preoccupied with all matters health an’ safety and sensing how precarious my situation was, I naturally puckered-up and thus found I’d adhered myself to the board by suction...

Eventually we arrived at the level-crossing on the main road, a trip of about three miles. I paid my fare - doubled-up - and left the lad to wait for a return fare. Then, by the ingenious use of a few busses going in various directions, mainly wrong, and a couple of taxies, I got to the hotel, grabbed my sack and made my flight.

Below are some Web pictures of track trollies and they’re all way more luxurious than my beauty which was just a flat board on a buggy. And how cool is that motorbike then? I never saw one of those – not even in Vietnam. Anyhoo, taxi ride of a lifetime and another tick, at the time, in my book of ‘Things I’ve Never Done Before.’

           

                      

Imagine the screams of outrage if some enterprising young buck launched one of those on some stretch of our abandoned track system as a service between a few villages.

Quote;  James Lipton.

“I think that anybody's craft is fascinating. A taxi driver talking about taxi driving is going to be very, very interesting.”

And Then, To Work...

It’s been quiet as I’ve been organising my little nest of vipers trip to far, far, far away to visit family and  also planning a couple of major projects in the house that I’ll get done while she’s away. It’s so much easier when alone and  without the constant, “Why are you doing...” - “Why don’t you...” – “Why didn’t you...” and so on and so forth.

Anyhoo, as before, if you’re an amateur day trader or occasional dabbler, may I humbly suggest a buy punt on any, possibly all, fast food chains from burger joints to the ‘healthy’ subway folk. And let’s not forget frozen food halls.

While on the subject of frozen food, I mentioned a goodly while ago that I’d ‘discovered’ potato wedges, as opposed to old fashioned chips, seasoned with black pepper and sea salt. Well, while meandering round one such store recently, and after negotiating the two aisles of twenty plus display chests showcasing products clearly illustrating the thousand and one things you can do with a dead chicken, I came to the chip chest. Whoa! What have we here? Sweet potato fries? Got to try ‘em so got me a bag. Oven cook? If you wish I guess, but I go for the healthy deep fry option. There’s no going back now and wedges have suddenly become so, like, last year. Man they’re good and very kind on old teeth – or tooth dependant on your present configuration.

Quote;  J. A. Konrath.

“Sorry to hear about your Dad."
He shrugged. "He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him."
"Heart attack?"
"He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.”

And Then, Change...

Yesterday AM I reported to the local car dealership, strolled up to the reception lady, announced my name and that I was booked in for a yearly service and MOT. I respectfully asked if they could please do the same for my car while they took care of me. This was greeted with a soft whooshing sound about a meter above the nice young ladies head so I shut up and moved ever onwards. Sadly, no longer upwards.

Today, in our newly serviced car, which ran in a remarkably similar fashion to wot it did the day before the service, we had a run round the countryside and found ourselves in a beautiful village that I haven’t visited in twenty some years. It’s one of those places that’s a crossover between a village and a market town and a place that, as I remembered it, time had politely passed by.

Sadly, our time has finally arrived there. Gone are the little antique shops. Gone are the country craft shops. Gone are the  quaint little curio shops. Gone is the home baked bakers. Gone is the natural ingredient perfumery. All, it seems, replaced with ‘it looks like any other town now.’

That’s wot they’ve lost so wot have they won in place? The usual ‘modern must haves’ of course. The obligatory charity shops. Two bookies. It’s a village for crying out loud!! Two bookies? An all-in-one type convenience store. An all-comers hair and tanning joint and three of they mandatory curry carry-outs.

There was, however, a small measure of saving grace in that, I’m guessing, the local residents must’ve been most vociferous during the planning stages{?} relating to this transition as none of the fine old exterior facades have been altered at all and there was no evidence of gaudy signage what–so-ever, so the high street, despite it’s leap into ‘modernity’, still looks like it’s locked into an eye pleasing time warp.

Quote;  Yannick Noah.

“You arrive at a village, and in this calm environment, one starts to hear echo.”

And Then A Break...

Sorry for the halitosis – or is that hiatus? Or both? - in posts but we’ve been on a flying visit to a place far, far away where connecting to the Net-a-Web isn’t easy at all.

Anyhoo, just checked the news and I see they’re clamping down on the use of phones an’ such while driving. This reminded me of a place I’ve visited many times and which is awful close to where we were but, sadly, time constraints  precluded hopping over there. Oh, snowflakes? If you want to go there, you’ll need a passport and a visa, okay? It’s not near Europe.

Nothing to say, just a few photos grabbed off the Net – but trust me, it’s absolutely as it is – so’s you can compare and contrast how, back here, we’re ‘controlled’ by rules from waking to sleep, while over there folk are just left alone to get on with life. And they truly do.

    

         

                        

Bu-by for now and drive safely, okay? I’m going to sleep for the rest of the week...

Quote; Aimee Bender.

“And, sure, fine, I do check my phone about every two minutes, but so do a lot of people, and it's better than smoking, that's what I say. It's the new, lung-safe cigarette.”

           Amit Kalantri.

“Texting is not talking and a phone is not a friend.”