Redundancy built in part one.

I must just be unlucky I guess. Its not always been like this, I mean when I was young, things were so much easier. If you bought a record player, you got a Dansett Popular, a standard player for the modern family. On it you could stack up to 6 singles at a time, and each one would drop down neatly onto the turntable, the needle arm would glide across and gently lower the needle onto the record, where you would sit and listen in perfect mono to such wonders as jailhouse rock, good golly miss molly, Peggy sue, or how much is that doggy in the window. Of course memory is a funny thing, it was never really like that, you would stack 6 records on the changer, and switch it on, and watch as the record failed to fall onto the turntable, and the needle would try to play a song from the rubber turntable mat. You would reset it, try again, and this time two records would fall together, the needle would drop with a loud crack onto the disc, and the loudspeaker would burst into life with a collection of hisses, snaps, crackles and pops that inspired Kellogg’s to make a breakfast cereal.

I think back over the past 40+ years since I was old enough to earn a wage to buy the latest gadgets, and find myself wondering where it all went wrong. Take the entertainment equipment I purchased that became redundant while I was carrying them out of the shop. I paid a fortune for a quadrophonic Hi Fi stereo system, spent hours positioning the four speakers to get the best sound reproduction, bought all six LP’s that were made in Quadrophonic stereo only to find that it went out of fashion while I was making a cup of tea.

I was the one who also bought an eight track stereo player. Now I was never a fan of the cassette tape. Horrible noisy, hissy things. I would buy the finest quality metal tape, use only Bang & Olufsen record deck, and amplifier, religiously clean the record before I played it, and still, after recording it onto a cassette it sounded like a bunch of snakes trying to sing like Mick Jagger. So I bought an eight track. The sound quality was much better than a cassette, but that was its only advantage, it was too big, you couldn’t record on it, and you could only buy the same six albums on eight track, as you could get in quadrophonic stereo.

Next came the “pocket” calculator. I bought one of the first Texas instruments portable “pocket” calculators. It would just about fit into a large pocket, but was so heavy, you would walk with a limp for days afterwards. Plugged in it was great, but the built in rechargeable battery lasted just long enough to type in 77345 7i0, then turn it upside down to display the words “shell oil”

Then along came Sir Clive Sinclair. No, I didn’t buy one of his C5’s, but I did buy a ZX81, complete with 16MB memory extension, and a thermal printer that looked more like a till roll. I  would spend days writing and rewriting BASIC , I would save each command line, then after it was complete, watch my TV burst forth with a dazzling display of multi-colour lines while my “computer” loaded the program. I would then be presented with a black screen, on each side was a small white line and in the centre, a white dot that would move towards the side of the screen, until I moved one of the white lines, or bat as it was known, until it hit the white spot, or ball, back across the screen. Oh what fun we had. I upgraded to a Spectrum, complete with built in cassette player, but I could still only play bloody tennis on it.

Then it was the turn of Video. There were 3 main rivals for the Video standard, VHS, Betamax and video 2000, guess which one I chose? Now video 2000 was by far the best, with reversible tapes lasting twice as long as the other two systems, and far better quality, but a very weak sales team. The European manufacturers tried hard to compete against the Japanese, Philips, Grundig etc., but they just couldn’t sell the product as well as the Asian firms. So, after a year or two of trying to survive with a Video 2000 machine, I went out and bought………………………….a VHS machine! Bet you thought I was going to say Betamax! Then there was the Camcorder, my first one was the size of a small semi detached house. It used full size VHS tapes, gave great pictures, and was used at Christmas, birthdays and special occasions. I still  have an incriminating tape made at my 40^th birthday party, where a lot of my friends and colleagues let their hair down. I’ve been able to blackmail them ever since. Another use of these were “candid” films, you know the ones, made in private, me and the ex-wife tried it once, but after we watched it back once, she immediately tape over it with an episode of home and away.

I took it to Florida so that we could video the kids enjoying a family holiday of a lifetime, After carrying it around all day on my shoulder, I developed a pronounced list to port of 45 degrees. My lasting memory of Florida is a small place, about an inch square, where everything was in black and white.

Where have all the good names gone?

I’ve been noticing recently the amount of car and truck names that are totally meaningless. For example, the Qashqui. What the heck is a Qashqui? Sounds like a small orange fruit! And what the hell is a Atego? Some kind of Brazilian hair style?

I can’t help thinking back to the classic days of car and truck names that had a meaning, the ones that conjured up exotic visions in the mind of the drivers. Remember the Guy Invincible? The Leyland Comet, or the Marathon, the Roadtrain and the buffalo? Ok, maybe the Beaver caused a few nudges and winks, but you knew what you had with a Chieftain, and I don’t mean a tank. The Borderer would produce visions of night runs up the A1 on a cold and stormy night. Imagine driving a Landtrain or a Roadtrain, not the ones that ply their way across aussieland, but the ones that used to plough along the M1 and M4 etc. OK, not the best trucks in the world, but the names allowed your imagination to take you away. The Mandator was a Latin name for messenger, not a lot of people knew that, but it just sounded so exotic, so commanding. Think of the great British truck manufacturers that are no longer with us, Scammell, Albion, Commer, Dodge, Guy, Thornycroft and let us not forget Bedford.

 Ok, you can forget Bedford.

What do the foreign truck manufacturers do? Use numbers and or letters. Now how romantic is that? Mercedes of course, use unintelligible names like Atego, Actros and Axor, which I always thought was something used for cutting through prison bars. Renault use Premium and Magnum, which sounds like ordering coffee in a MSA, or choosing an ice cream, and the Italians of course use a practical name with the Iveco Stalls!

Now what about car names? Remember such wonderful names as the Jensen Interceptor, or the Jowett Javelin? The Gilburn Invader or Triumph Stag, how much testosterone does that name contain?  Even everyday cars had exotic names, like the Cortina, not that you would want to drive down the Cortina run, and the Capri, although try accelerating from 0 – 60 on the isle of Capri, and you would end up under 50 fathoms of Mediterranean sea! It used to be common for cars to be named after the place they were made, such as Morris Cowley or Oxford, the Austin Cambridge; lucky they didn’t have factories in Biggleswade or Scunthorpe. Also, the Jaguar E’type might not have enjoyed such iconic worship if it had been the Jaguar Coventry.

 Who can forget the Hillman Avenger? Picture yourself driving along with Diana Rigg sat next to you as you cruise at the top speed of 72 MPH, Or the Montego, your imagination would run wild as you see yourself on a beach in Jamaica, a nubile dusky maiden in a minute bikini serving you endless Pina Coladas, when in actual fact, you are sitting in a rust bucket in Leighton buzzard high street with the wife complaining you didn’t take her to Milton Keynes. The Ford focus RS is a great car, except that hideous green paint, but the RS Mexico still sounds like a real performer. Who could resist the temptation to drive a Frog Eyed Sprite?

Naming cars after people is not such a good idea. The Napier Gordon Bennett might have been fast in its time, but it’s not a name to conjure with, and imagine if John cooper had been called something else, I doubt that Pat Moss and Paddy Hopkirk would have had such a charismatic image winning the mote Carlo rally in a mini Blenkinsopp. Even good old British Leyland tried to make dull cars sound more exciting, the princess and ambassador, maybe because they were worth about as much as a fancy box of chocolates.

We won’t mention the allaggro!

How do our European cousins work? Well, in Germany, Audi and BMW use numbers and letters because their cars lack imagination. Opel call their cars Rekord, when will they learn to spell correctly, and VW, wow, what a collection of names. Toerag, who drives a car called a toerag for goodness sake! Touran, Passat, Scirroco, and of course the Golf, aptly named because just like golfers, Golf owners gather in groups and bore everyone silly about how wonderful their cars are. Who else but the Germans could name a car after a mint? Mercedes call their cars Kompressor, why name a car after a dirty, noisy piece of engineering? And learn to spell!  If you produce a prestige motor, then give it a good name, such as silver shadow, or silver ghost. Porsche managed to get the name right on the Cayenne, It’s so ugly, it makes me want to screw my nose up and sneeze.

The Spanish we will ignore, anyone whose main manufacturer is named after a park bench, and who names a car after a pig farmer, doesn’t deserve to get mentioned.

In France the do it different. Renault misspells every name they give a vehicle, Clio instead of Cleo, Megane instead of Megan and Leguna instead of vegetables. Bugatti don’t get away with it either, Veyron sounds like the material Captain Kirk’s t shirt was made out of. Oh and please Citroen, why did you call a car Dyane? And what were you thinking of with the SM?

This leaves us Italy. Well Lamborghini make it easy for us, they name all their cars with unpronounceable names so it doesn’t matter what you call them, besides they are too fast for you to read the name plate anyway. Ferrari manage to name a car after Fred Flintstones Pet, the U.S state that wants to outlaw gas guzzling cars, and a race track renowned for killing drivers. Lancia tried hard with the Stratros, but then produced the Beta and Delta; The Fulvia always makes me think of a certain part of the female anatomy, and are the only manufacturer who produce cars with a 0 – 60 time for rusting. Which leaves good old Fiat, who make the very appropriately named Punto because it is always coming to a full stop for no reason.

What is my favourite name? well, it has to be the Borgward Isabella.

New Car

We had been talking about it for some time, but there was a lot to take into account, not least of all the financial aspect, but eventually we both agreed that we needed to move on, it was no good sitting in the same place for ever.

We looked around the neighbourhood to see what was available. My eyes caught the little red 2 seater convertible, with the chrome roll bars and electronic roof, while my wife favoured the large Chelsea tractor with air con and auto box, however common sense prevailed, and we agreed on the medium 5 door hatchback.

One careful owner from new, it had been lovingly tended, the black paint shone from numerous coats of wax, the interior was spotless, and the bodywork was immaculate. It had alloy wheels and enough chrome to say that this was no base model; this was someone who went a little bit further for a touch of comfort. Being only 2 years old, it had another year before the MOT was needed, and was taxed for 10 months. The previous owner had got fed up with driving and decided he needed to exercise more, hence the sale.

We were a little worried about what to do with our old car, fortunately for us, one of our neighbours had a daughter who was just seventeen, and decided it was the ideal car for her to learn to drive in

After a bit of haggling. We agreed on a fair price for both our new vehicle, and the sale of our old car. Then it was out with the laptop and on to the internet. Ten minutes later we had negotiated a loan from our bank, and had arranged for the transfer of the cash. Another ten minutes and we had the insurance set up; all we needed now was the keys.

It’s surprising the amount of detritus that you collect in your car. We cleared out everything that we wanted to keep from the old car, and transferred it to the new car. Now I can’t remember for the life of me, ever touching the spark plugs in the old car, but there, at the bottom of the spare wheel well, was a plug spanner and a set of feeler gauges, funny how these things turn up.

Finally we were all set. We climbed into our new car, smelled the fresh smell of leather from the seats, heard the gentle tones of the 6 speaker stereo, and as I turned the key for the first time, and we listened to the reassuring purr coming from the engine, we looked at each other and smiled, finally, after what seemed like an age, by buying the car next to us, we had managed to change lanes on the M 25!........

Medical opinions needed!

Now I need to ask your opinion on a medical matter. It doesn’t matter that you are not doctors because it is something that I am sure you have all wondered over at some time.
Before I ask the question, I need to put a little bit of background into your minds so that you can understand where I’m coming from.
A few years ago, I was travelling extensively in Eastern Europe as a recruitment consultant for drivers. At this particular time, I was in Tallinn, Estonia for a couple of weeks, a lovely place if you want to surprise your wife, or girlfriend, with a romantic weekend away. At the end of the first week, I was looking forward to exploring the city over the weekend, Tomas, my contact in Estonia, kindly offered to show me the sights, starting on the Friday evening.
It started in a very civilised manner. It was the middle of summer, and the temperatures had been in the low 30C’s all week, so we started out at one of the many cafes in the old town square, sitting on the terrace, watching some beautiful women walking past, and drinking the odd beer or two.
After that, we moved on to a very nice Russian restaurant in the town centre, where again we were lucky to get a table outside on the terrace from where we could watch as the local young ladies strolled around the town in the evening sun. Traditionally, you start a Russian meal with zarkustka, a platter of various cold meats and pickles, washed down with the odd neat vodka or three, follow this with a plate full of Borsch, or beetroot soup served with soured cream, a main dish of wild rice with chicken in plum sauce, accompanied by a bottle or two of red wine, and followed by a dessert containing copious amounts of chocolate and cream, followed by coffee and more vodka.
By the end of the meal I was beginning to feel, shall we say, merry, but much more was to come. Tomas suggested we get out of the tourist area and visit his local bar, where, in the cellar, they had a karaoke, and dance floor which was popular with the local talent, not wishing to offend my host, and feeling proud to be cementing relationships between two EU member states, I agreed. The landlord was the perfect “mein host” and helped us to consume vast quantities of the local lager while Tomas spent his time fighting off the women.
I should mention the Tomas was a bit of a lad, and was constantly introducing me to various young blonde, and beautiful women who he “knew from school” or “used to work with her dad”, many of these young ladies were keen to practise their English with me, and I of course was happy to oblige.
I have got a voice similar to the fog horn on a cross channel ferry, but after a few drinks, I’m willing to have a go at karaoke, only this night it was all in Estonian or Russian. My Russian was not exactly fluent at that time, as I needed to not only translate the words in my mind into English, but also had to phonetically sound out each Cyrillic letter first, so I’m sure you can imagine how my version of Pretty Woman, in Russian, had Roy Orbison rotating at great speed in his grave.
It was about that time, and no I haven’t forgotten about the medical opinion yet, just stay with me on this, that the landlord produced his locally produced 100% vodka from under the counter. Boy did that have a kick! Like being on the end of a bobby Charlton special! Tomas and I felt that it was our duty to help the landlord finish the bottle, as there is something sad about a half-finished bottle of vodka.
By now, my brain was beginning to have arguments with various parts of my body, or so it seemed, as various limbs refused to do exactly what it was telling them to do, and seemed to develop a brain of their own.
So it was only proper that I suggest we move on, and visit Walthamstow. Now I will tell you, Walthamstow is not the name, by coincidence, of a suburb of Tallinn, nor was I suggesting we catch the next easy jet to Luton, no, Walthamstow was the name I had given to the discothèque in the basement of my hotel. Why Walthamstow? Quite simply because I had watched men dragging dogs in there all week.
And so it was we arrived in the disco. On Friday nights it appeared to be ladies night, because there was a plethora of young, single attractive women gathered around the dance floor, holding a bottle of pils and just waiting for me, or so it seemed. By now, my brain had given up trying to communicate with any other part of my body, because it seemed that they simply refused to listen.
Stay with me on this, I’m getting to the point very soon
It was here that I met her, Aphrodite and Venus all rolled into one. Helen of troy, miss world, she was everything, long blonde hair, long neck, an hour glass figure to die for, and the face of a perfect angel. We danced, talked, danced some more, then………..well I’ll leave the rest of the night to your imagination as this is a family site, and move on to the morning. I have to admit, my imagination is all I have of what happened, because, for the life of me, I can’t remember.
Can anyone tell me at precisely what time of the night does the changeover happen? No this is not the medical question, just something I’ve always wondered. How is it that you go to bed with the goddess of love, a vision of perfection, only to wake up next morning in bed with the love child of Nora Batty and Jabba the hut? At what time does miss world leave the room and miss nightmare on elm street walk in?
This particular morning, as I began to gain consciousness, I managed to unstick my eyelids that had somehow got themselves super glued together during the night, and caught a glimpse of the vision that was lying next to me. A faint “oh my god” passed through my mind, and my head tried to impersonate a turtle, by trying to sink down between my shoulder blades. Afraid that I was about to say good bye to last night’s supper, I managed to crawl into the bathroom, looking in the mirror, my eyes were redder than Josef Stalin, my mouth had that dryness that, no matter how much you move your tongue around, you just can’t get any moisture there, it tasted like I had eaten a tray of used cat litter, and washed it down with budgie grit!
Now I am almost getting to the point! Due to a childhood love of all things sweet, and an adult hatred for all things dental, I had two false teeth; these were neatly joined together on a small plate that fitted snugly into my upper gum. Wonderful job my dentist did, honestly, you wouldn’t know just from looking, and just to avoid any possibility of the falling out during a Buckingham palace dinner, I kept them in place with the old dental fixative.
And so it was, I decided that morning, that the only way I was going to get moisture to my mouth, was by brushing my teeth. Removing the plate with my two teeth on, I brushed religiously, just as the dentist told me to, cleaned my two falsies, and used copious amounts of mouth wash.
I should point out about now, that false teeth were not the only medical condition I had at the time. It’s something that happens quite a lot after flying, you eat the dehydrated food on the plane, the pressurisation in the cabin dehydrates you more, and for the next few days you find it hard to “go” if you take my meaning. As a result, after much straining, I was suffering from a dose of the farmer Giles, or as Johnny Cash so eloquently put it, I had “a burning ring of fire”
Being the kind of guy that is always ready for an emergency, I happened to have a tube of haemorrhoid cream in my toilet bag, this was also where I kept my tube of polygrip, so, after rinsing my mouth out with huge amounts of water and mouthwash, I squeezed a line of what I thought was polygrip onto my top plate, and was about to insert it into my mouth, when my eye caught of glimpse of the tube that I had just used, yes, you’ve guessed it, I had put Haemorrhoid cream on my dentures.
Now, and here finally is the question that I would like your opinion on, I will finally come to the point of all this, in your opinion, what would be worse. Putting haemorrhoid cream in your mouth, or putting a large dollop of polygrip on your piles?