The Thoughts of Chairman Bertie

Optical Illusion

2011-12-13T11:02:00.004Z

Sadly, as the years have passed by, my body has metamorphosed from the muscular, slim and athletic twenty something into the fifty something whose physique is akin to Buddha after a binge eating session. Bits of my body are slowly but surely degrading and this brings different fears. Once upon a time I would worry that I might not get a game of football every day: now I worry about dropping the remote as, by the time I have managed to bend over to pick it up to change channel, I've missed half the match!

Some bits of me have always been less than perfect. "What?!!" I hear you cry, as another illusion is shattered. Yes indeed, I have worn glasses from the age of about 11 therefore they are part of me. In fact, my Chinese friends always refer to me as 'Sing an loh' which apparently means Four-eyed man although it wouldn't surprise me if it's meaning is something totally different and they've been calling me something like rancid arse face for all these years.

I, like most people, have my sight tested every 18 months or so and for some time I have been going to an independent company called Sussex Eyecare. They are based in Seaford, near where we used to live.. It's owned by a very capable and likeable chap by the name of Daeron who is also a biker and is just getting into photography (Daeron, if you're reading this, have I got a discount yet?). In fact, Daeron has been so successful there, a few years back, an elderly motorist decided to see if he liked the idea of a drive-through!

Recently, I managed to break one of my lenses so I obviously needed to go and get them sorted as well as another eye test but, for reasons which are pretty immaterial to this story, ended up going into town and visiting one of the big optician chains by the name of Vision Express.

Now Vision Express advertise a lot. They advertise cheap this, extra that, free sunglasses and are the epitome of corporate culture. Young persons in uniform smile nicely and the waiting area has such reassuring reading matter as The Times. Sadly, the said newspaper has been ripped into small bits by the bored children who sit there whilst their parents browse the designer frames, look at the price and then head for the budget section. Eventually I was examined and a young lady ophthalmologist started the proceedings by shining extremely bright lights in my eyes. How on earth was I expected to read wall charts after that?

I emerged to be told that there had been a deterioration in my vision and therefore a new prescription was issued and I would be passed to a colleague who would go through the alternatives. He started off by showing me 3 different pictures which demonstrated the difference in vision by their 3 different varifocal lenses. In other words, he started selling. I explained that I didn't want a lesson in marketing: I have been involved in marketing for a lot of my career and politely enquired if, assuming it was OK with him, we could actually focus (!) on me as the most important priority rather than his targets? He quoted a lens price (remember, I didn't need frames) of £360 and I was fairly surprised as these lenses were identical to my last ones (Seiko) and the cost was similar to lenses AND frames, some 18 months earlier. As we were there (despite my better judgement), the deal was done. Mrs B also had hers checked and the result was no change. The ophthalmologist did recommend contacts though (at £30 a month) and separate reading glasses. I might be a little cynical here but I do wonder if that was her professional opinion or yet another little bid to boost income and procure an ongoing direct debit?

As I drove back to the apartment, my phone rang. The young man at Vision Express was very sorry but he had misquoted me. He told me that, as the specs are rimless, there have to be holes drilled into the lenses for the arms and this costs a further £40. He gave me the option of cancelling the order and I told him I'd be in the next morning. So, we now have £400 and I am not a happy bunny. I had it on my mind all night. Annoyed that we had fallen into the trap of corporate advertising, annoyed that we hadn't gone back to where we knew and trusted the people and generally speaking, offering a good impression of Mr Grumpy. The following morning I made a rather embarrassed call to Sussex Eyecare and asked what they would charge me for replacement lenses? £295! Over £100 less than the big boys which totally screws any such theories as economies of scale. I rang Vision Express and told them the cheaper price and was met with a flustered person saying they would speak to the manager and where did I get this quote? I told them and then said I was coming in!

When I got there, the girl said she would fetch the manager and disappeared. Now whether the manager didn't want to speak or had something better to do I shall never know because the girl came back without her. I explained politely that, quite naturally, I wanted to get the best value for money. The girl said she had phoned Sussex Eyecare and they quoted £310. At this point I told her that I would like to cancel the order as a) I didn't like my integrity questioned and b) I was not happy about the whole thing. Her reply was "We don't do refunds, it's been company policy for about a year now."

Are you still with me or are you slumbering gently now? I'm almost done so bear with me.

I left the shop in high dudgeon after explaining that they would either get a call from Trading Standards or my solicitor only to receive a message some 30minutes later. Guess what? It appears that they COULD make a refund and would happily do so!!

The moral of this story? Stick with what you've got - size isn't everything!!! I'm not a vengeful man (much) and if I can deter one person from increasing Vison Express' profits then my job is done and I can sleep soundly in my bed at night.

Judge Not, That You be Not Judged

2011-04-17T00:30:00.001+01:00

It's been less than 3 years since I really caught the photographic bug. I did go to evening classes when I was in my mid 20s and learned such esoteric delights as printing and developing but sadly all I really remember was a naked young lady draped over a motorcycle. Let me hasten to add, this was a model and not one of the college students trying to pull. I've still got some of the prints (none, sadly, of the girl) and I will never forget that buzz as an image took shape in the developing fluid.

Of course, nowadays one can run off a few hundred shots very easily, ditch the majority and then work on the rest. No more waiting for a pack of prints to arrive and the hope that one, just one, might be worthwhile. If you have a half-decent shot then you can merely fire up Photoshop, clone the lamp-post that appears in the wrong place, change the colour of the sky, add a few layers to adjust tone and contrast and finally emerge with a satisfactory shot. The old adage that the camera never lies has been completely turned on its head!

I actually used graphic programmes way before I took up photography as I used to design posters for various bands as well as posters for my weekly quiz nights. I have never had any creative talent so using a computer was a fine way of satisfying that side of me. I started 'borrowing' photos off of the net and then manipulating them, in all sorts of ways which enabled me to both practice my skills and use my imagination with works like Hippogriff, Prawn Cocktail and The Glorious Twelfth. This all culminated in my attempt to create an image incorporating several facets of myself. Now it looks fairly crude technically but at the time I was pleased with it. As usual, just click the photo for a bigger image.

Schism

Anyway, let's move on to the purpose of this particular offering. During the course of the year, my photographic society (posh name) or, (for my readers) camera club holds several competitions where members submit their shots and these are constructively criticised by a visiting judge who then awards marks out of 20. The standard ranges from the ordinary to the wonderful but it's always a joy to see work by other members. I expect you'll think Mr SuperEgo would be in straight away for these here competitions but last night was the first one for which I had submitted an entry. I've been going there for 18 months now so, you may well ask, why wait so long? Well, this is where it gets complicated.........

In a nutshell, I can never be satisfied with anything I achieve. It was the same at work; if I achieved 115% of a target then I would really beat myself up for not achieving 120%. I was the most confident extrovert, the leader, the joker, the arrogantly successful manager whilst, underneath, I had no real confidence or self-esteem. I had built a shell which lasted me for many years. Each time there was a crack I was able to repair it until one fateful day, and for reasons I still don't know, it shattered - totally, completely and pretty irrevocably. I never worked again after that. My doctors and consultants told me I had "burned out". Who knows what it's all about but I was retired on full pension and that was that.

In a nutshell, the reasons therefore that I had never submitted a photo were because a) I didn't think my photos were good enough and b) I would destroy myself if they didn't get a perfect 20. See what I mean? A total dichotomy which goes to prove all those months and months of therapy did bugger all and I'm still as screwed up as ever!

My friends at the Club had seen my photographs on Flickr and were badgering me to submit something so, in the end I took the plunge. First problem - which shot to submit? These were a few of the contenders;

I finally decided and emailed the jpeg to the Competition Secretary (this was a digital comp. as opposed to print). I was pleasantly surprised to find that the whole process wasn't as bad as I'd imagined and as the few days passed prior to Friday I found that I wasn't worried at all. This completely changed during the course of that Friday and by the time I drove over to the meeting I was tighter than a spring. Naturally, when I got there I was, outwardly, completely blasé about the whole thing. People asked if I had entered and I casually nodded and said things like 'Oh I don't expect much from my first one'. I knew I was cracking when Steve, the guy next to me, asked me what my image was like and I answered 'Well, casual but sophisticated, I guess.

The actual competition starts with a runthrough of all the entries, followed by the judge's thoughts on each individual shot and finally, another runthrough when the marks are awarded. None of the images have anything other than a title so there can be no favouritism and they are shown in a completely random order. I was really looking forward to seeing my photo on a big projected screen and wondered just where I was in the order. The images started rolling through .......... nothing. They continued ............. nothing. Mine was second to bloody last!! This meant that I had to sit through all the others and it was a good hour before mine was shown.

Hot Stuff!

The judge said that it was a strong image. and that it had points of interest throughout. He complimented me on the technical ability shown in actually capturing the image and that it was "very pleasing". He did make one criticism that the spark in the top right corner distracted the eye and it should be toned down. Now, of course, I see what he means. Why oh why didn't I see that? Before the final marks were announced there was a break and people were asking each other whose photos were who's? Obviously, one tends to be complimentary about each others images so I didn't really take much notice of the nice things people were saying - all I wanted to do now was get it over!

We went back and the marking began. It's traditional that the best ones are held back and commented on further at the end before their mark is given. In other words, if it's held back, you're doing OK. These top ones tend to get 18, 19 or 20 and any that receive such a mark are formally applauded when the author's name is read out. Of the 40 or so entries, marks were ranging from 12 to 'Can we hold this one back please'. I had already decided that I would settle for a 17 - any more and I would be pleased, any less and it was off to the cliff top I go. As my shot came up again, he hesitated, for what seemed an eternity, and then awarded a 17. There were about 7 or 8 that scored higher so I guess I didn't do too bad. The best part was I had actually done it and, more importantly, I have accepted it. Maybe, at long last I've become sane(ish)!

A Lesson in English

2011-04-12T00:39:00.002+01:00

Blog writing is a strange pastime. What does one want to commit to paper (albeit virtual paper)? In my case it depends; sometimes it's deep and dark and I often bottle out of hitting the "Publish" button, sometimes it's something that I feel strongly about but predominantly it's me being me.

There are certain subjects or blog thoughts I have in the back of my mind that I know will surface eventually as a blog, a bit like trapped wind or, as our American cousins would say "trapped gas" and that, my dear old thing, hits the proverbial nail right on the head! As the great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw said; 'England and America are two countries divided by a common language'. I have some very lovely and special American internet friends, of whom I think the world but they have arbitrarily decided to change spellings, words .... and practically anything they fancy and still have the cheek to call it English!

Some I can understand, for example the wind/gas situation. I mean, when the Pilgrim Fathers toddled off to the New World (and what was wrong with the old one, may I ask?) they were aboard ship for a long time and I am sure they had their fair share of intestinal problems. Being God-fearing folk I'm sure they were far too polite (being English!) to mention this and no doubt blamed it on the ship's dog so their descendants had to invent a new word. This is fair enough but ... and this is the nub of the matter .......... when they started building cars they didn't call fuel petrol as we do. Oh no, they had to find another word and what did they choose? The same as flatulence!! Who decided to bastardise our language? Oops, sorry my colonial buddies, that should be 'bastardize'.

See what I mean? A perfectly sensible means of converting nouns and adjectives into verbs and they decide to change the spelling. The only reason I can think of is to get higher scores in Scrabble. And what about the humble 'u'? Humor, honor, color - all bereft. I can just imagine the newly colonised America, all sitting round playing Puritan games like Pin the Tail on the Devil and Hunt the Witch and then they got bored.

Pilgrim Father 1: I hungereth. Hath anybody invented MacDonalds yet?

Pilgrim Father 2: Letteth us think of a pastime to taketh away thy hunger, Jedediah

Pilgrim Father 1: I know, letteth us really pisseth of ye Brits by screwething up their language!

Pilgrim Father 2: I'd rather watcheth Baywatch but Okeyeth Dokeyeth.

I could trawl the depths and go for cheap laughs by talking about the different meaning of such words as 'fanny' and 'muff' but this whole subject is far too important to drop to such levels. I read certain things on Facebook and the net and I haven't got a clue what's going on. What in the name of all the gods is 'Woot!'? I am assuming it is similar to hooray or some such exclamation of joy but 'Woot!'??? Have you ever in your life heard anybody go 'Woot'? I certainly never have (apart from when my friend Alan was eating and something went down the wrong way. As I hit him sharply on the back and a small but life-threatening piece of casseroled pheasant ricocheted across the room, a Woot like sound was heard.).

I am trying to be fair and impartial here but even taking into account that all Americans are mad still finds me puzzled by their attitude to lexicographical matters. I really do love my American friends dearly but you have a lot to answer for ............ Jerry Springer, country and western, Oprah Winfrey, electing George Bush (twice!) but above all, your total deconstruction of our wonderful language. My English accent has been called 'cute' ........ need I say more?! And what decent TV have you come up with? OK, I can think of a couple but when I switch on my 50" Panasonic I don't want to watch some dreadful documentary about 4 (going on 18) year olds entering pageants or programmes entitled "I was a 48 stone Cheerleader" or The O.C.. As for "Lost", never has a series been more aptly named. I gave up when some bloke got killed for the fourth time and he was still in the next series! Oh dear, I'm starting to work up a froth now so I'll try and calm down. I will not mention anything about a sport where only American teams play for the World Series or why programmes about cake decorating seem to have taken over our screens.

Have your own language by all means but call it American - not American English or English. Call your mothers 'mom' and not 'mum' but don't try and hide behind our 1600 year old linguistic roots otherwise I'll smack your bum. See, you didn't change 'bum' to 'bom', did you? "Oh no, we'll just give that as a name for vagrants because tramp isn't good enough for us". See what I mean? I won't even start on your totally carefree and lax attitude towards transitive verbs.

Right y'all, gotta go now, it's time for The Simpsons.

A Day in the Life

2011-04-07T10:50:00.001+01:00

I live in a town called Eastbourne. It's on the south coast of England and is renowned as a genteel town where oldies like to visit, retire or just sit on the seafront, looking out to sea and dreaming memories of a life gone by. Eastbourne is also holder of the sunniest town in Britain title as the cliffs to the west create a micro-climate which seems to push a lot of the clouds around behind us. Remember those cliffs, as they come into play later in this shadow of my former blog-writing self.

Talking of blogs, I have a dreadful confession to make. I read back over some of the 2008/2009 ones when I was typing away like Mavis Beacon on Speed and blogging loads and ............ some of them were really funny! Now, logic dictates that if one writes humour then one should find it funny as, by definition, it is the sort of humour one enjoys. But I was giggling!!! I may do many things but I rarely giggle. Giggling is not me, I am the sardonic smile, the manly chuckle or, just occasionally, side splitting laughter. You know, the sort where you can't speak for laughing, tears roll down your cheek (and occasionally other places) and people look at you in that slightly bemused and scared way as nobody else has any idea at what you're laughing. One of these days, I really ought to print this lot out for posterity so that my children, their children and their children's children can all read them and wonder what the bloody hell they've got in their gene pool.

(click on photos to enlarge)

Right, back to the point of all this. 11.30pm last night, I was watching a helicopter out of the living room windows. It stayed hovering slightly out to sea for a good 30 minutes and I wondered what was going on (is it a sign of my paranoia that I thought it might be paparazzi hired specifically to get shots of me in my night attire?). Anyway, this morning I switched on my PC to check the local news only to find that a guy had been standing on the cliff edge since 8 the evening before threatening to jump. The cliffs along here are quite well-known as a suicide spot although the primary place, called Beachy Head, is slightly round the headland and therefore out of sight. It's a beautiful place but sadly the sight of lifeboats or helicopters is all to common with an average number of deaths per annum in excess of 20. I got up to look out of the window and there, to my surprise, was the man together with a number of police vehicles parked nearby. Naturally I took some shots but just hoped and prayed that he would be OK.

Later this afternoon, we popped into town for a coffee and to pick up my daughter. As I sat there at a pavement table idly watching some guys practising their parkour, I saw a youngish community police support officer running down the road opposite followed shortly by another CPSO of slighter larger stature ambling quickly after her. "Hmmm, " thinks I, being of astute mind "something's going on there.". Next thing I knew there were cop cars coming from every direction and pulling up outside the mail sorting office! Dog vans, CCTV vans, all sorts of vehicles all with sirens blaring - right in front of me. Now I knew I had parked legitimately so I was pretty sure it wasn't me they were after but, as I (of course) had a camera with me I decided to stroll up and have a look. I tried asking several officers what was happening but they very politely refused. One young lady officer even told me to stop taking photos. I was about to make a vehement speech about democracy and human rights and then saw two huge policemen get out of the car beside her and pull out riot shields and batons so decided to abandon freedom in favour of personal safety so legged it to a safe distance.

I never did find out what it was all about. It all fizzled into nothing and, having just searched the local paper once more, there is no mention. In fact, the main headline just about sums up this little old town of mine. It says:

Hip Replacement Patient Home on Day Of Operation

A patient from Hailsham has become the first to undergo a hip replacement at Eastbourne DGH and return home the same day.

That is what I expect from Eastbourne, not suicide stand-offs and police actions - especially both in one day!

Oh, and by the way, the potential jumper didn't.

Bertie's Travelogue Part 9 Seychelles - Mogadishu

2010-10-06T01:29:00.009+01:00

Bidding a fond chao seselwa (Creole Seychellois for goodbye), I climbed up to 7000 feet for the flight back to Kisimayu in Somalia. To be honest. it wasn't that exciting once I had left the final islands as there is only so much azure sea and little white clouds one can take. Fortunately, the weather forecast was good so I decided to switch on the autopilot. Some would say this is cheating for a pilot but it can take a lot of the grunt work out of a flight. Do I really want to spend 5 hours peering at a heading and making miniscule corrections? I think not. Anyway, alone in the cockpit I had the chance to partake in my latest vice!

Some time ago, whilst looking for iPod Touch and iPhone apps, I noticed the best seller for some considerable time had been a little game called Angry Birds. It looked a bit silly so I took no notice but Miss Bassett decided to download the free trial version whilst tinkering on my iTouch and pronounced it rather fun. Cutting a long story short, I am totally hooked on the stupid game and even paid the princely sum of 59p to download the full version. For anybody that wants to while away every passing free moment, I heartily recommend it.

It certainly whiled away the hours whilst en route and I was relieved to see the African coast looming ahead. Kisimayu , Somalia's third largest city has been contested by many factions since the civil war began and since UN troops finally left the area it has been held under the control of local clans. The landing was more than a bit hairy as the strip (the airfield was formerly a Somali Air Force training base) has been poorly maintained. The main building has been abandoned and thoroughly looted but I was able to take fuel on board after a not inconsiderable exchange of US dollar bills. To be honest, that has to be the fastest refuel ever as the place had a brooding hostility with, it seemed, everybody carrying a weapon of some sort.

It's a quick 80 minute flight along the coast to Mogadishu but an equally rapid refuel before my flight to Moori. The trip was flown at low altitude and it made a nice change to see texture and contours rather than large chunks of the Indian Ocean.

Mogadishu Then

Mogadishu Now

Mogadishu itself was leased to Italy by the Sultan of Zanzibar in 1892 and sold (yes, sold!) to Italy in 1905 when it became capital of the newly established Italian Somaliland. After Somalia gained independence in 1960 all was well until rebel forces entered Mogadishu in 1990 forcing the presence of a UN peacekeeping force which stayed until 1993 when the country was effectively abandoned. Mogadishu itself was run by warlords until 2006 when Islamists and businessmen formed a coalition government. Having said that, during the last 18 months, some 165,000 people have been displaced from the capital, with the mayor telling the locals to move away from the city as fighting is rampant and the only "police" presence is private guard hire for those that can afford it.

Next time you read a paper; buried in a corner away from the important news of Katie Price, X Factor or what's happening in Coronation Street, you might just find mention of the mess that is Somalia so spare them a thought. I've tried to find something positive about it but the best I can do is to tell you that Iman, model and Mrs David Bowie was born in Mogadishu.

Oh, and some of the currency used to be rather lovely.

5 shillings 1951

I have to say, that was a pretty depressing bit of the trip so I'm glad to be leaving Africa. The continent is, at times, fascinating, brutal, beautiful and savage ........... but always an enigma.

Next stop is the island of Socotra and the town of Moori, en route to the Middle East. See you there!

If you click on the View larger map below, you'll see the route from Mogadishu.

View Larger Map
NB, Just noticed that if you zoom into Mogadishu (Muqdisho) on the map, just to the northwest is a place called Wankawayn!! Not a Man U fan then?

Facebook - An Appreciation

2010-09-27T20:24:00.005+01:00

Gosh, I seem to have got back into this blogging lark with a vengeance. One thing that has encouraged me is the reaction from some of my Facebook friends - and I use the word "friends" deliberately.

Once upon a time I looked on Facebook as a way for children to destroy their literary skills even further, imagining the majority of postings along the lines of Soz for bunking skul cuz i wuz w8ing 4 mi gf 2 call lol A couple of friends of mine were playing a game called Farm Town and so I decided to have a quick peek.

I got quite hooked and felt quite happy in my rural idyll. I was curious and interested to read Facebook posts of people I didn't now from all four corners of the world (not that a sphere can have corners but you can't call me pedantic). Well, actually you can insofar as it is physically possible if not ............. ah, I'm being pedantic aren't I? Anyway, I read sensible posts, funny posts, some downright cranky posts and it made me realise that there was a whole new world on Facebook.

I was then introduced to something called Mafia Wars: a game of families and fights where one can undertake tasks, help others and, should one so desire, rob, steal, kill and similarly piss off other players. At first I was reticent about asking perfect strangers to play with me (!) but one needs to liaise to progress. As I joined with other Mafia members I got to recognise names and interact to some degree or other. I got to see people's real life problems, worries, joys and successes as they saw fit to share them and, through that interaction, those names took on shapes. There are people on Facebook of extraordinary generosity whose joy is through helping and to those ...... Joo, Michelle A, Shay L, Bethany D, Marilyn S, Josie D, Mark J among others, I say heartfelt thanks.

Others say little but each day they are there to help and are now familiar names. Susan, David, Sandra, Sparky, Maureen, Barbara, Dolly , Steven .....many, many more. You are all stars.

Finally, there are the special crew whom I knew before Facebook and are my rocks. Kitty, Balders, Janet, Chockie, Lisa, Poblet, Mike, Mel, letsy, Rosey, plausey etc. I love you guys.

For anybody whom I have omitted, you know who you are and you know you are special.

What? I hear you cry, there has been no mention of your dear (but scary) twin sister, Bunty. Of course, she is almost a part of me [;)] and she has provided many a chortle, especially when her muff got infested with moths. Poor love, didn't realise that our American cousins use the word as a euphemism for something totally different!

Maybe I'll leave the last words to her - over to you, Bunty.

Ooh I say, Bertie dear, you've rather caught me on the hop. I'm actually busy helping the village operatic society rehearse for their performance of Cats - I'm rather afraid it sounds like the cats in question are slowly being strangled at the moment but I'm sure it'll be alright on the night. Now, what do you want me to say? Oh, the nice people on Facebook? Yes, well, awfully nice most of them. Get Brunhilde, my PA, to send them all a bottle of sherry. Now, bugger orf, I'm busy, Bless you all, dears.

Bertie's Travelogue Part 8 - Durban to Seychelles

2010-09-26T21:54:00.003+01:00

OK, it's a fair cop! It was no coincidence that I happened to hang around in South Africa whilst the World Cup was on. To be honest I would have moved on earlier but I had all these "You give £2 a month to feed the poor in Africa and they use it to buy a f*cking trumpet" t-shirts to get rid of. I had a feeling that they wouldn't sell and eventually ditched them so I was soon able to depart the shores of Africa en route to the mysterious island of Madagascar.

One thing about Durban I must share with you are these chappies; the Zulu rickshaw pullers.

Now, this makes a pleasant change from the decorated transport in our fair land which, at best, can be described as bland. Furry dice, and "Beware, Princess on Board" & "My other car is also a piece of junk" stickers are hardly high art now, are they? Oh, for the days of the tiger tail sticking out of one's petrol tank!

Climbing into my trusty G-BERT and leaving a few rand for my ground crew, I set off across the Mozambique Channel to the town of Toliara, some 800 nautical miles away. It was so nice to be in the air again. - the freedom of the skies and the coastline slowly slipping away as I flew into a clear blue future. Four hours later and the coastline of Madagascar was in sight. The navigation worked!! Antananarivo ATC picked me up and vectored me in for a nice simple landing and I had arrived at last at an island which has always fascinated me.

To be honest, it's nothing like the movie but there you go. Becauseof its unique position, Madagascar has an unsurpassed collection of flora and fauna. Of the 10,000 plant species there, some 90% are found nowhere else in the world whilst the animal life has evolved separately to the rest of the world also - lemurs being a prime example. Tragically, mining and slash & burn foresting techniques are destroying a lot of the irreplaceable habitat and there seems little governmental pressure to limit this. It's estimated that 10% of the original forest habitat remains. Interestingly, only about 45% of the country are Christian with the majority of inhabitants practising Malagasy mythology, a traditional religion which emphasizes the links between living and dead. There is little doubt that the country would be classified as "third world" and it is shunned by many other countries due to the undemocratic nature of its military regime and ongoing civil war. All in all, not the best place in which to hang around.

Toliary itself was not the most exciting place so I decided to press on to the north of the island and the small airport at Sambava before pressing further northwards to the delights of the Seychelles. I paused to collect some of the new currency, the Ariary, which replaced the franc back in 2005. This is all a bit tragic as their banknotes were still influenced by the French ancestry (colonial French notes being predominantly delicate pastel shades and beautiful engraving). Now, the new notes are unprepossessing and dour, emulating how their country is becoming.

OK, off we go to the island paradise that is the Seychelles. A long 7 hour flight with only the sea and my built-in MP3 player for company. I tried my in-flight video camera and, as you can see, the controls aren't quite second nature yet! Still. I made it and that's the main thing.

The Seychelles - 115 islands and historically a transit point for trade between Africa and Asia and named after Jean Moreau de Séychelles, Louis XV's Minister of Finance. Britain nicked them back in 1810 although independence was granted in 1976. In true African style, there was a coup d'etat within a year although the islands has been democratically governed since 1991.

Obviously the islands are beautiful and an Eden for watersports as well the home of giant tortoises and the only flightless bird in the Indian Ocean (the White-Throated Rail). Mind you, who in their right mind would want to leave this paradise? Apparently the treasure of the notorious pirate Olivier de Vasseur (La Buze) is apparently buried somewhere in North Mahé. This is valued at $160,000,000 so I shall be buying a bucket and spade.

One other strange piece of flora peculiar to the Seychelles is the coco de mer, a species of palm indigenous to the islands. It gained a reputation amongst sailors as its floating seed resembles the disembodied buttocks of a woman and they spread wild tales of its origin. Personally, I would have said front bottom was more pertinent.

What think you? Dial 0858 123000 followed by the number 1 for bottom or 2 for whatever euphemism you care to use. I think "daisy" is rather nice. Until the true source of the nut was discovered in 1768, it was believed by many to grow on a mythical tree at the bottom of the ocean. European nobles in the sixteenth century would often have the shells of these nuts polished and decorated with valuable jewels for their own private galleries.

It's undoubtedly a place of magical beauty but I must travel onward. In order to reach the Persian Gulf I need to dog leg back to Africa and the country of Somalia as the straight route is not possible without finding a fuel station on the way. Perhaps I ought to Google "Indian Ocean service stations"?

Off We Go Again!

2010-09-26T00:04:00.027+01:00

OK, so it's been a while since I landed in Durban on my round-the-world flight. In my virtual flying world, I spent 18 months there, scuba diving and giving flying lessons to the South African glitterati: in the real world, I have rediscovered photography, moved home and coped with various joys, trials and tribulations awaiting that moment when it was time once more to soar off into the wild blue yonder. Several people have tried to persuade me to get back flying (why do you think the Pope came over here?) and have even been kind enough to say how much they have missed the flying blogs so, hopefully, I won't disappoint as and when I get fully back into the swing of them. After the joys of Eastbourne's Airbourne,

I knew that the flying urge was upon me once more but there just don't seem to be enough hours in the day. I dipped a toe in the water (not the best expression, I know) by installing the software once more as I had stripped it all out when I changed to Windows 7 64bit, and spent a few days checking through the wealth of other software I needed to install as well as "obtaining" new terrain software. This new terrain software totals 43GB and is apparently taken directly from a NASA mission sent up specifically to photograph the whole of the Earth. Optimal configuration of Flight Simulator X (FSX) isn't the easiest thing in the world but I read forums, tweaked, twiddled and tinkered until I was happy.I still wasn't quite in the right frame of mind to actually restart my flying so prevaricated by considering a change of aircraft. I had flown this far in my trusty Mooney M20 Bravo but noticed that there have been further additions to the FSX catalogue. Rapidly discarding such esoteric delights as the Vulcan bomber, Apache helicopter gunship and a space shuttle, I was rather taken with a snazzy little number which goes by the name of Beechcraft F33a Bonanza - shades of Hoss Cartwright and the Ponderosa (Google it, young'uns!),

I thought that this could be the new G-BERT. It had a different instrument panel and no all-singing, all-dancing Garmin G1000 glass cockpit

but that didn't phase me as all the many hours I had spent learning how to operate the damn thing have drifted out of my ageing mind. The one problem was that, unlike the Mooney, there was no easy way to change it to G-BERT.

A small thing to some but I was quite possessive of that call-sign and so I resolved to actually repaint the fuselage by busting open the program and changing the textures folder and the config. file. I had seen loads of repaints done by people so figured it shouldn't be too difficult. I could even design a new lime-green livery as well. 3 days later I had got nowhere and was more confused than a cow on astroturf so I thought that perhaps I quite liked my old Mooney after all!

I finally sat there on the tarmac at Shoreham airport, engine ticking over and flaps set at 15 degrees ready for a quick reorientation flight. I was only using the joystick as all my yoke and throttles take up a fair bit of space but that was more than enough to get me going. Engine to full and off I went, tearing down the runway .... that old familiar feeling of exhilaration at the thought of actually flying once more. Reaching rotation speed, I gently pulled back on the stick. A little bit harder ........... harder.......... I finally realised that something was wrong as I trundled over the A27 and headed northwards through the fields. Buggrit!!

2 hours of downloading new drivers, changing registry entries and reading the many complaints from Logitech joystick users later, I realised that perhaps I needed to get my yoke after all. Now where did I put all the different bits?

That was 2 days ago and I am now all set. Yoke and throttles synchronised, Mooney loaded and I'm finally ready to go. Although the blogs finished at Durban, I need to confess I did actually get further - over to Madagascar, up through the island and then on to the Seychelles - so the first blog will effectively be a catch-up.

I'm really quite excited at the thought of carrying on. Sad as it may seem, it's all kind of realistic as I fly and struggle with navigation, radio comms, bad weather and the distinct lack of toilet facilities (OK, don't panic, I don't get THAT realistic!). Dear reader, please feel free to join me on my journey. Pack your travel pills, shorts and camera, cancel the milk and let us sally forth, up into the skies where no man has gone before (ish)!

Diary of an Eastbourne Rock Star

2010-06-07T12:01:00.004+01:00

People may mock Eastbourne but there is life beyond the genteel veneer. Take, for example, this Friday's concert being held at the Bandstand featuring a Rolling Stones tribute band.

As I was walking along the promenade this morning, I saw the band getting out of their Morris Traveller and, as they walked down to the bandstand to savour Friday's atmosphere, I fell into conversation with their roadie and paramedic Bazza "Funbags" Thrip. His story is retold verbatim:

"It's not our first gig at Eastbourne, you know, we always like to return to our roots. Our vocalist, Dick Sagger, used to go to school here so it's a home from home for him and Phil Hymen, the bass player, had an aunt that he stayed with once ............ or was that Bournemouth? Anyway, it's a great town and we always know that they'll be some action after the gig. Obviously, security is important for us so we always choose a well-guarded place to stay. Mon Repos guest house has quite a large hedge and their Pomeranian "Satan's Bitch" has a really nasty yap. *he laughs* I remember the reporter from the Eastbourne Gazette trying to sneak a picture of the boys trying on their new beige cardies ....... boy, I bet his ankle has still got the scars of those teethmarks!

I remember once, we'd finished the gig and I'd got the band back to their rooms. The front garden was full of fans and there was a nasty accident when 2 mobility scooters were trying to out-drag each other and collided with an old folk singer passing by. He's a mate of ours and was immediately rushed to hospital. Get well soon, Robert Zimmer-man.

Charlie Grots, the drummer, was busy drying himself after a fan, having already thrown her foundation garments, followed up with a Tena Lady and Dick was nursing a cut eye from an exuberantly lobbed Werthers.. The guys had asked me to bring back a few chicks for a party but, as the lift was broken and we were second floor, they'd take a while to get to us. Meanwhile, Ryan Scones, our mad guitarist, was laying out a couple of lines and there was heated discussion about whether the malted was better than the original granules.

Dick had just put on his slippers when there was a knock at the door and the sound of (rather asthmatic) giggling. As I opened the door, I saw a group of silver-haired ladies all wearing tabards with the slogan "W.I. Sucks!" embroidered on them. "Hi," they chorused, "we're the W.I.!!!" ............................... Some hours later, I looked at the sleeping bodies scattered round the room. In the gloom, I could see a smiling set of teeth and idly wondered whose they were?

Forget Vegas or the O2, it's Eastbourne for us every time ........... and they have a really good Primark as well!"

In the Clegg with the LibDems

2010-05-05T17:59:00.008+01:00

Today is my beautiful daughter's birthday. Where has 20 years gone? In that time I have watched her turn from my little girl into ............well, she'll always be my little girl. It's written into the Dad Charter.

Anyway, as I waited for her and my equally wonderful son to arrive this morning, I gazed idly out of the window. The lawns below, empty since the Bank Holiday MotorShow Extravaganza, were a scene of activity with crash barriers being put up and balloons inflated. Grateful as I was for Eastbourne Council's efforts to celebrate Zoe's 20th, I was a little puzzled until I noticed the 3 television vans and realised that there might be something more to this. Peering through my camera lens, I read the words "Lib Dems" on the balloons.

Was our candidate worthy of that much news coverage? Well, having seen him wandering around at the previously mentioned MotorShow trying to get noticed, I felt not. It could, surely, only mean the arrival of the leader himself! As I gazed at the various suits and posh birds looking important, I was pretty sure that "Scoop" Bassett was in prime position for some good photos.

Watching the balloons being readied was hilarious: should the LibDems come to power I really hope they get better at handling inflation than they were today. A steady stream of helium-filled balloons floated upwards interspersed with the occasional bunch. Have you noticed how we are becoming Americanised? The Yanks tend to have several bands, banners and about 3000 beautiful people holding placards behind their Presidential candidate whenever he speaks on camera. I saw one T shirt which , I think, said "Nick for Queen" and a very businesslike lady handing out placards. It was rather interesting watching the assembled faithful being shown what to do vis a vis placard holding - it's obviously more difficult than it looks!

"Right, let's get this straight - both hands like this?

"Yep, it looks even better with a placard"

"And ...........UP! Come on you chaps at the back, look lively"

Finally the battle bus arrived and I stood, finger poised over my shutter button, and the tension palpable. It was rather like the best Westerns when Lee van Cleef and Yul Brynner are waiting to see who draws first. The doors opened............. No Clegg, just some bloke with a camera, closely followed by another bloke with a camera.......... then guess what? Yep, another frigging bloke with a camera. The whole bus was filled with media people and not a single yellow rosette in sight.

It gradually dawned upon me that he wasn't there but, using my powers of detection (OK, the space behind the bus was surrounded by cameramen) I realised that he was arriving in somewhat more salubrious transport. Suddenly he was here! The car swept up and he arrived to a chorus of cheers and assorted comments from the more aged residents of Eastbourne e.g. 'Is it Churchill?', 'Do I live here?' and 'Some bastard has nicked me Werthers.'

He climbed on a small podium and proceeded to make a speech, which, courtesy of the converted Dansette Junior record player sound system was audible, even up in my eyrie. He really must know that speech quite well as it was exactly the same as the one I saw on TV the other day but that's modern politics for you - forget policies, let's just get some really good sound bites.

The leader of the Lib Dems gazes in awe at a signed photograph of Bertie Bassett

He sounded sincere and the poor bloke must be totally knackered by now but I was a little upset that, when he answered questions afterwards and waved to the crowd, he did not appear to once turn to those loyal placard bearers behind him and acknowledge them. Presumably he is sure of their vote so no need to waste energy on them? Yes, I AM cynical and NO I won't be voting. It was still quite interesting to see something a little different.

As for my birthday girl, she has spent the whole day semi-asleep on the couch with a really bad sickness bug so, as birthdays go, it wasn't the best. It's my son's birthday Friday so I think a special double celebration next week is in order. By that time, we'll have a new Government - Plus ça change (plus c'est la même chose)

Bassett Towers Mk. II

2010-04-17T21:01:00.008+01:00

As some of you may know, Bassett Towers recently relocated. Frankly, Newhaven had lost what little charm it had and Somerfield was in danger of becoming a reasonable store following its takeover by the Co-Op. It was also becoming quite obvious that Mrs B and stairs were not on the best of terms hence our removal to more favourable climes. There had been vague searches of properties for some time but the want list was quite specific; large rooms to house vast numbers of books, nice area, no or few stairs and, preferably, a sea view. In an ideal world, I would also have Sir Terry Pratchett, Neil Young and Felicity Kendall in her "Good Life" days as neighbours but I realise I have to compromise somewhere.

Anyway, this apartment came up. It was in Eastbourne which Mrs B wasn't too sure about but we went and had a look. It was in the Meads area which is rather nice and it was on the seafront so we turned up with the vague hope that it might be OK. As we entered the 24' x 25' lounge and saw the big picture windows overlooking the sea we knew that soon, we just might be moving!

It's a big old building of 4 floors and this was right at the top which was fabby. Views both back and front were wonderful and there was even a balcony out the back so one could soak up the evening rays whilst watching the seagulls wheeling around. The light everywhere was just amazing as that was one thing our Newhaven home was very short of and that, coupled with really high rooms made the whole thing a tempting proposition.

We decided to go for it and were told occupation could take place from 31 March, some 2 months hence. I have to say I wasn't looking forward to the actual move especially as it transpired that the whole lift system was being replaced starting ......can you guess? Yep, 31 March! It also meant that Mrs B would become a virtual prisoner for some 6 weeks until it was all completed. We checked out a few removal companies and a nice lady called Tracy from a firm called Better Moves assured us they would do the job swiftly, safely and with more care than a pilot flying through a cloud of volcanic ash. She offered boxes and we gladly accepted these. Now, let me say at this point, we had already purchased a cardboard box pack from Argos "suitable for a 2 bedroom house" and that was sufficient to pack a small amount of stuff from the playroom! Anyway, cutting a long story short, we eventually filled approximately 120 boxes with our belongings.

That last week before the move was a tad fraught but the day came at last. All clothing had been left in wardrobes, as per instructions, since the men would merely transfer to clothes rails. We had also been told to leave stuff in drawers as these would be transferred in situ. The men seemed jolly nice and I bribed them with the promise of posh bikkies so they got to work willingly. THAT was when the problems started!

We had been told they would bring 2 vans so were surprised when one of them said how fortunate it was they had 2 vans as they were told it was only a one van job and there was no way all of our stuff was going to fit in just a single vehicle. He then asked where the boxes of clothes were and, when told about the clothes rails, said words along the lines of "Bless you, good sir, we haven't used those for years." After he said we would have to pack all the drawer contents (despite what we had been told) I began to realise that communication between him and the office was maybe not that great. It was at this point that I reluctantly (but with a certain foreboding) asked if the lack of lift and that it was third floor had been mentioned to them? His face dropped and he muttered various words, too much for my delicate ears, which suggested that this had definitely not been the case.

We naturally felt really bad about this as they seemed really nice guys and explained to them that we had actually called the firm a couple of days before and suggested 4 rather than 3 men and that we would gladly pay extra but this had been met with an "Oh no, that won't be necessary". Finally, the blokey in charge arranged for another remover to come over and so we finally had 4 men on the job meaning that, by 1.30, our home was in transit.

It took 6 hours for them to get it up here. 120 odd boxes, beds, 2 desks, 2 couches, 6 floor to ceiling bookcases, various bureaux, tables, chairs and other bits of furniture. roughly 40 pictures, 3 TVs, 2 monitors, 2 laptops, Reg the ceramic dog, Kryten the stuffed seagull etc etc etc. When they eventually went, our spacious and beautiful new home was piled high with boxes. They covered the whole place, some 3 high and, being the decisive people we are, the whole lot was left and we just went to sleep for 12 hours - totally exhausted.

That was 17 days ago. The boxes are now all unpacked and collapsed (although taking up a very large chunks of bedroom as they have yet to be collected) and there is now an habitable abode.

There are still piles of bits around and loads to sort out but it's now liveable. There will be a new bathroom and kitchen installed eventually (although retro is very "in" so perhaps not - especially as there's a Neff oven and a Smeg hob). I've found such delights hidden in the many cupboards, nooks and crannies as dralon curtains, collapsible chairs for the balcony

and what appears to be a puncture repair outfit for a stagecoach. In other words, there is some modernisation needed but all in good time.

There are currently more pressing problems like can I actually tear myself and my camera away from the window, optimising the number of times I have to climb those bloody stairs (all 64 of them) and working out whether to use binoculars or buy a bigger TV? 32" used to be fine until now when the desks are some 20' away!

It's been quite a ride and it's not something I would like to repeat. I've a feeling though, it will most certainly have been worth it.

Incidentally, all these photos were taken from Bassett Towers.

The Pig of Happiness

2010-01-08T17:40:00.001Z

Solitary Bathroom Pleasures

2009-08-26T22:35:00.008+01:00

I've been spending a lot of time in the bathroom lately. Nope, not too many ferret tikka masalas nor even a a new conditioner to try (have you noticed how all the different gunks sold to bung on hair these days are all given the generic term "product"? I find it ridiculous that terms from TV adverts are adopted by intelligent human beings and I want nothing to do with it - simples). Anyway, I'm sure you're all agog vis a vis my solitary toilet moments so I shall endeavour to explain.

This building used to be a riverside inn with the whole first floor being used as overnight accommodation for the itinerant population of sailors, travellers and other sundry ne'er do wells until it eventually languished into disuse. The building was bought by a local estate agent and the first floor converted into one big flat which is now Chez Bassett although I do have a house as well (but that's another story!). Anyway, one of the few drawbacks here is that the windows are all quite small and don't really look over anywhere that has a changing scenery like a garden. Sadly, the river is quite boring and doesn't provide much in the way of photographic opportunity until I go further down the road to the harbour. And that is the key to tonight's offering - photography.

The bathroom window overlooks a flat roof which is ideal for attracting the local bird population and it's the only place where I can leave food for them. I can set up my tripod and click away quite happily hence the plethora of "bird on flat roof" pictures" This is a picture of the set-up which might be considered a bit pervy. However, the only people I can spy on are those waiting at the bus stop over the road and even I haven't quite discovered any perverted pleasure associated with that.

Since I started doing this a week or 2 ago it's been a constant battle of wills with my ornithological opponents. I see them out of the kitchen window, pecking away at the feasts I leave and sidle quietly into the bathroom to capture their souls on my G1. The ringed dove seems to have a built-in sensor system and takes off immediately I move a muscle, the magpies tempt me by posing until the moment I am ready to press the shutter and the seagulls basically don't give a toss! That's all the birdlife there is around here apart from the pigeons. No chaffinches, pied wagtails, starlings or jays and I've seen more tits in a catwalk show changing room.

The magpies, presumably a pair, live in a tree about 20 yards away and spend a lot of time strutting around on the grass and chattering away. They've been christened Max and Madeleine and I have to say I've got quite possessive about them. The gulls of course are everywhere and tend to just barge in and fight each other for every last crumb of bread although the babies seem to rule the roost.

I'm hoping that autumn will see a few more visitors as well as give me more visibility as the leaves tumble. Certainly, the wild bird food seems to be largely ignored and I spent ages in the pet shop trying to decide what to buy. Having just researched what magpies eat however, it seems to range from nuts and berries to small rabbits and mammals! I suppose staking out voles for a good camera shot might not go down too well with the neighbours but it's worth considering - teehee.

It's a real bugger not having a proper garden when you have a long lens and time to spare. Yesterday I got a phone call from my best buddy Jimmy saying come round for a cuppa and he looked on with his usual expression of bemused acceptance at my behaviour as I hurtled round his garden taking photos galore.

It certainly beat the solitary pleasures of the bathroom. Having said that, I think I've found Max & Maddie's nesting area so I'm going to need another tripod at one of the kitchen windows now!

I'm not quite dead yet!

2009-08-19T22:53:00.008+01:00

Gosh but it's been a long time since I even dared click on my blog page, let alone attempt to write anything.

The summer is slipping away and today apparently Harrods, Selfridges and Fortnums have opened their Christmas departments complete with Santa, songs and, no doubt, sweaty little elves. Footie season has started and the Reds won 4-0 tonight so life ain't too bad

Still not sure what I am writing but it's good to feel I needed to. Is it good though? Perhaps I need the therapy of writing? Hmmmmm.

After my attempts at photo manipulation ,I started looking at proper grown-up cameras as well as my Sony compact and somehow, one found its way into Bassett Towers! As a consequence, I've been doing a fair bit of photography lately...... well, taking pictures and letting a camera with a brain the size of a planet make all the decisions regarding the arcane arts of exposure, shutter speed etc. For those interested , it's the Panasonic Lumix G1 with both 14-45mm and 45-200mm lenses.

I've always enjoyed taking pictures but have got back into it lately and occasionally get something I am pleased with. Of course, digital cameras have changed things so much with their "throw-away" capability rather than careful harvesting of the roll of Fuji 400 and the associated "I'll worry about the processing cost on payday". These days I can happily take 100+ shots in an hour or 2 with no problem whatsoever.

Mind you, considering it's all "instant" technology, it's all a lot slower these days.

Old days: Buy film, take shots, send off to BonusPrint and then hope there is one that is recognisable. Total time: 7-10 days.

Now:

Pack camera bag with lenses, spare camera, spare memory card, spare battery, filters., mini tripod, spare batteries for spare camera etc. Get in car.
Get back out of car after realising you forgot the actual camera in amongst all the other stuff.
Go to wherever and take pictures.
Get home, look for memory card thingy. Find it in cutlery drawer (!)
Decide which of the 38 download/viewing choices you want. Windows Photo Player? Adobe Bridge? Photoshop Elements? CS4? Finally click on entirely the wrong one and find you have bluetoothed them to the lady in the shop over the road's mobile phone.
Retrieve them and finally get them on the PC.

Then there is the agonising choice of what to do with them?

I start off with Definite Keep and Definite Lose and then find I have kept everything but the totally blurred ones of my finger "just in case". I tell myself to be strong and cull them some more and finally get left with , say, 75%. Then it's a case of selecting those which I feel sure enough about to allow people to see (usually 4 or 5).

Of course it's not just a case of uploading them as I still don't feel they're good enough so I start playing with PhotoShop. Approximately 3 hours later I have totally f*cked the picture so end up just uploading the original. I still keep the rest and have inflicted yet more agonies on myself vis a vis storage. It took me 3 weeks to decide on a format (simple - just keep 'em in date order) but then I started thinking of storage. 3 hard drives on PC so plenty of disk space but what if that particular drive fries? NO probs - I have external drive back-up running permanently. Most people would be content with that but not Loony Lugs, oh no. What if the back-up failed AND the drive failed? There are now several high capacity memory sticks en route from deepest Hong Kong!

Total time taken? Who knows? I still have hundreds of photos to sort! Never, I expect.

So, my faithful old Olympus OM10 sits moribund in a small camera bag whilst the flat is littered with the accoutrements of the new technological age. Photographic gadgets, gizmos and bits everywhere - and there was me thinking I was just buying a camera!

I suppose I really wrote this blog because people have been kind enough to say some nice things about my photos. Some are hobby photographers and some are not but I am still astonished that they take the trouble (oh, and before anybody says anything nice, you know I am shite at accepting compliments and pleasantries so let's just take that as read shall we and move on?). Certainly the offerings of my three photographically-inclined friends on Flickr fill me with awe at their skill in both seeing and executing a shot. If you enjoy photographs, might I recommend www.flickr.com and do a member search for Lily-Wren, Kitty W and Gemo52. It's well worth a browse!

My worst frustration, especially with a love of macro photography is a pair of unsteady hands. I've always had a tremor but it had got to such a stage recently that I couldn't even carry a mug of tea so photography was a bit iffy to say the least. Fortunately it transpires that some tablets I was taking were mostly responsible although I have the delights of an MRI scan shortly, just to make sure. It's still a bugger though, especially with a long lense and I have a plethora of almost perfectly sharp photos to prove it. However, tripods and remote shutters are handy for some stuff so all is not lost.

To paraphrase Robert Brault, I take amateur photographs of Nature and Nature makes my photographs look professional. I see my surroundings in a different way now I am actually looking at everything and the thrill of capturing a moment forever is one of the sweetest there is.

Art and Crafty

2009-04-30T20:31:00.006+01:00

'Ello me dearios. Gosh, that was Rambling Sid Rumpo from the days of steam wireless and Round the Horne. Oh the bliss of Sunday lunchtimes - roast cow, huuuuuge Yorkshire puddings, perhaps a soupcon of Blue Nun if my parents allowed me and then an hour of comedy; The Navy Lark, Round the Horne, The Clitheroe Kid, Educating Archie with Peter Brough as radio's only ventriloquist (!!) and of course, the inimitable Goon Show.

As usual, I digress so will march onward with an update on the events of the last couple of weeks.

I've been ploughing on with my PhotoShop bits and am thoroughly enjoying my first faltering attempts at art. I seem to be hung up on changing the scale of things and distorting size (OMG, what would Freud say?). I've got a stream on Flickr should anybody wish to waste a few moments - here's the link.

I have to say, as a beginner to the joys of Flickr, it's a truly marvellous place to search for photos and I found a wonderful selection from a group set up in my local area. It's cost me many an hour just browsing Flickr. It seems that whatever search words you enter brings forth beautiful pictures and it makes my own efforts look truly amateur. Still, it's made me start taking my camera out with me so this (apparently scorching) summer should see me adjusting my exposure with monotonous regularity!

I've also another admission to make - I am now a student once more (pauses to drink cider, eat a tin of cold baked beans and find duffel coat). I've now got 10 weeks to become a web wizard via the Open University so hopefully, in the relatively near future, I shall be posting from my own website. I've had it for several years although never done anything about it until now and it presently displays very little. You could be one of the very first to visit it and be entered into a free draw to win a holiday for 2 in Bermuda (closing date 30 April 2009). Just visit www.papermoneyworld.co.uk and leave a £25 donation to cover admin costs and I'll announce the winner sometime or other.

I got 3 loads of bumph from the OU today and I really hope the course is easier than the admin - none of it makes any sense whatsoever.

Nothing much else to write about at the moment although the urge to get back to my flying is becoming stronger by the day. If you recall, I had reached Karachi and there I am marooned. I watched a documentary on Discovery the other day about a WW1 flier called Major James McCudden who rose from air mechanic to Major and became one of the top aces with 57 kills. Apparently, it was forbidden to keep any sort of journal in those days but he did and this was eventually published in the form of a book entitled "Flying Fury". I am reading it at the moment and am stunned at the simplicity of aerial warfare at the time and the nonchalance of his narrative. It could be said that it was "doctored" to make it more readable but tragically, he died in 1918 and was thus unable to change one word. The irony was that his death was caused by engine failure of his SE5A and not in combat. Major McCudden VC, DSO & Bar, MC & Bar, MM, Croix de Guerre survived his 2 brothers who were both also pilots and killed in battle - he was only 23.

We talk of our soldiers coming home from Afghanistan and Iraq as heroes - they chose their career and undoubtedly are consummate professionals. Reading of the privations, the desperate conditions and the appalling decisions of their leaders puts the soldiers, sailors and airmen of WW1 in a toally different league to the fighting men of today. I salute them both - but have no difficulty in choosing which era in which I would prefer to serve.

The Man from Del Monté says Wii

2009-04-17T23:26:00.010+01:00

I've got yet another new toy!

Due to the combination of 9 month's non-smoking, laziness, boredom and sheer gluttony my body has taken on the appearance of Buddha as viewed by one of those distorting mirrors you used to get on all the best seaside piers. Oh those were the days - a penny in the What the Butler Saw (with a delicious frisson of guilt as you saw those knee-length drawers), the glass animal man, a few machines and all the stalls. Nowadays, it's the mega-decibel clatter of mindless machines and a cornucopeia of ways to relieve you of as much money in as short a time as possible.

I digress as usual so back to the toy: it's a Wii, complete with Wii Fit and it's going to turn me into the god-like figure that I know is hidden (fairly deeply) inside the layers of muscle cunningly disguised as fat. My GP said he has one so it was justified as a medical need and I was quite excited as it told me it would keep track of progress and help me turn into the new Wii Mii. It asked my age, height, weight and got me to do a few tests and told me my physical age was actually 5 years younger than the bitter reality. Result!! All one apparently has to do is leap on the thing and do a few balance tests and the years drop off. At this rate, I thought, in a week or two I'd be 21 again.

I started a few exercises. 2 minutes virtual hula-hooping was a bit interesting and I suddenly realised the room was getting hotter, then it got me to do a short jog and I realised that, whilst it was a great piece of kit, a sports bra should have been included. Anyway, cutting a long story short, 60 minutes later I was a sodden wreck but I had tightrope walked, tried step aerobics, totally failed at yoga and become rated as "professional" at skiing.

Next day, I took my aching body to check how many years as well as stone I had lost. It welcomed me back and got me to do another Wii Fit age test. Seventy frigging nine!!! Stupid, STUPID machine. I took solace in some 10 pin bowling and was starting to feel a bit better about life until my son arrived and proceeded to get 7 strikes in a row. Anyway, the challenge is now on and, if nothing else, the Wii has succeeded in me seeing much more of Master Bassett as he seeks to avenge the many years of playing second fiddle to the alpha Bassett. So far, I am baseball and golf champion as well as whuppin' his ass at advanced hula hooping - we'll conveniently forget all the other disciplines!

If you are listening to the music on here it's the title track to the new Neil Young album, Fork in the Road (the cover is rubbish so here's a picture I prepared earlier!). Mr Young's album output has been prodiguous to say the least during his career with, I understand, 48 released thus far.Add to that his Buffalo Springfield, CSNY and other occasional get-together albums and it's about 80 altogether. This latest album was typical Young insofar as it was written and thrown together in 2 recording sessions in the middle of a long tour. Why the hurry? Because NY had a bee in his bonnet about the motor car industry and needed to express his protest.

Neil Young has always been a man of conscience espousing such things as Farm Aid, anti-war protest and the environment. Sadly, the age of protest singers is perceived to belong to the bygone era era of Joan Baez, Dylan, Lennon, Seeger etc - a spin-off of the hippy '60s. There are undoubtedly still songs expressing protest with REM, Springsteen, Green Day, Eminem and Pearl Jam all contributing but Young still seems to carry the conscience of a nation upon his shoulders at times. The new album may be a bit raw and a tad crude around the edges but I think it's back to Young at his stirred-up best. I admire the man but I can't say I enjoy all of his music. More often than not, the whimsical country stuff is not for me.The fact remains though that he is still exploring his talent and his craft. Hearing him with his old simple rock style once more, is superb. Feeling the passion in his work is a privilege.

I'm still trying to improve my PhotoShop skills and thoroughly enjoying the creativity it gives me. Speaking as someone who can't draw a straight line, it allows me a freedom to play without the skill of an artist. Prawn Cocktail is very Daliesque although I didn't consciously make it so and God alone knows from where The Glorious Twelfth came? The Taj Mahal as a cake was just a play - nothing more.

I decided I would try and express in Photoshop what I have previously done in my writings i.e. my thoughts, fears influences etc. I had no idea just what would come out but below is the result - it hasn't got a title. Maybe one day I will feel my thoughts deserve one.

March Musings and April Aspirations

2009-04-02T22:35:00.018+01:00

As usual, it's been far too long since I last wrote anything - a combination of lethargy, laziness and general lack of inspiration.

I was however raised to the point of incandescent rage by that advert which has the precocious little brat who wants a poo at his friend's because they have infinitely superior air freshener . Leaving aside the smacked arse and potential early death he would get if he were mine, do the ad agency really think that it's going to make me rush out and buy the product? "Ooh, that must be so good if the kid wants to leg it over to his mate's for a crap. Must try some!" No, as far as I'm concerned he can go and pee all over their carpets and do a number 2 on the hamster's head - I care not one jot.

Whilst we're on the subject of adverts, what's all this Tena lark? It's only relatively recently that the subject of female incontinence has become high on the marketing list so does this mean that evolution has only just created the problem? Is it only in the last couple of years that (if the ads are to believed) a 40 something female laughing heartily creates an inundation similar to the Severn bore? I've spent ages telling my best jokes to middle-aged ladies and peering furtively at their lower regions for tell-tale signs of dampness - all in the cause of research, you understand. What about pre-Tena? The mind boggles at the urological mayhem that was going on a short thickness of material away from us mere males' gaze.

Just one final whinge advert-wise: why does it appear that every beauty product seems to have been voted "Best" in some poll/magazine or other? Call me pretentious (moi?) but I wouldn't buy anything that's been recommended by people that fill in such questionnares anyway. Have you noticed the small print that appears for 3 attoseconds (yes, it IS a word) at the bottom of the screen during such adverts? L'Oreal CreviceFilla - voted best product 2009 (small print = As voted by a survey of 17 readers of Surgical Appliance Modelling Monthly).

Other matters now: I expect you are all agog as to how the PhotoShop tuition is going? Well, it's starting to come together a bit more now and I've moved on a step or two. I'm still enjoying the 21st century version of colouring books and here are a couple of before and afters. The first is merely a picture of an Edwardian lady taken from the 'net. As usual, double click on a photo to enlarge it.

The second attempt is a photo of Ma and Pa. There is a date of 1943 on the back of the original which makes them 22 and 21 respectively. I think they look a lot older - how think you?

As you can see, there was not way I was going to colour the original background so I merely removed this and chose a new one - If only real life were that easy!

The next one sort of pulled a lot of threads together; working with linked layers, dodging, burning, masking, histograms, filters, hue and saturation etc etc. All pretty basic for a pro but to little old me it was a quite satisfying experience. I had a photo of Shoreham Airport I took last autumn so decided that was as good a place as ever to start. This is it - pretty boring and colour/contrast was not great.

I needed to change the blue of the sky and the grass so used the wonderfully easy quick mask mode and also decided that the final composition would be better if the photo was reversed. This, of course, mirrored the registration letters of the blue aircraft so I had to do a nifty bit of cutting, pasting and resizing to correct the problem. Some final tone adjustments, removal of a few extraneous bits and a quick tweak with the histogram and sharpening mask and it became this:

Incidentally, the building behind is part of Lancing College and very beautiful it is too.

Right, foreground subject time and I had chosen a Spitfire - specifically this one:

OK, off with the background and then it's merely a case of masking piece by piece, colouring, tweaking and Bob's your parent's brother. There's loads more I could play with on it but, by and large, I'm quite pleased. Sorry if it's boring for you, dear reader, but for me, who longs for achievement in even small ways, it's been well worth it. Welcome to "Spitfire on a Summer's Day"

The only other achievement of note (for me anyway!) is composing some educational worksheets for Newhaven Fort which will be available as PDF downloads for school visits and a commitment to evolve and construct a couple of exhibitions. One concerning the 1923 inflation crisis in Germany and the Weimar Republic which will enable me to show dozens of the issued notes and the other, a display of pre-decimal coinage and banknotes for younger people to appreciate our old coins. Part of it will be a pile of pre-decimal coins required to buy a packet of crisps at 2009 prices - I'll leave you to work out how big that pile could potentially be!

Red No Day

2009-03-13T15:31:00.009Z

(this is NOT me)

Before I wax lyrical can I just say one thing: It has come to my notice that certain people have been casting aspersions on, and questioning my sanity. I find this quite hurtful and would like to state categorically that there is absolutely no truth in the rumour that I am sane.

Right, Friday 13th. Some people get really uptight about this although there seem to be no valid reasons as to why, apart from Friday and 13 both being unlucky. I have sympathy with all paraskevidekatriaphobians but the day actually heralds fear and dread in my heart for another reason - it's that time of the year again. That day when normally staid professional and rational people get coerced , blackmailed or shamed into turning themselves into total dicks and people pay money to them out of sheer embarrassment or a desire to end the ritual humiliation as soon as possible. Red Nose Day dawns once more.

I have absolutely no problem with the reasons or the rationale but I'm afraid that it's past its sell-by date as far as I'm concerned. Kids doing silly things at school - fine. Teachers dressing as Peter the frigging Pixie or whatever they do in a bid to try and prove that discipline is totally dead these day, I'm not so keen on. As far as I'm concerned, teachers (or "masters" in my day) should still be wearing suits and gowns, not jeans and I heart Edukayshun teeshirts.

I decided to get the shopping done this afternoon so toddled off to Sainsbury. "Sainsbury?" I hear you ask, "What's happened to the wondrous delights of Scummerfield, that halcyon Nirvana of which you normally wax so lyrical?" Well, apart from actually wanting to buy something rather than gazing at empty shelves and the occasional retarded shelf stacker gazing in puzzlement at his pallet of foie gras and puy lentils, I happened to notice that they were having an "event" today. Scummies are very good at dressing up. One mature lady called V*l enters into things wholeheartedly and dresses as a Christmas Elf from November right through to February whilst the Area Manager has (allegedly) been known to dress himself as a blonde in a small black cocktail number (mind you, not many people know that). Apparently, 2 of the staff are going to be waxed with the vast hairiness of their legs being removed in the name of charity. I idly wondered which of the ladies were involved but then read that it was actually a couple of the guys.

Finding a problem reconciling gaiety and fun with shopping at Scummies, I climbed into the car and zoomed off to Sainsbury. The first thing I saw was a big set of stocks and an exhortation to throw sponges for Red Nose Day! Too late, I realised that they were heavily involved in the whole thing. The foyer had people trying to sell tickets for a raffle to New York (fair enough) whilst this poor sod was to be seen sitting disconsolately in a corner wearing an old fashioned swimming costume and a strange pattern to his legs. Hurrying past, I filled my little trolley with the staples of life; microwave popcorn, strawberry laces, banoffee pie and Tassimo tea then remembered the list of boring stuff I'd been given and went round again. Staff were wearing teeshirts explaining how the company was supporting Red Nose day and I almost felt quite guilty when it occurred to me that there might be a marketing advantage to them. Wonder if that had occurred to them? Perish the thought.

Forcing my way through café staff all dressed in pyjamas.........see what I mean, what on earth is funny about spending the day wearing pyjamas? They do it all the time in hospitals but do you see people falling about laughing and giving money to pay for a skateboard park in the Gobi Desert? Where was I? Oh yes, forcing my way through café staff, I was just calming down and there was suddenly this almighty ringing behind me. I climbed ruefully out of the freezer chest where my jump had taken me and realised, to my horror, they had a fucking* Town Crier! Assuming that people might not realise that it was Red Nose Day (if they were deaf and blind that is) this tricorned plonker was screaming the fact at the top of his voice. He also solved the puzzle of the bloke in the swimsuit as it transpired that this was,in fact ,the manager and he was yet another waxee. Apparently he was being done at 1 hour intervals throughout the day - more fool him.

Tonight, of course, we have a collection of saddoes desperately trying to resurrect their failing careers by making total tits of themselves. Oh how the great British public must long for assorted newsreaders recreating the chariot race from Ben Hur or the cast of Eastenders playing hopscotch in a Gaza minefield. Can we handle the excitement of who will be sacked from The Apprentice when none of them actually want a job? No doubt there will be a few bits that will be amusing but I'm afraid I will live without those and we'll be watching other channels.

As I said at the beginning, I have no problem about the concept. I get a little disturbed however about the rationale behind this and other "events" like Live Aid etc. We are subjected to harrowing shots of those far less fortunate than ourselves and exhorted to ring and make a donation as we sit in our comfortable homes, drinking our drinks and eating our food. We ring and pledge and can thus feel good. We've done our bit and can get that warm feeling that we helped .......... then we forget all about it until next year. Something there doesn't seem to add up.

Oh, and just in case you think I have always been a miserable git, I seem to recall a certain branch of a building society who decided to turn the place into a desert island for the first Red Nose Day. All the young ladies were attired in bikini tops and grass skirts whilst the Manager was deputed to be their Man Friday! Recognise him at all?

Oh, and just in case you're wondering, the boxer shorts are adorned with parachuting crocodiles!

* Please don't think I meant that there was a Town Crier performing an act of fornication in Sainsbury. They have standards, dontcha know.

Phones and Bones

2009-03-12T20:04:00.005Z

I was in the opticians the other day queueing patiently behind a bloke who was busy explaining to a poster that he was there for an eye test. I waited with my normal patient manner as he was eventually sorted out and, just as we were about to be served, the telephone rang whereupon the optician smiled sweetly and asked us to excuse him whilst he answered the call. WHY, in the name of all that's holy? Why should a telephone take precedence over a person? Have we reached the point in evolution when the insistent "answer me" of a phone's ring is more important than the person who has actually taken the trouble to get off their butt and actually come in? Is it the mystery of "who could it be?" That eternal hope that it might be someone interesting at the other end which inevitably ends in disappointment. As regular readers will know, I do seem to be eligible for the Grumpy Old Men's club but this is really one of my pet hates. Sadly, as Mrs B was just about to spend Swaziland's national debt on some new specs I felt it prudent to not make a fuss but contented myself with putting sticky thumbprints over the lenses of all the glasses on display.

It got me thinking about telephones and those halcyon days of my youth when my only involvement with them was the hopeful pressing of button B in the hope of getting some coins out of the local phone boxes. Since then, of course, we have had the mobile phone revolution and the effect it's had on lives. I noticed the other day that the phone box outside the flat had disappeared and my first thought was admiration at the ingenuity of the local scallies but apparently it was removed by BT some months before as it was no longer cost effective and there was already a public convenience around the corner.

I got a phone call the other day from BT. I knew it was goimg to be a bad one when he asked how I was? - another thing that really pees me off. Resisting the temptation to take him through all the ailments Mrs B and I have had in the last few months I answered that I was jolly well and expressed the wish that he also was similarly chipper. He went quiet for a while and then asked me if I had considered taking my call package back to BT and could I tell him with whom I had my account at the moment? As luck would have it, I had been sent a bill only that morning and the conversation then went something like this:

I currently have my account with Pipex but use my mobile predominantly.

Ah, I'm sure we can save you money so can you tell me how much your last bill was?

(Gotcha!) By all means, £1.38

pause............But we can offer you free evening and weekend calls

I have those with my mobile

Erm, well there are lots of other things we can offer you.

Really? Like what?

Well, we have a package that gives you free evening and weekend calls which costs nothing.

Yes, you mentioned that just now but you seem to be missing a vital point here.

What's that?

You charge for all the other calls don't you, so tell me how I can save money?

Thank you for your time, sir. Have a nice day.

I'm afraid I don't see BT as part of British life any more. My own personal feeling is that they started going downhill when they withdrew the Trimphone and its wonderfully evocative ringtone (of which, incidentally, I can do an excellent imitation). Right, rant over. What other exciting things have happened in the Bassett household recently? The sojourn down in Zummerzet last week was great and will be the subject of a separate blog and the only other excitement was an MRI scan last Monday.

I've had them before so no worries there and I duly set off for the hospital with my iPod primed, book in hand and a supply of emergency Caramac bars in case of a really long wait. RSCH X-Ray Dept has a nice, comfy waiting room and I arrived about 25 minutes early as you need to allow several hours to find a parking place within a radius of 5 miles. I was pleasantly surprised to find my name called withing 2 minutes and was instructed to go into a cubicle and put on one of those lovely gowns that haute couture specialists have spent ages designing to be as unflattering as possible.

Having spent several minutes trying to tie the stupid thing so that my bum wasn't hanging out I duly took a seat in a corridor as instructed. Now, call me paranoid but I'm sure they saw me coming and I was set up to provide entertainment for the passing throng. I sat there, feeling extremely silly, for 35 sodding minutes! Talk about feeling embarrassed as the sniggers echoed down the corridor. I was wondering why passers-by kept standing behind me and grinning when I suddenly realised what was happening. You know at Alton Towers, Thorpe Park and the like, they take your photo as you plummet, screaming, down some ride or other and then flog it to you for several quid? The hospital had obviously decidied to supplement it's income by selling photos posing with the begowned loony with the knobbly knees and the bored expression! I had just started signing autographs for a load of Japanese tourists when I was called in for the scan thus ending a truly lovely experience.

Oh, and incidentally, when you're slid into the scanner rather like the hotdog into a roll and told not to move otherwise the scan is ruined, getting cramp in one's back is not advisable. The radiographer, once it had finished, said she'd heard me humming along to the music on the headphones and my ego wouldn't let me admit to it actually being me whimpering in agony as I tried to keep still.

Bertie's Travelogue Part 7 - Kasulu to Durban

2009-02-27T21:17:00.000Z

After Kasulu I looked forward to the excitement of a destination which actually had some life. Now, I don't want to cause offence to the vast numbers of Kasuluans reading this blog but the place was deader than a fish finger in a Chernobyl aquarium so I wasn't too unhappy to wave farewell. Air traffic control were quite excited as it's a busy time for them because another aircraft is due within a few months.

It was a nice simple flight south, following the shore of Lake Tanganyika and I eventually entered Zambia and landed at Mbala, the largest town in the north of the country. "Largest" is relative, of course, and suffice to say there is only one road to the border with Tanzania and this is only passable in the dry season. The area shows evidence of human activity going back some 300,000 years although the first European to reach there was Livingstone in the 1860's. In colonial times, the British Consul was based there and the town prospered as well as being re-named Abercorn. Its heyday was in the '50s and '60s although the area has declined since Zambia achieved independence in 1964 and the name Mbala was once more adopted.

There is one hotel and it was to this that I took my weary body before my next flight to Blantyre in Malawi.

Nice gentle take-off into a beautiful dawn and yet another lake to follow - this time it's Lake Nyasa. Considering the proximity of water, the software doesn't really do this justice insofar as the ground below is of a uniformly light sandy colour Maybe that's how the real thing is? Hang on, GoogleEarth time! ........................................ Hmmm, it's actually very green around there but I suppose realism can only go so far. I've even put in extra software which purports to enhance African terrain and scenery; oh well.

Now Blantyre is named after the birthplace of..........yes, you've guessed it...........Dr Livingstone. He certainly got around, didn't he? By all accounts, it's rather nice there and it boasts an influential expat community of some 25,000 souls from Britain and Europe. It houses the Supreme Court as well as Malawi's one channel television station. If you are reading this in Burton-on-Trent, did you know your town is twinned with Blantyre? Malawi itself used to be called Nyasaland before independence in 1964. It's among the world's least developed and most densely populated countries with its economy based mostly on agriculture and a largely rural population. Sadly there is low-life expectancy and high infant mortality along with an above average incidence of HIV/Aids although signs are that progress is being made.

Football is their national sport and, whilst there is not much evidence to support them as contenders at the 2010 World Cup, they did beat Djibouti 8-1 last May. Mind you, the Penge Women's Institute 2nd XI allegedly beat Djibouti so don't get too excited.

Finally, I am on my most southerly leg as I fly off to Durban in the Republic of South Africa. I've done all of my flying during daylight until now but I've decided that I want to do a predominantly instrument-based flight and a night landing. It's quite weird if one does this with all the lights off and the headphones on so all you can see is the occasional light far below and hear the occasional radio voice. I made sure I was at a reasonable altitude just in case some pillock stuck a mountain in the way but I finally got confirmation from Durban that I was 64 miles out and vectoring me in to my final pattern. Seeing the myriad lights stretched out below me as I started descending over the the outskirts of Durban was truly a relief but nothing compared to seeing the runway lights more or less where they should be.

It's a totally different ballgame trying to land without the ground to orientate one - especially when one realises in the nick of time that the altimeter needs to be reset. In the end though, It all came together and I touched down with real adrenalin pumping - great fun!

The history of South Africa is a fiery and interesting one. Stopover on voyages to the Orient, and originally dominated by the Dutch East India Company and their Boer offspring, it all kicked off when gold was discovered on the Witwatersrand reef and a certain Erasmus Jacobs found a pebble which turned out to be a 21 carat diamond. Strangely enough (and I'm sure it's coincidence), Britain started to take a lot more interest in the area at this point which culminated in the Boer Wars. South Africa became a Republic in 1961 and after a long and difficult birth is now one of the world's more stable countries. The sad part is that many other African countries have mineral wealth but politics, tribalism and the greed and expansionism of the West have all contributed to their present predicament.

Right, sermon over - back to Durban. The busiest port in Africa with beaches to die for, it's the third biggest city in the Republic. Little is known of the history of the first residents, as there is no written history of the area before it was first mentioned by Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama, who came to the KwaZulu-Natal coast while searching for a route from Europe to India. He landed at Christmas 1497, and thus named the area "Natal", or Christmas in Portuguese.

After the journey south, it's so nice to feel the vibrance of a modern city, committed to sport, fun and life. I think I might stay here for a bit of R & R; diving, cricket, football, surfing. Yep, think I can fit them into my busy schedule before I head off to Madagascar. Waiter, a bottle of Tusker if you please! I'll pay for it with this.

What a Load of Rubbish!

2009-02-20T22:52:00.004Z

To be honest, I'm a bit screwed up at the moment. The confidence has gone, I don't like myself, I'm a nervous wreck and I can't even put the facade in place. All a bit pathetic really. I can't seem to write a blog whilst all this shit is in my head so I guess I need to get a bit out and then I can move on.

I'm getting there , I think. I'm facing things and I'm even allowing myself to accept that I can be less than the perceived standard of perfection to which I feel I must aspire. I'm not sure really why I can't allow myself to be less than perfect? I suppose because I know that I am so far from perfection that it gives me the ideal excuse to punish myself for failing. Why do I need to punish myself? Ah, now there's the €50,829.9 question (dollar conversion rate correct at time of writing).

Some people self-harm but I'm far too much of a coward so I do it mentally. I guess it stems from never being quite good enough in my parent's eyes. The reasons are immaterial but this mental masochism is just sooooo easy. Take tonight for example:

I have several friends on the internet and all seem to have problems of one sort or another, whether it be health, employment, money or supporting Newcastle United . Hopefully, they will all be resolved in time but things seem pretty serious in several cases. Yours truly has (I think) reasonable health, no job worries, no real financial worries but I still moan to them and they offer nothing but care, understanding and support. It's a perfect lose:lose situation for me as not only can I beat myself up for not appreciating what I have but also I can suffer the discomfort of people being nice to me.

Perhaps I need to realise that the people who like me or love me do so for what I am and not what I feel I ought to be? The trouble is; how in God's name do I do that? I know that I won't ever find an answer because, by finding that answer, I'll be unable to feed the problem and I can't imagine being allowed to live a life where my head isn't worrying about 3 million things at any one moment. Still, my friends, thank you sincerely for being my friends.

Moving on, I discovered a great new game the other day.

Every Wednesday, the Council send a nice big yellow bin lorry to take my sacks of rubbish to wherever it goes. I don't have a dustbin as I have no garden so I dutifully place my sacks outside ready for collection (actually, to tell the truth, I wake about 5 am and lay there worrying that I might miss the bin lorry which doesn't actually turn up until 11.30ish). Dimwit, I hear you cry, put it out the night before! Well, actually, I had thought of that but the foxes and seagulls have a competition to see how far they can spread the contents. It can be quite embarrassing seeing my used Tassimo pods scattered across the highway not to mention the catalogues which keep being sent to me. "Wincyette for the Old and Fat" was completely unasked for but it appears regularly through the letterbox. The worst part of having one's rubbish scattered, however, is the fear that there is something there that should have been recycled!

You can almost feel the glares of disapproval as an aluminium ring-pull is spotted among the detritus of Bassett Towers. I shamefacedly shuffle out into the road and pick it up whilst the local drunks seem to get away with lobbing everything from empty Tennants cans to regurgitated McDonalds Winter Specials..........oh, that's not regurgitated? You mean they're meant to look like that? Blimey!

Anyway, as I was saying, I put my sacks out last Wednesday at about 6am (just in case they were a bit early - neurotic? Wassat?). When I peered out at 10, I saw that the seagulls had done their usual trick and a bag had been pecked open although I had inadvertently foiled their little game as I had chucked out some old herbs and spices and they'd had a go at some paprika! Ha, revenge is sweet. The upshot of all this was that after the binmen had gone, I noticed a small plastic bag of stale oregano (which I had also thrown out) left lying on the pavement which I kicked into the gutter as I went out. Later, I found it placed on my step so I once again kicked it into the gutter. After it happened a second time, I suddenly twigged......people were thinking it was a dropped stash! After picking it up and seeing it had a small label annotated 'oregano' in small letters, they had just dropped it again.

I'm afraid I was a bit naughty. I peeled off the label and left the bag prominently in the centre of the pavement when I took my daughter home that evening. Sure enough, 20 minutes later, when I got back, it had gone. Some local lads, wandering homewards after an evening of worship and self-enlightenment at the altar of the great god, Heineken, presumably pounced on it and I had wonderful visions of them desperately trying to get a hit with a Rizla full of stale oregano. Who knows, it might even have worked? Herbie Rides Again (given thyme)?

Demons

2009-02-13T00:45:00.003Z

"In order to beat the demon, you have to say his name" - so said Sir Terry Pratchett when facing up to the cruelly insidious effects of Alzheimer's Disease. I've always been very good at letting demons whizz around having marked the X for no publicity box and so, I suppose, this is my attempt to shame them and subsequently myself into a bit more direct action.

Last October I offered my services to a large historical military establishment nearby as they were after volunteers. Their website states that volunteers were needed for the following:

Administration
General Record Keeping, Visitor Surveys, Volunteer Records, Volunteer Development,

Curatorial
Archiving, Research, Preservation

Education
Guiding, Working with Children, Translation, Helping Special Needs Visitors

Buildings and Grounds
Cleaning, Repairs, Maintenance

Displays and Exhibitions
Interpretation, Setting up, Repair, Maintenance

Front of House
Shop, Retail, Reception, Hospitality, Guiding, Stewarding Special Events

Promotion
Publicity, Events

It all seemed perfect for me; a purpose in life and no pressure to perform whilst hopefully spending some time out in the fresh air, interacting with people, playing with computers and, best of all, gaining knowledge and using my brain for something useful. I rang and was cordially invited down for a chat with the curator and we parted on good terms. A week later there had been no contact. The following week I emailed and there was no reply. I have to say it had a considerable effect on me as I felt that, given I had the expertise and knowledge (and can even clean and paint), it must have been my personality which had prompted my perceived rejection.

Christmas came and went and I realised that I was gradually withdrawing from social interaction. The gregarious entertainer was turning into an introvert who actually felt awkward when talking to people and, worst of all, was comfortable with that premise. A few swift calculations made me realise that I was spending approximately 14 hours in front of my PC on days when we didn't go out and, because of the pain of Mrs B's knee, this was usually no more than twice a week. I was aware that I was heading towards a place I hadn't been for a good few years so I decided to face at least one demon and duly toddled off to the doctor. Of course, I beat around the bush but he knew me enough to start asking the questions (the violent trembling in my right hand was also a bit of a giveaway!) and I have to say I felt better having spoken to him. He prescribed me some tablets; a course of action which I had always steadfastly refused before as a) they never seemed to work and b) it seemed like giving in, and they had an amazing effect.

I took one tablet and slept for about 18 of the next 24 hours. The next day I took half a tablet and slept for about 14 hours. That was the end of those!! There was no way I was going to turn into a chemically-induced vegetable. I am now on a different medication and it seems to be doing the trick a bit more although I find now that I am unable to get worked up into my usual state of frustration, anger etc and write blogs accordingly. This particular one is, in fact, really quite hard to do and I'm conscious that there is little fluency in it. I had to really force myself to write it but at least, by so doing, I am kicking another small demon in the butt.

Talking of demons, I also decided this week that I must do something about my withdrawal from Society as well as getting my increasingly ample frame out of this chair so I telephoned my friend The Curator once more. He was most apologetic and used the excuse of totally forgetting about me......hmmmmm! Anyway, I am now awaiting some stuff to research on their behalf so I might soon be able to say that I am not totally surplus to requirements. That isn't supposed to sound as if I'm feeling sorry for myself but, let's face it, if I didn't get up, it would hardly have a great effect on anybody's life.

Perhaps I am now in the ascendant? Perhaps I can now find some other demons to name - God knows, I have enough of them. The scary part is that I'm kind of used to them and therefore, paradoxically, they have become a form of security whose absence would be less comfortable at first than their presence.

Maybe I'll stick to my Round the World blogs, they seem a lot less harmless? I've reached the Seychelles now and the next part of my epic adventures will be published shortly.

On a final note, my son was grabbed in the street yesterday by 2 burly policemen and accused of being somebody they were after. When he protested he wasn't the person named, they insisted on seeing ID. I'd have loved to have seen their faces as he produced his warrant card! Sometimes, Life can be so sweet.

John Martyn 1948-2009

2009-01-31T18:32:00.003Z

Go Out And Get It

I believe in a minute for every man
When he must take notice of the clock and all its hands
If he sees the road leads straight ahead
Got to run on down, never never be afraid
And it's yours, go out and get it
Don't get wet, please keep dry
Think about the people that made you cry.

I know a man, six feet tall
Buckskin jacket, velvet stripes and all
From Boston town, educated well
And he keeps his mind within a padded shell
It's yours, go out and get it
Don't get wet, please keep dry
Think about the people that made you cry.

Behind the curtain, upon the shelf
Lives a man, living with himself
Behind his eyes, behind his smile
What's going on, nobody in the world can tell
It's yours, go out and get it
Don't get wet, please keep dry
Think about the people that made you cry.

It's yours, go out and get it
Don't get wet, please keep dry
Think about the people that made you cry.

One I would have been, one I am. Sleep in peace John.

Bertie's Travelogue Part 6 - Entebbe to Kasulu

2009-01-27T17:32:00.011Z

Taking off from Entebbe

Having got Christmas out of the way (as well as a slight case of Lassa Fever or some other tropical ailment), I can now return to my circumnavigation of the globe. You may recall I was lounging in the Entebbe Hilton quaffing an ice-cold Tusker beer and anticipating the trip to Mount Kilimanjaro which (carrying on my tradition of showing the local currency) I paid for with this.

Settling into my trusty Mooney and slipping some Osibisa into the CD player, I took off and headed south-east. A sizeable chunk of the flight is over Lake Victoria which is such a welcome sight after the aridity of some of the previous legs and I soon found myself in sight of Kilimanjaro as I crossed over into Tanzania. Snow-capped all the year round, Kilimanjaro is the highest peak in Africa at 19,330 ft and was first climbed in 1889. For some time it held the distinction of being the highest point in the world that had mobile phone coverage! It's actually an inactive stratovolcano with 3 separate volcanic cones; the widest being Kibo which has a crater diameter of 1.5 miles.

The airport itself is quite small although it can take 747s so landing my little machine was a doddle. Certainly, the view of the mountain is wonderful and I have added that to my list of places to go before I die. I couldn't resist ignoring tower instructions as I started out to Mombasa and flew round the summit before settling down to the 50 minute flight to the coast and my first glimpse of the Indian Ocean.

These days, Mombasa is famed for its wonderful beaches but it has an extremely chequered history. The original Arabic name is Manbasa; in Swahili it is called Kisiwa Cha Mvita (or Mvita for short), which means "Island of War", due to the many changes in its ownership. It actually is an island - with a causeway connecting it to the African mainland. Reputedly visited as early as the early 15th century by the Chine fleet of Zheng Ze, it wasn't until 70 years later that Vasco de Gama became the first European to reach there. Word on the streets was that he was not exactly welcomed with open arms so the Portuguese returned 2 years later and sacked the city - sort of a precursor to Bush diplomacy!

Right, a quick dip in the ocean and, with my Speedos still damp, it was off again once more to fly to Kenya's capital: Nairobi. This leg kind of goes back on itself as Nairobi is to the north of Kilimanjaro but it flies over one of Kenya's many national parks. It's hard to believe that the largest city in East Africa was still only a swamp back in 1899 until Uganda Railways built there and Nairobi (named after the Masai word for "cool waters") grew faster than a fast thing.

Landing at Jomo Kenyatta International, I was careful to only take a minimum of Kenyan shillings with me as Nairobi is renowned for its criminal activity with 1 in 3 residents apparently the victim of crime and, allegedly, a lot of very rich policemen! Mind you, there are few shadowy characters as Nairobi is only 150kms south of the equator (falls over laughing at such wit and fails to notice somebody nicking his aircraft). The city is apparently a testament to high-rise glass and steel with little character although it does boast 4 major football teams and several decent golf courses as well as a National Park on the doorstep.

Now, we come to a brief hiatus in our little trip-ette. Having had my Mooney misappropriated by a local hoodlum (OK, I fancied a change but that sounds much more intrepid, I decided to check out some other aircraft. I toyed with a few others but in the end, I settled for my dear old Mooney once more albeit with a new paint job. Oh, there were faster, glossier aircraft but I'm a creature of habit although, between you and I, I did try a new A380 Airbus which was amusing if nothing else. Can you imagine me responsible for 850 passengers?

Off we go now to Kasulu in Tanzania, flying along the lakes of Victoria and Tanganyika. It's a long boring 2.5 hour flight although the thermals over Tanganyika made it somewhat turbulent - not the time to open one's Thermos! Kasulu is presumably merely a fuel stop on the journey as I've seen more life and culture in a tub of yogurt. I tried Googling "Kasulu" in my usual bid to impart some snippets of fact to my beloved reader and this was the total result:

"Kasulu is one of the 4 districts of the Kigoma_Region of Tanzania. It is bordered to the North by Burundi, to the East by the Kibondo district and to the South by the Kigoma Rural and Kigoma Urban Districts. According to the 2002 Tanzania National Census, the population of the Kasulu District was 628,677."

That is it! Naff all else. No exciting details of wars, gold, diamonds, poaching.....not even a picture of a local cattle herder.

I sit in my cabin, munching on an unspecified indigenous species sossidgeinnabun, hoping against hope a Starbucks will spring up shortly and wondering how things are in dear old Blighty? It's been a while since I left her shores and I think fondly of all the things that mean so much - Woolworths, MFI, the excitement of Celebrity Big Brother ............ the cornerstones of Civilisation that will always be there.

I've actually flown ?24 legs of my journey now and, looking at the route, I don't seem to have travelled that far. Knowing just how many hours I've sat in front of my PC to get as far as I have makes me realise just what a huge planet Earth is. I can only wonder at the trepidation as well as the tedium experienced by the original trans-global pioneers as they flew into the unknown - especially without the infrastructure and communications which we have now. Aircraft held together with string and hope, what must the pilots have felt? Little did they know just how their exploits would shape the future and that, in a few short decades, we would accept air travel as they accepted the motor car.

Click to enlarge

Update

2009-01-23T00:06:00.010Z

It's been a while so I thought it was time I emptied the crumbs out of the keyboard and did a bit of a catch-up. Actually, when was the last time you tipped up your keyboard? Forget the 5 loaves and the 2 fishes, mine had embarrassing amounts of detritus within. It's a Logitech Wave and whilst I love it, it isn't intelligent enough to cope with the equivalent of several packets of crisps, 3 beef sandwiches and the occasional Ryvita drifting around and, eventually, enveloping its buttons. My compressor I use for model painting was brilliant and, after some high-pressure squirting, my dirty qwerty soon became the pride of Bertie!

The illness within Bassett Towers over Christmas has finally passed and I can begin to get on with some of the tasks I promised myself in 2009. These include:

1) Finish my Round the World flight

I've been sadly lacking in this for a while although it wasn't for lack of desire. I was contacted by another cyber aviator who is also performing the said trip and it's nice to know that there is company out there. Mind you, I'm not saying I'm competitive but I suddenly panicked about being overtaken and have now fitted air-to-air missiles to my Mooney just in case! Chris' blog is well worth a read as he actually appears to know what he is doing a damn sight more than me. I did spend a fraught day sorting out my PC last week as my 2nd 300GB drive, which I use purely for flying, was getting a bit full. I stripped out everything, saved most of the downloads to disc and reinstalled the basic "best bits" to optimise the performance so, hopefully, I shall be flying again next week.

2) Put all the videos of the kids when young onto DVD

This has been a slow and painful process which started several months ago and also stopped several months ago as it was such a pain in the butt. Of course, when I started again this week, I had totally forgotten just how it was done but I am now well over 2/3 of the way through the pile of VHS cassettes. It involves capturing the video and then editing, saving as Mpeg-2 files, converting to a DVD format and then trying to work out how to put more than one VIDEO_TS file onto a DVD. On the good side, it's great to see the kids in their early years once more and also realise that I have enough filmed evidence to tease them for many years. On the down side, I thought I looked so cool some 17/18 years ago, however.....................eek! I really should have gone to SpecSavers: glasses that were so wrong, eyebrows like bloated caterpillars and very little evidence of my distinguished silver threads. I've decided that maturing looks more than compensate for the loss of the astonishingly quite well-honed body of my 30s (if I say it enough times then surely I'll believe it one day?).

3) Address myself to becoming proficient with Photoshop CS4

Master Bassett has paid for a year subscription to PhotoShop Creative magazine as part of Daddy's Christmas pressie and I now have this arriving on my doorstep each month. It has so much in and i really want to buckle down and become as good with PhotoShop as I possibly can. Incidentally, just to prove I am not the only loony in the family, the magazine arrived addressed to: Bertie Bassett, HappyTown, followed by the proper address. You stupid boy, Pike!

4) Do an OU course on web design

When I was of that particular age, my parents never encouraged me to even consider university and I therefore left school at 16 and did as they "suggested" by joining the Civil Service. In later life, the desire to learn has become increasingly attractive and I have considered doing a degree. Part of me knows that I could and would achieve it so there isn't much of a challenge in that respect so really it's down to what degree course I would like to do. Part of me also knows that I get bored easily and therefore do I really want to commit to a long-term project? As I was browsing the OU website, I saw this and I have decided that this is for me as a start. Practical knowledge which I can use on the website I have had for several years and never really used. I'm sure some of it will be things I know fairly well but it will be a good exercise and a solid grounding for future courses.

So, that's a bit of a catch-up on events.

The only other bit of fun I have to mention is something I started before Christmas when I began experimenting with voice recognition software. I show below the actual dictated segment - good luck!

Because it seemed to be writing a lot of blog at the moment, I decide eat that I would try some speech recognition softwarethis is my first attempt at using it and I thought I would committed down as a block so be there for posterity I make no alterations were edits to it all stop paragraph I'm actually dictating this at normal speed just to see how will react but because under in my flying around the world blogs at the moment there is can be a lot of them and also apart from anything else my desk is cluttered up with flight yokes controls throttles keyboards joysticks and various other paraphernalia, I really can do with a method of actually putting words on a screen without having to find space keyboard. You may well find that there are going to be so rude words as I'm watching Liverpool losing at the moment as I'm dictating this and therefore it could be quite fun whether it recognizes new or should I say rude words I'm not quite sure that Will Wilson find out. Anyone just watching what this is doing and it seems to be fairly reasonable considering I just had a couple of minutes serve talking about Sir Alex in Wonderland so they could work out auction it is almost a goal and where was I yes Alice in Wonderland voice recognition purposes am say it is picked up really rather well which is quite good so their way half I forgot all about punctuation are met,:; there are some in register make me try remember why is not intelligent enough to keep within punctuation are not quite sure? Anyway to be lovely talking to you. This merely confirms that when I dictate or when I write it still comes out is total nonsense!

Perhaps I have stumbled on the secret of Professor Stanley Unwin :D

That's it for now. Vaya con Dios

An Elephant's Tale

2009-01-03T15:26:00.011Z

The elephant had lived for over 80 years. As a young bull, he had towered above his peers and eventually his stature and wisdom were recognised and he took his place as the head of the herd. As they moved through the African land, it was he that guided, it was he that led the way. The elephant sired many calves and they were his legacy to a changing world. His was a world of freedom and he moved wherever he wanted, unconstrained by borders and tirelessly travelling his kingdom. He had no need to be wary for he had few dangers facing him and his natural concern was for the protection of the herd. With his instincts honed to perfection, the herd prospered- their reliance upon him testimony to his leadership.

He was old now. He stood alone - the herd long gone as the young bulls had gradually usurped his position. As he had aged, each attempt to defend his dominant role had tired him more and finally he realised that he no longer had the strength to fight. Useless to the herd and forced away, he had wandered into his own world, his enormous body now shrivelled and the folds of skin hanging loosely in testimony to his growing inability to fend for himself. He was on his final set of molars and these had been worn down by the almost continuous act of feeding required to satisfy his massive frame.

Now, the feeding was difficult. He was only able to eat on the softer leaves and plants and these were far more difficult to find. No more could his massive bulk push down a tree so he could take what he wanted. No more could he take what was his by right of superiority. He knew he was dying. Occasionally, he would smell the scent of a passing herd, a lion or an evocation of his prime. His instincts still reacted although it was becoming harder to understand why they did so. His life now was focused on survival, each minute an exquisite agony with his tired muscles struggling to support the weight of his splendid tusks - once a symbol of his magnificence but now, cruelly, an ironic burden.

He leaned against a tree, his rheumy eyes continually leaking tears which formed obsidian paths through the dust covering his skin. It was a delicious moment of respite and, for an instant, he allowed himself the luxury of relaxation. He never felt the bullet which obliterated his brain. He never felt the clunk of the axes carefully hacking out his tusks. He never heard the gleeful shouts of the hunters as they ignored the great frame in their appreciation of their perceived bravery. His final act was one of charity as the creatures of the land fed on his body. His final memorial not of what he had been but of what others could take from him.

At last, his soul was at peace.

copyright © 2009 Author

Farewell, Old Friend

2008-12-27T13:45:00.005Z

Well, I have survived the rigours of Christmas........actually, between you, me and the gatepost, there were few rigours to cope with as not much happened. Mrs B was (and still is) bed-bound with some nasty sick-y, chest-y malaise so no traumas of Christmas lunch, no subtly leaving the room as the sprouts took effect and no groaning and dozing for the rest of the day.

In fact, truth be told, I was a bit dicky myself so Christmas was all a bit anti-climactic apart from the visits of the young Bassetts who showered me with a cornucopeia of gifts on Christmas Day and introduced me to the ridiculously funny board game called Balderdash on Boxing Day. I might just mention at this juncture, my beautiful young 18 year old, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth daughter who has never ever sworn in my presence before but let herself down rather badly after a particularly shrewd ploy of mine during the aforesaid board game. Anyway, sweetie, I have a birth certificate to prove what you called me isn't true!!

I am, as usual, moving away from the subject in hand viz. a farewell to an old friend. Who is this, I hear you ask? Could it be an epitaph to Harold Pinter? Might it be the passing of my dressing gown (replaced by a rather snazzy M & S grey marl version)? Is it a precursor to the wailing and gnashing of teeth as Brighton & Hove Albion slides inexorably from the nondescript region of Division One to the barren wastes of Division Two? Is it possible I am bidding goodbye to the gremlins perched sardine-like on both shoulders? Nope, it's a tribute to the great institution that we know as Woolworths.

When I was a child and we ventured from the cave into the realms of civilisation, there were several chain stores. Obviously nothing like today: you still had small shops where people called you Sir and Madam and you were sent for "half a pound of bacon and not too fatty" from your local butcher. I remember we had Home & Colonial, Mence Smiths hardware store and the biggest of the lot (whose name escapes me) where, after one had paid, the cash was placed in a container which would zoom along the most amazing system of cables across the ceiling to the central citadel where a large, superior-looking woman sat like a giant spider - custodian of the dosh. The one which always stood out however was F W Woolworth & Co. It was a veritable treasure trove where a small boy could wander and wonder at the vast array within.

I can still remember getting lost in there and standing in the middle of the store bawling my head off until a nice lady rescued me and reunited me with my mother. The traumas of this stayed with me for some time but I eventually managed to re-enter the confines without tying a safety rope around my waist and attaching the other end to the entrance doors. In those days, Ladybird clothes were the must-have of the cool kid and shoelaces were a necessity. The floors were always really shiny and great for sliding and the biscuit counter was at exactly the right level for young eyes to gaze in lust. I also have to say that Portslade Woolworth was tthe scene of the one and only time I have ever shoplifted (a packet of Polos, I seem to recall).

Both my children earned their first pay packets as Saturday staff at Woolies and, even in the last decade, there was always something there to capture my interest. Pick 'n Mix of course was always an attraction and I remember going in to see my son once and him standing there chatting to us as, much to her embarrassment, he shovelled large amounts of Pick 'n Mix into Mrs B's bag and pockets. He also related the story of having to redo all the bins as there were some little beetle-like things inhabiting them and - best of the lot - the eccentric lady who was banned from the store after weeing in the aforesaid Pick 'n Mix bins!!

I popped into my local Woolies today and it was a sad sight. Like vultures stripping the bones of a once great warrior, the people latched onto the last bargains. Having said that, they were flogging off the sealed boxes of Pick 'n Mix so I was tempted with a 3.5kg boz of strawberry cables marked down from their retail equivalent of £20 to a mere £10. I took it to the checkout and the young lad explained that there was a further 50% reduction hence he could only accept 5 of our glorious English pounds. I reacted rather like John McEnroe doubting the presence of the Prisoner of Azkhaban ("You cannot be Sirius!"), told him I would be back shortly and, cutting a long story short, added 3 more boxes of apple cables (spot the deliberate mistake here!), Haribo liquorice wheels and strawberry sweethearts to my purchases. I now have 14kg of sweets for the princely sum of £20 and the plan to start my diet regime after the New Year might just be in jeopardy.

A suitable memorial perhaps but I shall still miss the old girl. After all, where else do I go if I need some stick-on soles in a hurry? Where else can I wile away a few minutes watching a TV demo of the latest JML gadget?

RIP Woolies - you'll be sorely missed. You were an anachronism in this modern world but you were part of Life.

PS I make no apologies for the new juke box selection - Christmas is a time to indulge!

Season's Greetings

2008-12-24T13:34:00.006Z

As Greg Lake says in "I Believe in Father Christmas", the Christmas you get you deserve.

To all my lovely readers, a truly magical Christmas where you are surrounded by love and happiness. May your every dream become a hope and your hopes become reality.

Monkey Business

2008-12-14T15:27:00.006Z

Lucky is defined as "having unexpected good fortune".

Some people are quite lucky when it comes to winning raffles, draws etc whilst others are lucky in less material ways. I am certainly of the latter although the reason for this small but perfectly-formed blog entry is to celebrate the fact that ..........I HAVE WON SOMETHING!! Please allow me to elucidate:

Now, there is an extremely talented and quite idiosyncratic lady of whom I have an internet acquaintance and who goes by the name of Kitty Wrinkle. We are part of the same forum and she is one of these people who seems to remain positive throughout all sorts of happenings in her life. She writes a blog which is full of .........dare I say, girly things such as sewing and crafts and the like. Not exactly the thing for a superhero although she does write very wittily about all sorts of other matters and has this quirky view of Life which can be both amusing and thought-provoking. However, she gets excited about buttons.......need I really say any more?

Anyway, it seems to be the done thing in the weird and wonderful world of crafting to share one's talents by swapping not only exciting pieces of material or a particularly amazing ball of wool (shakes head sadly) but also exercising the philanthropic gene by doing the occasional giveaway. Followers of Kitty's blog will see that she has been quite lucky in these giveaways herself but I am now the object of her own particular generosity insofar as I appear to be the proud owner of .............................. SantaMonk!

Of the 70 odd comments left on her blog where this specific act of Christmas cheer was announced, the name of Bassett was apparently randomly generated and I now have a simian Santa to cherish. Kitty is justifiably a doyen of the monkey-making world and her creations are much sought after so I am both touched and honoured that I have a second creation of hers. Second?, I hear you say. Oh yes, she created Plod Monkey which I commissioned when Master Bassett became a police officer and he now resides in the foetid pit which is PC Bassett's bedroom alongside the Liverpool posters, sports equipment and pictures of scantily-clad wimmun.

Thank you, Ms Wrinkle and may your sock box never diminish.

"Winning" SantaMonk made me think back over the other wins of my long and tedious life. The first I remember is on the now defunct Radio Brighton when I entered a phone-in competition and won an LP token. It was my first album - Well Respected Kinks - and is still in my possession and worth every penny of the 17/6d which I didn't have to pay.

Other wins have been a limited edition Monopoly set, Rolling Stones tickets and a portable TV although, I have to say, I'm not somebody that necessarily goes in for competitions as a matter of course. Actually, come to think of it, maybe I AM quite lucky and ought to enter more things.

Anyway, I shall publish an in situ photograph of SantaMonk in due course and wait hopefully for Kitty creations to assume the financial worth of an early Steiff bear. Gosh, the thought of Arthur Negus' great grandson handling my primate is making me feel quite faint!

Above image from sockmonkeylady.com

Bertie's Travelogue Part 5 - Iraklion to Entebbe

2008-12-01T00:10:00.007Z

It's been a while since I last published my flight journal. Although I have been carrying on with my circumnavigational exploits, a combination of factors prevented me from sharing them with the world - until now, that is! Thrill to the bounce of an horrendous landing at Luxor, marvel at the combination of pixels that represents the pyramids, gaze in admiration at the devil-may-care way I walk through the green channel at Entebbe customs, share with me the rigours of a Ugandan prison after they caught me (sigh).

I left Iraklion in a blaze of Mediterranean sunshine and climbed to 13,000 feet en route to Cairo. I have to say that, considering it's a virtual trip, I was quite excited at travelling through Africa. Egypt has always held a fascination for me and I can remember , at the tender age of 16, reading all 3 volumes of Carter & Mace's "The Tomb of Tutankhamun". I still periodically dip into my other Egyptian tomes although I have yet to realise my ambition of a visit to the country. One author of whom I am quite fond, Wilbur Smith, writes with a deep love of Africa but, more importantly, he's an author that provides a lot of historical fact. He has written a series based in Ancient Egypt as well as many others chronicling the discovery and exploration of this great continent so I felt quite at home with many of the pla ces I was to visit.

A gentle flight found me at Cairo, Africa's most populated city and also known as Al-Qahirah, or 'the victorious" by the Arabic world. It never existed during Egypt's greatest period and was not founded as such until almost 1000 AD. Lying at the mouth of the Nile delta it is, to many visitors, merely a starting point for the journey south , deep into the dynastic majesty that was Ancient Egypt.

Now, in reality, I would have made a beeline for Cairo Museum but time was short and I had no more Egyptian Pounds to put in the parking meter so off I flew. The first thing I looked for as I left Cairo and set a course for Luxor was,of course, the Great Pyramid at Giza. Sadly, the view of the pyramid with the desert behind it is a bit misleading as, if you swing round 180º, you find the slums of Cairo gently nudging its perimeter.

I won't bore you with details of this monument and burial place to Khufu (or Cheops); that's why God invented Google. Suffice to say it was the world's tallest structure for almost 4ooo years. It comprises of 2,300,000 blocks of sandstone each weighing 2.5 tons, is perfectly orientated to the points of the compass and has no more than 8 inches difference between the 4 sides. Damn' clever these Egyptian chappies!

Back to the flight and I sped over the Sahara with the Nile to the West and the Red Sea just about visible in the far distance to the East. One of my great holiday memories was flying over the Sahara on my way to Sri Lanka. As the dawn came, I gazed in awe as this seemingly limitless expanse of sand was slowly revealed; the rising sun giving it an a blood-red cast and its beauty almost enough to take away the discomfort of a long flight in a cramped aircraft seat.

Luxor duly loomed and I ignored Air Traffic and went for a low-level flight along the banks of the Nile before touching down. Now, if this was a real flight, I would spend a lot of time at Luxor, what with The Valley of the Kings, Valley of the Queens, the Ramesseum, the Colossi of Memnon et al. Luxor was previously known as Thebes, the capital of the Egypt of the New Kingdom. In the early days, its local god grew in stature commensurate with the growth in prominence of the city and this god, Amun, became linked with the sun go d Ra thus creating the new "king of gods" Amun-Ra. The great temple at Karnak is dedicated to him and, although Thebes lost its status as Egypt's capital during the Late Period, it remained the spiritual capital right up to the Greek Period.

(Apologies if I'm getting carried away with this - I warned you Egyptology was an interest!)

I'd better move on to my next stop, Khartoum; another city steeped in history. I have to say that the flying had become somewhat repetitious although at least there were a few lakes and hills on this leg: the principal lake being Lake Nasser which was created following the construction of the Aswan Dam in 1970 and solved the historical problem of the Nil e flooding.

Khartoum, where the Blue and White Niles converge, is remembered predominantly in the UK from when the forces of the Mahdi besieged an Anglo-Egyptian force led by General Gordon way back in 1884. Sadly, we lacked the ability to score the all-important away goal and the garrison was massacred. The replay at Omdurman several years later saw the Brits, under the captaincy of Kitchener, take not only the Mahdi trophy but also the country of Sudan.

These days, Khartoum, (along with the rest of Sudan) has a depressing modern history. In the '70s, the Black September group held ten hostages at the Saudi embassy, five of w hom were diplomats. The incident resulted in the deaths of the US ambassador, deputy ambassador, and the Belgian chargé d'affaires. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Khartoum was the destination for hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing conflicts in neighboring nations such as Chad, Eritrea, Ethiopia and Uganda. The refugees settled in lar ge slums at the outskirts of the city which were swollen even more when, from the mid-1980s onward, large numbers of Sudanese, displaced from the violence of the Civil War and Darfur conflict also fled there.

Hmm, depressing stuff. I had a search around for some positive facts about Khartoum but, apart from a museum, a souk and a bowling alley, it appears the best feature is th e runway out of there.

Off we go again and it's off to the first place whose name is unknown to me - Malakal. I can only imagine the stop is merely to refuel as there seems to be naff-all here. This is one picture I found which is entitled "Malakal marketplace" !!

Paying my Sudanese pounds to the nice man at the avgas station, I soared up once more and headed for my final stop in Sudan which is the the city of Juba, capital of southern Sudan and which sits on the side of the White Nile.. Now, in the back of my mind, I had a feeling that Juba was linked to slavery but research shows this was totally wrong. In fact, Juba is NOT a nice place to be as it was right at the heart of the Civil War and now has a virtually no n-existent infrastructure as well as a proliferation of land mines and other ordinance lying around ready for the unwary. On the positive side, as of 2008, it has 3 paved roads! Incidentally, the juba I was thinking of was actually the name of the food eate n by the slaves in the Southern States of America - I just knew slavery came into it somewhere.

I was glad to leave Sudan, It's like so much of Africa, historically war-torn and ravaged but with not a lot of the inherent topographical beauty to redeem it. Perhaps now, I can leave the arid desolation behind and revel in verdant splendour?

I knew that the flight to Entebbe in Uganda would take me over some more interesting country and it certainly did. To the west, Lake Albert and the Kabarega National Park whilst beneath me the massive Lake Kyoba. As I neared Entebbe I hastily checked my bearings as I seemed to have reached the coast whilst in the middle of Africa! Even at 19000 feet, Lake Victoria is colossal - 68,800 square kilometres (26,560 miles²) in size, making it the continent's largest lake and the second widest fresh water lake in the world. Enteb be is situated on the northern shore and it was a nice touchdown which left me with an almost palpable sense of relief.

For the more elderly (or scholarly) among you, dear readers, there may well be remembrance of a certain president Idi Amin of Uganda and his decision to expel all of the Indian residents of the country due to his paranoia of their entrepreneurial skills and his desire to seize their shops, factories and businesses. I was a 20 year old Civil Servant at the time and volunteered to go and work at one of the "resettlement centres" hurriedly being set up as planeloads of British passport-holders turned up without prior warning and little luggage. Yhey were allowed to bring out the equivalent of £22 and had lost everything. I arrived at a mothballed army camp which had hurriedly been resurrected and was given 6 staff and told to create a department , open 24/7, coping with anything that wasn't dealt with elsewhere! From memory, there were 27 centres opened and some 2 years later I ended up as Staff Officer at the very last one at West Malling. It was a crazy period where one never knew what was going to happen from one hour to the next and I made some wonderful friends among the residents. It's also pretty unusual in the Civil Service to see something through to the end (although the actual end is a bit hazy courtesy of a certain Major Colin Landells and his champagne cocktails).

Anyway, I digress and I am also conscious that I have wittered on for far too long. Next time, it's up, up and away to Mount Kilimanjaro..... hmmm, looks li ke I'm going to reach my peak!

A Myriad Thanks

2008-11-24T14:04:00.007Z

I achieved a milestone this week. Not a big milestone as milestones go but a milestone nonetheless. Perhaps that should be a 1.609344 kilometre-stone in these time of metric nonsense or even an 880fathom-stone for the diving fraternity? It matters not in the general scheme of things but you are undoubtedly agog at the cause of all this excitement..................?

Well, if you let your eyes travel down the left side of my blog, past the profile and the picture of the rather dashing chap relaxing with a bottle of Bud, you will see a counter which has reached the figure of 10,000! In other words, there have now been that many visitors to the blog. It sounds pretty ace although my stats show a lot of those merely got here through Googling a certain word or phrase and stopped for about 3 nanoseconds when they realised I was not quite what they wanted..........but stop they did. I tend not to leave lots of keywords and things to increase the hit figure as I would rather be small and discreet with an air of sophisticated quality (rather like a Gucci version of Tena); after all, to quote Disraeli, "lies, damned lies and statistics".

When I first started this blogging lark, some 2 years and 131 blogs ago, little did I think.................and I still don't. The words that appear are a spontaneous reaction between keyboard and fingers with absolutely no interference from the brain whatsoever! I regret none of my blogs although there have been a few disappointments along the way. For example, I don't think I have ever used "callipygian ", which is rather a nice word (and an even nicer meaning), my flying exploits haven't caught the attention of the Red Arrows, my humour has not tickled the humeri of such comedy legends as Cleese, Connolly or Carrott (unless, of course, they are too in awe to contact me), I haven't even reached the first step on the road to fame by getting invited onto 'I'm a Celebrity'!

Having said that, I have a merry band of very loyal readers and to them I offer my heartfelt thanks.. Some I know, some I know of and some I am just aware that they read my blog fairly regularly. I have a new little widget on the blog now which shows people who actually follow the blog; strangely enough, it's called Followers. At the moment, it has just the one follower (hello Mermaid632 :)) but I assume it can cater for more so feel free to come out of the closet, so to speak.

10,000 has an almost mystic significance in several civilisations. In ancient times it was used as a symbol for the number that followed 9,999 as well as (strangely enough) the one which precedes 10,001 whereas in Papuan folklore it symbolises great wealth and literally translates into "Cripes, he's got more bush pigs than there are missionaries in the cooking pot). The Patagonians of the past worshipped the great God IOOOO whereas the England cricket team view it as 100 innings'.

Other exciting facts about 10,000:

A myriad is specifically defined as 10,000
In scientific terms, it is written as 10⁴
It is the square of 100
It's the square root of 100,000,000
A myriagon is a polygon with 10,000 sides (no doubt, Blue Peter will show you how to make one if you supply enough egg boxes)
In anatomy, each neuron in the human brain is estimated to contain 10,000 others
Land of 10,000 Lakes is the nickname for the state of Minnesota
10,000 square metres is one hectare
In zoology, there are approximately 10,000 species of birds
In currency, the new Iraqi 10,000 dinar notes has a portrait of Abu Ali Hasan Ibn al-Haitham on the front, the Japanese 10,000 yen has a picture of Fukuzawa Yukichi and the US $10,000, a portrait of Salmon P Chase

In films, titles include 10,000 B.C. (2008), 10,000 Black Men Named George (2002), The Phantom from 10,000 Leagues (1956) and Vietnam: The Ten Thousand Day War (1980)
In games, each of the nine Mahjong character suit tiles (1 to 9) represents ten thousand (wan) coins. Ten Thousand Year Ko is a one of the rules of ko in the board game of Go and Ten Thousand is one name of a dice game that is also called Farkle
In music, 10,000 Men is a song by Bob Dylan
In sports, 10,000 metres is approximately 9,975 metres more than I like to run

Well, that was all jolly exciting wasn't it? No doubt you all want to rush off and pass on these little nuggets to others so I will say a fond farewell for the moment.

Once again, appreciation to all of you. Should you have stumbled upon this due to Googling "polygon with 10,000 sides", feel free to stay awhile and immerse yourself in this cornucopiea of nonsense and whimsy.

Oh, and finally, today's challenge - betcha can't fit callipygian into a conversation!

(Not so a)Musings

2008-11-21T01:12:00.005Z

Looks like another sleepless night ahead. Staring out of the window at the empty road; wanting to drive into the night and off who knows where?

Driving away from what is within me and which cannot be escaped.

Recently, I found a lot of writing I did about 10 years ago when I was first diagnosed as depressive. I wrote a lot then but now I find it increasingly difficult to place my deeper thoughts on paper. Perhaps that's because they haven't changed? Perhaps it's because I have given up trying to justify the causes. Perhaps I have just given up?

I wrote this. I don't remember why; maybe it was a therapeutic exercise (you'll have to imagine the cynically wry smile at this point. Even then, I knew I was a lost cause):

My Favourite Things

People are one of my favourite things.Perhaps because, at times, I feel so apart from them whilst, at others, they affect my life so radically. They continually challenge and excite.

Ever-changing, I love to see the unintentional humour of a situation, the tenderness in a mother's eye, the poignancy of a lover's kiss, the beetle-browed bluster of Mr Always Right, the wisdom of advancing years and the subtle interactions of a million lives and moods.

I love the unpredictability of people - each one so special, so unique. I love to hear their laughter, I feel for their pain, I long for their acceptance.

Without people, I would be forever searching for someone. With people, I am forever searching for something.

People give me love, they allow me to live, to grow and maybe, one day, to understand.

I know now I will never understand as I don't even know what I am seeking.

It's all questions with no answers, riddles without solutions and a future without substance.

Still, on the bright side, as I sit here and look out to the harbour, there's no sign of any Somalian pirates on the cross-channel ferry. Every cloud......and all that!

I really don't want to face another night of wakefulness. I dozed for literally 5 minutes earlier this evening and that seemed to be enough to recharge my batteries. The same happened last night and I eventually got to sleep at 7am. Having said that, I quite like the tranquility of night-time; maybe I ought to get dressed, go to Asda and develop a social life? Better still, maybe I ought to get a job that involves nights? Vampire? Owl catcher? How about switchboard operator at Insomniacs Anonymous? Presumably you answer the phone by saying "Hello, Insomniacs Anonymous, I can't say to whom you're speaking, how can I help you?".

What about people who have an addiction for craving fame? You can hardly have a Fame-Cravers Anonymous, can you? Defeats the whole object. Mind you, there is a wealth of TV programmes to cater for all of them.

Can't even watch live cricket tonight. Let's have a look what's on Sky:

Ooh I tell a lie, it's Australia v New Zealand or better still, there's live American Football until 4.30! Bengals versus the Steelers.

Right, that'll do me. Night, all you normal people - Vaya con Dios.

A Bassett History

2008-11-17T15:34:00.006Z

OK, I know it's another post about flying .....but tough.Flying is in my heart and in my blood. Why, young Icarus Bassett was the first person to fly to the Sun (before they moved to Fortress Wapping) although, sadly, his test shots for Page 5 were rejected after his pectoral implants melted under the studio lights.

The Bassettier Brothers, following a night at the local curry emporium and several very silly schoolboy japes involving a condom and a disposable lighter, hit upon the idea of balloon flight and became the first humans to fly from one side of the river Dresser in Poland to the other. Since that momentous occasion, Bassetts have been renowned as cross-Dressers.

Wilbur and Orville Bassett's efforts were overshadowed by events at Kittyhawk. They were busy on the sands of Shitehawk where they experimented with rockets. However, they found that over a longer period, wings were much safer and thus developed the aircraft as we know it. Their first attempt was actually much longer than the Wright Brothers although, sadly, we know not how long as steering was not high on their priorities and they were last seen heading out into the Atlantic.

WW1 saw the first airborne fighting Bassett, whose wits were pitted against the scourge of the Royal Flying Corps - The Red Baron! Percival Bassett, or the Yellow Count(?) as the German fliers used to shout at him, took part in many dogfights with the Baron. Tiring of Binkie, his beloved Yorkshire terrier being savaged by Von Richtofen's dobermann, Beckenbauer, Percival took to the skies to give battle instead. The sun glinted off his goggles as he flew through the clouds. He peeled them off and wished that the squadron hadn't been scrambled whilst he was at the swimming pool as it was getting a bit chilly in his khaki Speedos.

He looked down and saw a glint of red. Hmm, chlorine rash could be a terrible thing.

Suddenly he saw a line of bullet holes across the fabric of his Sopwith Camel - the Fokker was attacking! He realised he was doomed and decided to bale out whilst he still could. It was as he plummeted through the air that he realised it was still to be several more years before aircraft were equipped with parachutes. Damn this bloody war.

Between the wars, young Biggles Bassett was at University where he studied Integrated Modular Avionics and Looking Grimly Determined. The 1939 hostilities saw him undergoing the selection course at RAF Cranwell where his performance resulted in a posting to HM Submarines at Gosport. By a combination of determination and a rather smudged photograph of the Air Chief Marshall and a young Turkish lad, Bassett finally undertook pilot training at RAF Nether Wallop where he passed out...... several times. Eventually though, he got over his fear of heights and the time came for his first solo. Up into the skies he soared; a young gladiator, charged with the responsibility of saving his homeland, alone, several thousand feet up in the air, half an inch of wood and canvas between him and certain death, lost ........alone ........frightened.

He felt something jettison from beneath him (which made him feel a whole lot better) and his jaw tightened as the integral Bassett hero chromosome kicked in. He cast a glance across the horizon as he climbed, ever faster, and wondered at the green and brown of the sky and how it contrasted with the light blue of the ground far below. Ah .............. He was buried, with full military honours, in a matchbox. Incidentally, the military honours were on behalf of the Imperial Japanese Airforce, after his cousin Bassimoto heard of his action and this inspired a completely new way of attacking enemy shipping.

I, of course, follow in the footsteps (wingprints?) of these illustrious forebears. No doubt I shall prove as competent as my predecessors.

Tally ho!

Incidentally, here's another little video for your pleasure - hope you like it :)

Bertie's Travelogue Part 4 - Algiers to Iraklion

2008-11-10T16:29:00.021Z

After leaving Algiers, I eventually arrived at Palma Airport, Majorca. Fortunately, being a virtual flight, I didn't have to join the inevitable queue of easyJet and Ryanair cattle trucks waiting to disgorge their cargoes of holidaymakers, gagging to get to the nearest karaoke bar and a pint of Watney's best bitter. Actually, that's a bit cruel as I've been to Majorca before and found parts of it absolutely delightful. My main memory is actually from my honeymoon when I broke my arm in three places playing football!

Majorca is the largest of the Balearic Islands, the others being Minorca, Ibiza and Formentera. It boasts some august residents, both past and present, including Chopin, Miró, Michael Schumacher, Julian Lennon, Boris Becker, Rafael Nadal, Michael Douglas & Catherine Zeta-Jones.

If you ever get the urge to head down that way, might I recommend Formentera? It's the smallest island and certainly the least spoiled when I was there. You arrive by boat from Ibiza and it still retained a hippy lifestyle around the capital of San Francisco. Incidentally, I slipped a disc whilst holidaying there - just what have the Balearics got against me?

Yet another Euro country, so here are some older and more recent peseta banknotes for your pleasure.

Refuelled, and off we go to Elmas on the island of Sardinia. The actual flights across the watery sections of the Med are fairly boring until I get towards the Greek Islands but I'm looking forward to casting a glance down towards one of my favourite places - Corsica. Elmas is just outside Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia and towards the south of the island so I made a slight deviation and headed off to look fondly upon the beautiful island of Corsica. The southern part of the island holds a host of memories for me and I could almost feel the warmth of the water whilst diving off Bonifacio.

I know that Sardinia is Italian but I am still going to post a French banknote in homage to Antoine de St Exupery, aviator and author who will forever be linked with the Mediterranean and whose body lies beneath the waves.

Moving wistfully on to Naples, I was quite excited as I have never, ever been to Italy. I dutifully consulted Wikipedia to discover some interesting facts and ploughed through acres of information about Roman culture, art, history and the like. It was at this point that I remembered why I had never wanted to visit Italy - I just don't get off on such stuff! I enjoy history and visiting places but there is something about Italy that just leaves me totally cold. I'm sure that would change if I were to go there but, for the moment, there are plenty of places that take precedence. As far as Napoli is concerned, their salami and the fact that it is apparently the birthplace of pizza seem worthy of note. Why, even the notable Neapolitans through the ages are all foreign!

Hanging my uncultured head in shame, I passed swiftly on to Palermo in Sicily. I always tend to video my landings in the hope that I might eventually get one more or less OK and here is the effort at Falcone-Borsellino Airport.

Sicily is of course synonymous with the Mafia although there is a lot more to the island. Sicilians (for that is what they think themselves - not Italians), are a proud race with a rich heritage of tradition, food, folklore and culture with "family" always at the heart of every action. The Mafia (Cosa Nostra) date, arguably, back to medieval times and were originally families who were looked on as protectors of their local area, town or village. The period of the "Fascisti" in the late 1920s saw a clampdown on their power and this, together with the immigration opportunities in the USA, saw the growth of the families in America and the vogue of horse's heads decorating one's pillows!

The Mafia still goes on, with Palermo Airport being named after the 2 anti-Mafia judges assassinated by them in 1992. In the spirit of true commerce, however, the Mafia has turned into one of Italy's biggest business enterprises with a turnover of more than US$120bn a year. Somehow, I think I wouldn't like to be their Collector of Taxes. Here are a couple of examples of what they might have earned in 1944 and 1990 (the lady being Mme. Montessori; she of the schools).

Time to say 'arrivederci' to Italy and 'kalispera' to Athens. I have never been to mainland Greece although I was lucky enough to have been on the flight deck of a British Airtours aircraft once as we overflew Athens and Piraeus Harbour. A friend of mine was a pilot with them and he'd arranged for me to spend time up there (obviously before 9/11). As we passed over the harbour, the aircraft started banking sharply which was a bit of a worry as the captain was turned round and talking to me, the first officer was doing a crossword and the flight engineer was peering at something on a panel. For a second, I panicked and it must have shown in my eyes as the captain laconically said "automatic pilot" and then carried on chatting. Once I'd relaxed it was a wonderful sight!

Do I really need to say anything about Athens? A few little-known facts might be of interest:

It has more theatrical stages than any other European city
It has its own Metro
It has 5 professional football teams
It hosted the 51st Eurovision Song Contest in 2006 (won by Lordi)
Athenian bus drivers are renowned for not stopping at bus stops

and...................

We've still got their Marbles!

Greece is one of the prime examples of hyperinflation (something of a speciality interest of mine). In 1943, the highest denomination was 25,000 drachmai yet, by 1944, the highest denomination was 100,000,000,000,000 drachmai. The Greek inflation rate reached 8.5 billion percent per month (prices effectively doubling every 28 hours). Incidentally, that second note doesn't look that impressive without all the zeroes - this Yugoslavian one is far more the business!

Final leg of this blog and it was off to Crete and the airport at Heraklion. It's always nice landing at airports I have "done" in real life and here was another. I had a happy time identifying all the islands in sight as I flew over the Cyclades - thank goodness for Google in the cockpit :)

Crete is a fabulous place and I have vivid memories of my time there when I was (much) younger............ and who might this young Greek god be, posing at the harbour of Agios Nikolaos? I can remember hiring a car and driving up a long, climbing, winding road and then stopping in awe as I saw the Lassithi Plateau stretched out ahead of us.

We were further amazed when, asking for somewhere to get a drink in a small village, we were feted by the locals who still loved the Brits (and hated the Germans), following the war. We spent several hours there being wined and dined whilst the locals practised their English. Apparently, visitors were few and far between so they used the opportunity wisely. I remember little of the return journey but, amazingly, we somehow made it!

Two other "must visit" places are the Minoan Palace of Knossos, where Theseus won on away goals against the Minotaur and the Samaria Gorge at Chania. The gorge, longest in the world, is truly beautiful and I have never seen so many butterlies in one place.

Well, that's about it for the moment. Here's a map of what's been happening so far. Tonight I'm off to Africa!

(click to enlarge)

An Interjection

2008-11-08T10:16:00.009Z

After a long but very pretty flight from Palermo to Athens last night, I retired to bed dreaming dreams of azure seas with the quiet rumble of a well-tuned engine lulling me into the arms of Morpheus ...........(actually, truth be told, I lay awake for ages reading "The Last Enemy" by Richard Hillary before finally drifting off at about 5am but it's not quite so romantic).

The reason for this little interjection in my global circumnavigation is to point out a comment from my last blog. It said this:

glad to see you are enjoying my Around The World trip! please keep us updated as you fly all the legs!

It took me months to design the route so it is really exciting to see someone who has bought the package flying it and clearly enjoying it!

all the best
Jane Whittaker
(designer - Around The World In 80 Flights package)

I have to say I was more than a little chuffed that the designerof the whole concept had taken the trouble to leave a comment. It is almost like the technological equivalent of my Terry Pratchett signed first editions so thank you, Jane.

The software concerned is called Around the World in 80 Flights and is published by First Class Simulations. The company do some superb FSX add-ons and I totally recommend them to any armchair pilots out there. It's no coincidence that, with Christmas coming up, I left their home page open on my PC when Mrs B was around. Incidentally, assuming it is the same Jane Whittaker, she also writes some excellent articles for PC Pilot magazine and the thought that she is a "proper" writer and also, judging from her articles, a very competent aviatrix fills me with fear of her perusing my own meagre efforts.

Once I finish this epic journey (although I may well become another St. Exupery if I fly as badly as I did whilst landing at Athens in the early hours this morning: an episode in my burgeoning flying career which is best forgotten*), I intend to actually get off my derriere and plan flights around both South America and China and the Far East.

Of course, if First Class Simulations want to take on the concept and require beta testers, advisers etc.....................!

* Imagine a cross between a crab and a kangaroo. Forget "The Few", this more more like "The Phew" when I eventually touched down!

Bertie's Travelogue Part 3 - Lisbon to Algiers

2008-11-04T01:18:00.011Z

I think you left me last time sampling the delights of downtown Lisbon before a short hop to the southern Portuguese city of Faro. I have to say that my journeys through Europe have never taken me there before (Portugal, that is) and I've yet to meet anybody who doesn't say what a wonderful place it is.

Faro itself has both Arab and Roman ruins although the Moors were the predominant rulers until it became part of Portugal as we know it. In 1596, the Earl of Essex (complete with chain mail white stilettos and Von Dutch logo'd shield) popped in on his way to the Crusades and basically nicked the entire library of the Bishop of Faro. These books are still in the Bodleian at Oxford. Apart from the obvious holiday potential of the Algarve, Faro has one of the biggest annual motorcycle festivals in Europe so break out the AC/DC music, leap on the Honda 50 and ride!

In a bid to make this whole travelogue/blog more interesting I have decided I can combine another of my loves and post both a modern and an older example of each country's paper currency (for those of you who know my feelings on the Euro (see here), the modern versions will be pre-Euro in the relevant countries).

Here then are Portugal's representatives for your viewing pleasure. As always, kudos and thanks to Ron Wise for his wonderful banknote database. I will try and show similar notes to ones I also have in my own collection but, to save hassle, I will link to Ron's examples.

OK, now for the one I'd been looking forwad to - Gibraltar. As I said the other day, it's an interesting landing here as, due to the ongoing issue of sovereignty, the Spanish refuse to allow aircraft arriving at Gibraltar to overfly the Spanish Coast on final approach which makes for difficult aviation procedures. Basically, this means a very tight turn before lining up to a very short final approach on runway 09 ........oh. and try not to hit the big rocky lump!

It was actually quite a simple descent and landing in a single engine aircraft although I think I'll wait a while before I try it in a "heavy". The one thing I remember above all else when I was there in my late teens/early twenties was walking off a palm-lined street full of burnous-clad Arabs into a Spar grocers which might just as well have been in dear old Blighty. Having just come over from Morocco, it was the strangest experience but also very comforting to see Marmite, Rich Tea and Corn Flakes!

Of course, Gibraltar uses Pounds sterling and here are both old and new.

Pausing only to stock up on Caramacs and Tizer, I set off for Algiers which is basically a flight routed to Malaga, then over to the north coast of Africa and then follow the camel tracks along the beach.

I thought the beach seemed a tad large as I flew along and then realised I was actually gazing down some 9000' and seeing the northern edge of the Sahara! At last, I was out of Europe and into exotic and I wondered anxiously just how many carpets I would be persuaded to buy once I reached Algiers.

Memories of Morocco and Tunisia flooded back. I spent the princely sum of £108 for a fortnight's holiday at a place called Camp Africa in Asilah as a young man and had the dubious pleasure of living in a mud hut with no electricity, no furniture and merely a mattress on the floor. Having said that, it was a great time and I have many strange memories of that holiday. I can't actually remember doing a drunken dance with a couple of cobras in a Tangier night club but have the photos to prove it, I can remember one guy going a bit doolally and the only way to calm him (the local medical authorities not being interested) was to go and fill his mud hut with calming herbal smoke; needless to day, there was no shortage of volunteers. I can also remember that there was only water available in the camp between 8pm and 10pm. With the incidence of Arab tummy being quite high, I'll leave you to imagine the state of the communal bogs at about 7pm!!

Anyway, I digress. Founded by the Phoenicians, Algiers has historically been one of the main ports of the Mediterranean as well as the main centre for piracy. In 1511 the Spanish occupied an island in the city's harbor, but they were driven out when Barbarossa captured Algiers for the Turks. Algiers then became a base for the Muslim fleet that preyed upon Christian commerce in the Mediterranean. The French came along in 1830 and stayed around until 1962 when the armed struggle for independence, led by the OAS, resulted in a free Algeria.

The airport at Algiers isn't the most well-kept but it's flat and there was a fuelling depot so, leaving some links of 1924 and 1996 currency as a souvenir of Biggles Bassett, I once more took to the air for a shortish hop back up to the island of Palma de Mallorca.

This is me on the way there (kill the music first)!

A Grumpy Old Man's Guide to Christmas

2008-10-28T10:49:00.013Z

Christmas, that time beloved by all small children, shopkeepers, credit card companies and admirers of Carry On films will soon be upon us. This small offering seeks to provide some insight into that overblown, lumbering and unstoppable machine that is the festive season.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I love the interesting gifts that prove desperation can turn sensible people into panic-stricken buying machines (and special thanks there to Auntie Jean for those 12 different small pots of “Jams of the World” - a present I shall always treasure).I love the naïve hope that this year I will eat my Christmas lunch with its 7 varieties of overcooked vegetables, starter, pudding, various alcoholic beverages and STILL have room for cold meats, pickles etc as I watch the joyously festive murder/tragedy/catastrophe served up by the scriptwriters of EastEnders. I love the assortment of gaily coloured greetings cards from people met once on holiday many years ago with the brief note telling me that someone I have never met has had a baby and how festive Worksop looks at this time of year. Most of all though, I love the build-up to Christmas..........

Like the first cuckoo heralding Spring, the Advent Calendars melting gently in the September heat provide the first glimpse of that well-oiled machine, designed to rid us of our money, our sanity and any goodwill. You know then that the Christmas timetable is upon us and shortly, nothing in the supermarket is where it should be as all the everyday items have been pushed into small, dark corners to make way for far more important purchases like Mint Thins, cocktail cherries and cheesy footballs. Gift Catalogues as large as telephone directories crash through the letterbox reminding us to panic that there are only 2 months left to bankrupt ourselves, children start to compile the first few volumes of their Present List and we all utter those immortal words…. “This year, I am going to be really organised and get everything out of the way to save the last-minute panic”

Of course, it never happens. By early November, shopping centres see vast multitudes of people, secure in their smugness, wandering from shop to shop looking for that special present. By the end of the day, you see those same people, defeat and tiredness etched across their faces, clutching several rolls of wrapping paper, 2 calendars and a novelty kitchen implement trudging dejectedly back home.

And so it goes on. Week after week, we gradually whittle down the list with the main expenditure being the cost of car parking tickets (courtesy of those extorting bastards known as NCP) and headache tablets. The joy of hearing When a Child is Born in every shop we fight our way around is only slightly increased by the sadistic pleasure derived from thinking of the poor sods that work there and have to listen to it all day. All this is guaranteed to send us into a fit of homicidal rage and even a turkey seems to have a better outlook on life.

As the Day looms ever closer, we get to dread the sound of the front door bell and the 4 children standing there singing the first line of We Wish You a Merry Christmas before the youngest is pushed forward for their just reward.

By now, we have developed a siege mentality and are planning the final food shop. Cupboards are bulging with sweets, savouries, cakes, biscuits, chocolate and every conceivable relish, chutney and pickle so it’s only the fresh food left to get. Now this is where the strange quantum physics of food requirements kicks in. It goes something like this:

Allow 4 times the normal amount of food consumed per person and add sprouts. Multiply this by the inversely proportioned ratio of bodily sounds and functions as we sleep through the afternoon of Christmas day and subtract the amount of sherry consumed by any pensioners present. Failing this, just grab a shopping trolley and fill it with whatever you can find left on the shelves.

At last, you get to that wonderful moment on Christmas Eve when there is no more that can be done. This is that special time when one can sit down and relax, casting an appreciative eye over the decorations dropping from the walls where the Blu-Tack failed yet again and thanking all Gods that Noel Edmonds is no more a traditional part of Christmas Morning. Christmas Eve is also a good time to go and slip a card into an acquaintance’s letterbox if they haven’t sent you one already – guaranteed to send them into a panic of indecision.

Christmas morning finally arrives; that special time when all the New Year sales are first aired on the box and the summer holidays adverts are tempting us to spend even more money that we haven’t got.

……………………….. OK, I give in, it’s a fair cop. I LOVE the thought of Christmas really. Every year I still look forward to it although I do hate the build-up and the commercialisation. I still think of open fires and children’s laughter, strangers wishing each other a cheerful greeting and happiness and peace. Being with friends and loved ones, remembering the sheer joy that Christmas brings to children and that special air of excitement.

Perhaps that is what Christmas is all about: what is in one’s mind and in one’s heart. You can’t buy Christmas – you can only live it.

Now, where did I put those Easter Eggs…………………..?

Bertie's Travelogue Part 2 - Marseilles to Lisbon

2008-10-27T00:17:00.010Z

Well, I made it to Marseilles after a fairly uneventful trip down through France.It was a strangely real experience after a few hours at the controls, seeing the blue of the Mediterranean was really quite exciting as I was vectored in for a nice simple landing. Did you know Marseilles is the second biggest city in France as well as the oldest, dating back to 600BC? I didn't stay too long, pausing only for a quick bouillabaisse, a pastis and a look around for Popeye Doyle before climbing back on board and heading off to Sion in Switzerland.

Sion is up in the Swiss Alps and was my first experience of the "interesting" effect mountains have on an aircraft. I was thrown around a fair old bit and was having to keep my eye on both heading and altimeter all the time which,at the end of an almost 3 hour flight was a tad tiring. By now though, I was used to doing 6 things at once and the voices of the Air Traffic Controllers no longer provoked screams of "Alright, in a minute...stop being SO bossy" It was really rather lovely flying into Sion Valley and seeing the strip laid out inviting me to land. Sadly, I was way too high and the kamikaze dive was never going to work so I had to ask Traffic Control to send me round again (incidentally, one 'talks' by bringing up a list of options on screen relevant to any given situation).

A neat landing second time round and I made a big decision - I was going to change my aircraft. The Electra was all very well but was underpowered, cumbersome and, most importantly, had few sophisticated instruments. I wanted a bit more speed and, being a 20th century boy, I also wanted some technological conveniences. Popping into the local Planes 'R Us, I exchanged a few Euros and my trusty Electra for a rather fetching Mooney M20M Bravo with Garmin G1000 glass cockpit. I even managed to get the registration G_BERT!

Basically the G1000 is the bees knees of avionics and takes a lot of mundane tasks from the pilot. The software recommends downloading the actual manuals from the Garmin website in order to familiarise oneself! For me, it means yet another very steep learning curve but also the added benefit of auto-pilot so that I can at least read up on it as I fly.

The trip from Sion across to Bilbao was long, uneventful and boring and certainly the longest leg thus far. Fortunately the Mooney cruises at 150 knots, 25% faster than the Electra and that, combined with auto-pilot, made life easier. I haven't found out whether I can programme course changes into the G1000 yet so I am having to go manual for route changes and changes of airspace responsibility. I don't really mind because otherwise, I could just programme it and then forget the whole thing until journey's end. At the moment, I feel part of it and I'm starting to feel an affinity with the aircraft. I am very lucky that my PC spec. enables me to tweak the performace of the software so that I get a smooth, graphically realistic representation of the whole experience,. although even the aforesid tweaking needs a science degree. For those of a quizzical bent, here is a small part of the 'tweakability'.

I eventually arived at Bilbao (on my last drop of fuel) although sadly I have found no interesting facts about the city apart from the intriguingly designed Guggenheim Museum. Frank Gehry's spectacular edifice boasts to have no flat surface on the entire structure and houses works by Paul Cezanne, Pablo Picasso, Vasily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee.

l had a lovely early morning start down to Lisbon.

Weather is pretty good so far and, here's a clever bit; the weather is real-time weather which is downloaded/updated for the region I am in every 15 mins! How impressive is that?

Perhaps I am getting blasé about Europe but I can't help but look forward to getting to more exotic places. After Faro, I have a landing at Gibraltar to which I am really looking forward. I remember visiting there a good few years ago and it's a fascinating chunk of concrete, sort of stuck on the end of the Rock. I seem to recall that the main road runs across it so some poor sod might end up with my tyre marks on his roof.I got to Gibraltar by cattle boat from Tangier in real life so it will be nice to do it the comfortable way.

The fact that I am talking of the future shows that Bilbao to Lisbon was another flat, boring, flight. I soon got fed up with lookingaround at the featureless landscape and ended up reading my Flight Simulator X trainig manual - a mere 722 pages!

Incidentally, I was watching a programme late last night on Sky where round the world flights were mentioned. One guy in the 30s had a 32 hour leg in an aircraft where he was so confined, his shoulders literally touched the sides of the plane. They showed him being helped out after and his head was covered in blood where the turbulence kept smacking it against the cockpit roof. In some small way, I felt a little bit closer to that brave but foolhardy soul and, as I contemplated future journeys across the Pacific, I thought about how the last 80 odd years have seen such changes in our world. There seem to be few daredevils anymore, only the deep remains unexplored and challenges of man and machine no longer abound. People related to those venturers and they became the celebrities of their day. Ordinary men and women lived out their fantasies through such exploits as people today also endeavour to emulate those of celebrity status. Personally, I would rather aspire to Lindbergh than Katona any day.

Flown this blog:

Paris - Marseilles 342 nautical miles
Marseilles - Sian 210 nm
Sian - Bilbao 505 nm
Bilbao - Lisbon 412 nm

Bertie's Travelogue Part 1 - Farnborough to Marseilles

2008-10-23T18:02:00.008+01:00

Well, as you peruse this, dear reader, I am cruising gently southwards towards Marseilles, having just passed Avignon (and yes, I did sing it!). My flight from Farnborough to Paris was not without incident, however, as part of the simulation involves pre-flight checks involving switching magnetos, heating pitots, darning the parachute and other sundry tasks. Sadly, there is no documentation so there followed several scenes variously involving total inaction, take off followed by an ominous silence as the engines died or a strangely beautiful ballet as I corkscrewed through the air before splatting into the ground.

After some frantic research and armed with a full list of pre-start, startup, taxiing, take-off, climb-out ....yawn .... cruise, descent...zzzzzzz..., approach, landing etc etc checklists, I finally soared off into the wild blue yonder. Pootling off southwards, the nice man at Air Traffic Control passed me onto Shoreham ATC where I was admonished for being at the wrong height as I dropped down to see where I was born. Up I rose and said a fond farewell to Blighty whilst playing "We'll Meet Again" on my Dansette Junior.

I got a bit muddled for a while and ended up over Deauville but finally saw the gleaming dome of the Basilica of Sacré Coeur and, more importantly, the lights of Orly airport. Feeling rather smug at my navigational prowess, I decided to video my landing as part of this blog (another clever part of Flight Simulator X) and post my triumphant touchdown. Needless to say, my landing was roughly similar to a kangaroo on a trampoline which is why I will just show you a nice picture of Paris!

I refilled my trusty Electra and filed my next flight plan before once more taking to the skies en route to Marseille - a city pretty high on my list of must-visit places.

Incidentally, by sheer coincidence, after I mentioned Amelia Earhart in the last blog there was a Sky documentary on the lady that very same day! How spooky was that? Apparently, there was a very strong rumour that she didn't actually disappear whilst circumnavigating the globe through aircraft failure but was captured by the Japanese and accused of conspiring with the US government by using her flight as an excuse to spy on the strength of the Japanese military forces. The contention was that, eventually, she was summarily executed. If you want a read - yer tiz!

Toodle pip!

Around the World in 80 Flights

2008-10-20T19:56:00.008+01:00

Recently, I decided the time was ripe for a foray into global circumnavigation. Having checked my air miles and realising that, even if I flew really quickly, 57 miles would be insufficient ,I had to settle for a virtual trip and this has now been planned. Flying a 1937 Lockheed Electra 10E, the intention is to start from Farnborough and, hopefully, end up back there 80 flights later.

Details are as follows:

The entire journey covers a staggering 43,000 miles across the planet
Over 60 countries are either visited or flown over during the course of the journey
The entire trip will take approximately 400 hours to complete
The journey includes crossing both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans
The northernmost point of the route is Sondre Stromfjord in Greenland, whilst the southernmost point is Darwin in Australia

Naturally, I may well not do it over the next few weeks but it seems like a pretty cool thing to say I have flown around the world in real time. I shall accordingly keep a journal of the trip and post the occasional blog detailing my adventures and also a few salient (or totally irrelevant) facts about the areas over which I have flown. I am mindful of some of my predecessors like Earhart, St Exupery & Glenn Miller, all of whom disappeared during flights, and am therefore appreciative of any glowing tributes before I disappear so that I can read them!

At the moment, I am hurriedly studying the vagaries of Air Traffic Control, flight planning and how to pee out of the window of a twin engined aircraft at speed. I have radios and people keep telling me where to go (nothing new there then) but up until now I have, to be honest, been more of the school of "aim for where you're going and hope for the best". The first leg is a short trip of 243.8 nautical miles to Paris Orly and below is the flight plan - 9 changes of heading and Bonjour Paree! I'm currently struggling with vectors, frequencies and even what call sign to have - Bravo Echo Romeo Tango six nine?
It's really quite weird planning it all as it's now taking on some strange reality and it'll be interesting to see if it actually feels like I'm crossing the Equator, gazing down at the landing strip at Mogadishu or flying over the Earth's smallest nation (Nauru - 8 square miles!). No doubt we shall see.

Thoughts for the Day

2008-10-05T18:41:00.010+01:00

I know I've said this before but I really do think that blog writing for me has come to a natural end - either temporarily or permanently.

Ennui seems to have overtaken my life and I can't really be arsed to even get annoyed about too many things as is my rightful role. Meldrewitis (as it is clinically known) seems to have either tucked its head below the parapet or perhaps I am so annoyed at everything, there comes a natural neutralisation of all things rantable. Allow me to give you an example:

Saturday night; totally bored, TV full of capering terpsichorean 'celebrities', people's home movies showing somebody dropping a bucket of paint on their head whilst decorating in a desperate attempt to have us believe that they just happened to always keep video records of redecorating and it's nothing to do with causing £300 worth of damage and hassle to try and win £250! Personally, I would rather pay £250 not to have that idiotic buffoon Harry Hill on my screen. I was bored with sitting in front of a PC. I had spent the day realising that my recent gastro-enteritis was merely an hors d'oeuvre to the real thing and therefore not at my best.

Anyway, I decided to do a jigsaw. I quite like jigsaws as long as they are not the normal landscapes, flowers, soulful-eyed animals or other sundry charity shop rejects. Something that is vibrant, makes one think or has a picture of Felicity Kendal in her prime tend to be on my list of faves. Perhaps something like a Wasgij?

The one I selected was 1000 pieces and I sat down to the task of sorting the edges. This is, of course, totally boring but necessary. I patiently sorted and also religiously turned all the pieces up the right way until I was finished and noticed that the edge pieces pile was a tad small. I grant you, I might miss the odd one or two but when a 1000 piece jigsaw only yields 23 edge pieces then something is definitely amiss. The sheer calumny of such a deed suddenly hit me - some evil swine had deliberately sabotaged MY jigsaw! Charity shop purchases might sometimes have a piece missing, occasioned by a negligent previous owner, but to deliberately take out a large percentage of the edge had the effect of equating clipping a wing mirror whilst driving along to racing a 4x4 through a crowded shopping centre wearing a blindfold.

Now, going back to my opening comments, I would normally shout, swear, borrow a cat to kick etc but not this time. I merely sat there and sighed. Let me say though, whoever you are, you are a cad!

If you are listening to my latest juke box, you might notice I decided to put together a sort of prog rock compilation. Whether it's age, associations or lack of taste, I actually think some of these stand up pretty well so feel free to drift away to the strains of Soft Machine and Juicy Lucy (hands up who remembers their first album cover?)

Sundry other thoughts:

I am not normally one to apportion blame but who else has noticed that the Western economic recession was prefaced by Carol Vorderman exhorting people to hock themselves up to their eyeballs on credit? That woman has a lot to answer for!

Talking of selling out, I will say only four words: Johnny Rotten, Country Life (shakes head in despair).

I've been doing a bit of playing on PhotoShop recently in a bid to actually effect the transition from PaintShop Pro. One thing I really enjoyed was a little tutorial on repairing and colouring old black and white pictures and here are a couple of results.

I have a Wacom graphics tablet which I use and, for anyone who designs/draws/plays with graphics software, I heartily recommend their use (they make a bloody good toy for gadget freaks as well).

October: Summer over, nights drawing in, Advent calendars in the shops, cold, wet, miserable. May I be the first to say.....Bah, humbug!

Have a nice day.

Dad - In Memoriam

2008-09-26T23:49:00.002+01:00

It's been a year. Miss you, Pops.

Read it and Weep

2008-09-24T22:56:00.004+01:00

You may have read earlier blogs this year when Gertie, my beloved gall-bladder, was (to mis-quote Macbeth) from his father's abdominal cavity untimely ripped. At the time, I was perhaps a tad harsh on our health system when I rashly (and possibly cynically) intimated that 5 admissions to get the job done was arguably not over-efficient. I may have drawn parallels between the service I got then to the time when, as a valued employee, I was a recipient of private health insurance. I say 'may have' as I lack the courage to re-read those particular blogs in case I get bitter and twisted about the residual scar left by the machete-wielding psychopath whom the Dept. of Health & Mutilation let loose on my body.

The last thing I want to do is go on and on and on about the vicious slash marks left on my poor, abused physique. Not the small laparoscopic blemish left on any other recipient of a cholecystectomy - oh no, MY surgical cicatrice was so big Lloyd frigging Grossman could have gone through the keyhole! Anyway, I'm certainly not going to think about it any more although, between you and me, I am considering a personal injury claim. I've heard tell of some reformed prostitutes who have taken legal training and opened up an injury claims helpline specifically for cases such as mine - they're called the ScarPhone Whorehouse!

Recently, I have been reintroduced to the joys of private medicine as the NHS decided to shorten their wating list by offering Mrs B a replacement knee at the local private Nuffield Hospital. When we heard, I rather spoiled the pleasure of this medical equivalent of a flight upgrade by pointing out it would normally cost an arm and a leg - hmmm, not the best phrase to use perhaps? Anyway, the pre-operation ...........sorry, I mean pre-procedure assessment (bloody Americanisms!) was all dealt with on time and with numerous offers to help ourselves to tea or coffee The following week, Mrs B was ensconced in a private room with excellent catering, the operat......procedure was carried out and and it was all rather nice.

Now, to the nub of the matter. We have all sat in a GP's surgery waiting for the obligatory 48 minute delay before those 30 precious seconds where we are finally allowed into the presence of this scion of pharmacalogical expertise.

I'm pretty sure that I am not alone insofar as I spend a lot of that waiting time rehearsing exactly what I want to say; the symptoms and how they present themselves, all beautifully succinct and word perfect until we step into the inner sanctum where it all goes tits up and I lamely stand there and say "Erm, I'm OK really Doc. Dunno why I'm here really' whilst casting covetous glances at all the drug company freebies adorning the room. The reasons for that frantic rehearsal are not necessarily all because of my desire to appear organised and efficient but also due, in part, to the reading matter strewn around the waiting room.

Being an optimistic soul, I always hope that there might actually be something worthwhile to read rather than Peoples Friend circa July 2005 or the many and varied leaflets and booklets which are designed to help me cope with stopping smoking, glaucoma , excess wind, living with fungal nail infections etc. I remember once finding a National Geographic magazine with some wonderful pictures of the Gobi Desert and I still make a beeline for any National Geographics which surface in these slowly mutating piles in the hope of discovering it once more. On the whole though, I sit back defeated and listen to the glorious CD of Songs from the Shows which plays constantly through the sound system, punctuated occasionally by the guffaws of the lucky bastard who's found the one and only Reader's Digest and its 'Laughter - the best medicine' page.

Of course, it's all different at the Nuffield. Glossy magazines extolling the virtues of the Caribbean, current OK magazine, the day's newspapers, The Tatler, Golf World - all arranged neatly on occasional tables around the various waiting rooms. You can tell it's posh there because, by the end of the day, they haven't been nicked and the sudoku has been completed by fountain pen.

That's the real difference between NHS and the private sector. Forget the waiting times, ignore the MRSA infected wards - it's all down to the quality of the reading matter. Get a subscription to Horse and Hound in every hospital and the whole thing's solved - easy!

Incidentally, the inspiration behind this blog was due to a visit to a 'foreign' GP surgery this morning as Mrs B had to have a retinopathy test. As I sat down in the portakabin, I pondered on the difference of standards between there and the Nuffield but was gratified to see 2 extremely glossy magazines sitting there invitingly. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all, I thought as I made myself comfortable and tried to decide between............ WeightWatchers magazine or Pregnancy & Birth! Ho hum.

Sunday Morning

2008-09-07T08:02:00.002+01:00

Sunday morning. Nothing special - same as any other morning really.

When I was younger, I had the same dream several times over the years. I was in this old church - the type with the enormous stone columns running down it. On the side where I stood was sunlight and warmth whilst on the other side, beyond the columns, was darkness and a real feeling of evil. Not being one who really believes in dream interpretation I merely assumed it was my own sides of good and bad and a recognition thereof. Thinking about it now, perhaps the side I was on was the "bad" side, for surely good and bad can be subjective? Maybe the side which I have tried to avoid all my life is, in fact, the side to which I should have moved?

Society dictates what is good or bad. For example, cannibalism is wrong to all but the cannibal. They would sit on their island, happily nibbling their Kentucky Fried Missionary until, somehow, they had the status quo changed. They knew no different and it was the accepted norm. It's only when somebody comes along and, in whatever way, sways the balance of popular opinion and thus changes perception that guilt is born.

Freud thought guilt served to effectively regulate social behaviour although I would suggest that it also serves to crush free expression and subjugate the masses if used judiciously. How much of our lives do we lead in a virtuous way? How many people have had said of them "Oh, he led a good life"? Am I being cynical when I ask if leading a good life is because we haven't got the balls to feel guilty and are therefore taking the easy way out?

I have neither led a good life nor a bad one. I have lived a life tempered by guilts, real and imagined, and they have shaped its course. It has been a cowardly life in many ways although the only person who knew I was being a coward was the person from whom I could never escape - me! Some would say I have been caring and generous and that therefore brings us back to the reasons behind such actions. It would be interesting to see what people really thought of me throughout the years? Somehow, I don't think many would be able to answer in depth. How can I ever let others see what I cannot?

Relative Kindness

2008-09-01T22:59:00.008+01:00

In previous musings I have waxed lyrical about the delights of Sky TV and how my life has been enriched by the plethora of channels at which I can gaze and wonder what the fuck I am doing paying £45 per month for such crap? There are of course the occasional consolations like, for instance, sport, How It's Made and the farming programme on Sundays which seems to major on Eastern European tractors but such gems are few and far between.

Sky Sports 1 last Monday broadcast a live 40 over cricket match from the County Ground at Hove where Sussex took on the might of Lancashire and I was among the spectators, courtesy of my son. As we sat there pouring cups of tea into our pockets in a bid to combat the hypothermia of a typical summer's evening, I took solace in the fact that I could enjoy the secret pleasure of seeing myself on the goggle box should I survive the weather. Oh I know we all act blasé when a camera is pointed at us but as soon as I got home and had sat in the fridge for a while to warm up, I was running through Sky+ in a bid to spot Yours Truly. What a waste of time! They had plenty of crowd shots of the bloke dressed as a policewoman, the drunkards in the glitter wigs, winsome children huddled under blankets and studiously filling in scorecards, women looking puzzled by the whole process but dutifully doling out sandwiches and Cup-a-Soup but were there any of the Bassetts? Not a Dickie Bird (cue all cricket aficionados to laugh at the pun). Anyway, I digress so let us return to the glories of Sky.

Recently, due to Mrs B's enforced incarceration, I have discovered other little gems which have made the last couple of weeks that bit more bearable. For example, last night at about 2am, I watched the first ever Thunderbirds! I was fascinated by the sophistication although I was perspicacious enough to spot a couple of flaws in the plot. Needless to say, the good guys won through in the end and I went to bed, tired but happy. I can also now speak knowledgeably on the manufacture of golf balls, the Great Wall of China and the values of antiques according to the Antiques Roadshow circa 1986.

Getting (finally) to the nub of this blog, I was privileged today to enjoy one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed. As you know, I like humour.....in fact, I need humour in my life yet I tend not to demonstrate that enjoyment by outward shows of giggling or laughter. Today, I was almost literally wetting myself as I witnessed a moment of TV class.

Some of you may be aware of a charity called The Dog's Trust which advertises on Sky along with many other worthy causes. This particular plea has always amused me because of the obvious sincerity of the actor, his promise that "your" dog will write to you regularly and the assurance that they never put down a healthy dog. I have this mental picture of a few of the mutts chatting together along these lines:

"Shit, I think I'm getting a cold! For Dog's sake, don't let them know I'm unhealthy otherwise I'm off to that great kennel in the sky"

"Huh, you should worry. I've got 245 letters to be written by tonight and the bloody laptop's on the blink again!"

"Well, it's your own fault. If you hadn't have looked so appealing they'd have picked someone else to go in the ad......you (atchoo) poser!"

"Well, it was either that or put that stupid wig on for the Dulux ad. If they think I'm going to ponce around in that, they can sniff my ass!"

This morning, I was doing domestic things in the kitchens when I heard a familiar voice. Yes, it was the Dog's Trust man but this time he was touting for another charity. As I looked up, I was amazed to find he was exhorting us all to adopt a grandmother!!! It was couched in similar vein, as he spoke of the little old grandmothers in far-off places who had given their all for their off-spring. He promised that they would write to their British saviours and I had wondrous visions of Bengali grannies getting out the Basildon Bond and telling us proudly of how their grandson is now so well-off he can sponsor a dog.

It was a beautifully Pythonesque scenario yet totally sincere. Sadly, I was unable to hear if they put down unhealthy grannies as, by this time, I was rolling around on the floor, clutching my sides. Mind you, had they omitted that reassurance, does that mean the ultimate sanction? Just imagine: instead of the nice letter from your grannie, you get a terse, typewritten note stating that, due to a minor fungal nail infection, you now have a new granny! I had to go and Google the charity in the end as I couldn't quite believe what I had heard and it most certainly exists and, I am sure, does totally laudable work.

Oh well, I thought it was funny!

Decision Time

2008-08-23T11:47:00.004+01:00

As you might have realised, I am firmly established in the "grumpy git" category of mankind. I seem to have made that transition from benevolence to malevolence with an ease which encourages me to research my family tree under B for Borgia in order to find Great Aunt Lucrezia and prove that evil thoughts are a work of gene-ius.

Sadly, my frustration with all the petty annoyances of life is not outwardly manifested. Oh, to be one of these people that can shout and cause trouble at the drop of a hat. I tend to use subtlety which, of course, goes over the heads of many but has the advantage of making me feel better without risking an admonitory smack in the face from the recipient of such comments. Sometimes, of course, the object of my wrath is not eligible for the mot subtile and this is where the laser cannon comes to prominence. "Eh? Laser cannon? What's the stupid old duffer chuntering on about now?" I hear you ask. Allow me to elucidate.

Let us say that an old, red BMW comes down the road. It will have the obligatory twat in the go-faster sunglasses driving (usually way over the speed limit). It will have the obligatory "long blonde hair, short dark roots" bimbo beside him and also 20, 000 watts of drum 'n bass pounding out and leaving a trail of pedestrians wondering why their ears have suddenly started bleeding profusely? I could scream something subtle as he flashes past ("Tosser" springs to mind) but I gain far more satisfaction from imagining my laser cannon in my arms, sighting along the barrel and then watching the aforesaid vehicle explode into a million tiny pieces.

It helps me get round Scummerfields as I decimate the queues of people in front of me buying their pack of Golden Virginia and £2.30 a litre bottle of Serbian vodka. The satisfaction as I lay waste the rabble around the Reduced section before strolling through the smoking bodies to take my pick of the out of date coleslaws and pro-biotic drinks is almost palpable.

OK, you've got the picture now so I can get to the nub of the matter.

This morning, whilst out strolling, I was passed by a Suzuki Vitara (you know, the cheap one that tries to pretend it's going to be a 4x4 when it grows up). As it drove past, I noticed it had written on the rear window, in large pink letters, "Powered by Fairy Dust". Naturally, without even thinking, I hoisted my laser cannon to my shoulder and, just as I was going to pull the trigger, I noticed a Liverpool FC sticker in the side window. My finger hesitated and I was faced with a tough decision.

Anyone who admits that they are a total and utter loser by mentioning fairy dust really deserves oblivion. It's classified under the same sub-section of Life as sweet-looking animals on nightwear and talking baby talk to adults.........however, there must be a semblance of intellect there somewhere if they support the Reds unless, of course, there is a man around who has vainly attempted to give the Vitara some semblance of machismo. In the end, I pulled the trigger rationalising that, if she was a Liverpool supporter she was fatally flawed. Were he to be the fan then the loss of his sticker was a small price to pay for ridding him of someone who likes fairy frigging dust!

Life is all about decisions. We make them and we live with those decisions. I have made many wrong ones but today, when I returned home, I strolled in safe in the knowledge that I had provided yet another contribution to making the world just that little bit better.

If you want fairy dust then might I suggest something like this is far more appropriate!!

Precious Moments

2008-08-14T23:16:00.003+01:00

I'm sure that many parents will agree that there is a direct relationship between growing older and embarrassing one's children. When they are little, they are happy for you to whirl them around, play on the swings with them, dash around like a mad thing and generally fulfil the role of entertainer until that fateful day when they utter the dreaded words which will become oh so familiar over the following years.........."Dad, you are SOOOO embarrassing!".

It's quite strange that, the more they want you to stop, the more the desire grows, for example: my daughter and I might be wandering around the supermarket and I might do something perfectly innocent like suggest I practice my Hunchback of Notre Dame impression. My beautiful little girl fixes me with a steely gaze, her lips tighten and she hisses at me "Dad, if you even try, I promise you I am walking out of here.". I admit that there are times when I might just have gone a bit too far but anybody would think that they are under the impression that I am nothing other than a staid, well-behaved and placid oldie. I really wonder from whence this impression arises (teehee)?

Master and Miss Bassett are now 22 and 18 respectively and, sadly, I have to admit that the days of playing Hide and Seek or them joining in the "Don't Walk on the Cracks in the Pavement" game are now gone but I feel the need to embarrass them just one more time (although there are still my speeches at any future weddings to look forward to!!).

The reason for this embarrassment is because I just wanted to place on record my pride in their achievements.

Today, Miss Bassett became the official recipient of A Levels in English, Law and Psychology and has gained her place at Brighton University where she will be undertaking a degree in English Language & Linguistics. I always hoped that she would go to Uni as it was something that I was not allowed to even attempt. The fact that she has inherited her Dad's love of words is even better. Congratulations, sweetheart, you deserve your success - now go and enjoy it.

Master Bassett is a different kettle of fish. He has more of a natural ability rather than a scholastic bent and decided, after his first year of college, that he wanted to progress through his own efforts rather than waste time learning 'irrelevancies'. At the time I was quite happy for him to go along that route as I had the confidence in him. He had always wanted to become a police officer and, as of 1st October, his wish becomes true. I have total admiration for the way that he has gone for his dream and the first time I see him in uniform will be a big moment for me.

All in all, it's been a satisfactory time where the offspring are concerned. Sure, lots of people go to University and there are a fair numbers of coppers around but the fact remains that 2 of them are mine.

It's funny; in my head I can say a million words that describe the love and respect I have for them yet, for once, I can't seem to put those thoughts on paper. Suffice to say, well done and may your future's be all you wish them to be. We're incredibly proud of you both and I'm sure that your grandparents will be looking down with pride also.

Charity Begins at Home

2008-08-02T23:04:00.007+01:00

Once upon a time, I was a young boy. I know the thought of this mature, august countenance as a tousle-headed, freckle-faced youth is a bit hard to bear but yes; a boy I was. This isn't something that will surprise most people - it's one of those strange aspects of Life that we are born young and get older but I preface this particular blog in such a way for a reason.

In those long-past days one had very little compared to the present. Things lasted longer and we "made do". Clothes were passed down through the kids (thank God my older sibling was male!), toys were played with for many years, adults would sit around the television watching Billy Cotton's Bandshow on the one solitary channel and the only exhortations to buy were the local shopkeeper tempting the shopper with the promise of some lovely fresh sausages.

Then of course we got commercial television and the wonderfully exotic adverts persuading us to buy new and exciting products like Coco Pops, Fairy Liquid ('for hands that do dishes') and Smarties. The Milky Bar Kid became the hero of us all and we ran to the shop clutching our 3d, having fallen under the influence of early marketing. Time passed and the marketing industry became more sophisticated until we reached that stage where we became inundated with pleas to buy everything from holidays to health products, cosmetics to caravans and eye surgery to iPods.

This consumer society meant houses were filled to bursting with all sorts of "must collect" products which, once they got home, quickly became "dust collect" products until somebody had a bright idea - charity shops! Suddenly, houses were quickly emptied of products and a whole new era of shopping heaven was born. Those first charity shops tended to be full of very old books, yoghurt makers and quaint clothing but it was still a chance to browse through for the odd treasure. Time passed and it seemed that every empty shop became the repository of abandoned goods for some charity or another. There were bargains aplenty and it enabled people on a lower income to perhaps benefit as well as providing funds for the charities in question. Of course, it also enabled quite a few people to make a fast buck as they quickly realised that the charities hadn't really appreciated just what a gold mine they were sitting upon.

The reason for all this? I have to confess, I can't walk past a charity shop without popping in. As I walk through the door, there is a frisson of expectation and, more often than not, I emerge with something or other. Of course, the charities are a lot more slick these days and siphon off the good stuff but my 'treasures' are of the simple variety such as books, games, LPs,; perhaps even memories of times gone by that just have to be bought.

When I was doing my regular Quiz Nights, there was a constant source of reference material, when I went through my jigsaw period I couldn't resist several puzzles at a time, if I suddenly become fond of a particular author then I will scour the shops for their work. Last visit, we returned with the following:

An unusual copy of Alice In Wonderland
Jane's Aircraft Recognition Guide
"The Office" Scripts
A Terry Pratchett hardback (yep, there are still a few hardback editions I haven't got)
A book on watercolour perspectives, and
The one Bill Bryson I needed to complete his entire collection

It's quite interesting how trends change in charity shop bookshelves. Once, every shop would have plenty of Geoffrey Archer novels and it would be a matter of honour to spot one before we left (I never bought one - honest!). It was an arbiter of the day to come and, should I occasionally find an Archer-less shelf, I knew that the day was destined for mediocrity. Nowadays, it's The DaVinci Code and the game is to see how many I can find in one shop (current leader is Lewes Oxfam with 4 copies!). I'm often to be seen browsing through the kid's books as well, looking for Famous Five, William and other gems of my youth.

There has been the occasional embarrassment as well. One in particular occurred when I saw a very sweet rubber duck (have I told this story before?). Brand new and still in its box, I took it to the sweet little old lady at the counter and explained how pleased I was to find it as such things gave Mrs B a lot of pleasure and she had a large collection. It was only after, when we opened it, the we found it was actually a novelty vibrator and the duck's head was not quite the shape that we envisaged! Needless to say, I haven't ventured into that particular shop subsequently.

To those of you dear readers that enjoy charity shops, help me beat the DaVinci Code record. To those of you who don't, please bear them in mind that us poor addicts need your cast-offs. Might I suggest Help the Aged as your chosen charity as I may well need them in the near future!

I'd love to know what your "best buys" have been. Feel free to leave a comment :-)

Bye bye, Big Brother

2008-07-20T20:25:00.007+01:00

I have to admit the fascination of Big Brother has meant I've had to do some catching up on the soaps over the weekend. There are not that many programmes that I really like although Q.I., Judge John Deed, cooking shows (unless they have that grinning idiot Ainsley Harriott) and Coronation Street will always be recorded.

Fortunately, the appeal of Big Brother has palled due to the pathetic antics of the inmates. I was rather hoping I might see some interesting studies of human nature, mature debate and a few eccentrics but have had to put up with whingeing, spoilt brats, embittered moaners, sad, personality-less boy/men and immature wannabees. So, this weekend I've been able to play catch-up on Corrie.

The reason I document this is to celebrate the mention of Neil Young on my favourite soap. Actually, the episode in question proved what a sad person I am as the events unfolded a bit like this:

Jerry: .........rather like Marrakesh Express

Vernon: Ah, yes, Crosby Stills Nash & Young. Good song.

Me (screaming): It was NOT CSNY. It was Crosby Stills & Nash. Neil Young was touring with Crazy Horse in 1969 and didn't join them until their second album!!! For goodness' sake, get your f*cking facts right.

I turned to Mrs B and said to her "Norris would have known that. He's a man that gets his facts right." She looked at me sadly and nodded. Enough said!

Anyway, on to other matters and it's time to have a pop at Nationwide Building Society. You've all seen the ads where the guy from the other bank does it all wrong and the voiceover extols the virtues of Nationwide. Now, I receive a reasonable pension from Nationwide and have to say that they were extremely good employers. They paid nice bonuses, gave me the run of their stationery inventory and every 9 months sent me some corporate clothing (albeit designed by Jeff Banks). Best of all, they subsidised my entertaining and playing golf in the name of business whilst, just occasionally, expecting me to drop into the various offices under my command.

These adverts of theirs are quite funny, I have to say. Forget the fact that I made a training video along exactly those lines about 10 years ago and got sod all for it; I'm not bitter. What has annoyed me however is regarding their latest Home Insurance ad offering 20% premium discount. Remember the ad where the guy comes in complaining that his savings rate has dropped and the Bank Manager says "Oh, that's our juicy worm rate."? As an insurance customer of theirs for donkey's years, my immediate thought was that they are doing exactly the same thing! What about loyalty, Nationwide? See, I retire and the place falls to rack and ruin!!

I'm not normally one to complain but if anyone from Customer Services Dept. at Northampton is reading this; be prepared!

What else has happened recently? I've decided to build a bigger and better Mission Control for all out PCs etc. The trouble is that with my modelling, Mrs B's painting and various other things going on, the room we use is not big enough any longer. This room is therefore going to be a sewing/quilting room along with my modelling stuff whilst the computers will be moving to the lounge where I shall build a new desk etc to accomodate both them, the painting and my flight sim. hardware.

The desk will be 10 feet x 3 feet and yesterday the sheet of MDF was delivered. Trying to get it upstairs was a bit of a headache but it was duly placed in the lounge where I have to make a few minor adjustments to it as well as fit it and build a new unit underneath. I decided that a jigsaw was an essential piece of equipment and duly whizzed off to purchase same. This was not one of my better journeys, namely:

Petrol Station: Why did I choose the queue for the pump that ran out of unleaded just as I got there?

C7 Newhaven to Lewes Road: Why did I get halfway and then find the road closed so had to divert several miles?

Lewes: Why was the road to Argos closed apart from essential traffic?

Argos: Classifying my mission as "essential", I drove triumphantly into the small lane to the Argos car park and was aghast to find myself in the middle of a host of Morris Dancers!

I know I get steamed up about quite a few things but Morris Dancers are fairly high on the list. There I was, the only car in sight, suddenly surrounded by a load of loonies with beards, waving hankies and capering about like Parkinsons' sufferers on Speed. The women all looked the same - rosy cheeks and "I use a mooncup" written all over their stupid smiling faces. I was totally trapped betwixt the crowd and the manic street performers when one wandered over and smiled benignly at me. I wound down the window and was assailed by a blast of Harveys best bitter before the jingling fool informed me that "they wouldn't be long". Entertaining thoughts of justifiable road rage and homicide, I sat there and eventually made it into the car park. Grrrrrrrrr!

I now have a room full of timber and a jigsaw that I have now tested and find it has a mind of it's own. Anybody want a 10x3 piece of fretwork?

Finally, just a few shots of the 3 models I've been working on lately. Not great but I have loved the satisfaction, discipline and tought processes involved. Perhaps more on their construction later. I'm currently working on a 1/32 scale Sea Venom, made by Revell. To anybody out there thinking of buying a model for someone, choose Revell only if you dislike the recipient or he knows what he is doing - compared to Hasegawa or Tamiya, they are a nightmare!

Click photo to enlarge

Random Ramblings (part 361)

2008-07-13T00:00:00.009+01:00

I've got a bit of a block at the moment. Well, truth be told, I can't force myself to write: I merely react to situations or stimulations through words.

I wish I was more of a creative person. I make models which have been formed by somebody else and I just finish them. I am adept at using Photoshop to change images but I'm unable to create my own. I can't draw, paint, carve, sew, play an instrument or even whistle with my fingers. All I can do is write. When I don't feel in the mood then life becomes that little bit less satisfying.

In a bid to get the old creative juices flowing, I've written down loads of questions and can now occasionally pick some at random to natter about. Here's the first group:

If you gave a dinner party, which people living or dead) would you invite?

Terry Pratchett, Stephen Fry, Lao Tzu, Hernando Cortez, Cecil Rhodes, Oscar Wilde, Bill Bryson, John Lennon, Salvador Dali and Leonardo da Vinci.

Do you prefer Prada or Primark?

I've never been a "labels" person but I like nice clothes that fit well. Sadly, these days I tend to slob around in jeans and tee shirt so don't really need to traipse round shops too much. Having said that, my wardrobes seem to be bulging with clothes!

What are your best & worst characteristic?

My worst is a predilection to drift off into my own little universe and push people away. Partly, as I don't feel that I deserve them but also partly because I am comfortable there. My thinking has a horizon and, just now and again, I can see another horizon beyond it, kind of like another layer of thought which tantalizes me but I can't, or won't quite grasp it. I guess my best characteristic is that I can make people laugh (At least, I hope I can! Aaaaaaargh!!).

Your most visited website
At the moment, it's Digital Spy Forums as I became fascinated by the "social experiment" that is Big Brother. I am very lucky to have made some very good and caring friends on there and it provides a vehicle for me to join in the banter and generally play the fool. Having said that, I have about 50 sites bookmarked which I use regularly for one thing or another.

What crime would you commit if you were guaranteed to remain undiscovered?

I'd probably forge an unlimited use British Airways ticket (First Class, of course!)

What career path would you have chosen?

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and perhaps I should have stayed in the Diplomatic Service.
Given a choice of career though, I guess either an RAF pilot or an entertainer of some sort.

The former because I would love to have that skill and freedom whilst the latter would give me the means to hide behind another persona.

If you had to spend £200 on yourself, what would you buy?

I'm really not very good at buying things for myself and always have to be persuaded. This is probably to salve my "I don't deserve this" conscience whilst underneath I crave all sorts of things. I'm very lucky in that I have all the possessions I want so probably I'd buy a new compressor for my airbrush or a Sony Electronic Book.

What gift would you like?

Simple - The gift of Knowledge

Would you like to be famous?

Not for fame's sake but perhaps as someone who has gained respect through a positive contribution to Life

Name 3 privileges which you have been granted?

My children, my time spent scuba diving where I have been allowed a glimpse into another secret world and, finally, the support of those that love me.

Now I've read that back, it's really quite a boring bit of writing. Do I post it and risk my few readers drifting off into total boredom or do I not? One of the reasons I write my blog is as a diary of me so perhaps I might just publish and be damned!

I'm Touched by Your Presents, Dear

2008-06-25T23:00:00.007+01:00

I had a bit of a traumatic experience yesterday. More of that later but, as will be made clear, this moment of trauma started me thinking about presents.

My Mother was a bit frustrating at birthday and Christmas time as, whatever I asked for, she almost got! For example, I would ask for a plain white shirt and she'd get me one with a thin stripe. I'd ask for a new football and she'd get me a rugby ball. I'd ask for a certain type of toy and she'd get me something that was almost right. It was always justified in some way but the truth of the matter was that the present she purchased was a "bargain" and she, bless her, just loved those. This was exemplified on my 21st birthday when I specifically asked for a certain type of record player (showing my age again!). Of course I didn't get it - I got another brand which was defended by her comment that the one she had bought was a lot more expensive but, because it was reduced in a sale (and thus cheaper than the one I wanted), it represented far more value for money as well as being a much better piece of kit. I did, at one point, just think of asking for money but no doubt Mum would have given me francs as the exchange rate was better!

Because of this, I have always appreciated the care and thought that has been put into subsequent presents from loved ones and the kids. Of course, when the kids were younger, "thank you" had sometimes to be said through gritted teeth. For example, when I started playing golf, I was inundated by golf-orientated presents. Everything from toothbrush holders in the shape of a golfer to strange Inquisition-type implements allowing one to monogram one's balls!

As they got older, their taste improved. That is, until my son became old enough to go on holidays on his own.

It all started when he went to Egypt a couple of years ago when, accompanied by many sniggers, he presented me with the following. Lovely!

His next trip out resulted in this little offering. Are you beginning to see a theme here?

By this time, war had been declared and I looked forward to finding the most appalling presents for him when I went away. Due to circumstances, I've had few opportunities thus far but this is one battle I am determined to win.

Anyway, when he came back from Spain earlier this year, one of the things he got me was a boob stress ball, similar to these.

It lived on my desk and I used to sit here and have a jolly good squeeze every so often. Being only the owner of only the oneone, I was still able to use the computer with the other hand!

Anyway, we finally reach the nub of this whole blog. Yesterday, I was absent-mindedly having a good squidge when it exploded! One moment I was relieving my stress and the next, I was covered in this gooey clearish-white liquid. It looked as if I had been relieving my stress in a totally different way as I gazed in horror at this vast amount of gunge which had predominantly shot into my lap. My boob looked very sad as it sat there, shrivelled and empty but my first thought was relief that the weak point had been pointed at me rather than my computer set up.

I got up and waddled awkwardly into the bathroom where I gazed at myself and this nasty, sticky mess all over me. I dabbed ineffectually at the huge globs all over my black jeans and thought of how some guys would be proud to see such a sight. In the end, I just took everything off as, by that time, there was a spreading feeling of cold wetness which was decidedly uncomfortable.

I would therefore offer a word of caution to any of my male readers who make the acquaintance of a lady who has had implants - be gentle. The consequences of an over-exuberant caress can be catastrophic! I am now stressed, boobless and no longer comfortable in the bosom of my family, so to speak. How can I tell Master Bassett that I have utilised his boob so much I broke it? It's just like my youth all over again - I'm bought a present and it all goes tits up!

Sweet Sensations

2008-06-24T00:06:00.005+01:00

Those oh so lucky persons on the internet that know me are aware of some of my little foibles....Hang on, I think I'll restart this before the rude comments come flying!

Some of my dear internet friends are aware that I have one particular vice. Well, when I say vice, it's more an all-consuming passion. An act for which I crave but, once completed, leaves me disappointed and longing for the days of my youth when the enjoyment was so much more fulfilling (and the vice in question was much bigger!).

Were I of the stature of Shakespeare then I would compose an ode in adoration but I'm not. Having said that, I shall do one anyway as, like Shakespeare, I hathaway with words!

ODE TO CARAMAC

Oh toffee chocolate dream, I find you really yummy
Let me take off all your wrap and and send you to my tummy.
I crave your velvet goodness, your body sweet and sticky
I'll eat at least a dozen bars (but then I feel quite sicky).

I hadn't seen a Caramac for many years until, one day, we ventured into a sweet shop in Brighton's North Laine. It was like stepping into a confectionery Tardis as I gazed (well, drooled) at the sweet tobacco, cinder toffee, coconut mushrooms and a plethora of other delights. I travelled back in time to when I used to wander into the local sweet shop with my 6d.

Oh the decisions I had to make. Did I invest in Bazooka Joe bubble gum? Should I blow the lot on aniseed balls (16 for 1d)? One of those new Topic bars (which, in those days were a damn sight bigger)? Sweet cigarettes so I could look cool? Spangles? A Palm toffee bar or perhaps a Frys Chocolate Cream bar (fruit, not mint)? I well remember when I had my first Caramac and all the rest paled into insignificance.

It was about 3 times the size it is now and was a lot smoother. Current aficionados will no doubt agree that it has a slightly grittier texture and suckability has deteriorated. Having said that, it's still wonderful and I am aware that others share this view. Indeed, I am aware of a simmering Caramac war following the misappropriation of a bar recently.

The matter is currently sub judice but I'd just like to say Hi to Jules and Lisa at this point!

Oh heck, I've gone into confectionery reminiscence mode!

Jamboree Bags - sweets, toys and cards, all for the princely sum of 3d.
Spangles - lots of varieties but the best were the Old-English. Worst? No contest - Acid Drop.
Penny Wrigglers - large fruit jelly snakes.
Liquorice pipes - oh, bliss!

For those who want to wander down sweetie Memory Lane, have a look here.

Now, of course, you also had the posh stuff which my parents had and I would gaze at in abject frustration. My fingers would hover over the box, knowing full well that my Mother knew exactly what was in there at any given time yet still tempted to take the risk. Weekend Assortment was always the biggest temptation as were NewBerry Fruits. They were jellies with a liquid centre encased in a sugar shell and, if you were really careful, you could nibble away all the jelly and be left with this little fruity bomb of intense flavour.

Of course, this childhood (and adult) preoccupation with sweets and chocolate has resulted in a corpulent, unfit Bassett but would I go through it all again? What a silly question!

I'm Still Alive!

2008-06-22T12:49:00.005+01:00

Gosh, it's been a while since I posted anything here! Much as I hate to admit it, any literary efforts have been expended elsewhere on writing some insightful and pertinent observations based around Big Brother (UK) 2008.......(OK, it's a fair cop, I've been taking the piss!). I really don't understand the fascination of watching a disparate group of wannabes cooped up together 24/7 but it gives me enough stimulation to release my inner bitchiness.

Right, a quick update on events in Bassett Towers recently:

Master Bassett has realised an ambition he has held since he was about 12 and been formally offered employment as an officer in the Sussex Constabulary, starting in October. I am incredibly proud of his success but, more than that, the single-mindedness he has shown in achieving it.

Miss Bassett has finished her "A" Levels and can look forward to a few months of lazing around. She's worked hard as well so, whatever happens, a summer of pleasure beckons.

Mrs B has got the go-ahead for her knee replacement so there's some daylight for her. The morphine patches are now at full strength but don't seem to help much and we're investigating the possibilities of Jack Daniels on prescription! She's also painted a whole series of Discworld characters in watercolour and they're really rather fun. Trouble with characters though is that we each see them differently so some were not as I imagined. They are not from her head but interpretations of Paul Kidby's originals from "The Art of Discworld"

(click picture to enlarge)

Me? Well, I just toddle along. I've been doing quite a lot of aircraft modelling lately which occupies a lot of my time and may blog it at some point. Apart from that, life meanders along the highways, byeways and cul de sacs in that strange way it has. Fathers Day was a bit strange last week. More thoughts of Dad than I reckoned for but my kids spoiled me and bought a huge gooey chocolate cake to make up for my lack of ability to eat on my birthday, due to Gertie Gall Bladder.

Amazing Journey

2008-06-05T00:56:00.005+01:00

Tonight I watched a film entitled "Amazing Journey" - a 2007 movie documenting the story of The Who. One of the songs featured is Pete Townshend's Behind Blue Eyes. Although I had heard the song many times before, I'd never really listened to the words. Truly moving, truly sad.

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like

To be hated

To be fated

To telling only lies

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

No one bites back as hard

On their anger

None of my pain and woe

Can show through

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open

Before I use it and lose my cool

When I smile, tell me some bad news

Before I laugh and act like a fool

If I swallow anything evil

Put your finger down my throat

If I shiver, please give me a blanket

Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

Elgar - The SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION

2008-05-28T17:49:00.004+01:00

As a great admirer of Edward Monkton, I decided that there needed to be a story about a SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION. The title was easy - the rest of it was the problem!

Elgar hadn’t always been the SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION although he rather liked the title. It made him feel important having capital letters: rather like UNESCO, STD or MOT. He also rather liked his somewhat cultured name although, had he been told that this was a tribute by his dyslexic parents to their favourite drink, he might have been less proud. His retributive role had been thrust upon him by the Goddess, Helixa following the Great Salt Wars and he devoted his life to wreaking vengeance upon all enemies of the snail world - his slime-green shell a symbol to snails everywhere.

One day, he was leafing through ‘Nude Slugs’ (motto: Ditch that shell and what the Hell), when the SnailPhone rang. His trusty assistant, Biran, slid to answer it.

"Elgar, there's trouble in Patio Area 5! It's..........." he gulped, ".......Beer!"

"To the SnailMobile." cried Elgar as he slid down the SnailPole and hit the ground with an earth-shattering bump. "Sometimes," he complained ruefully, "you can have too much lubrication."

Pausing only to plug in his GastroPod and listen to his favourite Shell McManus track, they were soon on their way.

"What's our ETA, Biran? he asked. Biran computed their course and speed and immediately replied "It's a short one, Boss. Only 3 days and 7 hours.". Elgar settled back and passed the journey reading his latest book, a biography of his favourite French model, Jardin called 'A Snail of Two Titties'. Biran navigated through the dark territory of Compostia, skirted the grasslands of.....erm.... Grassland and the great desert of Playpit before turning to face Elgar.

"You're looking forlorn." said the SNAIL OF RETRIBUTION. "Oh no, Boss, We passed that ages ago - it was the green bit with the dog-turds"

Elgar gave Biran the full force of his personality. "I meant you're looking sad" he said patiently.

"I was just thinking about Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men. Bill came to me for some marital advice. Apparently his wife doesn't understand him.

Elgar reminded him of the task ahead, their role as protectors and his sacred duty to dispense vengeance on the perpetrators of this assult on the snail world and prepared to do battle as he saw the jar of amber liquid ahead.

Biran looked at the beer. "Watneys?" he guessed.

"Waddya mean, what knees? I'm a bleeding sn............ah, yes, I see what you mean. Right, how shall we do this?"

They struggled to push over the container but to no avail and finally, after much effort, Elgar looked at Biran. "It's no good, we'll have to drink it - for the good of the community we must make sacrifice."

Biran got the short straw (which of course, didn't reach) so the task fell upon Elgar. He wriggled his way to the top of the beer and gazed at the lake of amber liquid. "Oh, suck this." he thought, took a deep breath and away he went. Slowly, oh so slowly, the level of the liquid fell until, finally, Elgar tumbled to the ground; his task complete.

Biran rushed (relatively speaking) over to him. "Boss, you OK? Say something."

Elgar opened one rather bleary eye..............."I love you. I really bloody love you, hic!" and promply passed out.

Some hours later, his horns throbbing, our hero plotted revenge upon the human perpetrators. Sadly, being a snail, the choices were limited so, in the end he decided to go for the ultimate sanction - cabbage nibbling!!!

They travelled to the vegetable patch and were immediately beset by difficulties. First of all, a large green cylinder almost crushed them. "That was a marrow escape" gasped Biran. As they passed the potato patch Biran wondered at all the varieties. Elgar explained about how one cross-bred different types.

"See that one there" he said, "that's a cross between a Jodie Marsh and a John Motson."

"Ah," said Biran "a common-tater."

After stopping off to download some corn on his Blackberry, Elgar, feeling the effects of the beer, went off for a leek whilst Biran detoured via the mange tout when, suddenly, there was a cry of pain! Poor Biran had got himself trapped and suffered a ruptured squidgy bit.

Elgar watched helplessly as the life left Biran's eyes.

He gazed at the lifeless body. "Lettuce hope he rests in peas" he murmured.

Of course, vengeance was not the same without his buddy but he still managed a nice munch and finally, returned home - a sadder, wiser mollusc.

The snail community welcomed him with open......The snail community welcomed him home but looked puzzled when a young lady snail climbed on his back. Someone shouted out "Who's that?" "Oh, that's Michelle!" replied Elgar.

The Chief Snail wanted to honour Elgar and bought him a really flash car with a big S for SuperSnail on the side. "That's terrific" said Elgar, gratefully "Now everybody will see me roar past and say 'Gosh, look at that S car go!'"

The End

Myrmekiaphila neilyoungi

2008-05-19T17:42:00.011+01:00

For many years I've wondered why a blog such as mine - indeed, such a personage as Yours Truly - hasn't been honoured. I expected the odd MBE, Booker Prize or Papal canonisation but, so far, not a bleeding dickie bird. Each morning, I wait patiently for the 'clang' of a beautifully enamelled, gold medal hitting Bassett Towers' welcome mat but the disappointment is becoming part of life. This morning, all I received was a hospital out-patients appointment and, coincidentally, a circular from Saga exhorting me to go for their hospital plans which avoid NHS queues.

Talking of Saga, my 50th birthday was an auspicious occasion which was totally ruined by the "Welcome to Geriatrica" brochure from Saga that landed on the mat that very morning. Talk about being quick off the mark! Since then, they have offered me holidays, insurance, funeral plans, free ballpoint pens and numerous other emblandishments, each one is accompanied by photos of silver-haired people having a whale of a time and looking ecstatically happy; presumably because they've found some way of getting themselves removed from the Saga mailing list.

Anyway, the point of all this is to do with a certain Mr Neil Young. The more erudite among you may have read that he has been immortalised by the naming of a new species of spider in his honour. I have declined to show a photograph of the aforesaid arachnid as I know some of my readers are sensitive to such creatures but if you want to see it in all its glory, you can click on this link. Now, as part of the intensive research which goes into each of my blogs (yeah, right!) I have found that there have been other honours of a similarly strange genre. The whirligig-beetle (Orectochilus orbisonorum) was named in honour of singer Roy Orbison whilst asteroids have been graced with such august musical names as The Beatles, Frank Zappa, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven and Brahms.

I started wondering about people, both famous and friends, and what they could be named after? The wide-mouthed frog sprang to mind in many examples but self-preservation prevents me exploring this one further. Haemorrhoidus vordermanus springs to mind as doesUgliusbastardius lloyd-webberi.

How about charadniiformus drogbaii (Charadniiforms, incidentally, is a genus of diving bird)? As for me? Well, I would settle for Lama bertius - no, not as in "Call yourself a spiritual leader? Get the f*ck out of Tibet, it's part of China now" but this sort.

On now to another subject - Lenor! What's all this rubbish about new Lenor with Black Diamond and Lotus Flower? Have we run out of all the world jojoba stocks? Is the whole gamut of fruits, herbs and other things that make my Speedos so soft exhausted? Come to think of it, if there are so many things in the world so good for our hair, clothes etc., why don't we just use the nearest thing in the store cupboard?

Just imagine it - "Ooh, you hair looks so shiny. " "That's because I conditioned it with Marmite and finest pureéd Pop Tart."

Black diamond! Are people really going to think Lenor are fragrancing their conditioner with black diamonds? Come to think of it, who has ever smelt a black diamond? Now, having sniffed Mrs B's ring (so to speak), I merely detected a slight odour of Nivea hand cream on her plain, boring old white diamond but this may be misleading. Perhaps black diamonds smell differently although I might be cynical in thinking that this isn't the case. For all we know, they could put essence of bat poo into it and call it black diamond? Come on, Lenor, tell us the real story!

Final thought in today's offering: did you know that traffic roundabouts are a rarity in America? It never occurred to me until today but have you ever seen any in the plethora of American programmes tainting our channels?

Apparently, the first ones were introduced over there only in the last decade and are making a serious contribution to lessening traffic accidents. Rumour has it that this is because nobody knows what the hell they are and so just stop driving, sit there, scratch their heads and say suitably American phrases like "Goddammit, what in tarnation's that, Elmer?".

Oh and a final, final thought: if quizzes are called quizzical, what are tests called?

Bring Back Grammar Schools

2008-05-13T22:43:00.015+01:00

Now, I'm your average television viewer. Although we have a TV in the lounge, it's rarely used as neither of us are good at sitting and just watching, but the TV is always on when we're at the PCs or doing something in the PlayRoom. We also have TVs in the kitchen and bedroom so there is plenty of scope to watch.

The reason I feel constrained to mention the dreaded goggle box is that tonight, I was aghast at something I saw! I don't mean aghast as in those wonderful letters that used to be seen on Points of View. You know the sort I mean:

Dear Points of View

I was DISGUSTED when, whilst watching that lovely programme "Open All Hours", I noticed a vegetable on Mr Arkwright's greengrocery display which I found rather lewd in shape for that time of the evening. Surely, we don't pay our license fee for THAT sort of behaviour and the BBC should be far more careful regarding such matters in the future.

Yours,

Ivor Carrot-Dick, Penge

I rather like 'proper' quiz shows, like Eggheads (even though it ruins my cooking as I tend to throw whatever ingredients I'm using at the screen when Daphne gives her supercilious 'Oh, yes, I knew that because I know every bleeding thing in the world' look). I like certain dramas like Waking The Dead and Shameless and I like documentaries. Naturally, I like the sport, apart from rugby which I just cannot understand. I think it's possibly a reaction to the one time I played the game. I vaguely remember standing there with this ball, desperately trying to remember what to do next when several hormonally-charged, over-active Goliaths fell upon me and I discovered a severe allergy to pain. Now, I can watch it but understand it? 'Fraid not.

Whilst we're on the subject of television, why is it, when we now have 20,000 Sky channels to choose from, there is still so much crap? I mean, I love Buzzcocks and QI but when they play them every night and then, just for a change, joyfully announce a QI weekend, even I get a tad frustrated.

The movie channels are full of so-called blockbuster films of which I have never heard and, in desperation, we end up watching the old classics yet again. I'm quite sure, in 30 years time, people won't be sitting there avidly watching Snakes on a Plane for the umpteenth time as it has become a classic. We actually watched that one. For those of you who haven't ever watched Snakes on a Plane, let me spoil the whole plot - it's about some snakes ....... on a plane. Ter-bleeding-iffic!

Anyway, back to my aghast-ness. What has upset the Bassett, you may ask? Was it the horrifically hypnotising You Could be Nancy with those garish costumes and dog-ugly personalities (and that's only Messrs. Norton, Lloyd-Webber & Humphries). Could it be the plethora of totally crass and inept Amercan offerings polluting our screens? Maybe it was one of the many shock, horror, gasp Channel 4 documentaries like The Dwarf Siamese Twins with Lizard Skin and Athletes Foot?

Nope, it was tonight's Holby City!!

This dysfunctional hospital, complete with alcoholic doctors, drug addict consultants, nymphomaniac nurses and a bomb/train crash/murder roughly 3 weekly is eminently believable. The operations are seemingly realistic (It must be great working for their props dept. - just imagine; 'Good day at work, dear? ' 'Oh yes, I made 2 hearts, a spleen and 3 diseased fallopian tubes.'), the characters are totally relateable and the deaths per episode correlate to the National Mortality Statistics. Tonight though, my illusions were shattered by one insignificant sign on a door. It said.................. 'Sisters Office'.

Now, if it was the office of a Sister than it would be 'Sister's Office'. If it were shared by several Sisters then it would be 'Sisters' Office'. The one thing it cannot be is what was so beautifully signwritten.

It's spoiled my evening......possibly my week. It has destroyed my trust in the magic of television and I am seriously considering accepting the invitation of one of those nice lawyers who appear so regularly during the commercial breaks on Sky promising me vast amounts of money if someone has harmed me, which this unfortunate episode has certainly done.

Some people might say that I am a bit O.T.T. about grammar and punctuation but it's something that has always annoyed me intensely. My kids always raised their eyes heavenwards when I pointed out apostrophe or preposition abuse yet they freely admit they are now exactly the same. Young Zoë will indignantly tell me how one of her tutors at college used a double negative and I can just imagine my son, when he starts his Police career shortly, staring at a Statement and shaking his head sadly; not because it's a confession of heinous criminality but because of the spelling and grammatical errors.

"OK, chummie, I see you've written '.....is the address which I took the dismembered bodies to'. Now, unless you change that to '....... is the address to which I took the dismembered bodies', I'll make sure you're locked up and that they throw away the key".

Mrs B is used to it now although, I recall that when Norris in Coronation Street once pointed out an apostrophic error, she (for reasons which escape me) hooted uncontrollably and, for several weeks afterwards, asked me if I was getting up early to mark up the newspapers!

I think I have managed to get it off my chest now although, knowing my luck, next week's Holby will remind me of it when an intestinally-damaged patient is admitted suffering from a semi-colon!

Finally, please note: any grammatical errors within my blogs are placed there purely to test out my beloved readers - honest!

Here Comes Summer!

2008-05-09T23:13:00.010+01:00

It's been far too long since my fingers danced across the keyboard (well, when I say danced, I must admit that the Mavis Beacon Typing Course has been on the backburner lately so I am still stuck with typing salad dallas flak etc if I want to go into 'proper' mode).

It's been a tad busy lately with both sprogs celebrating birthdays this week. Young Zoe reached adulthood on Monday and is now eligible to drink, vote, get married, get a tattoo and kill people. As a good and caring Father, I have recommended only the first!

My little boy (6'3" now!), James, was 22 on Wednesday so, once more, Happy Birthday kids. You've made me a proud Dad.

Right, what else is new? Warm weather, trees bursting with their new growth, colourful gardens and people wearing clothing which is totally unsuitable.

Why do a few degrees of heat bring out a total fashion kamikaze mentality? Older men suddenly wander around in shorts: spindly white legs (complete with socks and sandals - god forbid!), varicose veins glinting ............. and why on earth do older men's legs lose all their hair? Pale and shiny is NOT a good look. Younger men strut around, wearing their football shirts, Adidas shorts and surrounded by a cloud of testosterone-scented Lynx, posing madly for all the girls whilst deciding whether to wear their baseball cap, forwards, backwards or sideways.

And as for Hawaiian shirts..............................

Women are just as bad. In order to help me understand, perhaps just a few questions:

Why do young girls vie to wear as little clothing as possible as soon as the temperature rises above freezing? One sees them wandering down the road in March wearing tee-shirt, mini skirt and blue tights dancing around frantically. It's only on closer inspection that they're bare-legged and just very cold and the dancing is actually terminal shivering presaging the onset of terminal hypothermia.

Why do so many twenty and thirty something women wear clothes 2 sizes too small during the Summer? Is it a wistful desire to relive their lissome days or just a determined effort to put me off my strawberry Mivvi? If I wanted to feast my eyes on 2 large bags of potatoes shoved down the back of a pair of leggings I'd go to Primark via Somerfield and do the job myself. Vests and tops which are so tight that the body underneath creates more folds than an Origami Convention are not a good look, ladies.

And that's another thing: If you're going to wear a crop top, please remember that they're designed for flat stomachs and not Johnny Vegas body doubles! I'm seriously thinking of starting a new trend in navel piercings by recycling a few anchors lying around the harbour. There's a fair chance they might be seen among the ripples of fat.

White trousers! Don't wear cheap white trousers which are see through. Seeing a dark thong is bad enough but 2 enormous pink cheeks, reminiscent of the Elephant March in The Jungle Book is enough to drive me to a new life in Antarctica.

Just one other thing on the fashion front. Why do old ladies always wear either a cardigan or an M & S quilted anorak - even when it's in the 90s? I don't know if it's some physiological metamorphosis but their perspiration always seems to have the fragrance of lavender as well.

Summer is my favourite time. I love the sun, the world seems a happier place and life is good - except in Brighton. We love Brighton, the 'buzz', the shops, the people; but Summer tends to ruin the whole ambience. The reason is very simple - foreign students! Vast hordes of jabbering brats, wearing stupid, bloody rucksacks, blocking every pavement and competing to see who can set the new shoplifting record. Why oh why do they have to shout? All the time! Does the seaside climate act as some aural dampener that necessitates a babble of unintelligible garbage? Presumably, they're asking each other where the Hearing Aid shop is? The NHS has a lot to answer for.

Mind you, getting to Brighton is bad enough in the Summer. 20 million German coaches parked all over the place whilst their drivers pore over their satnavs planning the next invasion. Ah, perhaps, it's already started? Das KinderKorps, a regiment of dwarves from the Waffen SS are embarking on a devious plan of infiltration, dressed as students and preparing us for the main assault.

Then comes that fateful day when they all bugger off back to their respective countries (or, in the Germans' case, Poland). Time to relax? Oh no, then we get all of our own kids on their school holidays!

Roll on October!

If Music be the Food of Love..................

2008-04-25T00:01:00.007+01:00

I figured it was time to do some more music for my juke box. Actually, I was depressed having seen Eastenders and, now that the lovely Heather is married off to Minty, I needed something to cheer me up...........I'm trying to get over her loss but it's tough. She follows a long list of women I have placed on pedestals and who have missed their chance. The likes of Helen Shapiro, Lena Zavaroni, Francesca McAlea (1st year, Junior School) and Kylie could all have won the great jackpot of love if they'd played their cards right but I shall get over Heather as I have got over the others.

I always go through the angst barrier selecting blog music. It has, essentially, to be special to me but also I want readers to enjoy and, maybe, think about what they hear (small moment of panic as I suddenly think of anyone reading switching off straight away and I do it all in vain!).

This latest selection comes with a list of reasons why each piece has been chosen. Maybe it's of interest, maybe not? Here goes anyway:

Green Manalishi - Fleetwood Mac
I went to a band rehearsal tonight and they were trying out the Judas Priest version of this. The reason why it's here is to demonstrate just how many good songs I've forgotten about - this being a supreme example.

SWLABR - Cream
A trademark offering from the first (and greatest) supergroup. I could have taken any track from the album 'Disraeli Gears' and been happy to have it here. The title is an acronym of "She Was Like a Bearded Rainbow"; like the song's lyrics, it's not supposed to make much sense!

Hang on to a Dream - The Nice
Brian Davison, the drummer, died this week so this is a tribute to him. I fell in love with their music very early on and they performed at the first gig I ever saw, along with Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Move and Amen Corner. Not a bad 17/6d worth! Although people tend to remember Emerson's time afterwards with Greg Lake and Carl Palmer, The Nice were pioneers of progressive music and stretched musical boundaries.

Neil Young - Heart of Gold

The first single I ever bought. I fell in love with that song and, subsequently, Young has played an enormous part in my musical life. A man of total integrity, he continues to explore different styles of music which, although not always to my taste, never fail to provoke thought, emotion and excitement.

Pink Floyd - Grantchester Meadows
From the album 'Umma Gumma', this was the height of Floyd's exploratory (and chemically induced) phase. The live tracks are just amazingly weird and I well remember hearing them around a friend's house, suitably in the mood (shall we say!). Meadows is such a contrast and I love its gentleness.

Sky - Tuba Smarties
Sky were a band of talented musicians, including classical guitarist John Williams. I saw them at Brighton and this particular track lives in my memory. Ex-Blue Mink bassist and sought-after session man, Herbie Flowers, wandered on stage dressed as Noddy and, carrying a tuba festooned in fairy lights, proceeded to play this. The whole audience were in hysterics and it was a magical moment of utter frivolity, given the musicianship displayed both before and subsequently.

Sky - Toccata
Sky made 4 albums and this is a more typical example of their style. Combining both their own compositions as well as classical adaptions, they are hidden jewels in the treasure chest of music.

Phil Collins - Another Day in Paradise
I seem to be drawn to emotive songs. This makes me sad.

Neil Young - Fuckin' Up
Neil at his grungiest best. Backed by Crazy Horse, they seem to gel wonderfully together. How strange that a guy whose voice is not his strongest asset and 3 musicians who are not technically the most proficient produce such hard-hitting, archetypal rock music. I also kind of relate to the lyrics hence this particular choice.

Nick Drake - Time Has Told Me
Just a wonderful, wonderful singer and lyricist - worthy of any music list

John Mayall - Country Road
From 'Jazz Blues Fusion', arguably my favourite album ever. Mayall has put together an incredible collection of musicians who seem to have found a perfect blend of the two styles. The line-up also holds the distinction of being the only one of his many line-ups which made a second album. Those of you that know the frequency of Mayall's personnel changes will appreciate how happy he must have been with them!

Jimi Hendrix - Castles Made of Sand
I think this is the saddest song I have ever heard. The simplicity of the lyrics seems to emphasise an overwhelming sense of hopelessness of Life. Probably the most-played song of mine over the years (but gladly decreasingly); I know that when I reach for this, all is definitely not right in my world.

Crosby Stills & Nash - Long Time Gone

I love their harmonies and the skill with which they can write a song of protest and make it beautiful as well as meaningful. This track showcases the voice of Steve Stills, which is just amazing.

Neil Young - All Along the Watchtower
From 'Road Rock', a real family concert which included his wife, Pegi and his half-sister, Astrid alongside Chrissie Hynde, this track has grown on me over time. I guess once I never thought anyone could even attempt to match Hendrix' version but I much prefer this to Dylan's.

Traffic - Riding High
Any Traffic track is worth including, purely for Stevie Winwood's wonderful voice. My own particular CD of this album ('Far From Home') is a promo which was given to me by their manager so it's got a special little place in my collection.

Ian Dury - Itinerant Child
I wept when Dury died. His lyrics were not only poetry but an observational journey through life. He made people smile, he didn't give a damn yet he cared - an epitaph which I would gratefully accept.

Well, that's about it. I hope you enjoy them. Use the playlist and have a meander through my choices. Your comments will, as always, be appreciated.

My 100th Post

2008-04-20T15:55:00.001+01:00

Well, who'd have thought it? My 100th blog and I've absolutely no idea what to say!

I don't know why it has become a landmark for me but a landmark it is. I feel I ought to mark it in some spectacular way such as a million pound giveaway, a widget on the blogsite that, when pressed, releases an exquisite array of cyber-fireworks into the sky or perhaps a line of perfectly groomed llamas performing the Triumphal March from Aida on golden trumpets? I was thinking of doing some sort of giveaway but the thought of parting with my rapidly-depleting Caramac stash fills me with terror.

According to my statistics, there have been 6300 visitors in the last 10 months or so, the last 8 weeks have seen 1536 visitors from 60 countries and 43% of the population want me as the next Pope (one of these is not true).

My blogs have covered a multitude of subjects: rants, events, observations, high times, low times, good times and bad. I've tried to be honest, I've hopefully entertained and provoked but most of all, I've been me. Me, that is, in all my various incarnations.

My dear superhero and alter ego, Bertie Bassett: Righter of wrongs, King of Cool and champion of the lime-green Lycra, he enables me to realise all my fantasies and gives me the confidence to face the world when, sometimes, his creator is taking a break. I hope he's perceived as a fairly loveable chap and people accept him for what he is - a force for good and a thoroughly good egg.

Bertie's sister, Bunty: Tweed-suited and statuesque Agony Aunt with a penchant for cigars and short-haired ladies. She hides a heart of gold behind a tough, no-nonsense exterior and evolved through Bertie's efforts to provide succour to the occupants of the Big Brother House. Currently living on a Greek island with her P.A., Brunhilde, she will no doubt reappear when the Big Brother House is once more occupied.

Can I just mention here, another incarnation that I wish were mine: the adorably unwholesome but trustingly naive Reg McDuffe. His love of ferrets and compost heaps is overshadowed by a greater, unrequited, love which he pursues with hope and optimism. Reg's creator is a mystery but I feel a great affinity towards the failed Superhero apprentice. Perhaps Reg embodies my desire for a simple life? He certainly exemplifies my eternal faith that everything will be alright in the end.

The final incarnation is called Graham: I can't even begin to try and explain him.

I'm fortunate that several friends and celebrities have been kind enough to add their personal endorsements and these, totally unedited and unsolicited, comments are reproduced below:-

Great-Aunt Honoria: He's a lovely boy and, apart from that trouble with the donkey (which was never proved), has always been a model nephew.

Rafa Benitez: The body of a demi-god, the skills of Ronaldo and the face of Peter Crouch - still, 2 out of 3 ain't bad.

Jonathan Ross: Weally, this is undoubtedly a top-wanked blog.

Robert Mugabe: Mr Bassett, like so many Britons, exemplifies all that is good in the world.

Jordan: Er, how much do I get paid to write something nice?

Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth II: People of the Commonwealth, rejoice at this momentous occasion. One is pleased to ..................................Philip, don't do that all over the photograph of Mr Al Fayed! ...................where was one? Ah yes, we are pleased to proclaim Lord Bassett of the Lime, Poet Laureate and Keeper of the Royal Speedos.

Sir Bob Geldof: Oi'm tinkin' dat BertAid is a great way of feedin' de fookin' world. Hand over yer Haribo and help raise enough money to get me a decent haircut, yer bastards!

Graeme Norton: You could be Nancy!

George Bush: What's my name? Do I live here? What's this big, red butto.....................aaaaaaaargh!

I suppose really I just want to use this 100th blog to say a few 'thank yous'.

Thank you to all the people, events and occurrences out there which gave me blog fodder whilst raising my blood pressure accordingly. In particular, special mentions go to the staff of Somerfield, screaming children, the NHS and drivers of second-hand BMWs.

Thanks to all the special people at Digital Spy (especially the SUC thread) who provide so much good company, wit and friendship. Your care and support during the loss of my Father and my recent hospital sojourns especially helped me.

Thanks also to authors in general but particularly Miss E. Blyton who gave me such enjoyment as a child (and, incidentally, fostered my love of books, writing and the English language) as well as inspiring me to write my own Famous Five adventure.

Thanks to so many creative and talented musicians for their company in times both good and bad. Special mentions to Neil Young (of course!), Ray Davies, CSN, Robert Johnson et al. I hope my choice of blog music has provided something for every taste.

Thank you one and all for reading, thank you for supporting and helping me at times when it's been needed and, most of all, thank you for your friendship. I value your comments and know I should reply to them more. That's a promise for the future!

My blogs help, entertain and fulfil a part of me. I hope that they add a smidgeon of something good to you, my lovely reader. You've shared part of my journey through Life and I'm honoured that you so chose.

Vaya con Dios .................. and here's to many more.

Holiday Time

2008-04-13T12:33:00.007+01:00

It's that time of year where thoughts turn to holidays. Summer is, undoubtedly, on its way as all the signs are there; ten minutes of sunshine and suddenly the loonies are wearing shorts (usually with socks!), the p-rats in the secondhand BMW convertibles have got the tops down and we all get the extreme joy of 4000 decibels of bass thumping out. The ice-cream van waits hopefully at the park entrance, hoping to serve exorbitantly-priced ice creams (along with 2cms of flake for an extra 40 pence) to long-suffering parents of screaming children and you spend 4 hours trying to find a parking space anywhere that's worth visiting.

I was watching the holiday channels on Sky the other day, hoping to tempt Mrs B into some globetrotting and it suddenly struck me that holiday descriptions are, shall we say, somewhat open to interpretation. Here then is the Bertie Guide to Holiday Speak:

'No frills airline' - Inside seat is an optional extra.

In-Flight entertainment - Naomi Campbell is on board

In-flight meal included - Oh deep joy, Pot Noodles at 35,000 feet

Fast check-in - More time in departures where you can spend lots of money on items that you don't want at a marginally cheaper price than in the High St. And why does every Departure Lounge have vast displays of Toblerone? .......oh, goody, I'm going away for 2 weeks and forgot the Toblerone - thank you British Airports Authority, you've saved my holiday from ruin!!!

Transfers included - You spend 3 hours wandering around some foreign airport looking for a tit holding an umbrella with 'Crappo Holidays' emblazoned thereon. When you find them, they're hung over because it's the middle of the night (due to the delayed flight) and they've come straight from a toga party at the Las Pisso nightclub where they spend their time forcing groups of spotty youths to drink far too much sangria in a bid to make them feel they are enjoying themselves. You're then herded into an antique coach with no air-conditioning (apart from the broken window) where Pepé, the driver, patiently waits until that blissful moment where he can have fun throwing your cases around before grinning inanely in the vain hope that someone will give him a tip and he can go and buy some deodorant.

Lively resort - Kids everywhere during the day and previously mentioned spotty youths staggering around at night, lusting after the equally pissed groups of females, all wearing clothes several sizes too small and that beautifully bright shade of red where they have slept off their hangovers on the beach all day and gently boiled.

Interesting local Church - Desperate! No bars, no restaurants and even the donkey has died.

Hotel offers traditional food - paella, chips and some strange stew that the several hundred Germans seem to adore.

Gala Dinner included - Paella with parsley garnish

Free wine - Keep away from the wine!

Child-friendly - An oxymoron. Some poor sod dressed up in an indeterminate creature costume whose sole job it is to keep the brats amused whilst the reps try and sell crappy trips to the local stuffed donkey factory outlet shop.

Feel at home - English pubs full of fat gits drinking lager and wearing football shirts.

Friendly locals - Be stopped every 5 minutes by sleazy conmen trying to flog timeshares.

Quiet location - Full of wrinklies.

Bustling - Packed so solidly, breathing in sequence is obligatory.

Large pool - Pee without anyone noticing.

Close to beach - Only 3 bus rides away and then you take your life in your hands crossing the 6 lane highway running alongside.

Budget apartment - Half-built, with a picturesque view of the communal septic tank, cold & cold running water (generally down the walls), mini-bar (supporting the ceiling), half-tiled bathroom (literally!), alarm call facility (the builders begin at 5am) and close to local amenities i.e. the abattoir, airport flight path and Wee Jock McScunner's Genuine Scottish Bar & Karaoke.

All-inclusive - Why waste all that money going abroad, looking at the sights, when you can spend 14 days not moving more than 20 metres from your room?

Never to be forgotten - Your wallet gets stolen, you spend 4 days sitting on the loo (which doesn't flush properly) due to over-indulgence at the Gala Dinner. A Roy Cropper clone latches onto you and adopts you as their new best friend and entices you to go to the Flamenco party where some corpulent Spanish bird called Consuela drags you out and makes you dance with her - you've drunk the free wine and are too rat-arsed to care until you see the photos in the morning. Worst of all, you find the heat has melted the vast amount of Toblerone you bought at the airport and ruined your souvenir stuffed donkey (complete with sombrero).

Happy holidays!!!

Up, Up & Away!!

2008-04-07T00:21:00.014+01:00

<<< This is me!!!!!

I'm sure I'm boring everybody stupid with this Flight Simulator X lark. I remember writing previously that I'd tried earlier versions and got bored quickly but this time, I'm afraid, I am totally hooked.

From those early beginnings with a microlight, through the kamikaze stage and further on to having the confidence of actually believing that, not only can I find another airport, but actually land there, I have become a veritable Biggles aspirant.

I have to say that the technical side of it is awesome (to coin that annoyingly prevalent American import). Just downloading another aircraft and assimilating it into the software was leaving large hand-shaped lumps of hair all over the flight deck..........oops, I mean desk. These aircraft simulator creators are a strange breed: the manual for one single airplane was 84 pages long and included all specification, wiring diagrams, pre take-off visual inspection instructions, pre-taxi checks, pre-start checks, pre-take off checks etc etc. Now I really can't be arsed to do all that; I just want to take off and fly. The trouble was, with this particular aircraft, attempting so to do created a very realistic engine fire and, subsequently, a gently smouldering Bertie legging it back to the safety of the perimeter fence. It was after I spent about an hour going round all the instruments and switches religiously performing all of the flight checks that I found the "Easy" mode - bums!

Now I'd got the hang of the basic controls, I started to think about learning a few more things. I have many aircraft available, ranging from inter-war biplanes to a Boeing 747 as well as various supersonic fighters and figured I really ought to try and familiarise myself with one particular model rather than dip in here and there. I settled on the Cessna C172SP Skyhawk.

This is relatively simple to fly but incorporates the Garmin 1000. 'Uh?' I hear you ask. In order to explain, let me quote the blurb from the actual Garmin Corporation:

G1000 puts a wealth of flight-critical data at your fingertips. Its glass flightdeck presents flight instrumentation, navigation, weather, terrain, traffic and engine data on large-format, high-resolution displays.

In other words, it does virtually everything apart from make coffee but requires an amazing amount of understanding. I printed off 14 pages of explanatory notes and am gradually learning what does what, when, how and why. Mind you, might I respectfully suggest that they incorporate a CD player in future! It's a lonely life being a sky jockey.

Right, I could do all the various bits to some small degree but what next? I decided that I really rather fancied a circumnavigation of Britain so sat down and spent ages plotting a course clockwise around the coast. I figured it might be fun and would certainly hone my take-off and landing capabilities as I had vectored in 36 stops along the way! (note pilot speak - vectored!) I set the time as 4am on an August day and duly took off from Gatwick amidst a beautiful sunrise. Heading south, I was soon down to the coast and then heading west to the Isle of Wight.

9 airports later I am at Filton in Bristol, well on my way and, amazingly enough, enjoying every minute! The beauty of the software is that the terrain is totally accurate and based on satellite data photographs so it really is possible to imagine you're actually up there. Cruising serenely past Chesil Beach, gazing down at Falmouth and then the real excitement of reaching St. Just aerodrome at Lands End was so satisfying; I had reached the end of England! From here I was entering unknown territory as I knew the area I had already travelled pretty well so I now have the joy of visiting places I've never been to before - all from the comfort of my own desk.

I shall pop over to the Isle of Man and then divert via Shannon and Belfast before I head up to the Highlands & Islands, then back down the east coast and home. It's all real time so I will have some night flying to come.....wonder where the headlights are?

My apologies if you are bored to tears (assuming you made it this far) but I really do have my head in the clouds. Some people go to much greater extremes - honest. Here's a photo of someone's somewhat more serious set-up and, as you can see, I'm a mere greenhorn in the aviation world.

Just one final comment; it's possible to video one's flights but the format is unsupported outside of the software. Another happy couple of hours were spent working out how to convert and compress into a publishable format and here's my first effort. It's choppy, performed before I had really got the realism settings optimised and I was flying a very fast Pilatus turboprop at about 300 knots which I'd been in about twice. Consequently, it doesn't show off any great skills or geographic accuracy but it was fun to do..........and I did it first take!!!

(Incidentally, any mid-vid pauses which may occur are down to Blogger's buffering and not me - sorry :( )

Well, as we aeronauts say, Bravo Bravo to Tower - Over and Out!