It isn't just the Flamingoes that are pink...

We went to Flamingoland over Bank Holiday weekend. It has recently been featured on telly as "Theme Park" and we recognised the owner moving round the site (who we briefly spoke to) as well as one of the casual staff, a bloke who was seen at the interview asking if he was able to smoke.

I was intriegued about a new accommodation block that had been shown on the telly, many of the rooms had ill-placed girders getting in the way. I eventually twigged that a former scary walk through that I had never managed to get into had been converted so I guess you take the girders as you find them...

They have a new rollercoaster called Kumani but my sorry saga begins at Velocity, their new for 2005 ride.

It is a launched coaster a bit like Alton Towers' "Rita" but it is themed as Motorbikes. I have been conscious of being a rather snug fit at both Alton Towers and Drayton manor this year- the site of several operators pushing on my restraints to make them click has become all too common. This was repeated on velocity, which is a sit-on pretend motorbike which you pull on the handlebars and a back pad sandwiches you in. They gave me a good squashing on despatch but assured me that I wasn't too big for the ride.

The ride is fairly simple, you coast round to a launch position and the train attaches itself to an aircraft carrier style catapult driven by a substantial steel wire rope, accompanied by bike revving noises. On launch, the catapult rapidly accelerates you up to 67mph and then you disengage, rushing round loops, swirls and bunny hops back to the station some 45 seconds later.

That was when the trouble started. When the train stopped, the mechanism disengaged and everyone got off... except me. Mine didn't release, presumably because I was squashed in without enough play for the ratchet to disengage. All of the platform staff came across and started pushing, pulling and poking in an effort to free me. Crimson with embarassment, Karen led David off the platform to go and look at the ride photo. Meanwhile, several hundred people queueing for the ride were watching with interest. visions of them having to call first the engineering team and then the fire brigade flashed before my eyes. Sooner or later, one of them would reach for the radio and announce a code 42- Ride down, fat bastard stuck on the train, bring goose grease and large spanners.

Then, unexpectedly, there was a soft click and if freed up. I extricated myself from the saddle to a ragged cheer from the onlookers. I gave my audience a swift bow and went down the exit ramp to look at the photo.

Had I been stuck another couple of minutes longer, I no doubt would have been given a round of applause. Thank heavens for one thing- ITV weren't filming that day!

Morley- Cultural Mecca of South Leeds (Late September, good weather applied for)

We are having our very own literary festival next month, over the last weekend of September. Vague details here (no website as yet.)

It is excellent value at £2 entry for the two headline events featuring well-known Tykes Gervaise Phinn & Ian McMillan. What also caught my eye was a fringe event for designing a Morley Town Centre Map. Hmm. I have already spoken of our new map which I regard as rather Cack. Maybe the organisers also know this and hope something better might turn up courtesy Joe public?

The Literary festival looks like a good event, although I can't see it keeping the piss-heads away from the Pubs, luring the Chavs from their sofas or the scratters from their scraps down in't Bottoms.

Why is the event so cheap? Because it is being funded by public money, Leeds Area South are funding it but to what amount I don't know. (I could find out easily enough but can't be Arsed.) MTC are lobbing in a Monkey or two and the Obtiser are involved.

I have to admit to being a bit hypocritical here- I gratefully accepted £11k+ of Area money to get Morley FM off the ground. However, they were going to spend it anyway so it was nice that it went to us rather than Dyslexic Anglican too-tall Windsurfers or whatever PC causes otherwise chase for the wonga up for grabs.

Wouldn't it be nice if they just lets us keep the money in the first place, rather than tax it off us and then give some of it back to whatever trendy bandwagon is flavour of the month?

The trouble is, once it is seen as someone else's money, it doesn't seem to matter any more. No-one treats a Company Car as well as if it actually belonged to them and the higher up one goes, the less painful it gets. We give the EU bucketfuls of money which we gratefully receive back (well some of it) on grandiose projects that if the Council or Government proposed would see them voted out of office and prosecuted for malpractice.

It isn't someone else's money, it is ours. There ain't no UK PLC, Governments don't create wealth, only people and businesses do. All Governments can do is tax it...

These libertarian views explain why fellow Councillors regard me as a loose cannon on Morley Town Council as it goes without saying in the minds of my colleagues that we have to do what is best for other people which also involves spending other people's money. I don't want us to employ more policemen, gardeners, Town Centre Managers and the like, I want us to hold Government to account and put our own precept down as we pay far too much tax already, much of which is wasted. We will inevitably have an admin overhead to exist and I don't mind the Mayor organising civic dos with some cheese & twiglets but I don't regard our role as redistribution of wealth or topping out the shortcomings of Leeds City Council.

In the words of Monty Python, my hovercraft is full of eels.

(I just put that in to finish off the blog entry. Why? Because I can.)

Update: I mistyped Gervaise Phinn, now corrected. I have been told by two people now that he is not as good as his books, so to speak. Indeed, I can remember my Mum saying that about James Herriott whom she saw at a society do (Her Bosses were upper class and she occasionally got invited to dos at Lumley Castle).

A spitting image line just popped into my head, of young David (Steel) addressing his troops before an election, where he had famously told them in 1981 to "go back to your constituencies and prepare for Government". It was parodied as "Go back to your Constituencies and prepare for a bit of a disappointment..."

Back from a break

We've been away in Anglesey for a holiday, an Internet free zone. (Well, the cottage was!)

Returning to Morley, one is struck as to how un-rural it is. Morley celebrates its Industrial Revolution heritage quietly, but everywhere you look, the 19th century remains tell their own story to those who wish to listen.

Some things you can see frequently without looking and occasionally a detail catches the eye. Queen Street is full of quirky victorian frontages and many people don't see Morley Train tunnel carved in the Town Hall entablature until it is pointed out to them.

Something odd struck me today though. Parking in the car park beside Wilkinsons is a bit fiddly as the bays are rather tight. Furthermore, the central block has a large wooden post projecting between the bays and protecting a number of diamond shaped planter areas for trees. Unfortunately, however, the trees are all dead or long gone...

New maps in Morley

A Town Centre map has appeared next to the Town Hall in the space formerly occupied by a large rectangular metal noticeboard on two slightly ornate metal posts (which presumably dates back to the street furniture update of the late 90s when we gained a number of shelters and tall lamp posts with hanging basket hooks all in a victorian style).

I have to say that the map is a bit of a disappointment. No "you are here" key (although anyone not realising they are next to the Town hall who can't see it on the map shouldn't be let out alone anyway), a number of colour snaps of various buildings which don't seem to bear any relationship to the location of the originals, four identical photos of what I call the "clippy mat", our Town crest in an interesting tapestry/shagpile combination produced by one of the local schools. Why four views the same? I can think of three different crests around on plaster, stained glass and terrazo tile.

I have a suspicion that the Town Council had an involvement in these maps but it doesn't look like we proofed them at all as there is at least one typo- "Joseph Priestly College" indeed!

Five hours in Spain

We recently went on a Mini-cruise with the works social club, a trip to Spain and back.
It was on the Pride of Bilbao, a P&O ship that goes from Portsmouth to Bilbao, taking 34 hours or so to get there, but only 28 to return. A trip is three nights on the ship, two there and one back.

Anyone expecting a cruise ship will be in for a shock- it is a car ferry with a few extras (like a swimming pool down in the depths and a dolphin/whale spotting club).

The ship is similar to the ones that go from Hull to Rotterdam and Zeebrugge and I have to say that the North Sea ones are to a better stanard in the fittings and catering. You don't normally see whales off Norfolk though...

We opted for inclusive meals and with hindsight that was a mistake- we were restricted to one particular restaurant in the evenings and it got rather samey. Their indian food selection rotated the meats around the styles and it was inferior to the excellent indonesian curries the North Sea ships lay on. Many of the crew were Spanish, although the blokes on the bridge and in boiler suits (mostly fixing the toilets) were Brits.

The ferry heads along the Channel, then down into the Bay of Biscay. Bay doesn't give you the feel of scale- it isn't like robin Hood's Bay or Whitley Bay, it is more akin to a Gulf, i.e. big where you can't see land...

After dolphin & whale spotting over the deeper bits, it docks at Bilbao, home of the Guggenheim Museum. We wanted to go on a trip to it but they needed 20 to run the coach and couldn't achieve that from the 1,700 or so on board so we had to satisfy ourselves with outside views of this rather stunning building. We were rather surprised that david knew who the architect was- the connection was that he had designed a concert hall for Springfield which was converted into a prison. He particularly liked the floral puppy by the entrance.

We also saw the oldest transporter bridge in the world, although we didn't get a chance to walk over the top like at Middlesborough.

The return journey was much more choppy, although not as bad as my Mum's trip a couple of months beforehand when the ship could have been more aptly titled the Vomiting Venus, a legendary North Sea ferry that plied between Newcastle and Scandinavia, rolling merrily as she went. Pride of Bilbao has stabilisers but they can only reduce the roll, not the occasional lift & slap down that is so disconcerting. (More about stabilisation here).

Getting to Portsmouth is long winded by Coach; it is even more long winded coming back when the door interlock goes wrong & the brakes won't release!

Amusing choice of in-coach movies for the journey:

Going down- Titanic
Coming back- Speed

then after spending two hours at a Services in the northampton area: The Witches (A very wierd & somewhat cak film, we never saw the end of it and don't want to either...

Astroturf

For as many years as I have been reading the Morley Observer & Advertiser (and its previous manifestation as two supposedly independent papers) I have been both amused and vexed by the tactic of shilling, where supporters of political parties write in to praise their own and rubbish the opposition. Indeed, I once wrote a letter to the editor suggesting that letters to the editor include a disclosure statement so that the partisanship was out in the open rather than implied.

This ongoing campaign has had its comic moments, including the time when the Morley Borough Independents decided that some of the MBI bashing was from fictitious names and addresses. Other chuckles come in the form of lucid letters from individuals who struggle to string a sentence together in the flesh, let alone write coherently and cogently with well-phrased arguments.

In recent weeks, however, it has risen to new heights. There has been a long stream of letters in support of newly elected BNP Councillor Chris Beverley and the great things he is apparently achieving in the Ward. This has, of course, got the MBIs in a bit of a tizzy and an attempt by Robert Finnegan to suggest this was all down to shilling spectacularly backfired when it came across as arrogant and sarcastic with the subsequent postbag pointing it out.

Indeed, the BNP are proving to be rather good at this PR business. For a long time, the received wisdom mantra has been that when the BNP get elected they don’t actually get their finger out and do anything. Chris Beverley recently challenged Leeds Councillors to help him out on a clean-up campaign. For the others, this is a damned if you do, damned if you don’t scenario; if they decline, they will be accused of hypocrisy, if they join in they will be accused of consorting with extremists.

I can’t say that I like the BNP but I do believe in freedom of speech, opinion and assembly. The more they express their views, the more apparent how odious some of them are which is a much better approach than simply proscribing views and thoughts. Their website is actually quite interesting and their news items, whilst inevitably partial, expose lots of things that the Government would rather we didn’t know about how they deal with opinions not in the mainstream. For example, did you know that a BNP activist is currently banged up on a trumped up charge after an argument with an Iraqi in a pub? They are positioning it that he is a political prisoner so are making mileage out of it but there is probably more to the story than meets the eye.

I recently read of the term Astroturfing, which is shilling carried to the next level- passing off something inferior as having wide public support by people in the pay of the beneficiaries. It is particularly in use for the battle for the Internet in America but applies just as well to our own Morley letters page.

(Disclosure: Independent Town Councillor, Moderate Libertarian, Heterosexual, Agnostic)

The longest night...

I was staying in a “high dependency unit” bed after grommet surgery as there is a risk that people with obstructive sleep apnea can stop breathing during sleep due to the residual effects of anaesthetic. On this basis, it was felt safer for me to kip in a ward where the nurses would know what to do if I stopped breathing, aided by being hooked up to monitoring technology. (Apparently, they give you a poke!)

I had three electrodes on my chest (two at neck area, one on the side, measuring heart activity and respiration), a sensor on my finger (for pulse and oxygenation), a Blood pressure cuff on my arm (which inflated once an hour or so to measure BP) and a nasal oxygen feed, the sort where a pipe loops over your ears and under your nose, with two small, short pipes up into the nostrils. I was also in a motorised bed with the head angled up somewhat for ease of sitting up in bed. I also had my home CPAP machine available, which I anticipated to be using later on.

Come sleepy time, I attempted to snooze but there were a number of distractions. One of the patients was constantly fiddling with his facemask which would set off alarms. Another patient was good at disconnecting the oxygen which would set off alarms. Patient drips would run out which would set off alarms. Patient responses would drift out of expected limits which would set off alarms. When I say alarms, I don’t mean strident bells or a big claxon that would sound “AWOOGA!”, instead it was an assortment of chimes not unlike that heard on long-haul aeroplanes. Indeed the whole experience was somewhat like a night-time flight with constant activity and noise but without the headsets & seat-back screens.

After a while, I got to recognise what the various chimes meant from what I could see of the screens and what the nurses said. Some were strident & insistent, others more subtle. I noticed that if I turned over in bed, my own box would make a solitary bong not unlike calling an aeroplane stewardess. Sometimes, my BP cuff slipped down my arm and would struggle to take a decent reading- it would try three times and then start to demand attention.

The level of attention that the staff gave to the alarms was enlightening- it varied from immediate concern to distinct indifference. The norm was to initially tune out the noises than pay attention if it persisted for more than 30 seconds or so (and a lot of the alarms cleared up on their own within that time).

A succession of doctors visited the ward, it was obvious that some were liked by the staff and some not!

I found myself drifting off to a fragmented sleep and I cursed not being able to reach the bed controls to make it flat but was too lethargic to ask the nurses. I eventually came to the conclusion that there wasn’t too much risk of me stopping breathing as |I couldn’t manage to get off to a deep sleep anyway.

Eventually, dawn happened and there was enough light for the staff to turn off the dimmed florry lights. The staff change happened again at round about 7ish and I met a third set of nurses. I had bled slightly overnight from my ear and they cleaned me up so that I could face the world. They made me some toast and coffee and after a wash and tinkle I was able to to get dressed and relax in a bedside chair. They offered me paracetamol & ibuprofen but I wasn’t actually in any pain so I declined it. After a while they decided that I would live and discharged me with a follow-up appointment in four months.

Has it helped? I don’t know yet, my ear is still plugged somewhat with dried blood so my high pitch hearing remains mediocre. Grommets cure symptoms, not problems and they didn’t find any underlying problem when they had a shufty in my nasal space with an endoscope. I did come away relieved that I wasn't seriously ill, though!

Theatre of dreams...

So there I am in hospital patient gown, cotton trolleys, stripy dressing gown and Homer slippers (that say mmm... beer... if strategically pressed) sitting in the chair by my hospital bed waiting for surgery. I've been asked very nicely if I'd not actually get in the bed as I won't be sleeping in it that night.

It is now 2pm and I'm 2nd on the list so expect to be on the table at round about 3pm. I have a good book to read and I appear to be surrounded by eccentric old ladies. An orderly tries to give us all a drink, which sends the nurse into a flap as it seems we are all "NIL BY MOUTH" but they don't put up signs any more and the other patients appeared too fruit-loopy to realise it wasn't a good idea.

A hospital orderly arrived at 3pm with a wheelchair but it wasn't for me. He then arrived again at about 3:45pm but it still wasn't for me. The Hospital Chaplin arrived, a lady in her late fifties with a certain manner of one who has given their life to god. We chatted for a couple of minutes but she rapidly realised that I wasn't in need of spiritual guidance and moved on. At the next bed, I overheard her discussing the finer points of where the patient worshipped and they had obviously found common ground.

Finally, at 4:30pm, the porter arrived for me. By this time, I was starving, rather parched and keen to get it over with. There is an interesting hospital ritual where a nurse accompanies patients on the way there and another one on the way back. Whilst there may be clinical reasons, I'm sure a lot of it is reassurance in the spirit of Florence Nightingale. It isn't far from the ward to the Operating theatres and I was delivered into the anaesthetic room of theatre number one. It was long and thin, with a large open sliding door onwards into the operating room itself. Here I was slightly surprised to see an infeasible number of masked staff gathered around the head of someone already on the operating table. Being an ear, nose & throat session, it was inevitable that this was what would be going on, however, they all looked as startled to see me as I did them! The door was quickly closed and I was asked to transfer onto the rather narrow table. I met the anaestetist, the technician and even the surgeon who wandered through to read my notes. I'd never seen him before (depite attending his clinic) and he wasn't the dashing surgeon type, being reminiscent of Walter matthau.

After various checks that i was who they thought I was, I was given a Cannula which I expected to send me off, but was in fact the drip feed device into a vein on the back of my hand. I passed my glasses to the nurse and waited for the inevitable, admiring the Disney characters on the cupboards and the ceiling. I had been intregued about going under, as the two previous times (as a child under dental gas) I can remember by hearing going all zingy and me half-thinking it was the dentist's drill. This time, however, it was simply like drifting off to sleep, by vision blurred, the room went slightly yellowy and my eyes closed.



As far as I recall, I simply dreamed in a normal fashion. After a bit I woke up again and after a moment of disorientation realised I was in the recovery room and the time was 5:30pm. I had a sore throat 9from the ventilator pipe) and a slightly tingly ear (from the use of a speculum to slightly enlarge the ear canal, no, not the sort that ladies are intimately familiar with!).

I came round fairly quickly, and whilst feeling somewhat lethargic, was fully aware of my surroundings. Before long, my bed was trucked off to my new ward, the HDU.

The HDU is about as far from the main block operating theatre as it can be and the linking corridors are rather narrow. However, the porter was a dab hand at driving the glorified pump truck that motorised my bed. No-one could come from HDU so one of the recovery room nurses came with me. The HDU is at the back of the intensive care ward and has four beds as well as a possible fifth in an isolation room (where the nurses went for quiet time). There were already two patients in-situ and a fifth was wheeled in a couple of hours later. The staff of three were kept busy attending to the needy cases but found time to hook me up (three electrodes, nasal oxygen feed and a blood pressure cuff) and find we some food and drinks. My bags & specs eventually turned up, at which point I was able to start reading again.

Karen & David visited and were pleased to see me awake & alert, although David understandably was concerned with the wiring up & the sight of the other patients. They had hoped to bring me an ice cream but all of the catering was shut up for the night.

After using one of those cardboard disposable wee-wee bottles, I was just pouring some water into a glass when the nurse asked me if I wanted alcohol. I said no thanks & she looked a bit puzzled- then she realised that I thought she was going to squirt it in the glass and I realised it was for me to wash my hands!

The shifts overlapped at about 9pm and they spent more than half an hour reviewing the progress of the incumbents. I couldn't hear too well as one of the patients had a very noisy respirator machine but it seemed that I had been only very lightly under and was doing fine.

I kept myself amused reading further and eventually they dimmed the fluorescent lights to make it easier for the patients to sleep. And so began the longest night of my life...

I've been to Hospital...

The title was the suggestion for a particularly naff bumper sticker by Alexei Sayle in his comedy heyday. Lets face it, no-one wants to go to hospital, even as a visitor. I had been forewarned that my own particular visit could fall victim to bed shortages or more urgent demands but surprisingly enough, I managed to get admitted and my session carried out. Whilst a minor operation, it still involves a trip to the operating theatre which involves putting your life in someone else's hands.

Having an operation under general anaesthetic, it is necessary to fast for a while. The main reason for this is that any reflux (a polite word for sick) that gets into your lungs whilst unconscious can cause big problems, principally pneumonia. having said that, this reference debunks this and also has an excellent pun for a title!

My regime was to be as follows, for my afternoon surgery.

No alcohol for 24 hours. (No big deal, most of my alcohol consumption these days is mostly a glass of port on a Tuesday evening, Tuesday being scales night in the Grey Household.)

A light breakfast before 8am. (A Weetabix and skimmed milk at 07:30, I often don't have a weekday breakfast so that was a treat).

A drink such as a dilute fruit juice before 10:30am. (A glass of water at 10:25 and abstinence from coffee the day before to keep down the cravings).

Don't suck on any mints or chewing gum. (Nope, just my thumb, so to speak!)

Admission at 10:30-11am, ring rirst to ensure bed available. (Because I have obstructive sleep Apnoea I am at slight risk after anaesthetic, so the anaesthetist organised a high dependency unit bed for me. That is a half-way house between a normal ward bed and intensive care. I didn't hear until 11:50 that I was clear to go in).

All conditions being fulfilled, I arrived at the allocated hospital ward (Ward 3, Head and Neck) at round about 12:30. My bed wasn't quite available yet so I was blood pressure checked, met one of the ear, nose and throat doctors for the various questions, met my anaesthetist (not the one I had been expecting), had a felt tip arrow drawn on the side of my head and eventually was taken to my temporary bed. It was now 2pm and I was gowned-up with the familiar device that ties at the back. I was pleased to see that the gown did not provide ready access to the arse area as Billy Connolly put it and indeed the nurse said I could put my trolleys back on if they were 100% cotton. (It seems that Bri Nylon is a fire risk in the Operating Theatre). Wearing my dressing gown and Homer Simpson slippers (one of which said mmm, beer... if you pressed it) I settled down for the wait. I was supposedly second on the list and it started at 2pm so it shouldn't be long...

Tahw a Rissep!

Well, Morley FM has hit the airwaves, but our higher frequency of 94.9 FM doesn't carry as far. It actually does after a fashion, but is competing with strong signals from Radio Lincolnshire on 94.9FM to the South East and Radio Cleveland on 95FM to the North. Karen can pick us up in her office in Wakefield (with aerial positioned just so) and we had a confirmed hearing on Morley Bottoms as well, both firsts. The downer is that before, when the signal fluttered, it just dipped and hissed. Now, it flutters with breakthrough interference, or QRM in Radio Ham circles. My journey to Bradford loses the signal before I even reach junction 27, let alone the hotel at the end of the motorway feeder.

When we were down in the RSL bit (87.7/8/9), we only competed with other stations pushing out 10w or at most 25w signals (in rural areas). Now we are up amongst the big boys, there are hundreds of watts of power competing with our output which wouldn't even light the lamp in your fridge to full brightness.

We could get the mast higher, but it would need money or resources we don't currently have. Even 87.9FM wasn't available, being in use elsewhere nearby for some of our broadcast dates.

Fortunately, the online streaming is OK, although not from the studio. Instead, it is picked up by an old radio receiver in my spare room, fed into an aging laptop, streamed up to the docklands and pushed out to anyone who chooses to listen from our website link.

It strikes me as ironic that the school has a 10 meg connection but it doesn't work properly where we are: it has to go up my ADSL stream. Fortunately, another Member has agreed to lob in for my ISP bill, which will go up at least a Tenner over the next fortnight. (Although usage from Midnight to 8am is free, a time when we are only playing a sustaining service.)

The studio phone still doesn't work, after 9 months of being almost ready. Actually, it works if we plug it in to another bit of the network, but that area is not accessible to us out of hours. Being a Network based phone, we couldn't readily interface it to the studio kit anyway.

A BT line and broadband connection would have solved all of the problems, but the money wasn't available when we needed it.

A bit busy this week...

...loads on at work, Morley FM about to go live on Monday & now I have an impending date for my operation .

One of my (2) readers complains I don't post enough. I think of all sorts topics fairly regularly but have to temper the wilder ones so as to not offend my employer (work being the source of many anecdotes in the distant future suitably sanitised and generalised), also preferring to think about things rather than passing an ill-informed opinion on everything I see and hear. See, I'm not a real politician...

(Never going back to) my old school...

The title is from a Steely Dan track and I visited my first Primary for the first time in 38 years yesterday. I took David along, as I am keen to get him to grasp that we were all kids once. (It was a training day at his school, he wasn't bunking off..)

I had visions of my old school being much bigger that David's. In many ways it was, the classrooms were a more sensible size and it had corridors rather than "open plan" shortcuts. Some things looked disappointingly small though, particularly the stairwells leading to the upper classrooms. The playgrounds were generously sized and the fields delightfully shrubbed.

Schools put up a lot more work on display these days, the foyer was a riot of colour and an extensive display highlighted many productions of the last 30 years or so.

The hall felt about the same size, a smidge smaller than I thought but suitably lofty and well lit with lots of windows. The school is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year, only two years older than me and it must have been still rather new when I started.

We didn't see too many kids, they were hard at work in a couple of rooms we passed through although the music room was empty. This was the room where I had hid under the sand pit from Miss Thorpe (the Reception teacher) on my first day after the first few hours proved too much for me. Now it had keyboards and oil drums (of the carnival kind) although we did see a splendid reception area in the other building (which had been some sort of special school in my time).

A very friendly head teacher was very pleased to show us round and happily contrast then and now. One older member of staff was able to mention several teachers that I had forgotten about and we swapped some stories and recollections. I was mildly disappointed that the building was showing its age with talk of partial demolition & replacement within five years. It still had most of its Crittal style metal framed windows and French Window double doors from the sink rooms that linked pairs of downstairs classrooms. (The upstairs rooms had their sinks on the landing).

I had a very happy childhood at Stocksfield Avenue, it was a good school but probably not particularly remarkable.

Sport for all..

There has been a bit of a rumpus in Morley about our rather decrepit leisure centre. It seems we might be able to improve it using private finance initiative money, but the new one won't have as many facilities. (You can read about it here for the next few months, curtesy the Morley Obtiser.)

This reminds me of the PFI hospital kerfuffle, where new hospitals get built but they generally have less beds.

I have no objection to the principle of PFI involving the private sector, I don't regard profit as a dirty word.

What I do object to, however, is the vast sums of money these schemes cost out of our pockets, due to piss-poor planning & stitch-up contracts. An example of the unintended consequences is the imbalance in Morley Primary schools- some are undersubscribed due to a range of factors, including the new PFI one. However, education Leeds cannot rationally close the PFI one no matter how sensible the decision might be as they are obliged to pay the partner to run it for the next couple of decades regardless.

There is also the business of "off the books". It is simply overextending our credit on a ridiculous scale, having to earmark funds over timescales over a long time hoping no-one will miss it. We all remember our first credit card and the seduction of getting things now and paying later. Yes, you can have that Plasma TV today, it'll only cost you £5 a month for the rest of your life...

A rare sight near Morley...

...the Ikea car park nearly empty on a Saturday afternoon.

Why buy flat pack furniture when there is a match on?

The Grey household remain totally indifferent to the beautiful game, but had we been, we would now be tearing out our hair as the telly is playing up. The picture keeps deciding to bow in at the sides like an hourglass. It isn't terminal yet, but it looks like a new Idiot's lantern is on the horizon.

Meanwhile, Cyman occasionally regales us with song, poetry and mathematics. He appears to have reached the zenith of his evolution although we hold out for another surprise statement.

Monkey business

We try to get David to understand the value of money. He currently gets £4 a week and we encourage him to save for things he would like off his own back. About 2 months ago, he spotted a toy monkey in Morley's Home Bargains that he had seen others with and was keen to own. He managed to save up £12 in the meantime, despite being led astray by tat shops on holiday and the urge to buy stuff that would last 10 minutes before breaking or him losing interest.

Yesterday, I allowed him an advance on next week's money so he could buy the toy monkey for an eye watering £15.99 (reduced from £39.95).

This monkey is called Simon (although it isn't spelt that way) and evolves through stages in the same way as a Tamagochi pet. At first it could only gesture and make monkey noises (mainly to be fed its virtual banana) but it progressed through baby talk to now being fairly coherent. This evening, it surprised us by singing a song about the "monkey in the mirror". What was even more surprising was that whilst talking it had a voice somewhat like Sesame Street's Elmo, but when singing, it was a rich baritone.

It also now puts up a fight when you try to put him to sleep. I suspect Simon has a couple more surprises in store for us...

(By the way, we don't advance David any more than one week's money as we don't want him to see us as a source of easy credit. Perhaps we need to work out a punitive APR.)

back again...

We spent a few days in the Tenby area, totally isolated from all things webby, netty & emaily. We had electricity, water, a fridge and an idiots lantern but were otherwise buffered from the hustle-bustle of life, even turning off the mobiles on occasions. Whilst down there we rode some coasters, went on beaches, wandered amongst dinosaurs, visited amazing mazes and even fed some goats. David got to milk a cow, he described it as "squidgy". On returning to Morley, our next door neighbour told us they spent years and years visiting a caravan park 3 miles down the road from where we were staying.

Joined up Government

I received a phone call from OfCom yesterday, advising me which frequency Morley FM could have next month. (94.9FM, subject to approval). Shortly afterwards, I received an email from OfCom, telling me that no frequencies were available, terribly sorry and all that.

Aaaargh! Left hand, meet right hand; right hand, meet left hand...

Turns out we can have the frequency after all, after I facilitated some joined-up Government. If I'd received the info in the reverse order I would have been a particularly unhappy bunny...

Officialdom- as Bart Simpson would say, it both sucks and blows at the same time!

The value of privacy

ID cards are going to solve everything?

Too many wrongly characterize the debate as "security versus privacy." The real choice is liberty versus control. Tyranny, whether it arises under threat of foreign physical attack or under constant domestic authoritative scrutiny, is still tyranny. Liberty requires security without intrusion, security plus privacy. Widespread police surveillance is the very definition of a police state. And that's why we should champion privacy even when we have nothing to hide.

From Bruce Schnier's blogpiece with the title above.

does whatever a spider can...

I found out more about the Eurovision amazing camera cuts- the clue was in the credits. The system is called Spidercam from Creative Complex Systems, an Austrian Company. The Camera is suspended on four cables, each of which goes back to a tower and can be rapidly winched in or out. This enables the camera to be placed practically anywhere within the bounds of the towers and presumably if the camera is radio controlled for pan, tilt, zoom and focus, remarkable things happen.

I do wonder, though, how disorienting it must have been for the turns, who could have come to grief if they had wandered off their marks during the performance.

The other thing we watched (on time shift) was the Princes Trust gig, a sort of mini- Live 8 & Red Nose day rolled into one. Ben Elton hosted the last hour and is as sharp and searing as ever, it took me straight back to the mid 80s, Saturday live and "a little bit of politics". None of your middle of the road Ant & Dec pap, this was in your face and cutting edge.

A lot of the 80's acts were Cak but it held together well and Friday Night Live was even bigger, if short lived. Ben was great live, a real motormouth and whilst you didn't always agree with him, he certainly pointed out the absurd and the funny side.

I still say "hello everybodypeeps" to some people who remember Harry enfield's Stavros.

rain stops play...

A very wet weekend in Morley so far. It didn't matter on the way to the swimming pool, but it made the Morley FM Town Hall leafleting a washout before it had even started.

We popped over the Pennines this afternoon, surprisingly it was raining less in Manchester, not the normal state of affairs.

This evening, after Dr Who and Dr Who confidential, we ended up watching the Eurovision song contest. I fully expected to have lost interest and wandered off to surf, but the show kept my attention. Not that the songs were that good, but Terry Wogan sends it up something rotten and the staging of such a mammoth event is nothing short of "amazing", a little in-joke that it was the most overused word of the evening.

I was particularly impressed with the camerawork, massive swoops and scurrys round the performers from what could only have been motorised in the air systems at times, never visible in the long shots. A bit frenetic, but fascinating.

The lighting and LED sets were spectacular but not gripping. To me, wow factors need great music (or theatre) and being there in the flesh.

We switched off just before the judging which is traditionally tedious but insightful into european politics.