I have several cycling routes that I ride fairly regularly. One takes me out and back into the Yorkshire Wolds. It’s quite a lonely ride with few settlements: just sharp hills and lots of arable farming land. On my way home on such a four hour jaunt I ride through the peaceful village of Full Sutton. I say peaceful because on the outside it is anonymous albeit with a reasonable amount of residential housing and a large prison. I’ve reflected that as the prison is designated ‘high security’ it contains the worst of humanity. However I trundle past and look at the pigs running around in the field opposite reflecting on the free range nature of their existence before becoming sausages.
Despite this tranquility it is somewhat disturbed by being the location of a recent horrific stabbing that led to a prolific paedophile being murdered in his cell. This awful development even made it onto the CNN website. Incarceration can be a violent and hellish existence. I suppose being locked up with malevolent and mentally disturbed men for decades, with no hope of a better future, is a situation that spawns this terrible environment. My next cycle past will make me shudder at what goes on inside its high walls.
I was sat at my desk and a voucher from Lloyds Bank caught my eye. As a customer they gave us six cinema tickets. I’d had half a mind to go and see the above film from its release. So on a cold Friday afternoon with nothing better to do than various chores that seemed deeply unappealing, I wended my way to north York to the Vue cinema.
I grew up with musical films – South Pacific, Calamity Jane, My Fair Lady, High Society, The Sound Of Music. Most of these were from the 60s with no pretence at gritty realism or more ambition than seeing off a baddie and the guy getting the gal after a bit of a chase. The soundtracks were all sublime: how could you fail with Cole Porter, Rogers & Hammerstein or Frederick Loewe. Unfortunately there was no music involved in Downton Abbey but the harmless beautifully overdressed fun was similar.
An early morning text from an old friend alerted me to the latest edition of the local newspaper – The Yorkshire Post. There was a pull out section with images of the past. On the back was a photo of my father. He died in 1989 and 30 years later you don’t expect to see his photo in a newspaper. By the time of his photo I was living away from home but I vaguely recollect him coming across this post box/plate. He was a Councillor on Leeds City Council. I think this may have been something that was surplus to requirements after an old building was demolished and he he bagged it. He did have it refurbished and I expect it then languished in the garage or similar.
So after over three weeks away on my cycle to Vienna (see Posts elsewhere on the site) I was quickly into what my Favourite Eldest Daughter calls ‘life admin” or what I’d call outstanding paperwork. However before I started on this a trip to the supermarket was in order.
My bride had switched off the fridge and freezer before flying out to join me in Austria. This is something that I could have done. It’s worrying to know she has acquired my gift. The fragrance was not attractive on opening the front door. Despite the cleaning up and emptying the putrid freezer it does offer an opportunity to stock up on items that you want to eat. I expect you all experience the same swerve on various frozen foods that have lain dormant in your freezer for months when you check what there is to eat.
Chris left the bar leaving nearly half a pint sat looking lonely and abandoned at the table. Den and I had no interest in the drink but if he’d left for good then we could command the table and sit down. We did. Den and I were in The Bluebell with our wives. Needless to say we were apart from the ladies discussing gripping things such as plastering, taps and the mysteries of insurance claims.
Chris, however, returned but was happy to share his table. Like us he was enjoying a summer pint on Fossgate. Chris was around 70, thick set, a ridiculous shock of thick grey hair and a Van Dyke beard.
Katrina, Favourite Eldest Daughter, is leaving London and her old job to move to Manchester. London was fine but she cannot envisage ever getting onto the property ladder in t’Smoke and the North offers much better prospects. I’m not sure that the fact that her younger sibling is already established there is the draw! (Sophie is flourishing at adidas and now moving into her second flat with her partner). As a professional Human Resources professional Katrina’s job in London was very much a ‘coal face’ type of responsibility looking after the NSL employees servicing Westminster Council’s parking regime as a contractor.
Her previous job was at the plush offices of the National Broadcasting Company in central London. She went from here to hot desking above a shop somewhere in Westminster. Apart from a salary there were no cushy perks. She handled the recruitment and disciplinary issues of over 150 staff. It seemed to be a completely male dominated environment with a large churn in Parking Marshalls (wardens to you and me) of considerable ethnic mix. These people were not highly paid and trudging the streets in winter issuing tickets and on occasion receiving abuse cannot be the easiest way to earn a living.
Apparently it’s Summer. I usually take a foreign holiday in June and so suffering our chilly and rainy weather has been depressing. Clearly the Summer of 2018 may have been down to global warming but it was a memorable few months. A trip to London saw a visit to Stanfords in Covent Garden. Here I perused their vast selection of maps. Specifically I investigated the Australia section. I was looking for fairly detailed maps of the East coast. I was successful. With this I take a further cycling step toward ‘Australia 2020: The Grey Nomad Goes Forth”.
All news now seems to come with such a presentation that you’re obligated to agree or disagree with it. One development where I was at odds to the popular sentiment over the BBC’s decision to abandon the concession of free TV licences for viewers over 75 years of age. In line with the world today D-Day war veterans were hauled out, replete with medals, to emphasise it was a heartless decision. Gary Lineker’s salary was identified as one way the BBC could save money and populist Tweeters like Piers Morgan waded in. uncomfortably, I thought the decision was right.
Surely you’ve seen the episode of Fawlty Towers when Basil (John Cleese) is trying to catch a rat? The rodent belongs to his waiter, Manuel. A long term resident, the ‘Major’, sees said beast and takes Basil to task about his sighting. Basil denies everything….
So I’m sat outside my father-in-law’s quite plush and modern Care Home when in amazement he chirps up that he’s seen a scurrying rat! (Eric is 87 years old and we’re sat outside waiting for someone to appear from inside with a wheel chair to take him inside).
His observation is preposterous. However as we continue to sit outside biding our time I see the rats – eek! Yes two of them playing happily near the front door. More frustrating for Eric is that they appear to nest in a large bush outside his room near a door. We mention this to the staff and get a proverbial shrug of the shoulder. Seems the rodents are a feature of the accommodation and entertainment programme for the inmates.
Talking of senior people of a different generation I loved the media coverage of the Queen inspecting a mocked up supermarket check out. It was one of those check outs where you scan the items yourself. See the image:
After expecting my football team to implode and miss out on promotion, to the Premiership, they did. It was awful to behold the inconsistency of the team and ultimate distress of the fans. In fact the disappointment spread further. I think most fair minded football fans thought it was Leeds’ turn to ascend (along with the media who’d like another big team in the Big Time).
The season ending game, at home was particularly painful. I was in the dark at a Fairport Convention concert (with the venerable Charles Greenwood no less) keeping tabs on the score by phone. On entering the venue we were winning 1-0 (and 2-0 on aggregate). Then they let in four goals.
So did you enjoy the music Tony? Not really the band were fine musicians but sat down throughout reflecting their age (and acceptance thereof); their main passion arose through selling a festival they ran, selling a biography one of them had written and any other merchandise that you could procure near the foyer. More engaging was the folk club banter between songs. Some was amusing but the fiddle player went on one rant about Nigel Farage and Donald Trump. Left of centre political lecturing or comment is typical of many concerts but I still consider it to be inappropriate and an indulgent abuse of a captive audience. If you were paying the plumber to come and do some work and out of the blue he started unloading his views on climate change suggesting that those who disagreed were ‘misogynistic, racist clowns’ and the unattractive vision of a politician’s ‘bulging’ eyes you’d be thinking ‘what is going on?’
Other poor uses of my time occured during the week. As a management consultant I had to measure ‘waste’. That is measure and dissect processes that are wasteful and result in duplication, produce unused or obsolete outcomes, demonstrate poor advance planning, create unnecessary activity to correct mistakes, lead to waiting around etc. It made quite an impact on me and now when I talk to people wrestling with whether to retire, despite being financially secure, I can’t help but reflect on how they are really doing nothing very worthwhile other than collecting a salary.
And so two women from PwC were discussing the audit results on the Pension Scheme account at a Trustee meeting I attended in some posh offices in the centre of Leeds. They had come to explain ‘adverse’ comments they had put in the annual accounts. All agreed there was absolutely no problem in reality and that in fact the monies that they referred to were rather good news. However the large amounts of cash had not been broken down into some detail on the prescribed schedule and as such a few categories seemed unaccounted for. For 30 minutes these sweet ladies gibbered about the analysis of some bloke, back at the mothership, who pronounced on these ‘technical’ matters. We were frustrated and bemused at the woodenness. From here all sorts of cross referencing was discussed to enable a change in the ‘adverse’ comment. I had drifted off by this stage to remember what they agreed but at the end of the day the only reason to give a damn is that someone might, highly unlikely but possibly, check the accounts and challenge our mangement of monies. Later, I imagined both ladies describing their day to loved ones and hoped they might have the good grace to realise that life is short and that they need to get one (albeit one that paid them at least £60k pa with a car allowance).
I’m afraid this isn’t a blog with much upside. The Morgan sprung a leak from a fuel hose and has had to sit in the garage until I can drive it to the local garage for ministrations. Driving it was a 98 Octane experience as I nearly hallucinated on the fumes pouring into the car. A local neighbour and engineer helped me identify the problem. Again, the poor design of the car has lead to a chaffing hose and this problem.
Lastly, I have to mention the untimely passing of a dear lady – Wendy Looker. After fighting Stage 4 breast cancer for over a decade she succumbed at, I think, 50 years old. She was a cherished colleague at Moores. It was some fight where she understood the disease well and the joke was that she attended her consultant appointments with so many questions that the medics had to bring their ‘A Game’ to the meeting. More than that she helped a lot of other cancer sufferers on forums, email, WhatsApp, text, Facebook etc. Strong and selfless. I’ll put a piece, in due course, under ‘Moores’ (see the tool bar above) that arose from a cup of tea I had with her in 2014 where in little less than initial anxiety and then wonderment I describe her and our chat.
(Matt is an occasional contributor. Based in busy North London he pines for the wide open prairies of Northamptonshire and coffee infused with the type of stuff ordinarily found in a Christmas Selection Box. From the home of the ‘Champagne Supernova’ he writes of alcohol abuse and alliteration problems with not a little of his tongue in his cheek!)
On the evening of Thursday 16th May, in Manchester City Centre, a crime took place.
A couple sat down to enjoy a fine steak dinner at Hawksmoor. Upon ordering their bottle of ‘reasonably’ priced £250 bottle of Chateau Pichon Longueville, they were instead presented with a bottle of 2001 Le Pin Pomerol. We’ve all been there, right? I mean, the bottles look very similar and sometimes we order something and the staff makes a mistake. For instance, I once ordered a latte with a shot of caramel syrup and ended up with a latte with a shot of hazelnut, and I didn’t complain. Wine is wine.
The issue here is that the 2001 Le Pin Pomerol is the most luxurious bottle of wine that Hawksmoor has to offer. Essentially it’s the swill that they claim the three little pigs were drinking when the wolf came to the woods to wreak havoc on their homes of varying tensile strength. Adding this wine consciously to your bill will set you back a mere £4,500. Now, in my opinion, while Hawksmoor has its merits, I would say its menu sits somewhere comfortably middle class, so those who would actually order such an extravagant bottle of wine are likely to frequent rather more luxurious establishments, the sort where they serve half a truffle perched tentatively upon a gold leaf and call it an appetiser.
While I know for a fact I would tell the difference between the £250 bottle of red wine and let’s say a bottle picked up from Tesco for a fiver, I very much doubt I would be able to justify wasting over four thousand pounds for what I imagine is a marginal improvement. I’m not convinced in a blind taste test I would tell you that one wine is seventeen times better than the other.
So this couple, I am sure, received their wine having not even fully committed to memory the name of the wine they had ordered. They were likely celebrating an anniversary and thought they would ‘push the boat out’ and order the third most expensive wine on the menu. ‘Let’s go crazy!’ one most likely declared, and the other perused the wine list, scanned the Le Pin Pomerol and with wide eyes quickly erased it from their short term memory.
I am intrigued to know at exactly what moment, and far into this farce the staff waiting upon this innocent couple realised the sin they had committed. Was it early on? Was it post-corking, post-pouring, and post-ingestion? Or was it as the bottle was perched at its angle, pre-pour, but already beyond the point of no return? Did the staff watch through their nail-bitten fingers as the couple enjoyed their wine, which unbeknownst to them cost the same as a second hand Fiat Panda, laughing while inside the person who served them was mentally searching Indeed for jobs? I would like to think it was when the final drop had been consumed, and the bottle was being taken away, and on its way into the recycling bin, Ernie the Helpful Busboy spotted it and proclaimed ‘Are we hosting the Beckham’s or something?’
But the crime alluded to has not yet happened. No, the sin of giving out the wrong bottle of wine is but, in the big picture of the universe, a footnote, really. The true crime was how Hawksmoor then proceeded to take control of the incident and add a ‘Positive PR’ spin on it. The crime here is a tweet that went out shortly after the incident came to light, from the restaurant itself and ran as thus: ‘To the customer who accidentally got given a bottle of Chateau Le Pin Pomerol 2001, which is priced at £4,500 on our menu, last night – hope you enjoyed your evening! To the member of staff who accidentally gave it away, chin up! One-off mistakes happen and we love you anyway.’
Oh boy. You can smell the malice lacing each syllable. From the double use of ‘accidentally’ to the sarcastic exclamation of ‘Hope you enjoyed your evening!’. All they missed from that was an all caps ‘YOU’RE TOAST’ and a Béarnaise-stained middle finger as a tasty side.
‘Chin up!’ Yes, chin up indeed you poor bastard, for it helps the axe achieve a clean cut.
The tweet, of course, went viral.
People saw below the surface instantly and were already quietly mourning the staff member whose ‘one-off’ mistake almost certainly sent them straight to the abattoir to be served up as part of the next day’s Express Menu. Even Specsavers chimed in, offering their services. Maybe the staff member in question will go, but I think it will be a trip to the Job Centre for them first…
Like a small boy in a primitive African village I have experienced the delight of having something as monumental as a well being sunk and water being readily available. We are now connected to Superfast broadband and I write to you at a speed of 30mb/s. Our recent speed for many years has been 1.3 mb/s. Yes, I know, not a big deal for most of the UK but a big deal here in Acaster Malbis. Yippee!
Recent excitement has included lots of concerts, which you’ll find reviews elsewhere. Without doubt this is a hobby of the older person. I survey the audiences to feel quite young! I think many of these artists might supplement their income by getting sponsorship by hair dye or vitamin supplement purveyors. I suppose we have the time, often midweek, to get out and get down, as well as the disposable income as the nation subsidises the idle baby boomers (that’s a joke btw…)
A weekend away in Bakewell was delightful. Anna rented a swish property and Cost Centre One and Two descended with respective partners. In the photo are Catherine (sister in law) and Geoff (brother in law) imbibing with us at a local hostelry. In fact I was pampered as on one evening Katrina and Matt sprung into action with homemade curries and on the second night Sophie and Harry made the evening meal of fajitas.
One outing was at the end of April to catch Danny Baker at York’s Grand Theatre. This was well before his horrific racist Tweet (a chimpanzee walking hand in hand with a man and woman). I’d read both his books and heard him on the radio over the years and knew him to be an engaging raconteur. The evening was fine if you wanted to hear him regurgitate his books again line by line.
He’s quite confident that he is hilarious and rolls along alluding to a history of celebrity relationships, theft, Value Added Tax payment evasion and a fairly dissolute lifestyle that has, on occasion, caused him considerable upheaval. I also know his Tweets, which often recycle old photos and YouTube clips. They are often profane and mainly about football and music.
The foul Tweet in question was an error. I don’t think he’s a racist. However, not only was that selection an error of judgement, apparently to lampoon the attendant media, but why lampoon the event in any case? The birth of a child is a very happy event that is celebrated by everyone. (Harry and Meghan seemed so elated it was touching). Why have the error of judgement to be negative and then select a photograph that, in fairness, should end a career?
A drive to the East coast saw us go to Saltburn by the Sea. We’ve been before quite recently but this time I ventured into a Sue Ryder charity shop where I bought my second record. It was in 1966 when I entered this shop, albeit it it was a record store, and bought “Strangers In The Night” by Frank Sinatra as a birthday present for my mother. The ladies in the shop helped me with the premises’ history although they only knew this through other older Saltburn residents.
(First record? “The Young Ones” by Cliff Richard from Vallance’s. This establishment was on The Headrow in Leeds and it must have been 1962 or 63 and I recollect sitting outside in the car whilst someone popped inside to buy it).
The wonderful Tour de Yorkshire came to the county and brought the spectators out. There has been worse weather for the event but it does usually bring cold and wet. I feel for these pencil thin athletes who fly in from hotter climes to don leggings, raincoats and thick gloves. It did come within 6 miles of Chateau Ives but intermittent heavy rain saw me keep warm and dry in front of the TV to watch it. One of the genuine delights is seeing these stars zoom along roads or up hills I know so well in the county. To think Chris Froome’s tyres have covered the same piece of tarmac is terrific.
Lastly, as a nation we rightly worry about crime. Violent crime is truly shocking and the level of knife crime in London is an epidemic. To this end I’m always confused as to why millions of women, mostly middle aged or older, cannot get enough stabbing, shooting, sexual violence and general misery on TV. The best drama series for 2018 was “Killing Eve” according to the British Academy Television Awards. This light hearted romp was about a psychopathic assassin. Conveniently a beautiful young woman. In the mix although not the winner was “The Bodyguard”, again that dwelt on the near fatal attempts on a woman politician’s life. What’s wrong with you?
It was clear that Sri Lanka had its tensions despite their suppression of the Tamil uprising in the 90s. On our February holiday we learned much of this history. The bloodshed was horrific and deeply divisive. The Tamils are Hindus and the majority, the Singalese, are Buddhists. In the religious mix of the island are also Christians and Muslims. If the Sri Lankan government are to be believed then the latest appalling atrocity is by a Muslim terrorist group. However our trip to the island was delightful. We visited Hindu and Buddhist temples and safely traversed the southern half of the island in a bus. The island didn’t look prosperous and with so many mouths to feed and so few resources this is probably the reality of the whole of South Asia. You can imagine that this ferments deep unhappiness.
The scale of this atrocity is devastating and not least for the Sri Lankan economy. Tourism brings in the most foreign revenue. I cannot imagine that this will do anything other than destroy hotel bookings, guided tours, bus company revenues and the income of thousands upon thousands of Sri Lankan workers for many many months/years to come.
Near tragedy might have been closer to home but by a thread. Sophie (Favourite Youngest Daughter) took her car into Kwik Fit in Fallowfield, Manchester for two new tyres. They were fitted and she drove away. The next day, coming across to Leeds, she heard a “rattle” but drove on despite a car full of colleagues, including one who was pregnant. She eventually left them in Leeds and drove over to York thinking the rattle was getting worse. Here she went out shopping with her mother who thought it best that they divert via a Kwik Fit in the town.
There the fitter discovered that out of the necessary five nuts holding on the wheel there was only one. The other four hadn’t been tightened up, had come loose and flown off the wheel. Needless to say she and her mother were badly shaken and angry at what could have been a catastrophe. From here we’ve invloved many parties to establish what happened and for her employers and lease company to know of this incompetence.
My in-laws’ care home is a fine place with a lot of expertise and pleasant surroundings. When you first visit you delude yourself that it is probably not a bad place to spend your last days. The problem, of course, is that if you end up here you yourself are not in sparkling condition. Your enjoyment of the service, food, facilities is limited dependent on your faculties – physical and mental.
My mother-in-law, a lady with no diminution of any intellectual faculties, reported that the better weather had lured some of the ‘inmates’ from the first floor downstairs and outside onto the patio. She hadn’t seen some of them for a while and engaged one lady who she’d talked to a few months ago. Rather worryingly she enquired at what time “the ferry came”. Margaret brushed this off with some comment. The same lady in a conversation with another resident confidently advised her companion that “she was dead”. Reassurance that she’d be unable to converse if this actually was the case cut no ice: she was convinced that she was dead. Only later I concluded that this probably wasn’t as daft (as it obviously was). I think we all know people that to all intents and purposes are dead albeit with a heartbeat and movement.
Anna, who likes the odd TV ‘who dunnit’ is having a splendid time on ancestry.com putting together family trees on her and my side of the family. I knew about quite a lot of this lineage, vaguely. I had a maternal great grandfather depart Poland in the 19th Century when Poland was part of the then Russian Empire. He was Jewish. He was proud of his new home and became a naturalised Brit. Meanwhile his wife came from Ireland. She wasn’t fleeing the Russians with her family but no doubt her father was escaping poverty and potato blight in rural County Roscommon. Anyway she is digging deep into a lot of documentation that resides on the site and I await with interrest further discoveries.
I wrote about Leeds United last week . Since then a fatal defeat against a lowly team with only 10 men at home beggared belief. With it came our capitualtion of an automatic promotion spot. From here came another defeat and all of a sudden it was over. There are the play offs ahead but we look like an exhausted and defeated crew. The disappointment in and around the city is like a bereavement.
I also mentioned researching a tour in Australia. I’ve been reading several blogs of many different age groups, men and women and those who do high or low mileages etc etc. An interesting description of elderly male cycle tourers has emerged: ‘grey nomads’. I think I may have a new name!
Lastly my cycling mentor, Tim, continues to add to my knowledge of his life and relatives. We recently cycled past his sister’s house (and small holding) and more excitingly passed the very grass tennis court where he has made his one and only appearance on the green stuff (Sutton On Derwent – look for the blue plaque). Adding to my entertainment was his near death when turning onto the very busy A1079 to Hull. He managed to aggravate a swerving massive articulated lorry that sat on his horn to express his displeasure. If he keeps up those high jinx up then he may not be available to cycle with me for much longer.
Some long term tenants have moved out of a flat we rent out. Their departure led to some extensive refurbishment of the property. The tenants were good housekeepers but accumulated lots of items for a house they proposed to buy. We couldn’t move all the stuff around to enable decoration or laying new carpets. They went and we got down to it. The flat now looks brilliant. The new tenants are Chinese nationals. Both academics in their 30s and studying for PhD’s. Routine checks for financial capability were completed but as they don’t earn a salary our questions, via the letting agent, were searching. This was brushed aside with a bit of a shrug as they showed us accounts showing tens of thousands of pounds. Clearly the East isn’t short of dosh.
The Chinese lady who did the transaction was fine to deal with although worryingly certain of her decision to take the property. She just got off a train from Bath, had a cursory look around and wanted to take it immediately. After you’ve spent £2,500 on its transformation you’d like her to look around and take in the work! Another thing that came to mind was how their tenancy was fine and simply a ‘deal’ between two sets of ordinary and civil folk. However I am terribly suspicious of most things to do with China and it’s government: a one party state that bans Facebook, Google, Instagram, Twitter etc, build islands in the South China Sea (and then claims exclusion zones around them), attempts to brain wash the Uighur muslim minority of (one million) in concentration camps and occupies Tibet with the dilution, control and marginalisation of the indigenous population.
As I’ve written elsewhere then if your grand parents or even parents grew up in poverty, survived literal genocide and had no opportunity to ever improve themselves then this generation has arrived into a much better China. Who cares about democracy, being continually under intensive surveillance and debilitating corruption of the elite when you can now buy Chanel, a Mercedes Benz and watch Premiership football?
On that subject then Leeds United’s progress toward the Premiership is beyond stressful. As I write then the opportunity is in our own hands and we need to win three of our last four games and draw the other. Still a big ‘ask’ and a challenge that will keep me on edge until May.
Record Store Day (RSD) is a clever ruse by the industry to extract money from record collectors, promote record shops and generate some excitement for vinyl. Every April it comes around all over the world. The promotion is all about new releases of vinyl albums, EP’s and singles. These releases coincide with RSD and when the limited quantities have gone they’re gone! The new records are not regular releases of new work. They are often older artists but usually rarities that have not been released before. For example the Ten Years After album in the image below contains some tracks surplus to the recording session for their 1972 “Rock n’ Roll Music To The World’ LP. To add to the excitement then this album is on green see through vinyl! Of course the releases are limited editions and hence the value can probably appreciate. Anyway I bought the Ten Years After and Jethro Tull unreleased music out of over 100 new vinyl releases. I could have been 17 years old as this was the last time I bought two albums together by these artists.
Vinyl Eddie’s in York is the small specialist shop I got them from. First thing on RSD morning there was a queue outside the place waiting for it to open. It was a ‘first come first served’ opportunity to get the records. If you were late then you might not get what you wanted.
A little time is being spent on research on a major cycle trip – the east coast of Australia in 2020. In July I’ll be riding to Vienna from York. I can’t wait but it is a familiar expedition through countries I know well. The Australian jaunt is a major leap into the unknown. I’m thinking of riding from Adelaide to Cairns: over 3,000 miles. It seems very doable but not without considerations of sun, traffic and crocodiles to plan for. Anyway watch this space.
In other news Julian Assange has been sprung from the Ecuadorian Embassy. Putting to one side all his alleged criminal activities and the future peril this places him in with the UK, USA and Sweden I had other thoughts. After spending seven years imprisoned in the London embassy he must surely have been pleased to get out, even though the novelty may soon wear off as he becomes a guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Lastly, I reflected on a few old colleagues who are either changing jobs in their mid fifties or people I know still flourishing at ages nearer to sixty than fifty. Back in 2008 at the age of 53 after a sudden redundancy I felt very old in a job market that was shrinking dramatically due to the recession. I drove up and down the country for meetings, submitted endless cv’s, got into interview situations on about eleven occasions and yet after a really successful previous career I couldn’t get a job offer. After about 5 months something came along in consultancy. The job never thrilled me as regards a career move, it was a salary only. In truth, I was never very good at it or enjoyed it. Hence I retired at 58.
It seems to me that nowadays there are more older senior people in jobs. Attitudes have changed to the older worker. It also helps to have a more buoyant economy and a shortage of experienced talent.
So Tim sent a Messenger message. He’s bought a new bike and would I fancy going out for a bike ride? Well why not?
Tim’s an old colleague that I worked with over a decade ago. We’d stayed in touch and he’d found himself between jobs. That’s not as bleak as it reads. He’d taken up an offer to join a competitor and his old firm had put him on gardening leave. So in between all the decorating, gardening and other (wife enthused) tasks he’d been keeping fit.
He’d known about my bike riding (who doesn’t?) and despite him doing about 100 miles a week (!) since February he was concerned that he might not be good enough to keep pace with me. This anxiety wasn’t shared by me. Frankly anyone can ride a bike and as I’m giving him nine years in age (and he’s quite a decent sportsman) I wasn’t expecting to teach him much despite his touching humility.
So when we met up with a planned 47 mile round trip he presents himself looking fit with his new bike and some top quality branded kit. I smelt a rat. Off we went. Tim kept nicely in front of me; chatting away merrily. I’m pedalling as fast as I can (or want to without exhausting myself) trying to catch his conversation in a headwind. He must have enjoyed talking to himself as he talked for quite sometime with no audible response from me.
Tim obviously realised that he was the stronger and feeling no sympathy didn’t slow down and ploughed on! Eventually we got to the cafe for the teacake and cuppa. I think I’d caught my breath by the end of the break. At the end of our race/ride I surprisingly agreed to go out again but farther and more hilly.
I tend to fit in a hard ride every week and such a route up to Helmsley with the promise of fish and chips is a great trip. This time the pecking order was established but still the pressure switched back to me as I knew the route. So grinding up hills Tim might sit in behind me and when he got bored with my lacklustre pace he’d come alongside and start a conversation. At this point I think, with my burning lungs, I might have only been able to say “stop” or “oxygen”. Tim did however tire of slipstreaming (and going slowly) and started to disappear up the gradients ahead of me. I wasn’t sorry to see him go, not least to admire his expensive wardrobe from behind.
Around twenty years ago or even longer I used to ride out with other work colleagues and a splendid time we had as younger men climbing the steepest that Yorkshire had to offer. I enjoyed the banter, the sprinting up hills and general competition. It was a long time ago: now I cycle alone and after a knee problem had got comfortable with trundling along with little ambition of time trialling. Riding with Tim became
an opportunity to train and get a lot faster again. Checking my times when riding with him I was 5 – 10% faster and back to speeds I might have done over 5 years ago. Terrific. Also I started taking the rides a lot more seriously with pasta the night before, a decent breakfast, a couple of glucose gels for a boost in my pocket, not wearing headphones (listening to podcasts) and thinking about the ride before I set off to ensure I knew what was coming.
This had it’s benefits and when Tim ‘went up the road’ he didn’t get a million miles away (ie. I could still see him in the distance). Needless to say by this stage I was probably trying more than him and he might have been cycling at a decent pace just to keep warm! I noted that he was now carrying gels himself (a backhanded compliment if there ever was one). A more dubious benefit was his chirping away. As a man who’d cycled these routes tens of times alone with little interest in the surroundings I was suddenly informed about his parent’s houses, houses nearly bought, football pitches used for training, birds of prey on the wing and former building sites managed leading to reprimands from Managing Directors.
In return I taught Tim how to buy a sandwich and eat it in the open air. When this was proposed there was much disinterest and the option of a cake was treated with absolute dismissive contempt (“Does Mark Cavendish stop for flapjack?”). However 2½ hours later after climbing 600 metres a sandwich became the highlight of the outing (despite my eating his choice by accident!).
I’m using this ‘mentoring’ to revisit some of my better recent times on routes. And who knows when Tim returns to work I may be found tagging along at the back of the Tour de Yorkshire peloton.
So with a little trepidation I traversed the North Yorkshire Moors to join Peter, Mike and William for a heavy weekend in Whitby. They were driving down from Edinburgh on their annual cultural exchange. I say heavy because two days are spent drinking and eating things that anyone hoping to reach a normal retirement age would assiduously control. To accelerate the reduction in lifespan all was consumed in excess.
A weekend including 45mph winds and a Saturday with a 96% chance of rain were anticipated. Last year it was the ‘Beast from the East’ and so plans for outdoor exercise remained flexible. However after ‘checking in’ to the apartment it was off to ‘The Moon and Sixpence’ for a bite to eat. The party had already consumed some bottled beer imported from north of the border. Starting as we meant to go on we adjourned to ‘The Ship’ for our 2019 inaugural pub pint. Now slightly lubricated dinner was eaten and Mike reaffirmed his friendship by commenting that “a Yorshireman is like a Scotsman but with all the goodness squeezed out of him”. The meal was excellent although there was considerable muttering, from the Scots, about paying £5 for an ice cream dessert. My muttering was about why, with flowing beer, a bottle of red wine was ordered?
Left to right – me, Peter, Mike and William
Surprising was that the threesome, in five years, have never had the fourth invited person return the next year until I showed up. Brief summaries were given on the previous cast members and Mike was especially disparaging about Alan who’d observed “you all eat and drink too much”. Another, Jim, crossed a red line by having oatmeal or similar for one of his breakfasts; clearly only carnivores with a death wish are welcome. I made a mental note to step up.
So with some cycling planned for the next day, in possibly torrential rain and gales, we resolved to take it easy on the night with alcohol. Naturally with all the beer and wine consumed with the meal we couldn’t walk past ‘The Jolly Sailors’. As usual William was appointed bursar. Given the considerable responsibility of managing the repeatedly emptying kitty he was like a small child on Christmas morning as he returned from the bar with four pints: it had only cost him £8. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he planned on returning to Edinburgh to change his name by deed poll to Sam Smith. These were downed and the long walk to the apartment was planned but a fatal attraction to ‘The Buck Inn’, next door, was too hard to overcome and we became acquainted with another dead Yorkshiremen, Timothy Taylor.
This was a karaoke bar and much bellowing ensued to Queen, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, Kool & The Gang, Oasis and The Spice Girls.
We now did return to the apartment and as I had rejected Peter’s advances to sleep with him, due to a shortage of beds, I evicted William and Mike from the living room and set up camp by blowing up my airbed and unpacking my sleeping bag.
On Saturday I was a little ragged after a mediocre night’s sleep and earlier indulgences but I was considerably lifted by all three reporting similar fragility. Maybe anno domini was catching up with them? When dressed we walked into town to feast at ‘The Singing Kettle’, a ‘greasy spoon’ par excellence. With all our cholesterol levels restored we returned to the apartment and found our bikes. The plan was to ride south on the cinder track that connected Whitby and Scarborough. By being an old rail route up until 1965 it would be rolling but never have any serious hills.
I think the last time I rode a mountain bike I had a full head of hair. As a consequence as we set off I was trying to find where all the gears were and realising that I was riding on muddy tracks replete with puddles in rain with no mudguards. I think we were only about a mile down the track before I was splattered and sodden beyond belief.
The ride was terrific and we soon arrived at Robin Hood’s Bay. Not content with an intended 32 mile round trip we went off the route and descended to the sea. This was the easy bit. Girding our loins we returned up the hill, the gradient was monstrous and near to the top approached 30%. I could turn the pedals but I felt at one point that the bike would tip over backwards. Truth be told that had I not faced the prospect of remorseless ridiculing I would have got off!
So on we went down the track, in the rain, and enjoyed the coastal views.
Eventually ‘The Hayburn Wyke Inn’ came into view and a much needed sign indicated ‘pub’. I needed a drink as my water bottle was covered in grit and I had used most of its contents to sluice my spectacles and computer to assist visibility. At this point William got a puncture and I was de-gritted by a helpful Mike who couldn’t believe his luck at pouring cold water onto me.
We spelched into the pub and enjoyed a sandwich and some soup. Judging by the amount of mud I left in the Gents, after cleaning my cycling kit, I would expect to be banned. A roaring fire enabled some drying or at least making things that were sodden warm. Alcohol was eschewed except for Peter having a half to humiliate the Braveheart twins.
Michael enjoying being photographed…
The ride back to Whitby was splendid but I got caked again and on the outskirts of Whitby managed to get a puncture. A very cold walk through town followed looking a real mess to the flat where I bagged the shower first. Some clothing was too muddy to bring in the flat but other items were lobbed into the washing machine.
So if my own sport was a challenge then my other sports teams were having even less success. Leeds United lost a ‘must win’ game and England rugby union played two matches over 80 minutes — the first they won and the second they lost. This wouldn’t have mattered had it not been against Scotland! Mike and William went from morose resigned torpor to animated shouting delight in 10 minutes. If I do get invited for 2020 I shall check the Six Nations fixture list prior to accepting (as I can’t bear seeing such happy men).
The boys had despatched a few bottles prior to visiting the ‘Black Horse Inn’ and then it was onto ‘The Endeavour”. Here my newly confirmed status was confirmed as I was trusted with part of the kitty and directed toward ‘Mr Chippy’ to buy four portions of fish and chips. I bustled out of the pub feeling that I had been promoted to something as lofty as ‘Form Monitor’ and discharged my procurement responsibilities with much pride. William, who’d been struggling with some bodily emissions, was eyed with apprehension as he forked his mushy peas. With our meal complete we progressed to the quiz. I compile and circulate a general knowledge competition. I think it’d be fair to say that I enjoy this more than the competitors but they grin and bear it.
Mike wasn’t aware that our future King and his wife had beget a daughter let alone what they called any of the three children. He came third. I had thought that the other William would walk it but Peter won. (Not the result I was aiming for). I expect my exclusion of sport, contemporary culture, politics and reality TV helped him. Being gracious in accepting his title of ‘Quiz Meister’ he derided Mike for actually thoroughly reading all the questions and considering all the multiple choice answers (not that, in fairness, it appeared to help him much).
With this part of the schedule completed it was off to ‘The Elsinore’ for the main event. The place was heaving; a blues band was belting out everything between B B King, Memphis Slim and Thin Lizzy. Looking around this busy place I found some seats whilst William went to the bar. I asked the woman already sat at a table if the places were free and she said they were. In retrospect it was probably a mistake on her behalf.
Peter followed me to the seat and I said “Peter, this is Miriam and Donald”, “Hello Miriam, I’m Peter”. Now her real name was Julie! (school boy error falling for that one Pete!) Julie was from near Doncaster, probably about 60 years old and in Whitby for the weekend, staying at a hotel with her husband. I fell foul of Julie quite quickly when I asked if the 12 year age difference between her children was due to a second marriage: it wasn’t!
Peter, asked where they specifically lived and then as you would, on your first date, went onto Wikipedia to discover all you could about the Isle of Axholme. It had an interesting land drainage history and Peter was now interrogating the poor woman about a 17th Century Dutch engineer who initiated changes to the watercourse. In fairness to Julie the fightback started from here.
As an obviously great judge of character, she observed that Peter was ‘a reet gobby shite’ and, with a perspicacity that was also impressive, continued “you remind me of the most boring fucking person in class”. Attempting to retrieve his fragile relationship Peter now switched to vegetables. Obviously. With his forensic research of the Isle of Axholme he opined that she came from somewhere important as it was the capital of broccoli production in the UK. “I don’t give a shit”.
Knocking back the rest of her chardonnay she announced their departure to ‘The Station’ pub. I did ask whether when we followed she’d be in the lounge or saloon bar? She ignored my question. However, at this point some chemistry was found: with our resident babe magnet – William. A kiss was placed on the lucky youngster and then this vision of loveliness exited our lives forever.
Mike, ‘Miriam’, William and me
William whilst obviously lucky in love, on occasion, had less success with the (completely bald) landlady. On returning two ‘off’ pints was asked if he ‘liked sex and travel’ and as the proprietor was happily drinking said slops at the end of the bar the fault lay with Mike and William. Dipping back into the continuingly dwindling kitty they migrated to the elixir that is Camerons.
So how much had I consumed? I’d ducked a couple of rounds by having ‘halves’ rather than pints. William had broadly kept pace but Peter and Mike’s consumption kept them at the head of the peloton. The band finished and a return to the apartment couldn’t be postponed. Here Mike leapt into action and made cheese on toast on his remarkable home made bread. Despite this kindness Peter was not overly grateful or constructive; when Mike sought guidance on how to turn on the grill – “There’s only two knobs to choose Mike and as you’re used to playing with one knob what’s your problem?”
Our excitement was truly pathetic when Mike found a jar of Branston Pickle lurking in the cabinets. A bottle of wine was opened. Obviously. I didn’t imbibe and as you can observe neither did Peter who contributed little to the discussion on flour, various seeds, yeast, salt, brown sugar and warm water that Mike lovingly mixed for his bread.
Well past midnight (again) Master Chef finished and the boys departed. I set up camp. The next morning involved our usual heart attack on a plate.
The day was glorious and the Famous Three strode off for a cliff top walk. A little jaded from my adventures, and a little lame when it came to hiking, I bade them a fond farewell and shuffled up the hill to the car where I pointed it in the direction of York.
Regular WhatsApp posts advised that their walk went well and involved a ride on a bus! Their drive back north had traffic challenges but Edinburgh was eventually reached.
Yet another memorable weekend and I must record that the band at ‘The Elsinore’ finished with ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’. They certainly were. Epic
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