tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85588647537793189162024-03-15T11:18:33.345+00:00The Log BlogMeasuring weight loss the scatologist way.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.comBlogger402125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-26805339178181686792014-09-19T14:36:00.000+01:002014-09-19T14:36:37.748+01:00Ten books which have stayed with me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px 0px 6px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-converted-space">My friend Adam </span>nominated me for this 'ten books which stayed with me' thing that is doing the rounds. It seems a noble game, but I did find this incredibly hard to work through and whittle down the list, To hep I made up some arbitrary rules to cut things out for example I would have liked to include Shakespeare's '<em>The Winters Tale</em>' (excluded as a play), <em>Animal Alphabet</em> by <a href="http://dotmund.blogspot.co.uk/">Edward Carter</a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(essentially a colouring book) and Hardy's <em>'I look into my glass</em>' (excluded as a poem). I also excluded anything to which I have a connection, so there is nothing by:</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Books-Tym-Manley/s?ie=UTF8&page=1&rh=n%3A266239%2Cp_27%3ATym%20Manley">Uncle<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Tym</a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
</li>
<li><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-converted-space"></span><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anna-Currey/e/B001HPCZGO">Anna<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Currey</a></div>
</li>
<li><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Books-R-O-B-Manley/s?ie=UTF8&page=1&rh=n%3A266239%2Cp_27%3AR.O.B.%20Manley">Uncle Bert</a></li>
<li><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=517977291" href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Octopig-And-Worse-Poems-ebook/dp/B00F213QOY" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">Mike Rampton</a></li>
</ul>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
but I gave it a shot anyway, so here we go:</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
1. Ordinarily known simply as <em>'The Ship's cat</em>', '<em><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00E32HN92?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B00E32HN92&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=6TJ7UAN2XB4XDJAI&=books&qid=undefined&sr=1-2&keywords=Adams+ship%27s+cat">The Adventures & Brave Deeds Of The Ship's Cat On The Spanish Maine: Together With The Most Lamentable Losse Of The Alcestis & Triumphant Firing Of The Port Of Chagres</a></em>' is a narrative poem by Richard Adams, but it is hugely improved by the fabulous illustrations contributed by the great Alan Aldridge. I can think of no greater possession available to man than a copy of this book. I have had mine since it was published when I was a toddler. I love rhyme and Edward Lear's '<span id="goog_181302226"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/">More Nonsense. Pictures, Rhymes, Botany, Etc.<span id="goog_181302227"></span></a>' and Hilaire Belloc's '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B000OKIUKS?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B000OKIUKS&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=RWHABA6LC7UR33EF&refRID=0W8PNRDJ53DMSP75DWBH">Cautionary Tales</a>' could easily be substituted in here.<br />
But they weren't.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
2. '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B001P1ZTK4?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B001P1ZTK4&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=5BXYEOPRBRX7H2CF&=books&qid=1411133350&sr=1-2-fkmr0&keywords=Evelyne+E.+Rynd+othrland">OTHERLAND</a>' by Evelyne E. Rynd. If you can read this and not be moved then you need a new childhood. What more is there to say. As this was not re-released you also get the joy of handling a beautiful piece of publishing at the same time. Remarkable.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
3. Tad Williams, '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00HTCDEAK?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B00HTCDEAK&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=ER33YMOUGZCROZIX&=books&qid=1411133392&sr=1-9&keywords=dragonbone">The Dragonbone Chair</a>' from the Memory, Sorrow and Thorn series. This is the book which introduced me to fantasy outside of Tolkien and made it fun. I have included it as an example of the terrible trash I enjoy reading on the side, which includes David Gemmel, Bernard Cornwell and Conn Iggulden Not a great book, but a good yarn, well told. Worth a punt on a long-haul flight.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
4. <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00DIL3EME?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B00DIL3EME&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=EYJC7VU4S62Z5P3A&=books&qid=1411133470&sr=1-5&keywords=the+doubtful+guest">The doubtful guest</a> by Edward Gorey. Typical Gorey wonderfulness, but with an added dollop of riddle and joy. To be fair, the riddle is not a tough one to solve, but I am quoting Gorey's verse in my head as I write this and I cannot help but love it. Most of Gorey's work would fit in this list, which is why this made it in ahead of '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00GSCTT8I?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B00GSCTT8I&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=UOOMZHBPTUWQKXUQ&=books&qid=undefined&sr=1-4&keywords=charles+sale+specialist">The Specialist</a>' by Charles Sale I recommend that you purchase both of these books immediately, even if you already have copies.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
5. H2G2 - a bit of a cop out here, I am not able to narrow this down further, but anyone who has not included Douglas Adams on their list clearly does not know where their towel is. I think that the Dirk Gently books are actually a little better, but The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is one of the most important works of the 20th century. Everything which comes after it owes something to the work, especially the fantastic Discworld novels which sadly have not made this list, despite being sublime.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
6. <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00IJ07M18?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B00IJ07M18&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=ORHIOG4RHXQS3RQJ&=books&qid=undefined&sr=1-4&keywords=knut+hamsun+hunger">Hunger</a> is not my favourite of Knut Hamsun's works, that would undoubtedly be <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00E3G2V18?ie=UTF8&camp=3194&creative=21330&creativeASIN=B00E3G2V18&linkCode=shr&tag=lorman01-21&linkId=VHUNMSAM4UKPSIFF&=books&qid=undefined&sr=1-4&keywords=knut+hamsun+growth+of+the+soil">Growth of the soil</a>, but it is his book which had the most profound effect on me. I love all his work, but this one really hooked me during my university years and I revisit it from time to time still. I presume that I always shall.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
7. Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment is an obvious choice. As with the Norwegian example above, I do sometimes wonder whether I do not simply enjoy the way that translators write in English. There are many Russian Novels which I love, the short list would include Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls and The Idiot, but Crime & Punishment wins by a head. I read this when very young and this have been able to revisit it many times, always finding something new. A delight.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
8. The Trial by Franz Kafka appears here as an example of an unfinished novel. 'The final unfinished voyage of Jack Aubrey' (simply titled '21') in the USA) a another example, as are Charles Dickens' 'The mystery of Edwin Drood', Robert Luis Stevenson's 'St Ives' or Nikolai Gogol's 'Dead Souls',(which features in this list twice as an also-ran, but does not quite make the cut). I delight in the idea that we never actually know what was intended. This is particularly true of 'Dead Souls', but Kafka's work is by far the best example which comes to mind. The fact that he expressly wished the manuscript be destroyed adds something more to the appeal.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
9. I do love a good nautical tale. The stuff upper lip of the man who, whether an alcoholic, seasick or just a buffoon, carries on in the appropriate manner befitting a British officer, with a stuff upper lip and an integrity and decency really strikes home. I want to model myself on these men, to do my duty however it may cost me personally, and I have no time for the modern fighting heroes such as Sharpe, who show pride and avarice and lack a sense of what is right. There are a number of names who fit this list. Patrick O'Brien's Jack Aubrey and Richard Maturin are sublime (they make another appearance on this list, but are not in the final ten) as is Alexander Kent's Richard Bolitho, but young Horatio Hornblower should be the hero for every young person. Forrester wrote better novels, 'The Gun' amongst them, but Midshipman Hornblower is as good a starter for ten that anyone might hope for.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
10. And that leaves just enough room for Biggles, Bertie, Algy, Ginger, The professor, Smithy and the rest of the crew. W. E. Johns created a character out of truth, the early books are just serialised actual events, merely attributed to a fictitious pilot, and grew him into a legend. Cub, Gimlet and the inexorable Worrals never quite matched Biggles for pure damned Britishness and I keep a few copies by my bed. I have no desire to select a specific title; I think that 'Biggles of 266 Squadron' has a nice feel to it, but 'The Camels Are Coming' wins it by a nose. Chocks away!</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
Okay, there are my ten. I wrote this quickly on the tube and I no doubt will come to regret my decisions, but for the moment it shall have to do.</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #141823; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 13.63px/17.56px Helvetica, Arial, "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 6px 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
@LordManleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01639891530113848774noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-82404796271212457932013-05-23T14:58:00.002+01:002013-05-23T14:58:37.681+01:00Racists are annoying me today.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I know they are racists, but most of them are more intelligent than this. <br />
<br />
There is a lot shouting after yesterday's murder of a soldier in Woolwich. I say things like 'Harold Shipman was a Jew, do we deport all Jews? Savile was English, should all ex-pats be sent back from Spain?' and they say 'those are just two men, there are thousands of Muslims.<br />
How can they not see that the angry men who hate England and the same as the angry men who hate Islam. How do they miss that they are a small minority of dickheads? How can they not compare themselves, wanting to burn Muslims, with the (English) Muslims who wanted to kill an English soldier because of the actions of other soldiers?<br />
I really find it very hard to understand the ignorance. <br />
<br />
The two murderers were English too - how many times can you shout 'send them home' to someone from just around the bloody corner?<br />
I am just gobsmacked by the ignorance.<br />
<br />This is not especially coherent and it is not funny at all, but I am just pissed right off that friends of mine can be so bloody stupid. I have been in warzones with some of these people - they know where this can end. They have seen pits full of dead babies who were born in the wrong house. I know they are better than this.<br />
<br />
I am saddened.</div>
@LordManleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01639891530113848774noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-68528999015872862672013-04-30T10:29:00.002+01:002013-04-30T10:29:45.318+01:00Why there should be alternatives to the MMR jab.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Being a thoroughly conscientious parent, I receive emails from my daughters' schools and even occasionally read them. This morning I just received a missive about measles. In lieu of reading it, I have decided to write a diatribe (or rant, if you will) on why I think that the decision not to provide separate Measles, Mumps and Rubella jabs on the NHS is a dangerous one.<br />
<br />
Let me be transparently clear about this, I have absolutely no problem with the MMR jab and I believe a parent who chooses not to immunise their child to be reckless and socially dangerous. My point here is not in any way that the MMR is a bad thing or that alternatives are required, BUT . . .<br />
<br />
What we do know is that separate immunisations work - the very laudable intention of MMR is to combine the three for convenience and to make sure everyone has the best chance of being vaccinated. This is important for community immunity, which protects those who cannot be fully vaccinated (infants, the immunocompromised (e.g. cancer sufferers) and the elderly). However wrong Wakefield* was (and he was as wrong and as evil as a man can reasonably be), there will always be TQ9 elements who will swallow this sort of bile, along with their homœopathy.<br />
<br />
The decision not to offer separate inoculation injections means that these parents, desperate as they are to show that they are going to extra lengths for their children in their striving for competitive parent of the year, have limited options and, in many, many cases, therefore, having made the grand gesture of protecting Tarquin and Flopsie from the evil MMR, give them no protection at all, to the detriment of our entire civilisation, before going back to checking the labels on their organic vegan food and sticking coke up their noses without checking first whether it has been cut with Draino.<br />
<br />
Again, there is nothing wrong with the MMR, but refusing to offer the alternative is putting at risk not only those poor children who, growing up with TQ9ers already have enough to be getting on with, thank you very much, but also every pregnant woman, very young child and, in the end, human on the planet.<br />
<br />
I welcome your thoughts in the comments.<br />
<br />
* If you do not know about Andrew Wakefield, he was a surgeon who has been struck off for deliberately and fraudulently publishing false evidence that MMR caused autism for personal financial gain. We still are not sure what causes autism, which I argue could be the next stage of evolution for us and is not a system error, merely a different operating system, but we do know what does not cause autism. MMR does not cause autism. </div>
@LordManleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01639891530113848774noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-26740279995996545532013-04-29T14:11:00.000+01:002013-04-30T14:12:22.731+01:00A definition of TQ9<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
TQ9 (tee-cue-nyen) refers to an area of the United Kingdom, centred around Totnes and Dartington, which is much beloved of middle class hippies. Something which is a bit TQ9 is faux-hippie, wealthy alternative and generally wrong.<br /><br /> Easily identified by their hybrid cars, natural nappies, vegan shops and homoeopathy clinics, TQ9ers often sport dreadlocks and ragged clothing, but only from Toni & Guy and designer outlets.<br /><br /> She is too TQ9 to take little Tarquin for his vaccinations.<br /><br /> Typical TQ9er, makes sure everything she eats is vegan and organic, but never checks if her coke is cut with Draino.</div>
@LordManleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01639891530113848774noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-27839548678025881342012-05-25T11:16:00.000+01:002012-05-25T11:27:27.224+01:00The day that Mr Parker had a rail encounter.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Before I start, it is worth noting that I am writing about this many years after is occurred, merely to tell an individual (Chris Lake) about the event. If you are not Lakey and you do not want to know then nobody will judge you for leaving now, you snivelling little quitter.<br />
<br />
It all started with a Land Rover which I was given as a wedding present. That sounds like an extravagant wedding gift, but it really was not, it was a rusted out 1975 Series Three with 3 engines, none of which, it eventually transpired, was ever likely to work again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rUPHUZiU5dE/T79eg7vKkKI/AAAAAAAAAFA/kzxOaKgoSGo/s1600/DSC01032%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rUPHUZiU5dE/T79eg7vKkKI/AAAAAAAAAFA/kzxOaKgoSGo/s320/DSC01032%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The result of this is that I spent 3 months and several thousand pounds rebuilding her and putting a transit engine in, during which time I stayed with my parents.
Staying with parents does not have the same connotations when you have your own home and a wife and *quick maths* a child (I guess the second one was on the way, but we did not know that yet), but it can, none-the-less, become a little tiring after prolonged exposure. With this in mind we called upon the visiting whirlwind that was Matthew Parker. These days he is just plain old 'Matt Vahiboglu', but back then he had panache!<br />
<br />
Anyway, long story short, he visited, it was fun, he went home again and, and let's not mess about, this is where it gets interesting, he went home . . . BY TRAIN!<br />
<br />
My guess is that most of you have left by now, but if you haven't then you should know that this is not going to get a great deal more interesting any time soon. In fact, just to make sure, I am going to toddle off to a train-spotting forum and find out some mindbogglingly uninteresting and unnecessary detail for you.<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5vfDzlZjTdQ/T79Q-sEOMZI/AAAAAAAAAEU/dinyKlGT0oo/s1600/832514_349c71d6%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5vfDzlZjTdQ/T79Q-sEOMZI/AAAAAAAAAEU/dinyKlGT0oo/s320/832514_349c71d6%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eggesford station with a 142 Pacer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
We drove Matt to Eggesford railway station and waited for the train to arrive. When it finally rolled in it turned out to be a British Rail class 142 Pacer diesel with multiple units. It also was almost entirely empty. I mean to say, it probably had its full compliment of:
<br />
<ul>
<li>1 driver</li>
<li>1 train manager (or conductor as we called them back then)</li>
</ul>
The train rolled past us down the platform towards the unmanned hut where the token exchange is now carried out by the driver, since Kate Low took the signal box away back when I was a mere teenager in 1989 and it is now at Wembworthy Outward Bound Centre. The box design was the BR Western Region standard prefabricated box (SRS code Type 37a) irreverently known in some quarters as a 'plywood wonder'. The conductor/guard is also required to operate the level crossing at the station as well as this is not automatic.<br />
<br />
It was clear to those of us on the platform that the entire train contained only one passenger, a slim, blonde. beautiful young woman, sitting alone at a table. Matt was the only person boarding the train at this point.
As this was a post-'90s 142, the existing 2+3 bench style bus seats had been updated to Chapman bespoke high backed seats in the 2+2 layout on the Tarka line, standard class throughout with seats arranged in twos either side of a centre aisle. In each carriage there are 10 bays with seats around a table, with the remaining seats arranged face-to-back.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kjCc5Q951Yk/T79Z9HQtweI/AAAAAAAAAEk/AReoU-i5Pd4/s1600/156_seat-layout%255B1%255D.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kjCc5Q951Yk/T79Z9HQtweI/AAAAAAAAAEk/AReoU-i5Pd4/s400/156_seat-layout%255B1%255D.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The young lady in question was sitting in seat 52, against the window on the platform side of the southbound train, this being a table seat. We jested to the effect that Mat was 'well in there', what with having her to himself and a whole train to play with and, Matt being Matt, he bid us adieu, climbed aboard the carriage and approached the young lady, asking 'Is this seat taken?' before seating himself between her and the aisle.<br />
<br />
This caused much amusement on the platform, although not nearly as much as when, with the train just beginning to pull out of the station, the young lady's beau returned from the toilet and, finding his place filled, was forced to take up a station opposite Mr P (as was).<br />
<br />
That is the end of my story, but, as best man for Matt and Ayse, I did promise to those who were listening to my dreary speech that I would recount the tale, should they ever ask. Now I need only point them here.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bazwv4X7vV0/T79dwEjXTsI/AAAAAAAAAE4/98zTWSMaxGQ/s1600/4945051388_7e9ca23346%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bazwv4X7vV0/T79dwEjXTsI/AAAAAAAAAE4/98zTWSMaxGQ/s320/4945051388_7e9ca23346%5B1%5D.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I maintain that he could have found a better best man,</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Next week: something less dull (although it was incredibly amusing at the time) and here is a picture of the little mermaid:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--tQzIq241jI/T79b8EVvffI/AAAAAAAAAEw/cBVksn6DxsM/s1600/censored-little-mermaid.%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--tQzIq241jI/T79b8EVvffI/AAAAAAAAAEw/cBVksn6DxsM/s400/censored-little-mermaid.%255B1%255D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>@LordManleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01639891530113848774noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-29417983263328973102012-04-25T14:23:00.002+01:002012-04-25T19:34:45.332+01:00A list of things that I like.Young <a href="http://twitter.com/dotmund">@Dotmund</a> posted a <a href="http://dotmund.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/list-of-things-i-like.html?spref=tw">list of things he likes</a> over on his marvellous blog. It was slightly touching. Then <A href="http://twitter.com/LollyGee">@LollyGee</a> tweeted <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/LollyGee/status/195066539324604418">a list of things that she likes</a> and so, being devoid of independent thought, I have jumped on this wagon, along with the cello player and the git with the triangle who is always trying to get off with the Tuba player's wife.
<ol>
<li>
Half melted jelly cubes.
</li>
<li>
Huge destructive waves
</li>
<li>
Sheets of rain falling, just beyond my shelter
</li>
<li>
The smile of a stranger
</li>
<li>
The feel of clean, fresh linen
</li>
<li>
Rocks
</li>
<li>
sand-ground glass on the beach
</li>
<li>
Watching hens
</li>
<li>
Rain on a hot day
</li>
<li>
Mayonnaise
</li>
<li>
Words
</li>
<li>
FIRE!
</li>
<li>
Cricket
</li>
<li>
lapsang souchong
</li>
<li>
Science and BEES!</li>
</ol>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TjLg-IPusrk/T5e8o4bTJ-I/AAAAAAAABf8/hHJY2NwFThs/s1600/567088604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TjLg-IPusrk/T5e8o4bTJ-I/AAAAAAAABf8/hHJY2NwFThs/s400/567088604.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/lollygee">@LollyGee</a> eschews technology</p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jwd97I8uALk/T5fcrOu2x2I/AAAAAAAABgM/ECiCgC1fA7w/s1600/x2_c28cecb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jwd97I8uALk/T5fcrOu2x2I/AAAAAAAABgM/ECiCgC1fA7w/s400/x2_c28cecb.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/benjaminmurdoch">@benjaminmurdoch</a> loves stationary</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TtG3Uzs8Hvo/T5f4feLxmvI/AAAAAAAABgc/9X4zBre2Lco/s1600/ArUpleCCMAAS-Fg%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TtG3Uzs8Hvo/T5f4feLxmvI/AAAAAAAABgc/9X4zBre2Lco/s400/ArUpleCCMAAS-Fg%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/gazbeirne">@gazbeirne</a> is no technophobe</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R24SKKalSb8/T5f5M_kYiBI/AAAAAAAABgo/WIFWy6SlW1E/s1600/ArUqoHFCIAAhiKp%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="299" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R24SKKalSb8/T5f5M_kYiBI/AAAAAAAABgo/WIFWy6SlW1E/s400/ArUqoHFCIAAhiKp%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/and_armstrong">@and_armstrong</a> is not frightened of titties</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0TgVakiSpC4/T5f5siVJWHI/AAAAAAAABg0/rmCnWRjy5is/s1600/ArUQ7i9CIAEpKKq%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="400" width="299" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0TgVakiSpC4/T5f5siVJWHI/AAAAAAAABg0/rmCnWRjy5is/s400/ArUQ7i9CIAEpKKq%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/sinistergiraffe">@sinistergiraffe</a> reminds me of my old dog, Fred. Always a keen farter.</div>Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-3516478555201610342012-03-09T09:47:00.002+00:002012-03-09T09:49:48.421+00:00Git in a car.So, coming up Topsham Road in the right lane (to turn right), this chap tries to overtake me approaching the lights then, because a car is coming the other way, pushes me back into the middle lane where I am sandwiched between him and another car and have to stop. This is the most dangerous part of this, although not the most scary. <br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OAxsVpNC_0E/T1nR8CFWlOI/AAAAAAAABfw/6krJ2bJZo84/s1600/429848_10150610170629332_545249331_9212296_1256712081_n%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OAxsVpNC_0E/T1nR8CFWlOI/AAAAAAAABfw/6krJ2bJZo84/s400/429848_10150610170629332_545249331_9212296_1256712081_n%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717832031205233890" /></a><br /><br />I pass him going up Southernhay and he immediately tries to get past me again, despite a Porsche being right in front of me. I make myself wide (we are approaching parked cars and I need to go around them) and took up my whole lane. This enraged him (despite the fact that I was going faster than him at this point) and so he accelerates towards me, spinning his wheels and leaning on his horn. #<br /><br />Breaking at the last minute (I am looking back and scared now - this is deliberate aggression) he drops back and repeats the manoeuvre, this time I think scaring himself, as he gets so close I cannot see tarmac between my panniers and his bumper. At least I hope he scared himself. He then span his wheels, went onto the wrong side of the road, by the merge point and shot off up the road, about 2 car lengths to the Porsche.<br /><br />He then stops his car (at his destination, about 50 yards on) and jumps out, stomping back to me to begin shouting at me about how 'next time he will hit me' (possibly not a threat of violence, just of driving issues, but I was scared, this is a big fat heavy man) and how he wants my name to call the police. I gave him my name, because him calling the police should end well, but he keeps ranting.<br /><br />He invites me to take his registration number but also keeps waving his coat in front of it as I try to photograph it.<br /><br />Lastly, he calls me a fool. This is the bit that makes this so amusing as he is wearing clown shoes. Actual clown shoes. One red with a green toecap, the other green with a red toecap. And he calls me a fool.<br /><br />So, this is just a rant, but if you are cycling and see this Passat coming up behind you, don't worry about who is right, get out the way - he is an aggressive and dangerous driver wearing footwear ill-suited to controlling a motor vehicle.<br /><br />I was scared by his aggressive approach and genuinely feared for my life because of his deliberate aggressive driving. He had no respect or concern for vulnerable road users, was only seconds from his destination and, I am sorry to say, a bit of a nob.<br /><br />Here endeth the rant.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-49962823431208365282012-03-02T09:49:00.007+00:002012-03-05T11:24:01.198+00:00The vasectomy revisited.My blog is light hearted and, on occasion, witty.<br /><br />This post is not really so much fun, so if you do not want to accept the reality of a more serious and dour Manley then please, move on.<br /><br />Three and a half years ago, I had a <a href="http://havingapoo.blogspot.com/2008/10/vasectomy.html">vasectomy</a>. That post links to a whole host of others documenting my preparation, fears and reasoning, none of which I need to go into here, but we can assume that it was not something I went into lightly and we, as a couple, were fully committed to the idea that 3 daughters were enough and we did not need to have and more children.<br /><br />There were concerns, I will not pretend that there were not. What if Jim dies and my new wife (because, let's face it, I am a good looking man and I'd get one at the drop of a hat!) wanted children? Should we store some of my little soldiers against the possibility of some future change of heart? The usual sort of things, but we decided that permanent sterilisation was the best answer for us and, given the relative complications of the two options, it seemed obvious to us that I would be the one to suffer the pain and indignity.<br /><br />So, we did it. Or rather, I did it. <br /><br />It hurt. Not for a couple of days, like I was told it would, but for ages. I did not go mountain biking for over a year. You should, however, not let that put you off. I had complications which were not serious, but were very, very rare and it did get completely better and was definitely better than a year of condom usage.<br /><br />That said, there are consequences which I had never even considered.<br /><br />As I am writing this I am unsure as to whether I am going to actually post it - I think my approach will be to write it all and then decide. If you read this then you probably will think 'yeah right!' because I will have, but . . . enough of that nonsense - if you are reading it then obviously I have, so let's just press on. (if you are not reading it then, quick! <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-17229797">Sloths</a>!<br /><br />One of the reasons we were so sure that we wanted to become a permanently sterile couple was that Jim had very difficult pregnancies (none of the obvious stuff people can see, but a lot of problems during and after, which it is not my place to relate) and is physically not up to another. <br /><br />So basically, I still do not want more pregnancies and suspect that I never shall. I stand by our decision to become a sterile couple and, even with the complications, the procedure was worth it when assessed against the huge added convenience which it offers for our lifestyle.<br /><br />But . . .<br /><br /><center><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-33aMgw0eQNY/T1Sa4azZr0I/AAAAAAAABfY/H-zT1SDsHXo/s1600/1299497942HDkpWr%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-33aMgw0eQNY/T1Sa4azZr0I/AAAAAAAABfY/H-zT1SDsHXo/s400/1299497942HDkpWr%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716364121098268482" /></a><br />(and that is a big butt)</center><br /><br /> . . . despite every 'jaffa' man who I have ever spoken to advising me to have the procedure, I would not recommend it to anyone.<br /><br />It is hard to say this without seeming a bit pathetic and, on a purely logical basis I do not believe that it is appropriate, but the profound effect it has had on my life means that I want to warn others of it. I feel like less of a man.<br /><br />I have no potential any more. I cannot make more life and the human race will no longer be any different for my continued existence (assuming I do not go back to war or decide to build a bomb in my shed, which seems probable - I am not really that way inclined).<br /><br />I am not sure how to expand upon that - physically nothing has changed - certainly there has been no problem on the retarded virility front - but I feel rather pointless since the op and, frankly, it makes me miserable pretty much all the time.<br /><br />I was going to extrapolate further, but I have pretty much decided that I am only writing this for me now, so I will not, but if you see this then please reconsider. I never imagined that I was the sort of man who cared about this sort of thing - I am revoltingly male in many ways, but it is not terribly important to me. What is important, it seems, is the potential I had and which I have allowed to be taken from me and, if you do read this (and, having said this, maybe I will share it - peradventure people should know?) please think about it more carefully than you have.<br /><br />How can I explain?<br /><br />Many young women, pre-pregnancy, are not very maternal and, whilst they might think of having children 'one day' they do not really think of themselves as ever being particularly 'mumsie'. Then, when they have a child, they change and start being excited by other people's pregnancies and delighting in the company of children. I, similarly, have changed from not caring whether or not I was fertile (I strongly suspected that I was not before we had children) to really caring a great deal now that I know that I am not.<br /><br />As I said, not a funny post, just a cautionary tale. Additionally, it turns out that I do not write nearly so well when not being flippant, for which I apologise - I am not going to proof read this, so please just point out any errors you see and I will address them.<br /><br />Maybe this picture of Madonna I made will take the edge off all the seriousness?<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eq-0mn0yoe8/T1ShKDHWRVI/AAAAAAAABfk/l5-EETawTHQ/s1600/madonna-two-noses%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eq-0mn0yoe8/T1ShKDHWRVI/AAAAAAAABfk/l5-EETawTHQ/s400/madonna-two-noses%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716371021046891858" /></a><br /><br />Cheers for reading.<br /><br />LordManleyLord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-23957544835373345412011-11-12T23:37:00.007+00:002011-11-13T00:13:19.462+00:00On setting a gravestone for my GrandmotherToday I did something new. I put in a gravestone for my grandmother.<br /><br />My paternal grandmother could be a bit of a battleaxe at times, but she was only like that because she knew she was better than other people (she once told me this in all seriousness) and, if I am honest, I am not sure I am in any position to dispute that. Certainly I do not pretend to be knowledgeable enough to judge.<br /><br />It is perhaps a wonderful and sensible approach to life, after all, is that not the whole point of <acronym title="Cognitive Behavioural Therapy">CBT</acronym>? Without doubt she had a profound effect on us all, particularly in the stoicism line and we do mourn her passing, although it was her time. The girls, in particular, loved to see her, delighting in playing with the osteoarthritic lumps on her fingers in the innocent way that only children can and which we all secretly rather enjoy - We were frightened of Grandmama as children, but my girls never were, despite her looking far scarier than she ever had in her youth. It saddens me that the youngest will probably not remember her.<br /><br />Anyway, Grandmama died just before Christmas and the weather was bleak. The snow was so very thick that it seemed as though the interment would not be able to go ahead, but it seemed important to get her underground before Christmas, so we went down to the undertakers with a 4X4 and were quite insistent.<br /><br />It was not easy - the hearse was automatic and would not get along the Dartmoor lanes in the snow - some hills are too much for any engine when the ground is a rink of Olympic properties. I had to get out and push the hearse up 3 hills on the way (we would have towed it, but for the towing eye needing to be screwed in and being housed under my grandmother) and we finally gave up about 20 yards shy of the church. <br /><br />Some villagers made the journey on foot and they sang 'all things bright and beautiful' whilst we ferried folk who could not make it by car around in the 4X4 and started only 30 minutes late. No funeral, just my 3 cousins and my sister singing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUt3bBhteHo">Brother James's Air</a> and some words from the rector and in she went.<br /><br />Apart from the Rector calling my grandmother "Kathleen" (her name being Katharine), which she would have absolutely hated, it all went well (and that made my father laugh out loud, which rather settled the whole matter down anyway).<br /><br />We stood there for a bit, so I called out 'Well I'm freezing, what say we all go back into the church for a sing-song?' and so we did.<br /><br />A few carols in the cold and back to warmth we went.<br /><br />It was all very pleasant, if that is an appropriate word, but her brother could not make the trip (he is well into his nineties, after all) and several people have said that they felt that the missed out on 'closure'.<br /><br />I detest the term, but I know what they mean. <br /><br />So we are going to have a blessing of the stone on the 20th, which meant, of course, that it had to go into the ground.<br /><br />I went to the farm my Grandmother grew up on and found a hunk of granite, which I dug out from what used to be a hedge and brought it back to Exeter to have it turned into her gravestone.<br /><br />Here is the stone, along with a mock-up of how I first envisioned it looking:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5i1eyuDpTUo/Tr8JZaKAeCI/AAAAAAAABfM/eMt6UTRTggo/s1600/grandmother-gravestone.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5i1eyuDpTUo/Tr8JZaKAeCI/AAAAAAAABfM/eMt6UTRTggo/s400/grandmother-gravestone.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674264387632789538" /></a><br /><br />I am very pleased to be doing this sort of thing, it is immensely satisfying to be able to do something so definite and useful. Not that gravestones are intrinsically useful, but you know what I mean.<br /><br />As it turns out, I have also left a space for my Aunt on the bottom of the panel. I can confirm that discussing with an octogenarian the preferred wording of her grave marker is a little bit surreal, but we had to make sure we left the right amount of room.<br /><br />Anyway, it was carved out and now it is in the churchyard, after much heaving of rock today.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Kzt3C9AyAM/Tr8JMTdTtxI/AAAAAAAABfA/BWtVg93IRJQ/s1600/grandmother-gravestone-real.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Kzt3C9AyAM/Tr8JMTdTtxI/AAAAAAAABfA/BWtVg93IRJQ/s400/grandmother-gravestone-real.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674264162496395026" /></a><br /><br />The photograph cannot really convey just how massive it is. Not large, as such, just clearly heavy. Serious, even. 1/2 tone of granite (and ballast) is not light. It is, for example, not on jot lighter than half a ton of anything else you care to mention. Nor is digging a hole on Dartmoor normally that easy a task (although it was not too bad, as it happened), but the job is done and I am very satisfied by it all.<br /><br />Hers is 2nd from the right, front row - next to the wooden cross in the foreground. It will settle in, but I am happy with it. Not only does it look vernacular, but, much more importantly, it is from the farm she grew up on and I would prefer that, even if it was rubbish.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UxdDnwQpHnM/Tr8IslizxWI/AAAAAAAABe0/W54QaLVUuLk/s1600/Grandmopthers%2Bgrave.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UxdDnwQpHnM/Tr8IslizxWI/AAAAAAAABe0/W54QaLVUuLk/s400/Grandmopthers%2Bgrave.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674263617595491682" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"></span><br /><br />As an aside, it looks a lot less like a television in real life.<br /><br />Sorry for rambling, have fun and, should she be alive, go visit your grandmother.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-54989214210740980542011-09-09T14:11:00.003+01:002011-09-09T14:31:53.542+01:00some naked Welsh men.This amused me an inordinate amount:<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy0vFTp2aC5FDCHH7QOP0zs1A6HZLNlf9v2lmHY8yvc1FYIMRclt5Bk8hrhlV0nuD93_4p6hyi204m-0nHhLA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-84923651973378410692011-06-16T09:42:00.004+01:002011-06-16T09:52:23.127+01:00I am getting abuse about my tie.Here is the tie in question. I have the same but in red and blue with me. Change or keep?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B3aqdPoHccY/TfnCiVKv5zI/AAAAAAAABes/GNRZcU1hcS4/s1600/bz7a%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B3aqdPoHccY/TfnCiVKv5zI/AAAAAAAABes/GNRZcU1hcS4/s400/bz7a%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618735905174972210" /></a><br /><br /><br />A quick poll - click on your choice:<br /><br /><b>Should I change my tie?</b><br /><a target="Manley-made-a-tab" href="http://is.gd/A7dXGr"><img src="http://is.gd/YKFpSF" /></a><br /><a target="Manley-made-a-tab" href="http://is.gd/s013ry"><img src="http://is.gd/18JOo7" /></a><br /><a target="Manley-made-a-tab" href="http://is.gd/LYEUZ7"><img src="http://is.gd/lrcvTO" /></a><br /><a target="Manley-made-a-tab" href="http://is.gd/9EmBro"><img src="http://is.gd/HSXjMn" /></a><br /><br />@Naturalgrump says it is foul, @thomassays suggests that it is yellow and black, not blue, and supplies this song:<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UePtoxDhJSw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-8659810971336542010-12-30T14:59:00.009+00:002011-01-11T19:45:43.156+00:00Ice breakers.<h2>In which our hero goes canoeing on the Exeter canal and, in the space of a mere 5 hours, manages a width.</h2><br /><br />It transpires that The Dagnall, who you may remember from the incident when <a href="http://havingapoo.blogspot.com/2007/11/tattooing-dagnalls-eyes.html">I tattooed his eye</a> a few years back, is off for the whole winter break, whilst I slave over a hot Dell, & Is getting restless at home. In an attempt to break the mundane routine of spending time with his lovely wife and adorable son, presumably by way of spending time with In order to juxtapose that Idyllic home-life against my ugly mug, Invited me to come out with him In his canoe. I readily agreed. Sadly we had entirely different activities In mind.<br /><br />No, It's not going to be one of those stories, you bloody pervert.<br /><br />Anyway, the entirety of the canal and the river In Exeter have been covered with a thick layer of Ice. Very thick. Thick enough that I was confident enough to go ice skating on the overflow with my children. Thick.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TRyfc9SNkDI/AAAAAAAABd0/RWu4oqo_ex8/s1600/BoatSunk2_1024%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TRyfc9SNkDI/AAAAAAAABd0/RWu4oqo_ex8/s400/BoatSunk2_1024%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556491360104452146" /></a><br /><br />See? It's thick. I have been pumping my friend Iain's yacht whilst he is away in Barbados and of late it is simply a solid hull of ice. (Here is Iain - he is the chap in the lower image, being hauled out of the water as his <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/10246508">boat sinks beside him</a>).<br /><br />The river has cleared now, for the most part, but the almost stagnant canal still sports about a 4" thickness throughout, with the exception of the swing-bridges, where it is clear for a few yards.<br /><br />This in mind, I am envisioning going ice breaking, but The Dagnall seems not to know of the iciness of the canal and has his heart set on paddling. This nearly scuppers my evening at the offset, but fear not, trusted reader, for the night was much fun.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TRyiPl1Zd8I/AAAAAAAABd8/qjqFA-pUjUE/s1600/4252879681_7aa562f781_b%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TRyiPl1Zd8I/AAAAAAAABd8/qjqFA-pUjUE/s400/4252879681_7aa562f781_b%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556494429006165954" /></a><br /><br />After some arguments and a bit of going the wrong way, we set off to the Countess Weir swing-bridge at about half six. It was only once we arrived that I realised The Dagnall's confusion about the solidity of the water in the area and he was all for calling our expedition off, but I was having little of that and began smashing the ice near the bank with a hatchet. This was considerably harder than I foresaw. Ice which is 4" thick does not smash, it merely allows the blade of an axe to pass through it on the 4th or 5th blow. This was going to take some time.<br /><br />On my own, wet of socks and tiring of arms, I was beginning to make up entirely new swear words to curse The Absent Dagnall when lo, he returns triumphant with a stainless steel length of pipe, like a heavy scaffolding pole around 4' long. With this we should be able to make some progress, no?<br /><br />No. Well, not much. With My Lordship in the rear, holding us steady with an axe in the ice, and The Dagnall smashing away at the solid mass ahead of us, we manage to travel around 20' from the bank before he is exhausted and I am cold. We return to the bank feeling dejected, but I am not one to give up easily. Pure British Mindedness is bloody important, you know.<br /><br />Whilst The Dagnall is having a wander around, looking for some wood to build a fire with, I go for a walk along the bank and out onto a jetty. It is slippery and a bit dodgy, but then I find my way under the swing bridges and sight clear water, so I return with a compromise. Peradventure a bit of a paddle in the open water will placate matters? I have, you should note gentle reader, absolutely bugger all intention of leaving tonight without making a passage through the ice, but at this early juncture I fancy that it is too soon to start pushing matters.<br /><br />We hoist the canoe out of the water and place it upon the ice, upon which The Dagnall begins dragging me across the surface. Because the ice is floating it moves with my weight a little and, if I am honest, this is nothing like as exciting as I had hoped for. Much more 'dragging a legless dog through gravel' than 'midget face slide'.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.gifbin.com/bin/1234527682_wrestling_midget_face_slide.gif" /><br /><br />So, sliding around on the ice is right out then. I get out and we tow the canoe across the surface to the bridge. This involves walking out into the canal on beams in a manner pretty much designed to make my mother shout 'STEPHEN' in the screeching manner of mothers everywhere, who tend to resort to using their husbands names for their children in times of real stress. None of the evening has passed by without stress, to be fair. The times when we have not been in danger of falling through the ice and drowning are by far fewer than those where we have, but that's the point, no? Anyway, I digress.<br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="350" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="http://maps.google.co.uk/maps/ms?oe=utf-8&client=firefox-a&ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&ll=50.694651,-3.501382&spn=0.000464,0.00142&t=h&msid=215448466451211507256.000498b6016144e97b1c8&output=embed"></iframe><br /><small>View <a href="http://maps.google.co.uk/maps/ms?oe=utf-8&client=firefox-a&ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&ll=50.694651,-3.501382&spn=0.000464,0.00142&t=h&msid=215448466451211507256.000498b6016144e97b1c8&source=embed" style="color:#0000FF;text-align:left">Ice breaking.</a> in a larger map</small><br /><br />We paddle around a little in the water before striking out under the bridges to see what we can find on the other side. A quick scouting out of the river shows that the current is far beyond our capabilities this evening (well, we could go downstream quickly, but we'd have to walk back and we are seventy years old between us, so that's just not happening). We get up some speed before we suddenly come to an abrupt, ice-fuelled halt which almost capsizes us and so we stop for a wee between the bridges.<br /><br />That's the thing about icy water, you see, it shrinks your bladder to the size of the combined brains of the EDL, which makes for numerous comfort breaks. Back in the canal we venture back to the far bank and onwards downstream to the main body of ice. <br /><br />The ice is thinner here and I am able to just smash it with the scaffolding pole, breaking out a large area of water around us, but it soon thickens and we return to using an axe to cut a path. This is not going well, but again, there's no giving up on these things.<br /><br />I soon develop a successful, but ultimately painful technique. I smash the scaffolding pole through the ice as far ahead as I can reach, then lever it back and forth, smashing both the top of the ice on my side of the puncture and the bottom of the ice beyond the holey fulcrum. The downside to this being, of course, that when the far tip of the pole finally breaks through, I punch the ice will the full force of my rapidly swelling fist.<br /><br />Having cut a line of this nature on either side of the canoe, I then give it some welly and break off the central square, before pushing it down, under the canoe, moving forwards 3' and beginning all over again.<br /><br />This is clearly less than refreshing and I am soon wet and tired. Additionally, at this stage we have a long wooden pole supporting a gas lamp hanging from the front of the canoe and, for fear of coming over all Ratty and Mole, it features the twin qualities of being quite beautiful, in a tranquil, countryside kind of manner, and utterly in the way. <br /><br />Being the sensible chap I am, I soon counter this issue by implementing a 'splash and smash' manoeuvre, causing hazing to the glass of the gas lamp and eliciting some mild expletives from The Dagnall, who owns the lamp, yet understands the inevitability of the incident. Sorry Dangall.<br /><br />A brief inspection of the damage is as good a reason for a break as any, so I begin breaking out a more narrow channel and engineer a situation where we are wedged into the ice flow and can hold ourselves steady using the handle of a hatchet with the minimum of fuss. We need to relocate the lamp amidships and also could do with some sustenance ourselves. This is not easy work.<br /><br />Wedged in, as we are, we unload the wood from the bottom of the canoe, piling the pieces of plywood onto the ice beside us. Fire and ice are not natural companions, yet we still press on, placing a few lengths of four by two (two by four for any Americans out there, not the cloth we used in the army with our rifle pull through) directly against the ice, with a platform of ply upon them and the fire basket straight on the ply.<br /><br />What does an Englishman do when stuck fast in the middle of an ice flow in a canoe? We made tea, what else?<br /><br />Once we had the kettle boiling on the fire and some crisps inside us, the world became more peaceful and more painful concurrently. My bruises and cramps started to ache, but I cared less about it. By the time we had boiled the kettle a second time and had four mugs of tea between us, I was more than ready to continue opening the breach. The question was, where had it got to?<br /><br />In order to make our way along the narrow channel I was breaking, it was necessary to push the blocks of ice which I cut free from the main sheet down under the canoe or beneath the solid ice in order to leave us clear(ish) water to pass through. During our tea break, however, much of this ice had floated up from wherever it had lain and our path was nothing more than cracked ice where the slabs had resettled in some sort of auto-completing jigsaw puzzle. That solved the problem of 'on or back' for us anyway.<br /><br />I hadn't got but a few yards when the ambulance arrived.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TSyqMF24CEI/AAAAAAAABeM/yzloDTAaupY/s1600/ambulance%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 392px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TSyqMF24CEI/AAAAAAAABeM/yzloDTAaupY/s400/ambulance%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561006764603213890" /></a><br /><br />Now an ambulance is not something one wants to see whilst being overtly intrepid. The brave ladies and gentlemen of that particular profession have to deal with the result of misadventure on an all too regular basis and, it is fairly safe to say, they view acts of utterly unnecessary bravado with an element of disdain. The average paramedic is wholly of the opinion that climbing mount Everest is all very well for your professionals, but that they really would be a whole lot better off staying in with a nice cup of tea. Not too hot, mind.<br /><br />It was therefore not without some anxiety that The Dagnall and I watched their approach. For approach they did. Ill-content with merely parking up beside the canal, the ambulance crew turn their steed towards the canal and pull up (with a slightly worrying crunch of gravel, of the kind seemingly designed to make silly canoeists believe that they may well just brake too late and end up in the frozen channel) with their headlights blinding us.<br /><br />By now we have the gas lamp (in a poor state of repair) hanging amidships, so I am utterly retina-free by the time I manage my third blink and this is all a little authoritarian for my liking, however the situation was not all that bad. Beyond a little judgement on our characters we had nothing to fear. The conversation went a little like this, although you have to imagine my half-frozen Lordship continuing to break ice all through the exchange:<br /><br />"Are you all okay out there?"<br />"Yes thanks, we are doing this on purpose."<br />"Are you not frozen?"<br />"No thank you, we had a nice fire and a cup of tea, just back there" I motion backwards with my scaffolding pole, highlighting the site of the camp-fire, so recently abandoned behind us.<br />"Haven't you got anything better to be doing?"<br /><br />I have to admit that I was a little put out by this, after all, what could possibly be better than an ice-breaking expedition across the canal? I was, however, acutely aware that in this era, where reading the Daily Mail is still not an offence which carries a sentence of even a little incarceration, a bit of bitching at a copper could have my mug on the front of the Star, after an idiot ambulance driver tries to save someone who is in very little peril. Certainly not even as much as he desires.<br /><br />"If we were not out here, breaking our way through the ice in the middle of the night in a canoe, we would be forced to remain at home with our horrible wives." <br /><br />I have always found that the derision of the opposite sex, coupled with the use of a term of manly endearment, works wonders when dealing with public service workers (regardless of their gender). "Mate" I add.<br /><br />This does the trick and, a few minutes of chatter later (during which I continue working, seeing as I can, in the light of their ambulance halogens, the large break where The Dagnall had first set out) they drive off, leaving us with an ominous 'see you later, then boys' to remind us of the situation which a cut or pierced hull would land us in. <br /><br />I make good use of their short stay to mark out my path a little with some flung chunks of ice, which flitter across the surface as would spittle on a wood-burner. and we reach the bank in another twenty minutes of so and are able to rest.<br /><br />Now, we never quite made it to the far bank and I am keen to manage a full width, so after a much deserved rest, I convince The Dagnall that he needs to take us back across. This proves almost too difficult to complete - getting the canoe into the tight passage from a position of floating around in an open lagoon is nigh on impossible, since the canoe is bounced back into the bay with ever ice strike, but eventually we are in and with The Dagnall pushing down the floating ice with a paddle and I propelling us along with the hatchet, we make admirable progress across to the opposite bank, where the thin ice we encountered earlier is weak enough that we are able to drive our way through and The Dagnall picks a piece of foliage to mark the occasion.<br /><br />That is about it really. We return to the bank where the car is situated, load up, warm up (I make use of the Passat's heated seats, although I generally eschew them with zeal), return the length of scaffolding to its home in the fence (I dearly want to keep this as both a useful tool and a memento, but it is not mine to have) and return home for a cup of tea and glory.<br /><br />A worthwhile use of my time and no mistake.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-14924636420266955042010-10-27T15:51:00.002+01:002010-10-27T15:52:30.321+01:00I am on BBC3 on Monday at 8:30pmI will be naked, farting in a bath.<br /><br />Here is what I will look like.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jJIz4FlwniI?fs=1&hl=en_GB"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jJIz4FlwniI?fs=1&hl=en_GB" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-34690719004832109132010-09-23T10:30:00.004+01:002010-09-23T12:06:02.879+01:00An interesting morningOn my way in this morning I decided to stop at the garage. Garage is a strange word and I may <a href="#dwell">dwell on it</a> later on. My van is abhorrent. Perhaps the least attractive vehicle on the road today.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TJsmLb96cUI/AAAAAAAABaI/G1c2ZEqlITE/s1600/vivaro-back-left-20090926%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TJsmLb96cUI/AAAAAAAABaI/G1c2ZEqlITE/s400/vivaro-back-left-20090926%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520047746200531266" /></a><br />Not that bad, I suppose, maybe I exaggerated a little, after all a colour coded bumper, whilst unattractive, may be to some people's taste and is hardly that offensive, eh? Let's have a look at the front.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TJsiiCzOs1I/AAAAAAAABaA/-6JX3FVkLVQ/s1600/vivaro-front-left-20090926%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TJsiiCzOs1I/AAAAAAAABaA/-6JX3FVkLVQ/s400/vivaro-front-left-20090926%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520043736535315282" /></a><br />Oh my God, what is that? AAGGHH! Kill it with sticks. <br /><br />Etc.<br /><br />Anyway, now that we have got the ugliness of my van out of the way, I am having some problems with her at the moment. She is surging a little when climbing hills and generally misbehaving, with a little yellow light to tell me that the garage (yes, yes, <a href="#dwell">I'll come to it</a>. It isn't really very interesting anyway) need to take a gander at the innards. They had a go and replaced the drive-by-wire throttle sensor, but it has been to no avail and nothing is improved (including my bank balance - it cost almost £200 for no gain), so I thought to myself 'I know, I'll pop in on my way past and see what they can manage'. <br /><br />What they can manage is to see my car today, so I am writing this whilst walking to work, which is a lot further than I would have hoped for, but such is life. I was just passing the back of the recycling centre now and the scent of fresh dew on moist mattresses is delightful. No,not delightful, that other one. Shit. Anyway, I am walking and it is not the natural state of the My Lordship, being more suited to the recline.<br /><br />Now for the bit which is mildly interesting. Not very, mark you, just mildly. If you are after a good yarn then today wasn't the day to arrive here. As I am passing under the railway bridge, I notice a lorry looking rather lost. The driver is adopting an air of subdued confidence, but I am not fooled, the artic is having no fun at all, blocking the road and twitching its wheels in concern.<br /><br />As I watch a bus pulls up and the 'driver' (I have never been particularly fond of bus operators, they tend to run bicycles over for sport) begins conversing on the topic of directions. As I approach it becomes increasingly clear that the bus driver is sending the lorry down a very narrow, long, double parked, residential and generally arse dead end. One which will take the lorry a good 40 minutes to reverse back out of.<br /><br />Given that the lorry is looking for Colas (which largely <a href="http://www.thisisexeter.co.uk/news/BREAKING-NEWS-Marsh-Barton/article-2266044-detail/article.html">burned down</a> recently) and that, from where the bus driver is sitting there must be all of 10 yards to the large sign at the Colas gate which, helpfully, bears the legend 'COLAS', I am a little surprised by the level of gittishness available.<br /><br />For clarity, Colas is here: http://is.gd/foCsb and, if you turn around 180 degrees, the lorry is where the white van is at the junction. Bear in mind also that this is not Manchester or London, this is Exeter. The bus driver knows for certain that the directions he is given lead to a dead end.<br /><br />I intervened and pointed out the sign, saying "Are you looking for COLAS?" and, upon receiving the expected affirmative response, continued "It's just there, by the big sign that says 'COLAS'". I was thanked and wandered on. It is getting close to me being late for work, I must hurry.<br /><br />Have fun!<br /> <br />Oh yes. I said I'd say something about the word <span id="dwell">Garage</span>. It's not that interesting, please feel free to leave now. I Pronounce garage in three different ways, depending on the meaning:<br /><ol><li>I buy petrol in a garage, pronounced 'garridge'.</li><br /><li>I have my can repaired in a garage, pronounced 'garrardge'</li><br /><li>I park my car (or rather do not, since I do not have one) in a garage, pronounced "g'rardge"</li></ol><br /><br />I did say it was dull. I need to get a shift on if I am to arrive at work before 9, I'll publish this later, by which time you will have read most of this already on <a href="http://twitter.com/?status=@lordmanley ">twitter</a>. Cheerio.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-31689796641069669012010-07-27T13:11:00.008+01:002010-07-27T15:08:26.965+01:00Infographics - the end of a love affair?When I first started seeing infographics I loved them. From chortling at the chucklesome 'Venn That Tune' book in Rick Astley's toilet to lusting after the VW camper in the <a href="http://vimeo.com/3514904">Red Riding Hood infographic video</a> (which you really should watch, if you haven't already).<br /><br />When Iceland's Eyjafjallajokull volcano erupted I was in love with infographics. As a pedant, the <a href="http://www.techthefuture.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/planes_volcanos.png" />volcanoes Vs. Planes infographic</a> was a delight as it was not only informative, beautiful and topical, but also horribly wrong. We pedants commented in our thousands and eventually, after three more iterations, a corrected version was released. our relationship couldn't have been better. But then things went awry, leading us to where we are today.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TE7nl2h_8sI/AAAAAAAABZA/hNDpywPtOaA/s1600/136294714-ef7e23f4b4740a2b27d93f563b22cf25.4c4ee660-full%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TE7nl2h_8sI/AAAAAAAABZA/hNDpywPtOaA/s400/136294714-ef7e23f4b4740a2b27d93f563b22cf25.4c4ee660-full%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498586832545247938" /></a><br /><br />'What can have caused such a dramatic split?' I hear you eagerly enquire. Well, I shall tell you. Yes, I do have to, now shut up and listen.<br /><br />In the beginning we had some lovely designers producing some innovative work. such people as <a href="http://flowingdata.com/">Flowing Data</a>, <a href="http://www.informationisbeautiful.net/">Information is Beautiful</a> and <a href="http://qrarts.wordpress.com/">QRarts</a> were making information into something we wanted to look at and to learn from. Sadly, everyone wanted to look at them, they became excellent link bait and, as so often happens, every traditional PR agency who want to pretend that they can do ePR jumped on the bandwagon and ruined it.<br /><br />Where I had been salivating over the quite wonderful <a href="http://infobeautiful.s3.amazonaws.com/drug_deaths_1_460.png">Drug Deaths</a> piece in the guardian, I was suddenly faced with adverts, even infographics in <a href="http://www.akkamsrazor.com/wp-content/uploads/why-infographics-lg.jpg">adverts for infographics</a>. Now I actually believe that a few diagrams are a wonderful thing, but there is such a thing as overkill.<br /><br />So, what happened between infographics and me? How did things go so badly wrong? Let me explain through a medium I know you will understand.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TE7k2l-5eOI/AAAAAAAABY4/wlYN6ILtaYY/s1600/136297810-9cae137edd4ffc3f1359803693b97d9b.4c4ee660-full%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TE7k2l-5eOI/AAAAAAAABY4/wlYN6ILtaYY/s400/136297810-9cae137edd4ffc3f1359803693b97d9b.4c4ee660-full%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498583821625948386" /></a><br /><br />In summary: My red pen colours in better than my blue one.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-81848339531647733102010-07-13T15:51:00.005+01:002010-07-13T16:14:32.165+01:00Gin-online, well, erm, online.So, it is fairly well documented that I am a fan of the almighty gin. Who wouldn't be?<br /><br />I like to quaff Bombay Sapphire, seep sloe gin, gulp Plymouth, swig Larios, mingle with Tesco Dry London, stick with basic Tanqueray, embroil myself with some No 10, decucumberate a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lord-manley/2086569781/">Hendricks</a>, mix myself up a <a href="http://havingapoo.blogspot.com/2009/04/ginness.html">Ginness</a>, delight in an <a href="http://havingapoo.blogspot.com/2009/09/oxley-cold-distilled-gin.html">Oxley cold distilled gin</a>, prepare some blueberry gin or simply lounge around with some Pimms, dressed as a Pirate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TDyBP34uxiI/AAAAAAAABYo/p-WNTx1bZ18/s1600/2870223317_91ac9f0862%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TDyBP34uxiI/AAAAAAAABYo/p-WNTx1bZ18/s400/2870223317_91ac9f0862%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493407755185079842" /></a><br /><br />But drinking gin is only the beginning of understanding and, let's face it, Wikipedia is about as reliable as a donkey's overdraft, so I have been left to my own gin tasting devices. Until now!<br /><br />I now see that <a href="http://www.gin-online.co.uk/">www.gin-online.co.uk</a> tells me all I need to know.<br /><br />So, a blatant plug for a resource I am not involved in, and I am off for a gin.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-8693980255510669782010-06-29T10:26:00.007+01:002010-06-29T12:31:58.962+01:00Solving the oil spill one idiot at a time.So let me get this absolutely clear; In protest that BP (who produce oil, which does have negative effects) use some of their profits to fund arts, some children threw molasses (a product which has had its own share of spills - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_Molasses_Disaster) at the pavement outside the Tate. [Video below the fold].<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pz-_2KLt1W0&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pz-_2KLt1W0&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I suspect that BP will be severely damaged by this action, whereas the low income cleaners will be uplifted and gratified that their dictatorial and oppressive employers have suffered this blow.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TCm9rCxnyCI/AAAAAAAABYg/MvozlcAitlM/s1600/20027829-r.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/TCm9rCxnyCI/AAAAAAAABYg/MvozlcAitlM/s400/20027829-r.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488126168104683554" /></a><br /><br />I particularly enjoyed the aggressive way in which the lead protester threw his molasses directly at the young staff member, clearly a cog in the well oiled corporate machine which is BP. You can tell he is a wrong 'un, he is wearing a yellow vest.<br /><br />May I suggest targeting Transocean with some Nivea or perhaps poorly cement up the doors to the Halliburton buildings next? That would show them.<br /><br />This seems like misguided, poorly considered low level vandalism, akin to throwing eggs at houses on Halloween.<br /><br />The original post can be found <a href="http://www.youandifilms.com/2010/06/license-to-spill/" rel="nofollow">here</a>.<br /><br />[UPDATE: Turns out that the molasses will not scrub off and some form of oil based detergent will be required. Go protesters!]Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-50812790824531728882010-05-05T13:11:00.002+01:002010-05-05T13:21:14.266+01:00An open letter to NestlesThe '<a href="http://www.knittedbynanas.com">knitted by nanas</a>' campaign is excellent. Funny, clean and enjoyed by everyone. Sadly, it does not at any point or anywhere within the websites or, more relevantly, on the boxes, mention the fact that shreddies are not actually 'knitted by nanas'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S-Fh_BRYVRI/AAAAAAAABYY/y2SyqGH70H8/s1600/2450900712_acbe046b32%5B1%5D.jpg_v%3D1209432388"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S-Fh_BRYVRI/AAAAAAAABYY/y2SyqGH70H8/s400/2450900712_acbe046b32%5B1%5D.jpg_v%3D1209432388" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467759157905478930" /></a><br /><br />Sadly, whilst I like the campaign, I am left with a child who refuses to believe that shreddies are not actually made by old ladies who knit each square. I try to teach my children the truth whenever they ask questions, but I have found a brick wall here, where their age is such that they do not fully understand advertising and do understand small-print.<br /><br />The argument 'If they were not really knitted by grandmas then it would have to say so on the box somewhere' is a valid one and one which is being used as evidence against me and, when I think about it, this is true. The box explicitly states, without caveat, a manufacturing process which is fabricated.<br /><br />The thin end of the wedge which ends with dried turd being sold as organic, hand-rolled processed cheese? Probably not. Annoying when trying to explain things to children? Slightly.<br /><br />All I ask is for an asterisk and an explanation in a tiny font.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />ManleyLord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-4707165023436091972010-04-20T15:13:00.005+01:002010-04-20T15:27:33.932+01:00Rusty bodies.So, <a href="http://www.loxlee-loves-engines.com/">Loxlee</a> loves cars - I cannot say I share his enthusiasm, but what do I know? What I do like is cheap viral videos with bugger all real content and a lot of fun.<br /><br />In his most recent post, this young Capri driver (yes, seriously) has been covering the <a href="http://www.loxlee-loves-engines.com/ppc-in-the-park/">PPC in the Park campaign for 2010</a>, which are slightly less offensive than last year's "Burn your share of the oil while there is some left" but still sort of shows a touch of tits and, at the end of the day, Manley loves breasts.<br /><br />Here are the videos:<br /><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" width="480" height="340" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5QfAxrl89zI&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="340" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5QfAxrl89zI&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Only one tit in this one and he's driving a Rover.</p><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" width="480" height="340" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZS7PjUKxLaQ&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="340" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZS7PjUKxLaQ&hl=en_GB&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object><br />This one has tits!</p><br /><br />You'll have to go to his site (<a href="http://loxlee-loves-engines.com">loxlee-loves-engines.com</a>) if you want to see last year's banned commercial, because I regard anything the <a href="http://havingapoo.blogspot.com/2007/07/too-good-to-last.html">ASA say</a> with the utmost respect.<br /><br />I am not sure that they have quite pulled it off, but it is good, clean, low budget fun and, frankly, is better than the <a href="http://havingapoo.blogspot.com/2007/12/save-whole-load-of-money-save.html">Savebuckets.com video we made</a> so, well, hats off to them.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-47633997246082231122010-04-09T15:46:00.001+01:002010-04-09T15:46:57.338+01:00iPadI got given an iPad today.<br /><br />So I naturally got naked in the office and played with it.<br /><br />Sadly there is no redtube, as it has no Flash.<br /><br /><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4061/4504857549_31553a56d9.jpg" /><br /><br />Also it is made of pine.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-10481650401088463102010-03-11T16:08:00.004+00:002010-03-11T16:13:58.165+00:00The cheese is a lie!Chef Daniel Angerer has <a href="http://chefdanielangerer.typepad.com/chef_daniel_angerers_blog/2010/02/mommys-milk.html" rel="nofollow">declared in his blog</a> that he is making cheese with 'Mommy's milk'. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S5kWrLxjdfI/AAAAAAAABXc/iBTfMVcd5ck/s1600-h/6a01053704bb64970c012877571569970c-pi%5B1%5D"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S5kWrLxjdfI/AAAAAAAABXc/iBTfMVcd5ck/s400/6a01053704bb64970c012877571569970c-pi%5B1%5D" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447410155432146418" /></a><br /><br />This is strangely interesting.<br /><br />What I find most unbelievable about this is that cheese needs milk which is easily dehomogenised. Human milk is not. The production of sheese (that is to say, cheese made from human milk) is not viable since breast milk can not curdle, because the protein content is much lower than, for example, goat's milk.<br /><br />I have tried. I had <a href="http://is.gd/a7O6h">more success</a> with <a href="http://is.gd/a7Ocl">Yoghurt</a> and I have <a href="http://is.gd/a7Ogc">cooked two very nice placentas</a> but human milk simply will not curdle.<br /><br />After doing some more research, what this appears to be is normal cheese, made with a higher protein milk, with human milk included with it. Essentially this would be normal cheese with a human milk flavouring.<br /><br />In his blog, the chef suggest that the rennet is creating curds from the mother's milk, but I am unable to replicate this - I have asked him if he can confirm that he is actually turning the human milk into cheese or whether he is simply adding it, but my comments are not being published and I am receiving no response.<br /><br />Right now my knowledge, experience and experimentation suggests that it must be the latter. As such, I feel that this is basically a bit of link bait which, whilst it has worked, is basically based on a lie.<br /><br />I look forward to contradiction with gleeful anticipation.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-23268829376261104132010-01-06T11:57:00.000+00:002010-01-06T11:57:00.170+00:00Flickr fun.I use <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lord-manley/">Flickr</a> a fair bit, but I have been playing with <a href="http://compfight.com/#search_type=tags&query=manley">CompFight.com</a> and found this image, tagged 'Manley', of a man, apparently having a poo. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S0Mpv2eSn0I/AAAAAAAABWk/vTWQUjuMB0w/s1600-h/2599729699_975eba23df%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S0Mpv2eSn0I/AAAAAAAABWk/vTWQUjuMB0w/s400/2599729699_975eba23df%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423224278337363778" /></a><br />[Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/14029570@N03/2599729699/]<br /><br />As you know, I am easily pleased.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-42724333107629977762010-01-05T11:48:00.002+00:002010-01-05T11:56:04.867+00:00Manley SnapperI love <a href="http://www.manleylabs.com">Manley Labs</a> products, but this photograph of their <a href="http://www.manleylabs.com/containerpages/snapper.html">snapper</a> made me smile.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S0MoqnXF5pI/AAAAAAAABWc/Y-7WXtprYwY/s1600-h/4090361992_87164de8cc%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qaPySuPxX1M/S0MoqnXF5pI/AAAAAAAABWc/Y-7WXtprYwY/s400/4090361992_87164de8cc%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423223088869664402" /></a><br />[Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/35622002@N05/4090361992/]<br /><br />I should stress that I am in no way affiliated with Manley Labs, although anything they want to send me free would be greatly appreciated.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />ManleyLord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-89855610865229302062010-01-03T20:26:00.002+00:002010-01-03T20:51:57.504+00:00A busy dayIn which Grandma falls ill, Ben goes missing and our hero is exposed momentarily to Jamaica ginger cake.<br /><br />So, I crawled reluctantly from my pit at an hour which can safely be categorised as late. Matthewparker had called around with the intention of borrowing a megaphone in order to alert a large number milling athletes, who were about to embark on 6 miles of what any sane man would consider torment, of the presence of flood-water on the route. Matthewparker successfully on his healthy way, bullhorn at the ready, I rose and bathed the children.<br /><br />We had taken a short stroll, following breakfast, so I was ripe for a snooze, but was cajoled by a trio of baying female offspring into playing Super Mario N64. In fairness to the daughters involved, I quite possible require a greatly reduced quantity of pleading when children's activities involve a joypad. Certainly I would take less readily to a game of hide-and-seek. <br /><br />Anyway, their race completed, the Parkerboglus returned triumphant and we had quite settled into a normal Sunday sort of tea and cake affair, when my father, hereafter referred to as 'Old Man', calls me up on the telephone and informs me that his wife, my mother (Grandma from here on in), is being bungled into a helicopter with the express motive of winging (or perhaps blading, I could not decide) her off to the old hospital as soon as was practical. Obviously there was nothing for it but to get to the centre of medical excellence which is the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital (Wonford) and pronto.<br /><br />I arrived to find that I had preceded the chopper by some margin and there was some essence of anti-climax as I wandered up to the heliport and I found myself rather lounging against a pale, listening to the gradually amplifying whirr of the Devon Air Ambulance.<br /><br />Once the bird had landed the crew seemed reluctant to acknowledge the fool on the ground, presumably the spectacle of a slow local waving at the flying medics is not an unusual one, but I happened, by pure chance, to be wearing a hoody which The Dagnall had given me, which bears the simple legend 'MANLEY' upon the left breast in gold seriffed lettering. It was to this that I gestured and, after speaking to the patient, with some gesturing which I clearly read as referring to my shoulder length hair, I was summoned to assist in the removal of Grandma from the flying machine.<br /><br />I felt quite useful, since the porters had not arrived.<br /><br />Anyway, before too long I was off, with Old Man and Little Helen having arrived, so I was off home. Grandma was a hole in the heart baby and, when you grow up with a mother with a tricuspid valve replacement you get used to the occasional high drama every few years.<br /><br />Next up Ben was missing - he set out on a half cross-country, half road ride several hours before, but had not yet returned. This was worrying, since it was icy and unpleasant out and a lot of drivers were being skittish in the way that they seem to do when nearing the end of a long weekend.<br /><br />Once again we were into the van and off to find Ben. I fully expected to see him zooming down a hillside in the other direction, grinning like a fool in his gay abandon, but the possibility remained that he had taken a spill on the ice or just had a bad puncture and was pushing his way back to camp. In this evening's temperatures that could be a serious matter. But no.<br /><br />Ben turned up at his abode when we were not 3 miles out from town, so we were able to get home and have still more tea.<br /><br />Something to do, even something unpleasant, like carrying a stricken Grandma or driving out to find a beleaguered Ben, takes one's mind off the real worry, the health of a relative or the welfare of a friend. <br /><br />Happy new year.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8558864753779318916.post-517827878653163432009-11-03T11:41:00.003+00:002009-11-03T11:43:29.445+00:00Post office strikeSo, the Post Office are on strike? Well then, if you want more money, don't screw up my post.<br /><br />I received a letter which I was expecting this morning, containing (or, as we will subsequently discover, not containing) a 3G Vodaphone dongle.<br /><br />Rather than arriving in the normal way, emblazoned with a stamp, crisp, shiny and reminiscent of Christmases past, this package, for all its brilliant yellow envelope, was encased in a slightly shabby plastic bag, bearing the legend ‘ Our Sincere Apologies’.<br /><br />The dongle was in a card envelope, standard 100g one. That in turn was in a Royal Mail plastic bag, upon which were the words:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Our Sincere Apologies<br /><br />Dear Customer,<br />I am sorry that the enclosed item, addressed to you, has been damaged whilst in our care. Although we do all we can to prevent such damage, it does occasionally occur.<br /><br />If you think any of the items are missing or damaged, you can obtain the form ‘Lost, damaged or delayed inland mail’ by phoning your local Customer Service Centre on 08457740740 (all calls charged at local rates) or from Post Office® branches and we will arrange for investigations to be made.<br /><br />For more information please refer to Royal Mail’s Code of Practice booklet, your guide to our service standards.<br /><br />Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience caused.<br /><br />Yours sincerely<br /><br />Customer Service Manager<br /><br />Telephone: 0845 740 740<br /><br /></span>Except the envelope hasn’t been damaged. It has been opened- neatly. And the Dongle has gone.<br /><br />So you cannot have a pay rise until you learn how to send letters without stealing from them. <br /><br />Allegedly.Lord Manleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10354068569945145770noreply@blogger.com0