I think I missed THAT meeting....

The one where they said it was alright for small noisy ogres to run around Ikea treating the place like a whooping playground. WHEN was it decided that it was OK to unleash these little shites on normal people who want nothing more than to pick up a bit of shopping? What were the parents thinking? When did it become the norm to NOT deal with a yelling brat in a public place by battering him until he quietens? Missed that one too, I see.

Windproof? My arse!

Actually, my arse isn't that windproof. I think that has been proven.

Zippo lighters. Allegedly windproof. Not in Yorkshire, they're not. Not on the edge of my favorite photogenic airfield, trying to light a sneaky log to warm the cockles of my lungs, coz I'm not allowed to let that shite anywhere near my heart anymore. Actually, not that pleasant a location either; Leeming airfield is a wonderful photogenic place, but not the Yorkshire Water "treatment plant" for which read sewage, but that's where the smart photos are taken if they're using runway 34, once assuming the old maxim of "abandon the spotters car park if you want to know where the REALLY juicy pics are". And of course, if you're really weird you can photograph the frequent tanker lorries full of what my late grandfather called "stinko". Today's bait, Norwegian F-16's, American designed hot rods, never been too common in any part of the world I've ever resided in, so worth a trip on the last day of their deployment. A long drive, a service station breakfast eaten on the hoof, a failed attempt at a surreptitious log and the opportunity to practise on the local based Hawks with the Bigma, still haven't got the settings right for that. Then, two flights of jets, five in total mean that the Norwegians have come back from where they've been playing for the morning; a straightforward run and break, and then some very nice landing shots although some swine's stuck a tree right in the middle of the approach, as far as the the photographer is concerned. I guess that's not a design feature of most shite farms.

Was it worth the trip? I thought so. A bit of a beasty. And there were five of 'em flying. The phrase "woo" springs to mind, if this sort of thing is what floats your boat. Anyway's up. No sooner had the last one got in, then I thought that as I'd got what I'd come for, I'd mosey off around the airfield and try to find some locations for different shots. As I walked up to where I'd left the car, I spotted a twin engined propellor plane on the approach... dismissed it as another of the RAF training planes that had been bothereing the runway like bothersome insects all morning, but for the sheer arse of it, focussed the telephoto on it anyway... "hang on, that's a radome on the roof" and as recognition quickly dawned, "SHIT, HAWKEYE!!!" and once again, the quality of Hull's NHS surgeons in the field of big-boring the human heart was proven as I turned tail and legged it back from whence I'd came, with six tons of heavy camera around my neck and big boots on. For the uninitiated, there's been a Hawkeye early warning plane from the French Navy knocking about the UK all week; think of it it as an AWACS plane that can land on a carrier. But they're as rare as hens teeth. And sure enough, that was it roaring over to land.

Which was nice. Never did find that magic bullet for takeoff shots, and reverted to the spotters carpark, but at least there were people there with working airband radios - mine is still in bits - which gave me some idea when the Norwegians were going home, AND what the Hawkeye was doing which turned out to be a refuel with it's engines still running and a quick bugger-off, which just added to the entertainment. Soon after, or as long as it takes to refuel a bunch of F-16's, the Norsk lads departed North Yorkshire in style, a proper afterburner take off which doesn't happen as often as it did; fuel restrictions, cost, noise limitations, anything the bottom inspectors can throw at us to stop all fun. Bastards. They're no fun, these accountants and tree huggers. Jollification of the aeronautical kind. Hooray!

Was tempted to pay the birdies at Thirsk a visit, but instead and for a bit of variety I headed south towards Linton on Ouse, where the Tucano training planes live. Not much to see there apart from vast amounts of black painted turboprops but there's still a few I've not seen, and it's a really nice airfield. Off the A1 at the York turn, and another left past Kirk Hammerton; through the ridiculous toll bridge at Aldwark and up and down twisty roads that are probably good fun on the bike, if you don't mind going splat into the grill of a lorry coming the other way and taking the bend too fast. And Yorkshire showed me it's worst face; what is it about Linton that it attracts such pissy weather? The rain was in sheets. Most unattractive. Soaked my telescope too. Bah. And for the way home, I can affirm that the bow-wash from an oncoming lorry on a small lane hitting your windscreen is damned un-nerving. And don't talk to me about Ikea ! God, they make them ugly, loud and disruptive in Leeds....

The tainted smell of death

... pervades this house. Something vile is stalking this place.

It's my guts.

Ladies and gentlemen, beer has happened this weekend and beer has happened in a very big way. The evidence would point to the Ship and Mitre beer festival, in parts west. I'm not a fan of pub beer festivals, as when they do it over HERE it's just an excuse for Wetherspoons to get a few extra barrels in and have a commercial opportunity. The S&M did it properly. Stillages and gravity barrels in the bar, no marked glasses but then we can't have everything eh. Of course, it was necessary to have a couple in Doctor Duncan's on the way there; it's rude not to and that place is uncommonly good. It has to be said, if I lived on that side of the country I'd have a real problem with selecting a local, and my weekend round would be enjoyable but expensive and destructive. But anyway, the beer tick list lists the damage.....

Banks and Taylor: Crooked Hooker

Bradfield: Who's the daddy

Coverdale: Dark and Delicious

Hawkshead: Oatmeal Stout

Mauldons: Georges Best

Northern: Dragon's lair

Old Bear: Bear's AAZ

Saltair: Blackberry Cascade (liked that one)

And cider... Broadoak Perry, Thatchers Medium and a couple of pints of Addlestones on the go all the time to keep my palate fresh. 2008 is, if nothing else the year of the apple. Haven't shifted so much cider since I was 15. Ahem, 18, honest officer. Hmmm, should have pre booked an ambulance.

And then of course, after closing time, it's on to the Swan because it's suuuuuch a good idea, for a couple of cheeky european fruit beers. A bit of a tactical error, that. Dozed off over one, and woke to a pair of knockers in the close vicinity of my eyeline, attached to a female person of the "younger than me and didn't come into this pub WITH me" persuasion who'd decided it was a good idea to have a natter with the snoozing one in the corner. Awww, ain't that nice, I've got a fan club. See, all those years ago I KNEW girls were impressed with my beer drinking ability (as I slid down the wall). How I got out of THIS one with my knackers still attached to my body and not in a carrier bag is probably testament to my hard learned skills of ad hoc beer diplomacy. Either that or I'm getting old....

The journey out was interesting: took the train for once; this breeds complications of it's own, but more of that later. A comfy chair, a pint before I left, a book to read and an ipod to listen to. Nice. Must do this more often. Beats the knackers off raging down the M62. Found myself in alien territory. Aggggh ! It felt like home a year or two back. Dry walls thrown about like rope, tiny fields in insane topography, a red routemaster bus parked at an mad angle halfway up a hill (whaaaaaaat!!). It's Yorkshire. Doesn't feel like home any more. Have I become south again? Or this northern southerner hybrid that some folks say I have? Or do I just need to spend more time out here? Does anyone care? Do I? Leave that one with me, I'll think about it. Train travel contains other complications too. That's what to do when you miss your train by a couple of minutes and they're on Sunday hours.....

Well, you go to Doctor Duncans of course. And then you go to the Head of Steam (station bar, ginormous, but with not a lot of ale on after the Saturday match day rush. Then Ma Egerton's (theatrical pub, no real ale as I remember, but a reasonable pint of Mann's mild) The Globe (Black Sheep, hidden away local, very nice). And then The Lord Warden (Black Sheep).

And by this time, you're struggling to catch the last train of the night which connects at Sheffield to get you back to codland by morning. Sheffield station. Now THERE's a thing. How is it that a town with industry that's frankly knackered can afford to build a modern art, multi coloured, electronic extravaganza like the fountain setup outside Sheffield Station? And then you have to ride past the dead steelworks as you ride on the lines that they made?

And then of course you wake up to death in your guts...... :o)

Heh. Famous last words.

'I need to get in touch with the ground crew so that they can teach me how to use this GPS tracking device'

http://www.rte.ie/news/2008/0422/brazil.html

Cretins

Well, looks like VirginMedia have broken their SMTP server; this means that although I can receive all the emails in the world, it's one way traffic. So if you're one of the people who may be entitled to a mail from me today, sorry. E-Postman Pat's gone on strike, he's shoved his black and white cat's head through the letterbox and is busy giving it one from behind, the bastard.
Suprises me how they can still get away with being called Virgin, considering how long their servers spend f*cked.

Anyway, for those that still peruse this part of blogland, here's a LINKY that I personally think is the funniest thing I've seen this year. Having said that, I'm aready a fan of the film "Downfall" where they've pinched the visuals from to start with.

The Nearly Dead People Class

Is coming to an end, at least for me. I am now firmly in the grip of the health nazi's. My recovery rates are soaring, my diet is healthy, my fitness is increasing in leaps and bounds. Heh. Literally. That has to be a good thing. It's a survivors society, everyone there has at least had the nasty that I had in the beginning of Feb, some have had worse and have joined the zipper club. No thanks. I can do without that shite.

Birthdays and death days and stabbing big lizards

Firstly, a happy birthday to my most excellent and beloved four legged housemate who's four today ... well, yesterday now... and is as brilliant, slinky and precocious as he's ever been. Top form, that cat.

And a passing thought to Boozing Boris, the Russian bear who died on the 23rd of April last year. I've had a glass of voddie for him.

And finally, good old St George. I don't hold much with this religeous sainting malarky, and the French obsession with it in particular. But St George is a good old boy, they sell the beer in Willys at 1.49 a pint on his night. Let's all make it as popular as St Paddy's day I say; let's drop the price of quality beer even further, enough of that black stuff !

Delta lady, broadcaster issues?

As it happened, I'd have preferred my first sighting of a Vulcan in the air in sixteen years to be a tad more relaxing, and my first photograph of the same to be a bit better than it was. And I'd like a serious word with the BBC.... But little mind, the delta winged beast still has it as far as I'm concerned; an inanimate artificial object shouldn't have presence, but a live Vulcan has, and it's something special.

As things turned out, the BBC reported it at Cottesmore (.... knew that of course, it had come in the previous day for work, and arrived with an wiring fault) and was going to depart at 1400. That's two pm in English money. All morning, all sources said "1400". Late in the morning, a certain blogger, not far away looked at his watch, did a quick calculation and thought "yeah, why not". So I grabbed the Bosscam, and minimal gear; jumped into the Funbuggy, aka GLC and started off west. Traffic's awful. Roads are poor. But at least the weather's a high overcast and the light was good for the Bigma, that lens relies strongly on decent light being available. And remember, the jet's due to fly at 1400. And there's bags of time to get myself to the end of runway 22 and get the specific shot I want of the Vulcan flight. Except of course, the BBC are lying bastards and as I pulled up at 1345 among the hundreds of cars lining the lanes around the base, I could hear four jet engines being put up to power, and I glimpsed it through the trees and thought "shite, it's not bloody taxi'ing, it's bloody going" before parking the car firmly on a roadside and leaping from the drivers seat, camera in hand. I could not possibly have cut that finer if I'd have tried. All in all, I'd have liked to have had my first airbourne Vulcan picture in sixteen years to be somewhat better than....

... that. Hmmmm. As aviation piccies go, that's one to be forgotten. Unlike the jet, which I don't think even The Stig could handle around the Top Gear track. One hundred and Eleven feet span of sheer testosterone wrapped up in curvy, underwear model lines. Ho yuss. Annoyed, I was, Precious. Used a number of naughty words, probably louder than I should. At the same time though, it was lovely to see it shift for real, to pull the nose back at rotation rather than popping the brake chute, as it has been in fast taxi runs since '92. As it happened, I got to see a bit more of it than I planned, due to the fact that it had a small snag - an undercarriage door stuck down - and the pilot needed to make repeated passes of the airfield before he gave it up as a bad job and made off to Brunty', where it lives. A chap called Withers on board, I'm given to understand, who flew the first Falklands Vulcan mission in May 1982, although not in this particular jet (that one's at Waddington as a museum piece). Multiple passes of the runway are the order of the day, during which time your chubby correspondent tests out his new and improved cardiovascluar system by running around the perimeter of a ploughed field in workboots carrying about a ton of camera. Not dead yet, folks, something must be working.

Made it to the spot where I'd actually planned to be all along, just in time for the pilot to decide he'd achieved all he was going to in this patch of sky. Typical. Never mind, it was fun while it lasted, and definately not a wasted journey. Looking forward to burning up plenty of pixels on this beasty in the summer!

So there we were; had seen a sky full of V Bomber again, the crowds (oh yes folks, there were many there) had cleared off and I had a base more or less to myself. A few diehards hung on, but all was pretty quiet until we got a little bit of action. A senior pilot took a jet up for a final testflight after repairs... this was the bird that had to divert into Newcastle a month or so back after smashing the cockpit open while refuelling; and flew complete with Iraq mission markings, which was very cool. The pilot taxi'd past the photographers on the way out, and performed the Harrier's trademark "bow" in our direction, which was very cool and no longer on the airshow scene as the RAF no longer provide a Harrier display, since they're all out east bombing people with teatowels for hats. Was pleased to see four more jets come in, all wearing long range fuel tanks and lazer targetting pods, with pilots from the navy all wearing sandy coloured flying suits. At the time we thought they'd been somewhere hot and dangerous, but it turns out they were in Cyprus for an exercise, which only counts as hot and a bit naughty.


Hmmm, at this point I see I'm missing a snappy ending for this piece. So....

"Salut"

Tells the trained mind a thing or two....

LINKY

For starters, people ARE as shite as everyone thinks they are. And if you're off to promote world peace, remember to pack a big gun, lots of bullets and a couple of big hunting knives.

Dust to dust

Well, it wasn't much of a pub but none the less, it was a pub and it's a dangerous sign of the times that it's now a pile of bricks with the machine that killed it parked atop it like some triumphant predator. Be it economic pressure on people's leisure spending, increased taxes for spurious reasons of "health" or in this case, pressure from the landowner who wanted to run it down so he could build offices on the site, that's the last dock pub here gone up in dust, which only leaves the bar at the Mission - who have, in fairness, saved the pub sign from the bonfire.

Pubs are a true aspect of British social history, especially those in working class areas and we're running out of them. Modern health and safety discourages a bar near a place of industry. In fact, pretty much anywhere. That pub I visited in Scouse a few weeks back is a perfect example of the pub as a historical document, and this place just gone - in it's scabby, lino floored, pissy beer serving way with clientele that consisted largely of dockers, foreign seamen and local whores for the servicing of foreign semen (hah) accurately reflected it's catchment. Yeah, and I drank in there once or twice too.

So here's to the Lock; rest in pieces.

© Shadey Mike 2008

And today's lesson is....

"Somebody else can cook".

The evil that is night shift has decended once again and folks, it IS evil. We came in two hours earlier than scheduled for reasons I shall not go into - not because they're massively classified but rather because they are immensely boring - with a plan, a concept and a good idea of what to do, although our meat and potatoes work for this sort of evening was rather thin on the ground; a weakness of the system that. What is a plan? As an old and well regarded (for a capitalist little tit) boss of mine used to preach, a plan is "That which is changed". Or in this case, shafted by forces beyond our control. No lurking in the dark for us, oh no. On with the uniforms, off over the river to our sister station and take over one of their routine tasks which they'd love to finish but they were busy pissing off home at the end of their shift instead. Bitter, me, about freezing my bollocks off in a cold shed, on tedious work for no result whatsoever because it was born crap, was crap and ended crap? Bitter? Me? Having to wait for four hours for their early watch to poodle in at their convenience, resulting in us extending our shift for two hours at night and getting caught in a traffic jam on the way back? Actually, no, not especially. I'm too tired to care. And this is why somebody else can cook. Well, that and the fact that the house is nearly out of food. But I feel most strongly that the way forward is lunch in my favorate waterside pub with a pint and a newspaper, just as breakfast involved a MaccyD's drivethrough, as offensive as dining there is to everything I hold holy.

On the "News of the Scary"; I've just been offered a photographic commission. A wedding. Oh - my - god. Now, it's a friend and it's something I can do, but photographing weddings is placed at about number 2 on my list of "3'127 things in life that you REALLY shouldn't cock up.....

Oh, and thank you night shift. That sneeze reveals that I *DO* have a chill. Thank you very much.

Gunsmoke, fagsmoke, ale and bargains.

There's a school of thought that would suggest that introducing a young man to proficient use of firearms in one of the more major urban sprawls in the United Kingdom at the moment is one of the less desirable things a chap could spend his Saturday doing. But then people shouldn't believe so readily what they're spoonfed by redtop rag journalists. And anyway, my mission is to spread chaos and wrongthinking amongst the populace, because folks; wrongthinking means that you're actually THINKING and they don't like that. Especially on the recreational shooting issue, because that was twisted from the truth from the very start.

And so I found myself on a large range complex in the North West of England on a Saturday afternoon after a late drive over and a wine induced sleep... not an excessive one but my sleep on Thursday night was so lousy I was out like a light after two little glasses. The occasion, NRA open day; a "bring your friends, have a go" sort of thing. Desirable for me because it lets me have a crack at things I don't normally get a chance to have a crack at; Long Range bangs which go where they're supposed to if it's a 'scoped rifle, but don't if it's an original SMLE with truly awful iron sights; smokey charcoal burning bangs which I'm better with than I remember. Good for SoTWM because it gets him out of the house, away from the screens and into the fresh air; and frankly, these things that go bang are good for a young lad; don't believe the hype from the bastards, folks. Being trusted to touch things that can do serious harm to yourself and others, being trusted to be instructed in their proper use - these ideas are good for a lad's self esteem; with the right steering it brings about competitive activity and maturity, because out on the range you CANNOT mess around. Didn't do me any harm, folks. It surprised me to learn that cadets these days don't actually routinely do any live firing unless you're already range qualified, and you can't get range qualified because they don't do any live work with things that go bang... that seems insane. But anyway's digressing somewhat, and getting away from my rants, I've done a bit of this highly corrupting "introducing modern youth into the world of things that go bang" malarky before; the last attempt resulted in a competent competition shot who's looking at the Marines when he finishes uni, so don't believe the hype from the Anti's, folks. It's a damned sight better for a lad than life in front of the PS3, the Sat Box and Smirnoff Alchopops outside the cornershop with a gang of hoods. The day was something different, laddo was sensible, kept firmly within his own limits (no pushing it, like a chancer such as I would) and everyone involved enjoyed. I'd call that a success.

Which of course left me in a "mission complete" situation on the other side of the country. Where there are things to do, see and drink. Huzzah. A stomp around one of TWM's old haunts at Southport, pretty much a Mozzer town (the seaside town that they forgot to close down); it would appear from feedback that they're doing it, one part of her past at a time. That's never good. A rare treat of pie and chips at a higher quality type of tourist chippy, then back to the big town for the evening. Doctor Duncan's; Cain's main pub: one of those rarities where they are actually, completely incapable of serving a bad pint that I do not like. It's almost unheard of. Everything about the place ticks the boxes, even though the place is a bit "created", rather than my preferred "has been here for at least a hundred years" concept, but I've not has a "everyone's a winner" relationship with a brewery since the glory days of Adnams in my youth. Then a visit to the Ship and Mitre, another favourite of mine but it just brought home the fact that I was too tired for a big evening, so time to call it quits.

Oh, and the bargain bit. It's very sad when a supermarket closes down. Not as sad as it is when a corner shop closes down, after being out competed by one of the chain bastards, but it's still not a good thing; generally only the top two of Tommy Esco's and McWalmart benefit, and real people lose their jobs which always sucks. But, it does mean that Mikey benefits shamelessly, and picks up a shitload of domestic cleaning products for hardly any pounds at all, and two kilos of top brand name museli for fifty pence. That'll do!

Keep the DNA flowing....

While working on the other side of the water, at the recommendation of some of the local chaps I paid the local canteen a visit, not for the culinary wonderment to be found within but for a cheap laugh at the locals. And what can I say, folks, other than inbreeding REALLY isn't good for you, the human race goes only so far under it's own steam, you have to mix some foreign genetic material in every now and again.

And speaking of which, I'd just like to raise the following concern to the young mum's of my hometown, following on from a rant I posted about the Cod'isti many months ago. Girls, when you're eight months gone, maternity frocks are the way to go and may be found in a range of colours and styles from a selection of retail outlets. Skin tight, asure blue metalic finished vest tops which show your belly protruding from the bottom, with tight leggings are most definately not required. It's for your own good, thank you for your time, good luck snagging a dad.

Monday's horriblescope

"Monday, Mar 31st, 2008 -- The high frequency Aquarius Moon can increase your anxiety while making you more intellectually astute. Although it stirs up nervous energy, you are quite comfortable with using your rational mind. It's just that you need to feel a solid emotional connection with your past in order to be content"


Heh, it's heard about the effects school reunions can have on you then.

Beware the past

It can really knacker your blog publishing schedule.

I timestamped this..... ooooh, yonks ago, now. It's now.... some time later and I still haven't got this one straight in my head, let alone straight on the page. That's what happens when the past reaches up and grabs you like the Henrietta zombie in Evil Dead 2, which is probably a piss poor metaphor for a really good night, but there you go, if you wanted quality writing you'd be reading a professional author and not wasting your time here, mwahahah. So let's stick to the facts.

Some months ago, I was contacted by a fella I went to school with many moons ago whom for the purposes of the Blogosphere we shall call Jacko. Jacko told an interesting tale which involved a certain anniversary - 21 years since we all finally buggered off sharpish from our place of compulsory education - and a certain planning concept, then in the works of an attempt at a reunion. "A jolly wheeze", thought I, and put it firmly in the diary. A certain amount of weaseling was done at work to ensure I wasn't hassled by anything boring, such as for instance a requirement to actually turn up at work and earn my living when I was supposed to be down south being freaked out by how bald and fat my former classmates have all become. Oh, I'm sorry, that's how freaked out THEY would be by how bald and fat I am.

On Saturday last I found myself in the vicinity of the old family homestead, and setting up digs at my gran's place; not as is more usual, at the Hospitible House of Kev, since as for once he wasn't involved in the night's games it seemed a little unfair to make use of his roof. Hmmm, does that rhyme? Near enough. I pointed the GLC in the direction of a place called Bramford which once was the social hub of the High School crowd, being more or less central to the catchment area and sucking slightly more than my own village, swung into the carpark and shut the engine down. Now, as anyone who's done this before will confirm, walking into one of these events is often weird and a little scary. Now, I have to do things that make me nervous all the time, so I just prep for them my own way; checked the car was all squared away, stepped out into the cold night air, put on Face Number 24, ran my hands through where my hair used to be and stepped through the door... Slightly paranoid moment when I clocked a number of girls that I recognised who all smiled and laughed a bit at the sight of me... was my fly undone*... and then into a wall of blokes and handshakes, which was good.

So all in all, it's a weird thing and it was unsettling in that, several days later, I'm still a little sideways about it all, but it's stabilising again. Funny moment of the night was when one of my early beer buddies, Chrissy saw me chatting to my first ever girlfriend C., said in a suprised tone "HEY... do you remember.... I didn't know you guys knew..... hang on a moment, didn't you..... oh", and silently went "I'll get me coat" a'la Fast Show. Nice one. Actually, C was one of the first folks to get back in touch when this reunion business first appeared on the horizon which was, and is most cool. A couple of suprises.... folks that weren't at my school but whom I knew socially who're now either with folks I schooled with, or still socialise with them; and at least twice as many folks there than the organisers were expecting, which was superb. Yes, an unsettling evening but in a very positive way, not enough time by a long way, I could have used a day. It was, to use the phrase that surfaced time and time again "intense, surreal weird, and emotional". At the end of it, a very real sense that I'd struck into something real and good again that I'd lost for a long while, and frankly was quite narked at losing again. Questioned just what I was doing up here too; as one who was noted as one of the furthest travelled to attend. By the end of the night, I was in need of a smoke to stop my head going into overdrive, and not happy that my gran doesn't have a single match in her house. Ended up being forced to re-evaluate my time at school, and the people that were there... was I ever really as unpopular as I thought I was? At the time I was certainly sideways a couple of feet compared to the rest of the kids; not so much not fitting in, but refusing to fit in by their rules but was that anything more than the prototype of what I still am? And that worked out pretty well, didn't it?

I'm bloody glad I went.



*No, it wasn't.