News From Nowhere

Tea, I Do Not Have To Wait To Go

2012-02-27T14:25:00.000Z

As most people know, I am no poet. Once or twice I have tried to be poetic, but quickly I have come to the conclusion that poetry is one of those things - like singing, painting, acting, cooking, gardening, ice-skating, and shot-putting - that I was never intended to do. There are so many talented poets out there, my time is much better occupied in reading their works rather than attempting to compete with them. If you live next door to Picasso, don't paint your window sills: that's what I say.

But that doesn't stop me from playing with the words of others, and one of my favourite ways of doing that is via the wonderfully inventive medium of on-line machine translation. This particular game is easy to play. Simply take a well known verse, for example the opening lines of that splendid song, "Danny Boy". Take those lines and feed them into one of the many free, on-line translation sites (for example Google Translate). Translate them from English to Chinese, then from Chinese to Yiddish, from Yiddish to Hindi, Hindi to Japanese, and then finally back from Japanese to English. What you come up with is a kind of psychedelic anthem, a surrealistic ballad, an odd Irish Air.

The original verse goes as follows:-

"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the roses falling

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide".

Repeated machine translation changes it with the subtlety of a fine pencil, infusing it with just enough mystery to make it exotic.

"Oh, Danny Boy pipes, pipes are calling

Downhill side of the valley

Disappears and summer, all rose the drop

Tea, I do not have to wait to go, "Tease" You are".

Oh Google Translate, tease indeed you are.

The Family Shoe-Tree Gets A Walk In The Sun

2012-02-24T12:34:00.001Z

Shoes is the theme over at Sepia Saturday this week so I thought I would illustrate it with a family shoe-tree. And at the heart of any such tree are your two immediate genetic precursors, your father and your mother. Or in the case of a family shoe-tree, your fathers' shoes and your mothers' shoes. So we will start with my father and this splendid pair of two-tone brogues which personify the 1930s like a chorus from Bert Ambrose and his Orchestra. I can't imagine my father wearing shoes like this : that staid disciple of cultural conformity could surely never have been a dedicated follower of fashion. But we have photographic evidence and therefore I will have to amend my preconceptions.

The boot is on the other foot (so to speak) when I come to my mothers' place in the family shoe-tree. Feast your eyes on those tight-laced boots; the very personification of Edwardian severity. But those booted feet belong to a girl who, just a few short years after this photograph was taken, would be wearing a flapper dress and a cloche hat.

I originally intended to follow these two photographs with the full images they were cropped from so that you would see the wider picture. But I don't think I will. Let us leave everything else to the imagination. Shoes are so often an afterthought; an appendage of little consequence. Let this be their day in the spotlight, their brief moment of fame, their walk in the sun.

Walk on over to the Sepia Saturday Blog to see what others are making of this week's theme - SHOES.

Sepia Descending Into Madness

2012-02-23T12:36:00.000Z

Uncle Frank was a great album keeper. He took photographs back in the days when photography involved more of an investment of time and money than any click of a mobile phone keypad. He had the film processed, the photographs printed and then he pasted them in presentation albums which he labelled with a style and exactitude that shine down the decades. One album is headed "Tours 1939" and it lists the various resorts he and his wife Miriam visited in that apocalyptic year. With the exception of London, all are seaside resorts within easy travelling distance of the mill towns of West Yorkshire where Frank and Miriam lived. As I turn the pages in the album I see a sepia world that is slowly descending into madness, a process that is perfectly illustrated by a photograph of a German bomber silhouetted like a tiny dust speck above the skies of West Lancashire.

The photograph I have chosen for my "Picture Within" feature this week comes from a series that were taken in Blackpool. In an age when amateur photographs were mainly of people, Frank took a good number of pictures of things and places. The one above is labelled simply "on the pier" and, as far as I know, is not supposed to feature any particular person,

It is when we drill down into the detail of the photograph that we discover the most delightful group of people on the extreme right of the original photograph. If I had my brothers' skills of sculpture I would would want to cast this group in bronze and capture forever the lounging knee being transformed by history into the uniformed figures preparing to march out of the picture into the future.

I remember Uncle Frank as a bit of a figure of fun in the family. He collected stamps and bus tickets and spent an age in the 1950s recording television adverts on a reel-to-reel tape recorder. Even though he has been dead some forty years, I would like to take this opportunity to issue a public apology. Frank was a genius, a man years ahead of his time, a presser of social history who approached his task with the skill and dedication of any Victorian flower-presser. He left me with not only a galaxy of old photographs, but within each of those galaxies there are hidden endless systems of pictures within.

Mashed Liquorice And a Walk In The Park

2012-02-21T00:25:00.001Z

Chairman Bill in a comment to my last post accuses me of becoming tardy in my blogging activities. He is, of course, quite right (which will come as no surprise to those who follow him, as he is always right) : I plead guilty as charged. I would like to put forward a long list of mitigating circumstances in my defence, but I can think of none. But as I stand here on the steps of the War Memorial in Greenhead Park, I do solemnly declare that in future I will be a better blogger. And as I publicly munch this humble pie of mashed liquorice and wholesome bran flakes I declare that I will aspire to be a more regular blogger.

In order to maintain the necessary continuity for my new phase of regular and responsive blogging, here is a quick summary of what has been happening in my life during these recent days of radio silence.

- The GLW and I yet again won the Friday night quiz at the pub which has led to accusations of cheating;
- After our victory of a couple of weeks ago, Denis and I lost our last Crown Green Bowling match against the girls by the small margin of 21-4 (which has led to accusations of cheating);
- My New Year Resolution of becoming a fitter and slimmer person has melted away like a lump of lard in a chip pan;
- Amazingly, the Great Novelette of the 21st Century is still going strong with over 50,000 words now committed to paper;
- The clouds vanished yesterday revealing glorious blue skies and perfect weather for a walk in the magnificently restored Greenhead Park, Huddersfield;
- My attempt to reverse the decline in the Great British Pub continues with my attendance at an Old Gits lunch at the Sportsman Tavern tomorrow.

Regular blogging will return tomorrow - that is, of course, if I am not too hung-over following the monthly gathering of the Worshipful Company of Old Gits.

All Hail The Lord Evicted

2012-02-17T12:02:00.000Z

I am occasionally tempted to have a theme with a title something like "Britain Is A Very Peculiar Place". Take this sign planted in the garden of the office park down the road. Before the offices were built, the field was occasionally used by Travellers. Maybe it is not surprising that the landlord doesn't want the Travellers returning to spoil his businesslike facility. Maybe it is not surprising that he is prepared to retain a national firm of bailiffs to evict any unwelcome visitors. But you would think that, given the authoritative and legalistic nature of the sign, they would have threatened trespassers with Lord Halsbury rather than some unknown Hailsbury. I am tempted to nip back with a pot of paint and correct it, but they would probably evict me.

A Bolt Driven Through A Sheet Metal Plate

2012-02-16T11:57:00.000Z

Yesterday I got involved in a game of Pub Snap with my friend Jennyfreckles over at Salt & Light and she won by coming up with a pub called the Green Lion in Rainham, Kent. I told her she couldn't get maximum points if she had not been and drunk a pint there. I thought I might counter today with the latest in my monthly theme of Occupational Pubs : the Boltmakers' Arms in Keighley. As this is in Jenny's neck of the woods, she should be able claim points for having visited the pub. As for me, I can claim full points because I have visited the pub and, as the notes I took at the time suggest, thoroughly enjoyed a pint there. The following piece was first published on Great Yorkshire pubs some two and a half years ago. I make no apologies for repeating it here : after all the next best thing to a good pint of bitter is another good pint of bitter.

I was in Keighley tracking down long-dead family and long fragmented churches when I called in at the Boltmakers Arms for a lunchtime pint. The Boltmakers - a Timothy Taylor house within spitting distance of the brewery - is the kind of pub you dream about when you are a long way from home. Small, cozy, warm, welcoming : it is everything that a pub should be with a little bit extra added just to make you happy. You don't feel lost when you go in there nor do you feel compelled to order a three course dinner and a bottle of wine. The pictures on the wall have been chosen by the Landlord because he likes them and not because they fit into a preconceived theme thought up by a Pubco's marketing team. If you want to chat to the guy behind the bar you can, but if you want to sit and read a book in a little haven of peace and tranquility there is nothing to stop you. The architecture is not brilliant and the decor is unspectacular - but on Wednesday lunchtime I had difficulty thinking of anywhere else I would rather be in the whole wide world.

It is a Timothy Taylor house and they had the full range of hand-pull beers available. I tried something called Boltmakers Best Bitter (4% ABV) which, for all I knew, could have been brewed in the upstairs back bedroom. It was fresh and clean and for whatever reason put me in mind of a bolt been driven through a sheet metal plate in one of the long-lost dockyards of the River Clyde. I know it is a daft comparison by by this time I was getting maudlin. How long will such a place stay open? Will it be there fore my son to drink in? Probably. Will it be there for my grandson? Probably not.

What a shame, what an undiluted crime - this thing that is happening to the traditional British pub. What a loss, what a bloody, stupid waste. It was one of those days. It was one of those pubs. The Landlord looked at me as I drained my pint and left, wondering why I was crying.

Gladys And The Genetic Cord

2012-02-15T16:36:00.000Z

Another in my "Picture Within" series and this time the focus is a personal one, for that is my mother looking straight at me with an intent gaze and a troubled frown. My portrait is cropped from a larger one which features Gladys with her mother and father and her elder sister Amy.

But as soon as I started scanning the larger photograph and examining it in detail, I was drawn to my mother. There is something about the composition which just draws your eye to her face and challenges you to guess her emotions. She is standing there supported by two knees, two parents, and by a kind of grim determination.

That determination allowed her to see out 92 summers, It saw her through two world wars and her fair share of uncertain times. I look at that face and ask myself whether I can see the older woman who was my mother. I even look at it and ask whether I can see myself in that face, for, to be sure, there is a genetic umbilical cord that joins any two generations.

I think I can. I hope I can.

Quiz : Every Prime Minister Needs A Cup Of Tea

2012-02-12T10:08:00.000Z

Following the reference to my success in the weekly Pub Quiz, a number of you asked me to post the questions I set for this week. Here they are - my usual apologies for the local ones which may confuse people from far-flung lands such as the USA, Australia, Canada and Lancashire. I will add the answers in the form of a comment to this post in a couple of days time.

ROUND ONE
1 Which programme topped the British TV ratings every year between 1979 and 1989?

2 What is graphology the study of?

3 In terms of food, Mangetout is a type of what?

4 Who said "every Prime Minister needs a Willie" and who or what was the Willie being referred to?

5 Who wrote the lyrics to the hit song "Candle in the Wind"?

6 Foyles in London sells what?

7 In which 1990 film did Madonna play the part of Breathless Mahoney?

8 Aylesbury is the administrative capital of which English county?

9 What were the 49ers searching for in California?

10 Name the five D-Day Normandy invasion beaches - a point for each.

ROUND TWO

11 The nursery rhyme “Ring A Ring Of Roses” is often said to commemorate what historical event?

12 What is the link between boxing champion James Corbett and the country singer Jim Reeves?

13 What part of the body shares its name with a punctuation mark?

14 Which football club played at Anfield before Liverpool FC?

15 In terms of food, what does the abbreviation UHT stand for?

16 Which media tycoon established the breakaway World Series Cricket organisation in the 1970s?

17 Which Prime Minister gave his name to a type of tea?

18 Who played the title role in the 1950s TV comedy “I Love Lucy”?

19 What colour is the cross on the Swiss flag?

20 There are six M-classified motorways that pass through Yorkshire – name them.

ROUND THREE

21 In what year did the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II take place?

22 In which city was Charles Dickens born?

23 Name the last three Managers of the England Football team?

24 Who won this years' Super Bowl last Monday night?

25 How many Great Grandchildren does the Queen currently have?

26 What was the name of the football club owner who was found not guilty of tax evasion this week?

27 Under what pseudonym were the first stories written by Dickens published?

28 What is the name of the Archbishop of York who has been subject to criticism this week following his views on gay marriage?

29 What is the name of Dickens’s final, unfinished, book

30 Who are the three longest reigning British monarchs? (Point for each, bonus point for the right order)

ROUND FOUR

31 What song, said to be the most recognised song in the English language, was written by sisters Patty and Mildred Hill in 1893?

32 What is the trade name of polytetrafluoroethene?

33 Which American building is said to be the world’s largest office building with 6.5 million sq feet of space?

34 In terms of volume, which country produces the most wine?

35 In terms of Roman numerals, what is M+C-L equal to? (Answers in ordinary numbers, bonus for answer in Roman numerals)

36 With sales of 37.5 million, what is said to be the best selling car of all time?

37 Minsk is the capital of which country?

38 Where, in London, are the Royal Botanic Gardens?

39 Who designed the lions in London’s Trafalgar Square?

40 Other than Manchester United. Who are the only other three football teams to have won the Premiership title?

ROUND FIVE

41 What do baseball players call a complete miss of the ball?

42 Carrots are rich in which vitamin?

43 Which singer and actress starred in the title role of the 1953 film Calamity Jane?

44 Donald Neilson was better known as which notorious 1970s murderer?

45 Which world famous mathematician, born 100 years ago this year, is the subject of a current petition to grant him a pardon for his conviction for gross indecency?

46 In which century was the United States last at war with Great Britain?

47 In mythology what was left in Pandora’s Box after she had released all the evils of the world from it?

48 In terms of production, which is the most cultivated crop in the world?

49 What is the name of the scale used to describe wind speed?

50 What animals are known as caribou in North America?

Sepia Saturday 112 : Life Between Two Marble Bookends

2012-02-10T12:35:00.000Z

I never imagined that it would be so difficult to come up with something to fit this weeks' Sepia Saturday theme - Books. Over the last few days I must have searched through almost every old family photograph I have, looking for elusive volumes, only to find that they are as rare as hens in a dental surgery.

If I spread my net a little wider and go outside my own family I can find a scattering of books, but even these tend to be used as props. This picture from the studios of J C Gray in Paddington, London shows what looks like a father and two sons. The father, who seems to want to be seen in profile, appears to have a long body and short arms and the two volumes seem just the thing for keeping him evenly balanced; like a folded envelope shoved under a short table leg. What the volumes are, I have no idea : but a book is a book in the land of the photographically illiterate.

If I look back to my own youth, there were some books in the house: but precious few. My mother had a Mrs Beeton's Cookbook and my father had two Daily Mail pictorial volumes on the history of the world wars. There was a gazetteer entitled "Romantic Britain" and a curious book entitled "Everybody's Book Of Fate And Fortune" These volumes were proudly displayed on the top of a cupboard between two marble bookends.

I am sure that my childhood home was no different to hundreds of other northern working class homes. Form books would be more prevalent than great books and stories were what you listened to on the radio rather than read about in a book. But that doesn't stop me fantasising of a youth enriched by literature and learning, of a young lad who would save his tuppence spending money, don his best sailor suit and go off to the second-hand bookshop to buy a new supply of precious books.

We are a lucky generation: one way or another we have access to an almost limitless supply of books, whether they be printed on musty old paper or a bright computer screen. We are also the first generation to have the time and the means available to write our own histories. And fantasies can be turned into historical fact with a little help from Uncle Photoshop.

THIS WEEK'S SEPIA SATURDAY THEME IS "BOOKS". TURN THE PAGE AND VISIT THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG TO READ ALL ABOUT IT.

A Cack-Handed Photographer Preserved In Negative Aspic

2012-02-08T14:34:00.000Z

My second February theme is "The Picture Within" and this week I feature one of my oldest negatives which dates back to the early 1960s. I am fairly sure that it was taken at the Halifax Gala in Manor Heath Park but other than that, I can remember nothing about it.

Two things captured my attention when I scanned the negative and examined it in detail. The first was the photographer on the right of the shot and the strange contraption he has hanging over his shoulder. It took me some time to realise that he wasn't a cack-handed snapper caught in the process of dropping his prized camera, but a film-maker, because that seems to be a fairly primitive 8mm movie camera that he is holding. Given that it is a movie camera and that he appears to be filming a band, we can assume that over his shoulder is an early tape recorder. But I am still not sure what the box is that he is holding in his left hand. Some questions are best left unanswered.

My second focus of attention was on the band itself which provides a great platform for a game of guess the date. There is a slight Beatle-ish feel to the band and the hair style of the singer would suggest the very early 1960s.

Who the group were, I know not. What happened to them, I have no idea. But they are preserved forever in negative aspic, peacefully hibernating until their story can be told.

Unpretentious As Lard And As Solid As A Bag Of Bricks

2012-02-07T15:33:00.000Z

Back to my February theme : occupational pubs. The Engineers is a delightful old pub in Sowerby Bridge, as unpretentious as lard and as solid as a bag of bricks. There were a number of engineering works in Sowerby Bridge and most West Yorkshire towns would have a pub with a similar name during the first half of the twentieth century. Often they would have acquired their name because they were the meeting place of the powerful Amalgamated Engineering Union. I can still remember my father, who was no great frequenter of pubs, going to "the Engineers" to pay his union dues, although, in his case, it would have been the Engineers' Club in Halifax rather than the eponymous pub in Sowerby Bridge.

I have been unable to find out very much about the history of the Sowerby Bridge Engineers. It looks like a fairly typical post-1830 Beerhouse Act establishment, but obviously more research is required. As always, I will rededicate myself to its completion.

Ant Hills Surrounding Everest

2012-02-05T10:42:00.000Z

Now I have never been one to boast. As far as I am concerned, if you have to blow your own trumpet you might as well sit in silence. I am such a believer in the precept that what is important is the taking-part rather than the winning, that I have shunned the victory rostrum throughout my life. I have spiked my prize marrows, be-headed my dahlias, over-fed my whippet, and - for heavens sake - supported Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. So you can understand how difficult it is to make - strictly in the interests of public information - the following announcement :

AFTER ALMOST A YEAR CRAWLING IN THE GUTTER OF COMPETITIVE OBSCURITY, THE GOOD LADY WIFE AND I WON THE PUB QUIZ ON FRIDAY NIGHT

In the interest of archival substantiation, I have taken the unusual step of reproducing the final score-sheet. For the sake of clarity, I have highlighted our winning score (you can't imagine how difficult it is to generate a gold-coloured highlight using Photoshop). You may care to note how far behind some of the regular Friday night "big-hitters" of the quiz scene lagged. The phrase "ant-hills surrounding Everest" comes to mind. The prize for our achievement isn't exactly substantial - we get a free drink and the job of setting the quiz next week - but one doesn't do these things for worldly gain or worldwide approbation. It is the quiet knowledge that you have taken part that is important.

Sepia Saturday : Enoch And The Pin-Sharp Ratter

2012-02-04T10:36:00.000Z

Dogs are the theme over on Sepia Saturday this week and the theme took me straight to this photograph of my grandfather, Enoch Burnett, and his dog. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind something is telling me that the dog was called Betty, but I can't be entirely sure of that.

I can be more certain about the date the photograph was taken because a date stamp has been applied to the reverse of the print : 18 November 1928. This was standard procedure at Jerome Studios which had "branches everywhere" in the UK. Enoch would have been 50 at the time the picture was taken and one can only wonder what caused him to take his dog along to the Jerome's branch in Bradford and have the portrait taken. He was not a great lover of studio portraits and I can find few of him other than this one and the one taken during the Great War which features all of the family. The strange thing is that he looks younger in this photograph than the one which was taken ten or eleven years earlier. Perhaps the dog had won prizes - she has the look of a great litter ratter - or perhaps there was a bond of affection there which drove the pair of them to have their likeness's captured in sepia forever. It is quite a nice idea - perhaps I will try and recreate the photograph using my own canine pal, Amy. All I need to know is how the photographers at Jerome's managed to keep her so still and looking into the camera. I will carry out experiments over the coming days and report back.

For more old photographs of long gone people and long gone dogs go the the Sepia Saturday Blog and follow the links.

The Mona Lisa Of The Bingo Hall

2012-02-02T15:13:00.000Z

My second theme for February could live in a plastic box labelled "The Picture Within". The idea is this: take an old negative that is so uninspiring that, the first time around, you probably never even bothered printing it. Then scan it, enlarge it, and search within it for an image that is crying out to be created.

My first submission is based on a photograph I must have taken some time back in the 1970s. It was in a Bingo Hall in, I think, Bridlington. I pointed the camera into the arcade and took a photograph in the hope that something interesting might emerge when I developed the film. Nothing must have emerged because, as far as I can remember, I never made a print from the negative. But now, when I scan it, I see a woman who has turned away from her bingo game to see what kind of person wastes good film on such a scene. And there is something about her stance, something about her look, something about her enigmatic eyes which makes me want to take her out of her context and discover her anew. It's a silly game, I know, but it keeps me amused during the cold winter months.

Feeling Themey And Supping At Ye Olde Blogger

2012-02-01T14:17:00.000Z

Well maybe it's the time of year or maybe it's the time of man .... but I am feeling themey. Themes are like filaments along which worthwhile thoughts can form. Think about a candy floss machine (that's cotton candy to our American cousins): I know about the mechanics of making candy floss because my friend Edwin bought me a candy floss machine for my birthday a couple of years ago. You start with a bit of sugar in the centre of a centrifuge and as it spins sugary filaments form. These filaments then become the sweet superstructure of the finished delicacy. What I am trying to say is that themes can become the superstructure of finished thoughts - or, there again, perhaps I am just demonstrating that candy-floss thoughts can be made out of practically nothing.

Anyway, I thought that I would make one of my February themes, pub names. Pub names are interesting in the way that book covers are interesting; they encourage you to seek within, to imbibe. There is probably a word for people who collect pub names - it will be something like a wastrel or a toomuchtimeonhishandsoligist. Whatever it is, I am one. It is the same with whatever it is that I collect, be it banknotes or old postcards, I am driven to categorise them, file them, store them away in a plastic box. And so my first plastic box has a label on it marked "occupational pubs".

The Old Bookbinders is in the Jericho district of Oxford, not far from the headquarters of the Oxford University Press. It's a fine old pub full of wooden tables, dusty old books and overflowing pints of beer. I have a feeling that I would have quite liked to be a bookbinder, there would be something satisfying about packaging knowledge and thoughts and stories. Perhaps the modern equivalent is a blogger - the bookbinder of the digital age. Now there's a pub I would be attracted to : "Ye Olde Blogger"

Sepia Connections To The Theatre

2012-01-27T12:59:00.000Z

I have been on a journey this week. It started with a church parade in Birmingham and went via Broomhill in Sheffield and a running track in Halifax to the Dingle Peninsular in Ireland. And today it has brought us to the theatre. I have no idea where the theatre is: it doesn't matter, it is who we are watching that counts. And we are watching the Singer Trio. And we are thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

The boy at the back is the cleverest; well that is what our correspondent tells us. He plays bells alright. Perhaps they are tubular bells - no doubt someone will post in and tell me. Lydney is in Gloucestershire, just south of the Forest of Dean. It is a pleasant part of the world and I am quite happy to be shipwrecked here for a few days whilst I take a long weekend break. I won't be away too long, but if you get bored with waiting you can always sit back in your seats and listen to the delights of the Singer Trio.

This week Sepia Saturday has gone to the theatre. Book your seat now and enjoy the show by going on over to the Sepia Saturday Blog and following the links.

Messing About With Connections

2012-01-26T12:15:00.000Z

I left you yesterday standing on the pinnacle of sporting achievement and I join you today standing in a sports jacket on the Dingle Peninsular (nowhere in the rules does it say that these connections have to be either logical or even sensible). It is probably 45 years ago and that is my mother standing next to me, looking out to sea. She used to love standing on the sea shore looking out to sea, perhaps that is where my brother got his love of sailing from, perhaps that is where I get my love of cruising from. I have messed a little with the photograph as you can see, but the photograph was so old, so faded and so encrusted with transparency mould, nobody could possible blame me.

I know it was Dingle because I can clearly remember the location of the next slide in the box. Now I have been on a good few car ferries in my life, but this was one of the most basic. I remember my fathers' look of fear as they tied the car to the deck with an old piece of rope. Again I have messed with this particular picture, giving it more film grain than it originally had in order to smooth out some of the imperfections of time. I suppose it is pretending to be something it isn't, putting on a performance in the theatre of my memory. Now where can I be going next?

Connections To A Sporting Life

2012-01-25T15:01:00.000Z

And talking of John Betjeman (I warned you, this week will be an endless series of connections), who can forget his magnificent poem "A Subaltern's Love Song".

"Miss J.Hunter Dunn, Miss J.Hunter Dunn,

Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,

What strenuous singles we played after tea,

We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,

The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,

With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,

I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn"

(YOU CAN FIND THE REST OF THE POEM HERE)

I am not sure if Miss J Hunter Dunn features in this particular line-up. I doubt it because, as the eagle-eyed will have spotted, they are badminton players and not tennis players. Uncle Frank is there; that's him on the right hand side of the front row. What exactly his function in the team was, I am not sure, but I suspect he scared most of his opponents off the court before the game started.

But I am being needlessly mean : Frank was far more of a sportsman that I have ever been. My school football playing career lasted a single afternoon in 1957 when I was a member of a team that lost to Boothtown Primary School 12-0 (needless to say, I was the goalkeeper).

For a while I quite fancied myself as an athlete. My brother Roger and I, along with our next-door neighbour David Greenwood, set out a running track in the field behind our houses. This is a picture of the boy who could have been Seb Coe if it hadn't been for a couple of twisted toes and a bad case of laziness. That is David Greenwood keeping the lap total (I should point out it was a very short course) and I assume it was Roger who took the photograph.

Where am I going with all this you might ask. Well I am going to the Indoor Bowling Arena on Leeds Road, Huddersfield. I am taking you there because less than 24 hours ago, my bowling partner Denis and myself, for the first time ever, beat the girls at crown green bowling. You might not think this is much of an achievement, but I see it as a culmination of a lifetimes' training and preparation. All those breathless laps were not in vain : today I stand on the pinnacle of sporting achievement.

An Edwardian Connection, Broomhill, Sheffield

2012-01-24T14:45:00.000Z

Not quite Broomhill, but the best I could come up with at short notice: it is just down the road in Walkley.

Yesterday's postcard was addressed to Miss Gertrude Marsh who, in 1906, was living at 122 William Street, Broomhall Sheffield. My thanks to Wibbo for tracking Gertrude down and to Michael and Hanne for the suggestion that she married Raymond in 1896 when, as far as I can make out, she would have been three years old! Interestingly, M&H suggested that they were married in Broomhill (which is just up the road from Broomhall). It is interesting because there is a connection (I have a feeling it is going to be a week of connections) : I used to live in Broomhill.

Back in early 1978, the GLW and I were living down in London. I was working in politics and the GLW was a classicist with a belief that there must be more to life than translating Livy. Her dream was to go to Medical School and Sheffield University had the imagination and foresight to offer her a place. So in the summer of that year we turned our backs on London and with little more than a plastic television and a home made sofa-bed, we moved to Sheffield. We found accommodation on the top floor of a wonderful old Edwardian house in Broomhill. The GLW embarked on a six year course of study and I eventually found a job lecturing in nearby Doncaster.

I still know Broomhill well: the Lad - who has followed his mother to Sheffield Medical School - lives just up the road, as do our good friends and cruising companions H&E. Now it is very much a student enclave but there is still a grandeur about the buildings. That wonderful poet, John Betjeman summed it up perfectly in a poem he wrote entitled "An Edwardian Sunday, Broomhill, Sheffield" Here is the first verse:

High dormers are rising

So sharp and surprising,

And ponticum edges

The driveways of gravel;

Stone houses from ledges

Look down on ravines.

The vision can travel

From gable to gable,

Italianate mansion

And turretted stable,

A sylvan expansion

So varied and jolly

Where laurel and holly

Commingle their greens.

Raymond And The Perambulating Cat

2012-01-23T13:50:00.001Z

It is some time since we last had a postcard so I am dipping back into the postcard box. This is a fine example of a magnificently uninspiring picture postcard, and I am sure that the photographer could have found a more visually pleasing image, even within the Army Service Corps barracks. The reverse is a little more interesting.

Birmingham, Tuesday. Dear G, Are you any better? If not, why not! Much love, Raymond. The postscript says: I have made a friend of a pussy here, who has been wanting to walk on the table while I am writing"

I suppose I could check out the address in Sheffield or look through census records to discover who Miss Marsh was. I could research Army Service Corps barracks in the Birmingham area. But I think I prefer to leave it as a snapshot of an unknown life, captured at a particular moment in time when G is ill and Raymond is taken up with a perambulating cat.

In Memoriam

2012-01-22T09:41:00.000Z

Kodak Files For Bankruptcy

Once-dominant Eastman Kodak Co and its US subsidiaries hit by decline of photographic film business in digital era (Guardian 19 January 2012)

Bangor Rooftops : Sometime in the 1980s By Alan Burnett - and Kodak

"Kodachrome

You give us those nice bright colors

You give us the greens of summers

Makes you think all the world's a sunny day, oh yeah!

I got a Nikon camera

I love to take a photograph

So Mama, don't take my Kodachrome away"

PAUL SIMON

Sepia Saturday 109 : Mother, Father, Practice Child And Doll

2012-01-20T19:09:00.000Z

Someone else chose the Sepia Saturday theme this week and this means that, at long last, I can soar with the themers and escape the dark clouds of suspicion that my theme photograph might have been a convenient plant (no, not a rhododendron, not that kind of a plant). Anyway the theme was a doll which gave me the opportunity to feature this photograph which comes from the collection of small prints held together by an ancient elastic band (a.k.a. the family archives). Now I am pretty certain that is my father, and equally that appears to be my mother (I have to incorporate a degree of uncertainty as I am notoriously bad at recognising people and I have been known to walk past the GLW without realising who it was). But given that it is indeed my mother Gladys and my father Albert, who on earth is that chubby faced, curly-haired child? It doesn't look a bit like my brother Roger and I am sure I never looked like that. What is more it appears to be a girl and not a boy. Were they perhaps practicing before my brother was born: testing their child-rearing skills on some local urchin to see if they liked the idea, in the same way you can sometimes look after a dog before acquiring one for keeps? Hopefully my brother will see this post and have some suggestions which might solve the mystery.

There are lots of other old images over on the Sepia Saturday Blog. Be a doll and go over there and take a look.

Fat Dog To The Big Apple : 63 East From Newport

2012-01-18T17:07:00.000Z

The Long March by Alan Burnett and his dog Amy from Los Angeles to New York City continues. This week sees the intrepid pair take the fateful decision to leave behind the Pacific Ocean and head inland.

Newport, Oregon : 15 January 2012

Dear All,

Yesterday Amy and I sat in the shadow of the Yaquina Bridge and contemplated a momentous decision we would soon have to make. As we had entered the City of Newport everything had been in its rightful place: the sun was in the sky, the forests were on our right and the blue waves of the Pacific Ocean were on our left. That had been the prevailing orientation for most of the 890 miles we had covered since we had left Los Angeles behind, an orientation that had taken us north. The ever-present ocean had been a source of comfort and joy and both Amy and I now regarded it as a close family friend - Great Uncle Pacific: loyal, dependable, salty and slightly wet. But Uncle Pacific had taken us north and I knew, in my heart of hearts, that if we were to ever get to New York we would, at some point, have to leave him behind. We would have to head east.

In making the decision about when we should abandon the coast and head inland I was anxious to be as inclusive as possible, so as we walked towards the city centre I tried to explain the options to Amy. We wanted to go to Portland because we had several Blog friends who lived there and it would be great to be able to call in and see them. We could either stay with the coast a little longer and head inland once we got to Netarts or Bay City, or we could take the plunge here in Newport and follow the Corvallis Newport Highway inland.

I wasn't getting much of a response from Amy: she was the kind of constituent who devalued the idea of democracy. As I urged her to become more actively involved in the decision-making process she appeared to be concerned only with sniffing the trail of the Cocker Spaniel that was been walked ahead of us. We stopped for a beer at the splendid Rogue Ales Public House and I tried to engage her with a sip of the aromatic Bacon Maple Ale, but she remained obstinately disengaged.

I left the decision to the final moment and when we eventually reached the intersection of the Oregon Coastal Highway and Corvallis Highway I said to Amy, "OK, the decision is yours". Restoring my faith in participatory democracy she didn't hesitate: she calculated the advantages and disadvantages of the various choices, calculated the opportunity cost, put her head down, pulled smartly of the leash and headed east.

So that was how we took our leave from Great Uncle Pacific and, as the week drew to a close, how we were walking with renewed energy eastwards out of town...... just a few hundred yards behind a jaunty Cocker Spaniel and his owner.

Until Next Time,

Alan and Amy

Frost From Nowhere

2012-01-16T14:29:00.000Z

There was a heavy frost last night. As I walked Amy down the road this morning the frost had painted patterns on the wall. The incorporated frozen fern shows that it is possible for nature to improve on nature. I only had my mobile phone with me, but it didn't do a bad job. And when I got home I couldn't resist adding a link to the car windscreen. Maybe I will turn it into a new header for the Blog.

Father And Mother On Front At Blackpool (In Hats)

2012-01-13T15:10:00.000Z

Cut to the quick by the oft-repeated suggestion that I somehow choose the weekly theme photograph in order to neatly fit in with an old photograph from my collection which I am wanting to feature in my weekly post, I am, this week, eschewing all pretense of theme-following. Instead, I am going with a random photograph taken from one of Uncle Frank's old photographic albums. The photograph is carefully entitled, in Uncle F's neat script, "Father And Mother On Front At Blackpool".

Quite clearly this is Blackpool, Lancashire and not New York, New York and therefore I can't be accused of somehow cleverly following up on the still from the 1912 film "The New York Hat" which served as the theme photo this week. Equally, charming though Uncle Frank's mother undoubtedly was (I regret to say that I never had the pleasure), nobody would suggest that she was as beautiful as the young Mary Pickford (yes, it was she in the theme photograph). So, there you are, a completely random and non-thematic photograph ...... which just, by chance, seems to feature rather a lot of hats.

On seeing that flowing collection of headgear on the left of the image, my first thoughts were of the French artist Georges Seurat and his pointillism paintings. Photoshop does provide a pointillism filter and this seemed an ideal opportunity to use it and the results, I believe, suggest that Frank's mother and father might well have been holidaying in Blackpool with the French post-impressionist towards the end of his career.

I keep calling them Frank's mother and father, but they had names and identities and stories of their own. I could look them up on the census form, but I suspect that the formulated data wouldn't convey half as much about them as this one picture. The picture of Franks' father and mother on front at Blackpool, in hats.

You can see what others make of this week's Sepia Saturday theme by following the links on the Sepia Saturday Blog.

Let Me Take You By The Hand And Lead You Through The Streets Of London (or maybe Stoke-on-Trent)

2012-01-12T14:52:00.000Z

Thursday is scanning day and today's dip into my old negative file brings this particular image to the surface. One of the joys of "scanny-dipping" is to dredge to the surface an image that has not seen the light of day for forty or so years and try to work out where on earth I took it. I have a feeling that this particular shot dates back to the early 1970s. At the time I was at University in Staffordshire, but spending many a weekend in London where the future GLW was at University. And I have a feeling - based on the width of the streets and the smartness of the buildings - that this is London rather than Stoke-on-Trent. For some reason I keep thinking of the area around King Cross Station or maybe a little further south in the Holborn area: but this thought is based on intuition rather than evidence. Wherever it is, it seems full of atmosphere to me : even after all those years in the dark.

Desk Top Publishing

2012-01-11T14:46:00.000Z

A Cut-Out And Keep Guide To My Desk Top : 1.00pm Wednesday 11th January 2012

1. My notebook for the GN21 project. If you squint hard you can just make out a picture of a Walther Model 9 pistol. If you want to know more you will have to buy the book (if I ever finish it).
2. My diary. If truth be told there is little in it, but it gives me a feeling of self-importance having it open on my desk, just in case the Queen calls up wanting a meeting.
3. Computer screen which seems to be displaying yesterday's blog-post. Further evidence of my own self-obsession.
4. My trusty iPad ready to provide me with instant access to the world of on-line news and current affairs and - OK I admit it - the latest level of Angry Birds.
5. A cup of tea served in my favourite chipped Tesco mug. Ah, the drink that cheers but does not inebriate. I wonder why nobody has come up with an alco-tea yet?
6. My trusty TV ready to provide me with instant access to the world of television news and current affairs and - OK I admit it - the latest episode of Coronation Street.
7. A half-eaten Kit-Kat, proof if proof be needed, that my New Year Resolution to eat less has already withered and died in the garden of good intentions.
8. My new dictionary which replaces my old one where many of the pages had fallen out which meant that I was unable to use any word starting with any letter between K and P.
9. A ready supply of Post-It Notes always available to jot down ideas for new blog-posts, great inventions, epic poems and shopping lists. (need to remember to buy more Kit-Kats)
10. The framed certificate which shows that I have been made a member of the Grand Order of Idlers. Someone sent me that through the post - I can't imagine why.

The Fat Dog Heads For The Big Apple (Again)

2012-01-10T14:47:00.000Z

It is over a week into the New Year and my resolutions are dropping like .... (well I will go no further as one of my resolutions was to be less uncouth this year). Anyway, they are falling by the wayside. So far I seem to be eating more and walking less, being a less reliable and more unresponsive blogger, and wasting time as though it was as bountiful as sand in the Sahara. I am just managing to cling on to my daily target for the completion of the Great Novella Of the 21st Century (GN21), but I feel I am losing my grip. So in search of redemption I take Amy for a walk and, as promised, we return to our virtual walk from Los Angeles to New York City. I started this project years ago : the idea being that I would record the distance I walked my poor dog around the mean, grey streets of West Yorkshire and, using Google Earth, translate the distance traveled into a virtual walk across the continent of America. For the last year we have been grounded in the small Oregon town of Yachats : victims of indolence. One of my resolutions for 2012 was to restart the journey. Here is a report on the progress we made last week.

FAT DOG TO THE BIG APPLE : PART 62 North And South Of Waldport

"It is good to be moving again", I said to Amy as - at long last - we left Yachats behind us and headed north along the Pacific Coastal Highway. She didn't respond : the one year of rest and relaxation had done nothing to improve her conversational skills. But, unless I was mistaken, there was a spring in her step as she surveyed the almost endless vista of fresh trees before her. Yachats had been described in the guidebooks as "the ideal place for discovery and renewal, rest, recreation and romance". Looking back over the last year we had discovered little and renewed less, although on the romance front Amy had increased her affection for chicken. Dead chicken that is. Dead chicken that have been carefully cooked to preserve their moist flesh.

As we walked towards the town of Waldport, I settled back into the rather pleasant routine of walking two or three miles a day and gazing out onto the Pacific Ocean rather than the frost-covered slopes of Huddersfield Crematorium. I was rediscovering the joys of virtual dog-walking and I took the opportunity to remind Amy of our mission. "If we walk in a straight line, it is only about 2,621 miles to New York", I happily told my dog, "and at our current rate of progress we should make it to the end by sometime in 2016". I was explaining to her that even with a few planned diversions along the way, we should still see the Empire State Building by the end of the decade when I noticed that she was up to her old tricks and pulling on the leash.

Now I realise that Amy is a dog and that she doesn't always understand what I am saying, but she keeps providing evidence of an understanding which belies her canine status. This was one such occasion. She was dragging me through the gate which led to Wakonda Beach State Airport. Now I have to admit that I would not have been adverse to a helping hand along our way, and I can cheat as well as the next man, but this was little more than a muddy field and there was no way I was going to bump along its rutted surface at 100 mph in the hope of becoming airborne.

And so we trudged northwards and eventually arrived at Waldport. Amy was sulking big-time and I was nursing a blister on my foot. I made a list of ten things to look forward to in order to cheer the pair of us up, but got stuck when I had got to number four. There were a few decent brew-pubs listed for Waldport, and a dog-food supply company: but if you add that to the fact that it wasn't raining and that neither Amy nor I had toothache, that was about the extent of our good-time audit.

"Never mind", I said to Amy, "we have the open road ahead of us and a continent to see". Amy had started to walk a little awkwardly : if I didn't know better I would have thought that she was trying to thumb a lift.

To Be Continued ( ... probably)

Sepia Saturday 107 : Who Framed Roger And His Rabbit?

2012-01-06T11:22:00.000Z

That bizarre man who chooses the Sepia Saturday theme pictures has this week come up with a picture of a small child with a rabbit. He might think he can beat me into submission, but not a chance : where he goes with child and rabbit I follow. In my case the child is little more than a babe in arms and the rabbit seems to have had some of the stuffing knocked out of it, but it is not a bad effort. The baby, the penciled annotation on the reverse of the small snap tells me, is my brother Roger. I have a feeling that the black-skirted legs you can just make out in the background are those of my grandmother, Kate Beanland. But who took the photograph, who composed the delightful shot? Yes, you know where I am going with this, who framed Roger and his Rabbit?

Hop on over to the Sepia Saturday Blog to see other people rabbiting on about old photographs.

Conversations With My Phone

2012-01-05T09:31:00.000Z

It must be 25 year since I got my first computer : an old BBC micro that, given twenty minutes and a length of paper long enough to wallpaper the Palace of Versailles, could print out a picture of a wine glass composed of nothing but dots. You could also programme it to say "Good Morning, Alan" when you pressed a particular combination of keys. It might not sound much in this digital-do age, but back then it was pretty leading edge.

I am reminded of this because I got a new phone for Christmas : an iPhone 4 which has the ability to recognise (sometimes) speech instructions and respond accordingly. The TV advert features a suited executive asking Siri (the iPhone's "intelligent personal assistant") to remind him when it is his fathers' birthday, but being a lonely old git rather than a young, suited executive, I make different demands on it. I have long conversations with it. Yes, I know it is sad - Siri also thinks it's sad because I asked it the other day - but I am not proud. Here is the conversation I just had with my phone this morning (and I swear to you that this is a verbatim record of the actual conversation).

Me : Good morning Siri.

Siri : Good morning, Alan.

Me : How are you today?

Siri : Finer than frog hair, Alan

Me : Excellent.

Siri : I am good, but I am not great.

Me : I am sorry to hear that.

Siri : I am sorry, I don't understand.

Me : Never mind.

Siri : Yes, it is

Me : Who's your favourite blogger?

Siri : It's nice of you to ask, now can I help you with something?

Me : I'm just passing the time.

Siri : Sorry, I don't understand.

Me : Is it going to rain today?

Siri : Yes, it is likely to rain in England today.

Me : Oh dear. Do you know any good jokes?

Siri : Two iPhones walk into a bar .... I forgot the rest.

Me : Am I wasting my time?

Siri : Sorry, Alan, I don't know what the time is in Shepherds Thorn Lane.

Me : Where on earth is Shepherds Thorn Lane?

Siri : I need to know what city that address is in.

Me : So do I.

Siri : I can't really say, Alan.

Me : Perhaps I had better take Amy for a walk.

Siri : Alan, I don't understand "Perhaps I had better take avifauna wall"

Me : Goodbye Siri, go back to sleep.

Siri : Sorry Alan, I can only look for businesses in the United States and when you are using U.S. English.

Me : Goodbye.

Siri : OK Alan, see you later.

It may not be Scott Fitzgerald, but I am telling you it is more coherent and meaningful than many a conversation I have had in the pub late on a Friday night. I like my new phone. It is a friend and a comfort to me.

"And a rock feels no pain,

And an iPhone never dies"

New Year Resolutions

2012-01-02T11:37:00.000Z

It is that time of the year again : the time I wheel out the resolutions (most of which are as old and as faithful as a Yellowstone geyser), dust them off, air them out .... and then forget them within a week. If my grandchildren ever study the record of my life based upon nothing but my ill-kept diaries, they will assume that I suffered from some form of perverse counter-hibernation which resulted in me being hyper-active for the first week of January before I settled into another year of silent obscurity. So, before the moribund months take hold, here is my 2012 Resolution List. If I can still summon the energy to lift finger to keyboard at the end of the year I will try to remember to review my progress.

IN 2012 I WILL :

* Become a fitter and healthier person as I eat less and walk more.

* Finally complete the Great Novella of the 21st Century (if ever I can remember what the role of the French couple is within the complex plot-line I mapped out a year ago).

* Regularly chart my progress in the longest dog-walk ever undertaken - Fat Dog To The Big Apple.

* Be a better, more interactive and more regular Blogger.

* Waste less time.

As an early pointer to my end of year report I should mention that I managed to waste at least half an hour putting together the ridiculous image that illustrates this particular post.

A Happy New Year

2012-01-01T09:17:00.000Z

A Happy Christmas To You All

2011-12-20T14:43:00.000Z

A Happy Christmas : not from the Balkans but from News From Nowhere. The Christmas rush has already started and I am not sure that I will get too many opportunities to post to the Blog over the next few days. So I would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a delightful New Year. The postcard comes from my collection and dates from 1917 when it was sent by a member of the Survey Company of the Royal Engineers to a Mr and Mrs Bailey of Godstone Road, Rotherham. There is no message other than the general greeting on the front of the card : but what further greeting could you want. A Happy Christmas to you all.

Sepia Saturday 105 : Bradford's Perfect Little Housewife

2011-12-17T10:41:00.000Z

The link between my Sepia Saturday image this week and the theme image may be a tenuous one, but there is a solidity about it which could prop up a broken table leg. The picture shows my mother, Gladys (right), along with her friend, whose name I cannot recall. It was taken whilst the were on holiday in Cleethorpes in about 1929 or 1930 : the same holiday, I believe, during which she met my father. And it was taken round about the same time that she entered a competition organised by the local Bradford newspaper - the Telegraph and Argus - to find Bradford's "Perfect Little Housewife". I am not sure what she had to do - judging by the mores of the times it was probably bake a cake, indulge in a little damp dusting and press a straight crease in a pair of trousers - but whatever it was, she won the competition. And the prize was a copy of Mrs Beeton's Complete Book of Household Management. I am not sure what happened to the book - could it have found its way to Dominica? - but during my childhood I remember the block sized volume standing beside the two or three other books that made up the household library. And the link? The Sepia Saturday prompt was an illustration from a 1901 edition of Mrs Beeton's Cookery book. I can never think of Mrs Beeton without thinking of the young Gladys Beanland - Bradford,s perfect little housewife.

FOR MORE INTERPRETATIONS OF THIS WEEK'S SEPIA SATURDAY THEME - GO TO THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG AND CLICK ON THE LINKS

Women Preaching And Serial Hat Wearers

2011-12-16T11:24:00.000Z

Perhaps I can briefly follow up on a couple of comments on my last post. Both Michael & Hanne and the inimitable Chairman Bill referred to the number of hats on show in the picture of Neville Chamberlain arriving at Heston Airport. CB actually said that "you wouldn't find a single hat in a similar photo of today". I have to say that if you had been at Manchester Airport at 11.00pm last Monday when my plane from Munich arrived (by the way, Martin, it took about two hours by comparison) you would have seen one hat on show - mine! I am a serial hat wearer and have been most of my life. My photograph shows me this morning about to take Amy out for a walk and wearing the Fedora (*) I bought in Munich. I apologise for my slightly startled look and for the imperfect quality of the shot as Dr Johnson might have said : "Sir, a dog taking a photograph is rather like a woman preaching. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all." I bought the hat in a Munich Department Store (they had an excellent selection of hats available) and I was attracted to it by its claim to be "crushable". The claim was tested during my return journey when I consigned the hat to the overhead luggage locker (it is rude to wear your hat whilst being served a can of beer and a bag of crisps by the stewardess), and a fellow traveler dumped an enormous case on top of it. As you can see, it emerged rather well from the experience.

(*) I realise that I might be sparking a new debate in calling my hat a Fedora. The brim is too large for it to be a Trilby and it has neither the shape nor the ruggedness of a Stetson, but one might be tempted to think of it as a Homburg. My own feeling is that it has neither the stiffness nor the central gutter of the typical Homburg.

Peace For Our Time : But What Time?

2011-12-15T13:06:00.001Z

All sorts of things go through your mind when you are flying back from Munich and the air turbulence is so bad that the Stewardess can't serve you your can of beer and bag of crisps because she is firmly strapped into her seat and doing some last minute revision on the emergency evacuation procedures. My mind turned to that most famous return flight from Munich, the one undertaken by British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain on the 30th September 1938, and I became obsessed with discovering how long the journey took him. Why such ridiculous questions should have dominated my mind at a time when the difference between life and death seemed to rest on the strength of the rivets holding the wing to the Airbus I was flying in, I have no idea, but on my safe return to Britain, I was determined to discover the answer.

There is a lot of information available about that famous return journey. Chamberlain was returning with a meeting with Hitler, Mussolini, and Prime Minister Édouard Daladier of France : a meeting at which the future fate of Czechoslovakia had been decided (without the active participation of the Czech Government). On his return to Heston Aerodrome, Chamberlain waved his famous piece of paper and spoke of peace. Later that day, in Downing Street, he issued his famous promise of "peace for our time". We know what kind of plane he flew in (a Lockheed 14 with the registration number G-AFGN), we even know Chamberlain's ticket number (BA/WS 18249 : the actual ticket was re-discovered about a year ago). But how long did the flight take?

I eventually found the answer within an archive recording from the BBC. The clip is from the original report made as the plane landed at Heston and features the sonorous tones of the famous reporter, Richard Dimbleby. Near the beginning of the broadcast, Dimbleby comments on the poor weather in England but says that the Prime Minister had good weather for most of the return flight which took "something like three and a half hours - a little less than that actually". You can find the full nine minute broadcast from September 1938 on the BBC Archive website - it makes interesting, but poignant, listening.

Around the same time that Chamberlain was making his three and a half hour flight, the German poet Bertolt Brecht, living in exile in Denmark" wrote a poem entitled "From A German War Primer" One verse from the poem says:

When the leaders speak of peace

The common folk know

That war is coming.

When the leaders curse war

The mobilization order is already written out.

War grows from their peace

Like a son from his mother

He bears

Her frightful features.

Their war kills

Whatever their peace

Has left over.

Chamberlain ended his famous "Peace For Our Time" speech with the following request to his audience : "And now I recommend you to go home and sleep quietly in your beds". A verse of the Brecht poem seems to almost echo the thought:

It is night

The married couples

Lie in their beds. The young women

Will bear orphans

Beer And Baubles

2011-12-14T09:41:00.000Z

We are back from Munich after a delightful few days : days that were bookended between Christmas Markets and Bier Kellers. The weather wasn't perfect, but the sights of the city were.

We came back to a long list of outstanding Christmas jobs : so postings may be a little intermittent during the next few days. But when the list of jobs is too long, the cold wind too cold, and the endless Christmas card list is too endless - we shall always have Munich.

Sunsets And Sojourns

2011-12-06T08:19:00.001Z

Liverpool Sunset by Denis Chambers

You can't beat the occasions when someone you know passes you a computer disk or a stack of papers and says "I thought you might like this for the blog". It was a computer disk which was handed to me at the pub the other evening by my good friend Denis : and on it I discovered six fabulous images of a sunset at the Albert Docks, Liverpool. I spoke to Denis later and he told me that the pictures were not planned, he just spotted the spectacular sunset one evening and captured them with a small pocket digital camera. The filenames underline this relaxed approach : they are simply called Liverpoolsnap1, Liverpoolsnap2 etc. It is a pleasure for the blog to be used to feature such great photography.

This is my last post for a week as we are about to leave for a few days in Munich. The GLW has always wanted to visit a German Christmas Market and I am hoping that in addition to markets such as this, we will have time to visit some of the stunning museums and sample some of the magnificent architecture of the Bavarian city. To keep you occupied in my absence, I thought I would leave you with a little competition. At the end of this post you will find a scan of our answer paper from last Fridays' quiz. Given the answers, your task is to work out what the questions were! This, of course, is a doubly complex jeopardy because - as you can clearly see - several of our answers were wrong! Denis - of Liverpool sunset fame - is banned from this competition as he set most of the questions. See you all next week.

Sepia Saturday 103 : In A Medical Vein

2011-12-02T20:02:00.001Z

Our Sepia Saturday prompt this week has a medical element to it - it is a 1960s picture of a nurse in Richmond, Virginia about to go out on calls. The only medic I have to match the theme is the Good Lady Wife and therefore my picture this week dates back to 1983. It shows the GLW and a group of her colleagues just before their final exams. The photograph followed a clinical skills revision session and in order to obtain a suitable record of the event I persuaded them all to look miserable for the occasion.

If anyone should have been miserable it was the poor chap behind the camera (me) because, as well as being the session photographer, I was also one of the session guinea pigs. It had been decided that I had particularly good varicose veins and therefore they were made available for examination. My poor old father - who seemingly had a wonderful heart murmur - was also roped in for the event.

As well as being on-theme, the photograph has a particularly timely connection. The students went on to graduate and eventually became doctors. And on Thursday evening, the GLW and I went to a presentation evening organised by the Local Hospital Trust where she was presented with her 25 year service certificate.

Whilst the doctors made it to 25 years, my varicose veins didn't - they were removed many years ago. I still have the scars from the operations : they serve to remind me of the passage of time. As do the photographs.

To see more Sepia Saturday 103 posts visit the SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG and follow the various links.

Beat That Bugger-Lugs

2011-12-01T13:49:00.001Z

If you have been following the on-line fraternal battle between the Burnett Boys this week, you will know what to expect. It all started when I published a recent picture of Halifax Market last Sunday. On his Sculpture Studio Blog, my brother responded by publishing a sketch of the same market he had done a number of years ago. Not to be beaten, I then published a photograph of the same scene I had taken some 45 years ago. With that, I should have won : but could my brother leave it there and accept defeat, no way. So he then published a post describing how he had conceived a plan to move the town of Sowerby Bridge in order to avoid a busy road and how he had designed a new market - a kind of "linear Crystal Palace" - to occupy the newly opened river bank. He ended the post with the following words: "Now dear brother, if you can come up with a compilation photograph to illustrate my scheme, you’ve won!" So, no guessing where I was this morning - and here is the result.

You see, dear boy, the photographer can always beat the conceptual artist - we have the ability to translate vague ideas into reality. As a final example of my point, as I wandered around those back streets of Sowerby Bridge I came across a bronze statue. Very pleasant in its own way, but how much better as a two-dimensional photograph.

The Lock Keeper, Sowerby Bridge. By Roger Burnett

Great Yorkshire Pubs : The Malt Shovel, Harden

2011-11-29T14:12:00.001Z

The Malt Shovel, Wilsden Rd, Harden, Bingley, West Yorkshire, BD16

On the moors above Harden, a few miles north-west of Bradford, there is supposed to be an ancient stone circle. There are also some prehistoric earthworks. General Fairfax camped his Civil War army in the fields just up the road, and the Bronte family lived only a few miles away. The whole area seems seeped in history and - like fruit that has been left soaking in a bowl of brandy - the buildings radiate a pungent warmth. Well, the Malt Shovel Inn certainly does.

The Malt Shovel is old : possibly seventeenth century, nobody seems to know. It used to be owned by the de Ferrand family, but when their estate was broken up in 1919 the pub was sold for £1,476 : a decent sum back in those days and only a few pounds less than the price fetched by Harden Hall itself. Like so many country pubs, it has also served as a courtroom, an auction house and even a prison. There are surely worse places to be incarcerated.

Inside it is long and low : the way pubs should be. Real beams hold up a real ceiling and a hand-pump on the bar pulls real ale. I called in at lunch-time - it is rare these days to find a pub open at lunchtime - and soaked up some of the atmosphere, some of the history, and some of the Tetley Bitter. A little white dog came and sat under the table : didn't disturb me, just sat there as though it was part of the fixtures and fittings. A lovely Yorkshire pub, a visit to which makes the day worth living. What more can you ask for?

I Will See Your Market, And Raise You Another Market

2011-11-28T13:42:00.001Z

It's always been the same, a kind of fraternal jealousy : what one does, the other tries to do better. So after I had posted my picture of Halifax Market yesterday, what does my brother do but post one of his sketches of the same scene. I haven't his permission to reproduce it here but he owes me the price of a new camera battery so I will just do it.

So, what he can do, I can do. Therefore at the top of this post is another picture of Halifax Market and this one dates back forty years or more (the prices of the goods are in pre-decimal money). My picture must pre-date his sketch as the central stall was still called "Under The Clock" in my picture rather than the more recent Max Crossley.

It's your move, dear brother!

Sunday Shopping

2011-11-27T10:26:00.001Z

It is Sunday, and even though it is stormy and wet outside, the GLW will shortly announce that we are going shopping (shopping is the default activity of the GLW). I would prefer to stop at home and do nothing in particular (my default activity) but no doubt the lure of the shops will win this particular tug-of-matrimonial-war before the day is out. I will try suggesting that we should stay in and look at pictures of shops : but I doubt if this approach will be successful.

This is a picture of Halifax market. I can still remember the central fruit and vegetable stall (Max Crossley's) from when I was a young lad, indeed I think I have some old black and white shots taken fifty years ago of almost the same scene. The market was built in the last decade of the nineteenth century and is a spectacular glass and wrought iron construction surrounded - like the decorated edges of a fruit cake - by fine stone buildings. Originally it incorporated three pubs but I seem to think that only one of them remains. Indeed I am not sure if that is still open - I must go and check. "Hello love, do you fancy going to Halifax shopping this afternoon?"

Sepia Saturday 102 : Fish, Giraffes And Great Seals

2011-11-25T12:30:00.001Z

The theme image this week was an extremely busy photograph entitled "Roadside Stand Near Birmingham, Alabama" by that great American photographer, Walker Evans. My matching shot is entitled "Auntie Miriam Near Noah's Ark, Blackpool" by that great Yorkshire photographer, Frank Fieldhouse (a.k.a. Uncle Frank). Note how the photographer has cleverly balanced the composition so that it appears that a giraffe is stood on the lady's head and two sloping pediments spring forth out of her ears.

The Noah's Ark ride at Blackpool's famous Pleasure Beach was originally built in 1922 by William Homer Strickler, an American fairground construction engineer who was also responsible for building Blackpool's famous Big Dipper. Strickler must have regularly crossed the Atlantic because he was responsible for many of the famous fairground attractions of the North West of England and met his death in 1930 when he fell from a duplicate Noah's Ark he was building down the coast in Southport. My photograph captures the famous attraction in the mid 1930s when it had already undergone a couple of make-overs to its' external appearance. The internal workings - the cogs and the pulleys that made the floor shake and the animals move - remained the same and can still be seen to this day.

The giraffe, along with the 23 similar wooden animals that adorned the exterior, were added in the early 1930s and were designed by the famous British sculptor, Percy Metcalf. Born in Wakefield in 1895, Metcalf was a fascinating character who can best be described as a jobbing sculptor (I am sure he would have viewed such a description as a compliment as will the only other "jobbing sculptor" I can think of, my brother Roger). In addition to creating fairground animals, he designed pots, war memorials and car mascots. Perhaps he is most famous for his work with coins : he designed the first coinage of the Irish Free State and in 1940 he designed the George Cross medal. He was also involved in the design of the Great Seal of the Realm which is used to symbolise the Sovereign's approval of important state documents. There is something quite appealing about an artist who can turn his hand to ceremonial seals and wooden sea-lions will equanimity.

My first thought was that my photograph was a pale shadow of the level of activity of the Evans original. But. like any good old image, once you scratch under the surface layer of silver salts, there is an intriguing world on display.

TO SEE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE MAKE OF THIS WEEK'S THEME, GO TO THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG AND FOLLOW THE LINKS

Almost Wordless Thursday

2011-11-24T09:14:00.001Z

We are back from Scarborough. There was a delicious out-of-season feel about the place, and it was well worth putting up with the chill wind that blew in from the North Sea in order to experience it. Words can't really describe the November mood, so I am going to let the pictures take centre stage.

Who knows when this sun-metre that stands proudly on the promenade was last set : certainly it wasn't any yesterday that I was there. But even in the damp mists of November there is a certain beauty about the thing : from the studied shading of the lettering to the graceful sweep of the pointer arrow.

The boat in the foreground is the MV Hatherleigh which is a former deep-sea trawler, floating museum, pirate-radio station and corporate hospitality vessel. Now it is a nice centre-piece to a foggy photograph.

This is one of two statues of swimmers that are located in Scarborough. This one is at the far end of the harbour, next to the lighthouse. I never managed to find the other. It was a foggy day.

The Scaffolding Of Dismantled Trees

2011-11-20T22:31:00.001Z

Things are a little foggy around here. The damp fog rolls in waves down from the tops, folding over fields and hedges, making everything more prominent and less prominent all at the same time. Moisture condenses around the bare branches that are now just the scaffolding of trees dismantled during the Autumn. And then there is my hearing.

The upgrade took place as planned on Friday and I am now the upgraded, improved Alan Burnett Series V. It is an odd thing when people start messing with your senses : everything is a bit odd, a bit different. My initial response is that sounds are much richer, fuller, more textured. In order to have some trusted yardstick, I am delving back into music I know well : does that flute sound clearer, does that piano sound more distinctive, can Louis Armstrong still blow the walls of the recording studio down with his horn solos? There are some down sides : but most of these are because I don't know my way around the new system yet. The telecoil which forms part of the implant doesn't seem as strong as the one in the previous version and this means that I am having trouble with the loop system I use for watching TV. I now get a poor signal when I sit in my chair, but I have discovered that if I lie of the settee with my head hanging off one end I get a much clearer sound signal. The downside of this arrangement is that the picture is then upside down.

But give me a week or two and I will get around these problems and learn to take full advantage of the greater control the new system provides. The fog will lift and everything will fall into sharp focus once more.

We are off to the coast for a couple of days, so I won't be around until Wednesday. See you all then .... fog permitting.

Sepia Saturday 101 : Second Hand Memories

2011-11-18T14:31:00.001Z

We have a Chevrolet as a theme prompt this week and if I look through my collection of old family photographs there are precious few motor cars. There are plenty of bicycles and tandems and a fair few motorbikes, but until the 1960s, I can't find any pictures of cars. I do know that during the 1930s my father did own - for a very brief period of time - a Morgan Super Sports Three Wheeler, but to the best of my knowledge no photographs exist of this splendid machine. The story goes that my proud father took my mother for a drive on the first day he owned the car and its' single rear wheel got stuck in a tram-line in Halifax and turned the entire vehicle over. My mother - shaken and stirred - refused to ever ride in my fathers' Morgan again and he sold it a week later. The above photographs is about sixty years old and must have been taken in Bradford. I have no idea who owned this particular car: but the two young lads posing on the running board are my brother and I. Equally, I have no idea what strange object my brother has on his hand : hopefully he will post in and enlighten us all.

In my second photograph, the car is owned rather than borrowed because by the 1960s my father had finally successfully graduated from motorbikes to cars. This particular Hillman Minx was his pride and joy and it would be polished and shined on a weekly basis. My particular job was to polish the chrome grills and bumpers : a dirty and thankless task that used to leave your hands battered and bruised. My fathers' cars were never new, he would buy them second-hand from the firm he used to work for - the Mackintosh's toffee and chocolate company. They would be ex-salesman's cars and therefore they would have been well used but cheap. He was a proud member of the company car club and you can just make out the Mackintosh's Auto Club badge on the front of the car. Polishing that badge and that radiator grill until you could see your reflection in it -you can't buy memories like that : not even second-hand.

You can see many more Sepia Saturday 101 posts by following the links on the Sepia Saturday Blog.

Life Is For Living, Not For Laminating

2011-11-17T10:51:00.001Z

A couple of years ago I picked up an Autumn leaf, brought it home and fed it through my laminating machine. Compressed in clear plastic laminate, that most glorious sight of Autumn was preserved on my desk for more than a year until eventually it vanished in the mysterious way things do. So today I tried to repeat the experiment and as Amydog and I went for our walk, I collected a good sample of leaves. I put a selection inside a laminate sheet and fed it into the machine : and then, alas, noticed that it was not emerging from the other side. A smell of burning plastic was soon accompanied by some severe black smoke and I hurriedly chucked the entire contraption out of the door. Which just goes to show that some things cannot be, shouldn't be, preserved. Life is for living, not for laminating.

Tomorrow is my new appointment for my personality upgrade. Wish me luck.

A Satisfying Curvature On Leeds Road

2011-11-16T16:11:00.001Z

The English Crown Green Bowling season is long gone and whatever mediocre skills I had managed to develop during the summer months were in danger of evaporating like the wort in a Scotch Whisky still. But Sue, my crown green bowling mentor and guide, has discovered a way of holding back the cold winds of wintertime, so this morning the GLW and I joined her and Denis at the strange igloo contraption that has been erected at the Leeds Road Playing Fields in Huddersfield.

The Huddersfield Crown Green Dome is seemingly unique in the entire country : a 10.5 metre UPVC air-dome covering a 37 metre square artificial crown green bowling surface. There are traditional wooden benches around the edges, a coffee machine in the adjoining building and the surface has the kind of satisfying curvature that all good crown green bowlers enjoy. You still need to wear your winter woollies - it can be a little on the cool side - but it is dry and it is smooth and it is a lot cheaper than decamping to the Algarve for the off-season. "And is the green true?", I can hear you ask. Well my bowls finished up in the gutter with remarkable frequency, so I would say that it mimics a "proper" green rather well.

Scan Though Your Heart Is Aching

2011-11-15T15:13:00.001Z

An old photograph sees the light of a new day. It is a family Christmas many years ago. You can tell it is Christmas because of the fake tree, the After Eight mints, the bottle of QC Sherry and the smile on the Good Lady Wife's face. But this was a good few years before she became the GLW and she was probably having to experience a Burnett Christmas for the first time. The weather is miserable today so I have been scanning old negatives. All together now :

"Scan though your heart is aching

Scan even though it's breaking

When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by

If you scan through your fear and sorrow

Scan and maybe tomorrow

You'll see the sun come shining through for you"

Punches, Pliers And Calipers

2011-11-14T13:30:00.001Z

I would like to say that this is a picture of my workshop, but it isn't. It could have been a picture of the bench my father had at the back of his garage, or a picture of my brothers' eclectic studio and workshop in Dominica : but it isn't. It is a picture I took last week at the Shibden Hall Museum in Halifax. Behind the main Elizabethan house there is a collection of small craft cottages. This one was full of a diverse collection of punches, pliers and calipers : a delight to behold but, as far as their use is concerned, beyond my comprehension.

Sepia Saturday 100 : 190 KB Of Pleasure

2011-11-10T22:12:00.001Z

So here we are at last - my Sepia Saturday 100 post. It wasn't a particularly difficult task to decide which photograph to use for this post : the above photograph of my mother and father - Gladys and Albert - seemed to tick almost all of the boxes. It is an image I have featured before and it is one of my favourite old photographs. Both Albert and Gladys were born in 1911 : 100 years ago. And you can almost see the figure of 100 spelled out in the tandem wheels and struts. But, more than anything, it illustrates the wealth of the photographic image as an art form, as a record of social history, and as a stimulant to the memory.

The size of the above image file is about 190KB : not particularly large by modern standards, but still the equivalent of twenty or thirty pages of formatted text. The relationship between the sizes of text and image files is a modern proof of the old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words. But those words, those bits, those bytes are not wasted : for within the humble image can be found a treasure-trove of information. Look at those socks on my father and the way the pattern is woven into the thick wool. Look at the face in the window on the left : observing the scene whilst drinking her morning cup of tea. Look at the sign for Castrol Oil attached to the bay-window of a terraced house like a fish out of a watery soup. Look at the bicycle pump, the hats, the cast iron fences : set your eye and your imagination free to graze the rich pastures of those 190KB

That's the magic of images, And the particular magic of old images is that you are allowed to wander through a foreign land : the past. It is the best entertainment you can get without picking up a pint glass. It is Sepia Saturday.

To see all of the other posts celebrating Sepia Saturday 100 go to the SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG and follow the centenary links.

Inheriting The Genetic Material

2011-11-09T09:39:00.000Z

The stuff of Sepia Saturday is not just old family photographs : it is old photographs of all kinds. Over the last 99 weeks many people have used old postcards as the starting point for their Sepia Saturday musings - and they have always proved to be particularly effective prompts. As I have said many times before, there is a particular affinity between postcards and blogging : the people who sent those pictorial messages one hundred years ago were undoubtedly made of the same genetic material as todays' bloggers. That need to send a message out into the world, to contact people from far away, to share thoughts, ideas and sights - all these are the common currency of the Edwardian postcard sender and the twenty-first century blogger.

All we can hope is that the blog posts of today are as sturdy and capable of withstanding the test of time as those old pastecard offerings. All we can hope is that in 100 years time there is a new generation of bloggers (or whatever medium has inherited the genetic material) gathering together every Saturday to share the thoughts and the images of the blogging pioneers.

DON'T FORGET IT IS SEPIA SATURDAY 100 THIS SATURDAY. PLEASE VISIT THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG TO JOIN IN THE CELEBRATIONS

Fixing Them For Eternity

2011-11-07T12:59:00.000Z

This coming Saturday will mark the 100th Sepia Saturday : quite a milestone for something which started as a bit of a joke between Kat Mortensen and myself. Even though its' origin can be found in a convenient alliteration, its' mission was always serious : to preserve and share old images via the internet. Within a few weeks, Sepia Saturday had attracted a number of loyal weekly contributors and followers, and over the last two years it has gone from strength to strength. For Sepia Saturday 100 we are asking contributors old and new to join in with a post that is linked to the list on the Sepia Saturday Blog. As a lead-up to Sepia Saturday itself I am going to spend the week looking at all types of old image and I am starting with one of the most popular types of all - the old family photograph.

This is a scan of a tiny two inch square print which must have been taken at a family celebration. The young child being held at the front of the picture is, I suspect, my brother Roger which means that the photograph must have been taken in the mid 1940s.

We can be a little more certain about the others in the group because someone has attached a convenient yellow sticker to the back (and it looks as though it is my writing). Thus, I can tell you that on the back row (from the left) is my paternal grandfather, Enoch Burnett, my uncles Wilf and Harry (the musical workhorse), and my maternal grandfather Albert Beanland. The centre row has my grandmothers Harriet-Ellen Burnett and Kate Beanland, whilst the front row features my Auntie Amy, my mother, my Auntie Annie ... and the mysterious child. My father is missing from the picture (but he would have been taking it) and so am I : I had yet to make an appearance. When I took the photograph out of the box that contains all my old family photographs the yellow sticker had all but fallen off : that precious key to the identification of three generations of my family was almost lost. This post has given me the opportunity to fix the identifications for all time, to attach a digital sticker to the image which will stay there for all time and which will be available to anyone who cares to do a Google search.

And that, of course, was partly what Sepia Saturday was all about. We are the first generation that has had access to such powerful archiving tools. Many of us are the keepers of old images of one type or another. It is our task to fix them for eternity.

Sepia Saturday 99 : Harry The Musical Workhorse

2011-11-04T12:51:00.000Z

The theme photograph over at Sepia Saturday this week features a band and therefore I am trying to think musically. This is not easy, for the love affair between me and music is entirely one way : I love music and music detests any attempt by me to interpret its' precious muse. The familial hills of the Burnett family were never fully alive with the sound of music : my father would occasionally assault the concertina and grandfather Enoch, I am given to understand, played a not-particularly-mean euphonium. To arrive at proper musical talent we need to leave blood behind and say hello to Uncle Harry.

Harry Moore married my fathers' sister, Annie Elizabeth Burnett in 1933. Just before the marriage he was working as a professional entertainer, touring the country as part of a pierrot show called "The Silhouettes" (See Sepia Saturday 56 for more information). The above photograph probably dates from the early 1930s and shows Uncle Harry (right) taking part in a revue : for some reason Sigmund Romberg's Student Prince springs to mind. Following his marriage, Harry retired from full-time entertaining and combined a day-job as a coal merchant's clerk with evening and weekend work as a pianist in a series of West Yorkshire working men's clubs. His task would be to provide backing for any featured vocalists in addition to providing musical interludes between the comics and the conjurers.

It was the kind of job that made him a musical workhorse - someone who could turn his piano-playing hand to any occasion, be it a family funeral or a joyous wedding. So, if we were in need of some entertainment for the forthcoming 100th birthday party of Sepia Saturday (don't forget, it's next week), he would be just the chap to send for.

GO OVER TO THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG TO SEE THE OTHER PARTICIPANTS IN SEPIA SATURDAY 99. AND DON'T FORGET SEPIA SATURDAY 100 IS NEXT WEEK - WHY NOT JOIN US FOR THIS SPECIAL OCCASION.

British Pub Week : The One And Seven-penny Pint

2011-11-02T11:21:00.000Z

Staying with British Pub week, my picture today features a part of a pub sign I noticed as I was out walking through Halifax on Monday. The pub is the Beehive and Cross Keys which was built in 1932 following the demolition of two earlier pubs : yes, you guessed, the Beehive and the Cross Keys. Both these earlier pubs had been owned by the Swift family and in the 1880s, Henry Swift, established a brewery behind the Cross Keys in the splendidly named Spice Cake Lane. Road widening in the 1930s swept away the earlier pubs, the brewery and - perhaps most tragically of all - Spice Cake Lane.

The new pub was a functional 1930s affair designed by local architects Walsh and Maddocks. Functional it may have been, but in addition to the more traditional inn sign at the front of the premises, the builders set two fine mosaics into the side wall. I seem to recall that the Beehive and Cross Keys was the first pub I ever bought a pint of beer in. I was a little under age and trying to cover my innocence with bravado. The landlord pulled the pint and I handed him one shilling and sixpence. "When did you last buy a pint of beer?" he asked somewhat severely. I looked at him in puzzlement trying to cover my embarrassment. "Nay Lad", he continued, "it's one and sevenpence now".

British Pub Week : A Pint With Branwell

2011-11-01T11:36:00.000Z

It is British Pub Week this week and I am doing my little bit to help by visiting as many pubs as possible. Yesterday it was the turn of the Old Cock Hotel in Halifax to receive a visit. The building has existed for some 420 years and I have been around for sixty-odd of those, but I have to confess that yesterday was the first time I have set foot in what is one of Halifax's most ancient inns (so many pubs, so little time!). It was originally built in the 1580s as a private house by William Saville of Copley but 100 years later it was already listed as an inn. Situated in the centre of the town it has always been a popular meeting point for local organisations and societies : the Halifax Harmonic Society met here and the Halifax Building Society came into being after a meeting in the first floor Oak Room. On a more dubious note, David Hartley - the leader of the eighteenth century Cragg Vale criminal gang of counterfeiters - was arrested whilst enjoying a pint in the Old Cock and soon afterwards put to death at Tyburn in York. Like any half-decent West Yorkshire pub, the Old Cock also has a Branwell Bronte story : in the 1840s he ran up such large bills at the Old Cock that the landlord was forced to write to his father in Haworth demanding payment.

I sat in the quiet lunchtime bar, enjoying a pint of Timothy Taylor and looking around at the gaudy Halloween decorations on display. The headless corpses and ghostly apparitions had been bought in bulk from the local Fancy Dress shop. They need not have bothered - there was history and terror enough leeching out of the very fabric of the building. I had a chat with Branwell, drunk up and left, making sure that I had paid for my pint. I don't want any letters of complaint being sent, nor do I want to visit Tyburn Hill.

Sepia Saturday 98 : A Charabanc To The Centenary

2011-10-29T09:23:00.000+01:00

Over on Sepia Saturday we are travelling towards the grand celebrations that will mark Sepia Saturday 100 (12 November 2011). The suggested method of transportation this week is by bus, but my mother, Gladys Burnett, seems to have missed the bus and therefore she has climbed on my fathers' motorbike (yes, it is the same one I featured in my last Sepia Saturday post). Whilst she was a frequent passenger, my mother never was a driver : even when my parents had a tandem she was more the rear motive power rather than the forward navigator. If you followed the comments on my post last week, you will know that the bike was a 1946 Excelsior 125cc Model O and not the Talisman Twin I suggested.

Whilst my mother appears to have missed the bus, her father looks as though he caught it (at least I think that is her father, Albert Beanland, but I have no idea who he is sat next to). He and his mystery companion (it looks nothing like his wife, Kate Kellam) appear to be having a grand day out in a charabanc - the precursor to the modern day motor coach. With their fine leather trim and row after row of seats, such things were grand affairs, and I an surprised that nobody has thought of re-introducing them into this twenty-first century world that we inhabit. In the 1920s and early 1930s, they would be used to transport groups to the English seaside resorts and they would frequently stop at wayside pubs for refreshments. That is the way to travel - whether it is to bracing Blackpool, or the Sepia Saturday Centenary Celebrations.

SEE ALL THE OTHER POSTS THAT ARE TAKING PART IN SEPIA SATURDAY 98 AND READ ALL ABOUT THE SS100 CELEBRATIONS AT THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG.

Thematic Photograph 168 - Metallica

2011-10-27T10:11:00.000+01:00

I have been meaning to join in with Carmi's Thematic Photograph meme for ages : and at long last I have shaken myself into action. The shaking has been accompanied by miscellaneous bangs, clanks and screeches - the sound of metal against metal - as the theme for this week is "Metallica". The photograph I am using is one I took way back in the 1960s and it shows a scrap metal yard and railway line in Halifax, West Yorkshire. It is not exactly the swinging sixties : but the rusty-grey tone seems to sum up the north of England in those days far better than any psychedelic Carnaby Street scene.

To see how others interpret the theme go over to the Written.Inc Blog

A Cracking Good Story

2011-10-26T10:29:00.000+01:00

A few months ago, my good friend Jane Gordon-Cumming let me read the outline to a new book she was planning on the life of her grandfather and grandmother. Having read the opening chapter I was hooked and I was also convinced that she was on to a winner.

Well I was right, because last night Jane's draft for "The American Heiress and the Scottish Rake: The True Story of the Royal Baccarat Scandal" was announced as the winner of the 2011 Tony Lothian Prize of The Biographers' Club. Looking for a picture to illustrate this post I dipped back into my archives for a picture from our youth. This particular shot must have been taken over 40 years ago : but it is the same clever girl who won the prize last night. When the book is eventually published, perhaps she will use this picture on the fly-leaf.

Reading the words of the judges on the Biographers' Club website, I can only agree with them :-

On behalf of the judges, Valerie Grove said: ‘A famous scandal at the card table, involving the Prince of Wales; an American heiress, one of three sisters who married into the Victorian aristocracy; an opening scene of thrilling drama, as a splendid yacht sinks in a storm. “A cracking good story here,” as Jane Gordon-Cumming confidently told us, and the judges agreed. The American heiress was her grandmother Florence; the Scottish rake her grandfather Sir William Gordon-Cumming – both “flawed, exasperating, eccentric but huge characters”. A sure winner.’

Congratulations Janie.

Old Faithful, Old Tom, Wobble, Black Bee.

2011-10-25T11:51:00.000+01:00

We went to the theatre on Saturday evening : to the Marsden Mechanics Hall to see the splendid Mikron Theatre Company present the last night of their musical "Beer Street". It was written by my friend and fellow Old Gits Luncheon Club member, Mike Lucas. Whilst he was updating the play earlier this year I was able to lend my help and support during the necessary research which underpins such a project. This involved visiting public houses and tasting beer, inter-spaced with talking to brewers and landlords about their trade. : onerous tasks, but someone has to do it in the interests of artistic integrity. Saturday's performance was a memorable evening and a triumph for the actors, writers and directors.

It is sometimes difficult to fully appreciate the poetry of beer. To give you a flavour (a little hoppy but not too powerful) perhaps I can quote from the lyrics of one of the numbers from the show. It sings the praises of many of the grand old ales that have now sadly vanished from pubs and bars across the land, beers with wonderfully evocative names. However, it is not merely a nostalgia trip because at the same time it celebrates the birth of new flavours and new names.

"The winds of change have blown

over Joules beers of Stone,

Oldham Bitter and Ely Brown Ale,

Websters Lifeboat Ale

And St Neot's Paine.

But new flavours grow

Among the old ones that remain.

Nelson's Revenge,

Pit Stops' Grand Prix,

Old Cockle Warmer, Hogs Back TEA,

Cunning Stunt, Dolly Daydream,

Old Faithful, Old Tom, Wobble, Black Bee ....."

It was wonderful stuff and it was enjoyed, of course, with a pint of ale in my hand. Sadly, Saturday night marked the end of the 2011 Mikron season and whilst next year they will be touring the country again, it will be with a different set of shows. But, who knows, Beer Street might be revived again in a year or two : and with this in mind I will continue to help Mike keep up to date with his research.

Sepia Saturday 97 : On Excelsior - Nothing Changes

2011-10-21T12:35:00.000+01:00

I am a "themer" for this weeks' Sepia Saturday (Sepia Saturday 97) : I have children, I have one of them who is "looking up", and I have a motorbike. All right, if you are into nit-picking and point-scoring, there wasn't a motorbike on the prompt image, but believe me, it was just off-camera (I choose the images, I should know). Anyway, I have my father, Albert Burnett, my brother Roger perched on the back - and that angelic looking fellow at the front is ... well you know who it is.

The picture must have been taken in about 1950 and it was taken just outside our house in Southmere Drive, Bradford. Looking at the same scene now (with the aid of Google Street Cam), not all that much has changed. The leaded windows have gone and the doors may be a little smarter, but the buildings are the same. But the 60 years has had a greater impact on the three people. My father died almost ten years ago, but the other two are still going strong : Roger in Dominica and the young angelic one still in West Yorkshire.

The Excelsior Motor Company was the first to go : it went out of business in 1965. The company started life in 1874 as Bayliss, Thomas and Co and they were manufacturers of penny-farthing bikes. Later they made and sold ordinary bicycles and by 1914 they were manufacturing motor-bicycles from their base in Tyseley in Birmingham. I am sure there are people out there who will be able to recognise the precise model of bike we are all sat upon : my best guess is that it was a Talisman Twin. If this is the case it must have been brand new in 1949/50 and this, perhaps, explains why my father is showing it off with such pride. My brother is striking a certain attitude whereas I am sitting there quiet and angelic. Nothing changes.

A Prince Among Bowlers

2011-10-20T10:08:00.000+01:00

I was intending to go out today as the sun is shining, but my back seems to have gone, leaving me walking around like a rusted-up half-opened pen-knife. I can't blame it on my recent indulgence in sporting activity as the crown green bowling season is now over and I am left to send virtual woods thumb-pegging towards imaginary jacks as I contemplate the morning frost on the lawn. But as it is a virtual game I am playing let us imagine that it is on the green on Prince Smith and Sons' Bowling Club in Keighley. One of the men is possibly my Great Uncle Fowler Beanland (the photograph comes from his collection and he was a keen and competent bowler), but as our backs are bad let us limit ourselves to a gentle stroll around the image.

The most obvious thing to note first of all is the location - Prince Smith and Son. Prince Smith and Son (it became Prince Smith and Stells in 1939) was one of the foremost manufacturers of wool-combing, drawing and spinning machines in Europe. In the mid 1920s (perhaps 15 or so years after the photograph was taken) it employed 2,000 workers in the town of Keighley in West Yorkshire. The firm was started in the first half of the 19th century by one Prince Smith, the son of a Keighley clock-maker, William Smith.

The 19th century idea of using "Prince" as a christian name seems to have died out, but if you are destined for nobility there is nothing like planning for success. Prince Smith's son was duly named Prince Prince-Smith and by 1911 had amassed enough of a fortune to acquire a Baronetcy in the New Years' Honours. At the time a Baronetcy was often a reward for political donations and the recipient were addressed in the style of a Knight - thus Sir Prince Prince-Smith.

Let us leave aside the arcane and somewhat bizarre world of the British aristocracy and return to the photograph and, in particular, to the young lad on the right hand side who seems to be holding some kind of ling stick. I can't imagine what this can be : one is tempted to think it might be some kind of measuring rod, but crown green bowlers measure in 16ths of an inch not in feet and yards. Perhaps it is some kind of broom for sweeping the surface of the green, but I have never heard of such an arrangement. I have a couple of friends who are experts at the game so I must remember to ask them what the implement might be.

And then there is the two small pictures that seem to have been pinned up on the outside wall of the Club House. Maybe they are indeed Edwardian pin-ups and one is left to curse the limits of a scanners' ability to improve detail. The lower of the two pictures seems to be a somewhat boring picture of someone quite grand : perhaps it is Prince Smith himself (father of Sir Prince Prince Smith) as he was highly thought of in the town and had a clock-tower erected in his memory. The two figures in the top picture look far more interesting. Perhaps they were Music Hall beauties of their time : possibly the Lady GaGa's of the Edwardian world. But these were gentle times, an age of respect and reverence : so perhaps it is simply a picture of Dame Ann Prince-Smith and her sister. By now I know never to be surprised by the ingenuity of my fellow lovers of old images and I confidently expect a copy of the original image to appear in my in-box within the next few hours.

Perhaps I can bring this virtual game of bowls to a close by offering irrefutable proof of my own participation in this particular match. Look to the left of the fine bowler-hatted gent who is keeping the score. There you will see a half-hidden bowl which is in the channel or gutter. As those who have ever been involved in a game of bowls with me will know this is proof-positive of my presence. Whilst other bowlers have to try and identify their woods by their discreet colour patches, I never have such a problem : I simply head straight for the channel and pick mine out. Of course the channel is that little bit deeper and I need to bend down that little bit more to retrieve my woods. Which, of course, is why my back has gone.

Robin Hood in Rock And Forest

2011-10-18T11:22:00.000+01:00

Life seems to have got in the way of blogging these last few days - and, of course, life has its ups and downs. The "ups" was undoubtedly the gorgeous weekend we spent in Sherwood Forest with The Lad and his delightful girlfriend. It was perfect Autumn weather and we avoided the strong winds and lashing rain that now seems to have moved in from the Atlantic. We did lot of swimming, a little bit of walking and a deal of relaxation. British readers will immediately recognise the location as one of the Center Parc villages : for those unfamiliar with such places they are set in forests and incorporate substantial swimming areas, lakes and sporting facilities of all kinds. I am glad to report they also feature a variety of excellent bars and restaurants. The photograph shows our accommodation amidst the trees of Sherwood. Quite what Robin Hood would have made of it, I can't imagine, but I suspect he might have been tempted to have a go at the field archery.

We returned to a bit of a crisis for close family friends which meant that we spent a fair amount of yesterday either waiting for doctors or ambulances. At the end of a day like that it was such a relief to go to the Rock for a quiet drink with D&S : talking over good times against the background noise of the gentle clicking of the pub domino team playing in the other room. Quite what Robin Hood would have made of it, I can't imagine, but I suspect he would have bought himself a pint of Landlord Bitter and joined us at our table.

A Carriage Full Of Brontes

2011-10-12T19:59:00.000+01:00

Oh, it all started so well. You will recall that I had accepted the kind invitation from Tess Kincaid to attend the 4th Annual Willow Manor Ball and, over the weekend, I had walked across the valley to the small West Yorkshire village of Haworth to invite a special girl to be my date. The Willow Manor Ball is, of course, a virtual event and therefore you are allowed to invite any companion you want - whether or not they are still drawing regular breaths on this mortal coil is neither here nor there nor anywhere else. Not wanting to intrude - and being of a shy and retiring nature - when I got to the parsonage I just dropped a note through the letterbox. Here is what it said :

"My Dear Miss Bronte, I have long been an admirer of your work and it would give me enormous pleasure if you would agree to accompany me to the Willow Manor Ball being organised by my friend Tess Kincaid on the 12th October. If you agree, I will have a carriage ready to collect you on Wednesday evening at 7.30 in the evening. With the greatest of respect and affection, your humble servant, Alan Burnett".

I thought the words captured the tone of the event and I sat back and awaited a reply. I did not have to wait long, and on Monday morning the following note was pushed through my door:

"Respected Sir, Thank you for you kind note. I am so glad that you find some satisfaction in my humble writing and that you wish for my company at the ball being held by the American Lady. I would be delighted to attend and I look forward to your carriage arriving at the parsonage on Wednesday. Your friend, Charlotte Bronte"

I was of course, delighted that my invitation had been accepted and stayed up all night re-reading "Jane Eyre" just so that I would have something to talk about on the long carriage ride to Ohio.

You can therefore imagine my shock and surprise when on Tuesday morning I found the following note behind my door. "Gallant Sir, Thank you so much for your kind note, I am both delighted and a little overawed that you have read my book and like my work. I would be overjoyed to accept your kind offer to take me to the Ball and I will be looking out of my window in anticipation of your arrival on Wednesday evening. Thank you once again for thinking of me kind sir, your soul-mate, Emily Bronte".

I have to confess a crude expletive passed my lips when I read this message and realised the mistake which must have been made. One sister had left my note lying around and the other had mistakenly thought it was for her. But what can't be mended must be endured so I immediately took to my library and started to read "Wuthering Heights".

By now you will have realised what awaited me when I got to the door this morning! Yes, you guessed right. "My Dear Sir, Thank you so much for your note. You can not understand what a delight it was for me to receive it as I often think that I hide away in the shadow of my two successful sisters. But you, kind sir, have invited me to the Ball and I ecstatically accept. See you on Wednesday my dear sir, Your Anne Bronte".

Well, what can I say. Well I am not going to say it because quite frankly I am exhausted from lack of sleep. Last night I had to stay up all night reading "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" and I can assure you that is no walk in the park. So here I am, in Haworth with a carriage full of Brontes. The female members of the party are all scowling at me and I can see from their eyes that as soon as they get me alone they will demand an explanation. But worst of all, I have also got their brother Branwell in the carriage with me. "He is a little melancholic and must come with us", said Charlotte. Melancholic! He is as drunk as a judge and singing rude songs in the back of the carriage. How on earth I am going to explain this disaster to Tess when we all arrive I can't imagine.

The only way for you to find out is for you to go on over to the Willow Manor Blog and follow the events live, as they happen. Wish me luck.

A Rendezvous With Our Youth

2011-10-11T10:51:00.000+01:00

Congratulations to those who managed to get the answers to yesterday's questions. I have a lot of sympathy for those who guessed Amelia Earhart because that was my response when I was shown the figure by my friend Denis and asked to identify what it was. But it was not Amelia, it was - as Chairman Bill rightly identified - "Speed - The Modern Mercury" by Herbert J. Rowse and Edmund C. Thompson and it graces the magnificent Georges Dock Ventilation Tower of the Mersey Tunnel. The first Mersey road tunnel - more properly known as the Queensway Tunnel - was opened in 1934 and the Georges' Dock control building and ventilation shaft is a monument to art decor design. The statue of "Speed - The Modern Mercury" depicts a young girl riding a motorcycle and wonderfully pulls together the Egyptian influences and the thrust of modernity that influenced art and design at the time. If you are ever in Liverpool the Tunnel Control Centre is worth looking at, it is both a beautiful building and an ingenious ventilation shaft. It is just behind the Port of Liverpool Building on the Pier Head. And it is the Port of Liverpool Building, seen in the reflection of one of the new office buildings, that features in my main photograph today.

And our night out last night? Both Kim and the Silver Fox got the right answer - I took the GLW to see Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler at the MEN Arena in Manchester. Knopfler was magnificent and Dylan was - well what can you say other than he was Dylan. He no longer sings but barks out familiar lyrics to somewhat unfamiliar tunes. But the man is a legend so we forgive him anything. A night to remember - a rendezvous with our youth.

Blowing In The Wind

2011-10-10T12:49:00.001+01:00

It is a miserable day today : the wind is blowing and the rain is lashing down. So let me look back at last week's delightful visit to Liverpool and let me pose a couple of questions. The questions relate to the above image : what is it and where is it? The answers, my friend, are no doubt blowing in the wind. As for me, I will be braving that wind later this afternoon as I and the GLW make our way to the MEN Arena in Manchester. It is a little additional retirement present for the GLW : I am sure you can guess who we are going to see.

Sepia Saturday 95 : Whatever Happened To Monkey Matthews

2011-10-07T14:52:00.001+01:00

This is one of those rare pictures with an inscription on the reverse. The inscription must be authentic because it is in my rather childish handwriting - "Them Were The Days - At Camp : Left to Right - Grandad Burnett. Monkey Matthews, Auntie Miriam, Dad". So we thus have the dramatis personae, we have a location, which is probably a West Yorkshire field, and we have a date which must have been the late 1920s. By then, Enoch "Grandad" Burnett would have been around 50 years old, Miriam would have been in her late 20s and Albert, my father, would have been in his late teens. As for Monkey Matthews, I have no idea!

Like all old images it is full of scratches, thumbprints, blotches and tears. And like all old images it is full of questions. Who on earth was Monkey Matthews? Why has my father got what looks like a fairly serious bandage around his head? What is that strange triangular shaped object just in front of the tree on the left of the picture? Why was Auntie Miriam, in her sensible shoes and no-nonsense hat, part of this somewhat muddy group?

My mind plays with the idea of Auntie Miriam eloping with Monkey Matthews who takes her to live in a tent in a field (complete with hot and cold running bucket). Enoch, accompanied by my father, goes in search of the love-lost pair, riding through the rural streets of West Yorkshire in his window cleaners' donkey and cart. Once found my father challenges Monkey Matthews to a fight in defense of his sisters' honour, but cuts his head when he trips over a guy rope. Things get worse when the donkey drops dead and the back wheels fall off Enoch's cart. But Miriam makes everyone a cup of tea and they all line up for a celebratory snapshot. Mystery solved. Questions answered.

But who took the photograph? And whatever happened to Monkey Matthews?

You will find many other questions based on many other old images by following the links on the Sepia Saturday Blog.

Rigs, Balls And Death

2011-10-06T11:48:00.001+01:00

It was fascinating to read the comments which followed my post of yesterday as two old sea-dogs argued as to whether the ship featured in the photograph was a schooner or a brig, square rigged or gaff rigged. There can be few better examples of the delights of this strange new digital world in which we inhabit : a world where you can throw out a question, sit back and wait for it to be taken up by people from throughout the world. The internet has a lot going for it : it is wonderfully comprehensive, enormously large, breathtakingly fast - but there have been big books and fast newspapers before : the true wonder of this internet of ours is its' interactivity.

And let us not forget its' creativity. And let us not be ashamed of the semi-virtual world we sometimes inhabit. Each year I always look forward to turning up at Tess Kincaid's matchless Willow Manor Ball. You may recall that last year my guest was the delightful Dorothy Parker, and on our way to the virtual gathering she gave me a short lecture on the historical precedents for virtual reality. Dorothy will not be my guest this year - she can be moody and she is in one of her moods at the moment. But I have invited this girl from across the valley. I popped over there yesterday and dropped a note through her letter-box, but I have yet to get an answer (I popped in for a pint at the Black Bull afterwards in the hope that I might see her brother there but he was indisposed unfortunately). Being a gentleman I will not reveal her name until I have confirmation that she will be joining me at the Ball, but you can join us and all the stars of the cyber world by following the instructions on the Willow Manor Blog.

I switched on my iPad this morning and immediately turned to my favourite app - Flipboard. Flipboard gathers chosen news and RSS feeds and turns them into a made-to-measure magazine. Each section of the magazine is previewed on the opening pages by a current image. My front page has feeds from The Guardian, The Independent, The Daily Telegraph, Twitter, Facebook and a variety of other sources. What I saw was image after image of Steve Jobs as each media source reported the news of his passing. Somehow it was strangely appropriate, but equally it was strangely appropriate that by the time I decided to incorporate a screen-clip into my blog, many of the images had changed. The world has this habit of moving on : Steve Jobs, I fancy, would have recognised this and rejoiced in it. The one front-page feed that didn't feature Steve Jobs was the News From Nowhere feed. Hopefully, when I next turn my iPad on, this omission will be rectified.

Salty Rigging And The Three Graces

2011-10-05T07:55:00.000+01:00

It is hard for a Yorkshireman to say this, but - Liverpool is a very attractive city (I have carefully timed this confession so that it only appears after my friend Denis has crossed the Atlantic). The photograph shows a clipper (I think its a clipper, but no doubt one of my nautical friends will correct me if I am wrong) moving from the Canning Dock to the Albert Dock. The spectacular architecture of the famous "three graces" - the Liver Building, the Cunard Building and the Liverpool Dock Board - can be seen in the background. If I look at the picture long enough I can almost hear the wind in the rigging and taste the salt in the air.

Three Cathedrals And A Gypsy Jazz Trio

2011-10-04T12:10:00.000+01:00

The Roman Catholic and Anglican Cathedrals of Liverpool

I know I have not been around for a few days - but I have my excuses. First of all it was the Consultant's Ball on Friday - a grand affair which I would have happily incorporated into the title of this post had it not been for the fact that I didn't manage to take any photographs. This was due to a medical condition - a severe tremor brought on by an excess of malt whisky.

The three cathedrals in the post title were all found in Liverpool yesterday. We spent an excellent day there with friends, being expertly guided by Denis, a native of that fair city - indeed after our day out I have to say, our that very fair city. And before the pedants rush into print to point out that Liverpool only has two cathedrals, let me say that the majestic Philharmonic Dining Room and Bar must surely have the status of a cathedral any any secular person's mind.

The magnificent ceiling of the Philharmonic Dining Room and Bar, Liverpool

The gypsy jazz trio was the wonderful Trio Gitan which the GLW and myself had the pleasure of going to see at the Victoria Hall, Halifax on Saturday night. It was a particular pleasure, of course, because the Trio features that excellent blogger Dominic Rivron on double bass. Meeting fellow bloggers in real life is always a pleasure : when they are as entertaining and talented as Dominic and his colleagues it is a special event. If you are unfortunate enough not to live in the north of England you can always check out the trio on their Blog - Trio Gitan Radio.

Trio Gitan at Halifax

So it is thank you to Dominic for the music, thank you to Denis and Sue for the most splendid day out .... and thank you to my friends at the Ball for the Lagavulin!

Sepia Saturday 94 : A Brace Of Walkers

2011-09-30T11:30:00.000+01:00

I missed out on a Sepia Saturday post last week so I have allowed myself two dips into the Family Stash this week - and I came up with a brace of walking snaps. My last Sepia Saturday post had a picture of Uncle John and Auntie Doris complete with brown paper parcels. Well, here they are again, still walking, but with no parcels this time (unless they are concealed within one of Doris's bags). The interesting thing is that once again they are striding along a street - and unless I am very much mistaken, this is the seaside resort of Blackpool. One striding photo might be chance : two such photos and it has to be a Walking Snaps photograph. Granted, the Blackpool variety has none of the polish of their Bridlington cousins, but the chance capture of a happy holiday couple doing battle against what looks like typical Lancashire weather has all the ingredients of the Walking Snap genre.

My second image is the real McCoy : a Bridlington Walking Snap of the same vintage as the one features in my Sepia Saturday 89 post. And it is a perfect match, because whilst #89 showed my mother, Gladys, and Auntie Annie, this one shows their other halves - Uncle Harry (left) and my father, Albert (right). The stylishness of Annie in the earlier photograph is matched by Harry's casual jacket and vest (it is probably slightly too early to call it a T-shirt, but what Harry was wearing in 1950, Marlon Brando was wearing a year later in Streetcar Named Desire). Albert is slightly more conventional in dress, but look at that head of hair - a mating pair of sparrows could nest in that.

Where were the two of them off to? The background doesn't match the earlier photograph of Gladys and Annie so it is unlikely that it was taken at the same time (and if it was, where are my brother and myself). From the smile on their faces, I rather suspect that Roger and I are happily playing on the sands with Gladys and Annie, and the menfolk are just about to call in for a lunchtime pint. The very thought of it makes me thirsty - so I will leave you to have a look at all the other submissions for SEPIA SATURDAY 94 (follow the links from the Sepia Saturday Blog) whilst I just go and pay a call.

Upgrade .... and Update!

2011-09-29T09:38:00.001+01:00

I am due for an upgrade tomorrow. So here I sit, knowing that part of me is about to be replaced with a new improved model, feeling a strange fellowship with an iPhone 3G or a monochromatic Kindle.

Over the years I have had enough experience with computer upgrades to know that the path to technological improvement is often paved with uneven flagstones. I can almost remember being driven to tears when Windows 95 swept away Windows 3, wondering what on earth had happened to my familiar landscape. But with computer hardware and software you always have the option of stepping back, sitting this one out on the digital dance floor. But this upgrade is far more personal than that : it is an upgrade to my very sensual being. As of 10.00am tomorrow morning, it is goodbye to the old, slow, dusty Alan Burnett and hello to the sleek new Alan Burnett 5.

Yes, for the first time in the 13 years since I received my cochlear implant, I am to be upgraded to the all new Cochlear Nucleus 5 system. Now that might sound like small beer to you lot, but believe me it is a pretty important date in my calendar. What you hear and how you hear it has a considerable impact on your view of the world : and my own view of the world might be considerably different tomorrow morning at 10.30am. I have read the manuals and watched the instructional video with the enthusiasm of a devotee. I know much of what I can expect : the delights of my new remote assistant - "the ultimate in personal control - at the touch of a button" - and the ability to put together my own programmes to meet the demands of any situation. But I still dream of what might be in there - hidden away among the small print. Will there be a setting that automatically translates Spanish into English? Will there be a masking mechanism that automatically shuts out any comments that I find offensive or marginal disagreeable?

All I know is that in less than 24 hours time, things are going to be different : and I am as excited as a kid counting the days down until Christmas. And just in case there is even a single person out there who thinks I am making fun of a serious situation let me stress something in, what for me is, a rare moment of sincerity. For the last 13 years, each morning I have woken up and given thanks to the scientists at Cochlear Ltd who developed the system, the medical and technical staff at the Yorkshire Cochlear Implant Service who enable me to benefit so much from the system, and to the absolutely brilliant National Health Service which has provided me and thousands of others with the gift of being able to hear. And with the new Nucleus 5, I expect that daily vote of thanks to continue.

UPDATE (11.10am)
The post has just been. Only one letter. "Dear Mr Burnett, Due to unforeseen circumstances it has become necessary for us to cancel the appointment for Friday 30th September at 10.00am. Please accept our sincere apologies for any inconvenience this may have caused you. Another appointment will be sent to you at a later date."
Ah well, back to Windows 3.

Picture Post 1031 : Toasting Bread On The Walls Of Estepona

2011-09-28T10:30:00.000+01:00

Alan Burnett's Picture Post 1031 : Estepona, Spain. September 2011

It is a lovely day outside, warm for the time of year. But this warm spell has the feel of a final tour by some ageing rock star : you are drawn to the experience because this might be your final chance before the cultural - or the climatic - winter sets in. When we were in Spain a couple of weeks ago I had the same feeling : a feeling that I should somehow soak up the last of the heat before the cold days and nights set it. Maybe we all have some of the cold-blooded genetic material that our Darwinian ancestors had : maybe that is what drives us to beaches or to hug stone walls heated by the Mediterranean sun. This particular picture, taken one evening as we walked around the small town of Estepona, just radiates heat for me. Perhaps I will print a big version off and toast bread on it over the winter months.

Scarborough Fayre

2011-09-27T09:23:00.000+01:00

Back from a splendid weekend in Scarborough feeling refreshed and refurbished by some excellent hospitality (thank you Carrie and Rob) and some outstanding musical performances (thank you Scarborough Jazz Festival). Like all Festivals, there was a mixture of the outstandingly good and the sessions which left you more puzzled than enthralled, but the good more than made up for the indifferent. In the outstandingly good side of the scale has to be listed the brilliant National Youth Jazz Orchestra, the innovative Mina Agossi Trio and the breathtaking 13 year old jazz guitarist, Andreas Varady. Compare and Scarborough Jazz Festival stalwart, Alan Barnes always turns in a memorable performance, and 2011 was no exception. On the downward facing side there was a degree of self-indulgence in some of the gigs that left you questioning whether it is ever a good idea to provide composers with blank cheques. In my book - and I am no jazz critic - jazz needs to be either entertaining or exciting. When it ticks both boxes (which it did during several occasions over the weekend) it is a memorable experience, when it ticks neither ..... well it is simply time to go to the bar for another pint of the quite excellent Wold Top bitter. Good music and good beer - is there a better way to spend a late summer weekend?

Gone Fishing, There's A Sign Upon My Door ...

2011-09-23T10:20:00.002+01:00

........ instead of just a-wishin'
Bah-boo-baby-bah-boo-bah-bay-mmm-bo-bay
Oh yeah!

Picture Post 1030 : On A Summer's Day

2011-09-21T13:07:00.000+01:00

If you have ever seen the opening sequences of the splendid 1960 film Jazz on A Summer's Day you will recognise both the inspiration for, and the content of, this photograph I took during a walk around the yacht harbour at Puerto Benus a couple of weeks ago. The water was the most amazing colour and the reflections of the anchored yacht have had most of their harsher colours bleached out of them. And talking of jazz, I have a weekend at the Scarborough Jazz Festival planned. I know it is not Newport, but it is Yorkshire.

The Book Is Dead, Long Live The Book

2011-09-20T08:58:00.000+01:00

Technology has a way of sweeping through a familiar landscape radically changing whatever might get in its way. So often we reject such changes, not because they diminish convenience or choice or quality, but because they remove that very familiarity that provides us with a strange kind of comfort. Which photographer - old enough to have cut his or her milk teeth - did not at one time say that digital cameras could never replace the familiar solidity of rolled film and clicking shutter? Which avid music collector did not curse magical MP3s whilst caressing in his or her hand a real disc of pressed vinyl? Which book lover can run his or her fingers along a familiar bookshelf and dream instead of a shiny new Kindle?

And yet we all now carry digital cameras and welcome their functionality. We all now walk the dog with MP3 players plugged into our ears rather than making the poor creature pull a little cart loaded with a record player and a pile of 78rpm records. And, at some stage along the way, we may all snuggle down at night with the comforting feel of an eBook reader next to us on the pillow.

The advantage of the sweep of new technology is not that it replaces but it enhances. Before digital cameras, photography was for the specialist or the professional and thousands upon thousands of ordinary moments in peoples' lives went unrecorded. Look at any kid's Facebook page and you can see how digital photography has changed all that. Before MP3 players, music was a static experience and hi-fi and high-price were familiar bedfellows. In terms of books, technological change should enable us to enhance the publishing experience, democratise it, widen it and enable us to preserve more. The book is not dead : the book is merely changing.

These thoughts have been stimulated by two things going on in my life at the moment. Yesterday I discovered that the British Library had just published a special iPad edition of Lewis Carroll's handwritten original manuscript of Alice in Wonderland. In addition to be a stunning visual and literary presentation, this particular edition makes full use of technology by giving you the choice of either reading the book yourself or having it read to you. And if you are still not convinced it is worth adding an eBook reader to your early Christmas present list, I should add that - for a limited period - the new edition of Alice is available free of charge from the iBook store.

Wonderful as eBooks may be, there is still room for good, old-fashioned paper and pasteboard affairs that can physically sit on bookshelves. Technology will not destroy such things : it will simply enhance them and widen their functionality. And that brings me to the second thing that is occupying my time at the moment - my parents, Albert and Gladys. As I have mentioned before, this year is the 100th anniversary of their birth and I have set myself the challenge of publishing a little centenary appreciation of their lives. This is not something which is going to be read by anybody other than a close family circle. But when it is finished, hopefully, the two or three copies can be kept in the family, handed down the generations and thereby provide a permanent memorial to a special generation. Because it will be bound and professionally produced it should survive and not fall victim to changing technological fashions. Changing technology means that I can embark on such a project knowing that the total costs will be just a few pounds instead of a few thousand pounds. And just in case I am wrong about the survival of traditional books, I think I will publish it as an eBook as well.

Picture Post 1029 : Terracotta Temples

2011-09-19T08:49:00.002+01:00

Returning to my trip to Spain a couple of weeks ago. The whole length of the Costa Del Sol is lined with terracotta temples to tourism. The relentless sun banishes all gradations, turning pictures into patterns. This was a small shopping centre between San Pedro and Estepona.

Sepia Saturday 92 : Brown Paper Parcels Tied Up With String

2011-09-17T09:10:00.000+01:00

I am staying with the Family Stash, but by chance I seem to have almost managed to get on theme this week. The theme was a railway parcel office and here we have a photograph of my Uncle John and Auntie Doris carrying brown paper parcels. I suppose the photograph was taken in either the 1940s or the 1950s : and back in those days people did seem to walk around and awful lot with brown paper parcels tied up with string under their arms. What on earth was in hidden away in there?

John Arthur Burnett was born in 1899. He joined the West Riding Regiment in 1916 and was eventually transferred to the Western Front. In June 1918 he was posted missing but it later emerged that he had been taken a prisoner of war. In 1922 he married Susannah Cooper and they had, I believe, two children - cousins who I have never met. A few years later, John and Susannah were divorced and all contact with his first family was lost. In 1948 he married for a second time to Doris Metcalfe - Auntie Doris.

There is a host of stories I could tell about Uncle John and Auntie Doris - they were both characters in their own way. But those stories will have to wait : for the moment let us just wonder what might have been in those brown paper parcels.

There are lots of splendid things tied up in the digital brown paper parcel that is called Sepia Saturday. To untie the string, just go along to the Sepia Saturday Blog and follow the links.

1,000 : The Stained Glass Windows In The Cathedral Of My Soul

2011-09-16T08:58:00.000+01:00

I suspect I have a photographic memory. Now don't get me wrong, I am not suggesting I have the ability to tell you what the 13th word on the 237th page of War and Peace is, nor can I find your lost key ring. If it is a photographic memory, the photographs tend to be old, and cracked and blurred : a little like those I often feature on Sepia Saturday. But when I look back through the 1,000 posts that today make up the full News From Nowhere archives, it is the images I remember best. And once given an image I can start to reconstruct what the post might have been about. So today, to mark my 1,000th News From Nowhere post, I give you the images. Yes all 1,000 of them and a few more to boot (some posts had more than one image). To you it is probably a meaningless jumble but to me ..... I was going to say that to me it was the story of my life for the last five years, but in fact it is a bit of a meaningless jumble to me as well. But that is quite appropriate because my life has been a bit of a jumble - and I stopped looking for a meaning to it years ago.

I have managed to compress all those images into just three mosaics : think of them as stained glass windows in the cathedral of my soul. If you click on them they will become a little larger, but don't expect any meaning to emerge.

Philosophically, I would probably list myself as a bit of an hedonist - I enjoy enjoyment. And as I get no pleasure at all from seeing other people unhappy, frightened, dispossessed or unfortunate, I like to think that my brand of hedonism is inclusive and life-enhancing.

Looking back on the first 1,000 News From Nowhere posts, I have to say that they have given me great pleasure. I have thoroughly enjoyed blogging : both writing my own blog and reading those of the many other bloggers that I regularly follow. At the end of the day it is the interaction that makes it all worthwhile : it is in the comments and thoughts of all those who have read these last 1,000 posts that the pleasure lies. So as I go off to contemplate Post No. 1001 let me pause for a second to say ..... THANK YOU.

Countdown to 1,000 - 1 : Three Tenors On A Towpath

2011-09-15T09:16:00.000+01:00

And so to my final archive selection. This countdown to my 1,000th News From Nowhere post has featured a few randomly chosen posts (although I have re-arranged the selection into chronological order) and I was pleased to note that my final selection features images as much as words. We are only stepping back eighteen months now - to March 2010 - and the post dates from the time when I first thought of consolidating all my blogging activity into just one endeavour.

News From Nowhere Friday 19 March 2010

Searching For Balance On A Canal Towpath And Discovering Thermodynamics

I have this grand dream : I will simplify my life by consolidating all my blogging activity into one super-blog. It will be the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young of Blogs, the Three Tenors of on-line journalism. Some days it will feature photographs, other days it will rely on the usual fare of circuitous ramblings that I call writing. It will incorporate my efforts on Theme Thursdays and Sepia Saturdays and serve up the whole thing accompanied by a glass or two of my meditations on beer and brewing. But if it is going to work I need to master the art of balance : when featuring images, for example, I need to know when to stop wittering on and let the images do the talking.

I was musing on this problem yesterday whilst I took Amy The Dog for a springtime walk along the banks of the Calder and Hebble Navigation Canal just down the road in Brighouse. The canal is a grand old piece of industrial archaeology, over 250 years old and brimming with history. The stone markers (above) that record the distance to the next lock deserve to be preserved behind a glass case in a museum, but - I am glad to say - are not.

Every time you come to a bridge you can trace where centuries of wear by the heavy ropes - used by horses to pull barges - have carved their story into the stone. You could sit a class of children around such stones and design a week's learning project on almost every aspect of science, history and art.

And there is the sheer tranquillity of a place where a rich vein of nature intrudes into the original test bed of the industrial revolution. My third picture shows the lock-keepers cottage at Ganny Lock a few miles east of Brighouse. In the background you can just make out a featureless concrete warehouse defiling the rustic romance of the scene.

But hold on a moment. When the great eighteenth century civil engineer John Smeaton, designed the canal his proposals represented the very latest thing in technology. His plans were opposed by many a land-owner who believed his stone-lined cut would ruin forever their slice of nature. But Smeaton was a modernist who worshiped at the altar of progress. Not only did he build canals, bridges, harbours and lighthouses, he was also a noted physicist. Did you know, for example, that old John Smeaton was responsible for some of the most important developments in the theory of thermodynamics in the eighteenth century. Without his work it is unlikely that the Wright Brothers would ever have managed top get their plane to fly. It all revolves around what is known as the Smeaton Coefficient (k) in the equation L=kV2ACl, where L is ....... Alright, I will stop right there. I don't want to lose my balance do I? Especially when I am walking along a canal towpath.

Looking back, I am glad that I went ahead and combined the images with the words to make the consolidated blog that News From Nowhere has become. Back in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s there used to be a thriving area of the media known as photo-journalism - based on magazines such as Picture Post, Paris Match and Life - but this has now become something of a backwater relegated to the occasional colour supplement. I suppose I like to think of News From Nowhere as a paean to that tradition.

So now I need to go and think what on earth I can do for my 1,000th post tomorrow.

Countdown To 1,000 - 2 : As Old As A Typewriter Ribbon

2011-09-14T08:12:00.000+01:00

Some days you just wake up and feel older than your years. Your muscles ache and your bones have an archaeological feel about them. With me, it is normally the result of satisfying my well-documented love of beer a little too enthusiastically : but not always, as the next dip into the archives shows. Let me take you back to March 2009.

News From Nowhere : Monday 2 March 2009
How An Old Typewriter Ribbon Made Me Feel Suddenly Very Old

For the last few months I have been caught up in a Kafka novel. It started with a letter from some Government Department - God knows which, they change their names so often in order to re-brand themselves - which stated "According to our records you are now sixty and therefore entitled to Old People's Winter Fuel Supplement". There was a form to fill in which I duly completed and this gave rise to a second letter from another Department - or probably the same one which had re-branded itself in the week or so since the first letter - which said that they couldn't pay me the Allowance because they needed proof that I was old enough to receive it. I tried the approach of "I have a letter from you saying that I am entitled to it ..." but this got me nowhere. I was told that I would need to write to another Government Department and get a copy of my birth certificate. This I did, enclosing my £8 fee.

So this morning the copy of my birth certificate arrived. I cannot recall ever having seen a copy of it before and therefore the first thing I did was to double-check that I wasn't adopted (for many years I have had a strong belief that I am the last surviving Romanov) but there it was in black and white, I was the son of Albert and Gladys Burnett. The shock came when I checked my date of birth only to discover that I was born on the 17th June 1943 and not, as I thought, the 17th June 1948. This is the kind of news that can have a profound effect on a person and it is no exaggeration to say that in that moment I aged five years. Trust me, a lot runs through your mind when you discover that you are five years older than you thought you were : your bones ache a little more, your eyes get a little dimmer and, if you are lucky, you forget the name of the Prime Minister.

It was whilst I was planning what to do with my back-pay from the Old Age Pension people that I examined the rest of the certificate a little more closely. When I came to examine it my mother wasn't Gladys BURNETT but Gladys DURIIETT. And here was a surprise, my second name - which I have always assumed was Michael - was in fact IIichael. Even worse, I wasn't a BOY but a DOY! And come to think of it, I couldn't have been born in June 1943 because if I had that would make me just five weeks older than my brother which, I suspect, is physiologically impossible. It was 1948 I was born, I'm sure of it. And wasn't 1948 the time of post-war economic desperation. The cold winter, the country bankrupt by the war and in debt to America. Belt's were being tightened all over the place. I could almost imagine the wording of the Memo which cam from the head office of the Government Department (no doubt the same Government Department that sent me a letter sixty years later plus or minus a few re-branding exercises). "Every effort must be made to save money and, in future, typewriter ribbons will only be replaced after six months of usage. By order of TIIE DEPAIPTIIENT OF IADOR"

It is a good example of blogging about something and nothing - and that is the real joy of blogging. It can be about something (the state of the world economy) or it can be about nothing (lamp-post design in the 1980s) - the choice is yours and yours alone. After years of penning worthy articles about European Union Directives on Employment and Social Affairs, it was such a sudden burst of freedom to be able to write about something and nothing, it was almost life-enhancing. I suppose it made me feel five years younger, which in view of the above story, was not a bad thing.

Countdown To 1,000 - 3 : St Gothard And The Gatepost

2011-09-13T11:25:00.000+01:00

Continuing my progress towards the big 1,000, today the random number generator has chosen a post with a certain mystical flavour. In May 2008 I directed my attention to the gatepost and equally to my coming 60th birthday. I regret to announce that my intention to "restore churches, establish schools, and build a hospice or two" is still in the planning phase : I must check to find out how long St Gothard continued his labours before settling down and concentrating on his blog.

News From Nowhere : Tuesday 13th May 2008

Saints Alive, It's A Miracle

I'm normally a fairly sceptical type of a chap, not given to seeing signs or visions. Miraculous Revelations don't normally play much part in my daily life : I would rate them on a reliability index only just above Daily Mail editorials. It might therefore come as a bit of a surprise to followers of this blog, when I reveal that I have received a message from on high. And what's more, the message was hand-delivered by a saint.

Over the last few days Cousin Dave - assisted by his apprentice, the Divine Jennifer - have been repairing and repainting our front wall. Whilst painting a fiddly bit, the Divine J accidentally knocked the wooden nameplate off the front gate. The nameplate proclaims that the house is called Inglewood, a name which I have always considered so ridiculous I have never used it. But when the wooden nameplate fell to the ground it revealed the original name of the house carved into the stone of the gatepost : St. Gothard.

Now even though I'm a bit of a sceptic, I am as keen as the next man to follow up on a passing augury (only last week I was occupied in mapping the pigeon droppings on the bonnet of my car in case they provided a clue to the meaning of life). So off I went to try and discover who on earth St Gothard was and what he did, other than possibly building a tunnel through the Alps. As it turns out the only connection between Gothard (or Godehard as he preferred to be called) and the tunnel was that someone built a church dedicated to him on the top of the pass. Gothard was a German and his main claim to fame was as Bishop of Hildesheim, in Germany. He was nominated Bishop in 1022 by the Emperor Henry, but tried to turn the post down on the basis of his age - he was just 60 at the time. The Emperor would have none of it and insisted that Gothard should undertake the task irrespective of his age. Butler's Lives of the Saints takes the story up : "He threw himself into the work of his diocese with the zest and energy of a young man. He built and restored churches he did much to foster education, especially in the cathedral school ; he established such strict order in his chapter that it resembled a monastery , and, on a swampy piece of land which he reclaimed on the outskirts of Hildesheim, he built a hospice where the sick and poor were tenderly cared for".

I have been thinking a lot over recent weeks about my approaching sixtieth birthday, wondering what life has in store for me as I slowly limp downhill towards old age. I have been a bit rudderless. Searching for a sign. And there it is : carved in Times Roman on the stone of our gatepost. Starting tomorrow I will restore churches, establish schools and build a hospice or two. I will be the St Gothard of the twenty-first century.

Before searching back through the archives to discover which particular post the fickle finger of the random number generator was pointing to, I had completely forgotten about St Gothard and the gatepost. Which just goes to underline another benefit of blogging - you get quite an interesting life-journal as a by-product. Not the "got up, washed my face, walked the dog" kind of thing, but a gentle reminder of what occupied your thoughts, what made you angry and what made you smile. Hopefully, over the 1,000 posts, there have been more smiles than outbursts of anger.

Countdown To 1,000 - 4 : News, Comments And A Grazed Knee

2011-09-12T09:00:00.000+01:00

There is a little counter on Blogger Dashboard that reports on the number of posts you have made to your blog. Over the last week or two I have been watching it creep up to the 1,000 mark and I thought I might mark the final countdown with a short series of retrospective posts. This is not the "Best of News From Nowhere" : you know me, I far prefer a series of random dips into the lucky bag. So I have dusted off my random number generator and asked it to provide four random numbers between 1 and 1,000. Counting from the first post (7th November 2006) I have converted these numbers to four random posts which I will re-publish leading up to the 1,000th post which (if my calculations are right) will appear on Friday. The first random number takes me back to 2007 and a post entitled "Self Abuse"

News From Nowhere : Tuesday 13 November 2007

SELF ABUSE

The main BBC One O'Clock News has just finished. As it closes, the newsreader says "a reminder of our main news today, the BBC has learned of concern among senior doctors about the tide of teenage alcoholism". Yesterday, at the same time, the same newsreader said "a reminder of our main news today, the BBC has learned that treating children who have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) with drugs is not effective in the long-term". As I write this, the local news is on. The story starts : "it is BBC Children In Need on Friday and we look back on some of the schemes your money has helped in the past".

There is, of course, a common factor to all these stories. They are self-generated and manufactured to support the broadcasting schedules. The ADHD story was, in fact, a trailer for that evenings' Panorama report. The alcohol story is based on responses to a BBC survey, but as yet they are not saying why they undertook the survey. No doubt we will discover that it forms the basis of a BBC Special. And "Children In Need" will dominate the BBC schedules on Friday evening.My moan is not with self-publicity. The BBC should be able to produce publicity about its own shows just as any other organisation might do. (By the way, the latest episode of "Fat Dog To The Big Apple has just been posted, don't forget to read it soon). The complaint is disguising such "promo's" as news. Worse still, headline news.

During my early days (months, years) of blogging I did not have any regular followers - although I note that one anonymous wag (who obviously knows me) did comment on this particular post. But comments are such an enjoyable part of blogging and I now feel proud to have such a loyal and entertaining group of followers. And so often the comments add so much added value to the original post. Take for example this short note I received from my brother Roger in response to the picture I published on Saturday :

"Enjoying the photos of Aunty Annie and family. On the last one you'll notice a plaster on my left knee. From a fall running down the hill to Grange Road school. I still have the scar!"

Call back tomorrow to discover where else our tour through the News From Nowhere archives takes us.

Picture Post 1028 : Hemingway And The Donkey

2011-09-11T11:01:00.000+01:00

There was a wonderful little Spanish cafe that Jamie and Bev took us to last week (each morning on his way to work, Jamie calls in there for a coffee). There is a window in the main part of the restaurant which allows the donkey that lives in the field at the back to stick his head through and join in with the meal. One suspects that the health and safety people would frown on such practices in this country, which is a shame. The rest of the room is a testament to popular Spanish culture which seemed to work better in monochrome than in vivid colour. You half expect to see Ernest Hemingway sat on a corner table, sharing a conversation with the donkey.

Sepia Saturday 91 : Happy Faces, Happy Times

2011-09-09T13:42:00.000+01:00

Let me take you back for a moment to the last photograph I shared on Sepia Saturday. It was a "Walking Snap" taken in Bridlington in 1950 which showed my mother, Gladys, and my Auntie Annie. Now look my featured photograph this week - the next photograph in the recently discovered Family Stash. What is immediately obvious is that in the picture above they are wearing the same clothes as in the Walking Snap and therefore we can assume - ignoring the fact that clothing was more expensive in those days and would re-emerge from the wardrobe with commendable regularity - that it was taken during the same seaside excursion. I would have been two (maybe looking a little young for my age - but haven't I always?) and my brother Roger would have been 7.

But this is not a Walking Snap : there is no commercial imprint on the photograph and no adventurous professional photographer would have wandered so far out to sea in order to capture this stunning view. This must have been taken with the Box Brownie featured in the photograph last week and I suspect that the photographer was my father, Albert. I have to say, it is a good photograph : framed well, good composition, interesting angle - if I have any photographic talents, it is clear to see who I inherited them from. Above and beyond its technical merits (those old Box Brownies were pretty primitive cameras) the shot just seems to sum up the very essence of a family photo - happy faces, happy times.

TAKE A LOOK AT THE OTHER PEOPLE PARTICIPATING IN SEPIA SATURDAY 91 BY FOLLOWING THE LINKS FROM THE SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG

Picture Post 1027 : Casares

2011-09-08T10:48:00.000+01:00

Back from Spain and a return to the wet grey skies of West Yorkshire after five days of vibrant blue skies and radiant heat that warms the body and gently toasts the spirit. Jamie and Bev were perfect hosts who constantly took us places, showed us places and enriched the whole experience with their company. The sun shone, the planes flew on time and Andalusia was quite beautiful. I took a fair number of photographs and I will show you a sample over the coming days. As I select them and post them, who knows, maybe a little of that warm sun will come shining through. Today's picture shows the lovely old village of Casares which is a few miles inland from Estepona, between Marbella and Gibraltar.

Went To A Party Down A Red Dirt Road

2011-09-01T00:03:00.000+01:00

"So I bought me a ticket

I caught a plane to Spain

Went to a party down a red dirt road

There were lots of pretty people there

Reading Rolling Stone, reading Vogue".

I must apologise for not being around recently but life has been rather hectic. The Lad is back from Africa and we spent a splendid week with him at home before he went back to University. And now we are about to head off to Spain for the best part of a week to stay with the Spanish Chapter of our family. The picture above shows the roof of their house with the mountains of Andalusia in the background and the smell of the Mediterranean Sea in the air. There will be sun, there will be sea and there will be Sangria : but you know I would be rather sitting here in chilly Yorkshire writing blog-posts. Until I am back next week, let me leave you with the lovely Joni Mitchell singing the above lines.

Sepia Saturday 89 : Snaps 1950

2011-08-26T12:38:00.002+01:00

One of the interesting consequences of exploring the "Family Stash" of old photographs on a week-by-week basis is that you slowly build up a picture of time and events, rather like you do when you are putting a jig-saw puzzle together. You may recall that I assumed that my last Sepia Saturday photograph had been taken in 1950. However, this week here is a picture which shows my mother (along with Auntie Annie) in Bridlington in that same year. Now, two things are as certain as the waning of the moon : back in those days there was only ever one family holiday each year, and as far as our family was concerned they alternated between Bridlington and New Brighton. So I need to amend the suggested date on the last Sepia Saturday photograph to 1951.

One of the fascinating things about this picture is that it clearly shows the Box Brownie camera that must have been used to take most of the other photographs in the stash. This particular photograph was taken, however, by one of the team of photographers who would wander around Bridlington in the summer months taking "snaps". The developed photographs would be displayed in the window of the photographers' shop just next to the harbour and if you liked the image, you could go in and buy a copy. There is an excellent description of the Bridlington Snaps Company on the fascinating Walking Pictures Blog.

Now I have scanned it and enlarged it, I have come to think of it as one of my very favourite photographs of my mother. It is a picture worthy of Cartier-Bresson at his best.

TAKE A LOOK AT THE OTHER BLOGGERS TAKING PART IN SEPIA SATURDAY 89

The Revenge Of HAL

2011-08-25T09:42:00.000+01:00

Remember that most poignant of cinematic scenes, that defining moment in the developing relationship between human beings and computers. David Bowman, the enigmatic leader of the 2001 Mission to Jupiter, eventually realises that the on-board HAL 9000 computer is trying to kill him in order to prevent its own disconnection. HAL locks Bowman out of the space capsule, but he eventually manages to force his way back in and shut down the machine by progressively removing HAL's computer modules one by one. As HAL's consciousness degrades he regurgitates material that was programmed into him during his initial programming and this culminates with an ever-slowing rendition of the song "Daisy Bell". As the final lines of "Daisy, Daisy, Give me your answer do", grind to a final stop we realise that, on this occasion, man has managed to outwit artificial intelligence.

Those of us of a cautious disposition have spent the last 43 years since the release of 2001 : A Space Odyssey looking for signs of a new attack by artificial intelligence on the primacy of humanity. If there is one thing that computers are good at, it is learning from their own mistakes, so we should expect something a little more sophisticated than locking us out of an air lock. I think I have found it : it is not HAL it is HFT. I might be wrong, but I strongly suspect that HFT is a more powerful threat to humanity than a wagon-load of Gaddafi's or a sea container full of HAL 9000 computers. HFT is High Frequency Trading.

Cast your mind back to how stock exchanges and financial markets used to work. City gents with bowler hats would study the financial papers as they took the morning commuter train into the city from either leafy Surbiton or Sleepy Hollow, identify firms that were on their way up and decide to buy shares in the business. Firms with potential would receive much-needed investment and our city gent would receive a useful dividend at the end of the financial year. It is a comforting and a rather clever system : but in terms of the way financial markets work in the twenty-first century it is total fiction.

These days the majority of decisions to buy or sell shares, trade in commodities or move into currencies are not taken by human beings, they are taken by sophisticated computer programmes. Such programmes seek to beat the system by buying and selling over extremely short periods, holding the stock for seconds or even micro-seconds and making a very small profit on the trade. But they make so many trades that the aggregate profit is immense. The programmes are not concerned whether the extremely small movement in price is being brought about by positive or negative expectations, rumour or the phases of the moon : the programmes make their millions by anticipating fractional movements and betting on them. This is the strange, some would say horrifying world, of High Frequency Trading (HFT). In the US financial markets it has been estimated that something like 75% of all market trades are HFT's, on the London markets the percentage is around 40% and increasing all the time.

So when you turn to the financial pages and see the wild fluctuations in the markets, see your pension pot dissolve in front of your eyes, see mindless speculation rip the flesh off financial probity, think of HAL and recognise his revenge. All together now, "Daisy, daisy ......."

Jaume Plensa at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park

2011-08-24T10:07:00.001+01:00

YSP - May 2011, a set on Flickr.

Several people have asked about the image I used to illustrate my last post. I took it earlier this year at the wonderful exhibition of the work of the Spanish artist, Jaume Plensa at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park.

During the last day or two I have been trying to sort out some of my recent images on my Flickr account. Although I joined Flickr some time ago, I have never really come to terms with its possibilities and potential. So Jaume Plensa gives me the opportunity to experiment : and (hopefully - if it all works) here is a short set of photographs I took during my visit to the Park in May.

Frank The Wittol Probes His Woolfell

2011-08-22T10:00:00.000+01:00

I am always a bit of a soft touch for endangered species. Point me to where a Great Crested Newt is under threat and I will sign a petition. Explain to me about the cruel fate of the rhino and its horn and I will abandon my search for virility. There is not a seed I wont plant nor a slug I wont nurture in pursuit of diversity. It was therefore with regret that I read of the announcement by experts at Collins English Dictionary that another tranche of words are about to become extinct from the English language. In the sincere hope that I am not too late, I would like to offer you the following (very) short story. You can do your bit for the cause of a diverse vocabulary by adopting any of the featured words and perhaps incorporating some of them into your posts this week.

Frank looked out of the window of the charabanc as it drove passed the aerodrome and once again saw the funny little man trying to get airborne in his cyclogiro. "He's mad", he thought to himself, a prime candidate for alienism if ever there was one. But soon the ghost of a smile vanished from Frank's face : laughing at mad aviators was no succedaneum for facing up to his own role as a pathetic wittol. His self-respect was only skin-deep and like a woolfell it disguised the death and decay that lay beneath. If he examined his real feelings, examined them with the scientific intensity of a stauroscope searching for the hidden emotional crystal structure of his soul, he knew that he was nothing more than a broken-hearted drysalter looking for an explanation of Marion's infidelity. As tears fell from his tired eyes, he realised that, at that task, he was no supererogate.

Fatted Calves And Retrospective Images

2011-08-21T08:26:00.000+01:00

All my plans for this weekend seem to have gone awry (what a strange word that is, you half expect it to be a fishing village in Cornwall). I haven't even managed to get my Sepia Saturday post up - it will be either fashionably late or unfashionably early depending on whether it makes it by mid-week or not. The cause of all this disruption is that we have been searching the local shops looking for a fatted calf : yes, The Lad is due back later today after a couple of months in Africa. The above picture of the Crook County Calf Club is taken from the Flickr Commons collection of the Oregon State University Archives.

In case you would like to see some of my photographs today, can I point you in the direction of The Book Of Cletis as the ever-splendid Cletis is hosting a brief retrospective of some of my photographs. My thanks to him for his interest, my thanks to you for your visit, and my thanks to Africa for putting up with The Lad for the last eight weeks.

Picture Post 1026 : Alan Burnett's Economic Insight

2011-08-19T09:37:00.000+01:00

Which Way To Turn? - Halifax Show, August 2011 (Alan Burnett)

The problem with the global economy at the moment is that nobody seems to know which way to turn. Caught between post-capitalist recession and crypto-communist financial speculation we are in urgent need of leadership.

Say Hello To UF2011ABF0001A (AKA Constance)

2011-08-18T11:27:00.001+01:00

There is a lot of debate over here at the moment about infringements of personal liberty : should we introduce curfews, ban social media during times of trouble, have more or fewer surveillance cameras? - that kind of thing. The dust is still settling after the recent riots and all sorts of theories about causes and responses are doing the rounds. Personally, I have never quite understood the position whereby denying someone a job is merely the inevitable workings of the market system whilst having a video camera on a street corner is a fundamental attack on democracy. Nor have I understood why the social media can be a tool for liberation in Arab Spring countries whilst it is a nothing less than the progeny of the devil in Hackney or Birmingham.

However, I am not here to discuss the riots, freedom or whether Facebook is better than Twitter (although, for the first time in my life I did discover a use for Twitter as it warned me when to stay clear of the local ASDA which came under attack during the riots). I am here because my friend Janie told me I had a good idea the other day. I can still recall the time, many decades ago, when I would have a good idea on a regular basis - maybe one or two a month - but now they are as rare as a Daily Mail reader with a social conscience. So I thought I would share it with you.

Like many other people I use Picasa 3 to file my various images and one of the nice features of Picasa is the built-in facial recognition software. Identify a picture of your wife, your brother or your Auntie Doris once, and the software will search through your files for other similar faces using the usual approach of key facial measurements. The drawback to this approach is that you have to identify a face first and that it is restricted to just your images. My idea was to introduce a worldwide database of the unknown dead so that we could try and identify some of the unknown faces of long-dead relatives and friends.

Go back and look at the image above. This is UF2011ABF0001A : a picture of a woman from my collection of old Victorian photographs. I haven't the foggiest who she is, but she is a very special person, a person who will go down in the annals of the twenty-first century : she is the very first entry in the worldwide database of the unknown dead (WDUD). All you need to do is to download the image and add it to your Picasa folder, do a facial recognition sweep and see if you get any suggestions. If not, simply identify it as UF2011ABF0001A and wait for the next face to come winging its way to you. If you do get a hit and it turns out to be your great-aunt Constance, let us here at WDUD HQ know (remembering to enclose a cheque for $10 for administrative expenses) and her details will be added to the database. Talk about a good idea : sometimes I think I was born before my time.

Picture Post 1025 : Pigskin

2011-08-17T10:36:00.000+01:00

Is there anything more beautiful than pigskin? Especially when it is where it belongs, on the back (and front) of a pig. Prize piglets at the Halifax Show, August 2011.

Sepia Saturday 87 : Romancing The Stone

2011-08-12T20:34:00.000+01:00

Some idiot has come up with the theme of "Romance" for Sepia Saturday this week, so I thought I would concentrate on a stone instead. Here is the next photograph from the Burnett Family Stash, and yet again it shows the family on holiday. It is easy to date this one as that cute little fellow in the front is me. If the said chap is about two years old, the photograph must have been taken about 1950. Next to me is my big brother Roger and behind him is our mother, Gladys. The questions to be solved this week, therefore, are who are the others and where was the photograph taken? As I have mentioned before, annual holidays were spent either in Bridlington or New Brighton. I can remember the name of the road we stayed in when we visited Brid (New Burlington Road) and a quick look at Google Street Cam reveals that the architecture of the buildings does not match.

My memory of the location of our New Brighton "digs" was not as accurate, but a few minutes spent with Google Maps and Street View resulted in the jackpot. The answer of course, was in the stone. Look carefully at the clover-leaf motif on the stone gatepost : a motif which was shared by all the houses in Windsor Street, New Brighton. But only one house had the same chipped motif, still clearly visible after sixty years. Therefore, in 1950, we went to New Brighton for our holidays.

Now I seem to recall that the place we stayed at was an enormous boarding house and the unknown people in the photograph could therefore have been other guests. But looking at the Street View image of the house now, it turns out to be relatively small : two stories with surely little more that three or possibly four bedrooms. The unidentified people must therefore be the owners : owners who kept themselves in bow ties and feathered hats by taking in paying guests. You would have thought they might have used a little of the extra cash to get the gatepost repaired, wouldn't you?

You can find lots of other Sepia Saturday posts by following the links from the SEPIA SATURDAY BLOG.

(We are on our travels again for the next four or five days so there will be no posts until the end of next week. I will try and keep up to date with all my favourite blogs whilst I am on the road, but I apologise in advance if I don't visit and comment as much as usual)

Picture Post 1024 : Bradford In Balance

2011-08-11T14:22:00.000+01:00

No, this isn't a picture of the aftermath of the recent riots. One might say, however, that it is the results of mindless and wanton destruction. For over seven years, Bradford has has a large hole on one side of the city centre where shops and offices were demolished to make may for a shopping mall that was never built. As I walked through Bradford the other day, I noticed that the City Authorities had decided to bring a little balance back to the city - by pulling down the buildings on the other side of the city centre. That glorious domed cinema you can see will be the next to fall victim to the wrecking crews. A reminder that not all yobs wear hoodies.

Scribe : Why Not Write Over The Top Of My Head?

2011-08-10T12:04:00.001+01:00

Google has just announced a new service - Google Scribe. Here's how they describe it : "Do you ever find yourself writing slowly, staring at a blinking cursor or looking for words to express yourself? Today we are happy to announce the availability of the text suggestions and autocomplete feature of Google Scribe ....Google Scribe helps you write more efficiently by suggesting common words and phrases as you type".

Now, if staring at a blinking cursor was an Olympic Sport, I would be captain of the British Team. I spend days looking for words to express myself and by the time I have found them I have forgotten what I was trying to express in the first place. I have always wanted to be a poet, but the words are never there. So could Google Scribe help me fulfill my literary ambitions? I created the following using Google Scribe. I started with "If" and let Scribe suggest most of the rest. Occasionally I had to give it a helping hand by suggesting opening letters of words - but the resulting words (other than the final one which I repeated for dramatic effect) are solely the responsibility of Google Scribe. So here is my first (and probably last) poem - I have called it Scribe.

SCRIBE

If the day is not dark, which

is formed by removing the medium

and taking the time, why not write over

the top of my head?

Could you explain the texture of sound

and squeeze the nucleus of experience

in the black dawn of yesterday?

Forever is a long road ahead,

paved with good understanding and

sickened with old friends lying alone.

Alone.