Day 622, Under pressure

With all the craziness taking place it's time to check how robust the functional systems are at dealing with the pressure.

Weight continues to decline, with a total loss of 7.2 kilos - die-hard brexiters should just guess what that means in grains, pecks, or slugs, or work it out using a pencil.  This decline is not a bad thing, unlike that caused to the economy by irresponsible use of a pencil.

Here are some numbers taken after getting in and sitting down, I expect Nigel Farage's numbers are similar to these but multiplied by a factor of 2.

They're actually my lottery numbers, which probably explains why I never win.

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Day 621, The heat is on

Stares into the empty, woodburning stove as the heating comes on.  It's June, the height of summer, and it is cold.

Twiddles thumbs.

Taps fingers.

Had better get this stove properly plumbed in before the gas becomes too expensive, fails due to maintenance, or is turned off by Putin.*

Always looking on the bright side.**

* Hello, gas works.
** I am, no really, it might not appear that way, and no I am not 'protesting too much', sheesh!

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Day 620, Get a head

If you want to get ahead, get a hat.  That's what my old (insert relationship of aged and long since departed relative here) used to say, or so it was said.

So with that in mind here is a picture of an aged and long since departed relative, wearing a hat.  Ostler, ferret plucker, fob watch and hat wearer, and all round teller of tall tales and larger than life character, it's all recognisable from this image.  And if you look closely you might even be able to see ferret feathers in the background.

My Grandmother used to tell stories of them having quality meat during the years of recession, and never once realising that it was a by-product of the ostling-activity, only to be told about it many years later and even then refusing to believe it.  In the coming recession however I doubt horse meat will be an option, after all, where are all the horse wrestlers these days.*

Obviously you need a head to start with if you want to put your hat on it and get ahead.  In this new recession I suspect that milliners are unlikely to be overwhelmed with trade, particularly in those areas where people have demonstrated that they don't want to get ahead, and clearly haven't used their heads.**

I doff my hat at the passing of this cortege.

* I'm 100% certain that's what ostler means, really.
** This is laboured I know, but people really didn't use their heads, and they were effectively told not to by the manipulative, devious, privileged, toss-wipes that lead the leave campaign.

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Day 619, Stalled

Wide awake and with it, dynamic, sharp, on the ball, yeeeaaah, wooohooo!

Tick, tick, tick.

Energy depleted.

Slowing down.

Aaaaannnnd, crash.

Sit down, shut up.*

* Our usual correspondent is hiding under a rock.

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Day 618, Danger in the leafy suburbs

In every garden, on every hedge, there are hazards.  Normally unseen, these hazards have come out to play in Crosspool, a leafy suburb of Sheffield.  Weaponised, creepy undead, reanimated corpse cloth, lurking and ready to catch out the unwary, they don't have a clue, and they are dangerous.

Well, that's my excuse for running too fast, fear of these weird objects lined up all along Manchester Road.  It's ill advised to do this for any length of time, but it turns out while running my maximum heart rate got up to that of someone ten years younger, all the way to 182bpm.*  Although as it was only for a few 10 second periods during a 30 minute run that it got that high then perhaps that's ok...**

Obviously exceeding this peak was a result of being spooked by the clueless brexit zombies,*** perched and staring all along my route.  Perhaps they also once cluelessly ran too fast before going into hiding.

* That's wonderful, how young and fit I appear to be - or it's the precursor to it bursting.
** Famous last words.
*** That's almost certainly what they were, that's definitely no assumption or prejudice.


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Day 617, Contemporary finish

Continuing the intermittent guitar based theme.

Fettled and reassembled, here's the Fender Contemporary Telecaster with the stock pickups replaced.  The stock pickups were a bit long in the tooth, had become microphonic, and weren't at their best.

The new pickups are a pair of Seymour Duncan SH8 Invader humbuckers "ultra high output built for aggressive playing styles", well that's me.

I configured them in the same way as the humbuckers that were removed - that was in a standard humbucker installation with a coil-tap to isolate the North pickup on whichever of the two humbuckers is selected.

The controls are black, on a black background, and the only oversight is the lack of a black LED that lights up black every time a control is operated.*

This machine is loud**, but unfortunately doesn't kill fascists.***

* I don't need to explain.
** Not as loud as Disaster Area.
*** And that's probably for the best.


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Day 616, What a clusterfuck

There's a lot of talk about people that don't have a voice.  Well now they've spoken, yet they don't have the first clue what they've actually said.

Are these people at fault for being ill-informed?  To a certain extent yes they are, everyone has a responsibility to make some effort to inform themselves about decisions they are about to make.  But they have also been on the receiving end of a barrage of misinformation.  This misinformation has not only been during the referendum campaign, if it had been there's a chance some of them would have spotted the nonsense being spoken.

Maybe some of them did spot the nonsense but thought they'd make a protest, however,  the misinformation that must have had the biggest effect of all has been the daily indoctrination by the likes of the Murdoch and other owners of the wealthy non-UK tax-paying owner press.  For almost as long as the UK has been a member of the EU these people have been peddling their bullshit stories laying down the foundations for the brexit campaigners to build their castles made of sand.

This isn't a new phenomenon of an underclass of the ignored, they've been there all along, it is systemic.  Unfortunately nobody over the last thirty odd years has managed to successfully address the issue, an issue that has many roots in the government induced decline of industry of the 1980's.  Whatever happens next in the EU game there has to be some move to resolve the problems of the voiceless, and there has to be another move to deal with the propaganda voice of the press.

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Day 615, Neck and neck

Or just neck.

Rosewood neck with some wear, post cleaning - the cleaning didn't cause the wear.*

This is a Fender Contemporary Telecaster, made in 1985 in Japan while Fender USA weren't doing a great deal.  Possibly from parts sent over from the USA?

Manufactured in Fujigen.

Scale Length 627.7mm
2 Humbucker
3 position switch
Coil tap switch
1 volume
1 Tone
Fender System 1 tremolo (Schaller)
Rosewood neck
Radius 305mm (12")
22 Fret

The specifications say that both humbuckers have a DC resistance of 7.6kΩ.

Bridge pickup on this model is roughly 7.6kΩ and the neck pickup is 7.06kΩ, which may be due to age related issues or might be the original resistance and the specs are wrong.

I picked this and a VOX combo up for £250 in 1990 - they were budget guitars - if you find one for that price now then snap it up if it's in decent nick, they are really much better than budget.

* I'm not a ham-fisted poltroon, or at least not in this instance.

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Day 614, Single whammy

After thirty years it was about time to remove the grime and corrosion from the tremolo device.  Not having a bucket of hydrochloric acid for grease removal about my person I considered the other options.*

The options were either not do anything about it, or dismantle it.

So I dismantled it.

Thirty years is a long time.  To put that into some sort of perspective I have fifty odd T-shirts and only one of them is older than that, and it looked in better condition than this piece of metal, with only the slight drawback that the shirt no longer fits me, or indeed I it.**

The saddle rollers were in a particularly bad way, pitted and covered in crud from the blistering, oxidised surface.  You really don't want pitting there as it will chew through guitar strings.  A brass wire brush was the answer to that and they soon cleaned up, the discolouration on the rollers is where the chrome has completely gone and the base metal is now showing.  Rollers for the lower strings are in much worse condition, I expect that is due to the greater proximity to the picking hand and exposure to sweat and human grease.

Top tip - always wipe down your instrument after playing - although the reality is that no matter what you will do you will not be able to clean awkward places like these without much more effort than just a 'wipe'.  Lift the strings and rotate the rollers while making sure all 'residue' is removed.  Dipping in a bucket of hydrochloric acid is optional, it will remove grease, however it may also remove other things if not handled carefully.

Fender System 1 Tremolo - actually made by Schaller

Here's a view of the G string saddle roller from before and after cleaning.

* Also known as muriatic acid, it is used for degreasing and cleaning concrete in its dilute form.
** Perspective, may not make sense depending on your point of view, for example, both Farage and Boris Johnson are lying toe-rags, but many people are too dazzled by the light they think shines out of their arses to notice.

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Day 613, Don't fret, worn out

There's been a lot of tiresome shouting recently, and it's very wearing.

So in the midst of that let's level, clean, and polish some frets.  It's so much more relaxing.

Here are some high spots that needed a bit of gentle work to bring them into line.  The frets themselves are also quite worn in some areas, I'm not going to deal with that as it would require quite a lot of metal removal.*

Here are the frets after the high spots have been removed.  There is still a lot of wear but it is much gentler.  And the frets are now sparkling, that's Mr Sheen for you.**

* And I'm not a luthier.
** Actually it's Autosol and a lot of elbow grease.

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Day 612, Aiiieeeeee

Which is uncannily like the sound I make whenever Farage appears on TV.

Lauded by broadcasters far beyond that which is reasonable.  This animated, cardboard cutout bag of stereotyped behaviours giving the pretence of 'character' is guaranteed to provide the sort of soundbite and publicity not associated with anyone speaking on matters with substantiated evidence.

He's a gift.

And if we've kept the receipt I'd like to send him back.

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Day 611, All mims day

How to sell stuff.

It's a piece of cake really.

First get yourself some up-tempo popular music.  Something from anywhere in the past fifty odd years will generally be fine, a bit of music that has stood the test of time.  The music need not bear any relation to or connection with the item you wish to sell.

Remove the dynamic range of the multifarious instruments, rhythms and timbres and replace with a single, very sparsely played, acoustic guitar.

Find the nearest self-absorbed teenager to add just the right level of angst, one with a mimsy and whispery vocal delivery will be ideal.  Male or female, either will do equally well.

Then, ensure that the tempo is in the middle of grave (30 odd bpm will do) and played almost in modo di marcia funebre.  Don't worry, it doesn't matter that the song was expressing great happiness and good cheer, the contrasting style adds a completely unclichéd and not at all tired irony.

To finish it off you'll just need to add some video about your product.  That might be mobile phone tariffs, banking, small town-runabout cars, beard wax, whatever, it will do for anything.  They will all work and you will sell tonnes of product.

That's it really.

Good luck.

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Day 610, Pulp the pedal for the metal

As used by Carlos Santana and Jimi Hendrix, it's the Electro-Harmonix Big Muff Pi.

This one is an original 1976-1979 version and the words TONE BYPASS over the middle knob indicate it is a 3rd edition.

The gaffa tape is probably from some time in the 1980s.

The battery lasts an age, regularly gigged with in the early 1990s it's still using the same one I put in around 1992.  Either that or it absorbs power from the rock tones passing through it...*

It isn't actually mine, it was lent to me by a mate.  My mate also lent another effect pedal to someone else.  I've no idea what happened to Candida Doyle or her band Pulp, but I don't expect she got round to giving him the effect pedal back either.**

It's probably time I reimbursed him for the loan.

* Ahem.
** I know he met up with some of them recently, I suspect he didn't mention the pedal.


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Day 609, Duck it

Another piece of IT tat destined for either the ebay or the bin.

Cats or ducks, everybody loves them.*  And one method of enhancing sale-ability of any item can be achieved by associating it with either a cat or a duck.**

I obviously missed my true vocation in marketing.***

Let's see if this one flies.****

* We've been here before.
** You must have noticed them by now, they're everywhere, in your shoes, in your cupboards, everywhere.
*** No I didn't, I'm with Bill Hicks on this one.
**** If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then it's a duck and Nigel Farage is a racist.


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Day 608, Just leave

Go on brexiters, leave, we can have a whip round for you.  You fact-dodging 'every blokes' with your fear of foreigners.  You aren't representative of a progressive society, "the Europe isn't democratic", really?  Did you miss the elections?  Haven't you noticed that we have the House of Lords, how democratic is that?  There wasn't any opportunity to elect them or have any input into the process, unlike with the EU.

Basically that's all you've got isn't it, some fallacious notion about lack of democracy and "regaining control", that and the racism, oh sorry, the immigration question.  No, it's definitely racism, and fear.

You must be a jolly fun crowd with your 'man of the people' Farage.  He clearly knows what it's like to live like ordinary folk, smoking and boozing and being a millionaire and having a lifetime of privilege and all.

I suggest the Falklands might be a nice place, I think we can stretch to that, they have booze and ciggies, and a fear of outsiders, you'll like it - if they let you in.

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Day 607, Roll your own

Apparently some people don't like cats.*

I don't get it myself, after all who wouldn't like a creature that scent marks your legs, might carry the odd flea in, and is very likely to eat you if you happen to be dead in their company.  These are all minor issues after all and essentially just character traits which make cats more loveable.

Apparently some people don't like any animals at all, which really is odd.**

Here's a random cat doing a roll and dance to welcome me home.***

* I don't believe this to be true, they must be deliberately being awkward.
** I can't believe this at all, surely it is absolute nonsense.
*** Other random animals are also available. 


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Day 606, A reflection of the times, comedy changes

"Hand me that duck and let's get quacking."

That was the catchphrase of music hall turn Gentleman Jack Hardy-Harr, known for cutting edge quips and close to the edge comedy animal abuse.

Still known to be performing in the mid-1970's on the Northern 'chip fat' circuit Gentleman Jack, or Nora Ramsbottom to give her name full disclosure, was a dying breed.  Which has a certain irony when you consider the act being performed.

Here's a tribute to Gentleman Jack featuring the iconic 'disembodied hand about to squash a duck' motif alongside some giant circular mirrors, a central part of the act.  At the height of Gentleman Jack's fame she would travel with a theatrical backdrop featuring a large, and considerably more graphic, version of the motif - taste was very different back then, and it is hard for us to understand the appreciation or even identify the finer subtleties of the humour.

Anyway, let's raise a mirror bottomed glass and toast Gentleman Jack.*

* This was also part of the act, often featuring a baby rabbit and a toasting fork, and lasting no more than 4 or 5 minutes, much to the dismay of the audience.


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Day 605, Bid up old tat, don't leave it

What am I bid for this piece of old tat?

The clock is starting now, and we have a caller on the line from Cricklewood...

I'm not even sure it's worth flogging this online, but I'll give it a go.

Free P&P.

Who knows, there may be some value to it.  And if the leave campaign wins it'll probably be the only way some of us will be able to earn any cash.

Back to eating rice and supermarket skip-diving, skills that never go out of fashion.*

Chin chin.**

* Our usual contributor is in a strop.
** Don't duck it, nobody likes a quitter.


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Day 604, Clive "many nicknames" Tyldesley

In  a spirit of negativity and ad hominem style abuse, here are a list of nicknames from the great arse man.

Almost all of these are based on actual quotes.

Clive "too many years of hurt" Tyldesley*
Clive "let me tell you an anecdote about the Russian defender's cousin" Tyldesley
Clive "over-excited radio commentary" Tyldesley
Clive "the French are famous... for their kisses" Tyldesley
Clive "nothing is happening and I'm making sure you aren't missing it" Tyldesley
Clive "dead air is a crime" Tyldesley
Clive "playing well and losing 1 nil is worse than playing badly and losing 6 nil" Tyldesley
Clive "I am being paid per word aren't I?" Tyldesley
Clive "Walker, hanging in the air beautifully" Tyldesley**
Clive "never inhale until half time" Tyldesley
Clive "interestingly..." Tyldesley

Clive "you just seen it on TV, and the replay of it, and Hoddle talking about it, now let me tell you about it as well" Tyldesley
Clive "really, really, hasn't realised this isn't radio" Tyldesley
Clive "a substitution, and off goes the irreplaceable Wayne Rooney" Tyldesley

Clive "blowhard, verbose, windbag, these are the least of it" Tyldesley

Clive "the late, great Edith Piaf" Tyldesley

Clive "shut up, shut up, just shut up, now, shut up" Tyldesley

Clive "Déjà vu, to use a French phrase - we’ve been here before" Tyldesley

Clive "arggghhh, foot in mouth" Tyldesley

Clive "justice for the England eleven" Tyldesley***
Clive "oh, God" Tyldesley

* Myself and partner, in different rooms hearing this simultaneously shouted "oh shut up!"  This was only the start of his idiocy.
** Tyldesley not noticing it is a slow-motion replay.
*** This man really is a fucking fuckwit of massive proportions.

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Day 603, Park like a joyrider

Yes folks it's here again.

What is?

National Park Like a Joyrider Day.

And without further ado let's crack on.

Our first entrant is from the amateurs.  It's a good effort but lacks the finesse of the more experienced, let's take a closer look.

Starting our review at the back. The rear wheel is only just on the pavement, it really could have been quite a bit further over,  a nice piece of misalignment though as the front wheel is not also on the pavement.  This is an attempt at a style of parallel parking where the parallel is all in the mind, first developed back in the 1970's by getaway drivers from Moss Side.  The back end of the car gains a mark due to the neat touch of being over the adjacent junction markings, this shows a vision sadly lacking in many of the amateur entrants.

Moving to the front of the vehicle.  This end isn't too shabby either, with the steering pointing into the road and the offside wheel (not visible here) jutting out into on-coming traffic there are some nicely developed threats.  I can visualise a cyclist, focusing on the two side roads and the possibility of traffic approaching from the right, being so overloaded with potential hazards that they don't see how far out the wheel is and just clip it with a pedal sending them sprawling.

With time, tinted windows, the wipers left in a mid-position, and a little loose and rusty trim, this could develop well.

5/10 and a decent first time attempt from the amateur class.

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Day 602, Help the homeless

Here we see a poor unfortunate, laid low through the trials of the capitalist system, enduring a life of penury in the street.

Look however at the succour provided by the passer by on the right.  Tentacles waving, dressed in finery, and fully housed, the efforts are clear to see from this passing humanitarian.

There should be more of this sort of thing.*

* Unless of course this is some form of predation, then stop it at once you beast.


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Day 601, Where are we going

Just look for the signs.

Although they won't always help. 

Dissonance

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Day 600, Cranberry sproing

Full fat, flame top cranberry.

Shiny.

Shiny.

A bit too flash for me, bring on the rough and ready axe.

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Day 599, Ferny view

As old as the hills, possibly even older.  They're some sort of fern.  If only I'd made a note of the variety then I could relate it here, but no 'some sort of fern' it is.

Perhaps we can send these up to Mars in advance of our colonisation, I'm convinced they are hardy enough not to need oxygen, or even any form of atmosphere at all.  Why stop there, I'm visualising some sort of Jurassic Park type thing.  Imagine a terraformed Martian landscape with prehistoric creatures striding the great plains, Diploid Sporophytes roaming free.

But here they are, still on Earth in their less mobile state.  And confined within a protective space, in the Botanical Gardens in Sheffield.

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Day 598, Wall chart

My partner has been looking for a copy of When Saturday Comes to fulfil the upcoming Euro Football requirement for a wall-chart.  She's searched everywhere, and won't touch Four Four Two magazine as it is too laddish.  Obviously WSC is the more popular as it is impossible to find, I think she ought to renew her subscription.

The search was resolved though by discovering that the latest Radio Times contains a wall-chart.

Result, as they say in football circles.

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Day 597, The Victoria

A victim of the loss of industry in the Don Valley around Neepsend is this pub, The Victoria Hotel, also known by locals as The Monkey House.  Victim you say, surely just a change of use?  Well, there's been a decline in the number of people employed in manufacture around these parts and pubs don't get thirsty steelworkers nipping out for a swift eight pints during a break like they used to.*  So yes, maybe victim is a little melodramatic given the events that have happened to real human beings around here.

In the mid 19th century the pub was called The Victoria Gardens and backed onto what was estimated to be 900 acres of gardens.

It is almost certain that the gardens were more likely to have been allotments - allotments, virtually in the city centre, in one of the smelting pits of the industrial revolution, get outta here.  Anyone with any knowledge of the place would not recognise the description of it being gardened as it has been factory and industry filled since before the turn of the 20th century.  An area that would have been caked in layers of dirt from the smog, and with a railway yard right in the middle of it where the coal was dropped from - the coal drops are still there.  Nevertheless there is good documentary evidence that the gardens existed and that they were quite extensive.

After the Great Sheffield Flood in March 1864 many bodies were found in the gardens, bodies from locals and from further afield, the flood was very destructive.  The destruction of the gardens by the flood may have triggered an increase in industrial use of the area, trade directories from the time probably give some indication of this.  There is very little land here now that doesn't bear the mark of steel production at some time, and I can see no evidence of gardens, allotments, or other deliberately cultivated land.

I only ever visited this pub once, this was as part of a 24 hour pub crawl.**  In the 80s The Victoria was one of the few pubs that would open after 3pm, breaking the licensing laws of the time.  We played pool in the room behind the far right hand window and drank Wards until normal pub opening time, we then moved on elsewhere.***

This is the pub a couple of years before the pub crawl, it appears to be shut, although I expect that is just for show.  The Victoria did eventually stop serving beer, even out of hours, in 1992 when its reign came to an end.

* This used to happen, the heat from furnaces and lobbing huge lumps of red-hot steel around took it out of you.  Maybe they didn't all drink eight pints, but quite a few did.
** Small beer in a time where 24 hour drinking isn't an issue, but in the 80s pubs shut at 10:30 on weekday evenings and had to close between 3 and 5:30pm with an earliest opening of midday.
*** It actually required a great deal of knowledge, skill, and judgement to know where would be open at what time of day without resorting to the lowest of dives at any point.


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Day 596, Back wash bubble heads

From below the surface of the earth, the back wash bubble heads emerge.  Their lifecycle dictates that this event occurs only once every seventeen years, and as such is rarely witnessed unless by chance.  Not even the associated high pitched wailing and keening noise is normally enough to alert the curious as the event is normally over by the time the outpour zone is identified.

As luck would have it I was out and about, hunting down some beers, when I spotted the strange substance shown below.  It is the tell-tale venting behaviour of the back wash bubble heads.  Followed moments later by the accompanying cacophony.  Where Attenborough might travel thousands of miles, incredibly, here on a hillside in Sheffield, on a simple walk to the shop, I experienced this exceedingly rare event.

Then it was all over.

Within minutes the cloaca outpour had dispersed, aided by the wing flapping of a passing Bosnian micro-duck.  The hillside was returned to peace and calm.

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Day 595, Barrel bottom

I'd certainly never say that to someone, I'm too polite, in fact I wouldn't even think it, and after all it doesn't even make sense.

Apologies, got carried away there trying not to think about the non-existence of underwater basket weaving and its relation to the bottom of this barrel shaped bin.  That was a thing often mentioned when working at a college of further education, I have no idea why this was used as an example of education at this level other than for some disparaging reason.

Perhaps underwater basket weaving is actually a real thing.  Control of the raw material might be more straightforward underwater, with whiplash being minimised due to the density of the medium slowing down the movement of a wooden splint if accidentally released.  There may be greater elasticity in the wood when woven underwater.  It may also allow for stretching of the material into configurations that wouldn't be as straightforward in dry air, and once the item was dried it would tighten into a firmer structure.  The water might also help with the bending in other ways.  Although the more I consider it the more I would expect the water to be hot, or even steam, to be of any use.  Heated water or steam would necessitate the use of specialist equipment so that the weaver would be protected from scalding injury.

While I chew this over it seems to me that underwater basket weaving requires a range of specialist skills.  And as an example as a useless skill offered by a further education college, underwater basket weaving isn't perhaps the best.

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Day 594, Call up

There's an exhibition with photographs from the Great War currently at Sheffield's Weston Park Museum.  There are some images of the remains of the training areas and camping grounds as well as photographs of the Sheffield Pals.  The exhibition also features contemporary photographs of Redmires and the Somme by photographer Peter Cattrell as he retraced the footsteps of his great uncle.

The exhibition is on until September 2016.

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Day 593, Blow Out

Sudden and catastrophic deflation brought this turbo-trainer session to an end.

Well I say sudden.  There was an odd hissing noise that I couldn't place, then it became slightly easier to turn the pedals so I assumed I'd gained tremendous strength.  Then the noise changed to sort of squeal, but I carried on anyway thinking there must be something up with my ears.  Then there was an odd smell, but that sometimes happens to all of us.

Eventually it became apparent that something was amiss, so I stopped.

Time to get a proper tyre rather than the not-quite-slick one, and some inner tubes.

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