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About this blog

GhostOfClayton's Twice Fortnightly Blog

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Wales

Overlay a right-angled triangle on a map of Wales, and something interesting happens . . . .

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Those about to plumb salute you

Over the August Bank Holiday, Wroxeter Roman City were holding a Gladiatorial Re-enactment event. Ever since the villa was built for the excellent �Rome Wasn�t Built in a Day�, I�ve been promising myself a re-visit, so Mrs. OfClayton and myself (recent English Heritage members) decided to take the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. How glad we were that we did!     Despite a tiny bit of early drizzle, the weather cheered up leaving a dry afternoon for the fighting. I�d managed to squeeze in the audio tour in the morning, leaving the afternoon free to watch the games and visit the villa. A good crowd had built up by the time we reach the roped off area that was to act as the arena, and we found the best spot left was in that area of the onlookers that had been asked to support Londinium (in red) as opposed to the local boys from Viroconium (Wroxeter�s Roman name � playing in yellow).     The head gladiator from Londinium took on the role as Master of Ceremonies. After a brief explanation of Gladiatorial Combat, and a word about his �troupe�, he taught the crowd how to appeal for clemency, and how to demand execution. He then introduced the Emperor Domitian and his party, the other gladiators, the Summa Rudis (referee), and finally the arena helpers (they had a Latin name, but it escapes me). However, just as the MC was about to announce the start of proceedings, there was a heckle from the crowd: �GET ON WITH IT�. The Gladiator was startled. Domitian�s Praetorian Guard rushed over. There was an angry exchange between him and the heckler; �ARE YOU AN ENGLISH HERITAGE MEMBER?� was heard, and �DO YOU WANNA MAKE SOMETHING OF IT?�. This resulted in the heckler climbing over the outer rope, and coming to the inner rope, eyeball-to-eyeball with the Praetorian Guard. We now saw he was a rough-looking youth, mouthing off at the Gladiator MC. The Praetorian finally snapped, dragged him over the inner rope, and to the floor, where him and MC Spartacus proceeded to give the youth a bloody good kicking, before dragging him over to Domitian to be �judged�.     For the twin crimes of incitement to riot, and letting his English Heritage membership lapse, the youth (who by now had had the epithet �Chavicus� bestowed upon him) was sentenced to fight in the arena as a Damnatio. He was dragged away, still mouthing abuse.     Back to the action. which kicked off with various one-on-one Gladiatorial combat (for those keeping score, Londinium were two up at the end of these). This was followed by a couple of runaway slaves having a go at each other. All were masterfully choreographed (plenty of Spartacus-style shield jumping), with some suitably gory make up, and concluded with one of the combatants getting their throats cut (resulting in a good spray of blood). The climax of the one-on-one combats was the bout between the two Gladiatrixes (Gladiatrices?) who were predictably known as "Amazon" and "Achillia".     This was followed by a reenactment of the Battle of Philippi (though it was really just a gladiatorial two-on-two). Following the victory of the reds (Mark Anthony and Octavian), they subsequently went mano-a-mano with each other (reenacting the Battle of Actium, apparently). The result went the way of the historical record, and the �Mark Anthony� ended up with his throat cut.     To end with, joy of joys, who should be lead trembling into the arena, but Chavicus. All defiance gone, he now just looked like a pathetic, knock-kneed and gangly adolescent in a tunic. He was given a spear (spiculum?), and faced his gladiatorial adversary, a sturdy looking fighter in a leather cuirass. At this point, he promptly wet himself, a yellow stream running down from his tunic between his legs. The effects team were to be applauded. To cut a long story short, Chavicus didn�t put up much of a fight, before ending up on his back. The gladiator promptly gouged his eyes out with a sword, and paraded them before the baying crowd. Domitian indicated that his time was up, and the now blinded and whimpering Chavicus had his throat cut, blood sprayed, and the crowd laughed themselves hoarse. Let that stand as a warning to any others with lapsed English Heritage membership!     And yes, like every man in the place, I did consider signing up for gladiatorial reenactment. The swords . . . the glory . . . what a life! Sadly, there is now a damp smell coming from the guest wing at OfClayton Towers, and I can�t locate the source, so my life and resources for the near future will probably be used up in getting that sorted out.   �Plumbituri te salutant!�     PS There are many more photos of the day on the gallery.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

So good they named it twice

I'm not even going to begin to suggest that this blog is twice-fortnightly anymore. Everything in life starts with enthusiasm, but soon becomes the norm, and then turns into a chore.   Anyway, three things need to be reported on. Firstly there's my recent annual skiing holiday to Avoriaz in France. Non-skiers will not be interested. If any loyal followers to this blog are skiers, they're welcome to comment/contact me and I can tell them all about Avoriaz, snow conditions, ice conditions, cloud conditions, mountain restaurant conditions, ski-to-your-door, ski-from-your-door, hourly uplift capacity, and all the things that skiers seem interested in.   Next, one of our Hadrian's Wall tours was cancelled this year, leaving me with a gap in my schedule. My company (which from now on I shall refer to by the alias 'Hiking Hols-R-Us') came back with an offer for a tour that was somewhat of a departure (scuse the pun) from my previous guiding experience. A sightseeing tour of New York city! Wow! Other than having to squeeze my over-long and over-wide carcass into an aircraft seat for God-knows how many hours, I seem to have fallen on my feet there. Big Apple here I come.   Lastly, to counteract the Yin of the above, the cosmos has delivered upon the OfClayton household a mighty dollop of Yang. Mrs OfClayton works at a 6th Form College that announced redundancies yesterday. Names are yet to be named, but they do know that, out of the two people in her department, they will lose one! I'm sure I don't need to tell any of you what a blow this has been.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Who killed Bambi?

'Probably me', would be the answer to that question. On Wednesday night I was driving past a wood just outside the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans. A movement just outside the field of my headlights caught my eye, and before I could react, a deer leaped out onto the road and in front of the car. Thud! . . and then a 'thud-thud' as it went under each of the right hand wheels. That gets the heart beating, let me tell you.   What do you do after you've hit a deer? This is a different question from "what are you supposed to do after you've hit a deer?" What you're supposed to do is calmly pull to a halt where it is safe to do so. Ensure the carcass isn't causing a traffic hazard, and if it is, remove it to the side of the road. Then inspect your car for damage, only pulling away again when your car has been made up to a safe and drivable condition. What you actually do is to keep driving, wondering what you would do if you did stop and go back to the bloody corpse you have left behind. Consider how horrible it would be to have to touch said mass of fur and innards, let alone drag each individual bit (at this time, in your mind the deer is in at least two pieces, rent in twain by the wheels of your car). As you're thinking this, you're getting further and further away from the scene, and thus it's getting less and less likely you'll go back to encounter the horror that awaits.   I did go back . . . eventually. I had to. My number plate was no longer attached to my car. I HAD to go back to firstly, save the cost of a new number plate, and secondly, hide the evidence that links the crime directly back to yours truly. Was it a crime? No. Deer are a wild animal, and as such you can pretty much do what you want to them. Deer, rats, etc. are all legally the same. Had it been a pheasant, then that would have been different. They share the same legal status as the local Lord of the Manor's favourite pet. If you run one down, you can't pop it in your boot and take it home for supper, (but, strangely, the guy in the car behind can do.)   Back to the hapless Bambi. What did I find when I went back? Remarkably, nothing but my number plate! Somehow, despite the GhostMobile hitting, and then driving over it (at about 40mph), it still had enough life left in it to crawl away, presumably to expire peacefully in the woods.   Damage to the GhostMobile? One quite large, fur covered, crack in the bumper, and removal of number plate.   Damage to GhostOfClayton? Several long lacerations to my forearm while trying to re-attach the number plate (not as easy as you might think on a Honda Whateveritis).   On the subject of cars Inspired by Ursus' last blog, I also would like to take this opportunity to drift nostalgically back to my late teens. As a newly qualified driver, I used to look at the Ford Capri with covetousness bordering on obsession. I passed one the other day � I haven't seen one in years � I'd still like to own one.     If music be the food of love . . .   Inspired by one of DocOfLove's previous blogs, where her taste in music was hinted at, I have decided to share my musical taste with you all.   The way I usually listen to music is through my iPod. It's only an old 8GB device, but it still the vast majority of my music on there. My usual habit is to turn it on, hit 'shuffle', and see what comes along.     If it's convenient, I'll make a note of the first half dozen or so tracks that appear in any given day. Who knows, someone may be introduced to some music they haven't heard, but do like. It's a bit like a dating agency, only I'll be introducing people and music that have never met before, but may eventually get married, have kids, and live happily ever after.     Then again, they may decide that they're not for each other straight away, and agree not to date each other again. Who knows? Life's like that . . . it's a rollercoaster ride!     So, here goes . . . is your safety bar in place? Yes? Anticipation is building as we ratchet steeply upwards for the first big drop . . .     (a coincidence � Peter Gabriel was in DocOfLove�s list) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DLp-vE3AKg ' class='bbc_url' title='External link' rel='nofollow external'>The Calculation by Regina Spektor     More next week (or the week after if I'm away).

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Disco's here, dat goes der

Warning: This blog contains the word 'shit', and possibly other words like 'shit'. If you're not comfortable with reading the word 'shit (or other words similar to 'shit'), then I advise you not to read on, just in case you encounter the word 'shit'. You have been warned! (About the word 'shit').   Hello everybody. Welcome to the GhostOfClayton Twice Fortnightly blog. Comfy? Off we go.   Disco's here, dat goes der I genuinely doubt that anyone has followed this blog from its early incarnations, and who could blame them? After my long hiatus, I read a few back to help me get into the swing, and was quite disappointed by how amateurish ‘Past OfClayton’ sounded as he penned them (we shouldn’t expect too much from him. As I established in an earlier blog, that boy’s an idiot!) However, if by some strange quirk of fate, you have followed it from its early beginnings, you’ll know that I often spend New Year’s Eve in the club in the sleepy little village of Aquis of the Romans (at least ever since Mrs OfClayton put a stop to me working in sunnier climes over the festive period). This year will be no exception, but I will have a job to do.   The Aquis of the Romans Residents’ Association have members who are always regaling the others with tales of the glory days of New Year’s Eves in the Club. How a disco would be held, and huge numbers of village residents would come along to party the dregs of the old year away, and celebrate the coming of the New Year. How so many people turned up, you could barely squeeze in the door. Halcyon days!   So a few of the guys (mainly aging rockers such as yours truly) hatched a plan. We could beg, steal or borrow some disco equipment, each make up a playlist of suitably rockin’ tracks on our phones, plug the latter into the former, and “Hey, Presto!” a cheap disco. All washed down with cheap beer, and the Landlady’s Pie ‘n’ Peas (you can’t beat foods that are combined by use of an ‘n’ . . . . bangers ‘n’ mash, fish ‘n’ chips, etc.) The perfect evening.   Task list: Beg/Steal/Borrow disco equipment. Done. Arrange food. Done. Print tickets and posters. Done. Get a list of popular disco tracks. Hmm. Problem.   Any member of the zero-sized group of people who have followed this blog right from its humble beginnings will know that my taste in music isn’t all that suitable for use in a disco. Any of you care to help me out with requests?   Forking Hell The trouble with being a tour guide is that no-one’s going to get rich off it. That means that alternative employment must be sought to bridge the gap when not doing it, and this year I have been lucky enough to secure a new position (albeit only up until January). It’s covering a health and safety position in a Warehouse during a busy period, and I have to say, I’m enjoying it very much. There are all sorts of very blokey things like huge articulated (unlike some of the drivers) lorries coming and going, forklifts buzzing about, and some really, really high racking (with associated really, really high trucks to reach those dizzy heights.) I have to wear hard hat, safety glasses, steel toe capped shoes, and a high viz jacket, because of all that danger. I love it. That’s why I hope no-one I work with ever reads this blog.   You see, I am a fairly typical second child. OfClayton Major (my elder sister) has a very sensible, responsible, safety-minded personality, whereas OfClayton Minor (me) is much more of a risk-taker; not quite ‘Death or Glory’, but very much ‘Shit or Bust’. In short, not the sort of individual you’d want to keep you safe from, say, being impaled on the forks of a passing stacker truck. “It’ll be right”, is always my response whenever Mrs OfClayton relates her latest worry to me (telling me I shouldn’t be using chainsaws whilst up trees, and the like) . . . And yet here I am, still alive. So I must’ve been right all these years. Anyway, just to show what a day in my life is like, please have a look at this (surprisingly good) forklift training video – it’s in German with English subtitles.  

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

GhostOfClayton : Dragonhunter

Hello loyal followers, and welcome to the GhostOfClayton twice-fortnightly blog. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.     Apologies   First, I know that if this were a truly twice-fortnightly blog, this entry would have appeared last week sometime. I am the type of man who, if something needs doing practically throughout December, that says, "I just want to get Christmas and New year out of the way, and then I'll get on with it . . . ". (I know, ladies. That describes ALL men!). And, surprise-surprise, I did the same with my blog. I have no excuse to give you. Normal service will, hopefully, be resumed when I get motivated again.     New Year   A Happy New Year to you all. I really hope 2011 brings you health and happiness. What more could you ask for? We've squeezed out and used up the last drop of 2010, so it's time to crack open a whole new bottle of 2011 and see what that brings us all. But before we do, it seems to be the fashion on the telly to look back at 2010, and dig up the past in terms of some sort of 'review of the year'. It's a cheap and easy way to fill column inches, so I will now jump happily onto that bandwagon.     Old Year     I started 2010 at the small club (pictured) in the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans, in the company of Mrs OfClayton and the couple who live at the end of our garden (that is to say, their garden abuts OfClayton Towers' garden - they're not hermit folk who have moved in near our blackberry bush, or anything.) Aquis-of-the-Romans Club is hard to describe. It is not some kind of entertainment hotspot like The Phoenix Club in Phoenix Nights. It is small, overdue a makeover, severely lacking in funds, and 90% of the time, the clientele consist solely of the small knot of men who congregate around the bar, with the air of blokes that've done the exact same thing every night of their drinking lives thus far. Other than 'the knot', a couple of ladies who (as near as I could tell) spent the whole evening playing the bandit, and us four, there were very few people in. We spent the evening feeding coins into the juke box and pool table, so that we could listen to 80s music, and play pool. Something I haven't done since I wasted my youth as a bit of a snooker-shark at college, when I should've been learning stuff.   January saw Mrs OfClayton's birthday. I whisked her off to Pateley Bridge for the weekend. Nice weekend spoilt a little by use of a B&B that didn't live up to its web page.   February - I was scheduled to take a nice, cheap skiing holiday in France with 'the lads'. However, one by one they dropped out until there was just me. I really didn't want to go without my annual pilgrimage to the Alps, so I bit the bullet and blew my entire 2009 royalties cheque on the last bed in The Dolomites during half term week. This was so I could go skiing with OfClayton Nephew 1 of 3 (I think he has a name, but I find it easier to number them, much like the Borg in Star Trek) and his Dad. Once the shock of the cost had worn off, it was a darn good holiday. Excellent snow in an excellent resort. If you ski, the Dolomites is a Bucket List place to do it. I'm SO glad I did.   After Easter, 'The Season' started. Fortunately, I hadn't been allocated any tours in 2010 that involved me speaking a foreign language, so it was all easy-peasy and to a large extent, 'same-old, same-old'. My favourite tour continues to be Hadrian's Wall, and a stint on Jersey was the only new destination this year. Unremarkable, and not as nice as Guernsey, where I did a stint in 2009, and will do another in 2011.   This was followed by an unfortunate event. Following a worried call from one of his friends, I had to dash back to Aquis-of-the-Romans to check on OfClayton Snr. He had been mysteriously and suspiciously incommunicado all day, despite his car being in the drive. Shockingly, I found him immobile and semi conscious on his kitchen floor following a massive stroke. He spent a month in hospital, and then another month in care. Once back home, three carers visited him each day, along with regular visits by various therapists. However, following the notorious government cuts that the UK is currently undergoing, the plug was pulled on all that support, and he now has to live independently. Something that I don't believe he is capable of. It is very upsetting to see a once vibrant and active man, reduced to spending his days in front of the telly, unable to entertain himself or go anywhere further than a short walk up the road and back. He is all but a prisoner in his own home.   August saw a death in the family. I am, of course, referring to the GhostMobile Mk I, which finally passed away following a long and painful (financially) illness. My mechanic advised me not to spend another penny on it, with the look of a doctor telling a family that it was time to consider switching off the life-support. Considering the thing had probably been financing a playboy lifestyle for him for a number of months, and would continued to have done so, it was very honest of him, and I had to take his advice seriously. So, it was whisked across the River Styx by Charon (in the guise of the man from 'webuyanycarnomatterwhatapileofshiteitispleaseexcusemyfrench.com') to Automotive Elycium. It did, however, have one last trick up its sleeve to keep me from mourning its passage. Outstanding finance from a previous owner! However, Charon sent a few faxes and e-mails, and eventually sorted it all out for me. Note to self: Caveat Emptor!     Living, as I do, in Aquis-of-the-Romans, which is about as far north as one can go without falling into the Abus Fluvius, a car is a necessary evil, and so I had to bite the bullet and buy another. I therefore welcomed the GhostMobile Mk II to the family. Now I am NOT, to any degree whatsoever, a petrolhead, but I ended up with (I won't bore you with how or why), a very sporty little number complete with a spoiler, god knows how many horsepower, and only two doors. Very unlike me. I have to admit, though. After a month or two of very steady driving, I found myself in a situation where I had to put my toe down. Wow! I was thrown back into my seat by the acceleration. For a few days after that, I found myself driving like a teenage boy, and practically drooling at the opportunity to accelerate away from lights, etc. In short, I found myself turning into Jeremy Clarkson (pictured) - for those on the other side of The Pond, Jeremy Clarkson is more probably than not, the bastard love child of Geroge Bush Snr and Christine O'Donnel, put up secretly for adoption and brought up by a family in Doncaster, unaware of the child's destiny as the BBC's arch-Climate Change denier. I have since settled down and started to drive like a normal person, though I am still occasionally troubled by unnatural desires to get a perm.   September saw me and three chums take on The Brecon Beacons Way, a long distance footpath across the Brecon Beacons mountain range in South Wales. Starting on the Holy Mountain and ending in Bethlehem, it sounds a bit like a Christian Pilgrimage. It isn't. Bethlehem, in this case, is a tiny little village near Carmarthen. A very tough 7-day hike, made all the more so by terrible weather. Still, despite the requirement for some natty navigation when visibility was down to only a scant few metres, we did make it to the end, no doubt better individuals for our adventure.   October saw the birth of OfClayton Nephew 3 of 3, courtesy of Mrs OfClayton's brother and his wife. He is a very contented little soul, apart from whenever Mrs OfClayton holds him, when he starts to cry until he is handed back to his mother. OfClayton Niece 1 of 1 was the same with me when she was young, and now she seems to like me, so I'm not too worried. But then again, she once asked me what I do for a living, to which I responded, "I hunt dragons." She is yet to reach a level of maturity where she will question that. What an exciting fictitious life I lead! (If you are troubled by Dragons, give me a call, I'll send you a business card.)   November: This was a scant 35 days ago - why can't I remember it?   December saw northern Britain covered by a significant blanket of snow, which in Aquis-of-the-Romans lasted until Christmas. Life pretty much had to go on hold for many folk. OfClayton Towers, though, had been crying out since 2005 for a new bathroom. It finally got it just in time for Christmas. The snow cleared in time for us to 'see-in' 2011. Once again in the Club, but this time a booking complication at another venue meant that a disco ended up there. What with that, and me rounding up a few more folk from the village, there was a jolly atmosphere in the place, and a great night was had by all.     Weekly stuff resumes   It is now just 36 days until the Eagle of the Ninth is released in the USA, and 82 until it's released in the UK.   Asterix book of the week is 'Asterix the Gladiator'.  

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Like a circle in a spiral

I just can't understand why wind turbines cause such controversy. OfClayton Towers is located right on the southern edge of the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans. It's next to a field, on an escarpment top facing over the Vale of York (an almost totally flat area stretching to the west as far as the eye can see), so although it�s unlikely to be the site of wind turbines, it wouldn�t be completely out of the question.   If I were to make a list of all the things I wouldn't want placed in that field, a relatively benign structure like a wind turbine would be quite a long way down it. So why is it that, at the first sight of a man with a trundle-wheel, whole villages rise up as one, and act as if the local council have just granted planning permission for the slaughter of their first born?   We know that village folk don't like change. Threaten any kind of change to a rural community, and their default position will be to oppose it. Cut the number of buses, and there'll be a meeting in the village hall about Edna from Fosdyke Lane who can no longer get her corns done. The fact that only seven people used the bus in the past two years, and that two of those have now passed away, will be irrelevant. Threaten to increase the number of buses, and there will be a letter-writing campaign about the increase in pollution, the clogging up of the narrow lanes with all these buses, and the perceived additional burden on the Council Tax payer. We know they do this sort of thing, it's as much part of rural life as any other country pastime (incest, suicide, drunk driving, etc.).   But even considering the undeniable truth of the previous paragraph, the venom and ire that Parishioners reserve solely for the wind turbine seems wholly out of proportion with the impact these structures have. Are they a blot on the landscape? That is subjective in the extreme. Outside of any area where some might be placed, there seems to be a 50:50 split. Some people don't like the look of them, and some people find them a joy to behold.   Noise is another oft-cited objection. Now, I've walked through an 8-turbine wind farm, whilst all blades were turning at a reasonable pace. They do make a sound, and it can be described as a low frequency hum. It's a little like the hum you sometimes hear whilst walking past a small electricity pylon on a damp day, but not as loud � the track I was walking passed halfway between a small pylon and a turbine about 200m apart, and the loudest sound was from the pylon.   Statistics are often thrown into the mix � how wind turbines are not actually as efficient as stated, with usage numbers for existing wind turbines cited. Now here, there may be something to seriously think about. Wherever you find one set of statistics supporting one view point, you will find an equal and opposite set of statistics opposing that view, yet surely the scientists must all be agreed that we're better off with them? Or did the government just offer huge financial incentives for green energy, and some companies realise they could make money by putting up wind turbines, irrespective of the environmental gain? The Lex Parsimoniae would make the latter an absolute truth. But surely that�s more of a national policy issue, rather than a sound reason for a local planning objection.   My last theory is that they�re scared. I'm not really sure about what, but it may be all about house prices, which does seem to dominate the waking thoughts of many a Middle England Telegraph reader. However, I doubt anyone finding the right house would bother too much if there was a wind farm in the view. The right number of bedrooms, garages, garden square footage, off-road parking spaces, etc., and the presence in the village of a 'good school' would surely drive prices much more substantially. So I don�t know. I no doubt sounded confident and knowledgeable at the start of this rant, and you mistakenly thought I was going somewhere, driving towards a certain conclusion with which you could agree or argue. No, all I have found out in this process is that I am also a little scared. Not about having wind turbines near my house, but about what the alternative might be if no-one is prepared to accept and live with them.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Movin' On

I know, right!  It's been many years since I posted a blog entry.  Most people here have forgotten who I am, or indeed, never knew anyway.  So, why am I posting now?   Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I shall begin: Well, for reasons I'll go into later, I've been tidying up at OfClayton Towers, going through its dusty cupboards and run-down outbuildings, with a view to getting rid of whatever I can.  Somewhere, at the back of a particularly dusty understairs, half-obscured by cobwebs, I discovered a mysterious roll of ancient parchment, yellowed by the passing of many, many long years.  Curious, I blew the dust off and carefully unrolled it to reveal the UNRV map of the Roman Empire.  Remember that?  So nostalgic was I for the old days, I popped back on the site, only to be reminded that my twice-fortnightly blog just dried up.  It came to a sudden end, with no explanation of the why's and wherefore's (do those words both need apostrophes?  Maybe someone with better grammar than I could comment?)  It felt like unfinished business, so I decided to do a bit of an update by way of a final blog entry to wrap everything up nicely. So . . . what has been happening?  Well, I have to admit that the UK strain of Covid has been far less kind to those working in the gig economy than to those with more settled employment.  My usual work pattern was to take jobs as a Tour Leader during the more clement months and, when that work tended to dry up over the off-season, there were 6 or 7 (actually, 8 now that I sit and count them) companies that I had a good relationship with, and could take me on as a contract business analyst for project work, or something similar.  It was rare that none of them could offer me something.  Needless to say, the amount of Tour Leader work dropped to zero as a result of the pandemic.  So I needed to look around for something else and (unsurprisingly) very little presented itself.  Let's face it, very few companies will be undertaking project work with most of their workforces keeping things ticking over from home.  Then, one-by-one, those companies started to change.  The first had actually happened way back in 2017.  If you're not from the UK, you may not be aware, but the result of the Brexit vote caused a huge drop in the value of the pound.  The company I was actually working with at the time had taken me on to advise them on how any potential outcomes of the Brexit vote might affect them, and how to mitigate.  As a company that buys from abroad, and sells domestically, it was obvious that a 'Leave' result would hit them very hard in the short to medium term, and whilst I outlined ways of hedging, it was apparent things were going to be tough.  When the drop in the pound hit, they had to downsize massively, and are now surviving, but are very much on the critical list.  They won't be taking on anyone like myself for a long, long time (probably never). Then, a couple of companies announced closure of their UK manufacturing operations, and are now either gone, or winding down.  Large manufacturing tends to perform different stages of their manufacturing process in different locations, and ship part finished goods between those locations.  With 'Just In Time' management very much the name of the game, companies can't afford (won't, rather than can't) to have goods tied up while customs clearance is arranged, as it adds significantly to the cost of the finished product, without adding value. This pattern repeated itself until all the companies I worked for had either folded, moved out of the UK, or were suffering financially to such a degree that I could cross them off my list.  The final one waited until the UK actually left the EU, realised that even if it manufactured in the UK, the parts it required were mostly sourced from the EU, so it is now planning a move that will see its output split between Poland and the Netherlands. Well, I hear you say, what about your Tour Guide work?  At least you have that to fall back on.  To some extent, this is true.  However, of late, the huge majority of that work was done in the EU, where you require a thing called an EOTA card in order to work there legally.  Mine has just expired, and, as I am no longer an EU citizen, I can't apply for a new one.  There are many other people in exactly the same boat, and all are looking for opportunities in the UK (which are just beginning to open up, now that Covid will 'officially' be a thing of the past by July).  So competition is fierce.  I also do North America, but a strange thing happened in 2016 that we in the tourist industry referred to as The Trump Effect, where immediately following the 2016 presidential elections, bookings to North America dropped off quite considerably.  It's easy to blame The Orange One for this effect, but it also covered Canada and Mexico.  More likely it was to do with the artificially high USD/CAD/MXP vs the low GBP, but one way or another, opportunities there have thinned considerably, and there comes a point that it's just not worth applying for a work visa (that's if a British Citizen would get one under the current administration.) So, what to do?  Well, after much soul-searching, myself and Mrs OfClayton have come to a big decision.  We are in the process of putting OfClayton Towers up for sale with a view to moving to Bavaria (currently, a little town called Füssen is highest on the radar) and applying for German citizenship.  This will put me right where I need to be in terms of leading in the Alps (which over the past few years has become my main area), but also will allow me to work anywhere in Europe.  It also gives me access to steady winter work as a ski rep, which I said I'd never do, but beggars can't be choosers. So there you go. Many thanks to all of you (both of you) who have enjoyed my ramblings in the past (if you're still around).  Hope everything goes Ok for you all. I'll sign off for one last time and wish you all 'Auf Wiedersehen'.    

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Welcome to the digital age

Mrs OfClayton and myself would like to take this opportunity to announce to you all a happy event. Yes, there has been a joyous new arrival at OfClayton Towers. I'll tell you the story. . .   In the UK, we're undergoing the big 'digital switchover'. One by one, the old analogue channels are stopping broadcasting, leaving us with only the digital channels. The telly at ofClayton Towers is very, very old, and unsurprisingly has no digital tuner in it. I have been waiting many years for it to break down, and it stubbornly refused. This left me with two options. (a) Spend anout �25 on a little box that you plug into the back of the existing antique telly and continue with business as usual, or ( spend all the money I've managed to squirrel away for the last God knows how long, on a big, new telly. Needless to say, I didn't mention option (a) to Mrs OfClayton, assuring her that without a 42" LED TV, the winter nights would be long and quiet as we listened to the clock tick away the hours at OfClayton Towers!   So, last week, we took delivery of a Panasonic 106cm LED Smart TV. What a miracle of modern technology. It has an ethernet port to connect it to the World Wide Web. With this, it can play BBC iPlayer, stream movies, play YouTube, pause and rewind live TV, and there's even an app I can install on my iPod that will allow me to control it using that. And all this before they start broadcasting High Definition TV signals - I have HD to look forward to from next week. I could wax lyrical for pages and pages about it, but I won't! To cut a long story short I love as I would my own child! Probably more!     So, the OfClayton family fortune has all but been wiped out, and now I find out that all I had to do was lob a Molotov cocktail at a local emporium, thus distracting the constabulary whist I helped myself from Dixons. So that would've been one big telly for the price of half a litre of unleaded and a match! C'est la vie!   For the literal-minded who may read this, that was a joke. I'm not a light-fingered ne'er-do-well in real life. Though I did once pick up a catalogue in Marks & Spencers, only to get it home to find I should have paid a quid for it. The shame!   Who's Anagram? Anyway, that bit was all very self indulgent, and of little interest to anyone outside of . . . well . . . me, really! I can see that we've had only very few comments on the blogs of late, so in order to spice things up a bit, I'm going to talk about something very dear to many of your hearts, and which is bound to be controversial: 'Torchwood: Miracle Day'.   Caption Competition   So, Captain Jack is back, and he's cut his finger a little bit! It's feeling a little sore! This may sound like trivia to the uninitiated, but those who have already grown to know and love Torchwood will know how serious this turn of events actually is. More newsworthy than the current storyline of no-one dying, no matter how horribly mutilated their bodies are (and believe me, some of them are sickeningly badly mutilated!), is the move of Torchwood from good old Auntie Beeb to good old Uncle Sam. Yes, the series is now funded by, and to some extent written by, the Americans - in the guise of the Starz network. So, it's good-bye to the Valleys, and hello to LA. But, is this a good thing or a bad thing? I've seen US reviewers bemoaning the loss of glamourous Cardiff locations for the mundane LA locations, and UK reviewers pretty much taking the opposite stance. Personnally, I think it's been a little slow in getting to the point. The action and story line is drip fed to the viewer, as if a punchy three episode plot has been stretched out to fill 10 hours of air time. It's only a few episodes in, so it's unfair of me to judge . . . but I will anyway. I still like it very much (and can't wait to watch it in HD!)   But what do you think . . . come on . . let's have some healthy debate / vicious arguments. Get commenting.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

I'm quite cross so I warn you, the language might be quite fruity . . .

. . . so stop reading now if you're likely to be offended or are under 18. I haven't been this cross since my "I'll stick to buying only one cake" blog entry. Here's the story:   The Ghostmobile is due for its annual MOT test by the end of the month (for anyone not familiar, the MOT is a sort of safety inspection that all UK motor vehicles must undergo each year, otherwise, they�re not allowed to travel on the country�s road network). Most motor vehicle owners dread this time of the year, due to the sizable repair bills that are inevitably involved before a certificate is issued. Mrs OfClayton has just had to part company with �425 to get her car through!   My dread was increased slightly by the fact that I knew the Ghostmobile would fail. The previous owner (some of the sharper blog readers may remember that the Ghostmobile�s previous owner was none other than OfClayton Senior) had neglected to fix the small (on the face of it) problem of the windscreen wiper blade slipping slightly down the mounting, leaving the extreme end of the wiper arm exposed. This metal end had scratched, and subsequently worn a groove into, the windscreen.   Oh well � windscreen problems = insurance claim = �65 excess . . . you may think. Swiftcover.com would disagree. Why should they be responsible for poor vehicle maintenance? I grudgingly agree, but by this time, I had booked an appointment with their authorised glass repairer, Autoglass. So, I contacted Autoglass to let them know that I would be paying for the new windscreen myself. They quoted me . . . wait for it . . . �530!!! The young lady at the other end must�ve sensed me swallowing down the little bit of sick that I had done in my mouth, and was quick to point out that, if I booked the job on the spot, she would be happy to reduce that cost to �445. How joyously benevolent of her. She had done her company out of �85 in a matter of seconds! Still . . . �445 is well in excess of the (coincidentally) �85 I had managed to put aside throughout the year, purely to cover the cost of MOT repairs. By now, my mouth was quite dry, and although I�m sure noises were coming out of it, it would�ve been optimistic to call them words. So, bless her heart, she decided to help me further by offering to reduce the price to �390 if I booked and paid there and then. Wow! This is now �140 (remember that figure!) less than the original quote. I had no idea that Autoglass were a charity assisting struggling motorists. Surely they should have Princess Ann as their Patron.   But, �390 is still �305 more than I had, so I had to reluctantly sob my goodbyes to the generous young lady, promising to myself that I would organise a beetle drive among the residents of the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans, to raise funds for the work of this wonderful organisation. I bet this heart-warming tale has brought a tear to your eye, too! So, wondering if there were any other charitable organisations to help me, I got onto Google, and phoned round. I found a very helpful little company called �Screensaver UK� who offered to do the job for �140 + VAT.   Allow me to summarise. Autoglass, a national windscreen company that is the preferred repairer for the vast, vast majority of UK motor insurers, with all the purchasing power that entails, would have been happy to fit my windscreen for �530, had I said "yes" at the time. Even if they had incurred the same costs as Screensaver UK, they would have made �362 more profit. They have no conscience! And yet if I have them all killed, I would be the criminal! What kind of crazy society do we live in? Why do we tolerate organisations that would anally rape their own grandmothers for the chance at getting an extra penny out of us?   That�s why I�m quite cross!

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Trivia quiz

Some trivia for you   Hello, and welcome to the GhostOfClayton twice fornightly blog. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin. . . .   The club in our village runs monthly quiz nights during the 'off-season' months. Each month they have a different 'guest host' (a bit like Have I Got News For You? does, since Angus Deayton's little 'ahem' adventure with a prostitute and some cocaine.)   Anyway, to cut a long story short, I do the Christmas and Easter ones, and I've made a start on setting the questions for the Christmas bash. A couple of questions may be of interest to this forum (one that you should all know the answer to, and one that, hopefully, may cause you to exercise your brain cells.)   Q1. What was known to the Romans as the Mare Nostrum? (Shame on you if you don't know that one!)   Q2. Which modern word derives from the Roman practice of posting news items at a junction of three roads?   Later addition: Q2a. What was the name of Frankie Howerd�s character in �Up Pompeii�?   Answers in the next GhostOfClayton twice-fortnightly blog.     Exciting, huh?   Another (non-Roman) question:   Q3. Which English electronic 'new wave' band formed in Sheffield, in 1977, and had hits with (among others) "Don't You Want Me?", "Mirror Man", and "(Keep Feeling) Fascination"?   I'll tell you the answer to that one now. Human League. Why did I ask? Because tomorrow night, I shall be going to Sheffield City Hall to see none other than Human League. Exciting, huh? (the answer to that question, by the way, is 'Yes', though 'Not Half!' is also acceptable.)   Update (Wednesday 1st December)   It seems my dream of seeing Human League is fated to go unfulfilled. The little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans is under half a metre of snow, and it's still falling. The Ghostmobile is stuck at the end of the drive at OfClayton Towers, able to move neither backwards nor forwards. Curses!     Weekly stuff   Only 73 more days to go until The Eagle of the Ninth.   Asterix book of the week is 'Asterix The Gaul'.  

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

On Friday, I fought a chicken curry, and lost!

Hello, and welcome to the GhostOfClayton twice-fortnightly blog. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.   Laid low by a humble curry   On Friday night, I scraped the ice from the GhostMobile in order top take Mrs OfClayton and a few friends for a meal out. We battled our way through the snow, out of Aquis-of-the-Romans, and down the Ermine Street, to a pub in the countryside, and a very fine night was had by all. I chose the chicken curry, which was delicious, followed by bread & butter pudding (also delicious). However, in the very early hours of Saturday morning, I was rudely awakened by severe stomach cramps. I almost ran through to the bathroom arrving just in time. The next memory I have is waking up to the sight of blood (lots of it) on floor tiles, and the tiles themselves where quite a lot closer than I'm used to seeing them (in fact just a few inches away). Piecing together the available information, I surmise I must've passed out and fallen forwards. Luckily, I must've broken my fall using my forehead, if the large lump left behind was anything to go by. I'm pleased I wasn't conscious to experience that blow! It split the top of my nose open (that was where the blood came from). Anyway, all's well that ends well, and I'm now OK, other than the cuts and bruises to my face, which have robbed me of my devastating good looks!     Pompeii   I know, I know . . . I normally publish this twice-fortnightly blog on Mondays, and today is Wednesday. I'm sure you've been beside yourselves with anticipation for two days! Anyway, there's method in my madness. I was waiting to see Pompeii on BBC2 last night to say a few words about it. I have eagerly awaited this programme for many weeks, now, and I want to get it on record that I wasn't the least bit disappointed. It was a wonderful peice of TV. The subject matter was well chosen, concentrating on the life of the inhabitants of Pompeii, rather than their demise. Mary Beard was perfect for the job. Not the usual dry history buff, but an entertaining lady with a twinkle in her eye, whose enthusiasm leapt out of the screen. My job is not safe!!!   Given the lateness of this blog, I won't bore you with an Asterix book of the week, or tell you how many days until you can see 'The Eagle of the Ninth'. You'll have to wait until next Monday. I'll just get this published so you can get on with reading it!

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

An Englishman in New York

I need a little break from doing research, so here I am, blogging. If you read my last blog, you�d know that I shall be doing a �gig� in The Big Apple in May. Doing tours for the first time is always a frustrating experience. You can�t give �oh, it�s my first time� as an excuse to a group who have each parted with a significant wedge of cash. You need to arrive knowing the place like the back of your hand, as if you�d lived there all your life, having made friends of all the contacts long before touching down at JFK.   . . . and it�s a big old place. That�s the first thing that struck me. How fortunate that I have Google Earth, and Google Streetview to help me. How truly wonderful these tools are to the man/woman who wants to blag a status as a native New Yorker. Having spent hours navigating my way along Lexington Avenue, crossing Brooklyn Bridge, and staring up in wonder at the Empire State Building, I�m now happy I can pop up from a subway station knowing where I am, and where I�m going. . . and all without leaving the house, or losing a single member of the group.   Of course, the reality will be different. It will rain. Restaurants will lose reservations. Prices will unexpectedly rise above budgets. A wallet will disappear, only to be found in the wife�s handbag after the police report has been filed, the insurance company notified, and the British Consulate contacted. Someone will pipe up whilst ordering their first meal, �what do you recommend for a celiac vegan with a nut allergy and lactose intolerance, who doesn�t like tomatoes?� I have to feed you for 7 more days � I recommend you pass me your handkerchief for me to cry into, or hide behind when I can no longer hold my professional, caring smile. I also recommend you don�t ever go to Texas, or France. None of these things happen on Google Streetview.   And keeping the group together in crowded city streets? It will be like herding cats!

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

I'm not a racist, but . . . .

I'm not a racist, but . . . I am totally hung up with the thought that someone might think I am. It's almost like a mini-obsession. It would be the worst thing in my little world if anyone else (especially someone belonging to an ethnic minority) got an impression that I might be. And I think the majority of white English folk are just the same as me.   It would be all well and good if this hang up didn't affect our behaviour, but it does. There's a bit of an urban legend that someone went into Starbucks (or similar) and was served by a black Barista. "Erm . . can I order a . . . white coffee . . but without milk?" the customer asked. "That would be a black coffee, then?", the Barista replied. This may or may not be true, but I suspect any English person would recognise the emotion going on in the customer. We are all (and by 'all', I mean 'me') so screwed up by Racism-guilt that there's a slight quickening of the pulse just when using the word 'black'. And when using the word 'black' to describe someone's ethnic origin, it's often spoken slightly under our breath with a little look round to see if there are any black people within earshot that will hear us utter this most heinous of racial slurs.   The other, and more terrible thing I find myself doing in my desperation, is over compensating for whatever racist tendencies I fear live deep within my psyche. I'm overly friendly to the, regrettably few, blacks and Asians I come across in my daily life. Although this is done with the best of intentions, I'm hung up about it being a patronising attitude, and loath myself for it. I can�t win!   So, what evidence do I have for projecting my own psychological dysfunction onto the majority of my own particular ethnic group (white and English)? It's this: I visited New York recently (did I mention that before?), and witnessed a whole different racial dynamic. The English, it seems to me, are so screwed up about racism, that they worry that even acknowledging racial differences may single them out as being racist. Their ideal is not to even see someone's colour, but to just see the person. Sounds good. Sounds like a world that John Lennon would have loved to live in. However, in New York, and especially in Harlem, I witnessed ethnic differences not only being openly acknowledged, but respected and even celebrated. I even saw black people being called black people . . . to their faces, and not even minding! The fact that I felt this to be worthy of comment shows just how screwed up I/we are.   Take the Schomburg Centre in Harlem. This is an institution dedicated to research into black culture. It's not a museum, but a dynamic, working institution, vibrant and alive (and a must-visit if you find yourself in the area). It genuinely made me a little bit jealous of those who had this wonderful, proud heritage compared to my seemingly bland and banal heritage (yes, that is up for argument, but at that moment, in that building, that's how it seemed to me).   Anyway, I think such an institute would not be possible in England, and that is truly our loss. I believe the New York way is right, and the John Lennon way is wrong. What do you think?   After word: Of course the above is slightly idealised. A minority of white English are overtly racist, and a larger minority are casually racist because their peers are also casually racist, (and they're too ignorant to know any better). And I'm sure that a native New Yorker may raise their eyebrows at my description of racial harmony and think, "that bloke's a pillock! What does he know?"   I readily accept that the blog uses sweeping generalisation to describe a complex and emotive subject. Hopefully readers will recognise that this is just to simplify the point, but I do apologise profusely . . . after all, I don't want to come across as some sort of racist!

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

I see no reason the gunpowder treason will ever be forgot

So, it�s that time of year where most of the population of England get together in order to burn an effigy of a Catholic. This has caused me quite a bit of bother this year, all due to a chain of events that can be traced unbroken back to the sad passing of OfClayton Snr. a few months ago.   Those of you who, like me, are now effectively orphaned will know that the first big task, once the funeral is behind you, is clearing your parents� house of a lifetime�s worth of accumulated clutter. When we did this following the death of Mrs OfClayton�s mum, every single artefact had to be examined nostalgically, cried over, and very, VERY, reluctantly, discarded. It took forever. Although I am not half so sentimental as my other half, and was happy to bin all my old baby clothes/teddy bears/school books, etc. from the loft, the sheer volume of it all meant that it was still a pretty long job.   To make things easier, I brushed the dust off my old trailer, hacked it free of last year�s undergrowth, and filled it up. It survived the first trip to the skip, but on returning to OfClayton Snr.�s bungalow, I found that the ancient tyres had perished to the point where a second trip was inadvisable. New tyres required!   So I tried to remove the wheels, resulting in the sheering off of one of the bits-that-you-screw-the-wheelnuts-onto (you can guess that I�m no great shakes with mechanical jiggery-pokery). After careful consideration, I decided that three out of four wheelnuts would proably do the job, so took the wheels to the tyre centre to have the tyres replaced. After much sucking of teeth, and sharp intakes of breath, they decided that it was a specialist size, and replacing the tyre would cost more than a new trailer. This, combined with the wheelnut-thing-sheering-off incident, and the age of the trailer, made me reluctantly accept that I needed a new trailer.   �OK�, I said to a colleague the next day. �I�m going into town to see if I can find a trailer.� �My Dad�s selling a trailer�, says he. So we went to have a look. What a magnificent trailer it was! I drooled. It was huge! And best of all, the owner was happy to swap for some of OfClayton Snr�s golf equipment (no good to me). One problem � it was too wide to fit in between the Main House and the Garage Block at OfClayton Towers. I didn�t want to leave it at the front where it could fall victim to any waif/stray that happened through the sleepy little village of Aquis of the Romans. It would have to be housed within the Garage Block. But what about when the winter comes, and I need to put the GhostMobile in the Garage Block? Hmm . . . problem. Luckily for me, I know someone who will deal with this � Future OfClayton. What a guy Future OfClayton is. I pass so many of my problems on to him to deal with, which means I don�t have to worry about them.   Anyway, the months wore on. I used the trailer to clear OfClayton Snr�s bungalow, and many, many other jobs, and the Catholic burning weekend approached. �I know,� said the man who lives at the end of my garden, �let�s have a bonfire party � we can use OfClayton Towers.� Very good of him to nominate my grounds for his party, but we were invited, so not too bad. Another resident of the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans approached me. �If you bring your trailer, I�ve got a load of old wood for the fire.� So now I have a problem � a trailer load of wood, and no way to get it to the bonfire. What on earth possessed Past OfClayton to buy this huge trailer? What an idiot that boy is! My Saturday was spent removing two fence panels and digging out a concreted-in fencepost, just to create a gap wide enough for Past OfClayton�s stupid sodding trailer! Past OfClayton, you will be the death of me!   And my Sunday was spent concreting in a new fence post, and replacing the fence panels. The GhostMobile is in the garage, and the trailer is stored away in the back garden. How am I going to get the trailer back out of the garden? That sounds like a job for Future OfClayton! I�m sure he�ll think of something.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Quantum jump

I�ll start with a seemingly random series of stuff that�s happened (or is going to happen) to me, and then explain their relevance.   Number 1. I spent much of December sitting behind a desk. The downside is apparent to anyone who has to sit behind a desk. The upside is that I got paid for it, and so am now the proud owner of some money.   Number 2. Every Christmas, Kindle have an event called The 12 Days of Kindle. This involves reducing the price of many great titles to (usually) 99p. A title called �How to Teach Quantum Physics to Your Dog� caught my eye, and I�ve been reading it with interest. It taught me one thing: There are two types of people, those who don�t know what quantum physics does, and don�t understand how it does it, and those who DO know what quantum physics does, and don�t understand how it does it. Thanks to the book, I�m moving from the former camp to the latter. I will hasten to point out that I�m not some scientific genius (though I did get a Physics A-level). The concepts are not beyond any reasonably scholarly person. Read it � you�ll see what I mean.   Number 3 � The Radio Times hit the doormat of OfClayton Towers yesterday. On the cover was a big picture of Professor Brian �all the men want to be him, all the women want to be with him� Cox, advertising the upcoming �Stargazing Live� TV event. They did this a while back. Very good telly. Very interesting. Made me want to get involved.   Number 4 � I�ve been watching a few episodes of the wonderfully funny Frasier. Classic comedy. US TV at its best.   Number 5 - I live in the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans, which is inconveniently located at the arse end of nowhere!   So, how are these all connected? Well, seeing Frasier (who has a nice refractor telescope, seemingly only ever used to observe people in neighbouring apartment blocks), made me realise how much I�ve always wanted a telescope. And now Stargazing Live is due on our TV screens just at the time when I have some money in my pocket. Bad timing! I should seriously consider using that money to buy food, water, a roof over my head, brake pads for the GhostMobile, etc. etc. However, I still find myself pricing up telescopes, and looking up at the un-light-polluted night sky above Aquis-of-the-Romans wondering about the bejewelled firmament that could be just a couple of lenses and a mirror away.   What has that to do with Quantum Physics? I hear you ask. Well, in order to explain, I�ll have to teach you something about quantum physics. This is why I mentioned I had an A-level in Physics earlier. It wasn�t to blow my own trumpet, far from it. It was to highlight the fact that I�m in no position to teach even classical physics, let alone quantum physics. But I will, anyway (what a rebel!) One of the enigmas in quantum physics is that particles like photons, electrons, etc, behave like a wave and as a particle. These are mutually exclusive, but they happen. Go figure! The upshot of this is that, if you take, say, a photon and send it somewhere, it can take any number of different routes to get there. It doesn�t just take one of them, it takes them all, though some of them are more probable than others, and plotting just how probable creates something that behaves like a wave. I didn�t state that very well, and any respectable physicist would sneer, but it will do for the purposes of this blog.   Because of this, and other incongruous aspects of quantum physics, there have been many attempts to interpret why there is this seemingly so counter-intuitive behaviour at the microscopic level. One such interpretation is known as the Many Worlds interpretation. We�ve all seen the Star Trek episode where Evil Spock arrives from a parallel universe (you can tell he�s evil, because he has a goatee beard!) The physics underpinning parallel universes is this Many Worlds Interpretation. We�ve said that our photon could take any number of possible routes � countless quadrillions of them. In the MWI, the photon takes all of them, but each one seeds a new future (or parallel universe, if you will). Now imagine how many photons there have been in the whole universe since the dawn of time. How many times they have branched into these countless quadrillions of new universes, and each of those new universes instantly branching into countless quadrillions of new universes. Yikes!   Anyway, I reflected on this, and found myself thinking thus. In the multiverse (the term coined for the collected whole of all these universes), there must be incalculable numbers of GhostOfClaytons, who think �sod it!�, and blow all their money on a telescope they can ill afford. Given just how many of them there are (countless quadrillions), surely I would be forgiven for taking the plunge, wouldn�t I?

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Per Pecunia Ad Astra

Warning: This blog contains a word that I’m not sure about, but may be a swear word. I don’t even know how to spell it, so you’re probably on safe ground.   Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Allow me to introduce myself to new bloggees (yeah, right!). I am a tour guide specialising in hiking tours of Hadrian’s Wall, and am widely regarded as the thinking woman’s man-totty. 50% of the previous statement is true, which should be a guide to how much of the following you should believe.   Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.   How to reach the moon in 200 very easy steps Is getting your hair to the moon the same as ‘you’ reaching the moon? If not, how much of ‘you’ would have to reach the moon to say ‘you’ had reached the moon? Is a strawberry dead? These are the sort of philosophical questions that I won’t be touching with a barge pole this week. What they do do, is give me the opportunity to tell those of you who haven’t already heard about it, all about a really exciting endeavour that’s doing the news rounds at the moment. You see, a blog is a very powerful tool for good. I can use it to reach out to all of you (alright, both of you), and spread the word about how you can make the world a better place (arguably).   I am referring to a little enterprise called Lunar Mission One. You can read all about it on their website (www.lunarmissionone.com), or you can hear it from my inexpert and opinionated self. The decision is yours. Ah . . . you’re still here . . . . good choice.   You see, some boffins have taken it upon themselves to put a probe on the moon, and are funding this gargantuan project using kickstarter money. This is the on-line equivalent of sitting outside Marks & Spencers with a begging bowl and a bored dog, although the ends are considerably more worthy than four cans of super strength lager. So, what is my incentive to dedicate part of the OfClayton Fortunes to this very worthy venture? Well, at the cheaper end (three British pounds) you get “Our eternal thanks”. Nice, but as OfClayton Senior used to say, put eternal thanks in a bucket, and you’ve got an empty bucket. Part with more wonga, and the benefits steadily increase, through a subscription to the newsletter, membership of the ‘Missions Club’, and so on, until (at £60, you can ‘Reserve your place in space’). Yes, honestly. No doubt, you are now dreaming of the moment you place your boot print in the dusty Lunar regolith and say something hugely profound about the size of your step, before a bunny hopping tour of a cratered landscape, under the patient gaze of the blue marble that is Mother Earth.   No. Put that right out of your head.   ‘Reserving your place in space’ bags a few kilobytes on a USB stick (or similar) for you to write your digitised photo/message/symphony, etc., and that USB stick will live out eternity on the moon. At least until some far-future astronaut tries to plug it into his iPhone 42 and a ‘501 error’ is returned due to compatibility issues (even after he switches it off and back on again.)   No, you will need to have to start shelling out much more before ‘Your place in space’ is realised. £200 will put you on the moon. Not all of you, granted. You will have to leave a small part of you behind. That small part will consist of everything that isn’t a single strand of your hair. But you will be on the moon for eternity.   Do I sound cynical? I am not. This is fricking awesome stuff. I wish it well, and really hope it comes off. That’s why I’m blogging about it, to try and spread the word. Look, I’ve even put sensible tags at the top of this blog. My track record isn’t good for taking tags seriously, so that should tell you something. So, will I be investing? I’m still torn. My ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude to money is apparent to anyone who has followed my adventures so far. So, yes, it would be quite plausible if a few quid did ‘easy go’ towards this laudable enterprise. Trouble is, when you have an ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude to money, and you need some money to fulfil your duty to the second half of that attitude, you find that the money you gained from the former half already ‘easy went’ somewhere else.   Sod it . . I can always sell a kidney. It’s not as if I’ll be taking it with me on my trip to the moon.   The Moon on a Stick Looking at the above, it’s apparent that Mohamed won’t be going to the Mountain, figuratively speaking, anytime soon. So you know what you want? You want the Moon on a Stick. Ha Ha. A large group of people will recognise that catchphrase, albeit a Venn Diagrammatically discrete group from the group of people who read this (i.e. you). Hold onto that thought, though. Clarity will come later.   As most (both) of you know, I spend an awful lot of time in planes, trains and automobiles. I used to listen to a huge amount of music to while away the hours, but fan that I am of good music, I did start to yearn for something a little more intellectually stimulating after Regina Spektor’s ‘The Calculation’ came round for the 6th time. It was then I started listening to Podcasts. Now, there are prolific podcasters, and high quality podcasters, but very few who manage to pull off both tricks at the same time. One podcaster who seems to achieve this with a reasonable degree of ease is a comedian called Richard Herring. He, along with his comedy partner of the time (a guy called Stewart Lee) were very big in the UK in the late 80s and early nineties, but then disappeared from the schedules to a degree. Stewart Lee is now back on the small screen now and again, but Richard Herring has eschewed the strict requirements of language/behaviour/taste imposed by big broadcasters, in favour of the more experimental (and un-censored) comedy vehicle that is the internet.   Now for that moment of clarity I promised you earlier. A sort of catchphrase of Richard Herring’s when he and Stewart Lee were on the telly was, “You want the Moon on a stick.”   You might think that the above two articles aren’t too closely related over and above the inclusion of the word ‘Moon’. Not so. You see Richard Herring is also using crowd funding to raise cash for comedy projects delivered over the internet, and I’d also like to use the power of the blog to spread the good word. www.richardherring.com is where to go to donate, or to find routes to all his free comedy material. It has my personal recommendation. It will make you laugh, and therefore make you happy.   So which should you invest in? Furthering the knowledge of the human race, or furthering the happiness of the human race? That’s another one of those philosophical questions I won’t be touching with a barge pole.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

My heart bleeds for them

Hello, and welcome to my blog. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.   The law of unintended consequences I was listening to Nigel Farage being interviewed on the radio this morning (the picture isn't him, by the way). For those who don’t know him, he’s the leader of a New-Kid-On-The-Block-Far-Right-We’re-Not-Racist-But-We-Have-To-Keep-Saying-We’re-Not-Racist political party in the UK. Now you won’t be surprised to learn that I don’t agree with very much he says. However, this morning I found myself agreeing with him. He has an aspiration to reduce immigration to the UK, and the figure that’s being bandied about is 50,000 per annum. He was being a little evasive when pressed about that target though, saying it was more of an aspiration than a hard and fast target to which UKIP should be held if ever they (God forbid!) get into power. I know what he meant though, he sees it as being more of a strategy, something that would influence the way they would govern. It would be the ‘spirit’ of what they do rather than some we-must-reach-50,000-at-all-costs-no-matter-how-we-do-it goal. He didn’t want this target to stop the ‘right’ people immigrating. This is fair enough. I don’t like hard-and-fast targets, because they tend to change the motivation of people. If you phone an IT support desk (for example) with a problem, sometimes you get the impression the operator is motivated to close your call, rather than provide the help you need. That’s because he or she is some poor sap working in a Hyderbad call centre, and how much money he gets to spend on feeding his or her family is directly dependant on how many calls he closes, rather than how much help he provides. I would be the same, and so would you. And these kinds of targets have caused as much harm as good within the National Health Service for exactly that reason. Staff are motivated to meet the targets, rather than being motivated to care and cure.   My heart bleeds for them Mr Farage went on to say that he didn’t want to set a target because people are bored with them. That’s where I stopped agreeing with him. I’m frustrated by targets, but not bored. Go on, ask me what people ARE bored by. I’ll tell you. It’s just how often you hear rich people moaning about how bloody awful it is to be rich. Let me quote talented singer/songwriter Adele, talking about tax:   "I'm mortified to have to pay 50%! I use the NHS, I can't use public transport any more. Trains are always late, most state schools are shit, and I've gotta give you, like, four million quid – are you having a laugh? When I got my tax bill in from [my album] 19, I was ready to go and buy a gun and randomly open fire."   Let’s ignore the last phrase and hope it isn’t an early sign of a major psychotic episode on her part. Instead, let’s do the maths (translation for US readers: let’s do the math.) She had to pay 50% tax, and this totalled £4,000,000. Let me get may calculator out, so she had . . . clickety-click-click . . . £8,000,000 to start off with. (Concentrate; I know there are a lot of zeroes going on here, but bear with it). So let me just work out what she’s left with to spend . . . . erm . . . oh yes, £4,000,000. Is that all? I’m so sorry I doubted you, Adele. Your life must be really shit! Maybe we can have a whip-round for you. I’ll tell you what, I don’t pay much in the way of tax. Wanna swap incomes?   But it’s the irony of what she’s saying that must be lost on her. Maybe if people like her started doing their bit for the society that made them multi-millionaires in the first place, the state schools would be a bit less shit.   The other main gripe you’ll hear from rich people is “I may have lots of money, but I work hard for it”. It’s apparent to me that this statement is rarely, if ever, true – the more people earn, the less hard they work. What people are doing when they say this, is mistaking the concept of “working hard” for that of “working long hours”. The people who pick the vegetables that find their way on to your dinner plate? They work hard. A&E nurses work hard. Coal miners work hard. Sitting in an office on the top floor of a Canary Wharf tower holding a teleconference with the New York office until 10:00pm is unwelcome, inconvenient and irritating. It may even be stressful. Though, if you’re stressed by the prospect of losing your job and having to live out your life on what miserable few million pounds you can eke out of your stock portfolio, then you’re not seeing the bigger picture. My heart bleeds for you.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

I'll stick to buying just one cake

Good morrow to thee, Blogees, and welcome one and all to the GhostOfClayton 'Increasing Less Frequent Than Twice-Fortnightly' blog. Comfortable? OK!   Horizon   BBC2's flagship science series 'Horizon' has been in top form of late, but the recent offering 'Science Under Attack' left me almost trembling with frustration. The aim of the programme was to highlight the current trend in society to (at best) mis-trust and (at worst) disbelieve and actively attempt to discredit the scientific majority view, and at the forefront of this seem to be the more right-wing newspapers, though they are by no means exclusive. The general tendency is for them to cherry-pick scientific data and news stories that meet their political agenda, rather than having their political agenda formed by peer-reviewed scientific study. A common tactic is to hint at some political hidden agenda among the scientific community, who are clearly plotting to invent conclusions in order to allow governments to exercise greater control over all our lives.   On the whole, very, very few scientists (apart from the ones who are funded by corporations) have weird little political hidden agendas. Politicians, journalists and activists have those, so who are we going to choose to listen to?   The majority of people will always listen to those opinions that reinforce their beliefs. It is very difficult for a human being to embrace a way of thinking that goes against what they have always (wanted to) believe. For example, many Americans choose to listen to their right wing media (e.g. Fox News) because they�re worried they may have to (say) use a smaller car if there is any truth to global warming. If the average man/woman in the street understands this concept, they tend not to alter their behaviour as a result, so the only conclusion is that they will never change.   I like to think of UNRV people as cognoscenti (don�t look it up � if you have to look it up, you�re not one) and so should be able to grasp the concept. UNRV people don't, however, have the time to devote to collating all the peer-reviewed research, and reading/understanding it merely to form an opinion that drives our behaviours. The science involved is too complex. Therefore we have to accept that our opinions must be guided by others. We have the choice whether that be the majority view of the scientific community, or the media. I know whose mast I shall be nailing my colours to.   My ire was reserved most especially for the bloody stupid hack (pardon my French) that uncovered so-called 'Climategate'. In my moment of maximum ire, I told Mrs OfClayton that if he were to be taken out and shot, I would be buying cakes! I quickly realised that this was just the sort of comment that you might hear on Fox News. So, as an egalitarian, I have reluctantly tempered my views towards him very slightly.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

I didn't notice when it happened . . . .

Wilkommen ins meinen Blog! Setzen sie alles bequem? Also . . . . .   I may have mentioned it before, but I chair meetings of the 'Aquis-of-the-Romans Residents Association'. The social committee had decided that it would be a good idea to hold a sort of Easter F�te at the local Club, and so held a meeting for all interested parties to plan it out. It was decided that, in order to amuse the kiddies of the village, someone should dress as the Easter Bunny and hand out Easter Eggs, judge the Easter Bonnet competition, that kind of thing (and presumably a lot of hopping).   "So", the meeting chair said, "all we need is a volunteer to wear the bunny costume." To my horror, all eyes turned to me expectantly. I went into a cold sweat, and panicked a little, before remembering my Get-Out-Of-Jail free card.   "OK", I said, relieved to have the trump card in the deck, "if you can find a costume that will fit me, I'll wear it." Being 6'2" and massively overweight, I knew myself to be in a winning position � no fancy dress costume would fit. The ladies of Lark Rise (an outlying hamlet to Aquis-of-the-Romans) looked at each other with a knowing smile, and then back to me. "We'll make you one."   I'm not sure, but I think I might just have done a little bit of sick in the back of my mouth! So now, here I am, trapped. I'm not sure exactly when it was that I started living in a sitcom.  

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

It's a date . . .

Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.   An investigative report into dating websites Before I give you my in-depth expose on dating websites, let me tell you how my interest was initially sparked. In order to do that, I will have to transport you way, way back in time to meet the young OfClayton just as he took his first fresh-faced steps into that biggest of all Mug’s Games, working for a living. The boy you are to meet had found that a regular pay packet had delivered a previously unaccustomed degree of wealth. That boy also lived in a village where there were few places to spend it, other than the pub.   At about this time another young chap moved in next door but one, who soon joined a little circle of Young OfClayton’s drinking buddies. This man’s name was not ‘Jimmy’, but we all called him Jimmy, because he called everyone else Jimmy. That logic seemed to make perfect sense at the time, so we’ll move on. Jimmy was a whizz with anything mechanical, and scratched a living by fixing tractors and other agricultural machinery. He rented a couple of bays of a workshop from another, though quite elderly, tractor-fixer call Th’od Norm. For those unfamiliar with the dialect, this translates as ‘The Old Norm’.   One day, The-Yet-To-Be-Mrs-Jimmy phoned Th’od Norm in her capacity as someone who worked for his insurance broker. Once the business had been transacted, Th’od Norm asked The-Yet-To-Be-Mrs-Jimmy if she had a boyfriend. She answered in the negative, and Th’od Norm said something like “Hang on a minute, I’ll get you one”, handed the phone to Jimmy, and to cut a long story short, within a few short years The-Yet-To-Be-Mrs-Jimmy became The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy. That’s pretty much how dating worked in those days. No need for websites like yourmatesgotagirlfriendsoyoushouldhaveone.com, when there were people like Th’od Norm in the world.   Anyway, it so happened that The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy had a friend who was single at the time, a relationship status shared by the boy that was OfClayton, so they invited us both along to that most romantic of venues, the Birmingham Motor Show, and to cut a long story short, the young lady in question became Mrs OfClayton a few short years later.   Let’s now wind the clock forward to a mere couple of years ago. Jimmy and The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy had enjoyed many years of happy marriage, when out of the blue something very unexpected happened. Jimmy walked out. Left for good. Why? I really don’t want to air his dirty washing in public, but suffice it to say there was no third party involved, I had a small degree of sympathy for his reasons (but only a small one), and Mrs OfClayton thought he was being a selfish bastard (her language can get fruity when roused).   Obviously, The-Can-No-Longer-Realistically-Be-Called-Mrs-Jimmy was distraught at first, but (as most people do) she did eventually get used to her new single life. To a reasonable degree, she got over what must have been a very traumatic episode, and started to move on. The problem was, times had changed in the intervening 30 years. You see, when people from Th’od Norm’s generation played Cupid, it was all very direct. When people from The-Is-Now-Actually-Mrs-Jimmy’s generation played Cupid, it was a little more subtle. Nowadays, Cupid has moved so far away from the direct approach, that people need to take matters in to their own hands much more than in the past. It wasn’t too long ago that people needing to find a partner might place a little ad in a dedicated column in the local newspaper, but society tended to judge those people as being just a little desperate. Technology moved on, and the same system moved to the internet, but still there was just a hint of desperation about it. Now, however, internet dating is not only widely accepted, it has become a fairly standard way to hook-up with a mate. The-Can-No-Longer-Realistically-Be-Called-Mrs-Jimmy took to it like a duck to water. She lost a few pounds, smartened herself up, bought some clothes that showed off her new figure to alluring effect, and now pretty much uses Match.com like a lending library. Good luck to her.   So there’s been an interesting social change going on over the last 30 years, which deserves some thorough investigation. Here’s what I know (in actual fact, this is my current perception, not based on any actual facts or research):   Match.com was one of the first dating websites. It seems to be the most popular, with a pretty much all-encompassing demographic.   There’s also eHarmony, which seems to be for a slightly ‘better-class’ of love-seeker. I put that in quotes so as not to seem a bit like a snob – I’m aware it didn’t work.   Recently advertised on late-ish night TV has been a website known as UniformDating.com, which is for “people who work in uniform, or fancy those that do”. The first bit of that sentence, I’m fine with. Firefighters, Police, etc. work unsociable hours, and so maybe need a bit of help to find the right ‘one’. The second part of that sentence seems to lend it a slightly seedy undertone that I can’t quite put my finger on. And yes, this is a little hypocritical when my views on the nurses who work for the Blood Transfusion Service are already a matter of record.   If you’re ‘same-sex’, then there’s a well-known app called Grindr (pronounced 'Grinder') you can bung on your smartphone.   The equivalent for none-same-sex people (I think) is called Tinder (or is it Tindr?). I once saw a newspaper article about it where the headline contained the words “. . . gets you more ass than . . ”, so my assumption is that this is for those seeking a more casual hookup.   There was another one whose name I can’t remember, but it was advertised on late night TV for a while. It unashamedly positioned itself as the website for people who pretty much wanted to cut straight to the nooky, without all that tedious mucking about with single red roses and meeting the parents/kids.   That concludes my in-depth analysis of dating websites. OK, it wasn’t all that ‘in-depth’. You see, I really daren’t do any further research in case Mrs OfClayton looks at my browser history and jumps to the wrong conclusion. Especially given her reaction to Jimmy’s departure from the marital home.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Baa Baa Black Sheep

Back in the UK now.   After a long and tiring day on Saturday spent on the French TGV, the EuroStar, and then the East Coast Main Line, I had one day's rest . . . which I spent doing laundry, shopping, ironing, cutting the grass, etc., etc.   On Monday I found that I had agreed to do some voluntary work for one of the RSPB reserves that line the Humber Estuary. An interesting day. The reserve own a flock of Hebridean sheep     which require regular maintenance, and today was the day they needed their feet seeing to. Sheep, you see, get foot rot. This is caused by a nasty, but quite wimpy bacterium, which dies on exposure to air. So a little (painless) trimming of the leathery covering of their feet, followed by an antibiotic spray, usually cures the problem within a few days (though sometimes the treatment needs to be repeated if they're still limping). So, the plan was as follows: I 'tip' the sheep - an operation that positions it on its bum with its feet sticking straight out - and the RSPB lady (Karen) trims and sprays the feet, and marks its head with a spot of blue paint. The problem is that, upon arrival, all the sheep are milling about in a field, free to run away when approached by, say, a big, ugly hiking guide.   However, the reserve also own a nifty sheepdog, and with a few whistles and "come by"s from Karen, the sheep were soon penned in together in a milling and uncountable mass. To state an obvious truth: It's very hard to spot a limping sheep in a milling and uncountable mass. To state another obvious truth: Having spotted a limping sheep, it's very hard to keep track of it in a milling and uncountable mass. Imagine trying to keep track of one bee in a swarm! There is no easy tip or trick to counter these obstacles. You just have to dive in and grab the thing by the handles (or 'horns', as they're known when you're not trying to grab them.)   So, now I have hold of my ovine victim by the 'handles', I need to 'tip' it. "The one thing you must remember," says Karen, "is that YOU are stronger than the sheep." OK. Seems another pretty obvious truth, thinks I. Not as obvious as you might think. A sheep is pretty much a ball of muscle with a very wilful temperament. Not at all as I was expecting. They never stop struggling for a second, and they are a LOT stronger than they look. In order to 'tip' the damn things, they need to be lifted sufficiently far off the ground so that their back legs can't make contact with it, and then turned over. This needs to be in mid air, because any slightest purchase their back legs get on mother Earth is going to cause you trouble.   But eventually, I got baa-baa-black-sheep (or the 'big old whether' as Karen called it) on its bum, with its horns pressing painfully into my legs, holding onto one horn, and keeping it down with my other hand on its chest. . . and it does not stop struggling for a second. To do this single handed and shear the thing must be very hard, and to keep that up one sheep after the other all day. I have massive respect for sheep shearers.   Anyway, Karen now expertly trims the feet, sprays the various cans of spray, and I can let it go. Now to repeat the process with the next one . . . and the next . . . and so on. It occurs to me why Karen felt the need to point out that I am stronger than a sheep. I was stronger than the first one, and the second, and the third, but by the time I had half a dozen under my belt, doubts were starting to set in, I can tell you! Still � all in all a very enjoyable and rewarding day out.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

A pint? That's very nearly an arm full.

Hello all, and welcome to the GhostOfClayton twice-fortnightly blog. Little warning: some of it may contain �adult themes�, but all in a proper, medical context.   A letter arrived on the doormat here at OfClayton Towers last week, and I recognised it straight away. It had a cute little anthropomorphised blood drop (who I understand to be called Billy) on the back, and I have had one of these every three months for about the last five or six years. It was the notification that the time had arrived for me to do my bit for society, roll up my sleeves, and give blood. This all started due to the tragic death of a colleague. Not a close colleague � I didn't know him. I can't even remember his name, if I'm honest. However, I do remember he was quite young, and that he died as a result of injuries sustained in an accident. A huge quantity of blood was used by the medical team in an attempt to save his life, but sadly they were unsuccessful.   Following his funeral, those colleagues that did know him better than myself decided it would be a fitting tribute to recruit as many new blood donors as possible. This sounded fitting to me as well, and so I put my name forward. Have you ever given blood? If not, here's how you go about it:   The first step is to answer the many questions on the form, which includes such gems as "Have you had oral or anal sex with a man?" (only men need answer this one) or "Have you had sex with a man that has had anal or oral sex with another man" (no-one is exempt from answering this one!) They also ask about your movements abroad, and get quite specific about the countries/dates.   Anyway, assuming you haven�t had anal/oral sex with a man, or shared a needle with same in a drug den, then you can proceed to the next stage. You hand the form to the nurse, who confirms your name/address/date of birth, pricks your finger, and squeezes a drop of your blood into a test tube of liquid. Like a medieval test for witchcraft, if it sinks, you�re OK, otherwise you�re out on your ear.   Next step, lay on your back to have your blood pressure taken (after confirming your name/address/date of birth once again!) If that's OK, they . . . I don�t know what to call it . . Hoover your arm with a wet plastic Hoover, before inserting a needle with the bore of a Volvo exhaust into your vein. Then you wait while your life force drains into a plastic bag, imagining what would happen if no-one took it out, and it just kept on draining and draining, slowly but surely emptying your body until you lost the fight with consciousness, knowing you'd never wake up again . . . . that's the kind of thing I think about, anyway.   So far, it's been fine. A nurse has always been around to remove the drainpipe from my arm, and use industrial adhesive to stick some kind of dressing over the wound. There then follows a very carefully timed lie down, sit up, swing your legs over, and back to the waiting area for orange squash and a biscuit . . . and a little sticker to say what a brave boy I�ve been.   So why do I do it. What makes the experience make me feel so good? Is it because I'm doing my 'bit' for society? Is it because the nurses there invariably have . . . well, let's just say they make the rockin' world go round, if you follow my meaning? No, none of that. It's just so I can feel smug and superior for the rest of the day. A lovely, lovely feeling.

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

Here they come, the beautiful ones.

Prof Brian 'All the guys want to be him, all the girls want to be with him' Cox   I mentioned in my last blog that the excellent Stargazing Live program started on the BBC on Monday night. It was a treat for us all. For the comedy fans, there was both the towering genius that is Dara O�Briain, and the much underrated Andy Nyman. For pretty much everyone, there was Prof Brian �All the guys want to be him, all the girls want to be with him� Cox. For fans of people who have 'the right stuff', present via comm-link was the chiselled and craggy all-American hero Capt Eugene Cernan, veteran of several Apollo missions, and the last man to set foot on the Moon (that we know about, eh, conspiracy theorists?)   Capt Gene 'Right Stuff' Cernan   Rounding off the team was Liz Bonnin (who surely must adorn the bedroom walls of many pre-pubescent nerdy-boy) reporting on the SALT telescope in South Africa.   Liz "Nerdy-boys'-dream” Bonnin   They were joined on the couch by the handsome Dr 'Boy-Next-Door' Kevin Fong, and the very easy-on-the-eye Dr Lucy Green. Are all astronomers good looking, or do the BBC just choose beautiful people to appear on our screens? I remember having quite a crush on Heather Couper when I was a pre-pubescent nerdy-boy, so maybe they are. If I ever get to own a telescope, will I become good-looking?   Dr Lucy 'Easy-on-the-eye' Green   As an aside, Prof Brian Cox is also beautifully, refreshingly and relentlessly intolerant of woolly thinking. I would love to be that intolerant of woolly thinking, but out of politeness and professionalism, I often have to tolerate it, and it pains me to do so.   Dr kevin 'Boy-next-door' Fong   I digress. I heard on the radio yesterday afternoon that live stargazing events were to be held around the country, and there was one only twenty minutes� drive from Aquis-of-the-Romans. I had to go. So myself and Mrs OfClayton headed out to the Visitor Centre at the foot of the mighty Pons Abus. We were not the only ones. The place was heaving . . and very, very dark. After briefly pausing to watch the weather being presented by the North of England�s premier comedy weatherman, giving a rare outside broadcast, we hit the sea of telescopes that had been set up on the grass beside the centre, all pointing at a different bit of the firmament, gloriously cloud free and twinkling with infinite majesty on this particular evening. I immediately joined the queue to look at Jupiter through a Dobsonian reflector (see, I know the lingo!) the size of a dustbin. Perfect view! The bands across the planet were clearly visible, as were the four principle Jovian satellites (Ganymede, Callisto, Io and Europa). I briefly looked up to see a BBC film crew bearing down on the telescope�s owner. �What are we looking at here?� asked the reporter. �Jupiter�s moons�, replied the astronomer. �OK. Could you two stage a conversation?� he indicated me. �Ask what you�re looking at, that kind of thing.� �Righto!�, I said. My whole life is an act. I could do this. They started filming, and I looked into the eyepiece. After a considered pause, I said, �Wow! Is that Jupiter?�, with a degree of enacted naivety. �Yes,� the (strangely not as good looking as a TV astronomer) telescope�s owner said. �You should be able to see the dark bands across its surface.� �I can,� I replied. �And there are some bright points of light either side of it. What are those?� That�s when it hit me. I was playing the part of the casual visitor beautifully, but people I know would be watching. They would be nudging each other saying, �That�s thickee OfClayton. He doesn�t even know about Jupiter�s moons. Ha, ha!� The thought comes too late to stop myself saying something to the effect of, �Jupiter has moons?� Oh, God! Horrid realisation that this may be more than a local BBC fiim crew, they may be national. This may go out on Stargazing Live. It may be going out as we speak. Is it also on BBC America? The BBC World Service? I could already be a global laughing stock. �EXTRA, EXTRA, the Chicago news vendor would shout across the city. �THIS JUST IN. GHOSTOFCLAYON THICK AS SHIT�. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I watched the local news later. I was on, but only as part of a sweeping shot that got the back of my head looking into a telescope. They did, however, show a vox-pop interview with the woman who had been behind me in that queue. She was far better looking than me!

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

 

The Little Magic Tea Bag Pixie

Hello all. Welcome to the GhostOfClayton Twice Fortnightly blog. You OK? Let’s do this thing.   WARNING: There is no bad language in this blog entry whatsoever. So if you were looking for some, then tough sh*t.   Poltergeist? Prepare yourselves, dear readers, for a strange and terrible tale of spine-tingling supernatural events, that will chill your blood to the very bone.   There have been some mysterious goings-on at OfClayton Towers these past few years. An unquiet spirit walks its dusty hallways. I’ve never actually witnessed this ghostly spectre, but I know it must be there because of the unnerving evidence it leaves behind it. What is this evidence? It leaves a used tea bag in the spoon rest on the kitchen top, by the kettle. Now I know that a sceptic will be saying that these could easily have been left by Mrs OfClayton or myself, but I have proof to the contrary: You see, the kitchen bin is only three paces away (I’ve counted them), and which mortal is so lazy as to be unwilling to walk three paces to the bin with a used tea bag? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever’s left (no matter how improbable) must be the truth. . . So it can only be a ghost.   Unsettling as this spectral presence is to me, I still smile when I think of it. You see, every time the phantom goes back to leave its next tea bag, it must be taken aback to find that the previous tea bag has mysteriously vanished from the spoon rest. It must think that the tea-bag has been spirited away to the bin by the Little Magic Tea Bag Pixie.   . . . from which I can segue neatly to . . . Another bucket list item well and truly ticked off. For my 50th Birthday, Mrs OfClayton bought me a voucher for a ‘Forest Segway Experience’. I cashed the voucher in on Saturday and spent a very exciting hour whizzing around in Dalby Forest on a Segway. Statistically, you’re not likely to have been on a Segway before, and so I have one piece of advice for you. DO IT. I really enjoyed it. A great feeling, and very easy to pick up how the controls work. Are you still here?

GhostOfClayton

GhostOfClayton

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