It will please old readers to know that I am the owner of a new chapmobile. Well - new compared to the old Alvis. It is actually coming up on her third birthday and her first with me.
It is NOT green. Oh No. A throbbing 3.2 litre hippy thrashing V6 petrol guzzling non-green car.
The tax now costs me as much as my first car did.
Also probably why I don't drive it very much.
Showing posts with label Boys Toys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boys Toys. Show all posts
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Friday, April 11, 2008
Question
Am I the only one who uses the buttons on the steering wheel of the car as 'forward firing machine guns'?
'Shit, too close Mav! Switch to guns...'
'Shit, too close Mav! Switch to guns...'
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Radio killed the Video star
A calm voice is needed when dealing with Air Traffic. I have just started the course to my Aviation Wireless Telegraphy operators licence.
Now - you would have thought that being a pilot of little more than a string bag with a six-volt motorbike battery for power there would be a 'private user' variant.
Well - it is the same course as any civil pilot or air traffic controller. The materials are 198 pages long and not only do you have to know the codes, abbreviations and protocols by heart for the written exam (200 Questions, passmark 90%) but you need to apply it all in 'circumstance' for the Oral exam - pass mark - 100%
Not only that - but I have to be fully conversant with the airspace laws and definitions again and the Air traffic zone and height rules again. Okay, Okay I should be current with that all the time - but I'm rusty!
It's not as if I will be flying in controlled airspace often - if at all. I am more often than not trying to avoid these places as I need to turn and thermal at whim - not fly a specific course and heading.
Still - the law's the law. I have to be able to hold the licence to fly across country - so pass it I must, even if it costs me £300 odd for the 5 nights in the class room and the exam. And to be honest my transmitter may only be 5 watts, but at three thousand feet it's audible in Bristol.
The CAA also take a rather stern line and will track you down and impose incredible fines.
Gliding ain't like powered flying - we are constantly working to stay aloft - and we use a fair amount more of the Aviating time just staying up there. Navigating - well it's all by eye (Yes I follow roads…) - so we rarely need to communicate much - unless to call downwind to land at home.
(Don't even get me started on Mode S transponder and use of European GPS compulsion, by the way - I feel about that the way you would feel if you had to have a machine readable licence on your push bike and pay for the use of it with a computer checking to see if you have permission to cycle to the pub)
So anyway - I have reading material for my trip to Foxtrot Romeo Alpha November Charlie Echo. More on that trip coming up..........
Now - you would have thought that being a pilot of little more than a string bag with a six-volt motorbike battery for power there would be a 'private user' variant.
Well - it is the same course as any civil pilot or air traffic controller. The materials are 198 pages long and not only do you have to know the codes, abbreviations and protocols by heart for the written exam (200 Questions, passmark 90%) but you need to apply it all in 'circumstance' for the Oral exam - pass mark - 100%
Not only that - but I have to be fully conversant with the airspace laws and definitions again and the Air traffic zone and height rules again. Okay, Okay I should be current with that all the time - but I'm rusty!
It's not as if I will be flying in controlled airspace often - if at all. I am more often than not trying to avoid these places as I need to turn and thermal at whim - not fly a specific course and heading.
Still - the law's the law. I have to be able to hold the licence to fly across country - so pass it I must, even if it costs me £300 odd for the 5 nights in the class room and the exam. And to be honest my transmitter may only be 5 watts, but at three thousand feet it's audible in Bristol.
The CAA also take a rather stern line and will track you down and impose incredible fines.
Gliding ain't like powered flying - we are constantly working to stay aloft - and we use a fair amount more of the Aviating time just staying up there. Navigating - well it's all by eye (Yes I follow roads…) - so we rarely need to communicate much - unless to call downwind to land at home.
(Don't even get me started on Mode S transponder and use of European GPS compulsion, by the way - I feel about that the way you would feel if you had to have a machine readable licence on your push bike and pay for the use of it with a computer checking to see if you have permission to cycle to the pub)
So anyway - I have reading material for my trip to Foxtrot Romeo Alpha November Charlie Echo. More on that trip coming up..........
Friday, August 31, 2007
The only reason why I love the EU
A title that would enrage the Devil himself, but my wits are not so discombobulated in laudanum - for I have one very good reason.
Now - I don't buy all their statist laws, the CAP is a joke, their fishery policies have plundered our waters, their socialist federation dreams are a nightmarish reality and their directives display an ever growing evidence that we are slipping into a hell of their making.
No - I have a singular and what I believe the best possible reason to love the EU - or especially - France.
In 10 days I am trundling over to France courtesy of Mr Peninsula and Mr Orient and driving to a little area south of Dijon known locally as La Bourgogne. It has a reputation for decent plonk.
Now personal taste is one thing - and whilst it can be a little inaccessible (and this is likely to stir up a heated debate more than anything else) I believe a decent Burgundy will knock the spots of all but the finest Bordeaux.
In the past Nanny has decreed that we can't bring home too much as we will make ourselves poorly and Gordo won't get all that lovely duty. The revenue men would stop, search and on the merest whim take away one's hard earned vino.
Now one can whine on about limits and the like - but this is the bit I like.
I can move freely into France from this sceptered isle and buy as much decent plonk as I wish, and not a red cent will go to the British Government.
I can bring it back in tranches of 10 cases (I reckon three trips will do it) and still not give anything to Gordo. If I personally have less than 10 cases at a time it is construed by customs to be personal (which, of course, it is).
This is just as well - because (And you heard it here...) 2005 is being heralded as the Best Vintage probably ever.
I shall be selling a kidney to ensure I have enough of this incredible year to enjoy far into my old age. I shall open every bottle safe in the knowledge that not one red cent of my enjoyment is going to the Government here.
It's not as good as free - but free from the clutches of the Whitehall Thieves is the next best thing.
Thank you France.
Now - I don't buy all their statist laws, the CAP is a joke, their fishery policies have plundered our waters, their socialist federation dreams are a nightmarish reality and their directives display an ever growing evidence that we are slipping into a hell of their making.
No - I have a singular and what I believe the best possible reason to love the EU - or especially - France.
In 10 days I am trundling over to France courtesy of Mr Peninsula and Mr Orient and driving to a little area south of Dijon known locally as La Bourgogne. It has a reputation for decent plonk.
Now personal taste is one thing - and whilst it can be a little inaccessible (and this is likely to stir up a heated debate more than anything else) I believe a decent Burgundy will knock the spots of all but the finest Bordeaux.
In the past Nanny has decreed that we can't bring home too much as we will make ourselves poorly and Gordo won't get all that lovely duty. The revenue men would stop, search and on the merest whim take away one's hard earned vino.
Now one can whine on about limits and the like - but this is the bit I like.
I can move freely into France from this sceptered isle and buy as much decent plonk as I wish, and not a red cent will go to the British Government.
I can bring it back in tranches of 10 cases (I reckon three trips will do it) and still not give anything to Gordo. If I personally have less than 10 cases at a time it is construed by customs to be personal (which, of course, it is).
This is just as well - because (And you heard it here...) 2005 is being heralded as the Best Vintage probably ever.
I shall be selling a kidney to ensure I have enough of this incredible year to enjoy far into my old age. I shall open every bottle safe in the knowledge that not one red cent of my enjoyment is going to the Government here.
It's not as good as free - but free from the clutches of the Whitehall Thieves is the next best thing.
Thank you France.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
A rambling post about sailing
We stared out of the windows out of the World of Pie at the sheeting rain on Friday night. A black dog haunted myself, the Commodore and my chum Arch Chap and co-conspirator in much of my Chappy endeavours.
An autumnal slick of rain and spray filled the night sky - this was November in July.
We were supposed to be striving with a full crew to blood, glory and treasure to sink, burn or take as a prize the fleet of bloated galleys departing the Isle of Blight to cross the chops of the channel down to Weymouth.
We were supposed to be racing.
I shall avoid the details, but we lost a full third of our crew even before first muster - one for work reasons - the other for a reason so awful - he could not be expected to deliver his duty and compliments to his slot aboard.
Our fourth and remaining crew member arrived to find us in ale and decided she should join us.
Now, we are normally chaps of resolution - we can certainly serve out the equipment aboard with only four of us - but we had complications stacking up like writs from your tailor for payment.
Firstly - crew member number four - whilst a Chappess and more than capable of handing, reefing and steering confessed to being of a somewhat more delicate disposition than normal. She too had seen our forecast.
Second, the forecast - to make it back to home port to get me to the hamster wheel on Monday we had to chase a tidal gate known as 'The Anvil'.
This meant we needed to slip at the sort of hour one is normally only just getting warmed up in a lock-in at the Belgravia gaming tables.
This meant sailing in watches - or in this case - two handed. Not a prospect we relished especially when one looked at what they met chaps were offering.
The forecast for this time was 'alarming'.
Selsey Bill to Lyme Regis SW veering W later 5-7 Occ 8, heavy rain. Rough to Very Rough.
In non yachtie speak - Blowing a full gale - with a following sea of waves 4-meters high.
We concluded by pint four, that we would rather be in here cowering in ignominy, than out there in a blue funk faced with the horrors forecast.
Democracy reigned and we voted to scratch the race.
With the pressures of racing off our mind, we set our heads straight for a loon about the Solent.
Now, Arch Chap has not been float for a couple of years and his influence on the barky has been sadly lacking.
His influence is largely on myself and the demeanour of the boat - rapidly transforming it from fragrant racing yacht to foul tub smelling strongly of recycled curry and goats. However - he means well and despite ongoing scatalogical references, it is all done in the 'best possible taste'.
Our Dear Lady Honorary chap soon smoked this and was able to present a humorous outlook on affairs. A chirpy bonhomie, even.
This was to be eroded so suddenly and with such vigour that I feared for her fortitude - and her spirit was so sapped that she was hampered in her duties the following day.
The events that caused the mental disturbance occurred in the Saloon - a communal sleeping area - as it were.
A parenthesis:
A misconception that many have of yachts, is that they are vessels of luxury.
The reality? Try and imagine a caravan with the electrics of a Skoda and the furnishings of a 1973 Mk2 Ford Cortina and you get close to it. With a hand pump toilet.
They smell of Sea water, diesel, urine and seagull poo.
Now - many Chappesses wrinkle their noses at such privations and are never seen again - this is why I salute any fragrant or high minded young filly who sails. They can take such privations with fortitude and they are oft to see off a challenge from the French or the like with alacrity.
Such 'gels' are made of stern stuff - and two generations ago would have been on the veranda with a Martin-henry seeing off the natives. (I think nowadays one might be a blogger of some note)
So what caused the turn of fortunes you ask?
It was the Commodore and the Arch chap's snoring.
A harmonic not unlike pigs trying to sing the halleluiah chorus to an air-raid siren is the closest we come to describing it.
They complement one another to form a continual tone similar to the cutting of stone….. And when they snore together the resonant harmonics make the hatches rattle and one's ears pop.
The result?
When we arose and shone, she appeared pinched, worn and troubled. Lines cut into her visage like the Corinth Canal and she had the haunted look of one who has faced phantoms and ghouls.
Needless to say - her spirit was broken. The horrors had clearly filled her head with most terrible visions - and her wits had been discombobulated such that she could barely sit upon the rail and balance the boat.
We took a simple decision.
We shall eat a hearty breakfast, potter about in the lee of the Island, moor up for some luncheon then repair to our favourite hostelry for fortification then a stiff curry - and so rest with the hatches ajar, lest we slide further into a silage like aroma.
The mooring was a fine exercise in some advanced seamanship for which I was forced to congratulate even myself (cross-tide ferry gliding donthcyerknow) and luncheon stood us until tea time of cake and biscuits and ale.
Cowes greeted us with congestion and we were forced to establish a cat's cradle of mooing lines in the second harbour. I am delighted to report that we provided no spectacle in the Internationally renowned hobby of 'watching other people make a hash of their moorings'.
I brought the barky in and gently kissed it alongside a visiting Frenchman, no doubt spying.
Ale soon ensued, and a thumping good curry.
One to write about no less.
News which delighted our ears was that two thirds of the race fleet retired due to heavy weather citing gear failures aplenty - spars and sailcloth carried before the winds.
We congratulated ourselves on our wisdom, wit, choice of curry house and all round greatness and settled to a night of rich loamy aroma and autumnal marbling smells - while the gale howled and the rain beat a tattoo on the coach roof.
Our Dear Lady Fourth Crew member took a wise option and slept in the forepeak - with double bulkheads and ear plus.
Hubris before nemesis, as always in this column.
06.30
Annoyingly chirpy chap leaps aboard bashes his halloos and requests and requires we move the boat so he and his papa can catch the tide home.
Fiend. My sweetest dreams of home comforts and a dear friend shattered by the grey chill and a witless grin of the interloper.
The rest of the evolutions are technical, involve warping out of the basin and a reluctant sail home in the early morning gloom.
One crumb if comfort.
In our efforts, we woke the entire marina up, especially the Frenchman next to us.
We congratulated our selves on our efforts, and set off for home with vim, vigour and verisimilitude.
An autumnal slick of rain and spray filled the night sky - this was November in July.
We were supposed to be striving with a full crew to blood, glory and treasure to sink, burn or take as a prize the fleet of bloated galleys departing the Isle of Blight to cross the chops of the channel down to Weymouth.
We were supposed to be racing.
I shall avoid the details, but we lost a full third of our crew even before first muster - one for work reasons - the other for a reason so awful - he could not be expected to deliver his duty and compliments to his slot aboard.
Our fourth and remaining crew member arrived to find us in ale and decided she should join us.
Now, we are normally chaps of resolution - we can certainly serve out the equipment aboard with only four of us - but we had complications stacking up like writs from your tailor for payment.
Firstly - crew member number four - whilst a Chappess and more than capable of handing, reefing and steering confessed to being of a somewhat more delicate disposition than normal. She too had seen our forecast.
Second, the forecast - to make it back to home port to get me to the hamster wheel on Monday we had to chase a tidal gate known as 'The Anvil'.
This meant we needed to slip at the sort of hour one is normally only just getting warmed up in a lock-in at the Belgravia gaming tables.
This meant sailing in watches - or in this case - two handed. Not a prospect we relished especially when one looked at what they met chaps were offering.
The forecast for this time was 'alarming'.
Selsey Bill to Lyme Regis SW veering W later 5-7 Occ 8, heavy rain. Rough to Very Rough.
In non yachtie speak - Blowing a full gale - with a following sea of waves 4-meters high.
We concluded by pint four, that we would rather be in here cowering in ignominy, than out there in a blue funk faced with the horrors forecast.
Democracy reigned and we voted to scratch the race.
With the pressures of racing off our mind, we set our heads straight for a loon about the Solent.
Now, Arch Chap has not been float for a couple of years and his influence on the barky has been sadly lacking.
His influence is largely on myself and the demeanour of the boat - rapidly transforming it from fragrant racing yacht to foul tub smelling strongly of recycled curry and goats. However - he means well and despite ongoing scatalogical references, it is all done in the 'best possible taste'.
Our Dear Lady Honorary chap soon smoked this and was able to present a humorous outlook on affairs. A chirpy bonhomie, even.
This was to be eroded so suddenly and with such vigour that I feared for her fortitude - and her spirit was so sapped that she was hampered in her duties the following day.
The events that caused the mental disturbance occurred in the Saloon - a communal sleeping area - as it were.
A parenthesis:
A misconception that many have of yachts, is that they are vessels of luxury.
The reality? Try and imagine a caravan with the electrics of a Skoda and the furnishings of a 1973 Mk2 Ford Cortina and you get close to it. With a hand pump toilet.
They smell of Sea water, diesel, urine and seagull poo.
Now - many Chappesses wrinkle their noses at such privations and are never seen again - this is why I salute any fragrant or high minded young filly who sails. They can take such privations with fortitude and they are oft to see off a challenge from the French or the like with alacrity.
Such 'gels' are made of stern stuff - and two generations ago would have been on the veranda with a Martin-henry seeing off the natives. (I think nowadays one might be a blogger of some note)
So what caused the turn of fortunes you ask?
It was the Commodore and the Arch chap's snoring.
A harmonic not unlike pigs trying to sing the halleluiah chorus to an air-raid siren is the closest we come to describing it.
They complement one another to form a continual tone similar to the cutting of stone….. And when they snore together the resonant harmonics make the hatches rattle and one's ears pop.
The result?
When we arose and shone, she appeared pinched, worn and troubled. Lines cut into her visage like the Corinth Canal and she had the haunted look of one who has faced phantoms and ghouls.
Needless to say - her spirit was broken. The horrors had clearly filled her head with most terrible visions - and her wits had been discombobulated such that she could barely sit upon the rail and balance the boat.
We took a simple decision.
We shall eat a hearty breakfast, potter about in the lee of the Island, moor up for some luncheon then repair to our favourite hostelry for fortification then a stiff curry - and so rest with the hatches ajar, lest we slide further into a silage like aroma.
The mooring was a fine exercise in some advanced seamanship for which I was forced to congratulate even myself (cross-tide ferry gliding donthcyerknow) and luncheon stood us until tea time of cake and biscuits and ale.
Cowes greeted us with congestion and we were forced to establish a cat's cradle of mooing lines in the second harbour. I am delighted to report that we provided no spectacle in the Internationally renowned hobby of 'watching other people make a hash of their moorings'.
I brought the barky in and gently kissed it alongside a visiting Frenchman, no doubt spying.
Ale soon ensued, and a thumping good curry.
One to write about no less.
News which delighted our ears was that two thirds of the race fleet retired due to heavy weather citing gear failures aplenty - spars and sailcloth carried before the winds.
We congratulated ourselves on our wisdom, wit, choice of curry house and all round greatness and settled to a night of rich loamy aroma and autumnal marbling smells - while the gale howled and the rain beat a tattoo on the coach roof.
Our Dear Lady Fourth Crew member took a wise option and slept in the forepeak - with double bulkheads and ear plus.
Hubris before nemesis, as always in this column.
06.30
Annoyingly chirpy chap leaps aboard bashes his halloos and requests and requires we move the boat so he and his papa can catch the tide home.
Fiend. My sweetest dreams of home comforts and a dear friend shattered by the grey chill and a witless grin of the interloper.
The rest of the evolutions are technical, involve warping out of the basin and a reluctant sail home in the early morning gloom.
One crumb if comfort.
In our efforts, we woke the entire marina up, especially the Frenchman next to us.
We congratulated our selves on our efforts, and set off for home with vim, vigour and verisimilitude.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Erotic Uses for Moths
I am braced for a weekend of intense chappy activities this weekend dear reader.
I am effecting another cultural exchange with the Sultry Journalist - by taking her to a Cricket Match at the Oval. It's only 20/20 so warming her up for the total wonderment and nail biting tension of first class Cricket (5 days of terror!).
I eagerly await her return stroke - I have a terrible sinking feeling it may involve installation art or even worse poetry.
Actually poetry isn't that bad - not this modern beat rubbish - but the sort that requires 18th Century costume and looking consumptive whilst experimenting with horse tranquilizers.
My breath is baited.
She goes her on her way to a function in South London on Saturday……...However, I shall be entertaining some of my loyalest shipmates with Mr Grill.
King Prawns, Squid in turmeric and kilos of sausages shall grace the table.
The fragrant garden will be further enhanced by my inspired dog-ear-scented candles to keep the Bluebottles off the meat.
Sigismund has pointed out that Bluebottles are a good substitute for Moths, should none be available. He has requested I reserve some for his visit, keep them fed in a Jar, which he will take home amend the jar and apply to his sordid purpose.
When fed, we shall attempt to drink the cellar dry, dissuade the others from wearing the lodger's underthings on their heads (calling Tokyo…calling Tokyo…) and collect our urine in a flagon for the amusement of the local constabulary.
The weekend is rounded off by intense avaiting activity and a guided tour of the local Indonesian sitting room.
The Lavatory paper is in the fridge chilling as I type.
She will doubtless be glad of the respite. Might miss the aviating though. I have pictures, and I am NOT afraid to use them…..
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Driving Miss Daisy
Good post over at Sigismund to take our mind off the Soviet nonsense going on at the Kremlin - sorry Downing street...... clearly he is going for a script writer job for Mr Clarkson.
One build - take away the engine, and replace it with having to rely on natural atmospherics to stay aloft and you kind of have the gliding thing. Still have to do map works, radios, dodge other planes zipping about at cloud base and the nearest thing to a carrier launch in civvy street.
I do agree - some of us can navigate and communicate whilst aviating / driving.
Other news:
Chicken Yog has a good point on the Blair legacy. Here.
Fez doffed affectionately to the The Sultry Journalist..
One build - take away the engine, and replace it with having to rely on natural atmospherics to stay aloft and you kind of have the gliding thing. Still have to do map works, radios, dodge other planes zipping about at cloud base and the nearest thing to a carrier launch in civvy street.
I do agree - some of us can navigate and communicate whilst aviating / driving.
Other news:
Chicken Yog has a good point on the Blair legacy. Here.
Fez doffed affectionately to the The Sultry Journalist..
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Round The Island - a review
I think the key learning here is on drills.
Upwind - our drills were fine, the bow team soon synched to the Pit crew and it was slick throughout the day.
Challenge was on the gybes. We had the flat storm kite, so that made handling a bit easier - but we needed better coordination from sheets and guys to the bow-men.
My chief recommendation would be to swap roles for the day and spend some time playing clutches and pole dangling to get a feel for everything.
Then we work up a coordinated routine that allows for the unclip / reclip to work without losing power through the eye of the gybe.
Other than that - we worked well as a scratch crew.
When we have sorted the photos out on Flickr I'll send a link.
Hamster wheel beckons.......
Upwind - our drills were fine, the bow team soon synched to the Pit crew and it was slick throughout the day.
Challenge was on the gybes. We had the flat storm kite, so that made handling a bit easier - but we needed better coordination from sheets and guys to the bow-men.
My chief recommendation would be to swap roles for the day and spend some time playing clutches and pole dangling to get a feel for everything.
Then we work up a coordinated routine that allows for the unclip / reclip to work without losing power through the eye of the gybe.
Other than that - we worked well as a scratch crew.
When we have sorted the photos out on Flickr I'll send a link.
Hamster wheel beckons.......
Monday, June 25, 2007
Round The Island update....2 Post race analysis
Nose at the hamster wheel rather a lot this morning (at least two pissing contests coming in as many days).
I have a stack of reflections on the race at the weekend - and I intend to put a fairly weighty post up about it.
Quick run-down though:
13th in Class, less than 30 minutes off the pace, 15 minutes from podium - statistically - just on a 5% variance in performance over the duration, 2% separating us from the podium.
30th In Blue Fleet - IRC class 0.970 or below
177th Overall from 1735 registered competitors, 1550+ finishers, we DNFs and incomplete time penalties / line recalls and usual shouting at the protest meetings.
Improvement of 78 positions since previous RTIR we completed - for a scratch crew this is a laudable achievement - not only to complete but to be just that competitive - we had to be getting a lot of it right.
Quick reflection - how deep must we dig to get that 2%?
Will give an update later - but special thanks to Ralph, Paul, Francois, Maggie, Liz and Susan for making Saturday THE race of the year!
Images copyright. JP Morgan RTIR
Friday, June 22, 2007
Round The Island update....
Us. Tomorrow.Bloody Marvellous, we've had the sheet blocks plus kite pole downhaul lifted from the boat.
Not a good start.
At least Ace-Helm is down there and in the chandlers as I sit in my office and type.
Unfortunately fate has decreed I am a 100 miles from the barky - so I will be last aboard.
The upside is that the gang will have prepped the boat for sea, and be ready to slip when I arrive.
The downside......... nope. Sorry. Can't see one.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Blood and Glory
It has come round again.
The time for the loyalest of my crew to 'play up, play up and play the game.'
At six am on Saturday morning we will cross the line at the largest yacht race in the world.
Ourselves and 1,600 other boats will treat the Isle of Wight as a large roundabout in the JP Morgan Round The Island Race 2007.
For nine hours we will brave the gusts and thunderstorms forecast as we thunder around the course with professionals, Corinthians, amateurs, have a gos and entertained clients in the melee.
A day messing about on boats:
The furious tacking duels to the line with the enemy a biscuit's toss off our transom...
The mad beat down past Gurnard, Newtown, Yarmouth Roads and Hurst narrows.....
The white knuckle ride through the gap by the Vargassi wreck and into the Freshwater bay...
The furious snap of the sheets as we speed hoist the spinnaker
Blood and sea water on the Forecastle as we gybe like dervishes towards the luff point at St Catherines in the back eddies.....
Eyes squinting into the sky as we concentrate on trim and exhaust ourselves with tension...
Cold tactics and judgement in Whitesands and the chase towards Bembridge ledge....
Avoiding the shifting Ryde sands and the line astern chase through Osborne Bay and the Shrape....
Running on nervous energy alone as we reach towards the finish line hunting for position.....
Wet elation as we cross the line and cue for the prize barge to collect our tankard and usual goody bag of chapstick, torch and other promotional tat....
Quiet satisfaction as we fold rain soaked sails away and sodden cups of tea and salt water sandwiches as we hunt for a slot in Cowes.....
Plasters for blistered hands....
Tablets for soreheads and tired muscles....
Bilgewater, diesel and urine filling salt crusted noses as the adrenaline wears off and we shelter
below as those with an ounce of strength bring us alongside....
The quiet satisfaction of being there and doing it....
To the uninitiated it is just a boat race.
To those on deck - we are Hornblower, Jack Aubrey, Cochrane and Nelson himself as we battle the elements and chase glory under a cloud of sailcloth.
Every sodden, cold and nerve wrenching second worth it for that grin of the bowman from under his storm hat and the download of our results on Sunday evening.
Monday morning black blue and still bone tired and passing your stiffened gait with the weekend excuses as 'Just Sailing.'
See you on the water for a day of the chops of the channel, action, blood, glory and treasure.
To my crew our orders are simple:
Close and Engage the Enemy. Sink, Burn or Take as a Prize.
The time for the loyalest of my crew to 'play up, play up and play the game.'
At six am on Saturday morning we will cross the line at the largest yacht race in the world.
Ourselves and 1,600 other boats will treat the Isle of Wight as a large roundabout in the JP Morgan Round The Island Race 2007.
For nine hours we will brave the gusts and thunderstorms forecast as we thunder around the course with professionals, Corinthians, amateurs, have a gos and entertained clients in the melee.
A day messing about on boats:
The furious tacking duels to the line with the enemy a biscuit's toss off our transom...
The mad beat down past Gurnard, Newtown, Yarmouth Roads and Hurst narrows.....
The white knuckle ride through the gap by the Vargassi wreck and into the Freshwater bay...
The furious snap of the sheets as we speed hoist the spinnaker
Blood and sea water on the Forecastle as we gybe like dervishes towards the luff point at St Catherines in the back eddies.....
Eyes squinting into the sky as we concentrate on trim and exhaust ourselves with tension...
Cold tactics and judgement in Whitesands and the chase towards Bembridge ledge....
Avoiding the shifting Ryde sands and the line astern chase through Osborne Bay and the Shrape....
Running on nervous energy alone as we reach towards the finish line hunting for position.....
Wet elation as we cross the line and cue for the prize barge to collect our tankard and usual goody bag of chapstick, torch and other promotional tat....
Quiet satisfaction as we fold rain soaked sails away and sodden cups of tea and salt water sandwiches as we hunt for a slot in Cowes.....
Plasters for blistered hands....
Tablets for soreheads and tired muscles....
Bilgewater, diesel and urine filling salt crusted noses as the adrenaline wears off and we shelter
below as those with an ounce of strength bring us alongside....
The quiet satisfaction of being there and doing it....
To the uninitiated it is just a boat race.
To those on deck - we are Hornblower, Jack Aubrey, Cochrane and Nelson himself as we battle the elements and chase glory under a cloud of sailcloth.
Every sodden, cold and nerve wrenching second worth it for that grin of the bowman from under his storm hat and the download of our results on Sunday evening.
Monday morning black blue and still bone tired and passing your stiffened gait with the weekend excuses as 'Just Sailing.'
See you on the water for a day of the chops of the channel, action, blood, glory and treasure.
To my crew our orders are simple:
Close and Engage the Enemy. Sink, Burn or Take as a Prize.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Chap's Vacation
At last!
I have finally organised something approaching a summer holiday for myself.
Details, are of course at this stage, highly classified. However it can be certain to contain the following 'features':
Lording it up over grateful natives
Lantern Jawed Determination on the High Seas
Sweltering in desert-like heat
Eating food as yet unknown to man.
As it is likely to be both South and East of Gibraltar, I will be required to dig out my Tropical Kit.
Sandals - whilst normally the preserve of fundamentalist Christians and Hirsute Environmentalists - will be certainly be de-rigeur at least for day wear.
However - standards being what they are - one should dress appropriately for functions at the local High Commission, dinners with the obsequious mayor, negotiations with the Pasha Bey or leading the local rebels to the latest Coup d'etat.
(Point worthy of note here to my more political readers - one attends these things in the station to which one is naturally appointed - not brandishing pitchforks nor toting the requisite AK47 but Genteelly trotting up to the front of the line aloft one's white charger and issuing one's demands to El Presidente in perfect RP English: 'I'm sorry Old Chap, game's up - the lads here have taken the TV station and want your head on a plate - If I were you old son, I'd leave the Krugerand, take the memsahib and scarper - for they grow fractious by the minute...)
This calls for pristine starched whites, tan sam-browne, tan Brogues and my finest tropical Pith Helmet. the Nile medal and the Chelengk always impresses the local pashas as well.
I have already sent them off to the laundry for extra pressing and have selected my Steward for the Voyage.
More updates to follow. Have already started re-reading The Ionian Mission for inspiration.
I have finally organised something approaching a summer holiday for myself.
Details, are of course at this stage, highly classified. However it can be certain to contain the following 'features':
Lording it up over grateful natives
Lantern Jawed Determination on the High Seas
Sweltering in desert-like heat
Eating food as yet unknown to man.
As it is likely to be both South and East of Gibraltar, I will be required to dig out my Tropical Kit.
Sandals - whilst normally the preserve of fundamentalist Christians and Hirsute Environmentalists - will be certainly be de-rigeur at least for day wear.
However - standards being what they are - one should dress appropriately for functions at the local High Commission, dinners with the obsequious mayor, negotiations with the Pasha Bey or leading the local rebels to the latest Coup d'etat.
(Point worthy of note here to my more political readers - one attends these things in the station to which one is naturally appointed - not brandishing pitchforks nor toting the requisite AK47 but Genteelly trotting up to the front of the line aloft one's white charger and issuing one's demands to El Presidente in perfect RP English: 'I'm sorry Old Chap, game's up - the lads here have taken the TV station and want your head on a plate - If I were you old son, I'd leave the Krugerand, take the memsahib and scarper - for they grow fractious by the minute...)
This calls for pristine starched whites, tan sam-browne, tan Brogues and my finest tropical Pith Helmet. the Nile medal and the Chelengk always impresses the local pashas as well.
I have already sent them off to the laundry for extra pressing and have selected my Steward for the Voyage.
More updates to follow. Have already started re-reading The Ionian Mission for inspiration.
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Alvis
Is playing up a tad today.
On the run into the home-base hamster wheel she started playing up.
It seems that 'George' is a bit poorly.
He is a basic fellow, the 'George' in this crate, as all he does is hold speed - not attitude and heading. (More's the pity)
Now - we are not talking 'one engine on fire, two and three feathered and still have to crack the flak barrier at Bremerhaven to get home' - more like he keeps disengaging and asking me to use the ABS to reset the speed. (huh?)
Joy though - a quick call to the spanner fellows and it is on a recall. Apparently the software in the ABS damping is a bit dicky.
Quick probing reveals all sorts of things in the new car with software. Even the electric windows have software.
Why does this suprise me? I know for fact my dishwasher would out-compute Apollo 11.
What annoys me - is that being a Swedish car (Yes I know, not really an Alvis, but work with me ok?) that if I put it in gear the nanny state takes over, and tells me to fill the washer bottle, put my seat belt on, have a wee, put ten pee in my pocket to phone home and have clean pants on should anything happen.
Bloody thing even tells me when I am exceeding 80 with 'dangerous speed - beware'.
Grrr..... ever an incentive to set that alarm off, I can tell you.
On the run into the home-base hamster wheel she started playing up.
It seems that 'George' is a bit poorly.
He is a basic fellow, the 'George' in this crate, as all he does is hold speed - not attitude and heading. (More's the pity)
Now - we are not talking 'one engine on fire, two and three feathered and still have to crack the flak barrier at Bremerhaven to get home' - more like he keeps disengaging and asking me to use the ABS to reset the speed. (huh?)
Joy though - a quick call to the spanner fellows and it is on a recall. Apparently the software in the ABS damping is a bit dicky.
Quick probing reveals all sorts of things in the new car with software. Even the electric windows have software.
Why does this suprise me? I know for fact my dishwasher would out-compute Apollo 11.
What annoys me - is that being a Swedish car (Yes I know, not really an Alvis, but work with me ok?) that if I put it in gear the nanny state takes over, and tells me to fill the washer bottle, put my seat belt on, have a wee, put ten pee in my pocket to phone home and have clean pants on should anything happen.
Bloody thing even tells me when I am exceeding 80 with 'dangerous speed - beware'.
Grrr..... ever an incentive to set that alarm off, I can tell you.
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