Following the rather wonderful reminder of having made that rather spiffing Noah’s Ark, another surprise arrived a few days later. Slightly more encouraging is the fact that I do actually recall making this:
Except that’s not 100% true. I do recall making some cards, but I have no recollection of what happened to them. Following my posting of the above picture on that there Facebook, another good friend from back in the day has confirmed that she has another, stashed away somewhere safe.
The slightly odd thing is that I am not a big fan of Christmas cards, nor any other cards for that matter – ask my mum or dad about Mothers’ Day or Fathers’ Day, if you have a minute – so I must have been feeling something special in late 2004. The fact is, they were a direct response to four large paintings I had made for my degree show. Quite remarkably, I sold two to a chap who took a shine to them (and I had absolutely no idea what price to ask) and then asked me to deliver them to his gaff in Beeston, up near Nottingham. One now hangs in my parent’s dining room, while the fourth is with a good old mate of mine in Leicestershire, unless he’s used it as a firelighter. I wouldn’t blame him. It was just a sheet of card, some Quink, some Chinese ink and a few splashes of ordinary household bleach. I like straight lines, but I also liked the fact that when I made these images, I could not control what would happen when bleach met Quink.
So, there you have it. When I’m not getting my knickers in a twist about moronic road behaviour, I can be a bit creative. Maybe I should order another bottle of Quink, assuming it is still being produced. Does anyone use pens with ink these days?
As the dreaded coronavirus continues to crap all over the daily lives of most, I find myself caught in the middle of a tryptych of troubles, or a triple trinity of trauma, to be transcribed truthfully in this most trenchant transliteration of the trivial.
I know I shouldn’t make light of the situation now gripping the world, but I have real problems of my own, and the world needs to listen.
Undercrackers. Tea bags. Chamois Cream.
I’m willing to bet that the three have not appeared together before in any form, anywhere on the Internet, unless there’s a *ahem* specialist website catering for such a combination somewhere, probably based in Brighton or Miami or Melton Mowbray or Vladivostok.
The kybosh has been well and truly put on one’s annual return to the Motherland, so there are consequences. Severe consequence in my little world. You see, I tend to manage quite well. I went to a military school and I worked in a major financial institution; there is little room in my life for winging-it. I like to have things in order, and I like to know what I have got, where it is, how long it will last. I have a mental list to which I add little notes. Thus:
I’ve not refreshed my underwear stash for a couple of years. Holes have begun to appear, and several pairs are decidedly threadbare. I will rectify this on my return to Marks and Spencers (or should that be Your M&S, these days?). Simple.
I have a finite stash of Sainsbury’s Red Label tea bags. I had enough to get me through until the middle of June. Perfect. I’ll call in at JS in Oswestry and purchase the requisite seventeen boxes of 240 bags in early August, ready for our return.
That tub of Assos Chamois cream is most certainly nearing its final smears. No problem, I’ll grab a tub when I order my customary cycling supplies from Wiggle, Chainreaction or Ribble. As ever, they’ll be awaiting my return to Blighty, along with the bargain Campagnolo Record hubs I ordered a couple of months ago.
Except, I ain’t going nowhere any time soon.
Remaining undercrackers will have to be forced to last, or, heaven forbid, repaired. Tea will have to be rationed. Surely it can’t have been this bad during the war. Undercarriage will shortly have to endure four-hour rides without the soothing caress of Assos of Switzerland’s finest. Wow! 21st Century, First World problems. I’m going to be seeking therapy before much longer.
These are the real issues. Question Time, what say you?
When I woke up this morning, nothing could have been further from my mind than some old Biblical nonsense about a bloke building a big boat and filling it with animals.
Then, this happened. A dear old friend of mine (not so old, really) sent me a photograph. This photograph:
I had completely forgotten about this. I’m told I made it some 23 years ago. Now I’ve had a few hours to think on it, I can vaguely remember shaping the hull and cutting the dovetails, but I have no idea how I cut out the animals. I must have had some considerable patience, I guess, even back then. Again, I don’t recall doing it, but I must have given it to my dear friend (let’s call her Kerry, for that is her name) on the happening of the birth of her daughter, Ashleigh. I suppose she must now be at least 23 years old. Simple deduction. No flies on me, eh?
The thing is, I am now worried about what else I have forgotten. Send photographic evidence this way, should you be able to help. This genuinely made my day.
The language was a little fruity, I know. Sorry about that – I have now edited the page – although, on the scale of things which are important, a few expletives seem rather inconsequential when compared to a tonne of metal hurtling towards a 4-year-old.
My anger was directed at the wrong target. I am sorry that I called the old man a silly chap. It’s not his fault he’s a silly chap. I’d be willing to bet my house and all my bikes that he has never once in his life had anyone tell him that he had no right or no need to be driving his little blue missile along that path. He probably does it every day, or every weekend; he’s probably been doing it for 30 years or more, and in all that time I’m pretty sure it’s never been mentioned. Disclaimer (I don’t want to lose my house): Unless he’s been along there, coming in the other direction, or wanting to push past on one of the few occasions I’ve also been up there. The thing is, it’s irrelevant coming from Johnny Foreigner.
Patience and tolerance. I’ve probably mentioned this too many times already, but here there is a whole heap of impatience and a massive pile of tolerance. It’s bizarre. When I wrote to The President a few years ago, I gave my *ahem* lecture the title: Wait a Moment: Save a Life. Simple, really. Nobody will wait, but nobody gets upset when said impatience almost puts them under the wheels of a concrete mixer. Impatience:tolerance. A very bizarre marriage.
Blue missile man: couldn’t wait a few seconds. Taiwan’s response: “Meh! You silly chap, you shouldn’t be up here and you put a child and others in danger quite unnecessarily, but just carry on as if nothing happened. It’s fine!”
It’s the same when he’s riding his scooter down the wrong side of the road, or jumping red light without looking, or pulling across in front of fast-approaching vehicles. Nobody (except possibly me – see above) would ever have said anything to him.
He is the quintessential Mr/s Taiwan driver. It’s not his/her fault. Successive governments here have singularly failed to implement proper systems of training and testing. And enforcement.
Now, I’m going to take my life into my own hands here by offering an analogy. I’ve given it much thought and it might just break the Internet, as they say. Deep breath.
Many years ago in the UK, there was a pretty horrific happening at a football match. Lots of people were killed. The police were blamed for mismanaging the crowd. This is not in question, as per several enquiries, I believe. At the time it struck me that much of the fault lay elsewhere, and I have not changed my opinion on that. I am suggesting that every single person – lets call them football hooligans – who ever caused trouble at a football match prior to the disaster, has blood on their hands. Had they not spent years causing trouble at countless matches, then there would have been no need for the crowd management and the incompetent/heavy-handed actions which led to the deaths that afternoon. My perhaps cumbersome point is this: every single person who tolerates dangerous, inconsiderate, reckless behaviour on the roads is part of the problem. It’s not unique to Taiwan, but this is where I live and the death rate is four times higher per capita than it is in the UK, where I was trained. Every day I fear for the safety of my children. Every single government in Taiwan has blood on their hands for failing to overhaul the ridiculous systems (such as they exist at all). The general public is pretty stupid, and the people need protecting from their stupidity. They have done it with this virus; it could be done with road behaviour. So, for example, social distancing – 2 metres – could easily be applied to a simple ‘wait a moment, FFS’, or the good old ‘two-second rule’.
Thus, silly chap, by which I mean Mr/s Taiwan driver, was/is pretty stupid, not unlike most of us, but if nobody ever tells him/her/us, how will he/she/we ever learn?
To finish, I wanted to also point out that President Tsai has been very vocal in offering help to the world with regard to the virus. I shall contact her again to offer my help with this other epidemic. Stand by.
Early. 7.30, out in the sticks. Very few people, or scooters, or vehicles about.
Chap with his 4-year-old on the back caught up with us when we stopped for the obligatory group photo. See? Told you.
Getting ready to leave, child being strapped into his seat, here on the path on the top of the sea wall:
Old man in a blue truck approaches quickly, heading straight at group of us including man/child couple preparing to head off. Old man locks brakes and stops a few feet from man and child, among others. No warning. Pig ignorant, selfish chap.
He has no right to be driving on the sea wall. He has no need to drive on the sea wall. There is a perfectly good road – just down there on the right. You can see it. I’m sure he could.
He starts shouting and complaining that he is being delayed and we shouldn’t be in his way.
He has just passed this sign:
Okay, it’s a bit of a crappy photo, but even those of you who cannot read Chinese can surely deduce that vehicles are prohibited.
The point is, as wonderfully evidenced by the fact that you can see another vehicle on the wall in this photo, nobody gives a flying about the fact that vehicles should not be on the wall. They just drive along there anyway and nobody does anything. Nobody. Ever. Full stop.
It’s someting which could be enforced. There are police patrolling there. (I know, because one once stopped to check I was okay when I suffered a p-word-rhyming-with-juncture a few years ago.) As with most other things, however, they don’t give a sh1t, either.
As ever, I fucking despair.
Sorry it’s a bit sweary. [Edit: I reeled it in a bit this morning]. It makes me so angry and I feel so impotent. The locals just shrug and tolerate. It’s sickening.
I was out on my bike again yesterday. Nothing unusual in that. It’s a good place for me to think things through, or simply to shout at morons trying to kill me. Yesterday, I was thinking through the fact that said morons are not malicious; they just have no concept of the fragility of someone else’s life, espcially this ageing, lanky foreigner who has no means of (realistically) explaining the selfishness and stupidity of their impatience. I should perhaps qualify this by acknowledging that the driver/cyclist relationship is very different to that which I have (often) experienced in the UK. British drivers can be seriously aggressive. This is never really the case here, although if you look hard enough you can find evidence (on Youtube or wherever) of random wannabe gangsters exiting black Merc’s or BMWs with baseball bat in hand.
Now, the P word. That’s what I intended to discuss before that brief diversion. Sorry. No, I’m not talking prostate, nor pandemic, nor politics, nor pornography, nor police, nor even procrastination. In fact, wait no longer, dear reader.
It came to me while on the aforementioned ride, doing something I have done countless times. The P word must not be spoken, nor even written in this case. It’s rather like luvvies and the M word. You know, the Scottish play. If you don’t know, I can’t be arsed to explain, as I’m wrapped up with talking the P. Anyway, this thing I have done several times – countless times, indeed – is spot something sharp or otherwise hazardous in the road. Usually a screw or a nail; often a shard of glass, or a lump of concrete. Thing is, if I see it, I can’t simply ride on by*. I have to turn around and find it, which is not always that simple, and shift it from the road. It’s a karma-type scenario, I suppose. My thinking, because I think too much [see countless previous posts], is that if I don’t clear the offending pointy/sharp/lumpy thing, I’m putting myself in danger of suffering an event further down the road, or – even worse – putting a fellow cyclist in danger of the very same suffering because I was too selfish to do the right thing. This further encompasses my other life as a driver of cars, the tyres of which are also vulnerable.
If you need further clues, and I’m sure you don’t so please indulge me for a moment, I might also refer to a FT. Not the newspaper, nor that orange buffoon in the White House (Fuckwit Trump) [I really wanted to just write that, but had to shoehorn a valid reason into the text], nor even a Flatulent Turner (guilty as charged, M’lud). An FT. Rhymes with shat fire.
Yes, I sense that you’re definitely with me.
At this particular point in time Or perhaps I must mean juncture I should confirm to readers all That the P word here is – P……. (it would rhyme quite nicely, right here)
P’s. They’re a bloody nuisance, especially on the rear wheel if riding a fixed gear, but that’s perhaps a bit specialist for most of you. It entails the use of a 15mm spanner.
Thus, while dodging the perils of errant blue truck drivers, taxi drivers and suicidal scooterists, I am still scanning the asphalt for other more latent hazards. Just in case.
Shat fire? My arse.
*Clearly, this may not always be the case, subject to the context. If on my own, or with someone else and we’re not giving it the beans for some reason, and it is safe to do so, I will attend to the hazard. I have even been known to attend on the return journey, if unable to stop on the outbound leg. Gosh, aren’t I nice?
It always strikes me as a little unkind that this line is trotted out each year, usually encroaching on my Twitter feed as a daft hashtag. Should I need to explain, my understanding is that it’s a Star Wars reference. May the Force be with you. Or something. I dunno, ask a Jedi. There’s loads in the UK now, if the last Census is anything to go by.
Anyway, taking it at face value, it seems to me that it’s unkind to those with a speech impediment. A lisp, if you will. You can figure out the rest for yourelves, but it seems a little insensitive. Pothibly. (See! If I do it, it’s not nice. Stop it.)
Actually, May the 4th is a big day/date in my life. I began work at the Halifax 38 years ago. It was a Tuesday. My salary was 4,056 quid. I don’t know why that number always sticks in my head. Two years later, I was married. It was a Friday. The cost was immeasurable.
Today, I had to go for a blood test. Well, I had to have blood extracted from a vein in my arm, so they could do some tests, the results of which will become clear next Tuesday. I felt a bit faint. I feel a bit fainter writing about it.
Costco is pretty big, here in Taiwan. It is a popular spot for locals to buy stuff in large quantities. You know… wholesale. The thing is, it’s American, I believe. It has a very specific model. It doesn’t fit with the standard Taiwan model of shopping, or behaviour in general, but it works. People know that it is different, and, for the most part, they act accordingly, although it does take a certain amount of guidance, supervision and control. There are orderly queues of hungry punters waiting patiently for a free sample of something or other. Honestly, it’s extraordinary. The very same punters who cannot wait 3 seconds for me to get across the road safely with my 2-year-old in her pushchair will happiy stand for ten minutes to savour the delights of three toenails of Koko Krunch or 7 milligrams of finest sirloin. Nobody jumps the queue.
More extraordinary is the ramp between the different basement levels of the carpark. There is an up lane and and a down lane, with arrows clearly denoting which is which. Even though it is possible to see some 50 metres ahead, everyone, and I mean everyone (except yours truly, obvs) stays in the appropriate lane. The centre line is sacrosanct. Cross at your peril, even when it is clear that nobody else is on the ramp coming in the opposite direction (and 50 metres of warning would give you at least 5 seconds to get out of the way if Usain Bolt happened to be racing). If only such discipline were transferred to the roads, eh?
The exit ramp is also noteworthy. There is always a man stationed at the top of the ramp, controlling the cars as they leave the basement. Oh, and traffic lights. The light changes to red, so Mr man waves his glowy wand thingummy and blows his whistle. Lots. If he didn’t, most drivers would (one assumes) simply drive forward to block the pavement, thereby impeding the store’s customers from proceding to or from the entrance.
The point is, the behaviour of the Taiwanese people in Costco is different. They follow instructions; they obey the rules; they buy-in to the foreign model without hesitation. To be fair, there’s 7 milligrams of sirloin at stake, here. Steak. Mmmmm!
Hence, my conclusion. It is entirely feasible to direct change for the better, so long as it is explained, measured, monitored, controlled and sustained.
This is why I keep banging on about the contrast between managing the virus epidemic/pandemic (brilliant) and the road deaths and injuries epidemic (ongoing and shite). It just needs to be managed and carefully presented and sold the the general public.
The other day, I created a little storyboard to illustrate the inconsistencies in the perception of risk. If you didn’t happen to catch it, I forgive you, but you can always take a look here:
As it happens, my simple stories attracted more interest than anything else I have every posted on here, so I figured I must be on to something. Finally, tuning in to the zeitgeist of the 21st century, I reckon. Perhaps not. Sounds a bit pretentious, non?
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon when I was pondering my next instalment, and what should crop up on my news feed? Well, you’re going to find this hard to believe, but this is what cropped. Up. I did a pictorial rendition. People seem to like that. (See above)
You must promise me that you’ll stick with it until the end.
Okay, that’s not exactly what happened, but it’s based on reality.
That is the reality of how bizarre inconsistencies thrive on this wonderful island.
I guess you may be pleased to read that this has nothing to do with two wheels.
The other day, we spotted a new nest in the tree adjacent to our terrace railing. It was close enough that we could simply look inside. It was empty. The following day, there was a solitary white egg. Very small. Then, on the third day, a second egg. Also white. Also very small. Hardly surprising. Guess what! On the fourth day, there was a third egg which was entirely…
… the same as the first two. Fifth day, nest empty. Something had nicked the bloody things. Kids not happy.
Several days later we spotted the nest was literally hanging on by a thread. I grabbed it and placed it in a flowerpot on the terrace. No, I don’t know why I would do that, but as it turned out, I’m glad I did. Yesterday, the bird was back, picking away at his/her old nest, taking material away to build his/her new one. It’s not in our tree, this time. Fingers crossed for any eggs.
I was genuinely amazed that the bird(s) had the wherewithall to return and recycle. Birdbrain, my arse.
I think the bird(s) in question is/are the ‘Warbling white-eye’. Tiny. Beautiful.
2020 - A Year of Perfect Vision 