Blog on 2013/14

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The Wild West of art dealing

28-07-2014

New Year Blog (Belated)
10-02-2014


Right, it's been a while since I scribed a blog, and a fair bit has happened in between, mainly to do with our Bouncing Boss Eyed Bullet called Freddie, the delightful cloudlike fiery furball of a Bichon Frise, he's a good boy.  I've been working on and off, and had a side story going on which has been hitting the papers recently, including photo shoots, believe it or not, and I hope to keep pushing this story to its limit, so if there's anyone reading this with media connections, all and any assistance will be gratefully accepted.
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Coming up to Christmas we were struggling with the little fella, he was running us, rather than the other way round, so we called in professional help, a dog trainer, and signed ourselves up to a dog training school. Straight off you realise that it's you that's getting trained, there's no magic wand to make it all right, you need to learn how to bring this little house wrecker up, without killing each other, or him, preferably. It all seems so far away now, we took him up to Buckingham Park yesterday for his penultimate lesson, having missed the last 'must not miss', lesson, and he sailed through it. I have to say, mind you, that the whole thing was centred on getting him to come to you while off the lead, and when the time comes, you stick a handful of chopped up sausage under his nose, then walk while he is held back until the call goes out. I could have shouted, "bollocks to the Queen", and he was going to come running, or nothing at all, his eyes never left me once his snout had had a good sniff of the reward. Nonetheless, our little cloud did his bit, and passed all the other tests. It's graduation next lesson, so I'm thinking of getting him a little mortar board and cloak to wear for a laugh.
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The Herald and the Argus both wanted me for a photo shoot for this 'Treasure in the Attic' story of the 138 year old pamphlet we found while doing a loft conversion in Southwick, actually, Ben found it, and I took it home for closer analysis. Since then, I've researched until my eyes bled, and turned up one hell of a life, the life of John Jabez Edwin Mayall, which you can both check out elsewhere on this web site (after you've read this of course). It's been in the Herald three weeks on the trot already, and hit the pages of the Argus today, albeit with a couple of inaccuracies, but I'm happy they put it in at all really. 
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For the Argus photo shoot, we went to Kate's house, the customer whose place we found the pamphlet in, and she had dolled up for the photo op, wearing six inch heels. Fortunately she saw the comical side of this, and took them off for the picture, while I for my part, wore Stigs hat, a kind of Blues Brothers effort which he got in St Valery on one of our sailing trips, having been liberated of about 30 Euros for the privilege by a street vendor of North African origin in a very colourful smock, and black Fez. If I could have got away with sun glasses for the shot, with the current facial growth, my camouflage would have been complete. 
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The Herald shoot was at the Marlipins Museum, for the handover of the document, but as no one else was at home, I had to take wee Freddie with me, loading him into the van, and praying he'd be ok with it. Other than a whimper or two, he was fine, and at the museum I let them know he might let out a bit of excitement pee, which he duly did, but they said that would be fine as long as I didn't mind cleaning it up, no problem. He really can spray it about when he gets excited, and having liberally covered their floor, the photographer lady lets me know she doesn't mind, and loves dogs, just as well really, because he then peed all over her leg while she petted him, good boy Freddie.
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I started a new loft conversion for a mate, Bunny, he got me in having been royally shafted by Gibbs and Son, a local shower of so called builders. He had them in to do an extension, telling me at the time, "No offence Andy, but we wanted to go through a proper firm". I wasn't in the least offended, work comes my way whether I want it or not, (usually not!), unfortunately, Bunny found out the hard way that this mob shouldn't be allowed anywhere near tools, even having their work condemned by the local council Building Inspector. So now, quite a few thousand pounds out of pocket, and with a job which needs taking apart and doing properly, they have decided to get on with the loft conversion, and we will look at sorting out the abortion of a job Gibbs have done afterwards.  It's depressing that people like this can stay in business, and do well out of it.
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The Mayall story reminded me where my real interests lie, writing and research, so I have stepped up my game on the family history front, but I need to find a way to convince others that it's a good story. I'm not going to attempt right now, as it's Trough day, and I have a roast dinner to get ready for the mob this evening, but I would appreciate all and any efforts to read the rough out story so far, it's here:- http://wolf-e-boy.com/The-Ring-Master-John-William-Godward

It started with my Great Grand father, Henry Ramus, and has led me to a world which bears striking similarities to todays world, in as much as advancement of technologies. Then it was the motor car, early aviation, radio, telegraph, steam ships, and a world racing ahead, with pioneers leading the way, making fortunes, and then wondering what to spend those fortunes on, enter the art world, sound familiar?. I'm still researching heavily, and getting closer to a finish, but I hope the Godward story is worth a read already, so check it out, and please let me know what you think.

2013 The Year of Coincidences
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It's been a couple of months now since our sad loss of Freddie the Bichon dog we inherited, and such was his impact on us, that we determined it had to be another Bichon to take his place. We tried to get a rescue dog, but there were no Bichons available, so eventually we bit the bullet and went for a pup, driving up to Eltham, near Dartford, to pick him up.  There were two boy pups for us to choose from, one was 'spirited', and one 'docile', according to the lady, we wanted the spirited pup, but the docile pup had other ideas, and was talking to Ma, capturing her heart during our short stay. When asked which one we were going to take, Fred junior, the so called docile pup, had chosen Ma, so that, we decided, was that, and we drove back with the wee ball of fur between Ma and Squire on the back seat.
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That first week I said to Ma, how time seemed to have stopped still since Fred Juniors arrival, as opposed to the late in life scenario when time seems to fly by, like you've made it to the top of the hill on the tea tray of life, and now time speeds  past ever faster as you go down the other side. It honestly seems a lifetime away since we picked him up now.

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In our fifth week with young Freddie, his thirteenth week, life hasn't been dull for a minute. One of my cousins, Hannah Taylor, asked if he was real after seeing a picture of him on Facebook, "he's real alright, a real handful", I replied. It's funny how we start to notice things, like when you get a new car, and hadn't really noticed that type of car before, but suddenly you're seeing them everywhere. So it is with Freddie's breed, Bichon Frise, these little white balls of cotton are all over the place, and not just out being walked, George Osborne has introduced one to number 11 Downing Street, Lola is her name, then, inspired by this little story, Sarah Vine of the Daily Mail gives an enlightening article on what to expect from a Bichon, based on her own family experience of their beloved Snowy.  A family friend saw this news article and having heard all about Freddie from Ma, knew we would want to read it too, it gave us all a good laugh. Apparently Bichons share a lot of hilarious traits, but not all it would appear, she said she had never heard Snowy growl, Freddie is currently growling from inside my trainer as he fights it on the kitchen floor, he growls quite a lot, always when fighting a toy, sock, shoe, or trouser leg. It's not a growl to instil fear, more to make you smile, especially when you see a growling shoe moving along the floor, with a little white body attached to it.
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After an evening of coming a comfortable second to Freddie's boisterous behaviour, walking around with him hanging off our trouser legs like a ball and chain were attached, scuttling under the sofa to escape any possible censure, how do you not laugh as you watch his back legs wriggling to squeeze his little frame beneath the wooden frame, only to have his snout pop out and look up at you, ready to attack your feet again, it's all a great game to him after all. When he's in a lively frame of mind, he bounces around the house like a pocket rocket, our little boss eyed bullet, charging from one end of a room to the other, leaping into his bed, then springing up in the air and setting off again, with little growls or gruff barks, it's impossible not to laugh at, Sarah Vine describes this behaviour as a 'Bichon Blitz', which sums it up nicely.
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I've been trawling the net in search of wise advice, and we've since begun trying various methods to calm our bitey, barky, ball of fluff, such as holding his muzzle clamped shut after he bites, and saying, "no!", firmly, but not shouting, also putting his harness and lead on when he starts barking, so he knows he can't leg it when you go to pick him up and transport him out of the room in his bed, and into the hallway, our version of the naughty step for him. This soon turned out to be not so much of a hardship for Freddie, given that the shoe cupboard is in the hall, he just started dragging shoes, boots, insoles, into his bed, and happily set about trying to rip them apart. 
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Yesterday it all went hilariously wrong for me, I had put Freddie's harness and lead on after he had been once again been pushing the limits, but as it was the family Trough night, I had cooking issues to attend to, setting the table and getting the shepherds pie ready. There was a bit of dog related commotion coming from the lounge, so I went in to see what was up, and Freddie was in hypo mood, and set off for the security of underneath the sofa, forgetting he had his lead on. I grabbed the trailing tether and soon reeled our firey furball back out from under, only to realise quite quickly that something smelt wrong. Lifting my hands to my nose, the unmistakeable pong of poo became stronger, and on inspection the lead had traces of it, Squire then informs me that Fred had indeed just come back in from the conservatory, his favoured dumping ground. Grabbing the torch, I walked out to scan the area, only to see that he had left four separate deposits, obviously in quick succession, what I hadn't spotted was the trap, the one he left right in the doorway, a fifth effort, now nicely plastered on the sole of my shoe. There I was, holding his fresh deposits in kitchen roll, a shit smeared lead and hands, and hopping to keep my soiled shoe off the deck too, this round definitely went to our pup.
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Ma mentioned the other day how we hadn't laughed so much for a long time, and it's all down to Freddie, his newest amusing trait is his silent bark, he looks at you, having either been chastised for some infraction, or challenging our authority. He looks at you all seriously, then makes all the received motions that go with a bark, without any noise coming out, not just once, but two or three times, generally followed by a tilt of his head. I often have to carry him down to the beach for his walk, letting out little whimpers of discontent which continue on and off until he knows we're going back, then he's straining at the leash for the rest of the way home, and the next game, drying him off.
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I wonder whether George Osborne has any idea of what he's in for, certainly a lot of laughs, and doubtless some furrowed brows along the way, but the kids are going to love it.

A little over three weeks ago, I went down to get my hair cut by Callum at Beachcombers, ready for my upcoming trip to Myanmar. It was a spur of the moment decision, but I just thought it might be nice to have my hair cropped for the journey ahead. While I was sat down, a rather friendly little hound called Freddie introduced himself to me, he was a Bichon Frise, with soft curly white fur, and big brown eyes. As I'm stroking and chatting to this lovely pooch, Helen informs me that he's looking for a new home, because his owners have two other dogs, which bully him. I said we might be interested, but I would have to ask Ma and Pa, and see what they thought. Later back at home, I told them about this lovely dog that needs a home, and it took them very little time to say yes, they would be happy to take Freddie on. My only reservation was that I was about to go away for two and a half weeks, so wouldn't be there to help in the early stages. What I didn't know then either, was that Freddie had been nervously chewing at his tail and legs, possibly because of the other two dogs mistreating him, who knows, but he had to wear a collar to stop him getting at these sores, and the vet prescribed some pills to try and treat the problem.

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As it turned out, Ma and Pa coped perfectly well, despite a couple of incidents, notably the first time they brought him home, he legged it out of the car and up the road, so Squire hopped back in and drove around after Freddie, catching him at the bottom of the road. They got him back again, and he did the same thing, and so off went Squire again, but this time Freddie had gone full circle, and when Squire returned, there was the little fella sitting on the back door step, wagging his tail. From that point they didn't let him off his lead while walking him, and made sure he was harnessed up before the door was open.

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The next issue was his barking, he didn't like being left downstairs when Ma n Pa went to bed, so let everyone know of his displeasure by barking all night long for the first two nights. Sarah next door mentioned to Ma that they hadn't slept for those two nights because of it, so Squire said "that's it, we'll have to have him upstairs with us", and that day they went out and bought a new bed for Freddie, which fitted perfectly under the eaves alcove next to their bed, no more barking after that, well almost.

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During the time I was away, Freddie had transformed our house, the joy obvious in Ma and Pa's faces when I got back, now it was my job to win his heart and acceptance, one of the easiest, and most pleasant tasks of my life, whatever you gave in attention and love to Freddie, he gave you back with interest. He had real character too, often dictating where, or even, if, he was going to walk. My first effort at taking him out he promptly sat down and refused to budge, so I picked the little fella up and carried him outside to the corner of Havenside, put him down and went to walk, again he just parked his rear legs and looked up at me with defiance, I couldn't help but laugh, so again picked him up, and walked towards the beach. On the way I saw my mate, Barnes, he was smiling already as he saw me coming, dog in arms, "it's not meant to work this way" I told him, and Barnes proceeded to tell me of his mums dog, and how it gets used to the route she takes when walking, so won't go a different way with someone else. He goes on to tell me he'd seen Ma walking Freddie in the opposite direction, and maybe that was the problem, but from what I've learned from Freddie, it's just his way of letting me know who's really in charge in this game.

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I ended up carrying the wee mutt all the way to the beach, where I put him down, and other than sniffing a clump of grass for a while, he refused to budge, until I motioned towards home, and he led me off at a healthy pace, trotting me all the way back home. Ma n Pa laughed as I walked back in defeated, and Ma then put his harness back on and took him out, without a murmur from Freddie, I had to laugh, thinking 'this boy has spirit'. Ma has been walking and feeding Freddie everyday, and had the reward of him sitting at her feet wherever she'd be in the house, and following her around, Squire had been taking him out too, and as Freddie had already sussed, was an easy touch for a treat, as was I. The next day Freddie allowed me to take him out, but still dictated where we were going, walking me down towards the Beach Green park, having a dump on the verge, which I scooped up in the poo bag, then he turns back. I thought, 'ok, we'll see where this leads', and I let him take me along, but he missed the Havenside turn, and I managed to steer him to the Adur Rec, or he may have planned it. Either way, once on the Rec, he spotted another dog, a Jack Russell, and bounced over to it, wanting to play,  this other dog wasn't up for it, but Freddie was not to be deterred, until his attentions were met with a short snap, and they drifted away while I chatted with the owner and her family, they all liked Freddie, and he revelled in their attention. As we came to split up, Freddie was just sitting down waiting for me, I felt like I'd passed a test, gaining his acceptance, feeling a warm glow inside as we walked home.

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Simon had also been given the treatment by Freddie, first time bringing him back because the little so and so wouldn't be taken, but a few days later and he's given the all clear, and takes him up to the Rec, where Freddie met another Bichon, and the two of them frolicked together while Simon rattled off a load of priceless shots on his camera. In the house we've become used to this warm affectionate animal, our new and lovely little friend that just wants to be near you, at your feet, on your lap, or following you around and hopping up to let you know a treat wouldn't go amiss, talking to you in little gruff, muffled barks, and a whole range of different noises. He had won us over so completely in such a short space of time it was hard to believe, but in a most wonderful way. Squire and Ma just took him to the vets yesterday to get him chipped, checked up for his biting issues, and fully registered as our family member. Squire was cock a hoop, "he's properly ours now, part of our family".

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The day drifted along, I was thinking of when to walk Freddie, where he might let me take him, I'd had to drive him down to Beach Green the day before as he'd decided he was in an 'I'm not moving' mood, but he'd been fine once down there, even meeting another Jack Russell and making friends, it was a mate of mines dog, so we joked we'd be dog walking buds in future then, I was looking forward to that. Ma had made many friends already through taking Freddie out, and the walking seems to have been doing her some good too.  When Simon came around, I asked him if he was hoping to walk Freddie, it was about 3.30, he was indeed, and happily got Freddie ready, only for the wilful little fella to do his sit down trick. Undeterred, Simon picked him up and carried him down the driveway, and off towards the Adur Rec.

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This is the bit where you run back through your mind in a million different ways, if only this had happened, if only I'd done this instead of that. I was moving Simon's car, so I could get Ma's car out, gently but slowly manouevring it in front of Squires, then stopped to chat with Brent and Sarah from next door, their children and friend playing out front. Next thing I see Simon carrying Freddie back home, his face ashen, without words I knew something was very wrong. He quickly explains Freddie had done a runner from the Rec, made it across the busy Brighton road, but wasn't so lucky on the Beach Green road, getting hit by a VW van before he could make it into Mardyke on his way, in his mind, back to Havenside, and his home. I asked if it was bad, "bad" was all Simon needed to say, then "get a towel or something to wrap him in", I shot inside and grabbed Freddie's blanket, Ma and Pa looking on as I darted in and out, without I'm sorry to say, telling them anything. I put the blanket on the front passenger seat, and Simon laid Freddie down on it, then I got into the footwell so that I could cradle and comfort him while we drove to the vets. We took him to the vets that he'd been to just that morning, but they were closed, so we then went round to the West street vet, closed too. Driving back to the original vet to get an emergency number, I was talking to Freddie all the time, feeling his breathing through my fingers as I cradled his head in my palm, with my other arm gently holding the rest of his body. Simon phoned the emergency number, we had to get to Grove Lodge, Worthing, and quickly. Simon was distraught, but having to hold it together to get our poor Freddie to help.

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Pleading, begging Freddie to hold on, stroking him, nuzzling, we were only a short distance from the vets by now, but I hadn't felt any movement for a bit, I raised his little head, saw no sign of his eyes moving, in fact they looked blue now. Then, as I lowered his head, it just flopped, and all I could say was, "please no Freddie, don't be gone", crying my eyes out, poor Simon had to hold on and get us there, in the hope it's not too late, but it was. At the vets, they came rushing out, and took Freddie from me, I told them I thought he was gone already, then collapsed against the wall, unable to bear going in, Simon followed them.  Not much time passed before the woman that had taken Freddie from  me came out, she didn't need to speak, and I let out a groan/ wail, I don't know, and just let go, she wrapped her arms around me, but nothing helps, and I knew Simon would be suffering badly, not to mention how Ma n Pa are going to feel when we get back. It's impossible to express just how much Freddie touched our hearts in the short time we had him, every single one of us. Last night was so difficult, Squire quietly gathering up Freddies stuff to put upstairs. Simon begged forgiveness, even though he couldn't possibly have been to blame. Ma, with tears in her eyes, saying how much he had won our hearts and so quickly, we should have had years more with that gorgeous, loving, friendly, wilful, wonderful, little hound. Life is very cruel sometimes, one minute Squire and Ma are celebrating the fact that Freddie is now officially ours, and then a few desperately short hours later, he suffers fatal injuries under the wheels of a van. But the short time we were lucky enough to be graced by Freddies presence, has given us some of our happiest memories, just wish he was still here, he had so nearly finished training us.

07-09-2013

Where to begin? This last week has seen the culmination of a number of different things, coming together with the icing on the cake when Squire met his last surviving sibling for the first time on Wednesday and Thursday. Much like I still have to pinch myself that Murray has won Wimbledon, I can hardly believe that a schoolboy wish to find this fabled lost brother has actually happened, but it has, Christmas came early in 2013.

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Before I could allow myself to worry about the impending visit of Ian and Jill Ramus, I had the small matter of three different loft conversions to bring to completion, one to start almost as soon as the visit is over, and squeeze in the Old Fort road roof construction now that they have had their revised plans passed, despite venomous opposition from some of the locals, whipped up by a monumental hypocrite, and ultimately, spineless neighbour on the foreshore. 

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If anything, I think having such a pressing workload helped, it meant I simply didn't have time to dwell on any possible negativity, and now that it's all done, I still have another dormer to occupy my mind, and an expectant mum to be as the driving force to keep our eye on the ball. Oh yeah, and I'm off to Burma on the 28th of this month, so no pressure there then.

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Last year I had a shocker of a year for work, going months at a time with nothing, although for those of you that know me, this sort of thing is not a source of worry for me, I like having the time to pursue my other interests, such as family, and local, historical research. 

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In between all of this activity, our 91 old Footbridge has quietly been dismantled, and the new structure moves ever slower towards completion, and doubtless we will be informed that the delays herald a few extra digits to the final cost, initial estimate was for 3 million, latest was 9.8, I'll be extremely surprised if it stays below the 10 million. If only I could get some of that action, price for a loft coversion to be around, say thirty grand to get your foot in the door, then hit them with a raft of excuses, unforeseen extras, then a few pages of waffle and nonsense later, put in the final bill for a hundred grand, thank you very much. Nice thought, but I'd be at home all the time as I'd never have any work behaving like that, how do these operators get away with it?, but let's not get that particular soap box out right now.

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Back in 2007 I worked on a barn conversion up at Thakeham, possibly the most enjoyable job I've ever had the pleasure to work on, and while on that project, I had Ben working with me for most of it, until he emigrated to Oz, and Adrian, another ex Watercraft boat building apprentice like myself. That story is told elsewhere on this site, on the 'Barn and Granary Coversion' page, but of the many things I recall from that wonderful time, one that has stuck with all of us that were there, was Adrians use of the line, "give that a coat of looking at", which we eventually abridged to, "giving it a coat", and if it's not immediately clear, "that'll need a few coats". This basically is a case of pursing your bottom lip while studiously cupping your chin between your thumb and fore finger, then moving your hand to the back of your scalp, having tipped an imaginary hat on the way, and scratching the back of your head while squinting your right eye and looking pensive, otherwise known as 'assessing the situation'.

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Now I love it when I see connections in life, so when we came to do Keith and Sue's conversion in Findon Valley, we were on the fast train to Coincidence City Central. Firstly, Keith was a senior boat builder when me and Ade were doing our apprenticeships, and it was in fact he who passed on the 'coat of looking at' term to Ade, and I also happened to have only quite recently been bringing Ade's son, Dylan, to work for work experience, he would soon be immersed into our world of daft sayings, with Keith working alongside us throughout his job. Everyday had moments of inevitable nostalgia, mainly because Watercraft played such a big part in our lives, full of many happy memories, you can find more about that time over on my 'Watercraft, My Part in it's Downfall' page. Keith and Sue's job was more like a working holiday, with Sue treating us to tea and toast every morning, where I would nick Keiths favoured crust before he could get to it, "horrible boy, I never liked you" he'd say to me, as I grinned back with me chops full.

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It was around this time that the workload was beginning to pile up, there were no drawings for this job, so I was designing it myself, and drawing up other jobs in the evenings too, and then on the 16th June I received the e mail I'd long since hoped for, the brother that Squire had never met, Ian, was coming to see us with his wife Jill, and they'd be here for the 4th and 5th September. I had this job to finish, another to start, and, owing to a few technicalities, the work I had done along the Old Fort road had been ordered to be taken down, and new plans submitted, so that job would resurface later on, like a grenade waiting to be lobbed in to the souffle at any time.

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When I was given the shout to build these pitched roof plant rooms atop two blocks of two houses in Old Fort road, it was a no brainer, working with mates I'd worked with before, just along the road, plenty of hands to assist with any heavy lifting, and super keen lads wanting to learn as much as they could about cut and pitch roofing. The weather was peachy too, so we had perfect conditions and the job motored along smoothly, until tea break on the third day, and as I was heading home for grub, I saw some bod looking official with a clipboard, and he was joined by a rotund looking woman, sporting her own clipboard, both looking towards the construction site, this was not a good sign.

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On return from my tea break, all the sites workers were up on the roof terrace, something was definitely up. It turned out that someone had complained, the height of the highest point should apparently not have exceeded the ridge height of the immediate neighbours, and a neighbour opposite had brought this to the attention of the neighbours behind, in East Meadway. Bear in mind, this person that raised the issue, had in fact knocked his original bungalow down, and had a two storey house built in it's place, with a high pitched roof some two meteres higher than his neighbours ridge height. Then I find out that this is the same person that refused permission for the beach boardwalk in front of his place, thus denying access to any wheelchair  bound residents from enjoying a seafront promenade, he also apparently stopped a disabled neighbour a few doors along from burning his leaves in that persons own garden. I know there are often extenuating circumstances, but from everything I've heard about this 'Agent Provocateur', he's just a deeply unpleasant individual, and an unbelievable hypocrite, but spineless to the core, because rather than complain himself about the height issue, he went around to the East Meadway residents and stirred them up instead to do his dirty work for him, how very convenient.

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Regarding the work we had done, it was built exactly to the architects drawings, millimetre perfect, so when the architect calmly suggests that, "all 'we' have to do is take 250mm off the top of the roof", I was quick to point out how much easier it was for him to say it than for us to do it, "nice and easy for you to draw a line through, there's a bit more involved in the actual construction". It's safe to say I didn't have a high opinion of this guy, especially after I heard he added extra height to each storey without telling anyone, and not been asked for either. I opted to get my tools off site before I said something to him we'd all regret, although his sheepish manner indicated he understood my views. Construction was stopped from then as far as the roof terrace was concerned, and I was free to start my next job, coming back at such a time as these issues had been resolved.

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Benjamin Peake, the strawberry blonde smiling assassin, or Mr Schadenfreud, e mailed me to let me know he was paying Blighty a visit for a month from down under, hand brake free, so was there any chance of a bit of work while up here. We both agreed working together would be the best way to catch up, and have a laugh at the same time, as well as helping fund his trip while simultaneously pushing the job along, everyone's a winner. I hadn't seen the Boy for six years, but we've remained in contact by e mail and phone throughout that time, as he talked me through his varied and extreme employment, with his trademark brutal humour. 

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Again, coincidence worked in our favour, as the job we were on is just around the corner from his mums place, where he'd be staying, and not only that, but this job was by recommendation from the customers brother, whose loft conversion me and Ben had built some seven years previous, and I still had Dylan working with us, so we were in Coincidenceville, or Deja somewhere before, a 'coat of looking at' was gonna do the rounds aplenty, among other things. For four weeks, Ben fitted in a couple of days a week of work in between, or as he put it:- "I ended up playing 10 rounds of golf at 9 different course's over me 4.5 week holiday, worked 7 days, ate approximately 18 fry ups (not all at cafe's), an drunk piss for about 23 of the 31 days I was there, not fuckin bad ay boy, what a fuckin athlete."

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I gave Ben the appellation, 'Red Mist', in recognition of his ability to colour up and spew venom when something makes his blood rise, such as, well almost anything in fairness, and although he won't mind me saying it, he'll doubtless swear at the monitor when he reads this bit, go on Boy, stoke them fires of ginger passion. He has many sayings, most of them unprintable, but a favourite of his was always the old Jack Sparrow routine, I'd say I wanted to run something through with him at work, and he'd instantly mime a swashbuckling sword play move, with the left arm raised behind, and the right hand lunging with the imaginary rapier, followed by, "Jack Sparra boy". So when early on he mentioned wanting to "run it through", I was all over it with me lunge n parry, giving it the che chsssshhh as I wielded my invisible cutlass. "I can't believe ya done me boy, you've been waitin' six years to do that aintcha boy", "worth the wait Boy" I told him, both of us laughing like a couple of school kids, little things eh.

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With the boys along at the Old Fort road job having successfully run the gauntlet of retrospective planning, I was booked in to rebuild the plant rooms with their newly revised design, having had approximately two feet lopped off the height, and this in the week that the long lost brother was to come and visit, so all I could do for them was get the first built so that they could then use it as a template for the others.
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Back in 2008 I took up a free 14 day trial on Ancestry.com, and within two weeks was hooked. Since that time I've discovered so much that none of us even had a clue about, but the big one for me was always about who could be this other brother that Squire and Ma had told us about from an early age. Squires dad had run off with the woman next door when Squire was only seven, leaving him, his sister, Sheila, and younger brother Mike, with their mum, Boof, as she was known to us. His dad, Roy, as he was known, despite the fact his name was Reg, married this woman next door, then nine years later, married again, a woman twenty years younger than him, and they had a son together, Neville Ian Ramus in 1946.
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They raised Ian, as he is known, as an only child, and once Reg died in 1967, he took the knowledge of Ians extended family with him. Squire had taken Ma to meet his dad after they had just got married, but Roy was agitated when he met them, made his excuses and left them in the Crewkerne High street, never to see each other again, although he had already distanced himself from his first three children some years earlier. So when I eventually found Ian through Ancestry, then with the help of the internet, and NHS information, I knew I had to make contact.
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It's hard to imagine how this would have felt for Ian, to suddenly find you have a family, from believing you were an only child, and at first I think he may have been sceptical, perfectly understandably, but after I sent the certificates I had to prove it all, despite any reservations he may have had, I'm happy to say he has continued to keep in touch, and we've been talking of a meet up for the last couple of years.
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When the big day came, I was a proper nervous Nerris, champing at the bit, while trying to see if there was anything left to do in preparation for the visit, there wasn't. When Ian and Jill arrived, it couldn't have been planned better, Squire had spotted their Range Rover pull up, and was out like a shot, belying his 86 years, and I followed behind to witness the meeting, they shook hands, smiled, and after introducing Jill, Ian put his arm around Squires back and they made their way in to the house, it all seemed very natural. It's impossible to know what must have been going through their minds prior to that moment, but happily it all went so well.
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We had a meal booked at the Galleria that evening, to introduce Ian and Jill to our immediate family, all seven of us, and thankfully they weren't daunted by us. Squire made sure he was sitting across from Ian, which was perfect, while Jill sat alongside, I don't think there was a silent moment the whole evening, Squire and Ian chatting together, and Jill not in the least bit fazed by the rest of us as the conversation bounced around the table. She even let me in to a shock piece of info, all those years back when I first found out about Ian and traced him to Nuffield hospital in Taunton, I phoned his surgery number to let him know who I was, and spoke to who I presumed was his secretary, so imagine my surprise when Jill tells me it was her that I had been talking to that day.
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The following day we had a barbecue at Havenside to allow Ian and Jill to meet more of the extended family, grand children, and cousins, it went brilliantly, including the weather, with Jack organising the food, and what a spread he put on. Ian may have missed out on meeting his brother Mike, but he has met most of Mike and Manuelas children now, Anna, Linda, Michelle, Karen, and Sam, as well as Manuela herself, having made the journey down for the occasion, and showing the rest of us up with their carefully anotated family albums, dates, places, and names all written in, which Ian gently ribbed us about, alluding to our mountain of pictures singularly lacking in any written detail to assist the viewer. I couldn't help but ask where his carefully detailed albums might be, heftily tongue in cheek of course. It was an absolutely cracking day, and hopefully the first of many more such occasions as the families get to know each other after all this time.

Building up to Beach Dreams this year I've been a bit detached from it all, owing to work commitments, which as a result meant I didn't get around to helping promote the day to my friends through the grapevine that is facebook. As it turned out, the event was a huge success without my meagre contribution anyway, once again the Beach Dreams team have produced a fantastic free event, showcasting home grown talent as well as bands from a little further afield, culminating in a rousing reception for Toploader on the Saturday evening. Driving on to the beach gave a hint of what was to come, the traffic was tailing all the way back into town as everyone made their way to Beach Dreams in the sunshine, and cars were parked up on every available space, including verges and pavements, as far along as the Church of the Good Shepherd, things were looking good for a successful day.
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I was disappointed to miss out on Demelzas Tea Party, they opened the gig up at 12.30 Saturday, while I was busy swinging doors. I eventually made it down to Beach Green by 3 o' clock, and hit the beer tent for the first pint of  the day, a Dark Star brewery 'Conqueror', which I've recently developed a taste for, and from there on things looked rosy. I wandered across through the massed crowd, sprawled out with their picnics, Pimms, beer, and blankets, etc, to the 'Wax Cornetto' tent in time to catch Wookie Weekend playing, always entertaining, with Millie Bunker lead singing while losing any battle to keep a straight face, possibly because her dad, Andy, was on his usual fine form moshing extravagantly, waving his arms about like a mixture of Usain Bolt and a windmill. The combination of that, the Wookies playing, and Demelzas Tea Party dancing with faces painted as cats, was brilliant.
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For those of you that don't know, these youngsters are mainly the product of a fantastic operation called, ‘Shoreham Allstars’, (check them out here:- http://www.shorehamallstars.com/ ), and if you weren’t lucky enough to catch them playing, you'll have to trust me when I tell you they're excellent, it’s hard to believe kids so young could be so good. The Allstars are the result of David O’ Connells efforts, a guitar teacher who has provided an outlet for kids that want to learn and play music, and this is the third year of showing off their skills at this event, they also tour throughout the year, playing at various festivals around the country. Along with the skate park at Ham road, it’s one of the best things out there for the children in our community. They even have a tour bus now, (thanks to gracious donations and a grant from the council), which doubles up as their stage, Dave gave me a guided tour of it, it's bloody awesome, so they can rock up anywhere, pull the sides back, and bingo, one stage ready to go.
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One of the many great things about Beach Dreams, is meeting up with old friends, people you often haven't seen since last years Beachfest, and 2013 was no different, wandering with my pint, catching up, and listening to quality music, and all within five minutes of home, I'll never get tired of it. The sound system was once again provided by Flare Audio, the firm that I built a few speakers for as part of their research and development project, a project it seems, that has gone on in leaps and bounds since the last speaker I made for them. Their latest technology is made out of aluminium, and Dave, who is the brain and driving force responsible for this new direction in speaker technology, explained it to me as best he could, but I won't even attempt to say here, I'd doubtless get it all wrong. Suffice to say, looks good, sounds good.

During all of this merriment, there was one feel good story that just can't be ignored, to do with Josh Parsons. I won't go into details, as this is his story, but suffice to say, young Josh has recently been given the all clear from cancer, and he broke the news to his friends via Facebook, not long ago, so it was fantastic to see him, and his mum and dad, Brian and Jo, to tell them how happy I was for them all, best news I've heard all year. Happily, although I missed his session in the Wax Cornetto marquis, he and Caitlyn King had been recorded and uploaded on to Youtube. I've known Brian most of my life, and with Josh being their only son, I couldn't even imagine what he and Jo must have been going through, let alone Josh. Something like that puts a proper perspective on life, especially when you think about what you see and hear being argued over sometimes, especially on Facebook.
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I seem to have painted myself into a corner timewise, so I'll have to race through the rest of this. Basically, Verses were great, as were Marlipins (formerly Absent Elk), and Toploader finished the Saturday off, getting the crowd whipped up for the finale as the sun went down, completing a top day. The Sunday was a bit overcast, but the music was still great, with Richard Durrant and his fellow players giving the crowd a treat with his incredible guitar play on the main stage, while on the Wax Cornetto bus, Tom Botten, and later, Caitlyn King with Louis Parker were impossibly awesome, names to look out for in the future. I've watched them grow up as neighbours, and love the fact that these local kids are so talented, yet still down to earth ordinary children, with very proud parents of course.

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There should be a mention for Black Bonds, one of the bands of the weekend last year, but their lead singer was away on holiday for this years event, leaving Callum Bunker to put  a bit of  time into cutting hair, his barber stall proving mighty popular over the weekend. I hope they'll make sure no holidays clash with next years Beach Dreams, if only to see Andy Bunker and Si Knight in the mosh pit again, an unforgettable experience to witness, much to Callums horror. Sorry it got a bit rushed at the end, but I hope you got a bit of the flavour of Beach Dreams from this, it's an amazing community festival, which really needs to be experienced first hand. And as Toploader sing, 

"everybodys feeling warm and bright,

 its such a fine and natural sight, 

everybodys dancing in the moonlight".

02-06-2013

On what has been a great weekend, with the Military History weekend along at the Old Fort, it's a shame to see Facebook alive with discontent as the debate over the naming of the Unnecessary Bridge Over Troubled Waters rages unchecked. Paul Collins suggested naming the new bridge after an old Shoreham ferryman, Harry Elmer, who died on the 7th May 1940, having fallen into the river Adur. It proved to be a popular choice with a great many people, but unfortunately, it only served to bring to light the fact that, although we were told the people would get a vote on what the bridge is named, what they didn't mention, was that an unelected coterie of mysterious members, plus developers friend, councillor Mike Mendoza, would choose between them a shortlist of five names for the bridge, and then the public could vote which of these they preferred. In short, not in any way a peoples choice. This mysterious group are apparently called the 'Bridge Steering Group', quite where that name was conjured up from I have no idea, but it would appear in this instance, to be so that they could steer the public towards the choice of the bridge name they wanted.
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Tim Loughton has since come out in defence of these invisible arbiters of the bridge title, stating:-
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I honestly couldn't care less personally, it will always be the footbridge, no matter what this Steering Group have decided, but surely there is a principle at stake here, the public were informed they could have a say in the naming of what would after all be their bridge for the rest of their lifetimes, only to have the choices swept aside by this group, and a choice of their favoured five names offered to vote on. And as for, "the County Council who are responsible for funding the main part of the work", the County Council are not some generous benefactors doling out their personal wealth, they are an elected body who should be relied upon to spend the TAX PAYERS money wisely.

Mr Loughton goes on to say:-

That, I have to say, is utter nonsense, if a fair vote takes place then there would be no cause for complaint should the most popular name be chosen, even if that name were, as some bright spark suggested, Elmer Fudd. Think back to the census uproar when a huge amount of people decided they wanted to have their religion  on record as 'Jedi', and the Government tried to impose a block on any such occurrence, they failed. This is a similar situation, people don't like being dictated to, by anyone, and now they are beginning to respond. It may be a storm in a teacup, but it's a storm in a teacup with a principle attached, as we daily read about one politician after another feathering their own nests, while simultaneously trying to con us into thinking they know best what's good for us, the plebs are getting agitated, and we want to know our voices count for something, however trivial this may seem.
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In this day and age, the technology exists to make it easy for the people to have a vote using the internet, then see what the top peoples choice would be, that would be democratic. There is absolutely no reason whatever to suppose councillors, or this Steering Group, know what is best for everyone else, but I doubt whether the outcry over this situation will make any difference, and once again the public will be paid lip service, and nothing more.
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Shoreham Fort Military Weekend

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On a brighter note, the Friends of Shoreham Fort have outdone themselves and put on another cracker of a show, with even more things going on than last year, and thankfully the event was well attended. I went along with the Aged P's and we pitched up for the ensuing entertainment, a combination of military hardware through the ages being fired off, as well as all the period uniforms and civilian costumes, food stalls, military vehicles, and even a hovercraft that was apparently used in a James Bond film. Funnily enough, Tim Loughton and Mike Mendoza were there too, as well as the new police commissioner, whatever her name is.
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The work going on down there is a credit to the volunteers, but they need more, as there is still a long way to go, so if any of you reading this are interested, how about getting along and seeing if you might be able to help in any way, or just help by spreading the word about this great community cause.
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Last night I went down to the Duke of Wellington to see the Dials band play, and was most pleasantly surprised. I had been expecting some R and B, in line with what I believed were Joes preferred musical tastes, but on arrival he informs me that it would be a different band from that style, and they would be playing a kind of Pink Floyd influenced stuff, but all original, and their own compositions. There's nothing quite like hearing a tune for the first time, especially when you get to hear it live, and when you add loads of old friends into the mix, as well as the impressive selection of beers that the Dark Star brewery has to offer, it made for a top night.
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I tried out the 'Conqueror' beer, a stout with similarities to Guinness, and dangerously pleasant, sliding down all too well as I enjoyed the musical fair being served up, very much a sixties sound, yet original. The audience may well have been a good gauge as to what was coming up, very much a 'Silver Surfer' crowd, a club I seem to be rapidly catching up with these days. If you like sixties style Floyd, I think you'll enjoy the Dials, I know I'll be going along the next time they play.

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13-05-2013

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I make no apologies for this blog being about football, for as any of you fellow followers of the Super Seagulls will know, today is about as big as it gets for an Albion fan, partly because it's the play offs, but mainly because of who we're up against. Who needs script writers when reality serves you up with a play off semi sinal against arch rivals Crystal Palace, having only last season been humiliated 3-1 by them in our first ever clash at the Amex, a result we more than made up for this season when Leonardo and Spanish Dave put them to the sword in a 3-0 demolition in front of a rocking full house of delirious Brighton fans, plus a few desperately unhappy Palace fans. 
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There has been a lot of speculation regarding where the rivalry began, and I'm fairly sure I can at the very least dismiss the idea that it began as a result of that second replay in the FA Cup, played at Stamford Bridge on December 6th 1976, mainly because the rivalry was definitely already there before we even drew them in the cup. When Palace came to the Goldstone on October 2nd, the two teams played out a 1-1 draw in front of 27,307 fans, sandwiched in between the famous home games against York city (7-2), and Walsall (7-0), which only drew in 15,605 (York), and 14,204 for Walsall. So when we drew Palace at home in the first round of the FA Cup, it was played in front of 29,580 at the Goldstone, and we drew two all, with Ward and Mellor getting our goals. Up at Selhurst it was another bumper crowd of 29,174, and another draw, one all this time, with Spider Mellor getting our goal, then on to the by now infamous second replay 'Battle of Stamford Bridge', where Nobby Horton was robbed of his goal by the idiot ref, Ron Palace Challis, who disallowed Hortons penalty goal because a Palace player encroached in to the box. Challis needed a police escort out of the ground, and was never allowed to ref a Brighton game again, for his own safety.
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The biggest reason I am so sure the rivalry was already there, is down to the first ever game I saw at the Goldstone, 17th August 1974, against Crystal Palace, it's seared into my memory for many reasons. Firstly, because Pat Saward, the manager at the time, happened to live around the corner from us, and his step son, Nick Phillips, was a mate of mine and Dave Hudsons, so we got complimentary tickets for the North Stand. As we were so young, Daves elder brother, Paul, came along to look after us, picking up the comp tickets from the ticket office on the day, and then off into the North Stand for my first ever football match. Fighting broke out in the North Stand before the game had even started, a heavy Palace contingent had got in Albions home end, and me, Dave, Nick, and Paul, were shepherded to safety by police officers, and spent the rest of the afternoon in the West Stand, where I watched, mesmerised, by the sea of scrapping that went on for virtually the whole game. I was only eleven years old, I'd never seen anything remotely like it before, and just couldn't take my eyes off it, fuck the football. Afterwards the others were taking the mickey out of me for not having watched any of the football, or not very much of it at least, all I could say was, "didn't you see what was going off in the North Stand?", I couldn't understand why they weren't as transfixed as I was at this war happening so close to us. Although I played football at the park and in the school playing fields almost every waking second that I could, all I knew about professional football up to then, was what I saw in the paper, or on the TV, either Brian Moores 'The Big Match' on Sunday, or Jimmy Hills 'Match of the Day' Saturday night, so coming along to the Goldstone was an awakening for me, and what an awakening! Palace had one famous player that I knew the name of, Don Rogers, and that was the limit of my knowledge of these two teams at that point. Before that season, the last time that Brighton and Palace played each other, was back in 1963, the year I was born, so I have no idea whether the supporters scrapped each other then or not, but I can say for absolute certain, 1976 was not the year that the rivalry began.
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And today is without doubt the biggest game between the two teams there has been, and likely ever will be, so I tap away at this keyboard, nervously mistyping and having to redo, but looking forward to tonights game more than possibly any other game, and I've been to nearly all their biggest during my lifetime, Sheffield Wednesday in the FA Cup semis probably the best so far. The prize this time is mouth watering, 30 years after the FA Cup final appearance, so let's make the Amex rock with volume tonight, and create a story to tell your Grandkids. Bring it on!!

Proper Rant Time


09-05-2013

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A little while back, a friend, Bunny, mentioned to me that he wouldn't be asking me to quote for work he was having done at his place, because, in his words, "no disrespect, but I want a proper firm in to do it". Work comes my way whether I want it or not, mainly I'm grateful if it doesn't, as I enjoy my pastimes, and having the time to spend on them, so I took no offence, and told him so. I understood, he wanted what he thought would be the security of an established company, whereas I run my jobs, using trusted trades that I know personally, and without taking any profit from them, and this is where punters miss the point, 'trades', time served men that are good at what they do.
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Well, Bunny has since caught a massive cold from this so called established company, leaving him and his wife and newborn with an unnatural disaster in their new home, even the council building inspector called the work, "fucking shit", and it isn't in their remit to pass judgement on the work they check. So Bunny asked if I'd come and take a look at what this firm had done so far, with a view to giving him a price to put it right, stop laughing at the back there!
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I've seen some crap work standards before, and this was up there with some of the worst shyte I've had the misfortune to look at. Bunny already had a surveyor in to check it over, leaving him with a fat dossier which basically took the whole job apart, finally condemning the lot, and recommending everything that this firm, oh fuck it, GIBBS AND SON, had done at his place, be taken apart and redone, but properly, the building inspector has apparently said the same. Part of you wants to say, "I told you so", but what's the point, Bunny is my friend, and he's been well and truly screwed, so obviously I'm not happy about that, not at all. But mainly, how do scumbags like this get work in the first place, which apparently, Bunny said, was exactly what the building inspector said too, and I have since heard from a branch manager of Howdens, and a local structural engineer, both of whom have had dealings with these cowboys, and both with horror stories of this mob to readily recall.
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The problem is, that these unscrupulous gits play on the greed of the customer, I know because I've lost jobs in just the same way, undercut by a firm that don't use trades, but get labourers to do the trades jobs, take the money at the earliest possible moment, then do a runner, never answering the phone to hear the complaints. They turn up in their pristine sign written vans, with company logos on their shirts, and even the Japanese style flags hanging from the scaffold in some cases, eagerly showing some spurious accreditation on headed note paper, which tells you nothing of their quality, just the fact that they may have paid whichever bullshit mob it is, Checkatrade, Trustatrader, Toilettrader.com etc, to con the customers into thinking they know what they're doing, all of these accreditations are worthless. Bunny was telling me how the old boy, the father in the Gibbs and Son, was only there for a bit at the beginning, leaving his labourer to do most of the work.  He went on to tell me how the labourer told him at one point, as he was doing some roof carpentry work, "I really shouldn't be doing this", to which I asked Bunny, "didn't that set the alarm bells ringing then?". Also, how smarmy this Gibbs was when having mistakes pointed out to him, dismissing the genuine grievances, before going on to demand money for the disastrous work done so far, of which they had unwisely coughed up 12 of the 18 grand price already, he's even been pestering them for the other six thousand pounds since then too.
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Basically, Bunny now needs to take them to court, and it will take a good deal more than the original price to put things right, not least of which because the original price was an unrealistic one to do the job properly anyway, but now that the cowboy work has to be taken apart too, it'll be that much more, and nobody knows just what a nightmare is to be found underneath their cock up of a job, so you couldn't really price it without heavy contingencies. If Bunny wasn't a friend, I would say no out of hand, but as he's likely to be quoted a hefty amount by some other, 'reputable' firm to put things right, I'll probably get involved and try to keep costs down for him.
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I know times are hard, and everyone is looking for a bargain, but as a life rule, if something seems too good to be true, it's because it isn't true, and their are a lot of unscrupulous thieves out there, just waiting to prey on peoples greed. If you want a major job done, get three or four quotes, check other work of these companies, speak with their previous customers if you can, but if you see a price way below the others, think very carefully before you jump in. I know how it is, you get a price thousands of pounds cheaper, and already you're spending that money saved in your head, well here's another worthy life rule, 'you get what you pay for'. 

Work wise things have gone quiet again after a short burst, so I'm back on the family tree trail, although I'm getting side tracked a bit, following my Great Grand fathers business partner, William Walker Sampson, and his good friend, Harry Preston, both of whom I've mentioned before, but with good reason. Harry had some great stories to tell, and while he died in 1936, thankfully he wrote two autobiographical books, highlighting the extraordinary times he had lived in. So I thought I'd pick a few out from time to time, and share it here. This first one takes us back in time to around 1901, and the early years of the new fangled motor car.
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'I have been honoured by the friendship and dear regard of so many sportsmen during the last half century that this part of my unwritten diary should contain some thousands of names and will be about a million words long. Two personal stories will explain something of my dilemma when I reflect upon my good fortune in having so many friends who meet on the common and glorious ground of sport. On March 6, 1927, a few of my friends came from town to Brighton especially to honour me with a dinner at the Royal York, where they, and I, had enjoyed happy and intimate hours, enriched by good talk and the sweet aura of one anothers good company. They presented me with a loving cup on which they had inscribed their names:', and he lists the names, again, W.W.Sampson is there.
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Compare the Clam, Compare the Scumbags



Most people probably go for a holiday to rest, but for those that like to slide down mountains for fun, rest aint on the agenda until they get back, and don't I just know it! It was one of the best weeks you could want for as far as snow boarding goes, plenty of snow already on arrival at Andorra, then building through the week as it barely let up, puking clam all over the place. Depending on who you listened to, it was the most snow they'd had in ten, twenty, or thirty years, filling the slopes continually with clam chowder (powder), at one point even the piste had a metre of the fresh stuff on it.

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At the end of each day I was convinced, however much fun I'd had that day, that I'd need a days rest before going out again, but each day I'd creak, groan, get kitted up and head out for more, quietly dreading the pain I was about to put myself through, until we're off, and it's all forgotten again. Even on the white out day, when our part of the mountain was closed owing to the blizzard conditions, we took a bus over to El Tartar where they had chair lifts running, but I was adamant I wasn't going up in that visibility, neither was Sweet VV, so the meercat and me sat it out in the cafe, he struggles to see in the best of vis. One run and the boys came to get us, "you have to come out, it's amazing", Tim told us, and then convinced VV that he'd be ok to see, so that was that, and up we went. What a time, as soon as you got down and went back up, it had dumped more of the fresh stuff and covered the trails, absolutely epic.

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Falling over can be exhausting mind you, or at least the getting up bit is, pushing against fluffy clam, eventually having to pack the stuff down with your gloves to create a bit of resistance tp push yourself up. Riding in the stuff is like surfing in snow, gliding below the surface of the deep light snow, leaning your weight back to keep the front end up, grinning like a cheshire cat with a vat of cream strapped to its back, and reciprocating smiles as you pass other equally jubilant boarders and skiers on the way past. Yes, it was a great weeks worth of boarding, but boy did I ache as a result, two weeks later and I still ache. Powder is gold dust to boarders, but it's bloody hard work too.

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When we arrived, I'd already been giving Sweet VV, (Ollie, Two Stone, Cyril Sneer, Meerkat, Sneercat), my usual, 'compare the meerkat.com', dodgy Russian accent mickey take, which he'd been hoping I'd forget this time. So imagine his disbelief when I spot that the name for Supermarkets in this part of Andorra, is, 'Supermercat', well that was it, "Supermercats.com, Supermarkets.com, Simples', for the rest of the week. Ollie, in my humble opinion, looks like the meerkat in the TV ads, which is why the dodgy accent mimicry, little things eh.

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On return, it was straight into work, after Trough day on Monday of course, and pulling out a dormer on the Wednesday, I felt like death after that, nothing like easing yourself back into things. While at work I received a call from a woman claiming to have been recommended to me by a past customer, and offering me the possibility of more work, on a commission basis, "excuse me?", she went on to explain how they could line up work for me, and I would be expected to pay a commission on the jobs I got to price. By now something didn't sit right, I was smelling a rat, "you mean a back hander for finding me work", "no, it's all on a commission basis", "yeah, that's what I said, backhanders", just another set of parasites out there conning one set of people that they can provide decent trades, while actually using anyone they can get hold of, as long as they stump up the 'commission' for the privilege.

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I phoned up the customer she told me she'd spoken to about my work, turns out this parasite found the info on the council website, as many people do, so much like that Checkatrade muppet that got hold of me after bumping into the roofer I use at a garage a couple of years back, ('Checkatrade guarantee the standard of work of whoever happens to be available at the nearest petrol station'), her mob will tell her customers that they can trust anyone that's willing to pay her for work, but obviously she wouldn't say it like that. These scumbags make me sick, they provide nothing, advertise a service they have nothing to do with, effectively leeching money out of the process as middle men, and then you can be sure, if anything goes wrong with the job, they'll say that's between the customer and the contractor, conveniently neglecting to take responsibility for bringing the two together. That's the issue with all these rinsers that say you can trust 'their' tradesmen, the only reason these trades are on their books, is because they paid to be, not because they're any good.

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As we were cleaning the Devils bottom this weekend, one of our crew, Bunny, was telling me what a nightmare job his builders had done for him at their house, a so called reputable firm, no doubt listed with many of the aforementioned type of rinsing agencies. Apparently, even the Building Control Officer from the council remarked, not just how bad the work was, but how did this particular mob get any work, as "they're a load of shit", and it really isn't in the remit of the Building Inspector to pass such comments, so it had to be pretty bad. And Bunny said how his wife had commented on what a great job she had seen we had done by the pictures I posted on Facebook of an extension, dormer, and refurb at one property. Bunny had wanted a decent firm to take control of the whole job, I didn't take offence, I generally couldn't care less if work comes my way, as long as I have enough through the year to provide beer tokens for the Friday. But I did take the opportunity to remind Bunny, that should he wish a 'proper' trade to take a look at the work, I'd be happy to, but in fairness, who wants to come in after a bunch of cowboys with nice vans and T shirts with company logos have already fucked the job up.

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The Devils bottom got cleaned and anti fouled over the weekend, with a nice bit of weather to give us a glimpse of better days to come, and hopefully not too soon before we're back out on the water, there's still the small issue of getting the boom replaced. We've all been finding bits of antifoul dust in our finger nails, nostrils, and ear holes since! Nothing that a pint of Guinness didn't put right at the end of the shift

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Regarding my last blog, and other fairly recent scribes, concerning over development, and over population. I could hardly believe my eyes and ears when Cameron comes blurting out that all Indians will be welcome to live on our shores, with all obstacles being cleared to allow them pretty much unfettered access, 'ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS CAMERON?', India has a population of 1.5 BILLION, what kind of a half wit says such lunatic shyte, and how on earth did this half wit get into public office, let alone leader of the country. I expect dribbling shit from the likes of some of our local councillors, such as Mendoza, spewing his 'Gateway' bullshit as he seeks to concrete over every spare piece of ground in Adur. This has absolutely nothing to do with race, creed, colour, or what they dress like, it's about too many people in not enough space, and if they all drive cars, which they'll probably want to, then welcome to 24/7 smogville central, as well as all the other crap (sewers), flooding, crowded public transport, and where will the jobs come from? This kind of cretinous thinking is frankly bewildering.

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Meanwhile, back in the world of my family histoire, new stuff comes up aplenty, but just makes the chase more urgent. I now have a rough picture of a Victorian world of art dealing, Gaiety Girls, Stage Door Johnnies, first class trips across the Atlantic, and early air flight pioneering involving Shoreham and Brighton. I currently have Sothebys checking to see if they may have records which could help my cause, Christies gave me the cold shoulder, and then my brother Simon mentions Bonhams to me at the Trough yesterday, as we consumed a mighty fine Horse pie, courtesy of Tescos mince, neigh worries. Without having tapped in anything to do with Bonhams, but researching one of the artists that my Great Grandfather, Henry Ramus, and his business partner, William Walker Sampson, had been dealing in a hundred years back, Alfont De Breanski, up came a picture by him, at Bonhams, and who should be named on the provenance for this picture?, a certain David S Ramus, of Atlanta, Georgia. I have long since traced and established a link between this American author, or more accurately, his sister, and daughter. He is actually my fifth cousin, once removed, but what are the odds?, I love a good coincidence. Unfortunately, as I began researching Bonhams, it turns out that they lost all pre war records as a result of bombing in WW2, but the provenance on the De Breanski picture will do for now, all adds to the story. Check out the latest on 'My Family Tree' page on this site.

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As I have no work this week, of the manual type at least, I'm going to hoof it off to some libraries in search of more info for the family story, and let the old bod recover properly, I feel like I have the elbows, knees, and muscles of a ninety year old right now.

And to finish on a lighter note, another little wheeze from Macca:- (remember, it's only a joke)

Dear Mr. Cameron,

Please find below our suggestion for fixing the UK 's economy.

... 

Instead of giving billions of pounds to banks that will squander the money on lavish parties and unearned bonuses, use the following plan.

You can call it the Patriotic Retirement Plan:

There are about 10 million people over 50 in the work force.

Pay them £1 million each severance for early retirement with the following stipulations:

1) They MUST retire.

Ten million job openings - unemployment fixed

2) They MUST buy a new British car.

Ten million cars ordered - Car Industry fixed

3) They MUST either buy a house or pay off their mortgage -

Housing Crisis fixed

4) They MUST send their kids to school/college/university -

Crime rate fixed

5) They MUST buy £100 WORTH of alcohol/tobacco a week .....

And there's your money back in duty/tax etc

It can't get any easier than that!

P.S. If more money is needed, have all members of parliament pay back their falsely claimed expenses and second home allowances

If you think this would work, please forward to everyone you know.

Also.....

Let's put the pensioners in jail and the criminals in a nursing home.

This way the pensioners would have access to showers, hobbies and walks.

They'd receive unlimited free prescriptions, dental and medical treatment, wheel chairs etc and they'd receive money instead of paying it out.

They would have constant video monitoring, so they could be helped instantly, if they fell, or needed assistance.

Bedding would be washed twice a week, and all clothing would be ironed and returned to them.

A guard would check on them every 20 minutes and bring their meals and snacks to their cell.

They would have family visits in a suite built for that purpose.

They would have access to a library, weight room, spiritual counselling, pool and education.

Simple clothing, shoes, slippers, PJ's and legal aid would be free, on request.

Private, secure rooms for all, with an exercise outdoor yard, with gardens.

Each senior could have a PC a TV radio and daily phone calls.

There would be a board of directors to hear complaints, and the guards would have a code of conduct that would be strictly adhered to.

The criminals would get cold food, be left all alone and unsupervised. Lights off at 8pm, and showers once a week. Live in a tiny room and pay £600.00 per week and have no hope of ever getting out.

Think about this (more points of contention):

COWS

Is it just me, or does anyone else find it amazing that during the mad cow epidemic our government could track a single cow, born in Appleby almost three years ago, right to the stall where she slept in the county of Cumbria?

And, they even tracked her calves to their stalls. But they are unable to locate 125,000 illegal immigrants wandering around our country. Maybe we should give each of them a cow.

More and more I hear people talk of how Shoreham is being changed, and they're not saying it's for the better, so my answer to them is, ENGAGE, have your say, write to the Argus, or the Herald. More importantly, find out which councillors are backing these schemes, and let them know you'll be voting against them unless they change their views, namely, one Mr Mendoza for a start, who has come out quite openly stating he believes it to be a good idea, creating a great 'Gateway' for the town. This isn't the first time I've heard him use the word 'Gateway', it was a term employed by the architect firm, Liam Russell, when applying to stick a block of flats where a bungalow currently stands on Shoreham Beach, another scheme that Mr Mendoza claimed was a good idea in his opinion, saying then that he believed these flats would make a great 'Gateway to Shoreham beach', conveniently ignoring the fact that it isn't even close to being the entrance to the beach. Ben Stride, a Shoreham Beach representative on the council, also expressed support for flats at that location in a scaled down design, so I would encourage any beach residents to let him know their thoughts on that matter too, because the re-application for those flats is in the post already. Apathy is the enemy, so rattle off an e mail and let them know what you think of their desire to further ruin this great town.
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Overpopulation is the barely voiced dilemma which is the human disaster waiting in the wings, and unhindered over development is the fuel to help that disaster along its way. When that arsewipe BLiar was busy ruining all the institutions in this country, one of his nifty little ideas was to open the door to unchecked immigration, snorting with derision at any protesters, that only around forty thousand Eastern Europeans would take up the chance to come and work here, but that it would benefit the country, the only people it benefited, other than the cheap Eastern European labourers, were the employers that exploited the situation. Well last week it was announced that Polish is now the second most spoken language in the UK, with over half a million speaking it. Nice work BLiar, mind you, I could go on all day about the poisoned legacy that scumbag has left this country, before jetting off around the world getting paid fortunes on the lecture circuit, presumeably giving a masterclass on how to fuck up a country and make a tidy wedge in the process.

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On a more light hearted note:-

06-01-2013
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'Battle won, but War not over'

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Here we are in the new year of 2013, and I've been working already, shocking state of affairs, and all the way over in Gravesend to make things that much worse, rarely has a place been more aptly named, bleak and dour are two words that come to my mind when shuddering as I think about getting up at five in the morning for another day up there. A mate of mine asked me to help him out, "just a couple days work fitting ash handrails", I've done eight days so far, and he neglected to mention where the job was until the day before I started.
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It isn't all that bad really, the job is at Gads Hill, a fee paying school for the well heeled, and formerly home to Charles Dickens apparently, with Charles Dickens Avenue, and Copperfield Crescent, just a couple of road names nearby. I go up with the welders, and they really are a breed apart, humour being of the brutal variety, quite funny, but mostly unrepeatable, and how they like to take the mickey out of poshness, I can't help but smile when hearing a couple of burly welders walking along singing, "Gads Hill, Gads Hill, ra ra ra", in mock posh accents. Needless to say none of the little darlings get to hear it, just the work force.
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On the Shoreham Beach front, having seen off the first application to build a block of nine flats where a bungalow is now, I was pleasantly surprised to see a full page spread in our local paper, with the headline:- 'Battle on Beach won- but the war isn't over', with a headshot of myself, and my name in bold print under. I'm never keen on seeing photos of my ugly mug, but the cause is a worthwhile one. Basically the reporter, Elaine Hammond, found my blog and paraphrased a few bits of it for the story, all totally fine by me, and all of us opposed to the scheme I'm sure are grateful for Elaines assistance in publicising our objections. If you don't know the full story, just check back on my last blog of 2012. Unlike some people who consider it inevitable and not worth fighting, I don't believe build build build equals progress, not without the proper infrastructure to accomodate the extra burden the increased population brings all across society, from extra traffic, wear and tear on the roads, drainage problems, and sewage issues, to name just a few off the top of my head. Personally, I like Shoreham for its history and location, and mainly its natural elements, not for what some developer thinks they can turn it in to purely so they can make a fast buck. It was a sad day when Watercraft went bust back in 1986, the place where I, and many others, cut our teeth as apprentices learning our future trades, it was a much sadder time watching that eyesore called Emerald Quay get built where Watercraft once proudly stood, the last bastion of a long history of big boat building yards in Shoreham.
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It is with a heavy heart that I recently found out that Peter Weller, former Production Manager of Watercraft, sadly passed away, unfortunately I found out only after his funeral had already been, and saddest of all is that I hear there were only about fifteen people at his funeral. Ade Thompson, another ex apprentice, phoned to let me know about it, I've spoken to a good few ex Watercraft employees since, all of whom, like me and Ade, said they would like to have gone and paid their respects had they known, as I'm sure many others would too. After recommendation letters from Paul Powter, (who I have to say with an equally heavy heart, is currently battling cancer, and I hope  more than anything that he can beat it), and Peter Kilner, fathers to Ian Powter, and Barry Kilner, both apprentices there at the time, I got an interview with Peter Weller for the position of Boat Building apprentice in 1980. Like many of the employees, he had worked his way up from the shop floor, and because of that, the place had a big family feel to it, seeming less like work as an apprentice, and more like a better kind of school than we'd been used to. I still have a great many friends from my time there, and it's always good to chew the fat with any of them when we cross paths. Peter was a well liked part of that big family, and I have no doubt a great deal of ex work mates will be sad to hear of his passing. If it's at all possible, I'd like to see if I can arrange a gathering of anyone that knew Peter, for some kind of memorial, so if any of you reading this would like to be involved, please feel free to e mail me to show your interest, and I'll see what can be done.
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In the world of fitba, I'm happy to say, "I was there", for the cup game against Newcastle, because the Albion were awesome, they played so well against a Premiership side, albeit a weakened one, but I bet that weakened team still earn eye watering salaries which would dwarf what any Brighton player, bar Wayne Bridge, gets. It was a shame the crowd was so much smaller than recent crowds, seats that had been paid for left empty, but for those of us lucky enough to have witnessed that quality display, we know it was their loss to miss such a great performance. Now we have another home draw in the fourth round, either Swansea or Arsenal, I don't mind which, but hope the lads can play as well then as they did this Saturday, there were stars all over the pitch, Bridge and Bridcutt being outstanding, but Bridcutt was absolutely epic, so my man of the match on the day.
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I am now officially an 'Agent', with regard to filing applications for building works, having received notification that my plans and regs have been passed by Worthing and Adur Building Control, so I hope this will be the start of an interesting change of course in my working life. Given what some of these Agents charge, and the fact that I have a wealth of experience from the construction side already, it might even be a lucrative move, although I couldn't bring myself to bill customers the fortunes that these other Agents have been quoting. Regardless of all that, it's a job I enjoy doing, and once I get used to the various regulations, it's a doddle.
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Until the next blog, I'd like to wish you all a happy new year, and a further welcome to all you 'Stumbledupon' readers that have been flooding my site with hits and visits, setting a new record in December, with over seventy thousand hits in the month. Let's see if I can keep them coming and create new records in 2013.