An Ode - Not a Moan

I’m hot off of a 12 hour drive across continental Europe. I say hot, I believe shredded would better describe my current condition.

Over the past 7 years, I have driven over 600,000km around Europe, with my most recent journey being the 72nd drive between the continent and the UK in one direction or the other.

Trip number 72 however was different. It’s usual for me, like many others on a long drive i guess, to slip away, think of nothing special, and watch the miles pass by.

Last nights drive didn’t involve any mental emptiness. Instead, I spent some time deciphering the relationship I have with my car, or in fact any of the 14 cars in which I have completed this drive in the past.

The relationship between a car, and its driver. One does exist?

Conception and Birth

Look outside of your window. Ignore the hoodies spraying naughty words on your neighbors garage door, and look at your car.

Once, long (or not so long) ago, that piece of machinery was tens of thousands of individual parts, springs, nuts, bolts, thingys and bits and bobs. During its journey through construction it has been touched by many men, put together by them with care, precision (well, not if your car was built in the midlands or Toyota City), dedication, and a sheer pride for what the machine they are assembling will become.

Okay, so I know cars these days are almost exclusively built by robots. But those robots were built by robots built by men. There's a guy in there somewhere - i’m sure!

What leaves the production line is effectively an assembled bunch of components put together to do mans bidding. A machine. But how much of a machine is it to you?

From the moment the key is turned, it requires air to breathe. It needs fuel to sustain itself. Oil to keep its joints supple. Just like us.

Welcome Aboard!

Take a seat Sir, and make yourself comfortable.

Inside your car can be a fascinating place. Look around. Instruments, gauges and dials. Providing you with information of what your car is doing, how it’s performing. Speed, RPM, outside temperature, engine temperature, oil levels even the correct time of day. Details of the amount of fuel you’re carrying, an estimation of how far that fuel will take you. Depending on the specification of your car, the list goes on. The computer, the brain of your car, can provide you with a whole range of schematics and telematics.

Lights to help you see the road ahead. Lights inside to help you read a map. Climate control and heated seats.

Satellite navigation to help you reach your destination, and avoid traffic jams. DVD players and MP3 to keep you entertained.

Adjustable seats, and adjustable everything - ensuring that any sleep breaks you require will be comfortable ones.

All this to ensure that your journey becomes an experience, not just a journey.

Time For You Both

Solitude - not usually a word that warms our hearts. But when your car is involved, solitude can be bliss.

You, your thoughts, inside a metal box.

The control over your environment pleases me greatly too. No arguments over what to watch, and who has possession of the television remote. In here I am in control. I decide on the entertainment, its volume, and its duration.

Care and Maintenance

Do you begrudge the costs involved in caring for your vehicle? Why? I have a theory on this one too.

Do you begrudge caring for your children? Do hands seize up at the thought of dipping into your wallet to feed them, to buy them new clothes, and another pair of shoes?

Treat your car in the loving way in which you would treat your offspring and it could supply you with similar levels of joy and pride.

Infidelity

The journey of the relationship you have with your car could be similar to that of the women who have been in your life.

When you first meet, there is a spark, a certain amount of excitement. A need to take that car and have her as your own. An infatuation, a desire to be around it all the time.

For the first few months you and your car are inseparable. You want to do everything together, and it hurts when you are separated.

As time passes you become used to her. You love the fact that your car is there to meet your needs as and when required.

Time rolls on, and after a while something makes the relationship become a little stale. You’re not sure what that is, but you know something is wrong, and you start to look at other cars. Some similar to your own, others much younger and in better shape.

You may decide that you want to test the water a little, and take a younger car, with a slimmer waist and brighter headlights for test drive.

As you leave the forecourt, you see your car disappear into the distance, and then you get the feeling you are cheating on her in someway - even though you have made no decision about the future yet.

Some take the plunge. Turn their back on their faithful and loyal companion, in favor of youth and beauty.

However, there are some people out there who have found that special one, and know they can never be apart. They will always care for their good old car whatever breakdowns and mishaps occur.

Til Death Do You Part

Imagine the worst thing that could happen to your car. Being involved in a collision - together.

In addition to ensuring your comfort while you are together, your car will always have one more thing to give you.

Should you both end up in troubles way, your car will protect you.

As it enters the final throws of its untimely demise, it deploys airbags, applies tension to your seatbelt. The brain calculates the situation and attempts to avoid a collision by applying additional anti-lock braking force. The side impact bars, installed by those robots, built by robots, built by men all that time ago prepare themselves to despatch of their duties.

Almost in an act of sacrifice, your car will do everything in its power to ensure you a protected, even though its own existence is now hanging in the balance.

So, is the vehicle you are looking at through your window a mechanical mass of components. Or is it a machine, a fine machine with a heart (or a brain at least) and a soul. Do you become a part of the machine? Or does the machine become part of you?

Arise! Sir Andy Coe of Beckingham

Last Sunday, the streets of Germany fell silent. Not a soul walked the streets. The parks were deserted. The Autobahns empty.

As a country of church-goers, this is not such an unusual occurrence. However, the forced exile from the streets continued past eleven a.m., through lunch time, and well in to the afternoon.

The empty streets conjured thoughts of what things would be like after the world has gone completely bankrupt, and it's citizens have returned to living in caves.

The reason for the exodus of people was not due to a sudden increase in church congregations. The Germans were worshiping. However, the subject of their faith and devotion last weekend was not Jesus of Nazareth, but Michael of Hürth.

The return of Michael Schumacher to Formula One has captivated the countries press and people alike. RTL TV's coverage of Sundays season-opening Bahrain Grand Prix began with two hours of features and reminiscing of the nations heroes career.

Early figures showed a 50% increase in viewers over the same race last season, and over 50% of all televisions in the country were tuned in to RTL to watch the prodigal sons return to the racetrack.

After watching the race I went to the Pub. The furore was still continuing there, as grandmothers could be overheard discussing the race over a coffee. While the rest of the sausage brigade were sat at the bar discussing the events they had just watched over several glasses of the local brew.

I attended three Grand Prix during Michael Schumachers hiatus from the sport. All of which were overrun with tens of thousands of Germans waving Ferrari flags emblazoned with their favourite, at that time, retired drivers name.

So what of Britains sporting heroes? What of the athletes and sportsmen and women that we worshiped throughout their careers and long after their swan-song?

It was reported recently that the BBC's viewing figures for the recent Winter Olympics were the corporations highest for two years.

Why were we so keen to sit up half of the night watching men in diving suits compete in sports that due to the tropical climate we experience in the UK, we're never likely to be able to excel at like on a large scale as we have done in the past in other sports.

Can anyone remember the final race of last seasons Formula One championship, which saw Britains Jenson Button take the drivers championship crown? The race itself? The Venue?

How many people tuned in to ITV's Champions League coverage of Man Who vs AC Milan last week, purely to see the emotion on David Beckhams face as he entered the Old Trafford pitch, for what certainly could be the final time in his club career?

And how many people have spent their evenings this week in front of the TV following Andy Murray at the ATP Masters Series in California? Or their mornings following the exploits of the England cricket team in Bangladesh?

Why as a nation of supposed sports lovers, and a nation who like to think we invented most sports, do we follow most sports with such a distance? Most of us follow a sport of some kind, but in most cases that renders us almost oblivious to the existence of other sporting disciplines in which our countries participants need our support.

Not even sporting visionaries are safe. Those that strive to make us more aware of the vast sporting world out there are open to criticism, as proved by a 2006 survey by the BBC which revealed that a quarter of Londoners were unhappy that the city had been awarded the right to host the 2012 summer Olympic Games.

Maybe its our lack of personal participation in sport these days that makes us inherently ignorant to its wider existence and importance to some? Mr. Brown and Co. keep calling us fat - so maybe we are, and we see the arrival of the Olympics in London as another shot in our direction from those telling us to get off our arses and down the gym.

I follow many sports, some almost to an obsessive level, and sports I don't particularly like, I still try to muster the effort to follow to some degree.

I try to participate too - I play tennis. I love the game. Even with my advancing years, and total lack of any level of fitness whatsoever, I still love being on court.

While running around like an injured bull, swinging my racket at thin air, all during the course of being heavily defeated by some overweight teenager with skin problems, I still (like anyone surely would) have images running though my head of a slightly slimmer me being crowned in glory and adulation on Philippe Chatrier court at Roland Garros.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, I do (again, like anyone surely would) ask myself the question most people have asked themselves at some point in their lives - what if?

What if I had taken up playing tennis at the age of 10 instead of 29? Would I have been successful? Would I be earning millions every year from my sporting prowess and numerous sponsorship deals? Would I have the nation captivated by my very being, hanging on every word to leave my lips? Maybe, maybe not.

I do believe however, that despite my bulging trophy cabinet, bulging bank balance and hugely successful range of weapons grade fragrances, that my life may not be so different to how it is now.

I may be a tennis pro, I may have lots of money. But still this is after all the UK, so virtually no one would know who I am, and no one would plan their Sunday around watching me on TV.

Maybe I should don a baby-gro and take up ski-jumping.

Bleeding Ears

Last week I was paid a visit by the Police. The reason for their sudden arrival on my doorstep was not to inform me of the arrest of the last little chav that attempted to steal my car. Nor did they take the time away from their desks to thank me for all the old ladies i've helped with their shopping bags down the years.

The reason for their visit was to inform me that a local resident was unable to watch their video recordings of 90's Liberal Democrat conferences due to the volume of the music I was, until that point, relaxing too.

The Police of course agreed with the understandably enraged pensioner, ignored the school children stabbing each other around the corner, and arrived at my door (which by the way, I clearly heard being knocked on) to tell me "The music may be a little loud".

I don't have a problem with authority. I don't have a problem with the Police.

Many people though, do believe the Police spend too much time dealing with insignificant matters - such as people listening to music while they are waiting for Dickinsons Real Deal to begin.

Had the Police asked the plaintiff in this instance to be vigilant, and exercise some community spirt by visiting their neighbour and delivering their complaint themselves, perhaps even having a cup of tea and a custard cream in the process, we would perhaps have one less 5 year old on YouTube having his mobile phone stolen whilst a machete is being inserted into his skull.

Of course, hoodlums were not really at war, happy-slapping each other over mobile electronics at the end of my street, but do you see my point?

Today, I am being confronted by the ultimate of public menaces. Not graffiti, and not 30 children in hoodies drinking cider outside the local Co-Op. No no no, something much worse.....The busker.

As I write to you now, he is down there, below my living room window, lurking. A middle aged man, who clearly has no job, or any musical ability, has been below my window for over an hour making sounds with a violin that if Antonio Stradivari could have heard, would have built lawn mowers instead.

The public, or passers by, shopping in the immediate vicinity of my apartment are doing exactly that - passing by - quickly. Luckily though for them, a few hurried paces and they are out of earshot. For me the escape is not so easy. It is impossible. I am trapped.

Bargain hunt is being watched to what sounds like a horrible rendition of the Godfather soundtrack.

What can I do about this noise? Close my windows? I've tried that - it doesn't work. Or, I could pop downstairs and politely ask the fiddle wielding tramp to move along. But that would be frowned upon, as that would lack compassion and community spirit.

I know! I'll call the Police! I'm sure whatever body they're pulling from the river this morning can wait while they come and deal with Mr Disability Benefit outside my door.

But hang on, what will the Police do. He's playing with his instrument in a public place, something which he is obviously entitled to do, as we do of course live in a free country. A democracy.

So, if I am to put an end to this mans street music career, there is only one thing I can do. I wait until he has returned home, picks up his violin in the privacy of his dinning room, then send the SWAT team round.

The offence of making noise in your own home will undoubtably carry a custodial term of 10-20 years, during which the prison service will provide him with music lessons, and the tools he needs to get himself a page on myface. But, at least the streets will be quiet once again.

True Grit?

Now, i've been thinking a lot recently about the situation in the UK with regards to winter weather. At the first sign of a frost, airports close, trains run even further from their schedules as usual, panic buying ensues, and people prepare themselves to find their elderly relatives' frozen bodies in their living room chairs.

But what always proves to be the perennial image I see on news reports, and the image that annoys me the most, is the endless VT of traffic jams, lorries in ditches, and cars struggling to climb an icy hill with a gradient to match the most mountainous parts of the Netherlands.

Of course, it is a well known fact that when the bad weather does arrive, local councils always appear to have inadequate supplies of salt, and despite their best efforts fail to keep all but motorways usable.

Now, as tax-payers, and more importantly council tax payers, we feel well within our rights to moan and complain about the state of things. About how the baboons in local government have yet again squandered our hard earned money on giving the hoodies somewhere to take their uppers and play with their uzis, instead of ensuring their counties roads are in a usable state to allow those of us that bother to have a jobs to actually get to them. This outcry of annoyance is something I can sympathise with, although I do not totally believe that all the blame should be levelled at the local authorities. Is there something we can do ourselves to help keep things moving when the inevitable deluge of the wrong type of snow hits?

I too didn't know whether to laugh or break out some special expletives this afternoon when I learnt the outcome of the nations inaugural 'Grit Summit'. For those who don't know what i'm talking about; councils from around the country used even more of our money sending disliked colleagues on a day out to Silverstone, to hobnob with 'experts' from the motor industry about the salt shortages this past winter. Or, in their words 'to forge a national winter weather policy'.

I'm guessing that no-one present saw fit to point out that the government should spend less money worrying about the amount of salt we have in our cornflakes, and more money on ensuring there's enough salt to keep the M11 open through the winter.

However, to say that the money spent on the summit was wasted would be unfair. The delegates did find some time between their tea and cherry bakewells to outline some recommendations to local governments to take on board for winters to come. Such as setting up regional salt depots to avoid cuts in supply from the national depot in Cheshire.

It is my belief that some simple legislation could help the situation considerably.

Germany is a country in which I have lived, and like many continental countries, have a very different attitude towards dealing with winter weather. When it snows in Germany - it snows - lots. However, you would still be hard pushed to find a train not running to schedule, or an Autobahn closed because of a couple of centimeters of snow have drifted its way.

Of course, local authorities have the snow ploughs and gritters out in force, but the effort doesn't stop there. Stretches of the Autobahn have little machines installed in the road surface that pop up every so often and squirt the road with some sort of anti-freeze concoction, likely to have been developed and tested on children in the early 1940's.

This is not the end of winter motoring regime the Germans have adopted. One single piece of government legislation, the use of one thing, does enough all on its own to ensure the supermarkets don't run out of sheeps lung soup.

Winter Tyres.

Incredible to think such things exist.

The general rule in most German states is that from late October to early March, or, once the average ambient temperature falls below an average of 8 degrees, your Trabant should be sporting winter shoes, and not summer or all-weather ones. The net result of your cars change of footwear is that in most wintry weather conditions, you can complete a journey in your car in almost the same manner as you would on summers afternoon.

Of course you still need to take care in such weather conditions, but the main difference is that when you have winter tyres on your car you can pull away on snow, corner on snow and stop on snow without the fear of having to have the Opel in front surgically removed from the front end of you Audi.

Recently, I was driving a car using winter tyres on a snow covered M25 around London. In addition to the pleasure of comparatively safe driving in such conditions, the journey is made even better when overtaking a snowbound 4WD SUV at 60mph, accentuated further by the looks of horror being purported from the shivering faces inside as I performed the manoeuvre.

Another recommendation tabled at the gathering at Silverstone was the diversion of funds from the NHS to fund additional grit to be used on footpaths, thus preventing the countries accident and emergency facilities being innundated with old ladies suffering from broken hips. A good idea in essence, however, I feel compelled once again to look eastwards once more.

Another winter regime employed by the Germans is that of ice and snow clearance by the public. All preventative measures must be taken to ensure ice or snow does not lie on the footpaths surrounding your home. The general rule here is to grit any public area around your property, and to ensure it is all free of snow and ice by 7am daily. Failure to do so, results in a visit from the Polizei, a fine or being shot in the head.

They may be a race of sausage wielding, humourless drunks - but this is something they have got right.

Which makes more sense here? Deprive an already crippled NHS of more money? Or get people off their arses every once in a while to throw some salt outside the door?

I'm sure I spend most of the time contradicting my own arguments. However, one argument in my mind seems perfectly clear. A no-brainer.

Do we continue to allow these oafs to waste our taxes in leaving us stranded each winter? Or do we spend 30 pounds a year on salting outside our homes, and 300 pounds for some tyres and rims that will last 3-5 years? We can keep the country moving, and safeguard the NHS' already depleting supply of artificial joints.

Well, firstly I should point out that this is my first post using this medium. Until now I have been more of a social networker than a blogger. My step from myface to a dedicated blogspace has somewhat been fuelled by my desires to rant and speak my mind far much more than i would normally allow myself in the teeny-bop world of spacebook!

Please be aware, that this is just my opinion and thoughts, nothing more. So please feel free to comment constructively, and light-heartedly!

So, straight to what i've got on my mind right now...

It's starting to become very clear now, that the major players in UK politics have started to flex their muscles once again, as the run-up to a general election appears to have gotten underway.

Now, normally I would sit back at this point, knowing that the outcome of an approaching ballot is usually well anticipated before polling day arrives.

If you would have asked me a few months ago who i would expect to see inside No. 10 this May, rummaging through boxes frantically searching for the kettle - I would have had no problem whatsoever delivering my answer.

Daveyboy!

Now, Mr Cameron is a man who in my opinion has the ability to a great many things for UK politics.

I remember the first time I saw him on SkyNews, and can remember instantly thinking 'Now this guy doesn't look like a politician - nice touch'. Yes, he's clean shaven, smartly dressed, well educated, and opted for a Raleigh over a Prius. But he's certainly no Michael Howard. He's new skool, not old skool.

To begin with, this was a good thing. This was probably a view shared by many others.

So how come of late, have the Conservatives suffered such a slip in the polls. For so long, public opinion and support had swayed in the direction of Cammys office door. Now, this appears to no longer be the case.

Of course, the difficult thing for voters is the endless accusations from one political party to another, that the other is borrowing the others ideas and policies. Endless televised bickering from the commons, and constant smear campaigns from one party to the next.

I honestly don't recall for some time seeing a report in the media from Whitehall that has either failed to wind me up, or has made me sit up and take note of a good idea being tabled.

From Daveyboy and his party wanting to withdraw British troops from Germany, in order to make them more operationally ready (because, of course the Army spend their time in the FRG eating bratwurst and knocking back the Jeagermeister!), to Mr Brown standing up in Swansea defending his governments economic record! Which is funnier?? I can't decide!! Nor can I decide which of the two main parties in this country could do the best job of running it.

Can you?