If the devil were made incarnate, he would drive a bus.

A while ago I was watching a bloke on telly talking about the evils of driving big cars, especially 4 wheel drives.  The general gist of the article was to persuade us all to travel by public transport or to buy a teeny tiny car powered by 3 AA batteries.

And do you know what?

I think I am a convert.

No, please don't be mistaken.  This chap was completely 100% wrong.  He converted me to the idea that driving and especially driving big cars is a good thing.  I used to feel guilty about driving my 8 seat people carrier with just me in it.  But no more.  I imagine the majority of my readership drive.  I do.  And I drive a big car on occasion.  In fact, from time to time I stick a monster great caravan on the back and pull that as well.  Gross combined weight about 5 tons.  And yes, I do happily hold up other traffic  by not being in a particular hurry.  And it is a good thing.  Why is it such a good thing?  Because I can do it when I want to do it from where I want to leave to where I want to go.  If I had an electric car, even if it would pull the caravan I would have to stop and recharge the battery for about 12 hours every 20 miles or rely on the addition of a petrol engine and I already have one of them.

Alternatively, you could travel by train.  I remember sitting on Gloucester train platform one very early morning when an announcement came over the crackly loudspeaker:

"We are sorry to inform you that the 6:52 to Newcastle has been cancelled"

That's it, end of announcement and a couple of blokes shuffled away.  Of course you're not sorry Mr announcer.  You weren't going to catch that train.  What would you do?  The next train is several hours away and it's a long way.  If you had driven the journey is unlikely to be cancelled.  Add to that the train costs about £250 each.

I don't know about where you live, but on the back of Gloucester buses there is a sign that says "One day Bus travel £2.50.  4 hours car parking £5".  Or something like that.  Now, there are 5 people in my household.  That would be £12.50.  And it will leave not when I want to but at some vague time related or not to the timetable.  I will be guaranteed a grumpy driver and not a seat.  It will be dirty and smelly and stop every 20 yards holding up the traffic behind it.  Chances are it will be a rough ride and desperately uncomfortable.

I shall sign off now.  Grumpfest over and wait for the hate mail from the Green party and associated carrot crunchers.  Politically correct I may not be, but I'm bloody sure I can get where I want to go when I want to go there.

I prefer not to use the word "fail"

Failed is a bad word.   So I shall consider "not quite passed".  And I am in good company.  Allow me to quote Thomas Edison.  I don't consider old Tom to be a failure but he is quoted as saying "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work."  Apart from the sentiment, famous peoples quotes are good for at least two reasons:

1.  It makes me look intellectual and well read (there's a bluff, I still struggle with the advanced Janet and John books)
2.  It saves me from thinking up something clever and witty to say for myself.

So, what is all this talk of not passing?  Last Friday I took my part two (of three) tests to be a driving instructor and, no surprises if you have read this far, I didn't pass.  But did I fail?  Well yes I did, there is a big marked box on the form that says "Fail".  So why did I fail?  Or rather, why did I not pass?  There are lots of categories on the test form that the examiner will put a mark in if you make a fault and I had seven of them although they could all have been scrubbed out and another box added entitled "Russ drove like a dick".  I may be being a little hard on myself but you know the feeling when you do something stupid and you know what you are doing is stupid and you know the examiner knows that you are doing something stupid and you know that the examiner knows that you know you are doing something stupid.  I know the feeling.  A few little stupid mistakes that aren't worth going into here but one big mistake.  One huge great doozy of a mistake that cost me a tick in the pass box.

If you know the roads around Gloucester, you may be aware of the stretch of A38 from Junction 12 of the motorway to the junction at Quedgeley where the Roundabout used to be.  It is a 70 mph limit all the way to the last 600 yards or so where it drops to 30.  I sailed past the 30 sign at about 45mph.  Dumbass.  I am generally familiar with the idiosyncrasies of these sudden changes in speed limit.  In my other life I regularly sit in judgement on people that fall foul of them.  I must therefore consider myself a bad person and take my punishment like a man.  Sitting in the car at the end of the test the Examiner instructs me to turn the engine off:

"I'm sorry to tell you Mr Kirby you haven't succeeded" (see, even the instructor didn't call me a failure)
 "I know"
"Why do you think you failed"
"Because I was dick on the bypass"
"Not quite how I would have put it but...."

Anyway, a bit more revision, a bit more practice and we'll give it another go.  In fact, we will give it another go at 9:30am Monday 1st March.  Happy St David's Day.  I hope the examiner has a good weekend.

Cry God for Harry, England and St George!

I've had a tune stuck in my head for a wee while now.  What is it I hear you ask?
Is it some cultured piece of classical music?
No
Is it a piece of 70s prog rock because that's what I tend to listen to by choice?
No
Is an earworm that was played on the radio recently?
No
Some cheesy piece of pop that the kids were playing?
No.

Give up?

It is actually a piece of music that I shall prefer to refer to as "To Anacreon in Heaven".  Are you familiar with it? I bet you are.  It is actually an ancient British drinking song (so if anyone I know is familiar with it, then it's my brother) but we all probably know the tune better as the Star-Spangled Banner.  I always knew that the tune was British but imagine my unfounded joy when I discovered the origins of the tune.  There's all our American cousins singing along to a tune that would have been familiar in a London drinking club.

This set me thinking though.  What are the origins of our National anthem?  Unfortunately I couldn't find any reference to the origins, although (and I hate to say this as a true patriot) it is a proper dull tune to the point where the Welsh, Irish and Scottish have almost entirely eschewed it and even the English often substitute more rousing tunes such as Jerusalem or the jolly excellent Land of Hope and Glory, I am a big fan of Last Night of The Proms.

Now all this talk of National anthems got me thinking again (Russ you think too much) about patriotism in general.  As previously mentioned, I am a patriotic type of chap, I would even stand if the Queen came to visit and consider the most rousing piece of writing to be Henry V speech at Agincourt (I know it probably isn't historically accurate).  But you may be aware that there is a bit of a football tournament going on this year in South Africa to which some English players will be going to join in.  And what is my biggest fear about this tournament?  It is England winning.  Why?  Two reasons.  One, from my rather limited knowledge of football, they aren't good enough compared to some (many?) of the other national teams and is it right that our patriotic support, neigh fervour, is based on a bit of a lucky break?  The other reason is that I find it hard to believe that thousands of pis55ed up lager louts, lobster red and shirtless represents England or my personal view of what Englishness should be.  My preferred sport is cycling, so imagine my joy when Mark Cavendish and Bradley Wiggins put in such a sterling performance in last year's Tour amongst other races, not because they were lucky - that doesn't work over three weeks of cycling - but because they are genuinely good; or the trouncing that our track riders gave the rest of the world at the last Olympics and World competitions.  Yet this doesn't get even a few column inches in the popular press.

If I were to be a football supporter, I think I would have to support Gloucester FC but even they aren't proper local now, playing as they do 25 miles away in Cirencester.  In fact Cheltenham FC are more local now and we are right down to macro patriotism, if such a thing exists.  If you were to visit the website for our local press and look at the comments for stories with a good list of comments and you will see the local unhealthy competition between Gloucester and Cheltenham so, of course, being a Gloucester boy, how could I ever support Cheltenham?  Maybe we need a Gloucester National anthem (other than:
We can't read and we can't write
But that don't really matter
Cos we comes from Glos'ershire
And we can drive a tractor (pronounced tratter)

But Cheltenham even hijack that to Cheltenhamshire.

The Postman Cometh

Are you superstitious dear reader?  Touch wood, I don't believe in superstition.
Do you believe in fate?  I don't.

But I'm willing to make an exception if it makes me feel better.

The postman came just the other day.  Nothing unusual in that except that there were no bills or final demands or anything of the like.  Rather there was a letter from the Driving Standards Agency.  Now, I'm sure that if you know me or if you have read any of my previous blogs, particularly here, here, here, or here, you will be aware that my chosen path is to become a driving instructor.  Now to do so, one has to pass three tests.  Part one, you may recall, I have aced.  So, back at the end of last year, I sent off to apply for my part two, not dissimilar to the practical test you would need to take when you first learn to drive assuming you started driving after the driving test was introduced.  In the aforementioned post was my test appointment and do you know what?  Of course you don't, I haven't told you.  The date for my test is 12th February.  That may not be significant to my readers but, let me tell you the spooky coincidence here.  Not only is it Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin's birthday but let me take you back fourteen years to 12th February 1996.  What were you doing?  You probably don't remember (though I'm sure my average reader is of an age to have been doing something, possibly drawing their pension).  I remember.  I was taking my driving test.  Weird coincidence eh?  It's fate, it must be.  And yes, of course I believe in fate.  Don't listen to anything I said a couple of paragraphs back.

Talking of my post, today I received a whole bunch of letters from the council and I'll tell you some other news.  Despite my moaning and protestation about the whole benefits system and its inadequacies and just plain hassle involved I did reapply for housing benefit.  Apart from trying to scrape back some of the money I have previously, gleefully given to the government, I thought it might be interesting to find out if I could be better off working part time rather than full time scrounger.  The answer?  Probably not.  My annual reduction in Council Tax - try and contain yourself - £17.14.  I can see you all leaping to get out of the rat run for that sort of benefit.