It's a sign

Might I apologise to all my loyal readers that it has taken me so long to write the latest instalment of my blog.  I have had trouble with my creativeness.  I put this down to writer's block.  My brother suggests constipation.  From which, he may be inferring I am full of sh*t.

You may be aware that between my bicycle and driving, I am quite a regualar road user.   As such I have recently noticed a few signs on my travels that make you think, whether for good or for bad.

First thought is how useful are road signs really?  During my driving instructor lessons, to test my observance of the road, my instructor would, on occasion, ask what the last road sign we passed was.  The number of "dunno" and similar responses suggests that they are largely ignored.  So what would happen if we got rid of them all?  I'm not alone in thinking this.  Much research from such august organisations as the AA (that's Automobile Association not the one my brother ought to know) and RAC has suggested that we are bombarded with them.  Apart from that, it can ruin some of the scenery that we all gaze at while we are driving.  Then of course, there is the simple fact that we haven't really got a clue what they mean.  If they were that simple we wouldn't need the Highway code book of signs and have to be tested on them before being allowed to drive.

However, I want to concentrate on a couple of signs that I rather like.  

If you travel around rural Enland, you will, inevitably, see the sign "Please drive carefully through our village"..  Damn.  there I was planning on driving like a nutter at warp factor 3 and you've ruined my fun.  Now I have to be careful.  Sneaky little thing though.  Doesn't say what to be careful of.  Is it just the kids on their way to school walking in the middle of the road or do you have snipers ready to take out the stranger?  Then, at the end of the village you are met with the sister sign "Thank you for driving carefully".  Aah, how do you know I did?  Maybe I did drive like a nutter and left carnage in my wake.  Or maybe we were just lucky.  You'll never know....

Then there is the No Motor Vehicles sign.  You know the one, a motor bike above a car.   I still wish that sign meant no motorcycle stunts or Evel Knievel banned.

Have you driven through a ford?  I mean, of course water across the road not another car.  On the other side, there is often a sign that says 'Test your brakes'.  Wise counsel.  However, you may want to take a quick glance in your mirrors first.  You don't want to force the driver behind to test his.

I know it isn't a proper Highway Code recognised sign, but I would like to know what the purpose of the "Baby on Board" sign that people stick in the back of their car is.  I can only think of a couple of reasons.  Have you ever been driving behind a car and thought "I know, I'll just ram into the car in front for a laugh" then had your plan scuppered when you saw that they have a baby?  No, nor me.  But you never know.  The other possibility is that the gentleman of the car is desperate to prove that the tackle is all in working order.

Finally, I'm sure you're all thinking "What's going on with Russ learning to be a driving instructor".  Well, a couple of weeks ago, I met my new instructor.  A fine chap by the name of Dave and we had our first lesson. It's surprising just how much you take for granted, right from putting the seat belt on.  This is pretty much how my first mock lesson, how to adjust your seat went.  You'll get an idea of the level of maturity:
After getting Dave to adjust the seat forward and backward, we discuss the rake of the seat, or the angle of the back:
"Put your hand to the right of the seat, there is a large knob you turn to change the angle".
We move on to the adjustment of the head restraint (never, ever refer to it as a head rest):
"Press the knob on the side of the headrest and it goes up and down.  There's a couple of knobs in the car".

It's hard to take things too seriously.  Part two and three are coming up this week.  I'll let you know if we grow up in the meantime.

The perfect balanced meal

I treated myself to masala fish from the not very local any more kebab house tonight.  It used to be our local friendly kebab house but then we moved.  Still went there from time to time though until it burnt down.  Didn't go for ages whilst it was shut (well d'uh) but last Friday decided to go back for the first time in a couple of years. Everyone in our house enjoys a kebab and I am particularly partial to masala fish, if you are not familiar with such a delicacy, I implore you to hunt out Khan's Kebabs in Barton Street, Gloucester, part with four quid and enjoy.  We hadn't had one for ages so imagine my excitement.  Then imagine my massive deflation as we bump into kebab house man (imagine the super hero that DC comics could make out of that one) around the corner with a big bright orange van outside the shop.  What's going on you may ask?  I certainly did.  The buggers are closed again, albeit a little more temporarily this time, because of an electric fault.
So, it turns into a Monday night treat; and so to my theory.

You have a good sized chunk of fish and we're always told to eat more fish, although for the sake of my argument let's ignore the fact that it may be a little deep fried.  It is served in a nan bread so there's your carbohydrates.  Then, you add salad, that has to be at least three of your five-a-day that we are evangelised towards. Add a portion of chips and they're made out of potato and that's another vegetable.

Which reminds me of another take away experience from a couple of years ago.  I was staying for the week at an hotel just by Aldgate East tube station whilst attending a course.  Tina joined me at the weekend and, being the die hard romantic that's when we got engaged.  Anyway, back to the story - you know how I hate to digress.  Always straight to the point, can't be doing with unnecessary waffle.  After all, digressing is only superseded in the time wasting stakes by procrastination.  I have thought about procrastination but it needs longer to consider.
Aldgate East is either a) East end of London or b) Downtown Beirut, you choose.  It is also a stones throw from Brick Lane where I went for a take away at a Bangldeshi place.  I went in to a moderately busy place and ordered something.  Waiting for the order I got chatting.  You know the sort of thing, weather, where you from etc.  The conversation is cut across from the proprietor:
"Hey stranger"
"Mmmm.  Me?"  I whimper.  Has your heart ever sat quite so high in your throat?
"Yea you"
"Mmm"  My lower bowel is proper active now.
"You like Bhaji?"  That's it.  You scare the shit out of me to ask if I like an oniony starter?
I answer in the affirmative.
"You try my Bhajis my friend": he passes a bhaji across the counter.
"You like pakora?"
I'm quite enjoying this now, although with the amount of free samples, dinner does have less room.
Eventually my food is served, I bid a cheery farewell back to the hotel.

With all good intentions a day or two later, I decide on a return journey.  Sadly however, this time the place is swarming with police.  Less good idea tonight.

The results are in...

It's taken me ages to write this blog.  As my regular readers and friends will be aware, I didn't pass my first attempt at the driving instructor part two test.  On the first of March, I retook the test and passed.  Hurrah, cause for celebration and all that.

That's it.  That could be the end of the blog.  When you fail something it becomes a talking point.  What did you fail on?  When are you going to retake?  Most of the answers you could just record and replay.

Then there are the platitudes.  "I'm sure you'll do better next time", "Never mind, the best drivers pass second time", "Well, they've got their allocation they must have passed enough already".  All of course are a complete horses arse and have no basis in truth.  Still, that's the joy of a well aimed platitude, why let the truth get in the way of a good cliché?


But no.  I passed.  No questions, no platitudes, just celebration.  But that's not it.  After the test is over you sit in the car with the examiner who is now your best friend and he still insists on tearing you to shreds.  Although in my case, he probably has a point.  You may remember (or know) that to pass the instructor part two there is a maximum of six minor faults.  failed test, I had seven (d'oh), passed test, wait for it.... SIX.  So he tears me to shreds, or rather, gives me the debrief.


"Lets start with your reverse park"
"Crap wasn't it?"  I know I can reverse park and I can do it well.  However for my test I made a complete hash of it.
"Not how I would put it, but essentially, yes"  That accounts for two points.  It would be difficult to get more points for a single manoeuvre.
"You were too close to the maroon car on the motorway.  You weren't going fast enough on the approach to the roundabout.  You should have overtaken the other car etc, etc, etc"  And so it went on.


"But I've passed?"
"Yes"


It took as long to talk about my relative failings when I passed as it did when I didn't.  If you get what I mean.


Still, as I write today, it could be much worse.  A friend of mine who was scheduled to take it today was turned away.  The instructors were on strike.  That sucks.

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.