Oranges and Rednecks

Watching actor David Tennant (the current face of Dr Who, a BBC/CBC co-production) retrace his ancestors, brings back memories of an earlier Christmas Eve. It's 10.30am and I've risen five hours later than my now accustomed reveille. Nel's at the local store trying to find some mint for our Christmas Dinner. We're dining at Dr Chang's tomorrow, in the company of his Indian research assistant. Dinner promises to be fun, a Chinese banquet. Our contribution is the traditional English dish of pineapple and cucumber salad with mint and chilli, hence Nel's last minute expotition.

In preparation for my contribution(hunting down some beer), I'm watching "Who do you think you are" which is a geneaology programme. In line with current British TV guidelines, the lives of celebrities are inherently more interesting than other people's and due to the fact that there are millions of celebrities ranging from footballers wives through to chefs and fitness instructors, gardeners, taxi-drivers, demolition experts, wallpaperers and criminals, the programme should run and run.

It appears that Tennant (who derived his stage name from the Pet Shop Boys) has discovered that his maternal grandparents were rabid Orangemen. Orangemen are Northern Ireland Protestants, loyal to the English crown who have historically taken the position that Northern Ireland (or the Occupied Six Counties as Republicans call them) belong to England. The name Orangemen derives from William of Orange, a Dutch Protestant Prince who defeated Catholics in a Battle over four hundred years ago. Tennant is dismayed by this discovery, as to people of a liberal bent, having an Orangeman in the family is akin to being related to the Great Wizzard of the Ku Klux KLan. It is generally accepted, when describing most Orangemen, that the words "rabid", "partisan", "uncompromising", "discriminatory", "mad" and "violent" would not be underemployed.

The programme reminds me of my first interaction with an Orangeman, which was co-incidentally, one of my first encounters with a Protestant of any description. I had taken a job as a Christmas casual at our local Post Office, and was assigned to a massive wall of wooden boxes or pigeonholes. Each pigeonhole represented a street, or section of road, in our Post Office's catchment area, and the whole wall was sectioned into ten "walks", each walk being the route of a particular postman. The streets were arranged within each section to correspond to the order of route that each postman walked. The task of the twelve or so eager teenagers facing the wall, was to dip into the huge bins of mail lined up opposite the wall, and fill a specific "walk" as quickly as possible. Interestingly, we were not required to undertake any tests for the job. In those days, literacy was assumed.

After a few days, I became chummy with the kid next to me who'd been assigned "Bonsall Drive to Fairfield Crescent". We chatted as teenagers do: "Allright?", "Allright". "Cant wait to hometime". "Yeah. I'm starvin". Later on, as our intimacy developed, we began to put whole sentences together, and Billy learnt that I played bass in my brother's group. "I play meself" said Billy. "Pipes in a band". "What sort of band?", I asked. ""You know, marchin band" Billy said "With the Lodge". I laughed, "The Lodge? The Orangemen? You know what's funny? My mum used to throw stones at you guys when you marched, and here we are, mates!". Billy looked up "You're a redneck?" he said. "Yeah", I laughed ""Hope no one in Canny Farm finds out!". Canny Farm was the area me and Billy had been assigned to, and was traditionally a wall to wall Protestant area. Billy glared at me, and the above conversation represents the longest, and final conversation we had. Thereafter, Billy would'nt acknowledge me at all.

Irony is a much overused concept, but years later I was researching my own geneaology. The directly Irish branch of my family tree is hard to establish, except that the McEvoys were one of the Seven Septs of Leish. My patrinomy is easier to trace, with the result that relatively early in my search I discovered that my father's Godfather was one Reverend Nicholson, a mentor of Dr Ian Paisley. Dr Ian Paisley is described in many ways, "firebrand", "man of God", "lunatic", "bigot", "hero", but all descriptions of him agree on one thing. Paisley is a Unionist, probably the most pre-eminent Loyalist in recent times, and a hero to Orangemen everywhere. If only Billy had known - perhaps we would have been friends.

The Road To Miklagard

When I was working at Atlantex in Nova Scotia a small road trip was arranged. Our company had made a sign that had to be installed at the Headquarters of the global paper manufacturer, Stora-Enzo. The paper mill was located in Port Hawkesbury, Cape Breton. As Vice President, I made the executive decision to send myself, plus one of the worker from the Production Shop, to supervise the install.

Joey Monk, brother of Tony, the notorious Ploppyshanker, volunteered to accompany me, as I had recently, once again, fired Tony. Most of the guys who worked in the Production Shop lived around East or West Chezzetcook (inexplicably pronounced Chezzencut by the locals) part of a small series of settlements which lay 30-40 kilometres north of Halifax, on what is (even more inexplicably) known as the Eastern Shore. Incidentally, Nova Scotia's Southern Shore is the stretch of coast that runs directly south of Halifax to approximately the Clark's Harbour/Yarmouth

Our route to Port Hawksebury was via the 401 highway to Truro, a direction that I fully expected Nova Scotians to describe as westward. Joey and I met very early, and loaded our tools into the back of the large truck. Joey was the navigator, and I had elected to drive. I jumped into the driving seat, but was surprised to see Joey struggling to hoist a large, evidently heavy, hold-all into the middle seat. we were only scheduled to be away for one longish work day. "Ready?", I asked Joey. "Yes, Mr Martin", the gruff voiced Joey said "Looks like she's comin up nice". I examined the sky and agreed. It was going to be a beautiful day.

As we cleared the outskirts of Halifax, I pressed pedal to metal and threw the truck into cruise. "About four hours you reckon, Joe?". Joe did'nt answer immediately, and I glanced at him. He was studying the map intently, tracing his finger along the route I had highlighted. Every inch or so, as he moved his finger along the road, he scribbled something down on a piece of paper. I concentrated on my driving for a second. "Ok, Joe?", I asked and glanced at him again. He had opened the holdall and had pulled out four largish telephone directories., and was carefully flicking through one of them evidently consulting the paper he'd written on. Another note, then he discarded the first directory and started flicking through the next.

After a while, Joey spoke "We should be allright, Mr Martin" he growled, "I've got them all". "Got what, Joe? " I asked. "Timmys" Joe explained "There's eight between Halifax and Port Hawksebury, so we should be able to get a decent coffee, even out here in the backwoods. Gotta be careful though, some of the water out this way's not so good. There's five or six PetroCanada's as well, so we wo'nt be stuck for gas. "

It was apparent from the way Joe spoke that this was a major expedition for him. I was surprised - even as a Liverpool "homebody", I knew England pretty well by the time I was eighteen, but Joe was late forties. He explained that the major highway to Halifax had only been open about ten years and before that, people from the Eastern Shore rarely bothered travelling more than a few miles away from 'home' because the coast road made the thirty kilometre journey take three or four hours. Years ago there had been a railway, but when it closed, communities on the Eastern Shore had lost jobs and reasons, as well as the income, to travel anywhere, except for those people who moved "away". Those people seldom came back. Just getting to Port Hawksebury represented a major challenge to Joe.

After Truro, Joe became much less talkative. He'd spent some of the journey persuading me to re-hire Tony again, something I had already resolved to do, but gradually he stopped talking as we got nearer to the Canso Causeway. "You OK, Joe?" I asked a few times. "OK, Mr Martin", he'd say "Just a bit of indigestion, I think. I'll be fine", but as we drove, he began to say that he was feeling "a bit sick, nauseous like". Just before Port Hawkesbury, Joe asked me to pull over quickly. I did so, and he leapt from the van, and puked up violently. His face was grey and he was shaking. I thought quickly, and called Stora Enso. We were only five kilometres away, it was a very big factory and I was pretty sure there would be a nurse on-site. This was confirmed, so I helped Joe back into the truck and sped to the factory, where as promised we were met by a nurse. She assured me that she'd look after Joe, and get him to hospital if necessary and there was nothing more that I could do.

The rest of the day was a nightmare. My boss, the President, had not informed me that Stora Enso was a heavily unionized site. Stora Enso had not informed it's unions that the sign was scheduled to be installed, so the first part of the day was spent negotiating with the unions as to which trade was going to install the sign. The construction of the sign (fibreglass and metal with some incorporated lights), made the negotiation more difficult. Apparently carpenters whose job it should have been to install the sign, were not allowed to drill bolt holes into the sign's metal frame, by their union rules. The metal workers, who were allowed to drill metal, were not allowed to drill into the concrete wall on which the sign was to be installed. And no-one, especially the electricans were allowed to touch any of the lights, because that was the maintenance department's job, and this was their day off. I was not allowed to touch the sign once it had crossed the factory gates, and could only point at it from a distance, in order to help instruct the installation.

Eventually a compromise was reached, so myself and the necessary twelve tradesmen got the sign installed. The labourer's union guys held the sign against the wall. The carpenters marked where the sign should be drilled. The metal guys drilled the sign. The labourer's held the sign up again, the carpenters marked the wall and the site's Operations manager drilled holes in the wall. Then the carpenters inserted the bolts and tightened them. Then we wrapped the sign in kilometres of black and yellow hazard tape, installed a safety barrier and vacated the area, safe in the knowledge that the next day,the maintenance guys could plug the lights into the nearby outlet, and thus declare the sign operational.

Meanwhile, I recieved several phone calls from the nurse, who reported that she thought Joey just had a tummy upset, and it was safe to take him home. At the end of the day, I met her outside her office. "It's strange, " she mused "No temperature, pulse is ok, breathing is calmed down. My best guess is a panic attack, but he's fine now. He's had a good rest". Having had panic attacks myself, I did, retrospectively, recognize that it could be, but I was puzzled - forty year old fishermen just do'nt seem the type. I was relieved it was'nt a heart attack. I helped Joe into the truck, and he apologized. "No problem, Joe, everyone gets sick. Let's just get you home."

As we drove back to Halifax, Joe brightened visibly. In fact every kilometre closer to home saw him perk up, incrementally. By the time we were home, Joe was ready for a beer. "See you tomorrow, you Crazy Englishman" was his cheery farewell. Glad that Joe had'nt died, I went home and had a beer myself. Later that night, our President telephoned " They love the sign at Stora" he said. "Good", I replied "I'll be in late tomorrow, it's been a long day". "Actually, I was going to ask if you could go up there again" said Phil, the President. "They love the sign, but they want it moved. Who do you want to take with you?".

Leedscapes

I ride past this building every night; a Leeds office block. I wonder every single time; what do all these people sitting at all these desks actually do? Are these the people whose telephone system is routed through Ulan Bator? Will the people who work here spend the next thirty years in these Identikit desks, planning Christmas parties? I understand small offices - you would know your neighbours, maybe be part of a community. But I do'nt understand these monoliths. Admittedly, the people working here probably do not understand a work history that either the Red Head Boffin or me have had( my personal record in one job was 2 years, 77 days and 4 hours).

My brother in law has recently celebrated his 25th year working in the local Ford factory(near Liverpool). He is younger than me, and a great guy, but I realized the other day as I rode past this place how strange our life has been. As adults, we have absolutely no idea what it is like to be in one place for more than seven years. We have together lived in Liverpool, Leicester, Halifax, London(Canada) and now Hull. During this time we've worked in Coventry, Birmingham, Leeds, London(UK) and Sarnia. Nel has also lived in Windsor(Canada), Switzerland, Willenhall, Cheshire and Montreal. Between us, we've worked as postmen, telephone directory delivery people, administrative assistants, bar staff, musicians, theatre wardrobe, carpenters, managers, boffins, trench diggers, kitchen installers, au pairs, students, bank workers, shop assistants, Vice Presidents, dole office clerks, carpenters, welders and been on the dole.

I told my relative this history because for a lot of people we know, it's fairly normal - Grasshoppers was a cleaner and is now a top boffin, for example, and has lived in Arkansas, Kansas and Nebraska (not really, but basically quite a few places). My relative was surprised we were all still alive, because to him, we've all lived a life that he associates with vagrants or drifters. Conversely, I am horrified with is life - I equate it with a prison sentence. Personally, I think I am incredibly lucky to have such variation. He thinks we are crazy.

I'd be interested to know what you think - stability vs variation. That is the question.

The Eve Of the Battle Of Hastings (nearly)

It is Friday, and I'm in a very good mood. I have been granted a 3 hour pass from the religious order that masquerades as "my work", in order to view a house that the boffin and I are considering buying. The correct procedure for gaining "leave" involves an informal enquiry with Icksy my line manager, followed by a "Holiday Request Form" passed into "t'office lass", reviewed by the Production Manager, cross-checked back with Icksy, copied to Accounts, then sent back to "t'office lass" who gives it to the Production Manager for approval and this person officially confirms the request leading to a countersigned slip confirming that yesterday's requested holiday, is now approved. The procedure for getting us, the Production Staff, to work overtime is more streamlined and involves telling us five minutes before we leave for the day that we'll be staying late, (often this is ominously phrased as "very late") and that we should cancel our plans for the weekend. No paperwork is involved.

Nevertheless, the damns have held, the company is'nt in dire risk of collapse if one of it's carpenters has three hours off, and I meet our realtor at Number 23, expecting and hoping to see a practically derelict shell. The realtor arrives, and she is a different breed than Canadian realtors. "It stinks in here" she says, not even pretending to be happy at the prospect of entering. A Canadian realtor would tell you the house needs some TLC. Fortunately for Julia, none of her keys work, it appears the tenants of the house have added a new lock, and not supplied any key. Her nose is spared. My precious three hours are wasted, and I trudge off to Leeds, slightly disconsolate. I was looking forward to seeing a disaster. But, as Harold would have said, shortly before getting an arrow in the eye, things can only get better.

At work, I'm immediately tasked with renewing the plastic laminate surface of an old cabinet. Laminating is a favourite job, so I set to with gusto, happy to be getting something fun out of the day. I'm feeling creative, so instead of the time-honoured, proven tradition of removing laminate by slipping a knife under the laminate and gradually syringing small amounts of solvent thinner between the laminate and the substrate, thus dissolving the glue ( a process that takes about 15 minutes for a cabinet top of approximately 2ft sq), I decide to invent a whole new technique, and drill tiny little holes in the laminate surface, effectively perforating it like a teabag. I then pour generous quantities of solvent onto the surface in the expectation that the thinner will seep into the holes and release all the laminate in one go. An hour later, I'm sitting among hundreds of shards of broken plastic laminate, high as a kite from the solvents, and all judgement has totally gone.

Which is probably why, when Andy, my co-worker asks to see my work diary to check his and Paul's timesheet, I carelessly hand it over, even opening it at the relevant date, October 9th. The entry is reproduced below:

The text reads " A grumpy day in work. Paul {my boss} is upset about critisisms of his quality and Andy is upset because Paul "Did'nt speak the right way" to him ....

After a feeble attempt at explanation, and with the words "highly inappropriate" ringing in my still reddening ears, I return the diary to my rucksack, and having about 9 minutes to catch my train (it is an 8 minute ride, at top speed, even when not stoned on paint thinners) hastily zip it shut breaking the zip-pull completely, including the zip-runner. I get to Leeds station with one minute to spare. At the ticket barrier, I am refused entry to the platforms unless I produce my rail pass. Unfortunately the pass is locked in the unopenable rucksack. Necessity though is the mother of invention, and after a short dispute with the ticket inspector, I whip out my Stanley knife from the front pocket of the rucksack, and frantically attack the fabric of my pack. Bearing in mind the poster that has been Picture Of The Week for the last week, and the general disquiet that rucksacks, knives and agitated or suspicious behaviour (in my case, I'm still high from the thinner) occasion in the rail way stations and airports of the UK, this is potentially the most stupid thing I do today, apart from when I try to kill a baby on the train journey back to Hull. After a stern ticking off from Her Majesty's finest, I pass through the ticket barrier, relieved not to be in prison .

The train is happily late, so after another short argument with the guard who threatens to disallow the Crosstowner due to overcrowding, I board the train. Tonight's 17.38 is not a 170 Class Turbobooster, but a new Pennine Class 185. Bicycle storage is clearly designated, as the general schematic below, and the close up clearly demonstrate.
As is hopefully apparent, coach C provides a comfortable berth for the Crosstowner, but denies the public of four valuable seats. As I board a family of four, grandmother, toddler, daughter and very small baby are occupying the fold up seats that the Crosstowner would usually occupy (location "B" in the annotated diagram above). Conscious that I should cause no further discomfort today I eschew the option of asking them to move, and place the bike opposite them (location "A") leaning against the crossbar as a seat. Ten minutes after leaving Leeds, I have finished most of the undrinkable tea that the 17.38's lateness had allowed enough time to buy, and I'm wondering what to do with the empty cup. Spotting a garbage bin next to the doors at location "C", I leave the Crosstowner and make a quick stooping dash to deposit Pumpkin's empty container in said receptacle.

The next few seconds are slow motion nightmare. I stoop and dunk diagonally, the train gives a sudden lurch as it bumps over a point, and the Fuji, at location "A" begins to fall, handlebars heading straight for baby's head (Southernmost of the "B" locations). At this point location "D" enters the equation , in the form of a proud-looking Rastafarian woman in colourful turban and flowing robes, who makes a grab for the falling , and now lethal Fuji. Location "D"'s reactions are split second, followed only by the reactions of the Scouser at location "C", who spins on a dime and makes a low dive for the rear frame of the bike.

Location "D" returns the bike to its upright position, then waits with as much dignity as she can muster while I extract myself from the folds of her sarong which I've managed to mess up considerably as my hand passed between her legs in its search for the bike frame. I'm torn between "Thank you" and "I'm sorry" as I try to withdraw my hand without touching either of her inner thighs. It is a delicate moment.

After Selby, the train empties considerably and I jam the Crosstowner into the space at Door AZ, and lean against it, away from the suspicious gaze of the Rastafarian and the family who seem united by a vague bond of distrust of cyclists. I lean back against the Crosstowner, seated on the floor and am only awakened by an alighting passenger stepping on my hand at Howden. The ride home form Hull's Paragon Staion takes much longer than the usual twenty minutes, as I stop and get off the bike before performing any manoeuvre, distrustful of today's Fates.

The last thing Harold probably thought before he got an arrow through the eye was "Oh Well, It's been one of those days, Stroll on Tomorrow". The Batlle of Hastings was 13 October 1066.