Run. Forest. Run.

For a long life though I recommend nothing better than a Parkrun, sandwiched as it is between Belgian beers at Wetherspoon's on a Friday evening and a croissant with manchego and Serrano ham on Saturday morning. I do a local one, which follows a wooded vale fought over during the English Civil War and by Vikings beyond that.

Inside the first kilometre there's a guy behind with a Garmin that's saying "You got this! Pace is 5:06, looking good!" in a Valley accent. I'd design one to a British spec for which I provide the voice-over, and which says the following at key intervals:

1k.    Give up now, you sad bastard.

2k.    You got this! Oh, let me check... you haven't.

3k.    You're not fit to wear the shirt mate!

4k.    Miles to go, concentrate on the croissant!

5k.    Look over there, isn't that a McDonalds?

In the run itself I imagine Michael Collins saying 'We're watching a masterclass here on how to run a 31:00 parkrun... if he stays tucked in behind Sawe and Kiplimo it's in the bag!" yet it's a woman pushing a stroller and a man with a Yorkshire terrier that I'm actually tucked in behind.

It's a 'stat' Sat though and so I mail two slides to staff viz. blog viewership and the time at Tawd Vale, exhorting them to 'Meet and exceed, people, meet and exceed!' while helping myself to an extra croissant. And who gave Parkrun the permission to call me Colin?

Slide 1: Physical Wellbeing!

Slide 2: Mental Wellbeing!

The Big 'C'

Try and say it. Can't, can you? I can, because I'm only typing it and you get a hall pass for that.

Thing is people around here don't like to mention Clatterbridge either because that's where you went to get treated for cancer. It's across the river on the Wirral Peninsula and grew from workhouse into hospital treating infectious diseases, of which there must have been many focused on the Rivers Dee and Mersey, which are both fairly stinky at best of times ~ place names like Black(pool) and Liver(pool) originate in how the water looked, although with United Utilities operating sewerage they could as well be called Blackshite and Livershite.

Now though they've a branch of the treatment centre that would have saved my old mum a long drive to see my old dad: at the centre of Liverpool's university district, itself featuring a teaching hospital. Delighted to see they'd a bespoke Lego model of the building, before catching myself for enjoying a trip to see someone expected to last only days. Funerals though, and in must be the Irish in me, I've always enjoyed as just another excuse for a party: travel that may include a picnic, drink to excess and working the room over a buffet in the way Oscar Wilde or Lord Byron might do. The latter's house I visited when under training at British Midland Airways and it had goblets scattered round made from human skulls. Fantastic!

But as the two women with me ~ I rarely travel without them ~ rolled the guy over and held tea to his lips, all I could do it was stand around commenting "Nice rooms, though!". I was the last person my ex father-in-law had to listen to on Earth, and it must have been a form of release. But it was Garrison Keiller who wrote how at funerals in the US, while women wail guys stand round comparing whose truck gets the better mileage.

(It also reminds of the time at a training course in Toulouse, where it being France no one ever works a weekend. I borrowed the company hack and with two Northern Irishmen and an Aussie we drove down the Pyrenees, gatecrashed a hunter's yearly lunch jamboree and got wasted in a club on tequila slammers... great course. But in NI they've a wicked sense of humour and Ed Boggs told me about a guy who went to Lourdes for a miracle cure and was disappointed until his mates said, "You're kidding, look at the shiny new wheels on your chair!".

Does make you think whether any of it is worthwhile: life, maritime drones. It was Blaise Pascal who wrote how you will never be more alone than at the point of death, and what he meant was that as you stand ankle-bound at the precipice of the world's highest bungee-jump, no matter who's watching from the balcony it is only you who's about to take a leap into the unknown; although all those NDE vids on YouTube are a bit of a spoiler these days.

But as my old Latin teacher used to say ~ manically in view of Miss Whats-her-name suffering hyperthyroidism beside us ~ ours is not to question why, ours is just to do and die. Dramatic way to describe a bit of homework, but then "Ibi est..." as we Romans say?

Ed. "There you go..."  tho' Google like the Mindboggler provides varying answers.

Mill Post

Not often you get a peek at the mill but light's perfect today. Rigs in Europe called 'overcabs' as they sit over the engine so as to shorten the vehicle to manoeuvre its narrower streets... some of which still date to the Middle Ages in their layout. Note the cab is pivoted at the front and is provided suspension at the rear and that with the release of a catch it can be tipped over for open access.

This will be a cookin' six with a capacity am guessing of maybe thirteen litres, tho' they never really advertise the figure; though they do the horses, which are usually between 450 and 550 H.P. They are therefore no slouch at the lights minus a trailer, and they are also invariably automatic nowadays and provided with twelve gears. I've driven manuals, which eventually feel just like a car, though greybeards used to have to double-de clutch too... which I've only done in a tractor or dropping down to first gear in the days there was no synchromesh.

There is likely a turbo prior that exhaust pipe, which feeds the box am leaning upon. This is off-side so as not to discharge exhaust in the direction of pedestrians, with the fuel tanks near-side where they're more accessible should you ever run dry.

Note the chassis is a wholly traditional ladder and sets the block at an incline to suit the drive-shaft to the rear axle. The axle in the middle on units is a lift-axle that is only used to spread the load and reduce an axle-weight that otherwise demolishes manhole-covers.

Fuel injected diesel as you can see too, with the clutch and gearbox inline too. The likes of Scania do a V8 that produces 800 H.P. and the guys seem to have found a way to amend the cruise-control to leave you in no doubt they're kings of the road. I hope you've enjoyed this brief tour as much as I have, as my container here is unloaded of its plywood flooring from the Far East?

The trucks a DAF though I've driven all others available in the UK, which curiously do not include the Fords you see on the continent. The most interesting think is how slow-revving diesels get at size: this one motoring at a little over 1000 r.p.m. in the cruise, and 'cathedrals' on ships turning at less than a tenth of that and on a par with the sound and feel of those steam-engines running the cotton mills hereabouts.

The gear-shift mechanism and brakes rely on reserves of compressed air, without which you're going nowhere. The latter is a fail-safe system that applies the brakes should ever the air escape, something Westinghouse began to patent for railroads at the tender age of twenty-two.

Leonardo Di Craftio

The announcement largely unnoticed, it follows a pattern that has been observed over many decades in the UK whether related to cars, aircraft or indeed steel and much else viz. the focus being on jobs as it's the quickest possible fix in order to satisfy votes in forthcoming elections. 

The way the playbook proceeds thereon calls for ongoing reduction in the number of jobs under whole or majority foreign ownership, succeeded by eventual closure that we'd like to think won't happen in this case. What is significant here is that of three firms bidding for this medium-sized helicopter project, two withdrew participation.

This led to a take-it-or-leave-it decision with a focus one imagines moreso on jobs and less-so on helicopters; it also guarantees the bulk of funding for autonomous helicopters is to be guided toward existing firms instead of start-ups: a practise in MIC circles that reduced US contractors to five.

I once demo'd a security system I'd developed ~ backed by the British Technology Group ~ to Margaret Thatcher's Minister for Technology at the National Exhibition Centre... and that's a lot of capital letters. At the end of the demo he turned partly toward the collected cameras to ask. "And it's all about creating jobs, isn't it?".

To which remarkable restraint stopped me from replying, 'Yeah, press this key and jobs stream out the back.'

Happily I just discovered Kenneth Baker is still alive at ninety-one and sitting in the House of Lords. I plan to drop by and say "HELLO KEN, IT'S THE NICE MAN FROM THE EXHIBITION WITH HIS FUNNY BIRO AGAIN."

Ed. Due similar restraint a recent post was given the title 'Leonardo Di Carpio' while the author preferred 'Leonardo Di Crapio'.

Big Day Out: Hereford

Introducing a new feature to the 'blog, the first in a series of one in which I take you by the virtual hand for a walk-through among Britain's most famous features, country towns and attractions. Many of you around the world will not be so lucky as I am in being able to hop into an eco-friendly vehicle to navigate the highways and by-ways of this wonderful land but... don't worry, we've got you covered!

Accordingly sit back, relax and let the captain guide you among the streets and back passages of Hereford, the county town of Herefordshire. If you ever need to guess a county town, incidentally, simply drop the 'shire' off the end of it and you're there!

We stayed at the historic Green Dragon Hotel in the heart of town, didn't we, which I prefer to the riff-raff at the Premier Inn ~ this one full of widows, vicars, retired colonels and weirdos like me. Nell Gwen stayed here with the king, so I checked the bed for stains. They still have a letter of complaint from Sir Edward Elgar, and out the back you can see where once were kept coach and horses!

From the hotel it's a short walk to the bridge across the River Wye, which floods to the base of its parapets periodically. It appears the years 1946, '47 and '48 were a real pisser, although 1998 was even worse, the river returning for an encore!

Re-tracing our steps back toward the centre of town, here a home for retired nurses provided by a local philanthropist. Nowadays as they are thrown on the scrap-heap instead the building is fallen into disuse, but is listed due its heritage until such time as a teenage vaper sets fire to it!

A delightful view of the cathedral that they started building nearly a thousand years ago, and the builders have said they'll be back next month to finish it. It contains a 'chained library' that was implemented to stop people from nicking the books, and it also contains a copy of the Mappa Mundi: one that you'd not want loaded into your sat-nav any time soon!

No high street would be complete without an Oxfam shop full of tat, although I felt obliged in this case to add 'Shags locals in places like Haiti' to that list of to-dos in a permanent marker!

This nice man was clearly foreign as he knew how to play the accordion. He wasn't overly keen on a pic ~ in case I guess he thought the revenue might have advanced to facial recognition ~ but he had to relent when I pointed out I'd given him 50p. Afterwards he was kicked senseless by Immigration and Customs in flak jackets!

Nonetheless the sound of the accordion supplied a gay backdrop to the atmosphere at the street market, depicted here. The space is reserved for pedestrians, the car here only being used to take out as many as possible, as is the tradition nowadays!

Nothing I like more than a bit of mongery in public, and all hail to this example a little further beyond the street-market. What I like even more is the fact that have not even bothered to put the name up there. It may well feature on Google's maps but you can check that for yourself!

Herefordshire is famous for its cattle and there's a life-size statue of the eponymous bull at the tail-end of the market. Frankly if I had a scrotum that size I'd spray it in gold and walk around with no trousers on all day. Most statues round the world are burnished gold in parts ~ the mannekin's penis in Brussels for instance ~ a trend we could extend to this guy's meatballs!

Nothing I like more than a gaily-coloured eatery, of which Hereford has many and among them this one containing tapas. Ole!

Beyond the market-place is a modern shopping-mall that includes a public lavatory in its multi-storey. To access it requires an elevator announcing 'Have a nice day!' as you enter it, though I'd have preferred something culturally relevant like 'Stop dicking around and get a move on!'. Free however and a delightful amenity.

You can drink coffee in Hereford and do so sat on a Vespa, though the word means 'wasp' in Italian and you don't want a scrotum anywhere near one of those during a cappuccino!

There are seagulls in Hereford as elsewhere though this one has shit himself waiting so long for a smashed avocado on sourdough!

I prevailed upon a young lady to take this 'portrait of the author as a young man' as I stood next to someone who fought in WW1... and I thought they were shorter in those days? Anyhow he had to put up with being gnawed by rats whilst sleeping in a trench full of water, and in fairness my latte could have been hotter!

Reason for me being here being to take the long view when it comes to a university that junior can attend, although I'd been disappointed by the scarcity of young folk lying wasted on the streets at break of day. This is the country's newest, the New Model Institute for Technology and Engineering, me here for open day. Doing great things, though I'd prefer a higher class of biscuit at the intro! Asked 'Why Hereford?' it's because they never had one, which is reasonable!

It was an exciting day to be here as the match at the football stadium must be won in order to assure the club's survival in the Northern Premier Football League. Why it is in the Northern and not the Southern is a mystery, though they told me it was something to do with the chairman, who got rich at Red Bull Racing and gets to pick and choose who goes where... and the Northern is the second oldest league!

Here advertised on the wall of the stadium itself, a reminder that whilst you've got Taylor Swift, we've got the Mindboggler. I gave him five pounds and he told me I was thinking of the one on the left in K-Pop Demon Hunters and that I'd like to shag her. Amazing, though he did say the same to the next three guys in the queue too!

Ed. We apologise for the excess use of exclamation marks in the text, this merely a desperate attempt by the author to whip up a little enthusiasm.

Float On

Slip the waders on and slide the cat on the tail-gate in a trice these days to update the static test with the displacement strips in place, and while they don't appear to have elevated things overly the trim is ideal. The forward bulkhead practically clears the water with that at the rear submerged to the base of each battery-pack, which is next to nothing by way of an impediment.

Gut feel is it is likely to be underpowered, but proof's in the electrical pudding and there will be plenty of scope for upgrading the packs, motors and propellers as this should swing a couple of 24" props with the axes set here 25" apart.

A good sesh and in fact one of the frames ~ which could almost have been painted by Monet at Giverny ~ is good enough for the website, where it now hangs for the public to adore.

Hang Loose

The first prototype is hung from the rafters where I plan on it staying while I work upon the second in order to prove that it cuts the mustard as a vessel of any kind: a reason being that wiring four motors up for any sort of vertical lift is an expensive pain in the ass that leaves you reliant on experts who'd rather do something else.

You can see here how those uPVC extrusions are overly flexible, though it's not so much of a problem in the fulness of time as (a) it provides shock-absorption in an industry wholly lacking it and (b) skis of all types have evolved from planks of wood to composite engineering marvels and there's no reason why these shouldn't too.

Fortunately the second prototype ~ aimed at motion under displacement and on the plane ~ has wooden hydro-skis which as ever are provided by Cheshire Mouldings.

I told them that I'll rate them for maximum velocity on smooth water for a fee, and the best thing is they're from down the road here in St Helens.

Think global, buy local, eat pies.