The Motorhome Show, Shepton Mallet

The internet is a wonderful thing when you are thinking of doing something you have never done before, such as buying a camper van. Buying a half-decent even small camper van requires the spending of a fair few thousands, so information is essential in reducing the chances of making a sorry mistake.

Many years ago we had a camper van, a conversion built on a Sherpa body, bought in haste, with all the consequences of buying in haste, including - in its later years - a pop-up roof which not only leaked buckets, but would pop-up whether you wanted it to or not if you exceeded about 40 mph. We still have fond memories of the fun we had, though.

Now we want to have more fun, but realise that £2,000 will not get you very much more than what is called a "project" requiring a total re-build.

Yes, the internet is a great starting point, but nothing beats actually being able to climb inside these things and have a good look. Last weekend was our chance. The Motorhome Show at the Royal Bath & West Showground at Shepton Mallet.

Arriving early, it took a while to get our bearings. The place was full of dealers selling motorhomes at breathtaking prices, and plenty of stalls selling every possible gadget for the motorhome or caravan owner. Our two particular "favourite" items were the miniature folding toilet brush and the astroturf and pot-plant, ready-made miniature garden. There were some possibly useful items, too, but not many for people who want to use a motorhome for travelling and seeing things rather than reproducing their suburban home on a campsite, complete with television, a garden and neighbours to compete with.

After about an hour, we actually did find a small motorhome which seemed to fit our essential specs: footprint about the size of an estate car, liveable layout, shower and toilet. And at a price we could afford. We didn't buy it on the spot. Never buy in haste, remember! But at least we discovered that such a thing existed, which was nice.

That job done, it was time to look around in wonder at those crazy American RVs parked up and inhabited by what we discovered was a community of people who showed every sign of political leanings which no doubt would engender in them some uncharitable views on "Gypsies" and "travellers". The pictures give perhaps some idea of both vehicles and inhabitants:

A very common sight was a collection of over-sized cuddly toys ranged behind the windscreens of these amazing vehicles, and, of course, the flags (Cornish flag in the picture above, for example).

At the end of the day (that's actually at the end of the day, not the cliche), we concluded that people who own motorhomes fall into two broad categories: the Way of Lifers and the more or less adventurous holidaymakers, who like a bit of spontaneity and flexibility and who like to leave home behind, not drag it all with them.

A final thought. Some things you Just Know. And one thing I just know is this: when it comes the time to empty the toilet cassette, it will be my job.

The Comforts (!) of Bath

I have known Bath since the end of the sixties. Back in those days, it was anything but "honey-coloured". Almost all of its georgian buildings were blackened from the soot of ages and it took four or five hours to drive there from London, the M4 motorway only reaching as far as Reading.

The predominant accent heard in streets and shops was either genuine West Country or shabby-genteel. There was even a rough pub in Widcombe called (as it still is in its overpriced wine bar reincarnation) the Ring O' Bells. Smoke-filled and noisy, seats and tables tacky from years of spilled scrumpy, its proceedings were ably supervised by Rosie, a plump and red-elbowed matron whose good side it was wise to stay on. When not keeping order, Rosie dispensed scrumpy cider. Proper scrumpy, that is, not the artificial muck sold these days. Scrumpy had an odd effect. You could drink a fair amount of it and your head remained sober and clear. The trouble came when you stood up - or attempted to - and tried to walk. If you've ever had proper scrumpy, you'll know just what I mean.

And there was not only proper scrumpy, but proper shopping. Needed one nail or a pound of nails? Go to the ironmongery in George Street. Needed an obscure electrical fitting, or a lamp fixed? Why, good old Nations in York Street was always obliging.

And there was even proper swimming. The elegant and delightful open-air Cleveland Baths at the riverside in Cleveland Row, Bathwick, was just about as close to wild swimming you could get.

We moved to Bath at the end of the sixties and, wanting to save on fuel bills, would have a wonderful hot soak in the public baths at what is known as "Bog Island". It's called Bog Island because there were public lavatories and bath tubs there. (There are still two rather elegant entrances to the under pavement facilities, one for men, one for women, but they lead nowhere these days.) Lashings of lovely hot water and bath tubs so big and deep that you felt like a small child again.

Fancy a read? There used to be a rather inconvenient arrangement. The public lending library occupied the ground floor of the Victoria Art Gallery, while the reference section was in Queen's Square.

Wanted to rent a nice flat in a georgian terrace? We looked at two floors in the Circus, on offer for 30 bob a week. That's £1.50 decimal. Sounds good? Well don't forget the average weekly wage back then was somewhere between £10 and £15. If you earned a thousand a year, you were considered pretty well-off. Well, we didn't take that Circus flat. Thirty bob was a little too much for us!

The only thing in Bath which has improved since these memories of mine from the late sixties and early seventies is the main library, which at least is all in one place, currently hugger-mugger with the mess Waitrose are making of the Podium.

Where The Wind Blows: Did they protest against Atos?

It has been reported today that the hiding of the Atos-branded lanyards by the entire GB paralympic contingent at the Opening Ceremony was not a protest after all. It was simply, the official explanation says, because the wind was causing the lanyards and badges to blow around too much, and the GB contingent therefore tucked them into their clothing.

Leaving aside the vital political aspects of this whole Atos affair for a moment, let's simply consider just how believable this official explanation is.

Firstly, the paralympians from almost all the other countries had their lanyards prominently showing, though there were a few individual exceptions. Presumably the inconvenient wind was blowing for everyone else as well?

Secondly, while people do make clothing adjustments in response to the weather, those adjustments are very variable. The most one can observe is a tendency. See for yourself. Whatever the weather is today, get out in the streets and look. Say it's chilly and wet. While you can see a tendency for people to wear warm and water-resistant clothing, by no means everyone does. In a sample of two or three hundred people, some (for various reasons, such as lack of forethought, personal preference, fashion and so on) will buck the trend.

To issue an official explanation for the GB paralympic contingent, numbering about 300 physically and mentally tough people, hiding their lanyards because of a bit of wind, is to insultingly assume a degree of credulousness in the public of 100%, or close to.

Isn't it far more likely there is another more unifying explanation than the weather?

As to what that explanation really is, we wait for better evidence.

 

Meanwhile, for me the most likely explanation given the known facts and observations is: the GB Paralympic Team were protesting against Atos and more especially the employers of Atos, the Department for Work and Pensions.

Who is going crazy - the homeopath, or me?

Earlier today I initiated a conversation with the homeopath, Nancy Malik, being intrigued by a phrase in her twitter biography, "homeopathic surgery". This phrase seemed so very bizarre that I thought I would ask the lady herself.

So:

A simple enough question, you would have thought, especially for someone qualified in the discipline.

Here was the reply:

I was still unclear, but keen to give the lady every chance, so:

And - sure enough - I was obliged with a rather scary list:

In a spirit of both alarm and growing outrage, I delved further;

Answer:

You will notice that my enquiry into how she qualified was elegantly side-stepped, no doubt because she considered me a fool. For good measure, she seems to have favourited her own tweet.

Now reaching terminal exasperation, I replied:

The reply I received left me feeling bereft of hope:

If anyone (including Nancy Malik) can untangle this and make any sense of it, then I would be very grateful.

Picked up at random in the library

A fascinating read. Dashed into Bath Public Library yesterday to get something to read in the park. Grabbed this almost at random. Thoroughly enjoyable.

Prince Harry is no Renaissance Man

Bearing as he does some accidental - and not so accidental - parallels to Henry The Eighth of That Name, it may be interesting to see how these parallels hold up to examination.

The first parallel is, of course, the name. Henry. As far as I can ascertain, King Henry had only one name, while Prince Harry has several (Henry Charles Albert David). The other most obvious parallel is the ginger hair.

Now let's look for others. Both are second sons. Both attended the weddings of their older brothers, whose brides were both called Catherine (or Katherine). Both Prince Harry and Henry (in his youth at least) were fond of physical activity and militarism.

That's about where it ends. The most obvious contrast between the two is that King Henry as a youth had quite a decent and challenging education, as befitted a younger son destined possibly for some high office in the Catholic church. Henry's rebuttal of Martin Luther, Assertio septem sacramentorum, published in 1521, was deemed a competent if unoriginal work and earned him the title Defender of the Faith. Educated in grammar, rhetoric and logic, he would probably have made a stimulating companion, capable of building a serious argument in discussion. He is also known as having other accomplishments, such as composing some pleasant if unremarkable music, and being versed in the arts of the apothecary, often preparing his own remedies. We can imagine Henry developing into an interesting and enlightened Renaissance man, if he were not stressed and corrupted by the power of kingship. But that's another story...

What of Prince Harry? The sheer banality of his recent on-leave activities is numbing, as is the blokey reaction of so many (men, mostly) who assert that he has every right to romp around naked in some stunningly vulgar Las Vegas hotel with other "fun-loving" and empty-headed types since he is a. single and b. an army officer who has served on the front line, risking his life for his country and grandma.

Hang on a minute. He is 27 years old, not some callow youth rejoicing in his first off-leash excursion. I don't deny his right to lark around like this. Frankly I am not that interested.

What I find disturbing is that this adolescent behaviour, where at least some of earth's women were considered merely playthings, has been excused and even admired and envied by so many.

Dog Bites Man

When journalists learn their trade, they are taught some fundamentals, such as, Dog Bites Man is not news, but Man Bites Dog is. In other words, "news" is not a faithful record of events, but instead is an engaging record of the unusual or, better still, the bizarre. Tyros are also taught that most readers only read headlines and of those, only a minority read what follows and if they do, they will read only the first paragraph, and certainly no more than the first four. As one reads a newspaper story, one is given increasing detail.

These guidelines attest to the notoriously puny attention span of the public, and most readers will only read the increasing detail if the story is concerned with sex.

However wise these guidelines are, they simply do not apply to any story involving celebrities and especially that subset of celebrity, the Royal Family. Today the papers - especially the tabloids - are splashed not with Man Bites Dog but Dog Bites Man. Prince Harry, it seems, has been having fun with several young women in a luxury hotel. So. "Rich, young, single prince frolics about with girls shock"

Ho hum.