Croissants with a new twist.
Improve your French without too many tears.
Click HERE to go to a new 1zaac'affiliated blog.
AB
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Serge Surprises
Here at 1zaac we received yesterday an email from honorary 1zaac Anne in Brittany;
Hello everyone.
I think I need to tell you about a film I have gone to see last week in Rennes. It is call "Gainsbourg (vie héroïque)"
I know you have interest in this French singer from your previous blogpostings. It tell the story of Serge Gainsbourg. How he grow up as Jewish boy in Paris during occupation. How he love many women, and they love him back. How he was always obsess by his ugliness, but this does not stop him bonking Juliette Gréco, Brigitte Bardot, Jane Birkin and many others. Au contraire...
It turn out that while you Zeddeurs are all in room D6 at Cannock Grammar School in autumn of 1967, in fact probably while Miss Austin give you her very first Latin lesson, Serge and Brigitte are Latin Lovers in Paris apartement, when he write for her songs Bonnie and Clyde or Harley Davidson.
Did you know he write "Je t'aime, Moi non plus" for Bardot, not Birkin? Brigitte so embarrass by her own gasping, she ask him to hold back for a bit, so the BB version only get released in 1986. Is even more sulfureuse than Jane version.
"Shame Bardot is now racist hag", I am thinking in Rennes multiplex while Avatar next door make walls vibrate with Serge and Jane in a bathtub, while Staffordshire terrier looks on. (Is bit weird in places).
I think you should see this film if it come to Cannock Electric Palace.
Amicalement. Anne de Bretagne.
Well merci beaucoup, Anne. We'll look for the write-up in the Chase Post if it makes the screens here. But don't hold your breath.
Judge for yourself, 1zaacs, by clicking on pics in this posting for a few Serge surprises.
BBC-type warning: 1zaac.com is not responsible for the content of other websites. We have enough trouble taking responsibility for some of the stuff on this one. Ed.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Love Grows, Hair Grows...
For the 1zaacs who left Cannock Grammar School at the end of the Fifth Year, the Spring Term of 1970 marked the half-way point in their secondary school career.
How we had changed since that day in September 1967 in room D6. How much more we would change as our story unfolded...
"Mairte"
Said Kev on our first day back forty years ago.
"Have yoe noticed summat, er, different about all the lads. Summat, er, physical??"
He said it in a tone unusual for him. A tone more théâtre de l'absurde than New Scientist.
I looked around room C2. Kev was right. Something was different.
"Mairte."
The line was straight from Ionesco's Rhinocéros.
"We've all lost our ears."
1970 was shaping up to become an interesting year.
Click on Edison Lighthouse for a taste of Rosemary.
AB
Monday, January 4, 2010
Food Feedback
Here at 1zaac we received an email from Anne in Brittany:
Hello 1zaac. I really enjoy the story of school dinner. I thought that midday meal in English is call lunch?
Anyway, I have been to see a film about this in my little cinéma near to Saint Malo last year. If you clic on poster, I think this will give some idea of one initiative in a small commune in South-West France.
The Maire of this commune say "In local government, if you want initiative to work, NEVER send in the accountants first. They just know about money. Initiatives have to be about people, first."
I hope this is, how you say, food for thought".
Thank-you Anne, from all of us at 1zaac.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Five Decades of School Dinners
This post is an 1zaac prequel.
The levelling effect of hot, subsidised, nutritionally-planned school meals was possibly at its most pronounced when we, the middle baby-boomers, were in our schooling years.
These were the years when the “bean cookers” in the Staffordshire School Meals Service still had more influence than the “bean -counter” or the “book -cooker” policymakers, who were busying themselves losing the plot just over the political horizon. (Expect mail on this one. Ed.)
Here is the first of three 1zaac’essays on the subject, covering Five Decades of School Dinners. The Midstaffordian working title for this 1zaac venture is “Am Them Kids All Right?”
[Regular readers will be indulgent of the crowd-pleasing nostalgic tone, and should feel free to add their own unpleasant 1960’s memories of dental caries, inedible items and wasted food in the interests of balance. Ed]
January 1961 i hold on to the Silver Cross pushchair as Mom walks us past Hassall’s sweet shop then turns out of High Street and into Pinfold Lane i am four i am wearing mittens and my favourite home-knitted green Balaclava helmet my breath freezes on the woolly mass in front of my mouth my little sister is wrapped up snugly in the pushchair Santa gave her the same winter overcoat as mine with six big buttons on the front i haven't learned punctuation yet. Oh. That's better. (Thank you for the retro-txt. Ed.)
Mom pauses at the oxblood steel railings behind the school. The kids are playing kiss-chase in the crackling morning air. Behind us, although it is mid-morning, the sun is barely above the horizon, and the long shadows of the kisschasers are dashing across the pencil-grey surface of the playground.
“Orright Auntie Edna”
Shout a dozen kids in rough unison, some of whom are genuinely cousins, some not.
“Is your Alan stoppin’ dinners when he starts school?” Enquires a voice from the line of littlies pressed against the railings.
I don’t hear the answer.
I am absorbed in the study of the pyramid-shaped white cartons which are piled into a crate on the other side of the playground, next to the Victorian gothic revival doorway of the canteen kitchen.
“Them’uns am all empty now. That’s our milk what we ‘ave before playtime that is”
Cheslyn Hay County Primary School 1960. Photo courtesy CHLHS
“Our Fred”, a real cousin, is enlightening me, having seen the puzzled, inquiring look.
“Are. Missis Jeavons cuts a bit off the corner o’ the box thing, an’ we ‘ave a straw an’all. An’ we doe atter pay for it neither.”
While Mom and the kids exchange chatter, I imagine what icy cold milk would taste like through a waxed paper straw.
Mrs Jeavons appears at the top of the steps, smiles in our direction, and blows a whistle. The kids say “Ta-ra Auntie Edna”, and assemble themselves into four shuffling lines, which quickly quieten down and file through another ogival gothic arch, into the corridor…
It was September before I learned what milk from a white “Jublee” carton tasted like.
On that first day of school, Mrs Jeavons snipped the corner of the pack, just before play-time, in the prescribed manner. Her scissors had pointy ends: we were only allowed to use the ones with round ends until we graduated to The Top Class, five years hence.
Like the other kids in the infants’ class, I had selected my straw from a grey carton marked “100 waxed drinking straws”.
The only sounds for the next three minutes were the gaggled gluggings and soft slurpings of forty straws.
Mrs Jeavons watched benignly over the silent communion of our third-of-a pint-sized community.
Photo courtesy National Archives
At playtime, refuelled with egalitarian energy, we zoomed around the playground pretending to be
Spitfires or Hurricanes.
The school bully forced me to crash-land in the dark, northern corner, next to the bell tower. He asserted his identity by boxing my ears. When I refused to cry, and he saw that I had no morning snack, he re-joined the dog-fighters and looked for another little kid. (It would be some time before I was able to even the score using a bar of ex-lax laxative chocolate convincingly moulded into Cadbury’s Buttons. )
Being the youngest and smallest, I made friends that with the biggest kid in the class, who told me his name was Kev.
“Doe yoe worry, Mairte. That milk’ll soon build yer up. ‘Ave a Tairter Puff.”
He proffered an open bag of Potato Puffs, which he’d bought with a threepenny bit.
“Am yoe stoppin’ dinners? Me mom to’d me as the lairdy in charge o’ the cookin’ is Missis Cartwright, an ‘ers a bostin’ cook. Yoe wairte till yoe tairste ‘er pairstry.
Map courtesy CHLHS
Kev explained, in a scientific manner beyond his years, the three luncheon options:
“See, yoe’ve got three choices:
(i) Gooin’ wum. Yer can goo ter yer Gran’s or back wum if it ay too fur ter walk.
(ii) Stoppin’ samwidgiz. That ay too bad if yer Mom puts a bit’o variety in theer. But yer doe want salmon spread more than once a wick.
(iii) Stoppin’ dinners. It costs a bob a day, burra lot o’ the kids get free ‘uns.”
I wanted to learn analysis like that, and decided to try to casually sprinkle some (i), (ii) and (iii) type punctuational elements into conversation at the earliest opportunity.
The whistle blew, and I fell into file in front of Kev.
Lunchtime arrived after a reading lesson with Janet and John, Book One. Pink cover. I could read already, but kept it quiet as I didn’t want any newly-found friends discovering a smart-arse in their midst.
The school canteen was a tribute to the sobriety, practicality and occasional wackiness of its Victorian designers. The aforementioned gothic doors and windows were no doubt a nod to ecclesiastical respectability and other-worldliness, circa 1880. The window ledges were high: seated pupils could not see out. There was plenty of light on sunny days, and no distractions from the grown-ups’ world outside. During the six years of our primary schooling, our only view when day-dreaming was the Rosemary Tileries roof-tiles of the houses in Hatherton Street, and the occasional bemused swallow on the single telephone wire across the road.
Pinfold Lane School, from Hatherton St. circa 1915 Courtesy CHLHS
In the eyes of a five-year-old, the dining room seemed as capacious as any Oxford College refectory. Hot dinners and puddings were served from a hatchway at the southern end. The smells of home cooking diffused into the seating area. Today it was roast lamb, with bright green peas, scoops of mashed potato and steaming gravy from aluminium jugs. The potato had a sprinkling of dried parsley: we all looked at it carefully, then at one another before cautiously digging in. We sat at sixties Formica tables of 8. My cousin Fred was a Big Kid, and so had the job of Server.
Fifty years later, my revisionist memory tells me that we all ate every bit. It also indicates that pudding was pineapple crush with crumbly pastry and a flourish of mock cream. Water was poured from aluminium jugs, too, and into “Made in France” Duralex glasses. There was once again that feeling of communion, of a moment shared. A moment of normality.
Class favourites during thosr primary schooling years were cheese & potato pie, liver wrapped in bacon, even …SALAD (pronounced “sallid”). Chocolate sponge pudding with peppermint custard. Shortbread with pink sauce. Slabs of jam tart…
With our young minds well-nourished, in the playground after lunch we could hone our punctuation skills by pondering on such mysteries as:
The levelling effect of hot, subsidised, nutritionally-planned school meals was possibly at its most pronounced when we, the middle baby-boomers, were in our schooling years.
These were the years when the “bean cookers” in the Staffordshire School Meals Service still had more influence than the “bean -counter” or the “book -cooker” policymakers, who were busying themselves losing the plot just over the political horizon. (Expect mail on this one. Ed.)
Here is the first of three 1zaac’essays on the subject, covering Five Decades of School Dinners. The Midstaffordian working title for this 1zaac venture is “Am Them Kids All Right?”
[Regular readers will be indulgent of the crowd-pleasing nostalgic tone, and should feel free to add their own unpleasant 1960’s memories of dental caries, inedible items and wasted food in the interests of balance. Ed]
January 1961 i hold on to the Silver Cross pushchair as Mom walks us past Hassall’s sweet shop then turns out of High Street and into Pinfold Lane i am four i am wearing mittens and my favourite home-knitted green Balaclava helmet my breath freezes on the woolly mass in front of my mouth my little sister is wrapped up snugly in the pushchair Santa gave her the same winter overcoat as mine with six big buttons on the front i haven't learned punctuation yet. Oh. That's better. (Thank you for the retro-txt. Ed.)
Mom pauses at the oxblood steel railings behind the school. The kids are playing kiss-chase in the crackling morning air. Behind us, although it is mid-morning, the sun is barely above the horizon, and the long shadows of the kisschasers are dashing across the pencil-grey surface of the playground.
“Orright Auntie Edna”
Shout a dozen kids in rough unison, some of whom are genuinely cousins, some not.
“Is your Alan stoppin’ dinners when he starts school?” Enquires a voice from the line of littlies pressed against the railings.
I don’t hear the answer.
I am absorbed in the study of the pyramid-shaped white cartons which are piled into a crate on the other side of the playground, next to the Victorian gothic revival doorway of the canteen kitchen.
“Them’uns am all empty now. That’s our milk what we ‘ave before playtime that is”
Cheslyn Hay County Primary School 1960. Photo courtesy CHLHS
“Our Fred”, a real cousin, is enlightening me, having seen the puzzled, inquiring look.
“Are. Missis Jeavons cuts a bit off the corner o’ the box thing, an’ we ‘ave a straw an’all. An’ we doe atter pay for it neither.”
While Mom and the kids exchange chatter, I imagine what icy cold milk would taste like through a waxed paper straw.
Mrs Jeavons appears at the top of the steps, smiles in our direction, and blows a whistle. The kids say “Ta-ra Auntie Edna”, and assemble themselves into four shuffling lines, which quickly quieten down and file through another ogival gothic arch, into the corridor…
It was September before I learned what milk from a white “Jublee” carton tasted like.
On that first day of school, Mrs Jeavons snipped the corner of the pack, just before play-time, in the prescribed manner. Her scissors had pointy ends: we were only allowed to use the ones with round ends until we graduated to The Top Class, five years hence.
Like the other kids in the infants’ class, I had selected my straw from a grey carton marked “100 waxed drinking straws”.
The only sounds for the next three minutes were the gaggled gluggings and soft slurpings of forty straws.
Mrs Jeavons watched benignly over the silent communion of our third-of-a pint-sized community.
Photo courtesy National Archives
At playtime, refuelled with egalitarian energy, we zoomed around the playground pretending to be
Spitfires or Hurricanes.
The school bully forced me to crash-land in the dark, northern corner, next to the bell tower. He asserted his identity by boxing my ears. When I refused to cry, and he saw that I had no morning snack, he re-joined the dog-fighters and looked for another little kid. (It would be some time before I was able to even the score using a bar of ex-lax laxative chocolate convincingly moulded into Cadbury’s Buttons. )
Being the youngest and smallest, I made friends that with the biggest kid in the class, who told me his name was Kev.
“Doe yoe worry, Mairte. That milk’ll soon build yer up. ‘Ave a Tairter Puff.”
He proffered an open bag of Potato Puffs, which he’d bought with a threepenny bit.
“Am yoe stoppin’ dinners? Me mom to’d me as the lairdy in charge o’ the cookin’ is Missis Cartwright, an ‘ers a bostin’ cook. Yoe wairte till yoe tairste ‘er pairstry.
Map courtesy CHLHS
Kev explained, in a scientific manner beyond his years, the three luncheon options:
“See, yoe’ve got three choices:
(i) Gooin’ wum. Yer can goo ter yer Gran’s or back wum if it ay too fur ter walk.
(ii) Stoppin’ samwidgiz. That ay too bad if yer Mom puts a bit’o variety in theer. But yer doe want salmon spread more than once a wick.
(iii) Stoppin’ dinners. It costs a bob a day, burra lot o’ the kids get free ‘uns.”
I wanted to learn analysis like that, and decided to try to casually sprinkle some (i), (ii) and (iii) type punctuational elements into conversation at the earliest opportunity.
The whistle blew, and I fell into file in front of Kev.
Lunchtime arrived after a reading lesson with Janet and John, Book One. Pink cover. I could read already, but kept it quiet as I didn’t want any newly-found friends discovering a smart-arse in their midst.
The school canteen was a tribute to the sobriety, practicality and occasional wackiness of its Victorian designers. The aforementioned gothic doors and windows were no doubt a nod to ecclesiastical respectability and other-worldliness, circa 1880. The window ledges were high: seated pupils could not see out. There was plenty of light on sunny days, and no distractions from the grown-ups’ world outside. During the six years of our primary schooling, our only view when day-dreaming was the Rosemary Tileries roof-tiles of the houses in Hatherton Street, and the occasional bemused swallow on the single telephone wire across the road.
Pinfold Lane School, from Hatherton St. circa 1915 Courtesy CHLHS
In the eyes of a five-year-old, the dining room seemed as capacious as any Oxford College refectory. Hot dinners and puddings were served from a hatchway at the southern end. The smells of home cooking diffused into the seating area. Today it was roast lamb, with bright green peas, scoops of mashed potato and steaming gravy from aluminium jugs. The potato had a sprinkling of dried parsley: we all looked at it carefully, then at one another before cautiously digging in. We sat at sixties Formica tables of 8. My cousin Fred was a Big Kid, and so had the job of Server.
Fifty years later, my revisionist memory tells me that we all ate every bit. It also indicates that pudding was pineapple crush with crumbly pastry and a flourish of mock cream. Water was poured from aluminium jugs, too, and into “Made in France” Duralex glasses. There was once again that feeling of communion, of a moment shared. A moment of normality.
Class favourites during thosr primary schooling years were cheese & potato pie, liver wrapped in bacon, even …SALAD (pronounced “sallid”). Chocolate sponge pudding with peppermint custard. Shortbread with pink sauce. Slabs of jam tart…
With our young minds well-nourished, in the playground after lunch we could hone our punctuation skills by pondering on such mysteries as:
(i) “Why do they put Made in France in English on them Durex glasses, Kev?” 
(ii) "Kev, how do they mek them milk cartons?"...
"Like this, Mairte"
In the good years, we paid a shilling for each meal. When our families fell on hard times, some of us kids qualified for “Free Dinners”, and got a life-lesson in how to cope with peer-group social stigma.
In 1961, the School Meals Service, and the supply of Free School Milk seemed to be as perennial a fixture in our everyday lives as those gothic revival buildings...
Stay tuned, 1zaacs, for this prequel's sequel, when we return to the 1970's.
We’ll see the emergence of Costcutter Analysis Milk Snatching.
Then, in the hope that maybe history could teach us something, we’ll travel to 1980, for a feast of Economic Fundamentalism, and the genesis of an obesity epidemic.
Then we’ll share some Good News Initiatives from the ‘90’s and the Noughties, and come bang up to date with Food For Thought for the Tenties.
Happy New Year.
AB.
In the good years, we paid a shilling for each meal. When our families fell on hard times, some of us kids qualified for “Free Dinners”, and got a life-lesson in how to cope with peer-group social stigma.
In 1961, the School Meals Service, and the supply of Free School Milk seemed to be as perennial a fixture in our everyday lives as those gothic revival buildings...
Stay tuned, 1zaacs, for this prequel's sequel, when we return to the 1970's.
We’ll see the emergence of Costcutter Analysis Milk Snatching.
Then, in the hope that maybe history could teach us something, we’ll travel to 1980, for a feast of Economic Fundamentalism, and the genesis of an obesity epidemic.
Then we’ll share some Good News Initiatives from the ‘90’s and the Noughties, and come bang up to date with Food For Thought for the Tenties.
Happy New Year.
AB.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Loy-it Moiy Foyer
When Cannock Grammar School ceased to exist, not many years after the 1zaacs left, much memorabilia was consigned to the dustbin. Try phoning the school campus now, and you will learn that the Grammar School is referred to as "the other end of the campus", and that all school records have been destroyed.
This makes the hunt for memorabilia a bit of a challenge. [Probably not altogether a bad thing. Ed.]
One item which survived was this photo. If you click on it, you can take a short aerial Mystery Tour of the School as we 1zaacs remember it.
The photo was rescued by staff member Mr Sewell. It used to be on display in the Foyer.
"Foyer" was uttered in 1967 by us Grammar Grubs in the manner of a Brummie saying "Fire": Foy as in boy and er as in err. It was the first posh word I remember learning to mispronounce at age 11.
Our rendition of the word produced kilos of laughter from our French penfriends, who would be arriving in 1970.
Our pronunciation was, however quite serendipitous: Foyer also means "hearth" in French.
This set us here at 1zaac wondering whether William the Conqueror may have become a closet Brummie after sending his Domesday Froggy tax officials to survey the Cannock Chase area in the 1070's.
"Coom on Bayboy, Loit moiy Foyer" ?
[Probably not. More justification for that failed History 'A' Level. Just hope that the examining board pulped that one. Ed]
Enjoy the flight.
AB
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Pre-Tippex Teaching Tips
We 1zaacs seem to have a surprising number of our offspring who have ended up in the teaching profession.
Here is a Christmas present for
them, and for general interest, in the form of a 1970's pre-photocopy roneostat.
Click on the pic for 37 pearls of practicality and sagesse, with a few reassuring spelling erreurs thrown in.
The document came to light in an old file, and was the sole surviving element after the dormouse (see article, infra) applied radical editing techniques and made a nest of the rest. [you should let it loose on your blogposts. Ed]
It proves the French adagium;
"Il n'y a de nouveau que ce qui a été oublié"
...or as Gaston Pommille-Bâtard would say "Ze only new steuff is zat what you forgot"
AB
Here is a Christmas present for
them, and for general interest, in the form of a 1970's pre-photocopy roneostat.Click on the pic for 37 pearls of practicality and sagesse, with a few reassuring spelling erreurs thrown in.
The document came to light in an old file, and was the sole surviving element after the dormouse (see article, infra) applied radical editing techniques and made a nest of the rest. [you should let it loose on your blogposts. Ed]
It proves the French adagium;
"Il n'y a de nouveau que ce qui a été oublié"
...or as Gaston Pommille-Bâtard would say "Ze only new steuff is zat what you forgot"
AB
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Daily Mash
Here at 1zaac we received details of a recommended website some months ago from one of our fellow Zeddeurs. We have been laughing so much that it's taken us most of the year to get around to sharing this one.
Click on the Daily Mash for the Real News, and the surprising truth about French TV.
AB
Woolies Christmas (Past 'n) Present
Forty years ago this week the members of class 3E put their laboratory brat stools up on to the science benches and filed out of room C1, and out of the sixties at Cannock Grammar School.
It was 3.35 in the afternoon, and night had fallen over the coalfields. The air was crisp. Frozen snow crunched under the soles of our General Purpose Tuf school shoes.
Because of the slippery conditions, we missed the 3.45 Number 17, whose tail was disappearing past the Technical College. I was going to be late for my Express & Star newspaper round.
"Doe worry, Mairte. We'll goo an' treat ourselves to some Pick 'n Mix down Woolies. Ah'll gi' yer a nand deliverin' the pairpers after."
Kev led the way through The Arcade, pausing only to cast a critical eye over the Mamod steam engines in the toy emporium. The smell of roast chicken radiated with the warmth from the Barbecue Shop opposite.
"Thar'll never ketch on Al. Ten bob fer a roasted chickin when yer Mom can cook one at 'um..."
Across the town centre was Woolworth's.
"Tat an' treasure, Mairte".
My companion pushed open the swinging doors.
We walked into Cannock's retail hot-spot, counted the pre-decimal coppers after removing green blazer fluff, and headed for the Pick 'n Mix...
"It's always packed in here, Kev, ay it" I said, counting in a Bubbly, five Flying Saucers and some liquorice shoe laces.
"Are. Always wull be an' all, Boy Wonder. Yoe car beat Woolies for a bargin. Come on, we've just got time ter look through the records"...
"Let's walk down past the Picture House instead, Kev. They'm playin' that Rolf Harris record over the'er, an' it drives me soft. Paul's workin' on a better version, he to'd me this afternoon. 'e promised it'll be ready for when we goo back ter school in January."
"Con do. Am yoe gunner eat all o' them flyin saucers?"
And with that, we stepped out into the Christmas air of the pavement, balancing briefcases in one hand, and a bag of "sook" in the other.
Now click on the Woolworth's pic for a Christmas present from Mitch Benn.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Bowdler'1zaac Request
Hello 1zaacs,
I am so excited to see that we are at last arriving in 1970. I see that your editorial dept has a thing about the Moon and about aeroplanes, so I'm sending you this picture to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the first commercial flights of the Jumbo Jet.
Do any 1zaacs remember the missing words to the Cadbury's Dairy Milk advert with the pics of the 747, circa 1970?
"In the something something Seventies, isn't it nice to know....
There's still the something something taste...
of Cadbury's Dairy Milk".
Just one request; can you give us ample warning of any rude bits coming up. I clicked on one pic infra, and had to go for a lie down.
The Benny Hill ad was good, though.
Keep up the good work.
T Bowdler esq.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Numerical Nerditorium Forum
Here at 1zaac we have been having nerd'iscussions about PNP.
Not the PNP transistors Mr Griffiths taught us about in Physics in 1970.
"Transistors are going to revolutionize technology"
He told us.
"One day we'll all have a computer in our house, and it will probably be quite a lot smaller than your Mum's New World 33 gas cooker with eye level grill..."
He carried on, ignoring Carole Freeman's eye-rolling for a minute.
No, here at 1zaac we've been thinking about Personal Number Plates, and what they might reveal about different cultures...
[This sounds like more "rivetting stuff". Ed]
Hey, Ed, bear with us for a mo.
...We asked four different 1zaac'affiliates to explain the set-ups in;
UK
France
Australia
Switzerland.
First a report from Ellen Jay in Cannock, Staffordshire, England who is having a break from her restaurant jaunts today.
"Here in England, it's big business. You can get a PNP, or "Cherished Plate" from a private individual or from a "Cherished Plate Broker" (dealer).
You will pay anything from a few quid to many thousands. The plate might end up being worth more than the car. (I have a car like that; its value increases by 25% every time I fill the tank. Ed)
The price depends on how rich/gullible/narcissitic/desperate you are.
The best ones are owned by toffs, genuine or aspiring. "CON 1", football players "WW1" or lottery winners "1 WON". The Queen is allowed to have no numberplate at all, which we admire as classic understatement. Chavs (see Wiki for definition, Ed) sometimes modify numbers to look like letters or vice-versa. See example below spotted at the Cannock Grammar reunion last month.
I am told that the constabulary does not approve of this because speed cameras find creative chavvery hard to read.
Wicked.
Thank you Ellen Jay.
One of our 1zaac French correspondents, Gaston Pommille-Bâtard, did some research at his local préfecture last week. Over to you, Gaston.
'Ere in La Belle France, it is land of intellectuels and égalité. So in theeory, en principe, we 'ave no frivolousse personel numbeurs. BUT (In Franch hadministration is always a BUT), eef you know someone who work in ze Préfecture, you can 'ave, for example 308 AB 85 for your Peugeot 308 if 'e wait for computeur to get to zat numbeur. Is a bit compliqué, and s-l-o-w, but it don't cost nothing. So is a sort of égalité, non?
Also is advantage, because gendarmes 'ave invisibeul message zat you know somebody wiz influence, somebody who work in Préfecture. So zey less likely to stop you if zey see you on ze radar caméra. BUT, wiz automatic camera, is now 'arder to dodge zis one. Unless you have friend in Préfecture who check ze radar pictures.
And anozeur thing. Since six month we 'ave EUROPEAN numbeur instead. Bleurdy European get rid of our département reference on numbeur plate. Zis anozeur reason why ze British Cherish Number Lobby don't want to join Euro, no?
Oh, and I leurve CON 1. You know what is CON in Franch? You can Google it if you want.
Well Gaston, we don't know about that. Thanks for stirring things up a bit.[This is rubbish continuity. Sounds like Benny Hill. Ed]
Click on Ernie for 1971 TV memorabilia.
Our Southern Correspondent, down there in Western Australia, may be able to enlighten us about the Aussie approach.
"Starve the bloomin lizards 1zaacs, no worries here.
Just pay 250 bucks to have any eight letter or number combo, providin' it ain't abusive to English speakers or any other of them there ethnicities. 2CV, DEUX CV, FIFI 2CV, BEANCAN, CARTOON, CAJUNDUCK and TUPAWARE have all been seen on those funny French cars down here. Oh, or youse can have yer favourite footy club emblem, too, if yer pays a bit more. Then, when things are all sorted out an' lookin' good, yez can go down the pub...
Many thanks to our Downunder'1zaac.
Finally, we asked 1zaac Magritte, who hails from Switzerland, to explain the Swiss system.
"Well, in my country, to buy a car, first you need plates. You get these from the local authority, after they have checked your residency status and identity document. They just cost a few Swiss Francs for the ordinary ones, and you can pay more for a lower number. So it is a sort of franco-teutonic snobisme. But you must have correct residency status. Then you go onto the computer, and any car dealer can see your details before agreeing to sell you a car. Did I mention you need to prove your residency status?
Thank you Magritte. It sounds like secret banking in reverse. (That was a joke. Ed)
So, there we are. An 1zaac nerditorium forum.
One of our 1zaac all-time favourites is the Mayor of Walsall's. Definitely not transferable to Australia:
1 DH
Now here's the PNP we Zedders saw last month at The Barns restaurant in Huntington, Staffordshire, after Cannock Grammar School Former Pupils' Association reunion.
[Perhaps a reference to Huntington's mining heritage? Like the St George's flag flourish. Sorry about the rivetting remark supra. Ed]
Click on pic for the inevitable 1971 1zaac Hayes link AB
Not the PNP transistors Mr Griffiths taught us about in Physics in 1970.
"Transistors are going to revolutionize technology"
He told us.
"One day we'll all have a computer in our house, and it will probably be quite a lot smaller than your Mum's New World 33 gas cooker with eye level grill..."
He carried on, ignoring Carole Freeman's eye-rolling for a minute.
No, here at 1zaac we've been thinking about Personal Number Plates, and what they might reveal about different cultures...
[This sounds like more "rivetting stuff". Ed]
Hey, Ed, bear with us for a mo.
...We asked four different 1zaac'affiliates to explain the set-ups in;
UK
France
Australia
Switzerland.
First a report from Ellen Jay in Cannock, Staffordshire, England who is having a break from her restaurant jaunts today.
"Here in England, it's big business. You can get a PNP, or "Cherished Plate" from a private individual or from a "Cherished Plate Broker" (dealer).
You will pay anything from a few quid to many thousands. The plate might end up being worth more than the car. (I have a car like that; its value increases by 25% every time I fill the tank. Ed)
The price depends on how rich/gullible/narcissitic/desperate you are.
The best ones are owned by toffs, genuine or aspiring. "CON 1", football players "WW1" or lottery winners "1 WON". The Queen is allowed to have no numberplate at all, which we admire as classic understatement. Chavs (see Wiki for definition, Ed) sometimes modify numbers to look like letters or vice-versa. See example below spotted at the Cannock Grammar reunion last month.
I am told that the constabulary does not approve of this because speed cameras find creative chavvery hard to read.
Wicked.
Thank you Ellen Jay.
One of our 1zaac French correspondents, Gaston Pommille-Bâtard, did some research at his local préfecture last week. Over to you, Gaston.
'Ere in La Belle France, it is land of intellectuels and égalité. So in theeory, en principe, we 'ave no frivolousse personel numbeurs. BUT (In Franch hadministration is always a BUT), eef you know someone who work in ze Préfecture, you can 'ave, for example 308 AB 85 for your Peugeot 308 if 'e wait for computeur to get to zat numbeur. Is a bit compliqué, and s-l-o-w, but it don't cost nothing. So is a sort of égalité, non?
Also is advantage, because gendarmes 'ave invisibeul message zat you know somebody wiz influence, somebody who work in Préfecture. So zey less likely to stop you if zey see you on ze radar caméra. BUT, wiz automatic camera, is now 'arder to dodge zis one. Unless you have friend in Préfecture who check ze radar pictures.
And anozeur thing. Since six month we 'ave EUROPEAN numbeur instead. Bleurdy European get rid of our département reference on numbeur plate. Zis anozeur reason why ze British Cherish Number Lobby don't want to join Euro, no?
Oh, and I leurve CON 1. You know what is CON in Franch? You can Google it if you want.
Well Gaston, we don't know about that. Thanks for stirring things up a bit.[This is rubbish continuity. Sounds like Benny Hill. Ed]
Click on Ernie for 1971 TV memorabilia.
Our Southern Correspondent, down there in Western Australia, may be able to enlighten us about the Aussie approach.
"Starve the bloomin lizards 1zaacs, no worries here.
Just pay 250 bucks to have any eight letter or number combo, providin' it ain't abusive to English speakers or any other of them there ethnicities. 2CV, DEUX CV, FIFI 2CV, BEANCAN, CARTOON, CAJUNDUCK and TUPAWARE have all been seen on those funny French cars down here. Oh, or youse can have yer favourite footy club emblem, too, if yer pays a bit more. Then, when things are all sorted out an' lookin' good, yez can go down the pub...
Many thanks to our Downunder'1zaac.
Finally, we asked 1zaac Magritte, who hails from Switzerland, to explain the Swiss system.
"Well, in my country, to buy a car, first you need plates. You get these from the local authority, after they have checked your residency status and identity document. They just cost a few Swiss Francs for the ordinary ones, and you can pay more for a lower number. So it is a sort of franco-teutonic snobisme. But you must have correct residency status. Then you go onto the computer, and any car dealer can see your details before agreeing to sell you a car. Did I mention you need to prove your residency status?
Thank you Magritte. It sounds like secret banking in reverse. (That was a joke. Ed)
So, there we are. An 1zaac nerditorium forum.
One of our 1zaac all-time favourites is the Mayor of Walsall's. Definitely not transferable to Australia:
1 DH
Now here's the PNP we Zedders saw last month at The Barns restaurant in Huntington, Staffordshire, after Cannock Grammar School Former Pupils' Association reunion.
[Perhaps a reference to Huntington's mining heritage? Like the St George's flag flourish. Sorry about the rivetting remark supra. Ed]
Click on pic for the inevitable 1971 1zaac Hayes link AB
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Zorro Dormouse Eats Nuts And Bolts
1zaac regulars will have a sense of déjà lu, having read about Eliomys Quercinus, the masked dormouse who does the Zorro impersonations around here.
Well, today, look who turned up, fat and sleepy, nestled in a box of Citroën brake shoes.
Click on the dormouse/lérot pic for the full story, and revive your nursery rhyme French.
But be warned; the 2-minute clip will send your cute-o-meter into the red zone.
At least the bloated little blighter hasn't, after nicking and stuffing itself with our walnuts, eaten through the foam n'cardboard heater tubes of the 2CV this year, in its quest for nesting material.
Yet.
It woke up with a start, and did the Zorro escape routine, seconds after its picture had been taken.
"Recession Bites - Dormouse Eats Nuts and Bolts".
You heard it first on 1zaac.
AB
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Translating, Interpreting and Subtitles
Friday, November 27, 2009
Les Feuilles Mortes
1zaac musical interlude.
Click on the Sainte-Cécile leaves for Juliette Greco's interpretation of the Prévert masterpiece, circa 1970.
Arthur, Ash & Allen; our "A" Stars
On 7th November 2009, sixty-five years, almost to the day, since Allen baled out of a burning Lancaster, since Ash recited Grumble Corner after Arnhem, and since Arthur left the safe haven of the Steffens family, our three 1zaac affiliate WW2 veterans told their stories to our luncheon gathering at Cheslyn Hay Village Hall.
As one of our Zeddeuse attendees wrote later;
"I feel very privileged to have taken part in this Bringing People Together initiative".
Thank-you to everyone who was able to come along, and for all of the contributions which made the event so special.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Shafts, Knobs and Cupules
Thanks to little bro' 1zaac'Ant for this contribution.
He had obviously been reading the 1969 retro-tech post infra, and wished to compare & contrast 2009 technology.
1.Click on the "Operational Instructions" pic.
2. Read carefully, and work out why Staffordshire is no longer the Workshop of the World.
3. Send answers via usual channels to 1zaac.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Rolf, Maggie & Andy
The last Number One hit of the Peace & Love Sixties was an incongruous one, but one which proved to be the biggest selling single of that year.
It was not The Beatles, or The Stones, or even our 1zaac' iconic Présidente d'Honneur Sandie Shaw who occupied the top slot as the decade turned.
While the Apollo 12 crew had been calling President Tricky Dicky Nixon long-distance from the Moon, while my mischievous mining village cousins and I had been dialling "O" and making spoof calls to the operator from the red 'phone box in Low Street, Cheslyn Hay, Rolf Harris had been on the blower to Ted Egan, in Australia.
Ted had sung a music-hall song from 1902 to Rolf during the latter's visit to Arnhem Land, Northern Territory, earlier in 1969. Rolf 'phoned Ted later in the year, shelling out a quid a minute, jotted the words down, and made the Christmas hit record which zedders, zeddeuses and all other 1zaacs will recall.
Click on young R Harris esq, not for a rendition of the song which Margaret Thatcher once claimed as her favourite, but for conclusive evidence that some blokes ought to stick to painting.
Back in science lab form room C2, it didn't take long for one of our number to write a set of alternative lyrics for "Two Little Boys".
Of which the Rt Hon Mrs T would certainly not have approved...
It was a mere foretaste of more mischief to come.
And there was a general election in the offing.
Oh dear. The Great British Public had just kept Rolf at Number One for six weeks.
What might it do given the responsibility of a voting slip?
Stay tuned for Episode 3, chapter 5 for more antidote to Andrew Marr.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Episode 3 Chapter 4 Rivetting Stuff & Bad Rising to the Moon
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apollo_12
Episode 3, Chapter 4
This post is dedicated to Mr John Lees and Mr Andy Morton. Thank-you for teaching us the therapy of "mekkin' an mendin' ".
It was a pleasure to meet you again at the 2008 & 2009 CGSFPA reunions.
Our ginger beer plants were in full production by mid- November 1969. Creedence Clearwater Revival hammered out the three chords of Bad Moon Rising, which would be reprised by the Cannock Grammar Boys' Band precisely forty years later at their school reunion.
(Click on astronauts if you'd like the full Apollo 12 nerdfile)
Astronauts Pete Conrad, Richard Gordon and Al Bean had a bad rising to the moon on 15th, when their Saturn rocket was struck twice by lightning. Al saved the mission by fiddling with an override switch in the Command module, after the instruments and onboard computer told them to abort...
In our Wednesday afternoon school metalwork lesson, Zedders Paul, Nigel, Kev, Graham and I were fiddling too, as usual, but with less guarantee of success. We were discussing the Apollo drama in a fume cocktail of machine oil, brazing flux and arsenic. This was metalwork before Health & Safety spoiled the fun.
"It's all bloomin' aluminium these days", said Nige, who was struggling with the handle of the screwdriver he had chosen to manufacture, while Kev attempted to remove a piece of swarf from his eye.
Paul chipped in. "Yep. It meks good aeroplanes, 'though; And egg cups. I'm on me second one."
He proudly demonstrated his handiwork; a matched pair of recepticles made from bent slices of the miracle metal, which wobbled hardly at all when placed on the flat surface of the tool-strewn workbench.
"Are", said Kev. It might be good on them spairce rockets, burrit's a bugger to get outter yer eye orright. At least wi' them steel slivers, yer can use a magnet."
Graham was experimenting with spent air-rifle pellets and a brazing torch. "Look Al, this lead melts dead easy. Ah'm gunner mek some fishin' weights for Kev"
I was busy affixing a shaft to the garden trowel project, bashing the rivets and one of my thumbnails with affected aplomb.
I looked up, wrapped a handkerchief around the wound, and peered past lathes and drills into the middle distance of the far end of the workshop.
"Dave's mekkin' a steam engine, yer know..."
Our classmate Dave was good at everything, and never needed to affect aplomb because he had the real stuff by the bucketful.
Kev said "I bet Dairve ends up doin' summat in the car industry. Have yer gorra minute, Boy Wonder, I need a nand to light the forge"
Mr Morton and Mr Lees were engrossed in technical consultations with one of the Sixth Formers who was building a full-sized space-framed sports car next to where Dave was honing the brass bore of his steam engine, prior to final assembly.
The forge was an example of The Real McCoy approach to education: Our 1960's Grammar School curriculum juxtaposed Science, Humanities and Manual/Domestic Arts.
After a token nod to mixed boy-girl woodworking in our First Year, the lads (at least those who'd failed Latin) were by now being instructed in the skills of drilling, brazing, soldering, melting, casting, filing, forging, bending, or shaping the metals of the waning industrial age as well as those of the emerging space-age.
The girls were learning Latin, or cooking cheese pie.
This all seemed to fit in with the late-Sixties vibe/zeitgeist: Apollo Astronauts went to the moon, while their wives looked stylish and stayed home cooking apple pie. We made egg cups or steam engines in the high-risk metalworkshop, our female class companions huddled in the Domestic Science bliss of E block...(Expect a few emails on this subject. Ed)
Kev was reading the instructions on the forge.
"It says here we need ter remove clinker before lighting. What's a clinker, Boy Wonder, yo'm the language specialist ay yer?"
"Dunno, Kev. Doe bother wi' th'instructions, just light the bugger."
Kev had sorted out the gas taps in no time, and applied a match. An orange flame sprang under the canopy, bathing us, and Paul and Nige who had come to watch, in a golden glow.
"Doe worry, Al, them eyebrows'll soon grow back"
Kev applied some air. The flame roared and changed to blue, showering the floor and the spectators with red-hot popcorn. We had just discoverd the existence of clinker, and the need for its removal.
"Looks like an Apollo mission in here" quipped Paul, picking clinker from Nige's face, and we all burst into laughter.
Mr Lees heard the laughter, and came striding into the forge.
He failed to see the reason for our amusement, and gave us a few (20, reckoned Paul) minutes' in-service training on the importance of pre-lighting clinker precautions.
At the end of the lesson, we took off our aprons, examined the burns in our clothing, put on our striped green ties and our blazers, and strode out into the autumn 3.35 pm semi-darkness of the staff car park. We did not often see the school from this angle, with its array of sixties motorbilia. We admired Mr Blackham's cream Triumph Vitesse six-cylinder saloon.
Kev claimed he spotted Miss Austin SMOKING in the staffroom, but none of us believed him. He was adamant all the way home, upstairs on the Number 17, that his eyes had not failed him.
It was completely dark when I picked up my newspaper delivery bag at Mrs Rogers' shop. Walking past the war memorial, with its recently-laid wreaths of poppies, and through the fallen leaves, then past the Monkey Puzzle tree next to the Chemist's, I looked up at the Moon, and couldn't understand why most other folks were going about their everyday routines apparently oblivious to the fact that there were two blokes up there at this very moment.
A characteristically downbeat headline in the Express & Star tried to bring my thoughts back into line and down to Earth, by whining:
"MOON TV FLOP" .
Up there on the Mare Cognita, joking prankster astronaut Al Bean had accidentally pointed the TV camera at the sun, burning out the video tube, and putting an abrupt end to colour coverage.
The tabloids sulked en masse. Even Cliff Michelmore and James Burke at the Beeb faltered in their enthusiastic elogies for a while. But my own attention was rivetted to the Apollo 12 mission, all the way to splashdown on 24th.
Rivetted as firmly as the shaft of the gardening trowel which was nestling next to the three dozen undelivered newspapers.
EPILOGUE
November 2009. A weak sun is low in the mid - afternoon sky.
There is enough light in Dad's shed to find the toolbox, but I need to carry it outside to look at its contents.
Through odours of Jeyes Fluid and creosote I pick out a life history in implements: Plumber's apprentice; Bricklayer; Village postman. I find his spirit level made by Rabone, Birmingham; a cold chisel stamped "Gilpin, Staffs"; a bike spanner marked "GPO".
At the bottom of the box, I find what I knew would be there.
-An aluminium eggcup.
-A screwdriver with a wonky handle.
-And a garden trowel, minus its handle, but with two rivets holding the blade as tightly as ever.
AB
Episode 3, Chapter 4
This post is dedicated to Mr John Lees and Mr Andy Morton. Thank-you for teaching us the therapy of "mekkin' an mendin' ".
It was a pleasure to meet you again at the 2008 & 2009 CGSFPA reunions.
Our ginger beer plants were in full production by mid- November 1969. Creedence Clearwater Revival hammered out the three chords of Bad Moon Rising, which would be reprised by the Cannock Grammar Boys' Band precisely forty years later at their school reunion.
(Click on astronauts if you'd like the full Apollo 12 nerdfile)
Astronauts Pete Conrad, Richard Gordon and Al Bean had a bad rising to the moon on 15th, when their Saturn rocket was struck twice by lightning. Al saved the mission by fiddling with an override switch in the Command module, after the instruments and onboard computer told them to abort...
In our Wednesday afternoon school metalwork lesson, Zedders Paul, Nigel, Kev, Graham and I were fiddling too, as usual, but with less guarantee of success. We were discussing the Apollo drama in a fume cocktail of machine oil, brazing flux and arsenic. This was metalwork before Health & Safety spoiled the fun.
"It's all bloomin' aluminium these days", said Nige, who was struggling with the handle of the screwdriver he had chosen to manufacture, while Kev attempted to remove a piece of swarf from his eye.
Paul chipped in. "Yep. It meks good aeroplanes, 'though; And egg cups. I'm on me second one."
He proudly demonstrated his handiwork; a matched pair of recepticles made from bent slices of the miracle metal, which wobbled hardly at all when placed on the flat surface of the tool-strewn workbench.
"Are", said Kev. It might be good on them spairce rockets, burrit's a bugger to get outter yer eye orright. At least wi' them steel slivers, yer can use a magnet."
Graham was experimenting with spent air-rifle pellets and a brazing torch. "Look Al, this lead melts dead easy. Ah'm gunner mek some fishin' weights for Kev"
I was busy affixing a shaft to the garden trowel project, bashing the rivets and one of my thumbnails with affected aplomb.
I looked up, wrapped a handkerchief around the wound, and peered past lathes and drills into the middle distance of the far end of the workshop.
"Dave's mekkin' a steam engine, yer know..."
Our classmate Dave was good at everything, and never needed to affect aplomb because he had the real stuff by the bucketful.
Kev said "I bet Dairve ends up doin' summat in the car industry. Have yer gorra minute, Boy Wonder, I need a nand to light the forge"
Mr Morton and Mr Lees were engrossed in technical consultations with one of the Sixth Formers who was building a full-sized space-framed sports car next to where Dave was honing the brass bore of his steam engine, prior to final assembly.
The forge was an example of The Real McCoy approach to education: Our 1960's Grammar School curriculum juxtaposed Science, Humanities and Manual/Domestic Arts.
After a token nod to mixed boy-girl woodworking in our First Year, the lads (at least those who'd failed Latin) were by now being instructed in the skills of drilling, brazing, soldering, melting, casting, filing, forging, bending, or shaping the metals of the waning industrial age as well as those of the emerging space-age.
The girls were learning Latin, or cooking cheese pie.
This all seemed to fit in with the late-Sixties vibe/zeitgeist: Apollo Astronauts went to the moon, while their wives looked stylish and stayed home cooking apple pie. We made egg cups or steam engines in the high-risk metalworkshop, our female class companions huddled in the Domestic Science bliss of E block...(Expect a few emails on this subject. Ed)
Kev was reading the instructions on the forge.
"It says here we need ter remove clinker before lighting. What's a clinker, Boy Wonder, yo'm the language specialist ay yer?"
"Dunno, Kev. Doe bother wi' th'instructions, just light the bugger."
Kev had sorted out the gas taps in no time, and applied a match. An orange flame sprang under the canopy, bathing us, and Paul and Nige who had come to watch, in a golden glow.
"Doe worry, Al, them eyebrows'll soon grow back"
Kev applied some air. The flame roared and changed to blue, showering the floor and the spectators with red-hot popcorn. We had just discoverd the existence of clinker, and the need for its removal.
"Looks like an Apollo mission in here" quipped Paul, picking clinker from Nige's face, and we all burst into laughter.
Mr Lees heard the laughter, and came striding into the forge.
He failed to see the reason for our amusement, and gave us a few (20, reckoned Paul) minutes' in-service training on the importance of pre-lighting clinker precautions.
At the end of the lesson, we took off our aprons, examined the burns in our clothing, put on our striped green ties and our blazers, and strode out into the autumn 3.35 pm semi-darkness of the staff car park. We did not often see the school from this angle, with its array of sixties motorbilia. We admired Mr Blackham's cream Triumph Vitesse six-cylinder saloon.
Kev claimed he spotted Miss Austin SMOKING in the staffroom, but none of us believed him. He was adamant all the way home, upstairs on the Number 17, that his eyes had not failed him.
It was completely dark when I picked up my newspaper delivery bag at Mrs Rogers' shop. Walking past the war memorial, with its recently-laid wreaths of poppies, and through the fallen leaves, then past the Monkey Puzzle tree next to the Chemist's, I looked up at the Moon, and couldn't understand why most other folks were going about their everyday routines apparently oblivious to the fact that there were two blokes up there at this very moment.
A characteristically downbeat headline in the Express & Star tried to bring my thoughts back into line and down to Earth, by whining:
"MOON TV FLOP" .
Up there on the Mare Cognita, joking prankster astronaut Al Bean had accidentally pointed the TV camera at the sun, burning out the video tube, and putting an abrupt end to colour coverage.
The tabloids sulked en masse. Even Cliff Michelmore and James Burke at the Beeb faltered in their enthusiastic elogies for a while. But my own attention was rivetted to the Apollo 12 mission, all the way to splashdown on 24th.
Rivetted as firmly as the shaft of the gardening trowel which was nestling next to the three dozen undelivered newspapers.
EPILOGUE
November 2009. A weak sun is low in the mid - afternoon sky.
There is enough light in Dad's shed to find the toolbox, but I need to carry it outside to look at its contents.
Through odours of Jeyes Fluid and creosote I pick out a life history in implements: Plumber's apprentice; Bricklayer; Village postman. I find his spirit level made by Rabone, Birmingham; a cold chisel stamped "Gilpin, Staffs"; a bike spanner marked "GPO".
At the bottom of the box, I find what I knew would be there.
-An aluminium eggcup.
-A screwdriver with a wonky handle.
-And a garden trowel, minus its handle, but with two rivets holding the blade as tightly as ever.
AB
1970: Did your doughnuts look like Fanny's?
Click HERE for some unmissable (2009 BBCspeak. Be careful. Ed) eclectic 1970 TV ads.
1zaac's chance to join the MEN in mining, the Pommy Sheilas in pink paradisiac Sydney. To soar with Nimble Maggie under an alpine hot-air balloon. To drag Willy the Weasle from under the wheels of a Ford Escort. To catch Fanny and Johnny in the pantry, still save four bob in the pound on the Inter City and be home in time to splash on some Chanel and watch On the Buses.
1zaac'hint; scroll down the seventy-odd Vox Populi comments below the Youtube clip to unearth Fanny Craddock's secret admirer. It's worth the dig. Here in the 1zaac'editorial dept we laughed so much, one of the staff slipped a disc.
1zaac's chance to join the MEN in mining, the Pommy Sheilas in pink paradisiac Sydney. To soar with Nimble Maggie under an alpine hot-air balloon. To drag Willy the Weasle from under the wheels of a Ford Escort. To catch Fanny and Johnny in the pantry, still save four bob in the pound on the Inter City and be home in time to splash on some Chanel and watch On the Buses.
1zaac'hint; scroll down the seventy-odd Vox Populi comments below the Youtube clip to unearth Fanny Craddock's secret admirer. It's worth the dig. Here in the 1zaac'editorial dept we laughed so much, one of the staff slipped a disc.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Vale Sixties, Salve Seventies
Here at 1zaac, our mémoire collective story will shortly drift to a new decade.
We'd like to thank our senior Cannock Grammar School affiliates
for the warm welcome they gave to us 1967-ers at their annual reunion last Saturday.
Well done the Boys' Band for rocking us all past the Midnight Hour, ushering us onto the dance floor and out of the Sixties to the strains of Jeff Beck, and his '67 Silver Lining.
While we are waiting for the reunion pics, and while we're editing the goss, click on the recent photo of Jeff for a "taste" of Seventies "style".
And you'll see where we got our dress codes and dancing moves.
AB
We'd like to thank our senior Cannock Grammar School affiliates
for the warm welcome they gave to us 1967-ers at their annual reunion last Saturday.Well done the Boys' Band for rocking us all past the Midnight Hour, ushering us onto the dance floor and out of the Sixties to the strains of Jeff Beck, and his '67 Silver Lining.
While we are waiting for the reunion pics, and while we're editing the goss, click on the recent photo of Jeff for a "taste" of Seventies "style".
And you'll see where we got our dress codes and dancing moves.
AB
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Forging Ahead
Here at 1zaac we were thinking about metalwork lessons in 1969, and about Mr John Lees, our woodwork/metalwork teacher.
We hope to see him again at the Cannock Grammar School Former Pupils' reunion on 14th November.
Zedder Paul is looking forward to an up-to-date assessment of his varnishing techniques.
Look out for the article. There are jokes about forges, "removal of clinker before lighting", and Dave Bowes' first involvement with mechanical engineering.
The forgeron/blacksmith in the pic is the late Monsieur André AMIAUD. In 2004, he showed a group of primary school kids from Sainte-Cécile around his forge, which had bellows made from a ventilation fan from a German Blockhaus, and had not been lit for five years. Click on the pic if you'd like to see the kids' film report, and to brush up your primary French.
AB
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Vidi, Vici, Veni
Here at 1zaac we received an email about the previous post;Dear 1zaac,
Thanks for the memories. Listening to Sugar Sugar and Bad Moon Rising took me back to 1969 and my disc-jockey days.
If I remember correctly, the two Number Ones in between were "Je t'aime, Moi non plus" by Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin, and "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" by Bobby Gentry.
Can you confirm this?
Keep up the good work.
TB
Well, yes, TB, that seems to be the case according to our 1zaac'internet service.
Those two records were very different variations on the love/aimer theme, weren't they?
Serge could have chosen to paraphrase Julius Caesar with "Vidi, Vici, Veni".
Instead he achieved a similar triple-V effect with "Je vais, je veux et je viens"...whilst, we imagine, addressing Jane Birkin's bottom.
Jane sighed her way through it, got banned by the BBC, and set our post-pubescent wannabeaSerge Lyon French penpals fantasizing about English roses.
Bobby Gentry's Bacharach tones cooled down the charts, and the 3E lads' collective ardour, the following week, but evidently had no effect at all on the Lyon lads. They arrived seeking Janes, not Bobby's. As it turned out, they met a Bobby or two, but not in the context they had intended...
As we shall see later in Episode 3, when things really start to heat up in July 1970 with the cross-cultural adventures of the Lyon kids.
Click on Jane, Serge or Bobby to see what all the fuss was about. And some weird stuff with a watermelon.
AB
Friday, October 23, 2009
Episode 3, Chapter 3; Lashings of Ginger, Here
1zaac Episode 3, Chapter 3
LASHINGS OF GINGER, HERE
Yes, Steve M was indeed carrying a jam jar.
After impressing us with his strong-arm tactics as court usher in the 2E frog/kangaroo trial, Steve again set the tone and pulled off another coup in October 1969.
Click on Archies for an earful of bubblegum pop.
Once a week, he walked into form room cum science-lab C2 carrying a jam jar full of cloudy, fermenting liquid.
He would walk past the front bench, in full view of the “serious” triumvirate; two Janets and a Christine.
Although contemplating the arrival of the maxi dress, Karen, Judy and Lynette would invariably be in mini-skirted poise on bar-stools in the second row. Karen elbowed Judy each time she spotted the jam jar, whilst checking that her contraband Number Six and mascara were safely stowed in Judy's "Safe Keeper" satchel.
“What’th he got in there?” She'd whisper in hushed Balsall Heath-ese to her neighbour, rolling eyes to the right, and then to the ceiling, being careful not to alert Mr Griffiths.
The word on the jam-jars, and rumours of secret recipes involving sugar-sugar, alcohol and spices spread over and under the exotic hardwood, pre-save-the-rainforest timber benches like a bushfire.
As The Archies hit Number One, Steve revealed his secret in front of all of the lads, in the dining room one morning break, next to the fizzy drink machine.
“Phoar” said Nige/Marcel, gagging on a limeade. “”Yer mean you mek one o' them every wick?”
“Yo’ve gorra hand it ter them Pye Green Road kids” said Kev. They’m never short of ideas, am they?”
Steve explained the technicalities of the jar, giving us a blow by blow exposé of the biological techniques involved.
“Right. Every Sunday night, yer get an o’d pair o’ tights or stockin’s, right?”
Graham’s ears pricked up behind his plastic cup of whipped hot chocolate, which he was drinking with his little finger crooked.
“Then yer get the weshin’ up bowl…”
He started doing hand motions with the jar.
“An’ yer tip the stuff out o’ the jar into the tights, then squeeze it over the bowl. Mek sure yer wesh yer ‘ands fust, ‘though”
“Right?”
We all nodded in hushed complicity.
“Now, yer’ll ‘ave all the liquid in the bowl. What yer do next is boil four pints o’ wairter an’ two pound o’ sugar”
Marcel started making notes on the back of an old betting slip.
“Then yer pour that into the bowl an’all, but let it cool down fust, so it ‘ay no ‘otter than yer ‘and”
For some reason at this stage, Steve held up his hand, and we all looked at ours.
“What do you do with the tights, Steve”
Came an interjection from the back of the gaggle, which Steve ignored, as everyone else said
“Shut up, Gethin”.
“Now, yer squeeze the tights again, then turn ‘em inside-out over a plate”
He mimed this bit.
“An’ they’ll be a lump o’ damp powder, see”.
We all looked at the yellowy deposit in the jar, as it fizzed and bubbled, then imagined it after processing via American Tan nylon.
“Next, yer divide that inter two lumps, yer get another spare jar, an’ put one lump inter each jar, right?”
We sipped our limeade/hot, whipped chocolate or ersatz Bovril as we nodded, spellbound.
“Then yer get a bit o’ the juice out o’ the weshin’ up bowl, an’ fill each jar half-way”
The Eureka moment dawned on the green-blazer clad circle.
“So now yer’ve got TWO GINGER BEER PLANTS”.
Scientist Kev could not stifle a “Whoar”, as Steve went on to suggest that you could pass the spare on to a mate, who then fed the plant for a week with daily pinches of ginger and half a teaspoon of sugar.
"Yer keep it warm on the mantlepiece"
“Must be alcoholic an all” Surmised Kev (a premonitory comment as it turned out: two decades later he would be a technician in a Burton on Trent brewery)
“Oh, are, it is an’all”
“So yer’ve gorra washin’up bowl full o’ GINGER BEER.
Yer put that inter bottles. Alpine pop bottles am orrigght. Strungbow cider ones am the best. Them wi’ the screw-in stoppers. Yo’ atter put a bit o’ sugar in the bottom, then it ferments for a wick, an’ that’s wheer the fizz comes from. Doe put too much sugar in, ‘though, cus they’ll explode.
The Ginger beer production fad swept through term one like another bushfire, with the demand for jam jars doubling exponentially every week, creating a jam jar and pop bottle shortage never seen in the Cannock area before or since.
Before it faded, as fads do, and as British troops fired teargas in Shankhill Road, Belfast, it provided the conditions sine qua non for a potential international terrorist incident in July 1970.
And if, dear 1zaac'holics, you suspect that history has once again been mis-remembered, stay tuned for the forthcoming chapter of Episode 3...
"An Airing of Differences".
AB
Now click on Creedence for some more moonshine.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Pimientos Asados
This post is dedicated to Mr M. Montague, our profesor de Español at Cannock Grammar School.
Here is a much-belated gracias for his patience in coaxing and coaching the more recalcitrant of us through to 'O' level.
I had a stroke of luck during my 'O' level Spanish oral exam, which was held in a broom cupboard upstairs in "B" block: the examiner asked if I played a musical instrument, and I answered "La guitarra", thinking of how to add "muy malo". I was careful to half-gurgle the 'g', roll the 'rr', and to generally fake a degree of fluency.
The lucky bit was when I said " Y usted?, invisibly placing an upside-down question mark at the beginning of the interrogative.
He then gave me a friendly monologue, in perfect Castellano, about his favourite pieces, a condensed history of Spanish guitar manufacture and some hints on buying a good one. I listened with fake fluency. At least I had been consistent. He must have given me a good mark, because I was awarded a pass. I could never have garnered enough marks in the written section.
Opting for Spanish back in 1971 enabled me to roast peppers with Claudio and his amigos in La Rioja this time last year.
1zaacs will have heard of Riojan wine. Up in the village of Berceo, 600 metres above sea-level, next to the tempranillo vines you can also find asparagus, olives, almonds and figs in the transitional mediterranean climate.
In October, just before the frosts, everyone harvests their pimientos.
It's all there in the video clip if you click on the pic: Claudio, the roaring grills, the alcaldes (mayors) of two villages brandishing swords...
What can you do with a dustbinful of scorched red peppers?
Stay tuned to 1zaac to find out.
Muchas gracias, Señor Montague.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
1zaa'cochon caption competition
Here at 1zaac our Press Review Committee noticed this photo in an August 2009 edition of Le Nouvel Observateur. Its cover announced "Le Retour de Marx".
Presumably this will be Karl rather than Groucho.
As many 1zaac'afficionados will know, Nouvel Obs is a weekly mag for Francophone BoBo's (Bohémiens Bourgeois ). The telly section has some excellent critiques and analysis. There are also ads for Volvo four-wheel drives and Chanel Number 5.
Think "Guardian" with a thicker coating of glitz, more studied Sarkozy-loathing and a slightly easier crossword.
[What about the pig. Ed]
We love the expression on the pig's face, the bike you couldn't even find in Thacker's Emporium, and all of the little "intra-ordinaire" details; The roof-rack and its carefully stowed contents, the persuasion stick, the half-finished bottle of Coke/chain oil...
Click on the pic to enlarge.
And we have been spending idle moments trying to imagine where they're off to.
We have thought up a few Nouvel Obs editorial conspiracy sub-texts; What if the pig were to symbolize a fat-cat/cochon banker from the Occident Capitaliste? This would explain the smile if it had just received its bonus...
We have decided to offer a special French prize for the best caption received before bonfire night. The runner-up will be treated to a steamed pork dim-sim.
So get composing, 1zaacs.
And look out now for the next chapter of 1zaac Episode 3, celebrating 40 years on, October 1969: "Lashings of Ginger, Here."
AB
Monday, October 12, 2009
Allium Maxibottum
.jpg)
As autumn tiptoes in here, the antipodean spring has sprung.
Here at 1zaac we know this, because our Southern Correspondent, M Pyper esq. was in touch over the weekend.
Here's Michael at a Special Protocol 1zaac Fireside Summit in 2008.
Last time I went for a senior citizen swim with him & George, down in the Bunbury surf at sunrise, only one of us was surprised when a fin appeared in the foam. It was a porpoise, and not the Great White Shark which had made the headlines after it had eaten a surfski-ing Perth barrister the week previously.
Here's MP's email;
"G’day sport. Been reading that long-winded stuff about you an' your Pommy mates from the seventies. Strewth. Liked the garlic story. I never eat the stuff; you are what you eat. See the picture.
Swimming has begun. The sea is Puck Ern cold but the retrospective is glorious. George is getting a bit unsteady on his pins but is of good cheer. We only spend about 5 minutes in the surf, frightened of getting chilled, y’know.
George overdid it a bit last year, went into Koombana bay on a deceptively sunny day.
Double pneumonia!!
Hope all is well
MP"
Double pneumonia!!
Hope all is well
MP"
And here is MP's attachment. Click for a larger version.
1zaac'editorial warning; It is rude. Readers of a sensitive disposition DO NOT CLICK.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Eliomys Quercinus
...or garden dormouse/lérot.
Autumn is here when these little chaps start gathering acorns & walnuts.
Not so cute, though when they hold the nocturnal qualifying rounds of the Walnut World Cup in the roof-space of your house. And Wikipédia just told us here at 1zaac that the little beggars turn cannibalistic after fighting over the females.
Can you spot the quirky Cannock link with the Latin name? (1zaac'lue; read the Vale Vista Virgin post, infra.)
The Romans used to eat them, as a snack or for dessert with honey & poppyseeds, Wiki also told us. (1zaac'curacy sub-committee note; it was the fatter cousin glis glis "edible dormouse" wot the Romans used to eat.)
Thank-you, smartus arsus. Author's note.
Not yet available at Greggs Gourmet Counter, according to 1zaac gourmette Ellen Jay.
Whoops. There's another one.
Where's the honey and poppy seeds? We ay fussy on a Sunday night...
Where's the honey and poppy seeds? We ay fussy on a Sunday night...Thursday, October 8, 2009
Safety first and last...
Here at 1zaac we received an enquiry from 1zaa'Carole in South Carolina this week:
"Ah jes leurve that lil'ole 2CV thangy you done tol' me 'bout infra. You are always tellin' us 'bout Health 'n Safety. Are those thangs safe?"
Well, Carole, here is some evidence of just how safe they are. The one on the left belonged to senior 1zaac Vic, until he drove to Llansà, down there in Cataluña one Saturday morning to have his waders dry-cleaned.
When he returned to the car park, the bomberos/fire brigade had already left the scene.
To see how safe you'd be in a collision, click on the pic for a journey to Paris in 1964.
AB
Thursday, October 1, 2009
RazzaLezzerMarl'ole
Here at 1zaac we received by email this week a tale relating to the laws of physics, and their relevance to the effect of buoyancy.
The sender of the email, an affiliated senior 1zaac, prefers to remain anonymous. His reasons for this will become evident upon reading the email infra.
Thanks again to Cheslyn Hay Local History Society, and to Trevor McFarlane for permission to use the pic from his book "Happy Days". Trevor's original caption informs us that the "boat" was made from a Boulton Paul packing case, in which aircraft wing sections were delivered...
1zaac'Nerditorium note; to see what the packing case contents were used for in the 1940's, click on pic.
Before we hear of our emailer's aquatic adventure, here's some local history on the same theme...
When we were kids in Cheslyn Hay, in landlocked Staffordshire in those pre-Health 'n Safety days, we were never short of watery adventure park drowning ponds.
Because our village was built on coal and clay, and because of decaying, but not yet entirely decommissioned post-Industrial Revolution infrastructure, there was a variety of venues at which we could test our construction skills, and experiment with the laws of buoyancy.
These venues were:
1.The Raz/Razza; Number one choice for safe swimming and risky pike fishing. The name was our Midstaffordian corruption of the French imported word "Reservoir". Grandad Jack habitually used the correct full-length appellation of "Razzavoy". One spring day in 1969, I met Clive Baker outside the Colliers' Arms. He was pushing his racing bike with a pike hanging vertically from the handlebars. It had an England's Glory matchbox holding its mouth open, and its tail scraped the pebbledash road surface of Queen Street.
"Gorrit down the Raz", he affirmed.
2. The Lezzers; Clearly a pre-politically correct nomenclature, and officially Hawkins' Clay Pit, situated just behind the chimney stacks of Rosemary Tileries. Number two on the safety scale. Officially private property and out of bounds, therefore even more inviting. The water was cold tea. There were steep, slippery sides. A village the size of a Wyrley Bonk Atlantis and several entombed bulldozers were known by us urchins to lurk in the depths. There was a pike so big in there that no fisherman, sitting on the edge of "The Railroad" which skirted its eastern seaboard, ever baited the hook at the end of his Thacker's tank aerial without trepidation.
3. The Marl'ole; Death-wish territory. Marl was the Midstaffordian term for clay. There were never any fishermen up there, in its pike-less environs near the canal basin, to pull us non-swimmers out. There was no vegetation on its ravine-like sides to grab onto as your wellies sucked you under for the third time. This made it even more inviting to daredevils like my cousin Mick. And the cemetery was ("That's handy", said Mick) quite nearby.
Now here's that buoyancy report:
Had an interesting experience whilst fishing. I have chest waders so's I can get nearer the trout. They're good. The night before had lots of veg - broccoli and runner beans - they're good too.
I have a weight lifters belt that is also good as it stops the discs complaining. But I tied the wide belt over the top of the chest-waders. Not so good.
I broke wind a couple of times - naturally. But at the third fart, the tight belt round my waist and the methane building up in my boots - physics took over.
I ended up upside down and had to walk shorewards on my hands. I was helped out by two fishermen one who collected my rod.
I told them I must have tripped on a rock. I decided to leave the waders outside for the night and remember not to put the belt over the waders next time.
But the girls enjoyed the one fish that I did catch.
Troute Diem. AB
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Superglue Blue Skies
Long-time friends and Anzac'1zaacs John, Ina and CJ have been with us for the past couple of weeks.
CJ is our youngest 1zaac, and he starts school in Sydney in January.
Remember when you were 4 years old, nearly 5, and you were figuring out what holds the universe together?
CJ has the answer:
Superglue.
Click on the four à pain pic for pizza party bread oven re-lighting after 22 years, and the answer to: 1. "How they make trees..." (Wood. Branches. Superglue)
2. "How they make the sky..."(Carpet. Blue paint. Superglue)
And look out for part 2, if you'd like to find out "How they make roads"... (Pipes. More carpet. Monsters. Superglue)
All those years of Cannock Grammar School physics lessons. Wasted after all.
Thanks CJ, and have a good flight home on the new double-decker Number 17 Airbus.
AB
Friday, September 25, 2009
Alan, Alan...
Click on 1zaac'sproglet cousins Alisa, Marie and Hannah 1997 family picnicpic for a laugh to start the day.
Thanks, Hannah, for finding this one.
The shark excerpt is for Gibbsie, who will be preparing the diving gear for the next dive off Busselton jetty.
X
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Vale, Ray
Here at 1zaac we would like to pay tribute to craggy-faced veteran Australian actor Ray Barrett, who died earlier this month, aged 82.
There are voices which echo in our collective memory, and fellow 1zaacs will remember Ray's from Stingray or Thunderbirds. They will also recall his rugged appearances in Emergency Ward 10, Doctor Who and, especially, as oil-industry's Peter Thornton in The Troubleshooters.
Ray's last film appearance was in the film "Australia" last year.
Look out for him in upcoming 1zaac episode 4, when, in April 1971 he and the BBC film crew sat next to the Cannock Grammar School group on an Air France Caravelle en route from Heathrow to Lyon...
"The only things that are cheaper in France are cigarettes and alcohol", Ray said to the gingery kid in the green anorak in the next seat.
"Oh, and women." He said, and lit a cigarette.
Click on Ray's photo for a proper obituary.
AB
Monday, September 21, 2009
SAFE? Served Allday Full English...
Here at 1zaac our galloping gourmette Ellen Jay did a restaurant check with a friend in Cannock last week, after reading the Airspeed post, infra. Here is her report.
My guest and I went upstairs in a restaurant, which still has waitresses that wear black, real table cloths and the same decor it had in the 1970's.
It does nod to modern cuisine by offering paninis and Mississippi chicken. We were informed they were not actually available in the week.
We could nonetheless avail ourselves of their special "Served Allday Full English" provided we ordered before 2:30, as they were closing.
We did not partake of "The Full English".
I had Jacket potato with Tuna'N'Sweetcorn.
Unfortunately after digging around in my filling as she put it on the table, the waitress deduced that chef had been remiss and the 'N' sweetcorn part was missing.
This was rectified by a finger-bowlful that was delivered to the table.
My guest plumped for the 'Seafood Special Platter', with peas.
By the time this arrived the peas had morphed into lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber, and the 'special' seafood into two types of fishfingers and a fishcake, all bread crumbed and deep fried.
See-you don't have to live in France to enjoy gourmet cuisine.
Well thank-you Ellen Jay for your intrepid reporting. That should put those Frogs in their place.
Here at 1zaac, we are still attempting to confirm/quosh rumours that our gourmette gal and her mate called in to Gregg's healthy options pie emporium on the way back to the taxi rank.
We'll keep you posted, readers.
My guest and I went upstairs in a restaurant, which still has waitresses that wear black, real table cloths and the same decor it had in the 1970's.
It does nod to modern cuisine by offering paninis and Mississippi chicken. We were informed they were not actually available in the week.
We could nonetheless avail ourselves of their special "Served Allday Full English" provided we ordered before 2:30, as they were closing.
We did not partake of "The Full English".
I had Jacket potato with Tuna'N'Sweetcorn.
Unfortunately after digging around in my filling as she put it on the table, the waitress deduced that chef had been remiss and the 'N' sweetcorn part was missing.
This was rectified by a finger-bowlful that was delivered to the table.
My guest plumped for the 'Seafood Special Platter', with peas.
By the time this arrived the peas had morphed into lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber, and the 'special' seafood into two types of fishfingers and a fishcake, all bread crumbed and deep fried.
See-you don't have to live in France to enjoy gourmet cuisine.
Well thank-you Ellen Jay for your intrepid reporting. That should put those Frogs in their place.
Here at 1zaac, we are still attempting to confirm/quosh rumours that our gourmette gal and her mate called in to Gregg's healthy options pie emporium on the way back to the taxi rank.
We'll keep you posted, readers.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Ken and Kes 1969
Coming up in 1zaac Episode 3; memories of football lessons in 1969.
Some of us went to the Danilo that year, and saw a film which would become Number Seven in the British Film institute's "Best 100 British films of all time".
This post is a thank-you to Ken Loach, and a nod to those Games teachers, good, bad and ugly...
Click on Ken for part one, then Kes for part two.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Airspeed to Arnhem
Today is the 65th anniversary of Operation Market Garden.
Our honorary 1zaacs Arthur and Ash are in Arnhem to commemorate the event.
Arthur joined a school group for the journey, and we look forward to some pictures and a report from him soon.
"It's great" he said when we spoke on Monday. "I only have to drive up to the school and they look after me for five days."
Ash travelled by 'plane yesterday. He told 1zaac last month at Cosford RAF museum that the last time he had flown into Arnhem was as platoon commander on an Airspeed Horsa glider, on tow behind a Douglas Dakota...
"There was myself, two army pilots and 28 fit young blokes all revved up and ready for a fight..."
Our 1zaac'ameraman suggested that he may find the Low-Cost flight from Nottingham brings back some memories.
Especially if the pre-booked group of stag-nighters have indulged in the "Full English and a pint of Carlsberg only £5.99 before 11 am" on offer in the "Relax and Shop" departure lounge.
Although the army pilots will most likely be Ukrainian.
Click on Allan, Ash and Arthur for a surprising twist.
AB
Monday, September 14, 2009
Bienvenue les Dubrège
Jean-Luc DUMONT and and Nad' DUBREGE are our 1zaac sculptor/writer contemporaries.
The camera team met up with them and their daughters Florane and Audeline at the Mairie of Venansault last Friday, where their works will be on show until October 8th.
Click on the invitation for a 3 minute meeting with Vantelle, L'Art-Osé, Gaïa, Porcinet, Talent-Aiguilles...et les autres.
And a glass of champagne.
Avec toute notre affection...
AB
Friday, September 11, 2009
Allium Concharum: L'Ail des Conches
"Make sure the roots are still on"
Said septuagenarian honorary frog1zaac Colette last week when we told her we were taking the 2CV to Les Conches, on the coast.
"If the garlic bulbs have no roots, they've had a maladie"
We asked for no further explanation; Colette has been growing garlic for more than 60 years...
...By 1zaac'oincidence, it is 60 years since the last Préveil/Village fête at Les Conches.
The village is just behind the sand dunes and the pine forest. Garlic prefers sandy soil, it would seem.
And the born-again Préveil was a joy.
Click on the rootless, rejected garlic for a 5-minute flavour of the day: glove puppets; traditional crafts; more blokes & bloody steam engines; rosé and mogettes at the sausage sizzle...
AB
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Victor et Victrix Ludorum 1967
The video clip of Combe Martin 1967 brought some happy recollections to Cheslyn Hay County Primary ("Top School") Contemporaries and 1zaac affiliates.
Here's another 1zaac'ontribution, courtesy once again of Cheslyn Hay Local History Society.
Click on the class picture below for Sports Day 1967: a sunny afternoon, Mr Martin on the microphone, Mr Blount starting the sack race, the wheelbarrow race, the Moms' race and the potato race.
The school buildings are in the background, and you will also see the newly-built baby-boom flats and houses of Mitre Road.
Tony Gregory and Laetitia Bowater emerged Victor et Victrix. Stephen Wesley and I got a blue "susstificate" for second place in the wheelbarrows, despite a sprained wrist collapse just yards from the finish...
Were you Nelson, Raleigh, Anson or Drake? Did your Mom make you a rosette?
We had Midland Counties ice creams afterwards; the round ones which Mrs Smales put into cones for us.
Then we wandered to the other end of the playing fields and ate them next to the air-raid trenches and our gardening plots, where the Village Hall was built later on.
Thank you to Kev (last on right, second row, Combe Martin cardigan) for supplying the class photo, from from me (pint-sized, fourth from left, between giants Phil Benbow & Andy Higgs).
How many others can you name?
Here's another 1zaac'ontribution, courtesy once again of Cheslyn Hay Local History Society.
Click on the class picture below for Sports Day 1967: a sunny afternoon, Mr Martin on the microphone, Mr Blount starting the sack race, the wheelbarrow race, the Moms' race and the potato race.
The school buildings are in the background, and you will also see the newly-built baby-boom flats and houses of Mitre Road.
Tony Gregory and Laetitia Bowater emerged Victor et Victrix. Stephen Wesley and I got a blue "susstificate" for second place in the wheelbarrows, despite a sprained wrist collapse just yards from the finish...
Were you Nelson, Raleigh, Anson or Drake? Did your Mom make you a rosette?
We had Midland Counties ice creams afterwards; the round ones which Mrs Smales put into cones for us.
Then we wandered to the other end of the playing fields and ate them next to the air-raid trenches and our gardening plots, where the Village Hall was built later on.
Thank you to Kev (last on right, second row, Combe Martin cardigan) for supplying the class photo, from from me (pint-sized, fourth from left, between giants Phil Benbow & Andy Higgs).
How many others can you name?
And a message from 1zaac Nina ;
Al- names from photo listed below:
Back Row L to R
Barry Norman-Graham Hammond-Philip Benbow-Alan Brown-Andrew Higgs-Steven Grundy-Alistaire Bowker-Alan Parsons-Jane Stanton-Carol Pedley-Lesley Hayes.
Second Row From Back L to R
Steven Westley-Steven Plant-Julian Simms-Janet Leach-Janet Parkes-Heather Alsopp-Linda Jeavons-Karen Harvey-Paul Lawson-Kevin Gunn.
Second Row From Front L to R
Mary Hughes-Susan Williams-Jackie Jones-Angela Hollins-Mr Blount-Mr Martin-Letitia Bowater-Angela Kidd-Jane Parsons-Christine Hawkins.
Front Row L to R
Pauline Ridgeway-Jane Pitchford-Linda Shelton-Sharon Tonks-Robert Petts-Tony Gregory-Paul Ridgeway-Alan Ridgeway-David Burton.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
