Security

Over the last ten years, I have been on many aeroplanes and have had the somewhat dubious pleasure of visiting a wide range of airports - from Kavala in northern Greece to Knock in northern Ireland and from LAX (Los Angeles), California to Durban, South Africa. During these travels, I have been making mental notes about airport security and have been amazed to find so many variations and so many discrepancies.

Perhaps I am naive, but I have this idea that airport security should follow agreed international standards, enforced through rigorous inspection and licensing. Nobody likes security checks but in a world that has been blighted by inhuman terrorist attacks, travellers have a right to expect that airport security checks will, as far as possible, guarantee their safety.

Regarding our recent trip to New Zealand, we were allowed to take bottles of water on our internal Jetstar flight from Auckland to the South Island. Why? If liquids are a security problem on international flights, why are they allowable on internal flights? At Dubai, I did not have to take my laptop from my carry on bag whereas at virtually every other airport in the world laptops have to be scanned separately. In fact the guy at the X-ray conveyor belt was insistent that the laptop should stay in the bag.

Also at Dubai, when we were "airside", we bought some water for the onward flight to Brisbane only to find security people at the boarding gate insisting that we binned these expensive bottles. Interestingly, there wasn't an equivalent process when we returned to Dubai three weeks later and boarded our connecting plane to Manchester.

At some airports, they make you take off your shoes as a matter of course, at others they don't. Before passing through some X-ray gates you are asked to remove watches and belts with buckles but at others you aren't and yet when you pass through those gates the alarms fail to sound. Why would that be? Are the X-ray gates sometimes purely for show?

Once at Treviso airport near Venice, I accidentally went through security with an umbrella in my hand luggage but it wasn't detected even though the security signage insisted that umbrellas would be confiscated. At the same security check, a bottle of water was removed from my bag but the second bottle of water - at the bottom of my bag - was missed.

Our daughter, Frances, tells me that security was extremely lax at the airport in Birmingham, Alabama even though she was connecting with a transatlantic flight in Atlanta. Her hand luggage was not scanned and the X-ray gate was redundant so she boarded her later flight to Manchester without being screened at all.

I could go on and on about this subject. But finally I'd just like to make a point about water. Generally speaking, travellers are not allowed to take bottles of water "airside". You have to throw your bottles away and then buy new bottles of water in the duty free shopping zone. Invariably, this water is heavily overpriced. At Auckland Airport we paid $4NZ (£2) for a 500ml bottle and once at Shannon Airport in Ireland there was no water for sale anywhere. When travelling by air - especially long distance - it is vital to be well-hydrated. The small amounts of liquid provided by cabin staff during flights are often insufficient. In my view, if we are required to throw water away before passing through security, we should be provided with free or very cheap bottles of water when "airside". Besides, there are surely quick tests that could check the contents of a bottle so that travellers would not be required to needlessly throw their water away.

Dear reader - have you got any tales or thoughts of your own about airport security?

Photography

I took over a thousand photographs in New Zealand. It was an exceedingly photogenic part of the world. However, my trusty Hewlett Packard digital camera is clearly due for replacement. Apart from anything else, it now has a mysterious tiny chip on the lens which has caused a few irritating flaws in some of my pictures. Besides, at Christmas my best and most unexpected present was a cardboard mock-up of a camera from Shirley and our children. Frances had made it . Puzzled, I prised open the back of the fake camera to discover a large wad of cash - sufficient to pay the lion's share of the cost of a new Nikon or Canon digital SLR.

Finding out about cameras available in the current market is like pursuing a degree course in photographic jargon. I just want a great camera with a lens that has reasonable zoom capacity and the ability to take satisfying close-ups - but the explanatory details never cover such simple requirements. Undoubtedly, there are people in the world who have more significant problems to deal with.

Anyway, I have spent a three or four hours sifting pictures from my NZ collection to add to Google Earth. It can take a while because of the need to find accurate picture locations within the Panoramio mapping facility. While in the "land of the long white cloud", I was drawn to tatty or empty buildings that spoke of earlier times when New Zealand settlers arrived slowly by boat and were then very disconnected from the world they had left behind. Very different from today with air travel, television, telephones and the internet - facilities that in  a real sense have made our planet shrink into manageable and sadly less mysterious proportions:

Back

Pukeko bird

Back to winter in England. We flew from Auckland to Melbourne, Australia where I noticed the tennis star Serena Williams heading for first class on our Emirates flight to Dubai, following her early exit from the Australian Open. That flight was thirteen and a half hours long but made easier to bear by the entertainment console on the back rest of the seat in front. I played the inflight trivia game several times and watched the film "Thor" directed by Kenneth Branagh as well as reading most of "No Country for Old Men" by Cormac McCarthy.

Dubai Airport terminal is massive and though "award-winning" is most unpleasant in my view. There are  pathetically few  lavatories which are greatly oversubscribed and constant teams of attendants from poorer Asian countries are required to maintain them. The airport is supposed to be home to some of the best duty free shopping in the world but my investigations prove that electrical goods, watches and jewellery can be bought more cheaply in British high streets. At the airport, you see all creeds and nationalities as travellers from every continent pass through this vital "hub". We boarded a huge five hundred seater A380 airbus bound for Manchester and were delighted to discover that it was only half full - meaning we could spread out and feel less like New Zealand sheep crammed on to a truck.

Speaking of New Zealand, I think that one of the things we will always remember is the birds that live there - from kiwis to pied stilts and from tuis to unfamiliar hawks pecking away at roadkill - usually brush tailed possums. We would sometimes wake to tuneful birdsong we had never heard before and at Rotorua, as we observed a bubbling vent, a pukeko bird strutted out of the undergrowth. Of course we saw keas on the South Island and a recently deceased yellow hammer by an electric fence. Victorian immigrants - mostly from England - not only brought sheep, cows, cats and dogs with them but also house sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds - presumably to make them feel more at home.

New Zealand was once a land of birds. There were virtually no mammals - just a few bats and seals. That's why flightless birds evolved in the forests - they had no predators until the Maori people arrived. They obliterated the moas and several other species long before Captain Cook's cabin boy, Young Nick, first spotted the headland near Gisborne that was later named after him. 

Human beings have done their best to wreck the living aviary that was New Zealand. The destruction goes on. Keith  Woodley at the Miranda Shorebird Centre has seen a steady decline in shorebird numbers during his nineteen years in charge there. Meanwhile the government has endorsed a widespread poisoning campaign to reduce brush-tailed possum numbers on the South Island but precious and unique birds like the weka are also tasting the possums' poison - and dying. I dedicate this post to the native birds of New Zealand.

Variable oystercatchers at Whangarei Heads

Weka at Cape Foulwind

Giant moa in Auckland Museum

Taupo

Great Lake Taupo, New Zealand

Gisborne

We're now in Gisborne - the far east of the North Island. We're in a veritable mansion called Cedar House and seem to be the only guests here. The owner is a happy clappy lady called Catherine whose philosophy allows us to roam freely around her beautiful old property with its large dimensions and expertly crafted woodwork. Our bathroom with its hardwood floor is gigantic - the premier feature being a large, modern spa bath which Shirley lounged in as I swam in the outdoor pool this evening.

Today we drove up the coast to Tolaga Bay, hiking over to Cook's Cove where on October 28th and 29th, 1769 the "Endeavour" was anchored. Captain Cook's men took on board wood and fresh water while botanist Joseph Banks collected yet more unique plant specimens.

Cook's Cove north of Gisborne

Bus shelter on the road to Tolaga Bay

Shirley's spa bath

Captain Cook 's statue in Gisborne

Livingstone

Today - at Whakarewarewa, Rotorua

When I was eight years old, a new teacher arrived at my little village primary school in the heart of East Yorkshire. She was tall, slightly exotic in appearance and spoke English in an accent we had never met before. She was Miss Sanderson and she came from New Zealand.

On several Friday afternoons, she led singing sessions on her ukulele. The songs she taught us were as unfamiliar as her accent...”Riding home from Bangor on an Easter train/Met a student fellow, handsome tall and plain/ Quite extensive whiskers, beard, moustache as well...” But the song that really stuck in my little eight year old mind was "Pokarekare Ana", sometimes known as "The Waters of Lake Rotorua".

That’s where we are tonight – Rotorua - in the geothermal heart of the North Island. Our cedarwood chalet looks out on Lake Rotorua itself. This morning we visited the Whakarewarewa Maori village, built around an area of significant geothermal activity. Some of the pools are so hot that the people cook in them. For forty minutes we watched a little Maori cultural show in which the performers sang a languorous version of the song I first heard from the mouth of Miss Sanderson some time in  1961.

Yesterday was a true milestone in the history of blogging as when Livingstone met Stanley or when McCartney met Lennon. I visited the Tauranga mansion of Katherine de Chevalle with its lofty riverside views and there I met the great lady herself. I know that Mr Brague of Canton, Georgia will be extremely jealous about this but I don't care. Katherine gave Shirley and I a lovely homemade lunch which we consumed with Katherine’s affable daughter. The roast kiwi was succulent. Embarrassingly, I managed to drop some of our gracious hostess’s delicious green tomato chutney upon the tablecloth. Silly me!

Dr Livingstone I presume?

This is only the second time I have met with a blogger I have often linked with but I was glad I called in on Katherine. We got on fine in spite of initial and mutual nervousness and I wish we could have stayed longer. It was great to see some of Katherine’s portfolio of artwork – surrounding her investigations into the lives and perspectives of bees. Thank you Katherine. It was lovely to meet you and visit your characterful home.

Tomorrow we head for Gisborne on the east coast of the North Island.

Miranda

Sorry I haven't posted much since arriving in New Zealand. As a mean Yorkshireman, I don't really like paying extra for internet access.

We enjoyed four lovely days at Whangarei, about a hundred miles north of Auckland. It was a human-scale city with spectacular coastal scenery nearby. I swam in the ocean twice but as the water was not bath temperature Shirley only deigned to paddle. We saw two captive brown kiwis at the Kiwi North project. How salutary it is to recognise that these precious birds became endangered just because of Europeans' introduction of dogs and stoats and earlier the Maoris' introduction of the Polynesian brown rat.

Maybe it's just me but I feel a sense of sadness when I think of how New Zealand must have been before human beings ever happened upon these remote islands. It was surely a Garden of Eden with unique flora and fauna. Some of that still survives but much is lost or compromised by the things that man brought here. The towering kauri forests - containing trees five centuries old - must have been a true wonder to behold.

Anyway - here we are at Miranda - the NZ Shorebird Centre. Unfortunately we missed today's high tide with its promised excited conglomeration of shorebirds but in the late afternoon we walked upon the shoreline and saw some interesting birds pecking around in the mud flats - including white-faced herons, godwits and by an electric fence we found the sad corpse of a dainty yellow hammer.

Miranda - a picture by Katherine de Chevalle who we hope to meet tomorrow.

Alive

The Pudding heart is still beating. We have not been pecked to death by kea birds or savaged by warring Maori rugby players with sticky out tongues.

We are on New Zealand’s South Island now. We stayed in Koa Cottage, Little River on the glorious Banks Peninsula that Captain Cook mistakenly believed to be an island. It was named after the influential eighteenth century botanist – Joseph Banks. On Saturday night, the Earth moved for Shirley when  we were abed but it also moved for me in the form of a minor earthquake that measured 5.2 on the Richter scale.

We drove across the island yesterday via the breathtaking Arthur’s Pass, stopping off in the NZ village of Sheffield to buy a steak and onion pie from Sheffield’s Famous Pie Shop. I also noted the Sheffield Community Hall and the village’s only pub – The Sheffield Hotel. The weather was magnificent as we drove through obscenely beautiful mountains with hardly another vehicle in sight.

Annoyingly, just outside Greymouth I received a ticket from a traffic officer for overtaking another car on double yellow lines. Nothing was coming my way and the battered jalopy I chose to overtake was crawling along at about 30mph. Bugger! A $150 fine. Should I pay it? That is my current moral dilemma.

Birdling Flats, Banks peninsula

Kea bird at Arthur's Pass

Franz Josef Glacier earlier today

Today we drove southwards through lush forests and over gushing river plains, watched by snow capped mountains as we made our way to the Franz Josef Glacier. We walked up to this wondrous spectacle in blazing sunshine and later picknicked on a “scenic reserve” as we headed back up the coast to Greymouth. Another “grand day out”.

Rangitoto

It wasn't the bluest or sunniest of days on Rangitoto. We walked up a scoria track to the very summit of the island where we stood on the rim of the crater that spewed out this harsh black lava island only six hundred years ago. There were a few old bachs (NZ holiday homes) down near the shore and there were excellent views back to Auckland. It was as Wallace might have said, "a grand day out".

NZ

Above - the new Sky Bridge at Manchester Airport. Below - a place we were not meant to visit. It's Brisbane, Australia. Look very closely and you will see Helen from "Helsie's Happenings" frolicking barefoot in her garden. The plane was meant to refuel at Bangkok.

And finally, Auckland in New Zealand. Thirteen hours ahead of us timewise. It seems a very sleepy city but characterful too in the sultry sub-tropical warmth. People have so much space here and there's greenery and birdsong and one of the most popular pastimes seems to be waiting to cross roads even when there are no vehicles in sight. Two men were guarding a warehouse full of tens. And the Sky Tower - the tallest building in the southern hemisphere soared above everything like a guiding lighthouse. Tomorrow we hope to take a ferry to the volcanic islet of Rangitoto - assuming we can escape from our hotel room with its dodgy plastic key. We were locked out for over an hour earlier this evening waiting for the staff to figure out a way of getting us in. That's technology for you - sometimes it works - sometimes it laughs in your face.

Diversion

It was impossible for our flight to touch down as scheduled in Sri Lanka on New Years Day. This was because of tropical stormclouds piling up creating violent meteorological conditions over the Andaman Sea. We had chartered a seaplane to fly us from Colombo to Blogland but in the event we never got there. The pilot ignored my desperate pleas and kept going on and on through day and night, until we arrived in this place:-

Recognise it? We have never been here before so we are going to stick around for a while as I make new onward travel arrangements for Blogland.

Roots

As we prepare for our reconnaissance mission to Blogland, I look back over an interesting year. Six months working in South East Asia was capped off with a week in Cambodia where I visited the famous and awe-inspiring Angkor temple ruins. Earlier today, I was skimming through the pictures I took there. I liked the idea of those old temples being swallowed up by the surrounding jungle only to be rediscovered many years later. 

At Angkor, archaeologists are faced with a wide range of conservation tasks that together seem unachievable. There's never enough money and besides to devote energy and resources to such tasks in a very impoverished country can seem somehow like a luxurious and rather cruel diversion. Added to which,  there's always the jungle, waiting, just beyond the ruins to consume, to cloak, to reclaim.

I had seen pictures of Angkor tree roots before I went there so I was very pleased to have the opportunity to snap my own pictures of that photogenic phenomenon - roots and trunks embracing, crushing, supporting the old ruins of a culture that had placed enormous store upon religious devotion. It was a culture that was certain of its foundations - a certainty that was present in millions of hand-carved stone blocks, the endlessly intricate carvings, the management of water and in the very audaciousness of those temple mountain designs.

But what price those certainties when the culture has faded and gone and when the jungle creeps back? The resulting interplay is both tragic and beautiful. It makes you think:-

It's past one o'clock in the morning. Time for bed because tomorrow our bag packing must be finished. Afternoon train to Manchester Airport and then a New Year's Eve flight to the other side of the planet. You might not hear from me for a while but when internet connection allows I'll make another blogpost...from Blogland...where all our dreams will come true.

Peep

Christians believe that Christmastime is a time to celebrate the birth of The Lamb of God but in my devil worshipping home, we celebrated the arrival of The Lamb of  Pudding. There she is above. Her name is Peep - a healthy Merino - born to our darling Beau on Christmas Day. When Beau arrived in October we had no idea that she was already pregnant. In celebration of the new birth, we wrapped tinsel around their sheepish necks as Peep surveyed her new home watched by our wee shepherd - a miniature Santa who illuminates at night. However, I must be honest, unlike the living Beau and Peep, Santa is just a plastic replica with a sixty watt light bulb up his rear end.

Ah-ha, as I type these words I can hear intertwining sounds from the night garden. The deeper "baa-ing" of Beau and the plaintive "mai-ing" of young Peep. Looking out, I see Santa glowing - his light twinkling upon those tinsel collars. Well, I might as well be hanged for a lamb as a sheep!

Modelling

I never really thought I would ever follow in my son's footsteps and become a male model but after yesterday's post I have been inundated with offers. Reluctantly, I agreed to pose for the front cover of "Vanity Fair" - admittedly for a handsome fee. For Dutch spirit I had to down two cans of strong lager and was, as requested, provided with a handgun as I strongly suspected that Julian - the mincing photographer - was a gay homosexual poof.

The lurex mini-briefs I agreed to model come in various different patterns and colours including leopardskin, rainbow and day-glo orange. Gentlemen - they are sure to drive your partners wild!

I look forward to further modelling opportunities when I hope not to be disguised as Santa. As you can see, my physique with rippling biceps and beefy abs is sure to colour the night-time imaginings of many's the fair damsel. I just can't help it. Some of us have got it and others haven't .

Model

Okay we have heard about Ian The Laughing Horse Blogger of the Year but this is our Ian, our super son, born in 1984. In his five years at secondary school he never missed a single day but typically the school failed to acknowledge this remarkable achievement with some kind of award or certificate. Ian is a very decent young man and we are so proud of him. He's working in Nottingham at present - managing an independent men's fashionwear store. The pictures are taken from the store's website where Ian and other employees have modelled dozens of items of designer clothing.

In any economic downturn, retail sales are affected but in the current gloom the rise of internet selling brings a further downward pressure to high street profits. It's not easy and that's why Ian is currently working seven days a week. Shops aren't expanding their workforces and those "fortunate" enough to be in work are  obliged to give more of themselves in order to fend off wolves waiting in nearby financial alleyways to descend upon the weak.

ADVERTISEMENT:-

If you are a fashion-conscious young man living in Sheffield or Nottingham then please visit "Sa-kis" to get yourself kitted out  from exclusive menswear lines or check out the company's website. 

I wonder if I should also volunteer to do some modelling for them? It would surely boost sales in these troubled times..

Awards

The Laughing Horse Blog Awards committee have been meeting at a secret country hotel location this Christmastide to thrash out differing views on who should receive the coveted Blogger of the Year Award for 2011. Of course, last year the proud winner was chicken farmer Earl John Gray of Royal Trelawnyd in North Wales. He continues to produce a very human and honest blog that is amusingly self deprecating as it recounts the ups and downs of his life which is shared with an array of creatures as well as his mysterious minder/partner - Chris. However, committee member and bird lover Bill Oddie objected to Earl Gray's vicious hatred of starlings and effectively vetoed his nomination this year.

The committee yawned through dozens of those dull speciality blogs on mixed crafts, cookery and flower arranging. They also rejected the dozens of wholesome but boastful "family" blogs that have been spawned in the heartlands of America. Bible-bashing blogs were quickly discarded along with blatantly commercial blogs.The committee noted that in 2011, several previously noteworthy blogs ground to a halt with creators perhaps running out of ideas or simply becoming disenchanted with the very process of blogging. Their loss.

Below you can admire this year's designer widget (thank you Jasper Conran!) The committee wishes to stress that only the 2011 Gold, Silver and Bronze medal winners are entitled to display this exclusive award design in their blogs - either in the sidebar or simply in a new post:- 

Honourable mentions included Libby, Mountain Thyme, Jenny for "Demob Happy Teacher", Jan for "Cosumne Gal", Katherine for "The Last Visible Dog" and of course Senator R. Brague  from Canton, Georgia, USA for the famous "Rhymes With Plague" blog that has been the subject of much scrutiny by the C.I.A. since President Obama was inaugurated.

In third place (Bronze medal winner) the committee have selected Helen of "Helsie's Happenings" (Brisbane, Australia). Her blog is generally cheerful and homely containing numerous original photographs that show off Australia in an engagingly personal manner. Her interest and increasing proficiency in quilting is documented within the blog without ever threatening to take over. She remains unashamedly enthusiastic about blogging and how her blog links with the rest of the world.

In second place (Silver medal winner) the committee opted for Daphne of "My Dad's a Communist" (Leeds, England). Daphne is a previous winner of The Laughing Horse Blogger of the Year Award and though her posts her becoming a little less frequent than before, she continues to write in an engagingly humane style - observing some of the small intricacies and irritations in  life that are rarely articulated. Always worth reading.

In first place (Gold medal winner), the committee were happy to recognise the work of a blogger who like the prodigal son was lost but is found again. His blog contains regular features and is often well-illustrated with the creator's own pictures. His memories of his trip to South Africa have all been worth reading about and recently he has been poking fun at the great Yorkshire nation through his original and fantastical tales of life in mythical Cleckhuddrersfax. Even though the majority of committee members are from Yorkshire, they were magnanimous and unanimous in making this year's winner...Ian for "Shooting Parrots" (Manchester, England) WELL DONE IAN!

Eve

Is it just me? Invariably, I have relished Christmastime. It has been a time for family, for taking stock, for feasting, marking the end of one year and the coming of another one. Usually, I feel optimistic at this time of year as we all flip to a fresh new page. However, as 2011 makes way for 2012, I can't help feeling somehow despondent. The News is imbued with gloom and doom. The economies of the western world are in crisis. So many talented young people can't even get on the first rung of the jobs ladder while many businesses are retracting. Meantime, ignoble politicians continue to live the life of Riley - second homes, business lunches, fat pensions and over-generous expenses - their skins as thick and leathery as leather backed turtles, their egos as inflated as blimps.

I remember all those Christmases of the past. My brothers. My parents. When the children were little. Winters without central heating. Nana Morris and Jock. Figgy pudding and home-made chestnut stuffing. Mince pies and tinsel. The pine forest scent of Christmas trees. Midnight services we attended just to sing carols. That crisp December air. Walking gingerly on iced pavements. Our Lord Emmanuel. Those walks upon Stanage Edge as the turkey slowly roasted back home in the old gas oven. Yes. A time to take stock. To remember and then to move on.

But next year. What lies ahead? The Arab world remains in the turmoil of political change. Hideous military adventures in Afghanistan continue unabated. The natural world keeps screaming for help as the human population mushrooms. Working people are squeezed ever more as cruel whispers spread that those who simply can't find work only have themselves to blame. Through television and other media we are bombarded with a new religion - The Cult of Celebrity - as those of us who are not celebrities struggle through the mud of our countless inadequacies. And there are automated cold callers on the telephone.

Blogland will not come a moment too soon. "There's a place far away they call the promised land..." On New Year's Eve, Shirley and I will be jetting there to check the progress of developments. Cynics please note that we have paid for this trip with our own hard-earned money. I will endeavour to keep you informed about what's happening in the infant nation but please understand that full internet facilities are not yet established.

Wishing you and yours a Happy Christmas and let's hope that 2012 turns out to be better than its angels herald. 

Lenticular

Yesterday the Lord spake, leaving a sign above Yorkshire's Pennine hills in the unusual and rather beautiful shape of a lenticular cloud. By the way, contrary to rumour, Len Ticular was not Yorkshire's wicket keeper in the nineteen twenties! No, clearly this was a sign from the Almighty himself. You can see how the cloud is pointing westwards.

Interpretation is easy. Essentially, Our Father Which Art in Heaven is telling the Manchester blogger Mr Parrots to return to his native environment  - the rain-sodden western slopes of the Pennines - a grim Third World dependency known as Lancashire. Mr Parrots has been in hiding in Cleckhuddersfax - a mythical, photogenic and historical Yorkshire market town much visited by American tourists in search of their roots.

Obviously, if Mr Parrots fails to obey the Lord's clear instruction he will probably self-combust or end up as a pillar of salt. The purity of the Yorkshire race must be protected. We are "God's own county" and we cannot afford the risk that Mr Parrots will mate with a Yorkshire beauty - yes, even a parking enforcement officer. On behalf of all trueblood Yorkshire men and women, I urge Mr Parrots to obey God's signal and return to his crumbling mill town for Christmas.

Justice

Terry and Suarez shake hands before Chelsea's game with Liverpool

This post is inspired by recent news about two top English Premier League footballers. In a Liverpool v Man United match, the brilliant Uruguayan striker - Luis Suarez is alleged to have fired the Spanish term "negrito" at the black French defender Patrice Evra while in a Chelsea versus Queens Park Rangers game, former England captain John Terry is alleged to have called the defender Anton Ferdinand a "black bastard". Suarez, never questioned by the authorities, has been given an eight match ban while Terry's case is now in the hands of the police and may advance to trial in a court of law.

Let me start by saying I abhor any form of racism, just as I abhor any kind of prejudice based on age, class, disability, income, gender or intellectual prowess. In my book we are all equal. The roadsweeper or the film star, the professor or the beggar - I wouldn't look down or up at any of them. They are my equals. But I think that the way that Suarez and Terry have been treated is over the top. Their unpleasant insults happened in the heat of sporting battles and though reprehensible, the official  responses they met should have been tempered with rather more common sense.

When I was a boy, I noticed how children had a habit of digging away at other children's differences. Kids who wore glasses were "specky four eyes", red haired kids were "carrot tops", fat kids were "Fatty". Even in adult life, such ribbing based on people's differences is quite commonplace but it's only when the issue of race - especially skin colour - is addressed that hackles of justice are raised. There's a sense that authorities, business and sporting organisations are eager to appear politically correct by stomping on suspected racism like the seventeenth century burghers of Salem, Massachusetts

I have never been inside the heads of either Suarez or Terry to discern whether or not they are truly racist but as footballers they have each grown up alongside talented black players, sat side-by-side with them in dressing rooms, walked out with them onto the pitch, embraced them in goal celebrations. In the heat of battle, unwise things may be said, unwarranted insults voiced. Does such stupidity deserve the weight of so-called justice that has descended on these two players? I think not. Warnings and opportunities to apologise would have been the  sensible way forward.

In towns and cities all over the world, ordinary citizens endure a great deal of unpleasantness that never attracts close scrutiny from authorities. Yet here we have two high profile footballers who haven't hit anybody, haven't vandalised anyone's property, haven't caused persistent night-time disturbances or defrauded the taxman but despite that they find themselves pilloried, charged with racism, embroiled in costly legal battles to clear their names. I shake my head. The world has gone mad.

Revamp

I stuck with the original Blogger interface from June 2005 until now and probably would have continued to work with that familiar friend till they buried me beneath the sod. However, unwelcome things kept happening. Facilities I had been used to kept dropping away. It seemed like the time had come to be converted. So I pressed the necessary keys and tabs and before you knew it the old blogface was gone - along with links to favourite blogs and my visitor counter.

A feeling of panic ensued but was shortlived as I set about picking a new appearance for this humble blog. Some of my former favourite blogs had become stagnant anyway - like abandoned goldrush towns so it was probably time for a clean up. I'm rather proud of the fact that in the last six and half years "Yorkshire Pudding" has been visited over 210,000 times. Blogger's in-built statistical counter didn't appear to go back as far as my old counters had done. 210,000! Once I stood in the old Wembley Stadium when it was filled to capacity. All my blog visitors would fill two stadiums though admittedly many of them would be clones.

Imagine that - three rows of identical Senator Bragues, a whole section of Welsh Jennys, a pressbox filled with identical Lancashire Parrots. What a nightmare!

HTML jiggerypokery is not something I take to very readily. It's for nerds and computer boffins. Nonetheless, I managed to insert a new visitor counter. Lord knows how long it will last before the company that hosts it start asking for money.

One could spend hours fiddling around with design templates, customising features, changing text size and colour but for the time being at least I am rather happy with my new unfussy design. I think posting will be easier now and I hope that you - dear and valued reader also approve of the new design. If you are in the mood to do so, please give me feedback. Thank you.