writing – Page 3 – John Vincent

Events, my dear boy

It’s strange that with all the bumps, bruises and grazes that I’ve had so far, that I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve fallen off motorcycles, had bales of hay dropped on my head, almost drowned in rivers, damaged cars and had a couple of workshop accidents. I guess I am extremely fortunate, let’s say lucky, when I think on a couple of past accidents.

Of all the events that I can recount only a couple have left their mark. That indelible mark that’s a sign of life’s travels and travails. One finger wouldn’t be graded ten out of ten in a finger competition. My forehead has a small mark, could call it a dent, hardly noticeable by anyone other than me. That’s the list. Thankfully a tiny list.

I’m not counting a botch job of a hospital scare that a boyhood appendicitis left me. Images of that time don’t stack up to a big pile but one of rolling in agony on a living room sofa, I’ll never forget. A colourful children’s ward and unendingly cheerful nurses stick too. And a clown.

There are those near misses that leave no physical signs. Rich selection of memories. An acute compression in time. The electrical shocks I’ve had have no legacy other than my great respect of high voltages. Vivid recollections too.

Yes, if it wasn’t for a wide-awake race marshal at a grass track meeting[1], I’d probably have been run over you a Laverda sidecar outfit. Thankfully someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me to safety behind the straw bales that made up the ring. This was the 1970s in a bowl-shaped field outside a small town called Mere. Perfect for that crazy kind of bike racing.

At the time a mate of mine was a keen amateur photographer. He’d get a pass to photograph the action. We’d go to grass track and road race Auto-Cycle Union (ACU) meetings around the West Country. It was always interesting to read the disclaimer on our marshalling race tickets. Anything bad happens – not our fault.

My finger damage is much more recent. It’s the dumb stuff that caught me out. Moving plant pots around doesn’t usually result in any great consequence. Most of them don’t weigh a lot. In this case a large square fiberglass pot needed moving. I had tried pushing it. That didn’t move it far as it scraped slowly along the patio. Next tactic was to pull it. Getting some momentum going it seemed to move more easily as I pulled it. What I didn’t count on was the fragility of the material of the pot. It had aged. I pulled hard and surprise, surprise, it broke. I went flying across the patio at speed. Naturally, I put my hand out to save me tumbling down a flight of stairs. Sadly, my finger took the first impact. That was painful.

Life without one or two bumps, bruises and grazes is unimaginable. Maybe, I’ve got a little bit more risk averse with age. However, like the back garden plant pot incident there’s always an opportunity to be foolish. Having a story to tell about my father falling off a ladder while fixing a gutter, I’m particularly careful around those potential death traps.

I’m happy to admit that I haven’t got nine lives. Or at last I’ve used up a few.

[1] Example: https://youtu.be/ZqC2Hc43a3w

Flag Displays

Traveling here, travelling there, it’s not usual to see a national flag displayed. Whether it be on public buildings, airports terminals or stadiums it’s up there to celebrate belonging. National flags come out most often when major sporting events are underway. They appear and then disappear like a tsunami. It’s a field day for retailers. From the finest natural materials to the cheapest plastics, every size and shape is available.

I’ve kept a flags few, rolled up waiting for a special occasion. One Union Jack, a cross of St George, the European stars, a German one and a flag of the city of Cologne. I did have a Somerset County flag but now can’t find it.

Twice I’ve been to the last night at the Proms[1]. One of the fun parts of that evening is spotting the more unusual flags and trying to work out where they represent. Don’t tell me you know what the Northumberland flag looks like. I certainly didn’t until it was explained to me. By the way it looks like alternating red and yellow Lego bricks stuck together.

For me, as it is for most people, waving a flag is for a special occasion. Carnaval, a parade or Royal occasion. The Eurovision song contest, World Cup or Olympics. These are events where we come together as a community.

Frankly, going around and painting roundabouts red and white with the cross of St George, with cars whizzing around, is plain foolish. It detracts from the importance of the national symbol. What a grown man, in the recent News reports, thinks he’s doing with his tin of paint, I can’t fathom.

Flying Union Jacks, often upside down, from Motorway bridges is juvenile. Today, I saw one or two and it made me think that there’s likely three reactions.

One: ambivalence. That is, either not to notice or to ignore the display as much as ignoring the writing on the side of a large truck. Conveying no message other than what a waste of time.

Two: annoyance: That is, to go back to my point about degrading the symbol. Seeing the fixer as a pompous twat or intimidating bully with time on their hands. Stirring up political divisions for the sake of it.

Three: acclamation. That is, being distracted enough to put a big thumbs up to whoever bought the flag and tied it into position. On-board with plastering every road bridge with flags as an imagined rebellious act.

Doesn’t take much to figure out which one of those I might be. On this subject it’s as well to be as generous as possible. These acts of putting up flags for no reason obviously makes some people happy. Given that they are ranked number one in the world, I’d like to think that the flag waving is in support of England women and rugby union. Somehow, that’s a stretch given the utterances of the flag painters and the bandwagon jumping political stirrers.

Where public property is concerned it’s the duty of public authorities to take them down. Not to tolerate the defacing of public property. However, I can imagine this is just the provocation that some people are inviting.

POST 1 : Talk about utterly desperate bandwagon jumpers. Kemi Badenoch: It is shameful of councils to remove St George’s Cross flags | The Independent

Post 2: Now, I do approve of that. On the main A34 road someone has put up a County flag Berkshire Flag | Free official image and info | UK Flag Registry

[1] https://www.royalalberthall.com/tickets/proms/bbc-proms-24/prom-73

Paper in a Digital Age

It’s oblong and made of paper. My phone is oblong and made of a long list of exotic elements. Paper on the other hand is relatively simple. I’m sure a paperologist will correct me and describe its subtleties and complexities. Regardless, paper has been around for a long time.

Both have an ephemeral quality. Paper decays. It burns and bugs eat it. Digital media gets lost, overwritten or deleted. Without wires and suitable equipment, it doesn’t exist.

I think that God forbid, that if Armageddon did come to place, we’d find more paper remaining useful than surviving digital help. Henry Bemis[1] loved to read. Strangely, that’s what saved him from ultimate destruction. Try writing an equivalent story with an iPhone in hand and we would be disappointed with the results. That would really see a sad Bemis doom scrolling empty nothingness.

Contuining the banking theme. What I’m refereeing to here is an envelope containing my latest bank statement. Yes, I haven’t ticked the go paperless box on-line. To me there’s something reassuring about having a tangible paper copy of what exists in the digital ether. Even though it’s only a printout, it somehow feels more real.

Holding a statement in my hand, whatever its errors or miscalculations it cannot be altered. Unlike an on-line digital reading that a capable cybercriminal can flip in a second. Both have an ephemeral quality. One exudes a greater feeling of permanence.

Above “ephemeral” is the right word to use. My banking App on my phone is a good service. However, it encourages a certain neurosis. Whereas a paper bank statement turns up, periodically as a personal balance sheet summing up the ins and outs of a month, my App is changeable hour by hour, a less meaningful snapshot.

The News is full of this phenomenon. Snap shots of the county’s GDP going up and down every month are newsworthy but don’t tell us much about where we are going. That doesn’t stop politicians treating them as if they were a sign from some mythical deity. A small number that changes within a range of error doesn’t mark a beginning or end of an era.

I like tangible things. A paper report or statement is a tangible thing. I can hold it in my hand. It doesn’t change from moment to moment. It’s a record of a direction set, not an hourly windvane. However unfashionable, as a crusty gentleman of a certain age, I will continue to ask for a printed record of where I am and where I’ve been.

[1] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0734683/

Data Interpretation

More on that subject of number crunching. I’m not so much concerned about the numerous ways and means to produce reliable statistics as the ethical factors involved in their production.

Two things. One is the importance of saying truth to power and the other the importance of seeing things as they really are rather than how you or I would like them to be.

Starting with the first. If ever it was a hard day to say this but asserting truth is not one of several options, it’s the best option.

Whatever any short-term gains there are in distorting a description of a current situation, in the longer term the truth will out. Now, that may not have always been so. It’s often said that the victors write history. That famous view had some validity when literacy was not universal or when texts were chained in church libraries. Now, information speeds through the INTERNET (and whatever its successor will be). Controlling or supressing information has become like trying to build a castle out of sugar on a rainy day.

The second factor is more troublesome and, for that matter, more difficult. It could be the tug of war between subjectivity and objectivity. What we see is so much dependent upon the observer. What we hear is conditioned by what we’ve heard in the past.

I saw this often in the interpretation of a written narrative. Aviation accidents and incidents are reported. Databases full of multivarious reports of different origins siting there waiting to be read. This is a good thing.

It’s the choice of language that shapes our understanding of past events. That can be voluminous and contradictory. It can be minimalist and ambiguous. It can have peculiar expressions or fuzzy translations. Even if reporters are asked to codify their observations, with a tick box, there remains wide margins.

The writer of a story often knows what they want to say. It might be obvious to them what happened at the time of writing. Then it’s the reader who takes that up. A text could be read years later. Read by many others. Similar stories may exist, all written up differently. Hopefully, slight variations.

Seeing things as they really are, rather than how you would like them to be, without bias, requires more than a degree of care. A great deal of care.

It’s hard enough for an enlightened and skilled analysist to take a sentence and say “yes” I know exactly what happened. Not just what but all six of these – who, what, were, when, how and why. In future, the artificial intelligence tools that get used by authorities will have the same challenge.

For all our technological wonders, it’s the writers of reports that shapes our understanding. From a couple of sentences to a massive dissertation.

Try telling that to a maintenance engineer whose last job of the day, before going home, is to file an occurrence report after a terrible day at work. In a damp hanger with a job only half done. Tomorrow’s troubles looming.

POST: Rt Rev Nick Baines and his Thought for the Day on BBC Radio 4 is thinking the same this morning. Truth is truth. In his case it’s Christian truth that he has in mind. There lies another discussion.

The Wit of Tom Lehrer: Songs That Endure

I was first introduced to the pastime of Poisoning Pigeons as a student. No, not literally. The idea of a leisurely Sunday sitting in a park dispatching pests that poo on the public has appeal. In reality, I’d never do that. Tom Lehrer’s comic composition[1] was enough. I have a lot of sympathy with the theme of his delightful song. Pigeons are, after all, merely disease spreading flying rats.

Tom Lehrer has left us a legacy of humour, the like of which we may never hear again. It’s so wonderful that his whole catalogue of songs is in the public domain[2] for everyone to enjoy until the day we all go together, when we go. Even I could have a go at a rendition of one of his songs, don’t worry it’s not my highest priority for the day. Beside matching his musicality, speed and timing isn’t within my meagre capacities.

Despite the massive changes that the world has been through since Tom’s pen went to paper a great number of the lyrics remain pertinent. I can sing “Pollution” loudly and think of the water companies in England. Like lambs to the slaughter, they (we) are drinking the water.

I can’t think of rockets, present or past without thinking of Tom’s song about Wernher Von Braun. Expedience seems to be the order of the day in 2025. Once the rockets go up who cares where they come down[3]. I’m sure the song wasn’t written about the Caribbean, but it could have been.

“The Folk Song Army” song is a nice dig at the pompousness of a certain kind of popular liberal musician. Something of our age. Where performance is more important than real action.

Sending up both the classics and the movie industry, “Oedipus Rex[4]” is pure genius. All such ancient stories should have dedicated title song. A complex complex.

Yes, Tom Lehrer was preaching to the converted. His sharp humour doesn’t normally travel across right-wing boundaries where they take themselves hideously seriously. He digs at the ribs of conservatives, tickles liberals and ridicules the absurdities of authorities.

Goodbye Tom Lehrer. Thanks for all the smiles. Thanks for your brilliant comic imagination. A shining star in the firmament.

[1] https://genius.com/Tom-lehrer-poisoning-pigeons-in-the-park-lyrics

[2] https://tomlehrersongs.com/

[3] https://www.wsj.com/video/spacex-starship-explodes-sending-debris-across-caribbean-sky/B828779B-D067-4290-A06D-77F60A6B501D

[4] https://tomlehrersongs.com/oedipus-rex/

Why 12,500 Pounds?

Regulation is a strange business. It often means drawing lines between A and B. Bit like map making. Those lines on a map that mark out where you are and the features of the landscape. You could say that’s when all our troubles start but it’s been proven unavoidable. As soon as our vocabulary extends to words like “big” and “small” someone somewhere is going to ask for a definition. What do you mean? Explain.

For a while you may be able to get away with saying; well, it’s obvious. That works when it is obvious for all to see. An alpine mountain is bigger than a molehill. When you get to the region where it’s not clear if a large hill is a small mountain, or not then discussion gets interesting. Some say 1000 ft (about 300 m) others say much more. There’s no one universal definition.

[This week, I drove through the Brecon Beacons. Not big mountains but treeless mountains, nevertheless. Fine on a clear day but when it rains that’s a different story. This week Wales looked at its best].

Aviation progressed by both evolution and revolution. Undeniably because of the risks involved it’s a highly regulated sector of activity. Not only that but people are rightly sensitive about objects flying over their heads.

For reasons that I will not go into, I’ve been looking at one of these lines on a regulatory map. One that’s been around for a long time.

I cannot tell you how many discussions about what’s “minor” and what’s “major” that have taken place. That’s in terms of an aircraft modification. However, these terms are well documented. Digging out and crewing over the background material and rationale is not too difficult, if you are deeply interested in the subject.

The subject I’m thinking about is that difference between what is considered in the rules to be a “large” aeroplane and a “small” aeroplane. Or for any American readers – airplane. So, I set off to do some quick research about where the figure of weight limit: maximum take-off weight of 12,500 pounds or less originated for small airplanes (aeroplanes).

I expected someone to comment; that’s obvious. The figure came from this or that historic document and has stuck ever since. It seems to work, most of the time. A confirmation or dismissal that I wanted addressed the question, is the longstanding folklore story is true. That the airplane weight limit was chosen in the early 1950s because it’s half the weight of one of the most popular commercial transport aircraft of that time.

There is no doubt that the Douglas DC-3[1] is an astonishing airplane. It started flying in 1935 and there are versions of it still flying. Rugged and reliable, this elegant metal monoplane is the star of Hollywood movies as well as having been the mainstay of the early air transport system is the US. Celebrations are in order. This year is the 90th anniversary of the Douglas DC-3[2].

What I’ve discovered, so far, is that the simple story may be true. Interestingly the rational for the weight figure has more to do with economic regulation than it has with airplane airworthiness. The early commercial air transport system was highly regulated by the State in matters both economic and safety. Managing competition was a bureaucratic process. Routes needed approval. Thus, a distinction established between what was commercial air transport and what was not.

POST 1: There is no mention of 12,500 pounds in the excellent reference on the early days of civil aviation in the US. Commercial Air Transportation. John H. Frederick PhD. 1947 Revised Edition. Published by Richard D. Irwin Inc. Chicago.

POST 2: The small aircraft definition of 12,500 pounds max certificated take-off weight first appears in US CAB SPECIAL CIVIL AIR REGULATION. Effective February 20, 1952. AUTHORIZATION FOR AIR TAXI OPERATORS TO CONDUCT OPERATIONS UNDER THE PROVISIONS OF PART 42 OF THE CIVIL AIR REGULATIONS. This was a subject of economic regulation in the creation of the air taxi class of operations.

[1] https://airandspace.si.edu/collection-objects/douglas-dc-3/nasm_A19530075000

[2] https://www.eaa.org/airventure/eaa-airventure-news-and-multimedia/eaa-airventure-news/2025-07-17_dc3_society_celebrate_90_years_douglas_dc3_airventure25

Our Bubbles

I’ll coin a way of thinking about the world that’s more empirical than the result of any in-depth study. Maybe it’s not even original. The idea came to my mind because of something someone said this week. It was part of seeing a wider world rather than their everyday experience.

As an aside, and not surprising given that I was 6 years old in 1966, my football team was West Ham United. Not because I lived anywhere near West Ham, or had any concept of what London was like, but that team had the best players. Bobby Moore and Geoff Hurst.

Be patient, there’s a link. “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles[1]” is so tightly associated with West Ham it’s as important as those years after the 1966 England World Cup win. The club anthem of West Ham is a strange song for a long-standing English sports team. Especially when the club’s origins are more to do with the river Thames, its industry and docks.

Now, I know. It’s impressive and it’s akin to the so-called butterfly effect. A small event happens but it sets off a chain of events that become much larger, and unrelated to the original event. The song has endured, I suspect, because it sums up sporting success and failure. Hard to grasp, continually bursting but enduring because there’s always another opportunity to win.

If I’m going to discuss bubbles then that’s the first thought that comes to my head. Those ephemeral objects that float through the air. Perfectly self-contained only hanging together by tiny molecular bonds. Pretty bubble floating through the air.

Here’s what was said: “We live in a bubble”. Meaning those commonplace, often tedious, daily concerns and troubles that enclose our place and time. Bubbles can only be seen if an observer steps outside their boundaries and looks at the innumerable other bubbles.

I wander around with ahead full of thoughts and notions. They are often repetitious and going around in circles. That annoying job I’ve put off. Those awkward words that I now regret. That wondering how I’m going to tell someone that I’m not going to do what they want done. The list goes on and on. There’re good thoughts too. How much I appreciate my partners tolerance. How fortunate I am when compared with those mentioned in the morning News. Remembering a past success and a nice cup of coffee.

“We live in a bubble”. It’s so easy to take a point of view based on nothing more or less than the contents of our minds in own bubble world. Mental bubbles overlap. Several people may have bubbles that are more or less the same. In politics, I could say there’s a liberal bubble, a conservative bubble, socialist bubble, a fascist bubble. There’re all out there somewhere in bubble world.

Being an early riser, my first conscious act is to hit the “on” button on my radio. This week, I caught a prayer for the day by Steve Taylor[2]. He was making the point that it’s often our sense of separateness that is the cause of a lot of suffering. I interpret this as people being stuck in a bubble without comprehension of all the other bubbles in existence.

When we transcend our separate mental bubbles there’s a chance of better understanding. I’m not brave enough to say that this act would sort the conflicts in the world, but it would be a good start.

[1] https://youtu.be/H62SuMpMhc0

[2] https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m002g4mn

Absolutely!

Daily writing prompt

List 10 things you know to be absolutely certain.

View all responses

For some obscure reason my mind goes immediately to René Magritte. A painter who knew how to play with reality and illusion. “This is not a pipe.” A painting is not a pipe, but rather an image of a pipe. So, why not say so.

I could say that there is nothing that we can be totally certain about. Afterall, some deep thinkers imagine that we live in a simulation where nothing is real. Personally, I don’t go with that theory. It’s absurd in the sense that the next question becomes – who made the simulation? And for them, could they not be part of a greater simulation? That would create a Russian doll set that would go on to infinity. And we all have a problem with infinity.

Let me go for 10 things that I think to be certain within the bounds of my limited knowledge.

My name. It gets used by those I met. Documents have it well recorded. My parents were consistent in using it. So, I’ll say that it certainly is John.
Earth. The existence of the planet where I live. The ground beneath my feet. The physical mass that generates enough gravity to keep me here.
Water. Now, I’m listing the four classical elements (Earth, water, air and fire). I depend on them every day. To walk, to drink, to breath, to keep warm in winter.
Air.
Fire.
Space. A generic name for the huge expanse beyond the Earth. Even with no personal experience of Space, I’m certain that it exists. Its precise nature is another matter.
Food. The existence of which sustains me. Without it I’d perish.
My senses. My five senses – sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch.
My size and shape. Measurements taken and recorded. Hight, weight and a proliferation of other dimensions. Not that they are static.
My emotions. Facts aside, so many likes and dislikes, engage, distract, motivate and repel with such consistency that their existence cannot be denied.

Having produced this fine list, I will now press the big red button marked do not press. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t engage the infinite improbability drive?

Action Shapes Outcomes

There’s a foolishness that comes with great power. It gets played out every day over the News media. It’s when notable person x or y says words to the effect; nothing will happen unless I do it. This common notion gets projected to us through mass reporting and commentary.

Every second is a pivotal moment. A last chance to move, or a last chance to act. As if time stops when we know it branches into countless possibilities. Fine, pivotal life or death moments do exist. It’s only that they are less numerous than we might be led to think. Drama takes its place in the theatre of the everyday[1].

There’s an ancient lesson to learn. It goes like this, in a simple demonstration. Place any finger into a glass of clear water. Now, remove the finger and observer the hole.

It’s a lesson Archimedes would appreciate. Although he’s famous for displacement being an indicator of what’s doing the displacement. Between the two it’s the water that’s the constant. The ebbing and flowing of time. At least as we humans perceive it.

It’s not that an individual can’t make a difference. Far from it. Individual action can make a dramatic difference. Doing the right thing at the right time, if the opportunity arises, can be the difference between catastrophe and nothing much in particular, as an outcome. In the world of major accidents, designers and operators desperately try to avoid the possibility that a single act or failure that leads to catastrophe, but it does, on rare occasions happen.

The point in discussion is the matter of what is indispensable. How often do we get to choose what is indispensable? After an event, it’s easier to answer the question. Looking back, it can be said that the factor that made the most difference was this one or that one. Before an event, we are in the land of probabilities and shiny crystal balls. Mathematics and mysticism.

The Cuban Missile Crisis[2] offers a lesson. It was only in retrospect that people learned of the action of a Soviet Naval officer who prevented a submarine from launching a nuclear torpedo.

History tells how the pivotal moment arrived. That said, there was no way the man concerned knew before time that his role would be indispensable. History would be written dramatically differently if a nuclear engagement had happened.

In the end it comes down to doing the right thing at the right time when the opportunity arose. Sometime swimming against the tide of events. Not magic exuded by a powerful individual strolling the stage.

POST: A better one. All The World’s A Stage By William Shakespeare · Jim Broadbent https://youtu.be/gUJBEy-tbo0?si=NMkIRpIr8H0wdTgv

[1] https://youtu.be/caaPlIX6AkM

[2] https://www.jfklibrary.org/learn/about-jfk/jfk-in-history/cuban-missile-crisis

Dealing with Difficult Individuals

Dealing with an objectionable person. There’s a title for a book. Could be 101 things you didn’t know about objectionable people or maybe objectionable people for dummies. I can see it now. Airport bookshelves full of such books. You know those colourful sections on management and self-improvement books that you don’t often see in “normal” book shops.

It’s something I suffer from when travelling. I see an enticing book title in the moments of boredom waiting for my flight to come up on the large electronic display board. The ridiculous thought goes through my head after reading a random page. Now, this erudite tone, obviously read by millions, will help me be a better person. Naturally, the book’s future is to sit in a cardboard box and be moved around, never to be read again.

Back to my theme. How to deal with an objectionable person. Of course, the context matters a lot. If I said the person is your boss, then one approach might be in order. If the person in question is a world leader, you and I are a little removed from impacting the prevailing situation. Quite different. Never-the-less, why not have an opinion?

There’s strength in numbers. Through the whole of human history. Let’s face it, we are puny creatures when faced with natures most threatening circumstances. What we do is gather together and hey-presto[1] suddenly solutions start to bubble to the surface. I’m not talking about escaping a woolly Mammoth. More of a woolly Man-mouth.

Unity is powerful. Trouble is that unity is difficult to assemble. It becomes somewhat easier to assemble when a real threat is looming. An example that is of the moment is Canada. Over the last few weeks Canadians, if the media is to be believed, seemed to be becoming unified. I expect the same is true of Greenlanders.

Europeans are, as we often are, struggling to find unity. It’s there at the core but it’s beset with voices of doubt and voices of unfriendly adversaries. Over intellectualising is a common trait of mature democracies. We like to study the woolly Mammoth before we run away or make a lot of noise and throw spears at it.

Here’s a potential solution for dealing with an objectionable person, or more than one. It’s a borne of primitive schoolboy politics. Smart folk will wince. Push that to one side. Lets’ face it, smart folk have led us down the path we are currently on.

Send them to Coventry[2]. I don’t mean literally send them to the ancient English cathedral city in the West Midlands. If you are fed-up with hanging on every word of someone who is a menace, one approach is to stop listening and walk away. That English idiom about sending someone “to Coventry” is to deliberately ostracise. Avoid their company and act as if they aren’t really that important. You’ve bigger fish to fry.

Just like that. A good way to deal with Colin Robinson[3] is to walk away before it’s too late.

[1] https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/hey-presto.html

[2] https://www.coventrytelegraph.net/news/coventry-news/phrase-sent-coventry-originate-from-12137441

[3] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt11582982/