The Truth about Making fuel Briquettes from Newspapers

Mary was here for Christmas and on walking through the garden I commented how much tidying-up we needed to do when the weather improved. Just at that point we were walking by the water tub which was full of wet newspapers waiting to be processed through our fuel briquette maker. Since the tub gives off a bit of an odour in warm weather I have been in denial that this was an urgent job for about four years. ‘Well, we can start right here!’ were the fateful words which uttered forth. Not even a pre-snows bike ride would tempt our offspring away from this smelly, cold and wet task.

I opened the shed door hoping that the briquette maker would have sunk without trace among the detritus I like to place under the heading, ‘it might come in useful one day’. Not a bit of it. There it is was looking at me smugly from the vantage point of the boxes which one day will bring forth a replacement tin shed for the old bomb shelter from Madley Airfield which serves as a store. It is more like a large colander when it rains, if you get my drift.

Unfortunately the cheap folding work bench I had bought in Wilko for this very purpose was also clearly visible nearby. So I performed my last task as tool setter and left Mary to her self -imposed suffering in the cause of renewable energy. I did however find a pair of rubber gloves as I suspected that the slime, if not infectious, would have a lot of unpleasant residues which had leached out from the news print and its ink. Unfortunately some of the dates were still visible on the now sodden papers which put the founding of this rotting sump back in 2004. (Mary called it, 'the bog of eternal stench'.) I, of course, was able to remember that I had been storing dry papers for a long time before they went in the water but this seemed to be regarded somewhat sceptically by both Mary and Sian.

Enough of this. What is the truth about this instrument of torture? Having observed Mary make all the effort I can now make the following observations.

Firstly, each newspaper should be slightly shredded by hand. Using electricity seems a bit self defeating. I had put the papers in whole with a view to later mashing. Since I now see this is a very unattractive proposition it should be done at the outset. I had also contemplated putting some coal dust in but who ever suggested this may well have never done it, so be warned. In fact, it is very hard to find out whether anyone who has a paper briquette maker ever uses it apart from during the initial rush of enthusiasm. The model we have was bought via a Guardian reader purchase about five years ago.

Secondly, the process of pressing down on the two levers becomes very painful, as the angle the leavers end up at is an awkward 45 degrees.

Thirdly, disengaging the mould from the frame which holds the handles is very awkward and can take some time.
Fourthly, you have to get quite a bit of space off the ground to place the soggy briquettes on once they have been disgorged from the moulding frame. You then have to find somewhere for them to dry. Since the ground was quickly turning very wet and muddy, a bit of hard standing would have been useful.

Fifthly, it is not a quick process. After about 3 hours Mary had produced 40 briquettes and they are now stored in some old bread baskets we acquired off a dump years ago. I usually use these to dry the shredded hedge cuttings which we use as a bio-mass fire reviver. I would think we will have to wait a while for the briquettes to dry.Perhaps freeze-drying in the present weather will help! In the meantime after a cook on the hotplate of the Yorkist Stove and time in its oven, which is always slightly warm, our two samples were dry enough to burn three days later.

Sixthly, bearing in mind that each briquette takes between 3 to 5 painful minutes to produce the heat output and burn rate are important. Compared with the glow of self satisfaction that Mary was giving off, the briquettes' performance could be seen as disappointing, but our preliminary test is too small to go by. The visual effect of the briquettes glow alongside the logs in the wood burner was very pleasing, and they certainly gave off some heat. Whether or not their calorific output was greater than that consumed by Mary in their production we do not have the means to tell.

Conclusion: This is a nice idea ideally suited for the advertising gadget mags and adds in worthy papers but as a means of keeping you warm, their effect has more to do with the process of production rather than that of combustion. Now we have newspaper collection for re-cycling, and possibly energy production, I think my time will be better spent cutting the large piles of wood from our own very small orchard. Nevertheless Sian and I extend our thanks to Mary for improving a very smelly corner of our domain.

Dacier

Look out for a further post on other methods of making this type of fuel.

Winter Cycling in the fifties

I must have joined the CTC and YHA back in 1957/58. My first run was on a Sunday starting at 8.00 am for a trip to Eastbourne from Maidstone. A high mileage for a fist outing. It was summer and I had my swimming kit in the saddle bag. We met at the Corn Exchange where the Fire Engines used to dash from when called out. On a Sunday morning back then the town was empty and very few vehicles were on the move. I must say I miss those Sundays in town when I could go off and explore all kinds of new places on my junior New Hudson roadster. This was two bikes before this first CTC trip when I turned up on my six speed Dawes Clansman in bright yellow with tartan trim.

For a fifteen year old this was like a new world. There were about twenty of us and we were the only youngsters (a school friend had seen the CTC ad in the newsagents) but we were well looked after being placed midway along the line of paired cyclists. The leader and a rearguard cyclist would call out warnings of approaching cars, although the roads were very quiet for much of the morning. I soon discovered the joys of calling in at a CTC recommended cafe somewhere in the Weald and finding that older members would insist on paying for my coffee, toast and marmalade snack. It was later that I discovered the joys of the breakfast run. A Six a.m. start and a full breakfast (paid for in advance) at yet another recommended location. Similarly I discovered Marrow Jam and a whole range of other jams served with the then standard bread and butter tea, sometimes set up in an outbuilding of a country pub especially for us.

This was the early summer but winter runs are more memorable for colder reasons. The thought of a warm cafe and a Sunday roast lunch would keep us pushing on through the rain and sometimes snow. If the weather turned really nasty there was often a nearby station to get us home. I once gave up on a 9 hour ' tourist reliability trial' due to high winds and heavy rain. When I put my bike in the guards van I was pleased to find that I wasn't the only member that had given up with 30 miles to go. On another occasion high winds made the going hard when we were way out on the flat lands of the Isle of Grain in north Kent. My friend and I lost contact with the pack and only caught up when the route turned out of the strong westerly that was causing us such grief.

But it was the winter cold of Kent and Essex that really presented the big challenge. I always thought that everyone had cold easterly winds in winter but once I moved west I forgot this. Only to be rudely reminded when I occasionally returned in winter with the light clothing which had been perfectly O.K. in West Wales. For some reason we would all change to fixed wheel for winter. Whilst this meant you kept twirling away it also meant that your feet were out there spinning away in a centrifuge getting colder and colder. Soon all feeling would be lost and then the pain would kick in. Time for a walk and a hot drink and farewell to the toe clips for a while. Provided you could get your feet out before crashing to the ground!

Not all winter runs were like this. Our Christmas Party in 1958 was held at the YHA in Alfriston, not far from Eastbourne again. It was a happy warm affair and being brought up as a publican's son I had not really picked up on how 'ordinary people' enjoyed themselves at Christmas. Opening hours at that time of year always ran the risk of turning nasty, especially when a customer started drinking someone else's drink! I can't remember any alcohol being served at the YHA although there must have been some bottled Fremlin's Light Ale somewhere in a saddle bag. I was not aware of any trips to the pub either but I remember a load of silly party games and a lot of laughter. Although it was a cold start the run back on the Sunday was via some steep climbs through Ashdown Forest which kept us nice and warm.

Our trip out to Bradwell YHA was different kettle of fish altogether. I remember having to meet up at Rochester Bridge early on a Saturday afternoon. A fast run across to Tilbury soon had us loaded on the ferry heading for the land of my Dutch ancestors i.e., Essex. As the light faded we got colder and colder and there was nowhere open for a hot drink. By the time we got to Burnham on Crouch fears were growing that the hostel Warden might not welcome a late arrival of a party of 20, even though we had alll booked. Consequently, all the warm looking and inviting pubs had to be passed by. We made it just in time for a meal in the hostel kitchen and a cup of cocoa. The hostel was consisted of a group of huts which must have been an old military establishment. The blankets provided were not enough to keep me warm so I got dressed again and refitted myself into my sheet sleeping bag. In the morning there seemed to be more ice on the of the rusting Crittall windows than there was outside in the gloomy looking landscape. Breakfast was a good start, and our duties done, mine was washing up, we were soon heading back to the Tilbury Ferry and then up and over two lots of the North Downs and a very quick decent down Bluebell hill and home to my public house home right in the middle of Maidstone. Opening time in those days was 7.pm on a Sunday so Mum and Dad were still having their tea, which on a Sunday, would include crumpets, Marmite, celery and any other treats that had arrived in the box delivered on a Friday by The World Stores grocery shop just up the street from us. As we closed at 2pm there would always be time for a proper Sunday lunch. The only time when this was possible. How all day opening works for family landlords now I can't imagine. I must have had something for lunch somewhere but it was the cold and numb feet that I remember from that Essex dash.

Only once did I ride in a near blizzard and that was after a CTC meeting held at the Running Horse pub which is now hemmed in between the feeders to junction 6 of the M 20. It must have been about four inches deep when I started ( they didn't do metric snow in 1958) and although the snow was an obstruction I got back into town, albeit looking like a trainee yeti. There was no ice however and I cant ever remember going out on my bike when that was about. By the time the bad winters of 1962 and 1963 arrived my Kentish days had passed. Instead it was struggling with piles of snow and icy pavements on the way to the tube station. My cycling club days were also somewhere behind me in in my fond memories of growing up in a town, but having country lanes and orchards just a quick spin up the street. There was no such quick trip from any of my digs in London and it has made me a firm believer that if we lose sight of the relationship between town and country we will all lose out.

Dacier

Postcript: I have just had a look at the map for both the Eastboure trips and the Bradwell run and I would rather not think of what the traffic hazards would be like now. The reason I didn't do much cycling in snow was probably because in my part of Kent when heavy snow came there would be heavy drifting and loads of slush in town. I still have my old Dawes but it now shares its stable with an alloy Dawes all rounder bike which was definitely not made in Birmingham like the old timer by its side. They seem to get on OK though.

Wood Burning Stoves: the Truth? I don’t think so.

I have just read an article tweeted by guardianeco (4/1/10) by Phil Daoust about wood burning stoves and why we should not believe the ‘evangelists’ who sing their praises, see original guardian article.

As a ‘pot boiler’ this is a brilliant effort as it is short, is clearly without any independent evidence beyond the author’s own stove in his mountainside home and is a fine example of journalistic gargling. It makes some of us so-called bloggers feel quite proud of our own work, especially where some effort is made to make use of something known as research. Of course it could be a humorous piece but it's not very funny. More like an old geezer's rant. That's my job.

Many important details are missing. We are not told where his home is other than it is where the temperature falls below -12 c on a regular basis during winter, nor are we told of the extent of its insulation apart from his ‘shack’ being double glazed. We are not told its size. Neither are we told the make of the stove or its age and what kind of wood is burnt. It could all be down to bad sub-editing of course. Either way one is left asking why the Guardian put this very thin article into print.

It starts by referring to a woman who the author says won’t stop talking about her stove and who claims that ‘one tiny log’ will keep her whole house warm for a day. Unless the house concerned is AAA rated someone needs to seek help.

The author responds by claiming that a wood burner will only heat a whole house if it is a tiny house. I would add, ‘...or if the stove and fuel is properly matched to the house’. The author doesn’t bother to tell us what type of stove he has. The picture accompanying the article seems to be a library picture and no details are given as to output or method of burning. He does, however, bother to tell us that his heater is supplemented by four electric radiators and a paraffin stove. Again no details are given. We have come a long way from the old- style slow-burning wood stoves which deposited all kinds of nasties into the atmosphere. Even modern paraffin stoves bear no comparison to the old Aladdin’s.

No details are given with regard to the double-glazing either. Wherever this ‘shack’ is situated I would have thought modern e-glass should be used for triple glazed units with argon gas filler. In any case roof insulation would be a far more important factor to mention in the interests of the article’s aim of veracity.

We are however told that we can’t run such stoves on the odd branch picked up while walking the dog. This is definitely true albeit somewhat obvious. It would have been more helpful if the article had explored the comparative costs of wood and coal. No mention is made of seasoning wood to reduce its moisture content in order to improve its heat output. At nearly £8 per 20 kilos, coal is no longer cheap and it is certainly not carbon neutral. Furthermore, it is possible to source good firewood locally in many country districts and this help support the many new woodlanders seeking to run their woods on sustainable principles. The coal from your local retailer could come from anywhere in the world and often the supplier cannot tell you the country of origin.

The author does however tell us that every time he gets up in the night for a pee he has to throw more logs on, and that in any case if these logs are not added he will wake up shivering. Even outings are spoilt by the worry that there will be no fire left to resuscitate on his return and social gatherings have to be curtailed by 11 in order to get back and feed the stove.

This all leads to me offering the following advice. Firstly, see a doctor to get the prostrate checked out. Secondly, check out the heat rating of your home. It looks as though it will be well down below the UK minimum of F, the lowest given by the Energy Savings Trust home survey form. Check out the type of electric radiators. They could be very old as could the paraffin stove. Install some high efficiency e-glass triple glazing .Make sure you build up a stock of well- seasoned hardwood of at least one year’s drying.

Oh, and I nearly forgot, do some thorough research before committing your money, rather like the process normally invoked before putting pen to paper.

If all this seems too much bother then may I suggest the author moves to a lower altitude or latitude and hooks up to some gas or oil. This should keep you warmer and keep the pot boiling. It would also remove him from the two groups he so dislikes, the Pollyanna type ‘...banging on about how much she loves her wood burner..’ and ‘...a whole bunch of grumps whingeing about how much they hate theirs’. I had no idea that it was only ill informed females that liked wood burning stoves so much. Presumably the author includes himself in the latter group.

Dacier

Driving and Winter Ways: 4x4s, modern wimp-mobiles and Snow Chains

In the run up to Christmas 2009 we had snow and a bit more after. That convinced me that climate change, however caused, could not be relied on to deliver mild winters or warm dry summers. Having experienced the wettest and coldest ‘barbecue summer’ one would not have expected, the wettest November for many a year and now a failed predicted ‘mild winter’, my purchase of snow chains last January now seems a good decision. Unfortunately the hope that my snow chains would act as a talisman to ward off the ‘Spirit of the Heavy Snows’ has not worked, but they got us all home late on the Wednesday before Christmas. On our outing to Hay last Wednesday I regretted not fitting them before the climb home and unlike half a dozen cars travelling later in the afternoon, we made it: just!

This has got be thinking about the way we cope with winter up here. A large number of our neighbours have 4x4 vehicles which are brilliant when the snows come, especially when the grit lorries don’t. Last Wednesday ( January 30th) we had a snow plough come along our lane but we never see a gritter. What’s more, while the snow plough clears the surface, it also blocks up our exit so the snow shovels has to come out. These are plastic and very efficient since the snow flies off, whilst old steel ones get clogged up and get very heavy. Chances are however that the remaining snow will have become compacted and frozen, or worse still, will have become slush and then frozen. Compacted snow is good for snow chains whilst tarmac with patches of ice will eventually damage the chains. The silly thing is that the third of a mile to the bigger road is usually the main problem since it is there that the grit lorry will have passed through.

For ordinary cars the presence of snow on the road up from the valley is proving a major obstacle. Why cars get stuck is probably a combination of factors. My two favourite theories explain some of it. Firstly, since we have had so little snow for the past 20 years some of us are not used to snow driving while the new generations of drivers have never had to cope with it. Keeping in a high a gear (usually second or third) for as long as possible is one of the techniques.

The aim is to keep moving without wheel spin or stalling the engine. Go into a lower gear and you will be very lucky if you retain traction. Last week I both stalled the engine and had wheel spin but somehow my luck held and I got up the final steep pitch by going up a gear. The round of applause from my four passengers was much appreciated as a came to a halt on our entrance slope. I was also pleased by the fact of how few expletives were necessary to achieve the ascent. Fitting the chains when I should have would have made things a lot easier but I hadn’t appreciated how different the snow covering would be after only a 100 foot climb.

My other lucky break was that I was not impeded by other stuck vehicles which could have meant a loss of revs or a tricky avoidance manoeuvre. Of course, twenty years back there weren’t so many cars making commuting journeys so the chances of meeting an obstruction were much lower.

This brings me to my other theory. I think that some modern cars without 4x4 are fair weather friends. Our car gets stuck on heavy dewed grass given half the chance. I always thought that front wheel drive was a good idea because the weight of the engine improved traction. That doesn’t seem to be the case now when aluminium engine blocks are involved. Could it also been that modern tyre widths mean that tyres don’t dig in as much? Whatever the reason our old Morris Minor took us through a blizzard over the Plynlimon section of the A44 back in the late sixties: a foolish enterprise we put down to the inexperience of youth. I doubt whether our present car would have made it to Builth Wells. Also, our old Vauxhall Viva seemed to do very well on snow, especially with 50 k of bagged coal in the boot!

So if climate change is now going to bring more snow in winter we will be perfecting our chain fitting skills and try to improve our judgement as to when to stop and fit them. In the meantime I will be investigating others cars to see whether there are better options when the time comes to change our vehicle. There seems little point however in having four wheel drive for just a few icy days each winter, not to mention the loss of fuel economy and increased road tax and insurance. If, as I suspect, a 4x4 is not a realistic option I will ‘get a grip’ on chain techniques and possibly upgrade to a tougher variety if need be. At between £50 to a £100 its a lot cheaper than a Chelsea tractor.

Dacier

Happy Christmas from your editors...

Happy Christmas from us, under the very white Black Hill.

Depression has been in the News this Week: The invisible illness of War Survivors

Unfortunately depression has been with us for years and it is very much the quiet disaster waiting to happen. Although many would associate this illness with the pressures of the modern world covering marriage, career and financial failure the current publicity identifies plain old fashioned poverty. However, just having remembered the fallen from two World Wars I will just put a word in for the survivors of the many conflicts in the world that have been mentally scarred. In our parish Church there is a memorial plaque to the two men from the parish that died in the First War as well as a commemorative plaque listing the twenty two men who survived. How did those men cope with their memories and how many were left with the effects of Shell Shock such as depression? While the image of war veterans is that of the blinded or physically crippled those left with mental illness seem to have fallen from public view. It is a commonplace to hear people like myself talk of their veteran fathers as having said nothing of their experiences for the remaining years of their lives, except for the very occasional short reference. My father always referred to courgettes as Corselets, which many years after he had died I discovered was my Dad’s joke for a village on the Somme. He was one of the lucky ones to have coped whilet others were less lucky. When I was a bus-conductor one of my drivers, a tall man well over 6 feet would keep reaching up to imaginary controls above his head as though flying an aircraft. I never raised it with him but others told me that he had been severely tortured after being singled out because his height when a prisoner of the Japanese. Another hidden cost of War.

All of these horrible memories never become expectations by those who take us into wars and when there seems to be an unseemly rush to arms as now seems the case with the Iraq War, a selective memory makes it possible for politicians to sex up the documentation as well as indulge in a bit of ‘creative writing’ at the same time. Such was the rush nothing was planned for the reconstruction of a country which was about to suffer ‘Shock and Awe’. No doubt this would have been the tag line for Hiroshima and Nagasaki if the shallow thinking of the Bush regime had been available. Once the horrors of such events have been remembered together with the devastation of 9/11 then war against modern cities can be seen as genocidal madness. Multiply the Twin Tower images by a large number of city targets and you will soon get the picture. One can understand why those who prepare the next bombing campaign, or invasion or contemplate the use of nuclear weapons, prefer not to deal with consequences.

Prompted by the earlier post on Remembrance Joe, a correspondent with this site, has sent me a copy of a comment he left for Alistair Campbell after it became known the he was campaigning for more help for those suffering from depression. As I was reading it I could not help remembering that we are now approaching the first anniversary of the bombardment of Gaza and wondering what consequences in mental health terms we are yet to see there.

Dear Alastair,

I applaud your campaign to highlight mental illness and depression in society. As a child brought up by a depressed father I know first hand how mental illness devastates a family.

My father served in the Merchant Navy from 1939 to 1942 but was invalided out with “shell shock” when he was 21. Consequently he suffered from depression and insomnia all his life. As well as undergoing electric shock treatment he was prescribed barbiturates for 40 years to which he became addicted. When he died aged 61 in 1983 I found among his books one entitled Towards Diagnosis: A family Doctor’s Approach and I noted the well thumbed pages on the chapter entitled “Mental Disorders”. According to the book depression can be either endogenous or it can be psychoneurotic, ‘which follows from adverse circumstances’; my father’s psychoneurotic depression being the result of the horrors of the Atlantic and Pacific theatres of war.

In March 2003, exactly twenty years after my father’s death, B-52 bombers took off from Fairford in Gloucestershire to unleash “shock and awe” on Iraq, a policy defined by the Pentagon as “a simultaneous effect…to shatter Iraq, emotionally, physically and psychologically”. As the cruise missiles smashed into Iraq I remembered my father’s words: “Watch out when a generation who’ve never experienced war come to power”.


Given your obvious concern about depression, I wonder if you would be so kind as to read the following thoughts by mental health care professionals in Iraq today. Dr Majid al-Yassiri, at the Centre for Psychosocial Services in Iraq, writes: "Depression is at a higher rate than one would expect in a population this size - three times as high”, while Kholoud Nasser Muhssin, a researcher on family and children’s affairs at the University of Baghdad writes:“60-70 percent of Iraqi children are suffering from psychological problems and their future is not bright”; and Dr. Nadal al-Shamri, a paediatrician in Baghdad says: "I look into the eyes of children whose parents have been killed. The psychological trauma is so deeply ingrained that they may never lead a normal life."

Iraqi psychiatrists are seeing what they call a disturbing spike in mental health disorders, a problem compounded by Iraq's lack of mental health workers, facilities and services. Mental health care professionals suggest the number of untreated or under-treated people nationwide reaches into the millions and some like Bilal Youssif Hamid, a Baghdad-based child psychiatrist, write of an “"an immense and unnoticed psychological toll, with long-term consequences"; while Hadoon Waleed, a psychology professor at Baghdad University believes that since the war, “eventually, the entire population of Iraq will require some type of psychological healing”.

Milan Kundera wrote: “The struggle of people against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting”, and although you continue to enjoy a high profile and extraordinary career espousing high ideals about democracy and depression, there are many of us ordinary Britons who cannot forget the part you played in inflicting mental illness and psychoneurotic depression on a whole society.

Prejudice derived from Labels

Prejudice to my mind arises out of the persistent habit of people, even so called well educated and enlightened people, attaching labels to others they may not have even met. A modern tendency seems to be that only one side of the label will be read, if at all, and even that may be confined to the large print. Even where an individual attempts to give an indication of what sort of person they are by using recognisable terms, the utterance is quickly reduced to a text which neatly fits onto a small label. Any other subtleties or major distinctions let alone a civilised discussion as to what the individual might actually believe are cast aside. For example, should a person describe themselves as a Christian Anarchist, for the majority of people this will probably be seen as a joke.Declaring oneself a pre-Marxist English Socialist, or a Leveller, or come to that matter, a Marxist would induce puzzlement rather than mirth. To begin to understand any of this self styling the recipient will have to ask a series of questions and do a bit or reading. Much easier therefore to reach a conclusion along the lines that the person is either a nutter or a Commi and to move on to the next person in the canapé line. Much easier than putting your prejudices to one side to find out what it’s all about. Better to judge them and establish another new prejudice of your own.

Over the years I have had so many labels stuck on me it’s a wonder I can still get into off the peg clothes. I have in my time been called many things, my favourite being a ‘faceless anarchist’ which appeared in an edition of the old Daily Herald circa 1963. Whilst this no doubt appealed to a sub-editor the fact that it had more to do with abuse rather than any facts, and showed that it had great potential as a label which to most people would be very sinister. I wonder if the editor had bothered to read anything on the subject and new anything about the different schools. If he had done some reading he would have seen that there are probably as many schools as there were anarchists.

Some labels can be a good starting point for a discussion or a title for an essay about an individual, but they are nothing more. I confess that mislabelling often occurs from a failure to fully explain oneself, but more commonly from a misplaced belief that the listener will want further and better particulars. This ignores the natural laziness of people, ‘No thanks, I only need the label with the brand name, the fact that it is produced by slave labour is too complicated a burden to take on’. And so it is that all Christians, Moslems and Jews will be afflicted by the ignorance of those who should no know better and be lumped in with the worst and most easily targeted adherents of a particular faith. The will go for anarchism, communism, liberalism and socialism and conservatism. Try to combine ideas from both the religious and the political worlds and for some you might as well be trying to convince Dawkins that there is such a thing as a Religious Scientist!

The danger is of course that many people will jump to a whole bundle of conclusions which doesn’t matter if the person doing it is the average ‘Saloon bar Johnnie’. (I always rather like that label).Unfortunately he could also be the local Special Branch Officer or one of his ‘Blairite’ reincarnations who acts on the label and the erroneous conclusions thus drawn. Until recently this was not a major threat but with the increasing powers and power of the police jumping to conclusions can have serious consequences for the person so labelled. Being shot on a tube train for example.

Consider this true story. A friend of mine had always been interested in amateur radio and pop music and with the advent of the Pirate Radio stations he got to wondering what would be involved. He had a brief chat with a work mate as to what would have to be done. Firstly a boat would be needed to get beyond the three mile limit, a generator source would be needed for the valve based generator and a rather large aerial would also be needed. He also mused that such a station would be very useful to his mates who were all ‘Ban the Bombers’. A few weeks later he was called in to the local police station to be asked questions about a stolen police radio transmitter. Needless to say my friend had stopped his musings as soon as he thought about bobbing up and down in a small boat in the English Channel but enough had been said to ‘bring him to notice’ as the police euphemism goes. In some totalitarian systems today he would have executed by firing squad the next day without all the fuss of an interview.

It could of course not happen here? Of course it could because of peoples preparedness to add labels of convenience when their political ambitions so require it. That is why when someone starts to draw all kinds of conclusions from one piece of information about me, without even knowing me beyond the glancing canapé factor; I feel that I have learnt more about the labeller already, than he will ever be prepared to learn about me.