Well, the Sky Broadband stopped working late on Friday night and it didn’t start again until the early hours of this morning, so it is a good job I went away for the weekend!

We spent seven hours in Bruges (or Brugge, as they call it) on Sunday, travelling overnight there and back on P&O North Sea Ferries. The weather disappointed a little as it drizzled some of the day, but the city did not. In that time, we visited the Belfry, the chocolate museum, the lamp museum, the Brugs Bier Festival and took a walk round the shopping areas, getting some Belgian chocolate to take back.

I looked for one photo to sum up the day and I chose this one- a pop up tableau chocolate box.

I swore at the radio on the way to work today. The Brown Broadcorpsing Castration was telling me that Gordon’s solution to Britain’s economic woes was for the Government to tax less and spend more. This sounds way too much like the Mr. Micawber principle. Quick, buy him a pair of baggy pants & new footwear.

Karen and I are off for a weekend trip to Brugge tomorrow, leaving David in the capable hands of Grandma Pat. Guest blogging isn’t on their agenda though, so it will be quiet here for a couple of days.

Brugge (or Bruges, as we Brits know it) is somewhere I’ve driven through loads of times but never stopped at. Apparently it is a beautiful medieval city, so I’m looking forward to taking lots of photos. (If I can hold the camera straight, Karen found out there is a Beer Festival on!)

(Stories like this don’t help…)

Well, let me tell you another unintended consequence of righteous rule making.

12,000 lives turned upside down through Government Agency incompetence

25% of the adult population to go through these checks, & more intrusive ones

The Independent Safeguarding Authority (ISA) has been created to help prevent unsuitable people from working with children and vulnerable adults.

We will do this by working in partnership with the Criminal Records Bureau (CRB), which will gather relevant information on every person who wants to work or volunteer with vulnerable people.

Good old Samizdata put it succincty

And people wonder why there is sometimes a shortage of volunteers for things like youth clubs and the like. The destruction of civil society, of the bonds of trust that are vital to such an organic, grass-roots cluster of non-state institutions, is remorseless and deliberate. This government, in its totalitarian way - I use that word quite deliberately - wants to make all human interactions subject to its tests. The consequences for the long term health of civil society, and of the ability of people to grow up normally, are ignored.

Well, I’ve had enough. I’ve had three CRB checks for volunteering with children but there won’t be a fourth. The school where I used to be a parent governor was happy with list 99 checks in my time but now want an enhanced disclosure. If I’d still been there I would have resigned on principle as it is entirely disproportionate to the risk and the system is seriously flawed anyway (as well as being yet another way of raising money, just ask Thunderdragon).

So, I’m quietly going to drop out of the reading scheme when it is up for CRB renewal. The community radio will also get forced down the registration route and the decision is to either only accept adults or to struggle to find people willing to go through the grief. It won’t be my decision though.

Do tou know a third unintended consequence?  Fine buildings not currently in use are being demolished because it isn’t viable to let them stand empty now that the business rate relief has been abolished. Perhaps that is why the Morley Pavilion is back on the market. Yours for £2k a week or so (plus £400 rates) if you don’t have a Million or two to spare to just buy it.

(You can’t knock it down I’m afraid, it is in a conservation area).

I’m also busy counting beans (of the financial kind, closing off the books for the Mercia Cinema Society that I am the Treasurer of) so whilst blogging is more pleasurable than that, it is also way too much of a distraction.

In the meantime, you’ll be pleased to hear that the parking machines are working again in Morley.

However, in an interesting twist, a Councillor shows that he is ignorant or a liar. More on that in due course…

90 years ago, the guns fell silent at the end of the great war. It is estimated that twenty million people died.

At the end of World War two, more than 70 million more were dead, most of them Civilians.

When I was a young man, the Royal British Legion people worried that their members were getting older and that one day, people would forget.

The Government, however, continue to send our soldiers into battle, poorly prepared and not entirely certain what they are fighting for.

Armies should protect the homeland robustly, not fight other people’s wars.

Let the guns fall silent again one day, in Afghanistan, Iraq & Kosovo.

Also remember that not all armed forces are soldiers- the Police are also sent into battle, often poorly prepared, poorly led and not entirely certain what they are fighting for.

Let the guns never sound in anger again, particularly in Stockwell.

Another new wet shaver hits the streets. This time it is the AZOR, from King of Shaves. It was mentioned in the paper yesterday and you went off to a specific URL to win one of 4000 free samples. However, when I looked, there was just some strange stuff about filling in surveys and putting bags out on the front doorstep. (They have sorted it now).

They describe it as iPod meets Razor and I’m a sucker for new designs as I do suffer from razor rash. (I use an electric one with slimy squeeze outgel with the occasional wet shave to deal with the stubble the Philips misses)

Apart from the styling (& I’m a great believer in substance over style) the other selling hook is that the cartridges are much cheaper than the other top range blades which are now silly money.

I’ve been a fan of the King of Shaves oils and gels since finding it in the 90s.

(One for the ladies here!)

The order of service is much the same each year and there is another tradition which I call “The slamming of the gates”.

My first couple of Services were in Batley as part of the Round Table. The events are very egalitarian there, everyone is invited into the Town Hall for a cup of tea and a biscuit afterwards and people can chat sat at tables.

My first one as a Morley Councillor though was a little more elitist, only the select few could go into the Town hall afterwards. (Well, it wasn’t a few, it was most people on the parade).

The procession lines up formally before the event, but afterwards, Councillors and dignitaries scurry off back to the Town Hall so that they can take the salute on the imposing Town Hall steps. The first year I stood on the steps, I was surprised to notice the custodial staff slamming the gates shut behind us as we entered the ceremonial entrance. This was repeated the following two years but with the retirement of the longest serving member of staff, it is a little more relaxed these days.

Today, I was running errands so I didn’t get to see all of the proceedings but I did see the gates get closed. The ceremony of the gates had a slight variant this year- firstly they were taking their time shutting them and it turned out that they were waiting for me! “You coming in then, Ian?” “No, I’m just a pleb now.” (Although David was keen to raid some biscuits).

Then, as they started to close the gates, Colin Challen MP came out, carrying a wreath (presumably to take to Rothwell, the other town in the constituency).

I was surprised to see he had several medals on his chest- a quick look on Wikipedia says that he was a supplier accountant for the Royal Air Force. Perhaps they aren’t medals for courage or valour then.

I tried to catch his eye to ask him how he was getting on with reading 1984, but he was oblivious to me. The Morley Mayor was happy to give me a wave for the readers though. (Sorry it is blurry, I wasn’t really paying attention).

Here is the ceremony of the excluding of the plebs.

Not quite as attention grabbing, because we knew what was coming this time, unlike last year.

If, like me, you fancy hearing the full song again, the Gorilla obliges and you can visit his immersive website as well.

It is the best blogpost that I have read this year and worthy of much, much wider reading.)

First, a parable. Apply it to whatever you like.

There was once an unfenced hill where a flock of sheep lived.

One rainy day, a man came to talk to them. “It’s cold and wet here. How can you stand it?” he asked.

“It’s not so bad,” said the sheep. ” We get up when we like, there’s plenty to eat, and life is pretty good most of the time. It’s raining now but we can just go under the trees if it gets too much. It will stop eventually. We have our freedom, and to us that’s the most important thing.”

“It looks awful,” the man said. “And how do you know it will stop raining? It might go on for weeks. Your land might become swampy and all your grass might be washed away. Tell you what, there is a big building over there. It’s warm and dry inside. I will make it let you in. It’s only fair. You deserve better than this.”

“Is there grass to eat?” the sheep asked.

“No, but I will make the building provide hay. I will make it provide a place to sleep and food to eat and you need do nothing to earn it. You’ll be warm and dry and still you’ll be free. Really, it’s best to take my offer just in case, don’t you think? Surely you can see it’s for your benefit?”

Some of the sheep were suspicious. “What do you get out of it?”

“Me? Nothing.” The man smiled. “And once in a while, I’ll invite the most special of you to come and live in a special flock where life will be more wonderful than you have ever known. Of course, you won’t all be able to join that flock at once but I promise, every one of you will pass through the Golden Doorway eventually.”

The sheep considered. A few distrusted the man and refused to go with him, but most accepted his kind offer. They laughed and scoffed at those who chose to stay in the rain while they filed obediently into the man’s dry, warm abbatoir.

_________

And now, a rant.

Does anyone remember the ’stiff upper lip’ of the British? The fighting spirit? The indomitable people who once ran a big chunk of the planet, and who could chase away armed guerillas with a walking stick and an angry voice? A people who, nevertheless, could laugh at themselves and had a great, if sometimes cruel, sense of humour? What happened to them?

Those people would never have set off a security scare because a schoolboy dressed up as the Joker and waved a plastic gun around. Those people would never have arrested a man in fancy dress because he had a plastic knife as part of his outfit. Those people would not have shrieked ‘Terrorist!’ at the sight of a plastic halloween skeleton. The first might have earned a caning, but not expulsion. The second and third should not even have raised an eyebrow. Neither should Old Holborn’s walk.

The people who replaced those real British are spineless weaklings who jump at shadows. Who call the police if they are slightly offended by a word or two. Worse, the police respond not by saying ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry about it’, but by harassing and usually arresting anyone complained about, no matter how trivial and all too often, no matter whether an offence has been committed or not.

These new people are quaking, trembling jellys. They are frightened by mere words, and terrified by a raised hand. They take offence at anything they’re told to take offence at. Those who consider themselves strong are those who have not yet experienced adversity because when they do, they run to the government for help. They cannot help themselves. They will not try.

Oh, there are a few real people left, for sure, but they are only a few. Most are now soft, weak loathsome creatures who stare at the unreality of reality TV from their well-pressed sofas and aim their rage wherever the Righteous tell them. The two minute hate. One day smokers, next day drinkers, next day hoodies, next the obese, next Eurasia… or is it Eastasia? Doesn’t matter. We are at war with the terrorists. We have always been at war with the terrorists.

These people who once called themselves the Great of Great Britain (can we still use that name for this country, or is it not considered sufficiently self-humiliating now?) are useful only for rendering into animal feed. They accept every word they are fed and have no problem at all with the doublethink required to accept it all. Coal-fired power stations will kill us all through global warming. We must build huge windmills everywhere to save the environment and we must not install new power lines underground because that would harm the environment. Snow in October? That’s caused by global warming.

They obsess about their carbon footprint while having no idea what carbon is, they accept that the same number of alcohol units apply to each and every person, that if they allow a ninety-year-old smoker within a hundred yards of them in the open air, they will die the next day from lung cancer. They accept that one ageing rock perv who everyone recognises because his face has been all over the news will sneak up unnoticed and steal their children, and they accept that social services can take children from parents for any reason they feel like making up.

They accept that everything that happens to them is someone else’s fault and that they are entitled to compensation for it, and they accept that events on the other side of the planet are all the fault of the British.

Doublethink. All of it. And those minds, once the envy of the world, are now so numb and feeble that they cannot see any contradiction in the information drifting into them. None of it is sorted, categorised, analysed or considered. Every last bit of nonsense is accepted as if God himself delivered it to them.

Today I heard that Sainsbury’s is offering education, including basic literacy and maths education to its staff. Good God, what is going on when the supermarkets have to do the job our schools once did? Basic literacy and maths. Hardly a part-time degree, is it? They have set a target of 25% of staff having a qualification within five years. While I think what Sainsbury’s is doing here is commendable, the fact remains that they should not have to. We used to have schools. Now we have indoctrination centres and that is just accepted by those sofa-bound parents. They will see no contradiction in wasting years at school only to start earning basic GCSE’s after a spell of trolley-pushing.

When did this happen? When was the spirit sucked out of the people of this country? It was no overnight thing. It started small and spread like fungus throughout the land. It began with the best intentions, as these things always do. It began when those who had no jobs were entitled to a small government payment to keep them going until they found work. That, in itself, was not the problem. Work was always the better option and the dole was an embarassing place to be. Oh, yes, there were a few who were happy with that dole cheque and happy to sit back and do nothing but for most, it wasn’t enough.

Then came free housing, free gas and electricity, a host of freebies and a wide range of tax-funded benefits until unemployment was more profitable than most of the lower-paid jobs. The idea that those lower-paid jobs were just a start, that they could lead into better-paid jobs, seems to have been lost. The people settled back to claim, spend, and claim some more. Their bodies fell into disuse, their brains atrophied by the drivel pouring from the little box in the corner. That box now occupies half the wall in some living rooms, in accordance with its status in those people’s lives. In many houses, most rooms have them. You can even buy pocket ones. The mind-numbing output is everywhere.

Now they are confused by contradictions their conditioning insists they accept without question. Why question, when some vestige of their minds already knows there is no answer? Just accept it and have another beer. Drown the confusion with a chaser of something fluorescent. Bodies flaccid, minds baffled, they accept that they are obese because they eat the wrong kind of food, not because they eat too much and do too little. It’s not their fault, you see? If only they had more benefits, they could afford fruit to eat while they watch three hundred channels on their 60-inch flatscreen with surround sound. The contradiction is whisked away by doublethink.

There are a few real people left. Some who are fit and healthy, some with intelligence, some to whom these contradictions are obvious. A few who would, if they could, wake up the zombies the British have become and urge them once more to innovate, to fend for themselves, to reach for those stars they once looked up to see.

To dismiss insulting words not as ‘offensive’ but as ‘the ramblings of a fool’. To stand up for those rights they once had instead of allowing them to be taken away one by one. To think their own thoughts once more. To see those contradictions for what they are, and to analyse and deny them. To take back their lives.

Can they be woken? I am sure some can. I am sure some of the British can be revived. If I thought there was no hope at all I would not be writing this.

For many, it’s far too late. For many, there can be no escape from that sleep they believe to be real life. They will spend their time displaying Pavlovian offence at anything that is pointed out to them. They will bleat ‘Baaan’ on command. They will enjoy the daily two minute hate, and agree like those sheep that while they can no longer do the things they used to enjoy, the slaughterhouse is at least warmer than the field. Those are the British now. Those are the ‘vast majority’ the Righteous love to quote at dissenters.

It can be dangerous to wake sleepwalkers, and we know that the shepherds will try to prevent it, but if we do nothing then that abbatoir will expand up our hillside until it is covered. In the end, the choice is simple. Take the risk or join them in the warmth of oblivion.

The rain does stop. They just need to be reminded of that.

(Original post & comments here)

She looks as though she has done a bit of a double-take in this photo and I reckon that she has been snapped in a moment of cognitive dissonance, where her brain hemispheres have just reconciled themselves to holding conflicting opinions. George Orwell called the concept Doublethink.

A couple of days ago, Hazel blears made a speech to the Hansard Society conference on political disengagement.  
There were two headline points she made. The first one was about political blogs:

There are some informative and entertaining political blogs, including those written by elected councillors. But mostly, political blogs are written by people with a disdain for the political system and politicians, who see their function as unearthing scandals, conspiracies and perceived hypocrisy.

Unless and until political blogging adds value to our political culture, by allowing new and disparate voices, ideas and legitimate protest and challenge, and until the mainstream media reports politics in a calmer, more responsible manner, it will continue to fuel a culture of cynicism and despair.

But, she also said…

Politicians must not live on ‘Planet Politics’ and behave in ways which are alien and strange to the electorate.

This happens partly because there is a trend towards politics being seen as a career move rather than call to public service. Increasingly we have seen a ‘transmission belt’ from university activist, MPs’ researcher, think-tank staffer, Special Adviser, to Member of Parliament, and ultimately to the front bench.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with any of those jobs, but it is deeply unhealthy for our political class to be drawn from narrowing social base and range of experience.

Yup. Hazel, pet, cannot you grasp the causal relationship between the latter and the former?

Matt Wardman has found the text of the speech and it is actually OK, except the bits where she blames bloggers and the Press for them being basically, statist authoritarian useful idiots to the EU.

Lots of excellent blogposts on this, here are a choice few across the political spectrum- Ellie Seymour, Bob Piper,  the Guardianistas at CiF, Lib-Dem voice, Alex Mortimer, The Thunderdragon and Underdog.

I’ve left a comment on her own blog:

“Dear Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government, would you like to put up a posting up on how bloggers are not “adding value” so that we can add some value?

Regards,

Shades”

It is awaiting moderation and I noticed that as I’d typed it in a hurry, there is a redundant up, but I’m not holding my breath that it’ll get past the censors. (”They don’t like it up ‘em”, as Corporal Jones used to say).

Meanwhile, if you want to hear how a blogger blagged his way into the conference and well, shall we say, disagreed with her robustly whilst dressed as Guido Fawkes. check out b’staard old holborn.

Now I’m not certain that I’ve actually added any value here because much of what I have said has been made already elsewhere (and probably without the author being distracted by a pressing charity accounts deadline) but, as Ed Balls says, So what? It’s my blog and no business of the Government, particularly not this one.

You know these BBC feelgood stories about 9 out of 10 people being happy, people wanting to sign up for the ID card as soon as possible and the Glenrothes by-election result being a strong mandate for the leadership of Gordon Brown? They must live somewhere else because I haven’t met any. Most people are happy, but not with our politicians.

When we compare how things are with how they used to be, it becomes apparent that our law enforcement has slowly and perniciously changed in many ways from a common law system to a Napoleonic one, i.e. you now need permission for stuff rather than being able to do anything that isn’t forbidden.

I think that the human condition is frequently denial- we hear about rules, think they are ridiculous then forget all about it until they bite us in the bum at a later date. One such example is the burning of bonfires. Notice the tone of this piece from the Wednesday Obtiser.

Identifying quantities of debris and stockpiles of wood for unauthorised bonfires?

Unauthorised bonfires will be removed?

A bit of a definition here. It applies to Council land it would seem, so private land should be OK, except that you are strongly encouraged to register them and the next slice of the salami will be obligation, then vetting,then local authority approved events with a vague Guy Fawkes theme, then nothing other than the sanitised approved list of equality and diversity sparkler free simulated fire events. (I know one or two display firers who are concerned with the increasingly crippling compliance they have to abide by which as usual favours the big Company over the small one).

It seems that this seek and destroy mission creep does go on, as James Higham reported, in his Bonfire live blogging.

Of course, fireworks and bonfires can be very dangerous if handled irresponsibly, but people enjoying themselves independently out of nanny’s control offends the righteous.

(It seems that the Government is no longer collating and publishing fireworks accident data, I’m not entirely sure why, although the trend in recent years has been downwards (pdf)).

Think of the chiiiildrennnnn… 

Today, our MP will have received a book in the post at Westminster, along with his 645 colleagues of all parties. The book in question is “1984″ by George Orwell.
This is a grass roots message from Libertarians all over the Country that it was written as a warning, not an instruction manual. 

I don’t think the Lords were targeted as they are generally reasonably on the ball about bad law, but one exception was apparently made, namely the right dishonourable Peter Mandelson, now Baron Mandelson of Foy & Hartlepool (although I like the winning alternative suggestion).

People were meant to aim to get the book delivered close to the 5th, but apparently a super-efficient Amazon sent one early, to a very well known Labour blogger, Tom Harris. His dismissive flippant remarks resulted in a firestorm of comments, another posting following it up didn’t exactly pour oil on troubled waters and his final closure was so lame, as Ed Balls would say. (Or did he?)

Interesting times in Westminster this week. Yesterday, a yellow traffic sign appeared in the square. Later, an art installation briefly appeared next to Parliament (It doesn’t display properly in Chrome, but IE & Firefox are fine). This morning, a grumpy rather sweary blogger with an uncanny resemblence to Uncle Fester went for a walk in Fancy dress. The fancy dress in question was V and a number of others went for a walk as well. Then the ten in costume were detained and harrassed by “fingermen”.

I await more detailed information about the incident but Old Holborn certainly made his point. I’m now quite keen to watch V for Vendetta to see what it is all about, having watched the big speech.. I might also be encouraging people to go on the 2009 Old Holborn Walk as well, when I strongly suspect that rather more than ten people turn up…

I’m not certain I’d want to go, I have no intention of giving the Scuffers my DNA.

“Our Economy is better placed to weather the global storm…”

(Gordon Brown)

Prudence, you’ve lost the plot. Nurse, the straitjacket…

(Hat tip- Tom Paine & half the Blogosphere)

Christmas comes to Morley on November 20th for the annual lights switch-on. The strings of lights have been up for a while and the one on the side of the Town Hall was proclaiming Seasons Greetings to Morley a little early. (It did last year as well.) 

This bit of fun below has been posted on the Facebook Morley group and is causing some mirth. (Morley has its own selection of chavtastic sub-culture).

Hat tip KJ, (Mrs. PJ)

Thought for the day: If Lesbians go dogging, is it called catting?

When I started off as a councillor in 2004, there was a bit of a minor bunfight about that notice board as it was only really for Leeds notices, not Parish ones. (The Council eventually had their own made). Businesses started to put adverts up on it, which were removed by some of the more activist Councillors. I did wonder why their fervent desire to remove adverts for mobile discos and town cafes wasn’t matched by the obvious housekeeping of taking down obsolete posters though, so I started to do it myself. Since then, whenever I have been over to look, I have stripped out old ones for events that have been and gone.

I was doing this on Sunday morning and also took a photo of one of the posters as I didn’t have a pen and paper handy, then I noticed that a Policeman (or a PCSO) was proceeding in a Northeasterly direction towards me down the precinct. Now rather a lot of uniformed officers have shown themselves to have a rather poor understanding about the law of photography in public places so I prepared to put the Kodak into Camcorder mode in case he turned out to be another one like this. However, he showed no interest in me other than a cursory glance so Morley isn’t a Police State yet…

Walking back up the precinct to put the old posters into the bin, I saw something rather odd.

This must have been the Tingley Troll Pumpkin Pinata from the Lantern Festival. Further evidence of the parental participation during the evening could also be seen on top of the bin as well.

It strikes me that hundreds of thousands of bins must look a bit like ours does today.

One other thing seen today in Morley is a closed road in the middle of town. Four days to resurface a couple of hundred yards! Mind you, it was in a bad way though and needed it. I’d hate to live in one of the nearby flats are there was a near-constant beeping of reversing machinery when we passed. At least they aren’t doing the work at night.

Here is someone else from Morley who rummages round in bins, I believe he is called Boyd Schitt, or possibly Willy Eckerslike.

I didn’t entirely know what to expect but I didn’t leave disappointed. It initially looks a little spartan as the displays are mostly constrained to the walls but each corner uncovers another delight. The pictures tell the story and there was much more to see than what I was able to snap, including displays on set design, models, appeals, presenters, animals and production team. There was even a model of Tracy Island. (Instructions here, pdf)

The exhibition is on until January 11th and the museum is generally closed on Mondays.

I’ll let Simon Groom have the final word…

He was still keen to go trick or treating though and we went round the local streets collecting. I instigated some ground rules- only knock at doors of houses participating (i.e. with a lantrn or decoration) or where we knew the people. A couple of houses had trick-or-treat pots on their front doorsteps and David was careful to only take one item there, although he was frequently offered a second dip at some houses (he is very polite).

One house had a do not call sign which had an ironic twist- Neighbourhood Witch.

In case you are wondering why this post is headed Rummy- we saw a door that said “Knock if you dare - R E D R U M” written in fake blood on the glass. David asked what Red Rum was and I said it was a famous race horse that was stolen and never found. I then remembered that I was mixing up Red Rum with Shergar.

When we told Karen, she twigged in an instant- it was mirror writing for “MURDER” as seen in The Shining.

(It turns out that Shergar had a rather grisly end, according to the Daily Telegraph, not for the squeamish)

See Spyblog, the BJP  and The Register. (Don’t miss the El Reg article comments).

Meanwhile, the Plod demonstrate why they are in need on guidance. Schoolboy terrorists in Cheam, Middlesborough Jobsworths, snapping Letitia, Curly in Shields and harrassing the press.

Today is Halloween and the inevitable Trick or Treaters. Children, enjoy it while you can, because by next year, you may only be allowed to knock on doors that have a large Tick sticker on the door, showing that the householders have been approved by the Criminal Records Board for young persons interaction. Also, on no account take photographs of the people who come whether tricking or treating.

The way things are going in Britain, soon the only place you will be able to take photos without getting treated with suspicion is in Second Life.

Speaking of which, here is a delightful photo of the Wicked Witch of the Great White North. Apparently Halloween is big over there. 

Shouldn’t you have a crooked pointy nose & warts? You look cuter than Mrs. Shrek here!

Ring tailed Lemurs had the run of the park and the strapline for the place is the ultimate interactive animal experience as you could do lots of close-up stuff like feed the giraffes. It was a cold day however and the taps in the toilets were cold, as were the hot air hand driers. Kids in halloween dress or with a Jack o’ lantern could get in for free so David had scooped out a pumpkin a couple of days before.

So, how do you commission a projector? You unpack it and assemble it in-situ, fitting the various belts and pulleys then finally filling the mechanism with the oil supplied. Even though the machine had been in long term storage, it had been well enough packed and protected that little more than a dusting was required. As projectors tend to be in projection boxes at the back of the cinema high above the audience, the assembly needs to be tilted so that the optical alignment is centred on the screen. The Victoria 5 model has an adjustable angle lamphouse and the pedestal has height adjustable feet for fine tuning. The next bit of advice was to wire it up temporarily and get the Xenon lamp working. The lamps are mounted axially, with the large rear reflector focussed onto the light source so as to deliver a near-parallel high intensity light beam through the projector gate. I was told to leave the lenses out of the turret for the initial setup and when I eventually got the unit fired up and turning, the reason for the advice became apparent, as I now had a picture of the innards of the lamphouse shown on the screen and it was a straight-forward job to align the central hot spot in the middle of the screen.

Did I say straight-forward? Well, there was the small problem of there not being any projector ports, there being a decorative timber wall at the front of the box. (There was a large opening in the concrete on the other side). Fortunately, I had been assigned a team of Indian technicians to implement the project and these guys were top rate. Not only were they electricians but carpenters as well. On requesting some furniture for the lighting desk, they asked me the best size then they made it from scratch, including staining and sealing to a quality finish.

So, “where should we cut the hole Sir?” resulted in my outlining a small rectangle on the wall at lens height, along with another viewing port above. Then, when we actually turned the thing on and tried to centre the beam, we found that the tilt adjustment was insufficient on the projector without bricks under the back (& we had to skim a bit more off the bottom edge of the hole & the beam was catching on the concrete sill). At this point I got hold of a section plan and calculated the actual tilt required then specified a plinth pre-tilted so that the projector sat with its feet mostly retracted and the lamphouse adjustment was mid-range. The Indians obliged by knocking up a reinforced concrete plinth and I worked on something else whilst the concrete set and cured.

A couple of days later, we were ready to mount the projector properly, fit the lenses and lace up the film. This was an interesting moment for me, as the last time I had laced up a 35mm projector had been as a schoolboy at the Newcastle Odeon (and my efforts had been carefully checked afterwards by the projectionist as it was easy to get it wrong). The cardinal rule I had been taught was that the film never touched the floor as that resulted in scratches. (Not that it mattered too much for a gash reel of Kismet!) Eventually I was satisfied that we could start up the machine and I was delighted when I opened the douser and moving pictures appeared on the “sheet”, even though the characters looked short and wide because it was a Cinemascope film and we were using the Widescreen lens. That was when we worked out that the screen masking was set wrongly, it could close completely but didn’t open wide enough. (This required a re-roping of the masking drum motor and the Chief was rather annoyed that the could no longer fully close off the masking because the drum wasn’t big enough to allow for the entire travel of the side masking). After we had adjusted it the masking did go small enough for a square picture which was fine for slides and of course the entire screen could be readily raised into the grid to give a clear stage if required. 

For the precision alignment, a 20 minute reel was a bit on the short side, so I spliced up an endless loop of film that could be ran continuously through the projector. For this, I had to do my first ever tape splice using the splicing machine supplied. I was pleased to find that this was as easy as it looked when i had seen other projectionists do it. (For my schoolboy training, we had to use film cement and it required careful preparation with a razor blade as well as the loss of a frame every time you did a splice. The film loop also came in handy for when we got the optical sound working and worked out the best settings for the PA system.

Once the projector was handed over, I then found what they intended to use it for- censoring films. I then met the Salalah projectionist from the local flea pit who was an Omani (surprisingly, because most of the practical jobs were by guest workers, but there again, being a projectionist is often a calling). He told me that it was a blessing not having to change the carbon rods here which was a hot, dirty job back at his own cinema. (It was, I could remember doing it as a schoolboy myself). Despite not having seen a Cinemeccanica projector before, he had no problem at all lacing it up, although he was a little puzzled which takeup spool to use. (The version we had used two larger 2 hour spools side by side on the plinth as well as 1 hour spools above and below).

The actual censoring was rather peculiar- three locals turned up and sat in the middle of the stalls whilst the various spools were shown with a short break for relacing every twenty minutes. They didn’t ring a bell in the style of the priest in Cinema Paradiso, but simply conferred after each reel. The film was some form of Bollywood movie and I was pleased to see it fully fill the screen, although the jury-rigged aperture plate vibrated itself back into position exposing the sound track until the projectionist jammed some film leader in to stop it moving. (this eventually started smouldering, as aperture plates get very hot!)