Recorder tune

Image: Jakegothicsnake
 on deviantART

I’ve been fond of music since my second (Chamber of Secrets) year at secondary school. I joined the school choir and discovered to my delight that I could be a part of polyphonic singing. Chords. Harmonies. Fugues. Clever stuff. I’ve been a member of various choirs, choral societies and barber-shop quartets on and off ever since. It’s helped me to learn to read music. I have never been much good at this, but I can – blob by blob if it isn't too complicated – figure out which note to sing, and for how long.

But as for playing a musical instrument, that skill eluded me. Perhaps I should have gone to recorder classes when I was ten, but I honestly thought the school meant tape recorders, and nobody told me otherwise. By the time I found out that a recorder was a musical instrument, it was too late as I’d been signed up by my parents to play foopball and rounders. We all know how much I love athletic sports.

My kid sister was given an electric chord organ a couple of years later, which I was Not Allowed To Play. She also started on the recorder, but never played it and I eventually ended up with the instrument and The School Recorder Book One.

Almost all of my schoolfriends played the piano; one or two also played guitar and other instruments. I managed to talk the school’s music professor into lending me an ancient clarinet for private practice. I tried and tried, but as the house where I lived was a Wimpey hutch with paper-thin walls, I never got past the tooting and parping stage. 

“Either play a proper tune, or not at all” was my father’s ultimatum, so the clarinet went back to school. There was, basically, no music at home unless you count Terry Wogan’s breakfast radio show and my mother Nanny Goat’s early morning singing (which is just fine unless you’re not a morning person). Hence my almost total ignorance of sixties and seventies music.

I tried and failed to learn to play the guitar. I’ve always been hopelessly flummoxed by any form of stringed instrument, I seem to lack the co-ordination required to play keyboards, I can’t get any sensible sound out of a brass instrument, and although I’ve dabbled with percussion, a drumkit isn’t something you can carry around in your pocket. 

So for about thirty years, on and off, I’ve been messing with recorders, ocarinas, and penny whistles. A former girlfriend gave me a magnificent wooden tenor recorder in 1989 (the fingering is identical to that of the traditional school descant recorder, but it plays an octave lower), and someone in the English Civil War Society (ECWS) gave me a Bakelite treble recorder that was broken, but if I could repair it I could have it. I replaced the missing piece of Bakelite with Milliput and it’s been fine ever since. I still have the original wooden descant, and that instrument’s got to be over forty years old and still going strong  despite much abuse.

I’m sure that I saw someone playing in a live band in an ECWS beer tent on an electric, amplified recorder, but it took about twenty years to do something about it. More of this anon…

For the past couple of years, Beloved Wife and I have attended a pre-Christmas party with some musical friends. The basic idea is to bring a dish, and to sing and/or play Christmas carols in the small music room. The usual suspects play guitars, saxophone, flute, and piano. I showed up with my voice and my recorders.

I was, and continue to be, horribly outclassed musically. I can sing OK, or at least hold a tune in a bucket, but my playing leaves much to be desired in the Department of Correct Notes. Most of this is a requirement to practise, but there’s another issue: competing against a host of concert instruments, the unamplified recorder is virtually inaudible. This is why the recorder dropped out of fashion centuries ago. Orchestras got bigger and louder, and the poor recorder simply couldn’t compete with the volume. You can’t blow harder without making ghastly squeaking noises. Obviously, I need some form of electric pickup. If Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson has one, which I know he has because I’ve seen it attached to his flute, I should be able to buy one somewhere.

At this point, the shop assistant in Thomsun Music, Wafi City, Dubai, showed me Akai’s EWI, or Electric Wind Instrument. It was stupidly expensive, so I bought mine from Sax.co.uk in London. Actually, it was a Christmas present from Beloved Wife. The EWI (“Eewee”) is a MIDI breath controller. It translates breath force and keys pressed into a musical note. Output is through a thick coaxial cable to an amplifier, or directly into headphones. This is win/win. I can now make plenty of volume when playing live, but can practise using headphones so that the rest of the universe is kept in blissful ignorance of my many, many mistakes.

I configured my EWI to play with more-or-less flute fingerings because those are very similar to those of a recorder. Other musicians might prefer to select ‘Oboe’ or ‘Saxophone’. With dozens of different voices to choose from, I can have the instrument sound like a clarinet, bassoon, saxophone, flute, or any of a host of other instruments and occasionally very wacky sounds. I was piping the sound through the stereo until I bought a guitar amplifier than comes with dozens of presets so I can now, if I wish, sound like Hendrix. Yeah, in my dreams.

I’ve been practising. I like to pick up either a recorder or EWI every day, and I’ve been downloading sheet music (most of which is too difficult to play) off the interwebs, and trying to build a repertoire. Most of my stuff is dimly remembered seventeenth and eighteenth century stuff and simple folk tunes, but I’ve also been working on other pieces including Christmas carols, some Bach, Sousa, and Abe Holzmann’s Blaze Away:

I love to go swimmin’ with bow-legged women

And swim between their legs…etc.

Seems a lot of popular music and big-band stuff comes pitched in keys that are awkward for flute fingering. It’s not exactly ‘too many black notes,’ but fingering that’s difficult for a novice. There’s a remark here possibly involving Old Goat and New Trick.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever be a particularly good musician, but I amuse myself. If I can actually amuse anyone else without too much embarrassment, that’ll be a bonus.

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Farewell, sweet prints

Image: Wikipedia

Would you prefer to gas the car up, or throw it away and buy a new one? Seems obvious, doesn’t it? 

Apparently not to printer manufacturers, it doesn’t. I’ve just experienced the dubious delights of trying to replace the printer cartridges for my old Epson All-In-One printer/scanner. The only two shops that had ink cartridges for this model at all only had yellow. Clearly, nobody’s been printing pictures of sunflowers, and nobody knows where cyan and magenta may be found. I don’t propose to waste a day of my life trying every shop in Khalid bin Al Waleed Street to be repeatedly told that they’re Not Coming In Dubai^TM. I’ve already been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

It’s planned obsolescence. You buy a printer, and then later have to throw it away while it still functions perfectly because the ink cartridges are no longer available. Infuriatingly, they are available. Just not in all colours.

Further stupidity reigns when a new All-In-One printer costs only slightly more than a full set of ink cartridges would have, if they’d been available.

So it’s not the cost that is at issue; it’s the hypocrisy. We’re constantly bombarded with messages to Save The Planet, to recycle, and to wear homespun tofu. And yet if we’re to print documents, we need to consign a perfectly good plastic case, rollers, electric motors, circuit boards and all the other gubbins to landfill, as they are slowly digested over a thousand years.

There seems little point in recycling the device unless someone, somewhere, has access to print cartridges. And if he can find them, then why not I?

I now own a new, faster printer that doesn’t even need a piece of electric string between it and the computer. I also have yet more spare power and USB cables to add to my collection. The salesman was keen to point out that, because it's a new model, ink cartridges will be available for years to come. Me? I expect to be having this exact same rant in about 2018.

I now possess a spare printer. Perfect condition, FSH, light domestic use only, one careful owner, low mileage, ink cartridges rarer than rocking-horse shit.

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These boots aren't made for walking

The Goat obviously has trouble finding appropriate footwear for motorcycling. Way back in early 2009 he found a pair of Gaerne racing boots in a bike shop in Cyprus, and he bought them because, by some miracle, they fitted. These boots have been excellent, even if they’re a bit low cut. The Goat has been wearing his jeans outside the boots because when tucked in, they quickly produce muffin tops that resemble part of a Star Trek uniform.

Nothing lasts for ever, and the Goat has been on the lookout for replacement motorcycle boots with limited to negligible success. And then someone gave him a pair of Oxtar brand racing boots for free. They were used, but they fitted and were comfortable. Quite old, though; Oxtar changed its name to TCX back in 2007.

The problem with these newer boots is that they’re not made of leather. The bits that aren’t rubber or hard plastic are made of some man-made material called Lorica^TM. It’s an artificial leather that’s claimed to be lighter, stronger, and more durable than the stuff that’s obtained from a cow. Lorica^TM seems to consist of about a 1.5mm thickness of acrylic blanket covered by a micron or so of vinyl to make it look like leather.

And this is what it looks like after being used on a motorbike.

Unlike real leather, that can be cared for and fed with saddle soap and boot polish, this plastic stuff falls to pieces.

The Goat had learned that TCX boots are cut on the generous side, and headed off to Al Yousuf in Dubai in search of some actual new boots made of actual leather. The pair he selected included leather uppers, according to the label attached to one of the zips. But upon getting them home, the Goat learned that this is a generic ‘care and feeding’ booklet, and the boots he’d selected were made of Lorica^TM.

Back to the shop, then, where the staff were hugely apologetic. By now the Goat had made a list of TCX boots that were made of leather, and he worked with Al Yousuf to find an acceptable pair that fitted and were comfortable. They're taller than the Goat's original pair, and he might resemble a Cossack dancer when off the bike, but an overall success at last! Now that Goat has two pairs, and no longer lives in fear of his only motorcycle footwear wearing out.

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Petrol, Pork Pies, Pocari Sweat

The bridge at Sur

The Goat last took a huge motorcycle endurance tour in 1986, when he and Mr Lawful Good of Cowplain rode a Kawasaki GT750 the length of France and Spain in 28 hours. Two weeks later they did the return trip in nineteen and a half hours. At that point the Goat declared that he wouldn’t do such a thing again, age having caught up with him.

And then recently D_ asked if the Goat would be interested in an attempt at the Iron Butt. There are a number of challenges offered by the Iron Butt Association. The basic entry-level challenge is the “Saddlesore 1000” which, unsurprisingly, involves a 1000 mile trip in under 24 hours. D_ planned a round trip to Muscat. This wasn’t far enough, so the Goat proposed an extended trip 250km further down to Sur.

The Goat’s plan was to run the trip on a fuel of petrol, Pocari Sweat, and pork pies. This would be augmented by water, Red Bull, and Henri Wintermans.

After gassing up in Dubai at 0850 and getting the guys at Classic Motorcycles to witness the time (0908) and start kilometrage, D_ and the Goat headed off to Al Ain. The border at Jebel Hafeet was quiet. This is worth knowing: a trip like this does not need an hour of sitting in air-conditioned comfort for the UAE exit stamp (AED35). It also turns out that a House Elf visa doesn’t count for the purposes of granting Oman visas for GCC residents, so the Goat got a single-entry ten-day tourist visa for Oman for OMR5. 

Nizwa

So much for “There’s a petrol station every 30km.” D_ and the Goat stopped and gassed up in Dhank after seeing a sign that “The next petrol is 105km away”. Turns out that was the next Shell petrol, but now they were good to get almost to Muscat. Stopping in Nizwa to stretch their legs, it turned out that the souq was as shut as a shut thing. This was unsurprising for mid afternoon, and the Goat sat in the shade and was amused by a couple of local lads on mopeds doing rear wheel slides and burnouts.

Both bikes probably had enough fuel to get to Seeb, near Muscat, but stopped on the long downhill from Nizwa anyway. D_ begged for relief: his back was causing him some discomfort. Meanwhile, the Goat had discovered that the prime source of saddle soreness was his Kevlar-lined jeans. The trousers were imprinting Kevlar into the Goat’s thighs. There may be a solution to this involving those kinky cyclists’ shorts, but only if they’re not nylon.

TGL and J live in Seeb, and were happy to provide relief from the ravages of travel in the form of Nespresso, iced water and comfy sofas. Thank you to TGL and J. Regrettably, the time schedule wouldn’t permit stopping for pizza.

And thence to Seeb airport to meet Ahmed. D_ owns a black Yamaha FJR13. Ahmed’s is white, with chrome tip-over bars, bigger mirrors, and a smuggler trunk instead of a pillion seat. After a chat, D_ and the Goat set off for Muscat harbour and got hopelessly lost in the evening rush hour and the roadworks. The Goat noticed while lane-splitting that everyone who shut the space between traffic lanes was yacking on his or her mobile phone. Hanlon’s Razor: Don’t ascribe to malice that which may be attributed to incompetence.

The souq at Sultan Qaboos Port,
Muscat

A brief photo and ciggie stop at the Mutrah Souq later, and the Goat got lost in the little lanes before finding an escape route on to the road to Sur. This road is truly excellent. It’s so new that it doesn’t appear on the Goat’s GPS. One minor issue was that for 13km the street lights weren’t working. The Goat noted that it was an excellent opportunity to ride on high beam for more than a few seconds at a time. Be careful what you wish for.

The only southbound petrol station was so new that the shop still had tape Xs on the windows and no stock. And it closed at 10pm, apparently. Ah, good point. The Goat resolved to gas up in Sur before heading back, which should provide enough tank range for at least Muscat.

Another failing in the Goat’s increasingly out-of-date GPS mapping is the absence of the bridge over the mouth of the bay at Sur. D_ and the Goat crossed the bridge (which has been constructed at enormous expense with a heavy vehicle ban and a 3T weight limit) and stopped for Red Bull and pork pies. This was the distal end of the trip. Everything following would be uphill. Time 2150, and clearly getting back to Dubai before 0850 was looking doubtful. There would have to be some serious riding with limited stops. They don’t call this the Iron Butt for nothing.

The trip back consisted of looping around the bay and heading back along the new dual carriageway to Muscat. This time avoiding the port, the Goat navigated back to Seeb, and a fuel stop at the end of the road to Nizwa. It was now 0040, early on Tuesday morning.

Fatigue was beginning to set in notwithstanding the caffeinated beverage. Corners, in particular, were being taken with extra care. And on the way back the Goat selected the new bypass road to Nizwa rather than the slightly shorter old road through various villages. It was pointless stopping in Nizwa, and the bikers continued to Bahla where there was, miracle of miracles, a petrol station open at 0315. The only one at  this hour for at least 100km in any direction, apparently.

There then followed around 100km of unlit single carriageway. The Goat likes using high beam, and his wish was granted. The continuous roadworks were merely a courtesy detail, as were the several Hilux pickups that hurtled past at 130km/h and plunged obliviously into the void on dipped beams.

The trickiest part of the trip was the pre-dawn twilight. A combination of tiredness and the rhododactylous conditions conspired to make vision tricky. The Goat scanned constantly for camels wandering on the highway as he and D_ headed for the border. He missed a last chance to gas up with cheap Oman petrol, which is only two thirds the price in the UAE. The last gas station may or may not have been open for business.

Getting back into the UAE was easy, but for anyone planning a road trip, note the need to present a valid UAE vehicle registration on re-entry. Nobody asked for this on the way out; an omission that could cause unhappiness at the border.

The final reckoning

And it was back to Al Ain, and thence Dubai. Any possible tendency to nod off was suppressed by the rising sun. It’s a lot easier to stay awake when it’s light.

According the GPS the total distance logged was 1654.9km in 23 hours and 14 minutes. The Goat’s GPS did switch itself off a couple of times, so the total recorded time, stationary time, and averages are all a bit off. But 0908 to 0813 as witnessed by Classic Motorcycles is definitely under 24 hours.

As for the Iron Butt Association, there may be a problem in proving the start and finish times. Applicants are supposed to provide a dated and time-stamped receipt for each fuel purchase, which is especially important for the start and end. But nobody provided anything but a handwritten receipt except ADNOC in Al Ain.

However, D_ and the Goat both know what they have achieved. Certificates are a detail. As for the bikes? Both the Kawasaki 1400GTR and Yamaha FJR1300 performed faultlessly throughout.

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It's Troo-dos anyone believe it?

Portugal, Ireland, Greece, Spain. Who’s next? Cyprus.

These are the European Union countries whose banking systems are in such a mess that some belevolent uncle agrees to pay off their overdrafts, provided that they promise to be more financially astute in the future. Of course, the benevolent uncle doesn’t have any money either, so what he’ll do is offer negligible returns to his investors until he gets his money back, or get taxpayers to refund him.

We all trust the banks with our savings, those same banks play fast and loose with our money plus a whole load of additional imaginary money, and then when it all goes wrong, we the savers – the ones who trusted the banks because they told us we could – have to pay for those rather expensive mistakes.

What genius thought up the latest idea for Cyprus? Basically, all bank depositors have between 6.75% and 9.9% of their deposits stolen in a one-off burglary perpetrated by the same organisations who have been trusted to look after everyone’s money. Never mind the alleged money laundering by Russian oligarchs; hundreds of thousands of Cypriots and expatriates stand to have up to a tenth of their life savings stolen, replaced by shares in clearly worthless banks that could collapse given an unexpected gust of wind.

This is so wrong. Investors are supposed to receive interest and borrowers are supposed to pay interest.

Naturally, the good citizens of Cyprus are concerned, and they queued over last weekend to withdraw what cash they could until the ATMs emptied or were shut down. It can hardly be a coincidence that Cyprus banks chose to stage this stick-up over a holiday weekend. And they’re planning to stay closed until Thursday. I think arguments will rage behind closed doors and the outcome will be that depositors will not be robbed.

However, the damage has already been done. No amount of promising not to do it again can restore savers’ faith that their money’s safe in the bank’s safe. The EU and the banking industry, by demonstrating a willingness to consider such measures, may have signed their own death warrant.

If banks cannot be trusted, and recent events illustrate that this is indeed the case, an awful lot of people will withdraw their savings the instant the banks re-open, and there will be a run on every bank in Cyprus, as savers all switch their investments to Sokunda-Matres Bank: no interest, no overdraft, no charges.

And how will the depositors in other bailed-out countries react? I fear panic withdrawals from every bank in southern Europe and the consequent catastrophic collapse of the Euro.

In the short term, I’m just glad that I didn’t open a bank account last time I was in Cyprus.

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Grandpa's Advice

Totally by accident I found this song. Turns out it was written by Adie Grey and Dave MacKenzie and performed by Adie Grey. Being a song about motoring, it even found its way on to NPR's Car Talk programme.

I found the music here between 2'50" and 6'22" on a short video involving Royal Enfield motorcycle maintenance.

Verse 1
I remember Sunday drivin’ in my Grandpa’s car.
Old songs on the radio; the smell of his cigar.
Everybody’d honk at him because he’d drive so slow.
He’d just laugh and tell me, “Kid, here’s something you should know...

Chorus 1
They’re all jerks!
When you’re out here on your own,
Just assume that everybody else is half-asleep or stoned.
They’re all jerks,
And not a one knows how to drive,
So you gotta pay attention to make it home alive.
I’ll give you my philosophy, I guarantee it works:
Repeat it after me, kid: They’re all jerks!”

Verse 2
He said, “They’ll let any fool with money buy himself a car
And you can get a license here, however dumb you are.
Oh, they all turn into hotrods when they slide behind the wheel.
When you get old enough to drive, remember here’s the deal:

Repeat Chorus 1

Verse 3
Twenty-five years later, I’ve got children of my own,
And I do all the driving between school and job and home.
Sometimes on the weekends we head out for the beach.
Now with the kids strapped in the backseat, now it’s my turn to teach.

So every time I’m cut off by some wise-guy in a truck,
Or some hero in a sports car whose gotta push his luck,
I don’t get scared or angry, I just sing this little song.
It always cheers me up to hear my children sing along:

Chorus 2
They’re all jerks!
When you’re out here on your own,
Just assume that everybody else is drunk or on the phone.
They’re all jerks!
And not a one knows how to drive,
So you gotta pay attention to make it home alive.
I’ll give you my philosophy, I guarantee it works.
Repeat it after me, kids: They’re all jerks!
I said,
Repeat it after me, kids: They’re all jerks!

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Tap dance

Today, 3rd March, was Arab Water Day or some such commemoration that wasn't publicised in advance. I was listening to the presenters and guests on Dubai Eye talking about how everybody in the UAE wastes 250 litres a day, and that the UAE consumes more water per capita than any other nation on the planet. In a former life I did water audit work. At the time, total domestic daily consumption in the UK was taken as 180 litres per person.

Most potable water comes from desalination, which is a huge consumer of energy, producing millions of tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Even with (the now environmentally friendly because it doesn't produce carbon) nuclear fission producing a quarter of the UAE's electricity by 2020-something, that's still a shitload of drowning polar bears.

The UAE has to reduce its water demand.  According to Dubai Eye, hundreds of dams and more desalination plants are to be constructed, and there are plans afoot to cap domestic consumption.

I have a few ideas relating to reducing consumption.

• Ensure that everybody pays for the water they use. The most sensitive part of the human body is the wallet.
• All new builds should include grey water recycling. This can be a nightmare to retro-fit into existing buildings and is only really practical if a building is being seriously renovated. The local version of serious renovation is usually to tear it down and start from scratch. So install a grey water tank, and then you can flush the loo and water the garden with minimally treated shower waste.
• Don't make it a criminal offence for watchmen to boost their meagre incomes by washing cars with bucket and sponge. And neither make it an offence to have a dirty car. An automatic car wash typically uses between 68 and 265 litres per cycle; whilst enthusiastic use of a hosepipe might use up to 450 litres, a bucket to wash a car plus another to rinse and leather will use probably 20 litres.
• Discourage houseboys and maids from using hosepipes to sweep sand from driveways. A broom is just as effective and costs nuppence.
• Try to get the Afghan ex-truck driver who masquerades as a gardener not to leave hoses running for an hour or more. I tried to reduce water consumption by fitting spray nozzles to my garden hoses. He simply removed them every morning, drowned the entire garden, and then refitted them when he left, in the apparent hope that I'd not notice. That was the guy that Beloved Wife fired when she caught him standing in a thunderstorm watering the cacti. His replacement has a similar attitude to water conservation: "I'm not paying for it so it's OK if I waste it."
• The biggies for domestic consumption are where hosepipes are involved. Modern toilet cisterns are presumably designed with Fitness For Purpose in mind, and many have an economy flush feature for where only liquids are involved, but putting a brick, a hippo, or some other device in the tank to reduce the volume of the flush may be false economy. Apart from the nasty prospect of having to flush again and again, insufficient water flowing in the foul sewers causes very real problems of blocked drains and all that this implies.
• In accordance with one of the guidelines of Abu Dhabi's Estidama manual, plant native species in public areas where possible. Plants from northern Europe may temporarily look pretty, but they drink a massive amount of water and still have to be replaced when they burn up under the Arabian sun. A lot of the public flowerbeds are watered with treated sewage effluent, which is a step in the right direction, and this re-use of grey water needs to be extended. I refer to my earlier comment.
• Growing local fruit and veg consumes enormous quantities of water. I'm not going to sit here and do the arithmetic, but the carbon footprint of watering local tomatoes could well be greater than that of air-freighting them from Spain.

As for my bit, the car gets washed once a month down at the EPPCO, the bike generally gets a weekly once-over with a duster and some furniture polish if it's been out. We shower rather than bath. I even turn the tap off while I'm brushing my teeth. Beloved Wife wanted a dishwasher, and I refused until she showed me a model that used less water than washing the pots in the sink. Our extravagance is the garden, and that would use a lot less water if I could convince the gardener (q.v.) that aloe vera and agave really don't need to be drowned every morning. In the winter we seldom get a DEWA bill beyond the green (lowest consumption and therefore cheapest rate) zone of less than 6000 gallons a month. That's still 450 litres a day per person, and is on the whole shameful. Over the past couple of months our consumption has been half that, but it always goes through the roof in the summer.

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