Ace Jet 170

Waterworld

 

Oxfam Bookshop, some time last year. Two tattered volumes from around 1910 of technical data relating to the waterways of the UK. Edge to edge text. But…throughout one volume, maps. Flipping beautiful maps.

Annotated with proposals for new works, overprinted with routes, amendments and notable features, the maps looked as fresh and clean as the day they were born.

That overprinted text. Lovely.

 

 

The staff found them tricky to price, with no real precedent, and I actually paid more than they asked for. There's a bargain and then there's fair play.

 

Staples

 

I've just found this saved as a draft. Not sure why I never published it, but here it is, a few years late…

If you dig deep into the Ace Jet Archive, practically back to the very beginning, you'll find mention of a previous trip to New York City.

Then, it was when roaming the Upper West Side that I stumbled across an old office supplies shop with amazing dusty old stationery treasure stashed at the back; old stock, unsuitable for the modern office, that hadn't moved for maybe decades.

That's where I found the small box of staples with 'Ace Jet 170’ printed on it.

Fast forward many years and a return to the city. This time the stationery shop was Midtown — Phil's Stationery. Hope it's still there. The guy in the shop claimed they were the people that supplied the staplers for Mad Men.

Visitor to Ireland

I somehow persuaded the family to go the the National Print Museum in Dublin the last time we were down there. They were surprisingly tolerant and displayed unprecedent respect for my personal interests. They even showed a little interest themselves. Remarkable.

Above all the lovely presses, type and print paraphernalia, on the mezzanine gallery thing, was a lovely exhibition of Irish label porn.

Two of our airships are missing

 

Last summer (2022) the Westons booked an AirBnB in the north-west corner of Paris, in the 16th arrondissement, and spent a week pounding the Parisien streets. It was the first time for the boys so we took in some of the must-sees, including the Pompidou Centre. As luck would have it, the Nouvelle Objectivitié exhibition was running.

If, like me, you weren't familiar with this movement, it's worth looking up. Briefly: Germany, early twentieth century, a reaction to Expressionism, a call for rationalism. It began as an art movement then widened to cover architecture, product design, commercial art and photography.

If you know a bit of design history you'll probably have come across some of the work, like Otto Neurath's Isotype pictograms.

I was buzzing. It was such an exciting exhibition to come across. So much amazing work that I'd never seen and many pieces I had seen in books. And many things that surprised me.

I was particularly taken by a wall of photos, taken by the German public, of airships. This was when Zepplins were flying scheduled flights over Europe and the Atlantic. There were around 1,500 flights before the devastating Hindenburg disaster of 1937 that put an end to the enterprise.

The photos give an insight into what an incredible sight airships must have been when human engineered flight was still very new.

At odds with the principles of Nouvelle Objectivité, I appropriated these images, photographing the photographs then getting new prints made for my own evil artistic and expressionistic ends.

Testimony I and Testimony II are ThreadForms that celebrate these weird sightings.

 

 

The Bogside

 

 

I spent a day in Derry last week. I've been a few times before but with children, in bad weather, and with no real motivation to do anything in particular. We walked the city walls, got soaking wet…went to the pub and watched the racing, as I remember.

Last week I was flying solo, on a professional assignment and the sun it was a'shining.

I avoided the walls for a while, explored the city's inner workings then hovered at its west side exit, Butcher's Gate. The road beyond leads, in a south-westerly direct, down to the Bogside.

I can't deny that I was a bit nervous about heading down that way.

The Bogside is a sprawling, largely Catholic/Republican enclave, sitting outside the city walls and, you might say, in its shadow – remember I said 'down to the Bogside'. As the name suggests, a long time ago this was not a place you would want to live. And that's why, when us English muscled our way across the island of Ireland around the 1600s, those that we didn't like were pushed down this way, into the quagmire. Even today it's not particularly pretty.

It has a complex history but once you know some of it, you can imagine why resentment was sparked, grew, manifested itself in violence and, in some areas, remains.

So, I was a bit nervous about heading down that way.

We like to think we live in enlightened times and certainly, since I began working in interpretation design, I have found myself more and more considering all sides of a story. It could be said that that is one of the missions of interpretation design – to provoke and to reveal – to give an impartial view of (always) multi-facetted stories; to tell us the things we didn't know and to change our view to a fully informed one.

Living in Northern Ireland, that seems particularly important.

An English man in the Bogside, you can easily imagine, is not a welcome one and my trepidation remained even though I barely skimmed the periphery of the area.

 

Two things I noticed…

One was that the longer I spent down there, the greater the feeling of excitement grew in me. Excitement tinged with fear. It was thrilling and for the first time I felt I was consciously tasting 'Dark Tourism'. I began to see why some people seek out a place with a grim history. In the case of the Bogside, I'm not sure 'history' is quite right, its past is still part of its present.

The other thing I noticed was that once you've walked down from the city walls to see the murals up-close and rising above you, they take on a greater power.

I live in East Belfast. It's largest Loyalist and not so far from us is an area of intense muralisation (that's not really a word but it'll do for now). The murals of East Belfast of very paramilitary. Lots of badges, crests and gun-toting, balaclava-wearing 'soldiers'.

The murals on the Bogside are more creative and conceptual. At least the ones you see on its edges. They tell stories and have social meaning. There's protest and cause in them. They feel like expressions of the subjugated, oppressed and victimised. 

I don't know anyone who suffered or lost people during the troubles, it's very distant from me. But I've learned a fair amount about Irish history and now have some insight into the bigger Irish picture, un-influenced by more direct and contemporary things.

Walking along the Bogside's edge, I felt that there was still reason for dark thoughts to be present in the shadows.

 

n SHIT

 

 

Didn't get to Lulu's. Less interested in the vintage clothing, but was a little intrigued by the 'n shit'.

 

NYFlea

 

 

My tidy haul of ephemerality.

Part way between our Styversant Heights hideout and the big city was the Dumbo Sunday Brooklyn Flea, a small, well formed market of vintage goods. A perfect way to spend a morning before heading to Central Park for a family picnic (if a Saturday works better for you, then Williamsburg is the place to wander sinfully amongst the stalls of retro nonsense).

US FDC's and old school bingo cards were a dollar a pop.

Bowne & Co.

 

Bowne & Co. Stationers is billed as New York City's oldest continuously running business, founded as it was in 1775. Luckily for us, it happens to be a print shop.

If you're at the bottom of Manhattan, maybe to catch the free ferry to Staten Island or the not free ferry to Liberty Island, then you might as well take a walk up Water Street either before or after your voyage to buy letterpress prints from the shop and/or visit the South Street Seaport Museum which Bowne & Co partners. You can explore the museum's collections of photography, printing, ephemera, ship models and scrimshaws (carvings on marine mammal ivory) and the shops (there are two actually) sell a selection of irresistible and reasonably priced print porn.

It's a great location too, as you might expect right on the water's edge so there's plenty to see.

 

25 Years

 

 

Just back from NYC.

It was around 25 years ago that I first went to New York. It was a solo trip at a pivotal time in my personal life and the city energised and changed me. I returned a number of times both on my own and later with Karen, coming close to moving there in 2000. Our decision to not move in the end, given what happened the next year, was later to seam fortuitous, although of course at the time we had no idea why. 

Catastrophe aside, we never regretted our decision, choosing to get married and have a family instead. And although New York became a distant place, it didn't take much to fuel an urge to return: Seth wanted to holiday in a city, ideally Tokyo…New York would do. OK, we said, New York it is.

So, just over 19 years after our last visit, we were back, curious to see how the City had changed and expecting quite a different experience with two boys in tow this time, albeit 13 and 16 year olds fully engaged with our destination. Seth's sights were set on Koryo Books in Koreatown, bubble tea and the Line Friends store in Times Square. Noah (true to form) wanted an authentic New York bagel (Bagels & Schmear), pizza (2 Bros.), Xi'an noodles (Xi-an Famous Foods) and a pastrami on rye (David's Brisket House, Brooklyn).

As it turned out, we all managed to find what we wanted from the City and we had an awesome time; seeing some great sights, experiencing the unexpected, witnessing some sad things and coming home exhausted, with sore legs and plenty to show for our trip.

Yes, we saw changes: the High Line wasn't there before and, of course, the 9/11 memorial, which had a powerful effect on me. It was sad to see the demise of certain things and the unwelcome development of other things but it was also great to see improvements and positive developments that we weren't expecting.

It's a very personal response to the City but my stand-out experiences were:

• Wandering the neighbourhoods
• The subway signs that I hadn't noticed before
• Fishs Eddy (still as good as it was)
• Phil's Stationery (more about that amazing place later)
• Brooklyn Flea (Sunday in DUMBO)
• The massively improved Empire State Building visitor experience
• Anchorman in Bryant Park (a free event sponsored by Netflix)
• The Korean jazz band in Washington Square Park
• Bowne & Co. at South Street Seaport (again, more later)
• Walking the Brooklyn Bridge
• Getting absolutely soaked to the skin in a thunderstorm

Worth noting, we did New York on a bit of a budget; with, effectively, four 'adults' travelling during the main summer holiday, it was never going to be a low cost thing, so we looked for things to do that wouldn't cost $100 for us all to get into (I'm looking at you The Met), missing out on free MOMA on a Friday afternoon (it's currently closed) but winning with that fab outdoor film showing in Bryant Park, picnics in other parks, $1 a slice pizza from 2 Bros. and the High Line, amongst other things.

All my money went on vintage stationery. Man alive! The stationery!

 

Peter Saville meets Alfred Wainwright

 

 

Extracted from Ordnance Survey map keys, actually from a 1975 metric edition of B. Lockey's The interpretation of Ordnance Survey maps and geographical pictures. I've got plans for them. Isolated like this, 'Saville vs. Wainwright' sprang to mind.

Ernest Hemisphere

 

 

Have I mentioned I love my job? Actually, have I mentioned what my job is? Yes, obvs, I'm a graphic designer but it would be more accurate to, now, describe me as an interpretation designer. I used to 'do brochures and stuff', now I do 'exhibitions and that'.

We (that is, Tandem) use the term 'Interpretation Design' (a specific discipline that I wasn't familiar with until I stumbled into my current position nearly five years ago) because what we do is much more than exhibition design. It encompasses exhibition design and lots of other disciplines too. As our Lord High Prophet of Interpretation, Freeman Tilden, described it, it is a discipline that encompasses many disciplines.

So now I design exhibitions…and visitor experiences and museums and interior spaces and interior interventions and architectural interventions and environmental interventions and wayfinding and public art and interpretive graphics…all underpinned by principles set out by the main man just over sixty flipping years ago.

Lots of what we do is connected to heritage or cultural stuff. So I often find myself rummaging through the kind of things I would love to rummage through whether I had this job or not. And often I'm lead down tracks I'm not meant to take.

Last week, I was looking for historical illustrated maps and found dealer in antique maps and atlases Barry Lawrence Rudermann. What an amazing image database Bazza has! Ever since I bought my first atlas I've considered the poles to be the finest of cartographic delights. While BLR may have a different preference there is much Pole action to be had.

 

IATA

 

A small portion of Japan, from 1959. I tried finding out something about the 20th Congress of the International Air Transport Association but, alas, I could find nothing to enlighten us. I did find a film about PanAm and the Boeing 707 from the same year…

 

 

Then these two films about the 377 Stratocruiser…

 

 

I bumped into Alan Fletcher in Cortona…

Thirteen years ago we honeymooned near to Cortona, in the Italian province of Arezzo. We were staying near the top of an adjacent hill and most evenings would drive down from our love nest and up into the birth place of Futurist artist Gino Severini. Cortona was also the setting for Frances Mayes' 1998 International Best Seller Under The Tuscan Sun which was adapted into the damn awful film of the same same. Mayes must have been raging. I didn't read the book but I did eat the peach tart that Karen made from Mayes' recipe and it was excellent.

About four weeks ago we went back.

Cortona was and still is a beautiful hill top Tuscan town. It's busier than it was thirteen years ago, maybe a little more highfalutin, café prices a little higher. The main street has a few new shops including a fascinating den of objet d'art and ephemera. Mostly way out of our price range but I did fork out a handful of euros for two maps, neither of which featured Cortona but nevertheless held cartographic delights amongst their folds.

Both from the Touring Club Italiano, I can't find a print date on the older sheet but the younger espresso-stained sheet is from 1967 and comes complete with a pre-Pentagram Alan Fletcher designed Pirelli ad on the back. The ad was first seen in 1962 when Fletcher brought his tyre company client back to the UK as he joined up with Forbes and Gill.

I was checking out my facts when I stumbled across the Alan Fletcher Archive. Well worth a few hours of your time. For me it all brought back memories of that other trip.

Houston, we have a problem…

They said it couldn’t be done. They said, it was impossible. They said that 'The Thing' could not ‘travel’ to 'The Place'; that it could not happen. It was impossible.

Even now, some claim that it did not happen. They claim that it could not have happened. But let me tell you, with complete certainty, that it did happen. I know. I was there. I saw it.

Yes…the postman really did post a commemorative 45” single from 1969 through our letterbox. A letterbox, notably, not big enough for this vintage News of the World give-away. A letterbox that measures less than the requisite 7” across, at its widest point.

So how did he do it? I here you ask. HTF? (As the younger generation might abbreviate). How was it possible to bend the laws of physics, to pervert known science – to make something so big, fit through something so not big? How?

By bending it. By fecking bending it.

 

But this was no flexidisc, oh no. This disc did not flex. Or bend. It did not bend and it did not flex. It did not fold and it did not contort. It did, what it had to do. All that it could do.

It fecking broke.

We can send a man to the moon. We can record the account of that journey and we can press that account into a disc of plastic to be played back using a turny thing and a needle. We can package that disc of plastic inside a printed account of the remarkable happenings of that time. We can slip both disc and leaflet into a printed space map depicting the journey made all those years ago. And we can stick all that stuff into a specially manufactured glossy card sleeve with a moon boot on the front.

But we can’t post all that shit through a hole smaller than it without something happening that is not supposed to happen. It's a scientific fact.

[Report Ends]

Found Type Friday #104

Well, it's Friday so why not – the last FTF was way back in January 2014. As Ms. Fili knows much better than I, Italia is awash with typographic joy. If you follow me on Instagram you'll have seen these and more, but I think they're worthy of another showing.

Cross

In Umbria €3, after a little accidental haggling, gets you a Nurse/Nun's vintage Red Cross ID card at the local flee-sized flee market that you accidentally pass on your way to buy your hungry family breakfast. Printed interestingness aside, the photo adds a whole other dimension to the ephemeric provocation: Who was this Nun/Nurse/Nurse-Nun? I don't know. But I do know my family is hungry so I'd better get a move on before they twig I'm taking too long.

Colosseo

This time last week it was the day after we'd caught the train from Trevi, in Umbria, to Rome. The 6:42 to be precise. It's no small thing, getting up so early when you're on holiday and generally haven't awoken from your vocational slumber until after eight but we did it and by that precise time we were settling into a poorly air-conditioned carriage. I'd packed books for everyone and breakfast that no one liked so we were sorted for the two hour, nine minute journey.

Upon our arrival we wisely decided to flout all advice and ignored the tourist buses, there to carry you around the ancient city in comfort whilst on the streets the extreme heat cruelly beat down on the over-heated pedestrians, in favour of being pedestrians.

The advantage of our strategy was that we got to see things you don't get to see from the bus; the back street stuff which in a city like Rome is not your run-of-the-mill back street stuff. We also got very sore feet.

For our first destination, after arriving at Roma Termini, we high-tailed it over to The Coliseum (or is it Colosseum?), Rome's most obvious and top old spot. I assume that most people that have been to Rome have been to The Coliseum. I've been in the city before but that time didn't get off my hire-scooter. The Coliseum is old. OLD. And big. There's lots of old stuff around nowadays, and there's older stuff than The Coliseum that you can go see, but maybe not that many things that are both as old and as big.

Before, during and after our visit I read up, which really helped. And I was struck, as we strolled through the ancient archways and that, by how this thing had survived nearly two thousand years. It's heyday was quite short-lived really. Conceived about half way through the first century AD and developed over a number of decade, by sometime around 523 AD, the great amphitheatre was no longer the stage for death and glory it was originally conceived for. Largely because Rome had become Christian and battling savage beasts was just not very…well…Christian.

After that the building was repurposed and pilfered – at times looking more like a building site or quarry. Materials were removed to be used for other constructions and artefacts were snatched.

But somehow The Coliseum prevailed so we can explore it's millennia-old corners and crevices today. 

We were quite fortunate in that we found ourselves at one point standing next to another tourist who had either done some serious homework or was an academic of such matters and we followed him, stalked him really, listening in to his insightful descriptions of the bloody and/or theatrical spectacles performed when The Coliseum was in its prime. Yes, there were all those gladiatorial shenanigans going on but the space was also used to present more narrative-based performances, with elaborate sets, such as mock hunts with exotic beasts shipped in as unfortunate and unwitting prey. Or so our unknowing teacher informed us, as we shadowed him.

I've thought about The Coliseum a lot since last week. We walked down corridors that were there nearly two thousand years ago – that's practically biblical. I've had similar feelings in the less developed corners of Greek islands, where time feels like it's stood still, but The Coliseum is different because it's an intricately and intelligently designed space in the heart of a sprawling metropolis.

I bought this book in the gift shop. It's really nice. Spaciously designed with just enough content for the novice to consume and enjoy. Just €10.

Firenze Santa Maria Novella

Florence station is curious. It's really shabby but you can tell that once it was spectacular. Designed in 1932 by the Gruppo Toscano, an architects collective, and named after the church opposite, the construction is rightly considered to be a major piece of Italian modernism. There are loads of fantastic, if grubby, original details.

Stage 1: Ferry to Scotland

Three weeks ago we set off. It seems that we just can't go the easy, direct way. So this time it was ferry to Scotland; a long drive to Birmingham; a short hop to EMA; a flight to Pisa; hire car to Barga, north of Lucca.

Back

We've been away. That's why it's been so quiet round these here parts. Italy, via mainland UK and there are LOADS of photos. LOADS of them. So you might just want to pretend I'm still away and come back in another week or so.

A Creative Exploration

Another Escape sets out to capture the enthusiasm of others. Investigating the lives and pastimes of individuals who throw themselves, with zeal, headlong into the endeavours that they find the greatest affinity with. I get that. For a long time I've felt there's little difference between someone obsessed with, for example, the micro details of type and typography and those preoccupied with the intricacies of craft ales or the plummage of our feathered friends.

One man's nerdy obsession is another's passion and who are we to judge the validity of another's fixation. As the Another Escape team says themselves, "We can take away from these energetic individuals fuel for our own motivation".

In Volume One you'll meet, amongst many others: Jim and Lou from Brighton Miniclick, Amy and Claire from Super + Super, Ace Jet favourites Jane and Ben from Herb Lester, James from Boneshaker and Mike, from his allotment.

Best you go and buy it. From here.

 

Ferry

I don't think I'll ever tire of the ferry. I'm sure I've mentioned it before so I won't bang on about it too much. The newly refurbished, wifi-enabled, still crappy fooded, now even faster ferry is great. And we got a superb day for our crossing; beautiful, bright and absolutely freezing out on deck. One of the best things about this ferry is how much "on deck" there is. Expansious and multi-floored; on a warmer day you can even visit the sun deck. This wasn't one of those days. What you do get outside though is a real sense of scale. Standing under the…er…big thing at the back, you feel dwarfed.

Hoch fliegen

You're probably wondering how come it's taken me this long to get around to buying this amazing record of Lufthansa's design heritage? What can I say?

Laziness. Nothing more or less than bone idleness. Complete and utter, shameful, unadulterated, lackadaisical slacking.

If it wasn't for slothful, indolence I'd have snapped this up when it was first published. And delighted in its pages of tip top, world-class, über-stylish corporate identiness.

I am guilty as charged.  

They're lovely…and they don't cost much.

Those ace people over at Herb Lester are now selling luggage tags. Printed onto what looks like Tyvek®, they're lightweight but robust. They're also lovely…and don't cost much.

The perfect accompaniment to…er…something else, this Christmas.

We travelled across many miles

We've just come back from our summer holiday. Did I say "holiday"? I should have said "odyssey". To us it was an epic journey of unfeasible length. A journey through lands foreign to us (Scotland, England and Kent). By car, we travelled across many miles. By ferry, we journeyed across a vast expanse of ocean. By car, we travelled across many miles (again). In my Mum's house we had dinner, slept a bit and ate many wine gums. Then by car, we travelled across many miles (again, again). Until finally, FINALLY we reached the next stage of our journey.

And it's at this point our journey became so very strange, the account of it sounds more akin to an extract from a Jules Verne novel than a true report of an actual, real occurance. Get this: We travelled in our car, on a train, through a an enormous tube, under the very bed of the sea. And when we emerged from our subterranian experience, at the distant end of the mega-pipe, we were in…another country. A country known by some as "France".

Finally, FI-NA-LLY! France. Finally, we had reached…the next stage of our journey.

By car, we travelled across "beaucoup de milles".

 

Paris pour des chercheurs de plaisir

Anyone who knows the language well will see straight through my sorry attempt at French. A feable auto-translation does little to reflect the subtlties of its poetic intonations. Herb Lester's new map, on the otherhand, is an all-round impressive effort; guiding us skillfully through the regular and irregular pleasure spots that the city has to offer the seeker.

 

 

Northern Rock

We got a week on the North Coast just before the kids went back to school. It was epic. Somehow, even though we've been in NI for seven years, we haven't really spent any time up there. It's probably the most impressive part of the province. So we did all the obvious but dead exciting things: The Causeway, the Rope Bridge, White Park Bay was amazing. Nick from The Apprentice interupted our picnic at Ballintoy Harbour and we spotted basking sharks from the ferry to Rathlin.

And, predictably, I looked at rocks.

Staring at the ground

As previously suggested, I spend a little too much time looking down. Last weekend we were camping at Castleward. Not adventurous camping. No. Cozy, easy-to-bail-out camping just an hour's drive away. OK, it was cold at night and we were in our own tent. I mean, we weren't glamping. But still, not exactly living in the wilds; Bacon and egg every morning and organic burgers for tea. A pot of espresso on the stove and a bottle of red to keep our strength up.

When we weren't huddling together for warmth, frying up a car crash breakfast or searching for the puncture in one of the air beds, we were on our bikes, heading pier-wards for a spot of crabbing. Armed with rinds for the pinchers and a picnic for us.

Beautifully textured, ancient piers.

Public Information

Sooner or later you'll realise that I'm just disguising my holiday snaps in a thin veil of graphic interest. It's basically like "the old days", when your friends would invite you over "for drinks" only to unravel their projection screen and subject you to a piss-poor attempt to evocatively capture their holiday experience. The bad news is, today, there's no duty-free Sangria to smooth your way through. If it's too much for you to bare please accept my apologies. On my reckoning, I've two or three more posts to get through before we can return to the usual land-based ephemeral mix.

When not peering overboard at the wash, I passed time recording important information which we all hoped would not be needed.

Swell

Actually, I don't think "swell" is the right word. And it's not "wake" either is it? What's the right word for the wavey, breaky stuff that occurs immediately around the boat?

Easter, since we moved to NI, has always meant a dutiful trip back to my folks in Birmingham. Not that it's a chore. It's an eight to nine hour slog the way we do it (ferry crossing then long drive), but it's always worth it; the journey is a great part of the holiday. This year we set out on the early crossing at 7am. Belfast to Stranraer for those that don't know.

I like an early start but there is a trade-off. The first crossing of the day is on the slow boat: small and, if you're unlucky like we were, crowded. Celtic fans and Irish dancers heading over the water to their respective competitions. But it was a fine day and one thing the tug does have over the faster boat is the opportunities to get out on deck: It's got four, fairly big exterior bits compared to the two arse-end, smoker's platforms on the speedy HSS.

Being on the sides, you get great views of both the far away and the close up. And with the latter comes the ever-changing, ghostly mishmash of the water breaking against the hull of the vessel, or is it "keel"?

The Old Country

It's been five years since we left my homeland for this annex of the UK and since then we've only been back twice. So it's not surprising then that seeing the old place has a powerful effect on me. To emphasise that effect we wallow in the country by taking the ferry and driving for bloody hours (six to be precise) rather than jumping on a plane just down the road from us and landing an hour or so later within 15 minutes of our final destination. Gluttons for punishment we may be but the rewards are great.

Driving aboard is always exciting, all the more so at dawn; two hours at sea is great fun; disembarking on the other side, in Stranraer, is thrilling; and the open road generously provides amazing fews of a country that while still relatively small, globally speaking, seems so much bigger than our little corner of Ireland. England (and Scotland) is beautiful.

But I'm not going to rattle on about the drive, there's much to blog over the next week or so, I just want to give an ultra-brief synopsis of some (but by all means not all) of the visual highlights of our time over there, just for the record. And they are:

_ Cranes at dawn

_ Lego-Streaker at Lego-Wembley

_ Our lovely friend's converted water tower (that's our room)

_ A child's view of a horse's nostril

_ Duck eggs in nest

_ An untidy turkey chasing stroppy chickens

_ Lovely, lovely (lovely) foamy beer

_ The church we got married in

_ A dead rat on a yellow tarpaulin

      

Staff Edition

In 1959 crazy paved caffeteria's, slacks and Clarendon were all the rage.