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Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.175 17 Aug 2018
A Dream Come True
A short story by Vince, written 1982.
The heat from the ground rose defiantly, shimmering above the winding road, the distortions playing havoc with the clear cut edge of the tarmac strip.
A feint roar could be heard from the distant horizon. The noise grew louder and louder, now heard well above the relentless chanting of the birds and insects. A glint of light was caught in the distance and as the rumble drew closer it could be observed that a motorcyclist, resplendent in his white leather jacket, was riding his mount rapidly towards the ancient monument half a mile away.
As the rider rode faster into the foreground it could be observed that this was no ordinary day tripper. The open megaphone type exhausts echoed a note reminiscent of track racers, the rapid acceleration shattered only by the tortuously hard braking for his next corner belayed an experienced street racer. Each gear change was just a flick from his right boot just a fraction of momentum lost. At every corner the hot black rubber of the tyres scrabbled for grip, the footrests causing sparks to be flown from the tarmac. Then again the rider pulled upright rapidly towards the next bend in an ecstasy of speed and tormented delight.
This frantic moment of riding soon came to a close. The rider having pulled out of a sweeping right hander screwed open the throttle, laid on the tank and watched the long straight unfurl in front of him. The speedometer needle indicated seventy, eighty, ...ninety passed as his right foot forced the next gear into operation. The black chromed exhausts bleated out in beautiful harmony as one-hundred and ten showed. Ton-twenty and the motor screamed for more, the airstream battling with the rider for control of the machine.
The needle peaked at one-hundred and twenty-five as the next bend loomed into the distance. Within a split second the rider’s right hand was gripping the brake lever. The motion abruptly spoiled as the black calipers grabbed the shining twin front discs. The front end dropped as the weight fell on the front wheel, the forks diving in pain as ninety, seventy, fifty passed. Then a quick gear change and the bike cruised gently round the next bend.
Now that the riding was more sedate the details of man and machine could be seen. The rider wearing his black crash helmet, bearing the mark of a Greek God painted delicately in gold, faded blue jeans and studded leather boots was haunched over a mainly black bike.
The heart of the bike, a mighty V-twin motor, thumped it’s power through a huge chain and was converted to power by a massive oversize rear tyre. The front end, braced by two powerful looking forks, boasted a huge tyre, twin discs and rather unsubstantial but neat looking mudguard. Above, the double headlights were gripped in a small nose fairing suggesting night racing but were taped over as it was a sunny afternoon.
Above the unburstable black motor lay a shiny, glimmering petrol tank. As with the rest of the machine it was gloss black and only the golden letters broke the monotony. The name reminiscent of by-gone days where the engine once ruled the roads, now emblazoned on the most beautiful bike in the world, read...VINCENT.
The Vincent motorcycle concept I envisaged for this story in the early eighties. The café racer is influenced by the Vincent Black Shadow, the Moto-Martin CBX and Ogri
Vince was proud of his bike. Very proud. He had read how customers spend hundreds of pounds and thousands of hours churning out visually appealing machines, only to be torn to pieces and then re-built in time for the next custom show. Also, like it as not, they don’t run, or can’t because they have sixty-nine carat gold plate on the rear sprocket or something.
But Vince’s bike ran, and it ran well. He remembered how his old CX500 used to bounce and weave along this, his favourite stretch of road. Even the Suzuki GS750 seemed to wallow above eighty on these curves. But his Vincent, that he was riding now, seemed to eat potholes and white lines as though it were stood still on a bowling green. Most bikes seemed like a roller-coaster on speed compared to this machine.
And what a machine it was. A speed machine, an accelerating machine, an enthusiast’s machine, a reliable machine...? Vince pondered on this for a while as the shining black beauty purred slowly into town, the passers-by admiring the immaculate lines and enviously noticing the smug look of it’s pleased rider. The reliability, he thought, was probably the machine’s weakest point, although this would probably be complimenting it’s other features. The speed was electrifying, the finish superb, the handling perfect. Even the fuel consumption was favourable compared to the modern multis.
In reality, Vince thought, nothing should go wrong with his bike. After all he had built the engine and bike from scratch, so he knew it inside out. He remembered how his grandfather had nearly thrown out the old engine. Now neatly restored, painted black and brightly polished it looked like it had been brought just yesterday. It’s one-thousand cc’s of sheer muscle seemed to ooze character as it fired it’s cylinders in turn after every second lamppost on the pavement. Beautiful, Vince thought.
Up ahead were traffic lights. They were about forty yards away by now and Vince knew that if he opened the throttle the black sensation would roar easily through before the red, even if the amber showed up now, but he was in no hurry. Vince used to scream along at fifty or sixty in town on the Suzuki thinking he was a king, but on this machine he knew he was and therefore had no need to prove it. He casually glanced down at the large Smiths speedo and read twenty-seven miles an hour.
Sure enough the lights turned red and Vince pulled up resting his front wheel just short of the white line. The traffic system was a slow one so Vince knew he would be able to look around, revelling in the fame this bike seemed to bring him. When he stopped in the street it was almost as if every male over the age of fifty had owned one when they were young. So strange that there was only one other Vincent in the country now.
He noticed his reflection in the mirrored glass of a shop front, the bike’s weight resting gently on his left boot. Vince placed his right foot down and raised his left, seeing his reflection as though he were riding. He crouched low over the tank and smiled as he imagined Brands Hatch wind around in front of him, the chequered flag waving as he passed the finishing line well ahead of the competition.
Today however, the only competition was the buzzing RD250 that had pulled up right next to him.
The Yamaha was the usual two-fifty seen around suburban streets. Vince himself had owned something similar when he had started motorcycling just a few years ago. This model, being about two years old now, and obviously thrashed, was naturally tatty. The scratches, twisted footrests and bent handlebar levers seemed to compliment the Vincent perfectly.
The rider too was the standard eighteen-year old Vince had been three years back, with his painted polycarbonate hat and Foster-Grants. A wry smile told the message Vince was expecting. The rider rocked backwards and forwards revving his engine and grinning widely. This guy wanted a race.
Vince casually clicked the gear-lever into first and gave a quick blat of the motor to show the competition that he meant business. The revolutions died down to it’s normal thumping tick-over as he held in the clutch and watched the ominous red light.
The Yam owner was now sweating. He loved racing cars and bikes away from the lights and considered himself good at the ‘sport’. After all he had only been beaten once and that was because he had missed a gear. A criminal act in the unwritten law of street racing. And today he was challenging no ordinary Escort. This black monster next to him seemed to ooze power, even stood still. His eyes locked onto the lights, only blinking to remove the sweat gathering on his eyelids.
Suddenly the red light was joined by the amber. The Yamaha owner dropped his clutch holding five-thousand revs. The front wheel pawed the air, nearly sending the rider off the back. Seven-thousand on the clock and the rider plucked his next gear from the box, the front wheel again falling to the ground. Another seven-thousand was showing and again the front tyre was losing traction with the tarmac as the rider flicked a higher ratio into operation in a frantic dash for victory.
The red and amber had now dissolved and had been replaced by green and Vince knew he could now start. He had not been tempted to jump the lights with his opponent, after all he did have the capacity advantage over the Yamaha. He noticed that the other rider was across the other side of the junction and was only about fifty yards away from the narrowing gap, caused by the parked cars, which they were racing for.
The huge motor only showed two-and-a-half thousand on the tachometer when he slipped the light clutch away from the left handlebar. He knew that he had over seventy miles an hour in this gear so it was now down to his right hand. Vince preferred to release clutches gently and let the motor do the work rather than lose valuable forward motion trying to control senseless wheelies.
The tachometer was showing four thousand now and the scorching black rubber of the rear tyre was acting like a clutch as a plume of white smoke emitted from the back. Vince leaned forward onto his forearms to prevent the aerobatics of the front end and watched as the little Yamaha appeared to be coming back towards him.
It was now only twenty yards to that gap and the Yam had the best line, with the rider obviously happy as he seemed well ahead. Having jumped the lights and gained that extra twenty or thirty yards he was confident that it would take something pretty special to beat him past that red Cortina parked ahead. The juggernaut approaching the other way prevented any alternative route and as his front wheel was way ahead of any competition, which was the only thing that mattered, he guessed that the other rider was braking fiercely.
The competition, however, was something pretty special and Vince wasn’t going to loose easily. The gap may have been only fifteen yards away and they may have been travelling well above fifty by now but Vince knew that his bike only needed a gap of about nine feet to get through and saw that his front wheel was in line with the Yamaha’s rear and he was accelerating like he had never experienced before.
With the throttle against the stop and the motor now screaming in delight he was being physically stretched by the power. His arms seemed to be pulling from their sockets and his eyes watered with the pain at the tremendous G-force, pushing him against the moulded seat hump.
The bikes were level now and the red Cortina seemed all too near. With his acceleration Vince knew that if he were to back off now he would have no time to stop or swerve. It was now or never. His right hand forced the throttle harder against it’s stop causing the rubber to twist painfully, as the bikes edged closer together, the gap drawing nearer. Now even the Vincent’s front end lifted as the two battled for first place.
Luckily for Vince his front wheel was now ahead, but the Cortina was very close, however, rules are rules and he decided to swerve towards the gap, just missing the car by a few inches. The Yamaha rider sensed this and threw his right fist forward, shutting off the throttle and grabbing the brake lever. The tiny black caliper clutched it’s shining disc and sent a thin black run of rubber down the tarmac.
Vince had won, but only just.
Further on down the road the mighty Vincent pulled up at another set of traffic lights. It burbled away on tick-over as it’s last competitor silently drew up next to it.
Vince looked at the Yamaha’s owner and smiled confidently. The rider gave a return nod.
“Thanks.” Replied Vince.
“Quick...” he continued “...isn’t it?”
“Quick enough.” Confirmed Vince.
“What is it?” Asked the Yam owner, as the lights turned to green.
“A dream come true.” Vince replied, dumping the clutch. The mighty motor again responded and he roared off into the distance…
Author: Vince Poynter Version m5.175 17 Aug 2018
The first half written for an article in Southampton and District Motorcycle Club magazine under the title The Ultimate Ride, published in 1982 with the remaining penned to fit the requirements of Bike magazine, but sadly never published meaning the writer had to get a proper job.
At the time of writing the Southampton and District Motorcycle Club was based in Woodside Avenue in Eastleigh. It can now be found via sdmcc.net
First published in this website Version 3.0 Mar 2010
The header photograph shows the author squatting next to an immaculate Vincent Rapide motorcycle. The Rapide was produced between 1936 and 1955 and remains a collectable bike. The more famous, faster Black Shadow model had black enamelled engine casings. The photo was taken by the author's wife in Skegness in April 1996
The sketch was drawn by the author to demonstrate the bike envisaged in the story. It was influenced by the Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle's V-twin motor sat in a frame similar to the eighties Moto-Martin CBX1000. Also there is just a bit of Ogri in it. Orgi was a cartoon character drawn by Paul Sample for Bike Magazine between 1972 and 2009. Ogri actually rode a Norvin, a Vincent engined Norton café racer. Actually he didn't as he was just an ink drawn character. Ogri continued in motorcycle magazine Back Street Heroes until 2012
The @vinceunlimited Twitternovel Story
Exploring limitations of a new Social Medium
A radical new concept devised by Vince, published in twitter.com/vinceunlimited during March 2009.
I started using the short format, public posting service Twitter in January 2009. During my initial explorations of the service I noticed that noone I knew was using the service to publish a story. I presumed established authors considered the format lightweight, limiting or offered no opportunity for monetisation. These were no barriers to me so I commenced a Twitternovel in March 2009 which ran alongside my other Tweets at that time.
I called the story one25 which was the amount of characters I had to use each time allowing for a hash tag search identifier [#one25], chapter number, message and continuation mark to fill the entire 140 character limitation set by the service.
I also planned to do exactly 125 entries over 125 days but this would be only realised by the reader at the end. I only had a vague idea of the story, preferring to make it up as I went along, although I did plan some internal Twitter references. The introduction was posted at 8:46 p.m. on 1 March 2009...
#one25 A new way to enjoy Twitter. A Novel in 140 character Tweets by @vinceunlimited. For comments or discussion please use #one25note
And the story began...
#one25 001 Normally waking up in a giant cage in a laboratory would be a concern but after what Jo had just been through it was a relief tbc
#one25 002 Jo looked around. It was dark but the shadow ahead looked suspiciously like a huge rat. And what were those things? Whiskers? tbc
#one25 003 Jo twitched & the whiskers moved. She was a rat. But having four foot whiskers had to wait. The other rat was heading her way tbc
#one25 004 A huge rat with piercing eyes running at Jo wasn't actually the most frightening thing. What was that shadow chasing the rat? tbc
#one25 005 The rat coming at Jo was scooped up by a mighty hand then whisked away. Was Jo next? She noticed the cage door was left open tbc
#one25 006 Jo scurried to the door. She looked around the room. Two men were preparing the inject the other rat. Was this now Jo's fate? tbc
#one25 007 Jo looked down. The drop looked 50' but someone had left a towel on the floor. She took her chance and launched into the air. tbc
#one25 008 As Jo fell she worried about the landing and experienced flashing red lights with a piercing scream. Then she hit the ground tbc
#one25 009 She crashed heavily into the towel. Jo rolled back upright and saw one of the men leaving the lab. The door was closing shut tbc
#one25 010 Jo raced across the room. She thought she just got through the closing gap but the door slammed shut, on the end of her tail. tbc
#one25 011 The door closing on Jo was excruciatingly painful. But she could see someone coming. Would she have to gnaw off her own tail? tbc
#one25 012 Without choice, Jo braced herself and bit hard into her tail, her sharp teeth cutting clean through. Then she heard a scream. tbc
#one25 013 The shrieking woman would draw attention. Jo had to act fast. People are scared of rats so Jo ran at her and leapt in the air tbc
#one25 014 Jo flew headlong at the giant girl. The girl turned & batted Jo to the side, tumbling her against the wall, knocking her out. tbc
#one25 015 Thankfully Jo recovered senses quickly. She saw an outside door & ran for it. Her momentum took her straight into a busy road tbc
#one25 016 In the road Jo was confronted by a speeding truck nearly 200' high coming straight towards her. She braced herself for impact tbc
#one25 017 The lorry driver saw Jo the rat in the road and steered towards her. Thankfully Jo fell in a pothole so survived the impact. tbc
#one25 018 Jo scurried to the pavement and ran into an alley, wondering how rats survived. Then came face to face with a twenty foot cat tbc
#one25 019 The cat leapt onto Jo grabbing her by it’s giant jaw. As teeth dug into Jo’s neck she experienced more red lights and screams tbc
#one25 020 The many red lights & piercing screams subsided as Jo realised there was no more danger. But she did have a rat in her mouth tbc
#one25 021 Jo's jaw dropped open with surprise & the rat fell to the ground. As it ran off Jo noticed it had the end of the tail missing tbc
#one25 022 Jo looked down and saw she had cats legs & paws. First a rat, now a cat. What was going on? And what was that growling sound? tbc
#one25 023 Jo turned to see a huge dog nearly three times her size, barking furiously. As she backed away she noticed it was salivating. tbc
#one25 024 The rabid dog made a scary lunge. The flashing red lights & screams returned. After subsiding Jo was looking at a scared cat. tbc
#one25 025 Strange. Whenever Jo got scared she experienced flashing red lights & screams, then transferred bodies. Could she force this? tbc
#one25 026 Experimenting, Jo cornered the cat, growling gently. As predicted it lashed out across Jo's nose, causing lights and screams tbc
#one25 027 Immediately Jo was again looking at the dog. Still rabid, but this time with a bleeding nose. Jo figured it was time to exit. tbc
#one25 028 Jo slipped by the dog, bounding out the alley, feeling lithe as the cat she was. She had to find a place to sort herself out tbc
#one25 029 Jo crept along the pavement avoiding the people. It was then she realised she wasn't in a giant world. She was just cat sized tbc
#one25 030 Jo climbed onto a pile of boxes to get a view. She looked around. Where was she? A big city. American. How did she get there? tbc
#one25 031 She could still read the shop names but she failed to read the warning sign on the door behind the boxes. And it opened up. tbc
I temporarily suspended the service at the beginning of April 2009. I wondered whether the story was being followed as enthusiastically as I was posting it. I also became aware of difficulties in posting updates amongst my other entries and wondered how it may be seen. Were my new followers confused about the strange Tweets? Were my oldest followers tolerating a story they had no intention of following? I waited for a comment or three on the suspension and received nothing.
Probably due to the normal low interaction level by Twitterers, as it is a fundamentally passive experience, coupled with my low following numbers and the fact that for all they knew the story was finished I now have an abandoned, unfinished project.
I may re-ignite the interest again. Maybe on the second anniversary. Maybe when I have thousands of followers. Maybe under a separate Twitter account. Maybe never.
I am sure the concept is sound. In fact on 3 March 2009 a Radio 4 presenter commented that she suspected someone had devised the format. I immediately posted the following...
R4 presenter then added that she suspected someone, somewhere was probably writing a Twitternovel. Yes that would be me - next one25 follow
If you want this resurrected, let me know.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.174 16 Aug 2018
The Twitternovel was first published in twitter.com/vinceunlimited during Mar 2009
This narrative first published in this website Version 3.0 Mar 2010
Vision Of Death
A Novelette Fiction By Vince written in the early eighties
Why do the Ruskies play such dangerous versions of casino games?
I can’t remember why we were there, but we were and that was all that mattered at this moment in time. Across the table all I saw was his cold, calm face and crossed arms. He looked so easy, so relaxed, although I figured this must be an act as I myself was trying to portray an air of calmness even though deep inside I trembled.
On the table were just three objects. The candle lighting his sinister features, the Magnum and a lethal bronzed bullet, shining in the eerie flickering light. Silent. Deadly.
His hand moved slowly towards the gun and raised it pointing in my direction and with a quick and near professional flick of his wrist released the magazine chamber. His other hand, now in view, picked up the bronzed cartridge and held it tantalisingly upright by the base for what seemed like several seconds.
I could now feel my collectiveness deteriorating as a bead of sweat trickled slowly down my forehead lodging itself neatly in my left eyebrow. His eyes, however, showed no sign of detecting this as he stared singularly at the capsule of death in his left hand. I longed for just one brief moment, just one millisecond of freedom from his icy presence to hide my fears.
Finally he looked up again into my eyes and slid the bullet gently into the cold steel chamber. My eyes couldn’t be taken from that small dark hole, the daunting prospect that next time the chamber was emptying I could be at the receiving end.
He placed the weapon back on the table, this time with it’s carved wooden handle nearest to me. He refolded his arms and cautiously smiled, although this revealed a weakness as I noticed the far corner of his lips quivering nervously. This released a portion of my own anxiety as I relaxed back slightly into the chair. Now it was my move.
I placed my hand gently over the gun’s handle and paused a moment. I had the upper hand now and was determined to make the most of my time. I discounted a smile though to ensure no lip tremble disturbed my lines.
I lifted the Magnum, suddenly realising it was no toy. It’s metallic weight seemed reluctant to allow me to lift it from the table. A strange sense of scalding seemed to burn my palms as I considered it’s deadliness, which made my fingers sticky with sweat. I raised the gun, pointing the barrel at my adversary, my index finger resting gently on the cold trigger. I felt so powerful.
To be continued...
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.173 14 Aug 2018
Written in the early eighties
First Published: Version 3.0 in Mar 2010
Thought Provoking Photographs
A quick paragraph to explain that a few thought provoking photographs have been added to the website in the Photos section. Follow the link below or click on the 'Photos' image in the left column.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.172 13 Aug 2018
Through The Round Window
Take a look out of your window. What do you see?
The chances are that unless you are on holiday, you live on a ship or are currently slumming it in what the Americans call an “ArrVee” the view is exactly the same as the one you had yesterday. And the day before.
And unless you are about to complete a property transaction or do a moonlight flit from the landlord it will be the same again tomorrow.
I for one find all that a bit monotonous.
And I won’t accept the changing patterns of trees in the winter/spring/summer/autumn argument. The trees never move and for my money offer less distraction than a city-scape skyline. At least with a city you may get the chance to live opposite a hospital nurses’ changing room during a curtain closing drought.
So I have devised a cunning way to relieve the monotony. Let's all share our views.
I propose that all windows be replaced with a big LCD screen backing onto a networked webcam.
Tomorrow I could be looking out of your lounge window and you could be looking out of mine. And noting that Mrs Miggins across the road has just painted her front door green.
Obviously certain outlooks will be of more interest than others. I’ve seen several windows that back onto the neighbours wall and others with fine vistas.
Which gives me the name. Let’s call this ‘Windows replaced by Vista’.
Although I may need to do some research to see if this infringes any patented trademarks first.
Perhaps we could use a system where we state the number of viewing options available. I have 7 windows in my house so I could call my place Windows 7. You see Windows 7 really is my idea.
The system could even be monetised with the most popular views commanding high viewing figures and attracting ad breaks.
And guess which curtain drought outlook would be the most popular?
There are a couple of drawbacks.
In winter you may switch to a nice sunny outlook only to have your Hawaiian shirt thoroughly dampened when you step out into the real world's shivering rain.
And, being the twenty-first century all soothsayers will immediately rally around the old chestnut of energy usage. After all these screens would use more energy than a simple plate of glass.
But there is a response. Ask yourself how a lot of the heat escapes from a well insulated property - through the glazing. And with this system all windows will be bricked up and insulated.
I foresee that one day you will be able to say “That outlook is so much more improved”.
And that’s no bad thing.
However that potential trademark is also being considered.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.170 10 Aug 2018
First Published: Version 3.0 in Mar 2010
Windows Vista is the name of Microsoft's computer operating software released in 2007
Windows 7 is the name of Microsoft's computer operating software released in 2009
When Windows 7 was released Microsoft updated their 'I'm a PC' advertising campaign, which had attempted to counter the Apple 'Get a Mac' advertising campaign, using the tag line "I'm a PC and Windows 7 was my idea"
Microsoft's Outlook, a personal information manager, incorporating email, was initially released in 1992 and has since had many improvements made up to it's current version
Future Computer Considered in 2010
In truth desktop systems probably wouldn’t exist, being far too cumbersome so this system will actually all fit inside a clock on your mantlepiece. Except mantlepieces will be considered so passe that the clock will have to sit on the floor. Here the clock will gather far too much dust so will be moved back onto a desk. Hence, the replacement desktop system.
A Brooklyn [yes, as in Beckham] 2030, carbon fibre micro case with AMD [touchy] ZZR series 38.9THz triple-quad-bus bio-platform, running through 56k DOS, on 93Gb TAM [total access memory] and 22,222Mb standard video RAM boosted with a 4D-VR 39Gb acceleration card giving graphics from a 16377 x 9212 DLP4 screen utilising 32 million and one colours. They found another one - Hurrah!.
Storage is a bio-neural vector imaging carbofile with immeasurable capacity pseudo-hard drive utilising aluminium organospheres but still no room for those ultra HD3D video files. Outside access is via a 4649M video-modem through we-will-actually-pay-YOU-fifty-Eurodollars-serve.com. Still uploading at about 33k usually.
Software is Air-con [which is proving much better than Windows] whilst audio is supplied through a multi-phase version 6.947.34a amp with graphics displayed on a widescreen 73" plasma projector SCD with Dolbyson Pro-logisense sensurround implant flat mini-speakers with three separate built-in giga-woofers. Boooooooooooooooooooooooom!.
RolexPro Diamonte with Apple-chip processor and superlite mini-screen, glued to inside of contact lens with thought activated inputs. Solar powered, with 11-month backup battery, developed by the Norwegians, unsurprisingly.
Having finally run out of every single combination of words starting with i Jonny Ives has finally allowed Steve Jobs to use the j moniker. However the now Lord Ives had his design workshop reconfigured so perfectly that he cannot find the door handle and hasn’t been seen for years. As a result the now US President Jobs had to head up the design for the jMac and it looks like a pair of old jeans with a black turtleneck top for a screen. Shares in Apple have fallen and may drop as low as $50m dollars each.
Resorted to using my original Canon Bubble-jet, although I have now changed the ink cartridge.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.169 9 Aug 2018
First Published: Version 3.0 in Mar 2010
It is interesting to note that in 2018 a 22 or 39Gb video acceleration cards, a 16377 x 9212 screen, 73" projector and Apple-chip processors [or very similar in each case] are already manufactured
Computers Web 2010
Screenshot of the Home Page of vinceunlimited.co.uk version 3
Wibbly, Wobbly, Webbly - An update at March 2010
No, not a home for arachnids but details of this site. The software which I used and which design house I employed [Do you really think this is professionally made?].
Here are details of the software used to create and uplift this webpage to the great World Wide Web and onto your screen.
This is the third generation layout of my first effort at designing and producing a website and I have finally surrendered to time and used a web-creation package, namely Apple’s iWeb.
O.K. I can’t boast of programming in HTML any more but content is King so at least now that it’s out I can make pretty updates quicker.
I now use the inbuilt web creation FTP supplied with iWeb and if I feel the need to go all manual I get in touch with my FileZilla side.
I use BT as a broadband Internet Service Provider. And in return they give me a whopping 6mB of the 8mB they promise. I am also a signed up member of the MobileMe family so Grannie Smith also does a spot of hosting on my behalf.
I use Web-Mania as a Web Server provider. The price is reasonable so naturally they let someone into my account once. Nerds.
I would add it onto the Apple servers but would lose an element of personalisation.
Website conceived, designed, produced, checked and sent to you by Vince. So that's me then.
*E-mail me on email@example.com if you can't read this site
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.168 8 Aug 2018
First Published: Version 3.0 in Mar 2010
The image is a screenshot from the upper section of the Version 3.0 website, first seen in Mar 2010 and added to this article in Version 5.168 8 Aug 2018