This is the main blog page of the vinceunlimited website.
In blogs the latest articles are at the head of the page, with older posts appearing below in reverse date order. And so it will be on this page.
At present the vinceunlimited website is being re-constructed with the all the oldest posts from 2003 and 2004 having been added, along with a smattering of newer ones from 2017. The 2005 articles are now being added. Then the 2006 etc. Hope that's not too confusing?
To allow you you search for posts there is a vSearch in the left column. Look out for new post titles here.
Alternatively go to the home page to witness all new posts being added during this re-building stage.
You can access the home page in several ways. The link is vinceunlimited.co.uk or you could click on my face icon at the top left of the page, or click the button below. The choices are endless. Providing the end happens after just three choices.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.072 16 Feb 2018
First published in this format: Version 5.008 18 Oct 2017
Minor editing Version 5.013 27 Oct 2017
Further editing, explaining the re-building stage, added in Version 5.016 9 Nov 2017
See individual article notes for specific dates added
Version 5 Phase 2 Completed
So, I’ve now completed phase two of the rebuilding of my version five website.
Phase one was the preparation and initial launch back in September and this second phase was to add, page by page, an enhanced copy of the content originally published on my site in version 1.0 back in October 2003.
And it’s all done, bar the odd debugging and consistency fixing.
A total of nearly 100 pages now exist in both desktop and mobile formats. All told nearly 200 hand coded web pages.
If you have been following the uploads you will have already seen a truly eclectic mix of ideas, opinions, writing and information. Now all with added photography enhancement and detail notes. And this is just the start.
The new presentation allows you to either watch everything happen on the homepage or selectively choose to follow a style or theme.
For example follow a blog format or you can pick your type such as a geek or petrolhead and follow only the content that you have a specific interest in.
Or you can even randomly select a page, do a search for specific articles or select content based on a phrase or snippet that interests you.
So, is this all my original untouched content from version 1.00. Well, not quite. But it’s all you are getting. Things have moved on from 2003 and I have had to do just a tiny bit of editing.
Mostly it has been just grammar corrections and layout updating but I have also chosen to omit some silly links, plus those outside of the website as many now no longer exist.
Plus I have had to temper some phrases used in one article which now read a touch insensitive and I chose to exclude a full idea I previously had about a screensaver based on a then popular but now discredited television personality.
So what about phases three and onward.
Well next up, commencing very early next year, will be the website additions originally issued in subsequent versions of my site numbered 1.01 to 1.04.
Followed by selective and relevant vincepoynter.co.uk content to be added to the ‘About Me’ section.
Then I’ll be moving on to adding the 2005 onward web 2.xx versions, including my first referenced blogs from originally around 2006.
This will be followed by my 2010 onward iWeb content and then finally the 2012 to 2017 WordPress articles which include my 2014 podcasts.
Plus various interesting interim diary, Social Media content and even selective YouTube videos.
So, an awful lot to come, all to be added one bit at a time over the course of the next year and possibly beyond!
And then I can finally get around to really enhancing the site with brand new content from my extensive pending store of notes about writing and blog ideas, with more opinions, great inventions, ground breaking business plans and more planned superb content such as photography, audio and visual stuff to really make use of the new enhanced layout.
You can see I still have a raft of work ahead and I hope a few surprises along the way. So I would really appreciate you joining me on this journey to enjoy this ever growing, extensive online collection of my body of creative work.
And that should answer the question most asked of me. Why are you doing a website?
Thanks for following.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.046 30 Dec 2017
Written and first published: Version 5.046 30 Dec 2017
P.S. Remember all pages can be interactive so please email me if you have any questions or thoughts.
Plea For A Bike
One of my first bikes
When I was a child and through to a teenager I, like most of my peers, had a desire to own a bicycle. It was like a right of passage. Part of life development. It seemed natural and ordinary. It represented growth, freedom and independence. It was after all the status symbol of a generation. A chance to explore wider boundaries and meet new friends.
Bicycles were certainly an expensive thing. In my world at the time it had serious financial implications for parents. As one of three children getting expensive gifts was an extremely rare thing. In those days toys were reserved for special occasions like Birthdays or Christmases and the cost of bikes were probably more than treble that were spent on those days combined.
Plus there was an element of danger. Children, bikes and traffic didn't mix well with the former usually coming off worst.
It was for the above reason my father steadfastly refused to buy his children a bike. And of the three of us I was the most upset by this. Very upset. Extraordinarily upset. Boundary tantrum upset.
I reasoned that bicycle ownership would help me develop. I was a timid child, small compared to most school colleagues, a pacifist in an angry world, scared with insecurities about being considered part of it. I struggled to have close friends at school and was further alienated by being unable to be part of the cycling gangs developing. With no bike I appeared to be a loner. A loser.
It didn't help that my circumstances took me away to a remote school at twelve years old and getting there was a pain. Bus rides, long walks and being miles from friends when socialising was unbearable. It is even probably the reason I never became a rock star.
I argued long and passionately about these points with my dad but he was unrepentant. I pointed out that I, more than other children, would treat riding with respect and care to avoid becoming the jam in a car sandwich. I reasoned that by restricting this activity he was cruel, stunting my development and curtailing any after school activities. I even offered to have nothing else if only I could have a bike. But to no effect. There was no way he'll change his mind.
As a result of this I wrote a song. A duet, coupled with chorus elements served to suggest a West End musical style because that is exactly what it was intended to be. This passionate episode in my life was written to be part of a plan for a musical of my life that I was considering and working on in the 1980s. These lyrics were penned in 1989. The musical has yet to be completed.
The unedited original lyrics are reproduced in the section Songs above or can be found by clicking the appropriate tag below and despite their apparent complexity do not yet have any musical accompaniment. I will eventually get around to doing this but will first need to learn how to write music. This was a serious flaw in my plan to write that musical. So, can you help?
If the tune is great and it becomes a success I may buy you a bike. Providing you don't bloody well go on about it all the time.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.006 16 Oct 2017
Version 5 of the vinceunlimited website
Thanks for taking a look at my re-launched website. It has taken many hours to get to this stage so your few minutes of viewing are really welcome
It wasn't until I got it all uploaded yesterday that I realised there were a few bugs, as I suppose there often are with projects of this scale.
The main problem encountered was my coding. All links were shown as [typical] /linkname but in the uploading process they were saved as /linkname.htm I quickly got around this problem by renaming them all via my FTP client back to /linkname This got the site up and running. A cheeky fix but it worked.
However, as I am a perfectionist at heart and I wanted ease of use in future uploads I decided to re-code all the pages, all 107 odd desktop and mobile, to suit. I'm not sure what you did today.
Now, I shall start the actual process of updating my files so the site is properly fully populated. Watch this space.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.002 1 Oct 2017
First Published: Version 5.002 1 Oct 2017
vinceunlimited Website Version 5 Launched
The original sketch laying out version 3 of the vinceunlimited website, now finally achieved at version 5
Dan, dan, delah! Der, der, der, derrh! Tah Da! And however you might spell a drumroll. vinceunlimited.co.uk has roared into stage 5!
And it's a return to the original vinceunlimited concept idea. I have gone back to basics and have elected, once more, to learn how to and then do all the web-coding myself. And appropriately, the latest standard for web coding is HTML 5. So I've had to learn a whole bunch of updated rules.
My original vinceunlimited site, forseeingly known as version 1, was catipulted onto the main stage in October 2003. It was hand coded in a contemporaneous version of HTML.
Version 2, appeared on the internet in May 2005 with coding that took my site to the next level with a better layout, a sidebar and dual colours.
I always struggled with getting HTML coding to set and wrap around images and with image links and couldn't find the time and way to code version three which was planned to look like the image above but I was saved all this effort by the introduction of Apple's colouful WYSIWYG iWeb App so this became the basis for actual version 3, in March 2010. Are you paying attention to these dates. A quiz will follow. But Apple had other ideas about keeping this iWeb pet project alive and I had to find another way to maintain my web prescence.
In 2012, July to be a bit more precise, with the development of FaceBook and Twitter, personal web-sites seemed to be going out of fashion. The era of the common blog had really started. And this bandwagon was truly seized upon when I clambered aboard a WordPress site, effectively making this the fourth version of vinceunlimited.co.uk
But WordPress is mostly about piggy-backing on other people's hard worked designs and trying to disguise this plagiarism with a bit of personal customisation. I always found this awkward and unsatisfactory so decided to go back to first principles and code the thing again myself, hence this version 5.
Have I bucked the trend? Am I just showing off? Or am I just avoiding the sheeple? These questions and less will be answered in the next few years.
For the full vinceunlimited story check out the Versions link at the top right side of this site.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.001 30 Sep 2017
First Published: Version 5.001 30 Sep 2017
The Big (Issue) Idea
You were begging for it
By some standards I am not an overtly charitable person.
I don't set fire to Oxfam shops or kick Labradors or anything like that but equally if a 'charitable' group deluges my post-box with empty envelopes hoping that they may be filled with silver and returned then they will be sadly disappointed.
And I'm not the first to dig deep in my pockets to give money to the needy on the streets.
It is not that I dislike charity I just believe that as a society we handle the situation wrongly. The more that individuals give the less the need for society to contribute.
I do not object to my taxes being used to help those less in need but do think that it should be a government or council body deciding on distribution to meet genuine needs rather than rely on the success or otherwise of money raising campaigns. Why should a charity with a cute mascot or one with a big budget get the healthiest return?
Inevitably, one set of losers from my stringent policy is street beggars. And there must be quite a few like me as begging has developed to become high tech to compete. Well, I mean high tech in the comparitive world of scruffy tramps.
Now, instead of asking for money in a menacing fashion homeless people can now sell a service, a magazine called The Big Issue. It even has its own website - I told you it was high tech.
Now I have often passed these one product newsstands and seen the vendor struggle to sell their magazine, despite some high profile guests and modern looks. The problem is image and the thought that it is cover to cover with dreary stories of despair, which it isn't.
But being me, I had an answer.
Once, when a scruffy lad asked if I wanted to swap one of my hard earned pounds for his magazines I initially politely declined and started to pass by, when an idea dawned on me.
I stopped and suggested he could either take the price of one magazine in exchange for said article or I could give him an idea to sell hundreds more.
Being a thoughtful, considerate man he mused over the offer for a second or two then demanded his pound.
Then announced in a slur "You're my best friend, you".
Alas, he had missed the opportunity of his lifetime.
In a charitable manner I am now going to give out the advice I had to anyone reading this article.
You see, it occurs to me that the street magazine sellers are missing out on one of the most populous parts of city society - the tourists. And my idea will make the magazine appealing to all of them.
Add a map of the city
Now, when you have recovered from the shock of such a simple idea and wondered why you hadn't thought of it you might start to consider the pitfalls.
Copyright is the major downside. Some companies make quite a profit out of selling 'disposable' maps of cities to tourists so they are hardly likely to allow their map to be used. And our national map supplier is not known for it's charitable work.
But this is where the idea still holds ground. Why not draw the city from scratch?
I know that would be a labour consuming process but hey, isn't that what these people do? Walk the streets all day?
The only other pitfall I can see is the image issue.
Do our town mayors want all the tourists approached by a scruffy urchin offering a rain sodden map and a promise that "You're my best mate, you"?
But to deny the scheme for this reason alone would be uncharitable, wouldn't it?
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.063 31 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 in Feb 2005
The Big Issue magazine scheme was launched in London in 1991 to help rough sleepers move from street begging to selling a service and now costs £2.50 per copy with 50% of that price going directly to the vendor. Their website is www.bigissue.com
Celebrity Meal Friends
Fantasy Dinner Party [In 2005]
A list of the reprobates that you would have heard of that I'd ask round for dinner, should I feel like cooking.
I should add a caveat that I am not personally familiar with these people (a shame in so many cases) so my judgement is based on their media perceptions. Having stated that I doubt that in real life Billy would not be funny or Demi would be ugly.
Not that I have just picked the men on their humour and the women on their looks. If you knew the type of woman I usually found attractive you may question my Optician's qualifications. It is just that pretty girls often seem so offish. I'm far more likely to like a woman that doesn't fall into the best ten looking in the world. In some cases they wouldn't reach the top ten in the room. Of nine.
Incidentally all these are listed alphabetically, in case you were thinking I had a particularly soft spot for Rowan.
I have kept my list to those that are living today (as far as I know). Departed guests may have included Oscar Wilde for his fascinating conversation or Princess Diana for her fun and beauty.
Or even King Henry VIII, as he would be able to recall detailed stories of our past and I've heard he was fond of a meal or two.
Not that I'd be swayed by many of the historical greats. Drake would just bleat on about his potatoes, Ghandi wouldn't touch the beef, Mother Theresa would nick the tea towels and most politicians would be a singular subject bore (with the exception of Boris).
Finally, those that just missed out include Rick Parfait of Status Quo fame, because he is really at his best when with his guitar playing colleague Francis Rossi and there is not room for two others.
And Francis Rossi for much the same reason.
Plus, the lads would then outnumber the ladies and at present the list is so evenly split.
Until I add myself in of course. So I'd have to invite the misses as well. Provided she doesn't go on about Russell Crowe all evening. It would spoil my conversations with the girls!
My first choice is rubber-faced comic Rowan Atkinson.
I admire his work greatly and would be able to find out if he was as crazy in real life as his celebrity image suggests.
Plus, the only thing I know about Rowan outside his life of humour is that he is a real petrol-head, which makes him OK in my book.
Melanie Chisholm (AKA Mel C)
It was tempting just to invite the whole cast of Girls Aloud but the original girl-band would probably be more interesting to meet and there are two in my list.
The first is the token 'northerner' Melanie Chisholm.
I have no idea about her likes or mannerisms but Mel C has the voice of an angel. It's soothing tones are enough to melt my heart.
But although her singing voice is as pure as driven snow when she speaks it is more akin to coal.
So it's her cute figure that swings it.
Who wouldn't want Billy Connolly as a guest at their dinner table, except perhaps a prude.
He is renowned for his method of stand-up that doesn't include rehearsal. If he can produce that quality on stage he'll be a riot one-to-one.
And if things start to get awkward I'll just ask him about his connections with upmarket leather interiors for cars.
Ben Elton wouldn't just feature on my dream celebrity dinner table as a performer but he would also feature in my top ten authors, if only I could think of another eight.
Bill Bryson, if you were wondering.
Fun time royal Sarah Ferguson would provide a down to earth recollection of part of our living history.
I'm a royalist but few Royals would brighten the table as much as the ever-smiling Duchess of York.
She'd be fun, I can see it in her eyes.
Quite an interesting choice is the know-it-all Stephen Fry.
I'm sure conversation with Stephen would never run dry.
He'd be the best at recounting celebrity anecdotes. Or, as it is known to you and I, dropping names.
My second Spice Girl is Geri Halliwell.
I think she has received unfair treatment by the press for no other reason than being the oldest in the group.
But I see Geri as a girl of wide experience and great fun. Of which the press would interpret as having been around a bit.
Well she can come around to mine anytime.
A hometown connection would be the catalyst to invite Amanda Holden to my dinner party.
We share common acting roots within our local community so we'll be able to share stories about the poeple we know.
And sharing stories with such a pretty woman would be hard to resist.
You need at least one token political person in such a gathering but for the reasons stated above I'd struggle to justify many.
I considered John Major as he often talks sense, Tony Blair because he is an incumbent Prime Minister or Lady Thatcher as she is a living legend but I doubt that I could share friendships with these people.
No, for coupling political nous to a sense of fun I'd pick Boris Johnson.
He's welcome, if he can find the address.
And last, but by no means least the stunning Demi Moore. Who, lets face it, could only be bettered by being a full Moore.
With Demi I could chew the Hollywood fat and get a low down on all the top people in the dream business.
There would be the gaping mouth and dribbling chin to contend with of course.
But she will just have to put up with that.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.072 16 Feb 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 Feb 2005
A True Fifeteen Minutes Story
I'm a big fan of internet auction sites, or rather one in particular, namely eBay. I use it to sell on all my unwanted items and am rewarded with an above average financial return.
So I always read with interest any stories of unusual sales. The sort where someone offers two pounds for a pound coin or when a wife tries to sell her husband.
To this end I always wanted to do a spoof of my own. I figured that I'd try to get a definitive answer to the perennial question - What's the price of fame?
I set up an auction offering, to the highest bidder, a news story submission to their local and national media about the bid.
I envisaged the story tagged with 'At last, we know the price of fame. Mr. Idiot bid £x to have his name in the papers and get his 15 minutes of fame'.
So I set it up on the ubiquitous site and waited for a reply.
The auction would last ten days so that there was plenty of time for the world's media to find it. Unfortunately, not one picked up on the story.
I tried to excite interest by emailing eBay and notifying them of the opportunity of free advertising but the chap in a garage that runs the whole site was having a burger at the time, or counting his profits (I presume).
A few souls found the site and in the end I think about 150 people actually visited to see what it was all about. Probably mostly geeks not actually getting a life.
And one of these actually started the bidding. I was in business.
Now anyone who has used these auction sites knows that the bids come fast and thick toward the end of the auction particularly if one person has taken the plunge. I prepared for an auction battle.
I said prepared but this was more in the mental rather than physical way. There is little one can do whilst the auction is live, other than answer the dumb questions that the viewers think of; "Can you tell me how many of these single items you have please?" Or, "what colour is the red post-box?" Or "You say the postage to the USA is £6.00 so how much is it to Texas?"
None of these questions were asked during this auction though, unsurprisingly.
Finally the auction ended and I was left with a winner.
I emailed him straight away congratulating him on his impressive auctioneering skills and requesting the winning pound. I explained that all I needed was his name and location so that I could honour the auction promise and contact his local rag as well as the nationals.
I had a reply.
Only it wasn't of the nature you expect from someone who just won an auction whose prize was fame.
He asked how I was to maintain confidentiality, refusing to tell me his real name, even after assurances that I wasn't out to belittle his achievement or pass on his details. He was adamant and asked; "Can I do it anonymously?"
So there you have it.
The price of fame is one pound. And the winner is anonymous.
Not that I ever received the pound. But I didn't give him a negative comment on the auction site. After all, why mock the afflicted?
So, it's over to you now readers.
I'm offering to extend the auction indefinitely.
Do you want your 15 minutes? Email me an offer, over £1.00 please. Every time the bid increases I'll carry out my first promise, just as long as you pay up.
Just please don't do it anonymously!
And as they say - Send no money now!
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.069 12 Feb 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 in Feb 2005
Favourite Films and TV
Given the amount of time that I dedicate to watching TV (don't we all) I found it very difficult to put together a list worthy of assembling into a top ten. In fact only a few series stand out and no individual programmes.
It's not that I'm particularly difficult to please. Most nights there is ample entertainment or education on offer but very little remains in the mind for years afterwards.
However, this page would be pointless without making an attempt so check out my choices below.
Films are a much easier subject to schedule. Good films do leave an impression and I'm spoilt for choice and our cupboards are full of reminders in the shape of DVDs lest we forget.
So scroll down to see what lit my rocket on the big screen.
My fascination with Thunderbird 2 goes back to the sixties
My first choice is from my childhood and shares nothing in common with the big screen version. At least that's my opinion judging by the shape of Thunderbird 2 on the movie posters. Although I must admit that, as at the time of writing I haven't seen the film version. My memories go back to the puppetry of Gerry Andersson.
I suppose Mr. Andersson only got away with it because it was the sixties and we all thought we'd be in rockets by 2004. The rockets were fantastic and Thunderbird 2 (the real original version) is still my aeroplane of choice but the characters were abysmal.
Even at five years old I saw that. Those lips. Still, it's nice that Alan Hanson got another job afterward leaving the show.
Of all the heroic characters I most associated with Brains, not because he was clever but because he looked like a dork.
And I'd still love to drive FAB 1. Yes, the Rolls not the 2004 pink Ford (groan) Thunderbird.
Just one criticism of the programme. Why does everyone say FAB? I never recalled this as a catchphrase, and still do not know what it means.
My second choice is also from my childhood, it just isn't the same now.
My era was the John Noakes, Valerie Singleton and Peter Purves years. I recall Blue Peter being the first programme for me to call my own. I knew what time it was on and always made an effort to watch it. Other members of my family used to have their programmes and I had mine. It seemed a lot more interesting than my Dad's stuffy Panorama.
I particularly recall an episode in which John Noakes went deep into the Amazon forest and met the locals who got him razzled on their local version of snake-bite and coke and tried to persuade him to jump from a tree attached to a fixed twine. This was their idea of a manly initiation and in the spirit of these sort of things the bravest were commended by the tribe, although the best appreciation was saved for those that actually broke their neck. I can't recall if John Noakes did the jump, or if Shep did it tied to his lead, but this stuck in my mind as it pre-dated bungee jumping by years.
The decline of Blue Peter started when Valerie Singleton was replaced, sorry Leslie Judd but you just weren't Valerie. A big disappointment for a growing lad.
Of course, all of my favourite presenters have now moved on. Valerie announced that she was a lesbian and started making serious programmes about money (presumably for my Dad, lucky man), Peter Purves got a part time job as a dog show presenter, which presumably kept the wolves from the door once his starring roles in Wacky Races had dried up and John Noakes, as far as I can tell sailed up the Orinoco in a coracle never to be seen again.
However, I may be a bit out on these facts.
Quite a leap from the heady days of 1960's British TV to this modern all action American series. Just goes to show what a load of crumbs that I've watched over the years. But when I tried to think of any influential programmes in the past this frenetic thriller leapt out.
I'm talking about the first series mainly, although the second kept up the quality, it just wasn't so fresh and new.
As for the third series it got swallowed up by (spit) Sky TV so I haven't yet had the pleasure.
For those who are not familiar with this adrenalin rush of a programme imaging watching three TV's at once whilst reading a book and setting your hair on fire and you'll be somewhere there.
Keifer Sutherland was always an also-ran jobbing actor until this series and I now look upon him as my first choice in a crisis.
The supporting cast was equally excellent, even, and I'm going to be slated by the fans for this, Jack's daughter.
Particularly outstanding was the presidential portrayal of the President (how else would he be portrayed?) by Dennis Haysbert although his whining wife was a pain.
The West Wing
Not sure which way was west
I love words. You may have gathered this from this page alone. And The West Wing is full of them delivered at such a cracking pace.
There have been other intellectual dramas but this one, more than any I can recall, does not wait for the audience to keep up. If you miss a bit, tough, you just ain't got what it takes to be in the White House with the team.
My favourite character is C.J. played sexily and intelligently by Allison Janney. And she should be proud to take such an accolade from this fine group. Clearly a demonstration of how quality is contagious.
However the true star of the show must be the creator and main writer, Aaron Sorkin. Aaron, you are a writing genius.
So, am I West Wing White House material? No way - I have a life.
The Green Wing
When looking for a comedy to include in my list I initially thought I was spoilt for choice.
Classics such as Some Mothers Do 'ave Em, Fawlty Towers and the Blackadder series were strong contenders and programmes I'll watch time and again but true timeless classics - I don't think so. They do not rise significantly above others such as Red Dwarf, The Young Ones or even The Good Life (mainly watched time and again for Felicity Kendal). An excess of choice perhaps, or just that the standard is so high.
So I have chosen, somewhat illogically, my latest favourite instead. After all, new comedy is really the best flavour.
The Green Wing shares little in common with the West variety above but does break genuine new ground. Although set in a hospital, a venue that is hardly in short supply on British TV, and without much of a narrative the programme still seems fresh and exciting, as well as hilariously funny at times.
The edited pace changes suit the format of a comedy where some things need relishing in detail and others can be sped up to get to the next comedy moment.
It helps that most of the actors are relative unknowns so you don't get the tedious David Jason's in it factor, each actor can be seen as the character rather than the personality.
If you haven't seen it catch it soon. It will be repeated several times I'm sure and like Fawlty Towers that is a good thing.
Favourite TV Programme
So what is my favourite of all time? My vote goes to The West Wing.
Nothing on TV comes close. Nor anything in real life by the look of it.
And finally, the worst TV programme I can think of.
My first thoughts are the modern 'gentle' comedies. By gentle read not funny. These are the modern day Sunday night lightweight dramas, usually starring Alan Davies, a quite funny man when he does stand-up.
Or if they are even more 'gentle' then starring Sarah Lancashire.
But none of this vacuous TV wallpaper can top the condescending John Craven's Newsround. I'm starting to yawn now.
The mark of a great film is the enjoyment when watching it over and over again. Repeated showings engrain the movie into the psyche and thus it becomes a classic.
This is a difficult task for the films that are story driven as familiarity destroys any surprise that had such an impact when the film was first shown. That is why there are so many action films in my list.
And so few comedies.
It is a true credit to the makers of Airplane that it features at all in this list. But the litmus test of a film being accepted on repeat performances stacks up as there always seems to be something else to note when this film is played.
Quite possibly the funniest of all films.
Bridget Jones' Diary
On pure comedy this film would not have featured. The laughs are not clever enough to sustain repeated performances so the credit for this film's inclusion is in the performances of the characters, both central and supporting.
It is a feel good movie and I can't fault something that makes me feel good time and time again.
Some critics have argued that this movie is nothing more than an adrenaline rush with no depth and poorly constructed two-dimensional characters. Even if it is - so what. I've never regretted watching it.
I'm quite happy to leave my brain switched off if the rest of my aural and visual senses are so well rewarded.
The name's Blond. James Blond
I thought carefully about including one of the Bond action films in my list and realised that individually some are very good, if not great but as a series it is up there with the best.
My favourite is usually the latest and unlike most commentators my favourite Bond is Timothy Dalton. Sean and Roger are just so yesterday and Pierce's version has no edge.
However, one nagging doubt remains. Arnold Schwartzeneggar's True Lies 'Bond' film is more watchable.
Jurassic Park, for me, was the beginning of modern epic cinema.
As a child I loved the rubber dinosaurs of Ray Harryhausen but it took a theatre's leap of faith to really believe in the effects.
Even modern efforts such as the re-make of King Kong left me wondering at the animatronics rather than the gorilla. Jurassic Park was one of the first films I could really immerse myself into and believe that the monsters were real. And I do like to feel that sense of fantasy.
A first in effects, lifetime memorable scenes all coupled to a fascinating subject just about makes up for the 'oh, look the cute kids are in danger' slushiness of the script.
Life of Brian
Another amusing film worth repeated viewings, this time set against the biggest myth of modern times.
I don't take religion seriously at all so a parody should fall flat on its face. The fact that it doesn't is testament to the inspired writings of the Monty Python team.
I was just too young to appreciate their TV shows (I had to go to bed at nine, or I'd be a very, very naughty boy!) so there wasn't even a comfort and familiarity to ease me into the film but I got it all the same.
Now, if only they could do the same for the writings of the Koran.
For a long time I used to class this film as my favourite of all time. I loved the realism and haunting Ennio Morriconi score. Now there have been so many better movies that I don't make this claim but its previous position should earn it a place in this list.
Midnight Express is probably the least know film in this list and if you haven't seen it yet get hold of a copy, you will not be disappointed.
Mind you, it was on the TV recently and I watched Big Brother instead. Oops.
The only thing that could improve Quentin Tarantino's blood fest Reservoir Dogs would be a menu option on the DVD to allow the viewer to see the film time-sequenced.
I am not a fan of flashback concepts and the Dog's is riddled with time discontinuity.
I would just like to know if it would still have as much impact as the director's cut.
Or even Michael Madsen's cut.
Ronin has the best car chase scene ever. Better than The Driver, or Bullit. Do I need to state another reason to keep it in this list?
The Usual Suspects
The Usual Suspects is one of those rare films that having seen it you would like to watch it through again immediately. the clever script is wonderfully played out by a talented team of actors, engaging the viewer's attention.
The only downside being Benicio del Toro's unintelligible accent. Method acting too far I feel.
Possibly the best film ever and I include 'It's a Wonderful Life' in that assumption.
Wonderful Life had no aerial jet dogfights for one thing.
One of the most quotable movies, filled with the phrases that became the cliches.
Tight story-line plotting, economy of language, foot tapping music and stunning visuals.
Top Gun is so good I still look out for films by the same producers. And that is rare, usually I judge a film by itself not it's actor, director or key-grip.
So what is my favourite of all time? My vote goes to Top Gun.
Cheesy perhaps, but I like the taste of cheese.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.068 11 Feb 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 Feb 2005
Photographs added in version 5.068 11 Feb 2018
The first photo shows the author in 1966 playing with his new 5th birthday present, a plastic model of Thunderbird 2
The second photo shows the author stood outside the barriers fencing off The White House, in Washington, North America in May 2015
The third photo shows the author dressed in a Tuxedo whilst stood in a cabin on board the QE2 in October 2005
The final photo show an US Navy Grumman F-14A Tomcat, designation AE 212 in flight and was taken around 1975
The vinceunlimited Gilera 50 Bike Road Test
Freedom at forty-five
Mark on his shiny new Gilera 50 moped
The transformation of becoming a teenager is very traumatic. Your mental state changes as dramatically as your physical appearance. And your needs change too.
Transport suddenly becomes essential as the world doesn't just revolve around the bit of grass, bushes and a muddy stream just outside the front door. It is then that the explorer within starts to make a few tentative steps into the unknown.
I realise that in most cases this is only as far as the next group of shops but nevertheless the urge to get out of sight of the parents becomes paramount.
This is why, as a teenager I was gutted to not have a bike. I lived far enough from my school to miss out on activities that involved pointlessly hanging around on bicycles and although I was pretty fit (like all kids were in the seventies) I couldn't keep up on foot when they all peddled off to the next crucial hanging about point.
The fact that I was not allowed a bicycle as a child, due to some old nonsense about not keeping up with traffic, meant that when I was sixteen and legally allowed to ride a powered vehicle I was transformed.
The day I first rode a moped was as important to me as the time when a caterpillar first emerges as a butterfly. Although anyone witnessing those first tentative miles would probably liken it to an hour old fawn riding a wasp.
I was given a choice.
My elder brother of two years (hello Mark) was provided with a gleaming moped on his sixteenth birthday.
He chose a Gilera 50. A sturdy moped based on an accommodating 125cc motorcycle frame.
When I reached the magic age myself I was also offered a new 'ped or I could opt for a 'second-hand' motorcycle at seventeen.
As I was generously allowed to use Mark's Gilera I decided to defer the gift for a year and use the Gilera, as and when I could. Mark rarely saw it again.
The sturdy design meant that it was a comfortable bike, which was just as well as I spent many a full day buzzing along for hours on end.
The near 80 to the gallon meant that my wages could easily keep the tank full and my new found wanderlust was well accommodated. There was barely a road on the south coast that I hadn't been down. Some started to show signs of wear from overuse!
Being Italian it was red and handled well. In those days only Italian metal could properly get round a bend.
The proper motorcycle design ensured that the only restriction was the stupidly positioned pedals. These were a moped requirement and although they both locked in a parallel forward position (not all did) they grounded far too easily.
Tyre technology was dire compared to today's wide sticky compounds but this little solid bike could be predictably pushed to the limits of ground clearance and frequently was.
They can do 95mph. Added together
The downside was the top speed.
At forty-five miles per hour most sixteen year olds today would be over the moon. But this was 1975 and Yamaha had just released the FS1E, its new 50cc sports moped. And my mate Jeff had one.
The Fizzy was a strange slight thing, much like Jeff, but it had an enviable top end nearing fifty. It was probably only 48 but the 65 that showed on the Speedo meant that all spotty teens wanted one. And when they got it its little heart was pushed to the limit whenever ridden.
And then there was the Honda. Not the ubiquitous Cub step-through but their CB50 version of a mini-racer. This would speed at a shown 48, nearly as quick as the Yam, and my friend Dave had had one of these.
My Gilera, or should I say Mark's Gilera, was beaten hands down. And as teenager's brains do not allow them to temper the throttle all our ride outs together usually meant me following in a slipstream of blue haze and Castrol GTX.
Until I got to a bend, as the Jap bikes couldn't handle anything other than a straight.
Or when we had to ride up a hill as the screaming Japanese machines were so power stressed that they had no torque.
Plus, when we started using the mopeds for their true use, picking up girls, the Gilera still went 45 with a passenger while the others wheezed along at 40. Ha!
So other than top speed and limited cornering angles there was nothing to beat the Gilera.
I acknowledge that the electrics, as a six-volt system, were inadequate, barely powering the headlight which used to beam only as bright as it was revved but they were all like that in those days.
However the fit and finish was good, reliability was excellent, it was as strong as an ox and the accommodation and comfort were first class.
So would I choose it if I had my time again? Definitely no. It only did 45 and that was all that mattered.
But in hindsight my memories are not of the seats, the colour, the handling or even the speed.
I was sixteen, confident, daring. Couple that with inexperience and the net result, as many found out, was falling off.
The halcyon days of the moped were marred by crashes. Copious amounts of them. And when you live through them they make great pub stories.
The first was typical.
After visiting my friend across town I decided on a detour on the return trip.
On unfamiliar roads I would now be wary. At sixteen I was just plain carefree.
It wasn't high speed, or even the appearance of a roundabout beyond the blind bend that caught me out. It was the panic braking that caused the spill.
Even today the road is so quiet I could have sailed straight on, but at the time, not knowing the terrain I grabbed loads of brake and locked the wheels. The inevitable occurred and I was sent sprawling on the tarmac watching the Gilera spin away onto the roundabout in a shower of sparks.
This itself, whilst dramatic, hardly warrants pub-story status. What added to this was a bus load of pensioners parked on the far side of the roundabout.
Every one of these grey-coated souls turned to look at the fool lying in the road with his sideways bike still purring away.
No-one came to the rescue, presumably assuming I was OK or dead, with neither option needing their involvement.
I just lay there. I wasn't hurt. A bit shocked perhaps but mainly because this was my first off and I hadn't yet worked out what to do.
Later experience of these things taught me that you are allowed to get up if you want to but I didn't know that. In fact later on getting up too early was the problem but you'll have to read about that in my CX500 page.
On this day I lay there wondering whether an ambulance should come, or a policeman or my mother.
I must have been there for some time before I realised my mistake and rose, dusted myself off, picked up the bike and rode away.
I remember waving to the crowd on the bus, trying to promote an image that it was all planned and I'd be back around again for a repeat performance should they cheer loud enough. One or two waved back but I wasn't about to do it all again.
I rode off in to the distance, a bit more carefully from then on.
Now, where did this bit fall off from?
It was the first of too many spills which punctuated my early riding days.
I recall another moment in those early days during a ride out to Bournemouth with Dave.
It was a fine summers day and we fancied an ice-cream and a gawp at some girls in bikinis so we set out on the forty mile journey, an epic at moped speeds.
I hadn't had the bike long, it must have just had the new handlebars fitted after the bus-stop episode, as the bike still wore its L-plates.
Unusually, and the only one amongst my friends, I later took the test to be able to ride L-plate free. This got me stopped by men in white cars with orange stripes quite a lot (you do remember the days when plod drove marked cars don't you?) but it did allow me to take all my girlfriends on the back (not all at once though).
The L-plate was significant. In fact crucial to the event. The rear one was mounted attached to the Gilera's number-plate by a Meccano strip and during that tortuous journey had loosed itself and started rattling.
Most would have ignored it, hoping that it would detach but the rattling irritated me.
At this point I should have pulled over and attended it in safety at the side of the road, but as we were riding solo I was struggling to keep up with the Honda ahead. Stopping was out of the question. So I inspected the problem on the move.
Imaging the scenario, a real don't try this at home moment. I'm doing forty-five, yes that speed again, leaning back to fiddle with an L-plate that is mounted low and behind the rear wheel. If Gerry Cottle had seen me I would have been signed up there and then.
But I didn't fall off. Not whilst checking the plate. The trouble started when I settled back to look forward. I was still doing forty-five but now there was a pavement directly ahead. Not that the road had changed, just my course.
I did what anyone would do at that time, I hit it fair and square!
The front went airborne and came down on its side, with me half underneath. Luckily the tree-lined avenue was more gap than tree so I came to a slow but mercifully recoverable stop.
I was a bit sore and felt stupid but got back up to ride again. After all, Dave hadn't noticed and was ploughing on regardless. I had to make up time.
I lifted the bike back onto the road, re-selected neutral and re-started the stalled engine.
It started, as usual, first time so I pulled in the clutch to select first gear - and the cable broke.
The impact onto the softened tarmac pavement was taken by the clutch lever which had filled with a tarmac blob that severed the cable when operated. I had no clutch.
No problem, clutches are for pussies anyway. I snicked it into gear and shot off after Dave.
Dave was devastated. He had missed the spectacle and more importantly our chances of pulling were blown. I wanted to go straight home to miss the weekend crowds but Dave wanted his ice-cream. So we went to the beach side and had ice-cream, his topped with crushed nuts, mine with strawberry sauce and gravel rash.
This was eventually followed by a mad dash back home along a crowded bank holiday route with no clutch.
I figured that all I had to do was keep going, so that's what I did. I never dropped below thirty, timed all the traffic lights perfectly, went straight through the roundabouts whether the nearby cars were stopped or not and got all the way to a set of lights in Southampton before a stop caused me to stall. Some forty miles later.
It is amazing what feats are achievable in the face of adversity.
I suppose, in hindsight, I'm rather fond of the Gilera.
It took me on adventures I had never had before and accompanied me through a harrowing time of growing up.
I learnt to ride solo, corner, take passengers and crash.
It was an important time and the moped played its part without complaint.
I handed it back to Mark when I got my Yamaha trial bike at seventeen and started all the adventures again but it was the Gilera that kicked it all off. And in quite a dramatic manner.
I suppose it was a bit like a teenager itself in a way.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.066 6 Feb 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 in Feb 2005
The first image shows my double denim clad brother Mark sat astride his new Gilera moped in 1977 and was added in Version 5.066 6 Feb 2018.
The second image show the moped under my posession in 1978 during a trip with my friend Jeff on his yellow Yamaha FS1E. Italian style meets Japanese power. The photo was added in Version 5.066 6 Feb 2018.
The third image shows me fiddling with the exhaust pipe of the Gilera, demonstrating admirably that I am a fully qualified trained mechanic, able at least to hold a motorcycle part with just one hand. It was added in Version 5.066 6 Feb 2018. The photo, not the exhaust.
Hello. You have arrived at the vinceunlimited Jokes page.
This page is destined to house all my jokes. The trouble is that someone left the door open and most have escaped. As soon as they are rounded up I'll put them back here, where they belong.
Meanwhile, here are those that I managed to capture in my giggle trap. And as is the case with all randomly collected jokes they are in no particular order.
All jokes on this page are original and devised by the website author, me. Or taken direct from their source as discovered in conversation. Unless otherwise acknowledged.
For a more comprehensive collection buy some Christmas crackers, or go down the pub and listen.
As this is a source of originality you may feel confident in trying to pass these off as your own. I would be powerless to stop this and wouldn't if I could. They are here as free shareware.
However, if you have difficulty in releasing them to an appreciative audience I suggest that you use the time honoured method of joke distribution. Tell a kid in a school playground.
There, and you thought you would never come across a website advocating soliciting a child's attention in public!
Jokes and One liners
Did you hear about the soldier who was drafted into service without his consent? He was waiting in his school careers office. Someone called out "Next". He replied "Ah. Me."
"My name's Bond. James Bond. The first James Bond. They call me Premium Bond. 00-7 is my code. 00-6 was my predecessor. 00-gauge is my railway collection. My archenemy is Scaramango. He has a habit of wanting to take over the world. Not his worst habit, that's his chain-smoking. I call him the man with the golden lung. My first boss was known as M. I can now reveal that his name was Mick. My second boss was known as N. I can now reveal that his name was Nick. My current boss is known as P. But, as you can imagine, I cannot reveal his name."
"My name is Bond. That's James Bond.
I've been played by Connery and Moore.
I live and let live all 'round the world.
Best of all I've seen Pussy Galore."
I used to be a psychiatric case but I've recovered now. I'm a suitcase.
My wife is so obsessed with cleanliness. When we go to a party she takes a bottle of mouthwash.
How do blind dates find where they are meant to meet?
If you made a fortune drilling for milk in the Middle East, would you be a milk Sheikh?
After driving across Europe, I knew I was back in Britain. The washer bottle froze.
I'm not saying that the flat we bought was small. It's just that in the bedroom we had a wall-to-wall carpet tile fitted.
How did medieval knights ever get on? They could only move two places forward and one to the right.
A conservationist was having trouble recording the number of elephants in his wildlife park so asked his friend if he had any ideas. He explained that the elephants were difficult to count from his helicopter because their grey skin was camouflaged against the terrain. His friend was a geneticist so suggested that the elephants could be bred orange by mixing their genes with those of a carrot. An experiment was tried and was successful so from then on all the new elephants were born orange and could be seen from the air. To celebrate the success the two friends met up for a meal at the geneticist's favourite restaurant. They ordered the roast and were served the meat, potatoes and two veg. On delivery of the meal all the carrots leapt up off the geneticist's plate. "There," he explained to his friend "I don't like carrots and carrots never forget."
I used to lay back in my car and scrawl the name of my favourite rock groups on the roof. They are all headline bands now.
My Favourite Joke
And now, my favourite joke of all time. Not, original by me, I wouldn't be so presumptive. It's better than mine, so if you are the rightful owner of this joke please advise me and I'll give acknowledgement.
A customer enters a pet shop and asks for a wasp. The confused shop owner advises that he doesn't sell them. Unrepentant the customer pleads, "But, I saw one in your window yesterday".
[Not So] Famous Quotations
Finally, a selection of not so famous quotes.
Tutankhamen: "Do you normally build the roof first?"
Moses (before speaking to God): "Fire. Fire."
Joseph: "Don't look at me, Mary."
The Ancient Mariner: "Anyone for Albatross?"
The Wizard of Oz (to his builder): "I don't care what you think. I want it yellow."
For more snappy quips, check out my vQuotes page.
So, that's the start. With the jokes from my website version 1.03 from Feb 2005.
More will inevitably follow as sure as night follows Thursday morning. In time this page will be chock-a-block with all the amusing, fun and clever jokes from the mind and keyboard of vinceunlimited. It will start soon so please be patient and check back in due course.
If you want more vinceunlimited humour there is loads of it smattered around my Twitter feed.
Or be daring and hook up with my humourist selection under vChoices.
Or look at your own knees. Obviously not as funny as mine. But that's all there is for now.
If you can't wait for more mirth then put finger to keyboard and e-mail me a request.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.067 7 Feb 2018
First published in similar format: Version 1.01 Jan 2004
First published in this format: Version 5.048 1 Jan 2018
The Baby Years from the autobiography of Vince Poynter
Mark thinking: Now what do I do with this funny shaped thing
When I first envisaged writing my autobiography I imagined enjoying recounting all the strange and amusing things that have happened to me during my life so far. However, moments in this chapter happened before my brain had actually developed.
So this first part, intriguingly entitled Oniscus Asellus, can only be a mish-mash of anecdote and fiction.
At least history has allowed me to set the scene. It was cold.
Allegedly, I was born around the witching hour on a Monday morning at the end of October 1961. I can't verify this as I wasn't wearing a watch at the time and my eyes were full of afterbirth so I couldn't read the bedroom clock.
For those that care about these things that makes my star-sign Scorpio and my birthstone Topaz, a rather mucky orange hue. The Chinese would say I was born in the year of the skunk, or something like that and certain religious sects would swear I used to be a toad. I've checked between my toes and I don't think they could be accurately described as webbed. I was certainly born Animalia, Chordata, Mamalia, Primates, Haplorhini, Simiiformes, Hominidae, Homo sapiens. Not newt.
The unreasonable o'clock in the morning home delivery meant that Mum could have a bit of a rest afterwards but I do not expect Dad had much rest himself. I had to be educated to 'A' level standard by breakfast after all. Just kidding. I doubt that it would have been even to 'O' level standard. Come to think of it I doubt it was to 'O' level standard when I passed my 'O' levels. But I might just be getting slightly ahead of myself here.
The location was in the South of England in a little known hamlet called Southampton, county of Hampshire within the United Kingdom, Europe, Northern Hemisphere, Earth, Solar System, Galaxy. Although you could leave out the last parts of that locale if you are terra-bound.
Southampton is a city with a long history and a struggling Premiership team, although when the town was first formed the sport was probably hog-back riding. Now it boasts a fine heritage of glistening shopping centres and poorly used docks. It rose to it's prominence by virtue of having two tides, a phenomenon caused by the adjacent Isle-of-Wight apparently, although I've never seen the island shifting about myself.
Southampton in the early sixties wasn't like the romanticised view of London during the period. For a start I wasn't born in Carnaby Street. It was a modest lane in the Maybush area. Hardly the best start in life.
A modern estate agent may try to describe the building as a retro-style apartment block featuring balconies with views across the city. In truth it was and is a pretty grim ground floor flat featuring a tiny balcony with a view across the street.
Yes, a balcony on the ground floor with a drop all of three inches! But it's still standing now and someone out there in the world of non-virtual actual reality may well be in that room today.
My parents were working class when the word was literal. My father had followed his own into the Post Office and I'm not talking about collecting a few stamps.
Grandad had started his career as a Post-boy at fourteen delivering telegrams by his company vehicle - the pushbike. My laziness at genealogy prevents me telling you what his father did although there was some sort of dock's policeman in the family once.
My father joined the Post Office and was a Telecommunications Engineer. My mother, at the time, was flat on her back. She was far too busy, along with most of the other good women of Britain re-stocking the nation after the war years had depleted the number.
I was the second born, having been beaten to the post by my older brother, Mark. He was two years old at the time giving him a head-start I shall never regain.
Until my sister was born, I would be the cute baby of the family. The blond hair helped, along with the dumbfounded expression shared with so many other babies. And owls.
Lovely chewy strap but not my favourite, apparently
Many people claim to recall things from their childhood. Not me. I can hardly remember anything from before puberty and am, quite frankly, a bit hazy about things further back than last Wednesday.
However, a story has been told so many times that I now feel I remember it clearly. Nothing exciting or comparable to what was going on at the time such as the commencement of space travel and the onward trips to the moon or Twiggy or the first skirts named after a car.
Personally, I was discovered, I am reliably informed, chewing on a woodlouse.
If it happened today my mum would be in front of social services before you could even say "Can I have ketchup with that Oniscus asellus please?"
So that's it. An entire childhood beginning summarised in a debatable woodlouse scoffing anecdote.
I guess if you want to know more you'll have to ask my parents to write their stories.
For me I'm moving on to the next stage of my saga but you will have to wait until I write it. Ho hum.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.062 29 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 in Feb 2005
The images depict Mark and Vince Poynter taken around 1961 and were added in Version 5.062 29 Jan 2018 along with minor editing
The vinceunlimited Public Announcement Opinion
Our mission is to inform you
"'Hum'. 'Crack'. This is a public announcement. Will all those 'pop' who are 'crackle' please 'fizz' so that 'silence', 'pop' and 'fizz' to 'crackle'. Thankyou."
In these days of modern communication, where you can speak to your friend in Coventry or Kuala Lumpa without distortion (baring the midlands accent, that is) why can't a local public speaker be understood? They are only connected by wire. Hardly, cutting edge technology. However, this page isn't really about the poor quality of sound, but the poor quality of words. All the quotes below are real world examples and the culprits are named and shamed. I'll add more as soon as I can decipher what they are actually saying.
Message on South West Trains on nearing Clapham Junction, that applies to most station platforms that are shorter than the actual train. "Would customers alighting at Clapham Junction, please use the first five carriages..." Doh! Should that be '...one of the first five'? But then I suppose that the train staff cannot really be expected to be precise when the graphics manager responsible for the train stickers use phrases worded as 'Do not lean out of the window when it is open.' Surely an unnecessary use of the words 'when it is open'? And don't get me started on the 'Mobile free' zones
And to keep on the railway theme I regularly travel on the London Underground system and users are often advised to '...walk on the left and stand on the right of the escalators...' This I have tried but end up going round in circles! Surely they should suggest that it is an either or option. Ahem.
Onto roads and my local council's latest 'Kill your speed' campaign. What on earth is that all about? How on earth do you kill speed? It doesn't possess life so how can it be killed? And the roadsign that accompanies the message. It depicts a hand lowering onto a speed limit. So how does that work then? How does putting a hand down kill speed? Lifting a foot would be more appropriate. The only vehicles that have hand throttles are motorbikes. And putting the hand down is more akin to the method of speeding up! I suppose some cars adapted for disability use may have hand throttles. Perhaps the Government is really targeting these particular arch criminals.
Finally, I recently noticed an advertising slogan proudly plastered in huge lettering in Marks and Spencer. 'Our bread is baked from authentic recipes from around the globe.' As opposed to what? Does a non-authentic recipe exist? Is anything baked somewhere that isn't around the globe? The copywriters really earned their crust on this one!
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.061 25 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
London Underground comment added in Version 5.061 25 Jan 2018 but first published in Version 1.03 in Feb 2005
The image depicts a Mission speaker positioned on top of a wall cabinet and was added in Version 5.051 4 Jan 2018
The vinceunlimited Top Ten Vehicles
21st Century Travelling
You have probably landed on this page from my list of bike or car road tests.
Or maybe you were transported here by a strange new time machine, or even from another manufacturer's computer. Any how you came you are welcome to read why I have chosen the next ten vehicles as my favourite of all time.
It is an eclectic mix of transport that I have either used or lusted after with envy.
Cyclists will note that I have not included a bicycle in the list. After all cycle technology is now futuristic and sexy so I could forgive a lack of motorised power. However I refuse to forgive saddle technology until I can actually ride a bicycle further than ten metres.
Of course, when compiling a list like this the rejected ones are nearly as interesting.
For instance you may wonder how I could have a list like this and not include a Ferrari. Easy really, there's none there.
A few may qualify on the grounds of looking fantastic but underneath is just a lightweight Fiat.
I'm not fooled, nor are many of the owners. Check out the Owner's Documents on any used Ferrari and you will be surprised to see so many names. The hype doesn't live up to the reality.
Great red though but this isn't a favourite list of colours.
Keeping on the subject of cars, in the past I've swooned over the fantastically brutish Aston Martin Vantage and may still get one yet but how could I include a car that if a generous benefactor offered me a swap for any Aston from any time I'd really have no second thoughts about choosing the brand new, phenomally quick and beautiful DB9.
Some of the DB9's details are cheaper than a crate of canaries although I've never been one to turn down a beauty because of a few small imperfections. Mole on Demi Moore? So what.
Another plus would be: "Blonde, James Blonde". What a great introduction.
As you will be able to tell generally I'm not into classic vehicles. I'd rather own a modern Bentley Arnarge than a 4½ litre supercharged model from the 1920s. Unless I can sell it of course.
Plus, impressive that the 4½ litre Bentley behemoth is the most attractive classic car has to be the Jaguar SS100. But still not as good as a couple of dozen modern vehicles.
I love bikes, it's in my genes, whether I currently have a bike or not. It's all to do with the lack of a cycle when I was young and the freedom that my first moped rides brought me.
So I need to include bikes in this ultimate vehicles list and the Ducati 900 Monster was one of the first that I thought of. The reason why this strange naked retro was considered is that it re-vitalised my interest in bikes in the nineteen nineties.
I hadn't had a bike for a while and the squared-off eighties styling never persuaded me to renew my interest. The Monster 900 was a breath of fresh air. It seemed so stylish and raw with an exposed engine and trellis frame it made me want two wheels again.
Thinking back, I can't think why I brought a Yamaha Diversion 900 instead.
Oh yes. Italian electrics, Ducati clutches and a saving of about two grand. And when you are able to make a choice based on such trivial reasons the original option doesn't really deserve to be in a top ten.
And second best is why I cannot include a First Class dining experience aboard a ferry.
As you can tell from other entries I do like being spoilt. So many cannot handle an obsequious waiter or fawning Maitre-d but I'm willing to be waited on hand and foot. It's not a case of being better than those who serve but the fact that it makes a pleasant change. I'll happily have a beer with the waiter afterwards.
A First Class dining experience on board a ferry, such as the cross channel version is a thoroughly pleasant way of passing the time. But two reasons keep it off the top ten. Firstly, the QE2 is infinitely better and secondly the QE2 doesn't end up in France!
My final rejection is an oxymoron. No, not the Ford 2-litre Oxymoron, but a genuine oxymoron from an age where such a beast could exist. A cute war-plane.
Nowadays war planes are stunning, agile weapons of mass destruction but back in the 1920s at the dawn of flight the planes were not overly effective. However, one stands out above the others, including the Red Baron's exciting Fokker Tri-plane.
The Sopwith Camel first came into my life as a child. If you were born a male in the late fifties or early sixties you would be familiar with Airfix kits. Plastic self-build models that filled many a wet weekday after school. They are still available but this tactile hobby, along with most other hands-on experiences, have become side-lined by the ubiquitous electronic games. This is a shame as building a model is a very satisfying skill and I still fondly remember the first one I built - a Sopwith Camel.
This little bi-plane had all the ingredients of a favoured vehicle. The styling was right with the curved leading edge to the wings, dual forward gun synchronised with the propeller and rounded tail plane.
A cute war plane, such an oxymoron.
So, onto the actual vehicles making my top-ten.
1969 Cooper F1 car
My toy racing car. The wing was raised too high in this version, based on a late season entry. So now looks rubbish
Formula 1 racing has always held a certain appeal. The fast cars, obscene money and glamorous locations keep the sport in my mind even if the last few years Schmedious results have kept it off my TV. So it is natural that I should include a car from this pinnacle of motor sports.
I suppose it is a symptom of age that despite the obvious appeal of modern cars there is an era of racing that seems more glorious and it dates around the time I first got an interest in the sport. I have chosen the Cooper F1 from the 1969 season as it was this car that, to me, epitomises open wheel racing.
The rear tyres look properly wide, the engine is exposed and the newly added wings were just right. I like the front spoiler jutting from the actual nose and the rear spoiler was better looking mounted low on the engine.
I've never driven one, nor am I likely to as the price of classic F1 racers nearly match their modern counterparts but I can dream.
An Ariel Atom with my Jaguar XJ8 in the background. I might need to take a moment
My next choice is not so far away from the car above and is probably chosen because of the similarities.
But instead of a having to be Ray Parlour's wife to afford a classic F1 motor this blatant facsimile costs a more reasonable £30-40k.
Still a lot of money for a weekend car with no panels but well comparable with its natural opposition.
I love the Atom's Meccano build and raw energy and can personally testify to its ability to deliver the goods that the look promises.
Short on comfort but very long on desire, the Atom deserves its place in this illustrious crowd.
Nearly as quick as the Aston but with seats like a Business Class jet and the torque to match.
I have never experienced power like the Bentley Arnarge delivers and in back to back tests with its bigger brother the Continental it wins on every count, including saving £100k.
The Continental may have the classic looks but I'm sure I can find an Arnarge to beat it.
The best car in the world.
Note that a full appraisal of my time with a Bentley Arnarge will eventually be available in the cars section of the website.
My first aeronautical choice is probably in the list of everyone who has ever seen the Concorde.
Breathtakingly beautiful, stunningly quick and well out of the reach of the hoi-poli. Marvellous.
The only problems are it's cramped interior and that it has disappeared from our skies.
Worth every bit of pollution.
In the top ten? No doubt at all.
A Douglas DC-3 hanging in the Smithsonian Museum
The second most beautiful plane in the world [see above] hails from the time just before the second world war but its lines are just so perfect.
I love the fat fuselage, strong wing arrangements, classic twin prop design and sturdy tail.
Still operating in many places around the world today the McDonnell Douglas DC-3, known as a Dakota in the UK, is living proof that if it looks right then it probably is right.
I've yet to catch a flight in one of these beauties but guess that the reality doesn't quite live up to the glamour.
Particularly as I'll probably be in South America when I get a go in one.
Eurostar Best Class
I'm not much of a train buff.
For many years I rarely travelled on one thinking they were too expensive and inconvenient.
Also, with 8 miles between my home and the nearest station, thanks to Beecham's cuts in the 60s, I never had cause to use them.
Not that I had no contact, my wife spent most of her career with a railway company and we took advantage of the odd subsidised trip.
Things have changed recently though as I now work mainly in London and the train is the only viable option. I now estimate that I have travelled over one hundred and fifty thousand miles sat on a train.
This experience, in all its sordid glory is why a trip on the Eurostar in the best carriages is such a delight.
I have travelled three times in First Class and on every occasion I have thought it most pleasant. The large seats, at seat service and quiet comfort is reminiscent of travel tales of old.
Just don't think that the modern version of First Class is the same.
For some peculiar reason, probably to do with the French translation, Business Class is the new premier travelling style and 'mere' First Class is a poor relation.
Now, how do I say 'contravenes the Trade's Description Act' in French?
Honda CBX Moto Martin
A Moto Martin CBX. In Brown. Brilliant
The first bike in my top ten list is a hybrid vehicle and I'm not talking dual fuel.
In the late seventies Honda produced the stunning CBX with its fantastic transverse six cylinder engine. Wider than a Cockney car salesman with a penchant for iced buns this behemoth was a dream machine.
Except two problems.
One, was the name. Now Honda is a make to be respected for its engineering excellence and reliability but much like my Miele washing machine I don't exactly look at the product with love.
The other problem with the CBX was the handling - the stock Japanese flexi-frames could never harness the engine outputs at the time.
Moto Martin, a small French custom builder came to the rescue by taking the engine and putting it in a stylish trick frame mounted with swoopy body parts with twin-headlamps.
All par for the course today but 30 years ago this was enough to make me tear out the advert and hang it on my wall.
I own one.
Need I say more?
Note that a full appraisal of my Jaguar XJ8 4.0 will eventually be available in the cars section of the website.
Who wouldn't be impressed with one of the traditional Queens of the sea?
I have travelled the Atlantic on the QE2 and can confirm it is all that you would expect, then more.
One trip and I'm a confirmed cruise fan. A tall order for the QM2 replacement to beat.
For more details about my experience on this most magnificent of vehicles see my separate story.
And be prepared to be jealous.
Note that a full appraisal of my time onboard the QE2 is available. Click the button link below to go there directly.
Vincent Black Shadow
The two Vincents
Last, but not least, this list would be incomplete without the vehicle I was actually named after.
My father told me this, whilst saying I should have been grateful that he didn't like Francis Barnetts.
Although this bike now looks a little quirky I am actually quite proud to be named after such a phenomenal bike from the nineteen fiftes, with a great reputation amongst those that know such things.
If only I could afford one now.
Think multiple grands. And then some.
Fantastic name though.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.060 23 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.03 in Feb 2005
Images added, along with minor text updates for setting out purposes, in Version 5.060 23 Jan 2018. All photographs taken by the Author, except the one he is in [Obvs].
Yellow shirt ✓ Loud tie ✓ Busy on the phone ✓ Annoying person ✓ - A copywriter at work
This is the vQuote page of the vinceunlimited website, which will eventually be populated with all the original and memorable quotations that have oratoraly spewed forth from the mouth of Vince.
Our lives are dominated by the phrases and sayings dreamt up at alcohol fuelled, barnstorming sessions in trendy, high rise office spaces by people wearing brightly coloured braces with a tendency to say 'think outside the box' quite a lot. At least that's what I presume.
I once applied for a position at one of these copywriting companies but wasn't considered. I had figured I would be good at the job and my natural talent would shine through. Plus the braces would have suited me. It would be more appropriate for me than the soulless industry I had fallen into.
However, possessing my kind of staying power and determination I gave up at the first hurdle and have been a closet copywriter ever since.
But now comes my revenge. The internet has allowed us all to fulfill our deepest wishes despite our given opportunities. Now, luck no longer controls our destiny and it's up to us to seize the chance and make amends for the injustices of fate. If only we could be arsed.
I will use this part of my website to publish the quotes, quips and sayings that I use or think up.
Kind of a personal Dictionary of Quotations.
All will be, as far as I am aware, original. Please advise me if this isn't the case.
And, as is the nature of these things feel free to quote them mercilessly. A certain pride will amass in my inner regions when I hear them uttered by the great and good. But don't forget that acknowledgement when appropriate.
The vQuote Quotations
First published in version 1.03 in Feb 2005
Green sky thinking - Much less restrictive than the blue variety
You know your marriage is in trouble when the fear that your partner will leave turns to hope
I read it from cover to cover. Via the spine
Mothers ask you nice questions, like when do you want your tea? Fathers are more taxing, they ask questions such as where have you been, or why were you in the river? Or, what is the capital of Equatorial Guinea?
When I'm creative it's either there or it isn't. If I can't devise a method of intergalactic space propulsion during a single train journey I give up. The scientists of the world should be assured that I did once try
If dogs have such a good sense of smell why do they need to get so close to their mates rear end?
I'm the flamboyant sort who always flicks his underpants in the air on removal, catching them with my teeth. An action that I always regret afterwards
She is your number one fan. Is there a number two?
Computer sign off - Gotta fly - Got R.S.I.
First published in version 1.02 in Mar 2004
If undelivered. Why not? - Note at foot of registered letter
His books are sold by weight. Not volume
Men share 90% of their genes with a chimpanzee. But only around 30% with women
The shortest route isn't always the best. On a spiral staircase for instance
This website is easily one of the best ten million in the world
First published in version 1.00 in Oct 2003
Getting up at the crack of birds - An early start
Bugger, I'm not immortal - Carved into a headstone
Finally, a few put downs. These have all been used by me. Thankfully I'm still living to tell the tale
First published in version 1.02 in Mar 2004
"Let me introduce you to Mr. Comb."
To my wife trying on a jacket - "Frankly, it looked better on the hanger."
On wanting to find the right time to look good for a photograph - "Well. It's a narrow time window."
If you like my style of sayings you may be interested to know that you can search many of my website articles by snappy quip alone.
Seek such wordiness under vQuote - 'Click to choose a website quote' in the right column, or by selecting the appropriate blue button tagged below.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.070 13 Feb 2018
The idea of vQuotes was originally published as 'copywriting' in Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
The vinceunlimited Autobiography
Stories from My Poynter View
Hello. You have arrived at the vinceunlimited Autobiography page, with true stories and anecdotes from a future publication about my life story called My Poynter View.
The vinceunlimited website is currently being re-coded and this phase of the project has only just commenced.
In time this page will be fully populated with all the vinceunlimited life story content. It will develop in time so please be patient and check back in due course.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.052 5 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
Images added in Version 5.052 5 Jan 2018
My Poynter View
From the autobiography of Vince Poynter
Herein lieth the autobiography of the late and dearly but not departed Vince of vinceunlimited fame.
Please noteth that the document in question is a work in progress and clearly incomplete. In fact hardly startedeth. This will eventually be finalised (or at least the first installment will be as no-one really wants their autobiography to be completed) and then publishedeth.
At this point there will be a printed version, a film, a mini-series, it will be subsequently translated into 43 languages and a rip-off sub-series will be commissioned starring an ex-popstar.
The whole document will only be completeth upon the final demise of said subject. Deatheth.
P.S. Note the term lieth at the beginning of this paragraph. If you feel like suing over a matter of stated fact within the text below and on related pages I will reliath on thiseth.
One great man
Imagine the beginning. Nothing. Nothing but two men. Two great beings in body and mind. Two great forces, born leaders with unequalled ability, immense strength and pretty fine teeth.
Despite all this they had nothing. Nothing to challenge their intellects, nor stretch their considerable abilities. In short an unfulfilled void.
So one day, I believe it may have been a Tuesday, these two decided to set about creating an existance within a universe of their own.
During the course of the next eighteen months the two worked hard, creating galaxy after galaxy. Competing to build bigger and more magnificent structures and populating the place with every conceivable form of planetary type. Plus a few others that weren't quite to standard pattern.
After a while and with an awful lot of universe to show for it the two guys decided to form the most perfect star system. Then within that system the most beautiful planet. A planet so fantastic that it would embody every conceivable thought, all ideas.
This planet, that they named Earth, although relatively small in size was packed full of extremeties.
Cold polar caps and unbearably arid deserts bounded the plentiful plains and dramatic rock landscapes. The humid jungles and barren wastelands, the rivers cascading wonderously into the open seas. The light of day and cold dark of night even the swirling winds and torrid rains added to the grand spectacle.
A thousand life forms were added to provide noise, movement and energy. A thousand other variants of each were added to enhance the cacaphony of sound. Many with ultra bright colours to dazzle and inspire.
Tiny insects to enormous whales. Microscopic life forms, fur, hair and feather were included giving a range of abilities to move around the seas, land and air.
They even included a baboon with a bright red bum, although each denied that one.
Fire was included to burn waste and allow new life forms to develop. The seas lapped at the land edges constantly changing their shape and clouds kept a fairytale atmosphere around the globe.
The two had indeed created a utopian dream but still it lacked something.
So the two got together to create the ultimate user of the planet. Mankind.
This humanoid lifeform, although closely phisiologically related to many of the other lifeforms was given full biped status to rise over his contemporaries. An opposable thumb was added to help handle his environment and his brain was enlargened to cope with thought and understanding.
Every type was introduced. Colour variants, age differences, ugly and handsome. Charming sweet people and those that others would despise. Every type indeed.
Something was still amiss so they added another fundamental difference. A woman.
Then they thought that she might get a bit busy so they created more. One to match every man.
She two was thin and fat and had every hair colour. That's the description of each of them, not the collective.
Well after all this the two great beings sat back in their Parker-Knoll recliners and started to run and control the whole system.
The longer they watched the more fascinated they became. Their created mass developed a life force of it's own. Decisions were made and actions taken that they couldn't have predicted. It became fun and they wanted to join in and be a part of it all.
So one day, a Friday on this occassion, they agreed that as they were both stupendously powerful and clever that only one was needed to run the system.
They decided on a complex, harrowing, dangerous and difficult strategy to decide who was to go down onto Earth and have a whale of a time and who would stay and control it all. But on second thoughts they decided to pull straws.
Well, God lost so the other guy went down to Earth, to be born a man and live a life. And my name is Vince.
My autobiography will be subdivided into chapters, provisionally entitled as shown below. You can see I was most inventive in their naming. I hope to complete them generally in sequence, that would suit my logical mindset.
However, one link is already up and running and a flash of inspiration may inspire me to make an out of sequence one erupt first. Colours will indicate which are live and I'll advise those that have altered and which are yet to germinate.
If you want to hear about one section first then I suggest you give me a good badgering. And that doesn't involve the placement of dual-tone, nocturnal mammels in my rectal passage.
Baby - Will be completed eventually
Child - Will be completed eventually
Teenager - Will be completed eventually
Start Working - Will be completed eventually
Settling Down - Will be completed eventually
Getting Older - Will be completed eventually
Middle Age Onwards - Will be completed after it has happened.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.052 5 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
The image depicts Vince Poynter stood on a bridge in Eton and was added in Version 5.052 5 Jan 2018
The vinceunlimited Company Policy Sketch
Type: 3-4 minute sketch with 2 main actors, plus extras set in an office reception.
Best picture I had to demonstrate a good reception
The sketch is set in an office reception area. A receptionist sits behind the desk. A visitor enters.
Receptionist: "Good morning and welcome." The visitor acknowledges politely and turns to enter the office area.
Receptionist: "Would you sign the book, sir." The visitor mutters apology and signs in. He then makes for the office again.
Receptionist: "And the other book, sir." The visitor looks bemused and enquires why there are two books.
Receptionist: "Fire regulations, sir. It is company policy." The visitor accepts and signs the second book, then tries to leave.
Receptionist: "Your bag, sir?" The visitor again looks confused and enquires why.
Receptionist: "Security risk, sir. We have sensitive data and equipment. We wouldn't want it getting out."
Visitor: "I'm not here to steal things."
Receptionist: "It is company policy, sir. I'll look after it here if you like."
Visitor, reluctantly handing over his case: "Very well." He attempts to leave.
Receptionist: "Are we forgetting something, sir?"
Visitor, getting slightly annoyed: "What?"
Receptionist: "Your mobile 'phone, sir. It may have a camera attachment."
Visitor, annoyed: "It hasn't."
Receptionist: "I'm not to know that, sir. I can't be an expert on all things so Company Policy says..."
Visitor, interrupting: "Very well. Here it is."
Receptionist, taking the phone: "Thank you. And your jacket sir."
Visitor, bemused: "My what?"
Receptionist: "Your jacket. I must insist that you leave your jacket."
Visitor, guessing: "My pockets. Are you concerned that I might slip something into it."
Receptionist: "It's company policy. I was only reading a paper the other day. Jacket lapels can conceal recording microphones. Best leave it here with me."
The Visitor removes his jacket and hands it to the receptionist.
Receptionist: "And your trousers sir?"
Visitor: "My trousers! Why do you need these?"
Receptionist: "I was only reading on the internet, the other day. It appears that some manufacturers are incorporating modern technology in their fabrics that can sense heat and light. You must have seen those tee shirts that change colour dependant on mood. I'm afraid it is our..."
Visitor, resigned: "...Company Policy?" He dutifully removes his trousers.
Receptionist: "Open wide, sir."
Visitor: "I beg your pardon."
Receptionist, producing a large torch: "I need to look in your mouth. Just to check. Open wide."
The visitor opens his mouth and the receptionist peers in.
Receptionist: "And if I might?" The receptionist beckons toward the visitor's underwear.
Visitor, pulling his underwear forward: "Very well." The receptionist reluctantly peers down, grimaces, then gently reaches in to move things to the side. The visitor winces.
Visitor, now quite exhausted by the humiliation: "Is that all?"
They are suddenly interrupted by a film crew who crash in through the door. One person holds a camera, another a boom mike. There are assistants with clipboards and cases. The director struts forward.
Director: "Film crew for the office documentary. Alright to go in love?"
Receptionist: "Just straight through guys. I'll sign you in."
The visitor looks aghast: "What about Company Policy?"
The receptionist is unperturbed. She reaches down behind the desk and emerges with a pair of rubber gloves. "Bend over, sir." She puts another smaller torch in her mouth and snaps the gloves on.
You are welcome to use this sketch, on stage or video but credit and royalties must be given to Vince Poynter as the author. An invite to see it performed would also be welcomed, along with requests for more sketches, which can be scripted on any subject. Contact me at any time of the day or night for more information. Although, if you contact me at night I won't guarantee that I'll open my inbox until the next morning. Mummy always told me not to open the door when it gets dark. Mind you, I'm not sure that email inboxes were thought of when she said that.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.057 12 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
The photograph is of the author in his suit and on his phone in taken in 2009 and was added in Version 5.057 12 Jan 2018
The vinceunlimited Dictaphone Sketch
Type: 5 minute sketch with 4 to 6 actors set inside a six person train compartment (or could be set elsewhere, such as dentist waiting room) with moving train sound effects continuously (unless at the dentist).
If I told a Millennial this was a dictaphone they would believe me
The sketch starts with the non speaking roles already seated (or one or two may enter and leave as required). One man in a mackintosh should be seated prominently, reading a newspaper. Another man enters and also takes a prominent position. A young lady is in the scene.
The second man looks about, then brings out a Dictaphone. The others take no notice. He clears his throat, switches on the machine and speaks.
"Letter please ..."
All the others look at him. The man in the mackintosh glances over his paper.
The dictaphone man continues. "Letter please. To go to John Fredericks Limited ..."
The others start to lose interest as he continues. "At Watford branch. For the attention of Mister J. Fredericks. Dear sirs, I have convened the meeting to discuss your proposals for the new block to be in my office on the twenty-first at ten thirty a.m. New paragraph. Please advise your budget costing to me beforehand by return. Signed, yours faithfully etcetera ... etcetera."
The man smiles sheepishly at the few passengers who have bothered to look up at him as he finishes. He puts the recorder away.
The dictaphone man looks around. He is clearly bored.
He again reaches for his machine. "Memo. please ..."
All passengers again look up. He continues unabated. "... to go to Sam Prendell, reference your planning application for the Woods Green Development. Sam, please forward your outline proposals showing the extension to the Cricket Club. Signed etcetera ... etcetera."
He again smiles sweetly as he puts the machine away.
Immediately he gets it out again and continues unashamedly. "Letter!" He bellows.
They all look. "To go to Richard Dickens in Shropshire. Dick, I placed the device in the cloakroom on the fourth floor. Stop. It should go off at about four o'clock when the lobby is full. Stop. Expected casualties could run into the hundreds. Signed etcetera ... etcetera."
The passengers start to get edgy. The man in the mackintosh's interest grows.
"Just kidding." He says. The others are visibly relieved.
He continues. "New letter. No, memo. To my wife Jane. Darling, I have some business to attend to early this evening. Won't be home until at least ten o'clock. Love. Etcetera ... etcetera."
He continues almost immediately. Letter to go to Mark Chalice. Mark the agreed time for the Securicor hit is eight thirty. Kevin estimates two hundred thousand but Peter thinks it could be more. Stop. New paragraph. Don't forget the cutting gear. Signed etcetera ... etcetera. Oh, and Mandy. Make sure this one's not on our headed paper and remember to use a stamp like I said, not the franking machine. See you later."
The tension in the carriage returns.
"Finally. Oh, what the hell. Letter to go to Scotland Yard, London. For the attention of Detective Inspector Robbins. To read. Robbins. You are useless. As you read this letter another poor victim lies with a slit throat ..." The young woman passenger stifles a shriek.
"... Try searching the tracks near ..." He looks out of the window. "Near Wolverton Station. Signed. The Slug. Train murderer."
He smiles at those who are now looking at him, incredulously. "End of dictation." He puts his machine away.
The man in the mackintosh calmly folds his paper and puts it down. He reaches inside his coat and pulls out his own dictaphone.
He says. "Internal memorandum please. To Chief Constable Maxwell. From D.I. Robbins, C Division. Sir, at last I think we have a break on that Slug character. I am hot on his trail and I expect a result any time now."
You are welcome to use this sketch, on stage or video but credit and royalties must be given to Vince Poynter as the author. An invite to see it performed would also be welcomed, along with requests for more sketches, which can be scripted on any subject. Contact me for more information. You may find yourself treated like a special friend or a Royal visitor. Unless you contact me after 10 p.m. in which case I'll be asleep. Not that an email will actually wake me up. I have learnt to switch off that irritating bleep. So it's safe to click away at your leisure.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.053 8 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004 [When dictaphones were still a bit of a thing]
The image depicts a classic British red telephone box and was added in Version 5.051 4 Jan 2018
Interesting fact: Dictaphone is a trademark owned by Nuance Communications in Massachusetts, following purchase of the rights from a company called Dictaphone which was originally founded by Alexander Graham Bell, the dude from the telephone invention trade. However, the term is now widely used to describe all micro-cassette type hand-held voice dictation recorders
The vinceunlimited Mobilevend Idea
Simple. But not simple enough
Let's face it they are here to say.
We moan about the silly annoying ringtones and poor reception, claiming that they are the curse of modern society but we all have one tucked away don't we.
A mobile phone, of course.
The subject of where they are tucked is another matter completely and not for these pages right now. But every now and then we get caught short.
Perhaps you forgot to take the little blighter with you.
Perhaps you are away from home, or on holiday where your current cheapskate reception doesn't reach. You may be on the beach, you lucky devil and didn't bring the phone because you hate that telling bulge in your thong.
And then you forgot that you needed to call aunty, to cancel the milk.
It's no good relying on BT.
They used to put a telephone on every corner but drunks got them confused with loos.
And it's no good asking anyone to lend you their pride and joy. They will only think you will run off with it and use the miserly 25p credit they have.
No, what we need is a 21st century version of the phone box.
So what about vending machines?
They are so ubiquitous that the chances are when you need a phone there will be one nearby.
And the costs? Mobiles are getting cheaper all the time and I'm sure they could be mass-produced for a few quid.
They wouldn't need memories, games, WAP connection and colour screens.
They may not need screens at all. All they need is a keypad. I'm sure I remember a design like this many years ago!
So how about it. Who's gonna be the first?
Oh, and by the way. Remember this was my idea. So use this new 'phone to give me a call and discuss terms.
I may be an ideas man but that doesn't mean I don't want richies beyond my wildest dreams.
And a new thong.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.055 10 Jan 2017
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004 and reproduced here in full
The image was added in Version 5.055 on 10 Jan 2017 and depicts a relatively simple Nokia mobile phone.
The [highly cropped] image was taken on 5 Feb 2008 on an original Apple iPhone. This helps to understand the idea in date context. The mobile phone vending idea was originally published four years earlier than this.
Mobile phone vending machines are now common in some parts of the world. But was the idea of a simple, single or so use, throw away design ever offered?
Interesting fact: Vodaphone introduced the Quickphone kiosk, dispensing cheap mobile phones, allegedly the first of this kind in Britain in late 2005. About 18 months after I posted this idea. Coincidence? [Source: The Telegraph website, article by David Derbyshire dated 27 Oct 2005]
The vinceunlimited Parachute Sketch
Type: 6 minute sketch with 4 actors [one to be a voice off stage] set inside an aircraft fuselage [side view] with background inflight noise continuously. Props include three seats, two packages and a newspaper.
Would you parachute from here?
This is a visual as well as aural sketch and no names are given. For reference purposes the three actors are sat line astern and referenced as A, B and C below. The action is as viewed by the audience from the actor's side. A sits ahead of B, who sits ahead of C. They face left (stage right).
Aeroplane pilot (voice off) "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is your pilot speaking. Welcome on board on this internal flight between London and Edinburgh. Now that we have successfully taken off we will be maintaining our flight path at around ten thousand feet and expect to arrive at our destination in around thirty-six minutes time. Visibility is good and the weather forecast is fair. So relax and enjoy your flight. I'll keep you informed of future developments."
B to A: "Isn't this marvellous. All this technology keeping us up. Ten thousand feet and you can see all the land whistling by below."
A: "Indeed, it is. Orville Wright would be proud. We've come so far from those pioneering days of aviation."
B: "Yes. But it's reassuring to know that in spite of all this they provide the basics." He pats the package beneath his seat.
A (agreeing): "Yes. The parachute." A pats the package beneath his seat.
A and B laugh and slump back into their chairs. Up to now C has not been involved, merely reading his newspaper. He did hear the parachute conversation. He checks that the others are occupied and subtly reaches down to feel for his package. There is nothing under his seat. He checks again, in desperation swinging his hands wildly from side to side. Nothing is found so his hands return to holding his newspaper, that starts to quiver. Another check, but still no success.
Then C surreptitiously slides forward in his seat and hooks the package from beneath the seat of B, unbeknown to A or B.
B to A: "Wasn't the meal nice?"
A: "Yes. Three courses and wine. Very good."
The pilot on the intercom interrupts the conversation.
Pilot: "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry to disturb your peace but we've just received some weather reports. A spot of bad weather appears to be in our path. It's only a patch of storm so don't be too alarmed if our altitude and speed drops."
All three passengers simultaneously swing to look 'out of the window' (away from the viewpoint). They slump into their chairs and look concerned. A reaches down and assuredly pats his package, whilst turning and smiling at B. B also reaches down but now there is no package. He frantically searches around with his hand, much like C did. Finding nothing, he puts his head between his knees and looks under the seat. He spots the package under the seat of C. C has seen this and casually crosses his legs across in front of his package.
B looks concerned then spots the package beneath A. He slides forward to take the package with his feet but it gets caught up in the seat legs of A's seat. The pilot's voice is heard.
Pilot: "Ladies and gentlemen, please do not be alarmed. A couple of passengers have reported seeing white smoke trailing from the starboard engine."
A, B and C simultaneously look out of their 'windows' (away from the viewpoint).
Pilot: "But don't worry. This is just a vapour trail due to our descent to a lower altitude."
A, B and C slump back into their seats. B reaches forward to grab the package beneath A with his hands and starts to pull. This attracts the attention of A, who turns round quickly.
B is embarrassed so he pretends he was looking out of the window. B (explaining to A): "The vapour trail..."
A (suspiciously): "Yes?"
B: "Just routine."
A (now satisfied): "Yes. Still we've still got the parachutes."
A reaches down and grabs the package from beneath his seat. He holds it on his lap. B is disappointed. Then he has a brainwave. He points toward the viewpoint.
B (to A): "My God. The port engine as well!"
A leaps up placing the package on his seat and rushes over to 'look out' of the viewpoint side. At this point B snatches the package from the seat of A and sits back smugly in his own seat.
A, returning (to B): "It's alright. Just vapour."
B (clutching the package): "Best to be certain though."
A spots his package is missing. B looks away 'innocently'. A looks all around and under his seat, then under the seat of B and finally under the seat of C, who is still reading the paper. He notices the package under C and dives down to steal it. He then strolls 'nonchalantly' back to sit in his seat, smiling and caressing the package. He holds it on his lap.
Pilot: "Do not be alarmed ladies and gentleman but the suspected engine fire..."
All three simultaneously 'look out' (away from the viewpoint)
Pilot: "...on the port side..."
All three simultaneously turn to 'look out' the other side (toward the viewpoint)
Pilot: "...means that we have turned the engine off. There is no need for panic as we are under full control and able to fly on one engine."
All three slump back in their seats, satisfied that there is no need to worry.
C then folds up his newspaper and places it under his seat. He notices that his package is missing. He checks under the seat of B and looks angry. He believes B has taken his package.
C to B (aggressively): "Where did you get that?"
B (defensively): "Nowhere. Under my seat."
C: "Under whose seat?"
C pokes at B towards the eye. This makes B defend his face and drop the package. C grabs the package and returns to his seat, holding the package tightly on his lap. B rubs his eye and looks back over to C. C menacingly grimaces. B decides a novel approach and slides down between his seat and that of A. He puts his hand out ahead as he tries to crawl beneath the seat of A. Due to his positioning he doesn't hear the next announcement."
Pilot: "We have good news ladies and gentlemen. We have restarted our failed engine and as a precaution will be landing at Birmingham airport in three minutes time."
A and C look relieved and place their packages on the ground. They place them to their left, rather than under their seats. B is still struggling under the seat of A and eventually gets his hand between the legs of A. B feels around for the package and reaches up into the lap of A. Naturally A is shocked, but decides to grab the hand of B and give it a sharp tug before letting it go. This hurts B who emits a barely concealed squeal and scrabbles back out to his own seat.
A angrily turning to B: "What on earth do you think you are playing at?"
B (defensively): "But you have got my parachute."
A: "How dare you accuse me."
B: "But it's mine." He spots the package on the floor. "There. That one. It's mine."
A (knowingly): "Alright then. If it makes you happy." A picks up the package and tosses it to B, then slumps back in his seat.
B looks smug and looks about as if he needed a friend to gloat to. He turns to see C. C notices.
C: "As you are so keen. Here, have mine." C tosses his package into the lap of B and sits back into his own seat.
B looks doubly smug and sets about peering at his two packages, trying to see how to use them both.
Pilot: "Ladies and gentlemen. Please fasten your safety belts we are approaching the landing runway. The crew is glad that the trip proved uneventful. I suppose it is lucky we were not flying over the sea as you would all have been grabbing for the lifejackets under your seats."
You are welcome to use this sketch, on stage or video but credit and royalties must be given to Vince Poynter as the author. An invite to see it performed would also be welcomed, along with requests for more sketches, which can be scripted on any subject. Contact me for more information. You may be surprised how reasonable I am. Or it may be a Wednesday, in which case I'll be like a rampaging bull elephant with a nasty itch on the end of his trunk. You have been warned.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.056 11 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
The photograph was taken by the author in May 2015 and shows a Virgin aeroplane circling over London and was added in Version 5.056 11 Jan 2018
The vinceunlimited Yamaha DT175 Bike Road Test
An Initial Trial.
I have no pictures of my first motorcycle so here is the front page of the Sales Brochure for the Yamaha DT175 in 1977. Credit: Yamaha
We all remember our first.
Our first girlfriend, first kiss, first single and first time stealing from the dairy. Or was that just me.
Anyway, our vehicles are no exception and my little Yamaha DT175 trail bike was the first vehicle that I owned.
Mind you at the time it didn't seem so little and in many ways it wasn't the first. But much like girlfriends you can't include a quick shuftie with your neighbour as a prima facie conquest. So the Yam formally remains my first.
My parents had purchased a new Gilera moped for my older brother when he turned sixteen. They gave me the option of a new 'ped at the same age or a second-hand motorbike at seventeen.
As I was able to use my brother's wheels I chose the motorbike option and given the stringent restrictions on size ("not a 250 son, too big") and considering cost, I chose the Yamaha.
The year was around 1978 and the bike had a P registration plate, it was only a few years old. That's a P at the end by the way.
Trail bikes back then were much different from today. The styling still had suggestions of a fifties mount with it's front mudguard set close to the wheel, although trail bikes were soon shipped with higher mudguards shortly afterwards.
The tyres were 'knobblies' so gave me a chance to use it on and off the blacktop.
Top speed was a quite miserable 65mph or so. This meant that it never kept up with my mate Jeff's Honda CB125. Then again, nothing else could either.
The best bit of my new toy was the colour.
Although the bike was in sound mechanical condition with no damage to the bodywork, the bike had been repainted. I can't recall the probably implausible excuse the seller gave for the re-spray but I didn't care. It was a cream colour with brown stripes.
For some peculiar reason known only to myself, as a teenager my favourite colour was brown, plus at the time Kenny Roberts was putting Yamaha on the racing map and the distinctive blocky stripes were aped on my fuel tank.
Not mine. The bike, the photo nor the girl. In the absence of photo evidence of my own DT175 I found and used for years this scan of a similar model from an old Bike magazine featuring despatch rider Sue Fiddian. By old Bike, I mean the magazine not the girl. Sorry Sue. Credit: Bike Magazine
It was a unique bike at the time so if you recognise this pattern and now know the bike get in touch. I would love to see it again. Mind you it would be well past its sell by date by now and I guess pretty ropey. So I'll only give you a few quid for it, all right.
Another useful feature was the off-roading abilities.
Not so much the serious mudplugging but the ability to climb easily up the pavement kerb at the local disco.
Of the few times I ventured off the tarmac my inexperience kept me from performing fantastic tricks and my leg length prevented me from stopping. In fact, I can't recall ever pulling a proper, wheel in the air for more than a half-second type, wheelie. And I call myself a biker!
Plus, in those days, stoppies were only carried out by riders with no control and grabby brakes. The drums on the Yamaha certainly never grabbed anything to my knowledge.
However, I did find the thing ace at driving round town with its light weight and responsive two-stroke motor.
The wide bars, although sometimes a pain through dense traffic, enabled surefooted slow riding skills and great manoeuvrability. This was coupled to a high vantage point from that seat that didn't suit my legs, although it was comfy enough for one bum.
Add a second bum, whose owner had to make do with swing-arm mounted rear footpegs, and it didn't do so well. But for one up hooligan riding round town it was perfect.
I even considered fitting road tyres rather than the standard fitment off-road rubber. I recall that despite my efforts I couldn't match a front and rear so didn't proceed with this mod. If I had I would have beaten the modern super-motards to the idea by several years. Despite not heralding this modern change I travelled many a happy mile.
Nevertheless, it was the unhappy mile that it will be best remembered for.
I recall a frustrating crawl up the outside lane of a dual carriageway, at it's 65mph maximum. Jeff, on his CeeBee had passed the car and decided on a different route into the New Forest. He swung into a left-hand turn and disappeared.
I was still in hot [read: warm] pursuit and trying to pass the car.
Why people insist on travelling at one mile an hour less than my top speed, I'll never know.
Anyway, I just made it and shot round the bend. It was set at a right angle and Kenny himself would have been pleased with taking it at this speed. On his race bike.
Mind you I did have one race bike advantage. The footpegs on a trail bike are small and high set so don't dig in when cornering. A common problem on seventies machinery. Provided the tyres held out the thing could corner like a demon. And the road that day was perfectly dry and smooth.
I leaned over, to the point my boots were scraping the deck, but it wasn't enough. The corner was too sharp. So I leaned a bit more and something eventually grounded out. My handlebar ends!
I slid across the road.
Thankfully, it being the seventies meant that no traffic was on the other side. Unfortunately, being summer and a carefree teenager meant that I wasn't dressed properly. The lightweight jacket I had on rode up my torso, followed by my tee shirt, then in turn, each layer of my skin. Gravel rash par excellence.
Despite this mishap I enjoyed my time with the Yamaha.
Even now I wish it was sat in my garage so that I could play on it. The engine may have been noisy and underpowered but the styling was just right. The high exhaust and low front mudguard may date the thing to a certain period but that's when I was learning the meaning of freedom and this bike helped me achieve that. I'll always remember it fondly.
Like all my other firsts, I guess.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.054 9 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
The first image shows the front page of the official UK Yamaha DT175 sales brochure and was added in Version 5.054 9 Jan 2018. Credit: Yamaha
The second image shows a photograph scanned from an old 'Bike' magazine and was used to illustrate a story about a female despatch rider called Sue Fiddian. It was first added to my website in Version 3 in Mar 2010. I liked this as it best represented the 'look' of my DT175. Used and generally remembered in black and white. Credit: Bike Magazine
You ask the art department for an image to represent a will and this is what happens
A Comic Stage Play by Vince Poynter
This is the first part of a stage play, a comedy set in a solicitor's office.
A family is invited to the reading of the will of a deceased relative who died leaving a substantial income.
The will is read and certain requirements are requested to be made.
Firstly, a large chest is brought out which contains many fancy dress costumes which the potential beneficiaries must wear in order to lighten proceedings.
Secondly, a set of buzzers, lights and scoreboards are produced and a quiz is set up to award points on a pounds for points basis.
The intention is to find out just how far people will go for money?
Will they ultimately kill each other for greed?
Solicitor: Randford, a pompous middle aged serious man. Thoughtful and calm.
Solicitor's Assistant: Trisha, a lazy first year trainee, intelligent but without common sense. Excitable but clumsy.
Wife: Wendy White, a hypochondraic (with reason) in her late 30's. Fussy and bitter.
Adopted Son: Griff White, a rebel without a cause. Just 20. Scruffy and greedy.
Secretary: Sonia Black, an attractive, mid-thirties woman. Single, principled and intelligent.
Dead man's friend: Reg Franke, a mid-forties loudmouth who thinks he is funny. Conceals a secret past.
Strange Woman: Anna Daiken, a middle-aged, silent, poetic stranger. Dressed in black to match her character.
Sister: Caryl Sand, a practical and down to earth divorcee.
Dead man: Jack White, died at 40.
The scene is a Solicitor's office in England, present day. It is a mid sized room of classic design, tastefully decorated and furnished. No wall area is left blank so where there are no full height bookshelves the imperial wallcovering is hardly noticed behind the original oil masters hanging from the wooden picture rail. The room is dominated by the Solicitor's solid leather topped desk and overbearing leather chair. The desk is tidy, almost unused with an immaculate blotter. A telephone, brass lamp and brass calendar/pen holder are all deliberately laid out. In front of the desk are two simple low backed chairs. Behind this magnificent desk is a matching mahogany hat and coat stand, which with the ferociously posed full-sized stuffed upright brown bear frame the large bay area window cosseted with heavy velvet drawn curtains. The curtains conceal a generous padded matching seating area designed to discourage sitting on the low cast iron radiators behind the hat stand and bear.
A secondary desk is in the corner with a chair either side. This simple arrangement is for a secretary with computer, telephone, filing trays, pot plant and penholder. Many pens and pencils are stuffed into the holder. The filing tray is half full of papers. A jumper lays across the back of the chair. Opposite this desk is a grand leather well used two-seater Chesterfield in front of an ornate fireplace. Simple brass and porcelain ornaments adorn the mantelpiece. A small round, empty mahogany coffee table sits in front of the Chesterfield.
Entrance to the room is from one side behind the Chesterfield through imposing double sized solid wooden doors with chunky brass furniture and a heavy wood surround. On the opposite side is a simpler wooden single door with surround. Both doors are closed and the scene opens in darkness. It is silent.
Offstage a Grandfather clock strikes the Westminster Chimes followed by eight rings. On the eighth chime exactly the double doors swing open in unison and the Solicitor, Randford, enters. Backlit from the corridor behind he stands in the doorway and shakes off his wet umbrella. Without shutting the doors behind he strides over to his desk and fumbles to switch on the desk lamp.
The light reveals this balding, portly, pompous, routine man wearing an immaculate subtly pin-striped three piece suit and perfectly white shirt. His shoes are shiny black brogues and equally as in keeping as his matching tie and pocket handkerchief. Along with his umbrella he carries a neat copy of The Times, the classic sized, broadsheet version. He is finished in an open large brown overcoat and matching hat. This man is around 45 although his gravitas makes him seem older. He exudes experience, remaining calm in all situations and never hurried. He is both thoughtful and punctual with constant references to his Grandfather clock against the "fourth wall" which he compares to his own chained pocket watch whenever it chimes. He approaches the hat stand and places his umbrella carefully in the base. He removes his hat and hangs it on the hook after brushing it clean. He then removes his coat and brushes it off with one hand whilst holding it with the other, then hangs it carefully on the peg. A brush down of himself follows, a quick tie straightening and he crosses to close the door, with both halves being shut simultaneously. He brushes himself once more as if routine and turns to switch on the light.
Trisha enters hurriedly as the light comes on full. She is a clumsy teenager wearing under her sodden long opened sheepskin coat faded patched ripped jeans and a large baggy jumper bearing the words "Save Rhinos". Underneath is a white blouse but this is as noticeable as the smart short black skirt she carries in the supermarket plastic bag. She is the epitome of modern youth, lazy but excitable, educated but lacking common sense and pretty but understated. The glossy magazine she carries and the personal headphones she wears round her wet hair are her only thoughts as she violently swings open the nearest door knocking Randford face down behind the Chesterfield.
Trisha (Out of breath, entering) "Sorry I'm late Mr. Randford but I..." (she thinks he may not be there) "Mr. Randford... Mr. Randford..." (no response) "Oh good."
She hurries across the room and through the opposite door leaving both doors open wide. Randford appears from behind the Chesterfield and slowly rises to his feet. He brushes himself down and straightens his hair and tie. He moves to the double door and closes it, then walks over to the other door and looks through before shutting it. He turns and bends to get a brush from a low drawer in his desk which he uses to brush his suit down from top to bottom. As he strokes his trouser legs, bending to reach, Trisha enters suddenly and again knocks him over, this time behind his desk. Trisha has removed her coat, thrown on her skirt and is trying to do up the zip as she enters, throwing her magazine on her desk. Her stereo headphones hang limp round her neck, the player in her hands.
Trisha "Mr. Randford... Oh he's late."
She hasn't noticed her employer and sits at her desk in the corner. She pulls the headphones into place and starts to read her magazine, placing the player on the desk. The door swings shut with a gentle clunk to reveal Randford looking angry but contained, now stood. He again meticulously brushes himself off.
Randford (Contained) "Good morning Trisha."
There is no reply as Trisha is engrossed in her magazine and listening to her stereo.
Randford (Louder) "Good morning Trisha."
There is still no response so Randford steps forward and coughs twice. This has no effect either so he reaches out to press the stop button on her machine. She reacts jumpily.
Trisha "Urgh... Oh, Mr. Randford." (She pulls off her earphones and stuffs them and the magazine into her drawer) "You're here."
Randford "Yes. Funny that. I work here you see. Unlike some people I could mention. What are you saving them for?"
Trisha "Sorry Mr. Randford. What?"
Randford "The Rhinos. For what reason are you saving them."
Trisha "Oh, my jumper. Oh, the black rhino..."
Randford (Interrupting) "Trisha."
Trisha (Pulling off her jumper) "Sorry Mr. Randford. I'll make the coffee."
As she talks and removes the sweater she stands as if to leave. Randford steps back to avoid the flailing arms.
Randford "No time for coffee, not yet. Today is an important day. It is Wednesday the sixth and you know what that means don't you."
Trisha (Cheekily) "Thursday the seventh tomorrow Mr. Randford."
Randford "Trisha, may I point out that you are here to assist me in these six heaven sent weeks which our Government has kindly sent us. To assist me. In work. Not as a Butlins Redcoat but as a Solicitor's Assistant, with the general idea that you learn how adults conduct themselves whilst away from children. So please learn to keep control of your built in desire to attempt humour. I suggest that you file it untidily away with your glossy Beano magazine and Gutter Blaster in the drawer."
Trisha "Ghetto Blaster, Mr. Randford."
Randford "I know what I said dear." (He sits down in his chair) "Wednesday the sixth. Five days since last Friday. A Friday in which you may recall that we had a visit from a pale looking woman dressed in black. This may have struck a chord with you because despite being dressed entirely in black she introduced herself as Mrs. White. She had had some bad news."
Trisha "Was she the one who wanted a divorce on account of her husband's week in Portugal with the Sailor from Portsmouth?" (She sits, her jumper on her lap)
Randford "No. No. If you can recall she came to notify me of her husband's untimely death."
Trisha "Why untimely?"
Randford (Rising) "Three reasons. Firstly, he was forty. Now that may seem like old to you but please take it from me that at forty a man is still in the prime of his youth. A sudden death we are advised, but painless." (He moves around his desk) "Secondly, his business was on the brink of breaking into Europe and without him the deal was not likely to go through. And thirdly, I lent him fifty pence for the parking meter when he saw me three weeks ago."
Trisha "So why is today so important?"
Randford (Sitting opposite Trisha) "Because today is exactly five days since his death. And his will, which he lodged with me, because people do that sort of thing with Solicitors, stated simply that exactly five days after his death, his wife, or whoever, should bring to this office his old oak chest which contains his last will and testament requests. To be unlocked by this key..." (He produces the key from his waistcoat pocket) "...in the presence of certain people he has named in a letter at precisely o-eight thirty hours." (He checks his watch and the clock) "Which is why you made those telephone calls for me on Monday cancelling today's appointments."
Trisha "Oh yes that reminds me. I forgot to tell you that that man with the Greek accent, Mr. Davros, called back."
Randford "Davis. Mr. Davis and he's from Winchester."
Trisha "Him, yes. He said he was a bit annoyed with the change and mentioned something about inserting a skewer in you from below and you being the biggest kebab in Hampshire." (She is trying to find the message in her tray) "Well that's what I think he meant"
The main door opens and a strange black clad woman enters. Anna is without expression and moves slowly. She wears a long black cape with the hood up. Under the cape is a simple long black dress. She carries nothing except the rain on her cape. Her accented voice is classy, deliberate and intense.
Anna (At door) "Mr. Randford?"
Randford (Rising to greet her) "Good morning. And you are?" (He extends a handshake)
Anna does not respond to his welcome handshake and proceeds straight to the Chesterfield where she sits.
Randford (Arriving at her side) "I am awfully sorry madam but I cannot take visitors today. I have an important meeting."
Anna (With a steel cold look) "I am here for your meeting."
Randford "I am so sorry but it is invited guests only today."
Anna "I am Anna"
She turns away and stares distantly into nothing.
Randford "Ah. You are Anna." (He is at a loss so looks at Trisha) "Anna." (He points at Anna)
Randford "Anna... Oh Anna. A. Daiken. The list. You must be Mrs. A. Daiken."
Anna (Fizzing) "Ms."
Randford "Sorry I was mistaken."
Anna (Turning, annoyed) "No that is me. I am Ms. Daiken."
Randford (Again holding out his hand) "Randford." (No response, he withdraws his hand) "Could I offer you a coffee?" (Still no response) "I said would you like a coffee?"
Anna (Looking intently at Randford, she speaks poignantly) "A Brazilian dream, the coffee bean. The making of Empires and Land. For all that you see, I would rather have tea. Darjeeling, Ceylon or Assam." (Randford is open mouthed, Anna turns to Trisha) "And make it two sugars young lady."
Randford (Turning) "Trisha. And I'll have a strong black coffee, please. I think I might need it."
Trisha "Alright, Mr. Randford. Coming up."
Trisha leaves the room. Randford pulls up one of the low backed chairs to sit near Anna.
Randford "I am awfully sorry about your loss, Ms. Daiken."
Anna "Anna. Please call me Anna."
Randford "Yes. Anna."
Anna "Death. It affects us all. And each of us experiences a different response. Does the eagle miss his mate? Do the dolphins cry? Can a tiger mourn? When another dies?"
Randford "How poignant. You must have really cared for Jack."
Randford "Jack White."
Anna "Oh, yes. Jack. Jack White. No, not really we weren't very close you see. We go back, that's all."
Randford "Are you local?"
Anna "Everyone is local to somewhere. To which point of reference do you mean?"
Randford "Well, I mean here I suppose. Are you from around here?"
Anna "Perception, scale and time, Randford. Perception is based on common points of reference. Local to you may not seem like local to a small child whose experiences only extend as far as his mother's home. And if two small ants were both living in this room at either end, they may never meet and therefore not consider themselves local to each other. A matter of scale. And then there is time. If two people both lived in the same house they would be local unless they lived in different times."
Randford "Time. Yes." (He checks his watch and clock)
...To be continued...
Isn't it just a pain when they end just like that!
No this isn't the shortest play in the entire history of truncated stagings, it is just simply incomplete.
Has it given you a taste though? Do you want me to pen the next exciting installment? Then I shall, as soon as I get around to it. There are many draws on my time so if you want to get to the nub of this venture send me a message.
The more interest it receives the better chance of completion. It's in your hands.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.059 19 Jan 2018
First Published: Version 1.02 in Mar 2004
The image is of a Jaguar XJ8 wheel and was added in Version 5.059 19 Jan 2018. It frankly has no relevance whatever. Or does it? Nope, nothing at all, just decoration.
The vinceunlimited Loch Ness Screenplay
Monster Storytelling - A Screenplay Treatment
Please note that this is an incomplete fiction about the discovery of the Loch Ness monster. It was written circa. 1995 after seeing what effects could be achieved with the film Jurassic Park in 1993.
However, continuation of the story was sadly abandoned when the big screen movie, starring Ted Danson, called Loch Ness appeared in 1996.
At the time of writing the author has never seen the aforementioned film so any coincidences are purely that. Coincidental.
By Vince Poynter
A monster at Loch Ness
The story is about a man, who after a bad argument with a long standing lover, treks off to get some peace and quiet. He travels to Scotland and ends up near Loch Ness.
Whilst looking across the Loch he notices something move. It turns out to be nothing but driftwood, until he turns away...
He books into a local hotel, recounts his story and is amused by the stories of Nessie and of the local's stories in the bar. The stories grow more absurd as the evening wears on and the drink flows.
He begins to notice an attractive American woman staying for a few weeks in the same hotel, as a great niece to the landlord, but the drink and his memories of his recent lover cause him to be more embarrassing than attractive.
To seek solitude he spends some time near the Loch and again spots something. This time he is certain and decides to investigate further.
He tells the woman but she is less than impressed, dismissing his sightings as drunkenness. Only an old man seems to agree with his thoughts.
The men agree to search for the monster. Next morning they hire a set of diving gear from a local watersports centre and despite never having dived before set off, on a hire boat, to search the depths.
After several hours, suffering from cold and with faulty dive equipment they decide to abandon the search. A storm blows up and they set back only to have their boat blown to a remote part of the Loch near an unusual landmark and capsize.
In the dark and severe weather the two struggle to grab driftwood to survive. A darkened shape comes from the depths and the man tries to take a photograph or two but the old man is suffering and attempts to rescue him become a priority.
The attempts are fruitless and the old man is lost. The man tries in vain to keep himself afloat but starts to sink. He is just losing consciousness when he is accelerated at high speed through the water.
The next morning the woman is strolling across the beach and finds the man washed up on the shore. As he recovers in her bed he recounts the story.
Whilst his story is too far fetched for her to believe she begins to fall for his charm and as they console themselves about the fate of the old man they embrace and begin to fall for each other. They are rudely interrupted by the landlord who on hearing the story decides the police should be called.
In the Police Station the man is given a hard time about the loss of the old man and responsibilities given the huge depths of the Loch and the dangers of weather.
Whilst he is at the inquest, giving evidence about the circumstances, the woman receives the post, which contain the man's photographs. She rushes them to the inquest and presents the evidence.
A local reporter, an evil man, awakened by the thought of fame, causes a disturbance and steals the photos. The next day the papers and news are full of the story and the reporter is given top publicity.
Within days the area around the Loch is totally transformed.
Multi-million pound projects are commenced with the thought of huge publicity rewards. Major sponsors advertising boards are put up everywhere and the character of the place is wrecked.
The man and woman are horrified by the invasion of the world's publicity and are hounded by reporters whatever they do, particularly the evil reporter. They hear that the monster will be hunted at any cost and see explosives being off loaded and used to cause sonic shock waves. A submarine is airlifted into the area and flotillas of the locals boats are used to trawl the Loch.
The man and woman decide that they need to find the monster before anyone else. The problem is that they realise that they wouldn't stand a chance given the searching power of the rest of the teams. They need a head start and the man recalls the landmark he noticed just before capsizing. They set off to find the landmark.
The landmark is at a far end of the Loch and when they discover it they find some wreckage of the boat.
They look into the water and see the monster, which appears to look back at them. By moonlight the sight is wonderful but is interrupted by a helicopter with big searchlights, carrying the evil reporter, plus many approaching boats.
The man and woman disguise the find by quickly removing their clothes and going for a swim to distract the hunters. The hunters leave the two in peace and head away to search another part. Inevitably, the man and woman make love on the shore, the monster diving around in the background.
Next morning, over breakfast, the two plan to disrupt the search by discrediting his original story.
They realise that this could jeopardise the original claim of an accident but they figure that the risk is worthwhile. They decide that the first thing to do is move the boat debris to another place.
They drive to the place where the accident happened, collect some debris and take it to another part of the Loch. They return to collect more but whilst doing this they are spotted by the evil reporter who follows them to the site of the accident.
As he steps from his car he gets a gun out of the glove compartment. He follows them to the shore where he confronts them.
An argument ensues about the morals of discovery and financial gain against destruction of the local environment. A struggle occurs and the woman is shot in the head.
The man is about to be shot by the reporter when he dives in the water. As he struggles to hold his breath underwater and swim to a safe place the bullets fly through the water around him.
He suddenly notices the monster nearby which when startled by a bullet dives off toward the edge of the Loch and disappears. He follows, parting the underwater plants and discovers a large hidden underwater shaft. He realises it is his only hope and swims down it.
Meanwhile the reporter, realising what has happened, cleans off his gun and throws it down near to the woman and drives off.
You will have to commission this story to see how it ends.....
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.049 2 Jan 2018
Written circa. 1995
First published: Version 1.01 Jan 2004
The image depicts a monster at Loch Ness, the monster being the author’s large Jaguar XJ8 photographed at Loch Ness in 2000. It was added in Version 5.049 2 Jan 2018
Site For Sore Eyes
A television situation comedy by Vince Poynter
This, the first Sitcom to emerge from the brainchild of vinceunlimited, is Site for Sore Eyes.
The concept is about the trials and trepidations of work on a building site. Without the colourful language and exposed butt cheeks.
Below is the beginning of the first, pilot, tv episode.
Note: This is a project commenced and ripe for development so if you want to help this see the light of pixels get in touch and we'll talk.
Site For Sore Eyes
A Pilot Situation Comedy Script for Television by Vince Poynter
The scene is set
Phase One - Pumped Up
Mess Hut - A site shed, with benches and table. Very untidy. Calendar and site safety notices on the walls. Tea making equipment, old tabloid newspapers and broken cups on the benches. Rubbish around on the floor.
Two pipe fitters are in the hut, drinking tea. One is reading a tabloid newspaper and eating his sandwiches, all that is seen are his hands grabbing the curled up sandwiches, his face hidden by the paper. The other is wearing a tatty Walkman listening to music with his eyes closed. His fingers drum out a beat on his thigh.
Bill Clark enters. He is a Pipe-fitting Foreman in his fifties. A know it all from the old school. He pushes past the reading fitter.
Bill: "Morning lads."
The fitters grunt acknowledgement, without moving. Bill places his bag on the table, sits between the other two and starts to prepare tea. This is a well-rehearsed routine.
The fitter with the paper slides the sugar along the table without raising his head.
Bill: "Tea bag."
The other fitter reaches down to the ground and flicks a tea bag in the air, straight into Bill's cup.
As he says this he extends his cup towards the reading fitter. The fitter's hand appears with the milk bottle and pours straight into the cup.
Bill: "Kettle on?."
The other fitter swings round, picks up the kettle from the floor and pours the hot water straight into the cup, all without looking. Bill stirs the tea and takes a sip.
Bill: "Ahh. Tea. Lifeblood. See the match last night lads?"
The fitters grunt.
Bill: "Did you see that second goal. I haven't seen a ball hit as hard as that since my Aunt Deirdre swiped old uncle Bob with his own golf club. Nine iron I think. Painful."
The fitters squeak.
Bill: "Our man was on top form yesterday. Still they need the points if they want to stay up this season. After all, top teams aren't built in a day."
The fitters grunt.
Bill: "I reckon if they stopped going for the classic four, four, two and used a sweeper, winger ..."
Tim Peterson entering cuts Bill short. Tim is a sixteen-year-old first year pipefitting apprentice with natural fallibility. He is obviously late and knocks things about as he rushes to his seat.
Tim: "Morning Bill. Morning lads."
The fitters and Bill grunt. Tim quickly looks about for a tea mug and can only find a chipped old one with a missing handle. Unlike Bill, he doesn't receive the help in making his tea, in fact when he searches for the items they are moved away from his sight by the others. This slows down the process of preparing the drink and allows for some interplay and visual slapstick. When he finally pours out his drink, the others, in unison, stand up, clear their items away and leave the hut. Bill and Tim are the last to leave. Bill is sorting out a specification and Tim is trying hard to cool down his drink, by frantically waving an old newspaper over it, whilst sipping.
Bill: "Oh. Tim. Did you get that new bubble for my spirit level on your way home yesterday?"
Tim: "No, sorry Bill. They said the ones they had in stock were damaged. They said they were hoping for a delivery today and I was to go back."
Bill: "Did they tell you that the new ones would come in bubble wrap?"
Tim: "Yeah. That's just what they said."
Bill: "I thought so."
Tim: "So, what are we on today?"
Bill: "We're in the plant room. We've got to modify those pumps Mike told us about before he went."
Tim: "Mike eh. Who would believe it? Fourteen million quid. What would you do with your share of that, Bill?"
Bill: "Not waste time talking pumps with you. That's for certain."
Tim: "I reckon I'd buy this company and make the old man redundant. I can't understand why Mike just disappeared like that. I mean, he didn't even trash the computers in the office. How sad."
Bill: "And get himself sued. With all that money you become a target and I bet the old man would've tried it on. No, Mike is best out of it. I would probably just leave too. Jobs like this always seem to go on forever. This one's been going for ten months already and it will probably see out my retirement the way it's going. The Colosseum wasn't built in a day, you know. Come to think of it, if Mike was doing the Colosseum it would probably still be a pile of rubble now."
Tim: "It is."
Bill: "Don't be facetious."
Tim: "Will the new engineer be any good?"
Bill: "Probably not. Them suits are all the same. More interested in their company car and expense account than the job. And most couldn't build a sand castle on Bournemouth Beach let alone a big job like this."
Tim: "So you've known a few in your time then."
Bill: "Just a few! I remember this suit once. Name of Rogers. Used to speak with a limp I recall. Drove a Cavalier. Didn't know a thing. He thought six inch copper was what a policeman's wife gets."
Bill: "Anyway lad. Lets get a move on. These pipes won't fit themselves and the new man will have enough to do without worrying about that."
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.050 3 Jan 2018
First published: Version 1.01 Jan 2004
The image depicts a crashed lorry on a building site in Canary Wharf and was added in Version 5.050 3 Jan 2018
Shameless self promotion
The eponymous subjectThe Real Vince Poynter
This page is all about Vince Poynter, the real live person behind the vinceunlimited brand.
On an earlier CV I described myself as 'an active, good humoured and inventive individual, intelligent enough to learn new skills quickly and accurately with an ability to multitask whilst remaining in control. A fastidious and charming, honest worker able to assess priority and work under pressure. Always seeking a challenging and responsible, well-rewarded role'.
Myth or mirth?
I was born in the South of England in the early sixties in a two bedroom flat, with the unusual feature of a balcony on the ground floor. I was the swot at the local junior school so graduated to a boys only (pah) grammar school, all without changing city. I didn't work too hard but left school with a welter of 'O' levels (ask your dad) then decided to opt out of higher and university education.
Without the encouragement to be the vet I had always dreamed about as a child I drifted into an office-based apprenticeship in construction, an industry that kept me in high quality baked beans for the main part of my adult working life. It was never the real me.
As a teenager I grew up too late for the free love sixties and too early for the freedom of the eighties. Too late to be a boomer, too young to be a millenial. But I did discover motorcycling. Off and on since then I have always owned a bike and still consider myself a biker. So rock on.
In my late teens I resigned my job and at one point had spent every penny I had. I even owed my future wife £50 - She won't ever get it back. I'm still married and have been for millions of years. We soon got the four bedroom detached house on a suburban housing estate in a sought after village in a green and pleasant valley about twenty miles from where I was born. All very local. Except going to work daily in London used to take me two hours each way.
I eventually dumped the dusty construction life and now work as a driver for a prestige marque.
I have always enjoyed writing and much content of this site has its roots deep in the last millennium. It just took ages to put it all together and now I'm doing the same all over again as a fifth incarnation. One reason I would love be a full time writer.
If you feel you can stomach the expanded version why not drop your cursor over the button named autobiography. Only don't expect much as for now there is only a temporary holding page here.
However something has emerged in the shape of Vince's story about his transatlantic trip on the QE2 cruise liner in 2002 for your delectation.
The alternative to all this is much less pleasant - Just staring blankly at this spot below
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.034 8 Dec 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
Text updated and image added in Version 5.008 18 Oct 2017
QE2 tag added and minor text update in Version 5.034 8 Dec 2017
This article was originally written and published in October 2003 in the original version of the vinceunlimited website and represented an opinion at the time, based on contemporaneous knowledge. It is reproduced below updated and edited.
Animal Parts As Spares
A monkey transplant
One of the big issues facing mankind today is the moral question of whether we should be allowed to grow animals purely for use as spare parts for humans. Technological advancement is reaching the point where soon we will be able to grow compatible human parts within live animals.
And in 2017 the UK issued plans to make organ donor presumed consent a thing. If we have to go to the trouble of opting out then so can the mammals. Unless they fill out a form on the internet.
Imagine, a man's spare spleen, if you can, grown by a dog. Or a newborn baby's amputated lower arm being re-grown by a monkey. Or an arse transplanted from a horse onto a woman (I'm sure I've seen her already).
The issue centres on whether it is moral to do this. I believe it may be immoral not to do it. I would argue that mankind is no more than a species, albeit a very successful one and one which we are lucky to be a part of. And like all other species humans have developed the best way to survive and prosper. Being able to harvest parts from other species is just another development in the clear superiority of humans. All species use the resources available to them and just as our food farming is a clever extension of this ability so is improving this to include repair of damaged or old body parts. It is a natural extension. Nature.
And who wouldn't choose to live longer, providing the quality of their life through use of renewable, healthier parts was assured.
The only concerns I would personally have is to impose controls on the supply. I couldn't accept that the system was open to be abused by undesirable people. And I'm not scaremongering about a dozen cloned dictators. That just couldn't occur. No, I would worry about persistent drunks using surrogates to grow banks of spare livers. And I would have concerns about stinking smokers using animals to constantly transplant their lungs. Transplanting their brains might be a better idea.
My own view is that I would be happy for a pig to grow a heart for me, then for me to have it transplanted when mine is worn out. And I could enjoy a good bacon sandwich afterwards. Long live technology.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.013 27 Oct 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
The image depicts a Barbary Macaque monkey sat on the shoulders of the author in Gibraltar and was added along with minor text updates in Version 5.003 6 Oct 2017
The preheader was contained within the article body in Version 5.013 27 Oct 2017
It's logic Jim. But not as we know it.
My wife clearly missing where the centre of the universe lies. Clue - It's taking the picture
Where can you find me? Only at the centre of the universe. That's where.
It is a brave statement indeed to make a claim that I can be found at the centre of the universe. Even more foolhardy to state that I can prove it. But I am and I can.
Firstly you need to understand and accept the concept of infinity. It is quite easy this bit. Infinity in terms of distance is a very long way away, then a bit more. Kind of like further than that beer on the coffee table when you are slumped in front of the TV. Even further away than your chances of dating a Hollywood megastar, unless you are another Hollywood megastar of course. Or a film producer. Or a thousand dollar hooker of course. Anyway, you get the picture. Infinity is such a huge number that when applied to distances I wouldn't like to drive it - Not without a comfort stop.
Now, if I were to move forward, as far as possible, to the edge of infinity it would take me...? Let's see, about the same time as it would if I were to move backwards at the same rate to the edge of infinity. I shall call that time X. No, I won't, I'll call it Gerald, other people always call it X.
Anyway, in Gerald, travelling at a constant speed I could reach the edge of infinity from any direction I please. Infinity is the same distance, up, down, front, back or even sideways. Whether you are on a pushbike, in a sidecar or a space shuttle travelling at twenty six times the speed of Gerald.
If this is the case I must surely be right slap-bang in the centre - Of the Universe. Point proved.
Now, all I have to do is prove that I'm also immortal. That one could take some time.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.008 18 Oct 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
Slight editing and image added in Version 5.008 18 Oct 2017
The Millennium Dome
A tribute to the Greenwich blister
An enormous carbuncle or visionary monument? That is the question
Many say that the cash should have been spent on the NHS instead? They questioned the extravagance of a structure built of a seemingly temporary design and only there for a year. And no one can see where the £800m and counting went. So why am I a supporter of this apparently whitest of elephants?
Let us consider some facts. The Dome was built in the UK, not a third world country riddled with debt and plagued by civil war. We are a first world power so shouldn't we be able to afford a bit of luxury? The money is better spent on this plaything for a few than on another weapon of mass destruction.
And I do not believe that one hospital or nurse has been cancelled because of the project. I agree the National Health Service is currently under funded and would be happy to pay additional taxes if I could guarantee an efficient service but I do not confuse this issue with the Dome. That is the job of the British Press.
As for the contents I am not a believer of criticism without seeing things first hand. So I visited this monument in it's heyday in early March 2000 and enjoyed the whole day. The content was generally of an excellent nature and there was more to see than I could in the day's visit. In particular I noted that the Journey Zone was top draw stuff (Incidently, I could not find the actual top shelf stuff).
The only disappointment was the main show. Set on too grand a scale with things happening everywhere and a pretentious story line too far up its own tent-pole to make any sense.
I predict that the Dome will eventually be fondly remembered. The media in this country is controlling how we perceive the image of this stunning structure and up to now the press has been slagging it off. Its image is at a low point so the media-mongrels [deliberate misspelling] will soon decide it is time to re-launch it as a success story.
And as for the slogan 'Only open for a year'. It will still be up and running in some form in 20 years - Mark my words.
Think about the publicity that we could get for our country if we had all got behind it - I believe it is big enough.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.013 27 Oct 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
The image depicts the East London Thames skyline including The Millennium Dome and was taken by the author in August 2003. It was added in Version 5.013 27 Oct 2017
Bad Driving Habits
Driving Me To Distraction
Is there anyone who has not got an opinion on driving?
Well this is one to get you all going - unless you are in London at 5.30 p.m. on a weekday. Speed limits, don't we all just hate them? Come on, admit it. If you like limits then you are beyond hope. Just go out and stand in the road now. Only you won't get hurt because all the cars are going so slow nowadays because of the restrictions, humps and hopeless drivers who couldn't drive a Scalextric car.
And it's our own fault. Limits are only put there because the general imbeciles driving around today can't control their vehicles or judge when it is safe. Speed does not kill - bad driving does. And the general driver, despite their own high opinion of their ability to match Schumacher, drives pretty poorly.
So to counter this threat to innocent passers by and other road users the authorities (i.e. our elected representatives) put up arbitrary tin plates suggesting a recommended maximum. Now that would be fine if that was all it was. Instead, our protectors (i.e. the police) do their best to catch people going a bit quick and then to fine and humiliate us.
Fines themselves are fine, one could say a fine deterrent. It's the points system that gets me riled. A few misdemeanours over a matter of years can lead to diabolical insurance premiums and possible incarceration with all the attendant bottom stretching. With possible loss of employment, status and respect. Ask yourself - Is that really fair punishment for going too fast?
Sure, I'd agree that bad driving deserves all the bottom expansion in the world but bad driving is difficult to measure. And all this makes for an increasingly stale road system. And for people like me with four star in their veins it isn't good enough. We need to fight back.
We should concentrate instead on bad driving and eliminate those poor habits. So, take a look at the few listed below and if it's you - shame...
Hogging the outer lane. Have you looked in the mirror lately? Move over you pussy. I wanna go past and you ain't the police sunshine. Imbecile.
Hogging the middle lane. See above. And stop worrying about filtering off the motorway. The junction is at least two miles away and its well signed. Nerd.
Inappropriate speeding. I know, after all I said but 30 mph passing a school at 9 a.m. is much worse than 120 mph at night down an empty highway. Idiot.
Using your hazards whilst stopped in town. There's always another car stopped behind you so all the passing cars can only see one of your indicators. Looks like you are about to pull out! Wombat.
Parking on the 'other' side of the road with your lights on. The headlight dipping system blinds every passing car. And as you are stationary you hardly need to see. But we do. Dipstick
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.015 4 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
The image depicts a typical motorway scene and is not intended to be a comment on the vehicles involved. It was taken by the author in Feb 2016 and added in Version 5.015 4 Nov 2017
One day all this will be mine, or mined. Your choice
A Flexible Border...Collie
Why do so many residents of the UK fail to acknowledge that they are European? Take a look at any atlas (apart from those with the flexible borders produced by the Israelis) and the landmass of Britain is clearly in Europe. We are Europeans. End of discussion.
Of course those xenophobic Brits who refuse to acknowledge their position are really saying that they refuse to be 'European'. Some sad misapprehension that they would be forced to eat horses in the manner that the French do, be good in bed like the Italians or strut around like they own the place like most Germans. And that just isn't British.
My personal opinion is that having closer ties with your neighbours is a good thing. Less war, more trade and better pasta imports. As long as we don't have to drive Czech cars. Why suffer passport and travel restrictions? We can save all that malarkey for the other world citizens nibbling at the borders.
Europe today is a small place and should be accessible to all Europeans, including us Brits. Furthermore, European union is the first step towards world union and ultimately peace for all mankind.
And the rule applies to other parts of the world too. Africa for all Africans. The Middle East for all nations - even the Israelis. And Australia for the kangaroos.
Mind you, if it comes down to a clear choice between speaking Esperanto or becoming the next state in the good old US of A then I'm a happy hamburger eater. I'll even forgive them for not helping out in the Falklands. Or for charging us for their help in the Second World War. Or for accidentally shooting their allies every time they open fire.
Just as long as the Yanks acknowledge that the word mum has a 'u' in it. Much like the word neighbour.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.016 9 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
Slightly edited in Version 5.016 9 Nov 2017
The image depicts a Border Collie dog taken by the author's family around 1974. It was added in Version 5.016 9 Nov 2017
The long and shiny road
The road could be blue. To match the car
The technology that brings us reflective white paint to help guide us on our roads at night is one of man's greatest achievements. Obviously not in the league of the wheel or Penicillin. Or even bicycle clips. But pretty much up there.
As you hare down a country lane at night a pair of brilliant white lines guide you from one curve to another. The experience is surreal.
But, as usual, there is a limitation. In many cases, whilst we enjoy the reflection from the central lines sub-dividing the carriageways there isn't always an edge marker. And let's face it, the less unnecessary white paint embellishment on our country lanes the better.
Now, we cannot just paint the whole road surface because then we wouldn't be able to see the central white dividing lines. Plus the grip (for those of us who go quick enough to need it) would be severely reduced, particularly in the wet, the cost of paint would be exorbitant and, quite frankly, it would be an eyesore.
Unless the paint could be made black. And reflective.
So, we need a solution. How about making the roads fluorescent.
Add a luminescent compound to the Tarmac* mix. That way all the light absorbed during the day will be magically converted to a bright ribbon of road at night.
Just think of all the gorgeous colours that could be generated. Plus, the motorways could be coloured blue, the main roads green, the minor roads red and the little lanes yellow. All to match my road atlas.
We'll never turn onto the wrong road at night again.
Admittedly, as far as I know, luminescent paint is slightly radioactive. So all our cars will need lead underseal (lead underpants for cyclists). Then the handling and performance will be affected. So we won't be able to go quick after all.
Come to think of it, it's a silly idea. I tell you what - let me take another look at that bicycle clip concept again.
Author: Vince Poynter *Little known fact: Tarmac is a registered name used in a generic way, much like Hoover
Version 5.024 24 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image depicts a Peugeot 406 Coupe travelling on a typical British A-road, taken by the author in April 2016. The image was added in Version 5.024 24 Nov 2017
Oil be seeing you. Oilways
Do you consider yourself green?
I suppose the answer would be yes if you are either a resident of the planet Nerasis (sector 45AF.789 in the Zarciod Belt, turn right past Uranus and it's only a block or two away) or a pedal cycling, anally retentive killjoy with a huge chip on your shoulder. Either way, you ain't gonna like what I say.
Fossil fuels. Burn 'em.
I make no secret of the fact that I'm a turbo charged V8 with nitrous injection.
I overtake people on the pavement (that's the sidewalk to all you Yanks) in the same way that I pass them on the road. Life is for living and we today are fortunate to have been blessed with the black stuff.
Oil. Fantastic product, all that energy easily stored and able to take us on adrenaline fuelled trips that crack cocaine would struggle to produce. I'm a petrol junkie.
Hold it old chap, I hear you politely say. What about the resource issue?
If we all go around mindlessly using these decomposed dinosaur reservoirs then there won't be any left for the next generation. Stuff them! It doesn't matter. If we didn't have oil we would invent some other way of getting our automotive kicks and so will the next generation.
Let's pass on something useful - The ability to have fun.
Just one reservation about oil. Why did someone invent Diesel, then think it might be a good idea to use it in cars? Beats me.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.017 10 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
The unedited content represents a view held at the time, long before the adoption of powerful electric or hybrid vehicles and modern, clean diesel engines
The image depicts a toy Shell classic petrol pump, circa 1970, taken in December 2002 and was added in Version 5.017 on 10 Nov 2017
A man and a woman. Entirely different.
First things first. Let's not confuse gender with sex. Heidi Klum doesn't have gender appeal and I've never had gender in the back seat of a car. Nor Heidi Klum come to think of it.
However, I am against too much of this modern fetish with political correctness. Men and women are different. Live with it. In fact, celebrate it. We don't want to end up in an andronomous society where you can't tell your mother from the plumber.
I'm not a misogynist (look it up) and I'm not against lesbianism. In fact I think I might be a lesbian. I share all their ideals, I just don't get to change in the same cubicle when I go swimming. And I have better hair.
I applaud equality. That is, I applaud fair equality, not the trumped up excuses used in positive discrimination. All women shortlists should only be reserved for surrogate breast feeding jobs. Not to select members of parliament. Even if they are all tits which people suck up to! - Couldn't resist that one.
Men love the way women look so good. In all shapes and sizes. Keep those curves on view and appreciate it when we look at your thighs. You know that if you hide yourselves away you will end up putting up your own shelves. And it has taken men millions of years to learn how to read a map. Women won't achieve it in their lifetime.
And as for the men. Stop being a bunch of wimps. Don't be afraid to get down the gym and pump those pecs. And it's not an insult to hold open a door or offer your seat. Stand up and be counted. Women will only be Kylie if you are prepared to be Russell Crowe.
As for me. I'm off down the gym, to pick up my map and drive over to Heidi's.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.018 13 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003
The text is reproduced, unedited, as published in Oct 2003 and represented the author's views at the time
The image depicts the author and his wife sat astride a Can-Am Spyder three wheeled motorcycle as manufactured by Bombardier Recreational Products. It was taken on 25 Sep 2016 and added in Version 5.018 13 Nov 2017
The Meaning Of Hi-Fi
My Hi-Fi in 2001
This page is not about to describe my hi-fi to you. You'll have to get to know me much better if you want to hear my set up.
No, this page is a direct attack on all those manufacturers and suppliers out there who bandy about the term hi-fi when it clearly isn't warranted.
Hi-fi, or to give it it's full title, high fidelity, was popularly introduced in the seventies. The term may be older but it's use became more widespread, probably to coincide with the style of denim Jeans at the time. The distinction allowed for the purity of sound extracted from the growing number of specialist separate components that outperformed the all in one music-centres of the time. Eight track anyone?
I know that the latest head-banging, superwoofered ghetto blaster can outperform these early attempts at music reproduction but that's not the point. The term hi-fi is a moveable datum. As the general melee of equipment improves, the true high fidelity components are those that still rise above the masses producing crisp, clear sounds to die for.
And the number of lights, displays, bells and whistles don't count either.
So, next time someone tries to flog you a 'hi-fi' product, at a price a teenager could afford, ask them how it compares to a top end CD transport coupled to a top class processor with a pair of dedicated amps and running through some major floor-standing speakers. Then get them to show you.
You might just get an idea of what my system sounds like.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.019 16 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image depicts the author's Hi-Fi stack in 2001 and was added in Version 5.019 16 Nov 2017
Cellulite and Celluloid
An audition taping in action
I'm in two minds about this one. These pages are all about getting a gripe off my chest, without the use of a fine pair of tweezers and Hollywood must be a prime target.
There is much to dislike about the pumped up, pretentious American film industry.
The powerful network can easily create a dream but so often wrecks them.
The play it safe attitude of film commissioning stifles genuine new raw talent and makes it hard for newcomers to break in.
The industry's hypocritical attitude to sex which rams it down your throat but ensures you never see it.
The obsession with mindless violence and the assumption that pain, maiming and killing have no subsequent consequences.
All these things are gross and frankly unnecessary in such a matured industry.
Yet, somehow, all the glitz, glamour and style makes me hold back from really winding in the knife.
Some of my best memories come from watching the spectacular stunts and settings that multi-million dollar budgets can achieve. And anything associated with Kristin Scott Thomas must be OK.
And then there is the British Film Industry.
Great ideas, talent and films but no balls when it comes to funding. So don't go whinging when Mr. USA rewrites the great British stories in his own style and makes zillions from them.
So, I have to decide one way or another, whether Hollywood is destined for the landfill dump or the mantelpiece.
Let me put it this way. Deep down, anyone who writes harbours a deep wish to become part of the circus.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.020 17 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image depicts the author in the process of creating an audition tape in May 1998. The show was a Channel 4 project entitled Trash Talk and the audition taped failed to do it's job. The show now appears nowhere on the internet [It's not the later NFL show]. Was it even made? Has it been removed from history? Did they pick the wrong presenter? You do the maths. The image was added in Version 5.020 17 Nov 2017
Lane discipline is good here. Probably.
I'm a fan of driving. Sure there are many reasons why I shouldn't be. Take a peek at my opinion on driving habits if you need to see a few reasons why. But I am also an optimist, if things are bad they can be fixed.
All we need is the will and a bit of clever thinking. And that is a speciality of mine. I have worked out how we can reverse one of the worst habits of British motoring by changing some simple rules.
Why not let people who drive correctly, drive faster?
We all want to go quicker but need to do this responsibly. Here is the way.
Without changing the rules about only overtaking on the right, let us allow drivers to go quickest on the inside lane, then progressively slower in the outer lanes.
Sounds crazy? Well just think about it for a moment.
Imagine a three-lane motorway. When you are driving along with no other traffic (remember the seventies?) I propose that you should be able to charge along safely to your hearts content.
If you then come upon a slower vehicle ahead then you will need to move out a lane to pass. But you have to temper the speed a bit and go past carefully. If you again want to get going once past you will be encouraged to move back to lane 1 to be allowed to travel again at speed.
And when the traffic is so bad that all three lanes are needed then all the overtaking in lane 3 has to be so much slower, therefore safer. It is a self-restricting system. Slow when busy but with less restrictions when the roads empty.
And drivers will voluntarily move over to the left after overtaking. Simple. Like all great ideas.
Of course, the set limits would have to offer something if this is to be sold as a good system. If the government gets hold of this idea then some quango think tank will decide that on motorways the limits should be 70, 60 and 50 mph. Much easier to sell the idea to a sceptical public at 90, 70 and 60 mph.
Mind you it won't stop the arsehole cruising along at 60 in the centre lane, clogging up the whole system. For that I propose a simpler system. That I shall be legally allowed to carry a firearm and shoot him.
(Note: Americans and Europeans will have to read this page in a mirror to get the idea)
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.023 23 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image depicts a typical British motorway scene and is used to illustrate lanes being used. There is no implication to suggest the vehicles are in the correct or incorrect lanes. The image was added in Version 5.023 23 Nov 2017 and updated in Version 5.024 24 Nov 2017
LCD Car Windows
The new black in car windows
Blacked out windows
Maybe it's because I wear glasses and so cannot instantly pick up the oh-so-fashionable Oakleys everytime the sun comes out.
Maybe because I hate it when all those pillocks keep their sun visors down long into the evening, or later. Or forever.
Or is it just that I hate that time in a winter's evening when the sun is right in your face, just above the steering wheel rim.
I think we need to do something about sunny days.
Why not use LCD technology to automatically black out car windows on a summers day?
It's a well-known science, relatively cheap and controllable. Look at the watch on your wrist (no, not you Mr. Breitling). Control could be light sensitive, or switched by yet another button with a strange logo on the dashboard.
Just imagine you've been out cruising all night, so your windows are clear. It's early morning and you are thinking of an excuse to tell the boss that you need a day off. You know, dead grannies, leaves on the line, working from home; that sort of thing. When you pull up next to a car and it's the man-boss himself, on his way to work.
Just flick the switch and your car becomes a haven of seclusion. Or a Mafia staff car. Yes, you too could look like a reclusive film star. In your twenty-six year old Datsun Cherry.
There is only one problem as far as I can tell. Legislation would prevent the technology being applied to front windscreens, so all the problems listed above would still irritate me.
I guess I'm gonna have to get that Laser Surgery done.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.025 27 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image was added in Version 5.025 27 Nov 2017. It depicts a blue Range Rover with blacked out windows, taken by the author in April 2012. That is, the photo was taken, not the car. That would be theft. And naughty.
A personal view of the British Lottery system
Typical pose of a lottery winner
I'm a big fan of the National Lottery.
Where else could such a simple act as shelling out a pound bring such substantial life altering consequences?
And I do not fall under the category of 'it won't change my life'. The hell it will. Big time.
Not that I have such a bad life, it is just that I do have an imagination and too much of my precious time is spent doing what I must, not what I would like. So winning would be a truly selfish act. Yes. Bring it on.
I will not try to convince you that I play the game for good causes. I have a strong belief that we should not need charity because need should be properly addressed through taxation. I have no issue with the government taking a percentage of the lottery cost for extra special causes as long as it stays that way. The causes should remain special, not need based. The organisers already make a tidy profit and the winnings seem to be sufficiently generous to tempt me.
The only downside I see is lack of integrity.
Virtually every week one, two or more people are made very wealthy. Camelot boast of the hundreds of millionaires made. But there is very little evidence.
Bentley Motors shares are not going through the roof and I, nor anyone I know, is personally aware of any big time winners, except the tiny minority of reprobates featured in the red top rags.
And don't tell me that mostly they want to keep their identities quiet or that they are all wrinklies who stuff it all under a mattress. If I won a jackpot everyone would know. The smile alone would give it away.
So, what stops the organiser saying there are four jackpot winners when there is only one? I am sure that the system is correctly monitored but the ease in which this could occur stirs the conspiracy side of my mind.
Camelot you need to demonstrate your propriety better.
Finally, a lottery tip.
Buy two sets of numbers.
The second set (providing they are a different set, numbski) will double your chances of winning. You could not improve on that.
Shelling out another quid will only increase your new chances by a third, a fourth will only increase your chance by another quarter, etc.
And don't play on Wednesday, you'll just bugger up my chances of a rollover from Saturday if you win.
P.S. Calling it Lotto doesn't fool anyone. It makes it sound cheap. Which, I guess is the idea. Trouble is, it is still a pound. And I, for one, do not want a 'cheap' win.
What I couldn't do with twenty million? Well, a better website for a start.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.028 30 Nov 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
This article was written when Camelot owned the rights to the British lottery. It has since been sold to some teachers in Canada [seriously, look it up] and because teachers are not well paid it now costs two quid a go. So now I cannot afford it.
The image depicts the author stood next to a Bentley Arnage in 2000 and was added in Version 5.028 30 Nov 2017
Admittedly, the way I take it - black, weak and with one sugar is a little unconventional. If it is an inviting, red, watery, sweet liquid where you can clearly see the base of the cup I'm a happy bunny. The taste is so subtle, not disrupted by the artificial thickness of bovine mammoidal fluid.
I learnt to appreciate the subtleness of tea as a drink after a Japanese restaurant supplied me with green tea. An oriental fusion of hot water with bits of their garden chucked in it. Strange to the eye but welcome in the mouth. The Japenese have been drinking it like this for hundreds of years before they told me. How inconsiderate is that?
This ancient heritage can be easily traced because in essence tea has hardly changed since the first chinaman boiled a pan of water in autumn. That is why the British love it. We are superb at tradition. So much so the developments in tea distribution have been few and far between.
For a start there was the tea bag. A major revolution. And then. Well almost nothing.
Except tea bags of various shapes offering dubious claims to increase efficiency. I don't even want my flavour to flood out. I take it red ferchrissakes.
So when I came upon this idea I thought I could claim a landmark. A revolution in tea making. A quantum step no less.
Will they name it after me?
Like all good ideas it is simple and comes from need.
Recently, I tried to make a cup of tea but there was no sugar. Someone had used the last of it and all that remained were a few grains amongst the coffee granules.
Little interim note, if you have coffee with sugar - put the sugar in first so the spoon doesn't contaminate the sugar. That coffee granule really spoils my weak tea. And I'm tea total, I never drink coffee.
Anyway, back to the case in point. I wanted a cup of tea and there was no sugar. I looked at the teabag. If only the sugar was already in it I thought.
One of those little lightbulb thingies illuminated over my head and there it was.
Tea bags, containing tea and sugar.
A marketing edge.
I even have the logo. "Sweet tea's the one for me".
Do you have the ability to turn this into a consumer product with me? Tea bag and sugar producers click away.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.039 15 Dec 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The tags were added in Version 5.039 15 Dec 2017, along with the image which depicts the author serving afternoon tea to some pensioners whlst some co-workers look on
Links to 'Tea' poem added in version 5.040 17 Dec 2017
Word Minutes Template
Take a minute to read this
There must some minutes in here somewhere
The thing with big software applications is that they are so well developed that they are often hard to fault.
Thousands of pounds and man-hours go into producing a top class product worthy of the fortune you have to spend on it.
Or rather thousands of dollars, because let's face it. The yanks have got it all tied up.
So when I came across a need for an elementary layout in a powerful popular application I was surprised by its omission.
Microsoft Word '97 doesn't have a standard template for minutes.
How did this occur? Surely when they were beta testing the product they would have held meetings.
And minuted them.
Have I discovered a secret here? Do they use Lotus Ami-Pro in Seattle? We should be told.
By the way, I have created a template myself. If you need a copy, send me a request.
And if Bill Gates is reading this. Get in touch. You'll find my hourly rate very reasonable. Compared to yours.
Author: Vince Poynter Version 5.030 4 Dec 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The links were added in Version 5.030 4 Dec 2017, along with the image which depicts a Windows XP desktop with multiple windows open