Out of curiosity, I looked into How To Build A Nuclear Submarine (BBC2, 27 June, 2010) and was not surprised at what I saw; men, young and older, engaged in a boys’ own strategy of bonding, machine-building, cutting and welding, and team-playing. What did take me by surprise was Erin, the young apprentice electrician at the Barrow-in-Furness based operation.
When Erin is finished her training, the voiceover said, she will be one of an elite corps of skilled technician. Not only that, Erin is young, blonde, pretty, a real role model for young women, everywhere. Forget the Wags, and make way for this new take on Rosie the Riveter. Forget the Beckhams, the Coles and the Rooneys. Manolo Blahniks have had their day and a Masters’ Certificate is the new cool.
And the beautiful end-point of the work? Each Astute submarine costs £1 billion build. Each is the length of a football field, can circumnavigate the globe without surfacing – it won’t have to refuel for 25 years – and is possessed of sonar so powerful that one in the English Channel can detect one leaving New York harbour.
Great, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to – I mean, isn’t the Cold War over? And what about all those marines (submariners?) who will spend months underwater, in cramped conditions? Only the captain of the sub will have his own quarters, see.
It all smacks of the ‘sixties television series, Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea, underwater answer to the stellar Startrek. I relished the series, although I never knew exactly what that crew were up to, either. It was all great adventure stuff, as no doubt it will be for the Astute submariners. And in her hub of activity, productivity and sense of common purpose, how I envy Erin the electrician…
Tuesday 29 June 2010
Monday 21 June 2010
Beam me up, Scotty, please...
Of all the inventions that they promised us and that were never delivered, the one I miss most is teleportation. You have definitely heard of it, whereby a man that needs to get from A to B need not bother with train, plane or automobile, bike nor bus, but a “dematerialisation” chamber at point A that beams him to point B where the reverse process takes place. His journey is done, over.
No more being held in thrall to Icelandic volcanoes, French air traffic controllers or Irish low-budget airlines. No more missing luggage – it can travel with you, see! Goodbye to lousy food and dratted engineering works. Why are the scientists taking so long to invent it? Personally, I blame George Langelaan for writing his short story The Fly in 1957, in which scientist Andre Delambre suffers a shocking accident when he experiments with a disintegrator –integrator, the “dematerialisation” chamber I wrote of earlier. The following year Kurt Neumann gave us the first screen version of the story, followed by David Cronenberg’s The Fly in 1986.
If it wasn’t for Langelaan and his discouraging developments in technology, airports would be obsolete by now and the debate over the third runway would never have happened. Oh, yes, there is always the danger of fusing genes with a mouse or with Boris Johnson, but technology has always been hazardous – don’t forget BP. The benefits of teleportation to the environment would be so enormous that the odd, unlikely fusion would hardly matter. Indeed, one or two might be an advantage – how about merging David Cameron with Nick Clegg? They are two of a kind, anyway. Stripy horses already exist in nature; how about furry fish, feathered goats and horned kittens? Come on, scientists! Take a few risks, make travel less miserable and we’ll be one step closer to whizzing untrammelled about the universe...
No more being held in thrall to Icelandic volcanoes, French air traffic controllers or Irish low-budget airlines. No more missing luggage – it can travel with you, see! Goodbye to lousy food and dratted engineering works. Why are the scientists taking so long to invent it? Personally, I blame George Langelaan for writing his short story The Fly in 1957, in which scientist Andre Delambre suffers a shocking accident when he experiments with a disintegrator –integrator, the “dematerialisation” chamber I wrote of earlier. The following year Kurt Neumann gave us the first screen version of the story, followed by David Cronenberg’s The Fly in 1986.
If it wasn’t for Langelaan and his discouraging developments in technology, airports would be obsolete by now and the debate over the third runway would never have happened. Oh, yes, there is always the danger of fusing genes with a mouse or with Boris Johnson, but technology has always been hazardous – don’t forget BP. The benefits of teleportation to the environment would be so enormous that the odd, unlikely fusion would hardly matter. Indeed, one or two might be an advantage – how about merging David Cameron with Nick Clegg? They are two of a kind, anyway. Stripy horses already exist in nature; how about furry fish, feathered goats and horned kittens? Come on, scientists! Take a few risks, make travel less miserable and we’ll be one step closer to whizzing untrammelled about the universe...
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Mystery of the Missing Shoulder
I grew up believing that the egalitarian, fashion-free, gender-equal utopia aboard the Starship Enterprise was a microcosm of the real world. Long before that vision was dashed, I received a rude awakening of the sartorial kind. When I was a little ‘un, our family went weekly to a local shopping precinct. One Saturday, we were strolling up and down, enjoying the day and gathering our purchases when a ripple of laughter running through the crowd caught our attention.
It was almost a medieval scene, the shoppers pausing in their business to stare at and lampoon a young man. Nothing remarkable about him except that the trousers he wore consisted of one navy-blue leg and one white leg. Young children, matrons, adult men, all tittered and wondered at this sight. The wonder of this story is, of course, our wonder, our sheer lack of sophistication. We really had never seen anything like it before. I remember thinking that maybe the tailor hadn’t enough of either navy or white fabric, and had cobbled together a garment made of left over pieces – in which case, the trousers were very innovative indeed. This is the same mindset with which my Mum regards those tops and dresses that have one shoulder cut away: it looks like they hadn’t enough cloth to finish the garment.
The Day of the Trousers pitched me into a lifetime of conservative dressing, a state from which I have never emerged. Over the years, I have bemusedly observed the procession of fads and fashions that contribute to the montage of life; the ripped and torn, the faded and distressed, the uneven hemlines and faux patches, without so much as a pang of longing - or a missing shoulder.
It was almost a medieval scene, the shoppers pausing in their business to stare at and lampoon a young man. Nothing remarkable about him except that the trousers he wore consisted of one navy-blue leg and one white leg. Young children, matrons, adult men, all tittered and wondered at this sight. The wonder of this story is, of course, our wonder, our sheer lack of sophistication. We really had never seen anything like it before. I remember thinking that maybe the tailor hadn’t enough of either navy or white fabric, and had cobbled together a garment made of left over pieces – in which case, the trousers were very innovative indeed. This is the same mindset with which my Mum regards those tops and dresses that have one shoulder cut away: it looks like they hadn’t enough cloth to finish the garment.
The Day of the Trousers pitched me into a lifetime of conservative dressing, a state from which I have never emerged. Over the years, I have bemusedly observed the procession of fads and fashions that contribute to the montage of life; the ripped and torn, the faded and distressed, the uneven hemlines and faux patches, without so much as a pang of longing - or a missing shoulder.
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