The Great Walls

Remember that moment in Peter Jackson’s ‘King Kong’ when you thought ‘oh oh, I think this movie might be a bit shit’?  You know, the bit just after the BBFC certificate vanished and just before the theatre lights came up? 
A much better ‘King Kong’ was the one featuring Kurt Russell.  That version made sure that you didn’t even see the monster until half way through, meaning that the suspense was such that you were by that point chewing the fingernails of the person in the seat next to you, having run out of your own.  That movie had some flaws, sure, in particular the giant ape hand that I suppose looked realistic as a giant leather mit, but also reminded one of those huge oversized boxing glove seats.  The best feature was The Wall.  It was clear that it was ancient, but regularly repaired, and anyone driven to engineer on that scale was shit scared of whatever was on the other side.
The best King Kong, of course, is the original (movie, not actual creature).  It scared the shit out of me when I first saw it, so it must have blown the minds of the original audience.
Walls, especially big ones, are iconic. 
When the Chinese decided that a fence just wasn’t going to cut it, they didn’t fuck about.  One can just imagine the tender process, with the Emperor being presented with ‘The Big Wall’, ‘The Huge, Fuck-Off Wall’ and, of course, ‘The Great Wall’.  The Great Wall was the most reasonable priced, and the rest is non-sweary history.
Hadrian, in a move that is probably retrospectively supported more by English people then even the most fervent ‘Yes’ supporter in the forthcoming Scottish independence referendum (have they decided on the question yet?  If it’s ‘Do you agree that Scotland should remain part of the Union’, some people are going to be busy swapping badges) famously walled off Scotland from Roman occupied Europe, in a move that even today means there are few straight walls north of Berwick-upon-Tweed.
A wall is a statement.  Build one round your estate and you are making a very definite statement.  And that statement is ‘poachers will be shot’.
Domestically, walls around property boundary lines tend to be low, ornamental.  It’s more a suggestion of ‘this is mine and…actually, this is mine, fuck off’.  It’s the sort of statement that used to be made by mounting an enemy’s head on a pole, the sort of provocative move that is now only equalled in suburbia by any instruction starting with the words ‘polite notice’, before going on to say something about ethnic minorities not being welcome.
Come the big blow over Christmas, it was all about fences.  Traditionally, these wooden dividers of garden boundaries are to be found marking the edges of property lines.  After Christmas, quite a number of them were no longer strictly aligned with the property line.  Some weren’t even aligned with their original postcode.
Well maintained fence panels and posts held firm, or went over as one.  Well maintained panels acted like spinnakers when attached to weaker posts and sailed into the distance.  My panels were approaching heritage status and so it was a case of storm 1 – fence 0.
Between Christmas and the New Year a common sight in any DIY store parking lot was a stream of people exiting with one or more new fence panels.  Not owning the sort of working class vehicle capable of transporting panels, and worried that any attempt to attach a panel to a roof rack, given the weather, would result in the car turning into a glider, I had mine delivered.
I did, however, treat myself to an electric screwdriver.  Like any bloke issued with kit that looks a little like a gun, I immediately held it at hip height and made ‘bang bang’ noises.  One wonders if when soldiers are issued with their sidearms, they pretend to put up shelves.
Even though non-sonic, it was the bloody business.  Turned a chore into a joy and the new fence is a joy to behold.  Not sure if it’s giant ape proof, but it’s rather more attractive than a head on a stick.

Postcard from Spain - Build me up!

The Spanish love concrete almost as much as they like to stuff anchovies into olives to make tapas, or like to serve up cattle in wafer thin slices after killing them in traditional fashion…in a sawdust covered ring wearing very tight trousers (the matador, not the cattle).

In the southern Spanish province of Andalucia, building materials are at a premium – wood is required to, well, grow from the ground, come accessorised with fruit and is used to feed your family. The Spanish had already mastered building in adobe with red clay tiles (actually both local phrases for ‘posh mud’) but when concerete arrived on the scene, they must have thought ‘jackpot!’.

The olnly thing they like more than concrete is tarmac, this explains their love of roads…that and the fact that the little EU sticker in the corner of the banners announcing a new glorious six lane motorway through this region means that Northern Europe is paying for it.

The motorways are glorious though…and they are not even open yet. The Spanish have just finished building loads of two lane motorways…to use while they build the three lane ones! In a spectacular show of job creation (the party ruling in Spain at the moment has its roots in the region, hence all the investment) they appear to be building roads just for the hell of it – roads that divert miles out of their way to span spectacular gorges or bore through tunnels. The practice of naming every bridge and tunnel after somebody means that there will soon be more names highway structures than there are people to name them after.

Driving on them is fantastic. The roads are brand new – the black-top is smooth and unmarked as cake icing. And it’s not environmentally damaging…because there are very few cars. This is a poorish part of Spain and while everyone that drives a car does tool round in a new little three door hatchback or something, there just aren’t that many cars. This means that driving up and down the M-way is like driving in England in 1958, except all the lorries are transporting tapas rather than flanges, grommits or other wonders of British manufacturing.