If it's Tuesday ...

Every Tuesday, regular as the tide, the ONS produce a set of figures, they're not exactly entertaining figures, they are the death toll for the week before last. They make for a grim read but if you want to get some proper idea of the what is going on these days, these figures are essential. If you were, for example, to have only the daily figure announced at the Coronavirus Update briefings held by the Government (each afternoon, a 90 minute exercise in futilty and self-preening) you would be seriously misled. 923 dead for the day they will say or some number, it matters not what the number is because it is a meaningless figure. It gives the impression that such and such a number died in the last 24 hours when the figure given actually represents the total accumulated that they counted in the last 24 hours. A man could die on Wednesday and not be counted until Friday, indeed a man could die one week and not be counted until two weeks later. These daily tallies serve no purpose other than to scare children and those with no sense. Indeed a weariness spreads that says "Hey Ho" when the figures come out. But figures do matter and the figures released by the ONS on Tuesday 14 April were very disturbing. Let me quote from the report:

• The provisional number of deaths registered in England and Wales in the week ending 3 April 2020 (Week 14) was 16,387; this represents an increase of 5,246 deaths registered compared with the previous week (Week 13) and 6,082 more than the five-year average.
• Of the deaths registered in Week 14, 3,475 mentioned “novel coronavirus (COVID-19)”, which was 21.2% of all deaths; this compares with 539 (4.8% of all deaths) in Week 13.
  
  

Why is this disturbing other than the large rise in COVID-19 figures? Well what isn't shown quite so clearly is that the rise from week 13 (total deaths 11,141) to week 14 in Non-COVID-19 deaths is 2,310. Since everyone is supposed to be sitting comfortably under house arrest how come so many more are dying? Could it be that the measures taken to save lives are, in fact, taking lives? The A&E departments at our hospitals report that they are hardly seeing any patients, acute surgical wards in hospitals are lying empty, patients with chronic conditions are simply not going to hospital. And given that daily and nightly bombardment of nightmare stories of deaths on TV who could blame them? We seem to have "Saved our NHS" for the sole purpose of killing COVID-19 patients.
I read that the peak number of cases was passed on April 8 but that figures are not falling (well they won't if you keep adding in cases from two weeks ago). The law keeping us penned in our bathrooms is due to be reviewed on April 16, it's reckoned there'll be at least three more weeks of this murderous economic suicide.
Of course, one week's figures do not mark a trend and it may just be a blip (I love that word "Lies, damn lies and blips!"). We shall see, that's if we are still around. Hey Ho!

Red, White and Blues

The weekend in black and white is here.

Fish and Chips

Fridays are usually the busiest days for chippies, some say it's a throwback to Christian dietary interference on eating meat on that day or maybe Friday was payday and money was available or, and I think is more likely, good fish and chips are simply delicious and irresistible!  This Good Friday, however, many chip shops are closed and I suspect they will stay that way forever due to Government interference on civil liberty. Life after this phoney plague and unnecessary mass house arrest will be dull and impoverished; you might almost wish you had died.

This jolly sign was on Greevegate, Hunstanton. No trip to the seaside is complete without some fish and chips so we dutifully consumed some in a restaurant just down the road from here. Well I have to fully research my posts don't I?

Sod this for a game of soldiers

Phone for the fish knives, Norman 

As cook is a little unnerved

Way back in the dim mists of time when I was but eleven years old a visitation of the influence, as the medievals called it, bestrode the world taking with it several millions, including some 30,000 in the UK. The so-called Hong Kong flu came, it saw, it conquered and then it disappeared. Did the world grind to a halt? Did they cancel everything? Did they lock up everyone? Did they threaten you with criminal sanctions if you sat in the park for a few minutes? No, of course not, life and death and Wimbledon and yes, even the Olympics went on as normal and hardly anybody mentioned it at all. I bet hardly anyone even remembers it. I only vaguely recall folk saying the usual "There's a lot of it about" but then they say that every year. Certainly there was no panic, no stupidity, no collapse of the NHS.
Today however a madness has spread quicker than the damn virus; thanks to the malevolent internet, stupid press campaigns, weak and vain politicians, corrupt governments (in particular China, a murderous gangster state on the brink of economic collapse), a bizarre credibility given to the Oracle of Imperial College London ("Half a million dead if no action taken, a quarter million if some action taken, maybe twenty thousand if you lockdown and crash the economy" , then after a week it became "maybe 5,000 or so and many would have died anyway" ... the moral as I constantly say is never mistake a model for anything other than an expensive guess).
Symptoms of the madness are a lack of clarity, of perspective, a complete loss of sang froid, panic driven self-incarceration, a withdrawal, nay a collapse, of normal social intercourse and civic life. The damage to the world economy is possibly greater than that of the depression of the 1930s and we all now how that turned out. All those silly things that you have done, social distancing, meticulous hand washing, hoarding of toilet rolls (what was that all about?), hiding in the bathroom for ten days ... all utterly pointless. The virus will get you whatever you do indeed it's quite possible you've already had it weeks ago and not even noticed.
So how do we get ourselves out of this tangled web? What's the end game? Do we sit here and watching repeats of football matches until July or whenever the Fat Controller is fit enough and back from paternity leave and suffer businesses large and small going to the wall just to "Save our NHS"? ... or do we grow a pair (such a fine expression!) and say enough of this stinking crap, we're out of here. Sod the lock down! Stuff your faulty repressive laws! Let's get back to living a life worth living and back to work and save our economy what's left of it.

Red bike and blue

Unwanted bikes make for colourful flower displays (eventually) or so says Hunstanton. I'm supposed to be stuck in a house a hundred and more miles away so my view rightly doesn't count for much.

Escapism

I mentioned at the start of this month how Henry Le Strange built a very successful railway to get folk from King's Lynn to Hunstanton, well thanks to 1960s profligacy that line no longer exists. You'll have to find other means of escape that's if the CovidNazis will ever let you out of your house again. Above we have the neatly decorated KL station still pretending it is run by British Rail (Queenie regularly uses this place and they haven't told her about denationalisation) and below all that's left of Hunstanton station where the trains ran into the sea...

Here's a little something extra, a relatively young John Betjeman (younger than me, let us say) taking us on a day trip from Lynn to Hunstanton. Look, listen and learn not least how to pronounce Hunstanton and Snettisham. A different country in so many ways.

Triple tattoosies

On the first Sunday of Operation Domestic Internment I thought that, for want of anything better, some tattoo parlours might fill the gap until tomorrow. Above from Hunstanton has a fine pun and skull. Below from King's Lynn is just showing off but somehow does not overcome the sleaze, I mean a red door off a side street off London Road... definitely as it should be done.

And finally who has the bad luck to open up just days before the current outbreak of stupidity? Good job he hadn't got too settled in. But "Angry Badger"?  What's that all about? This one is just down the road in Hull and was the site of the short lived "Killer Kitchens" enterprise ("Kitchens to die for at slashed prices"!) ... some might say places have a doom on them.

The Butcher and the Baker

Back to Hunstanton for a rare scene these days, high street bakers (Mr Bun the Baker!) and butchers shops. I hope the current madness doesn't push them into oblivion like so many other small businesses; it's not possible for these guys to "work from home" or "self isolate".

The Hovis trademark derives from the Latin phrase hominis vis, the strength of man something which is being sorely tested by collective not to say global numptiness.  This is a bit of an antique sign, I haven't seen one like this for years.

Bandstand, Hunstanton

I've said it before that no place with any sort of get up and go can afford to be without a bandstand. So what if it sits (or is that stands?) there empty for 99.9% of its miserable existence; it is a testament to where a town wants to be ... a bandstanded kind of place. And so what if when it is actually being used for it is intended (and not as trysting place for malfeasance)  no-one stops to listen; they just think a band playing on the prom by the seaside on that one warm day in July (Tiddely-om-pom-pom!) is just so right and fitting that they float on by in a nostalgic revery.

The weekend in black and white is here.

Groyne Strain

Now there can few pleasures as great as a stroll on a beach on a chilly, cloudy day in late February, especially when the wind is blowing at a steady 30 mph and gusting fit to lift you off the ground and dump you in another county. Such delights are best taken in short measures and so I didn't overindulge my stay on Hunstanton's famous beach. It's a funny old beach for a seaside resort; you might imagine miles of golden sand but this is split into short stretches by numerous groynes and the sand is well peppered by vast numbers of large pebbles in various sized and colours, red, white and creamy, having come from the cliff whereon sits the lighthouse. (I didn't have the opportunity to see the cliff from the beach but I saw it many, many years ago and can confirm that it is indeed two toned; red and white). Generations of youngsters and oldsters have enjoyed the beach over the years so it can't be all that bad.

Don't ask what the poles with odd attachments at the end of each groyne are for because I haven't a clue.

Alios delectare iuvat

Something I noticed during our short stay in Norfolk are the delightful, decorative signs that adorn villages and towns in these parts, usually depicting a motto and a scene from the history of the place or some local landmark. Hunstanton's features the famous sun setting over the sea, that I (and everybody else) mentioned, and old Edmund and his wolf. The motto, as you no doubt know, means "It is our pleasure to please others". Sunny Hunny certainly pleases.

You can see a collection of these signs here.

This, for comparison , is what we have across the road for Cottingham. A bit small and dull.

The Lighthouse

A sign on the gate says there's been a lighthouse here on the cliff top over Old Hunstanton since 1665 though some suggest that a hermit, one Thomas Cooke, was paid by the local bigwigs, the L'Estranges (We met a L'Estrange a few days ago), back in 1530's to keep a light from the chapel that I posted yesterday; lighthouses being more helpful than churches as someone once said.

Trinity House took over the running of all UK lighthouses in 1836 and this building went up in 1840. This is the Trinity House coat of arms.

It's always nice to have some claim to fame even if this is disputed ...

The lighthouse as you can see is no longer functioning and is in fact a holiday cottage. You'll want to a look around inside, no doubt; well you're in luck as there's a video that I'll post just for completeness and the catchy (mindless) tune.

A shaggy dog story

To cut a long and very unlikely story short: a king, Edmund by name, king of the east Angles was captured by, or surrendered to, the Danes (or Vikings if you must be crude) who then used him as target practice for their archers (think St Sebastian only worse) then chopped off his head (as was the style in those days and those days were the mid 850s, crazy times ...) and threw it away after playing a game of football with it, of course. Edmund's lot found the body but not the head. Later they heard a wolf calling to them; wolfy had the head between his paws ... hence this howling wolf on Hunstanton cliff top. Why Hunstanton? because Edmond, as young boy, is supposed to have landed here or was shipwrecked here or ... any way Edmund woz here OK! And he built this chapel that is now a repaired ruin ... or at the very least this chapel was named after him, St Edmund's-on-the-cliff. Anyway this Edmund is known as King Edmund the Martyr and is interred in Bury St Edmunds though Bury there means burgh not inter ... and not at all to be confused with King Edmund the First who never met a Dane he didn't like.

Howl, howl, howl, howl!

Some shaggy dogs came to pose.

The neatly repaired chapel doorway has provided a frame for generations of photographers; folk were queuing up behind me to take their snaps. I'll post the lighthouse tomorrow.

I got this off the net I think it dates to 1895 but don't quote me on that.

Henry L'Estrange Styleman Le Strange

We took ourselves out on a trip to the coast on a road we had not traveled on for thirty five years. The road had been straightened and did not pass through Onion Corner or down Cat's Bottom; places which put the fear of an early demise on the unwary driver. Still the road passes rich sounding places such as Snettisham, Heacham, Wolferton and (my favourite) Ingoldisthorpe; we could have dropped in on Queenie at Sandringham but thought better. Our destination for the afternoon was the delightful seaside resort of Hunstanton; yes, we were going to sunny Hunny. I'll say it now because everyone always says this about Hunstanton: it is the only resort on the east coast where you can watch the sun go down over the sea; there that's that out of the way and we can move on. Hunstanton is on the Wash, that bit of the coast where the North Sea has taken a fifteen mile wide bite out of the land, you can see Lincolnshire on the horizon should you want.

Hunstanton had been a small fishing village until our hero, Henry L'Estrange Styleman Le Strange (we'll call him Henry shall we?), Henry had the idea of building a seaside town, New Hunstanton, connected to the world by a railway to King's Lynn. It was an immense success, the railway being the most profitable in the country. Henry fancied himself as an artist and drew up designs for lots of buildings including the Town Hall which you see above. There's a hotel next door which I somehow did not photograph in similar honey coloured stone so you'll have to take my word for how nice it looks.

The statue in front of the town hall was unveiled in 2017, cost a mere £40,000 and is, no doubt, the pride of the town, there's more here (I'm not that bothered).

There's more to Hunstanton than just this man and his town hall but as today's theme for the first of the month is "municipal buildings" this will do for now. 

Thanks are owed to Olly and her friend, Smut (or Ann), for transport and pleasant company on this trip.