Monthly Archives: September 2012

Sep 8 2012

How do you get a million miles out of one tyre?

Shiny Oil Tanker

Shiny Oil Tanker (Photo credit: Jawaad Mahmood)

One of the more interesting assignments I was given at BP was a truck maintenance system. We were building it to replace an existing system that ran on a mainframe. Someone had sentenced the mainframe to death so we had to rewrite all the systems on a new fangled distributed computing platform.

I didn’t have high hopes when I heard about the assignment. Truck maintenance sounded a bit boring to me, but that was before I met the project sponsor. I must have done something right because he was a very particular man and had been extremely picky about who was assigned to the project.

The first thing he did was ask me a question. “What do you think the three biggest costs are for BP?” As we were surrounded in a posh new head office which must have cost a fortune, I offered up “premises” as an answer. He nodded. I then said “staff” and he nodded again.

Every guess from then on was met with a shake of the head. After 10 or so guesses, I said “I give up”. At which point, he leaned forward in his chair and said “tyres”. I have to say, his answer stunned me. I never would have thought that tyres would be anywhere near the top 10, let alone the top 3, but there you have it. He went on to say that the company expected to get a million miles out of a tyre.

Private motorists are lucky if they get 30k miles out of a tyre so how do they do it? He showed me a model of a cross-section through a truck tyre. The thickness of rubber between the inside of the tyre and the road was massive – probably 6-8 inches. He explained that when the tread was getting low, the tyre would be sent off for a recut.

Essentially, they would cut further into the thick rubber to make new tread. This operation would be repeated through the tyre’s life until there wasn’t enough rubber. The tyre would then be sent off for reprocessing. Essentially, another band of thick rubber would be grafted onto the tyre and the whole life-cycle would begin anew. Eventually, the skeleton of the tyre would wear out and the tyre would be no more.

This was why it was crucial for the company to monitor each and every tyre to make sure that they wring every last mile out of them. A record was kept for every tyre to monitor how many miles it had travelled. What made things complicated was that the tyres moved around. Sometimes they would be on a trailer, sometimes on a cab and sometimes on an unarticulated truck (called a rigid as opposed to an artic).

Not only that, but trailers moved around too. All this moving around made my job very difficult, because the only instrument measuring mileage was the truck’s tacho. I’d just about got my head around all the permutations, when my project sponsor said “Have I told you about a tacho head change? That’s when things get really complicated!”

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Sep 6 2012

Why I’ll never need a trophy cabinet

Triangle of the 15 reds in snooker. Note: This...

Triangle of the 15 reds in snooker. Note: This is not a full depiction of the setup of a game of snooker, as the colour balls are not shown. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like many people, I find myself glued to the Paralympics just like the Olympics a few weeks ago. There is something mesmerising about true athletes competing at such a level. I feel proud of Team GB and even when there is a race with no Team GB competitors, I still like to watch in case an athlete sets a new World Record. Unfortunately, I was never blessed in the sports department. I’m sure I could have improved if I’d persisted and practised, but I simply didn’t enjoy taking part in sport.

I don’t think my school years helped. For bizarre reasons known only to the PE teachers, we made sure that all the outdoor activities happened when it was absolutely freezing, raining cats and dogs or both. It also didn’t help that I was required to remove my glasses when taking part in sports. You would be amazed how much of a disincentive that is when trying to catch a rock hard cricket ball that you can barely see.

I always used to enter the 100m during sports day, not because I was any good at it, but more because it was the shortest race possible. In the pool, I just about managed to struggle to 25 yards for my red ribbon, but I was lucky it wasn’t 30 yards – I think I’d have drowned. Some might argue that snooker is not a sport and I suppose it’s not in the physical sense, but it’s the only thing I ever won a trophy at so it counts as a sport in my book.

A charismatic man I used to work with called Dick Wittington (I kid you not) once cornered me and told me that he had taken on two teams to manage in the local snooker league. He went on to tell me that it was all a bit of a strain and that he was struggling to find the time. By the end of the conversation, somehow he’d persuaded me take on and run the worst of the two teams. It must have been a jedi mind trick.

I set about organising the team. My bequest from Mr Wittington consisted of a rag-tag collection of unskilled, unreliable snooker players, but somehow we managed to get a team together most weeks. The first few weeks, we were soundly beaten. After a while though, the most amazing thing happened. We started to improve. We started winning every so often. Then we won every other game. Soon we won more often than we lost. As the league continued, we climbed inexorably up the table.

In the final game of the season, we beat the league leaders and won the league. The snooker club awarded us medals. Because my squad was so unreliable, we had 10 players and there were only 6 medals. Put on the spot, I distributed the medals to the guys that turned up for that crucial last game.

In the office the following day, I displayed my medal proudly on my desk. Just then a fiercely competitive colleague came over for a chat. He was the kind of guy who had two big trophy cabinets and trophies to spare. He had been a member of our squad but he’d been unable to make the last match (and hence had no medal). “Where’s my medal?” he demanded. I mumbled something about there not being enough to go around. He instantly rattled off a bunch of statistics that showed that he was the best member of the team.

I sighed, and handed over the only thing I’d ever won. But for one short moment at least, I was a winner.

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Sep 3 2012

Whatever happened to my treasured possessions?

 

Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol. In Prose. ...

Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol. In Prose. Being a Ghost Story of Christmas. With Illustrations by John Leech. London: Chapman & Hall, 1843. First edition. Title page. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Owing to a recent rodent induced flood (don’t ask), we have had cause to reassess the value of lots our belongings in the Bailey household. Many items have slid down the treasured possession scale from “don’t throw away under any circumstances” to “discardable tat” with frightening speed. Thanks to the household insurance, almost everything can be replaced. What surprised me was how distinctly unattached I felt to all of my possessions – they’re just easily replaceable things.

It never used to be that way. When I was growing up, everything I owned was almost sacred. I had a massive collection of plastic soldiers which I played with endlessly. Rain, wind or shine, I would be out in the garden digging bunkers and conducting world war across the lawn. I was obsessed by World War II and I had a big boxful of Commando comics which I read over and over.

Whilst these were important to me at the time, they paled into insignificance compared to two hard backed books.

The first was a ladybird book called “In the train with Uncle Mac”. I don’t know where it came from and it was well-worn by the time it came into my possession. It was the story of a journey on a steam train with a kindly uncle. I read the book incessantly. So much so, that it started to fall to bits. As a young boy, I liked all kinds of machines, but especially trains. Time after time, mum had to perform running repairs with Sellotape just to keep it in one piece. By the time she finished, there was more Sellotape than book.

The second was a similarly sized hard backed book with a plain dark red cover. It had no dust cover and at some point in its life, it had been in the wrong place during some decorating and white paint flecked the front of the book. It was presented to me by my uncle Martin. I could tell by the solemnity of the way he gave me the book that he was handing over a precious heirloom. It was a copy of a Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

With gravity, he told me that the book I held in my hands was his favourite story ever. He then read it to me. I can’t say that it converted me to being a Charles Dickens fan, but the moment possessed a certain magic all the same.

I feel guilty that I no longer have either of these books and for the life of me, I have no idea what happened to them. I could buy another copy of both these books to replace the ones that I’ve lost over the years, but somehow it just wouldn’t be the same.

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Sep 2 2012

You’re OK if you want a sandwich or a phone or a loan…

Wimpy (restaurant)

Wimpy (restaurant) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I was growing up, there was a relative paucity of fast food outlets in our local town. We had not one but two fish and chip shops and a Kentucky Fried Chicken. There was also a Wimpy Bar, but at that time Wimpy was more about table service than it was about grabbing a bite to eat on the move. It was also comparatively expensive to anyone trying to live within a pocket-money budget.

I remember when McDonald’s came to our town it was a very big deal. The fast food giant was almost completely unknown unless you had been to the States. Air travel was much less common back then, so for most of us, we learned about McDonald’s from a story in the local paper. The brand was presented in a very positive light, seen as a much-needed employer and a sign of progress.

Maybe it’s nostalgia, but I seem to remember that the food back then was pretty good too and certainly very keenly priced. On a Saturday, my £1 pocket money would be burning a hole in my pocket and I quite often treated myself to a bus ride into town and a burger. I could even afford chips and a drink if I walked to town and only took the bus back.

Not long afterwards in 1980, Marks and Spencer’s started to sell sandwiches and it’s fair to say that they set the bar very high for take away sandwiches. Many other supermarkets followed suit, but their sandwiches tended to be pale imitations of the legendary Marks and Spencer’s sandwich. My favourite has always been the chicken salad sandwich – absolutely delicious.

Ever since those times, there has been an absolute explosion in the variety of fast food establishments adorning our high streets. I would struggle to walk 50 yards in our local town without coming to a coffee shop. We have two Gregg’s Bakers, two Subways, a Burger King, a Cornish pasty place, umpteen pizza chains and several cafes. Ironically, the fish and chip shops are gone as is the McDonald’s.

If my income was still £1 per week, I would be well catered for in the high street of today. There are a huge number of shops who set the unit price of all of their stock at that magic figure. I rarely go in those shops but when I do, I am amazed at the range and sheer variety on offer and it baffles me as to how it is economical to manufacture all those things in some faraway land, float them over, put them on a truck to get them to the shop and then sell them but it is obviously a thriving sector.

People must buy a lot of phones too. Every single mobile phone network has a shop in town selling shiny new gadgets. Not only that, but there are a couple of independents too and umpteen market stalls toting accessories to wrap your shiny new purchase. It’s hard to believe that 20 years ago, this market didn’t exist and today, 1.5 billion phones are shipped annually.

In fact, if you took away the food & drink outlets, the pound shops, the mobile phone retailers, the charity shops, the pawn shops and the clothes shops, you’d be left with the bookies.

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Sep 1 2012

The girl who crowned her Daddy King.

My Only King

My Only King (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Maddie was out with her Mum at the shop.
She really wanted the shopping to stop.
In and out of the aisles they went,
until Mum’s money was nearly spent

At last Mummy’s shopping came to a halt,
when into the basket she threw the salt
“As you’ve been good, you deserve some treats”
said Mummy as she looked at the sweets

“No Mum”, said Maddie pulling her away.
“I don’t want any sweets for treats today.”
Giving the sweets a disdainful look,
Maddie picked up a big sticker book.

At home Maddie was back with her Daddy.
When he had no treats he threw a paddy.
“Would you like a sticker instead?”
sweet Little Maddie kindly said

“What – a special sticker just for me?”
her father said with joyful glee
Eying her stickers with a careful frown,
Maddie selected a big golden crown.

“Would you please bend right over” young Maddie said,
stickering the big golden crown to his head.
Standing up straight her daddy looked proud.
His voice went from soft to very loud.

“I am King and before me you must bow!
You and Mummy my loyal subjects now”
Mummy and Maddie started to laugh
“You can’t order us like we’re your staff”

“That’s it! I’ll have to chop off Mummy’s head”
The last thing Maddie wanted was Mummy dead
She jumped on a stool and her Daddy squealed
As she reached for the crown and off it was pealed

As Daddy’s voice returned from loud to soft,
“You’re no longer the King” her Mummy scoffed.
“Any more nonsense you’ll sleep in the shed,
and all you’ll have for dinner is bread.”

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