By coincidence, on the day that one of my small handful of readers left a comment describing the Millennium Dome as an ‘Upturned Tupperware Dish’ I was planning to write about it in this, my next post. And that is because, now called the O2 Arena, I had just been there for the very first time.

Back in what were affectionately known as the ‘Swinging Sixties’ I spent a lot of my time in London having been raised at the nice end of the Central Line. Weekends were often spent travelling up to various points due west of Holborn and during those years, and my first two working years in Fleet Street, I grew to both love the city and to loathe it. Loved it for it’s vibrant undercurrents, it’s endless choices, it’s history – loathed it for it’s grubbiness, it’s decay and it’s overcrowded streets. London was a city that could charm one moment and appal the next and since those days trips to London have been more or less limited to necessity and have been planned as an incisive strike. Get in fast, do what is needed and no more, get out again as quickly as possible.

And then Mrs Swordfish bought me a delightful birthday present of tickets to see Eddie Izzard at the O2 Arena and we decided to stay a couple of nights in Leicester Square, take the Thames Clipper from Waterloo to Greenwich instead of using the tube and pay a visit to Harrods for some shopping.

And it was great. Well on the whole it was great. I did forget the rule that says if they describe a hotel as ’boutique’ and charge you £300 a night then you really do end up with a room that is crowded when there is more than one person in it. I mean you couldn’t have swung a cat in this room because the cat wouldn’t have been able to get in. But apart from that it was great. And to my great surprise, London – or at least that part of London – seems to have re-invented and re-invigorated itself. It’s looking really pretty good.

So – back to the O2 Arena. I too was one of those who grumbled at the building of the dome. It seemed to me ill-conceived and – as history shows – indeed it was. But what a truly magnificent structure it is. Stunningly beautiful as you edge around the bend in the river and you catch the first sight of it dominating the landscape, all lit up against the night sky. Same goes for the London Eye. A long, long time ago we could have built something like this and then there seemed to be a long period spanning a large part of the twentieth century where we lost our way. The old ‘Centre Point’ building was about as good as it got! It’s good to see that we have that vision back and have the will to undertake such projects.

And finally, we nipped in to St. Pancras Station to look at the renovations and were pleasantly surprised by what a great job has been done. Sadly, our train home meant using Kings Cross next door – a grim reminder of the ugly, dirty and neglected marriage of Victorian grandeur with mid to late twentieth century budget building.

Oh – and Eddie Izzard was great fun.

Yes it’s a Segway. Or – to give it it’s full title, a Segway Personal Transporter. A relatively common sight in many US cities and, I am told, European ones as well. Unless you happen to live in England that is, where I doubt very many people have seen one at all.

Probably, like me, you noticed the launch back in 2001, the hype surrounding the first video clips of it in use and, if I recall correctly, pictures of George Bush using one. And then, as far as us Brits go… nothing. I suspect most of us old enough to remember probably placed it in the same category as the Sinclair C5 and promptly forgot about it again. If you still don’t know what I am talking about then wikipedia as always, offers a quick memory refresh.

I have to admit that I had forgotten all about them. But that changed back in October when, encouraged by my son who had tried one, Mrs Swordfish and I booked a Segway tour of Washington DC and for me at least it was an instant ‘poop poop’¹ moment. I was in love with a machine.

With a top speed of around 12 miles an hour and a range of about 24 miles per battery charge, the Segway is truly a remarkable ‘vehicle’, perfect for those quick, short trips where you know you shouldn’t take your car but always do. They are amazingly easy to master and control and are incredibly manoeuvrable. And they are, simply, great fun!

And they are also illegal.

Our beloved government – the ones who promote using public transport over the car, who want us all to be ‘greener’ and care about the environment, who steal more cash from us for driving higher CO2 emission vehicles in the thinly veiled fight against global warming – invoked the Highway Act of 1835 – yes you read that correctly – confining the Segway to private land use only.

The 1835 Highway Act – to put it simply – bans wheeled vehicles from public pavements. In 1835 this meant a horse and cart. The Segway is not allowed on public roads because it is neither a car or a motorbike and therefore can not be taxed or have a license plate. And in a country where the building of cycle pathways has actually been pretty good you can’t use a Segway because it is motorised.

The 1835 Highway Act did not, of course, envisage the rise of the automobile or the motor bike. It did not envisage the bicycle either. Curiously, all three date from about 1885 a full 50 years after the Act arrived on the statute books. Steam powered vehicles might have been a small problem but in 1835 I doubt many people had seen one and Traction Engines were not really developed until around 1850-1860. Invoking such an archaic law in the year 2002 is ludicrous, short-sighted and beyond belief. If I didn’t know better I would suspect the ulterior motive of tax revenue. Nah… couldn’t be.

There is an active but sadly ill-supported campaign to get the humble Segway legalised in the UK – even if only on cycle pathways. This would simply require a small change to legislation such as happened for the ’scooters’ used by the handicapped that are allowed to go just about anywhere their owners want them to go. Well cycle ways, pavements, and minor roads at least.

I implore anyone reading this – whether you like the idea of the Segway or not – to sign the petition at the campaign website. Do it because it is the right thing to do. Do it because we have had enough of stupid, archaic laws being used to strip away our freedoms. Do it because technology like the Segway needs to be championed if we are ever to move beyond petrol driven vehicles.

But most of all – please do it because I want one.

(¹ In case you don’t know, ‘poop poop’ comes from Kenneth Graham’s children’s novel The Wind in the Willows and was the sound made by the first motor car seen by Mr Toad (the horn of course) who was instantly bewitched and sat, on the side of the road in a daze intoning the mantra ‘poop poop’.)

While my wife could no longer resist the JDOCD burning within and set off for yet another day standing around in Leicester Square in 30 degree heat being pushed and shoved by screaming teenage girls, I set off for a nostalgic trip back to my home town and surrounding villages where I had not been for a good many years. For me, a big part of such a journey was to set foot again in Epping Forest, the playground of my childhood.

I was lucky enough to be bought up a mere 30 yards or so from the edge of the forest and, as I mentioned in a recent item, not many days would pass without me walking or playing in this wondrous place. It is what I have always missed the most since leaving and was the second thing I wanted to do on this trip – after taking a look at the old house.

The boundary of my freedom as a young 7 or 8 year old was clearly defined. No further in than the small area we always called ‘Drum Maids’ although nobody seemed to know why ir bore that name. Drum Maids was a small amphitheatre shaped clearing and at one edge was a small hill that kids liked to roll down in the summer and toboggan down after snow. It obviously looked bigger when I was 7 of course. Pathways to Drum Maids were clearly defined and it was quite a highpoint so that once you got passed it you were treated to a panoramic view of the forest to the distant horizon many, many miles away. This was an enchanted place and a summer evening would not be complete without the laughter of children running around keeping the long grass at bay in the clearing.

My first problem yesterday were that the pathways, worn down and distinct in my childhood, were no longer there. In the place of the patchwork of pathways and trails were dense patches of nettles growing right up to the oak trees I used to sit under collecting up acorns and growing right up to the forest edge. When I did eventually find a way in it was still overgrown with nettles and brambles but I finally broke through and while there were still no clearly defined pathways I managed to get to where I wanted to be. Except it wasn’t there any more. The photo shows the surrounding trees beyond which was once a small clearing and a favourite place for children to play. It is now merely an overgrown tangle of bushes, nettles, brambles and is completely impenetrable. In short – it has been abandoned. Nobody comes here any more.

In fact, there was little evidence to show that many people visit this part of the forest and this is a tragedy. And for me, a great sadness. And for the kids of today an experience missing from their lives.

Let’s start out by saying that I know smoking is an unhealthy thing to do. I accept that.

I happened to be in the eye department of the local hospital recently. Stuck to the wall of the waiting area was a poster that simply said in large letters ‘Smoking Causes Blindness’.

The cigarette packet in the photo, in common with all packs sold in the UK, states quite clearly that ‘Smoking Kills’. As a smoker I am told that I have a high risk of a heart attack, a stroke and lung cancer. Because smoking causes heart attacks, strokes and lung cancer. I have also been told that the pain I sometimes get in my knees and the fact that my feet and hands are often cold are due to impaired blood circulation caused by smoking.

These days, no matter what eventually sends me to my grave, I bet someone will put it down to me being a lifelong smoker. Just about every ailment, it sometimes feels like – is caused by or made considerably worse by smoking.

And then there are all those other people around whom I have smoked at one time or another whose death I have quite clearly contributed to. Because, according to other notices, posters, leaflets, government health warnings and the anti-smoking brigade – so-called ‘passive smoking’ also kills.

It’s black and white. Smoking kills. Passive smoking kills.

In the first, say, 70 odd years of the 20th century, the vast majority of people smoked. And those that didn’t were constantly living in a thick, smoke-laden atmosphere. In buses, trains, restaurants, clubs, pubs, cinemas, theatres, offices, factories, shops – smokers lit up anywhere and everywhere. And at home, if your Mum didn’t smoke then your Dad probably did. And your brothers and sisters and the Uncle that dropped in every now and then… Smoke and smokers were everywhere and it was virtually impossible to escape from them.

So here’s what I want to know. How did the human race survive the age of tobacco? Why didn’t we all die out?

I have discussed our refuse arrangements here at home before. We have one of those black wheelie’s for all of the rubbish and two of the green wheelie’s for all of the recyclables. This started when we had two teenagers living at home and we regularly filled all three bins on their two-week collection cycle. We really thought that when both boys left home, and just us two were left, one of the green bins would become redundant. This was, of course, wishful thinking. OK – we don’t always fill both to the brim but it is rare they don’t both get pushed outside.

It seems a complete obscenity to me that when we are being bombarded daily by the prophets of doom over our individual carbon footprints and our government is reeling in more and more of our hard earned cash in penalties for not being ‘green’ enough, the suppliers of just about anything we need or choose to buy entomb their product in ever increasing volumes of plastic – much of which has to be hacked open with a sharp knife!

I am in the market for a new pair of headphones. The very first pair of headphones I ever bought came in a cardboard box. I remember them well. There was no plastic and no polystyrene. Just the headphones with their cable. There wasn’t even a slip of paper explaining that the best way to use them was to place each ‘cup’ over an ear and insert the jack plug into the headphone socket of my hifi amplifier. No dire warnings that trying to eat them might not be beneficial to my health nor even a suggestion that turning the volume up to the full 60 watts per channel would not be the best idea of the day. More importantly, the chap who sold them to me was able to take them out of the box and let me try them on so I could quickly decide if they were comfortable.

Today they come encased in a bubble of heat sealed stiff plastic that requires an industrial strength circular saw to cut through and the chap in John Lewis said they could not take them out for me to try because it was against health and safety regulations. I’m not sure if that last bit is true but it wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me when it comes down to the dreaded Health and Safety that is trying to render our lives impotent and risk-free. As I was after a pair of expensive noise-cancelling phones and rather liked the look and reputation of the Sennheiser pair they had on sale, I asked the guy if he really thought I was going to splash out £119 on something I might not like when I finally managed to extract them. I got an unhelpful shrug for that one. Undaunted I made tracks for the last, local independent hi-fi shop. Gone. Put out of business by the likes of John Lewis and the frighteningly awful Curry’s.

So – still no headphones. But I DO have a box of the most wonderful Amaretti biscotti, bought back for me by my son on a recent trip to Italy. They are an absolute delight when compared to the little lumps of tooth-breaking stuff sold in Sainsbury’s. Each one is individually wrapped in a little plastic bag that requires a pair of scissors to open. It is then further wrapped in a delightful twist of paper. They are all then wrapped in another plastic bag that I was able to open without recourse to a sharp instrument. And finally they are placed in a splendid cardboard box.

Maybe it is a ploy to try and stop me eating them in one sitting.