The Chapman Zone Dave’s Blog

For a while now I have been a little dismayed since I found out that most of the material we sort out and put in our recycling bins actually goes to China for processing. I have many, many problems with this approach, but had difficulty in ranting about it, because I simply didn’t know where to begin.

Fortunately, someone at work posted a link to this Sky News story, so I thought I’d start by posting it:

‘Most Toxic Place I’ve Ever Seen’

After eight years living in China, I thought I’d seen the worst pollution possible, writes Sky News Asia Producer Holly Williams.

I’ve been to villages where mine tailings have turned rivers orange and carcinogenic, to cities where people never see a blue sky, and to coal mining towns where the soot lies inches thick on the ground.

China is a country going through what seems like an industrial revolution on crack. In the mad rush to make 1.3 billion people rich, the environment is being sacrificed to economic development.

But nothing had prepared me for the town of Lianjiao in southern China’s Guangdong Province. It’s the most toxic place I’ve ever seen. As we drove into town we smelled the signature scent - burning plastic. Clouds of yellow smoke hung in the air. Crossing what must once have been a picturesque stone bridge we glimpsed the town’s water - a stagnant black sludge of a river. After an hour filming in the town my cameraman and I both began to notice our eyes and throats stinging.

Lianjiao’s inhabitants make their meagre living reprocessing plastic. They sort through bales of fizzy drink bottles, plastic bags and food containers; pull them apart; and then melt them down into small chips that can be used again. They earn about £50 a month for the privilege of sorting through other people’s waste.

It’s recycling, but not as we know it.

The workers who melt the plastic toil over furnaces that shoot plumes of toxic smoke directly into their faces. Waste from the reprocessing plants pours directly into streams and rivers. Yet the most disturbing thing about Lianjiao is that the plastic that’s poisoning the town comes from our homes.

We visited dozens of reprocessing yards in Lianjiao, and found mountains of waste imported from Europe. One place seemed to specialise in French waste. The floor was littered with Evian water wrappings, and plastic shopping bags labelled in French. Another yard was full of German household plastic.

Next door we found rubbish that looked worryingly familiar.

Wearing surgical gloves we began to sift, and found supermarket bags from Asda and Tesco, food packaging and milk bottles from Sainsbury’s, Cadbury’s chocolate wrappers, and Heinz spaghetti packaging. Inside the yard’s warehouse we discovered an entire container load of waste stacked to the ceiling - and all from Britain. The waste was baled and compressed. That’s how British recycling companies ship it to China.

Nobody knows for sure what percentage of British household waste ends up in China. One source at the Environment Agency told Sky News that he estimated it was at least three quarters. Others who work in the waste industry put it at 90%.

Plastic waste is now one of Britain’s top exports to China. It’s a strange feeling seeing what you’re used to looking at in a supermarket, or tossing into a rubbish bin at home, half way around the world in the hands of a Chinese worker.

In Lianjiao, scavenging the left-over plastic from our consumer lifestyle has replaced farming rice and vegetables as a way for the poorest level of society to scrape a living. 

Though most of the workers in Lianjiao have only a few years of schooling, they display a profound grasp of the economics behind this poisonous trade.

Chen Xiaomei is in her 40s and has been working in Lianjiao for a few months.

“In your country you’re well off, so you don’t do this work,” she told me.

“We’re poor here, and it’s hard to find a job, so we do it.”

She said it with a smile on her face. Like all of the thousands of workers in Lianjiao, Chen takes a pragmatic Chinese attitude to labouring in this contaminated environment: there’s nothing they can do, so they ignore it.

In one yard that processed PVC - a plastic linked to cancer and birth defects - we asked a labourer if he was worried about the toxic environment in which he was working. “It doesn’t matter if it’s dangerous,” he said, “I still have to make a living.”

Lianjiao’s warehouse bosses were noticeably less happy to see us than their workers. In yard after yard we were roughed up and thrown out.

The fact is that the men who are getting rich from the scavenging trade in Lianjiao know that if the outside world finds out about this toxic dump, they might stop shipping their waste to China.’

So there you have it. You think you’re doing your part, making an effort to improve the world we live in.

And it turns out that you’re just contributing to the exploitation of the world’s poorest.

And why?

Simple…because the recycling companies in this country got offered tons more cash from China for their product than processing companies in the UK could dream of offering. They probably knew damn well that China (or rather, the powers that be there) has not one iota of concern for the environment, nor for human rights and safety.

The question is, now that this sort of news is out in the open, will our recycling companies continue to ship the waste to China?

Probably yes, because at the end of the day, money talks.

Which spurs the next question, how can we stop them?

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
whatever we were to each other
that we still are
call me by my old familiar name
speak to me in the easy way
which you always used
put no difference in your tone
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together
pray smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
without the trace of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
it is the same as it ever was
there is unbroken continuity
why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you
somewhere very near
just around the corner
All is well

Henry Scott Holland
(1847-1918) Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral

Two good friends of mine, John and Sarah (who are also Cub Leaders at my Scout Group), on the arrival of their new born son, Aiden Henry, on Thursday afternoon.

So…what did I get up to this weekend?

Well, first was Saturday lunchtime, I joined the rest of the Scout Group, Beavers, Cubs, Scouts et al. for some charity fundraising at Asda. The kids were packing bags for the customers, with a collection bucket on each till with them. There were also some of them outside in the lobby, holding collection buckets.

The Group was there from 10:00, although I didn’t get there till 12. The Beavers all left at 12, the Cubs left at 2, and the Scouts held the fort till 4, when we all went home. There was a satisfyingly full bucket that I drove round to Tiffy’s that afternoon.

In the end, we raised £907, which is a seriously good amount for 6 hours work, and is much needed by the Group. What is equally as amazing is that Angie somehow managed to count all that out (it was mostly coppers and silvers by the way) in one evening!

Got home at abotu 16:30, had some scoff, then managed to fall asleep till 20:30, and felt like absolute cr*p for the rest of the night (which I generally do when I sleep during the day). I did have things that I was supposed to do that evening. Oh well…

Sunday morning I got up bright and early to go on a hike with the Scouts. We met up at Monster Micks on Portsdown hill and hiked a 10k route, getting back at 14:00. It was a nice route, and the Scouts showed themselves to be pretty capable at map reading, which was a worry lately, as I have not been organising nearly enough hikes over the past couple of years.

The best part though was when we got back to the car park. We were half an hour early, so the Scouts went off to muck around on the hill. In this age where people constantly moan about kids being couch potato video game addicts, and say kids are so different now compared to when they were young, it was so refreshing to see them all having a great time climbing trees, having rolling races down the hill, play fighting, etc, etc.

Kids haven’t changed, it’s the……no wait, I shall save that particular rant for a later date (when I’m really in the mood).

So, about a minute into the drive home, it started pouring with rain. It had been beautifully sunny all the way round the hike. I allowed myself a little smug smile….

I was feeling pretty fresh still after the hike, so I gave Collin a call. His fence had blown down earlier in the week, and he needed me (and my roof rack) to help him transport a set of posts, trellises and sundries from B&Q. I was going to do it Monday, but I was feeling fit, so I thought “what the hell!”

Got that sorted and got home where a roast chicken dinner was waiting for me (my absolute favourite). I did my usual disgusting habit, which I reserve for when I am not in company, of cuttign everything all up small and mixing it up into a messy whole, before troughing it all down in massive mouthfuls. Damn it is tasty! I think I overdid it though, as I had indigestion all evening. It was worth it though.

I managed to sneak in about twenty minutes of guitar (my first in over a week), before I had to go get Tom and ferry him to the Dugout.

While they were there, Collin and I set up some flash kit and took a few promo shots to put up on the website. I shall no doubt be posting them on my gallery, as well as on the Official Pancake Eating Freaks website.

The following are all replies that Sydney Western Suburbs women have put on Child Support Agency forms in the section for listing father’s details:

These are genuine excerpts from the forms.
 

1. Regarding the identity of the father of my twins, child A was fathered by Trev Munson. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of child B, but I believe that he was conceived on the same night.

2. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my child as I was being sick out of a window when taken unexpectedly from behind. I can provide you with a list of names of men that I think were at the party if this helps.

3. I do not know the name of the father of my little girl. She was conceived at a party where I had unprotected sex with a man I met that night. I do remember that the sex was so good that I fainted. If you do manage to track down the father can you send me his phone number?
Thanks.

4. I don’t know the identity of the father of my daughter. He drives an Excel that now has a hole made by my stiletto in one of the door panels. Perhaps you can contact Excel dealers in this area and see if he’s had it replaced.

5. I cannot tell you the name of child A’s dad as he informs me that to do so would blow his cover and that would have cataclysmic implications for the NSW economy. I am torn between doing right by you and right by the country. Please advise.

6. I do not know who the father of my child was as all soldiers look the same to me. I can confirm that he was an infantryman.

7. Bazza Smith is the father of child A. If you do catch up with him can you ask him what he did with my AC/DC CDs?

8. From the dates it seems that my daughter was conceived at Disneyworld

9. So much about that night is a blur. The only thing that I remember for sure is Jamie Oliver did a program about eggs earlier in the evening. If I’d have stayed in and watched more TV rather than going to the party at 146 Miller Drive, mine might have remained unfertilised.

10. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my baby, after all when you eat a can of beans you can’t be sure which one made you fart.

Well, not all of them. I mean, I’m a car driver, and so are most of my friends.

The reason for my statement was my ride into work this morning. Now that I seem to have shaken off this cold that has been lingering (except for the bloody cough), I though I ought to get back on the bike. I don’t want to be accused of being a fair weather biker, you see…

So I turn onto the A27, and see a massive line of traffic at a standstill going all the way up the hill. Fortunately, the traffic actually stopped just after the turn of for Mill Lane, so I thought I would be clever and take the back roads into work.

Big mistake. As soon as I rounded the first bend, the traffic ground to a halt again.

B*ll*cks.

I have been riding for over a year now, and have had my DAS for six months of that, so I am becoming more confident on the bike. I decided to do a bit of filtering. Filtering, for the uninitiated, is when you mosey on past the stationary traffic, pulling into a gap when there in oncoming traffic, and then continuing to sneak through the queue a few cars at a time.

Mill Lane isn’t exactly wide, but I’m not an idiot on the bike. I don’t take unnecessary risks, and only filtered when I could see what was coming. I did not hammer past the cars, I merely pootled up a few cars at a time then pulled in.

Of course, that did not stop about half a dozen complete t*ssers either honk at me, shout abuse through their windows at me, or deliberately try to cut off my way back into the correct lane, or even force me out onto the other lane.

What the f*** is your problem? You’re already stuck, and it’s not as if my sneaking past you is inconveniencing you in any way. Are you jealous? Aw diddums….

Actually, I should state that for every prat on my way to work today, there were at least two that let me in, and even pulled over a bit to invite me to get past.

I think the majority of people are pretty decent, even though I do rant to the contrary. There are of course too many idiots out there, in all walks of life, but the majority are OK. I think maybe the problem is that we have had our sense of society systematically destroyed by the government (nice one Mrs Thatcher - hope you’re pleased with yourself) and big business, we generally keep ourselves to ourselves, mixing with our own circle of friends and family members and pretty much shutting the rest of the world out. Even at work, we tend to socialise less, mainly due to constant cutbacks and tightening of belts ridding the office of social functions (remember the days when the company paid for the works Christmas lunch?). What I’m getting at is that we have less opportunity to see the good in people, because the ‘proper’ way to behave these days is to keep yourself to yourself. It’s a lot easier to notice that someone is an *rsehole because their actions generally illustrate that fact. Random acts of kindness generally don’t get noticed, because they don’t leave the mark that, say, vandalism does.

It’s a shame, nice actions are often missed, and we tend only to remember the unkind things that are done to us. Back to a motoring context, we tend not to remember when someone waves us out at a junction, although it happens quite a lot. No, we rememeber that tw*t in the BMW that cut us up, or the imbecile in the souped up Saxo that overtook us on a blind bend at 80mph.

I’ve decided to laugh it off now and in the future when filtering. A quick hand gesture at them and a gloating laugh to myself as I leave them behind.

(P.S. I’m ranting about the nature of the human condition all the time, and I spend most of my free time surrounded by people who remind you of the good in people, that is, adults who give of their time for a greater cause, with no thought of reward, and the Scouts and Cubs themselves, as yet uncorrupted by the corporate machine - they really do restore my faith in people. Maybe that’s why I rant so much, because I see the good in people on an almost daily basis, and rail against that which would destroy that in us.

Oooh, rambling again. My point is, I see good in people all the time, and yet I still despair of society sometimes. I dread to think what everyone thinks, not having this validation in their lives…)

I went down to Paragon (where I was taught to ride a motorbike) to drop off an advert - I’m looking to swap the lowered seat on my Bandit for a regular one. I also went in to pay off an old debt. They have a rule there that if you sell your bike as a result of an ad placed on their notice board, their commission is a packet of chocolate covered hob-nobs. Since I actually sold the bike to them, I figured it still applied.

“So how is the bike doing, anyway?” I casually asked.

“Not good I’m afraid” says Baggers (the boss).

Oh crap, I thought. I wonder if the thing broke down just after they bought it from me?

“No, one of our trainees rode it into a brick wall” he says.

“Well…..up a brick wall would be more accurate” says Big Dave.

Apparently, while riding round the playground at Leesland School, the trainee forgot where the brakes were, and ploughed straight into the school building.

I decided not to ask to look at it, as it would have been too painful! Judging by the description given “the handlebars were up here, while the front wheel was over there”, I wonder if the bike will ever see the road again…

I may put up a picture in memoriam soon.

I was at the local Remembrance Sunday Parade with my Scouts yesterday. As usual, they looked smart and behaved impeccably. Well done lads!

As I was standing there watching the proceedings, I looked at some of the veterans that were assembled, and it got me thinking about what kind of things many of them must have seen, the experiences they had, the friends they had lost. My thoughts then went to those who were not lucky enough to make it back. Which is as it should be on a day like that.

I remember Tiffy mentioning the veteran in the white beret, and that it signified that he was a member of the Arctic Convoy. He spoke briefly to the Scouts about their bravery, their commitment to their duty, in the face of almost unbearable conditions and extreme risk. It left a mark.

I’ve never served in the forces. I’ve never had to put my life on the line for a cause, or a friend. I sometimes wonder how I would cope in such a situation, but really I cannot begin to imagine what it must have been like.

But I’m straying from my original point (which tends to happen when you write half a post on one day, and then leave it a day before finishing it).

Anyway, I was there, watching these veterans, feeling gratitude for their sacrifice, and more so for those that did not come back, that made the ultimate sacrifice, so that we could be free, that our way of life could continue…

…and then I went home, and made the mistake of switching the TV on.

I was bombarded with offers of finance, bludgeoned with ideas for the ‘essential’ Christmas gifts to buy this year (and enlightened with the new fact that, apparently, Christmas is not about giving or family any more - it’s now all about looking good by buying the latest designer fashions), astounded by the new idea of ‘credit cards for teenagers’, and felt the bile rise to the tip of my throat when hearing Simon Cowell tell some utterly talentless bitch appearing on the X Factor that “she was an inspiration and role model to office workers everywhere”. All of this was in the space of about thirty seconds before I switched the TV off and sat in silence for the next twenty minutes or so.

I know I’ve probably said this before a hundred times (although maybe not on this blog yet), but we really have lost our way as a people in this country. Our sense of value (and along with it, our morals) has become utterly perverted by the corporate parasites that infiltrate our every waking moment, or blurred in a miasma of non-stop hedonistic alcoholism. We have been fooled into believing that we have a right to every mod-con on the market, and bemoan our fate when we have to do without one.

OK, this could go on for a very long time, so I will skip forward to my point (finally!). My point is, if all those that fought and died in the two World Wars could see what we have done with our way of life that they died for, and could stand up and be heard, what would they say?

Probably something along the lines of “I wish I hadn’t f***ing bothered!”

Bono, the lead singer of U2 is famous throughout the entertainment industry for being more than just a little self-righteous.

He is playing a U2 concert in Glasgow, Scotland when he asks the audience for total silence.

Then in the silence, he starts to slowly clap his hands, once every  few seconds.

Holding the audience in total silence, he says into the microphone,
“Every time I clap my hands, a child in Africa dies.”

A broad Scottish voice from near the front of the crowd pierces the silence…

“Well, stop f*cking clapping then!”

While I was at The Chase on Saturday night watching Riff, my Scouts were out taking part in the District incident nighthike competition, The Acorn. For those that haven’t heard of this, teams of Scouts hike around the countryside at night, stopping at predetermined points to undertake challenges. They get marked on their teamwork, as well as their performance, and the winners get a trophy. It is the only district competition going on at the moment in our District, so I am always keen to get a team in and for them to do well.

I had originally intended to enter two teams of four, but a couple of Scouts dropped out, and I could not find replacements in time, so I ended up entering one team of six. Actually, it made me think that perhaps I have neglected the hiking side of things these past couple of years, and they have all become a bit soft as a result. I must take steps to rectify that asap.

I let them take care of the arrangements themselves, apart from entering the team and sorting out the payment. They (the Patrol Leaders) are becoming more self-reliant as a team, and will be trying to find more ways to develop that in future (although I may end up putting the adult leaders out of a job if I’m not careful!).

So, aside from dropping round a few items of kit that they forgot to sort out on Friday, I left them to their own devices, and sodded off to the pub.

Next morning, I woke up in time (which never happens these days), but had to make a dash to the little boys room just as I was about to leave to see the presentation. So I ended up rushing to Lyons Copse, and as it turned out, missing the announcement of places.

I walked to the campfire, caught sight of my lads, and saw Paul clutching the runners-up trophy.

YESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!

Chuffed! OK, we didn’t win and retain the trophy, but what the hell? In the last four Acorns (all the Acorns we’ve had since I’ve been involved with 1st Fareham Scouts) we’ve come 1st, 2nd, 1st, 2nd. One of those years we had a 3rd as well. I reckon that’s a pretty outstanding record.

So, well done to Mitch, Rob, Spud, Adam, Joe and Paul - you’ve done the Troop proud again.