FTP or not to P

I shall have to be brief as Google is about to cut off, at any minute, users of FTP of which I am apparently one. To those of you, like me, with Ulster Ancestors FTP has a fairly simple meaning; to google on the other hand, it is some independent, obsolete system which they no longer wish to support; and with arrogance would rather replace it with something profit generating and presumably of their own invention. Alas having got the hang of this thing I will need to start again. All this is A1 OK for those silver surfers with the time to play around with the Internet, however to those of us who have lost everything as Beat Up Britain spirals towards third world status and who have to wear our fingers to the bone trying to feed our families without, I may add any help from our corrupt government, concerned as they are only with Casino Banking and hiding behind 1675 laws, it is a nightmare; what happened to ALGOL?

Glen Trollaigh has seen the most fabulous Alpine winter weather ever since mid December, we have had at least five continuous weeks with crisp snow around The Tower of Glen Trollaigh and although the extreme temperatures of the turn of the year seem to be behind us we are still regularly at minus 6 degrees from 5.00pm until the following noon. Of course the ridges and high tops look sublime with deep snow against a sparkling sky, this is attracting loads of climbers and skiers. The only down side is that every B road is jammed with parked cars leading to a lot of pushing and shoving as locals try to get to and from work. This has produced a healthy new enterprise amongst our young folk who now deal in "one owner" wing mirrors of every model and colour in the pub car park.

Most of you will not realise that livestock thrive in these dry conditions particularly as our ration of daylight increases to 10 hours a day; it is the long wet winters that thrill the saints of climate change which do for sheep and cattle. The Glen Trollaigh flocks and herds are looking particularly fit and I am sending regular e photos of my beauties to my bankers, reassuring them that good times are coming in the Spring when the hoi polloi realize that eating Mr T**co's substandard infected South American burgers is a bad idea. I must admit that the cold has brought a few problems apart from the inappropriately clad bums of school children turning blue. My plumbing and joinery skills have been sorely tried fixing pipes and boxing them back in, indeed the whole bally supply froze on the 4th of January for three weeks taking us back to the good old days of collecting water from the well every morning in buckets and heating water on the kitchen range for the shared bath. The only solution was to lay 40 metres of new water pipe at a depth of a metre in frozen unforgiving soil and rocks, this took dearest Dottie quite a few days with pick and shovel. Indeed it gave rise to a new catch phrase as every request to the hooded and muffled navie brought the reply; "I can't hear you, I'm in the damned ditch".
As a mutual exchange of Christmas gifts, dearest Dottie and I summoned the TV man, who with hundred's of metres of co-axial cable, something called a quad LNB and many expensive hours of roof top swinging labour he has thrust the Tower of Glen Trollaigh into a new age of telly watching. Now yours truly can be chewing the mustachios in front of the 50 inch plasma, whilst a totally different programme is being recorded onto the Humax hard drive, and incredibly dearest Dottie can be nursing her blisters propped up in the Great Bed of Trollaigh watching a third, yet not a single Sky subscription to be seen. Now if I can only figure out how to work the Humax remote, we will be laughing. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.