The Old Gaffer

I was very sorry, because this morning, Sunday, December 31, at 3 am I could not sleep. I woke and started to compose, in my head, a happy New Year message, and then realised what an incredible number of people will not have a chance of one, for long to come. So, I started to write this on the last day of 2006, instead. Being a misery on the last day of the year is excusable, not on the first. I looked back to’37, I was 14 years old, poor, and each year was getting better and with it I too was successively happier.

So I went to a history book and looked up 1937- and got a hell of a shock. While I was trotting about getting happier, in fact ‘37 was pretty awful. In Moscow the Show Trials for the Stalin purges started; the Spanish Civil War was in full swing, and Italy and Germany were having a practice run; The Basque town of Gueranica was annihilated, prompting that painting by Picasso; Japan invaded China; Buchenwald concentration camp was opened and German Jews were required to wear the cross of David on display; and to crown it all, nuclear fusion was discovered in Italy. I suppose one should say ‘It was ever thus’.

Instead of going back to bed, I then tried to analyse why these massive horrors occur. We, in Northern Ireland, have had over 30 years of mayhem and I don’t seriously think we are better off than we were in ‘69, on the contrary, and we are still being bombed. Some blame religion, quoting the Crusades, the Conquistadors, Islam, and Northern Ireland, but they are only cover for greed, personal self aggrandisement and desires to expand. Killing never solved anything, 1914 to 18 saw one of the greatest carnages ever, but what followed from ‘37 onward, in Europe and Russia dwarfed it.

Perhaps, after all, I can hope we, the custodians of the world, will see a little more sense in 2007 and each of us will get closer to attaining what we would wish for ourselves.

I have always thought the examination techniques we adopted at the Royal Naval Signal School should have been the norm for the Country’s education system in general. Education is not a case of knowing information, but knowing where to find it and how to apply it. The Leydene examination organisers had obviously taken this theory to heart. We, the students, were a mixed lot. If we qualified we were going to be far from land and advice for weeks on end and solely dependent upon our own resources, so while we were thoroughly taught how to carry out repairs and the basic fundamentals of radio technology, the course was based around the fact that the Mechanic would have a text book at his elbow. The examiners also knew that cheating had to be lived with as, for the students, passing the exam was the aim, how was secondary. To combat cheating, talking during exams was forbidden, but any written matter was allowed in with us to the examination, on the principal that if we had to look anything up it would waste valuable time, compared with those who knew it all. As the students ranged from the school-leaver to the hardened telegraphist, with a few university graduates thrown in to make the life of the instructor that little bit more difficult, they designed the papers with the questions graded, starting easily and then progressing in difficulty with each question. They tried to maintain a fair balance between pure knowledge and a sensible amount of referral. The person who knew the answers would have the advantage while a reasonable referral would not place a person beyond passing.

The marking system was equally advanced The lecturers had a good idea who would come out on top, and the general quality of his work. Having marked all the papers they examined the top three of four, first to make sure there was no doubt of reaching the standard expected, then they took the highest mark and proportioned it to receive between 90 - 95 percent, depending on the candidate’s ability and the quality of his paper. They then graded all the papers by the same factor. Someone hopeless who spent much time referring to cogs and text books would fail miserably.

The Vagaries Of Teaching At Leydene It is one thing to sit in a classroom and criticise the poor devil standing in front trying to teach and another thing entirely being that poor devil, especially if it is what the Navy terms a ‘pier-head jump’, being volunteered without a word to say about it. Some of the instructors had been teachers in civvy life, but I was chucked in at the deep end to make the best of it. We had a day’s instruction which I totally forget, but one little jewel did stick. They told us that students learned one third through what they heard, one third through touch and one third through what they saw, and we were to instruct accordingly

I was teaching people to be practical technicians, not theorists and if truth be known, when I started, my theoretical knowledge was a lot more sketchy than my grasp of the innards of the great many sets I was teaching. Initially this left me open to attack from men who had just come down from university with bright shiny degrees and who proposed to run rings round me for the aggrandisement of their own egos and the delectation of the rest of the class, a not uncommon syndrome, especially among university students. That I was at a disadvantage was patent, what I was to do about it was more difficult and gave me hours of discomfort in the beginning. I had two aspects in my favour, the classes ran only for a matter of weeks, or a couple of months at the most, and then my tormentors would have left and any reputation I had created left with them and I started with a clean slate. The other plus was that I am a quick study and with every encounter I learned - oh how I bloody well learned! The one stance I had to avoid was the Uriah Heap affliction, the ‘I’m not as well educated as you’ ploy, seeking sympathy. I soon discovered that the best method of defence is attack and I also learned how to dig a hole and then lead the charging bull elephants into it. I had the advantage of knowing the sets inside out and soon discovered the difficulties the students were finding. Sympathy with the difficulties the class was encountering and a feigned amusement when I might be tripped up by a brain-box, tended to balance the class attitude in my favour and as time elapsed I was very often able to impart what these university graduates had taught me as if I had known it all along. One situation did frighten me, though. We were not supplied with duplicated notes, we spent hours dictating. The routine was such, we could predict what we’d be teaching at any time weeks or months ahead and the same was true of the dictation. It was so repetitive I was able to talk and think of something entirely different, my brain on auto-pilot. So that I had to lift an exercise book from time to time to see exactly what I had been saying. I never remember having to alter a word, but, it says something about the loss of spontaneity short repetitive courses can produce in the teaching staff if it is not watched.

About This Blog It will soon be coming to an end, for a number of reasons. Firstly, at 84, I have had only one life and not all of it has been as ridiculous and risky as reported. Secondly I found a fair proportion of you out there are not interested in my political and social rants, or if you are you don’t comment, and the purpose of ranting is to change things and my audience is not large enough for it to be a reasonable expectation.

Starting in May, or there abouts, I will re-publish some of the Golden Oldies, one at a time for those who joined late, pieces which you seemed to find entertaining. When that. and the last of my stuff has been aired I shall find something else to do at 5 am., and probably bid you all farewell, gratefully and with dignity.

I told you, my Grandson, Steve, gave me the Blog as a present. I had no idea how it worked or what to expect in responses, but it has been a fascinating experience. I am too cynical and have had too many bumps, to be big headed. I know I am still only a miniscule reporter in a vast industry. However, the reactions have been illuminating and stimulating, gathered purely by the stats, not comments. In the 60’s I had an Artie phase when I had photographs, a picture and a sculpture accepted in national exhibitions, and like now, what I thought was my best work was rejected, and what I entered as a chance was accepted. It is, of course, all subjective and time and chance. Running a Blog is a bit like shouting down a well, all you get back is the sound of your own voice. I think it would pall after a bit if it were not for the Stats, the numbers of pages read, after submissions. These, turned into graphs, tell an amazing story, but what it means intrinsically is still a mystery.

Art For Art’s Sake! Returning to the subject of Art - At one time I was prepared to accept the opinion of experts as gospel, in spite of knowing that artistic criticism is inevitably subjective, but that is all a thing of the past! Take the case of the daffodil picture. On evening I found a decorated Spanish basket on the kitchen table, with a bunch of daffodils. The whole collection gave me an idea. I pulled a hearth rug up against the fireplace to provide a neutral base and background and then, with some flowers in the basket and others on the floor, I made an elliptical composition completing the shape by tossing a pair of scissors on the rug so they fell casually. The idea was to give the impression that the back-lit flowers had just been cut, brought in casually in the basket, some had spilled and were all yet to be arranged. I was delighted with the final enlargements and Sophie gave her Good Housekeeping Stamp as well.

I showed it to a professional who was part of the leadership of the Camera Club. He looked at it casually and then handed it back with only one comment, ‘I would not give that many marks, I’m right handed and I couldn’t pick up the scissors, they are the wrong way round.’ A few weeks later I was at a meeting where we all submitted two mounted half-plate photos for criticism. One of the beginners who was terribly new fangled with his little daughter of about a year and a half, had put in a photo of his little girl, hunkered down among the flowers she was picking, in the way all small children do. I have some of our own girls in that pose. The genius picked it up to talk about it and I could see the look of expectancy on the beginner’s face, which suddenly turned to horror. It was not the criticism of the picture, all beginners are used to that. and might crumple a bit from time to time if the comments are a bit harsh, but they can generally take it on the chin. No! The bastard had said that the picture looked as though the child was having a pee. I could not believe that one could be so crass, I had looked at my photos of Linda in exactly that pose, smelling the flowers, and that interpretation had never crossed my mind - until then!.

If one is offering art for exhibition, or for critical help, remember, it is a subjective business and be prepared to be disappointed, it is inevitable most of the time. If you are asked for your opinion, the same applies, so be generous with praise and sparing with the truth - in your view!

The watch aboard on our destroyer consisted of those men who would normally be on watch at sea. In harbour the rigorous discipline was relaxed and there were hours when one could go ashore; the rest being on leave. Most of the time life was very routine and monotonous. In the first week or so after I had recovered from the seasickness which had put everything else out of my mind, I was a little apprehensive when they battened us down in the bowels of the ship as we sailed through mine- fields, or closed up for Action Stations, but that too became routine, one cannot be apprehensive forever, the stress would be too much to bear.

In harbour, it was a relief to lose about two thirds of the crew and breath once again, with the ship silent and still, one could sleep peacefully on a locker instead of a hammock and the canteen in the dockyard saved any cooking. The monotony though was increased. I was never terribly gregarious so I spent these periods of calm, quietly doing chores which I had no time to do at sea and this included washing the hammock, the bed cover, two blankets and a pillow case, apart from the clothes which were done at the same time. Washing clothes at sea , a necessary evil, was put off as long as supplies of spare garments lasted and then calculations were made to find the minimum requirement to reach harbour.

In contrast, the system in harbour, was most enjoyable, provided no one else wanted to use the shower. There was only one shower tray in each bathroom, or ‘heads’ as they were called, made of fawn ceramic tiles and supporting two or three shower heads.. Needless to say as the toilets had no doors it was unlikely the shower would have a curtain. Privacy was something that simply did not exist, probably for a number of very good reasons. With a bung in the shower plug-hole I would turn on the shower heads until the tray was almost over flowing. Then I would chuck in all the washing at once, copious soap, flaked from the long yellow bars we were issued with every month along with the tobacco. It was the only washing powder available then. With book in hand, I tramped round and round for ages on the washing, reading the while, or with an ear to the BBC forces programme coming over the Tannoy system. Half way through I would rub any dirty bits like the collars and cuffs of shirts, with the remainder of the yellow soap and then tramp again, finally rinsing several times in the same way. I can’t describe how therapeutic that exercise was, even if the soles of my feet were wrinkled with the long immersion. The only ironing I ever did, other than pressing the crease in the trousers, was the collar of my white shirts which were reserved for shore leave, and an area of about six inches round the collar which would be seen below the jacket. Drying took almost no time as the heat of the Boiler Room took care of that.

Another way of remaining sane in that maelstrom of humanity was to take a fish box, set it on deck behind the funnel so I was sheltered from the wind and, with my back absorbing the warmth of the steel heated by the exhaust from the oil burners, I would sit there in the late evening glow as the sun set, and long after, watching the florescence of the bow-waves rush past the ship in their rippling ‘V’ formation and the sluggish merchant men silhouetted in the dying embers of the day. Those minutes and hours were very precious.

Happy Christmas and a prosperous 2007 to all my readers, especially the large number I assume are on the four to twelve am shift, or like me, need less sleep now. I have been a watch-keeper. I found the trick, after you have settled in, was to find something to do to keep one alert, especially if you are on your own. I hope I am not being presumptuous in thinking this stuff helps.. To mildly amuse those working on Xmas Day I tell another ridiculous story and a Xmas one.

The Day I Nearly Shot Granny I was on leave from the Navy in 1942 when there was very nearly a disastrous accident. Gran asked me to look through my grandfather’s toolbox to see if there was anything I fancied as she was ‘clearing out’. I found a gun, an old, out of date revolver. Gran explained that one of my grandfather’s jobs involved carrying money, and for protection he bought the revolver I was looking at. I took it out to the garden the better to see it and found it was a type I had never seen before. Revolvers today have a hammer which strikes the centre of the cartridge, in these older ones, the hammer fired the cartridge by striking a rim pin set in the edge of the cartridge at the side, at right angles to the axis of the cartridge. Being unfamiliar with the system I spent fruitless time trying to find how the chamber opened. To be safe I fired what I thought were six shots in the air but the chambers were empty. I remember that above us, glistening in the sun, was a barrage balloon, simply calling to act as a target, but I resisted.

I then called Gran over to show her the gun. We stood examining it at the back door and I told her how I had fired it, and to show it was empty I pointed it casually at the ground and fired once more. You’ve guessed it! The wretched thing had one more cartridge. It hit the ground between our feet and ricocheted with a whine off down the garden. For a moment we stood looking at one another dumbfounded and while I could see no funny side to it, realising that the ricochet could have severely injured her, Gran gave a shaky laugh. The gun had either seven or eight chambers instead of the current norm of six.

A Christmas Story -The Shooting Sheet Of Flame
Christmas Lunch was over, the majority of the family wanted to stretch their legs and the children to push, ride or wear what Santa had brought. My young nephew, Ian, elected to stay with me as I was on duty - my mother was ill in bed. We then sat at the fire and chatted. The room was resplendent with Christmas decorations and Christmas cards on every level surface. The fire was nearly out; if the family came back, feeling righteous but cold, this would be frowned upon. I went in search of paraffin to sharpen it up. The can was empty. Not for the first time I decided to take the risk of using turpentine. I added fresh coal sprinkled turps and then found the Christmas cards had usurped the matches on the mantelpiece. By the time I found them seconds had elapsed. Through all this time Ian had been standing beside the fireplace watching the proceedings silently, taking all in but reserving judgement, while turps fumes were expanding, I struck the match
and offered it to the fire.

For a second nothing happened and then, between Ian and myself, a sheet of orange flame came from the fireplace, out some four feet into the room and then just as quickly returned up the chimney. Ian’s expression intrigued me, once I was over the shock of our personal flame-thrower - not so much the expression as the lack of it. His head had followed the the flame out of the grate and back in with total equanimity, The next phase was less dangerous but much more troublesome. For an instant there was silence and then there was a rumbling like one hears standing in a house built over the Tube Railway in London when a train is passing below. Buckets of soot descended into the grate, into the fireplace and spilled out further. Not only that, a cloud of the stuff settled on every available surface throughout the room. Above, my mother’s wavering voice was questioning what was going on, her bedroom shared the same chimney stack so she had been party to the rumble. I said there was nothing to worry about, and proceeded to clean and Hoover up, which really meant a full Spring Clean of the place, cards and all. Ian and I sat back with a newspaper over the fireplace to encourage the fire into life, when there was another rumble and yet more soot. The moral would seem to be that if in doubt, don’t, and also that some nephews should regard uncles and their decisions with a keen suspicion.
Have a good Christmas - best wishes, John - A Very Old Gaffer

Rulers are often conjurers; they distract the eye, while performing sleight of hand. For example, the Games of ancient Rome; it has been said that Bush’s precipitate launch into Iraq was to distract from a parlous financial situation - yet how much more it has cost in lives and cash. Some gave the same reason for Maggie Thatcher’s war in the Falklands.

The current Government is focussing, at considerable advertising outlay on Obesity as being a life-shortening evil, which it is. However, at the same time it is altering its approach to pensions on the basis of the population in 20 years being predominantly in its eighties. A dichotomy! Rubbish??

I, in my mid eighties, have outlived most of my friends and expect to snuff it at any time. Thinking about why I am still alive, I have come up with a theory I later found had been promulgated in the Lancet. Born post WW1, a time of austerity, when personal transport was for the wealthy, I ate home cooked meals, nourishing and of fresh produce. We mostly walked everywhere. Exercise was therefore inevitable in work and play and we played on open Commons or in clubs. In about 1936 we were turning the corner, there were luxuries, but we exercised as much, or even more, because there were now more facilities, swimming baths, schools had pitches and courts. There was little stress by today’s standards, but at that point WW2 set us right back to basics and we didn’t recover until the ’50s. Excess was not embraced until the ‘Free ’60s’.

Hence the post WW2 baby boom, now in their 50’s and 60s could well live nearly as long as their parents, but I firmly believe, with holidays in the sun, greater alcohol consumption, fast food and much, much more stress, lack of job security, lack of exercise, one man one car, pollution, the longevity trend will abate rapidly. The people in the Government are clevee than I, so is all this concern really about longevity and obesity, or a ploy to justify the pension proposals?

I have previously written about watching a clever, hardworking, strict boss, at sixty, steadily degenerate physically between sixty and sixty five, retire and die at sixty eight. It determined me to retire at sixty. In my view, there is a point where doing the same or similar things repeatedly can become so boring it affects the psyche and the health. I have also written that lack of stimulation is the greatest reason for the mental deterioration of the elderly. Take these two propositions together, and my own case, where after a year’s retirement I obtained another job, and the solution is to retire early on a reasonable pension, and get another, different, job for a few years.

Be in no doubt, being retired on a basic pension is not fun, stress-less, nor something to look forward to. Generally a worker looks forward to the weekend, to relax, do something different. On an extended scale, retirement is the same and should be looked forward to. The whole pension problem, as we all know, is the theft of pension funds by unscrupulous companies and Government overspend. To make the Public responsible for managing their individual pension plans is pie in the sky, a lot can’t manage their day to day expenditure. By the same token, they would be open to the greatest shark infested financial waters in all time, Watchdog on TV tells us that every week. The Stock exchange can’t be relied upon, some pension providers likewise. What is needed is a government backed, compulsory, saving scheme with profits, from day one to retirement, subsidised by the national purse, I lost 8 pension years through working in non contributory government jobs, this included my war service. Movement between jobs increases experience and interest, so is to be welcomed, it also keeps the employers on their toes. Hence a pension system must be for life and independent of the employer. What do you think?

The most salutary lesson I learned, living in Belfast was to come on the ‘Glorious Twelfth’ of July 1949. By this time I had just about learned that it was referred to as the Glorious Twelfth. An aunt living in Bangor, who had borrowed a camera from our next-door neighbour, had unfortunately been rushed to hospital. The neighbours were going on holiday that evening with the result, the camera had to be collected and returned that day. We had a council of war and it was decided that I should cycle to Bangor to fetch it. The reason for the bicycle was that public transport would be packed and it might be quicker by cycle.

As I passed the ‘Field’ at Ballyrobert, which bordered the main Belfast-to-Bangor road, I saw the Orangemen lying about on the grass enjoying the glorious sunshine, it was indeed a Glorious Twelfth. They had marched there from all arts and parts and would soon be returning from whence they came, With much to-ing and fro-ing I collected the camera and headed back to Belfast and all went well until I was on the outskirts of Holywood, a seaside town about five miles from Belfast. These days the road is a wide dual carriageway with at least six lanes and a hard shoulder. Then it wound picturesquely between overhanging trees and was about wide enough for two cars to just pass comfortably in opposite directions,. Whether it even had footpaths I forget. I came across the Orangemen on their return journey some half a mile from Holywood and they were marching between cheering crowds to the extent that there was no room to pass on either side. I could hear the strains of the band and way up ahead was a man striding out in his bowler hat, his dark suit and his white gloves, sword to the ready.

At this time I was totally unaware of how sacrosanct these parades were and, as I have said elsewhere, equated them on a par with the Sally Ann or the Scouts The problem was to get the camera to our friends PDQ, and as there was no way round, the solution seemed to be to go through. After all I assumed as I was riding on the Queen’s highway I had the right of way. No sooner had the idea presented itself than I acted, but I had hardly advanced more than a couple of ranks before I was being stabbed from behind with a sort of pike, it was a long stained pole topped by a brass emblem like a fleur de lys, which I then recognised as a Deacon Pole, taken from a church pew. This prodding only hurried me on through the ranks and I suspect that as I was the first since the days of King William to have had such gall, I took them all by surprise and got away with it. As I cycled on my way I looked back to discover that the man with the white gloves and the sword had forgotten to put his collar and tie back on since lying in the grass in the hot, hot sun, at the ‘Field’

At the time, I was a student and had a summer job on a building site as part of my training. I was under the supervision of a Clerk of Works (COW) on a sewer contract. The COW was also a Worthy Master of a very influential Orange Lodge and many a time I was asked to leave the office while someone was seeking an audience with the COW, and many of the someones were often to be seen in photographs on the front page of our local newspapers, standing importantly in front of some official building. I believe the COW was a person to be deferred to and whose political career was even more extensive than his job

When I had successfully returned the camera on the Twelfth and was having my evening meal I related the happenings of the day with great amusement and it was greeted by the family in the same vein, not so the COW. Oh dear no! On the next working day, when I related it to him, smiling as I spoke, slowly his face turned to thunder and he wasn’t kidding either. When I finished he said one sentence with such venom, any thought of him being humorous was out of the question and then he stumped out of the hut and off down the site.

He shouted,” Prod you with a Deacon pole? Prod you? I’d have stuck the f….. thing into you so far I’d ‘ve had to put my boot on you to pull it out”, and he meant it!

I haven’t, a clue where we are headed, I just hope the Government does, but I doubt it. Take this incredible debt that we are servicing, - credit cards, loans, et al. How much of it will inevitably be written off, and who will be the losers in the long run? To answer that, one needs to examine the commercial chain. What are we spending the money on, which is producing the debt? Answer - property, here and abroad; services, like call centres etc overseas: imported goods - practically everything, from cars to light bulbs; manufactured food in lieu of home cooked; entertainment which includes drink, expensive TV and packaged entertainment - much from overseas, and labour. I understand, the Citizen’s Advice Bureau is recommending, for a debt which is beyond help, that, in preference to using one of the highly advertised financial advisers to manage, one should declare bankruptcy, for the obvious reason that the former policy only gets you further into debt.

We are told the people with the greatest spending power are among the retired, they have secure incomes from the old system rapidly being dismantled. When we have all snuffed it and the annuities are recalled, another source of stability will be gone. We then have to ask where we are going to get the money to repay these debts? To provide a lot of these services we are importing labour from outside and we are trying to house all these immigrants - some illegal - creating more debt. It doesn’t seem the money is coming from manufacturing, the utilities are partially owned by other countries, so it would seem we are really paying each other high salaries and fees for services, and the money we handle is going round and round. - but surely on its way round a high proportion is siphoned off to repay for the imports of goods and services. Where is the rest coming from, or are we building an even greater debt abroad? Some say the Stock
Exchange - we have seen what a broken reed that can be in the past.

Who do we owe all this money to? If we are welshing on our debts, then the suppliers of goods will not be paid, and if sufficient people and companies default, the foreign manufactures will not be paid. For services we will owe the banks, the utilities, the building societies, and maybe some small traders. The banks and building societies will claw back through repossession, but then they have to sell the repossessed items - maybe solving the housing problem, or making it worse.

I just wish a high powered accountnt would explain the system slowly and simply so we all can understand, instead of me, at least, standing and wringing my hands for the worry about a future I shall never see.

A little history gives a slant on what people say. We thought we were Middle Class, we had the social graces, the accent, the interests, but not the cash. We, my mother, brother and I, had just returned from Africa under the British Raj, where we had lived and, I suppose, acted like landed gentry, with a fleet of servants. We were part of an extended family, and from time to time, through difficult circumstances, farmed out round the family for periods ranging from months to years. So, we had no airs and graces, no strong drives, living took up most of our attention, but we did not feel deprived, we, the children, accepted and mostly enjoyed life. Those circumstances alone are rare today, with two bread-winners per household and few extended families.

At Christmas we all had fixed routines and protocols which seem to have gone, mostly through affluence and expediency. Then, indeed in our case up to 20 years ago, the children and often everyone hung up a stocking, either over the fireplace, on the end of the bed, or were given one on Christmas morning, even grannies. We knew we would get nuts, an orange of some sort, a piece of coal, carefully wrapped, sweets and three or four items. Today, the children have entirely different tastes and expectations. We have watched great grandchildren growing up and never cease to wonder, not only at the presents they receive from friends and relatives, from the moment they hatch, but the number, size and quality. They would never fit into a stocking now.

Granted we were married in wartime, but we thought our wedding was super and it didn’t cost an arm and a leg. Now there are hen parties in foreign countries and the men, not to be out done get drunk in another country as well. The wedding is in a remote romantic spot, and, what with the travelling and the presents, over recent years the exponential rise in these standards, because that is what they are - standards, has left me amazed - and that is only for the relatives and close friends. The honeymoons are also unbelievably lavish at a time when the young people are only starting out. I’m not being a Scrooge, nor a party poppa, although I sometimes can be, what people do with their lives is their business. I have just watched, and wondered where it will finish. Those Joneses, everyone seems to feel they have to keep up with, have a lot to answer for! With the rising cost of housing, weddings and life generally, one cannot be surprised the younger folk are cohabiting, if they can even afford that, and unlike our generation - not many of us left - marriage itself can be tenuous.

In the way that folk accepted the steady bombing of the cities during WW2, as something that if hated, had to be inured, the majority of the Northern Ireland population felt the same way during the 30 odd years until very recently.

THE STORY OF THE LUDICROUS GIFT
I have referred before to the ‘liberation’ of articles by the terrorists. There are hundreds of apocryphal tales but one which happened on a contract I was engaged upon, took place a day or two before we stopped for Christmas. The contractor had a gang laying pipes down one of the main roads in the East of the City. On the morning, some men arrived in a car and one approached the men on the site with a gun, casually held in his hand, not pointed at them, just there, an implicit threat. “I want to borrow your lorry,” he said with no preamble. The ganger nodded, what else could he do, anyway the lorry belonged to the firm not him - there was no contest. The man smiled, thanked them as if he had been granted a favour and he and another drove off.

The theft was reported and we heard later in the day the lorry had been seen between Belfast and Ballymena going hell-for-leather down a motorway, filled with booze. Still later we heard a vintner’s wholesale store had been raided. The men were never caught. Next morning the lorry was found parked beside the pipe-track. When the driver opened the door of the cab he found a dozen tins of beer on the seat with a note thanking him and wishing him and his mates a merry Christmas. Is a question asked in Ireland an Irish question? In this case the question had been asked of the workmen and the questioner had answered himself - What a question!!

The Young Molotovs In ‘98 one grandson was getting married in Scotland and another had been diagnosed with meningitis in Ireland. While we were all worried for the patient, we had been assured that he was recovering, so we went to the wedding, staying overnight. The following day, on our return, we were in a hurry to see the invalid, and as I was still well above the limit, the Scots are very generous and persuasive; Sophie drove to Bangor straight from the airport, about thirty miles. Late in the afternoon she started to drive us home when we found that UDA Militants were blocking the dual carriageway and we were forced to drive through a housing estate. We rounded a bend and were flanked by and held up by young boys, anything from 10 years old and upwards. One of them was brandishing a lemonade bottle with a rag hanging out of it in one hand, and flicking a cigarette lighter in the other. The rest were telling us to get out of the car, one hammering on the side door. They proposed to steel it. I looked as Sophie, she looked at me - we had been held up a couple of time before by Republicans and each time I had driven through them, hoping to hit none, but if I had, my policy was I would immediately report to the Army or Police. In this case, without hesitation Sophie stamped on the accelerator and, thank god, they were so surprised they didn’t throw the bottle, but one did try to climb into the back seat - without success - none was hit - Sophie was revving with no regard to the engine. She was 78 years old, and old habits die hard - ‘No Surrender’ is written on many walls in Northern Ireland - the paramilitaries should read their own slogans.