The Old Gaffer

At the beginning of this week a boy in North Belfast set himself alight while committing arson in a derelict house. I don’t need to dwell on the misery of the parents nor the stupidity and blind ignorance of the child. This incident raises so many aspects of today’s living that I have decided to comment on them individually. The aspect of this one which frightens me most is the fact that when a contractor and his men went to pull down some of these houses on behalf of the council, they were attacked with Molotov cocktails thrown by youths who looked upon the derelict houses as an adventure playground. What comes out of this more than anything is a complete disrespect for authority, and the knowledge of the law that these children have. They know that it is not worthwhile taking them to court because they will not get a custodial sentence, merely a rap over the knuckles.

In my day we had hanging, birching and all the other ills of the penal system, and while it was obvious to most that recidivists were incorrigible, there was still an innate fear of what could happen if you stepped over the mark. We were caned in both school and home for minor infringements and our attitude to authority was virtually unwavering in its respect. One would have no more thought of even answering back let alone hitting a teacher, and my wife, Sophie, who was a good teacher, only had to resort to detention or some other minor punishment to maintain discipline throughout her career. She like many teachers who have now retired, who were good teachers in their day, would now not dream of entering the profession. The pendulum of respect, has swung too far in the opposite direction, mainly through ginger groups, basing their doctrine for the general on only a few individual cases of excessive physical chastisement. They have persuaded governments that corporal punishment in any form, is psychologically bad. One only has to look at David Attenborough’s wildlife films to realise that in nature parental control is also a matter of physical chastisement. As one who was chastised both rightly and erroneously, I believe that unless the form of chastisement has done some permanent physical damage, the discomfort is forgotten fairly soon, and in most cases the lesson is learned. Year in and year out we in Northern Ireland have seen children and youths hurling stones, bricks and Molotov Cocktails at the army and the police, and we have been frustrated that the laws were such that these young people were allowed both by those in charge and their parents to repeatedly enjoy this form of entertainment, because that is what it was.

I cannot stress enough how the standards of courtesy, respect, and decency have dropped as a percentage of the general conduct of life, in an exponentially increasing rate since the end of World War 2. .If one were to blame the reduction of parental control as one of the primary causes, then the outcome is bound to be of a steadily increasing nature, because each successive generation has not had the same parental control as its predecessor and so it will diminish with time.. Assuming that this basic premise has some merit, the fact that children are demonstrably leading less active lives, and also the nature of their social lives, introduce another factor, that of emulation or the effect or the lack of it.. Those who are in gangs are emulating all the wrong principles. It is difficult to see how the trend can be reversed. In my childhood the churches, the Scouting movement, the Boys Brigade, coupled with a more simple approach to life, more open spaces and more outdoor activities, ensured the intermingling of the children of all ages, and a more gregarious childhood. A stop must be made by councils and government on the handing over of playing fields, parks and open spaces to housing and supermarkets. Safety in all its forms is now a priority, and when it comes to open spaces this is a burden on the local authorities. They have to protect the children using those facilities. Hardly a day passes than we hear of children being taken, stabbed, and stabbing one another - all symptoms of the disrespect of one for another, and of the law. I believe that we require an open forum to which all can contribute their experiences, their worries and their fears, their needs and their aspirations. Perhaps when this information is categorised and analysed a solution may emerge, which is applicable to all, workable and sustainable.

Prior to 1940 the Navy in today’s terms was a cross between a monk’s seminary and a football supporters club. Lower Deck life aboard ship was hard, totally masculine, and without any privacy. Shore leave was limited, often only a few hours and lived at strength 10. The sailors were proud of the Navy and proud to be in the Navy, but their relationship with society was varied. Allegedly, notices on establishments in towns adjacent to a dockyard read - ‘Dogs and sailors not admitted.

WW2 was tough on the regular Navy and even tougher of the poor innocents joining. Prior to it, most of the Navy Lower Deck was recruited as ‘boys’, many from orphanages. More than their home, it was a secure haven, they had camaraderie, almost every need was catered for, and every year was like the rest. For those with ambition there was a limited ladder to climb. The chasm between them and the Wardroom, not only didn’t bother them, they accepted it. From the Wardroom aspect, there was a glass wall and no matter how high a promoted man might rise as an officer, there was an unwritten view expressed or not, ‘he was Lower Deck, you know!’

Then came the HO’s - Hostilities only - volunteers or recruits, of every class. Round pegs in square holes, some found their vocation, and then the rest. In the beginning all HO’s were resented by the Regulars. The phrase HO was an insult. a put down, and it took several years for the stigma to be dropped, because the HOs had proved themselves. We, from sheltered civilian life, in our teens, knew nothing of life,. Four letter words interspersed into sentences and even between syllables were rare in the ’40s at that age. Talk of brothels, sexual deviance in all its forms, living in crowded conditions for weeks on end with little respite, having to guard food because of hunger, or misappropriation, all had to be accepted. Punishments through ignorance, misunderstanding, or with good reason, could be cruel and unnecessarily harsh, all without putting a foot on a ship. This is no exaggeration as later pieces will give proof. One had to be a tortoise, with a thick shell, keep one’s head low, preferably close to the ground for scuttlebutt, say little, be cautious of whom to trust and go slowly.

JAIL I had been a quasi-sailor for all of three weeks when I was put on cell duty, at cells which contained two men accused of attempted murder. We had a Chief Gunner’s Mate who took us for drill. His favourite punishment for serious offences like talking in the ranks, being incompetent, not obeying orders properly was to make a man run round the parade ground with a rifle held above the head at full stretch. Be assured it is very painful after a while, especially in pouring rain without an oilskin. The two men had attacked him, one with a knife, the other a bayonet on different occasions, our sympathies were with them. Naval Jail in those days included picking Oakum - teased out hemp rope, used on tall ships for filling the seams of the deck planks. A piece of rope about a foot long and two inches thick was weighed, then the prisoner, with just his fingers had to reduce the twisted rope to its original hemp fibres, the wear and tear on the fingernails had to be experienced to be appreciated. At the end, the huge pile of fluff was weighed again. The prisoners were only given meat on one or two days a week and had to eat with a spoon. To an innocent civvie, this all seemed extreme and as I was sympathetic with the prisoners, I smuggled proper meals into them, begged from the Wren kitchen-staff and helped them pick oakum, hardly realising that if I was caught, I would be in there beside them.

Following on from items Cluttons 1 and 2, I write this because it highlights the differences between business in the late Victorian era, my time there, and today

Aspirations outstripped resources, with ideas beyond my station, like going to the theatre. In London, at lunch time I would rent a folding seat, at the entrance to the theatre ‘Gods’, to reserve a place in the queue for the evening. In The evening I claimed and sat on it, being amused by the buskers until the seats were collected. This all cost - economies were made. I discovered the Express Dairy in Victoria Street. Lunches then had to consist of a small current loaf, cut through the middle and buttered. This I ate in the Embankment gardens or St James’s Park, swapping a roast with two veg and a sweet, for an evening in the Gods at one of the City’s theatres

My next posting in Cluttons was to the Rent Department and a certain Miss Veezey, a charming if slightly tentative young woman, not happy with being brought face to face with the seamier side of life. The Management had decided I was a more robust specimen. I was called into the Secretary’s sanctum, proof enough that I was either to be honoured or dressed down. Headmasters Studies had taught me I was unlikely to be honoured. I went with my tail between my legs. “Ah! Riggs!” No suggestion of sitting down. - a bad sign! “Do you possess a hat, Riggs?” “No. Sir.” I said mystified. “You will understand that this Firm has a long tradition. It is not long since all the staff were required to wear frock-coats and top hats,” he said with equanimity, and not a smile. I just nodded, aghast at what might be coming next, my mind distracted with the vision of tens of my colleagues going in and out of the office in stove-pipe hats and frock coats. He continued. “To represent us you will need a hat. If you can’t wear it you must carry it, and never go anywhere on business without it.” Class dismissed. As I went back to my new department and desk I thought it a bit rich, making me buy a hat, when I was paid only a pound a week, less deductions. I consoled myself that I was lucky; my predecessors had had to pay in hundreds for their tutelage, They, probably had to buy a frock-coat and a topper to go with it. I duly purchased what was then the height of fashion for the young office worker - a Porkpie Hat,.

Rent collecting was really a juggling act, especially in the rain. There was the rent book with hard cover and all the names and payments carefully recorded, held by a thick red rubber band. Then there was the cash pouch under the jacket, the inevitable hat, the pencil, the householder’s rent book and last, the rent itself, with only one pair of hands. The routine was to stick the hat between the knees, take the money, hand back the change, mark up the book, mark up the householder’s book, say a nice thank you, put the rent book under the arm and retrieve the hat. Easy? Try it with an umbrella as well. Miss Veezey was no fool. Of course that was only the basics with the silent minority, there were always the garrulous ones who were difficult to leave politely, withholding the book and cash until they had told all. Short of wrestling I was a captive audience. I needed training by a milk rounds-man. There were the flats - climbing uncarpeted stairs which children had dampened when the need arose and the atmosphere was thick, or some elderly, undernourished, bodiless hand with a greasy, brown paper covered rent book with equally mucky money would appear through the four inch slit between door and jamb. That particular house was the last straw with respect to Miss Veezey.

Once I had shown myself capable of collecting rent I was transferred upstairs to the Holy of Holies, the Surveyor’s Department. There they spoke a different language, had more freedom of movement. Instead of writing draft letters for correction, like like essay-time at school, we dictated own letters,. The dictating machines recorded mechanically onto a rotating tube of a black shellac-type material, and the playback needle was of bamboo. When the typist had typed the letters she would engage a shaving device which scraped a thin shaving ready for the next offering. I’m amazed how far we have come in so short a time, to voice recognition transference, dictated straight onto paper, a system I now use. My main job then was to take a taxi each morning and visit the areas of our property damaged by air raid since my last visit and make superficial estimates of percentage damage, both structural and cosmetic, to enable the registration of War Damage claims. Sometimes, when the raids increased and occurred in daylight as well as at night, I could actually be out recording when further damage arose. The day came when I received my papers and was about to head off to the Navy. On that day before I departed, I left a huge ‘Property Vacant, This Space For Sale’ standard notice with a little poem I have long since forgotten.

I apologise to those who remember the small part of this first paragraph I previously posted in an essay describing the marvellous institution of Cluttons of 1940. I believe it and what follows demonstrates, graphically, the changes wrought in business since then.

I was articled as a Valuation Surveyor to Cluttons. - the most august Surveyors in Britain, The building, near the Victoria Tower at Westminster, of redbrick and cream sandstone, is at least 150 years old. That first day is impossible to describe - the transformation from the schoolboy to the worker. I had my first suit, and was absorbed into the closed atmosphere of that office. They successfully fostered a sense of belonging, the man and boy ethos, once a Clutton’s man always a Clutton’s man - and it worked. The building itself had a faint aroma of polish and leather bindings, not unpleasant, which imparted a feeling of familiarity.

Then it possessed the most charming lift, in the building centre, built like a wrought-iron bird-cage, with filigree ornamentation. The wrought iron safety frame was open right to the roof with its weights and ropes naked. The lift was almost a living eccentric, it had a will of its own. One entered through a garden gate, pressed the ‘Floor’ button, pulled on a rope and nothing happened. A few more pulls. it grunted into a stately rise, or fall, under sufferance, barely obliging, We, too young to take office life totally seriously, could stop it at any time by opening a gate on another floor and strand it between floors. We dropped hole-puncher confetti down the shaft as the cage had no top,. I was the lowliest of the low. My immediate boss, a Sergeant Commissionaire, in the blue serge uniform, patent leather belt, and medal ribbons, was a tall, stern, imposing figure, and a punctilious disciplinarian. He guarded the door, was receptionist, part-time telephone operator and post boy, and promptly transferred all that to me. As relief telephone operator I could listen, if I cared to, so that I might understand the working of the office. Nothing is more boring than other people’s conversations, if one has to break off to answer other calls. I did that work for about a fortnight and then went to the Cashier’s Department, known as ‘Accounts’.

We dealt with properties of the Crown Commissioners and the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, which meant most of London, with properties as disparate as Park Lane and Kennington. Later I was to find they had odours to match. We worked at Dickensian-like desks, at standing height, with sloping tops, an ink pot set into the back, lids that lifted, to reveal personal possessions, and a high chair for when a little relief for the back was called for. The ledgers, like the desks were of another age. Leather bound, huge and thick, the size of a volume of the Encyclopaedia-Britannica, with pages twice as heavy. We recorded all payments in and out, we balanced every day, every week, every month and every quarter - and I still got it wrong. The theory of reciprocal mistakes states, that if there is the most minute discrepancy, it is likely that there are two mistakes which nearly cancel one another out. I have proved the theory to be true over and again. On my first balance I had some minuscule difference in the totals and suggested a modification in the pence column would save us all a lot of time WRONGGGGG!! When I totted up for the umpteenth time, two horrendous errors practically cancelled one another.

My huge, antique desk was one of a contiguous row and my immediate superior in Accounts, Fletcher, seated at the end of the row, would talk down to me most of the time as if I was the seventh idiot son of a seventh idiot. There was a lady clerk who was a tease. She soon discovered I blushed and, with a large enough audience, and often goaded by the odious Fletcher, she would try one of her many ploys on me to make me go red to the tops of my socks. When I would be working at my ledger, she would come tight beside me and lay her copious bosom gently on the ledger so I could not fail to see it, and the chances were I would bump into it before I was aware of its presence. It was like a gift, not an appendage to her person. At just seventeen, I was deeply embarrassed, as intended. Other times she would squeeze past me so I was fully aware of what bits of her were where and often they were coming in touch with my protrusions. Again she was right on the button, she embarrassed me and was well aware of the fact, she couldn’t have failed to be under the circumstances. In the end, not knowing what I know now about the delicacy of ladies and their appendages, I shut the ledger on her pride and that put an end to my torture.

Presumably, as a morale booster, a genius at Whitehall thought it would be a ‘terrific idea’ for the HG to mount guard at Buck H, unaware what the poor devils would suffer at the delicate hands of the Guards’ Drill Sergeants. An edict was read out at parades. I assumed it was an honour for the HG while paying homage to His Majesty, KG6. They wanted the platoon to provide men six foot in height -’volunteers’. Skipper made us fall in, put us through arms drill, finally picking those he thought would disgrace us least - I was one.

We reported to Wellington Barracks on Birdcage Walk each evening for two hours, training in the art of guarding, that involved stamping the feet at every opportunity until the Achilles tendons ached, carrying a rifle at the ’slope’ and marching back and forth - doing everything old Skip had taught us but with ’snap’. ‘Put a snap in it, lad’, was the cry. There was a S’nt Mayhah, not a sergeant major, dress cap placed parallel to the ground, black peak flat on his face so he had to hold his head back to see where he was going, and a device under his left arm, called a ‘pace stick’. To assess the level of detail these guys entered into, the S’nt Mayhah invariably held this pace stick parallel to the ground, with the point held between the first finger and thumb of the left hand, with the remainder of his fingers extended, his right hand loosely closed with thumb extended on top and the arm raised to shoulder level on alternate strides. Someone in our platoon wondered who had time to wind them all up before we arrived.

The S’nt Mayhah had a voice like thunder and I assume, abused his own sergeants to impress upon us civilians the yawning gap there was between a soldier and a Home Guard. That we were held in complete contempt was patent on arrival, and as the S’nt Mayhah probably had additional duties in consequence didn’t help our cause. One other odd, peculiar particular was the Officer-In-Charge. Dressed like the S’nt Mayhah but with a Sam Brown across his chest, his hat with the flattened brim, he marched back and forth, parallel to the Birdcage Walk railings, swagger stick like the pace stick, under his arm, precisely held, but he looked neither to left nor right, he ignored what was going on beside him, of which he was in charge, and just stamped his feet as he turned round at each precise end of a the exact course of pacing. Periodically a sergeant or the S’nt Mayhah would stand in his path, sufficiently far along the track so he could put on the breaks and stamp to a halt. They would salute one another for the umpteenth time, both shout something unintelligible as if a field apart, salute yet again, stamp a few times, part company and the officer would start his pacing again like an automaton.

It was June and the weather was wildly hot, I had only a singlet under my battledress tunic, a great mistake. For hours on end, night after night, we sloped arms and ordered arms and we tried to ‘put a snap in it’, but achieving that was almost impossible towards the end of the evening because our collar bones were sore with the repeated battering they received from the rifles as we obeyed instructions, shouted in our ear, strength five, ‘don’t put it down, slap it down’. We had done a full day’s work already, we were being abused as if we were raw recruits and this our chosen profession. Resentment reigned large. My friend Farrer was becoming as miserable and bolshie as I was . The crunch came on a Saturday. Now, not only my collarbone, broken years before, but the skin was so sore I could barely take the rubbing of the uniform on it. At ‘Shoulder arms’, I tried to find a spot on which to lay the rifle, it took time. A sergeant, taller than I, and a great deal stronger, standing immediately behind me, watching me as I started to lay the rifle down tentatively, hit the rifle on the barrel when it was about six inches from my shoulder, so that it literally crashed down on all the pain - “I told you to smack it down not lay it down”, he bellowed in my ear. For a moment I was staggered both by the pain and the brutality. One minute they were implying we were no-hopers, the next we were treated as if fully trained but malingering. I took the rifle off my shoulder and turned to the sergeant and explained rather tersely that I was a civilian trying my best but as my best was not good enough I was resigning from his care. After all these years I have no idea what I really said. I walked sedately off the parade ground. Whether the automaton saw me is unlikely, whether he cared is a definite negative. none of our platoon were at the Gates of Buckingham Palace in June when the Press pictures were taken.. Probably we were all dismissed and Guardsmen were dressed in our awful uniforms and out there, pretending - serve ‘em right!

In time we, in the Westminster Homeguard were chosen to man blockhouses in Whitehall. Crude, concrete structures, set across a road leading to Whitehall and with a gate making free access impossible. Our job was sentry duty outside the blockhouse on ‘X’ nights a week and at weekends. In the blockhouse it was like a squat, comfortless, and outside, bitterly cold. There were three troopers, a sergeant and me. They all had ammunition I had none, presumably for their safety rather than my own. It was here that I first came across the unthinking use of expletives, the more disgusting the better. The ‘F’ word was used indiscriminately, certainly rarely in context and often between syllables. In retrospect I find it strange how soon I became acclimatised to the whole atmosphere. Our blockhouse was beside the Liberal Club, one of the clubs in London and the Members, on duty nights, welcomed us and allowed us to use the club between bouts of duty and to have a half of Bitter in those august rooms, if we liked when we were doing duty at weekends. It was another world. The quiet smooth running of the club was like a well oiled engine which had been in service since the dawn of time; the unruffled, discreet way the staff appeared to serve, almost without being there, the over-stuffed, oxblood-coloured leather, the rich carpets and curtains and above all the almost cloistered atmosphere of the billiard room, with its raised leather benches, its green baize and cowled lights over the tables, a world away from any previous experience, and awe-inspiring. It seems it took a war to break down the barriers.

Tedium epitomises the lot of the lower ranks in all the services and I include the police in this. The aspect I have found strangest is that at the time we are not aware we are wasting our lives. The system really works, all that marching up and down, forming fours or whatever, standing to attention with ne’er a muscle moving, does seem to concentrate the mind in the physical sense rather than the metaphysical, to a point where it is incapable of critical thought. The greatest of all boring duties is ‘Guard Duty’ in whatever service one is in. In the police, especially in Ireland during an ‘Emergency’, it can be lethal, in the Navy it is a joke, unless one is caught, and in the Army it is taken very seriously, even when all that is being guarded is so insignificant that no one would want to steal it or copy it anyway. The main function of the guard is to keep on the alert in case he is caught, having a crafty pull on a cigarette, is improperly dressed, or is slouching, all deemed to be heinous crimes with unspeakable punishment if caught. In wartime there are innumerable sergeants and officers creeping about trying to catch these guards committing these diabolical offences.

At the time we also had the Blitz to contend with. I was on guard duty outside the blockhouse in Whitehall on a very black night, when a shadowy figure approached. I said the obligatory ‘Halt! who goes there? Approach and be recognised.’, feeling like a total idiot, knowing full well it was one of the Regiment, nobody else would be fool enough to be out in the small hours on a wet and cold night. It was the Guards Officer doing his rounds, and I suspect my lack of sincerity must have come through. “Who the f…. are you?” he said with all the venom of an embittered mother-in-law. There was absolutely no way he could have thought I was other than what I represented. . I was sure the officer, even if he were dim, could not have been unaware of what and who I was. Anyway, it would have been on the order-paper or some typically bureaucratic sheet. “Home Guard, on duty. Sir.” I replied reasonably, with my bayonet still pointed at his supper.” ‘X-ing Home Guard!” he said and pushed past me with hardly a glance at anything but the bayonet which I was now waving about as I grounded the rifle. The poor Guards sergeant, who was a decent fellow, if also scathing about the Home Guard, got an earful, which carried out to me even through the layers of sacking, which acted as blackout curtaining. If one had the opinion one was aiding the war effort by being in the Home Guard, a few weeks with the Guards soon made it clear one was as useful and as desirable as another head.

Some of us feel that the Internet has been permitted the level of freedom which is beyond commonsense. When one can obtain details of how to make a bomb, how to form a suicide pact, how to obtain pornography of every sort, and that the hits on these types of programmes are probably of a very high-level, it is time to call a halt, In my own experience I have found that certain title phrases in common use, which as a whole have a simple meaning may, individually, have a sexual connotation, and so cause the hits to rocket. I believe that the Internet now needs some sort of policing. I am not a believer in regimentation, and I believe also that I am fairly broad-minded; what people do in their own homes or together, which affects no one else, is their business. However, if people are encouraging unusual behaviour in any form, either sexual, political, or even self-destructive, I think they should be stamped upon because children today, and I have repeated this many times, are not in many cases as supervised either as they used to be, or as they should be and are lonely.. The resultant effect is that they turn to the computer and the Internet for company. When you see the background, the educational standards and the ages of some young people involved in political martyrdom - suicide bombers, it demonstrates how they are vulnerable and can be led astray and indoctrinated way beyond what they have been accustomed to.

The current state of affairs should be a warning to those responsible for maintaining the Internet, that they have spawned a divisive tool which is too easily manipulated by the unscrupulous, the criminal and the degraded. It is time for those in authority to put an end to the sort of abuse I mention here. This must be taken on board throughout the world; one country on its own can’t do it, with satellite communication,. It has to be an assault of nations united to bring reason back into the Internet.

Suicide. Many people, including myself, have experienced a period of stress so excessive that they have thought in terms of suicide. This is not a cry for help as it is sometimes referred to, it is a point of desperation, when the future looks so barren as to be totally pointless. I do not believe that these suicide pacts are in that category and I have neither the knowledge nor the experience to comment further.

Devaluation. The current price of wine brought back memories of the 50s. We played bridge for a penny a hundred, with the money being contributed to a general fund by the losers. Some of us played golf for stakes of a shilling for the first nine, a shilling for the second nine and a shilling for the round. The reason the wine brought all this to mind was because the bridge kitty was spent on bottles of wine to drink when we had a night out. In those days, only a few years after demob, we were still fairly lowly paid yet now we see what we used to buy fetching £25 to £40 a bottle.

But that is nothing compared with the devaluation that has taken place over the last four years, when the value of houses has risen by at least 100%. The problem is that this is not an overall devaluation, there are articles coming from China at half the price they used to be, but other essentials are also rising in cost. So in effect it is a selective devaluation brought about by the change in the way-of-life of some of us, more than others. It is having a knock-on effect. With young people it seems that it costs a year’s salary to get married, and another year’s salary to keep up with the weddings of one’s contemporaries. Our salaries may have risen, but our demands are outstripping them to the extent the family now works longer hours as an aggregate.

The long-term effect of this change causes people to no longer respect the value of money, or to save for the future, aggravated by all that has happened to pension funding - the whole pension structure has broken down. People are making extreme purchases as investments, and this is exacerbating the situation. With the breadth of taxation in all its forms, coupled with the throwaway society and the spend today worry tomorrow philosophy, I believe we’re heading for financial meltdown.

Someone in the government is trying to put forward a Bill to allow paths to be constructed around our coasts, taking over land belonging to those it will pass through. I believe this has not been thoroughly thought through. When my children were young we used to go walking in the hills, forests and on heath-land. When they became teenagers (1965) this was no longer possible because there was the risk of molestation, even being shot by youngsters with rifles. Later those same heath-lands were set alight at least once in the summer. Today I see them set alight at every opportunity.

The level of vandalism, in towns and cities today is so vast, so extreme, so brutal, even with the level of policing we have, as to give serious worry to those in charge and fill the prisons to overflow. How much more dangerous are the paths going to be and how are they to be made safe? The property owners are going to have to fence their boundaries with razor wire, and keep guard dogs, if their property is anyway remote.

There is no shadow of doubt that walking along the cliff path enjoying the countryside, the views across the sea, the sky and the wildlife is an ideal that we have all enjoyed, but times have severely changed. At the end of the war I and my brother-in-law spent three days walking every inch of the coast from Ballycastle to Coleraine, staying at youth hostels overnight. I have never forgotten that holiday and look back on all the different aspects with amusement and pleasure. So to some extent it hurts me to be so negative today, but in those days you didn’t even have to lock your front door. Today you are not sure who you can trust.

I think that this proposal must be selective, made in such a way that it is safe for those using it, those maintaining it, and those whose property it skirts. This is a tall order in the light of the news on television every day in the week, of murder, assault, stabbings and rape. We have coastal paths. It would seem logical that an overall survey of groups of these paths should be made, delineating their type of location, from remote to paved and lighted, the amount of use they receive, and the number of incidents reported on each. A pilot scheme in some county will be worthwhile as an opener, and if it produced anomalies, then the scheme may not be worth enlarging,

When I see the damage that is done to the Cave Hill, its wildlife and its fauna, so regularly, without any conscience, it gives me more than pause for thought.

..

The Army and the Guards in particular need no recommendation from me, their records over eons speak for themselves, but the relationship between them and the Home Guard I found amusing and worth relating. Loosely attached to The King’s Royal Rifles, a swank regiment, with a history of valour, we wore a black cap badge in the form of a Maltese Cross, surmounted by a crown, the regimental name on a central roundel, backed by red baize, - very smart. We had been told the badge, had been changed from bright brass to black so it would not attract the attention of snipers in the trenches, all stirring stuff to a sixteen year old.

The discrepancy between the uniform of the Home Guard and the rest of the Army had to be seen to be believed and there was the same steep step between the smartness of the regular soldier and the Guards. If the Germans had notions of infiltrating the Home Guard they would have been discovered in a minute because they could never have duplicated our uniforms. I’m sure we had been issued with whatever had been rejected by everyone else. Nothing fitted and to crown it all the gaiters we were forced to wear were a terrible oxblood colour, which was a badge in itself. The Guards were the other extreme, they were vain to a man, jealous of their reputation and standing, so they bastardised every piece of uniform capable of modification, from the peak of their caps to the surface and polish of their boots I’d guess many had their uniforms tailored as well

THE NORTHOVER PROJECTOR Some lunatic inventor had thought up the Northover Projector.- an enlarged version of a toy cannon I had as a child. The toy worked on the principle of a leaf-spring fixed tightly up against the back end of the barrel while one slid bullets (match sticks) into the business end. They slid down the barrel, when one pulled back the spring the match followed it. On release the spring propelled the match out of the gun and hit toy soldiers with considerable force at least 36 inches away. The Northover Projector had a wind-up spring instead of the leaf-spring, otherwise the thing was much the same as the toy cannon - made by the Germans in the twenties - a symbol of the efficiency of the War Office in general, and the their thinking with regard to the Home Guard in particular.

Representatives of all the platoons of the Westminster area were taken by bus to a secret location which we reckoned was Box Hill, formed up and marched into a forest. arranged in a semi-circle in a clearing, at the centre of which stood the Northover Projector (NOP) along with Mr Northover (I think). I remember it was a squat little thing, the gun, not Mr Northover. The NOP was shiny as if cobbled together out of spare bits of aluminium. We were then instructed on the ammunition, which was a form of Molotov Cocktail, consisting of petrol with a cube of phosphorous floating on the top in a lemonade bottle. We were informed that the phosphorous would burst into flame when exposed to the air and ignite the petrol, and they were right. A huge target of corrugated sheet steel had been erected against the forest backdrop and the NOP faced it squarely. We were told how tricky phosphorous was and how to aim the thing, then someone stepped forward and dropped a bottle of lemonade down the barrel, pulled a lever and off went the bottle.

It reached the steel sheeting, cleared it by feet and then went on to explode against a tree and start a forest fire, an eventuality no one seemed to have envisaged because it took a while to put out, especially as it was mid-summer. Indeed that was all we saw of the demonstration, we were loaded up, late in the evening and returned home. I never again saw or heard of the Northover Projector from that day.

Those of the Television Era would not appreciate the shock of misconception suffered when brought face to face with a politician whose appearance and mien have been conjured from only newspaper articles, radio interviews and radio comment, when there was no TV. Recently, all we see is the top few of our leaders and their cohorts . Prior to then they were constantly in the public eye, on TV, in newspapers and magazine. We could assess their physique, their mien, whether they were arrogant, self-seeking or evasive. In 1940 it was a matter of forming an impression on little or no true evidence. Such was the shock I received when, in the Home Guard I was paraded for the benefit of politics, patriotism and publicity.

One day Skipper informed us that on the following weekend we would be going for an exercise on Epsom Downs. End of story. In those days everything was secret, so what we would be doing on Epsom Downs would be a mystery until we did it. The only part of the weekend which stands out is the time we spent parading in front of the stands awaiting the arrival of Atlee, the Deputy Prime Minister. The day was as hot as I have experienced, one of those scorchers typical of the South East, which are not helped by being slightly humid. Standing there in our battledress serge, with a tin hat on, awful leather puttees and heavy, studded black boots, one could feel the perspiration running down the spine.

There used to be a macho tradition in the Guards Regiments that if a soldier fainted flat on his face while on dress parade, he was left there until the order was given to cart him off. I’m assuming the logistics of the alternative, of people rushing about being compassionate, was less important than keeping the ranks nice and tidy just as the King (as he was then) was about to take the salute. Actually, if one thinks of the size of the spectacle and the complication of the manoeuvres at the Trooping of the Colour, if a couple of them did collapse and his mates did rush about, there really could be chaos. It also had something to do with malingering, making sure the soldiers really did faint. I understand that if they fainted they were on a charge; - such is the way of the army, or was then. There we were, then, hundreds of us lined, up in the heat, being made to stand at ease, stand easy, and all the other ways soldiers have to stand including presenting arms, all in the interests of making us smart and keeping us alert, in the sweltering heat. Every now and then there would be an almighty crash. Some poor sod had hit the dirt. Then nothing; we were on parade after all, even if the criminal who had the temerity to faint was only a clerk out of ‘Rents’ doing his bit for K & C. Minutes would elapse and then someone would gather him up and his day of glory would be over, our torture would continue.

Atlee was heard to arrive several hours late and the remnants of us could not have cared less by that time. We were drilled for his delectation and then he sauntered down the ranks peering at us and stopping to say words of encouragement to men with campaign medals from the First World War. It was at this point I became disillusioned with politicians for all time. I have since read and been told that Atlee was a very clever and astute man. I saw someone entirely different. I saw a small, hunched, unprepossessing man with a glazed stare, tired and feigning interest unconvincingly. What a waste of time for both of us,