The Old Gaffer

I believe that the Service was suspended in the aspic of time, almost ever since the days of Nelson - until the war, with the sudden alterations in thought and deed which that emergency and the introduction of civilians forced upon it. In turn the Nelson syndrome was thrust upon us at every opportunity by those who had served, man and boy, for more than ten years before we, the HO’s, joined, ‘What was good enough for Nelson is good enough for me’, was the formula and radical though it may be, I have learned through experience, and therefore can appreciate, that change for the sake of change, and precipitate change in particular, not through attrition or detailed experiment, can be very detrimental. ‘Defaulters’ was a case in point The word ‘defaulter’ applied to anyone brought up on a charge, irrespective of how innocuous or severe. It was a presentation by the charging Officer or Petty Officer of a crime to the Officer of the Watch in the presence of the accused and had been played, probably unchanged since the days of Nelson, hilarious to the outside eye, dear to the heart of authority but not to us at that time.

The ceremony went something like this. Someone in authority put a man on a charge and the latter was duty bound to appear before the First Lieutenant at an appointed place at an appointed time. On that day the Master-at-Arms, the Regulating Petty Officer, the Writer, the Escort consisting of two sailors decked out in webbing belt and gaiters, and the criminals would gather, along with whoever was making the charge. The defaulters would stand in a line in order of appearance, some trying to have a crafty drag on the stub-end of a cigarette without being discovered, which would only add to the charge if caught. It was at this point that the whole thing, in my eyes, became sheer theatre. “Prisoner, or prisoners, fall in,” shouted the Regulating Petty Officer, only inches from the ear of the man selected, and the defaulter would stand between the two members of the escort. “Quick march,” roared the PO and the prisoner and escort would shuffle through the door and into the office for the hearing, being goaded on with shouts of ” Left, right, left, right…….” continuously until the word ‘Halt’ was emitted in high crescendo. With the lack of space on ships there was no way they could actually march but there had to be a semblance of the real thing and the interpretation ended up as an undignified shuffle, roughly in time to the shouting. At the word ‘Halt’, everybody stamped their feet resoundingly, the RPO then roared “Off caps” although there was only one cap to come off, and, if the man was in seaman’s rig, he would be very careful how he took it off, because many were watching, not least the Master at Arms. Apparently there was only one way, and it seemed to take ages to learn.

From that stage on, things became quieter. The RPO was silent, thank God, the Master At Arms read the charge, ‘Jimmy’, as the First Lieutenant was universally known, asked the man who had brought the charge for details, the criminal was asked for his version and excuses, although the latter were never expressed openly; if it was in his province Jimmy gave sentence, if a higher sentence was demanded or the crime was outside his remit, the defaulter was bound over for Captain’s Defaulters and for very serious crimes, even he, had to pass the hearing on to a higher authority. At the end of the proceedings it was time for the RPO to come into his own again, all that noise and stamping was repeated once again. Fortunately on our little tub, through lack of space, we enjoyed a quieter version, we had no Master, no RPO in the true sense, and no room for the enactment, in fact it was all very civilised as I found out to my cost. See ‘Passing Out Parade’ to be posted later.

In the sailor’s induction course we were taught to handle a whaler, a thirty-foot, double-ended, clinker-built life-boat,. We rowed in unison with cries like ‘Give way together’. Our instructions were laced with colourful language by, the Coxswain, or ‘Chief’, and there was swearing in the body of the boat as the blisters began to build. Tethered in Butlins’ swimming pool, the oars with holes in the blades, instead of us passing through the water, water swirled past us and we were rock still. We were preparing, for abandoning ship -, a worrying thought - not for shopping for fish,

The rank of the Captain decided which Naval ship in a convoy was Flotilla Leader, a cache which carried privileges, not least the convoy Doctor. The other ship, or ships were the sheep dogs of the convoy - in Naval terms ‘tail-end Charley’, the canteen boat - whipping in the stragglers. When our Captain was promoted, we inherited a Scottish, ex-Merchant captain, RNR whose rank sent us to the rear of the convoys with all that entailed. There was considerable muttering aboard.

The new Skipper played the bagpipes, liked fish and when he played, usually in the small hours, his personal hound would howl like a banshee. The new Skipper was as popular as an outbreak of bubonic plague. However, fresh fish was a rare luxury, so his antics were a welcome respite. Sailing along in home waters in daylight, at six knots, if the Skipper spied a couple of trawlers plying their trade under very tricky circumstances, his attention could be distracted. The Bosun would pipe ‘whaler’s crew fall in’ and we, those who could be spared, would climb into the whaler and were lowered over the side of the ship, which by now had swung away from the convoy and was heading at a rash 20 to 25 knots for the trawlers, with us clinging to the boat and the boat whacking against the side of the ship. Who needed a fairground ride when we had him to guide us? Approaching the trawlers, the engines reversed to bring the ship almost at a standstill, when we would be dropped onto the waves, literally, with the sudden release of the falls, and then we would be rolling in the ship’s wash as it shot off back to the convoy. We, alone and abandoned, rowed sedately over to the fishing boats bearing our cargo of cigarettes, tobacco and rum from the Lower Deck Messes and the gin and cigarettes from the Wardroom. There was banter with the fishermen while we were passing up our bribes and they were sending down baskets of fish which we stowed in buckets, the surplus had to find a place at our feet. With a final flourish of cross-talk, the fishing boats would rapidly head off, not wanting to be associated with the convoy and within minutes they were over the horizon. We, out of sight of anything, wallowing in a rolling sea., would one minute see the horizon, the next we were beside a huge wave which seemed to be falling down on us, but actually rolled under us. With a full crew plus the fish, our gunwales close to the water, time past slowly.

With the sea empty, the look-out would ultimately see smoke on the horizon, the ship would be steaming towards us with a bow wave like a typhoon, a greyhound of the sea.. Momentarily it came almost to a stop and then, once we were hooked on to the lines and pulled just clear of the water, she would be off, accelerating back towards the convoy, while we were being hauled in foot by foot until we were swung inboard and lashed in place. Meanwhile the Messmen had been gathering in the waist of the ship. The skipper left the bridge and came to the well to inspect the prize emptied on the deck, and always said, ‘All flat fish into the Wardroom bucket.’, hence his nickname, ‘Fishcake McKay’. Then he would march off back to the bridge because we were in sight of the convoy once more; The Wardroom Steward collected flatfish for his bucket, but while he was gathering more, others would be taking then out of his bucket for their own, As a member of the boat’s crew I was not involved in divvying up so I was well placed to stand and watch this hilarious pantomime.

With people in such dire straits, up and down the country, with their houses and their lives in disarray as a result of the flooding, it seems ludicrous to write what I propose, but it is nonetheless, in my view fairly important.

During this past week there was a programme on television which I did not see, but was reported to me, concerning Hitler’s ‘off-camera’ conversations. I say ‘off-camera’, when I really mean ‘off microphone’, unofficial remarks made to someone in shot, but not for general consumption. We have all seen top politicians, in question and answer sessions, on television, where a man has approached, whispered something in the ear of the person with a microphone, in such a way that his lips are unseen - they are frightened of lip- readers.

The program I refer to was a compilation of scenes of Hitler on stage and in casual mode, talking to people including Eva Braun. The producer had taken old clips and enlarged them so that the readers could actually follow the conversations between Hitler and whomever he was talking to, by lip reading.. These, apparently according to my informant, showed Hitler to have not only a gentle streak, but I suppose what can be referred to as human reactions. Whether this serves any useful purpose whatsoever, is a matter of personal judgment, but the reason I am writing this article is not whether I care or not, what Hitler had to say, because I saw what he did. It is because my informant said that this producer was now intending to perform the same trick with cinematographic outtakes of conversations, intended to be private by members of our Royal family, translate these and offer them on public display. I find this proposal abhorrent. When I see clips of the young Diana, and other young women, friends of the Royal family, being besieged on every appearance, this type of incursion is bad enough, but if every person who is being photographed had to keep silent because some casual remark could be presented later to the public, especially out of context, I find it not only unbelievably crass, but sick. This terrible maw that constantly has to be fed, the British reading public’s appetite for sensation and gossip, should not be appeased in this instance, and the law should prohibit it, or else where will it all end?

The Shambles of Shambo. Recently in Wales, a sacred bull, Shambo, held in a Hindu temple was diagnosed with bovine TB. Local farmers, allegedly worried for their own cattle, pressurised the authorities to have the animal put down, with predictable results, as far away as New Zealand, As one who has suffered from TB, and being cured purely by diet and fresh air, I find it amazing that in this day and age Shambo could not have been cured, unless this is contrary to Hindu practices. In any case, if the animal was contained in the stockade within a temple, it seems unlikely that it could have infected any creatures within miles, unless they were worried that mice or a stray cat might have carried the infection. I could have understood if the authorities had instituted extremely strict rules on the removal and destruction of the natural waste from the bull, but as slaughter, to my simple mind, appears to be a bureaucratic solution, forced on the basis of our laws, to which no flexibility has been applied, outrage, like a stone thrown in a pond, will naturally ripple round the world.

In the same newspaper that reported the death of the bull, it also reported that a number of citizens of this country had been planning subversive acts based on religious dogma. A large number of the religious rituals, practice by various sects today, have their roots in necessity. For example the Jewish religion requires that its adherents do not eat meat on the same day as they drink milk, presumably because you could not, in the past, have it and eat it. Similarly life in an area where there is little water will make circumcision a sensible precaution. There has always been persecution in the name of religion, and religion an excuse for aggression, where the basic reasons have nothing whatsoever to do with religion. Today, with people of all nations being more materialistic than religiously inclined, religion is being used more as a tool to achieve an end, rather than an end in itself. It is therefore necessary for those in authority to think carefully, circumspectly, and with an eye to the outcome, of any action or statement they may make which has a quasi religious content, as their actions could be interpreted, by those who wish to make trouble, to inflame for their own ends.

The introduction of targets by Tony Blair was, I believe an insult to the intelligence of the nation. We all have targets, some are very simple like mowing the lawn, which we allow ourselves to put off if we have a good enough excuse. In business, five-year rolling plans and some other targets have been in vogue since the dawn of time, and we knew how to manage them. Even our domestic budget is a form of target, but when if ever are we to be rid of those put up by the government? Brown is re-tracking in a number of areas, let us hope he sees the errors in this ploy. This type is pernicious, ill conceived and a hammer to crack a nut. If reputation, the post itself, pay, or any other serious consideration is at stake, the temptation to find a way to appear to meet the target set, be it legal or contrived, will be irresistible. There is a serious tendency today for people to believe dogma and act on it without testing its validity.

The phrase ‘Lies, damn lies and statistics’ really applies to targets. They are set through mathematical analysis, based on assumptions arrived at either by sampling; reference to records, which may or may not be accurate and representative of the whole, or inspired guesswork. To be applied Nationally they take little or no account of human behavioural variations, changes in geographical, ethnic, fiscal and other local influences, and above all unexpected circumstances, such as staff illness, lack of funding, even extraneous problems such as power cuts and weather.

Hence, if targets are to be met and local circumstances make it virtually impossible, then one could and probably does change some of the factors to arrive at an amenable figure. If it is education and the results are poor, try changing the syllabus so the students have easier subjects and the targets are met. In hospitals change the routine so the through-put of patients is increased, therefore the average waiting times are reduced, even if the fewer, more urgent and difficult cases are further delayed.

Targets, unlike people, have no ability to reason and no compassion, they are merely a goad to justify Government claims of doing better, when few, from their own experience agree. Targets can induce abuse and dishonesty, where none previously existed. Targets are a form of rate fixing - a price for a product, based upon time. When rate fixing was prevalent In engineering, a man was paid a rate for producing a product in an agreed time, based on a Rate Fixer’s assessment having actually watched the man work. The man under scrutiny was very particular to cut no corners. Once the rate had been agreed the man upped productivity to get a comfortable wage and set aside enough of the product to slope off to a Wednesday match without being missed.

Targets in learning are counter productive because the subjects most needed by the country, the Sciences, are being under subscribed because it is more difficult to obtain suitable grades. Yet once the young people have these alternative qualifications, the jobs aren’t there.

Instead of the civil servants, or even politicians, making the decisions, let the professionals based upon experience, local conditions and their own expertise, run things, rather than have blanket targets which seem to cost a bomb, increase staffing and paperwork for little or no improvement. If the professional is at fault, the responsibility is his, not the whole team. The real decrease in educational standards over the last 10 years, as reported by a renowned authority, instead of the figures conjured by the government, seem to bear out the fact that targets don’t work

If you have led a sheltered life, in a house full of women, the services will soon change all that. You soon become aware of life as it is lived. My first brush was when we had come in from convoy and repairs had to be carried out to the relief of us all - we would have a couple of days in harbour, instead of refuelling and revictualling to immediately turn round and head off again The Harbour had a Naval canteen where hot food and beer were dispensed at reasonable prices The canteen itself was dark and dingy, about as welcoming as a ward in the workhouse, so I preferred to stay on board and catch up on sleep or walk round the dockyard looking at the other ships. On this occasion I was fast asleep on a row of padded lockers which doubled as seats in the C & POs’ Mess. With my hammock spread out, lying on the palliasse plus the blankets with the ship absolutely still, it was pure bliss indeed - I was off to sleep in a moment. The rest of the Mess was either ashore in or Edinburgh. The sailors’ hammock is made of canvas, tightly held between anchors by ropes attached to steel rings from which spread thinner ropes, called ‘nettles’ which pass through the eyes spaced along the ends of the canvas,. giving great versatility and comfort in all conditions There was no air conditioning so, by the judicious adjustment of the nettles and the use of a ‘hammock stretcher’,. to compensate we shortened the nettles in cold weather so the hammock cocooned us, and in hot weather we lengthened the nettles and forced them wide with a hammock stretcher, so the hammock was flat and open, The stretcher, was a piece of hardwood about eighteen inches long and one inch square with ‘V’ notches cut in each end so it could brace the outer nettles apart, either at the head or at each end, to allow room for a pillow and give ample room for moving one’s head. I was relishing my isolation when suddenly I was woken to find my face enveloped in beer fumes and stubble, I was being kissed awake by one of the Petty Officers. The fact that he was stoned was obvious but I was so surprised I did nothing for a second or two then, finding that pushing him off was too difficult from a prone position, I reached behind me where I knew the hammock stretcher was and clouted him over the head and shoulders until I reached his consciousness, at which point he stood, turned, walked across the Mess and threw himself down onto the lockers and went to sleep. I never told anyone about the incident, I never mentioned it to him, nor he to me. The matter was closed, he knew where we stood. One day I was called to the radar office to find that a pin connecting the aerial turning wheel ultimately to the aerial on the mast, had sheared The Engine room Artificer loaned me the key to his office so I could use his lathe to make a new one. His office was attached to the After Mess-deck, occupied by the deck hands and guns’ crews. When I entered there was hilarity and then, I saw a small girlish figure cavorting between the hammocks dressed in pink bra and pants and the men were leaning out of their hammock either trying to kiss or touch the slim transvestite. It was a member of the Mess, a young seaman. The whole thing was light hearted and I took it as such. Later, I discovered the young seaman was indeed a ‘winger’, a friend, if you like, of one of the Petty Officers., something I would never have heard about either the games or the relationship with the Petty Officer if the pin had not sheared. Every Mess was an entity and what went on within, stayed within.

The third occasion I was to come across homosexuality was when I was teaching. My friend Fred was smitten by one of the Wren pupils in a class we both took. One night, under the influence of a few pints, he said he wanted to meet this girl but as one of her lecturers he thought it placed him in a difficult position. I agreed, and offered to find out what I could of his chances of success. The next time I took the class, during a period of practical fault finding, I drew one of the Wrens to one side and explained that Fred was interested in this woman and wondered whether he had any chance. She burst out laughing. Her friend who was standing nearby wanted to be in on the joke and when the first one explained she too laughed out loud. I quietened things down, although I realised that Fred’s secret ambition would be common currency five minutes after class ended, “Do you see ‘X’ ?” she asked pointing to a big blonde working in a corner with Fred’s light of love. I nodded. “Those two go to Portsmouth together every chance they get.” “So?” I said, not being up to speed on lesbianism. “They sleep together, she wouldn’t be interested in Fred,” the Wren said, talking to me as if I were as thick as two short planks, which in that field I was. Such a pity for Fred, his choice was probably the prettiest member of the class, but then she would have been snapped up long before he had seen her if things had been different, so I suppose it boiled down to the same thing in the long run.

At intervals the Hunt destroyer had to go into dock to have the boiler tubes cleaned as they became choked with salts from the water used to make steam. Part of the crew not on watch was allowed on leave for the four days it took. I decided to go London to see my Mother and friends. My family, like many at that time, while not unique were still living as if Victoria was still on the throne. We didn’t show emotion, and sentiment was laid on like gold leaf. Kissing was certainly a rarity.

On board the night train from Edinburgh to Euston, I was to learn the rules of the game of Brag, a version taught by stokers, Those night trains were an experience. Almost totally blacked out, masks had been placed over the corridor and carriage lights, illuminating a narrow strip of light in stops and starts along the gangway and across the knees of the seated passengers in the carriages, so they could read. People were just vague figures with illuminated laps in the case of women, generally in rough khaki or navy-blue serge, with brown or black lisle stockings emerging from a short skirt. I found a seat in a compartment where a naval great-coat covered the knees and Brag was being played. . From the start it was totally loaded against me because by the time I had learned what few rules there were and mastered the rudiments I had lost every penny I had on boarding the train, which amounted to about two months pay. Having borrowed the tram fare, I left Euston, deflated and depressed. As I got closer to home my spirits rose, after all I was a sailor home from the sea, and proud of it. I envisaged big hugs of joy because I was still in one piece. I had forgotten Queen Vicky! As I walked down the hall I saw my mother working in the kitchen, ‘Hello!’ she said, turning her head. ‘Put the kettle on I’ll be with you in a minute’, and that was that, it was as if I had only come home from the office. I should have remembered.

So it is not surprising that I find the current practice of hugging and kissing on meeting, even between casual acquaintanceships, bizarre to say the least and embarrassing in my own case. For me kissing is a significant expression of love and reserved for my special few. Some years ago I used doggerel to vent my views. I am incapable of posting doggerel on the Blog as it is normally writ- read it at your peril!

KISSING - THE LATEST CRAZIEST SOCIAL MORE

They’re kissing air, kissing past my face, never hitting base. Kissing everywhere, Kissing into space. Am I unclean, just a bit malodorous? Maybe not - perhaps just too presumptuous. Kissing me, would Beauty find preposterous? Maybe else, cosmetically disastrous. I find it strange, this current craze, of course I know, it’s just a phase, started by the Arty, worried what they’d catch at a party. When I was young you kissed your Mum, and Aunts with plenty of lolly. When I was older and bolder, it was all just fun and folly. Then came the bit where kissing meant something more, a sentiment, not taken in jest, not lightly, the meaning clear and unlikely to be confused, misunderstood. From then there was no likelihood that kissing was a social grace, an empty gesture with no place for subtle nuances of love, paternal, filial, and above else sexual connotation, not for general misquotation. So please forgive me if you find, I’m not a kisser, the kind so prevalent today I find, I’m really not at all inclined,

The making of a ‘Prick’ of tobacco. The ration was supplied in leaf form, as the name implied, with stalks and all, and I intended to turn this mass of dried cabbage into a plug of tobacco, which could challenge any in a tobacconists shop. Just writing that has made me realise there are few if any shops these day devoted solely to selling tobacco and the appendages that product needed. Many, like myself, graduated through the lighter tobaccos which burned the tongue but didn’t give you hic coughs, to the heavier tobaccos and finally to plug, the man’s smoke, the smoke of the aficionado and Jolly Jack Tar. It was this tobacco I learned to make from the raw dried leaves when I was at sea. I also learned to role a ‘tickler’, a thin, hand rolled cigarette, without a burning agent, saltpeter, to keep it alight.

The plug, the end product was called a ‘Prick’. Firstly the hard stalks and stems were stripped from the leaves until just the finer textured leaf was left. A strong mixture of brown sugar, rum and water was made and a square of linen about the size of a man’s pocket handkerchief procured. The leaf was then arrayed on the handkerchief in layers and as each layer was complete it was generously dabbed with the solution of rum and sugar, until all the leaf was used up. The tobacco was then rolled in such a way that it formed a cylinder and the handkerchief was tightly rolled round, with the edges turned in - a standard parcel.. This was then wrapped in a square of canvas, and twine was used to tie the canvas in place in the way a hammock is secured, with lashing at intervals along its length and tied in at each end. This was the ‘prick’. Finally, the canvas was lashed in a way similar to the way that one would bind anything in string or rope, except the binding started at the centre. A length of tarred spun-yarn was tied by its ends to the hammock rail so that it formed a slack ‘U’; a loop was made in the spun yarn and set along the length of the prick and held in place while a second loop was wound round it securing the first loop to the prick at the centre. From then on the spun-yarn was looped round, working from the centre out in both directions and after each application of two loops the sailor put all his weight on the prick so the loops tightened round the prick, squeezing out any surplus moisture through the handkerchief and into the canvas . This procedure progressed until the whole length of the prick was encased in tight spun-yarn which was then made secure and detached from the length tied to the hammock rails.

I always assumed that the moisture allowed an element of the tar in the spun yarn to be absorbed into the tobacco as well. The sailor then put the prick in the bottom of his kit bag and forgot about it for about three months by which time it was mature and the tobacco had been transformed into a short length of gnarled wood with all the wrinkles of the handkerchief, the canvas and the bands of spun-yarn permanently fossilised. When the end of the prick was shaved and rubbed in the palm, the aroma was wonderful, totally transformed from the ingredients, and the smoke was better than anything one could buy in a tin ashore.

I write this long description because soon pipe smoking, which is now frowned upon, will be a thing of the past and people will have forgotten the rituals and the simple pleasures the pipe gave, what was it the musical hall artists used to say? A woman is just a woman, but a pipe of baccy’s a good smoke. I remember some of my relatives were not enamoured with me if I smoked in the house, so it is unsurprising if pipe smoking too is a lost art.

I want to revive all those stupid rituals real pipe smokers took so much to heart and spoke of with such reverence. Now we rarely see, or even smell a pipe being smoked, I feel I must record, the strange, ancient habits of the sailors of my day with respect to ‘baccy’, some perhaps, long since lost. Tobacco was rarely bartered except with people outside the Service. At sea we received our allowance and could buy named brands at sixpence a packet of twenty. Ashore we took enough to do us, and when attached to an establishment one could buy 400 tailor-made cigarettes for three shillings and four pence. The other Services denigrated sailors when they met, in the way sailors taunted the RAF by calling them the Brylcream Boys. We believed we were the Senior Service and some would boast it in the company of the other Services, often followed by an affray,. The other Services inferred our interests were ‘Rum, bum and ‘baccy’ which was not entirely without foundation. The regular duty free issue of, either pipe tobacco, cigarette tobacco or leaf on a regular basis, for a pittance, was another ducat in the lower deck barter game. It was a treasured perk. The tobacco was of the best quality, and, although it was illegal, a bare handful of non-smokers in any ship’s company, would take their ration and sell it either on board or ashore, or trade it for goods or services ashore, which was more common. Leaf tobacco was rarely taken as it was a bother to process, but I learned the art, which, while being complicated, dirty and smelly, was nonetheless rewarding, if one liked heavy plug pipe tobacco. I will post for the aficionados of pipe smoking, details of the process on board ship rather than in a factory, in a day or two.

One took a plug of rich, very dark tobacco, pared it with a sharp knife, rubbed, the cuttings pleasurably and with anticipation between the heel of the thumb of one hand and the palm of the other, then, after carefully and expertly filling the bowl of a pipe, it could then be smoked with relish and satisfaction. To a sailor the advantages of a pipe over cigarettes were that it stayed alight longer, it did not burn down in a wind, nor fly ash into the face, particularly if the pipe was fitted with a wind-guard. It left both hands free, and had a macho element too. I distinctly remember actresses in films saying words, which today sound so utterly banal and ridiculous, such as “I like to see a man smoking a pipe.” Why? They were probably paid a fortune to say it, but there were those who mimicked it and believed what was said.

What is true, though, is that there was so much more to pipe smoking than cigarettes. The different sizes and shapes of pipes, made of so many different woods, at such a range of prices, they became more than a tool, they became an obsession. They could be collected for their own sake and it was a rare pipe smoker who had less than four. They were memorabilia, keys to events or people. Men sat and discussed the merits of this make against that, this shape or that, this tobacco or that. There were rituals which were almost unconscious but which had an inbuilt element of satisfaction. Even the mucky job of grinding out the build up of coke in the bowl had its compensation, it showed the pipe was mature. There was the ‘burning in’ of a pipe, the sacrifice of valuable tobacco, taste and pleasure over the first few weeks measured against the pleasures of a mature smoke for years to come. There was the tactile pleasure, followed by the visual one when the smoker ran the warm bowl down the crevice between nose and cheek to feel the smooth warmth of the pipe, like handling a smooth pebble, and to then admire the burr-walnut or fine wood which now shone in all its glory. There was again the tactile pleasure of the leather pouch and the teasing out of the tobacco. There were tobaccos with wonderful smells which assailed one as soon as the pouch was opened, some smelled like Christmas pudding, others were tangy, all turned grown men into Bisto Kids. Pipe smokers would hand their pouches round so others could experience the smell and texture of their chosen brand and then a long discussion on the merits of brands would ensue yet again, a script worn threadbare, but which never seemed to pall, and the dangers of smoking were rarely, if ever talked about

Surprisingly there was great satisfaction in attaining the acquired art and skill of filling and tamping a pipe, which had elements cigarette smoking rarely achieved. Carrying out these tasks induced a natural break in work which could be justified, which allowed the mind a short respite for filling, lighting the tobacco evenly, which was an art in itself, and then dragging that glorious drug deep into the lungs if one inhaled. I write this long description because soon pipe smoking, which is now frowned upon, will be a thing of the past and people will have forgotten the rituals and the simple pleasures the pipe gave to the smoker, if not to the rest.

It All Started With A Fish Box One day, in calm weather, the Petty Officers Messman appeared on deck and sat down to scrape a fish box. No one took any notice, but as the day progressed so did the fish box. He shaped the sides, added supports to the bottom, made a hinged towing bar with a cross handle and started to paint it. We dropped anchor at Sheerness, waiting to pick up another convoy and when we went ashore the Messman went also and came back on board with four wheels he had bought. Within a few days we were treated to the rumble of a little truck being trundled round the deck, complete with small seat, swivelling front wheels and painted like a gypsy’s caravan. It was a present for his daughter. Needless to say that was not the end of the matter - far from it.

On our ship there were two brothers in authority and competition. Both were Chief Petty Officers, one was the Bosun, responsible for the smooth running of the ship and the other was the Chief Gunner’s Mate, responsible for discipline and gunnery. Both were of a jealous disposition. The little trundling fish box had given the Gunner’s Mate an idea. The next time in harbour he disappeared over the side with a bottle of rum in his hip pocket, only to return from the dockyard with lengths of steel strip and some sheets of plywood. We were all intrigued, none more so than my friend the Gunnery Artificer, an associate, if not a friend of Guns, as the Gunner’s Mates were generally called.

Our curiosity was soon satisfied, we were dragged in to help. I have often found that people in authority get a bright idea but expect everyone else to carry it out. In this case it was the construction of a doll’s pram. The Artificers were expected to forge the springs and make the axles, the seamen made the body and my bloke, an artist in civilian life who was doing a roaring trade in rum painting water colour portraits of wives and girlfriends from photos, was hauled in to paint those gold lines all good Tansad prams carried.

We arrived in port at the end of yet another convoy and who should come down the jetty and be brought aboard but Mrs Gunner’s Mate complete with Miss Gunner’s Mate - Happy Families indeed. They disappeared into the caboosh of the Gunner’s Mate only to reappear with the pram, a doll lying there and the last we saw of them was the proud child and the self-satisfied grin of the Gunner’s Mate. The Customs men never did discover the butter, sugar, rum and cartons of cigarettes the little girl wheeled through the dockyard gate so grandly and so innocently.

You might think the matter stopped there. Indeed you might wish it did, but history demands that I record the next act. Act III. The Rivals. The Bosun, Guns brother, could not be outdone, his reputation and self esteem demanded bigger and better, and bigger and better was what we saw. The two-ring Lieutenant, Jimmy the One, The First lieutenant, the Captain’s right hand man, was nobody’s fool when it came to conning a ship, dealing out retribution for misdemeanours, but he was putty in the Bosun’s hands. The Bosun approached him and explained that there were parts of the ship which needed repair and that the next time we were in harbour he would arrange to put it in hand, all he needed was a signature on a chitty. Jimmy signed.

The next time we were in harbour a forest of timber and steel appeared at the gangway, carried by dockyard ‘Mateys’. It was brought aboard and men were detailed to stow it. Off we went again. The next time we docked, the timber disappeared along with the Bosun and a bottle of rum. The Bosun returned empty handed. On the next trip we dropped anchor at Sheerness at the mouth of the Thames; where the Bosun went to a second hand shop, bought a cheap inlaid box, with a receipt written in pencil. Back at Rosythe a beautiful bed complete with steel frame, springs, polished like new, was brought on board from the dockyard.. My bloke painted Mickey Mouse and Minny on the ends, the receipt for box now read ‘One large child’s bed.’ and all was ready for transport through the dockyard gate. ‘Great oak trees from little acorns grow’

This is not a bleat about those earning prodigious sums, but a plea on behalf of those on the other end of the scale. Living as I have in so many different societies, from life in the British Raj, through rural Britain, working-class London, to the rarefied atmosphere of Northern Ireland, I have seen such incredible changes, to the ruling classes and the impoverished, from the Victorian era to this incredible society we are now part of. We seem to worship instant notoriety, give monumental payments to those folk providing, so-called, entertainment, without a thought for what this type of adulation is doing to the economy of those not so well off.

I have two professional golfers in my family, and yet I think it is totally crazy that a man receives half a million Sterling for coming second, and seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds, for winning a single golf tournament. When I hear musicians, film actors, and presenters on television, with more money than they will ever be able to spend, obtained in effect from the pockets of many of whom are unlikely to see their bank statements ever in the black, I fail to understand why this situation is allowed to persist. I also object to the fact that the top football league is allowed to pay such extremes of salaries when the lower leagues haven’t even enough money to maintain their stands to the standard required today for safety.

In my youth there were very few people who had as much wealth as those just mentioned, and the class system maintained the situation. Now the whole class situation has been inverted, the wealthy of yesterday are having to sell off heirlooms to pay their taxes and young people, overnight, by reaching those very heights and adulation, rarely deserved to the extent it is portrayed, are promoted by specialists angling for a quick buck.

I suppose there is no way that we can level out the giving and the taking so that those at the bottom of the heap may have their pleasures at reasonable rates. Those who are at the top of the heap, currently earning these vast sums, should receive their reward at a sufficient level to justify their worth, and create a goal for others to aim at. My family is sport mad, so I hear a lot of the gossip and one thing that comes out of it is that the rising stars, not only in sport, are so keen to be accepted in their chosen milieu that they will work almost for nothing to achieve their aim. On the basis of that, they are entitled if they are successful, to be recompensed for the time served in learning the profession, but it doesn’t seem to make sense to me that a man who has also had to struggle to reach the top of his profession, a surgeon, or any of the other professionals you like to name, should receive so little compared with those enumerated above. This is not a rant, it is an expression of frustration at what in many cases, but not all, is a moneymaking racket engineered by a few who are escalating their own percentages while promoting others, merely, in the case of young rising talent, only to dash their dreams subsequently, when the cream is getting a bit thin.

River cottage and the like. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, that eccentric farmer-cook, overreached himself the other day,. when he tried to change the eating habits of some urbanites. I think he tried to do too much in too short a time, but however he did make me think that there is an industry out there, for which we are clearly paying, which is devoted to meeting the demands of some of the food gurus who constantly preach about diet. All the time food is cheap, tasty, simple to prepare, with little post washing-up, so-called junk food will be on the menu. What I object to so strongly is that all the packaging, much of it unnecessary, has now to be labelled in all sorts of categories and which I suspect, 99% of the population either doesn’t understand or doesn’t read. But we are paying for that printing, and the hours spent discussing how is to be applied, how it is to be regulated, and government departments are concerned with advertising basic common sense as if it was a new idea. There was all that fuss about school dinners, which seems to have died down, and obesity is constantly being discussed on television, .As one who has had a weight problem for years, my experience tells me that a simple, balanced diet, of small portions, is all that is required, and it is self-control which should be advertised on the packets. The younger members of my family, partly through eating out, through being interested in food, and being prepared to take trouble, have extremely varied menus, and much of the food that they eat, such as aubergines, I find to be relatively flavourless; but I was brought up on roast beef, Yorkshire puddings and three veg, toad in the hole, and all the other British recipes from way back. These require considerable preparation and more clearing afterwards, perhaps that is why they’re no longer popular