Old Gaffer

Month: September 2007

  • Is Adrenalin To Blame?

    The other day I was contemplating the chaos throughout the World caused by suicide bombers, young dissidents and the like, with no end product to show for their efforts but mayhem. I wondered if I was right to blame it all on adrenalin. So I examined my own life in relation to circumstances where adrenalin played a part.

    Firstly there was the ridiculous period when I was in the Local Defence Volunteers, at about the time of Dunkirk. There we were, old men, chatting about their experiences in WW1; shopkeepers, farmers etc and me. We were waiting for the hordes of German, trained, well armed paratroopers, with about one shotgun or WW1 revolver, between two of us. If the paratroopers had arrived how far down the hill would I have been able to cycle with my dispatch, before being brought down, and the alarm would have been raised anyway. I believe we were all there for excitement and to be part of the action.

    Next it was the London Blitz. I and my mates patrolled the area, especially the gun batteries on nights when we were not fire watching in some hazardous part of the City. Both activities were exciting, a break from the dull old day.

    The Home Guard too, creeping about on exorcises in the dark in uniform, shooting at Bisley, or doing guard duty with the regular soldiers in blockhouses in Westminster. It was interesting, exciting and not to be missed.

    The Royal Navy, on convoy. There is nothing that will stir the blood like the fierce clanging of the Action Stations Bell. What with the rush to one’s station, be it a gun turret, the Plot, the stern with the depth charges, or an office in the bowels of the ship, with the ominous bangs and clatters as all the water-tight doors and hatches were locked behind one, the adrenalin was high. There would be times when the ship quietly kept station at six knots, we were going through a suspected minefield. but others when the bow would rise, the ship would turn on a sixpence, with all the loose gear sliding across the deck, or across the mess table onto the deck, as we headed off after a target – then the adrenalin level changed.

    Think of Diving, especially in the old helmet and heavy weight suits. Imagine, alone down there, on your first dive, you sink up to your waist in thick black mud, in water so polluted you can’t see your hand in front of your face. You have had a day’s training in a tank, suddenly you realise you are sinking deeper, and can’t kick yourself out. I believe it is the adrenalin which permits you to stop panicking, take stock, remember your training and get yourself out of the mud. At the same time I was also taught closed-circuit breathing, using pure oxygen being recycled through carbon, so that you have no air bubbles for people to discover – frogmen’s gear. In the early fifties, at the time of Suez, I was working for the Admiralty, and my boss came to me and told me I might be sent as a diver to the Middle East with the rank of Commander, I assumed as a frogman. I was surprised, but elated, couldn’t wait! It didn’t happen, the war was too short – thankfully.

    Finally there was the Police in Belfast at the height of the Troubles – ’70 to ’72. I was so appalled, and frustrated with the situation. Although I had a responsible job I joined up as a constable, on duty several nights a week. Standing like a target, doesn’t create adrenalin, but a sudden call, and flying through the city in the dark in a Landrover to a shooting incident really does, as does creeping up alleys looking for a gunman.

    I relate all this for three reasons, I feel I know what it is like to want to get into the action, be part of it, and to assume if anyone is injured it won’t be me. Secondly, because I believe there are those who sometimes subconsciously seek risk, and are truly confident they can handle it when thrust into it. Included in these is the psychological urge for the excitement of risk, especially in the teenager. Finally there is also the uncontrollable urge to right a wrong, which is so immense, so frustrating it has to be tackled.

    From my experience and the view of my own character, I do not believe most of the suicide bombers are really up for a serious cause, they are out for excitement, when one adds martyrdom as an ingredient, and also contradictorily, the Koran’s teaching being against the murder of the innocents.

  • Random Thoughts 28, Do you feel as frustrated as I do?

    We are now on the run up to a proposed election so it is essential for us to question every sound-bite delivered on television, and statement quoted in the press We know the manifesto, offered so graciously on the stump, will not be lived up to, the promises, either watered down or ‘adjusted’. There are so many urgent issues not receiving attention, while others are being aired which have no hope of a short-term solution, – by short-term I mean five years

    Recently, David Cameron extolled on television the merits of strong parenthood and family values as a panacea to rid us of teenage vandalism, knifings, gang wars etc. He failed though to give an inkling of how this volte face was to be achieved. If you are born into wealth, comfortable surroundings, have no stresses, no strains and life is on an even keel, it maybe slightly boring, one might need to take up a hobby, or cause to relieve the boredom, but those fortunate people can’t truly assess the shadows or the highlights, the fierce ups and the downs, the sheer bottomless depression and the astronomical heights of success. Second-hand information is like reading a novel, interesting, but the truth is lost in the verbiage. Occasionally there are people who may, or may not have rubbed shoulders with what I’ve just described, but who have sufficient sensitivity, and are compassionate enough to understand these conditions and the effect they have on those who suffer them. I believe Denis Thatcher was such a man, I question whether David Cameron is.

    Most people would give anything for a quiet life, but there are some who, through no fault of their own, find themselves in conditions wholly beyond their experience, and frighteningly sordid. They do the best they can for the children, but their children are at school, rubbing shoulders with those who have a quiet life, a comfortable life, and if they’re not envious it would be surprising. I think to some extent this might be one of the causes of young girls getting pregnant leaving home, to be housed by the council, reasoning that nothing is as bad as home.

    I have said many times, that as a latchkey child, I was able to amuse myself on a local common, without joining a gang, but it seems today these facilities are almost non-existent. In my day policemen walked or cycled, as did the road repair gangs. Today both go by motor vehicle, which means they have neither the time nor the perspective to see what is going on round them and in consequence both the reduction in crime and the state of the roads have suffered.

    Inside the next few years there are going to be tremendous changes. Scientists will have to estimate a mean of any of the extremes weather conditions we could have to face, so authority can put in hand, ahead of time, safeguards and remedial measures to prevent disaster. The gross debt still building, will have to be tackled if we’re not to founder. The two wars which are costing us billions every year cannot go on for ever, and better ways are going to have to be devised for controlling insurgents that come from the borders of other, surrounding countries. Assessments will have to be made concerning the financial effects on this country by the burgeoning economies of countries like China India and Pakistan. All of this is over and above, and only a part, of what has to be considered. At the same time the cost of running the country, and decisions have to be made that involve priorities, When a man stands up and tells us we need to improve family values, and doesn’t tell us how it can be achieved, by whom, or what it will all cost, I take it as rhetorical verbiage and not a statement of intent, especially when I assess all that also needs doing.

    Let me show you family values are a wondrous thing. I was invited to a wedding between a Northern Ireland boy and a Russian girl. Their finances were such the Russian parents could not afford the high fare. to be present. Days before the wedding the bride-to-be was made to feel part of the family. On the wedding day one small part of the family was stranded at Glasgow airport and unlikely to arrive before 5 o’clock. They would miss the service, drinks on a lawn overlooking the sea, and indeed, when we reached the reception the Scots had still not arrived. The atmosphere reminded me, in spite of there being small children there, of that of a board meeting when the secretary and the chairman are late, it had that subdued feel. Then the Scots arrived, to a sudden uproar of welcome, and the decibels remained high from then on – the family was complete. The last time the family had been together, as a whole unit, had been seven years previously, when the matriarch was 80. It is occasions like that which cement the friendship and the love – the family values.

  • The ‘E’ Numbers are too late in being checked.

    Sometime ago I wrote a few remarks about ginger biscuits of all things, and showed how if you leave them open to the air, to go soft, re-box them in a tight container, they return to their original crispness – this didn’t happen in the old days. I am allergic to scented soap, the result is I have to be careful about the shampoos and soaps I buy, I try not to change the brands once I have found the ones I want, but it is not up to me, the manufacturers take it unto themselves to change them anyway, they change the colour, they change the ingredients, and in the end the very thing that I was avoiding, irritation to the skin, starts all over again. This includes washing powders in particular. I do most of the shopping and I find it incredible how often the packaging of different items is changed. Manufacturers are not going to all that trouble of new designs, new print runs etc, without some devious reason for keeping the two packages identifiable. I think it is fair to say that nobody changes anything without a valid reason, valid to them that is, not necessarily to the purchaser. Often, valid means cheaper. We have had all these problems of toys being painted with the wrong paint by the Chinese manufacturers, presumably because they want to save money. It would therefore seem logical that all the changes in products, in the visual and tactile sense of the actual product, are introduced either to save time or save money, which amounts the same thing. I am always a little worried about apparent new products, such as the latest craze for ‘stay-fresh-bread’, there must be something added to prevent it moulding, and losing moisture, whether it is suitable for all of us can only be a matter of conjecture because I’m pretty sure there hasn’t been a lot of testing, or we wouldn’t be having all this talk about the E numbers all these years on. The question I ask is where is all this going, will it ever stop, and is anyone going to police it? There seems to be no way that you can buy the same product for as long as you like, without it being modified, so the corollary of this is that you can’t relax, you’ve got to be on your guard that what they’re doing is for the best possible reasons, not because some magnate decides that he wants to up the anti, without people realising it. It really has become a vicious world.

    I’m sure you’re sick of me saying ‘when I was young’, but in those days nothing ever changed year-on-year, it was the same packets, the same food and possibly if you like, the same dreary round, but we were so unsophisticated we didn’t realise it was that. I have now arrived at a point where I trust very little that I’m told, especially by advertisers, financial advisers, the government, and worst of all the local authority, they used to be able to be trusted – mostly. I do remember a councillor, with influence in local housing, who was happy for people looking for accommodation to visit him at home. He was an amateur artist, low on the artistic totem, who managed to persuade people that it was to their advantage to buy one of his pictures, not of course to gallop up the housing ladder, merely for their aesthetic appreciation.

  • Belfast 1946 to 50 in order, Characters 1

    The Little Man in Portnoo, Co Donegal In the hotel in Portnoo, one wet Sunday lunch time, I came across a strange little man. We all met for a pre lunch drink and a chat. In those days Portnoo was not as well known and the people who summered there were generally medical or clerical. I was probably the only engineer within miles. Everyone was standing around, a bit like a Chelsea cocktail party not a drinking session in an Irish pub. The little man insinuated himself into the group I was with and started asking inane personal questions, such as where did people come from and what was their profession, and he then followed this inquisition in all the cases but mine by being terribly obsequious. I noticed he was doing this right round the room and inevitably he came to me with the same patter. At the time I was designing a sewage works so when he came up with the questions I had heard him asking the others, I was prepared, I thought I would try him out. In answer to his question of what I did for a living I said I worked in the sewers, a fair assessment, all things considered, and pretty interesting to the uninitiated, or so I thought, but he did not see it that way, in fact he cut the connection and went seeking yet another doctor, surgeon or priest.

    John of Dunmore Caravans I think the greatest reflection of the attitude of the average Donegal man to cash flow is demonstrated by our purchase of a static caravan in Portnoo. Sophie and I were staying on Gillespie’s site in the middle of the field in a two berth towing caravan. John, the owner, was installing a replacement van on the periphery of the site. We became curios as to what was involved in a permanent plot. When he was clearing up the timbers, ropes and bits needed for transportation I drifted over to him, and asked how much it would cost to buy a static one and have it installed. He told me and added that if I was interested I should make my mind up quickly as he was opening up the field at the end of the site with an incredible and uninterrupted view right across the golf course to the Derryveagh Mountains and Mount Errigal. All there would be between us and the view would be grazing cattle and bad golfers – irresistible. We agreed a price and the model of van we would like a few days later by telephone and when I suggested he should give me a layout of his expansion so I could chose a site, his reaction was typical of the people of the area. ‘Plan?’ he asked. ‘What plan? Just you come up here John and stick your heel in the ground and I’ll have the van on it by the Twelfth of July.’ He was as good as his word. Now, because of lack of planning the ground could only be partially levelled, with the result we are higher than everyone else, as well as having the very best view. We now find the journey too much for us, but the family can’t bear to miss a holiday in it.

    The Sweet Cheat At University I came across a talented conjurer who was a medical student. He had sat his finals at least four times. Then there did not seem to be any limit to the number of chances one had to qualify. The reason for the repeated sittings was that he always passed his written examination but failed the Orals, while other students had a nominal 15 minutes with the examiners, he was in for ages going over the whole syllabus again.. They, unlike the students, were not aware of the scam, but they obviously had their suspicions. When he entered the examination room the conjurer would arrive early, find his desk and then scatter granulated sugar in a wide circle so that he would hear the crunch of the invigilator’s feet and have time to palm his cogs before the man was close enough to discover the cheating. Years later he and his wife were the Toast of the Town with their joint conjuring and illusion acts and to be seen regularly on TV. He had found his niche.

    Wreaking Satisfaction We were laying a large diameter steel pumping main to carry treated sewage, so the joints had to be perfect, however they weren’t. I had previously visited Crew for details when we place the order, and I telephoned the manufacturers for someone to be sent to advise. When Smith, arrived late, he spent the journey from the airport moaning about being sent to Northern Ireland and that his wife was very worried about him. It was evident he cared little for our situation and wanted home on the next flight or no later than three o’clock in the afternoon. By the time he had left we were a little wiser, but an overnight stay was what I expected. It was my duty to take him to the airport, and to underline how safe he had been I took him through every hotspot in Belfast, pointing out where this man had died or that place have been blown up, on the way. The next day I received a phone call from Smith’s head office, asking me what I done to him, as from the minute he had arrived he had not stopped talking. When I explained, the roars of laughter at the other end were like honey.

  • Belfast 1946 to ’50 in order, Old Ned.

    My in-laws were generous and kind, and any member of their extended family in trouble was welcome. So it was when Ned came to stay, permanently. Ned was both a character and a knowing old devil. In his late eighties when I first met him, tall, stooped, severely rheumatic, lame and rheumy of eye, he was very amenable. His gratitude to his daughter and son-in-law, were expressed almost daily. The most frequent story I heard of his life, referred to the days just before he set out on his travels round the world on a sailing ship. He was a joiner and ship’s carpenter in the shipyard in his home-town of Carrickfergus where he had also learned to drive a ‘Donkey Engine’. This type of Donkey Engine would be called a steam driven winch or capstan today. A ship, with square rigged sails, had been launched and the skipper was looking for a carpenter cum donkey man, and Ned rushed home to tell his mother that he was applying. Back at the yard his boss recommended Ned and, in short, off he went to sea to sail in a sailing ship round the Horn, with all that implied in hardship in those days.

    He was an old rascal,. He would sit in his corner and think up statements designed to shock and there were none he liked to shock more than maiden lady visitors. On one occasion it was the spinster daughter of a Presbyterian minister who was visiting, and you can’t get much more unworldly than that, and as a gesture of kindness she went out to the breakfast room to have a word with the ‘old gentleman’ – what a mistake! The family always had someone on duty in these circumstances – they knew him of old. In this instance he was heard to say, ‘I’m not as young as I used to be daughter,’ which he pronounced more as do’gh’ter, ‘Come, steady me on the Po.’ after which he chuckled at the expression on the lady’s face with a sort of Billy Bunter glee-noise, an aspirated’ he-he’ which seemed to come from deep within his chest, and would go on for what seemed ages. There was another instance when a lady of similar background went to talk to him about his travels round the world and he admitted having visited quite a few places in the Southern Hemisphere, ‘Like that sharp place,’ he said. ‘You know, wallop you’re arse with a razor.’ He was referring to Valporaiso, and we were sure he knew the name as well as his own, he was just out to stir the pot, it was all the fun he had left.

    Old Ned and Laura. Laura is my elder daughter and at that time she was not yet two years old. He and Laura often had running battles, and sometimes he behaved like a child himself. Laura would sit on the floor and play with her wooden bricks, building them higher and higher, as carefully and meticulously as she does all things, with the result they reached considerable heights when one considers her age and dexterity. Ned was lame and walked with a stick. He dozed a lot, but when he was awake he would reverse his stick and hook the handle round Laura’s tower and topple it, at which time he would cackle with laughter and she would get cross. She, however, was resourceful, and on one occasion waited until he was asleep with his head supported on a hand, itself supported on an elbow, on the arm of the chair; then she attacked. She drew back the door behind which he sat and then hit his hand with it as hard as she could. The shock to the poor old boy must have been devastating, he complained to everyone as they entered the house and as the bruising on his hand developed as it does with old people, he complained even more. I have a feeling the toppling stopped after that encounter.

    NED AND THE HAIRCUT Because he was so lame the time came when he could walk very little; so we employed a hairdresser to cut his hair at the house. It seems the visits were too far apart to suit Ned and one Sunday, when the rest of the family were out for a walk, Ned insisted that I cut his hair in spite of my protestations that I was unqualified and the result would be a disaster. Nothing would deter him and still complaining, I put a towel round his neck and proceeded to operate in the best way I could with the cutting-out scissors. When I had finished, or rather, when I dared to cut no further, we went through the ritual with the two mirrors, as in a reputable hairdressers. Ned was delighted, I was relieved. He kept eulogising my many talents, as a barber supremo – his eyesight was not of the best. Then the rest of the family returned and he immediately showed off his tonsorial transformation, explaining who had done it. I tried to intervene and explain that I had been press-ganged against my will, but the hoots and roars of laughter at the remnants of the poor old man’s white locks drowned me out. I have never seen such a transformation, it was lightning, it was quick-silver, it was instantaneous and it was virulent. Now I was cast in the roll of the villain who had taken advantage of a poor old pensioner and made a mess of his hair. Fortunately his memory span was as poor as his eyesight and next day all was sweetness and light once more

  • Belfast 1946 to50 in order, The camera and the Twelth

    Insult leading to nearer injury. The most salutary lesson, though, was to come on the ‘Glorious Twelfth’ of July 1949. By this time I had 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 and 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. 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. In those days it wound picturesquely between overhanging trees and was about wide enough for two cars just to pass in opposite directions, comfortably. 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.

    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 King’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.. I was some distance ahead of the march as I cycled on my way and I looked back to discover that the man with 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’. Ultimately I reached home, the
    camera was duly handed over, and all was sweetness and light.

    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 pages 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!

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

    Over the next few months I shall be posting a number of stories based on my life in Belfast and Northern Ireland and trust that you will discover that like many other parts of this country that have had to bear hardship through unemployment, the people here are just as generous, compassionate and friendly as they are in those similar parts of the UK.

  • Belfast 1946 to ’50 in order, Ignorance is not bliss in Belfast.

    In spite of having worked in Belfast for fifteen months I was ignorant of this country’s traditions. During the war local differences were dwarfed. Today English School children know ten times more than I did, as I had never seen an Orange Procession until 1946 I looked upon the Orangemen like I did the Scouts and the Salvation Army, a group of like minded people, dressed in uniform because it made them feel more like a unit and marching behind a band because it helped to keep them in step. I was unaware of how easy it was to give offence, especially in regions of political correctness. Unionists, and others, every Twelfth of July, known cryptically as the Twelfth, go to the City Centre to watch the Orangemen march off to what is termed the ‘Field’ where they have a rest, a few noggins and an harangue from their leaders, before marching back

    Interestingly, the other faction, the Roman Catholics, the Republicans, believing wholeheartedly in a United Ireland, also have Hibernian Day for marches and political rhetoric, but this is displayed in their own areas and I, in 60 years, have only seen it relayed on TV.

    The members of the immediate family I had married into were not Orange men and women, they were, like more the 50% of the population, law-abiding, reasonably contented, Protestants, and that was all. between ’46 and 69, I found people were so busy in getting back their lives after the war, that apart from a few politicals, there was little sectarian strife as a generality. People were brought up in those traditions, but it was nowhere near as rigid as I had been led to believe, until it became as it did in 1969. That is not to say that deep down the prejudices still slumbered, and could be aroused if it was felt that the traditions were being ridiculed, or that some slight was intended. What this family of mine did not tell me was the long list of do’s and don’ts surrounding the Orange Order.

    As I have said, in my ignorance I equated the Order no higher the bunch of like-minded people on a level I suppose with Morris Dancers.. I could not have been more wrong. I looked upon them as flamboyant curiosities, especially when I saw some of the Mace-Bearers cavorting like banshees at the head of the column – wrong again. I equated them to some extent to the Trades Unions when I heard their rhetoric. Wrongggg! I therefore made a number of mistakes from which others told me I could have died and it was a wonder I had got away unscathed.

    The processions really are unique for the colour, the sheer numbers taking part, the disparate dress each lodge chooses, from the black bowler hat, black double breasted suit and black shoes, white shirt, white gloves and rolled umbrella, with the leaders carrying an unsheathed sword at the address, down to those in bright blue peaked caps with bright blue pullovers and trousers, and tennis shoes. Most lodges carry incredibly beautiful banners on two poles, with staying strings of woven coloured rope held by small children. They often depict King William the Third on a white horse at the battle of the Boyne. This latter specification was mistake number one. In our family, because King W. was at the Boyne, quite naturally therefore he was called Billy the Boyne.

    On the day of the first Twelfth I was to see, we all went down to the centre of Town, to Donegal Place, and watched as band after band, banner after banner, passed; the music from one band momentarily mingling with the next. I always wondered at what point in the procession it was impossible to keep in step because of the cacophony from both bands. Laura, now a little over a year old was seated in a pram at the kerb with Sophie behind her, while I was at the back of the crowd because I was tall enough to see over most people and it would have been churlish to have stayed at the front. Suddenly, before I thought of what I was saying, I saw the most beautiful banner of King William on his white horse, and you’ve guessed it, I shouted to Laura to look at ‘Billy-The-Boyne and his white horse. For a second nothing happened and then with one accord most of the people within earshot turned to look at this creature who was blaspheming from the back of the crowd and they were like Queen Victoria, they were not amused. The following year I learned to my cost that one does not cross through the procession even if it does take over an hour to pass one spot, a large pogo-stick is needed, that or a helicopter

  • Ministers are thoughtlessly tinkering with education

    Someone once said, I think it was Christ, ‘Forgive them for they know not what they do.’ I think, ‘haven’t a clue’ is more apt. in this case. According to a News item on TV there is a move afoot to make those children not able to reach a basic level in English and Maths, to be held back and given extra classes, while the rest move up the school.

    If you read my stuff you will have probably assessed my intelligence, and my English. I lost two years education at the time I was eight years old, I have written this elsewhere, but repeat it because it is pertinent. Over the years, even at secondary school I saw mates move on. The effect of the separation was multiple, to those coming up and joining me from a lower grade, I was the dummy who had been left behind as I was stupid, and I began to believe it. The effect on me personally was the loss of friendship, a psychological deflation in what ever self-esteem I might have had. If the masters were changed, they believed I was stupid, and might treat me accordingly. This state of mind, was so ingrained that it wasn’t until I met my wife, in 1944, at the age of 21 that I discovered I had a modicum of ability. In consequence I still doubt my judgment, and certainly have no big head

    What comes out of this is that first of all, I was a hell of a lot brighter than I was given credit for, but the educational system had failed me and placed me in a situation at such an early age that I didn’t know my potential and therefore couldn’t fight my corner. I had an aunt, a schoolteacher, who did feel I had potential, to such an extent that just prior to the war years, she paid for me to have special tuition in mathematics and French to enable me to matriculate, a year later.

    I suggest, that when they talk about a high percentage of the children not reaching the standard, I believe that they should look elsewhere, rather than within the children to find the source of the deficiency – it is too great to be all their fault. Home life has an influence, but from my experiences in later life, when rubbing shoulders with university students who had come from a vast plethora of backgrounds, and a great number of different schools, was that teachers have far more responsibility for the children’s moulding than they suspect, and are given credit for. You may not agree with this statement but I have proved it’s more than once to my own satisfaction. Sophie was a secondary school teacher of considerable ability. Now in a retirement, grown women, with children, or even older than that, will stop her in the street just to revive old times. She had the ability, and the compassion to carry the children along with her, and discipline, while strict, was accepted. I therefore believe that the quality of the teaching can be demonstrated in the quality of the product. Help and compassion is what the underachievers need in the early stages, rather than the psychological whiplash of being held back.

    If they decide to hold the children back, rather than give them concentrated help during those long tedious summer holidays, they will have to find more accommodation for those classes, and if not heating and lights, at least cleaning and supervision.

    Would someone in authority, please point out to these politicians who are making these idiotic proposals, the error of their ways.

  • Belfast 1946 to 50, College capers

    Study And The Benzedrine Pill For years I have known I can’t be taught, I prefer to read books and find out for myself. Whether, as I suspect, the droning of another voice hypnotises me, or whether I just nod off, all I know is I tend to get on better on my own. My wife, a teacher of Modern Languages was a little miffed as French was one of the subjects I was to sit for the entrance exam, Demobbed, hoping to get into Queens University to read Engineering on an ex-service grant, I started the cram course. The guy I went to for a cram, had a classroom over the Fifty Bob Tailors at the Junction in Belfast. He was also none too pleased when another student and I started to teach him mathematics instead of the reverse. Learning French was pure memory, so a tutor merely had to mark exercises. In the case of the Crammer, he was so far behind current day thinking in mathematics, he was practically using the abacus to calculate what we owed him in fees.

    This other student was a real character, he was doing the same exam as I because he had been in the Naval Commandos and been demobbed at roughly the same time. We would meet at the Crammers’ and then go for a drink afterwards. We discussed our relative careers and when that palled we worked at examples we were sure the Crammer was making a mess of. Slowly the time drew near, we were both working hard and comparing notes when we met, and on one occasion he showed me some Benzedrine tablets he had which were left over from beach-landings he had taken part in. He was using them from time to time so he could study through the night without sleep. I warned against it without success, in my case I was merely resorting to coffee and tobacco.

    The day of the Exam dawned and I entered the world of the university for the first time. We sat in the Great Hall, with darkened oak or mahogany woodwork, stained-glass windows and a gnarled, stained, wooden floor. The little desks in rows in isolation. The atmosphere was austere and not a little intimidating. I was mesmerised just by being there, in a place I knew all my family in England would revere. My wife had trod those boards two years earlier. We had been given examination numbers and when I looked across to where I expected to see my friend his desk was empty and stayed so. I found later he had succumbed to the Benzedrine and when he should have been at Queens he was in hospital. I have said he was a character, that is true, he was larger than life and when his name hit the headlines in Northern Ireland it only went to prove the point. Failing to get into Queen’s he had left and gone to the rigorous climes of Northern Canada to work in the oil fields, and it was there he walked for days in the harshest conditions of blizzards and ice, without food, to fetch help, when he and some of his work mates had been involved in an accident. The feat was so extraordinary it was even carried in the press here.

    The Boxing Match In second year, I offered an opinion, it always heralds trouble. The men were wondering what sort of show to put on, on Rag Day. Instead of just a procession, I suggested a static show, slap stick, to gather the crowds and collect more money, – provide ourselves with a captive audience. I was inveigled to join another ex-serviceman in An Olde Time Boxing Match. We were to wear combinations, I was to black my face and wear a Fez. I was six foot two of Great Mustapha. He was the British challenger – five foot nothing of cheeky chappy. We set off in the procession with our seconds and marched from the University to the centre of High Street. There was an open space left by the demolition of bombed buildings In the meantime some of the gang went ahead and set up a ring. The performance predictably followed the usual circus ring craft, although we were probably not as crafty. A lot of water was thrown about, punches were thrown and of course, Mustapha must-ave-a beating – which he duly received.

    To finish it all off, absolutely cold sober, but with adrenaline running high, I obtained a crate and, standing on it in the middle of the main thoroughfare, brought Belfast to a halt with community singing. I arrived home, soberly dressed, sat down for the evening meal when my Mother-in-law, told of how this idiot, standing on a box in his underwear and black face, holding up the traffic was conducting the crowd in a singsong. It was some time before I enlightened her who the idiot was. In the cold light of day and without the stimulus of adrenaline, I agreed with her, he was an idiot.

  • Random Thoughts 27, The Big Rip Off

    This isn’t about a rip-off of global proportions, but to old gaffers like me it represents a fair proportion of their pension. I’m talking about Sky Television, the poor quality it offers, and the position it holds in the  life of retired people.

    When I say old gaffer, I mean really old, – like ‘ought to be dead’ old – where every day is so like another you can’t remember what day of the week it is. Some of us no longer have our sight of the level that allows us to drive, and the journey that used to take about an hour, now takes three because public transport is so abysmal. Those of us who are lucky enough to have a Soph, who has managed to put up with us for more than 60 years, are not as disadvantage as those who live alone. I can only speak for my day. Being fairly fit, I can shop, garden, read a lot, go for walks along the sea, and occasionally see my relatives. At about five o’clock drink more alcohol than I should, but my liver hasn’t complained yet, and then I settle down after the evening meal to be entertained. And that’s the rub, that’s when I get frustrated because I feel that I’m being ripped off. Sky television has a nasty habit of not only putting up the prices, but introducing little specialities like, High Definition. which require either a change of the set or some other expense to enable one to see it, and then they put their best films in high-definition.

    For the rest of us we find it bad enough that they are upping the charges every year, or even more often, while paying any more is an anathema, and so we have two choices, we can repeatedly look at the repeats, or we can switch off. I asked my local television guru if he could fit me a top box with one of those gadgets that records normally and also for short periods if the viewing is interrupted. He told me the system gave a lot of trouble. If he is right, and I propose to check, then Sky have the ball at their toe. It looks to me that there is an opportunity for another company to step in and give us what we think we want. The problem with Sky is that it thinks, that with all the general documentary channels, lifestyle and all the others, people have more than enough to see. What they don’t take into account is the fact that old gaffers have either been there, seen it , read about it or lived it, with the result that what we really want now is good-quality, well produced films, of any sensible age, by that I mean the sixtes on, in which the action is exciting, is possible, not totally outrageously ridiculous as to defeat reason,, and believable, where the diction is not only well delivered but can be understood, by these elderly folk with hearing aids. I am probably asking too much, because we, the oldies, only represent about 20% of the population.

    Microsoft I have been operating my current Toshiba laptop for several years, happily and with delight. But in recent times I discovered that everybody wants to download everything in the name of updates on my computer, often without my knowledge. I got somebody to put the bar on this and consequently I now find that every time, and I mean every time, I switch on the computer I get Microsoft updates. Previously I was used to the way that the thing worked, it was like a reflex, and now Microsoft has changed the look of everything on my toolbar and in all sorts of other ways. I don’t know that it has helped me, as far as I’m concerned there is little difference, and the thing that I find strange is that XP has been available for years, so why, in the Devil, do they feel it necessary to keep changing it now, unless they are secretly slipping in bits of Vista, which I’m told is so bad, that some computer companies are selling new computers with XP on them rather than Vista? They say that their commercial customers are finding it difficult to talk to other computers that have not Vista, and even those with Vista are tricky enough in themselves. Have Microsoft made a Bobo? Overreach themselves in order to sell more equipment? You guess!