Old Gaffer

Category: General

  • Social Mores And Comic History

    Social Mores. I have previously written about religion, but this spate of worldwide brutality and lawlessness, causes me not only to take a wider view of religion but relate it to some extent to our current problems. I wrote that I had been an interested believer until I was rudely awakened. At which point I steadily shrugged off my previous beliefs, but not the tenets which the religion had instilled in me When my girls were growing up, and as their mother was a churchgoer, I asked them to attend Sunday School until they were old enough to make their own decisions with respect to religion.

    The 10 Commandments are basic social mores which are not confined to Christianity, but all religions with respect to social co-existence. They have been ignored on copious occasions by religious leaders throughout the centuries for secular reasons. What with the change in general attitudes of the 60s, it is unsurprising that in all religions, and probably especially Christianity, the silent majority has turned away from worship. I wonder how many children can now reel off the 10 Commandments without coaching, or even adhere to those tenets.

    Having lived in Northern Ireland, in an allegedly religiously divided society, apart from the members of the paramilitaries, until recently the young were not seriously involved. Over the last few years it has become apparent that the young, in the more deprived areas, are increasingly out-of-control and are seeking excitement at any cost, possibly with pseudo, quasi paramilitary leanings For example – children light fires, with the sole intention of stoning the firemen when they answer the call. Currently the firemen are refusing to attend small blazes. This is clearly a breakdown in family responsibility through not adopting sound social mores. It is necessary that those basic values shall be indelibly printed on the minds of the young, but the question then is posed as to who should do this, as clearly the parents aren’t. Recently I demonstrated, by quoting my own experience, just how much teachers influence their charges, but they have enough to contend with. The solution would appear to lie solely with the parents. It seems totally illogical that bad, uncaring, parents, who allow their children to rampage, causing damage and mayhem, are not brought to book. These children, now and also when they become adults, place a burden on local authorities. It would therefore seem reasonable that the parents of the children should be brought to book for the damage these children commit. As it is likely, they have no money, and probably no job, then they should be given community service. Those who can afford to pay fines should be made to.

    I find it strange that I have been banging on about single parent families, latch-key children, lack of extended families, lack of adequate recreational facilities for the young and teenagers and had just written this page, when, two hours ago, on the lunchtime News, I discovered we were 21st out of 21 European wealthy countries, when it came to assessing the aspects of the care, education, and welfare, etc of children.

    Comic History. I’m not referring to history which has a funny side, but history gleaned in childhood from reading comic papers. In the 30s the comics were the children’s television of today, and every publication was awaited with anticipation. We knew the stories were rubbish, but they were exciting and had sufficient fact to make them real. Many were about wars of the past, and current wars. There was one in particular which was based on the British Raj trying to subdue warring tribes in the Khyber Pass. It was evident to us that the British were getting nowhere, because the story went on forever and was backed up by pieces in the Daily Press. Similarly we learned at school about the wars in the Sudan, the Middle East, and later we would learn all about how the British installed the Israelis in Palestine.

    I am aware that the breadth of education that I received in the 30’s, is now arbitrary, and history and geography are no longer key subjects. So when our politicians, decide to send armed forces into those very places, which caused such problems in the past, without considering all the tribal problems that these various factions have maintained since the dawn of time, I put it down to them not having read very much history, or having ignored reasoned advice.. Not only in the comic books, but in our lessons in school, we were given to understand that on these various frontiers particularly in Afghanistan, the fighters were fierce, and almost impossible to winkle out from their  burrows. Need I say more!

  • The Big Bang and a view of Edinbourgh

    The Big Bang I relate this because afterwards I found the incident in a way, rather funny, and contrary to all I had been led to believe about the imperturbability of the Navy in a crisis. We were sitting at lunch in the Chiefs’ and POs’ Mess. The table ran fore and aft of the ship which meant that the senior men sat farthest from the draught coming down the ladder leading to the upper deck while I, the despised cuckoo in the nest, the interloper, was seated immediately beside the ladder. I suspect we were either eating roast beef and potatoes or corned beef hash, depending on which end of the trip it was, when we were surprised by a bang which caused the side of the ship literally to move, in and out, like a biscuit tin which has received a thump. These Hunt destroyers were designed for speed rather than to resist the onslaught of attack so we had no real armour plate except in vital areas like the bridge and the gun turrets. Indeed the running joke was that the designers had purposely made the hull thin so that a shell would go in one side and out the other without exploding – an impossible suggestion but intended to amuse.

    “We’ve been hit” several voices shouted and as some of the Mess had been in the drink already during the war, they were a little apprehensive, not to put too fine a point on it. Like the rest I jumped up and started to grab the handrail of the ladder intending to get out as soon as possible, but a big hand grabbed the back of my jersey and I was pulled out of the way and a number of the men were up the ladder like monkeys. Again I got my hand on the ladder and the same thing happened. In the end, although I was first to the ladder I was last out. I would not suggest for one minute there was panic, just determination not to be left behind.

    When we reached the upper deck all was made clear. Near the horizon, yes, all that distance away, a sister ship was dropping depth charges and what had shattered the lunch was the tremendous pressure-wave which had travelled miles through the water undiminished to almost deafen us in the Mess.

    Edinburgh For some reason I have never fathomed, the sailors called Edinburgh ‘The New’ – pronounced noo; we would ‘go up the Noo’. To me it was a cold city, closed to strangers and especially sailors. I remember the chap in our Mess who was a one-time lecturer, I’ll call him Reg, invited his wife up there during boiler cleans. He had arranged a completely irregular code with her which could have put him in jug if he’d been caught. She was able, from his letters, to know when we expected to dock and would meet him when he was on leave for the four days. She would book a room and he would join her. I believe it was the hotel at Prince’s Street Station, which annoyed him. When he received the bill at the end of his stay it was made out to Mrs XX (his name) and Friend. In 1942 that was just not on, the implications were implicit. He took the place apart including the manager.

    On my first visit I initially went to the Salvation Army to book a bed for the night and was told that there were only beds in the Annexe. Annexes were quite a common feature of the ad hoc bunk bed doss, so I took no notice and went about my evening’s enjoyment with my bed ticket in my pocket. Come midnight I went in search of the Annexe and the bed. I found the former, but when I was dispatched to a pile of used blankets set in a rectangle scratched in chalk on the floor of a church hall, I jibbed, left and went to
    find accommodation elsewhere.

    I met a policeman on Prince’s Street who directed me to the Station where he said they were putting Servicemen up for the night. They were, in the left luggage office, in the racks usually used for suitcases. There I was pigeonholed, cramped, and, by morning, indented like a waffle because no palliasse or support whatever had been provided to cover the slats of the racks and they had bitten into me. This experience reinforced my conception of the attitude of the locals to Servicemen. They still seemed to be in the era of the ‘No Dogs, No Sailors Admitted’, a sign, which I was told by embittered Regulars was prevalent in Southsea before the war, Southsea being the posh part of Portsmouth. I suppose there was error on both sides – they were certainly cold, and we could be a bit rough at times.

  • The New Industry Has Gone Crazy

    Still on the Blog, the piece I entitled New Industry, can currently be read under October. I now am forced to comment yet again, due to the passage of time and what I believe to be the rubbish that is being talked.

    I Start with David Attenborough’s apocalyptic programme. Some three weeks ago on TV, he demonstrated to his own satisfaction that the world would be almost uninhabitable by the turn of the next century. Only those who have a deep understanding of a subject should pontificate, thus, I can only offer my amateurish opinion. In that programme, one could believe the scientific evidence to be irrefutable, but the development of the world, the way in which nature can adapt, damage to the brain being a case in point, one could be excused for being sceptical and believing that there is a half-truth here which only time will resolve. I find myself wondering, therefore, if there is another agenda which we know not of, which is making those in charge, to come up with unreasonable and illogical legislation, that will cost us an arm and a leg any time now.

    The EU and Green Cars. On the 7th of February ’07, the BBC News informed us that the EU is proposing that all cars by 2012 must conform to new standards of emission which can only be achieved by redesign of the engines. It is estimated that this would put some £3000 onto the cost of a new car. Can anyone seriously imagine that the Italians, Spanish, and all those other impoverished countries which have just joined, or are knocking on the door of the EU, will toe the line? They don’t with respect to some of the other legislation so why should they do so with one as expensive as this? I have previously made the point that the British civil service operates as if they were handling their own personal cash. So it is reasonable to assume that we shall be forced into this situation, but it will probably be glossed over in other areas of the EU. I find it incredible that what I believe to be a country low on the emission list, probably similar to Holland, which has divorced itself almost totally from heavy engineering, generates some electricity without fossil fuels, is being steadily forced by legislation to spend money to reduce, even this lower output of carbon, when the rest of the world is chucking it out in the lorry load. I am all for care of the environment, providing that it is equable, and that I am not being required to foot the bill for the rest of the world’s lack of consideration.

    In this modern age a car can readily last, with average mileage, and average use, for eight to ten years. This legislation would then seriously affect those people who had bought cars around 2002. In the context of global warming and the percentage that this change is likely to make, it would seem fairer, if the system were to be introduced, to date it from now, for 2017.

    I was highly amused at that programme on television when the reporter marched on the screen carrying a half hundred-weight bag of coal and informing us that this was the amounts of carbon we would be emitting over a certain period of time. I do not believe that he had an idea, and certainly I had none, of the relationship between that bag of coal and carbon dioxide emission. So many people, especially politicians are now getting onto the bandwagon, making grandiose gestures, and talking complete nonsense, because they wish to appear to care. Those same politicians are probably driving around in the biggest cars imaginable, with another gas guzzler or two at home, while we even in the short-term, are going to be required to build in, carbon saving initiatives in all new houses. I grant you the life of a house is of the order of 60 – 100 years, and so there might be some small excuse for bringing in this legislation now, but I believe the building industry rather than the Earth’s atmosphere will have a greater profit.

    Just a thought! The other day I was pouring tea, and was exhorted to include semi-skimmed milk in some of the cups. I had been thinking about the disproportionate attention which is being given to saving emissions in this country, and realised that to some extent the same exaggeration probably applies to a lot of aspects of our lives. Take skimmed milk, some of these folk wanted me to put skimmed milk into the tea because they were worried about their health. I have no idea exactly what the differential in fat between full cream and skimmed milk is, and life is too short to sort it out, but I’m convinced that, in certain cases, while there is justification for using skimmed milk in large culinary operations, I can see no advantage in the differential in a cup of tea. I have drunk full creamed milk all my life, and I believe that, apart from people who have serious illnesses which require consideration concerning fat consumption, that the rest are being indoctrinated unnecessarily – maybe by butter and cream manufacturers?

  • Taking Responsibility

    I’m not sure if irresponsibility has exactly the same connotation as not taking responsibility or indeed negligence. I propose to assume they do.

    Banking. On Tuesday the sixth of February, Watchdog on BBC1, TV, presented a piece which irrefutably showed that some major Banks are considering that if money is withdrawn, using a valid pin number, but without the approval of or even knowledge of the account holder, the Bank will hold the account holder responsible for the loss, due to “negligence”, even if the account holder has not been in the same County at the time of the theft. They even go so far as to suggest that the account holder may have passed on the pin number to someone else, written it down, or made it available in some other way. There was the case quoted, of an elderly woman who never used her pin number. £20,000 was withdrawn from her account without her knowledge and the Bank refused to honour the loss, and suggested that she should take out an overdraft. I can only draw the inference that the Bank considers that she withheld using her pin number to build up a case for fraud, which in my view is tantamount to slander.

    I have written to my Bank with a list of questions, at the head of which is whether it too has or is adopting this heinous policy. If it has, I can see considerable difficulties ahead, in conducting my financial affairs both conveniently and safely.

    Irresponsibility In Areas Of Our Welfare. In a previous article I mentioned the case of the Chancellor who inadvertently gave information that he was about to publish in his budget. Without inducement he resigned. It seems today that those who control our destiny at every level, negate any responsibility for their actions and are not brought to book. This would appear to be the case from the highest level down to those managing the affairs of local councils. I don’t think there is a need for me to hack over what has been happening in the last few years with respect to major decisions, reversals, and incredible wastage of public money with no return. It is all well documented in the press.

    I highlight what has happened in Northern Ireland where, we are told, our rates will be increased as a result of European fines, for not having carried out work as and when instructed, to minimise marine pollution by sewage. The ratepayer, once he has elected politicians and councillors, has very little ability to take steps to control their management. In this case Councils were fully aware that the system was overloaded, they could not have been otherwise, as regular testing of the seawater constantly proved it so. Vested interest in the form of spec building, has been allowed to progress at an alarming rate, in spite of everyone knowing that the sewerage system would not and could not cope. Planning was corrupted, which should have staved off the situation, and when it was evident that the EU would be clamping down, the rate of building increased. I find it incredible that those who were acting on our behalf, had the audacity to plough on in the face of evident disaster, fully knowing that any fines will be deducted from the overall Northern Ireland budget, and yet they continued to allow what amounts to a criminal act to be perpetrated. There has been no word of censure, reproof or indeed some form of legal action against them.

    Today too many people in positions of responsibility, are taking unwarranted chances in their administration, for reasons which cannot be justified, and proposing actions based on untried theories and often against professional advice – all apparently with no chance of any serious comeback, such as impeachment, criminal charges, or even the sack. We are told that, due to the changes in the voting boundaries, a hung Parliament is likely at the next election. Let us hope so! We will have a period of considered government, which we can hope will slow the race to ‘lead the world’ ( Margtet Beckett’s words – among others), when we can’t govern ourselves adequately, to the levels and higher standards of the past,.

  • Cluttons 3 of 3

    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, and I had 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 consisted 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 school, we dictated our own letters, rather than having to write them out in long hand and have them corrected, like essay-time at school. 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 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 I departed, I left a huge ‘Property Vacant, This Space For Sale’ standard notice with a little poem I have long since forgotten.

  • Shorts N0 1

    Not An Electric Eel In the Belfast shipyard of Harland and Wolf, it was necessary for me to go into the bowels of the ships to check wiring. It was there that I discovered the cruel, if crafty, disciplinary action of the management. Generally it was a long way from any part of the ship to the conveniences ashore, and, in wartime, most of the men were on piecework which meant that every moment counted – to stop work was like drawing blood. The men therefore, tended to relieve themselves in some dark corner of the bowels of the ship which was under construction. The management had its own bizarre solution to this problem, in the same dark corner they had a string of short lengths of live, low voltage electric cable, stripped of its insulation – that tended to cure the practice.

    Incendiaries I was asleep in bed when my mother woke me, telling me the house opposite had been hit by an incendiary – silver coloured tubes, probably of aluminium, about nine inches to a foot long which were dropped in bunches and scattered on their way down, bursting on impact and setting fire to anything combustible within a small radius. In this case it had gone through the scullery roof of the house opposite, and was setting fire to the laundry. The ARP issued us with a stirrup pump, really a garden spray, two buckets, one for water, one for sand, and a long handled shovel – a broom handle with a small, square mouthed coal shovel fitted – something for lifting dog excrement rather than digging . One was supposed to lift the incendiary, set it in a bucket of sand to burn itself out. The water was to put out the fires. It was a totally useless system for any conflagration greater than a smouldering cigarette – just another cosmetic exercise to hoodwink the populace.

    I put on my tin hat, trousers and gum boots, I climbed on to the roof of the scullery and opened up a hole to put the stirrup hose through. The whole exercise was a total waste of time and in the end we just chucked buckets of water in .There was no point in trying to open the door into the yard, the place below was an inferno.

    Fire Watching On another night, two of us were fire watching at an office when there was a shower of incendiaries and one lodged behind a stone balustrade. Too far to reach with the long shovel, I decided to slide down the roof and wedge my feet against the balustrade to tip the incendiary out through one of the holes between the columns. The idea seemed safe enough and that was what we did. It was only when we went up in daylight to see what damage had occurred that we discovered that the balustrade had one or two larger holes at intervals, holes a body could have slid through and shot down to the road some five floors below. They do say ignorance is bliss.

    Knowing I was short of cash an aunt got me a job fire watching in a tea warehouse in Docklands. It was tedious, boring, but well-paid. Opposite, some distance away, was a railway viaduct and one of the arches had been equipped with heavy doors at either end to form an air raid shelter. On a night, when I was not there, the Docklands had the terrible bombing, and a bomb blew the doors up the shelter killing and injuring many, while my tea warehouse, unsurprisingly, was consumed. This was another case where ignorance at the time is bliss.

    High Tea. A friend had two daughters with a four-year age difference. Sara and Denise The older daughter Sara had a boyfriend and had persuaded her parents to let her invite him to high tea. They in turn had insisted that Denise was to have tea, as a chaperone. Never in their wildest dreams did they suspect the outcome of this rash decision. They were given book and verse, and a blow by blow account of what had happened, from a deeply offended Sara, on their return.

    Sara had really pushed the boat out with a fresh salmon salad and all the trimmings. That was not the problem, the problem was Denise. Apparently, Sarah had everything prepared, with the table beautifully laid and only had to bring a few things to the table after the boy and Denise were seated, but that was when strife began. How Denise thought up the ploy has always been a mystery, she was only about thirteen years old. She was fully conversant with all their condiments, utensils and cutlery, but on this occasion she chose to ignore all that and show surprise at everything on the table. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, picking up the pickle fork. ‘I didn’t know we had one of those.’ Next it was the fish forks, the pepper mill, the sweet server and so on. When we heard the story, we and their parents commiserated with Sara in absentia, but we all had to laugh at such devious thinking.

  • Hypnotism

    Since my Naval days I have never been remotely interested in hypnotism as entertainment. I would go so far as to say that I disapprove of the practice. When my daughters were young and we were on holiday, on more than one occasion they and Sophie went to the theatre to see a hypnotist and, while I did not openly object, I refused to go with them. I did though warn them not to go on the stage as subjects.

    At Leydene, there was a theatre where films were shown in the evenings and occasionally ENSA would put on a show. Sometimes the Entertainment’s Officer would call on talent within the camp and we would have an amateur show, although to use the word amateur is unfair as many of the men and women who performed had been professionals before joining up.

    One such was a hypnotist. We had first come across him on the Isle of Man where he had performed there in a similar type of concert made up of Naval and RAF talent. I attended the show and found him very competent. It was the first time I had ever seen hypnotism demonstrated and somehow even at the show I had misgivings. I disliked the idea of needles being pushed into people without their knowledge or permission, and I was always suspicious of what effect the process would have on the brain long term, I have a thing about the amount of respect which should be attendant on the brain. The hypnotist was on another course running parallel with ours and therefore several weeks after we arrived at Leydene he turned up.

    By the time he arrived I was an instructor, but did not teach his class, and as he was below the rank of Petty Officer our paths never crossed, so for some time the stories I heard of him were gossip, unsubstantiated. It was said that he held court each evening in his Nissan hut and using anyone who was there, including a resident of the hut, he would practice his skills to entertain those who packed the hut to the doors. Then the rumour became rife, which worried some of us on the staff,. It was purported that there was one man the hypnotist could put under at a distance of a hundred feet, just by clapping his hands.

    Leydene had been a large country house before being taken over by the Admiralty and had a huge stable complex with stalls and a saddling area the size of any which could be seen at the best horse trainer’s yard. The area had been converted into small demonstration rooms. The hypnotist and his acolytes and the subject all arrived at the same time. My colleague and I were standing talking in the yard when we saw the hypnotist walking towards us with a group surrounding him, and in the distance was the man whom we had heard could be hypnotised at long range. As Arthur Askey of Radio, film and TV fame used to say, ‘Before our very eyes’, and so it was, the hypnotist clapped his hands, the man in the distance stopped and seemed to become trance-like, another clap and he was on his way as if nothing had happened. It was frightening.

    Apparently we were not the only ones to have seen the demonstration. We heard that next day the two men, the hypnotist and his main subject left the camp. What happened to them was never divulged, but the Navy was no place for a man with those skills who used them for his own aggrandisement with such irresponsibility and inhumanity. I have been left with the conviction that hypnotism is never a plaything to be used just to amuse, amaze and titillate.

  • Baccy

    For possibly the last time ever, 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 to be had in attaining the acquired and precise art and skill of filling and tamping a pipe, which had elements cigarette smoking rarely achieved. The fact of having to carry out these tasks induced a natural break in work which could be justified at all levels and 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.

  • The Highs and Horrors of a Motor-Home

    To anyone thinking of buying a motor-home, I would suggest it is a better investment if one is retired, or if one’s employment allows protracted holidays. The two snags in shopping are that one has to tie everything down before setting out, and that, today, with height restrictions at parking sites, the motor-home has to be parked clear of town. Conversely it is nice not to have to back a caravan, merely drop anchor. When I retired, a man offered to build for me what I needed in the way of a motor-home. I had to buy and deliver the vehicle and roughly design the layout. For about a week Sophie and I spent periods standing or sitting on bits of newspaper, and came up with a full scale paper plan. In the end we owned a van which pleased us and was designed to accommodate our arthritic needs – storage within easy reach – and comfort. We had holidays all over Europe, meeting the most extraordinary people. There were the scroungers, those who visited just when the bottles would be on the table, ostensibly to welcome us to the site, but the intent was blatant. Others who insisted on telling us their life story, blow by blow – that’s a laugh, when you consider this Blog – and even strong hints, just short of outright rudeness, could not shift them. There was the lady in Vienna, incredibly endowed, who stood beside the swimming pool slowly and deliberately rubbing some form of unguent into her pendulous bosom while her head was rotating like a lighthouse to see the effect it was having on the assemblage. Above all though was the man we met on our way to Graz having just left Vienna. He was a lu-lu!

    We had turned off the motorway, heading for the mountains, but unfortunately, two lorries preceded us driving nose to tail, so it was a case of pass one, pass all, or stay put. After several kilometres there was a long straight stretch and I started to pass. In the distance a white sports car appeared but he had ages to slow down so I kept going, passed the lorries with room to spare, and then we could relax with an open road and scenery to drool over. Nonetheless the on-coming car had to flash us, I assume he owned the road. About half an hour later I saw a white car right up against the back of the van with no intention of passing, and then, without warning, it swung out, shot in front of us and braked so suddenly that if my reactions or my concentration had been in the slightest impaired we would have been into it. In truth, the sudden halt was so fierce, the fridge door flew open and the contents came up the van to find us. I remonstrated but he took off. We cleaned up, took off ourselves only to find him round the next bend going slowly. We came up behind him and he did the same again, but I was ready this time. There were more instances but to shorten the story, twice he got out of the car and shouted abuse at us in English, because we had caused him to slow down on his way earlier, his was the sports car I had seen. On the second occasion he then stepped up to the window I had open beside me and before I could gather his intent, he had the keys out of the lock and said he was going to the police to report me. We were stunned. Not only were they the keys for the engine, the back door and the water tank; the house and alarm keys were also on the ring. It took a minute for me to gain my composure, because by now he had disappeared. We were in the middle of nowhere, ostensibly without keys. When the pulse rate had died down and the adrenaline had subsided, Soph got out our spare set of keys and it then took us an hour to find the police station, the area was so remote. We told our tale and it took another two hours to get out of there and on our way once more. We did not go to Graz, we were too worried he would be waiting to break into the van if we parked it, instead we went to Salzburg, but we had to go right across to the Rhine before we could find someone to replace our keys.

    I told this tale to Ted, Sophie’s brother, and he said there was an elderly woman living near him, in Cheshire, who had been driving too slowly to please another driver and he had stopped in front of her too, and taken her keys, but he had thrown them into a nearby garden. I think any comment on both occurrences would be hyperbole of the highest order.

  • The Building Site – Lessons Learned

    Engineering Students were required to have a holiday job on a building site as training. I was taken on at a building site constructing houses, and involved in the supervision of the road and sewer contract, under the guidance of the Clerk of Works, whom I had run in with over the Orangemen. It was on this contract I learned to work in the most appalling weather conditions and the most important lesson of all, that disrespect would be shown to those in authority who displayed weakness in any form. I also saw how experience is worth a ton of theory.

    The site was squarely on the tail end of what had once been a glacier in the Ice Age and now consisted of fine sand ground by the ice from the rocks over which it passed. The sewer was not merely being constructed in sand, it was in a feared ground condition known as running sand, – sand which has no stability and without warning can collapse burying men working in it, unless suitably supported. Digging sewers in running sand is both hazardous and costly on account of the precautions which have to be taken. Some contractors tend to take a chance, cut corners, in the hope all will be well and they will get away with it. Such was the case on this site, suddenly the wall of the trench, improperly supported, with a man in the bottom laying a pipe, collapsed without warning and started to build up round the man like sand in an hour glass. Without a second’s thought the foreman, standing on the side of the trench, lifted a shovel and projected it like a javelin at the man’s head, or so it seemed. Certainly, if the man had nodded he would have been cleaved. The shovel stabbed into the sand in front of the pipe-layer’s face and as the sand built round him it formed an airspace in front of his face and, for the time it took to rescue him, he was able to breathe. Experience, not theory had saved that man’s life.

    The next lesson had its funny side, but where I was concerned it taught me that the men on the site, watch everything, particularly where it concerns authority, and it can be every bit as cruel as some of the men I had encountered in the Navy. The engineer in charge of the contractors, whom I shall call Jones, was a strange fellow. I have never found his equal since. I’m convinced he was divorced from reality and if the site staff, the junior engineers and the foremen had not been so efficient, he would have foundered long before I came across him. Building sites are as class-ridden as any segment of British society and the privileges are jealously guarded. At the bottom of the heap are the tea boys, errand boys who are learning to be labourers and then hoping to graduate to tradesmen. It is their duty to go for cigarettes, go to the bookies on behalf of the men, buy food, make tea and work on the site, in that order of priority. They are cheeky, full of
    fun and more than tolerated by the men on the site. The engineer, Jones, would come on to the site, no matter what the conditions were like underfoot, dressed in light trousers, fine shoes, a smart suit and colourful tie and then proceed to pick his way from dry patch to dry patch as he continued down the site, like someone doing the balancing act on precarious stepping stones in a fast flowing river. It was both predictable and inevitable that the tea boys would not only see him as he progressed, they would come out from the various corners in which they had been concealed and would then follow him down the site in a line, imitating his every move and gesture and then, like Grandmother’s footsteps, they would stop and appear nonchalant should he turn. This performance was more than a bit of fun, it was an expression of what all the men felt about Jones. I believe the tea boys would not have had the temerity to ridicule the man unless they
    had heard comments by the men during meal breaks, it was then they knew they were on a winner.

    There was one slightly vulgar story concerning Jones which was going the rounds. Apparently he was doing his site inspection when he came across a man in the bottom of the trench digging. Each time the man shovelled up a load of earth and threw it on the side of the trench he grunted. Jones stood watching him for quite some time and when he could resist it no longer he accosted the man. “I say,” he said in superior tones. “Is it necessary to grunt every time you use your shovel?” The foreman and the ganger were aghast, what the man did while digging was of no consequence, how much he dug and how well, was all that mattered. The man stood up slowly, stabbed his shovel into the loose earth, slowly turned and looked up at the engineer. He was well aware who he was, no one on the site was otherwise. “Wha’ ja say?” Jones had to repeat himself. The man looked at him for a moment as if he was examining something new to his experience and then said, “If you was digging this, every time you lifted the shovel you’d shit yourself, when I lifts it I grunts.” With that he turned and went on digging. “I want this man sacked.” Jones told the foreman, but the man was not sacked. Ask a silly question, you are likely to get a silly answer.