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A little Belfast history! On the outskirts of Belfast is a range of hills in which is a layer of limestone. In Victorian times this was quarried to grind and send to the Mainland to be fed to chickens to improve the egg shells. From the quarry, right down to the docks was a bogy track on the line of a road now called the Limestone Road. When I first went to Belfast, I found a narrow street off it called Tramway Street, which puzzled me for a long time. It was there the bogeys or ‘trams’ were stored. I found all this out when I was looking for filling for Belfast Airport.

When making concrete of very high quality the stone used has to be as near cubical in shape as is possible and there was only one quarry viable. The quantities to be bought were huge. One of my jobs was to check on materials and this day I could not make the amount of concrete agree with the amount of stone we had paid for to make the concrete. As we were using a very sophisticated method of making concrete where the quantities of the various materials were accurately measured, there was no way the discrepancy of having bought some thirty percent more stone than we should have used could be accounted for. Others checked the books with the same result, – something serious was amiss. We checked the weigh-bridge which we had installed at the edge of the site, it was OK.

Stories throughout the building industry tell of lorries defeating the system. With sand it is a matter of spraying the lorry with water just near the site so the buyer is buying water at the price of sand. A certain amount of moisture is essential to stop the sand blowing during transport and this is what unscrupulous contractors sometimes play on. Then there is the old chestnut of the lorry going in one gate, being checked, going out another gate and then, after a bit, going round again to be checked yet again. It was with this in mind we set up our own weigh bridge and checking system, the site was too large to police. We filled one of our own lorries, sent it to the Town weigh bridge and then checked it on our own. It was fine. It is usual on a site to weigh the contractors’ lorries empty and to note the weight which is known as the ‘tare weight’. This saves having to weigh the lorries full and empty every trip and provided nothing has changed, the system works, except when the initial weight has been fiddled by removing all the surplus weight such as the jack, and the spare wheel and then subsequently carrying it – that can amount to quite a sum on a big job. We checked that too, then we set our boxer friend to sit near the weigh bridge with a novel, and look like someone unemployed enjoying the sun.

It paid off. The weighbridge was level in itself but had been built on sloping ground. The lorries were very long with two axles at the back. The system we had agreed was that the weigh bridge man would see the front wheels of the lorry onto the weigh bridge, go into his office and press a button, the weight would then be recorded automatically, he would then wave through the window and the lorry would slowly move forward until the back two sets of wheels were on the bridge and the front ones off. He would then weigh again and the sum of the two weights less the tare weight was what we paid for. Our boxer friend found that unfortunately this was not the case. When the bridge man had seen the lorries onto the bridge and was on his way into the hut, the lorries would ease that little bit more forward until half the back wheels were on the bridge as well as the front ones, then, when the bridge man waved, the lorry would ease forward again and the two back axles were weighed. What was happening was that we had been unwittingly weighing one set of back wheels twice.

More Lessons I Learned I learned never to say right when it could be misconstrued. It was early morning and I needed to examine the surface water system of the old runway. The chainman and his sidekick had been struggling to get an old manhole cover off and once again I forgot what had been drilled into me in my Naval days, ‘never volunteer’. I was in a hurry so I went to help them. We managed to get the cover clear of the hole and then I thought I had done all that was required of me, so I said ‘Right!’ meaning I was letting go and they were in control. Of course, like all slapstick comedies, they let go too and this huge, cast iron disc weighing nearly a hundred weight and a half fell on my foot. Instead of severing the toe, it only broke it, I was wearing dispatch rider’s boots instead of the standard wellie.

A little Belfast history! On the outskirts of Belfast is a range of hills
in which is a layer of limestone. In Victorian times this was quarried to
grind and send to the Mainland to be fed to chickens to improve the egg
shells. From the quarry, right down to the docks was a bogy track on the
line of a road now called the Limestone Road. When I first went to Belfast,
I found a narrow street off it called Tramway Street, which puzzled me for a
long time. It was there the bogeys or ‘trams’ were stored. I found all
this out when I was looking for filling for Belfast Airport.

When making concrete of very high quality the stone used has to be as near
cubical in shape as is possible and there was only one quarry viable. The
quantities to be bought were huge One of my jobs was to check on materials
and this day I could not make the amount of concrete agree with the amount
of stone we had paid for to make the concrete. As we were using a very
sophisticated method of making concrete where the quantities of the various
materials were accurately measured, there was no way the discrepancy of
having bought some thirty percent more stone than we should have used could
be accounted for. Others checked the books with the same result, –
something serious was amiss. We checked the weigh-bridge which we had
installed at the edge of the site, it was OK.

Stories throughout the building industry tell of lorries defeating the
system. With sand it is a matter of spraying the lorry with water just near
the site so the buyer is buying water at the price of sand. A certain
amount of moisture is essential to stop the sand blowing during transport
and this is what unscrupulous contractors sometimes play on. Then there is
the old chestnut of the lorry going in one gate, being checked, going out
another gate and then, after a bit, going round again to be checked yet
again. It was with this in mind we set up our own weigh bridge and checking
system, the site was too large to police. We filled one of our own lorries,
sent it to the Town weigh bridge and then checked it on our own. It was
fine. It is usual on a site to weigh the contractors’ lorries empty and to
note the weight which is known as the ‘tare weight’. This saves having to
weigh the lorries full and empty every trip and provided nothing has
changed, the system works, except when the initial weight has been fiddled
by removing all the surplus weight such as the jack, and the spare wheel and
then subsequently carrying it – that can amount to quite a sum on a big job.
We checked that too, then we set our boxer friend to sit near the weigh
bridge with a novel, and look like someone unemployed enjoying the sun.

It paid off. The weighbridge was level in itself but had been built on
sloping ground. The lorries were very long with two axles at the back. The
system we had agreed was that the weigh bridge man would see the front
wheels of the lorry onto the weigh bridge, go into his office and press a
button, the weight would then be recorded automatically, he would then wave
through the window and the lorry would slowly move forward until the back
two sets of wheels were on the bridge and the front ones off. He would then
weigh again and the sum of the two weights less the tare weight was what we
paid for. Our boxer friend found that unfortunately this was not the case.
When the bridge man had seen the lorries onto the bridge and was on his way
into the hut, the lorries would ease that little bit more forward until half
the back wheels were on the bridge as well as the front ones, then, when the
bridge man waved, the lorry would ease forward again and the two back axles
were weighed. What was happening was that we had been unwittingly weighing
one set of back wheels twice.

More Lessons I Learned I learned never to say right when it could be
misconstrued. It was early morning and I needed to examine the surface
water system of the old runway. The chainman and his sidekick had been
struggling to get an old manhole cover off and once again I forgot what had
been drilled into me in my Naval days, ‘never volunteer’. I was in a hurry
so I went to help them. We managed to get the cover clear of the hole and
then I thought I had done all that was required of me, so I said ‘Right!’
meaning I was letting go and they were in control. Of course, like all
slapstick comedies, they let go too and this huge, cast iron disc weighing
nearly a hundred weight and a half fell on my foot. Instead of severing the
toe, it only broke it, I was wearing dispatch rider’s boots instead of the
standard wellie.

A few days ago I proposed that corporal punishment was pointless as correction had to come from self-control. I arrived at this decision through my own experiences. This led me to consider our inadequate penal system. Locking people up en masse, irrespective of the reason they are there, controlled by an over stretched and consequently resentful staff, must patently be wrong especially as they seem to be locked up for incredible periods of the day and to have very little worthwhile occupation. This in itself must have a derogatory affect on any hope of rehabilitation. For a start off, the reasons for antisocial behaviour are numerous and disparate, so surely the solutions should be disparate also. France’s ‘Devil’s Island, I believe, had some of the right ideas, even if it was extreme and barbaric. Make life so miserable for the serious offenders that they are forced to rethink. However, always bear in mind that some thrive in these conditions as toughness and roughness can be a badge of excellence, a route to a subversive leadership, as I discovered in the Service. I have previously reported that, for a weekend I was a jailer responsible for two men held for attempted murder, and part of their punishment was picking rope into oakum – a total waste of time, energy and finger nails.

It would seem therefore, that hardship, coupled with a comparison, might be more effective. Assuming home is preferable to incarceration, if we also agree that minor offences should be dealt with mainly by community service, we have a situation which can be used in order to differentiate between home and prison. Those on community service, if placed in jail at every weekend, might be given pause for thought. The slightly more serious, selected offenders might be allowed home at weekends, tagged. This too would give a comparison, and would not require additional prisons. I can envisage logistical problems with cells used by long stay prisoners having personalised their cells, but I also believe these problems are not insuperable.

To those very serious offenders, I believe from my own experience, in the Navy, of hunger, discomfort, bad conditions and being divorced from home and family, for long periods, that one greatly appreciates the other life, and while this period is toughening, and just about acceptable under service conditions, there is no doubt that one looks forward to improvement ASAP. It would then seem logical that in serious cases the punishment should be hard work of a physical nature, preferably outdoors, causing fatigue; nourishing but totally uninteresting food of a repetitive nature, hours of solitary confinement for contemplation, no TV, rare visits and only reading matter to while away the time – illiterates would be taught to read and write. Intercommunication between the prisoners should be severely controlled in order to avoid building up the hierarchy and influence of the wrong sort within the prisoner community.

A stick without a carrot is ineffective, comparison between comfort and being ground down is essential, so there must be rewards which can legitimately be withdrawn. Small relaxations in the regime, such as the TV, periods of socialisation and so on could be expanded on an exponential basis. Essentially also, there must be an honest and unequivocal system of control. Any preferential treatment, or selective abuse by authority, would negate the system.

The whole purpose of the ‘punishment’, must be rehabilitation, the revitalisation or the introduction of social standards which the rest of us accept as the norm. Some people unfortunately have a quirk in their nature, and perhaps there is no cure for them. They, though, are in the minority, and the rest have arrived in their current situation through environment, association and circumstances. Therefore it is reasonable to assume that one can amend these trends, particularly in the young, by showing them and offering them a better way of life. This can only be done by example and education, not incarceration for hours on end in a sterile environment.

Having read this you will appreciate that I am no specialist in the subject but that does not prevent me from thinking reasonably about a subject which seems to have defeated our leaders. What I propose will cost, especially the retraining. However, this system might slow or reverse the ever bourgeoning prison building programme

Livingstone, N.Rhodesia I write this to draw conclusions about psychological reactions in children, they and their adults are not aware of, but which have damaging long term consequences; not making a criminal, but disadvantaging and imprinting a permanent lack of self-respect on the child. The final paragraphs are extracts from a previous, general comment on my African experiences. I am not whinging, I’ve had a wonderful life, but those two years altered my outlook and potential, permanently. In retrospect, I can see the experience damaged my outlook, especially regarding my personal assessment of my intellectual standing, until I was 28 yeas old. This is not psycho-babble, it’s an awakening in old age of an experience which should not be repeated on anyone. I was dropped into a totally strange and false environment

It was false, it was play-acting, totally unreal, and unrelated to my previous six years. Some of the Civil Servants came from the landed gentry, with Oxbridge degrees and they set the tone. The rest, like my father were educated, but making their way, not backed by old money. With cheap labour; the housing, local schooling and welfare, all included in the contract, they lived miles above that required with a ‘Home’ posting. In consequence, from observation as a mere child, added to later analysis, based upon Imperial Civil Service experience, I realised that those on the lower rungs of the ladder were aping, or having to fall in with, the protocols of their richer masters. This was inevitable as the number of whites in Livingstone in 1928 was pitifully small, and this was borne out by so few who met together socially.

School, in Livingstone started very early and finished around midday to permit all to enjoy a peaceful siesta when the sun was at its zenith. I personally found it irksome to have to rest for at least an hour and often more. I have since discovered to my cost that those educational standards were very low, and this was probably the reason children were sent to the Cape – Capetown – or Bulawayo to be educated from about the age of eight until they were old enough to be sent even further afield, to boarding school in England. The poor wretches might not have returned home for years as the journey took so long and commercial flying was not the norm. I spent only two years in Livingstone. By the time I had returned to England, I had lost at least one year’s education and probably more, and this, above all else affected me for the rest of my life

My loss of education resulted in my appearing retarded. My self-appraisal was coloured by the comments of others and seemed, by test results to be irrefutable. When I came home and was judged by those doing the assessing in England, my capabilities were related to my age and size rather than to my intellectual ability. I was deemed backward and placed in a class accordingly and, indeed, I was 21 years old before I reached my full potential, and sixty before Sophie brought the logic of this train of events to my attention. It’s easy to believe you’re stupid when enough people indicate you are, either outright or by all the subtle implications which offer themselves in an academic career, starting from the beatings for not being able to attain certain standards, to being left behind when all your friends move on up the school, leaving you to lick your wounds and adjust yet again.

I sincerely believe that often the signs are there if only people will take the time to read them, and that misinterpretation is the scourge of doctrinal preaching and half-baked philosophy. For example if less attention was paid to the fact that a teacher gave a cuff round the ear and more to why it was needed in the first place, we might progress. I should know, I’ve been thrashed more than most for less than most. Bad behaviour within adolescents can often be due to reasonable frustration, or anger at one’s own deficiencies, which again is frustration.

In spite of what follows, I still stand by what I have previously said, working for the Council is still preferable to direction from Central Government. Not only for the worker who has immediate contacts and sees the work in detail, but for the public he serves

When I was looking for my first engineering job I had taken part in an interview at the City Hall where I was faced by a phalanx of councillors, probably about fifteen. They had asked a number of questions without getting to the meat, when I decided I would ask the question in the forefront of my mind – How much? The answer appalled me, they were only offering two hundred and fifty pounds a year for a graduate, aged 28, with a wife and two children to support. I refused and went and took a job with a consultant at two hundred and sixty. Those were hard times.

Thinking of the phalanx reminds me of when Sophie was looking for a teaching job and the occasion when I tried to help my boss-of-the-day to get a job in a rural County Council. In Sophie’s case we had to write out her application, her CV, have her references photocopied and send copies of everything to twenty-six councillors. We were not so much surprised as astounded, but even that was nothing to the indignity suffered by John, a friend, and my boss at one stage. He had never learned to drive, or if he had he had allowed his licence to expire. For whatever reason he had no car and so he asked me to chauffeur him around from councillor’s house to councillor’s house. The councillors were mostly farmers and their homes were scattered over a whole county. The weather had been wet for some time with the result the lanes were like scrambler tracks.

We started after work and finished in complete darkness with the humiliation of sliding into a gate post and damaging the car. That, however was not the real humiliation. At each house we came to, he went and knocked the door while I stayed in the car. As the evening wore on, when he returned to the car he became progressively disheartened at the berating he received from some who resented being canvassed and said that they were totally against it, while others told him it was a good thing he had come because they would not have voted for him if he hadn’t. The only way he could have succeeded was to have learned more about the system and done his homework better. He should have sought out someone on the Council to advise him of whom to canvass and whom not to, all he had been told was that if he hoped to get the job he should canvass all, which he did; but then he was English, with the mistaken idea that professional people were employed purely on their merits and that interviews were above board. He didn’t get the job.

I remember a case where the engineer to a road contractor fell out with that contractor and resigned. A while later he answered an advertisement for a job with a Council and was told by a senior member of the staff that it was a walk-over as he was more experienced and better qualified than the other candidates. When he asked later why he had not been successful he was told, in confidence, that the contractor had objected to his candidature, saying he, the contractor, would not get fair treatment from the engineer in future dealings, and the Council then appointed another candidate. As I have said before, such is the way of the world. I remember when a senior member of staff canvassed the liftman, because the latter had political influence. Everyone knew – they tend to in a council, and probably in consequence, that was why he was not appointed.

These days there are rumbles in the jungles of local authorities on many accounts, Water tax at the head, but those Councils are no longer as autonomous as they were until the 70’s. It was then Central Government lived up to its name and took over most of the powers and things have gone down hill ever since. Local Government means by the people for the people, if you have a beef about something, you can actually hammer on the Councillor’s own front door, or vote with your feet at the next election. Central Government is remote, can’t see the local detail, can’t address local problems – paints with a broad brush. There is the iniquity of the Manifesto, which few read for National Elections and is a license to do anything, as voting is on Party lines not policy; but is devoured for local ones because it is local.

Fishcake McKay

First published in August 06. Requested by my Dutch friend, Jan, in Holland

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.