A NOTE OF APOLOGY..

I suppose by now, dear reader, that you may have read yesterday`s post about my time with the 10th Royal Hussars.   I feel I may owe you an apology as it contained much of what I have written before in these pages and to that extent may have appeared a little self-indulgent as my annual missive on the anniversary of my call-up looms yet again.

But it was written with the encouragement of the editor of the Shiners Club annual Newsletter, rather than for `general consumption` - `Shiners` being the name given to the 10th Hussars on account of them being so very smartly turned out.   The Shiners Club is an exclusive outfit, designed for those remaining ex-servicemen who served with the regiment.  I am one myself, of course, although the sad fact of life is that, as the years go relentlessly by, so the membership steadily diminishes.

So, my apologies for yesterday, if they are due, but hopefully my post will provide at least a start of the contributions towards the next edition of the Newsletter.   I will try to get back to my `normal` rants very soon.

AN ACQUIRED TASTE....

In a few days time it will be 58 years since I kissed goodbye to civilian life and made the long train journey to north Yorkshire to begin my two years of National Service.   And each year when the anniversary comes around, I find myself looking back on those times.  It was, of course, a different time and those, like me, who found themselves conscripted into military service had already lived through the second world war and the austerity that followed. 

It was also a time of a kind of inbred respect - perhaps even fear - for any form of authority and so it was perhaps not surprising that the call-up for national service was more or less accepted as part of how things were.  It was just one of the many things you had to do, so I blindly accepted that it had to be done and just got on with it.

The first few days and weeks at Catterick Camp were filled with running everywhere, being `whipped into shape,` being shouted at, inspected at every turn and deprived of any meaningful privacy.  They were miserable weeks and because of the distances involved in getting home, when at last a 48-hour pass came our way, along with a fellow conscript I hitch-hiked to the Lake District, where I had never been before.  We stayed the night in a homely B & B and went to the cinema in Ambleside, where the only film being shown on that Saturday night was, of course, `Carry on Sergeant.`  It kind of summed up the futility and hopelessness of our situation.

But then, after yet more weeks of being turned into a lethal killing machine who was quite capable of turning left and right on command, I found myself inexplicably posted to a Regiment - this time a real one, stationed in BFPO 16 in West Germany as it was then.  The regiment was the 10th Royal Hussars (Prince of Wales` Own) and, perhaps to my surprise, I began to immerse myself into the routines and rhythms of life in that alien and faraway outpost.   I made friends with some close comrades - most regular volunteer soldiers, a dwindling few national servicemen - and began to settle in as my demob chart dutifully ticked off the days I had to do before the ultimate release.

I can`t claim that the `working life` was particularly taxing - even the manoeuvres on Luneburg Heath were something of an adventure and I spent the night of my 21st birthday there guarding the tank park from possible invasion, armed with only a pick-axe handle and a whistle. Back at the regimental barracks, I played quite a lot of football and got an evening job as projectionist in the garrison cinema - the AKC Globe.  The extra money supplementing my army pittance helped me save up enough to buy a house full of furniture when I returned, a married man, to civilian life.  (The married man`s allowance helped as well.)

A taste of regimentation came in the high summer of 1961 when the Duke of Gloucester arrived to present the regiment with new colours and I found myself on the No. 1 Guard for the regimental choreographed parade, resplendent with my sword drill, white webbing  and growing pride at being part of such an event.

That may have turned the corner in my relationship with army life and with the regiment.  The pride I felt that day perhaps finally brought a sense of belonging to something that was more than `just` a regiment - in some ways it became something of a family; real friendships had been formed which still persist to this day, mutual trust and support became evident and we were prepared for whatever the world might have thrown at us in those tense cold war days.

But, when my time was coming to a close, I resisted the overtures of our impressive commanding officer to sign on the dotted line and headed for the exit door able to make choices for my own life rather than have the army choose for me.   Looking back these 58 years to my 731 days of enforced conscription, I am left with distinctly mixed feelings - some resentment at the conscription but coupled with a real affection for the 10th Hussars and all they stood for.   It may sound odd for a national serviceman to admit to such sentiments but life in the regiment became a lasting and acquired taste - even though I am perfectly certain that the regiment may not have acquired quite the same taste for me.

THE DELIGHTS OF IRONY...

The above illustration, well, illustrates what I mean.   And there are countless examples of really delightful irony.  Some while ago I showed a photo of a direction sign pointing the way to `HIDDEN BEACH.`   Another was the road sign in Essex directing traffic to `SECRET NUCLEAR BUNKER.`

But the prize for this week`s unforced error must surely go to His Holiness Pope Francis.  Yesterday, he described fake news as being `evil` and accused peddlers of disinformation of employing `snake tactics`similar to Satan who, when disguised as a serpent, tempted Eve to eat fruit from the forbidden tree.

"This was the strategy employed by the `crafty serpent` in the Book of Genesis and who, at the dawn of humanity, created the first fake news," said Pope Francis - the first discourse of any pope on the topic.  "Fake news had a damaging, serpentine allure," he went on, calling it "that sly and dangerous form of seduction that worms its way into the heart with false and alluring arguments."

Nice one, Frank.  But I just wonder whether the delicious irony of the head of an organisation - one that thrives on myths involving serpents, forbidden fruit and forceful temptation - complaining about fake news, has struck home. At least here in chez Snoppeur it has been duly recognised.

It`s over 30 years now since the last of our three sons left home - one by one they found their way in the world and each time one of them left I felt a deep sense of sadness.  But you`ve got to let them go and when the last one went, we began to fill the hole by having golden retrievers.  We`re now on the fifth one - Barney.

And in what is turning out to be a difficult week, Barney was taken very ill yesterday with a nasty bout of hemorrhagic diarrhoea.  I`ll spare you the details but poor Barney was in a bad way - not eating or drinking which, for a retriever, indicates something quite serious.  So, off to the vet`s yesterday afternoon - loads of medication - but no effect, so he went back to the vet`s last evening and was kept in to be re-hydrated, have blood tests, etc.

We don`t know but we hope he might be back with us tomorrow; but not having him around the house, not doing the twice daily walkies and not living with his daily routine has pitched us into another feeling of the empty nest.  It`s easy to take things for granted - even dogs - but you don`t know what an important part of your life they are and how much you miss them until they`re not there - even for a day or two.

GETTING THERE ?

I know it`s a bit early to start going on about Spring but we are a month on from the shortest day of the year.  In my wander around the parish yesterday afternoon with Barney on our walkies, I noticed, perhaps prematurely and optimistically, that there were a few signs that things might be happening.   The odd crocus peeping up from the odd garden, the occasional forsythia giving a hint of yellow and today brought a bright, crisp, frosty morning, all of which makes me feel a bit less SAD and encourages me that we are getting there and to look forward to the coming of spring and summer.

So I had a look at a photo I took last April when we were staying at Trebetherick on Cornwall`s north coast.   Of an evening I would stroll down the lane towards the coast path and I managed to capture this moment as the sun went down beyond Stepper Point.  Here it is - please click on the photo for a better image:-

Seeing this photo again certainly cheered me up with things to look forward to once winter has had its way with me and I hope you like it too.

KISS ME GOODNIGHT, SERGEANT MAJOR

Today would have been my father`s birthday.  Well, I guess in a sense it still is, even though, had he lived, he would now have been well over 100 years old.  Now, what I don`t want to do is drift into over-sentimentality but each year, when 16th January comes around, my mind goes back to him.

He was born `of an age` when things were tough and when it was decided for him that the family business could not sustain another, he was packed off to the army apprenticeship school in Chepstow and thus began a long military career.  He did well enough, gained distinctive trade qualifications and achieved a number of promotions.  I guess it was hard enough being in the army in those pre-war days but it became infinitely harder once he was captured at Dunkirk and consigned to five years as a prisoner of war in Stalag V!!!B at Lamsdorf.   Towards the end of the war, he was on `the long march` and somehow survived until liberation finally brought him home.

And when he resumed civilian life, the experiences he had been through meant that he lived the rest of his days on his nerve ends, jumping whenever the phone or the doorbell rang. Not long after he finally retired from a working life, he dropped down dead in the bathroom at just 62.

My own life has had its moments.  Whilst my father was enduring his unrelenting Stalag, I was sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs every night in a relative`s house where my mother and I had been given refuge and I still recall the sound of bombs exploding along the shore of Southampton Water and hoping one would not drop on us.   And later on, I too endured my own taste of good order and military discipline, having been conscripted to do my National Service.

But nothing in my life has come close to the traumas suffered by my father and I wonder what he would have made of life today with all of its rampant liberalism and gimpy snowflakes being seduced into the army with the promise of being kissed goodnight and encouraged to reveal their gender preferences and their innermost emotions.   I think I know the answer.

.....AND AGAIN.....

I`m intrigued by the `resignation` of the BBC`s now former China Editor Carrie Gracie.  She has apparently relinquished that post (although rather surprisingly still employed by the BBC in some other capacity) due to the apparently illegal pay gap between women employees and men.  She may have a case, I don`t know, but it has thrown up a strange kind of imbalance which is of interest not only to BBC employees but also the licence payers of whom, thanks to the onset of anno domini, I am no longer one.

It`s reported (by the BBC themselves, I believe) that Ms. Gracie was paid £135,000 a year as China Editor and that, in response to her grumbles about the inequality of pay with male editors, she was offered a pay rise of £45,000 which would have brought her annual salary to £180,000.  That would still have resulted in a lower salary than that paid to male `Editors,` hence Ms. Gracie`s decision to resign.  The obvious conclusion is that her male counterparts are paid even more than this princely sum, which outstretches the salary of the Prime Minister by some considerable distance.

Now, being a retired elderly person on a fixed income and struggling to survive in these uncertain times, even £135,000 a year would do me nicely and £180,000 even more so.  So I must conclude that, rather than the fight being taken up by the female employees of the BBC for parity with their male colleagues, if I was still a licence payer I might be fighting for the male salaries to be reduced to the same level as the female ones.  That way the law would be satisfied as, with the exception of some avaricious male `editors, would the  majority of BBC employees and possibly the licence payers might sleep a little easier too?

THEY`RE AT IT AGAIN..

The BBC`s seemingly relentless crusade against Brexit goes on and on.  Yesterday I turned on the red button and saw this on the `teletext` page:-

"FARMERS TO RECEIVE POST BREXIT PAYOUTS

UK farmers will receive money for making improvements that boost the environment, under a new system to be introduced post-Brexit.

Environment Secretary Michael Gove will tell farmers the new payments would reward planting wildflower meadows and woodland and improving water quality.

The system would replace EU subsidies - now £3 billion a year - five years after Brexit in 2024.

Meanwhile a report warns that trade deals could threaten UK food security."

So, once again, a Brexit good news story for farmers and for the nation as we kiss goodbye to the EU`s mad Common Agricultural Policy is tempered with yet another warning of a dire threat once we leave.

  

And in other BBC news, yesterday arch-malcontent Tony Blair went on Radio 4 quite seriously, albeit delusional, stating yet again that there should be another referendum if we don`t like the deal with the EU.  To his credit, the interviewer John Humphries reminded Blair of the realities of democracy but what is interesting is that the BBC were prepared to give this serial  fibber any air time to begin with.

It really feels that the BBC just can`t help themselves.  

QUACK TWICE...

Funny how things spring to mind.  Yesterday I mentioned that my Mum invariably addressed me as `my duck` when I was but a boy.  As I was nodding off yet again I got to thinking where else I had heard that term of endearment.  And it came to me that, of course, it was in Dylan Thomas`s masterpiece, Under Milk Wood.  And it was Rosie Probert (From Duck Lane, Jack - quack twice and ask for Rosie) who described Blind Captain Cat not only as `my duck` but a whole lot of other things besides.

Best thing I can do is set out the relevant  bit of that unforgettable dialogue (I have the happy knack of recalling pretty much the whole of Thomas`s play for radio) between Rosie and the Captain.  It goes like this:-

ROSIE PROBERT 

What seas were you rocking

My little deck hand

My favourite husband

In your seaboots and hunger

My duck, my whaler

My honey, my daddy

My pretty sugar sailor.

With my name on your belly 
When you were a boy

Long long ago?

CAPTAIN CAT

I`ll tell you no lies.

The only sea I saw

Was the seasaw sea

With you riding on it.

Lie down, lie easy.

Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

ROSIE PROBERT

Knock twice, Jack

At the door of my grave

And ask for Rosie.

As I said, funny how things spring to mind.  Well, mine anyway.

JUST CALL ME GERRY...

Not sure I can keep up with the world for much longer.  I`ll be 80 next year, provided that God in Her Infinite Wisdom grants me that privilege and I suppose I should make more of an effort to `keep up with the times.`   Trouble is, the times in which we live become more baffling, more bewildering and, indeed, bordering on the bizarre what with people getting upset and offended by anything and everything and issues revolving around gender identity. 

A case in point recently saw a 27-year old young lady (if I`m allowed to refer to her as such without being branded as both ageist and sexist) complaining that she had been referred to as `honey` by an older male manager at Virgin Rail, when passengers on a crowded train had been wrongly told that they could use first class for a small fee.  "You want to complain, go ahead, honey," he is alleged to have said.  She was even more upset when the company`s response asked if she would prefer the terms `pet` or `love` instead of `honey.` 

Now to many, especially of my generation, such terms would be meant and be taken as terms of endearment.  But this time the young lady`s complaint was that the male manager had `dismissed` it with `that hideously patronising word women shudder at....`  The company, of course, has apologised.

It`s not for nothing that I have chosen a few snowflakes to illustrate this particular tale.

But on the subject of terms of endearment, I always remember my dear old, dearly departed Mum invariably referring to me as `my duck.`  I suspect it had its origin in Swindon.   Had I experienced this in current times and the current climate, I might have taken offence at this, especially as it would have invaded my human right to chose my own species as well as my own gender.  Given the choice, I would have preferred to be recognised as a giraffe, so just call me Gerry and we`ll forget all about it.  Deal?

POTS AND KETTLES...

Of course, it`s the traditionally `done thing` on this the first day of 2018 to wish everyone a happy new year and I do so quite genuinely and unreservedly.  So, Happy New Year to you and yours.

The alleged `festive season` is thankfully drawing to a close and being a curmudgeonly cynic, a few things have come to light in the past week or so to make me wonder whether people have deliberately turned to irony in their quest for attention. 

Perhaps the best example has emerged from the Vatican where it is reported that His Holiness Pope  Francis is going to deliver his annual communications message.  In it, he will decree that made up stories -`fake news` - is `a serious sin.`  He has reminded journalists that they must provide precise, complete, correct and unbiased reports and not fall into the `sins of communication,` disinformation or just giving one side of the story.  Such actions, he said, are ` a grave sin` that hurts the hearts of others as well as the journalists themselves.

And all this coming from the appointed head of yet another organisation that thrives on being based on myth, legend, fairy tales and threats of dire consequences if you don`t believe them.  Anyway, thank God someone has taken the unprecedented step of speaking out against made up stories that have no bearing in fact but are nevertheless taken as gospel.

Oh, and by the way, please be assured that my good wishes to you for 2018 are entirely genuine, precise, complete, correct and unbiased.  Honest.