I've gone redneck

Just a bit of fun when I put the url from here into this place

End of 2005

Just to add a bit of balance to all those 'ooh' and 'aar' photographs that we have seen during the year, here is another view that one will see. Like a background screen for someone advertising coats or trousers that will be good down to minus 30 degrees.
I think that we - the John Wood family - have had a pretty steady year. Some things I wish had never happened but luckily none of those were within my direct control or came about because of some failure or stupidity of mine. My main source of pride is that we've been here for a little while only but even in that time we have become more and more certain we did the right thing. Like all of my decisions made quickly and with little research, it seems to have saved itself.

All that is left is to finish off the cleaning and dusting and to start on the mood-inducing activities.

Mood inducing activities

Bet you thought I was meaning waccy-baccy and sex! Huh.

Green is the colour of envy

Damn!

I thought I had had a good and adrenaline-spurting life and then along comes this bugger. This is just one year.

Kerry (Packer for any USA visitors!)

Just to add a little something to my item about Kerry Packer.
Seems he was in a casino at a no-limit table and was in his normal not accepting fools gladly role.
Another player was being a bit OTT and he and Kerry had words. Guy said, 'I am somebody you know - I'm worth $60 million'. KP replied ' Toss you for it'
Having money - Mastercard
Knowing how to use it - priceless.

Strokes for folks

Sure as hell, ain't Duns, Berwickshire TD11 3DE.
Would'nt mind stroking the lantern and getting genie to take me back for a quick visit. Quick as I thought first time I saw it, this place was a slightly less-scruffy Hong Kong. Maybe that's it's charm?

Police powers

Telegraph | News

Police are to be given sweeping powers to arrest people for every offence, including dropping litter, failure to wear a seat belt and other minor misdemeanours.
The measures, which come into force on Jan 1, are the biggest expansion in decades of police powers to deprive people of their liberty.
At present, officers can generally arrest people if they suspect them of committing an offence which carries at least five years in prison. They will now have the discretion to detain someone if they suspect any offence and think that an arrest is "necessary".

Hazel Blears, the Home Office minister, said: "It is vital that the police are equipped with the powers they need to enable them to do their jobs properly and effectively. The powers need to be updated to reflect modern policing priorities and the changing nature of criminal activity.

The only reason criminal activity is changing is because nuLabour have brought in 5300 new arrestable offences in the last few years! Liberty is becoming an absent friend we should remember on New Year's Eve.

Mind you - there must be a small bonus in this nuLabour/nuThinking stuff. If the police end up with the power to arrest any lolliopop-stick sucking juvenile, there can be no case for Identity Cards. Who needs them in a police state anyway? "If I say you're nicked sunshine, you're nicked"

Are they taking the P out of this whistle-blower?

I normally do not include 'heavy' stuff here. There are plenty of people who do it much better than I.
Here is an exception; made as it shows the way in which our current political Lords and Masters operate.

Who abused the pig?

I think Old Jack has been reading of the service this lady gave the pig!

Over-indulgence

Opinions vary as to whether over-eating at Christmas is a real problem or just involves some individuals.

Snow

OK Gemmak. You got what you wanted. Enough. Stop it. Don't do that - TURN THE DAMNED STUFF OFF!!

Auto ranter

End of a giant

So, there you go as they say. Much criticism was thrown his way – mainly about the commercialism of cricket. At the time, I though that he – allied to our man Grieg with the funny accent – were doing great things. Still think the same – mostly.
While there had been many false alarms in recent years, the 68-year-old Mr Packer knew the end was near when he became ill on Christmas Day.
"There is only so much medication and so many transplants and so he accepted no aid," said the radio host Alan Jones, a friend who visited the Packer family yesterday. "He then knew, I think his words were, 'This is my time."'
Mr Packer, on heavy pain relief, chose to stay at home rather than be taken to hospital. He died about 10.40pm on Boxing Day surrounded by his family. His death was precipitated by poor blood supply to the transplanted kidney he received in a life-saving operation five years ago. There were multiple causes for his death, the main being kidney failure.
Mr Packer was Australia's richest man, with an estimated wealth of $7 billion.
Just shows, money ain’t everything. Except – I bet his last hours were easier than the last hours of some down and out. Don’t begrudge him that though.

This is for you Mr. Gates - or, it used to be

I've deleted this as it was too wide and was screwing up the general look
of things.

I like to help

New T-shirt design.

What I want for Christmas (2006)

Too late for this year.

Gay partnerships

The quote below comes from a US site debating gay partnerships. I'm not going to link it as it is supposedly religion based but I think the overall tone is rabid. The quote is part of a comment. I take the poster's (a woman if you need to know) point and see it as something I'll try and remember for next time someone who knows me not seeks my opinion on the matter. So - what was it? Here you go...

Some people involved in the debate are concerned about the "slippery slope" idea. Marriage should be about love, but it's original intention was as a sort of "blessing" so that people could go on to have children, and provide them with a stable household. It's foundation is in procreation. When you redefine the concept of marriage to allow homosexuals to marry, all of a sudden there are countless other examples which arise. A father and daughter, for example. Or a threesome. Or sisters. The lines which currently surround the marriage concept blur.

Saddos

I posted before about Foulden (where Xmas lights go to die) Village.
It got no better! On 24th, we passed through and only two houses had mutined on diktat about No Tat Lights. Went through today and even those had disappeared.
I think next year, I'll form a hit squad and we will descend in early hoursof 25/12 and attach big sparkly, high voltage, lights to everything and then start singing rude versions of carols. Set up a big circus tent on their hallowed turf, have sleigh rides - the full Monty. I've already set up a big bottle for saving up ready.

Portrait of artist as an Old Man

Hope this titillating image of a dirty old man exposing his face to the risque world is not too sexually-arousing for the young nuns with the firm white skin and pert little breasts who will be flogging themselves in sick penitence over viewing this disgusting image.

Well, that is the web-spidering over for a bit.

Recovery of webcam from of 'rubbish' will open a whole new era. Watch out.

I am now off to sexually abuse next door's cat on live video with sound. Parental guidance advised. Imagine. Built donkey-like. Caught in bath. Half naked bitch in kinky bathroom scene.

That explains it

Why men commit more crime than women?

Don't cha...

sometimes feel a little inadequate to face the daily challenges of this cruel world?

Situation report

So, here we are on the second day of Christmas. What my true love bought for me is irrelevant so that is the end of that conversation thread.
Anyway, major achievement seems that Norma and have got this far without major dissent, the dog is well fed and the house is warm. On the down side, the waste water pipe from the kitchen sink has come adrift and is beyond emergency repair. That puts the dishwasher, clothes washer and sink out of commission - major dissent on the horizon.
Thank God for my portable DVD player. The TV schedules look horrible and I do not have an addiction for house make-over programmes. I can watch just what I want - third showing of True Grit is just about to start; after that we will have Shining or Zulu.

MercuryNews forecasts the top 10 tech trends for 2006

I looked at this last year and was, if my memory serves, quite impressed by the half-year. So, let's see what it does this year. There is some interesting stuff in there - looks as if shiny little gadgets will be top of the pops for next Christmas!!

Call me George

Call him what YOU like - I still think of him as a word that begins with C

Victim advocates

I ranted about this damned daft idea when it first appeared over the horizon of Daft Ministerial Ideas.

(Settles back with warm glow of self-satisfaction)

Not all soft and cuddly

Whilst much of the stuff going into the ether at this time of year is like a home-knitted dildo, there are still those who dish out opinions that are at varience with the opinions, wishes and intentions of the many. One that I like and enjoy is here.
I've mentioned before my opinion that getting a spotlight onto things that have a residual tabboo is a good thing. See the (earlier) Little Britain items. I say earlier as it seems now to have gone into that 3rd-series limbo where it is no longer fresh and funny but formulaiac and boring. Thus, I think what the girl with the one track mind is doing is good. Nothing can be fairly examined and discussed all the while it is at the back of the cupboard - or should that be closet?
Oh yes - the subject matter. Not that I feel I have to justify my likes and dislikes but just out of interest - my link to the girl with etc. came as a link from a 'respectable' police officer - albeit he is with the Met!

Rubbish?

Time to start out on that great End-of-Year experience where I sort through the stuff in my study (out of bounds to wives with Dysons). I think it is wonderful how the people who make mice designed them to work when less that 10 sq cm is available outside the swelling tide of paper, cd disk covers, cigar bands, letters to be answered, assorted 'toys' and all that other detritius that insists on self-preservation on just my desk top. That ignores three spare laptops, Palm pda stuff and printer cartridges. Who knows? there may be a sovereign's ransom here if I could be bothered with e-bay.

Most men's dreams come true?

This guy seems to have achieved what must surely be the dream of those who do the lottery.
Mind you there has been the joke version of this. Chap wins £30 million on lottery. Goes home, tells wife the good news and tells her to hurry up and get her things packed. She says, "Where are we going?" He replies - "Go where you like - just get out!"

OH - MY GOD

This is the time of the year when the Darwin Awards are announced. These recognise the most idiotic manner in which someone has lost their life through total and utter stupidity. I have always thought that many of the contenders have had something of the Urban Myth about them - funny though they are. This year, I have commenced the Oh My God Awards. These recognise when personal stupidity has conspired with Murphy's Law to create a particularly horrendous error of some sort.

The winner this year - so far - comes from Japan. I'll post it in full rather than give a link as the parent site is littered with pop-up, slides, wipes and just about everything guaranteed to distract from the message of the url.

TOKYO (AFX) - The Financial Services Agency (FSA) said it has told Mizuho Securities to improve its operations, after a botched trade in the shares of a newly-listed company jolted the stock market recently.

On Dec 8, a trader at Mizuho Securities punched in an order to sell 610,000 shares in newly listed J-Com Co at one yen each, instead of the intended one share at 610,000 yen, which resulted in an estimated loss of 330 million US$ for Mizuho Securities.

The order for the shares of J-Com was more than 42 times the total number of J-Com's outstanding shares, making it difficult for Mizuho Securities to settle its position.

The FSA issued an administrative order demanding that the stockbroker review its system for placing orders, improve its computer system, establish an appropriate risk-management system and report on its progress by Jan 20.

'We would like to apologize for causing serious inconvenience to those concerned, and would like to make utmost efforts to prevent a recurrence,' Mizuho Securities President Makoto Fukuda said in a statement.

Mizuho Securities recently set up a committee, comprising five legal and audit experts, to come up with a plan to prevent any recurrence of such incidents. It did not say when the committee is supposed to finish its work.

The Tokyo Stock Exchange has admitted that a fault in its system prevented the Mizuho trader from cancelling the order after he realized the mistake.

Last week, the FSA issued a similar administrative order to the exchange demanding that it ascertain the cause of the botched trade, take measures to prevent a recurrence, review its market surveillance system, clarify where responsibility lies and report on its progress by the end of January.

The exchange announced this week that its president, Takuo Tsurushima, had resigned to take responsibility for the botched trade.

Ever since I first came across this, I keep having flashbacks. It seems that the selling broker made desperate efforts to stop the transaction but it took over four hours. My mind sees little Japanese functionaries hitting ctl-alt-del. Then the Big Red Button is invoked. Then there is a rush round the building yanking at every computer wire in sight. New keyboards delivered to replace those ctl-alt-del'td to destruction. Lifts melting under the load of messengers sent hither and yon. The broker getting home - sad faced - and wifey saying "Have a good day at the office dear?"

It would be nice to think that those who participated in the frantic buying would unwind the deals but exchanges do not work like that. You sell it - it's sold. There are trading positions where traders "go long" or "go short". I reckon this guy has just created another - go dead.

Somewhere overseas

Just think on this guy's blog whilst you are sitting down to that first ice-cold gin and tonic after all the hassle of fighting your way through the Christmas rush. Just before wifey complains that you forgot the macademia nuts.

A Strange World, My Masters

The court of appeal has ruled that the government must allow an independent inquiry into the death of an Iraqi civilian allegedly killed by British troops.

Meanwhile, in another dusty, fusty room………

Relatives of British soldiers who died in Iraq failed on Tuesday in a legal bid to force a public inquiry into the government's decision to go to war.
One of the country's top judges ruled that debate over Prime Minister Tony Blair's decision -- the most hotly disputed of his premiership -- belonged in the political arena, not the courts.
"The only purpose (of an inquiry) would be to try to make a political point, or show the prime minister did not tell the truth," Judge Andrew Collins told the High Court in London.
The government was accountable to parliament and ultimately the electorate for its actions, Collins said.
Blair won a third term in office earlier this year, although with a sharply reduced majority partly due to anger at the war.
The government has insisted the 2003 U.S.-led invasion was justified under international law as Iraq's then-leader Saddam Hussein had repeatedly breached United Nations resolutions.
It has also said several independent inquiries have found ministers innocent of any wrongdoing despite repeated claims by opponents that they exaggerated the case for war.
Pressure group Military Families Against the War, which says it has the backing of 14 families who have lost loved ones in Iraq, vowed to press on with its campaign despite the ruling.
"The families believe the decision to invade Iraq was based on deceit and lies. Our sons and husbands were sent to their deaths on the backs of these lies," said Rose Gentle, whose son Gordon was killed by a roadside bomb in southern Iraq in 2004.
"Their deaths were unnecessary as were the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent Iraqi people," she added.
Obviously, any inquiry about the deaths of our personnel should be set against the same question as for the Iraqi civilian – how were they killed? They will get the answer “Can’t tell you – there are still investigations in place”
But, same situation exists with regard to the Iraqi. Several soldiers are under investigation about his death following arrest at a hotel.
All very correct I’m sure – as if the law would bend over to help Tony (Butler, Hutton anyone) – but it is all a bit too complex for a young lad like me.

Waal - lookie here

Hollywood's got a new film coming out, Brokeback Mountain, about two cowboys who spend a magical summer up on the mountain and learn a lot about life, love and all that stuff. They have some kind of bonding experience, or maybe overcome some kind of problem. As a result the world and their wife is going mad about this flick. The movie doesn't seem to be about making money — although, doubtless, all that wind could translate into millions — but more about getting some new concept out there in time for the Oscar competitions. Though it's about gay cowboys, many Christian groups claim they won't protest or boycott the movie. That does not, of course, mean they will form lines to pay and go see it. How will such a story go down (no pun intended) in George Bush's "God speaks to me" America?
Somewhere I had the idea that same-sex couplings were not unknown in early cowboy communities. Certainly, the movies seem to show that the whores with hearts of gold did not come out West (no pun intended) until after the railways arrived. The other idea - which I find quite funny - was about the way that cowboy was coined. Seems that a considerable number of the pioneering sons of the saddle were black - hence boy. Any calumny I have foisted on the guys with wide-brimmed hats - please excuse; it's just I like these two facts/theories

Law laughs

I see that they now want to mess about with "what is murder?" legislation. Idea is to ease off on what some people get in the way of imprisonment. At present, murder means a life term. Oh dear! that might be a bit much for some people. Nevermind that only the most Silence of the Lambs type killers do much more than half a life anyway before someone lets them out on licence with proven risk they will kill again. The priority should be on the safety of the general public. Yes - great shame if someone kills another but what I want is not compassionate treatment for him but protection for me and mine. Seems one of the new proposals is that if killer did not intend to cause death, it is not murder. Guess what the excuse will be now where Mr. Nasty chops up Miss Live-in Lover and spreads her bits about like manure on rhubarb. "I never meant to kill her".

Had another thought today on my memento mori-sort of thing Ten, nine, eight. The sort of family I have are quite likely to want a knees-up. They will say, "Sod him - he's dead, Lets have a funeral" If that be the case, all I will really insist on is that comedian Bernard Manning does my eulogy.

Dirty digits

Have just broken off from my reading of all the blogs I keep up with.
Much jubilation on the US in Iraq ones about the latest round of voting - how democratic, how civilised, what great hopes for the future.
Looking at the situation we have here, I cannot see what the deal is. We had an election, one in a series of them going back many years. The clowns who got in had - I'm told - the support of just 1.2 in every 10 registered to vote. So, that is democracy.
Don't tell me we were at fault for not participating. Democracy, universal suffrage and all that is supposed to keep us so involved and keen that they should have been fighting to get us all in on time at the right place.
Iraq is - possibly - in a worse situation than we are. I say possibly as they still have significant oil on stream and do not have quote Leaders unquote who give away significant sums from those subsidies that have been included in Budget calculations for forthcoming periods. So, what will they get from this marvellous new idea called voting and democracy?
Coca-Cola and McDonalds; I bet you.
Oh - and possibly Satchel-mouth Cherie looking after the rights of working mothers. Big deals all round.

Longfellow - short thoughts

So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

Eldercut.

This is from an Urban Dictionery I get every day - keep up my street cred!
Now I know how to describe myself on the next census-form - a Jedy Eldercut.

ELDERCUT.
When an elder member of the human race doesn't feel the need to wait in line. (usually a buffet of some type) Either because their time is running out, or they have given up on any social grace.

My goodness was that an eldercut....did that old person just cut in front of me at the buffet line? Well, I guess I will let them get away with it, because they can't hear me anyway.

SNAFU

Seems there is something wrong with my/bloggers comment system and it will not organise posting of comments.

If you are really bursting at the seams with perceived wisdom or studied insults, please write me via

kepirouge@btinternet.com

and I will get back to you. Promise!

Meanwhile, the clever lad who knows about thingamegiggs is working on it - he says!

How evil are you?

How evil are you?Take the test

Hello Santa!

This is what I would like. A one-man hot air balloon. This guy was able to just dip his feet onto the very top of the water; I doubt he got his feet wet. Just think of where this could take me - back up into the hills and far away. Think of it on a day with low mist. Have to have a licence of course but so what - I can read.

Ten.... Nine.... Eight....

What’s with the counting? Some sort of count down?
Well, yes actually.
Why? Wazzup?

Hard to put into just a few words – even for a maestro like me.  Best I can do now is that it is some sort of “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” sort of moment where an attempt to explain something complex like regicide is in fact a valedictory. Those with a low level of interest, or threshold of boredom or who have got here by mistake, should take off now.

Right, if you are all sitting carefully, I’ll begin. Right now I’m feeling pretty chipper and OK with myself. I seem to be as free as ever I’ll be from depression – off the tablets anyway. My latest audit comes to a balance that I’ve fulfilled all my parental responsibilities. The two individuals have been properly raised and would say ‘F (go away)……..off’ at any uninvited initiative of mine. Grandchildren have got to the stage where they are hardly children and have sensible parents anyway. Thanks to Norma’s efforts, we are, barring major disaster anyway, financially secure. You can switch off the red light and hang up the red dress now dear.

This enviable state leaves me at a bit of a loose end. I have free time to cogitate and that audit reveals a few unclosed accounts. The first thing I have to accept is that I am not getting any younger, wiser or gaining any major influence over anything. I’m just drifting. The analogy is that drifting ships sometimes end up in difficulty on a lee shore. Disaster and tragedy intervenes before they are ready to deal with it. I do not wish to drift into anything. Whilst, at the moment, I have not the slightest desire to jump off a very high building, I feel that my time on earth has been amply filled and would not complain at a swift soldier-like ending. As Mr. Lauderdale said at ‘Batasi’, “I have seen Calcutta. I have eaten camel dung. My knees are brown, my navel is central, my conscience is clear, and my will is with my solicitors, Short and Curly”

This world we have now is not the world I signed up to. Whilst I am not religious in the sense that I follow any particular belief to the exclusion of others, I have always tried to work to a set of beliefs. My short stay with the Buddhists and consequent study demonstrated that what I tried to live by is in fact close to their ideas. So, I’m more ‘what would Buddha do’ than the managerial mantra of ‘what would Jesus do’.

That basis for my behaviour has pretty well gone. For example, I used to be comforted by the idea that evil was punished – There’s always a day called Katchum. If not by some judicial system, then by kismet, karma, whatever. The baddy would walk free from court and be run over by a bus sort of belief. Childlike and simple – yes. False – who knows; it kept me happy when I thought I saw it at work. That natural justice concept has gone. Time and time again we see the evil ones triumph and unpunished on this earth. Maybe they will be re-incarnated as a cockroach but I want justice now. People could universally be regarded as basically honest. Now – I count my change everywhere. My defence mechanism of reverse apartheid in keeping away from situations and people I know I will not like, is coming under more and more pressure.

Lots of the things we respected have been trodden into the mire of modernity. Attitudes to the aged, respect for other cultures and, here’s a really old word, ‘gentlemanly’ conduct are all bygones. We are being blamed now for ‘sins’ we committed when they were not sinful. Smokers and the obese are being denied medical treatment because their problems are considered self-inflicted. I am sure the day will come when some lesbian vicar living with her same-sex civil partner (both practising celibacy – right!) will send me to purgatory. Just because I committed the sin of allowing myself as a fifth-former to be sexually abused behind the bike-sheds by a sixth-form girl. It’s all my fault and it’s all her fault if she is still living.

So, my bags are packed and I’m ready to go. Thankfully, there is very little baggage and I can travel light as I walk through the curtains at the back of the stage. Note use of ‘walk’. Let there be no doubt that I do not wish to be kept alive by connection to some 13 amp socket. If things get to the stage when I need to walk to maintain my personal dignity on my own terms, I’ll make that clearly known. I’ve spoken elsewhere of my wish to be remembered on my own terms rather than in the memory of those who knew me. Knowing that a job is only finished properly when done by a committee of one, I need to set the parameters.

Firstly, no fuss or ceremony. Neither Christian, heretic or natural. Those who feel that the way should be smoothed by prayer are welcome to do so – in their usual fashion and venue and not gathered around a box full of what is, basically, carrion. Drinkers are welcome to have an extra one. Cremation – of course. After that? Well, I’d rather like to be the payload in a damned big firework. Yes – I was a soldier and fully enjoyed all the pomp and splendour but it’s rituals have no place in my life now. I’ve heard all the martial music I need.

So, that is ten, nine, eight. I wanted to get this dealt with before Christmas which always makes me very sombre. The alternative was something in an envelope tucked behind the mirror. Only to be found when the house clearance men come round. There is too much to utter in a final gargle. At the end of this – right now – I feel better for having written these few words. It is something I wanted to do and have done.

Will there be a seven, six, five? Dunno. There will certainly be no three, two, one from me.

Stolen from another blogger but maybe valid?

Paranoid sensibilities

If I was of a paranoid and conspiratorial mind, I’d point out that there’s an interesting coincidence between Charles Kennedy pressuring the Government for answers over US ‘rendition’ flights, and the sudden rush of anonymous sources briefing the press that his leadership is under threat.

But I’m not, so I won’t.

What happened next?

Just a small one....

Hope the image is not too stressful. Presence here because someone sent me some belly-dancer photographs and invited comments. Firstly, we need to dignify the lady by giving her a proper name. She is an as-sharqi dancer - a dancer of the deserts. In her own community she is highly respected and has none of the sleazy night club image we might have. The top dancers have their own troup of musicians and lighting men. They are paid large sums of money to entertain at big events - weddings, christenings and things such as that. Anyway - that's why she is here. A c t u a l l y - er hum - er - she is here because I like her. She is modelling part of a costume - they cost large sums as well - so we do not know if she is in fact a dancer. Just say, she has the right basics for the job. She is a well-rounded girl. Plenty of assets. The pose is unfortunate - she looks more like a person who puts loads on camels. Might even be the Governor of California in drag. Hasta la vista baby.
I have fond memories of this sort of lady.
Driving to the beach today we passed through Foulden village. This is a place that has won the Scotland in bloom competition. Quite a pretty little place really - just a line of cottages alongside one edge of the road. When the flowers are in bloom it is very pretty. There is, however, a certain regimentation that the old soldier in me recognises. All cottages have to have the same range of flowers. All must have windows and doors floralised. When we were looking for a place up here I commented to Norma that Foulden was one place that we would not go. It was quite clear to me that there was a flower gauliter who ruled with a rod of iron. Anyway - long story short - today I noticed that there was not one single sign of the approaching festive season (for oldies - Christmas; there - I've said it!!). All other places have their displays set up. Some a bit tacky to my old eyes but festive - yes. Foulden looks like Colditz on a wet Monday. Obviously, the uber-Witch of Eastwick-manque has spoken. Nothing until zero hour on C-Day minus five. Only real holly or ivy. No moving images. Bulbs in two colours only. Nothing more than x-metres tall.
My God - village life!!

Dog poster

This guy has the beginnings of how to understand what your dog is trying to tell you.

Show test card

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible - writer has heavy cold and is confined to bed.

Damn!!

I think this ideally explains the comment "Wrong place. Wrong time"

Drivers who kill

Not that there should be a connection but the forthcoming season of joy will doubtless bring spiritual desolation to some unfortunate where driving is the cause of the death of a loved one. I know why there is a perception that the punishment does not fit the crime. This, by a magistrate, is a very good statement on the problem. Maybe read it now - just in case.

Death on the Roads

One of the most difficult things that a magistrate has to do is to deal with a case where someone has been killed on the road, and a driver faces the court as a result.

The worst offences, of causing death by dangerous driving, or of causing death by careless driving while under the influence of alcohol are straightforward - we would commit them to the Crown Court where they usually attract long prison sentences. The difficult cases are where someone has been killed as a result of careless driving. This offence can only be dealt with by magistrates, and is not imprisonable. Sometimes the tiniest error on the part of a driver can result in a death; this is fairly common where motorcycles are involved. We have always been trained to punish the offence and not the consequences, and when I was first trained we were given an example:-

You and I are driving identical cars side by side, at identical speeds, approaching traffic lights. Stationary in front of us are two more cars, identical to each other. We each hit the car in front at exactly 30mph. The driver of 'my' one gets out of the car uninjured. By horrible chance yours is dead. Should we receive different punishments? My view has always been 'no', as the carelessness is similar. Let us say that the penalty is assessed at £300 fine each, plus six penalty points (offence carries 3 to 9). Next Friday the local paper comes out with a photo of the dead man's mother in tears outside the court, under the screaming headline:- "THE PRICE OF MY SON'S LIFE : £300!" and a picture of Diana-style flowers fixed to the traffic lights.

It is vital that the Chairman prepares the court's judgement with enormous care, explaining clearly the reason for the sentence being what it is, and expressing sympathy with the bereaved. In a case that I saw the defence solicitor addressed about half of his mitigation to the victim's family. But that was not enough, and the victim's mother went off to the Daily Mail who gave it a full page.

The Government is currently reviewing Road Traffic law, and one of the proposals is to create a new imprisonable offence of causing death by careless driving. This runs a real risk of the courts dancing to the tabloids' tune, and imposing disproportionate sentences to please the mob. Accidents happen, and it is for a dispassionate and impartial tribunal to assess the proper penalty if one is appropriate. I fear that we are going to come under pressure to impose severe sentences. It will not, in my view, save a single life.

posted by Bystander

NHS for all?

As a big fat old man, I am naturally concerned about the NICE (as in NICE one?) report which appears to advocate that if a patient who presents for treatment is overweight, a smoker or drinkerm it is OK to defer or even refuse him treatment.
Leave aside the point that without examination there is no way to establish any connection between the 'criminal behaviour' and the affliction, we still have the possibility that the poor sod who does not fit the profile is that way because of the actions of the Government. Rubbish food and no employment tend to go together. Depression may appear to be lifted by alcohol. I say appear before everyone crowds in with their expert medical opinions. The woman is depressed, she drinks, she wants to get treatment for the depression, she is refused because she drinks. In proper hands, this could be written up to be better than the Dead Parrot Joke. I do not intend to get up tight about this; they can treat me or leave me alone and I'll deal with it myself when the time comes. However, this guy has a neat view on the NICE.

Normal service will be .............

Been missing any real drive to contribute here.
Strangely, I think it is because I am feeling pretty chipper.
From lots of reading, I think that most people (not all, before you start!) blog because they want to moan or draw attention to something where they feel moans from someone else would be merited. After all, most people can get themselves to complain about things like bad service or inadequate provision of some resource. Few go the other way and fire off approval to all and sundry when something is satisfactory.
So it is with me. I have the same aches and pains and inability to do what I did twenty years ago but the present situation is that I don't really care about any of this. My attitude that there is a big conspiracy to do me down has left me - maybe the tablets are working? Doubtless, were I to carry out some sort of detailed audit of my blessings I would find there is just as much to bleat and moan about. Right now, I cannot be bothered to look. Long may that last.
So, if I miss a few days it is because I do not have anything strong enough to motivate me and not that I am spending my time on splicing bits of string together to make some sort of hangman's rope.

Cherub

You see - I told you what a lovely baby I was!

Who ate all the pies?

And a flashing of the pink to boot!
Good job he was not going commando.

What a lovely day!!

In terms of scenic beauty, today must be one of the finest days I have seen.
We had a very hard frost overnight. By tenn’ish, the sun had got up but was still very low and slanting. The temperature was about 2 degrees Centigrade.
There was a blue sky that I can only describe as better than Arizona. A really brilliant mid-blue. Other than a few aircraft con-trails, it was completely clear. This meant that the brilliance of the sun was made much sharper. One could literally see for miles. A couple of aircraft went over and added more pin sharp white tracks so there was little wind at high level. It was so clear that I could see the aeroplane itself.
Up in the hills, the low sun meant that some parts of a field would be in bright sunlight and others still frosty in the shadows. The grass was brilliant verdant green. Footpaths and sheep-walks drew a delicate tracery that made some green fields look like lace. Where there were streams, they were mirror black or sparkling gold if the sunshine glanced off. Trees were shown in sharp contrast. In some areas of roadside woodland that are normally just dense blackness, the searchlight effect of the sun brought out the tangled trunks and undergrowth.
Most farmers have put everything to rights for the winter so the fields were, in the main, cleared with hedges neatly trimmed. The bushes in the hedges were gold, copper or black and grew in random sequences. Some sheep were still out and they were just little white blobs with very clearly defined shadows. The male pheasants were stalking about with their colours like jewellery. Other birds were flying and making dense black shapes against the perfect sky. The air itself was crisp – breathing in was like taking a strong nip of whiskey.

Christmas is coming

Sorry about this - I'm having a silly sod sort of day.

I'm in the Arctic

Graffiti

Spotted on the wall of a pub urinal

"Welcome to the White Trash Internet!"

Smoking can damage your health

I reckon that where he is in Iraq, the long-term threat of death from smoking related diseases is the least of his concerns. Don't suppose his comrades worry about passive smoking either.

So there!!

Give this.

Wartime Britain

I make no apology for putting in such a long piece of cut and paste. This woman even went to the same school as I did. We are about the same age.
It reflects a part of my life and our National history. It may even display some of the spirit and attitude that explains what made us Great Britain. These have been nibbled away in what is described as progress and improvement. I do not call it that.

I am now 69 years old and both my parents are dead so what follows is as honest and true an account as I can render.

The day war broke out I was five years old and living at 5, Beltinge Road, Harold Wood, Romford, Essex, with my younger brother Paul, my mother and my father who as a builder had just completed eight semi-detached houses in one of which we lived. My grandmother was with us on that fateful day and she and I were in the front room. She tried to explain to me what war would mean but her experience of war was, of course, based on the first world war which brought about the death of her husband, my grandfather. She told me about Zeppelins and how an air-raid warden would cycle round the streets with a rattle shouting, “Gas. Gas Gas” when the deadly Hun bombed England and dropped poison gas.

Within a few weeks my father had dug an air-raid shelter in the garden (known as the Dug-out and later as an Anderson Shelter, from the man who designed the curved metal shapes). The first dug-out quickly filled with water and was therefore useless. The second was a success. Some short time later everyone was issued with a gas mask. I recall my auntie Jennifer fainting whilst trying her gas mask on and being revived with smelling salts. There were several types of gas mask, huge ones for baby's, the coventional type and others which made the wearer look like Mickey Mouse and very silly.

Everyone was issued with Identity Cards and I recall being on a single deck London Bus (Route 247)when two Home Guard soldiers got on and demanded to see everyone's Identity Card.

Next memory is of an air raid when my cousin June, who lived next door, and I sat up at a window watching the search lights scour the skies for enemy bombers. Shortly afterwards my father was called up into the Army and served the next six years in the Royal Engineers. One day, whilst living in Harold Wood with Dad in the Riyal Engineers I recall finding a drawer full of .303 bullets and being shown a .303 rifle which Dad had 'borrowed' from the army and 'loaned' to my mother. She, I later learned, had been told by Dad how to use the thing. After the war my brother and I played with the rifle in the garden at Lilac Gardens but Dad found us and took it away. We never saw nor heard of it again. My mother went into hospital suffering with tuberculosis and as a consequence my brother and I were taken in to Dr. Barnados in Stepney, east London on 25th June, 1940. (From records supplied by Dr. Barnados.) Although you might think there were other relatives able to take us in this was hardly possible since they were all in the same boat.

I recall little of Stepney but remember after three weeks we were lodged with a lady who lived with her only child, named Neville, in Saffron Walden. Although we were not badly treated I recall we had all servings on one plate without being washed between any courses. Secondly, my brother and I slept together in the same bed with only brown paper as blankets. At my young age I frequently confused the word ‘Neville’ with ‘Devil’ which brought the mother’s stern disapproval and I still have trouble with the name ‘Neville’ to this day, although I can say it well enough I have great trouble in recalling the name ! On the 17th July the lady returned us to Dr. Barnados at Stepney. On the 24th July,1940 we were sent to the Garden City Children’s’ Home at Woodford which was rather odd because Woodford got its share of bombs. On 11th September,1940 we were allowed home as my mother had recovered sufficiently to be allowed home herself.

. Our home in Harold Wood had been unoccupied by our family and as a consequence it was given to a family named Griffiths who had, I assume nowhere to live. I now understand it was common practice to sequester unoccupied homes for occupation by people who had been ‘bombed out’ as the phrase went. The next three years were spent dodging bombs in various houses in Dagenham and Romford.

At one stage we lived in a house in Harold Wood, Romford, and attended the local school, Harold Wood Primary. One frosty, misty morning we set off for school and I thought of a good way of avoiding school. I turned back and told my mother I couldn’t find the school because of the fog but she wasn’t going to have any of that ! The school is on the same side of the road and just 200 yards away so we were packed off again. Imagine, though, my delight and pleasure when we finally reached the school entrance to find it was closed. An Air Raid Warden was at the gate and told us an unexploded landmine, dropped by parachute was dangling from the school roof.! War is not all bad you know. At one stage the roof tiles were blown off our house which, I was told, was the result of a mobile anti-aircraft gun firing nearby.

These were the days of daylight raids and when the air-raid siren sounded we would all be gathered in the school hall where we remained until either our parents collected us or the all-clear was sounded.

On other occasions , the sequences of which I can no longer recall, there were many nights in the air raid shelter in the house we occupied at 3, Lilac Gardens, Dagenham, an unpretentious cul-de-sac of terraced houses with my new school at the end. I have no idea who the owners were, their belongings were padlocked into the from room and mother, my brother Paul and I lived in the rest of the house. At that time I was attending Rush Green Junior School and the favourite game for children in those days was collecting shrapnel from bombs and shells which had landed during the night.

How quickly children get used to things, like ration books, bombers and fighters fighting in the skies above as well as Air Raid Wardens, Concrete Shelters on street corners: Sand bags: Public shelters: The black-out with the familiar cry “Put that light out” wherever lights were unwittingly shown: The netting glued to windows, even on bus windows to prevent glass shattering through bomb damage: The posters, “Twenty-five pounds of waste bus tickets make one shell cap” The cartoon ‘squander bug’ imploring us against waste: Other posters, “Be like Dad – Keep Mum” “Careless Talk Costs Lives” Queues for absolutely everything: The daily change in landscapes and property as a consequence of bombing, and, of course, British Restaurants. The latter were supposed to supply cooked food to supplement rations. Because food was really short getting enough to eat was always a top priority. My mother once gave me enough money to get a meal in a British Restaurant but I found the ‘food’ absolutely ghastly and indeed inedible. They were not well patronised. I feel sure that Britain was on the verge of starvation and anyone who doubts that should take a look at a weeks ration allowance. I recall at some time during the war people, certainly in the London area got to be pretty good at aircraft identification, even down to engine noises because obvioucly fully laden German bombers had a particular drone. The cry , "It's alright, it's one of ours!" was often heard. This would occasionally be followed by the air raid siren and a hail of bombs.

We lived very close to Hornchurch Aerodrome, an RAF Fighter station, to Roneo corner where, it was rumoured Spitfires were being built, to Romford Railway Station where a railway bridge carried all rail traffic to and from London and East Anglia where many aerodromes had been built. We were also close to the RAF Aerodrome at North Weald. So far as I recall none of those places were hit by enemy action.

Throughout all that time I can honestly say I was never afraid; the thought of being killed or injured by enemy action never entered my little head. I recall there was a Post Office at Roneo Corner and on one day a live bomb ( not primed) was situated outside on the pavement with an invitation to put a savings stamp on it as a message to Hitler. I’m now ashamed to say, considering the awful bombing of civilian targets in Germany, I put a sixpenny Savings Stamp on it. At some time during the war a new type of air raid shelter was designed, the Morrison Shelter, named after Herbert Morrison MP, it comprised a huge steel table erected in the living room. In an air raid you could get under the table and shut yourself in with wire mesh sides. Better than going out into the garden to the Ayunder shelter. I recall seeing bombed houses desolated into rubble and all one could see were the Anderson Shelters sticking up among the rubble so they definitely saved lives.

At some time my mother, my brother and I went to stay on a farm in Barton Stacey near Andover, Hampshire. I recall the school was a long walk away down country lanes. The thing that sticks on my mind was that the farmer's wife, a thoroughly unpleasant lady, perpetually moaned about London children getting goodies from the government when her poor Alfie, a hulking fat lout of a boy had nothing. After a short time we returned to London

Dad told me that a German Pilot had landed by parachute at the bottom of our road onto some grass area, I think this was Beltinge Road, anyway,as soon as he landed he was surrounded by some of the locals who said they were going to kill him but when they got to him they found he was, as Dad described him, "Only a boy" and a couple of women there felt sorry for him and wanted to mother him instead.

Another Aunt, Addie Watson, her husband Charlie and their daughter Adele, lived in 5, Lilac Gardens and we shared their air raid shelter. I don’t know why Uncle Charlie was there because all the men were in the Services. One night Dad was home on leave and he and I were walking home when the air raid siren sounded. A bomb or some ordnance landed nearby and we saw what I think was shrapnel skimming along the road like white hot needles

We became used to seeing damaged planes limping home, mainly bombers, sometimes with a crippled engine with propeller twisted and still. The air-raid sirens sounded intermittently and we could hear the warnings getting closer and closer until our own siren gave out its chilling, demented wail. The all-clear was a single tone sound and signalled much relief, principally in my case as an opportunity to climb back into my own bed and sleep.

One night, during an air raid when father was on leave the sirens sounded and we were ushered from our beds along the garden path clutching an assortment of bedding materials in the dark and into the air-raid shelter. It was not a cosy place. After a while the familiar crump of far away bombs and the crack, crack of anti-aircraft fire began to fill the air and then die away. During one such lull Dad decided to go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. After a while he returned with the tea just as we all heard something hurtling earthwards. Dad jumped quickly into the shelter and the following day we assumed his feet landed on the shelter floor at the same time the ‘something’ hit the ground because he didn’t feel the impact. Everyone else did and the most popular opinion was that it had landed very close by. Dad poo-poo’d the idea insisting it was far away.!

The following day Dad and uncle Charlie had a minor row about some damage to flowers in his garden which Uncle Charlie alleged had been caused by me and my brother, Paul. In the course of the dispute my fathers brushed some of the flowers away and revealed, with some shock, a polished tunnel in the clay soil. At first they thought it was a bomb but it later transpired it was an unexploded shell from the anti-aircraft guns( known as Ack-ack, the phonetic terms for A A) used in the previous night’s air raid.

We children were kept far away from it and Dad walked down to the nearest A.R.P post to report the find and was re-directed to another Post in whose area our house stood.(Dagenham) The house was evacuated and I later learned it was Royal Navy personnel who came and retrieved the shell.

In August 1943 mother contracted tuberculosis again and I recall plainly my father kneeling by my bed, tears streaming down his face to tell me we had to go back to Dr. Barnados. In August 1943 we were taken into Dr. Barnados, back to the Garden City at Woodford, in Wakefield House. Although I was unaware of it at the time Woodford was just a few miles from Dagenham. I recall walking through the orchard at the back where fallen apples lay which we were not allowed to pick up and again I experienced that dreadful feeling of emptiness and forsakenness that haunted my soul for a fleeting second. All children in that position most certainly felt the same but we all recovered in short time. There must have been thousands, millions of children across Europe in the same position or worse.

Two months after re-admittance to Dr. Barnados we were shipped off to the Kingston-on-Thames branch (known by the boys as "Dickies Shack" I know not why., made famous by Leslie Thomas in his book This Time Next Week. Anybody interested in what it was like should read his book. I didn’t get to read it until the 1970’s and was so pleased to find that things I was uncertain of did actually occur, one such was the meals. Thanks for that wherever you are Leslie. Tea consisted on two slices of bed and jam. No butter or Marge, just the jam. Strangely enough my brother and I were happy there. The boys would sing the Kingston song, “There is a mouldy shack on Kingston Hill, Where we get goshy soup that makes us ill,…etc. Kingston had its own language for instance, “massive” meant ‘extremely’ so one could say “massive small”. “Goshy” meant ‘rubbish’ and so on.

I got a job as an errand boy shopping for a lady in the town. She used to give me tuppence (Two pennies) and I would go to the greengrocers and buy carrots to eat and share them with my brother.

The air raids continued and we many more nights in the air-raid shelter. My brother and I had to share a bunk ( the explanation given for this requirement was that well, that we were brothers!) We had a top bunk and every time a bomb dropped somewhere close rust would detach itself from the iron roof and fall on us. One day we were out walking on, I believe, Kingston Hill when our ‘Nurse’ the accompanying adult, spotted fighters and bombers in a so called dog-fight in the sky overhead. We were ushered into a ditch and made to lie down. There was a delicately coiled and polished cold lump of dog shit in the ditch where I was supposed to lay my head but for obvious reasons I decided to take my chance with the bombs! By peering through the bushes all we could see was vapour trails and could hear nothing of note. After a while we were allowed to climb out of the ditch and return to our walk.

On the 17th March, 1944 Paul and I were evacuated to Argyll Street, Castlefields, Shrewsbury, with Mr. and Mrs. Blent. They were old then and he probably would have retired but for the war. There we were ideally happy. We loved the school, the adults, the other children, the open fields and hills, the canal and especially we loved the river Severn and the weir. Such a magic place. I used to catch tiny salmon tiddlers by tying string round an empty jam jar and suspending it in the water and when the tiddlers entered heave it out to wonder at their golden, blue and scarlet flashes magnified by the jar. I was also ‘adopted’ by Mrs. Blent’s son-in-law who lived next door. He had an exempted occupation as a train driver and was a keen fisherman. He would take me fishing on the Severn for dace, salmon and pike.

Mr. Blent kept racing pigeons in a pigeon loft in the garden and it was through him I learned how to identify the many colourings of racing pigeons. There was one pigeon of which he was inordinately proud but which had died some years before. Its photo hung on the living room wall and the pigeons name was “Innocent”.

At some stage the Yanks arrived in great numbers and set up their Headquarters in the best hotel in town. The Brits in those days were a clipped up, taciturn race ,as an example if you got on a train no-one would speak for the whole journey. I suppose after years of war what with the blitz and men being killed at the front line or taken prisoners you could hardly expect anything less but the thing is, the Yanks were quite different from any other men I had ever known. As children we found them kind, decent and charming young men, always ready with a smile, good natured and friendly.

On the 17th July, 1945 our Salopian Idyll came to an end when Dad, home for a few days leave, came to collect us and take us back to Rush Green, Dagenham, where we now occupied a flat above a shop, 103, Rush Green Road and I began at my new school in Longbridge Road, Dagenham. We exchanged the meadowed banks of the mighty Severn for that oily sewer, the river Rom and the tumbling Midland hills for the grey, devastated estates of what is now the London Borough of Havering. I was so unhappy at leaving Shrewsbury that my mother later confided she had thought of ending me back.

At some time afterwards we returned to Lilac Gardens where VJ day was celebrated with a bonfire in the street. World War II was officially over. Dad was demobbed in January,1946 but we weren’t able to return to our own home in Harold Wood until 1947.

Of my own family my father served for six years with the Royal Engineers, all of it in the U.K. although in many parts of it. My Uncle Arthur Pilgrim was at Dunkirk, Egypt with the 8th Army, Sicily and Italy, Burma and India, back to the U.K. France after D.Day and Germany. He was also in the Royal Engineers in Bomb Disposal. My father recounted the story of how, after Dunkirk, Uncle Arthur’s wife was in our front room crying and saying softly, “My poor Arthur. My poor Arthur.” When there was a knock at the door and in strode Uncle Arthur, complete with his Lee Enfield .303 rifle. He had a cavalier approach to life and within a few minutes was showing some other chap how to slope arms ! He eventually died of old age in Wales. A cousin was in the merchant navy and died when his ship ,the Rawalpindi was sunk by enemy action Another cousin died when shot down whilst serving in Bomber Command. Another Aunt served in the A.T.S. and is still alive living in Suffolk. So my family was mainly lucky – we made it.

I feel greatly privileged to have known these men and women who served so nobly in a great cause. Ordinary men and women, schoolteachers, plumbers, plasterers, housewives. To have listened to their stories and wondered at how they could lead such dangerous and tormented lives and then go back to being ordinary men and women without the legions of counsellors, psychologists and the like experienced these days is a matter for wonder. No counsellors, no shoulders to weep on, no TV cameras to record the scene. Just get on with it. And if you are too young to have experienced that war then you must feel proud of them too.

Here follows such a story told to me by a man named Smith, a Greengrocer in the village of Thorpe-le-Soken, in Essex in 1962.

Smith was in the peace-time Air force serving in Malaya. He had a friend, also in the RAF, who had a job as bodyguard to a high ranking officer and he encouraged Mr. Smith to apply for the job having been assured it was only a decoration and it was unnecessary to be a good shot or know unarmed combat. Smithy duly applied and got the post which he enjoyed simply accompanying his Officer on duties around Malaya.

Of course it was too good to last and we know why ! War was declared and the Japanese troops had no bother in brushing the British aside as they marched the whole way down the Malayan Peninsular. As the Japanese advanced there was panic in Singapore and all the women and children were evacuated by plane and ship. Finally a small but speedy Squadron of ships and fast boats left Singapore for Australia with as many high ranking Officers and their bodyguards as could be mustered.

They sailed for Australia but on the way were twice ambushed by Japanese warships. They managed to escape during the night by dodging between small islands but Smithy’s boat was holed below the waterline. They managed to limp to an uninhabited island where they beached the boat and managed to live like latter day Robinson Crusoe’s.

After a few days they were discovered by a Japanese Patrol Boat and taken as prisoners of war.. In Smithy’s case it was the infamous Changi Jail followed by forced labour on the Burma Railway. As I said at the beginning, when I met him around 1962 he was a village greengrocer and I have no way of checking his story but I have to say I am convinced it was true.

Here’s another true war story told to me by a retired Harbour Master at Dartmouth in Devon, one Captain Penny. He too was in Malaya with his wife when the Japanese invaded and all the civilians were put on ships and evacuated. Captain Penny arrived late at the port ( I can’t now remember where) and only by pleading with the Captain of a ship which was already full to bursting point did he manage to get her away. The ship was bound for India and after a few days the situation had deteriorated and Captain Penny was evacuated too, a few days after his wife .

By chance he arrived at the same port at which his wife had first disembarked so he went straight to the local bank and was trying to make funds available for her anywhere in the world but the teller wasn’t able to do so, he needed a specific town. By one of those unimaginable chances the man at the next teller position interrupted to tell Captain Penny he had met Mrs. Penny and that she was on her way to South Africa, I think Durban.

A few weeks later Captain Penny arrived at Durban. He walked down the street and bumped into his wife.!

This story gives some indication of what a turmoil the world was in. Again I am unable to vouch for his veracity but when Captain Penny told me this story he was sober and in an earnest mood. From what I knew of him he was not a man to embellish or lie.

Do I bear any grudges ? Well, we are all creatures of conditioning, even at the war’s end our whole school was taken to the cinema to see Shakespeare’s Henry V, a rotten production but loaded up with bits from other Shakespeare’s plays to ram home the “This England” story. We were subject to propaganda too. There is still some resentment at Germany and Japan but it is the innocent Germans and Japanese who paid the price for the guilty and in the final reckoning their suffering was worse.





























THE DAY WAR BROKE OUT…


I am now 69 years old and both my parents are dead so what follows is as honest and true an account as I can render.

The day war broke out I was five years old and living at 5, Beltinge Road, Harold Wood, Romford, Essex, with my younger brother Paul, my mother and my father who as a builder had just completed eight semi-detached houses in one of which we lived. My grandmother was with us on that fateful day and she and I were in the front room. She tried to explain to me what war would mean but her experience of war was, of course, based on the first world war which brought about the death of her husband, my grandfather. She told me about Zeppelins and how an air-raid warden would cycle round the streets with a rattle shouting, “Gas. Gas Gas” when the deadly Hun bombed England and dropped poison gas.

Within a few weeks my father had dug an air-raid shelter in the garden (known as the Dug-out and later as an Anderson Shelter, from the man who designed the curved metal shapes). The first dug-out quickly filled with water and was therefore useless. The second was a success.

Next memory is of an air raid when my cousin June, who lived next door, and I sat up at a window watching the search lights scour the skies for enemy bombers. Shortly afterwards my father was called up into the Army and served the next six years in the Royal Engineers. My mother went into hospital suffering with tuberculosis and as a consequence my brother and I were taken in to Dr. Barnados in Stepney, east London on 25th June, 1940. (From records supplied by Dr. Barnados.) Although you might think there were other relatives able to take us in this was hardly possible since they were all in the same boat.

I recall little of Stepney but remember after three weeks we were lodged with a lady who lived with her only child, named Neville, in Saffron Walden. Although we were not badly treated I recall we had all servings on one plate without being washed between any courses. Secondly, my brother and I slept together in the same bed with only brown paper as blankets. At my young age I frequently confused the word ‘Neville’ with ‘Devil’ which brought the mother’s stern disapproval and I still have trouble with the name ‘Neville’ to this day, although I can say it well enough I have great trouble in recalling the name ! On the 17th July the lady returned us to Dr. Barnados at Stepney. On the 24th July,1940 we were sent to the Garden City Children’s’ Home at Woodford which was rather odd because Woodford got its share of bombs. On 11th September,1940 we were allowed home as my mother had recovered sufficiently to be allowed home herself.

. Our home in Harold Wood had been unoccupied by the family and as a consequence it was given to a family named Griffiths who had, I assume nowhere to live. I now understand it was common practice to sequester unoccupied homes for occupation by people who had been ‘bombed out’ as the phrase went. The next three years were spent dodging bombs in various houses in Dagenham and Romford.

At one stage we lived in a house in Harold Wood, Romford, and attended the local school, Harold Wood Primary. One frosty, misty morning we set off for school and I thought of a good way of avoiding school. I turned back and told my mother I couldn’t find the school because of the fog but she wasn’t going to have any of that ! The school is on the same side of the road and just 200 yards away so we were packed off again. Imagine, though, my delight and pleasure when we finally reached the school entrance to find it was closed. An Air Raid Warden was at the gate and told us an unexploded landmine, dropped by parachute was dangling from the school roof.! War is not all bad you know. At one stage the roof tiles were blown off our house which, I was told, was the result of a mobile anti-aircraft gun firing nearby.

These were the days of daylight raids and when the air-raid siren sounded we would all be gathered in the school hall where we remained until either our parents collected us or the all-clear was sounded.

On other occasions , the sequences of which I can no longer recall, there were many nights in the air raid shelter in the house we occupied at 3, Lilac Gardens, Dagenham, an unpretentious cul-de-sac of terraced houses with my new school at the end. I have no idea who the owners were, their belongings were padlocked into the from room and mother, my brother Paul and I lived in the rest of the house. At that time I was attending Rush Green Junior School and the favourite game for children in those days was collecting shrapnel from bombs and shells which had landed during the night.

How quickly children get used to things, like ration books, bombers and fighters fighting in the skies above as well as Air Raid Wardens, Concrete Shelters on street corners: Sand bags: Public shelters: The black-out with the familiar cry “Put that light out” wherever lights were unwittingly shown: The netting glued to windows, even on bus windows to prevent glass shattering through bomb damage: The posters, “Twenty-five pounds of waste bus tickets make one shell cap” The cartoon ‘squander bug’ imploring us against waste: Other posters, “Be like Dad – Keep Mum” “Careless Talk Costs Lives” Queues for absolutely everything: The daily change in landscapes and property as a consequence of bombing, and, of course, British Restaurants. The latter were supposed to supply cooked food to supplement rations. Because food was really short getting enough to eat was always a top priority. My mother once gave me enough money to get a meal in a British Restaurant but I found the ‘food’ absolutely ghastly and indeed inedible. They were not well patronised. I feel sure that Britain was on the verge of starvation and anyone who doubts that should take a look at a weeks ration allowance.

We lived very close to Hornchurch Aerodrome, an RAF Fighter station, to Roneo corner where, it was rumoured Spitfires were being built, to Romford Railway Station where a railway bridge carried all rail traffic to and from London and East Anglia where many aerodromes had been built. We were also close to the RAF Aerodrome at North Weald. So far as I recall none of those places were hit by enemy action.

Throughout all that time I can honestly say I was never afraid; the thought of being killed or injured by enemy action never entered my little head. I recall there was a Post Office at Roneo Corner and on one day a live bomb ( not primed) was situated outside on the pavement with an invitation to put a savings stamp on it as a message to Hitler. I’m now ashamed to say, considering the awful bombing of civilian targets in Germany, I put a sixpenny Savings Stamp on it.

Another Aunt, Addie Watson, her husband Charlie and their daughter Adele, lived in 5, Lilac Gardens and we shared their air raid shelter. I don’t know why Uncle Charlie was there because all the men were in the Services. One night Dad was home on leave and he and I were walking home when the air raid siren sounded. A bomb or some ordnance landed nearby and we saw what I think was shrapnel skimming along the road like white hot needles

We became used to seeing damaged planes limping home, mainly bombers, sometimes with a crippled engine with propeller twisted and still. The air-raid sirens sounded intermittently and we could hear the warnings getting closer and closer until our own siren gave out its chilling, demented wail. The all-clear was a single tone sound and signalled much relief, principally in my case as an opportunity to climb back into my own bed and sleep.

One night, during an air raid when father was on leave the sirens sounded and we were ushered from our beds along the garden path clutching an assortment of bedding materials in the dark and into the air-raid shelter. It was not a cosy place. After a while the familiar crump of far away bombs and the crack, crack of anti-aircraft fire began to fill the air and then die away. During one such lull Dad decided to go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. After a while he returned with the tea just as we all heard something hurtling earthwards. Dad jumped quickly into the shelter and the following day we assumed his feet landed on the shelter floor at the same time the ‘something’ hit the ground because he didn’t feel the impact. Everyone else did and the most popular opinion was that it had landed very close by. Dad poo-poo’d the idea insisting it was far away.!



The following day Dad and uncle Charlie had a minor row about some damage to flowers in his garden which Uncle Charlie alleged had been caused by me and my brother, Paul. In the course of the dispute my fathers brushed some of the flowers away and revealed, with some shock, a polished tunnel in the clay soil. At first they thought it was a bomb but it later transpired it was an unexploded shell from the anti-aircraft guns( known as Ack-ack, the phonetic terms for A A) used in the previous night’s air raid.

We children were kept far away from it and Dad walked down to the nearest A.R.P post to report the find and was re-directed to another Post in whose area our house stood. The house was evacuated and I later learned it was Royal Navy personnel who came and retrieved the shell.

In August 1943 mother contracted tuberculosis again and I recall plainly my father kneeling by my bed, tears streaming down his face to tell me we had to go back to Dr. Barnados. In August 1943 we were taken into Dr. Barnados, back to the Garden City at Woodford, in Wakefield House. Although I was unaware of it at the time Woodford was just a few miles from Dagenham. I recall walking through the orchard at the back where fallen apples lay which we were not allowed to pick up and again I experienced that dreadful feeling of emptiness and forsakenness that haunted my soul for a fleeting second. All children in that position most certainly felt the same but we all recovered in short time. There must have been thousands, millions of children across Europe in the same position or worse.

Two months after re-admittance to Dr. Barnados we were shipped off to the Kingston-on-Thames branch, made famous by Leslie Thomas in his book This Time Next Week. Anybody interested in what it was like should read his book. I didn’t get to read it until the 1970’s and was so pleased to find that things I was uncertain of did actually occur, one such was the meals. Thanks for that wherever you are Leslie. Tea consisted on two slices of bed and jam. No butter or Marge, just the jam. Strangely enough my brother and I were happy there. The boys would sing the Kingston song, “There is a mouldy shack on Kingston Hill, Where we get goshy soup that makes us ill,…etc. Kingston had its own language for instance, “massive” meant ‘extremely’ so one could say “massive small”. “Goshy” meant ‘rubbish’ and so on.

I got a job as an errand boy shopping for a lady in the town. She used to give me tuppence (Two pennies) and I would go to the greengrocers and buy carrots to eat and share them with my brother.

The air raids continued and we many more nights in the air-raid shelter. My brother and I had to share a bunk ( the explanation given for this requirement was that well, that we were brothers!) We had a top bunk and every time a bomb dropped somewhere close rust would detach itself from the iron roof and fall on us. One day we were out walking on, I believe, Kingston Hill when our ‘Nurse’ the accompanying adult, spotted fighters and bombers in a so called dog-fight in the sky overhead. We were ushered into a ditch and made to lie down. There was a cold lump of dog shit in the ditch where I was supposed to lay my head but for obvious reasons I decided to take my chance with the bombs! By peering through the bushes all we could see was vapour trails and could hear nothing of note. After a while we were allowed to climb out of the ditch and return to our walk.

On the 17th March, 1944 Paul and I were evacuated to Argyll Street, Castlefields, Shrewsbury, with Mr. and Mrs. Blent. They were old then and he probably would have retired but for the war. There we were ideally happy. We loved the school, the adults, the other children, the open fields and hills, the canal and especially we loved the river Severn and the weir. Such a magic place. I used to catch tiny salmon tiddlers by tying string round an empty jam jar and suspending it in the water and when the tiddlers entered heave it out to wonder at their golden, blue and scarlet flashes magnified by the jar. I was also ‘adopted’ by Mrs. Blent’s son-in-law who lived next door. He had an exempted occupation as a train driver and was a keen fisherman. He would take me fishing on the Severn for dace, salmon and pike.

Mr. Blent kept racing pigeons in a pigeon loft in the garden and it was through him I learned how to identify the many colourings of racing pigeons. There was one pigeon of which he was inordinately proud but which had died some years before. Its photo hung on the living room wall and the pigeons name was “Innocent”.

At some stage the Yanks arrived in great numbers and set up their Headquarters in the best hotel in town. The Brits in those days were a clipped up, taciturn race ,as an example if you got on a train no-one would speak for the whole journey. I suppose after years of war what with the blitz and men being killed at the front line or taken prisoners you could hardly expect anything less but the thing is, the Yanks were quite different from any other men I had ever known. As children we found them kind, decent and charming young men, always ready with a smile, good natured and friendly.

On the 17th July, 1945 our Salopian Idyll came to an end when Dad, home for a few days leave, came to collect us and take us back to Rush Green, Dagenham, where we now occupied a flat above a shop, 103, Rush Green Road and I began at my new school in Longbridge Road, Dagenham. We exchanged the meadowed banks of the mighty Severn for that oily sewer, the river Rom and the tumbling Midland hills for the grey, devastated estates of what is now the London Borough of Havering. I was so unhappy at leaving Shrewsbury that my mother later confided she had thought of ending me back.

At some time afterwards we returned to Lilac Gardens where VJ day was celebrated with a bonfire in the street. World War II was officially over. Dad was demobbed in January,1946 but we weren’t able to return to our own home in Harold Wood until 1947.

Of my own family my father served for six years with the Royal Engineers, all of it in the U.K. although in many parts of it. My Uncle Arthur Pilgrim was at Dunkirk, Egypt with the 8th Army, Sicily and Italy, Burma and India, back to the U.K. France after D.Day and Germany. He was also in the Royal Engineers in Bomb Disposal. My father recounted the story of how, after Dunkirk, Uncle Arthur’s wife was in our front room crying and saying softly, “My poor Arthur. My poor Arthur.” When there was a knock at the door and in strode Uncle Arthur, complete with his Lee Enfield .303 rifle. He had a cavalier approach to life and within a few minutes was showing some other chap how to slope arms ! He eventually died of old age in Wales. A cousin was in the merchant navy and died when his ship ,the Rawalpindi was sunk by enemy action Another cousin died when shot down whilst serving in Bomber Command. Another Aunt served in the A.T.S. and is still alive living in Suffolk. So my family was mainly lucky – we made it.

I feel greatly privileged to have known these men and women who served so nobly in a great cause. Ordinary men and women, schoolteachers, plumbers, plasterers, housewives. To have listened to their stories and wondered at how they could lead such dangerous and tormented lives and then go back to being ordinary men and women without the legions of counsellors, psychologists and the like experienced these days is a matter for wonder. No counsellors, no shoulders to weep on, no TV cameras to record the scene. Just get on with it. And if you are too young to have experienced that war then you must feel proud of them too.

Here follows such a story told to me by a man named Smith, a Greengrocer in the village of Thorpe-le-Soken, in Essex in 1962.

Smith was in the peace-time Air force serving in Malaya. He had a friend, also in the RAF, who had a job as bodyguard to a high ranking officer and he encouraged Mr. Smith to apply for the job having been assured it was only a decoration and it was unnecessary to be a good shot or know unarmed combat. Smithy duly applied and got the post which he enjoyed simply accompanying his Officer on duties around Malaya.

Of course it was too good to last and we know why ! War was declared and the Japanese troops had no bother in brushing the British aside as they marched the whole way down the Malayan Peninsular. As the Japanese advanced there was panic in Singapore and all the women and children were evacuated by plane and ship. Finally a small but speedy Squadron of ships and fast boats left Singapore for Australia with as many high ranking Officers and their bodyguards as could be mustered.

They sailed for Australia but on the way were twice ambushed by Japanese warships. They managed to escape during the night by dodging between small islands but Smithy’s boat was holed below the waterline. They managed to limp to an uninhabited island where they beached the boat and managed to live like latter day Robinson Crusoe’s.

After a few days they were discovered by a Japanese Patrol Boat and taken as prisoners of war.. In Smithy’s case it was the infamous Changi Jail followed by forced labour on the Burma Railway. As I said at the beginning, when I met him around 1962 he was a village greengrocer and I have no way of checking his story but I have to say I am convinced it was true.

Here’s another true war story told to me by a retired Harbour Master at Dartmouth in Devon, one Captain Penny. He too was in Malaya with his wife when the Japanese invaded and all the civilians were put on ships and evacuated. Captain Penny arrived late at the port ( I can’t now remember where) and only by pleading with the Captain of a ship which was already full to bursting point did he manage to get her away. The ship was bound for India and after a few days the situation had deteriorated and Captain Penny was evacuated too, a few days after his wife .

By chance he arrived at the same port at which his wife had first disembarked so he went straight to the local bank and was trying to make funds available for her anywhere in the world but the teller wasn’t able to do so, he needed a specific town. By one of those unimaginable chances the man at the next teller position interrupted to tell Captain Penny he had met Mrs. Penny and that she was on her way to South Africa, I think Durban.

A few weeks later Captain Penny arrived at Durban. He walked down the street and bumped into his wife.!

This story gives some indication of what a turmoil the world was in. Again I am unable to vouch for his veracity but when Captain Penny told me this story he was sober and in an earnest mood. From what I knew of him he was not a man to embellish or lie.

Do I bear any grudges ? Well, we are all creatures of conditioning, even at the war’s end our whole school was taken to the cinema to see Shakespeare’s Henry V, a rotten production but loaded up with bits from other Shakespeare’s plays to ram home the “This England” story. We were subject to propaganda too. There is still some resentment at Germany and Japan but it is the innocent Germans and Japanese who paid the price for the guilty and in the final reckoning their suffering was worse.

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Written by:
Ronald Thorne
Created: 02 November 2003
Article ID: 1951544

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