Baggoid Says...

Thanks. Now bugger off...

2011-09-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

So, John Leake’s medals are up for sale and are expected to raise lots of money.

For those who don’t know, John was a former squaddie who, while serving aboard HMS Ardent during the Falklands War as a NAAFI canteen manager manned a machine gun and took out at least one Argie Skyhawk. The ship had the crap bombed out of her and later sank.

He got a Distinguished Service Medal for that. He already had a General Service Medal for Northern Ireland and of course was awarded the South Atlantic Medal when he came home.

I never had the privilege of meeting him and sadly, he died a few years ago, but I understand from those who knew him that he was an unassuming man who couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. In his opinion he had just done what anyone would have done in the circumstances. So typical of people who are hailed as heroes. Ordinary people who do extraordinary things in extreme conditions.

Some may say that it is a shame that John’s medals are being sold off. But medals are a very personal thing, they mean very different things to different people and it is not for anyone to judge the motives of those who sell either their own medals or those of loved ones. I hope that the seller achieves whatever they hope for.

Many feel obliged to sell their medals through hardship, hoping to raise a bob or two in order to pay a bill here and there, and in some cases just to survive to the end of the week.

I’m glad to say that I have never reached those extremes but there is no doubt that I have come uncomfortably close once or twice. It doesn’t do anything for your self-esteem to realise that all you have between you and destitution is a miserable bit of metal – the only thing that represents any sort of acknowledgement of the time when you stood in harm’s way so that others wouldn’t have to.

I count myself lucky. In my day, redundancy was something that only happened to civilians. When I left the Navy, it was my own choice. I can’t imagine how some of those who received their notices to quit today will feel in a few months’ time, when the severance money has run out and suddenly, they don’t matter to those around them. When nobody will give them a job because all they know is discipline and service.

I at least can believe - or kid myself if you like - that my service was in some small way valued, if only for the briefest time.

These poor bastards will have to come to terms with the fact that after all they did, after all the sacrifices, the blood sweat toil and tears, their employer regarded them as nothing more than mere commodities, to be discarded for the sake of scraping a few quid together.

I wonder what they will be thinking when they are staring in desperation at their bit of metal.

What price freedom, eh?

"In the Public Interest"?

2011-07-09T06:20:00.000-07:00

I almost wish I could feel sorry for the News of the World staff.

Being made redundant is not a pleasant experience as I well know. Being made redundant through the fault of others must be doubly unpleasant and being made redundant apparently (and allegedly) to secure the position of one over-paid and somewhat shady executive cannot be anything other than absolutely galling.

But, while I don’t exactly have a sense of come-uppance for the more junior staff, I’m not exactly shedding tears either.

I once courted the idea of dabbling in journalism. Did a course and everything. Even wrote articles and submitted them to editors. Fancied myself as an “Honest John,” an independent island of integrity and authenticity in an ocean of misquotes, embellishments, spin and downright lies. In following this fantasy, I started to look at the way reports are presented, both in print and on the audio-visual media. It wasn’t long before the nasty wiggly worms of doubt started crawling around in my belly. Although I had already begun developing a healthy level of scepticism about most things, up until that point I had had no idea just how deep the misquotes, embellishments, spin and lies went.

I studied in particular one major news event. I can’t remember what it was now, it was so long ago. Anyway, I bought a copy of every newspaper that was running the story and before I got as far as watching the TV news (which happened at six and ten in those days – none of the so-called “rolling” bullshit we get saturated with now) I realised that actually news is not news at all, but an interpretation of current events, wrapped up and presented in a manner aimed at massaging the ego of whatever politically-motivated knob-jockey is tugging the purse-strings.

Before then I had actually believed that everyone ran the stories in pretty much the same way and any political angles were relegated to the editorials. How naïve can a young former sailor be? Well, I never was a newspaper reader. That’s my excuse, anyway.

I started to become convinced that, to be a journalist – or at least a successful one – a person must be prepared to bury all that they stand for and aim for the most sensational and preferably the most salacious version of events that they can. Not to sell news, but to sell newspapers or, in the case of TV and Radio, news programmes.

I have come to hate the term, “In the Public Interest,” with a passion. It is, in my opinion, nothing more than a smoke-screen behind which vicious individuals pass, pouring out an unending fire of vitriol, unseeing and uncaring of the broken and destroyed lives left in their wake.

Even at the level of local newspapers, the seeds are being sewn. A lack of interest in getting facts right or in correcting them when the errors are unearthed pervades even at that modest level. No matter that one person is given credit for the efforts of another, or worse, blamed for the delinquencies of someone else. As long as the column inches are filled, it matters not a jot.

No. I’m glad that my venture into the land of the correspondent went nowhere. The idea of being associated with a group for whom accusations of dishonesty are almost seen accolades makes my skin crawl.

I was going to bang on about the decline of spelling and grammar – the incessant and insistent destruction of our language, but maybe I’ll leave that for another time.

And it’s true to say that, without the greed of the reading public (those who still can read after eleven years in our education system) these misanthropes would not have a market upon which to unleash their bile. Which is why I never read newspapers and rarely if ever get to the end of a news bulletin.

As for the News of the World staff, well, maybe they’ll be able to find jobs elsewhere. Or maybe, as has been suggested by another smug band of journalists feeding off the passion of genuine individuals, the “cynical re-branding exercise” will keep them at their keyboards, ready to poke their noses into somebody else’s Business As Usual.

The Falkland Islands. The FALKLAND ISLANDS.

2011-06-16T03:47:00.000-07:00

Yes, I did write that title twice.

And yes, I am boiling over at the recent comments of the President of the United States of America and his use of the hispanic name for THE FALKLAND ISLANDS.

I can't think straight, I'm so angry. So please forgive me if this post is more rant than anything else.

When those of us who served in the war for THE FALKLAND ISLANDS in 1982 returned home, we knew that sovereignty would continue to be a contentious issue, just as we knew that the French had sold missiles to our enemies and that America had got back on it's fence.

What I don't think that any of us envisaged was the big knife that the present left-winger in the White House was intending to thrust into our backs.

A couple of weeks ago, he was burbling on about Special Relationships (or whatever the trite sound-bite was) but now, in the week of the anniversary of the cessation of hostilities and presumably to suit his own political ends (because that's really what it is all about) he has decided to betray the country that he pretends is one of his most important allies.

Well, a week may be a long time in politics, but to many of us who were in THE FALKLAND ISLANDS in 1982, it is as if it were yesterday. We will never forget where our loyalties lie.

Obama, if you consider us your friends, you've got a bloody funny way of showing it.

I understand that there are some so-called British so-called politicians who agree with him. Well, bollocks to the lot of you.

Just for once, instead of talking out of your collective arses, why don't you get on an aeroplane and go and see THE FALKLAND ISLANDS for yourselves?

See the people. Check out their loyalties and wishes.

No, you bastards won't will you? Because the lives of a couple of thousand people on a remote achipelago mean sod-all when compared with your political ambitions, do they?

And where's our Prime Minister and his bitch in all this? Oh of course. Taking it up the bum from the prez is in the contract isn't it?

Politicians? I've shit 'em.

Love Lusty

2011-05-24T00:35:00.000-07:00

So. HMS Illustrious has been saved from the knacker's yard after all.

After seeing the heart-wrenching pictures of Invincible and Ark Royal - which our government just couldn't wait to get rid of, just in case someone in cabinet had a sensible idea - reading the reports of Lusty's journey back into full service was at least some small cause for celebration.

Of course, she has had her biggest teeth pulled. No fixed wing aircraft are to grace her roof. HMG is determined not to admit that getting rid of the single most versatile combat aircraft this country - sorry - the world has ever seen was a faux-pas of galactic proportions.

But Lusty's "refit plans have been re-drawn", which means that when the October defence cuts happened, MoDUK(Navy) went into "oh shit, let's get the pencil out quick" mode and made some desperate scribbles on the blueprints in order to keep the one carrier we do have. So she'll be carrying helicopters. Presumably, that means Bootnecks as well. Oh well, you can't have everything. (Just joking Royal. Love you really)

Nobody has yet said the dreaded "F" word yet, but I don't suppose it will be long before the stink of Gauloise and Garlic will be floating across Lusty's flight deck. After all, we've still got 49½ years of that bloody stupid 50-year treaty to honour.

Apparently, they have recently allowed around 200 Sea Cadets on board to have a look around. I hope everything important was bolted down...

So, we will have two commando carriers to bulk up our operations then, will we? Well, no. We won't. Apparently Illustrious will be taking over HMS Ocean's role in 2012 once her sea trials and BOSTS and COSTS are finished. Is Ocean going to be refitted, do you think? Or will she quietly be sold to one of our potential enemies? Or turned into razor blades? Answers on the back of a used postage stamp in red crayon...

Well anyway, let's not get bogged down with cynicism eh?

I hear that Lusty's living quarters have been spruced up (new counterpanes and curtains, presumably. Maybe an extra optic in the Senior Rate's bar) and that she has been fitted with the latest IT kit.

Oh well, THAT'S alright then. As long as Jack and Jenny can download porn and play Solitaire, we can all sleep easily in our beds.

From the one photograph I have seen, it appears that the famous ski-ramp has not been removed. Hmm. Not like the MoD to leave a completely superflouous piece of kit in place. I wonder why they didn't waste millions chopping it off.

Hmmm. Well, there are no Harriers on board, global warming is playing merry hell with the snow in Scotland, and there's a Winter Olympics coming up in a couple of years. I guess the UK team's got to practise somewhere...

Tiny Tots

2011-05-14T11:34:00.000-07:00

It's been a while - quite a long while, but I've just been reading the Navy News.

Or maybe I should call it, "The Ever Shrinking, Not-Quite-What-You'd-Call-A-Full-Squadron-That-Has-Lost-It's-Vital-Air-Defence-Capability News".

Of course, it isn't Pusser's fault (for once). If Jack (and for Jack please read Jenny, even if it's not completely accurate nor politically correct in this arsy-versy world of ours) had anything to do with it, we'd double-up tomorrow and surround theses islands with a ring of - um - aluminium, various secret compounds and GRP within a twelvemonth.

I'll give the Navy News it's due. Even with fewer vessels than you might find on the average duck-pond to talk about, it still manages to whip up a storm of enthusiasm for our brave boys and girls in navy blue (read girls and boys if you find that configuration more pallatable), so well done NN.

But I'm only up to page 16 of the rather jerky on-line version, and already I've read about the de-commissioning of five major warships, of which only one has reached the end of her natural.

I also started reading about a British Admiral agreeing with a French Admiral, but I wasn't in the mood for Mills-and-Boon fiction so I skipped on.

And then a small headline caught my eye. It asked whether the RN is shrinking. Apart from wondering whether the writer was short of the odd sandwich, perhaps a bit out of touch with his/her own newspaper, I thought the article might be good for a nice old-fashioned, jack-style rant. You know, the sort of old rubbish I write here.

But no. It was an article about talking dolls. Oh yes. Talking Bootie dolls, talking Pongo dolls (obviously not a true representation) and talking Crab dolls. Sorry, that's Crab dolls with Crab Dog dolls. Oh yes. Presumably the talking Crab dog doll woofs, although I wonder who will be able to tell the difference.

Apparently, some bright spark has recorded the voices of real servicemen (I can use "men" here in it's traditional form, as all the dolls are male. Although I'm not certain about the dog). I wonder how long it took to edit out all the expletives. Oh, sorry, this is the 21st century, isn't it? Servicemen don't swear any more.

Pah!

The ad - sorry - article is careful not to use the trade name of the world's most famous military ACTION figure, as am I, but apparently, if you've still got one, you can change it's clothes with Corporal Chatterbox, or whatever they are calling it. Who could resist?

By the way Navy News, I just LOVE the reference to ten inches of Royal Marine. Glad to see that someone can still find something to laugh about in the Service. Nice one.

I see that the Bootie and the others need batteries to make them work. Nothing changes, eh? Hope there's somewhere appropriate to shove 'em.

And just when you thought it was safe to let go of your aching ribs, there is, apparently, a range of not-Lego figures being launched too, with accessories to follow. Yes, Jack, Crab, Pongo and Bootie, all with U-shaped hands and detachable heads - and Bootie is all camoed up as well. At least, I THINK that's camo.

Well. Chuckle my wobbly bits.

But hoot that they may be, they're huge fun, and who can blame the manufacturers for responding to current trends? And to be honest, unlike the Services which they portray, the only thing these figures will gain from being a success will be more and better kit and a massively increased budget.

Increased budget? Oh well, they can't be that realistic then can they?

Snark snark

2011-03-08T11:11:00.000-08:00

OK, I admit it. I didn't blog every day while on holiday - although I did make a good deal of use of my laptop. And I haven't blogged since I got back.

It's not that I've been too busy, although heaven alone knows, my feet haven't touched and Bosworth seems a dim and distant memory. I suppose it's a symptom of my contrary nature. Indeed the fact that I only blog once in a blue moon anyway is a similar symptom. I hate HATE being told what to do. Yes, I know, I suspect that most people feel that way to a certain extent, but I even get snarky when reminding myself that I need to do something.

And when I get snarky, I dig my heels in. When that happens, my hyper-guilt swings into action and I start telling myself off - which make me snarky. In go the heels again and... well, you get the idea.

So when that Blogger tab comes up in my browser, I gloss over the gut wrench, suppress the angry curl of the lip, completely ignore the fact that it's so long since I last blogged that my latest post is about to apply for its pension, and navigate quietly away, intent on anything but honouring my self-imposed commitment to the edification of the internet by means of my shallow and meaningless drivel.

I'm not going to apologise for my absence. To begin with, I don't suppose anyone gives a toss anyway, but in any case apology would seem to admit to a level of culpability which would only result in guilt and we all know where that would lead.

Getting snarky with a laptop on one's lap is dangerous. Laptops don't fly particularly well. It's a well-known fact, the realisation of which would only occur to me in that instant just after the very last one in which I could realistically have reversed that latest in a lifetime of disastrous actions.

And I suppose there's just an outside chance that that would make me - oooh, what's the word? Oh yes. That's it.

Snarky.

Down Time

2011-02-19T08:07:00.000-08:00

It's three years since Suzy and I have had what you might call a holiday. We've had a couple of long weekends and one great couple of days involving shotguns and bows (!!) but mostly, those weekends are spent visiting our parents.

Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against going to see my parents and really I don't get to do it as often as I would like. But at their age, it's no sort of holiday - certainly not relaxing, and usually quite busy.

The last time Suzy and I actually went away anywhere was when I took her to Prague for her birthday. We had a great time but ended up spending a huge amount of it asleep! But it was good to get away from the phone and the thunder of machines for a few days and I'm hoping that this coming week will be similar.

Budgetary restrictions - and an unwillingness on my part to spent vast amounts of time in an airport - mean that we are staying in the UK, but we have found a nice-looking hotel which is doing seasonal half-board deals. Yipee! No scrabbling around for an evening meal!

The fact that it coincides with half term in most places in the UK means that there will probably be loads of kids about, but I can live with that, particularly as our own grandankle-biter will be there too.
He doesn't know we're going yet and I for one can't wait to see if our arrival makes or destroys his week. I'm never sure which way it will be.

But whatever happens, it will be different from the normal routine and at the moment, as busy as it has been recently, that alone will make it very welcome and very worthwhile.

I'm looking forward to it, and that's the first time I've been able to say that about anything much for a long time.

All Better Now

2011-02-09T06:43:00.000-08:00

What can I say?

A big "Thank you" to everyone who sympathised and offered advice and encouragement by various means.

My PC is well again and, thanks to Phil, didn't cost me a penny.

Sometimes folk make me feel very humble.

Can't Live With 'em

2011-02-08T12:00:00.000-08:00

Bloody computers.
Can't live without 'em, can't put five thousand volts through 'em without losing most of who you are.

I had plans today. Plans for this posting. But now, thanks to some complete wanker, probably in a hovel on the other side of the planet, all I can think about at the moment is how much the repair to my desktop pc is going to cost and why I wasted forty-five quid on bloody McAfee this year.

Because, whilst searching for a picture on Google Images, I managed to adopt some virus or another. It's so galling. Stupid as I am with many things, I am not daft when it comes to computer security. I don't open e-mails I don't totally trust and I never, but never, click on popup boxes unless I am absolutely sure about them. Indeed, I have popup blockers and anti-virus software installed as a matter of course, as do all sensible pc users.

So when this THING appeared on my screen, trying to look like McAfee and claiming that I had a bazillion bugs in my system, I shut down. Too late. I now can't open anything - Mc-wonderful-I-think-not-didn't-even spot it-Afee included, and all I can do is await the local computer doctor who will no doubt lighten my wallet substantially.

Of course it's all my fault. Bound to be really. The fact that my business records are currently inaccessible and this happened before the daily backup doesn't do anything to make me feel better.

Good job I have just replaced my laptop. At least I can come to my blog and whinge.

I had such a thoughtful posting lined up too. Something about my battered faith in human nature being given an unusal lift by the news of Moslems and Christians protecting each other at the weekend in Cairo; something else about admitting that perhaps I should be a little less suspicious and a little more hopeful.

All that sort of thing.

And then some anonymous arsehole ruined my day. Had it not been for my desktop letting me down big time last week - ironically - he or she might have ruined my business too. Thank god for inconvenient reconfigurations.

Oh well. At least I'm not disappointed. Furious, maybe. Spitting nails even. But not disappointed. That would imply that I had hoped for something better.

A Moment's Pause?

2010-12-20T09:46:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought it was safe…

A salutory lesson in not taking anything for granted.

There I was, after my last blog, still flat out trying to get all the Christmas stuff out and then suddenly, all the one-offs and Christmas presents seemed to be done.

“I’ve caught up!” I announced triumphantly to Suzy, “I’ve been trying to catch up all year and now I have.”

And all of a sudden I felt all end-of-term-ish and started to kick back a bit.

It’s nearly Christmas, I told myself. Nobody’s going to hit you with mounds of work at this late stage. Just enjoy a slightly more relaxing time before it all kicks off again in the New Year. There’s a couple of runs outstanding but you can work your way through those at a little more leisurely pace.

How wrong can you be?
Because barely was the thought formed when the phone started ringing…

I should have known.

Kick back? Relax? Ha! I wish!

But now the focus has changed completely. OK, well there are a couple of small jobs for delivery after Christmas but even cynical old unshockable me was surprised by the number of longer “runs” that came in the space of half a day.

Clubs, emergency services, businesses, all getting their orders in before the VAT increase in January. And who can blame them?

On top of all that came a monster order for Sea Cadet badges – one which, despite my moratorium, I accepted because there’s no way it could be done before Christmas, and so is something for the New Year. It’s brilliant and I still can’t really believe that people want to buy stuff from me.

It’s all good. No, really. It is. I might feel like I'm standing on my head clapping my feet sometimes, but what right-minded business-owner can complain of having too much work?

Last year I described January as a time when, for the first time since I started this embroidery lark, I “hit the ground running” instead of waiting for business to rev up for a month.

This year, I don’t think my feet will even touch.

And I might even be able to afford Phil’s wages, instead of adopting the "Pay and Pray" principle.

Stranger things have happened.

I wonder if my mentioning Sea Cadet badges will prompt another phone call from Lambeth.

Hmmm.

Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges Sea Cadet badges.

Not that anyone will be there for me to wind up this week...

The Ultimate Deadline

2010-12-13T07:28:00.000-08:00

It’s over a month since I last blogged and I’m getting withdrawal symptoms.

Busy Busy Busy!

It’s fair to say that, even after seven years of trading, I have not been able to establish a pattern to my pre-Christmas business. The first couple of years were completely flat in the two weeks before the event. More recently the period has been busy with organisations getting their corporate stuff done before the end of the year. This year – so far – has been bonkers. Busy in a much more seasonal way than before with a huge number of orders for bespoke, one-off jobs which are obviously Christmas presents. And the “corporate” stuff has been there as well.

Coupled with those has been a sudden increase in orders for Sea Cadets badges. I mean a huge increase. Why that should be I can’t tell but I’m not objecting.

But it’s left me with a little bit of a problem, albeit temporary.

Felt badges are, by their nature, time-consuming to produce. Normally, I can juggle orders around to fit them in but Christmas is what can only be described as the Ultimate Deadline.

At most times of year, if an order is shifted a day or so back, it’s no big deal, as long as it is completed within the specified time but at Christmas, everyone – and I mean everyone – wants their stuff done well before that one day.

No surprises there but something has had to give. Only one of my machines is capable of producing most of the badges and at the moment that is busy doing Christmas orders. So I’ve had to place a temporary moratorium on badges. I really didn’t want to do it and to be honest I didn’t do it until long after I should have done.

Doing something like that is a terrible risk. I hope the customers who are most affected will understand and that they will all come back in January. Not least of all because I have only recently invested in a new set of cutting needles (blinkin' expensive they are too) and I need to justify their existence!

If it sounds like I am complaining about being busy, believe me I am not. Bills have to be paid, even over the festive season, so the more I can put into the bank now, the less I will have to panic later.

So keep those badge orders coming – Sea Cadets badges, blazer badges, felt patches, clothing, whatever. I’ll get everything done asap as usual.

While I'm at it, to all my customers, whatever you have bought or are planning to buy, a HUGE THANK YOU for your continued faith in me and ABS Embroidery.

And now I'd better get back to doing some work. No peace for the wicked...

Rotating Admirals

2010-11-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

It's enough to make a one-armed, one-eyed, short-arsed Georgian admiral spin in his borrowed coffin.

I have to admit that I hmmm'd a bit on hearing that, not only would we complete two aircraft carriers that we can't afford, but that one of them would probably never see an aircraft and the other might possibly never sail at all.

I gasped aloud at the idea that we might actually have to share the damned things with, of all nations, the French. But when I heard that our wet-behind-the-ears spending-cuts-mad Prime Minister has managed to tie us into that treaty for FIFTY YEARS, I damned near fell off my inflatable comfort-ring.

Ooooooooo Emmmmmmmmm Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Yes, I know that we haven't actually been at war with them for quite a long time now, and I also acknowledge that the days of referring to them as Cheese-Eating Surrender-Monkeys are also well in the past (now THERE was a PM who stuck up for his country) but I can't help thinking that my hairy-arsed old oppo "RFA Pete" put it in a nutshell earlier today when he told me:

This is how the sharing of Aircraft Carriers will work. The British one goes in for refit and the French tell us to Foxtrot Oscar when we want to use theirs. But of course if we tell them the same thing when theirs is in for refit, we are being difficult and obstructive.

We all know it ain't going to work.

And he should know. Don't ask me how I know he should know. Just take it from me that he should know.

I mean come on. The relationship that this country has with La France - the real relationship I mean, not the one that the PC politicians bray on about - is not exactly conducive to Entente Cordiale. Nor even to Lime Cordial(e) for that matter.

Frog-baiting has been a national pastime ever since the Normans chose to forget their Gallic roots and call themselves English. Things that one would not dream of even thinking about any other race, creed or nation can, when applied to the land across La Manche - sorry, forgive me, slip of the intellect there - the land across the English Channel, be uttered in full hearing of the Opinion Gestapo without even the slightest twitch of their Thought Realignment Probes.

So imagine the level of rapport that would exist when the French navy (which, by the way, rarely ventures out of its ports in case Nelson is still about) takes up residence in what will effectively be our only major warship.

Can't see Jolly Jack liking it much. I can't speak for Jenny, because I'm an old dinosaur in whose day women only went to sea on Families Days and were restricted to "Public Areas". But assuming that she is of a similar mind-set, there may be trouble ahead.

There's the language barrier for a start. I can just imagine half a ship's company murdering, out of sheer bloody-mindedness, a language they can actually speak perfectly reasonably, while the other half try to communicate by speaking their own language VERY LOUDLY AND SLOWLY, and ending every sentence with "froggy".

And that's without Jack's inevitable reaction to Gallic posturing before Jenny. Bloodbath doesn't even begin to describe it.

Of course, having been brought up in the land of self-righteous obsequiousness and false tolerance, Jack and Jenny will all have been sent to classes to learn the lingo and respect the culture, while their French counterparts will have attended lectures to reinforce their belief in the barbarism of the British, the iniquity of Nelson, Rodney, Howe and Hood and the duplicity of Churchill.

Unless things have changed very much since my day (and I concede that they might) Jack will quite probably listen to the lectures and then use the most useful bits as weapons in the war of attrition which will exist within the pre-fabricated walls of HMS White Elephant.

And if the French run true to form, when - sorry - if we do share one of their bateaux, it will be more like a run ashore than a deployment. Mind you, the port of Toulon's not bad, as long as you keep one hand on your wallet and the other one well behind you.

I could wax even more lyrical about the reasons why this weapon sharing is a bad idea, but I think I'll leave the last word to RFA Pete.

There is another reason we could never share an aircraft carrier with the frogs. It would stink of Galloise and garlic.

Defence Cuts - How do you tell the Kids?

2010-10-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

What have they done to our Fleet, daddy?
What have they done to our Fleet?

They’re making their balance-sheet neat, my son
The mayhem is pretty complete.

Why are they scrapping the Ark, daddy?
Why are they scrapping the Ark?

I thought they were having a lark, my son
But they’ve made the future look dark.

Why have the Harriers gone, daddy?
Why have the Harriers gone?

Costs too much to keep them on, my son
The Fleet Air Arm’s future is done.

But they’re building two shiny new ships, daddy,
They’re building two shiny new ships.

Those vessels will stay on the slips, my son
Too costly to make any trips.

They’ve thrown our defences away, daddy!
Why have they thrown them away?

They’ve saved a few pennies that way, my son
But tomorrow’s a frightening day.

Copyright © B K Bilverstone October 2010

It's English, Jim, But Not As We Know It

2010-09-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

I'm not pedantic about the English Language. At least I don't think I am. On almost any day, you'll find me blithely disregarding mis-used apostrophes, turning a blind eye to poor spelling and positively ignoring grammatical inconsistencies.

Indeed, I have even been known to start and end sentences with prepositions and on occasion have even split an infinitive (although I have guiltily made compensatory sacrifices at the Altar of Grammatical Correctness shortly thereafter - as I will have to do again, it seems, and quite soon).

But just occasionally, along comes an example of mangled English which makes me either gasp or laugh out loud. And today, one such gem graced my inbox. In fact, it was such an irresistable specimen that my inner Mischievous Elf was awakened and stormed into action without my Conscious Mind having a chance to put on the brakes of decorum.

The offending word was "Circularise", which I don't think is a word anyway. At least not on this side of the Atlantic, and on the other side, it would almost certainly have been spelled with the obligatory Z.

So, not only a non-word, but an mis-spelled non-word Americanism. Well, alright, no problem. I have completely got over myself when reading American English. It is, after all, a foreign language that just happens to look and sound like ours for quite a lot of the time. Took me a few decades to get to that acknowledgement, but I'm there now and enjoying the guilty peace of acceptance.

But when applying what I consider a basic rule of grammar (so basic, and learned so long ago, that I could not actually quote the rule if you paid me in bullion) when I see "ise" (or "ize") on the end of a word, I think along the lines of "make into whatever the rest of the word suggests."

So, to me, "Circularise" means, "make into a circle," when in fact, what the sender actually meant was "Circulate," i.e. pass around.

I couldn't help myself. Mischievous Elf had already made a screenshot of the offending article, put it into Photoshop and this was the result, which Elfy-Boy had returned to the sender before Conscious Mind could utter so much as a disapproving tut...

Yes, well. It amused me for a few minutes anyway.

Time on my Hands

2010-09-21T11:16:00.000-07:00

Over the last couple of weeks, it's been so busy that I've been on the point of standing on my head and clapping my feet. And that's without the assistance of John Barleycorn. (Check out your traditional English songs if you don't get that reference)

So busy in fact that I haven't had a moment to post even the smallest amount of drivel on here. And yet, here I am, stumped by broadband speeds.

I've got a ten megabit cable connection to the big wide world. Now I know that's only a nominal speed and is dependent upon all sorts of thing like distance from the exchange, number of morons gaming on-line and the colour of my Y-fronts but here I am, with big plans of rounding off a fourteen hour day by paying a few bills on-line.

Now whatever you think about on-line banking, if you're running the kind of micro-business that I am, in this day and age, it's pretty much essential. Bad enough that I have to take precious production-time away from the throb of embroidery machines to pay cheques in (not that I am complaining about income of course - heaven forfend!) without having to queue behind people at the bank. Perish the thought.

So you can imagine my deep and meaningful joy at having to have to sit here and wait - and wait - and wait - while IE finds my bank's website (eventually), only for that to time-out three times in a row.

I've just about got used to everything slowing down significantly at about 1pm as our friends across the Pond stretch, yawn and reach for the nearest electronic life-essential before even rolling out of their racks. But the internet chugging that goes on after 3pm when our own sweet little gene-pool extenders, kicked out of their half-days at school get home and go into Automatic Keyboard Mode beggars belief.

Haven't they got homework or something? Or CBeebies? Do they really have to interfere with folks going about their lawful electronic occasion? Can't they play out, like normal kids used to do?

Or am I a little bit old fashioned?

In South East Asia, their internet speeds are sooooooooo fast that even if every head of population were on line at once, they would not notice any significant reduction in connection speed.

OK, so most of them don't have food to put on the table and would have their genitals microwaved if they so much as thought about looking at decadent Western websites but hell, isn't it about time we got things sorted out over here?

By the way, I wrote this last Christmas twelvemonth. It's only just managed to squeeze itself along our Victorian cables. If you've got to this point, you're reading too slowly.

No STIGma Attached

2010-09-02T10:34:00.000-07:00

I quite like Top Gear on the BBC. In my opinion, it is one of the best comedy shows on TV and although it does feature overgrown schoolboys getting erections about over-priced machines, it isn't anything like as up itself as it's opposite numbers on the other channels are. And let's face it, when did any of those shows attract Cruise and Diaz to drive their resident heap of shit?

So what's all this rubbish about The Stig about then?

We know who the "Black Stig" was and now we know who the now recently departed "White Stig" was.

So what? Yes the mystery is a bit of fun and it certainly must make going to the shops a hell of a lot more anonymous for the incumbent than it is for the three "boys".

But am I the only one who thinks that actually, this nonsense in the courts is all a bit of a publicity stunt?

Not that Top Gear's ratings are in any danger, and the Beeb's income from the ninety or so countries who have bought the show must give them a near-nuclear glow in the wallet.

Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said something about bad publicity being better than no publicity at all? Well, this publicity is far from bad however it is packaged and presented.

The reps from the Concrete Doughnut have been on the telly bewailing the shattering of confidence and earnestly telling us that the next Stig (if there is one - of course there will be another one) will be contractually obliged to keep his (or maybe her) trap shut. Enter a non-debate about human rights.

It's all been very heartfelt, very deep and meaningful. Until James May got in on the act in a radio interview and roundly took the piss - with an appropriately sincere and earnest expression on his face of course.

It's moving into the realms of Yesterday's News now. After all, there's only so much you can milk from so obvious a non-scandal.

Let's hope that Messrs. Clarkson, Hammond and May have made suitable arrangements to store the extra dosh that all this fuss will generate for them.

Critically Vexed

2010-08-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

I don't write reveiws because I'm not a professional critic. And generally speaking, I don't read them either.

And all I can say, having just read a so-called review is, "If that's what it takes, then thank god for that!"

Now I quite like BBC's new drama series "Vexed". I like the actors who are in it and I particularly like the god-awful main characters.

He is cringingly crass, unprofessional, lazy, sexist, everything-ist and she is so far up herself that any moment now she is going to pop out between her own teeth.

But that's the point. It's not a serious portrayal of police work. It doesn't even fall properly into the crime fiction genre. It is about the relationship between to seriously flawed colleagues. And it's silly. As it is supposed to be.

The fact that they are difficult to watch only shows how well the actors portray them. And, in my house at least, there are regular exposions of delighted laughter at something or other whenever it is on.

Now that is about as critical as I get. Because I actually work for a living.

I don't spend my entire life trawling through various forms of entertainment to see who I can villify in print. I'm not particularly well educated, because at sixteen, I got off my arse and went and earned a crust and have been doing so ever since.

So when I read Damien ****'s so-called review about "Vexed" on the website of a certain newspaper just now, I was left feeling astounded that someone could actually earn money writing such pompous shit. The boring toe-rag even managed to make a disparaging remark about the author's other current hit "Misfits" (E4) to which I have been glued, but gives no satsifactory nor even sensible argument to back up his remark.

So I'm afraid this particular review, in my completely pointless and invalid opinion, is about as useful and worthwhile as the chocolate fireguard to which I am so fond of alluding.

And if none of this makes any sense and just seems to be worthless drivel, would you mind putting my name up to some newspaper editors please?

You never know, I might get to write a review.

How does it feel Damien, to have a nobody tear the shit out of you for no other reason that to stroke his own over-fed ego?

A Sea of Memories

2010-08-24T08:45:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again. Remembrance time of year, I mean.

"No it isn't!" I hear you cry, "'Poppy Day' is in November!"

And so it is. But it's too easy to think that that is the only time of year when veterans remember their comrades, friends, even relatives who have died in the service of their country. With Britain's track record, Remembrance time of year is any time of year, really.

Being an ex-serviceman with things to remember myself I have, over the years, been to countless parades and commemorations at all sorts of different times. But it was only last year that I was introduced to Merchant Navy Day, which takes place early in September every year. You can see from the photograph above that it takes a very similar format to military remembrance parades, but the difference is that the people who are being commemorated are not fighting men, and it is not just those who have been lost in time of conflict who are remembered.

This parade at the Merchant Seamen's Memorial at Tower Hill in London stands out for it's commemoration of civilians who have worked and still work at sea and who, by the very nature of their jobs put their lives on the line at all times of the year, in all weathers, in war and in peace, to keep the rest of us living in the style to which we have become accustomed. They have served alongside the fighting men (and more recently women) since time immemorial and their contribution goes largely unacknowledged outside of the Merchant shipping fraternity. Though we are an island nation, the vast majority of those who live in the UK take our lifestyle for granted and have absolutely no concept of just what a dangerous place the sea is to be. I suppose that means that the seafarers are doing their jobs properly.

Meet Patrick and Rosie. Rosie's the small one with the greater endowment of white hair.

We met them at last year's Merchant Navy Day. It seemed to me that Patrick cut a rather lonely figure after the parade and Rosie's devotion to him was moving to watch. She obviously thinks the world of him and he of her.

But actually, his apparent lonliness turned out to be self-inflicted. We spoke to him for a little while, and he seemed happy to chat, but he was not giving much away. He was determined though to sit on that particular bench and I suppose that his memories were tied up in the names on the wall behind him. Memories which he was clearly keeping alive but very much to himself. Some memories get you like that.

After chatting with him and giving Rosie the obligatory scratch between the ears we, of course, made a bee-line for the pub - we had a bit of a struggle finding one that wasn't crammed to the rafters with blazer-clad veterans and their families. You could tell the experienced attendees - they were the ones sitting down with their second pints. The rest of us mere mortals either queued hopefully or went in search of somewhere less packed.

But not Patrick. Not for him the hubbub and jostling. No queueing at the bar or claiming an early chair. He simply waited until most people had left the Memorial, made his way around the Sea of Ensigns and then, when all was quiet, sat on that bench with Rosie and pulling out a can of lager from his shopping bag had, in his own words, "A drink with my mates."

Fair winds and safe landfalls, Patrick.

The Sea of Ensigns. Hundreds of Red Ensigns planted in the grass beside the wreaths

SCC Communications - Read the Writing on the Wall

2010-08-17T08:39:00.000-07:00

I just wrote a post full of argument and opinion but what's the point? Who would take any notice?

Sea Cadet Headquarters - ARE YOU SERIOUS? Mobile phones instead of a Communications Branch?

How is that different from what Cadets do in their every day lives?

Where is the sense of achievement from having learned something unusual?

Whatever happened to doing a subject for no other reason than that the Cadets enjoy it?

Heads Up! The SCC IS NOT the junior Royal Navy. It never has been and despite your best efforts, it never will be.

Communicators, sort out a syllabus that SCHQ can swallow and do it now because you're going to get the chop if you don't. It's all about money you know, nothing else.

Yes, chuck out "my" CTM. Put one together of your own. Pare it down to essentials. Dumb down if you have to but for heaven's sake, stop taking this crap up the bum!

Act while you still can. Don't wait for someone else. There IS no-one else.

If you really care, do something about it. Now.

Bugger of a Big Bug

2010-08-11T03:21:00.000-07:00

New Delhi metallo-ß-lactamase-1 is probably not a name with which Joe Public is, or is likely to become familiar, but it's abbreviation - NDM-1 - is.

This morning the BBC News have been screaming blue murder about what they have, inevitably, dubbed "The New Superbug" which has apparently been creeping into our hospitals. The potential for it's spread is, it seems, enormous and the Medical Profession does seem genuinely worried about it. Stand by for the next Pandemic.

Aparently it's not actually a bug, but some sort of enzyme which not only lives inside an assortment of bacteria, but has the potential to leap between species of bacteria and create multi-resistance to even some of the MRSA-killing drugs which have been developed.

It seems that, as soon as we overcome one serious threat to our collective health, another looms on the horizon. Something of a microscopic arms race and our hospitals are about to become, once again, the front line in a never-ending battle. It's nothing new. The fight has been fought since the birth of infection control and the battle against indolence is as tough as that against the bugs themselves.

Hand-washing was mentioned on the news this morning. It's such a quick and simple thing and it saves lives. Well, I could tell you some stories of doctors who think they are above such mundaneness. Best if I don't name names as the law suit would cost me everything and I really can't afford to lose that thirty-two pence.

I don't know if things have improved since I bowed out of NHS employment, whether the education approach has actually worked, but I have to say that, on a visit to a Care Of The Elderly ward at our local General recently, the hand cleanser dispensers were remarkably full but looked remarkably fresh and untouched.

Now I'm no goody two-shoes but old habits die hard and as I entered and left I gave my hands a quick squirt but I have to say that nobody else seemed to, and no-one in any level of authority made any sort of comment. Perhaps they were shy. Perhaps they were scared of being disciplined for speaking out of turn (which would never surprise me with the NHS). Or perhaps they didn't actually care that much. After all, it was a Care-Of-The-Elderly ward so I don't suppose a bit of lethal infection here and there was going to be considered of any great moment. And they were of course, busy-busy.

If this new pathogen is as dangerous as they say it is, given that the ramifications of not asking someone simply to wash their hands could be global, our famous British Reserve could - quite literally, be the death of us all. Because the bugs are winning and our indolence is their greatest ally.

Heroes are Legion

2010-08-05T01:31:00.000-07:00

I can't help but admire Help for Heroes and I have nothing but respect for Bryn and Emma Parry who started it all. They have raised a phenomenal amount of money since their "small beginnings" in 2007 and continue to do so in a way that has caught the public imagination. Long may their efforts be successful.

The wave of publicity that has been key to their success has, in the opinion of some, tended to sideline other, pre-existing service charities, not least of all the Royal British Legion.

Say, "Royal British Legion," and many - in fact most people, possibly even you as you read this, conjoure up a vision of old men in blazers and berets and then immediately write them off as an irrelevance. Is that you? Are you, even now, stifling a bored yawn and being tempted to log out of this blog? Well if it is and you are, shame on you.

It's a sad, sad fact that, in the UK, we have a tradition of chucking our old folk on the heap: past their sell-by date, useless to society, their influence upon the lives we now enjoy ignored. Despite a veneer of official protestations to the contrary, a few bits of toothless legislation and the odd tv documentary, Britain - perversely - is almost proud of it's ageist bias. And as a country, we have no concept of the level of contempt that this attitude engenders for us from around the world.

What Help for Heroes has achieved and hopefully will continue to achieve cannot, and should not be underestimated. But what about the long-term? Will they continue to focus upon the immediate needs of young wounded Service Personnel or will they, as the Afghan war reaches its inevitable conclusion, start to look to those people's continued needs? And indeed will they be able to? It's a fairly safe bet that something else is going to kick off and that our young men and women will be losing bits of themselves on foreign shores for decades to come so if H4H is busy with them, who will be there five, ten, twenty, forty, sixty years down the line?

Just because an old man lost something, either physical or mental, in the service of his country before you and I were born, does not mean that he is any less of a hero than the nineteen-year-old lad who has just been blown up in Helmand. When that old boy made his sacrifice - guess what? - he was probably about nineteen. Most of them are, you know.

So please. Don't just reserve your acknowledgment of the ex-service associations and their members for a thirty second slot on a November Sunday, full of irritation at a bunch of super-annuated old farts, sauntering along the road in front of you with a couple of banners flying in the wind on the way to their drinking club. (You have, after all, got a really important football match to get to, haven't you?)

This is not an appeal on behalf of the RBL or any of the other organisations. I'm not asking you to stick your hands in your pockets, to divert your hard-earned and generously given funds away from whatever it is you believe in and support.

All I'm saying is, that helping heroes does not stop at the issue of a prosthesis. It's a lifelong commitment to thousands upon thousands and the Royal British Legion, along with the Royal Naval Association, Royal Marines Association, Royal Air Forces Association, various Regimental Associations, Blesma, associations linked to specific conflicts and theatres of war, even the Merchant Navy Accociation (because civilian sailors serve us in war too) and others too numerous to mention, have been making that commitment to heroes, young and old - even those who have received help from elsewhere - for a long, long time.

Don't write them off.

In fact, why not have a look at their websites - they're all linked from this blog

Come the Hour

2010-07-28T23:55:00.000-07:00

I love the very early morning at this time of year.

0530. Clear air, azure sky, dawn chorus as the birds awake.

The clatter of embroidery machines going flat out to meet customer deadlines.

Rolling out of bed at Sparrow-Fart is an occasional occupational hazard for a sole trader in my line of work. I'm not complaining. To make a buck you have to take the rough with the smooth - within reason.

But I'm a little long in the tooth to jump through unreasonable hoops and I definitely - DEFINITELY - do not do obsequious.

All businesses, from the tiniest of micro-efforts like mine up to the very biggest multi-nationals are reliant upon their customers for their very existence and woe betide the business that doesn't make at least some effort to keep them happy.

But there are limits. The days of the store holder bowing and scraping to Lady Muck's every whim whilst her over-pampered poodle craps on his shoe are long gone. Or are they?

To make a small business succeed, most owners will do what they have to do. Most will admit that for most of the time it's a struggle. But nobody said it would be easy, did they?

Our modern western love of instant gratification, continually reinforced by the media, does nothing to alleviate the situation. The look of incomprehension on the faces of some customers, particularly some of the younger ones, when they are told that they may have to wait a week or so in the queue for their particular job to be done is nothing short of comical.

Despite the policies of Diversity (god-awful misuse of a word) that have been forced upon us all in recent years, where we are all expected to be model citizens, caring deeply about each and every soul with whom we come into contact, most people are still essentially self-orientated and still expect businesses to be staffed by Yes-Men (Women, Trans-Genders and those who are not absolutely sure) saying and doing exactly what they want at the snap of a finger. Forgetting completely of course that those people are the products of the same society that has shaped them.

It's not easy to say "no". It's even less easy when you know that saying "no" may result in the loss of business. But often, a definite "no" is much better than a unachievable "yes" or worse, a wishy-washy "maybe". Better to refuse from the outset than agree to a deadline that is impossible to keep.

And quality takes time. The answer "both" to the question, "Do you want it done right or done now?" is as irrelevant as it is facetious.

If a customer accuses you of being useless, just think (and if you have the nerve, point out) how much use you would be to them following a fatal, stress-induced heart attack. Not that they would care, Diversely or otherwise. The Dead have no rights.

But we all try. At least, those of us with any sense of duty or commitment do (oooo! sorry about the unfashionable D-word there).

Customer service - giving the customer what they want - has to be top priority, but not at the expense of one's physical and mental health. Sometimes giving them what they want means that they can't necessarily have it when they want it.

That said, the customer is always...

No, let's not even go there.

Bad Day at the Office

2010-07-27T02:30:00.000-07:00

How did I do that? Just HOW did I do that?

I've got this job on and I've just discovered, halfway through, that actually I've cocked it up big time.

Not only is that costing me a goodly sum of money, it also increases the time-pressure exponentially. Customer agreed two to three weeks for delivery but, as they often do, is pushing for completion in less than two, patience not being high on the list of 21st century virtues. Cabbage that I am, I'm trying to oblige.

Doesn't help that I've just had to ditch half of it, order replacements to work on and start again.

Whose bloody silly idea was it to be self-employed in the first place?

Oh yeah. It was mine. Plant life!

Shall I Shan't I?

2010-07-26T09:17:00.000-07:00

I used to be indecisive, but now I'm not so sure.

Well, I am. Well sort of. Well, I'm not. But I might be. Or maybe I'm not.

Oh sod it.

I've got a decision to make. I'm not in a position to reveal what that decision is (that's not indecisiveness, that's confidentiality) but suffice to say that on a scale of one to ten, it rates about twelve. It's a biggy, potentially life-changing. Already my guts are twisting at the prospect. Someone said to me this morning that once the decision is made, whichever way it goes, I will feel better for having made it.

That's true but another of my myriad character flaws is that I have way too much imagination and I just know that, whichever way it does go, I will wonder "What if...?"

But I won't make that damned decision straight away. I'll mull it over, give it some time, resist the pressure that I will inevitably receive from a certain third party, discuss it ad nauseam with the lovely Suzy and when I'm ready I'll make it and be just stubborn enough to stick by it.

There's a difference between being indecisive and taking time to make decisions. Especially big ones which may have far-reaching effects, beyond ones own sphere of existence.

At one time, I didn't seem to be able to make a decision if my life depended upon it. But there came a point when I realised just what a pathetic waste of rations I was being and I decided there and then to do something about it. That in itself was quite a triumph. The apron strings were broken; I could finally be a man and I didn't need my mother's approval any more.

What a storm that caused!!

It was bloody terrifying, making that sudden jump from wimp to brave heart and because the wee timorous beastie that I always was lurks only just below the surface, I still feel the aftershocks, decades later.

I have the impression that most people develop a certain amount of courage and ability to make less easy decisions some time during their teenage years. I always kid myself that I didn't go through any of that, that any personality that I might have was utterly suppressed by my somewhat Victorian upbringing. But actually, you could pick any part of that statement and find it to be untrue.

Sure, my upbringing was strict - probably more so than many of my contemporaries in the 1960s and 70s. I was a bit of a mummy's boy for whatever reason and I could write a book on the rest of what is in my mind at the moment, but the fact is that, despite my apparent inability to choose one thing over another, a couple of the big decisions I did actually make as a teenager turned out to be the most life-shaping I have ever made, one of which was in the face of some strong parental opposition.

Oddly enough, one of those decisions led to the other. The first was a decision that I have never regretted, not for once second while the other is one of those that, if I could possibly go back and change it in any way, I would. I would even go as far as to say that sometimes I curse myself for it. No need for details, but the fact that I am sitting here blogging about them more than thirty years later suggests that they were pretty important at the time.

So really, even the most indecisive people - people like I used to be - do actually make decisions all the time. Snap decisions aren't my forte, although I have been known to make a few and I envy those who are able to do it as a matter of course. Mind you, such people seem to me to be fairly unimaginative and unaware of the effect they have on others - but that's altogether another blog.

It's just that, when consciously faced with the possibility of an adverse result, the gut-wrenching, emetic terror kicks in.

I'm sure I'm not the only person who feels like that.

To me at least, being able to make a decision is not so much about the choice in question, but whether you succumb to the dread or face it down.

Odd footnote. I have used the word "decision" several times in this posting. I'm very glad that I am not having to read it aloud. Although I don't suffer from any recognisable speech defect, I do have a little trouble with sibilants, particularly if they are close together. The way I couldn't say "Sloan Square" properly as a kid delighted my mum and made me cringe.
So all I can say is, "Whose silly decision was it to scribble such a surfeit of stupidity about decision-making?!"

Oh Sigmund!

2010-07-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

So David Cameron has dropped his first major political gaffe has he? The only thing that surprises me is that it took so long to happen.

But how much of a gaffe was it really? Certainly anybody old enough to have memories of 1940 is likely to be outraged, even insulted, and with some justification. Britain wasn't a "Junior Partner" in anything in those days. The country didn't have time to be. It was all a little bit busy just surviving against impossible odds. On it's own as I understand it. No partnerships either junior or senior were even contemplated with all that death raining down from the skies.

The fact is, that the country with the biggest and best resources and the money to back them is always going to be the top dog in any alliance. And there is no economy - in the West at least - that comes even close to that enjoyed by our cousins across the Pond (sub-prime fiasco notwithstanding) - a scenario that wasn't all that much different in 1940.

So isn't it true that, when our Dave said what he said, he was only giving voice to a fact that is so screamingly obvious across the globe that only we Brits can't see it?

So, not a gaffe after all. More a Freudian slip.

What a Shower!

2010-07-21T11:07:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I should have called this post “What Shower?”

What IS happening to the weather in this neck of the woods?

I watch the weather forecast on a regular basis. I've also got the Met Office App on my phone. Partly because I'm a closet weather geek (or I would be if I actually knew anything about it) and partly because Suzy and I have an allotment.

When you start to grow stuff, what comes out of the sky (or as is the case here at the moment, what doesn't) assumes an importance not previously realised. The level of importance increases with the quanitity of plant-life you are trying to encourage.

I can be a little bit obsessive about some things in a controlled and guilt-ridden sort of way. But since we took on our allotment, I have been free to indulge my weather fixation emancipated from that burden. Instead of wringing my mental hands and tutting silently that all this nice sunshine can only mean that on the one day upon which I have the temerity to take time away from the grind it will be guaranteed to rain, I can openly comment upon how much longer the water butts will last out and actually long for a drop of the wet stuff. How liberating!

But even people around me are starting to glance skyward and wonder if it will ever rain again. I don't quite know what it is about this little corner of the planet but it's fair to say that, if rain had personality, it would have been deliberately avoiding us of late.

I listen as Carole or Wendy or one of the other BBC weather presenters bang on about Weather Warnings for heavy rain and localised flooding, and I study the screen intently to see where exactly those blue areas are heading. It seems that, for the last ten weeks or so, pretty much all of the UK has had a pounding at some point or another, but not our postcode. Yes, we've had a couple of grey days, yes we've had some chilly winds and yes, we've even had some very brief light showers. But not what you'd call rain. Nothing that would put even as much as half an inch into the water butts, nor even wet the ground to any depth drying, as it does, almost as soon as it touches down.

Years ago, when I lived in Clacton (oh yes, there are folks younger than 65 up there) I would sometimes be able to watch as localised weather systems split roughly along the courses of the rivers Colne and Stour, leaving the Tendring Peninsular either dry to their wet or vice versa. But at least there was some variety.

But this year, in this spot, it has been almost unremitting sunshine following what was, after all, not a particularly wet winter.

Am I complaining? Cos it's not British to complain, is it? And we don't get enough of the hot stuff, do we? Well, do we? No, I suppose not. But the occasional hefty downpour, just to refresh the greenery and lay the dust which is kicking up every time you take a step outside the door would not be unwelcome at the moment.

But this of course is Britain. We will get the wet stuff. But it will either be not enough or go on for so long that we'll be wringing the water out of our underpants.

And it will probably come at that point when the veggies are not quite ready to be harvested so that, after it stops, they will all have rotted.

Pessimist? Me? Nah. Just a gardener with a weather eye.

That's Not Me

2010-07-20T08:51:00.000-07:00

That's not me. In that profile picture. That's not me.

Well alright. It is. But I don't look like that now. For a start, I'm sober - now, that is, not when that was taken - and there's less hair.

But the hair's not nature taking it's course. Not entirely anyway. Yes, it's thinning a bit (thanks, Dad) but it still has a tendency to be an unruly mop (thanks, Uncle Joe). The problem is, the gaps between the unruly mop in the middle and the unruly mops at the sides were getting a bit too noticeable. Alright, alright, but that's the limit of my vanity.

Apart from all that, I kept losing my comb.

The answer - NUMBER TWO!! (That's the hairstyle, not the lavatorial experience) An all-over trim that the lovely Suzy renews whenever we both remember at the same time.

Now I don't want to put our local barber out of business but, come on lads - a tenner or more for a buzz-cut?