This week’s podcast from Jakethewriter, retired travel writer, journalist, author and commentator, shares some of his memories before he forgets.
Memory almost full
I’ve lost my car keys, I’ve searched everywhere. It doesn’t matter I won’t need them until I remember where I’ve left my car.That’s a joke rather like my chum telling me that he is modifying his stair lift to speed it up. That way he can get upstairs so fast that he will be there before he forgets what he went up for.
Memory; It bothers all of us of a certain age, that’s when we remember to think about it. I was starting to believe that I had cracked it, my iPhone was proving quite a lifesaver, and I can use it to leave myself notes and can either write or leave a voice reminder with and alarm to jog my failing brain. I also have an App. Called “Find my Car” I can even take a photo if it will help me. Great, but not a great deal of help, if I have left it in my car, and that’s another nasty habit that I have also developed.
I have tried other ways to improve my failing mind by developing new habits in addition to my nasty ones. I have placed a large bowl near my favourite chair; this is proving useful for the “I’ve lost it” syndrome. I routinely use it for my wallet, reading glasses, house and car keys, cell phone and cash change. I keep the bowl in exactly the same place and am now in the habit of going there first. Before that is accusing my good tempered wife of moving my lost item, the one that I know I placed in my bowl. It should work; after all they can train mice and dogs so surely I can train myself.
I have now got so bad that family and friends are convinced that I suffer from OCD; in fact I’m beginning to worry about it myself. I work out at the gym every day and have got into the habit of going at the same time each day; parking in the same spot if I am able to, even trying to use the same locker. All of my kit is in its proper place in my gym bag. All of this would be acceptable of someone of my great age, if it worked.
However in just the past two weeks I have left the token which I use in place of a £1 coin for my locker, on five separate occasions. I’m far too embarrassed to ask if anyone has handed them in. I have left my goggles and ear plugs after a swimming session. Last week I got changed in the dressing room and did not realise that I was going upstairs to the gym in bare feet until I stubbed my toe and had to return to the locker room for my trainers. On three occasions I have got upstairs without my drinks bottle and gone back downstairs for it. I’m sure that climbing up and downstairs is great extra exercise. . . . . . . . .
This morning I was on a Cross Trainer before I realised that I had left my iPod in my locker. . . . . . . I am just wondering how long it will be before I get into the Spa after my Gym Session sans swimming trunks and more to the point if I can convince anyone that it is just my memory that is at fault before I finish up on the sex offenders list.
Surely the Cops would believe me that my memory was the second thing that went once I became aged. If that last statement missed its mark, then your memory is worse than mine.
My chums are a sarcastic bunch and so after an early morning gym workout, over breakfast, one asked how I picked a subject to Blog about and I just told him that I just wrote what I was in my mind at that particular time. A bit like a butterfly flitting between flowers. Another of the ironic group immediately came back with “More like a blowfly going from dung-heap to cow pat”
As an old guy I often cover up my forgetfulness by saying that my memory is almost full. However I do have a lot of memories stored in my filing cabinet of a brain. One such is filed under ‘Sailor’s Dit’ from some 60 years ago.
To set the scene, two very green Royal Navy ‘Snotties’ (Midshipmen) learning to be officers and gentlemen were setting off to go sightseeing on a run ashore in Gibraltar. In those days all Naval Servicemen had wear their Number One Uniforms ashore. In fact civilian clothes were not allowed on board.
Gibraltar is a fairly small place and our huge Aircraft Carrier with a complement of 1500 officers and crew, overwhelmed it. My shipmate Warwick and I walked through Dockyard gates and went into a small stone built urinal close to the gates and were standing at the long very smelly trough. Before we could perform, in staggered a very drunk, three badge killick, that is a leading seaman with at least 12 years service. On seeing us he stamped to attention and saluted, neither of us was in a position to return his salute so I muttered, ‘Carry on’. He staggered forward and joined us at the trough.
As he began to urinate, he was swaying about and muttering in a broad Glaswegian accent. He suddenly indicated a piece of electrical conduit piping that was sticking out of the wall just above his head. It was probably where a lamp had been attached. In his rough Gorbals intonation he challenged us to a pissing contest and began to urinate up the wall flicking it towards the pipe – BANG – the conduit was live. The Scotsman was hurled backwards across the room to end up unconscious against the far wall.
I saw that Warwick had peed down his trouser leg and all over his shiny shoes. I left him with the sailor who we found was still breathing, and ran to the Dockyard gate where there was a Police post. When we got back I found that Hooky had come round and in spite of his charred bellbottoms appeared to be feeling no pain. An ambulance took the injured man to hospital. Warwick and I were taken back to our ship by a Royal Naval Patrol, where we had to explain to the Officer of the Day as to why we were associating with a member of the Lower Deck, especially a drunken one.
The following day my friend and I successfully had a run ashore and went up the top of the Rock to see the Barbary Apes. Unimpressed by the smelly things we returned back down into the town. We decided that a cool glass of shandy would be acceptable and went into the first pub that we found. It was teeming with our ship’s crew, Warwick suddenly said “I think we should leave” indicating a certain very inebriated Scottish Leading Hand who was carefully manoeuvring a very full pint of beer and negotiating through the crowd.
Warwick and I had quickly downed our drinks and we were nearly at the door when we saw our man bump hard into a Royal Marine, covering him with his beer, and to make matters worse said in a loud voice “Iaam sorry soldier”. Now no-one calls a Royal Marine ‘soldier’ and expects to retain his teeth, I saw the look on the Marine’s face and saw him taking off his belt and wrapping it around his fist while three of his fellow marines were surrounding the unlucky sailor.
We left in a hurry as we saw the front window of the pub explode into the street. We were nearly back at the Dockyard gates when we heard the bells of the R.N. patrol wagon and we strolled through the gates and smartly saluted the Naval Guard who presented arms as we marched away.
There’s a Little Green Urinal Just North of Waterloo and another a little further up, there’s a member of the army . . . . . . Attention on the upper deck, face aft and salute.
That’s all for this week thanks for listening, I’ll be back again same place next week, if I remember that is.
Today the Podcast from Jakethewriter, retired travel writer, freelance journalist, author and commentator voices a few thoughts on migrants but keeps it nice by not mentioning Muslims.
Into the melting pot!
Take a piece of white man; wrap him up in black skin. Add a touch of blue blood and a little bitty bit of Red Indian boy . . . . . . . so the song goes. Only last year a BBC DJ on Three Counties Radio had to apologise for playing Blue Mink’s 1969 hit because the lyrics went on even further . . . . Curly Latin kinkies, mixed with yellow Chinkees…’
Oh dear Political Correctness at the BBC, don’t start me off again. I must tell you of a story from back in those non-PC days. I lived in Bedford and had a great relationship with my neighbour Max, a Jamaican immigrant who was a carpenter. He lived with his wife Dorothy and five children in a house opposite to mine. One Sunday afternoon, I had been working and arrived home in my car. Max was busy in his garden trimming his lawn edge with a large cane knife. Before I swung into my driveway I pulled up alongside him and said “Hiya Max, are you OK?”, he replied in a heavy West Indian accent “No Dorotee has me working like a Nigger”. There I’ve used the N word. All I can say is that he knew what he meant, I knew what he meant and there was not an ounce of racism in either of us.
I digress . . . . . . . Did you know there are now more people in this country who were born in Poland than in Pakistan? That’s a finding from a recent census, and it’s a surprise, because although we’re all familiar with the stereotype of the Polish builder, this isn’t a community that interests us very much. Yet it should, because it represents a fascinating and very 21st-century style of migration.
A lot of them know very little English, this isn’t laziness: lots of young Poles don’t need language skills because they’re networkers, forever finding jobs from or for their fellow countrymen. Have you ever noticed how, overnight, the staff of a coffee bar will turn Polish? Also, mobile phones and Skype keep them in touch with family and friends back home – whom they see pretty often anyway. It’s not unknown for Poles to freelance more or less simultaneously in London and Warsaw.
Although they may not be able to converse fluently in our language, young Poles fit comfortably into English working-class society, the men especially. Football, pubs, and cars – what’s not to like? Not for nothing did “Swiat wedlug Clarksona”reach number one in the Polish bestseller lists – yup,The World According to Jeremy Clarkson.
As a former travel writer I have had the pleasure of visiting Poland on a couple of occasions, I loved it especially the area around Krakow and the Tetra mountains. I always make a good effort to learn some of the language of the country I am visiting but Polish? Give me a break! I came home still unable to say any more than “Dzien dobry” (good morning) “Czesc” (hello!) and “Okrzyki” (cheers!). However, I got by, had a lovely time and met such a lot of very charming people.
Add to that the large number of Polish airman and displaced persons that I met over here during the war and who fitted in very well, I am now very biased when I meet Polish immigrants and I try to make them feel as welcome as I was in their country. This is helped by the fact that they look very Anglo Saxon and aren’t easily spotted. Mind you they aren’t exactly WASPS (White Anglo Saxon Protestants) because ninety percent of the one’s I’ve met are Roman Catholics and the other ten percent are Jewish descendants of those whom escaped the Holocaust.
Having said that there is quite a deal of muttering to be heard when I go to our local Boot sales about hardly hearing English spoken and “bloody poles taking our jobs” etc. I have spoken to a number of these ‘bloody poles’ and discovered that a lot of them are from Estonia, Latvia, Romania and Lithuania. It’s also true that nearly all of them are working unlike a lot of their detractors. Could it be that they want to work? This hasn’t endeared Poles to self-anointed champions of minority rights. Amusingly, one Lefty critic was cross because they fail to bellyache about the minimum wage.
The BBC appears to be on a bit of a mission to portray Poles as racists: Jonathan Ornstein, executive director of the Jewish Community Centre of Krakow, told theEconomistlast year that a Panorama documentary on racism in Polish football “manipulated the serious subject of anti-Semitism for its own sensationalist agenda; in doing so, the BBC has insulted all Polish people…”
I can’t imagine the ‘Beeb’ fussing about non-white racism. The truth is that white immigrants who effectively commute from their homeland don’t match the Left-liberal template. There have been attempts to turn Poles into grievance-mongers who can be marched into a Radio 4 studio for a three-minute moan, but with little success, and so the Polly Toynbee’s of this world tend to forget about them. Except, of course, when their boiler conks out in January, in which case there’s this simply marvellous chap called Tomasz who’ll come out at a moment’s notice…
I found it amusing when one of my close friends, who is of Indian descent muttered about a bunch of Eastern Europeans, saying “These bloody poles have no manners they just push you out of the way!” This from a guy who gets quite apoplectic if someone calls him a Paki; “I’m not a bloody Paki I’m from Africa”. My lovely friend was born in Kenya and has lived here for over 50 years. He supports the English Cricket team, sent his three daughters to Public School and is more English than I am. Perhaps I should say probably less of mongrel than most of us who were born here. Mind you he is certainly more of a racist than I am.
What we need is a great big melting pot; big enough, big enough, and big enough to take the world and all it’s got; keep it stirring for a hundred years or more! Mind you if immigration and their birth rate keep on rising we will soon run out of room. Stop the world I want to get off! Now I know of a lovely little town up in the Tatra Mountains near Krakow . . . . . . . . . . . .
I’ve just reread my blog and must stress that if this makes me sound as though I’m all for open borders please don’t go away with that mistaken idea. I think that we should have a tougher border controls than anywhere else in the world. No-one should be allowed in unless they have a job waiting for them. No immigrant should be eligible for any benefits until he has paid into our system for at least five years. As I promised that I would not bring Islam into the argument I will not rant about Sharia Law but this is a Christian Country and anyone who doesn’t want to conform to our laws should return to a country that welcomes that way of life.
Enough, already, thanks for listening, I’ll see you next week.
This week’s Podcast from Jakethewriter, retired travel journalist, author, freelance writer and commentator dips into his memory bank and relates his experience with Murphy’s Law. If anything can go wrong, it probably will!
Possibly our first “Jolly boy’s” outing!
1983 was the year of the “loadsamoney” generation. Margaret Thatcher in the glow of the Falklands war triumph gave the Conservative party a landslide victory and wiped the floor with Michael Foot, turning the political map of the country blue.
Microsoft launched the world’s best word processing programme called Microsoft Word. Cruise missiles appeared at Greenham Common along with large numbers of protesters. Droughts in Ethiopia caused the death of 4 million people which gave Bob Geldorf a great money making idea.
I owned a garage and belonged to a group of local businessmen in Bedford who amongst other things sponsored the Bedford boys boxing club with some great events. The group seemed fairly evenly divided with motor dealers and Estate Agents with the odd shopkeeper, accountant and a few solicitors. (If the devil should cast his net!……..) The sub-division of car dealers, motor traders and garage owners developed further into a dining, drinking and general entertainment group and we organised a night out when we took over a local night club for the evening with a caterer, bar and entertainment laid on. It was that night out when the comedian came on and looked around the room and said “Bedford Motor Crooks” and our group was christened.
Bedford Boys Boxing Club was already quite famous not least because British and British Commonwealth Heavyweight Champion Joe Bugner began his career here as an amateur before turning professional in 1967. The club had a long history of providing an evening of top quality amateur boxing, hosting clubs from all over the country. Anyway Bedford Motor Crooks had a table for ten, to wine and dine and watch some great amateur boxing matches. After the bouts came to an end and cigars were lit, the tradition was that a large number of items donated by local businesses were auctioned off.
The more wine that flowed the more generous the bidding became, with all of the profits going to the club. I can remember when one local entrepreneur took off his Rolex watch in a drunken gesture to donate to the cause and the even more inebriated bidding fetched about a thousand pounds more than the new value of the watch. That sets the scene! At our table one of the motor traders told us that he had just bought a top of the range Winnebago motorhome or as the Americans call it a Recreational Vehicle, it could accommodate all ten of us and how did we feel about an outing.
After a lot of discussion we unanimously decided that it was a great idea and we would all pile in two weeks time, sharing expenses and go to watch the Le Mans 24 hour race. The talk went something like this, “It’s only 450 miles that’s nearer than Glasgow.” Quite a few of went to car actions in Glasgow on a regular basis. “It’s only just the other side of Paris, a piece of cake.” “Sort of ten hours driving plus time on the ferry.” “Let’s take it easy and allow three days to get there, one day for the race and two or three days back, perfect!”
A few days before we were due to depart; I got my first view of our holiday home. What an eye opener. It was the biggest motorhome I had ever seen. Think 40 feet long, near double-decker bus size with a ladder up to the roof, a huge air conditioning unit on the roof next to an enormous generator. In the centre on one side of this juggernaut was an annexe that powered out once the vehicle was parked up and retreated flush with the side to go on the road. There were as promised, separate bedrooms, some with bunks sufficient to sleep ten people comfortably. Shower room and toilet, a built in television and VHS player, remember this was 1983. All of the furnishings including a cocktail cabinet were unbelievably luxuriously finished and would have put some luxury liner’s cabins to shame. In 2016 a similar vehicle would cost in excess of a cool million pounds.
Come departure day all of us were excited about our luxury holiday and we met up at our agreed meeting point.
First unplanned glitch – Strike one.
Think ten people arriving at an airport with their check in luggage plus carry-on bags – enough to fill a carousel. Right not a problem, someone has to climb up the ladder and stack all the luggage on the roof rack next to the aircon unit and the generator; it’s the middle of an English summer so of course it’s raining. This turned into what the Special Forces call a Chinese Parliament with the difference that a SAS patrol is usually four men and we had ten all offering their opinions. One of the gang disappeared to his business premises for a large tarpaulin to cover our luggage and I went to buy some straps to tie everything down. Two hours later the cases were snugly secured and we set off. Naturally by this time it had stopped raining.
This was a few years before the M25 opened and before we got as far as the ferry, one of the guys worked out that were only doing four mile to the gallon. Thank goodness that petrol, yes it was a petrol engine not diesel, cost around £1.70 a gallon.
Because of our size we had to load with the Lorries and couldn’t get on the next ferry so we were delayed for another one and a half hours but at least we were in pole position for the next ferry. Time for a meal, getting back in good time to board; we had left the air conditioning running on our luxury abode and first in line for the Lorries to load. The engine refused to turn over, the air conditioning had flattened the positively enormous bank of batteries; ten motor crooks were unable to bump start the beast, no-one in the queue behind had a tow-rope but with the help of a couple of lorry drivers we were able to push the monster out of the line. Did you know that Motor Crooks swear worse than sailors?
Another ten man Chinese Parliament decided that we should camp for the night where we were; not much option really and using the on board generator overnight to charge the batteries.
After an hour charging with everything switched of except a couple of small wall lights and the battery indicator showing good signs of life; the generator stopped. Examination proved that it had run out of fuel. Another Chinese Parliament decided that we didn’t have a tube to siphon fuel from the Brute and in any case the generator ran on two stroke mixture. A volunteer was despatched to the nearest garage to buy a can of two stroke fuel; better but two cans in case we need the generator in France. Our volunteer finally returned having had to get a taxi to travel miles to find an open garage with the necessary fuel and we in due course got the generator running and the batteries charging.
We managed about 4 hours sleep before we woke to check over the vehicle and make sure that everything was working perfectly and took up our position to load on to the ferry. Thank goodness I didn’t have to drive the Juggernaut up the ramp and into position on the loading deck!
No ten man discussion this time but somebody decided that while we were at sea we should run the generator to really top up the batteries. Breakfast! And then when we were halfway across the Channel the ship’s tannoy demanded we return to our vehicle. Oh my word surely nothing else could go wrong! When we got to our vehicle we found an irate crew member jumping up and down – pointing to our generator shouting Das ist verboten; I’m not sure if he was French or English but he sounded like a Nazi. He was abusive enough to upset several of the barrack room lawyers among our number, One of whom insisted on being taken to see the captain to complain of his rude and abusive behaviour.
Because we were such a bloody minded lot we left the generator running and had fully charged the batteries by the time we had docked. We drove off and parked up to await our representative. He returned having had his apology. It turned out that the Captain, ever such a nice chap, was a fellow Freemason.
Strike six, seven and eight
Nothing else could go wrong other than a puncture just before we got to Paris. The Monster had ten wheels in total! It only took ten Motor Crooks around two and a half hours to work out where the spare wheel was hidden, then to work out where the jack was. How were we to know that it didn’t look like a jack, just a three foot long piece of metal with a ratchet along its length on one side. Then when we finally changed the wheel and found that the tyre was soft, not flat just a bit soggy and we had to drive slowly to a service area – Aires de service, where we blew up the tyre and checked the others.
Then in view of our history took our two fuel cans to get them filled up with two stroke mixture for the generator while we topped up the ginormous fuel tanks. Use your imagination. . . . . . . ten English motor dealer with various educations attempting to explain that we wanted two stroke fuel for the generator by pointing to the roof of the Winnebago. No, we didn’t need the air conditioning topping up, thank you! Eventually we just filled the two cans with 2 stars and unbelievably one of the guys went into the shop to get a coffee and . . . . Bingo! Found a can on two stroke oil.
We left the Paris Boulevard Peripherique, turned on to the A11 when the engine began to overheat. After finding somewhere safe to park, ten garage owners/motor traders/car salesmen/dealers and a motor auctioneer, checked the cause of the overheating. You will have heard of the adage about the number of people needed to change a light bulb, well I can tell you that it takes ten motor crooks to find a small leak in the top radiator hose.
“We could wrap some tape tightly around it as a temporary measure, if we had some tape” – We didn’t. Eventually someone found some baling twine and a plastic carrier bag and we strapped it up and refilled the radiator from our on board water tank and we trundled off as far as the next service area where we stopped in a cloud of steam. We resumed our struggle with schoolboy French to the staff who again responded with their by now routine blank faces.
I then gained Superman status by solving the problem by asking two coppers who I saw were sitting in their car drinking coffee. – They didn’t leave their car but 30 minutes later a mechanic arrived in a breakdown truck, took away our defective top hose and within the hour returned with a replacement. He fitted it, refilled our drinking water tank, and checked our tyres and we were on our way. The bill from the mechanic was 500 francs – less than £50.
My pals were slapping me on the back and congratulating on the way I charmed the ‘old bill’ and then began hooting when I explained that I had sorted the problem out in the time honoured way, I bunged them a ‘pony’ that’s £25 or in fact 250 francs and it worked like a charm. Two hours later we pulled into the Le Mans racetrack campsite just as it was getting dark. The fairground was in full swing with a huge Ferris wheel and lights and loud music. Our millionaire recreation vehicle with its centre extension pulled out really looked the business and was the centre of attention.
Once settled, the party started. Our cocktail bar had been well stocked before we left but we had also made a few stops on our way down. Well we were in France and as well as a six case of Courvoisier cognac, we had added a case of Moet et Chandon Champagne and tree cases of Premier Cru wine. The word went round the raceway and more than a dozen new friends including some fellow campers, a couple of race mechanics and obviously at the mention of free booze a couple of journalists appeared.
I hadn’t mentioned that our ten motor crooks, as well as being boxing aficionados, were all member of the local rowing club and all of us were ex rugby players and we knew how to party. I sat quietly with a bottle of Premier Cru and a personal bottle of Courvoisier. I’m not sure if it was me that began singing a few rugby songs, it could have been. Some of our new German friends joined in with German lyrics to the same tune. Then some of the French lads joined in their own language. The night went on . . . . . and on . . . . . and on I don’t recall when the actual race started but we all missed it. I think I feel asleep on the floor of the motorhome but I woke up lying on the grass in hot sunshine and could hear the race engines but dozed off again. I woke up in the dark with the fairground in full swing with lots of lights and lots of noise.
I decided to go back to the Winnebago for coffee and would then go to watch the race. Inside the motorhome there were quite few people slumped around. I made myself a coffee and sat on a sofa alongside one of the journalists from last night who had also missed the start. Although a long while ago I can still remember him starting giggling and saying “I know the tune and most of the words, I’ll just put them together in time for the deadline” he fell asleep again. I’m not sure when or how but I woke up in my own bunk, in my sleeping bag – Result! I think all or most of the guys were in their beds and someone was using the shower so I went outside and across to use the campsite showers which were excellent as you may expect of France. It was there that I learned we had not only missed the start but also the finish and the closing ceremony.
I got back to the motorhome and found all were present, when I passed on the news that although we hadn’t planned to watch the free practice or the qualifying, we had come all this way and missed every part of the 24 hours race itself. One of the guys said “Bugger I know why they call it and endurance race and we all collapsed giggling like a bunch of schoolgirls. We decided that we weren’t in a fit start to leave until the following morning so our journey home would take two days. That evening we would go over and have an evening at the fair. When we got there it was closed and in the process of being dismantled. We fell about laughing again. We found a good restaurant and had an excellent meal, sans alcohol.
We had a perfect drive home and for some reason our fuel consumption improved to over 7 MPG. We drove unhindered straight on to the ferry and had a lovely drive home. One of the Crooks owned our local car auctions and a couple of weeks later he had the Winnebago valeted and detailed and advertised it nationally with some sort of story behind it, not the true one I’d add. The Millionaire RV made a handsome profit for both the owner and the Car Auction. Between them they covered the whole kitty for our holiday including my bung to the ‘old bill’.
Who says my memory is getting bad? Some things are unforgettable! Do you know I’ve been to motor races all over the world but I’ve never seen the Le Mans 24 hour Endurance Race?